In Cornwall and Across the Sea With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
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In Cornwall and Across the Sea | ||
“MAMMON AND POESY;”
or, “The Poet's Choice.”
“The elder Mr Browning had but two children— the poet, and a daughter, who still keeps house for her brother. When the son had arrived at that age, at which the bias or opportunity of parents usually dictates a profession to a youth, Mr Browning asked his son what he intended to be. It was known to the latter that his sister was provided for, and that there would always be enough to keep him also, and he had the singular courage to decline to be rich. He appealed to his Father whether it would not be better for him to see life in its best sense and cultivate the powers of his mind, than to shackle himself in the very outset of his career by a laborious training foreign to that aim. The wisdom or unwisdom of such a step is proved by the measure of its success. In the case of Mr Browning the determination has never been regretted, and so great was the confidence
And said, “Young dreamer come with me
And have the fatness of the land
And costliest gifts from o'er the sea.”
Of Mammon, shewed him all the Earth,
The good things for which all men hope,
Which the world holds of highest worth,
And all thou seest shall be thine;
The glories of the land and sea
And fulness of the Earth are mine.
And he, who worships me, must tread
All day in crowded alleys trod
By hard coarse men—must leave his bed
An altar of his desk must make
And missal of his ledger, wait
Until his sacrifice I take.
And souls of those who cross his path,
Can choose himself a wife of wives,
Can make lands tremble at his wrath,
In either sphere, can clothe his limbs
With whatsoe'er is costliest,
Live in a palace, list to hymns
From his rich table let to fall—
Until his day of death may come,
A kind of monarch over all.”
In tempting accents to the youth,
Over the distant hills there broke—
Over the distant hills of truth—
A far-off vision. She was fair
The maid on whom the sunshaft shone
And with a crown of glittering hair,
Of him who saw was toned to view,
Now golden-bright, now dusk as night,
Now dull and now of sunny hue.
That he, who at her beauty's shrine
Had worship once or homage paid,
Could ne'er his fealty resign,
Come good, come ill, in wealth or want,
Though great in state, though with a wife
Fair as a queen, must ever haunt
Of longing, whether of regret
Or hope, and with some quaint device,
Such as the old Knight-lovers set
Their prowess 'neath their lady's eyes—
Even in the distance was this maid
Wondrously fair to his surmise.
In tones just loud enough to hear,
And yet 'twas not in accents weak
But rather in a whisper clear,
I have no Kingdom on the Earth,
And yet is not by land and sea
What men esteem of equal worth
But cannot write it down, and he
Who writes it is proclaimed a seer,
The one man of his century.
Through all the oases of the world,
From where the millions make their home
To where no flag was e'er unfurled,
In some new city's panting heart,
To old-world palaces exhumed
From neath Vesuvius' lava swart,
Of peaceful victories with sheep,
Now countries glorious with stain
Of battle and with shattered keep,
Of the free, valiant North, or 'mid
The glowing luscious East thou sleepest
Until the day in dusk is hid,
Or waging warfare thou shalt be,
Whate'er the place, whate'er the hour,
Come good, come ill, on land or sea,
Shall die not, howso low it gleams;
Thou wilt not need a temple porch
To worship me as it beseems.
And write down truly what thou hearest,
Folks will bow down to thee as seer,
Of all men to the gods the nearest.
Or rest, the crowning gift of Earth,
But if Heaven gives thee life and health,
And thou art seer,—there's nought of worth
As singer and interpreter
Of the lost voices, which there be
Lurking within the earth and air.”
His gifts for certain undelayed,—
For a few years to be a slave,
Then lord of all that he surveyed,
And Poesy stood on the height,
And promised nought but only planned
His guerdon if he heard aright,—
Content upon her altar stairs
One more bright, blasted life to offer,
If Heaven heeded not his prayers
In language whoso ran could read
Voices from old towns borne at night
And on still mornings from the mead,
Or inspiration—what you will—
Heard when afar from human eye,
Heard best when human sounds are still.
A singer and acknowledged seer
Loved in all English-speaking lands,
In his own walk without a peer.
In Cornwall and Across the Sea | ||