The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whate'er I am, whatever sign I wear upon my sleeve,
Whatever creed my inmost heart may prompt me to believe,
Whatever right I recognise, whatever wrong endure,
I ne'er can yield my honest love for freedom and the poor.

The lowly and the suffering, the life-blood of the earth,
I'm one of them, to one of them I owe my children's birth;
And in my after years of life, however high my state,
I never can forget to plead for their unhappy fate.

For freedom did I say? ah, yes! for freedom just and true,
But not the lawless monster of the rancour-breathing few,
Who glide, like serpents, into hearts by toil and sorrow torn;
On them and their unholy deeds I fling my proudest scorn.

Freedom, whose law is Order, and whose action, wide and strong,
Can raise the wretched from the dust, and quell the rebel throng;

338

Can weigh, adjust, withhold, bestow, with calm and steady hand,
And work in beauty, peace, and truth, for all within the land!

The poetry of England, in all its forms and hues;
The glowing words, the living thoughts of her transcendent muse;
The poetry that clings around her temples, halls, and towers,
And nestles in the sylvan depths of all her vales and bowers;

The poetry that clothes alike the cottage and the throne,
And speaks from every classic haunt, with high, majestic tone;
These have my deepest reverence, in these my thoughts rejoice;
“But the poetry of poverty should have a fitting voice.”

It has a voice, a stirring voice, sent from a thousand tongues,
From hearts that wish for all its rights, and feel for all its wrongs;
'Tis not the voice of fierce complaint, loud insolence and threat,
But that of calm, persuasive power,—the best and surest yet.

And mine, too, feeble though it be, and of a fitful sound,
But still the echo of a soul of sympathies profound,
Shall sometimes mingle with the rest, in pain's or peril's hour,
To warn, cheer, teach, and elevate,—if such may be its power.

339

Perchance my lay hath ever been unsuited to the ear
Of those who feast on fiery thought, on bitter taunt and jeer;
But I am not of those who deem that words unwise and wild,
Can win one blessing for the poor, and make men reconciled.

A little song of cheerfulness to make their labours light;
A strain to open out their souls, and make them think aright;
A lesson which may lead them on to mend their common weal,
But not the stern anathema of false and factious zeal.

There are who with a puny pride my outward errors scan,
Alas! what little power is theirs to judge the inner man!
They think that my poor yielding heart, that impulse still controls,
Is narrow as their sympathies, and niggard as their souls.

Could they but read the hidden book, the life-book in my breast,
With sorrows, which they never knew, a thousand fold impressed,—
Could they but see its sentiments, its yearning, love, and trust,
And weigh its good against the ill, they could not but be just.

But that is not for them, and I dare not presume to claim
More virtues than the lowliest who bear a human name,
But in this world where men applaud, mistake, misjudge, condemn,
I only ask that charity which I would yield to them.

340

There's good in all things, and 'tis well to seek it everywhere,
And when 'tis found, to honour it, and cherish it with care;
There's good in all the various forms of still and stirring life,
For all the boundless universe with excellence is rife.

And man hath always something good, or be he high or low
In intellect or circumstance, in happiness or woe;
His errors pity and remove, with mild and manly will,
And be his higher gifts your care and admiration still.

My badge is that which singles me from out the lower clay;
My motto, hope and thankfulness for blessings day by day;
My creed, that holy creed of love which Christ Himself hath given;
My party, all who walk the earth anticipating Heaven!