 | Poems |  |
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A TRIBUTE TO DICKENS.
Across the foaming sea of words and thought,
Where heavier craft were struggling with the storm,
The winds one day an unknown vessel brought,
Of flaunting streamer and fantastic form.
Old captains gazed, and wondered at her route,
And gravely shook their grizzled heads in doubt;
And critics nursed their literary ire,
And quickly loaded up their guns to fire.
Where heavier craft were struggling with the storm,
The winds one day an unknown vessel brought,
Of flaunting streamer and fantastic form.
Old captains gazed, and wondered at her route,
And gravely shook their grizzled heads in doubt;
And critics nursed their literary ire,
And quickly loaded up their guns to fire.
But crowding sail, she cut the dangerous waves,
Swept past old wrecks and signals of distress,
And o'er forgotten hulks and nameless graves,
Straight glided to the harbor of success!
The great World gazed on her a little while,
Its careworn face grew brighter with a smile,
Until its voice caught rapture from its gaze,
And swelled into a thunder-peal of praise!
Swept past old wrecks and signals of distress,
And o'er forgotten hulks and nameless graves,
Straight glided to the harbor of success!
The great World gazed on her a little while,
Its careworn face grew brighter with a smile,
Until its voice caught rapture from its gaze,
And swelled into a thunder-peal of praise!
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The outstript jester, smiling, dropped his pun,
The sage looked up, with laughter in his eyes;
The critic turned his double-shotted gun,
And jubilantly fired it at the skies!
The laboring throng, when their day's toil was o'er,
Crowded along the unaccustomed shore,
And viewed, with wonder and delight oft-told,
The varied treasures of her deck and hold!
The sage looked up, with laughter in his eyes;
The critic turned his double-shotted gun,
And jubilantly fired it at the skies!
The laboring throng, when their day's toil was o'er,
Crowded along the unaccustomed shore,
And viewed, with wonder and delight oft-told,
The varied treasures of her deck and hold!
For there, upon the deck, in genial state,
Stood Pickwick, captain of the motley crew;
The sturdy Samuel Weller for his mate,
And many a passenger The People knew;
And stored among her cargo of rich mirth,
Shone forth the richest diamonds of earth;
Wit, humor, pathos—all the brighter gems,
Set in a thousand flashing diadems!
Stood Pickwick, captain of the motley crew;
The sturdy Samuel Weller for his mate,
And many a passenger The People knew;
And stored among her cargo of rich mirth,
Shone forth the richest diamonds of earth;
Wit, humor, pathos—all the brighter gems,
Set in a thousand flashing diadems!
And ever as they gazed, and rushed to gaze,
Came sweeping o'er the sea another gale,
And gleamed upon their glad eyes, thro' the haze,
The snowy whiteness of another sail;
Rich loaded was one bark, and fair to see,
But aimed great guns at petty tyranny;
And as she swiftly glided safe to land,
Young Captain Nickleby was in command.
Came sweeping o'er the sea another gale,
And gleamed upon their glad eyes, thro' the haze,
The snowy whiteness of another sail;
Rich loaded was one bark, and fair to see,
But aimed great guns at petty tyranny;
And as she swiftly glided safe to land,
Young Captain Nickleby was in command.
Then came a ship of stranger seeming still,
With “Curiosities” in plenty stored;
And thousands crowded round her, with one will,
To view the passengers she had on board.
And one there was—her name was “Little Nell”—
The People much admired, and loved full well;
And many wept, and lingered at her side,
When peacefully she laid her down and died.
With “Curiosities” in plenty stored;
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To view the passengers she had on board.
And one there was—her name was “Little Nell”—
The People much admired, and loved full well;
And many wept, and lingered at her side,
When peacefully she laid her down and died.
So one by one to port the vessels came,
Laden with comfort for both rich and poor,
But hurling bolts of scorn-envenomed flame
At tyrant, rogue, and snob, and titled boor.
