 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
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THE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE.
I. LABOUR.
Heart of the People! Working men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy back sustain
Through streaming Time this world of ours;
Hold by that title,—which proclaims,
That ye are undismayed and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims
May to the sons of earth belong.
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy back sustain
Through streaming Time this world of ours;
Hold by that title,—which proclaims,
That ye are undismayed and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims
May to the sons of earth belong.
Yet not on ye alone depend
These offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end
Is Lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed
Must meet the morn with horse and hound,
While Industry for daily bread
Pursues afresh his wonted round.
These offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end
Is Lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed
Must meet the morn with horse and hound,
While Industry for daily bread
Pursues afresh his wonted round.
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With all his pomp of pleasure, He
Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy,—
When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.
Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy,—
When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.
But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sign of vigour overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!
Sad sign of vigour overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!
And He who still and silent sits
In closèd room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book:—
To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined
Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
In closèd room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book:—
To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined
Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
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Thus all must work—with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow
Where we deny the healthy seed,—
And all our choice is this,—to grow
Pasture and grain or noisome weed.
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow
Where we deny the healthy seed,—
And all our choice is this,—to grow
Pasture and grain or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,—
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And He is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest
And an increase of good for man.
Unenvious of each other's lot,—
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And He is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest
And an increase of good for man.
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II. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE.
Who is this man whose words have might
To lead you from your rest or care,
Who speaks as if the earth were right
To stop its course and listen there?
Where is the symbol of command
By which he claims this lofty tone?
His hand is as another's hand,—
His speech no stronger than your own.
To lead you from your rest or care,
Who speaks as if the earth were right
To stop its course and listen there?
Where is the symbol of command
By which he claims this lofty tone?
His hand is as another's hand,—
His speech no stronger than your own.
He bids you wonder, weep, rejoice,
Saying,—“It is yourselves, not I;
I speak but with the People's voice,
I see but with the People's eye.”—
Words of imposing pride and strength,
Words that contain, in little span,
The secret of the height and length
Of all the intelligence of man.
Saying,—“It is yourselves, not I;
I speak but with the People's voice,
I see but with the People's eye.”—
Words of imposing pride and strength,
Words that contain, in little span,
The secret of the height and length
Of all the intelligence of man.
Yet, Brothers! God has given to few,
Through the long progress of our kind,
To read with eyes undimmed and true
The blotted book of public mind;
To separate from the moment's will
The heart's enduring real desires,
To tell the steps of coming ill,
And seek the good the time requires.—
Through the long progress of our kind,
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The blotted book of public mind;
To separate from the moment's will
The heart's enduring real desires,
To tell the steps of coming ill,
And seek the good the time requires.—
These are the Prophets, these the Kings,
And Lawgivers of human thought,
Who in our being's deepest springs
The engines of their might have sought:
Whose utterance comes, we know not whence,
Being no more their own than ours,
With instantaneous evidence
Of titles just and sacred powers.
And Lawgivers of human thought,
Who in our being's deepest springs
The engines of their might have sought:
Whose utterance comes, we know not whence,
Being no more their own than ours,
With instantaneous evidence
Of titles just and sacred powers.
But bold usurpers may arise
Of this as of another's throne;
Persuasion waits upon the wise,
But waits not on the wise alone:
An echo of your evil self
No better than the voice can be,
And appetites of fame or pelf
Grow not in good as in degree.
Of this as of another's throne;
Persuasion waits upon the wise,
But waits not on the wise alone:
An echo of your evil self
No better than the voice can be,
And appetites of fame or pelf
Grow not in good as in degree.
Then try the speaker, try the cause,
With prudent care, as men who know
The subtle nature of the laws
By which our feelings ebb and flow:
Lest virtue's void and reason's lack
Be hid beneath a specious name,
And on the People's helpless back
Rest all the punishment and shame.
With prudent care, as men who know
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By which our feelings ebb and flow:
Lest virtue's void and reason's lack
Be hid beneath a specious name,
And on the People's helpless back
Rest all the punishment and shame.
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III. THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR.
When leisurely the man of ease
His morning's daily course begins,
And round him in bright circle sees
The comforts Independence wins,
He seems unto himself to hold
An uncontested natural right
In Life a volume to unfold
Of simple ever new delight.
His morning's daily course begins,
And round him in bright circle sees
The comforts Independence wins,
He seems unto himself to hold
An uncontested natural right
In Life a volume to unfold
Of simple ever new delight.
And if, before the evening close,
The hours their rainbow wings let fall,
And sorrow shakes his bland repose,
And too continuous pleasures pall,
He murmurs, as if Nature broke
Some promise plighted at his birth,
In bending him beneath the yoke
Borne by the common sons of earth.
