Part 12
Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is, To suffer and grow strong.
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
As the slow beast with heavy strength indued In some wide field by troops of boys pursued, Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain, Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain; Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound, The patient animal maintains his ground, Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased, And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last. On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung, The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung; Confiding now in bulky strength he stands, Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands: Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly, And threats his followers with retorted eye. Fixed as the bar between two warring powers, While hissing darts descend in iron showers: In his broad buckler many a weapon stood, Its surface bristled with a quivering wood; And many a javelin, guiltless, on the plain Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain.
_Pope._
* * * * *
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.
_Byron._
* * * * *
The lusty strength of youth Is better far than proud decrepitude. With mind and might and fortitude endued, We stand erect and fight for present truth. We’re in the young delight of new existence; The ardent blood leaps lively in our veins; The dim traditions glimmering in the distance We scorn, for objects worthier manly pains.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
He that of such a height hath built his mind, And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers; nor do all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same: What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and weilds of man survey!
_Daniel._
COXCOMB.... _Singularity_.
Go then, and if you can, admire the state Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate; Procure a taste to double the surprise, And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes: Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye, Or birth-day nobles’ splendid livery.
_Pope._
* * * * *
He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December’s drowsy day to his dull race,-- A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,-- He did not fall asleep just after dinner; But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue! He ne’er presumed to make an error clearer; In short, there never was a better hearer.
_Byron._
GRASS.... _Submission_.
According to the Greek historians, Grass was made the symbol of submission, because the ancient nations of the West gathered Grass and presented it to the conqueror, to show that they confessed themselves overcome. The grass is trodden under foot by imperial man; and, instead of returning to its former vigour with elastic spring, or punishing its violator like the nettle, yields to its fate--spiritless submission.
* * * * *
It grieves me to the soul To see how man submits to man’s control; How overpowered and shackled minds are led In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred.
_Crabbe._
* * * * *
You shall be as a father to my youth, My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear; And I will stoop and humble my intents To your well practised, wise directions.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, wo the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, And we are governed with our mother’s spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
E’en liberty itself is bartered here. At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
_Goldsmith._
* * * * *
Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, The sports of children satisfy the child; Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind: As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
_Goldsmith._
FIR.... _Time_.
What does not fade? the tower, that long had stood The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, Now hangs in doubtful ruins o’er its base, And flinty pyramids and walls of brass Descend; the Babylonian spires are sunk; Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down. Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires crush by their own weight.
_Armstrong._
* * * * *
The clock upon the mantel-piece is ticking; Thus hour by hour it tolls a funeral chime: By day and night its calm and constant clicking Denotes the speed of the old traveller Time. It is a solemn voice. Who hath an ear To hear its warning accents, let him hear, And preparation make to meet the day When he, alone, shall lie upon the brink Of human life, and death shall bid him drink The hemlock cup that none can put away. What though man turn from the unwelcome theme, Will Time sit still for man’s forgetfulness?-- To watch and wake were wiser than to dream And wake at last to wo remediless.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
The world’s great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls its fountains Against the morning-star. Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads, on a sunnier deep; A loftier Argos cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death’s scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtile sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew, Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if naught so bright may live, All earth can take or heaven can give. Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst, more wise and good Than all who fell, than one who rose, Than many unwithstood-- Not gold, nor blood, their altar dowers, But native tears and symbol flowers. Oh cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past-- Oh, might it die or rest at last!
_Shelley._
* * * * *
Time past and time to come are not-- Time present is our only lot; O God, henceforth our hearts incline To seek no other love than thine!
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Then haste thee, Time--’tis kindness all That speeds thy winged feet so fast; Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, And all thy pains are quickly past.
_Bryant._
* * * * *
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgotten as soon As done.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
As through a valley remote I strayed, Methought, beside a mouldering temple’s stone, The tale of whose dark structure was unknown, I saw the form of Time: his scythe’s huge blade Lay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seen Fearful, as oft the wind, the tussocks green Moved stirring to and fro: the beam of morn Cast a dim lustre on his look forlorn; When touching a responsive instrument, Stern o’er the chords his furrowed brow he bent: Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet, Played smiling with the hour-glass at his feet! Apart from these, and in a verdant glade, A sleeping infant on the moss was laid, O’er which a female form her vigils kept, And watched it, softly-breathing as it slept. Then I drew nigh, and to my listening ear Came, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:
“Lullaby, sing lullaby,-- Sweetest babe, in safety lie; I thy mother sit and sing, Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing. Here, where innocence reposes, Fairy sylphs, your sports delay; Then the breath of morning roses From its bed of bliss convey. Lullaby, sing lullaby,-- Sweetest babe, in safety lie; I thy mother sit and sing, Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.”
_Bowles._
* * * * *
Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread, Shall tear away the trophies of the dead. Fame, on the pyramid’s aspiring top, With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop; The feeble characters of Glory’s hand Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand; But not with these expire the sacred flame Of virtue, or the good man’s awful name.
_Bowles._
* * * * *
O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile-- As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-- Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
_Bowles._
COMMON THISTLE.... _Misanthropy_.
Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than be blest with light, and see That light for ever flying. All that’s bright must fade,-- The brightest still the fleetest, All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest!
_Moore._
* * * * *
I had much rather see A crested dragon or a basilisk, Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.
_Dryden._
* * * * *
Hate all, curse all: show charity to none; But let the famished flesh slide from the bone, Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them, Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind: For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
I’ll keep my way alone, and burn away-- Evil or good I care not, so I spread Tremendous desolation on my road: I’ll be remembered as huge meteors are; From the dismay they scatter.
