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This sight is far from uncommon. It is seen during the summer, at least, in greater or less perfection, as often as twice or thrice a week. The other is much less frequent; for, though a constant spectator when the atmosphere was favorable, it was never my fortune to witness it but twice; and even on these occasions, only one of them is entitled to come within the description I am about to attempt.
It is necessary to tell you that the Aar flows toward Berne in a north-west direction, through a valley of some width, and several leagues in length. To this fact the Bernese are indebted for their view of the Oberland Alps, which stretch themselves exactly across the mouth of the gorge, at the distance of forty miles in an air line. These giants are supported by a row of outposts, any one of which, of itself, would be a spectacle in another country. One in particular, is distinguished by its form, which is that of a cone. It is nearly in a line with the Jung Frau,[4] the virgin queen of the Oberland. This mountain is called the Niesen. It stands some eight or ten miles in advance of the mighty range, though to the eye, at Berne, all these accessories appear to be tumbled without order at the very feet of their principals. The height of the Niesen is given by Ebel at 5584 French, or nearly 6000 English feet, above the {403} lake of Thun, on whose margin it stands; and at 7340 French, or nearly 8000 English feet above the sea. In short, it is rather higher than the highest peak of our own White Mountains. The Jung Frau rises directly behind this mass, rather more than a mile nearer to heaven.
[Footnote 4: Jung Frau, or the virgin; (pronounced Yoong Frow.) The mountain is thus called, because it has never been scaled.]
The day, on the occasion to which I allude, was clouded, and as a great deal of mist was clinging to all the smaller mountains, the lower atmosphere was much charged with vapor. The cap of the Niesen was quite hid, and a wide streak of watery clouds lay along the whole of the summits of the nearer range, leaving, however, their brown sides misty but visible. In short the Niesen and its immediate neighbors looked like any other range of noble mountains, whose heads were hid in the clouds. I think the vapor must have caused a good deal of refraction, for above these clouds rose the whole of the Oberland Alps to an altitude which certainly seemed even greater than usual. Every peak and all the majestic formation was perfectly visible, though the whole range appeared to be severed from the earth, and to float in air. The line of communication was veiled, and while all below was watery, or enfeebled by mist, the glaciers threw back the fierce light of the sun with powerful splendor. The separation from the lower world was made the more complete, from the contrast between the sombre hues beneath and the calm but bright magnificence above. One had some difficulty in imagining that the two could be parts of the same orb. The effect of the whole was to create a picture of which I can give no other idea, than by saying it resembled a glimpse, through the windows of heaven, at such a gorgeous but chastened grandeur, as the imagination might conceive to suit the place. There were moments when the spectral aspect just mentioned, dimmed the lustre of the snows, without injuring their forms, and no language can do justice to the sublimity of the effect. It was impossible to look at them without religious awe; and, irreverent though it may seem, I could hardly persuade myself I was not gazing at some of the sublime mysteries that lie beyond the grave.
A fortnight passed in contemplating such spectacles at the distance of sixteen leagues, has increased the desire to penetrate nearer to the wonders; and it has been determined that as many of our party who are of an age to enjoy the excursion, shall quit this place in a day or two for the Oberland.
MELLEN'S POEMS.[5]
[Footnote 5: We have received this notice of Mellen's Poems from a personal friend, in whose judgment we have implicit reliance--of course we cannot deviate from our rules by adopting the criticism as Editorial.]
_The Martyr's Triumph; Buried Valley; and other Poems. By Grenville Mellen. Boston, 300 pp._
We took up this book with the conviction that we should be pleased with its contents, and our highly wrought expectations have not in any degree been disappointed. It is as high praise as we are able to bestow upon it, that we have read most of its contents with the very associations around us, which are required for the perfect production of the impressions intended to be produced by the poet--and that we have, in each and all, still found those impressions strengthening and deepening upon our minds, as we perused the pages before us. "The Buried Valley," in which is portrayed the well remembered tragedy of the avalanche, which, in 1826, buried a peaceful cottage situated at the foot of the White Mountains, with all its inhabitants, at midnight, is not perhaps the best, though a most deeply interesting part of the volume. It is too unequal in its style, and at times too highly wrought, perhaps, as a picture. But the idea which it gives the reader of the wild and magnificent spot upon which this terrible catastrophe occurred is perfect, and the description of the circumstances and incidents of the scene most faithful.
The Scenery of the White Mountains of New Hampshire forms the inspiration of another poem also in this collection, which we boldly place beside any emanation from the most gifted of our poets. We allude to "Lines on an Eagle," on pp. 130 and 131. We must be chary of our space, and can therefore give but a single stanza, in corroboration of our opinion.
Sail on, thou lone imperial bird, Of quenchless eye and tireless wing; How is thy distant coming heard, As the night-breezes round thee ring! Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun, In his extremest glory--how! Is thy unequall'd daring done, Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now!
The "Martyr's Triumph" is a most splendid poem, and deserves all the praise it has received from reader and critic. What can be more beautiful than the exordium?
Voice of the viewless spirit! that hast rung Through the still chambers of the human heart, Since our first parents in sweet Eden sung Their low lament in tears--thou voice, that art Around us and above us, sounding on With a perpetual echo, 'tis on thee, The ministry sublime to wake and warn!-- Full of that high and wondrous Deity, That call'd existence out from Chaos' lonely sea!
And what more purely inspired than the following?
Thou wast from God when the green earth was young, And man enchanted rov'd amid its flowers, When faultless woman to his bosom clung, Or led him through her paradise of bowers; Where love's low whispers from the Garden rose, And both amid its bloom and beauty bent, In the long luxury of their first repose! When the whole earth was incense, and there went Perpetual praise from altars to the firmament.
And these are but single "bricks from Babel." Specimens, only, of the beauty and grace with which the poem abounds.
Were we looking for faults, doubtless we should be able to find them, for who is faultless? But that is not our aim. Yet would we suggest to the author that the use of the word _dulce_ in stanza six, is somewhat forced,--and though a sweet word in itself, is yet "like sweet bells jangled, harsh, and out of tune," on account of its rarity, which induces the reader to note its strangeness rather than to admire its application. The whole book abounds with proofs of _Mellen's_ fine musical ear, and therefore does it seem to us a fault that he should have suffered the compositor to do him the injustice of printing such a line as this.
"Before ill-starr'd Dunsinane's waving wood!"
But it is for the minor, or shorter pieces which the volume contains, that it is most highly to be valued. _Mellen_ is delightful in his "occasional poems." Take the following, addressed to one of the sweetest singers, whose strains, like angel-harmonies from heaven, ever floated upon the rapt ear of the poet, as a proof.
TO HELEN.
Music came down from Heaven to thee, A spirit of repose-- A fine, mysterious melody, {404} That ceaseless round thee flows; Should Joy's fast waves dash o'er thy soul, In free and reckless throng, What Music answers from the whole, In thy resistless song!
Oh! Music came a boon to thee, From yon harmonious spheres; An influence from eternity, To charm us from our tears! Should Grief's dim phantoms then conspire To tread thy heart along, Thou shalt but seize thy wavy lyre, And whelm them all in song!
Yes, thine's a blest inheritance, Since to thy lips 'tis given, To lure from its long sorrows hence The spirit pall'd and riven! Go, unto none on earth but thee Such angel tones belong; For thou wert born of melody, Thy soul was bath'd in song!
There are many such, as, for instance, "To Sub Rosa," "Death of Julia," "The Eagle," "The Bugle," "_To Gabriella R----, of Richmond_," &c. &c.
Mellen is distinguished for his lyric powers. His Odes are all very fine. That "To Music," in the volume before us, is deserving of particular mention, as indeed are those "To Shakspeare," "To Byron," "To Lafayette," and others, written on several public occasions.
The volume has but one general fault, and that is, its deficiency in the lighter and gayer strain, in which we have private proofs that Mellen certainly excels. It were to be regretted that the poet did not throw into his collection some touches of that delicate and graceful humor, which none can more happily hit off than himself. The general tone of the volume is grave, if not indeed severe--though relieved by many exquisite verses like those already alluded to, and of which the following may serve as another specimen.
TO SUB ROSA.
Lady, if while that chord of thine, So beautifully strung To music that seem'd just divine, Still sweetly round me rung, I should essay a higher song Than humblest minstrel may, Shame o'er my lyre would breathe the wrong, And lure my hand away.
Forgive me then if I forbear, Where thou hast done so well, Nor o'er my harp strings idly dare What I should feebly tell. 'Tis woman that alone can breathe These holier fancies free-- Ah, then, be thine the fadeless wreath I proudly yield to thee.
O.
We may add to the critique of our friend O. that in looking over cursorily the poems of Mellen, we have been especially taken with the following spirited lyric.
STANZAS,
_Sung at Plymouth, on the Anniversary of the landing of our Fathers, 22d Dec. 1820._
Wake your harp's music!--louder--higher, And pour your strains along, And smite again each quiv'ring wire, In all the pride of Song! Shout like those godlike men of old, Who daring storm and foe, On this bless'd soil their anthem roll'd, _Two hundred years ago!_
From native shores by tempests driven, They sought a purer sky, And found beneath a wilder heaven, The home of liberty! An altar rose--and prayers--a ray Broke on their night of wo-- The harbinger of Freedom's day, _Two hundred years ago!_
They clung around that symbol too, Their refuge and their all; And swore while skies and waves were blue, That altar should not fall. They stood upon the red man's sod, 'Neath heaven's unpillar'd bow, With home--a country--and a God, _Two hundred years ago!_
Oh! 'twas a hard unyielding fate That drove them to the seas, And Persecution strove with Hate, To darken her decrees: But safe above each coral grave, Each booming ship did go-- A God was on the western wave, _Two hundred years ago!_
They knelt them on the desert sand, By waters cold and rude, Alone upon the dreary strand Of Ocean'd solitude! They look'd upon the high blue air, And felt their spirits glow, Resolved to live or perish there, _Two hundred years ago!_
The Warrior's red right arm was bar'd, His eye flash'd deep and wild; Was there a foreign footstep dar'd To seek his home and child? The dark chiefs yell'd alarm--and swore The white man's blood should flow, And his hewn bones should bleach their shore, _Two hundred years ago!_
But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim, His arm was left alone; The still black wilds which shelter'd him, No longer were his own! Time fled--and on this hallow'd ground His highest pine lies low, And cities swell where forests frown'd, _Two hundred years ago!_
Oh! stay not to recount the tale, Twas bloody--and 'tis past; The firmest cheek might well grow pale, To hear it to the last. The God of Heaven, who prospers us, Could bid a nation grow, And shield us from the red man's curse, _Two hundred years ago!_
Come then great shades of glorious men, From your still glorious grave; Look on your own proud land again, Oh! bravest of the brave! We call ye from each mould'ring tomb, And each blue wave below, To bless the world ye snatch'd from doom, _Two hundred years ago!_
Then to your harps--yet louder--higher-- And pour your strains along, And smite again each quiv'ring wire, In all the pride of song! Shout _for_ those godlike men of old, Who daring storm and foe, On this bless'd soil their anthem roll'd, TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!