THE CRY FOR LIFE.
‘Da spatium vitæ, multos da, Jupiter, annos!
Juv., Sat. x.
This was my Dream. Methought I stood
Amid a crying multitude
Who in this Rome awoke by night,
And saw about them, shining white
'Gainst the great heaven's soot-black pall,
An Angel with a sword. (Ye all,
O brethren fashion'd out of clay,
Have dreamed this Dream by night and day!)
Loud (in my Dream) that host was crying
For Life eternal and undying,
And thus to still them as they cried,
The pale Protagonist replied:
‘Silence, and listen for a space,
Ye waifs and strays of human race,
While I, God's herald from above,
Whom ye name Death, and He names Love,
Holding aloft the fatal knife
Which cuts the crimson thread of life,
Rehearse, to still your acclamation,
The Master's last Determination!’
VOICES.
Speak on, O scourge of Humankind,
But veil thine eyes, that strike us blind!
THE ANGEL.
He who hath made you, frail or fair,
Happy and innocent, or base,
Hath given ear unto your prayer
And pondered o'er it, in His place.
And, firstly, He admits at once
(What may be proved to any dunce)
That when He breathed abroad His word
To make Humanity, He erred!
For know, to even Him is given
Power to recant and to revise,
And placing pigmies 'neath His Heaven
To wail and curse and criticise,
Was (by the sun and planets seven!)
A hasty business and unwise!
Yet ye, who by His dispensation
Procreate also in your prime,
Find irresponsible creation
Pleasant to pass away the time!
Results, however (and by these
God judges both Himself and men),
Have proved that doing what we please
May lead to trouble now and then!
This He perceives, and finding all
His plans to make men worth the saving,
End only in a caterwaul
Of sin and strife and misbehaving,
He thinks (whilst still apologising
For that first blunder most surprising)
That if He, in some moment weak
Of pity, granted what you seek,
It might perchance be just another
Blunder, no better than the other!
VOICES.
Let us live on! Eternal Life
We crave, though 'twere eternal strife;
Let us live on, O Thou most High!
For oh, 'tis terrible to die!
THE ANGEL.
O miserable things of clay!
Do ye deserve to live?
VOICES.
Ah, nay!
Not our desert, but our desire,
Is the sole claim whereon we dwell—
Lord, give us life, though in the fire
Which burns for ever down in Hell!
THE ANGEL.
Alas! ye know (for men most wise
Have opened up your close-shut eyes)
Hell is a phantasy invented
By pious gentlemen at prayer,
Where all their foes may be tormented
Whilst they themselves play harps elsewhere.
Should ye live on, your lives must be
Condition'd through Eternity
By the same feelings, grave or gay,
That animate your frames to-day.
Wherefore the Lord, loath to refuse
Your prayer, and fain to end the strife,
Bids me make question how ye use
The opportunities of life?
If, being men, your aspiration
Is worthy endless prolongation?
Or whether (as our friend the Devil
Argues) your plans, pursuits, and pains,
Are so absurdly low of level,
So little worthy things with brains,
That 'twould be better, past a doubt,
To let each little lamp go out?
Speak then, all ye that look for ruth,
What is the life ye fain would seize?
Let God Almighty learn the truth,
And don't speak all together, please!
(
Whereupon is heard a great clamour,
after the subsiding of which individual
voices make themselves faintly heard.)
FIRST VOICE.
I've lounged about barracks, I've danced and I've flirted,
I bolted from Simla with Kitty Magee,
And much as her fair reputation was dirtied
By the cruel Divorce Court and nisi decree,
I stuck to the lady and married her after,
Returned to inherit dad's acres and pounds,
Then treated the County (that cut us) with laughter,
Till the Prince espied Kitty, when riding to hounds!
After that all was smooth, and we entered Society,
The clergyman called, and the County knelt down,
And now life is full of eternal variety,
'Tween the fun in the shire, and the season in town!
ANOTHER VOICE.
With roguish face and pretty foot,
Pink silken stocking, high-heel'd boot,
And robes of Redfern's best,
I sup at two, and rise at ten,
Love all the white-shirt-fronted men,
But the gay Guardsman best.
Sing tra-la-la and rub-a-dub,
I frisk at the Corinthian club
With swells and ladies gay.
I think this pleasant life and free
Is just the life that ought to be
For ever and a day!
ANOTHER VOICE.
For ever, for ever! I love the sweet rustle
Of crisp new bank-notes, and the jingle of guineas—
In the street, upon 'Change, 'mid the murmur and bustle,
I pluck all the greenhorns, and wheedle the ninnies—
Cent. per cent. is my motto! I blow the bright bubbles
Which float for a while and then burst with no warning,
And then take my holiday, tramping the stubbles,
But get the Financial Review every morning.
