And we say that repose has fled That the din will be more on its banks, Drink of the feeling of quiet again. But what was before us we know not, And we know not what shall succeed. Haply, the river of Time As it grows, as the towns on its marge And the width of the waters, the hush As it draws to the Ocean, may strike Peace to the soul of the man on its breast As the pale waste widens around him, As the banks fade dimmer away, STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF "OBERMANN "1 IN front the awful Alpine track The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, 1 The author of Obermann, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work, Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest. Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the Seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married: returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only: Eternité, deviens mon asile! The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day.-Chateaubriand and Madame de Staël-are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and though Obermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces, by which modern life is and has been impelled, lives in the letters of Obermann; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world which our own time is but more fully bringing to light, -all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high. Beside Obermann there is one other of Senancour's works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting; its title is, Libres Méditations d'un Solitaire Inconnu. (Arnold's note. The passage of George Sand alluded to may be found in her Questions d'Art et de Littérature. Sainte-Beuve has several times written of Senancour especially in his Portraits Contemporains, Vol. I, and in Chateaubriand et son Groupe littéraire, Chap. 14.) Behind are the abandon'd baths 1 The white mists rolling like a sea! -Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee; I turn thy leaves! I feel their breath That air of languor, cold, and death, Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, A fever in these pages burns Yes, though the virgin mountain-air Though here a mountain-murmur swells Yet, through the hum of torrent lone, There sobs I know not what ground-tone By England's lakes, in gray old age, But Wordsworth's eyes avert their k-n For he pursued a lonely road, Strong was he, with a spirit free For though his manhood bore the bas But we, brought forth and rear'd in hours Like children bathing on the shore, Too fast we live, too much are tried, And luminous view to gain. And then we turn, thou sadder sage, Immoveable thou sittest, still Yes, as the son of Thetis said, Ah! two desires toss about One drives him to the world without, he glow, he cries, the thrill of life, Vhere, where do these abound ?— ot in the world, not in the strife f men, shall they be found. le who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife, nows how the day hath gone. le only lives with the world's life, Who hath renounced his own. o thee we come, then! Clouds are roll'd Where thou, O seer! art set; hy realm of thought is drear and cold'he world is colder yet! And thou hast pleasures, too, to share How often, where the slopes are green By some high chalet-door, and seen And darkness steal o'er the wet grass And reach that glimmering sheet of glass Beneath the piny sward, Lake Leman's waters, far below! Fade from the distant peaks of snow; Heard accents of the eternal tongue Away the dreams that but deceive I go, fate drives me ; but I leave We, in some unknown Power's employ, Move on a rigorous line; Can neither, when we will, enjoy, I in the world must live; but thou, Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, For thou art gone away from earth, And with that small, transfigured band, Christian and pagan, king and slave, Distinctions we esteem so grave, They do not ask, who pined unseen, Whose one bond is, that all have been There without anger thou wilt see No more, so he but rest, like thee, Farewell-Whether thou now liest near The ripples of whose blue waves cheer And in that gracious region bland, Between the dusty vineyard-walls And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date Or whether, by maligner fate, Where between granite terraces Farewell! Under the sky we part, O unstrung will! O broken heart! REQUIESCAT STREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too! Her mirth the world required; She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. 1852. plunged in sleep; Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed; But when the gray dawn stole into his tent. He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent; And went abroad into the cold wet fog, Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood Clustering like beehives on the low flat strand Of Oxus, where, the summer-floods o'erflow When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere: Was dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's sleep; And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : "Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?" But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:- "Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, before the army march'd; And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first I came among the Tartars and bore arms. I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, At my boy's years, the courage of a man. This too thou know'st, that while I still Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle's cominon chance with us Who love thee, but must press for ever first. In single fight incurring single risk, us Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war. And when 't is truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. But, if this one desire indeed rules all, To seek out Rustum-seek him not through fight! Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, Sohrab, carry an unwounded son! But far hence seek him, for he is not here. For now it is not as when I was young. When Rustum was in front of every fray; But now he keeps apart, and sits at home. In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. Whether that his own mighty strength at last Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age, Or in some quarrel with the Persian King, There go!-Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes Danger or death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost To us; fain therefore send thee hence, In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword; And on his head he set his sheep-skin сар, Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of KaraKul; And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd His herald to his side, and went abroad. The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed Into the open plain; so Haman badeHaman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled The host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd; As when some gray November morn the files, In marching order spread, of long-neck’d |