Euphrenia or the Test of Love A poem by William Sharp |
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| 3. |
 | Euphrenia or the Test of Love |  |
LII.
Hereon a pale and earnest spriteFrom a dark nook leaped forth;
The spirits' perfect silence proved
Their knowledge of his worth.
Or it may be that no one cared
To venture within reach
Of one who rather trespassed on
The courtesies of speech.
He looked around, but as his glance
No rival could detect,
He to the courtly prelate spoke
Something to this effect.
SPIRIT OF SATIRE.
“An author's troubles end with his success,
The constant soul can soar above distress;
But slights and scorn let those forget who will,
I felt them once, nay, more, they rankle still.
Heaven protect me from my friends, say I,
And let me wrestle with mine enemy.
I with your lordship heartily agree
In all you've said of young nobility,
Though I much doubt if lordly virtue's praise
Had so inspired you in your curate days;
Or if, as tutor, your admiring eyes
Followed some lordling lout's absurdities.
Forget the bench, be tutor yet once more,
Think of the petty insults which of yore
Your poverty provoked. Enter the gate
Where powdered minions of the ‘lordly great’
Ape the insulting airs that are displayed
Before their dazzled sight, and, I'm afraid,
When your mind's eye, in retrospective scan,
Reviews the insults heaped upon the man,
You'll blush to think that you have stooped to sound
The trump of praise upon such hollow ground.
The constant soul can soar above distress;
But slights and scorn let those forget who will,
I felt them once, nay, more, they rankle still.
Heaven protect me from my friends, say I,
And let me wrestle with mine enemy.
41
In all you've said of young nobility,
Though I much doubt if lordly virtue's praise
Had so inspired you in your curate days;
Or if, as tutor, your admiring eyes
Followed some lordling lout's absurdities.
Forget the bench, be tutor yet once more,
Think of the petty insults which of yore
Your poverty provoked. Enter the gate
Where powdered minions of the ‘lordly great’
Ape the insulting airs that are displayed
Before their dazzled sight, and, I'm afraid,
When your mind's eye, in retrospective scan,
Reviews the insults heaped upon the man,
You'll blush to think that you have stooped to sound
The trump of praise upon such hollow ground.
You say that every charity affords
A list of names preceded by a lord's.
Oh, my dear Bishop, surely you intend
To laugh to scorn some charitable friend!
What lurking pride beneath a vain pretence;
What needless insult this to common sense;
My lord, kind soul, presides at weekly board;
Amazing condescension in a Lord!
So deem the vulgar; but he takes good care,
In patronage, to have the lion's share;
Contrives to find a matron who will deign
O'er fallen Magdalens to blandly reign.
Thrusts in some pampered menial, who could
Clear up some mystery little understood.
This, aye, and more than this; yet you pretend
A lord is charity's most earnest friend;
Cant, cant, my lord, pure cant, or, what is worse,
A mean device to save his lordship's purse.
Many a man who'd almost skin a flint,
Will spare a guinea to appear in print;
And he who first made public the long roll
Of patrons' names, be sure was not a fool.
Why hide the candle 'neath a bushel's shade?
Thus pride and charity each other aid:
Good springs from evil; and a noxious root
Yields, in the end, a good and wholesome fruit.
A list of names preceded by a lord's.
Oh, my dear Bishop, surely you intend
To laugh to scorn some charitable friend!
What lurking pride beneath a vain pretence;
What needless insult this to common sense;
My lord, kind soul, presides at weekly board;
Amazing condescension in a Lord!
So deem the vulgar; but he takes good care,
In patronage, to have the lion's share;
Contrives to find a matron who will deign
O'er fallen Magdalens to blandly reign.
42
Clear up some mystery little understood.
This, aye, and more than this; yet you pretend
A lord is charity's most earnest friend;
Cant, cant, my lord, pure cant, or, what is worse,
A mean device to save his lordship's purse.
Many a man who'd almost skin a flint,
Will spare a guinea to appear in print;
And he who first made public the long roll
Of patrons' names, be sure was not a fool.
Why hide the candle 'neath a bushel's shade?
