the rhythm of life-第10部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



more　radiant；　by　the　coming　of　May　the　green　has　been　imperceptibly

dimmed　again；　it　blushes　with　the　mingled　colours　of　minute　and

numberless　flowersa　dust　of　flowers；　in　lines　longer　than　those　of

ocean　billows。　　This　is　the　desert　blossoming　like　a　rose：　　not　the

obvious　rose　of　gardens；　but　the　multitudinous　and　various　flower

that　gathers　once　in　the　year　in　every　hand's…breadth　of　the

wilderness。　　When　June　comes　the　sun　has　burnt　all　to　leagues　of

harmonious　seed；　coloured　with　a　hint　of　the　colour　of　harvest；

which　is　gradually　changed　to　the　lighter　harmonies　of　winter。　　All

this　fine　chromatic　scale　passes　within　such　modest　boundaries　that

it　is　accused　as　a　monotony。　　But　those　who　find　its　modesty

delightful　may　have　a　still　more　delicate　pleasure　in　the　blooming

and　blossoming　of　the　sea。　　The　passing　from　the　winter　blue　to　the

summer　blue；　from　the　cold　colour　to　the　colour　that　has　in　it　the

fire　of　the　sun；　the　kindling　of　the　sapphire　of　the　Mediterranean

the　significance　of　these　sea…seasons；　so　far　from　the　pasture　and

the　harvest；　is　imperceptible　to　ordinary　senses；　as　appears　from

the　fact　that　so　few　stay　to　see　it　all　fulfilled。　　And　if　the

tourist　stayed；　he　would　no　doubt　violate　all　that　is　lovely　and

moderate　by　the　insistence　of　his　descriptions。　　He　would　find

adjectives　for　the　blue　sea；　but　probably　he　would　refuse　to　search

for　words　for　the　white。　　A　white　Mediterranean　is　not　in　the

legend。　　Nevertheless　it　blooms；　now　and　then；　pale　as　an　opal；　the

white　sea　is　the　flower　of　the　breathless　midsummer。　　And　in　its

clear；　silent　waters；　a　few　days；　in　the　culmination　of　the　heat；

bring　forth　translucent　living　creatures；　many…shaped　jelly…fish；

coloured　like　mother…of…pearl。



But　without　going　so　far　from　the　landscape　of　daily　life；　it　is　in

agricultural　Italy　that　the　LITTLE　LESS　makes　so　undesignedly；　and

as　it　were　so　inevitably；　for　beauty。　　The　country　that　is　formed

for　use　and　purpose　only　is　immeasurably　the　loveliest。　　What　a

lesson　in　literature！　　How　feelingly　it　persuades　us　that　all　except

a　very　little　of　the　ornament　of　letters　and　of　life　makes　the

dulness　of　the　world。　　The　tenderness　of　colour；　the　beauty　of

series　and　perspective；　and　the　variety　of　surface；　produced　by　the

small　culture　of　vegetables；　are　among　the　charms　that　come

unsought；　and　that　are　not　to　be　found　by　seekingare　never　to　be

achieved　if　they　are　sought　for　their　own　sake。　　And　another　of　the

delights　of　the　useful　laborious　land　is　its　vitality。　　The　soil　may

be　thin　and　dry；　but　man's　life　is　added　to　its　own。　　He　has

embanked　the　hill　to　make　little　platforms　for　the　growth　of　wheat

in　the　light　shadows　of　olive　leaves。　　Thanks　to　the　metayer　land…

tenure；　man's　heart；　as　well　as　his　strength；　is　given　to　the

ground；　with　his　hope　and　his　honour。　　Louis　Blanc's　'point　of

honour　of　industry'　is　a　conscious　impulseit　is　not　too　much　to

saywith　most　of　the　Tuscan　contadini；　but　as　each　effort　they　make

for　their　master　they　make　also　for　the　bread　of　their　children；　it

is　no　wonder　that　the　land　they　cultivate　has　a　look　of　life。　　But

in　all　colour；　in　all　luxury；　and　in　all　that　gives　material　for

picturesque　English；　this　lovely　scenery　for　food　and　wine　and

