 | Denzil place |  |
The neighbours 'round her all led dreary lives
Yet did not know it; stagnant tedious hours
Crawl'd from the rising to the setting sun;—
Such small ambitions, such a narrow creed
All held, and yet, withal, self-satisfied,
Each saw the mote within his brother's eye
As thro' a microscope, and hailing it
With joy, proclaim'd it to the little world
Of waiting Pharisees, whose open mouths
Could mutter other things besides their pray'rs.
Amongst these mouldy human vegetables
Constance rais'd up her head and seem'd a rose,
And when compared with their's, she deem'd her home
A garden, for not only did they live
Their dull, respectable and tedious lives
Apart from thoughts of Beauty, Art, or Love,
But many liv'd them too in enmity
One with another; many too, were poor,
And liv'd in dwellings desolate and damp,
Empty of all save the provincial pride
Of Squire and Squiress; others too, were ill,
For sometimes to the village where they liv'd
Came fevers;—from the chast'ning hand of God,
(So said Sir John, altho' a meddling man
Who came from London, made him build anew
Some cottages he thought were good enough
For such as had been born and bred in them;
And tho' this meddling man had also said
The fever had not been if good Sir John
Had mov'd more with the times).—But what of this?
Some infidels will always see a cause—
A cause of bricks and mortar, in the curse
Sent down by God upon our sinful race!
(So said the parson, and advised a pray'r,
But thought the drainage should be left alone,
As heretofore;) and so they pray'd and pray'd,
And drank the water of polluted wells,
Whilst on the fever raged, and had its course;
Then, strange to say, abated; many homes
Made desolate, and in the village church
Were many mourning forms, and Constance, sad
And humbled, felt ashamed of being well,
Yet thank'd her God the fever spared her home.
Yet did not know it; stagnant tedious hours
8
Such small ambitions, such a narrow creed
All held, and yet, withal, self-satisfied,
Each saw the mote within his brother's eye
As thro' a microscope, and hailing it
With joy, proclaim'd it to the little world
Of waiting Pharisees, whose open mouths
Could mutter other things besides their pray'rs.
Amongst these mouldy human vegetables
Constance rais'd up her head and seem'd a rose,
And when compared with their's, she deem'd her home
A garden, for not only did they live
Their dull, respectable and tedious lives
Apart from thoughts of Beauty, Art, or Love,
But many liv'd them too in enmity
One with another; many too, were poor,
And liv'd in dwellings desolate and damp,
Empty of all save the provincial pride
Of Squire and Squiress; others too, were ill,
For sometimes to the village where they liv'd
Came fevers;—from the chast'ning hand of God,
(So said Sir John, altho' a meddling man
Who came from London, made him build anew
Some cottages he thought were good enough
9
And tho' this meddling man had also said
The fever had not been if good Sir John
Had mov'd more with the times).—But what of this?
Some infidels will always see a cause—
A cause of bricks and mortar, in the curse
Sent down by God upon our sinful race!
(So said the parson, and advised a pray'r,
But thought the drainage should be left alone,
As heretofore;) and so they pray'd and pray'd,
And drank the water of polluted wells,
Whilst on the fever raged, and had its course;
Then, strange to say, abated; many homes
Made desolate, and in the village church
Were many mourning forms, and Constance, sad
And humbled, felt ashamed of being well,
Yet thank'd her God the fever spared her home.
| Denzil place | |