Thus pride and charity each other aid:
Good springs from evil; and a noxious root
Yields, in the end, a good and wholesome fruit.
I know no piece of trickery which surpasses
The sops you've thrown out to ‘the dangerous classes’;
You've kept the grain, and charitably sent
The chaff to those for whom the whole was meant.
Your emigration schemes might well be christened,
‘A plan by which the poor rates may be lessened.’
The sops you've thrown out to ‘the dangerous classes’;
You've kept the grain, and charitably sent
The chaff to those for whom the whole was meant.
Your emigration schemes might well be christened,
‘A plan by which the poor rates may be lessened.’
Your ‘Scripture readers’ and your ‘ragged schools’
Hoodwink the eyes of surface-scanning fools,
But not the victims of your pious cares.
At their right price they rate your paltry wares;
Dost think that ‘Scripture readers’ will suffice
To banish from its haunts deep-seated vice?
Sickness and sin, in one thing, are alike;
The leech's remedy must boldly strike
The root of all the evil; this once known,
Vice, like disease, perchance, may be o'erthrown.
Deem you the poor will waste respect or thanks
On some smug ‘mister’ raised from their own ranks,
Or bear the intrusion of a lynx-eyed spy,
Cloaked in the garb of hireling piety?
Never! though on his glib and oily tongue
A rector's, nay a bishop's accents, hung.
Useless with them is this well-meant deceit;
The ‘priest’ they'll honour, but they'll mob the cheat.
And though disease and ghastly fever lie
Straight in the channel of his ministry,
The priest who wishes to reclaim the poor
Must hold his path, though Death were at the door.
Hoodwink the eyes of surface-scanning fools,
But not the victims of your pious cares.
At their right price they rate your paltry wares;
Dost think that ‘Scripture readers’ will suffice
To banish from its haunts deep-seated vice?
Sickness and sin, in one thing, are alike;
The leech's remedy must boldly strike
43
Vice, like disease, perchance, may be o'erthrown.
Deem you the poor will waste respect or thanks
On some smug ‘mister’ raised from their own ranks,
Or bear the intrusion of a lynx-eyed spy,
Cloaked in the garb of hireling piety?
Never! though on his glib and oily tongue
A rector's, nay a bishop's accents, hung.
Useless with them is this well-meant deceit;
The ‘priest’ they'll honour, but they'll mob the cheat.
And though disease and ghastly fever lie
Straight in the channel of his ministry,
The priest who wishes to reclaim the poor
Must hold his path, though Death were at the door.
Upon my word, my lord, on emigration
Your eloquence commands my admiration.
Truly the poor man's prospect is but small,
Bounded all ways by some huge ‘union’ wall;
And doubtless he is wise to cross the sea,
If, by so doing, he finds a remedy
'Gainst Poverty's hard grasp, or what is worse,
The fears attendant on an empty purse.
But recollect that all this pith and sinew
Is so much loss of the best stuff that's in you;
And I suspect the day is not far distant
When England's attitude must be resistent.
Britain will yet with tears of shame deplore
Her rich so rich, her poor so very poor!
When by some spurious Attila o'errun,
She learns the value of each sturdy son;
In vain will she regret the hardy race
Who the lone terrors of the desert face,
Sooner than stoop to share the paltry dole,
Which feeds the body while it starves the soul.
England is viewed abroad with jaundiced eyes,
And little loved in her own colonies.
Your eloquence commands my admiration.
Truly the poor man's prospect is but small,
Bounded all ways by some huge ‘union’ wall;
And doubtless he is wise to cross the sea,
If, by so doing, he finds a remedy
'Gainst Poverty's hard grasp, or what is worse,
The fears attendant on an empty purse.
But recollect that all this pith and sinew
Is so much loss of the best stuff that's in you;
And I suspect the day is not far distant
When England's attitude must be resistent.
Britain will yet with tears of shame deplore
Her rich so rich, her poor so very poor!
44
She learns the value of each sturdy son;
In vain will she regret the hardy race
Who the lone terrors of the desert face,
Sooner than stoop to share the paltry dole,
Which feeds the body while it starves the soul.
England is viewed abroad with jaundiced eyes,
And little loved in her own colonies.
