University of Virginia Library

THE POETICAL AND THE PRACTICAL.

Spirit versus Matter.

Melted amethysts and rubies richer tints may ne'er effuse
Than the Light which paints the rainbow, lends the West its brilliant hues;
Yet that light which meets the Morning, scattering jewels on her way,
Bounteous as an Eastern Princess, is the light of common day!
So with Poetry, though gleaming with Imagination's fire,
'Mid the heaven of Invention seeking ever to aspire!
Yet accordant to all natures, poetry her gifts can wreathe,
Lending sweetness, grace, and feeling, like the common air we breathe.
As Eternity's before us, and within us, and behind,
So is Poetry pervading the eternal sphere of Mind,
So is Poetry refining earthly love by heavenly laws,
Foremost in the cause of Freedom, foremost in the People's cause!
And the people were ungrateful could they now forget the good
Which the Poets sought and won them, when more feared than understood.
Wise to calculation only is the Age in which we live,
Ever honouring the most highly those who have the most to give!
Feelings which have ne'er extended from the narrow space of self,
Merging holier, loftier objects in an atmosphere of pelf!
Shame upon this Mammon-worship! Shame upon this lucre-love!
Life adorers of mere matter, sceptics to the life above!
Come, I'm counsel for the Poets; enter ye the Court of Fame:
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden; answer each one to your name;
Ye, that with unfailing geniusius bade humanity advance,
With dominion in your voices, and with empire in your glance;
Ye, that with heroic daring sought the people in distress,
Seeking to o'erbridge the chasm 'tween their hope and their success.
Humanism more expansive, 'twas for this your genius strove,
Equal justice for the lowest, equal laws, and federal love!
Shout we for the sensual only? still the practical applaud?
There is something more than matter which the mind of man should laud,
Something more than sordid fortune, something more for souls to crave,
Than a gaudy pageant passing from a banquet to a grave.
As the Sun, so Education yields the globe its partial light;
Half the world exults in brightness, whilst the rest is plunged in night.
Talk of Stephenson and Railways? of the miracles of Steam?
Lauding high those vapour-pinions, swifter than the solar beam?
Lauding high and vaunting loudly Powers connecting clime with clime,
Narrowing space, and far extending the capacities of Time?
Prate of Stephenson and Shakespeare—grant the first the loftier dower?
For his wonder-working carriage speeds to Leeds within the hour!
Shame upon this Mammon-worship! Shame upon this lucre-love!
Life adorers of mere matter, sceptics to the life above.
Open ye the play of Hamlet—and a breath of Shakespeare's power
Speeds ye to the gates of Denmark in the fraction of an hour!
Steam 'gainst Soul? What, match a vapour 'gainst a meteor of the night?
Stephenson's a mole, a tortoise, to the old Shakesperian flight.
Meteor-rushing would ye travel? travel then on Shakespeare's page,
On the Lyric or Heroic—on the Broad or Narrow guage!
Prate of Lines from York to London, or from London 'cross the Tweed?
Shakespeare's lines are universal: judge ye for yourselves, and read.
Not its length but its duration is the glory of a line;
Shakespeare's will endure for ever—lines eternal, lines divine.
Oh, you do not know the Poet—cannot comprehend his skill—
Cannot span the soul which travels all Creation at its will.
Oh, you do not know the Poet, or you never would compare
Any genius in creation with a genius so rare!
Shame upon this Mammon-worship! Shame upon this lucre-love!
Life adorers of mere matter, sceptics to the life above.
If our birth were first in Heaven, for our three score years and ten,
Afterwards, to earth translated, find eternal life with men,
I might marvel less at wisdom which prefers this soul less lust,
I might sorrow less at worship signalising worldly dust;
But for beings born to wither in some few brief years from earth,
Clinging with a childish passion unto toys of little worth;
Three score years for Pomp to glitter—three score years for Wealth to glare;
Then—Eternity in heaven: what can Wealth avail ye there?
Then Eternity in heaven, like a whisper is it heard;
Oh, that language thrills—appals me—as were thunder in each word.
Out upon this rage for riches, striving up and strutting bold,
Out upon the craft which teaches scorn of every thing but gold:
Out upon the slavish minions, vain disciples of a creed
Which believes in God, yet never acts as if it thus believed:
'Tis the vassalage of Reason to an artificial sway,
Govern'd by a false convention—modes and fashions of a day:
'Tis the vassalage of spirit to an arbitrary tone,
Granting to a mean usurper its hereditary throne.
Gold is God—the very letters, Mammon, aid thee, as thou bidd'st:
GOLD is GOD!—thou sayést truly—GOD, with L seen in the midst.
If still worshippers of Matter, Watt your deity may be;
True believers in the Spirit find still mightier gods than he.
If still worshippers of Matter, Stephenson your vows may claim;
Spirit bends to other altars, bright with spiritual fame.
Spirit from the mystic future lifts the veil with radiant hand,
Still “Excelsior!” exclaiming, seeking still the Better Land.
If this Life, this World were final, and no other Life beyond,
I could clasp the Poet's fictions with a reverence as fond!
What is Life without Affection? 'tis existence without light,—
'Tis a quarantine eternal, with the wished-for land in sight!
Long as infancy is blissful to the mother's flowing breast,
Long as Love creates a heaven Poets only have exprest,
Long as in the kindred circle friendship and devotion reign,
Will the Poet be remembered—will be loved the Minstrel's strain:
Thought and feeling still enlarging, still revealing higher powers,
Wreathing with immortal beauty life's most spiritual hours,
High revealments and attainments—which, whatever path we've trod,
Are the angels that from darkness call us to the light of God!