 | The Poems of Mackenzie Bell |  |
123
LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS.
ON LOSING THE FRIENDSHIP OF ONE HITHERTO ESTEEMED A FRIEND.
'Twas nightfall, and sadness
Around me was cast,
My visions of gladness
Were dreams of the past—
As Love was forsaking
Her former abode,
I felt the heart-aching
For joy once bestowed.
Around me was cast,
My visions of gladness
Were dreams of the past—
As Love was forsaking
Her former abode,
I felt the heart-aching
For joy once bestowed.
I felt all the sorrow—
The pitiless void—
When I woke on the morrow
With friendship destroyed.
Keen, keen was the anguish
Of these weary days,
When, alas! I must languish
In Life's dreary maze.
The pitiless void—
When I woke on the morrow
With friendship destroyed.
Keen, keen was the anguish
Of these weary days,
When, alas! I must languish
In Life's dreary maze.
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How weak was each token
Of love given here,
Shown now to be broken
When friendship grew sere!
In bitter bewailing
I poured forth my grief,
Till a new thought prevailing
Brought calm and relief.
Of love given here,
Shown now to be broken
When friendship grew sere!
In bitter bewailing
I poured forth my grief,
Till a new thought prevailing
Brought calm and relief.
Some friends are for ever,
Through joy and through tears,—
The friends who can never
Grow cold with the years,—
And when from Earth's prison
My spirit ascends—
From Death's swoon arisen—
Still, still they are friends.
Through joy and through tears,—
The friends who can never
Grow cold with the years,—
And when from Earth's prison
My spirit ascends—
From Death's swoon arisen—
Still, still they are friends.
TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.
(Written after reading his “Journal.”)
Poet, 'twas no strange sun that shone on theeThrough thy pure life so crowned with dignity,
No sun with light now clouded, now intense,
But aye the unclouded sun of common sense.
THE POET'S INSPIRATION.
True inspiration ever seems
A joy and yet a pain,
To light the poet's lofty dreams,
To purify his strain.
A joy and yet a pain,
To light the poet's lofty dreams,
To purify his strain.
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Its presence glorifies the line
Whose rhythmic measure halts,
Makes hackneyed thoughts seem half divine,
Till few perceive such faults.
Whose rhythmic measure halts,
Makes hackneyed thoughts seem half divine,
Till few perceive such faults.
And thus, although we sometimes find
Imperfect cords like these
In songs of many a master-mind,
How seldom they displease:
Imperfect cords like these
In songs of many a master-mind,
How seldom they displease:
But when its presence is not felt,
Though smooth the verses roll—
Though cadences in sweetness melt—
They cannot stir the soul.
Though smooth the verses roll—
Though cadences in sweetness melt—
They cannot stir the soul.
TWO LIVES.
A cottage home: a peaceful place
Where Sorrow hides her pallid face;
Husband and wife, a happy pair,
Who thankfully Life's blessings share;
And living far from towns' turmoil,
They simply crave a “leave to toil!”
Where Sorrow hides her pallid face;
Husband and wife, a happy pair,
Who thankfully Life's blessings share;
And living far from towns' turmoil,
They simply crave a “leave to toil!”
A workhouse full of dreary din,
Full of the signs of want and sin.
A man and woman sinking fast,
Sinking, yet conscious to the last,
Their senses steeped in wrathful woe
None but the frugal poor can know
When first, despite their care, is spent
Their all through sickness and the rent;
When first, despite their abject grief,
No kindly landlord grants relief;
When first, despite their abject gloom,
His agent comes—decrees their doom;
When first within the workhouse gate
Silent they stand, how desolate!
When first they feel, with sorrow bowed,
The loneliness amid a crowd—
When first they feel in their distress
That is the deepest loneliness;
When first they feel they near their end,
Yet by their bed no former friend;
When now, despite their struggles—struggles long and brave—
Their death but fills—but helps to fill—a pauper's grave.
Full of the signs of want and sin.
A man and woman sinking fast,
Sinking, yet conscious to the last,
Their senses steeped in wrathful woe
None but the frugal poor can know
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Their all through sickness and the rent;
When first, despite their abject grief,
No kindly landlord grants relief;
When first, despite their abject gloom,
His agent comes—decrees their doom;
When first within the workhouse gate
Silent they stand, how desolate!
When first they feel, with sorrow bowed,
The loneliness amid a crowd—
When first they feel in their distress
That is the deepest loneliness;
When first they feel they near their end,
Yet by their bed no former friend;
When now, despite their struggles—struggles long and brave—
Their death but fills—but helps to fill—a pauper's grave.
