Part 3

Mackay's works have been numerous and various. Without presuming to be perfectly accurate, we shall attempt a list of his several publications. His first, as we have already stated, was a small volume of "Poems," published in 1836. This was followed by the "Hope of the World," a poem, in heroic verse, published in 1839. Soon afterwards appeared "The Thames and its Tributaries," a most suggestive, agreeable, and gossiping book. In 1841 appeared his "Popular Delusions," a work of considerable merit; and next came, in 1842, his romance of "Longbeard, Lord of London," so well conceived and cleverly executed, that an archaeologist of considerable pretensions mistook it for a genuine historical record of the place on which it was written. His next work, and up till that period his noblest poem, "The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality," appeared in 1843. As there is no hesitation in his thought, there is no vagueness in his language; it is terse, clear, and direct in every utterance. An enemy to spasms in every form, he abhors the Spasmodic School of Poets. If the true poet be the seer--the far seer into futurity--he should see his way clear before him. He should write because he has a thought to utter, and ought to utter it in the clearest and the fittest language, and this is the principle which manifestly governs the compositions of Charles Mackay. The "Salamandrine" lifted his works high in the poetic scale, and permanently fixed him, not only in the ranks, but marked him as a leader of the host of eminent British poets. His residence in Scotland enabled him to visit many places famous in Scottish history. The results were his "Legends of the Isles," published in 1845 and his "Voices from the Mountains" in 1846. A few months before the publication of the last named volume, the University of Glasgow conferred upon him the degree of LL.D.

When the London _Daily News_ was started, he contributed some stirring lyrics, under the title of "Voices from the Crowd." They arrested the attention of the public, and tended greatly to popularise and establish the reputation of that journal. In 1847 appeared his "Town Lyrics," a series of ballads which harrowed the soul by laying bare many of the secret miseries of the town. In 1850 was published his exquisite poem of "Egeria," probably the most refined and artistic of all his productions; and in 1856 he gave to the world "The Lump of Gold," and "Under Green Leaves," two volumes of charming poetry; the first tracing the evils that flow from unrestrained cupidity; the second the delights of the country, under every circumstance that can or does occur. Latterly he has composed some popular airs, set to his own lyrics; thus giving to the melody he has conceived the immortality of his verse. With the late Sir Henry Bishop he was associated in re-arranging a hundred of the choicest old English melodies. The music has been re-arranged; and many a lovely air, inadmissible to cultivated society from its being associated with vulgar or debasing words, has been re-admitted to the social circle, and is fast floating into public favour in union with the words composed by Mackay.

Here we stop. This is not the time, nor is it the place, to discuss, with any great elaboration, the merits or peculiarities of Charles Mackay as an author. We have to do with him as the most successful of song-writers. Two of his songs, perhaps not among his best, have obtained a world-wide popularity. His "Good Time Coming," and his "Cheer, Boys, Cheer," have been ground to death by barrel-organs, but only to experience a resurrection to immortality. On the wide sea, amid the desert, across the prairies, in burning India, in far Australia, and along the frozen steppes of Russia are floating those imperishable airs suggested by the "Lyrics" whose names they bear. The soldier and the sailor, conscious of impending danger, think of beloved ones at home; unconsciously they hum a melody, and comfort is restored. The emigrant, forced by various circumstances to leave his native land, where, instead of inheriting food and raiment, he had experienced hunger, nakedness, and cold, endeavours to express his feelings, and is discovered crooning over the tune that correctly interprets his emotions, and thrills his heart with gladness. The poet's song has become incorporated with the poor man's nature. You may see that it fills his eyes with tears; but they are not of sorrow. His cheek is flushed with hope, and a radiant expectation, founded on experience, which seems to illuminate and gild his future destiny. Marvellous, indeed, are the influences of a true song; and while they are rare, they are by fashion rarely appreciated. In it are embodied the best thoughts in the best language. By it the best of every class in every clime are swayed. In it they find expression for sensations, which, but for the poet, might have slumbered unexpressed till the day of doom.

Whether we think of Charles Mackay as a journalist, as a novelist, as a poet, or as a musician, he wins our admiration in all. Possessing, as he does in a high degree, a fine imagination, allied to the kindliest feelings springing from a sensitive and considerate heart, he is beloved by his friends, and cares little for the vulgar admiration of the crowd. The pomp, and circumstance, and self-exaltation, so current now-a-days, he utterly despises. But the kindliness, the glowing sympathies of a few kindred spirits gladden him and make him happy. Though modest and retiring in his disposition, he has no shamefacedness. His conversation is like his verse; there is neither tinsel nor glitter, but genuine, solid stuff. Something that bears examination; something you can take up and handle; something to brood over and reflect upon; something that wins its way by its truthfulness, and compels you to accept it as a principle; something that sticks close, and springs up in the future a very fountain of pure and unadulterated joy; from all this it will be inferred that no man can remain long in his company without feeling that he is not only a wiser, but a better man for the privilege enjoyed. He is still in the prime of life and the maturity of his intellect. May we not, in concluding this slight notice of his life and character, express a hope which we know to be a general one--that he may yet live to write many more poems and many more songs, as good or better than those which he has already given to the world?

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The present Memoir has been prepared, at our request, by Francis Bennoch, Esq.

LOVE AWEARY OF THE WORLD.

Oh! my love is very lovely, In her mind all beauties dwell; She, robed in living splendour, Grace and modesty attend her, And I love her more than well. But I 'm weary, weary, weary, To despair my soul is hurl'd; I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world!

She is kind to all about her, For her heart is pity's throne; She has smiles for all men's gladness, She has tears for every sadness, She is hard to me alone. And I 'm weary, weary, weary, From a love-lit summit hurl'd; I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world!

When my words are words of wisdom All her spirit I can move, At my wit her eyes will glisten, But she flies and will not listen If I dare to speak of love. Oh! I 'm weary, weary, weary, By a storm of passions whirl'd; I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world!

True, that there are others fairer-- Fairer?--No, that cannot be-- Yet some maids of equal beauty, High in soul and firm in duty, May have kinder hearts than she. Why, by heart, so weary, weary, To and fro by passion whirl'd?-- Why so weary, weary, weary, Why so weary of the world?

Were my love but passing fancy, To another I might turn; But I 'm doom'd to love unduly One who will not answer truly, And who freezes when I burn. And I 'm weary, weary, weary, To despair my soul is hurl'd; I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world!

THE LOVER'S SECOND THOUGHTS ON WORLD WEARINESS.

Heart! take courage! 'tis not worthy For a woman's scorn to pine, If her cold indifference wound thee, There are remedies around thee For such malady as thine. Be no longer weary, weary, From thy love-lit summits hurl'd; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world!

If thou must be loved by woman, Seek again--the world is wide; It is full of loving creatures, Fair in form, and mind, and features-- Choose among them for thy bride. Be no longer weary, weary, To and fro by passion whirl'd; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world!

Or if Love should lose thy favour, Try the paths of honest fame, Climb Parnassus' summit hoary, Carve thy way by deeds of glory, Write on History's page thy name. Be no longer weary, weary, To the depth of sorrow hurl'd; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world!

Or if these shall fail to move thee, Be the phantoms unpursued, Try a charm that will not fail thee When old age and grief assail thee-- Try the charm of doing good. Be no longer weak and weary, By the storms of passion whirl'd; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world!

Love is fleeting and uncertain, And can bate where it adored, Chase of glory wears the spirit, Fame not always follows merit, Goodness is its own reward. Be no longer weary, weary, From thine happy summit hurl'd; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world!

A CANDID WOOING.

I cannot give thee all my heart, Lady, lady, My faith and country claim a part, My sweet lady; But yet I 'll pledge thee word of mine That all the rest is truly thine;-- The raving passion of a boy, Warm though it be, will quickly cloy-- Confide thou rather in the man Who vows to love thee all he can, My sweet lady.

Affection, founded on respect, Lady, lady, Can never dwindle to neglect, My sweet lady; And, while thy gentle virtues live, Such is the love that I will give. The torrent leaves its channel dry, The brook runs on incessantly; The storm of passion lasts a day, But deep, true love endures alway, My sweet lady.

Accept then a divided heart, Lady, lady, _Faith_, _Friendship_, _Honour_, each have part, My sweet lady. While at one altar we adore, _Faith_ shall but make us love the more; And _Friendship_, true to all beside, Will ne'er be fickle to a bride; And _Honour_, based on manly truth, Shall love in age as well as youth, My sweet lady.

PROCRASTINATIONS.

If Fortune with a smiling face Strew roses on our way, When shall we stoop to pick them up? To-day, my love, to-day. But should she frown with face of care, And talk of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve--if grieve we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those who 've wrong'd us own their faults And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen and forgive? To-day, my love, to-day. But if stern Justice urge rebuke, And warmth from memory borrow, When shall we chide--if chide we dare? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those to whom we owe a debt Are harm'd unless we pay, When shall we struggle to be just? To-day, my love, to-day. But if our debtor fail our hope, And plead his ruin thorough, When shall we weigh his breach of faith? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If Love, estranged, should once again His genial smile display, When shall we kiss his proffer'd lips? To-day, my love, to-day, But, if he would indulge regret, Or dwell with bygone sorrow, When shall we weep--if weep we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

For virtuous acts and harmless joys The minutes will not stay; We 've always time to welcome them To-day, my love, to-day. But care, resentment, angry words, And unavailing sorrow Come far too soon, if they appear To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

REMEMBRANCES OF NATURE.

I remember the time, thou roaring sea, When thy voice was the voice of Infinity-- A joy, and a dread, and a mystery.

I remember the time, ye young May flowers, When your odours and hues in the fields and bowers Fell on my soul as on grass the showers.

I remember the time, thou blustering wind, When thy voice in the woods, to my youthful mind, Seem'd the sigh of the earth for human kind.

I remember the time, ye suns and stars, When ye raised my soul from its mortal bars And bore it through heaven on your golden cars.

