MR. EDWIN ARNOLD'S POEMS.*

MR. EDWIN ARNOLD has collected in this volume much of his scattered poetical work. The dates of the fifty odd pieces belong to a period of not less than thirty years; and the range of the subjects is at least correspondingly large. The poems divide themselves naturally into the original and translated. The former are, we must confess, somewhat disappointing. We should like to have seen a writer of Mr. Arnold's ability show, in a line of his own, something of the decided success which be has achieved as an interpreter of Eastern thought. Many readers will thankfully acknowledge that he has led them to see something of the beauty and truth which lie, mostly concealed from Western eyes, in the Scriptures of Hindooism, of Buddhism, and of Islam. Such would have been glad to find that he had a message of his own. These original poems do not answer any such expectations. They are " occasional " poems, often graceful and tender, more rarely powerful ; but they are not more than occasional. And they leave an impression of effort, of a straining after effect, of a certain want of restraint in the use of ornament, an occasional defect in taste, and a ring of something not altogether true in the pathos and sentiment. Hera is a sonnet which seems to us, while we sympathise with its general thought, to illustrate some of these defects "OXFORD REVISITED.

Mother ! mild Mother! after many years— So many that the head I bow tams grey—

Come I once more to thee, thinking to say In what far lands, through what hard hopes and fears, 'Mid how much toil and triumph, joys and tears I taught thy teaching ; and, withal, to lay At thy kind feet such of my wreaths as may Seem least unworthy. But what grown child dares Offer thee honours, Fair and Queenly One!

Tower-crowned, and girdled with thy silver streams, Mother of ah ! so many a better son ?

Let me but list thy solemn voice, which seems Like Christ's, raising my dead : and let me be Back for one hoar—a Boy—beside thy knee."

We will not make any direct comparison, but we will ask our readers whether they do not remember to have seen the theme treated in language far simpler, pitched, so to speak, to a lower note, but far more effective. In these poems Mr. Arnold is at his best when he is simply descriptive of some scene which specially appeals to his sympathies. Here is a charming picture of the temple where the Pundit expounds to him from the Kaltra Upanishad, "the Secret of Death"

The distant eity's hum Came soft, with broken beats of drum

Which did not mar the solitude;

For all around that temple cooed The creamy doves; striped squirrels leaped From stem to stem, the musk. rat peeped Under the wall ; beside the porch Flamed the red lizard like a torch Flung on the rock; the egrets stretched Their snowy wings; green parrots fetnhed Fruit to their young with joyous cries ; The monkey-peoples' mild brown eyes Glittered from bough and coping-stone ; And—underneath a root—alone, Dwelt a great cobra, thick and black, With ash-grey mottliugs on his back,— A most prodigious snake !—but he Kept the peace, too, religiously, With folded hood, and fangs of death Sheathed, while he drew his slow, cold breath."

When we come upon a more ambitious effort, as in the first story of "The Stratford Pilgrims," we are not so well pleased. The idea itself is delightful. The gay company that rode to Canter bury of old is gone. "None goeth forth on a pilgrimage—none." But why should not they two, the poet and his wife, make a pilgrimage of their own to where :—

" Far on you path, by the emerald lea, Fair Avon glideth adown to the sea ; By the walls of a church, beneath whose stones

Sleeps dust sacred as saintly bones."

So they go and tell tales to prove that a woman may be as true as man. " Vernier " is the first story told, and is, we suppose, Mr. Arnold's own. It is a tragic tale, yet somehow it misses its effect. It wants both simplicity and clearness. There is more effort than power in such lines as these, and they do not unfairly represent the tone of the whole :—

"Thee, the last day of the year,

Claude brought his unused charger to the gate, Sprang to the broad strong back, and reined its rage Into a marble stillness. Yet more still, Young Claude le Vavasonr, thy visage was, More marble-white."

The other, "King Saladin," is, we gather, freely taken from Boccacio. In this kind of verse Mr. Arnold is highly successful. With good material, and a certain liberty to shape it, he does not fail to make some good work.

