ART. VI. LOWELL'S VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

The Vision of Sir Launfal. By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Cambridge: published by George Nichols. 1848.

WE live, it is often said, in an age of steam; but this same steam, which excites the spleen of the croaker, prints our Bibles. While the energies of men are exerted with increasing intensity in the accumulation of material good, while in one aspect of life men seem in danger of becoming themselves mere thinking machines for the acquisition of money, there is another and a blessed influence at work; -a tendency that awakens bright hopes of the future. We live as truly in an age of spiritual, as of outward activity. If, as yet, we have produced no rivals of the giants of English literature who made the seventeenth century illustrious; if there are none who can follow the flight of Milton, as he "rises with his singing robes about him," none who can soar with Shakspeare "into the highest heaven of invention;" yet there are now thousands who listen with rapt attention to their harmonies, where once only could be found rare admirers. Never before have the lofty minds and large hearts of the world been brought into so near contact with the people: never before have the new creations of genius been scattered abroad so freely in the humblest walks of life. And never before has there been so high an average culture of mind and heart, or so much general moral and mental activity, as at the present day.

Even the popular taste for Poetry is so largely on the increase, that we may soon have reason to call this a poetical as well as a mechanical age. Nor is there necessarily any antagonism in these tendencies. It is to this blending of the actual and the ideal, that we look forward with hope. When this union has been harmoniously accomplished, material wealth shall be sought for spiritual uses; outward prosperity shall be made to minister to inward culture; "divine discourse" shall incite "brave resolution;" high purposes exact earthly drudgery:

"We may do

Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus swift and steadfast; thus intent and strong;
While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue

Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song."

Yes; amid the noise and discordant jars of life, how much we need the sweet harmonies of song! Would that we could give the love of

poetry to all who are flushed with the fever of life, or harassed by its anxious cares! As we look on the editions which flood our land, it is a cheering thought to us that many a son of toil will have his heart lightened by the poet's buoyant inspiration, and his soul elevated by the celestial visions which first came to the poet's mind in hours of midnight thought.

Far enough shall we be from ranking poems indiscriminately under the head of "light literature;" unless the grocer's scales are to be the test. To us they are a very serious kind of literature. A bad poem may do far more harm than a bad sermon; for it may have a thousand times as many readers: while, on the other hand, a poem of high purpose may be the source of incalculable blessing. We cannot, therefore, but rejoice at the elevated moral tone to which the poetry of the day has risen. We need not now look on the beautiful creations of our poets with the feeling with which we gaze on the Laocoon, admiring the art, but shuddering at the serpent. Since the era of Wordsworth, we have had many a fair example to show us how near to each other "the kindred fountains of sanctity and beauty" may be, and how sweetly their waters may mingle.

LOWELL has written very few lines which we would wish to blot. Unfortunately, he has partially fallen into the hands of a clique who arrogate to themselves all the Christianity, as well as the anti-slavery sentiment, of the land; and they have infected him with some of their own prejudices and ultraisms. With this exception, however, his poems breathe a true Christian spirit. The sentiment of human brotherhood, arising from our common relation to the universal Father, finds in his verse a fuller and more constant expression than in that of any of his contemporaries. Between him and his brother poet, Whittier, there is a striking difference. The latter oftener makes every line of his song flash with indignation, and stirs all the heroic within us against wrong: Lowell loves rather to turn away from the sight of evil, and indulge his bright visions of the perfect good. He chooses oftener to sing of "the better day coming," than to denounce with Whittier's fiery lyrics the wrongs of the present. This we think the instinct of his poet nature. Still he has much, also, of the instinct of battle in him, as that curious medley of broad humour, keen wit, over-abundant satire, and honest invective, the "Biglow Papers," clearly shows.

There is in Lowell a happy union of qualities not often found together. He unites enthusiasm and calmness, vigour of thought and grace of diction, strength and harmony, a reverent love of duty, in its sternest aspect, a delicate sensibility to beauty in its every form. When we add to these high qualities the advantage of youth,

we know not, if he will only be patient, and resist the temptation of writing too fast and too much, any place among our poets to which he may not aspire. His last poem is certainly his most perfect production, and has won from no partial critic the high praise of comparison with Coleridge's "Christabel."

"THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL" is founded on what Lowell calls the "Mythology of the Romancers." It was a tradition that the San Grail, or Holy Cup, which was used by our Saviour at the last supper, was brought by Joseph of Arimathea into England; where it remained in the keeping of his descendants, until one of them forfeited the condition attached to its possession-purity of heart. From that time it disappeared, and thence became an object of search for the chivalrous knights. The plot of the "Vision" is very simple. Sir Launfal, on one of those bright days of June, when it is "The high tide of the year,

and when

And whatever of life hath ebb'd away,
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,"-

"The soul partakes the season's youth,”—

remembers the keeping of his vow; and, calling for his golden spurs and richest mail, declares that there "shall never a bed be spread" for him until he has commenced his journey. As he lies on the rushes outside the castle gate, slumber descends upon him, and this vision comes. Forth from the castle he seems to spring on his charger, with his flashing armour illumining the dark gateway. As he passes, he beholds a leper crouching by its side, and tosses him "a piece of gold in scorn," which the leper raises not from the ground;-saying,

That is no true alms which the hand can hold."

Years roll on in the moments of his dream, and, after many a weary pilgrimage, he has come back from his search, "an old bent man." It is mid-winter as he reaches his castle; and he sees

"The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold,

Through the window-slits of the castle old,
Build out its piers of ruddy light

Against the drift of the cold."

But he is driven away by the servant from its gate,

"For another heir in his earldom sate."

Little however did the loss of his earldom now affect him; for his heart was changed since he had set out on his journey; its deepest affections were on other objects.

"No more on his surcoat was blazon'd the cross,
But deep in his soul the sign he wore,

The badge of the suffering and the poor."

As he sits musing by the castle gate, seeking

"Shelter from cold and snow,

In the light and warmth of long ago,"

he is startled by a voice asking, “For Christ's sweet sake" an alms. Behold, there again is the leper, "lank as the rain-blanched bone." His heart is touched; he "parts in twain his single crust, and breaks the ice on the streamlet's brink;" thus sharing his humble fare with the outcast. As with words of love he gives him to eat and drink, suddenly the leper is transformed, and stands up before him glorified; and

"A voice that was calmer than silence said,

'Lo, it is I, be not afraid!'

In many climes, without avail,

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold, it is here,-this cup which thou

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now."

Sir Launfal awakes, exclaims that the Grail is found in his castle; bids the servants hang up his armour; and so changed is he by the vision, that the grim castle gates are opened to the sunshine, and welcome every wanderer. He holds his wealth but to bless; considers himself the steward of Heaven's bounties

"And there's no poor man in the North Countree,
But is lord of the earldom as much as he."

The Poem is divided into two parts; to each of which there is a Prelude of exceeding beauty. The first has a description of summer, and the second of winter, scenery,-vying with each other in picturesque naturalness. To say that they are the finest pieces of descriptive poetry we know of in the compass of American literature, is indeed high praise; but let no one pronounce it too high till he has read them. We hesitate to take out a mere fragment from these perfect pictures; but we will try to separate from the winter scene this sketch of frost-work :-

"Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,

He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemm'd trees,
Bending to counterfeit a breeze;

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief,
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear,
For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush tops,
And hung them thickly with diamond drops,
Which crystall'd the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one:

No mortal builder's most rare device
Could match this winter-palace of ice;

'Twas as if every image that mirror'd lay
In his depths serene through the summer day,

Each flitting shadow of earth and sky,

Lest the happy model should be lost,

Had been mimick'd in fairy masonry
By the elfin builders of the frost."

The Poem is studded all over with gems. We must resist the temptation to illustrate our praise, or we shall find ourselves compressing the poem into our pages. We only indulge ourselves with one more picture. The camels in the desert are seen passing over the "red-hot sands,"

"To where, in its slender necklace of grass,

The little spring laugh'd and leapt in the shade,
And with its own self like an infant play'd,

And waved its signal of palms."

But, after all, it is not on its felicity of illustration, grace of metaphor, or picturesque description, that we rest the claims of this poem to the highest beauty; but on its elevated tone, and on the spiritual lesson it teaches. It is the beautiful lesson so often taught by our Saviour, and most affectingly when he said,—“ Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me." It is this spirit of universal love that hallows the humblest objects, and invests with beauty every child of God. We cannot but repeat the expression of our joy in the diffusion of works of poetry breathing so much of the Christian spirit over the land; bringing the enjoyment of such sacred beauty within the reach of all. The friend of humanity, as he looks over the list of our American authors, may well exclaim, "Blessings on the Poets!"