TO FREDERICK TENNYSON.
(Died February 26th, 1898, in his ninety-first year.)
Eldest of your august, poetic race,
You go the last to your calm resting-place;
Yet though you pass from out our earthly view,
Your work remains, and Time shall give your due.
You go the last to your calm resting-place;
Yet though you pass from out our earthly view,
Your work remains, and Time shall give your due.
Whether beneath the tranquil Tuscan skies
You mused as all too soon the daylight dies;
Whether you watched from your far island home
The English Channel's eddying miles of foam;
Or whether in your mild declining days
You sojourned 'mid our clamorous London's ways;
Yours was the poet's life through length of years;
Yours were the poet's joys, and hopes, and fears;
Yours were the tender ministries of song;
Yours were the pleasures which to bards belong
Who, dwelling in the world, yet “dwell apart,”
And think but of their God and of their art.
You mused as all too soon the daylight dies;
Whether you watched from your far island home
The English Channel's eddying miles of foam;
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You sojourned 'mid our clamorous London's ways;
Yours was the poet's life through length of years;
Yours were the poet's joys, and hopes, and fears;
Yours were the tender ministries of song;
Yours were the pleasures which to bards belong
Who, dwelling in the world, yet “dwell apart,”
And think but of their God and of their art.
Our gain from lives like yours no verse can tell:
Eldest of English poets, fare you well.
Eldest of English poets, fare you well.
London, February 26th, 1898.
A GOLDEN WEDDING:
Lines addressed to Friar Farlow Wilson on behalf of the Brotherhood of the Whitefriars, October 6th, 1899.
Take this our gift which after many years
Comes from a circle of your firmest friends;
Remembering your true-hearted words of cheer
And kindly deeds towards them, oftentimes.
Comes from a circle of your firmest friends;
Remembering your true-hearted words of cheer
And kindly deeds towards them, oftentimes.
Yes; Life is rich whate'er the cynics say,
So long as 'mid its ceaseless toil and fret
Men play their parts as you do, seeking ever
To show your fellow-workers sympathy.
So long as 'mid its ceaseless toil and fret
Men play their parts as you do, seeking ever
To show your fellow-workers sympathy.
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To her we owe our thanks who did not grudge
To you the hours spent in our Brotherhood,
Fraught with the mellow treasured memories
Of many a by-gone wit whose name is dear.
To you the hours spent in our Brotherhood,
Fraught with the mellow treasured memories
Of many a by-gone wit whose name is dear.
What matters it though callous Time has now
Turned, with resistless touch, your locks to grey,
If still your heart be young; and this it is
We know. May all your coming days prolong
For you and yours Earth's highest, choicest joy.
Turned, with resistless touch, your locks to grey,
If still your heart be young; and this it is
We know. May all your coming days prolong
For you and yours Earth's highest, choicest joy.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF OUR FEELINGS.
'Tis strange that what seems grief to-day
Should seem like joy to-morrow,
That present bliss should pass away
And seem, in future, sorrow.
Should seem like joy to-morrow,
That present bliss should pass away
And seem, in future, sorrow.
Yet in the web of life we find,
While its vague threads we measure,
The pattern of our mood of mind
Traced out in pain or pleasure.
While its vague threads we measure,
The pattern of our mood of mind
Traced out in pain or pleasure.
THE BOY CHATTERTON TO HIMSELF.
“Sublime of thought, and confident of fame.”
Coleridge, Monody on the Death of Chatterton.
That dotard soul I cannot comprehend,
Who knows no hope that, after many years
His name shall be preserved by other means
Than by an entry in the parish books—
The soul who never knew the proud desire
To be remembered in far days unborn
By some great deed accomplished.
Who knows no hope that, after many years
His name shall be preserved by other means
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The soul who never knew the proud desire
To be remembered in far days unborn
By some great deed accomplished.
Therefore here
I make a vow—a vow unchanging, strong:
I will redeem the time, and, though the days
Are evil, yet it will be my delight
To toil unceasingly, that at the last
It shall be seen I have not lived in vain.
Men's hours are passed as sacred Scripture saith—
“They eat, they drink, are merry, and they die.”
Few daily doings are of much account
In fifty years; then let my mind be set
On some fit theme meet for my noblest powers.
