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93
SINGERS AMONG MEN.
95
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
APRIL 9TH, 1882.
Gone down to take Proserpina the flowers,
Those daffodils let fall from Pluto's wain!
The grey old bard, who bound with silver chain
Of simple song his western home to ours,
Waits, happy for thy guidance to the bowers
Where, guests long since in thy mysterious train,
The singers sit right glad to entertain
Thee with thy later tale of Tuscan towers.
Those daffodils let fall from Pluto's wain!
The grey old bard, who bound with silver chain
Of simple song his western home to ours,
Waits, happy for thy guidance to the bowers
Where, guests long since in thy mysterious train,
The singers sit right glad to entertain
Thee with thy later tale of Tuscan towers.
Thou Painter-Poet, with the brow divine,
Whereon was set some memory of his face
Who gave our England song for evermore,
Thy ‘House of Life’ is broken, but back to shore
Comes Charon, with that sonnet-toll of thine
Which Death dared never keep in his dark place.
Whereon was set some memory of his face
Who gave our England song for evermore,
Thy ‘House of Life’ is broken, but back to shore
Comes Charon, with that sonnet-toll of thine
Which Death dared never keep in his dark place.
Longfellow died in the spring of the same year. The resemblance of Rossetti to the traditional portraits of Shakespeare was striking. The last lines of the sonnet refer to the book of poems which Rossetti buried at his wife's death, and was afterwards induced by his friends to take from the tomb and give to the world.
96
Jenny Lind.
NOVEMBER 2ND, 1887.
Never again to see an English Spring!
Never to watch the purple copses burn,
The gold gay-hearted daffodil return!
Never to hear the lark above me sing
And climbing up his stair ring after ring,
Send consolation earthwards! how I yearn
But once, once more, to find the bracken fern
Lifting to fragrant light its fairy wing!
Never to watch the purple copses burn,
The gold gay-hearted daffodil return!
Never to hear the lark above me sing
And climbing up his stair ring after ring,
Send consolation earthwards! how I yearn
But once, once more, to find the bracken fern
Lifting to fragrant light its fairy wing!
The Malvern valleys, mist-enshrouded, wait,
The Malvern hills are shuddering into snow,
But thou clear-throated angel-heart of Dawn,
Thou standest now within the happier gate
Whence all the springs with life and love shall flow,
To thrill the nightingale and flush the lawn.
The Malvern hills are shuddering into snow,
But thou clear-throated angel-heart of Dawn,
Thou standest now within the happier gate
Whence all the springs with life and love shall flow,
To thrill the nightingale and flush the lawn.
I touched on the exquisite loveliness of her little home. “Yes,” she said, “but I am never to see a spring here. The three first springs I was at work at the College—and now.” —Scott Holland, Murray's Magazine, December, 1887.
97
Matthew Arnold.
IN LALEHAM CHURCHYARD, APRIL, 1888.
Gone, without word, or touch, or hint of pain
Where the great visions of his earthly chase—
Sweet light and truth, and soul-appealing grace—
Stand full embodied. Surely not in vain
Our generation felt his high disdain
For all that narrowed good to time and race;
For all that wept in sordid common-place,
Or held life cramped in fashion's thoughtless chain.
Where the great visions of his earthly chase—
Sweet light and truth, and soul-appealing grace—
Stand full embodied. Surely not in vain
Our generation felt his high disdain
For all that narrowed good to time and race;
For all that wept in sordid common-place,
Or held life cramped in fashion's thoughtless chain.
Child of the Thames and Rotha,
o'er his rest
The poplar grieves, the river sobs and cries,
And souls that still unsatisfied must long
To know the highest and to think the best,
Sigh, in accord, the human undersong
Of loss, about the grave where Arnold lies.
The poplar grieves, the river sobs and cries,
And souls that still unsatisfied must long
To know the highest and to think the best,
Sigh, in accord, the human undersong
Of loss, about the grave where Arnold lies.
98
Horatius Bonar.
31ST JULY, 1889.
Singer, at length thy travelling days are done,
And thou who heard'st the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto me and rest,” hast ceased thy lay,
Into the land of silence thou hast gone!
But still thy pure harp's high and holy tone—
Harp strung in stern old covenanter's day—
Sounds out, to cheer the pilgrim on his way
With echoes of the song about the Throne.
And thou who heard'st the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto me and rest,” hast ceased thy lay,
Into the land of silence thou hast gone!
But still thy pure harp's high and holy tone—
Harp strung in stern old covenanter's day—
Sounds out, to cheer the pilgrim on his way
With echoes of the song about the Throne.
Still wheresoe'er the children's hymn may rise,
Or the great congregation's voice upswell
In plenitude of praise, thy clear heart's chord
Shall vibrate, till we hear in Paradise
How all on earth, in sea, and Heaven that dwell,
With one loud Alleluia bless the Lord.
Or the great congregation's voice upswell
In plenitude of praise, thy clear heart's chord
Shall vibrate, till we hear in Paradise
How all on earth, in sea, and Heaven that dwell,
With one loud Alleluia bless the Lord.
99
Robert Browning.
DECEMBER 12TH, 1889.
Browning is dead at Venice! dark and slow
The gondoliers move silently along,
Wan Adria's sea sobs sorrowful among
Drear halls, and pale for grief sits Asolo.
Browning is dead! the voice tolls to and fro
And hushes all his latest tender song,
As in an organ when the deep notes throng
To drown the quavering treble's passionate flow.
The gondoliers move silently along,
Wan Adria's sea sobs sorrowful among
Drear halls, and pale for grief sits Asolo.
Browning is dead! the voice tolls to and fro
And hushes all his latest tender song,
As in an organ when the deep notes throng
To drown the quavering treble's passionate flow.
Browning is dead! with Florence on his heart
Writ large; but larger, England underneath—
The England of his helping; for he knew
The mind where Freedom is, and, to the death,
For souls in pain who dare the Angel part,
Onset and victory his brave trumpet blew.
Writ large; but larger, England underneath—
The England of his helping; for he knew
The mind where Freedom is, and, to the death,
For souls in pain who dare the Angel part,
Onset and victory his brave trumpet blew.
100
Robert Browning.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, DECEMBER 30TH, 1889.
From Rivo Alto's silent palace hall,
From San Michele's wilderness of flowers,
Comes one for rest beneath our Abbey Towers
Whose song and soul shall never sleep at all.
The crown of Venice shines above the pall,
A brighter crown thy tireless spirit dowers,
For thy strong heart the weakest heart empowers
To “strive and thrive,” fare forward, though we fall.
From San Michele's wilderness of flowers,
Comes one for rest beneath our Abbey Towers
Whose song and soul shall never sleep at all.
The crown of Venice shines above the pall,
A brighter crown thy tireless spirit dowers,
For thy strong heart the weakest heart empowers
To “strive and thrive,” fare forward, though we fall.
Singer of resolute right, and souls on fire
To meet the morrow's battle, and the ‘must’
Of Truth triumphant with our latest breath,
Lie here, for gentle Spenser can desire
No knightlier guest, nor Chaucer in his dust
A truer harp. Lie here—here comes no death.
To meet the morrow's battle, and the ‘must’
Of Truth triumphant with our latest breath,
Lie here, for gentle Spenser can desire
No knightlier guest, nor Chaucer in his dust
A truer harp. Lie here—here comes no death.
101
A Cry from Florence.
DECEMBER 12TH, 1889.
Take home the heart, her heart that cannot rest
Though in Etruria's southern-natured ground,
Take home the heart that fire and fulness found
In that sure heart whose secret she possest,
Take home the heart, the heart that at its best
Was bettered for his singing, whose strong sound
Was sweeter by her song, for she was crowned
Queen of a heart that was her King confest.
Though in Etruria's southern-natured ground,
Take home the heart that fire and fulness found
In that sure heart whose secret she possest,
Take home the heart, the heart that at its best
Was bettered for his singing, whose strong sound
Was sweeter by her song, for she was crowned
Queen of a heart that was her King confest.
Hearts such as these have never ceased from beating,
Hearts such as these by sympathy divine
Will palpitate in death, harmonious measure.
And still I hear a spirit voice entreating,
Let Arno give the Thames her poet-treasure,
One grave the dust of two immortals' shrine.
Hearts such as these by sympathy divine
Will palpitate in death, harmonious measure.
And still I hear a spirit voice entreating,
Let Arno give the Thames her poet-treasure,
One grave the dust of two immortals' shrine.
This sonnet was written on hearing that Robert Browning's wish to be buried beside his wife in Florence could not be fulfilled, and that in consequence his body was being brought home for sepulture to England.
102
James Russell Lowell.
AUGUST 12TH, 1891.
Lowell is dead! a gold link snapt and gone
That bound the Mother to the Daughter-land.
Lowell is dead! I hear upon the strand
The mourning of two nations joined as one
Mixed with the drear Atlantic's monotone.
For who will touch the harp with lighter hand,
And who in time of tyrannous hate shall stand
And sing back Truth and Freedom to their throne?
That bound the Mother to the Daughter-land.
Lowell is dead! I hear upon the strand
The mourning of two nations joined as one
Mixed with the drear Atlantic's monotone.
For who will touch the harp with lighter hand,
And who in time of tyrannous hate shall stand
And sing back Truth and Freedom to their throne?
Oh! Stars that after dimness bless the night,
Stripes rent, and with a people's heart-blood healed,
Blow still mast-high, your poet speaks no more.
But though this stroke of death has wounded sore
The common heart to which his heart appealed,
Above our heads his star of Love is bright.
Stripes rent, and with a people's heart-blood healed,
Blow still mast-high, your poet speaks no more.
But though this stroke of death has wounded sore
The common heart to which his heart appealed,
Above our heads his star of Love is bright.
103
Lowell's Last Dream.
Before he entered Heaven's imperial Hall
Where Light and Love and Beauty only reign,
Unto his dying eyes a vision plain
Of kingly people met for festival
Came with triumphant pomp, and clarion call;
And rising up with will to entertain
Those goodly visitants, the courtier's brain
Reeled, and to death's dark arms did Lowell fall.
Where Light and Love and Beauty only reign,
Unto his dying eyes a vision plain
Of kingly people met for festival
Came with triumphant pomp, and clarion call;
And rising up with will to entertain
Those goodly visitants, the courtier's brain
Reeled, and to death's dark arms did Lowell fall.
Not without presage of a royal home,
Where, King of kings and Lord of lords, our God
Crowns the true soul that nobly strives and sings
Of Right and Freedom, did that pageant come;
With sovereign powers he long had made abode,
For men who have the poet's heart are kings.
Where, King of kings and Lord of lords, our God
Crowns the true soul that nobly strives and sings
Of Right and Freedom, did that pageant come;
With sovereign powers he long had made abode,
For men who have the poet's heart are kings.
It is said that in the delirium before his death Lowell seemed to think that he was entertaining Royal guests.
104
The Centenary of Mozart.
DECEMBER 4TH, 1891.
God called whom for too short a time he gave,
Dust back to dust, snapped string and broke the shell,
And as they bore him towards the tolling bell
Of old St. Marx, no hands were there to wave
Adieu, no mourners but the winds that rave,
The tears shed for him were the rains that fell,
But all the hearts that ever felt his spell
Stand bowed to-day beside that pauper grave.
Dust back to dust, snapped string and broke the shell,
And as they bore him towards the tolling bell
Of old St. Marx, no hands were there to wave
Adieu, no mourners but the winds that rave,
The tears shed for him were the rains that fell,
But all the hearts that ever felt his spell
Stand bowed to-day beside that pauper grave.
Mozart, thy soul, familiar grown with Death
Long since, laid willing touch upon the door
That opened to the land where sorrows cease,
And leaving here on earth th' unfinished score
Went onward, singing, with an angel's breath,
The requiem music of eternal peace.
Long since, laid willing touch upon the door
That opened to the land where sorrows cease,
And leaving here on earth th' unfinished score
Went onward, singing, with an angel's breath,
The requiem music of eternal peace.
105
Walt Whitman.
MARCH 26TH, 1892.
Dead is the “tan-faced” poet of the west,
Blunt-mouthed, bluff-headed, he who dared to say
That for new freedom's democratic day
Thought should be free. By no rhyme-fetters prest,
He bade his rude unmetred verse attest
That drum-tap music suited well the way
Of those who marched, head up, for labour's fray,
And rugged truth in nakedness was best.
Blunt-mouthed, bluff-headed, he who dared to say
That for new freedom's democratic day
Thought should be free. By no rhyme-fetters prest,
He bade his rude unmetred verse attest
That drum-tap music suited well the way
Of those who marched, head up, for labour's fray,
And rugged truth in nakedness was best.
Dead, but not dead the hope for which he toiled,
Hope for the time when heart will speak to heart
With its own rhythmic utterance, making men
Singers indeed; and hands by labour soiled
May feel each day they hold the poet's pen—
And the shy seer shall no more dwell apart.
Hope for the time when heart will speak to heart
With its own rhythmic utterance, making men
Singers indeed; and hands by labour soiled
May feel each day they hold the poet's pen—
And the shy seer shall no more dwell apart.
106
John Greenleaf Whittier.
SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1892.
We shall not see again the deep-set eyes,
Tight mouth, thought-furrows on the friendly face
That never disavowed the Quaker race.
His shock of years is garnered under skies
Well known, well sung of, for his soul was wise
With all the change of season, and the grace
Of Nature, stored afield in lonely place,
To melt the labourer's heart with melodies.
Tight mouth, thought-furrows on the friendly face
That never disavowed the Quaker race.
His shock of years is garnered under skies
Well known, well sung of, for his soul was wise
With all the change of season, and the grace
Of Nature, stored afield in lonely place,
To melt the labourer's heart with melodies.
His voice was clear because he saw the truth,
The simple truth that God would have men free,
On furrows red with war his seed was sown;
And loving right and hating tyranny,
He fashioned for a nation in its youth
Such music as its age shall not disown.
The simple truth that God would have men free,
On furrows red with war his seed was sown;
And loving right and hating tyranny,
He fashioned for a nation in its youth
Such music as its age shall not disown.
Whittier was born at Haver-hill, Massachusetts, on 17th December, 1807. The early years of his life were spent in working upon a farm. After some years of journalistic experience he returned to the farm in 1832. Between 1836 and 1840 he retired to Amesbury and thence forward gave his whole time to literary and poetic work.
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