The hours their rainbow wings let fall,
And sorrow shakes his bland repose,
And too continuous pleasures pall,
He murmurs, as if Nature broke
Some promise plighted at his birth,
In bending him beneath the yoke
Borne by the common sons of earth.
They starve beside his plenteous board,
They halt behind his easy wheels,
But sympathy in vain affords
The sense of ills he never feels.
He knows he is the same as they,
A feeble piteous mortal thing,
And still expects that every day
Increase and change of bliss should bring.
They halt behind his easy wheels,
But sympathy in vain affords
The sense of ills he never feels.
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A feeble piteous mortal thing,
And still expects that every day
Increase and change of bliss should bring.
Therefore, when he is called to know
The deep realities of pain,
He shrinks, as from a viewless blow,
He writhes as in a magic chain:
Untaught that trial, toil, and care,
Are the great charter of his kind,
It seems disgrace for him to share
Weakness of flesh and human mind.
The deep realities of pain,
He shrinks, as from a viewless blow,
He writhes as in a magic chain:
Untaught that trial, toil, and care,
Are the great charter of his kind,
It seems disgrace for him to share
Weakness of flesh and human mind.
Not so the People's honest child,
The field-flower of the open sky,
Ready to live while winds are wild,
Nor, when they soften, loth to die;
To him there never came the thought
That this his life was meant to be
A pleasure-house, where peace unbought
Should minister to pride or glee.
The field-flower of the open sky,
Ready to live while winds are wild,
Nor, when they soften, loth to die;
To him there never came the thought
That this his life was meant to be
A pleasure-house, where peace unbought
Should minister to pride or glee.
You oft may hear him murmur loud
Against the uneven lots of Fate,
You oft may see him inly bowed
Beneath affliction's weight on weight:—
But rarely turns he on his grief
A face of petulant surprise,
Or scorns whate'er benign relief
The hand of God or man supplies.
Against the uneven lots of Fate,
You oft may see him inly bowed
Beneath affliction's weight on weight:—
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A face of petulant surprise,
Or scorns whate'er benign relief
The hand of God or man supplies.
Behold him on his rustic bed,
The unluxurious couch of need,
Striving to raise his aching head,
And sinking powerless as a reed:
So sick in both he hardly knows
Which is his heart's or body's sore,
For the more keen his anguish grows
His wife and children pine the more.
The unluxurious couch of need,
Striving to raise his aching head,
And sinking powerless as a reed:
So sick in both he hardly knows
Which is his heart's or body's sore,
For the more keen his anguish grows
His wife and children pine the more.
No search for him of dainty food,
But coarsest sustenance of life,—
No rest by artful quiet wooed,
But household cries and wants and strife;
Affection can at best employ
Her utmost of unhandy care,
Her prayers and tears are weak to buy
The costly drug, the purer air.
But coarsest sustenance of life,—
No rest by artful quiet wooed,
But household cries and wants and strife;
Affection can at best employ
Her utmost of unhandy care,
Her prayers and tears are weak to buy
The costly drug, the purer air.
Pity herself, at such a sight,
Might lose her gentleness of mien,
And clothe her form in angry might,
And as a wild despair be seen;
Did she not hail the lesson taught,
By this unconscious suffering boor,
To the high sons of lore and thought,
—The sacred Patience of the Poor.
Might lose her gentleness of mien,
And clothe her form in angry might,
And as a wild despair be seen;
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By this unconscious suffering boor,
To the high sons of lore and thought,
—The sacred Patience of the Poor.
—This great endurance of each ill,
As a plain fact whose right or wrong
They question not, confiding still,
That it shall last not overlong;
Willing, from first to last, to take
The mysteries of our life, as given,
Leaving the time-worn soul to slake
Its thirst in an undoubted Heaven.
As a plain fact whose right or wrong
They question not, confiding still,
That it shall last not overlong;
Willing, from first to last, to take
The mysteries of our life, as given,
Leaving the time-worn soul to slake
Its thirst in an undoubted Heaven.
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IV. ALMS-GIVING.
When Poverty, with mien of shame,
The sense of Pity seeks to touch,—
Or, bolder, makes the simple claim
That I have nothing, you have much,—
Believe not either man or book
That bids you close the opening hand,
And with reproving speech and look
Your first and free intent withstand.
The sense of Pity seeks to touch,—
Or, bolder, makes the simple claim
That I have nothing, you have much,—
Believe not either man or book
That bids you close the opening hand,
And with reproving speech and look
Your first and free intent withstand.
