Robert Blair, poète écossais (Édimbourg 1699 – Athelstaneford 1746). Son poème La Tombe (1743) est une complainte baroque sur la fatalité de la mort, illustrée par William Blake (1808). Cette méditation lugubre inaugure la « poésie des cimetières » dont Thomas Gray sera le plus illustre représentant. En 1805, un éditeur commande à Blake des aquarelles destinées à la gravure. Parmi les douze qui seront gravées, celle intitulée la Mort du mauvais homme accompagne le poème la Tombe, de l’Ecossais Robert Blair. Cette aquarelle à la plume et à l’encre noire montre un homme à l’agonie, deux figures féminines, l’une désespérée penchée sur lui, sa femme certainement, l’autre debout en pleurs, sa fille peut-être, tandis qu’un autre homme (son double, son âme), entouré de flammes, s’envole vers une fenêtre. Récemment acquise par le musée du Louvre, elle est la seule œuvre de Blake qui appartienne aux collections publiques françaises (Dictionnaire Larousse).
« Dans son long poème de huit cents vers, The Grave, composé vers 1730 mais publié en 1743, Robert Blair reprend la métaphore du voyage ("Journeying thro'Life"), rappelant ainsi que la vie n'est qu'un passage. Il insiste sur la fragilité des choses humaines, sur le caractère éphémère des plaisirs terrestres et met l'accent sur la vanité des biens de ce monde. Chez Blair, la tombe n'est plus un objet de méditation sur la fuite du temps, comme elle peut l'être chez Poussin dans Les Bergers d'Arcadie ou dans la première partie du poème «Night Piece on Death » de Thomas Parnell, mais elle est décrite avec force détails macabres. Tout concourt à rendre une impression d'horreur : le décor sinistre, la nuit, le silence, le tombeau humide aperçu à la lueur vacillante d'une bougie symbole de la fragilité de la vie :
The sickly Taper
By glimmering thro'thy low-brow'd misty Vaults,
(Furr'd round with mouldy Damps, and ropy Slime,)
Lets fall a supernumerary Horror,
And only serves to make thy Night more irksome.
Cette atmosphère lugubre ainsi que la présence de la chapelle gothique, des ruines, du cimetière sous la lune et d'un élément surnaturel annoncent le roman gothique. Les tombes, les ossements et les corps en décomposition qui jonchent le poème sont les signes avant-coureurs du goût de l'horreur que l'on retrouve quelques années plus tard sous la plume des écrivains gothiques. Le thème de ce poème est celui de la Vanité : vanité de la recherche de la renommée par delà la mort, vanité des bâtisseurs qui croient construire pour la postérité et dont les édifices s'écroulent sous l'usure du temps, vanité du savoir, vanité de la soif de richesses. L'insistance sur le caractère éphémère de la condition humaine est un trait récurrent de l'inspiration des poètes du début XVIIIe siècle, et des auteurs de la graveyard school. Pour Philippe Ariès, « les images de la mort et de la décomposition ne signifient ni la peur de la mort ni celle de l'au-delà - même si elles ont été utilisées à cet effet. Elles sont le signe d'un amour passionné du monde ici-bas, et d'une conscience douloureuse de l'échec auquel chaque vie d'homme est condamnée » (L'Homme devant la mort, Paris, Seuil 1977, p. 131). Ainsi que le souligne Michèle Plaisant, « c'est une inquiétude et parfois même une angoisse obsessionnelle qui perdurent au fils des siècles » (« Ut Pictura Poesis : Robert Blair (The Grave) et le thème des vanités. Une vision morbide du sacré». Le sacre et le profane, éd. Michèle Plaisant, Villeneuve d'Ascq, Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 1996, p. 57). Pour William Cowper, chaque spectacle et chaque son revêtent une importance particulière car il craint de ne plus le revoir ou l'entendre. À ses yeux, chaque instant est le dernier et il est toujours partagé entre la joie de l'éphémère et la terreur de l'éternel. Dans les oeuvres de Blair ou de Young, la religion apporte une consolation à la mélancolie du poète. Pour Blair comme pour Parnell, la mort est un chemin sombre (gloomy path) menant de la terre vers le ciel : « Death's but a path that must be trod, / If man would ever pass to God » (Parnell, « A Night Piece on Death » , Chalmers, vol IX, p. 365). Méditer sur la mort et sur ses emblèmes revient à reconnaître le caractère éphémère des plaisirs terrestres. La mort permet à l'homme d'élever ses considérations vers des objets plus spirituels : « Thrice welcome Death!/ What after many a painful bleeding step/ Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe/ On the long wish'd for shore » (Blair, Chalmers vol XV, p. 68) ». (Elizabeth Durot-Boucé, Le Lierre et la Chauve-Souris : réveils gothiques Émergence du roman noir anglais 1764-1824, Presses Sorbonne nouvelle, 2004, p.133-134).
Lire : François Odysse Barot, Histoire de la littérature contemporaine en Angleterre, 1830-1874, 1874.
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IMAGE
L'âme quitte le corps. Gravure de William Blake [1757-1827] pour le livre du poète Robert Blair "The Grave" (1743). Bien que considéré comme peintre, Blake n'a en fait guère peint de tableaux à l'huile, préférant l'aquarelle, le dessin, la gravure, la lithographie et surtout la poésie. Son style halluciné est moderne et le distingue de ses pairs bien que ses thèmes soient classiques.
« These illustrations must always remain among [Blake's] greatest. They are much less illustrations of Blair than expressions of his own moods and visions. We see the body and soul rushing into each other's arms at the last day, the soul hovering over the body and exploring the recesses of the grave, and the good and bad appearing before the judgement seat of God, not as these things appeared to the orthodox eyes of Blair, but as they appeared to the mystical eyes of William Blake. » -Tom Paulin
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S'il n'y a pas d'amour: Poésie contemporaine persane (1911-2011), Paris, L'Harmattan, 2012
Par Mahshid Moshiri
p. 19-20
Dans la poésie contemporaine persane, une des caractéristiques fondamentales du courant romantique est le rejet des traditions sociales, morales et religieuses. Le poète romantique parle ouvertement du vin, de l'alcool, de l'opium, de la drogue, de la nonchalance, du sexe, du péché et de l'impiété. L'expression de la douleur, du regret, du chagrin et aussi de l'amour constituent les thèmes dominants de sa poésie.
Dans l'ensemble, ce courant est profondément marqué par la mélancolie. Le poète ne craint pas de se lamenter sur la fatalité de la mort.
Nosrat Rahmâni (19929-2000), par exemple, parle du suicide dans son Shé're nâtamâm, « Le poème inachevé » :
Je fume une cigarette
Et je songe à la facilité
De se jeter par la fenêtre, ici
Sur le trottoir asphalté et à y mourir.
Une telle attitude s'inspire d'oeuvres du XVIIIe siècle comme La Tombe de l'Écossais Robert Blair, Les pensées nocturnes de l'Anglais Edward Young et aussi de la «poésie des cimetières » dont l'Anglais Thomas Gray est le plus illustre représentant avec son Elegy written in a country churchyard, « Elégie écrite dans un cimetière de campagne ».
Nâder Nâderpour (19129-2000) aussi, écrit, sa poésie Raghse amvât « Danse des morts » (1947). Cette poésie est comparée au poème symphonique la Danse macabre, composé en 1874 par Camille Saint-Saën sur un poème d'Henri Cazalis.
La prédominance de l'imagination, de la rêverie, du sentiment et de l'émotion compte parmi les caractéristiques essentielles de ce courant.
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The Grave (Extrait)
An excerpt from
The Grave by Robert Blair
First published March 1743.
Text: The Grave. A Poem. Robert Blair. London: M. Cooper, 1743. (First edition)
A LITERARY GOTHIC etext.
WHILST some affect the Sun, and some the Shade,
Some flee the City, some the Hermitage;
Their Aims as various, as the Roads they take
In Journeying thro' Life; the Task be mine
To paint the gloomy Horrors of the Tomb;
Th' appointed Place of Rendezvous, where all
These Travellers meet. Thy Succours I implore,
Eternal King! whose potent Arm sustains
The Keys of Hell and Death. THE GRAVE, dread Thing!
Men shiver, when thou'rt nam’d : Nature appall'd 10
Shakes off her wonted Firmness. Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended Realms, and rueful Wastes!
Where nought but Silence reigns, and Night, dark Night,
Dark as was Chaos, 'ere the Infant Sun
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his Beams
Athwart the Gloom profound! The sickly Taper
By glimmering thro' thy low-brow'd misty Vaults,
(Furr'd round with mouldy Damps, and ropy Slime,)
Lets fall a supernumerary Horror,
And only serves to make thy Night more irksome. 20
Well do I know thee by thy trusty Yew,
Chearless, unsocial Plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst Sculls and Coffins, Epitaphs and Worms:
Where light-heel'd Ghosts, and visionary Shades,
Beneath the wan cold Moon (as Fame reports)
Embody'd thick, perform their mystick Rounds.
No other Merriment, Dull Tree! is thine.
See yonder Hallow'd Fane! the pious Work
Of Names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot,
And buried 'midst the Wreck of things which were: 30
There lie interr'd the more illustrious Dead.
The Wind is up: Hark! how it howls! Methinks
'Till now, I never heard a Sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and Windows clap, and Night's foul Bird
Rook'd in the Spire screams loud: The gloomy Isles
Black-plaster'd, and hung round with Shreds of 'Scutcheons
And tatter'd Coats of Arms, send back the Sound
Laden with heavier Airs, from the low Vaults
The Mansions of the Dead. Rous’d from their Slumbers
In grim Array the grizly Spectres rise, 40
Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen
Pass and repass, hush'd as the Foot of Night.
Again! the Screech-Owl shrieks: Ungracious Sound!
I'll hear no more, it makes one's Blood run chill.
Quite round the Pile, a Row of Reverend Elms,
Coæval near with that, all ragged shew,
Long lash'd by the rude Winds: Some rift half down
Their branchless Trunks: Others so thin a Top,
That scarce two Crows could lodge in the same Tree.
Strange Things, the Neighbours say, have happen'd here: 50
Wild Shrieks have issu’d from the hollow Tombs,
Dead Men have come again, and walk'd about,
And the Great Bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd.
(Such Tales their Chear, at Wake or Gossiping,
When it draws near to Witching Time of Night.)
Oft, in the lone Church-yard at Night I've seen
By Glimpse of Moon-shine, chequering thro' the Trees,
The School-boy with his Satchel in his Hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his Courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat Stones 60
(With Nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,)
That tell in homely Phrase who lie below;
Sudden! he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears
The Sound of something purring at his Heels:
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
’Till out of Breath he overtakes his Fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the Tale
Of horrid Apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at Dead of Night, or takes his Stand
O'er some new-open'd Grave; and, strange to tell! 70
Evanishes at Crowing of the Cock.
The new-made Widow too, I've sometimes spy'd,
Sad Sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate Dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful Black,
Whilst Bursts of Sorrow gush from either Eye,
Fast-falling down her now untasted Cheek.
Prone on the lowly Grave of the Dear Man
She drops; whilst busy-meddling Memory,
In barbarous Succession, musters up
The past Endearments of their softer Hours, 80
Tenacious of its Theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and indulging the fond Thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless Turf,
Nor heeds the Passenger who looks that Way.
Invidious Grave! how do'st thou rend in sunder
Whom Love has knit, and Sympathy made one;
A Tie more stubborn far than Nature's Band!
Friendship! Mysterious Cement of the Soul!
Sweetner of Life! and Solder of Society!
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me, 90
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I prov'd the Labours of thy Love,
And the warm Efforts of the gentle Heart
Anxious to please. Oh! when my Friend and I
In some thick Wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar Eye; and sat us down
Upon the sloping Cowslip-cover'd Bank,
Where the pure limpid Stream has slid along
In grateful Errors thro' the Under-wood
Sweet-murmuring: Methought! the shrill-tongu'd Thrush 100
Mended his Song of Love; the sooty Black-bird
Mellow'd his Pipe, and soften'd ev'ry Note:
The Eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the Rose
Assum'd a Dye more deep; whilst ev'ry Flower
Vy'd with its Fellow-Plant in Luxury
Of Dress. Oh! then the longest Summer's Day
Seem'd too too much in Haste: Still the full Heart
Had not imparted half: 'Twas Happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of Joys departed
Not to return, how painful the Remembrance! 110
Dull Grave! thou spoil'st the Dance of Youthful Blood,
Strik'st out the Dimple from the Cheek of Mirth,
And ev'ry smirking Feature from the Face;
Branding our Laughter with the Name of Madness.
Where are the Jesters now? the Men of Health
Complexionally pleasant? Where the Droll?
Whose ev'ry Look and Gesture was a Joke
To clapping Theatres and shouting Crouds,
And made even thick-lip'd musing Melancholy
To gather up her Face into a Smile 120
Before she was aware? Ah! Sullen now,
And Dumb, as the green Turf that covers them!
Where are the mighty Thunderbolts of War?
The Roman Cæsars, and the Græcian Chiefs,
The Boast of Story? Where the hot-brain'd Youth?
Who the Tiara at his Pleasure tore
From Kings of all the then discover'd Globe;
And cry'd forsooth, because his Arm was hamper'd,
And had not Room enough to do its Work?
Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim! 130
And cramm'd into a Space we blush to name.
Proud Royalty! how alter'd in thy Looks?
How blank thy Features, and how wan thy Hue?
Son of the Morning! whither art thou gone?
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled Head,
And the majestick Menace of thine Eyes
Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now,
Like new-born Infant wound up in his Swathes,
Or Victim tumbled flat upon its Back,
That throbs beneath the Sacrificer's Knife: 140
Mute, must thou bear the Strife of little Tongues,
And coward Insults of the base-born Crowd;
That grudge a Privilege, thou never hadst,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful Grave,
Of being unmolested and alone.
Arabia's Gums and odoriferous Drugs,
And Honours by the Heralds duly paid
In Mode and Form, ev'n to a very Scruple;
Oh cruel Irony! These come too late;
And only mock, whom they were meant to honour. 150
Surely! There's not a Dungeon-Slave, that's bury'd
In the High-way, unshrouded and uncoffin'd,
But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as He.
Sorry Pre-eminence of high Descent
Above the vulgar-born, to rot in State!
But see! the well-plum'd Herse comes nodding on,
Stately and slow; and properly attended
By the whole Sable Tribe, that painful watch
The sick Man's Door, and live upon the Dead,
By letting out their Persons by the Hour 160
To mimick Sorrow, when the Heart's not sad.
How rich the Trappings, now they're all unfurl'd,
And glittering in the Sun! Triumphant Entrys
Of Conquerors, and Coronation Pomps,
In Glory scarce exceed. Great Gluts of People
Retard th' unweildy Show; whilst from the Casements
And Houses Tops, Ranks behind Ranks close-wedg'd
Hang bellying o'er. But! tell us, Why this Waste?
Why this ado in Earthing up a Carcase
That's fall'n into Disgrace, and in the Nostril 170
Smells horrible? Ye Undertakers! tell us,
'Midst all the gorgeous Figures you exhibit,
Why is the Principal conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty Stir? 'Tis wisely done:
What would offend the Eye in a good Picture
The Painter casts discreetly into Shades.
Proud Lineage! now how little thou appear'st!
Below the Envy of the Private Man!
Honour! that meddlesome officious Ill,
Pursues thee ev'n to Death; nor there stops short. 180
Strange Persecution! when the Grave itself
Is no Protection from rude Sufferance.
Absurd! to think to over-reach the Grave,
And from the Wreck of Names to rescue ours!
The best concerted Schemes Men lay for Fame
Die fast away: Only themselves die faster.
The far-fam'd Sculptor, and the lawrell'd Bard,
Those bold Insurancers of Deathless Fame,
Supply their little feeble Aids in vain.
The tap'ring Pyramid! th' Egyptian's Pride, 190
And Wonder of the World! whose spiky Top
Has wounded the thick Cloud, and long out-liv'd
The angry Shaking of the Winter's Storm;
Yet spent at last by th' Injuries of Heav'n,
Shatter'd with Age, and furrow'd o'er with Years,
The mystick Cone, with Hieroglyphicks crusted,
Gives Way. Oh! lamentable Sight! at once
The Labour of whole Ages lumbers down;
A hideous and mishapen Length of Ruins.
Sepulchral Columns wrestle but in vain 200
With all-subduing Time: Her cank'ring Hand
With calm deliberate Malice wasteth them:
Worn on the Edge of Days, the Brass consumes,
The Busto [sic] moulders, and the deep-cut Marble,
Unsteady to the Steel, gives up its Charge.
Ambition! half convicted of her Folly,
Hangs down the Head, and reddens at the Tale.
Here! all the mighty Troublers of the Earth,
Who swam to Sov'reign Rule thro' Seas of Blood;
Th' oppressive, sturdy, Man-destroying Villains! 210
Who ravag'd Kingdoms, and laid Empires waste,
And in a cruel Wantonness of Power
Thinn'd States of half their People, and gave up
To Want the rest: Now like a Storm that's spent,
Lye hush'd, and meanly sneak behind thy Covert.
Vain Thought! to hide them from the gen'ral Scorn,
That haunts and doggs them like an injur'd Ghost
Implacable. Here too the petty Tyrant
Of scant Domains Geographer ne'er notic'd,
And well for neighbouring Grounds, of Arm as short; 220
Who fix'd his Iron Talons on the Poor,
And grip'd them like some Lordly Beast of Prey;
Deaf to the forceful Cries of gnawing Hunger,
And piteous plaintive Voice of Misery:
(As if a Slave was not a Shred of Nature,
Of the same common Nature with his Lord:)
Now! tame and humble, like a Child that's whipp'd,
Shakes Hands with Dust, and calls the Worm his Kinsman;
Nor pleads his Rank and Birthright. Under Ground
Precedency's a Jest; Vassal and Lord 230
Grossly familiar, Side by Side consume.
When Self-Esteem, or others Adulation,
Would cunningly persuade us we were Something
Above the common Level of our Kind;
The Grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd Flatt'ry,
And with blunt Truth acquaints us what we are.
First published online 5 April 2003; minor reformatting 14 July 2004; minor textual corrections 21
October 2004.
The Literary Gothic
www.litgothic.com