raiment　has　that　LITTLE　LESS　to　which　we　desire　to　recall　a

rhetorical　world。







MR。　COVENTRY　PATMORE'S　ODES







To　most　of　the　great　poets　no　greater　praise　can　be　given　than

praise　of　their　imagery。　　Imagery　is　the　natural　language　of　their

poetry。　　Without　a　parable　she　hardly　speaks。　　But　undoubtedly　there

is　now　and　then　a　poet　who　touches　the　thing；　not　its　likeness；　too

vitally；　too　sensitively；　for　even　such　a　pause　as　the　verse　makes

for　love　of　the　beautiful　image。　　Those　rare　moments　are　simple；　and

their　simplicity　makes　one　of　the　reader's　keenest　experiences。

Other　simplicities　may　be　achieved　by　lesser　art；　but　this　is

transcendent　simplicity。　　There　is　nothing　in　the　world　more　costly。

It　vouches　for　the　beauty　which　it　transcends；　it　answer　for　the

riches　it　forbears；　it　implies　the　art　which　it　fulfils。　　All

abundance　ministers　to　it；　though　it　is　so　single。　　And　here　we　get

the　sacrificial　quality　which　is　the　well…kept　secret　of　art　at　this

perfection。　　All　the　faculties　of　the　poet　are　used　for　preparing

this　naked　greatnessare　used　and　fruitfully　spent　and　shed。　　The

loveliness　that　stands　and　waits　on　the　simplicity　of　certain　of　Mr。

Coventry　Patmore's　Odes；　the　fervours　and　splendours　that　are　there；

only　to　be　put　to　silenceto　silence　of　a　kind　that　would　be

impossible　were　they　less　gloriousare　testimonies　to　the

difference　between　sacrifice　and　waste。



But　does　it　seem　less　than　reasonable　to　begin　a　review　of　a　poet's

work　with　praise　of　an　infrequent　mood？　　Infrequent　such　a　mood　must

needs　be；　yet　it　is　in　a　profound　sense　characteristic。　　To　have

attained　it　once　or　twice　is　to　have　proved　such　gift　and　grace　as　a

true　history　of　literature　would　show　to　be　above　price；　even　gauged

by　the　rude　measure　of　rarity。　　Transcendent　simplicity　could　not

possibly　be　habitual。　　Man　lives　within　garments　and　veils；　and　art

is　chiefly　concerned　with　making　mysteries　of　these　for　the

loveliness　of　his　life；　when　they　are　rent　asunder　it　is　impossible

not　to　be　aware　that　an　overwhelming　human　emotion　has　been　in

action。　　Thus　DEPARTURE；　IF　I　WERE　DEAD；　A　FAREWELL；　EURYDICE；　THE

TOYS；　ST。　VALENTINE'S　DAY　though　here　there　is　in　the　exquisite

imaginative　play　a　mitigation　of　the　bare　vitality　of　feelinggroup

themselves　apart　as　the　innermost　of　the　poet's　achievements。



Second　to　these　come　the　Odes　that　have　splendid　thought　in　great

images；　and　displayrather　than；　as　do　the　poems　first　glanced　at；

betraythe　beauties　of　poetic　art。　　Emotion　is　here；　too；　and　in

shocks　and　throes；　never　frantic　when　almost　intolerable。　　It　is

mortal　pathos。　　If　any　other　poet　has　filled　a　cup　with　a　draught　so

unalloyed；　we　do　not　know　it。　　Love　and　sorrow　are　pure　in　The

Unknown　Eros；　and　its　author　has　not　refused　even　the　cup　of　terror。

Against　love　often；　against　sorrow　nearly　always；　against　fear

always；　men　of　sensibility　instantaneously　guard　the　quick　of　their

hearts。　　It　is　only　the　approach　of　the　pang　that　they　will　endure；

from　the　pang　itself；　dividing　soul　and　spirit；　a　man　who　is

conscious　of　a　profound　capacity　for　passion　defends　himself　in　the

twinkling　of　an　eye。　　But　through　nearly　the　whole　of　Coventry

Patmore's　poetry　there　is　an　endurance　of　the　mortal　touch。　　Nay；

more；　he　has　the　endurance　of　the　immortal　touch。　　That　is；　his