It may be that the tale you hear
Of pressing wants and losses borne
Is heaped or color'd for your ear,
And tatters for the purpose worn
But surely Poverty has not
A sadder need than this, to wear
A mask still meaner than her lot,
Compassion's scanty food to share.
Of pressing wants and losses borne
Is heaped or color'd for your ear,
And tatters for the purpose worn
But surely Poverty has not
A sadder need than this, to wear
A mask still meaner than her lot,
Compassion's scanty food to share.
It may be that you err to give
What will but tempt to further spoil
Those who in low content would live
On theft of others' time and toil;
Yet sickness may have broke or bent
The active frame or vigorous will,—
Or hard occasion may prevent
Their exercise of humble skill.
What will but tempt to further spoil
Those who in low content would live
On theft of others' time and toil;
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The active frame or vigorous will,—
Or hard occasion may prevent
Their exercise of humble skill.
It may be that the suppliant's life
Has lain on many an evil way
Of foul delight and brutal strife,
And lawless deeds that shun the day;
But how can any gauge of yours
The depth of that temptation try?
—What man resists—what man endures—
Is open to one only eye.
Has lain on many an evil way
Of foul delight and brutal strife,
And lawless deeds that shun the day;
But how can any gauge of yours
The depth of that temptation try?
—What man resists—what man endures—
Is open to one only eye.
Why not believe the homely letter
That all you give will God restore?
The poor man may deserve it better,
And surely, surely, wants it more:
Let but the rich man do his part,
And whatsoe'er the issue be
To those who ask, his answering heart
Will gain and grow in sympathy.
That all you give will God restore?
The poor man may deserve it better,
And surely, surely, wants it more:
Let but the rich man do his part,
And whatsoe'er the issue be
To those who ask, his answering heart
Will gain and grow in sympathy.
—Suppose that each from Nature got
Bare quittance of his labour's worth,
That yearly-teeming flocks were not,
Nor manifold-producing earth;
No wilding growths of fruit and flower,
Cultured to beautiful and good,
No creatures for the arm of power
To take and tame from waste and wood!—
Bare quittance of his labour's worth,
That yearly-teeming flocks were not,
Nor manifold-producing earth;
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Cultured to beautiful and good,
No creatures for the arm of power
To take and tame from waste and wood!—
That all men to their mortal rest
Passed shadow-like, and left behind
No free result, no clear bequest,
Won by their work of hand or mind!
That every separate life begun,
A present to the past unbound,
A lonely, independent, One,
Sprung from the cold mechanic ground!
Passed shadow-like, and left behind
No free result, no clear bequest,
Won by their work of hand or mind!
That every separate life begun,
A present to the past unbound,
A lonely, independent, One,
Sprung from the cold mechanic ground!
What would the record of the past,
The vision of the future be?
Nature unchanged from first to last,
And base the best humanity:
For in these gifts lies all the space
Between our England's noblest men,
And the most vile Australian race
Outprowling from their bushy den.
The vision of the future be?
Nature unchanged from first to last,
And base the best humanity:
For in these gifts lies all the space
Between our England's noblest men,
And the most vile Australian race
Outprowling from their bushy den.
Then freely as from age to age,
Descending generations bear
The accumulated heritage
Of friendly and parental care,—
Freely as Nature tends her wealth
Of air and fire, of sea and land,
Of childhood's happiness and health.
So freely open you your hand!
Descending generations bear
The accumulated heritage
Of friendly and parental care,—
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Of air and fire, of sea and land,
Of childhood's happiness and health.
So freely open you your hand!
—Between you and your best intent
Necessity her brazen bar
Will often interpose, as sent
Your pure benevolence to mar:
Still every gentle word has sway
To teach the pauper's desperate mood,
That Misery shall not take away
Franchise of human brotherhood.
Necessity her brazen bar
Will often interpose, as sent
Your pure benevolence to mar:
Still every gentle word has sway
To teach the pauper's desperate mood,
That Misery shall not take away
Franchise of human brotherhood.
And if this lesson come too late,
Woe to the rich and poor and all!
The maddened outcast of the gate
Plunders and murders in the hall;
Justice can crush and hold in awe,
While Hope in social order reigns,—
But if the myriads break the law,
They break it as a slave his chains!
Woe to the rich and poor and all!
The maddened outcast of the gate
Plunders and murders in the hall;
Justice can crush and hold in awe,
While Hope in social order reigns,—
But if the myriads break the law,
They break it as a slave his chains!
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V.
“Beg from a beggar—Deark d'on dearka.”—Irish Proverb.
There is a thought so purely blest,
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,—
A thought whose home is paradise,—
The charities of Poor to Poor.
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,—
A thought whose home is paradise,—
The charities of Poor to Poor.