And has it then vanish'd, that happy time? Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime?

Ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain, When the world and its facts oppress my brain, In the world of spirit I rove--I reign.

I feel a deep and a pure delight In the luxuries of sound and sight-- In the opening day, in the closing night.

The voices of youth go with me still, Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill, In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill.

Every flower is a lover of mine, Every star is a friend divine: For me they blossom, for me they shine.

To give me joy the oceans roll, They breathe their secrets to my soul, With me they sing, with me condole.

Man cannot harm me if he would, I have such friends for my every mood In the overflowing solitude.

Fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir To put disunion or hate of her 'Twixt Nature and her worshipper.

Sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies! Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes! Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries!

Sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod! Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod! Ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of God.

BELIEVE IF YOU CAN.

_Music by the Author._

Hope cannot cheat us, Or Fancy betray; Tempests ne'er scatter The blossoms of May; The wild winds are constant, By method and plan; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Young Love, who shews us His midsummer light, Spreads the same halo O'er Winter's dark night; And Fame never dazzles To lure and trepan; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Friends of the sunshine Endure in the storm; Never they promise And fail to perform. And the night ever ends As the morning began; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Words softly spoken No guile ever bore; Peaches ne'er harbour A worm at the core; And the ground never slipp'd Under high-reaching man; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can!

Seas undeceitful, Calm smiling at morn, Wreck not ere midnight The sailor forlorn. And gold makes a bridge Every evil to span; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can.

OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED!

_Air by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Oh, the happy time departed! In its smile the world was fair; We believed in all men's goodness; Joy and hope were gems to wear; Angel visitants were with us, There was music in the air.

Oh, the happy time departed! Change came o'er it all too soon; In a cold and drear November Died the leafy wealth of June; Winter kill'd our summer roses; Discord marr'd a heavenly tune.

Let them pass--the days departed-- What befell may ne'er befall; Why should we with vain lamenting Seek a shadow to recall? Great the sorrows we have suffer'd-- Hope is greater than them all.

COME BACK! COME BACK!

Come back! come back! thou youthful Time, When joy and innocence were ours, When life was in its vernal prime, And redolent of sweets and flowers. Come back--and let us roam once more, Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways, And gather garlands as of yore-- Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then To cherish faith in love and truth, For nothing in dispraise of men Had sour'd the temper of our youth. Come back--and let us still believe The gorgeous dream romance displays, Nor trust the tale that men deceive-- Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back!--oh, freshness of the past, When every face seem'd fair and kind, When sunward every eye was cast, And all the shadows fell behind. Come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn Their own Decembers into Mays; The secret be it ours to learn-- Come back--come back--ye happy days!

TEARS.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, Ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow; I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring, And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run; Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun; The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek, I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak. Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free, And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain; The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago-- O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.

CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!

Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow; Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! Hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow-- Let us forget the darkness of to-day! So farewell, England! much as we may love thee, We 'll dry the tears that we have shed before; Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune? So farewell, England! farewell evermore! Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England! Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand; Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour, Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing, To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast; The world shall follow in the track we 're going, The star of empire glitters in the west. Here we had toil and little to reward it, But there shall plenty smile upon our pain; And ours shall be the mountain and the forest, And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain. Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England! Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand! Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour, Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Mourn for the mighty dead, Mourn for the spirit fled, Mourn for the lofty head-- Low in the grave. Tears such as nations weep Hallow the hero's sleep; Calm be his rest, and deep-- Arthur the brave!

Nobly his work was done; England's most glorious son, True-hearted Wellington, Shield of our laws. Ever in peril's night Heaven send such arm of might-- Guardian of truth and right-- Raised in their cause!

Dried be the tears that fall; Love bears the warrior's pall, Fame shall his deeds recall-- Britain's right hand! Bright shall his memory be! Star of supremacy! Banner of victory! Pride of our land.

A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

_Music by the Author._

I 've a guinea I can spend, I 've a wife, and I 've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I 've a cottage of my own, With the ivy overgrown, And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a glass In my arbour as you pass, And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

I love the song of birds, And the children's early words, And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown; But ever when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown, The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for human kind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown; I 've parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown; I keep a conscience clear, I 've a hundred pounds a-year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets Quiver from thy tender leaves; No one knows what thoughts between us Pass in dewy moonlight eves. Roving memories and fancies, Travellers upon Thought's deep sea, Haunt the gay time of our May-time, O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight, Pure and kind, and good and fair, When she laugh'd the ringing music Rippled through the summer air. "If you love me--shake the blossoms!" Thus I said, too bold and free; Down they came in showers of beauty, Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the grass, the maiden Vow'd the vow to love me well; Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly, No one but myself can tell. Widely spreads the smiling woodland, Elm and beech are fair to see; But thy charms they cannot equal, O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters Comes the cry; Wild are the waves around me-- Dark the sky: There is no hand to pluck me From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me, Clinging low, I am dash'd by angry billows To and fro; I hear death-anthems ringing In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes From my lips As I behold the distant White-sail'd ships O'er the white waters gleaming Where the horizon dips.