capacity　for　all　the　things　that　men　elude　for　their　greatness　is

more　than　the　capacity　of　other　men。　　He　endures　therefore　what　they

could　but　will　not　endure　and；　besides　this；　degrees　that　they

cannot　apprehend。　　Thus；　to　have　studied　The　Unknown　Eros　is　to　have

had　a　certain　experienceat　least　the　impassioned　experience　of　a

compassion；　but　it　is　also　to　have　recognised　a　soul　beyond　our

compassion。



What　some　of　the　Odes　have　to　sing　of；　their　author　does　not　insist

upon　our　knowing。　　He　leaves　more　liberty　for　a　well…intentioned

reader's　error　than　makes　for　peace　and　recollection　of　mind　in

reading。　　That　the　general　purpose　of　the　poems　is　obscure　is

inevitable。　　It　has　the　obscurity　of　profound　clear　waters。　　What

the　poet　chiefly　secures　to　us　is　the　understanding　that　love　and

its　bonds；　its　bestowal　and　reception；　does　but　rehearse　the　action

of　the　union　of　God　with　humanitythat　there　is　no　essential　man

save　Christ；　and　no　essential　woman　except　the　soul　of　mankind。

When　the　singer　of　a　Song　of　Songs　seems　to　borrow　the　phrase　of

human　love；　it　is　rather　that　human　love　had　first　borrowed　the

truths　of　the　love　of　God。　　The　thought　grows　gay　in　the　three

Psyche　odes；　or　attempts　a　gaietythe　reader　at　least　being

somewhat　reluctant。　　How　is　it？　　Mr。　Coventry　Patmore's　play　more

often　than　not　wins　you　to　but　a　slow　participation。　　Perhaps

because　some　thrust　of　his　has　left　you　still　tremulous。



But　the　inequality　of　equal　lovers；　sung　in　these　Odes　with　a　Divine

allusion；　is　a　most　familiar　truth。　　Love　that　is　passionate　has

much　of　the　impulse　of　gravitationgravitation　that　is　not　falling；

as　there　is　no　downfall　in　the　precipitation　of　the　sidereal　skies。

The　love　of　the　great　for　the　small　is　the　passionate　love；　the

upward　love　hesitates　and　is　fugitive。　　St。　Francis　Xavier　asked

that　the　day　of　his　ecstasy　might　be　shortened；　Imogen；　the　wife　of

all　poetry；　'prays　forbearance；'　the　child　is　'fretted　with　sallies

of　his　mothers　kisses。'　　It　might　be　drawing　an　image　too

insistently　to　call　this　a　centrifugal　impulse。



The　art　that　utters　an　intellectual　action　so　courageous；　an　emotion

so　authentic；　as　that　of　Mr。　Coventry　Patmore's　poetry；　cannot　be

otherwise　than　consummate。　　Often　the　word　has　a　fulness　of

significance　that　gives　the　reader　a　shock　of　appreciation。　　This　is

always　so　in　those　simplest　odes　which　we　have　taken　as　the　heart　of

the　author's　work。　　Without　such　wonderful　rightness；　simplicity　of

course　is　impossible。　　Nor　is　that　beautiful　precision　less　in

passages　of　description；　such　as　the　landscape　lines　in　Amelia　and

elsewhere。　　The　words　are　used　to　the　uttermost　yet　with　composure。

And　a　certain　justness　of　utterance　increases　the　provocation　of

what　we　take　leave　to　call　unjust　thought　in　the　few　poems　that

proclaim　an　intemperate　scornpolitical；　social；　literary。　　The

poems　are　but　two　or　three；　they　are　to　be　known　by　their　subjects

we　might　as　well　do　something　to　justify　their　scorn　by　using　the

most　modern　of　adjectivesand　call　them　topical。　　Here　assuredly

there　is　no　composure。　　Never　before　did　superiority　bear　itself

with　so　little　of　its　proper；　signal；　and　peculiar　grace

reluctance。



If　Mr。　Patmore　really　intends　that　his　Odes　shall　be　read　with

minim；　or　crochet；　or　q