_Proctor._
* * * * *
I see thou art implacable, more deaf To prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seas Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore: Thy anger, unappeasable, still rages Eternal tempest never to be calm.
_Milton._
* * * * *
Warped by the world in disappointment’s school. In words too wise, in conduct there a fool; Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betrayed him still; Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men, Had left him joy, and means to give again. Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force, He hated men too much to feel remorse, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all.
_Byron._
* * * * *
He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world’s slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
_Shelley._
* * * * *
They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, As if the Star of Bitterness which fell On earth of old, and touched them with its beams, Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate; And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light-- How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That noble nature into cold eclipse-- Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven, And born, not only to surprise, but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!
_Moore._
DEW PLANT.... _Serenade_.
Inesilla! I am here: Thy own cavalier Is now beneath thy lattice playing: Why art thou delaying?
He hath ridden many a mile But to see thy smile: The young light on the flowers is shining, Yet he is repining.
What to him is a summer star, If his love’s afar? What to him the flowers perfuming, When his heart’s consuming?
Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide? Beauty may abide Even before the eye of morning, And want no adorning.
Now, upon their paths of light, Starry spirits bright To catch thy brighter glance are staying: Why art thou delaying?
_Barry Cornwall._
* * * * *
Listen! from the forest boughs The voice-like angel of the spring Utters his soft vows To the proud rose blossoming.
And now beneath thy lattice dear! I am like the bird complaining: Thou above (I fear) Like the rose disdaining.
From her chamber in the skies Shouts the lark at break of morning, And when day-light flies Comes the raven’s warning.
This of gloom and that of mirth In their mystic numbers tell; But thoughts of sweeter birth Teacheth the nightingale.
_Barry Cornwall._
PINE.... _Pity_.
Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollowness That moves more dear compassion of the mind Than beauty brought to unworthy wretchedness Through envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind: I, whether lately through her brightness blind, Or through allegiance and vast fealty, Which I do owe unto all womankind, Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pity I could die.
_Spenser._
* * * * *
Like Ariadne, when in pale despair The Athenian left her,--so sad Eva pined, And so she went complaining to the air, And gave her tresses to the careless wind:-- The colour of her fate was on her mind, Dark, death-like, and despairing;--and her eye Shone lustrous, like the light of prophecy.
Over the grassy meads,--beside lone streams, To perilous heights which no weak step could reach, She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreams With musing, and would move the tremulous beech And shuddering aspen with imploring speech; For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed) Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride.
_Barry Cornwall._
[Illustration: NARCISSUS, SCARLET, GERANIUM, MARIGOLD.
_Your self-love and stupidity excite my pity._]
* * * * *
Has Hope, like the bird in the story, That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman’s glittering glory-- Has Hope been that bird to thee? On branch after branch alighting, The gem did she still display, And, when nearest and most inviting, Then waft the fair gem away! If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, When Sorrow herself looked bright; If thus the fond hope has cheated, That led thee along so light; If thus, too, the cold world wither Each feeling that once was dear;-- Come, child of misfortune! come hither, I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.
_Moore._
* * * * *
The blind man groping cautiously his way Along the crowded pavement of a city, Has natural claims upon our tender pity. Whether ’twere night, or whether it were day, Would seem to make small difference to him Whose days and nights alike are ever dim; Yet still the tramp of human feet, and hum Of human voices, sweetly fill his ear; The surgings of the tides of life appear Like the deep sounds that from the ocean come At midnight to the listener. Pity’s glance Upon his form instinctively we throw; And while some sadness clouds our countenance, To GOD we pray to save us from such wo.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Come, chase that starting tear away, Ere mine to meet it springs; To-night, at least, to-night be gay, Whatever to-morrow brings! Like sunset gleams, that linger late When all is darkening fast, Are hours like these we snatch from Fate-- The brightest and the last.
_Moore._
* * * * *
’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh!
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.
_Moore._
SAGE.... _Domestic Virtues_.
At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th’ expectant wee things, todlin stacher through To meet their dad, wi’ flichtering noise and glee; His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
_Burns._
* * * * *
How warmly we are loved, we seldom learn Till pain and sorrow take our strength away; Then hearts too long estranged, to us will turn, And be at peace, as in a former day. Our true and loving wife more loving grows; Our little ones in pitying wonder stand Beside the bed and clasp our fevered hand; Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows; And it may be, when evening calls to rest, They sadly kneel beside their mother’s chair, Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer, And for their sire they make a child’s request. The times of anguish vainly are not given. That lead a family to unity and heaven.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Poor madam now condemned to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old: With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean; No more presuming on her sway, She learns good nature every day; Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
_Goldsmith._
* * * * *
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art: Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain: And e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?
_Goldsmith._
* * * * *
The first sure symptoms of a mind in health, Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
_Young._
* * * * *
Nor need we power or splendour,-- Wide hall or lordly dome; The good, the true, the tender,-- These form the wealth of home.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
His warm but simple home, where he enjoys With her who shares his pleasure and his heart, Sweet converse.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
Home is the sphere of harmony and peace, The spot where angels find a resting-place, When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polished friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.
_Thomson._
* * * * *
An angel always dwells beneath the roof Where, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfils Her gentle duties; and unnumbered ills From that love-guarded precinct keep aloof.
_MacKellar._
LICHEN.... _Solitude_.
How use doth breed a habit in a man! The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: There can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale’s complaining notes Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *