FREDERICK LOCKER.--1821-
And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cosy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small pickaninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.
Your baby-days flow"d in a much-troubled channel; I see you, as then, in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex"d with the newly-found fardel of Life.
To hint at an infantile frailty"s a scandal; Let bygones be bygones, for somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle,-- Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes.
Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know.
They guard the wee nest it was yours to inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.
It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling, Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask, "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"
If mask"d, still it pleases--then raise not its mask.
Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most "tis a footstep from cradle to coffin-- From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.
Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny; I see you, except for those infantine woes, Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny-- Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes!
Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped.
Hark! As I"m talking there"s six o"clock striking,-- It is time JENNY"S BABY should be in its bed.
XC. RUGBY CHAPEL.
NOVEMBER, 1857.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.--1822-
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither"d leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;--hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows--but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid.
There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah!
That word, _gloom_, to my mind Brings thee back in the light Of thy radiant vigor again: In the gloom of November we pa.s.s"d Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impair"d not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee.
Fifteen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread, In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden. For fifteen years, We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, Lacking the shelter of thee.
O strong soul, by what sh.o.r.e Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is practis"d that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm!
Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live-- Prompt, unwearied, as here!
Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, Sternly repressest the bad!
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half-open eyes Tread the border-land dim "Twixt vice and virtue; reviv"st, Succorest!--this was thy work.
This was thy life upon earth.
What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth?-- Most men eddy about Here and there--eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are rais"d Aloft, are hurl"d in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die-- Perish--and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost Ocean, have swell"d, Foam"d for a moment, and gone.
And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust Effort unmeaning and vain.
Ah yes! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to s.n.a.t.c.h From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave!
We, we have chosen our path-- Path to a clear-purpos"d goal, Path of advance!--but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o"er mountains in snow.
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth-- Then, on the height, comes the storm.
Thunder crashes from rock To rock, the cataracts reply; Lightnings dazzle our eyes; Roaring torrents have breach"d The track, the stream-bed descends In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footstep--the spray Boils o"er its borders! aloft The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin!--alas, Havoc is made in our train!
Friends, who set forth at our side, Falter, are lost in the storm.
We, we only are left!-- With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compress"d, we strain on On--and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn "mid the rocks; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs-- Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks: Whom in our party we bring?
Whom we have left in the snow?
Sadly we answer: We bring Only ourselves! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm.
Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripp"d, without friends, as we are.
Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side.
But thou would"st not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild.
We were weary; and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die.
Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand.
If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!
Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand, And through thee I believe In the n.o.ble and great who are gone; Pure souls honor"d and blest By former ages, who else-- Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see-- Seem"d but a dream of the heart, Seem"d but a cry of desire.
Yes! I believe that there liv"d Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bl.u.s.ter or cringe, and make life Hideous, and arid, and vile; But souls temper"d with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind.
Servants of G.o.d!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father"s innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died!
See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line.
Where are they tending?--A G.o.d Marshall"d them, gave them their goal.-- Ah, but the way is so long!
Years they have been in the wild!
Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, Rising all round, overawe; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve.-- Ah, keep, keep them combined!
Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray; on the rocks Batter forever in vain, Die one by one in the waste.
Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine.
Beacons of hope, ye appear!
Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away.
Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave.
Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of G.o.d.
_What know we greater than the soul?
On G.o.d and G.o.dlike men we build our trust._
TENNYSON.
XCI. IN THE ORILLIA WOODS.