I make a vow—a vow unchanging, strong:
I will redeem the time, and, though the days
Are evil, yet it will be my delight
To toil unceasingly, that at the last
It shall be seen I have not lived in vain.
Men's hours are passed as sacred Scripture saith—
“They eat, they drink, are merry, and they die.”
Few daily doings are of much account
In fifty years; then let my mind be set
On some fit theme meet for my noblest powers.
THE BOY COLERIDGE TO HIMSELF.
“O capacious soul!”
Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book xiv.
“I wonder wherefore?” is the soul-stirred cry
Which wells up from the depths of human hearts
In every sphere of life—from lowly homes
And princely palaces—from hermit cells
And seething crowds—from youth and riper age
And longest length of years—from rich and poor
From all who have the manliness to think—
In health or sickness—happiness or woe—
In Life's supremest moments or its trifles
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Incessant questioning is surely meant
As greatest food for hope—a token given
That, notwithstanding its abyss of sin,
Within man's soul the germs of good abide.
Mysterious are the links that firmly weld
Our trains of thought together. First we brood
On some small trivial matter—now the germ
Of musings somewhat loftier—then behold
A thread is woven with our thought, and lo
It leads to higher themes!—vast vistas new
For serious contemplation:—and we gain
Sublimest heights, as God-reflected thoughts
Transcending reason throng our kindled minds.
PASSION'S SLAVE.
Blind passion ever showed its maddening powerEnthroned within him—a sin-garnered dower
Of quenchless loves and longings. That fierce storm
Which breaks the boughs of Life, where sheltered warm
Repose, like unfledged nestlings, Life's chief joys,
Swept o'er his soul—the wave that swift destroys
Man's store of peace. What years of labour cost
He by one fatal step for ever lost.
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THE PHILOSOPHY OF FREQUENT FAILURE.
In Youth's glad morning hours of strenuous lifeGreat contemplations often fill the mind
With noblest aspirations, while it seems
To us, as yet scarce touched by sordid care
And blighting prejudice, quite possible
Through our unaided strength to win at last
Some shining goal which glitters in our sight—
A goal which, when 'twas won, would crown with good
The Universal Brotherhood of Man.
But as the years roll on we find the dream
Less easy of fulfilment,—for we feel
Our ardour less intense—our weary feet
Glide gently into that poor old-world groove
We so despised of yore,—and we are fain
To use fast-failing energy in strife
'Gainst daily troubles; higher aims forgotten.
AT HAZELHURST.
This, the loved hour of twilight's close,
The landscape is revealing
Haloed, where last the sunset glows,
Ere Night comes, all concealing.
The landscape is revealing
Haloed, where last the sunset glows,
Ere Night comes, all concealing.
Rich foliage hides yon rippling stream
From the fair view completely;
And gently, as in some kind dream,
It murmurs softly, sweetly.
From the fair view completely;
And gently, as in some kind dream,
It murmurs softly, sweetly.
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TO EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Severed from you by sundering seas I dwell—
Never have clasped your hand, nor heard your voice—
Never have seen your eyes make loving choice
Of mine to tell the truths words may not tell.
Never have clasped your hand, nor heard your voice—
Never have seen your eyes make loving choice
Of mine to tell the truths words may not tell.
And yet I know you—oft in tranquil mood
Your welcome songs—your wealth of critic lore—
To me have brought a joy unfelt before,—
Or letters from you cheered my solitude.
Your welcome songs—your wealth of critic lore—
To me have brought a joy unfelt before,—
Or letters from you cheered my solitude.
January 19th, 1895.
TO THE WOMEN OF GREAT BRITAIN.
(A Man's Exhortation.)
Hope on, though dark may seem the way,
All will be altered soon,
Changing, as changes some dark day,
When sunshine comes at noon;
All will be altered soon,
Changing, as changes some dark day,
When sunshine comes at noon;
Hope on, for hoping will impart
New strength to bear the strain,
The efforts of each dauntless heart
Can never be in vain.
New strength to bear the strain,
The efforts of each dauntless heart
Can never be in vain.
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Yet, hoping, cease not still to act
Unchecked by gibe or jeer;
With passion plead each stubborn fact,
The hour of dawn is near—
Unchecked by gibe or jeer;
With passion plead each stubborn fact,
The hour of dawn is near—
When man-made laws shall cease to vex
The thinkers of our race—
When justice is no word of sex—
As each has found its place.
The thinkers of our race—
When justice is no word of sex—
As each has found its place.
May 31st, 1908.
| The Poems of Mackenzie Bell | |