We have as yet alluded only to the poem which gives its name to the volume. It is a fine expression of a philosophical thought, which may, perhaps, be best expressed as Pantheism, though the term Pantheism does not wholly comprehend it. The pupil, for instance, asks the pundit to teach him a little what Brahma is, and receives this answer :—

"HE, Who, Alone, Undifferenced, unites

With Nature, making endless difference, Producing and receiving all which seems, Is Brahma! May he give us light to know !

He is the Unseen Spirit which informs All subtle essences ! He flames in fire, He shines in Sun and Moon, Planets and Stars !

He bloweth with the winds, rolls with the waves, He is Prajapati, that fills the worlds ! He is the man and woman, youth and maid !

The babe new-born, the withered ancient, propped

Upon his staff ! He is whatever is,—

The black bee, and the tiger, and the fish, The green bird with red eyes, the tree, the grass, The cloud that bath the lightning in its womb, The seasons, and the seas ! By Him they are,

In Him begin and end."

But the wise man teaches also that the soul, if only it be the soul of the wise, has a separate, indestructible existence :—

"And, if they say, 'What then is left of it When eld upon the Body's City creeps, And breaks and scatters it; and all its walls Fall ; and the Palace of the Heart is void, Where dwelt the being, the desire, the life, This Royal Spirit's kingship P'

Answer them : 'By mortal years the Immortal grows not old ! The .Atman changes not ! The Body's death Kills not the soul ! It hath its City, still, Its Palace, and its bidden, proper life ! Becoming Self of Self; set clear from sin, As the snake casts her slough ; made free of flesh, Of age, ache, hunger, thirst, sorrow, and death : Thenceforth desiring the desirable, And thinking ever what is good to think !' "

Nevertheless, a distinctly lower note is touched in the passage which follows, and which seems to accommodate these transcendental truths to more material conceptions

"If a soul depart

Instructed—knowing itself—and knowing truth ;—

And how that Brahma and the Self are One—

Then bath it freedom over all the worlds : And, if it wills the Region of the Past, The Fathers and the Mothers of the Past Come to receive it ; and that Soul is glad !

And if it wills the region of the Homes, The Brothers and the Sisters of the Homes Come to receive it, and that Soul is glad !

And if it wills the region of the Friends, The well-beloved come to welcome it With love undying, and that Soul is glad !

And if it wills a world of grace and peace Where garlands are, and perfumes, and delights Of delicate meats and drinks, music and song, Lo! fragrances, and blossoms, and delights Of dainty banquets, and the streams of song Come perfect to it, end that Soul is glad !

And if it make its bliss in beauty's arms, Finding most wonder, most release, most rest On the soft bosoms of the Maids of Heaven, Lo! the bright Maids of Heaven—more loving-sweet Than loveliest earthly beauty—come to him Rejoiced—rejoicing!"

As a translator, pure and simple, we cannot speak highly of Mr. Arnold. That he should publish so very poor a version of "Donee gratus eram tibi " as we have on page 293, after the admirable versions of Mr. Gladstone and Lord Derby, is almost surprising. What could be poorer for,—

" Me torret face mans

Thnrini Calals Mins Ornyti Pro quo bis patiar mori, Si percent puero fats superstiti."

" Ah ! yes; 'tie past. I love a Thnrian boy, Who dotes on me ;

And for his dear sake I would die with joy, Nay, or twice over, were the thing to be."

In a translation from Theocritas we have the lines :—

" Pan would be angered to bear me. Just now he breaks off from

• hunting, Stretches his hairy limbs in the shade, and puffs his great nostrils, Panting, and surly for lack of breath, and longing for slumber."

?d rrnpic

"

Kai a del aprffEia xoAci worl Aul zichrar."

The last line of the English is, it will be seen, a pure addition. There is nothing about " panting " and "lack of breath," and longing for slumber. To add what a poet does not say, is the worst fault that a translator can commit. We observe

it again in the translation of part of Odyssey, xxii. We read of how Antinoiis, smitten with the deadly arrow, falls :— " Spilling the viands and wine, overturning the roast meat and boiled meat,

Mixing the cakes and fruit with his blood."

"Roast meat and boiled meat" represents "dird; re zpievr'

(do we hear in Homer of "boiled meat ?") and the next clause about the cakes and fruit has nothing with which it corresponds.