It were not for the Rich to blame,
If they, whom Fortune seems to scorn,
Should vent their ill-content and shame
On others less or more forlorn;
But, that the veriest needs of life
Should be dispensed with freer hand,
Than all their stores and treasures rife,—
Is not for them to understand.
If they, whom Fortune seems to scorn,
Should vent their ill-content and shame
On others less or more forlorn;
But, that the veriest needs of life
Should be dispensed with freer hand,
Than all their stores and treasures rife,—
Is not for them to understand.
To give the stranger's children bread,
Of your precarious board the spoil—
To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,
And, sleepless, meet the morrow's toil;—
The gifts, not proffered once alone,
The daily sacrifice of years,—
And, when all else to give is gone,
The precious gifts of love and tears!
Of your precarious board the spoil—
To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,
And, sleepless, meet the morrow's toil;—
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The daily sacrifice of years,—
And, when all else to give is gone,
The precious gifts of love and tears!
What record of triumphant deed,
What virtue pompously unfurled,
Can thus refute the gloomy creed
That parts from God our living world?
O Misanthrope! deny who would—
O Moralists! deny who can—
Seeds of almost impossible good,
Deep in the deepest life of Man.
What virtue pompously unfurled,
Can thus refute the gloomy creed
That parts from God our living world?
O Misanthrope! deny who would—
O Moralists! deny who can—
Seeds of almost impossible good,
Deep in the deepest life of Man.
Therefore, lament not, honest soul!
That Providence holds back from thee
The means thou might'st so well control—
Those luxuries of charity.
Manhood is nobler, as thou art;
And, should some chance thy coffers fill,
How art thou sure to keep thine heart,
To hold unchanged thy loving will?
That Providence holds back from thee
The means thou might'st so well control—
Those luxuries of charity.
Manhood is nobler, as thou art;
And, should some chance thy coffers fill,
How art thou sure to keep thine heart,
To hold unchanged thy loving will?
Wealth, like all other power, is blind,
And bears a poison in its core,
To taint the best, if feeble, mind,
And madden that debased before.
It is the battle, not the prize,
That fills the hero's breast with joy;
And industry the bliss supplies,
Which mere possession might destroy.
And bears a poison in its core,
To taint the best, if feeble, mind,
And madden that debased before.
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That fills the hero's breast with joy;
And industry the bliss supplies,
Which mere possession might destroy.
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VI. RICH AND POOR.
When God built up the dome of blue,
And portioned earth's prolific floor,
The measure of his wisdom drew
A line between the Rich and Poor;
And till that vault of glory fall,
Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame,
Or saving love be all in all,
That rule of life will rest the same.
And portioned earth's prolific floor,
The measure of his wisdom drew
A line between the Rich and Poor;
And till that vault of glory fall,
Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame,
Or saving love be all in all,
That rule of life will rest the same.
We know not why, we know not how,
Mankind are framed for weal or woe—
But to the Eternal Law we bow;
If such things are, they must be so.
Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy
One truth outshining bright and clear,
That Wealth abides in Hope and Joy,
And Poverty in Pain and Fear.
Mankind are framed for weal or woe—
But to the Eternal Law we bow;
If such things are, they must be so.
Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy
One truth outshining bright and clear,
That Wealth abides in Hope and Joy,
And Poverty in Pain and Fear.
Behold our children as they play!
Blest creatures, fresh from Nature's hand;
The peasant boy as great and gay
As the young heir to gold and land;
Their various toys of equal worth,
Their little needs of equal care,
And halls of marble, huts of earth,
All homes alike endeared and fair.
Blest creatures, fresh from Nature's hand;
The peasant boy as great and gay
As the young heir to gold and land;
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Their little needs of equal care,
And halls of marble, huts of earth,
All homes alike endeared and fair.
They know no better!—would that we
Could keep our knowledge safe from worse;
So Power should find and leave us free,
So Pride be but the owner's curse;
So, without marking which was which,
Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure,
What paupers are the ambitious Rich!
How wealthy the contented Poor!
Could keep our knowledge safe from worse;
So Power should find and leave us free,
So Pride be but the owner's curse;
So, without marking which was which,
Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure,
What paupers are the ambitious Rich!
How wealthy the contented Poor!
Grant us, O God! but health and heart,
And strength to keep desire at bay,
And ours must be the better part,
Whatever else besets our way.
Each day may bring sufficient ill;
But we can meet and fight it through,
If Hope sustains the hand of Will,
And Conscience is our captain too.
And strength to keep desire at bay,
And ours must be the better part,
Whatever else besets our way.
Each day may bring sufficient ill;
But we can meet and fight it through,
If Hope sustains the hand of Will,
And Conscience is our captain too.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |