"Sooth thou art fair,
O ladye dear,
Yet one may see
The shadow of the East in thee;
Tinting to a riper flush
The faint vermilion of thy blush;
Deepening in thy dark-brown hair
Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there."
The gray charger which plays so conspicuous a part in the action was born under the palm-trees of Palestine, and his name, Caliph, would seem to indicate an Arabian descent. By this subtle link the connection between Provençal and Arabic poesy seems delicately to be hinted at. The fact that the main poem concludes in sonnet-form, if accidental, is curious; if brought about by design, is a happy thought, inasmuch as the sonnet derived its birth in Provence, and also from the fact that, from the number of its lines (twice seven), and the collocation of its rhymes, it is instinct with Christian symbolism.
The song itself, or story of Christine, is divided into five cantos or sub-songs, which, like the five acts of some romantic melodrama, arrest the attention from the start, and conduct the reader by five stages of increasing interest to the jubilant conclusion.
This main picture, as it may be called, has hanging on each side of it a smaller lateral one, one of which is a kind of prelude and the other the finale to the whole performance. This reminds us of some of those works of art by the older masters, in which a smaller side-picture may be seen to the right and left of the main representation. These appendages, though apparently slight and worded with extreme conciseness, are artistically conceived and add greatly to the general effect. They are also in fine keeping with the time and spirit of the legend itself, reminding us of one of those triple-arched emblazoned windows so often seen in old Gothic edifices. But the chief advantage derived from such an arrangement is, that the two smaller or lateral pieces serve as links to connect the more confined interests of the story with that grandest event in history, namely the Crusades, and thus to impart to the whole a breadth and grandeur of design which the size of the poem scarcely led us to expect. In the prelude we are presented with a view of the troubadour himself, who is supposed to sing the song, and not only himself, but his lady love, together with Richard of the Lion Heart, his queen, and all his chivalry. These last are at the time gazing over the blue Mediterranean, on which, in the distance, King Philip of France is seen sailing homeward with his receding vessels. The finale exhibits the arrival of a fleet under English banners. In both, a glimpse is caught of the troubadour who sings the song; in the one case, before he commences his romaunt, in the other, as he retires unnoticed and unthanked by the English monarch.
In the midst of so many beauties and artistic excellences, it is with reluctance that I notice two little circumstances which some might consider as slight blemishes. Caliph, the charger above alluded to, is spoken of as "the gallant gray." This expression sounds almost too trite and commonplace to find a place in so original a poem. Even if the color were preserved, I should [{684}] prefer some more novel and striking form of words. But would not pure white be a hue more suitable in itself, and also form a finer contrast with the coal-black steed which is ridden by the Goblin Horseman of Pilate's Mount? The last personage forms the evil, as Christine forms the good, principle of the poem. By placing one upon a white and the other on a black horse, the antagonism would be brought out in bolder relief, and we should be reminded of the fine allegory in Plato's Phaedra, where the chariot of Psyche is represented as drawn by two steeds of opposite colors, under the guidance of Reason, who is the charioteer.
The other—a trifle scarcely worthy of mention—is this: For the expression "Santo sudario" I should like to see substituted "Veronica," not so much on account of its effect upon the ear, as on account of those subtle trains of associated ideas which either lead us off from or on to poetical ground, as the case may be.
In justice to the author I must add that of these supposed blemishes I am doubtful, whereas of the beauties above alluded to I feel perfectly certain. It is much more easy to suggest alterations when a work is finished than by one's own effort to finish a perfect work. As a whole, there is a youthful fire and glow about the poem which cannot fail to render it captivating to the young, and a devotional and earnest tone of feeling which must be extremely acceptable to those more advanced. Reserving the "other poems" which accompany it for a future article, I shall conclude my remarks by a short extract taken almost at random from the third song:
"They are coming from this castle,
A bevy of bright-eyed girls,
Some with their long locks braided,
Some with loose golden curls.
Merrily 'mid the meadows
They win their wilful way;
Winding through sun and shadow,
Rivulets at play.
Brows with white rosebuds blowing,
Necks with white pearl intertwined,
Gowns whose white folds imprison
Wafts of the wandering wind.
The boughs of the charmed woodland
Sing to the vision sweet,
The daisies that couch in the clover
Nod to their twinkling feet
They see Christine by the river,
And, deeming the bridegroom near.
They wave her a dewy rose-wreath
Fresh plucked from her dark-brown hair.
Hand in hand tripping to meet her
Bird-like they carol their joy,
Wedding soft Provençal numbers
To a dulcet old strain of Savoy."
How trippingly and buoyantly do these verses gallopade adown the jocund page, as if one of the blithest of the old masters of the "gaya scientia." had been thrown by Merlin into an enchanted sleep, and, awaking from his slumber of eight centuries, was even now pouring into verse one of the freshest of his matin visions. And that bevy of dancing maidens! long may they continue to bound in tiptoe jollity adown the salient page. The glad creatures are as yet ignorant of the fact that Christine's noble lover is lying in a death-like a swoon, and that Christine herself has just had an interview with the fearful demon who wishes to bear her off in triumph. Each one of them seems to be a kind of Provençal Minnehaha, and may be compared to one of those merry waterfalls which come tumbling down the mountain-side, leaping in joy from rock to rock, and quite heedless of the black precipices which surround them.
But enough. As Cleopatra's barge of old went sailing down the river Cydnus, with burnished hull and perfumed sails, and silver oars rowing in unison with dulcet flutes, so ever and anon, at long intervals, is launched into the world some rare poem, which moves sailing down the river of time, to the admiration of all beholders. It behooves us, when such an apparition heaves in sight, whether it be poem or vessel, to be on the lookout and not to miss the pleasure of saluting it with our heartiest cheers.