I've a brougham and buggy, a wife and a family,
A dovecot at Fulham, a soiled dove within it,—
When I dream of a coffin, my skin perspires clammily,
And I don't want to think these enjoyments are finite!
ANOTHER VOICE.
I've plumb'd the great abyss of Mind
And find no solid bottom there.
Blind Force, blind Law are all I find,
And dark progression God knows where!
I've made a system most complete
Of true philosophy, wherein
I show all creeds are obsolete
That seek some heavenly goal to win.
And yet, Life's pleasant!—there's the rub
With other fogies at the club,
The Times at breakfast, and the knocks
I give to notions orthodox
In the Reviews! Tho' old and grey,
And somewhat troubled with the gout,
I really think I'd like to stay
And see my theories worked out!
ANOTHER VOICE.
Even as my hand the pistol clutches,
As the cold steel my forehead touches,
I pause in act to fire, and crave
Another chance beyond the grave!
More life! more chances! here I first
Drew breath, and knew the gambler's thirst,
Lost every stake I had to play,
And yet I know there is a way
Had I but time! For pity's sake,
Another life! wherein to stake
My soul, in passionate despair,
And win or lose it, then and there!
VOICES.
Yea, let us live! Eternal life
We crave, tho' 'twere eternal strife!
Let us live on, O thou most High,
For oh, 'tis terrible to die!
A VOICE.
The light that never was on sea or land
Fires and inspires me as I grip the pen,—
That Novel of the Age, which I have planned,
Must stagger and amaze my fellow-men.
I crave for Fame! but most I want to beat
That idiot Smith who boasts his tenth edition!
Ars longa, vita brevis. Life is sweet,
But far too scanty for the writer's mission—
And Smith is famous, while I pine neglected!
Almighty God, who makest reputations,
Grant life, that Smith may hide his head dejected,
While I am shining 'mongst Thy constellations!
ANOTHER VOICE.
'Mong quiet woodland ways, remote
From Demos of the clamouring throat
And all rude sight and sound,
I build my gentle House of Art
Wherein my soul may sit apart
Secure and lily-crown'd;
While foolish martyrs feed the fire
And angry factions rage,
I twang the solitary lyre
And scan the poet's page.
The village maidens clean and trim
Weave me green chaplets while I hymn
God's glory and the King's;
But o'er my grave and calm repose
The gracious Muse of Rugby throws
The shadow of her wings.
Deep is my faith in Nature's plan,
Mysterious and divine,
To waken in the mind of man
The peace which gladdens mine.
Wherefore I crave eternal life,
Remote from care, remote from strife,
And innocent of wrong,
That, loved and honour'd in the land,
I still may cut with cunning hand
My diamonds of song!
ANOTHER VOICE.
Thou hast set this crown of Empire on my head,
Thou hast given me glory full and overflowing!
The hungry people tremble at my tread,
The widowed nations fear my trumpet's blowing.
Leash'd in my grip, I hold the bloodhound War,
But o'er my crown the Cross of Christ is looming,
For in Thy name, O God, whence all things are,
I wield the sword, cross-shapen, lifeconsuming!
ANOTHER VOICE.
To talk and talk! To spout for hours
And have it printed all verbatim,
While pressmen, wondering at my powers,
Follow my prosings seriatim!
Abuse or praise, 'tis all the same
To make the politician's game,
While o'er the long-ear'd listening nation
Shoots the loose rocket, Reputation:
The listening House, the long debate,
The watching eyes, the Speaker's nod,
Shall these depart? Forbid it, Fate!
Make me immortal, like a God!
These voices, and a thousand more,
Like sad waves surging on the shore,
Rose, broke and fell, while others came
To fill the midnight with acclaim,
Till, wearied out, the Angel dread
Rais'd his right hand, and frowning said:
‘Enough, enough,’ and vanishèd.
Whereon again uprose the strife
Of those wild waves of human life,
But in a little space once more
His form flashed out against the sky;
His hand was raised to hush the roar
Of restless waters rolling by,
And thus he spake, with lustrous gaze
Fixed in large scorn on those who heard,
Delivering to the World's amaze
The Master's final Doom and Word!
‘Will it startle you much and be very distressing,
If I say that the Lord, who is kindly tho' strong,
Thinks that, tho' one or two might deserve such a blessing,
Mankind on the whole are too mean to prolong?
He harks to your pleading, He knows your petitions,
But sees with a sigh what you are, and must be,
And having made men of all sorts and conditions,
He thinks He must trust them to Nature, and Me.
Ipse dicit: the life you possess must content you,
You'd waste for all Time what you waste for a day . . .
Yet He leaves just a Doubt in your minds, to prevent you
From letting the Devil have all his own way!’