What peers with science have to do, I own,
In all humility, is to me unknown.
True Worcester's marquis gave the world a scheme,
Since brought to bear by others, upon steam.
But the exception only serves to show
That science is considered somewhat low.
Sculpture and painting will not wholly die,
E'en if neglected by nobility;
Some ‘cunning Isaac,’ doubtless, will be found
Who, scouting all ideas of classic ground,
Will add to our collection, when he hears
How well a noble sold his pilfered wares;
And, far from any fear of Painting's wane,
To me this fact is tolerably plain;
Though the old masters bear away the prize,
And are, by judges, lauded to the skies,
The modern men may hope to have their turn
When future ages shall their merits learn.
In all humility, is to me unknown.
True Worcester's marquis gave the world a scheme,
Since brought to bear by others, upon steam.
But the exception only serves to show
That science is considered somewhat low.
Sculpture and painting will not wholly die,
E'en if neglected by nobility;
Some ‘cunning Isaac,’ doubtless, will be found
Who, scouting all ideas of classic ground,
Will add to our collection, when he hears
How well a noble sold his pilfered wares;
And, far from any fear of Painting's wane,
To me this fact is tolerably plain;
Though the old masters bear away the prize,
And are, by judges, lauded to the skies,
The modern men may hope to have their turn
When future ages shall their merits learn.
Music's decline your lordship seems to dread;
Music in England is already dead,
Dead of starvation, and her place supplied
With music by our neighbours duly tried;
Then, with its artistes, opera, ballet, all,
Sent secondhand to charm our capital.
Music in England is already dead,
45
With music by our neighbours duly tried;
Then, with its artistes, opera, ballet, all,
Sent secondhand to charm our capital.
The ancestral hall, at which your lordship glances,
Is surely gleaned from some old world romances:
A dream of condescension well enough
For churchmen's arguments, but wretched stuff
In eyes of worldlings. Doubtless, now and then,
A lord does deign to herd with meaner men;
Nay, e'en her ladyship can condescend
To drop her dignity and play the friend.
But when such great humility you find,
You may be sure that something lurks behind:
Perhaps a new election is at hand—
At such times peers are wonderfully bland,—
And my lord owes it to his name and station
To put his second son in nomination.
The family borough is, of course, the heir's,
To start in opposition no one dares;
And, if the younger can achieve the county,
He may hope something from the Premier's bounty.
The ‘commons house’ sounds odd upon the ears
Crammed, as we know it is, with sucking peers.
Is surely gleaned from some old world romances:
A dream of condescension well enough
For churchmen's arguments, but wretched stuff
In eyes of worldlings. Doubtless, now and then,
A lord does deign to herd with meaner men;
Nay, e'en her ladyship can condescend
To drop her dignity and play the friend.
But when such great humility you find,
You may be sure that something lurks behind:
Perhaps a new election is at hand—
At such times peers are wonderfully bland,—
And my lord owes it to his name and station
To put his second son in nomination.
The family borough is, of course, the heir's,
To start in opposition no one dares;
And, if the younger can achieve the county,
He may hope something from the Premier's bounty.
The ‘commons house’ sounds odd upon the ears
Crammed, as we know it is, with sucking peers.
Who calls peers proud? Do they not always try
To enlist the rich untitled, who might vie
With them successfully? Are they not ever ready
To receive an heiress, or bestow ‘my lady’?
A sort of moral whirlpool is the peerage,
A rich craft near it must beware her steerage;
At first, half drunk, she reels in outer eddies;
But, if well freighted, gradually steadies,
Narrows her circle—near and nearer draws,
And falls at length into the monster's jaws.
Who calls peers proud? Not I; for I have seen
These very nobles bow before a queen.
'Tis but their duty you will say; but I
Do not allude at all to Royalty.
I mean the Queen of Spades, whose charming manners
Drew England's chivalry beneath her banners;
And whose good man's successful speculation
Engaged the attention of the entire nation.
Now, my good lord, I beg you'll understand
Why I thus blame the magnates of the land.
Were all their follies kept in their own class,
Wise men might be content to let them pass;
But (here's the mischief) all the minor fools
Ape at a distance fashion's tinsel rules.
To enlist the rich untitled, who might vie
46
To receive an heiress, or bestow ‘my lady’?
A sort of moral whirlpool is the peerage,
A rich craft near it must beware her steerage;
At first, half drunk, she reels in outer eddies;
But, if well freighted, gradually steadies,
Narrows her circle—near and nearer draws,
And falls at length into the monster's jaws.
Who calls peers proud? Not I; for I have seen
These very nobles bow before a queen.
'Tis but their duty you will say; but I
Do not allude at all to Royalty.
I mean the Queen of Spades, whose charming manners
Drew England's chivalry beneath her banners;
And whose good man's successful speculation
Engaged the attention of the entire nation.
Now, my good lord, I beg you'll understand
Why I thus blame the magnates of the land.
Were all their follies kept in their own class,
Wise men might be content to let them pass;
But (here's the mischief) all the minor fools
Ape at a distance fashion's tinsel rules.
But shall the vices of the baser brood,
Scathless, escape the impartial censor's rod?
Amongst the class commercial we shall find
Those faults which most proclaim a want of mind.
Pride, avarice, and meanness are the sins
Hugged to their hearts, by London's citizens.
Had I the power, their statue of the duke
No longer should be clothed in city smoke;
But, on its site, a figure should appear
Much better suited to the atmosphere.
A civic group, or allegory witty;
Or better still, ‘the Genius of the City,
Some well known Plutus, holding up on high
A giant purse, which would attract each eye.
Kneeling before him, bowed with awe and fear,
A group of Mammon's worshippers appear.
Behind him, scowling hideously, might stand
Hatred and venomed Malice, hand in hand:
Whilst Envy, with her eyes fixed on the purse,
In act to spring, should seem to mouth a curse.
Dead at his feet a fleshless beggar might,
By contrast, aid its towering opposite.
A group like this, methinks, would really be
Well worthy citizens' idolatry.
Their god, raised high, its worshippers might see;
To whom, in passing, they might bow the knee;
If lower still their eyes they chanced to turn,
Their deity's attendants they would learn:
Thus, on their mood dependent, bull and bear
Might read a sermon, or repeat a prayer.
This should be placed where ‘men of business’ pass,
The base of granite, and the figure brass.
Scathless, escape the impartial censor's rod?
Amongst the class commercial we shall find
Those faults which most proclaim a want of mind.
47
Hugged to their hearts, by London's citizens.
Had I the power, their statue of the duke
No longer should be clothed in city smoke;
But, on its site, a figure should appear
Much better suited to the atmosphere.
A civic group, or allegory witty;
Or better still, ‘the Genius of the City,
Some well known Plutus, holding up on high
A giant purse, which would attract each eye.
Kneeling before him, bowed with awe and fear,
A group of Mammon's worshippers appear.
Behind him, scowling hideously, might stand
Hatred and venomed Malice, hand in hand:
Whilst Envy, with her eyes fixed on the purse,
In act to spring, should seem to mouth a curse.
Dead at his feet a fleshless beggar might,
By contrast, aid its towering opposite.
A group like this, methinks, would really be
Well worthy citizens' idolatry.
Their god, raised high, its worshippers might see;
To whom, in passing, they might bow the knee;
If lower still their eyes they chanced to turn,
Their deity's attendants they would learn:
Thus, on their mood dependent, bull and bear
Might read a sermon, or repeat a prayer.
This should be placed where ‘men of business’ pass,
The base of granite, and the figure brass.
48
The vices of the men of low estate
Ought to be charged upon the rich and great.
Virtue will scarcely flourish in the ‘den’
Which forms the nightly refuge of poor men.
Outward associations, more or less,
Upon the mind a certain stamp impress.
A plant, deprived of wholesome light and air,
Droops to its mother earth in mute despair;
No modest bud bursts forth in beauty bright,
No dazzling flower charms the sense of sight;
Life struggles feebly on, till winter's breath
Ends its long agony by welcome death.
And what is virtue but a goodly plant,
Which cannot thrive in misery and want?
It must be planted in a generous earth;
Needs care and culture from its very birth;
As it grows up, it must be trained with care;
Or all precautions unavailing are:
The kindly dew, descending from above,
Moistening its root—the gentle ray of love,
Effulgent beaming, usher into day
A flower that knows no touch of time's decay.
Cowards! and hypocrites! how self-love prevailed
When ghastly pestilence your ranks assailed!
What schemes were started to relieve the poor!
Then those were generous who ne'er gave before.
‘You breed diseases,’ the physician cried,
‘While air and light are to the poor denied;’
‘Water!’ Hygeia shrieks, but at the cry
Up springs the Hydra of monopoly.
‘Close your foul Golgothas,’ shouts common sense;
‘Our fees!’ exclaim the clergy in defence.
Thus year succeeds to year, meanwhile the poor
Are left—exactly where they were before.
Oh, England! land of freedom and the free!
When will you understand true charity?
When will you learn that her own children are
The fittest objects of a country's care?”
Ought to be charged upon the rich and great.
Virtue will scarcely flourish in the ‘den’
Which forms the nightly refuge of poor men.
Outward associations, more or less,
Upon the mind a certain stamp impress.
A plant, deprived of wholesome light and air,
Droops to its mother earth in mute despair;
No modest bud bursts forth in beauty bright,
No dazzling flower charms the sense of sight;
Life struggles feebly on, till winter's breath
Ends its long agony by welcome death.
And what is virtue but a goodly plant,
Which cannot thrive in misery and want?
It must be planted in a generous earth;
Needs care and culture from its very birth;
As it grows up, it must be trained with care;
Or all precautions unavailing are:
The kindly dew, descending from above,
Moistening its root—the gentle ray of love,
Effulgent beaming, usher into day
A flower that knows no touch of time's decay.
Cowards! and hypocrites! how self-love prevailed
When ghastly pestilence your ranks assailed!
What schemes were started to relieve the poor!
Then those were generous who ne'er gave before.
‘You breed diseases,’ the physician cried,
‘While air and light are to the poor denied;’
49
Up springs the Hydra of monopoly.
‘Close your foul Golgothas,’ shouts common sense;
‘Our fees!’ exclaim the clergy in defence.
Thus year succeeds to year, meanwhile the poor
Are left—exactly where they were before.
Oh, England! land of freedom and the free!
When will you understand true charity?
When will you learn that her own children are
The fittest objects of a country's care?”
THE SPIRIT OF LAW.
“Enough! enough!” exclaimed an angry voice,“The court has nothing left it but the choice
Between two courses; either to adjourn,
Or to the subject of debate return.
Counsel have touched on all things 'neath the sun;
The sole exception being the very one
On which our judgment's prayed. This much is clear:
That evidence is sadly wanting here.
Plaintiff declares, that could this mortal see
The consequences of his villainy,
(Presumptive villainy, for this may prove
A very proper legal sort of love),
He would persist in his unrighteous plot.
50
An issue must be tried before the court
Whose practice reaches actions of the sort:
The ‘Spirits of the Night’ must try the case;
They have the power, before his eyes, to place
A dream, in colours so distinct and bright,
That long years seem to centre in a night.
Let him be shown the ruin that awaits
The hapless victim of seduction's baits.
If, warned by this, he turn to virtue's side,
Deaf to the promptings both of lust and pride,
The sacred volume must be held to be
A mortal soul's securest panoply.
Leave we the trial to Night's potent spirits;
The case must rest on its intrinsic merits.”
This sentence uttered, by one impulse fired,
Behind his charge each guardian sprite retired.
Darkness again prevailed for some short space
Till (their bright eyes illumining the place),
Flitting around the youth, now here, now there.
Two spirits of another kind appear.
'Twere past the limner's subtle art, I ween,
To represent these actors in the scene;
Shape, outline, feature, change before the eye
Has time to subject them to scrutiny;
51
Its mirrored picture, all has changed again.
Yet each appears to exercise his art
In his own place: the one upon the heart,
Makes, with transparent finger, certain signs,
The other to the head his care confines.
Now heart, now head, is victor in the strife:
His dream was an epitome of life.
| Euphrenia or the Test of Love | |