Victorian Poetry
12 (
Many beautiful little poems appear from
time to time in our literary journals,
bearing the
unmistakeable impress of genius, and abso-
lutely startling us by their
freshness and
originality; while many more of equal, if not
superior merit, are—
The youthful poet pours out his soul in music;
and a pleasant thing it is to sit
singing to one
self; but the world is neither wiser nor better for
such harmony. Many
are the pearls of high
and precious imaginings which are lost for want
of being
gathered together and strung, and
which require only to be set in order that men
may
behold and wonder at their costliness. Un-
published, unknown out of their own
narrow
sphere, bright thoughts are born, and die, and
are forgotten! Frequently this is
the author's
own fault, who, with a strange mingling of
pride and humility—for true
genius is ever
humble—underrates his own performance, feel-
ing how very far it falls
short of his conception,
and the impossibility of realizing his own beau-
tiful ideal!
Aspiring, rather than dispairing,
with the full consciousness of his powers, he
presses
on towards the goal of perfection, fling-
ing aside the bright blossoms which he may
have gathered by the way, and reaching ever
upward, to the laurel crown of Fame! And
yet
many have made a rich bouquet of flowers far
less worthy.
“Oh, it is nothing to what I can do, if I
am spared!” was the exclamation of a
young
poetess, in answer to the praises bestowed upon
some early and very exquisite
performances;
and such is the heart's language of every child
of genius.
The following little poem is one of those scat-
tered gems of thought to which we
have before
alluded, and to which our gentle readers will,
we think, thanks us for
directing their attention.
The author is very young—one of a gifted
family—humble, yet
ambitious; and preferring,
perhaps wisely, to withhold his name until years
of study
and deep thought shall have brought
the dawning of that genius, of which he could
not
but be conscious, to maturity. It would be
well for many, whom we could name, if they
had
followed his example, or made use at least of
some such desk as that of the
celebrated Bembo,
which is said to have had forty divisions,
through which each of his
sonnets was passed
in due succession, and at fixed intervals of time
receiving a fresh
revisal at every change of
place.
The poem of which we sit down to write, and
linger over, pointing out its beauties,
and dwell-
ing upon its occesional touches of simple and
exquisite pathos, is entitled
by the author, “
closed lids and
“uplaid arms;
” and the mother
—“
” as she is touchingly called—our mother,
bending over her with
a watchful and untiring
devotion, “all day from chime to chime;
”
marking
every change upon that beloved face;
anticipating the wishes which she was too weak
to
express; wiping the damp brow, moistening
the parched lip, and meeting the longing
glance
of those sunken eyes with a fond and cheerful
smile; sheeding no tear, feeling
no weariness,
forgetful of self—for such is a mother's love!
and now, when a sweet,
refreshing sleep fell at
length upon her suffering child, sitting down
with a heart
full of quiet thankfullness to
“pray.
”
The next two verses fill up, as it were, and
give the finishing touches to this
exquisite pic-
ture; and although the colouring (to continue
our simile) is not
altogether faultless, it is won-
derfully true to nature, with here and there
a
master-stroke of great power:
The italics in the next verse are our own:—
Silence was speaking at my side,
Who has not heard the * Query the first verse, with its vague expression
andsilence speaking?
experienced those shifting, wandering thoughts,
coming and going like
white-winged birds, now
skimming along the earth, and now darting
upwards to heaven?
The following is equally
graphic and truthful, and explains what had
gone
before:—
and faulty rhyme?—ED.
N.M.B.A.
In such a state the following train of thought
seems to be as natural as it is beautiful:—
The first verse reminds us of Sir Thomas
Brown, who calls sleep Death's younger
brother.
“And so like him,
” as he somewhere says,
“that I never
trust him without my prayers.
”
The earthly woe chastened and gilded by
the
heavenly love, as described in the next verse, is
very touching. There is a volume
of hope and
faith in that one line—
But I am glad 'tis Christmas Eve!”
The succeeding verse is not faultless, although
more than redeemed by that which
immediately
follows it, and which we have placed in italics,
in order to draw attention
to its singular power
and truthfulness.
That sound—a sound which all the years
Have heard each hour—crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.”
Gentle Reader, have you ever found yourself
a lone watcher by the bed of sickness,
when
the busy household was hushed and still, and
you only awake? Do you not recognize
this
description? Have you never started when the
clock struck twelve, and shuddered as
the sound
Yea, even—
“Like water that a pebble stirs”?
Happy are ye, if ye have no such memories!
The poem continues thus:—
“Our mother,
” like all mothers, with busy
fingers and loving heart!
The sound of her
needles clashing together as she laid them down,
and the
“rustling of her silken gown,
” are
among those exquisite little touches of
nature
with which the poem abounds.
We close our eyes and hear afar off, in
imagination, the old Christmas Hymn,
with
which all must be familiar, and, we think, that
all must love: it begins thus—
But to our task; and truly it is no task, but
a labour of love! We are told of
that meek and
Christian mother, in the next verse, that—
mind may touch,heart only understands.”
We venture no remark on the above beau-
tifully expressed truth; but pass on to
the suc-
ceeding verse, which seems to throw a new light
over the little history before us:—
It would appear from this that there were
other dwellers in the house; and we are
forcibly
reminded of the eloquent language of an Ame-
rican author: “In times of
the most general
” writes the Rev. F.W.P. Greenwood,
gaiety,
“there are
always contemporaneous sorrows;
”
some hearts breaking while others are bounding.
While
we look on gaily thronging crowds, in-
tent on the business, the pleasure, or the
wonder
of the day, we cannot forget that some houses
have their windows darkened, and
their doors
closed, because within them are the sorrowful,
the sick, the dead. Thus
are our passions mo-
dulated; thus does the low note of sadness run
through the music
of life, heard in its loudest
swells, present in all its variations, uttering
its
warning accompaniment throughout, and mode-
rating the harmony of the
whole.
Those in the room overhead were, most pro-
bably, unaware of their near neighborhood
to
the chamber of sickness, and had been sitting
talking together, heedless of the flight of
time,
until startled by its warning voice. Their rising
up, and the “pushing back of
chairs,
” is very
naturally told; while we are left to imagine the
clasping hands, and
the mutual good wishes
usually exchanged at that particular season:—
We can almost see “our mother,
” fearing
lest the rest of her
darling Margaret—the rest
from which she had hoped so much—should be
broken, gliding to
the bedside with her quiet,
noiseless step; bending over it a moment, and
then turning
round her smiling face, as much
as to say to the companion of all her cares
and
sorrows, “She is still asleep!” But there was
something probably in the expression
of that
pale face which started her all of a sudden.
Sleep and Death, as it was before
said, are so
much alike! Again she looked, and her agony
is powerfully depicted:—
All her features seemed in pain
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.”
Not less touching is the silent grief of the
narrator:—
I heard
The silence for a little space.”
In that audible silence all hope passed from
the heart of the
bereaved parent, and she
turned away the long gaze of those “yearning
eyes” and
“wept.
” The spell was broken!—
So ends the poem; and thus we would have
it end. Another verse might have let in
the
world again, and now all is Faith and Peace
and Joy—as it should be upon this
Blessed Eve
—and again we hear in imagination the sweet
Christmas Hymn, of which
mention has before
been made:—