And each new ship the multitude flocked round,
And gloated o'er the treasures that they found;
And as each sail came flashing into sight,
Broke forth a thousand plaudits of delight!
Laden with comfort for both rich and poor,
But hurling bolts of scorn-envenomed flame
At tyrant, rogue, and snob, and titled boor.
And each new ship the multitude flocked round,
And gloated o'er the treasures that they found;
And as each sail came flashing into sight,
Broke forth a thousand plaudits of delight!
Pictures there were, that painter's brush might pine
And pray to spring from out its striving art;
The hand that drew their outlines was divine—
It was the servant of a god-like heart.
The city haunts, from palace down to den,
Stood forth in glowing colors once again;
And the wide country landscape well was traced,
With river, grove, and hill, and desert waste.
And pray to spring from out its striving art;
The hand that drew their outlines was divine—
It was the servant of a god-like heart.
The city haunts, from palace down to den,
Stood forth in glowing colors once again;
And the wide country landscape well was traced,
With river, grove, and hill, and desert waste.
And words—such fitly-spoken words as well
Were to such pictures apples of fine gold,
Upon the ears of listening millions fell,
And often by the fireside were retold.
Pity, and love, and sympathy, were there;
Sorrow, and rage, and raven-winged despair;
Denunciation, big with conscious might,
And earnest, manly pleadings for the right.
Were to such pictures apples of fine gold,
Upon the ears of listening millions fell,
And often by the fireside were retold.
Pity, and love, and sympathy, were there;
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Denunciation, big with conscious might,
And earnest, manly pleadings for the right.
And so the millions, eager to confess
The pleasures they from his creations drew,
Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless
The quiet man whose face they hardly knew,
Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal,
With busy brain, and strongly-yearning soul;
And with his good pen, built, and rigged, and manned
The noble vessels which his genius planned.
The pleasures they from his creations drew,
Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless
The quiet man whose face they hardly knew,
Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal,
With busy brain, and strongly-yearning soul;
And with his good pen, built, and rigged, and manned
The noble vessels which his genius planned.
But one dark day, the news flashed o'er the earth,
That he, belovéd guest of many lands,
Had gone to where his regal soul had birth,
Led by the pressure of down-reaching hands.
There have been kings, reposing in the shroud,
Scorned in the laughing heart, though mourned aloud;
Here was a citizen, wept by his peers,
And deluged by a flood of heartfelt tears!
That he, belovéd guest of many lands,
Had gone to where his regal soul had birth,
Led by the pressure of down-reaching hands.
There have been kings, reposing in the shroud,
Scorned in the laughing heart, though mourned aloud;
Here was a citizen, wept by his peers,
And deluged by a flood of heartfelt tears!
'O Dickens! if in yonder star-girt land,
Thou canst but wander thro' its streets and vales,
And then before the breathless millions stand,
And tell thy merry and pathetic tales,
If thou canst yet thy daily toil prolong,
Plead for the right, and battle with the wrong,
The happiness of Heaven will o'er thee spread,
For thou thy path Heaven-given, still wilt tread!
Thou canst but wander thro' its streets and vales,
And then before the breathless millions stand,
And tell thy merry and pathetic tales,
If thou canst yet thy daily toil prolong,
Plead for the right, and battle with the wrong,
The happiness of Heaven will o'er thee spread,
For thou thy path Heaven-given, still wilt tread!
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No new laudation to thy name we raise—
No tribute of new grief with us appears;
Through all thy life we gave thee words of praise—
Long ere thy death we gave thee our best tears.
But wheresoever still the English tongue
In all the world is spoken, read, and sung,
Shall rise the fervent words oft-heard before—
“God bless thee, glorious Dickens, evermore!”
No tribute of new grief with us appears;
Through all thy life we gave thee words of praise—
Long ere thy death we gave thee our best tears.
But wheresoever still the English tongue
In all the world is spoken, read, and sung,
Shall rise the fervent words oft-heard before—
“God bless thee, glorious Dickens, evermore!”
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