'A shelf of the little cabinet by which I am now writing is loaded
with poetical effusions which were the delight of my father and
mother, and which I have not got the heart to burn.'
A much fuller account of the poetic stages through which he passed in
childhood is given by Mr. Ruskin in his 'Praeterita,' where he tells us
of the six 'poems' he brought forth in his seventh year (1826), one of
them being on the subject of the steam-engine, and rejoicing in such
couplets as:
'When furious up from mines the water pours,
And clears from rusty moisture all the ores.'
Another, on the rainbow, was in blank verse and impressively didactic in
its tone. Then, when he was nine years old, he broke out with yet
another effusion, called 'Eudosia;' and when only eleven he began the
composition of an elaborate 'poetical' description of his various
journeyings, under the title of 'Iteriad.'
It is easy to understand how this fondness for the rhythmical was
fostered by the aforesaid parental admiration, and how it was still
further increased by the boy's admiration, successively, for Scott and
Byron. Certain early friendships held out to the young versifier the
prospect of publication, and thus it is that we find him, in his
sixteenth year, figuring as a contributor to 'Friendship's Offering and
Winter's Wreath: a Christmas and New Year's Present' for 1835. This was
the era of the old-fashioned 'annuals,' and 'Friendship's Offering' was
one of the most notable of its kind. In the issue for the year named we
note Barry Cornwall, John Clare, William Howitt, and H. F. Chorley among
the writers of whom the youthful Ruskin was one. Here, by the side of
really excellent steel-engravings, portraying languishing ladies in
corkscrew curls, and illustrating literary matter not always unworthy of
the embellishment given to it, we discover Mr. Ruskin's first published
verses--'Salzburg' and some 'Fragments' of a poetical journal, kept on
tour. In the former we seem to detect the influence of Rogers, rather
than that of Scott or Byron. It opens thus:
'On Salza's quiet tide the westering sun
Gleams mildly; and the lengthening shadows dun,
Chequered with ruddy streaks from spire and roof,
Begin to weave fair twilight's mystic woof;
Till the dim tissue, like a gorgeous veil,
Wraps the proud city, in her beauty pale.'
A little further on we read:
'Sweet is the twilight hour by Salza's strand,
Though no Arcadian visions grace the land;
Wakes not a sound that floats not sweetly by,
While day's last beams upon the landscape die;
Low chants the fisher where the waters pour,
And murmuring voices melt along the shore;
The plash of waves comes softly from the side
Of passing barge slow gliding o'er the tide;
And there are sounds from city, field, and hill,
Shore, forest, flood; yet mellow all, and still.'
Herein, it will be seen, is something of the power of description which
the writer was afterwards to exhibit so much more effectively in prose.
Four years later Mr. Ruskin's initials were to be seen appended to a
couple of pieces in verse contributed to 'The Amaranth,' an annual of
much more imposing presence than the 'Offering'--edited by T. K. Hervey,
admirably illustrated, and happy in the practical support of such
literary lights as Horace Smith, Douglas Jerrold, Sheridan Knowles,
Thomas Hood, Praed, and Mrs. Browning. One of the two pieces in question
is 'The Wreck,' in which Mr. Ruskin's poetic capability, such as it is,
is visible in one of its most attractive moods. The last verse runs:
'The voices of the night are mute
Beneath the moon's eclipse;
The silence of the fitful flute
Is in the dying lips!
The silence of my lonely heart
Is kept for ever more
In the lull
Of the waves
Of a low lee shore.'
To the same year belong contributions to the _London Monthly Miscellany_
and the prize poem ('Salsette and Elephanta') before-mentioned. In the
_Miscellany_ appeared some lines which, in certain respects, are a
species of anticipation of the Swinburnian manner; as, for example:
'We care not what skies are the clearest,
What scenes are the fairest of all;
The skies and the scenes that are dearest
For ever, are those that recall
To the thoughts of the hopelessly-hearted
The light of the dreams that deride,
With the form of the dear and departed,
Their loneliness, weary and wide.'
It may be assumed that 'Salsette and Elephanta' has been read by all who
care about the undertaking. It was recited in the theatre at Oxford,
printed in the same year (1839), and reprinted exactly forty years
afterwards. It is a by no means unattractive piece of rhetoric.
Another of the annuals to which Mr. Ruskin contributed in those days was
the _Keepsake_, in which he figured in 1845, under the editorship of
the Countess of Blessington, with Landor, Monckton Milnes, Lord John
Manners, and the future Lord Beaconsfield as fellow-contributors. He was
also welcomed to the pages of _Heath's Book of Beauty_. Five years later
he collected his fugitive pieces, and, adding a few new ones, included
the whole in a volume privately circulated in 1850. Copies of this book
are said to have been bought at sales, at different times, for L31 and
41 guineas. Six years ago, a selection from the 'Annual' verses was
published, together with the prize poem and other matter, in America.
Glancing through Mr. Ruskin's verse, one is forced to admit that it has
no special individuality or charm. It deals with conventional subjects
in a more or less conventional manner. There is a classical element, and
a flavour of foreign scenery, and an occasional excursion in the
direction of such topics as 'Spring,' 'The Months,' 'The Old Water
Wheel,' 'The Old Seaman,' 'Remembrance,' 'The Last Smile,' and the like.
The rhythm is always regular and flowing, and the descriptive passages
have light and colour; but the 'lyric cry' has no particular tone that
could attract the public. The longest piece ever written by Mr. Ruskin
was, not the prize poem, but that entitled 'The Broken Chain,' with an
extract from which I may conclude this brief survey of a great
prose-writer's verse-production:--
'Where the flower hath fairest hue,
Where the breeze hath balmiest breath,
Where the dawn hath softest dew,
Where the heaven hath deepest blue,
There is death.
'Where the gentle streams of thinking,
Through our hearts that flow so free,
Have the deepest, softest sinking,
And the fullest melody,
Where the crown of hope is nearest,
Where the voice of joy is clearest,
Where the heart of youth is lightest,
Where the light of love is brightest,
There is death.'