The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) ::

'Tis time that I should loose from life at last
This heart's unworthy longing for the past,
Ere life be turn'd to loathing.
For love,—at least, this love, of one for one,—
Is, at the best, not all beneath the sun,
And, at the worst, 'tis nothing.

Not that, of all the past, I would forget
One pleasure, or one pain. I cherish yet,
And would dishonour never,
All I have felt. But, cherisht tho' it be,
'Tis time my past should set my future free
For life's renew'd endeavour.

Not much I reverence that remorse which flies
To desert caves, and bids its dupes despise
Themselves, on whom it preys;
Wasting the worth of life on worthless pain,
To make the future, as the past was, vain,
By endless self-dispraise:

183

As tho', forsooth, because a man is not
His self-made god, he needs must curse his lot
With self-contempt! as tho'
Some squalid maniac, that with lifelong moan
Insults man's flesh and blood, with these hath done
The best that man can do!

Nor am I keen to urge that common claim
On this world, or another,—here, for fame,
Which only grows on graves,—
Or, there, for so much, purchasable here
By earth's joy stinted, of celestial cheer;
The stimulant of slaves!

Not for reward,—not for release from pain,—
But with a man's imperative disdain
Of all that wastes man's nature,
Rise, O my soul, and reach to loftier things,
Untrammell'd by this florid weed that clings,
Stunting a spirit's stature!

I was not born to sit, with shrowded head,
Piping shrill ditties to the unburied dead,
While life's arm'd host sweeps by.
I hear the clarion call, the warsteed neigh,
The banner fluttering in the wind's free play,
The brave man's battle-cry:

184

And I am conscious that where all things strive
'Tis shameful to sit still. I would not live
Content with a life lost
In chasing mine own fancies thro' void air,
Or decking forth in forms and phrases fair
The miserable ghost

Of personal joy or pain. The ages roll
Forward; and, forward with them, draw my soul
Into time's infinite sea.
And to be glad, or sad, I care no more:
But to have done, and to have been, before
I cease to do and be.

From the minutest struggle to excell
Of things whose momentary myriads dwell
In drops of dew confined,
To spirits standing on life's upmost stair,
Whose utterances alter worlds, and are
The makers of mankind,

All things cry shame on lips that squander speech
In words which,—if not deeds,—are worthless each.
Not here are such words wanted,
Where all bestirs itself,—where dumb things do
By nobly silent action speak, and go
Forth to their fates undaunted.

185

Shame on the wretch who, born a man, foregoes
Man's troublous birthright for a brute's repose!
Shame on the eyes that see
This mighty universe, yet see not there
Something of difficult worth a man may dare
Boldly to do and be!

Yet is there nought for shame in any thing
Once dear and beautiful. The shrivell'd wing,
Scathed by what seem'd a star
And proved, alas, no star, but withering fire,
Is worthier than the wingless worm's desire
For nothing fair or far.

Rather the ground that's deep enough for graves,
Rather the stream that's strong enough for waves,
Than the loose sandy drift
Whose shifting surface cherishes no seed
Either of any flower or any weed,
Which ever way it shift,

Or stagnant shallow which the storms despise
Nought finding there to prey upon, I prize.
Why should man's spirit shrink
From feeling to the utmost,—be it pain
Or pleasure,—all 'twas form'd, nor form'd in vain,
To feel with force? I think

186

That never to have aim'd and miss'd, is not
To have achieved. I hold the loftier lot
To ennoble, not escape,
Life's sorrows and love's pangs. I count a man,
Tho' sick to death, for something nobler than
A healthy dog or ape.

I deem that nothing suffer'd or enjoy'd
By a man's soul deserves to be destroy'd,
But rather to be made
Means of a soul's encreased capacity
Either to suffer,—and to gain thereby
A more exalted grade

Among the spirits purified by pain,
Or to enjoy,—and thereby to attain
That lovelier influence
Reserved for spirits that, 'mid the general moan
Of human griefs, praise God with clearest tone
Of joyous trust intense.

And, for this reason, I would yet keep fair
And fresh the memory of all things that were
Sweet in their place and season.
And I forgive my life its failures too,
Since failures old, to guide endeavours new,
Are good for the same reason.

University of Virginia Library

A CONFESSION AND APOLOGY.