There is a little quatrain of
Gongora's quoted by Calderon in his "Alcalde of Zalamea" which has an
inexplicable charm for me:
Las flores del romero,
Nina Isabel,
Hoy son flores azules,
Y manana seran miel.
If I translate it, 't is nonsense, yet I understand it perfectly, and it
will, I dare say, outlive much wiser things in my memory. It is the very
function of poetry to free us from that witch's circle of common sense
which holds us fast in its narrow enchantment. In this disenthralment,
language and verse have their share, and we may say that language also
is capable of a certain idealization. Here is a passage from the XXXth
song of Drayton's "Poly-Olbion":
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every Hill
Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill;
Helvillon from his height, it through the mountains threw,
From whom as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew,
From whose stone-trophied head, it on to Wendrosse went,
Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent,
That Broadwater therewith within her banks astound,
In sailing to the sea, told it in Egremound.
This gave a hint to Wordsworth, who, in one of his "Poems on the Naming
of Places," thus prolongs the echo of it:
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;
The ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
And the tall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the Lady's voice,--old Skiddaw blew
His speaking-trumpet;--back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
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