Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature By Charles Mackay |
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| HEART-SORE IN BABYLON. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
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 | Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature |  |
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HEART-SORE IN BABYLON.
No. I.—SELF-ASSERTION.
Why should I tell the world my sorrow?
Why should I open my heart to them—
To fools and knaves, to tyrants and slaves,
Who'd prate, and giggle, and condemn?
Why should I open my heart to them—
To fools and knaves, to tyrants and slaves,
Who'd prate, and giggle, and condemn?
My sorrow 's mine, and I will treasure it,
Silent and secret, and all alone;
None but myself shall dare to measure it,
Or ask me wherefore I weep or moan.
Silent and secret, and all alone;
None but myself shall dare to measure it,
Or ask me wherefore I weep or moan.
And yet my sorrow shall find expression,
For eyes it hath, deep, deep, and clear,
That can see far hidden the things forbidden,
Things that are, though they never appear.
For eyes it hath, deep, deep, and clear,
That can see far hidden the things forbidden,
Things that are, though they never appear.
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A voice it hath, once soft and woman-like,
Now fitful, turbulent, and strong,
Yet musical, God knows, and human-like,
And falling, failing, dying in song.
Now fitful, turbulent, and strong,
Yet musical, God knows, and human-like,
And falling, failing, dying in song.
And we shall speak—I and my sorrow—
All that we think, all that we know,
All that we see in this Babel burrow,
Where the little emmets come and go.
All that we think, all that we know,
All that we see in this Babel burrow,
Where the little emmets come and go.
We shall be in them, yet not among them—
We shall be merry, or we shall sigh;
And the crowd shall laugh at some gibe we've flung them,
Nor dream of our hidden agony.
We shall be merry, or we shall sigh;
And the crowd shall laugh at some gibe we've flung them,
Nor dream of our hidden agony.
The soldier, fighting his country's battles,
With bosom bare to a hundred guns,
Tells not to all that he 's a coward
When he thinks of his home and his little ones.
With bosom bare to a hundred guns,
Tells not to all that he 's a coward
When he thinks of his home and his little ones.
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The clown in the ring, who grins and tumbles
Till the joyous crowd all shout and start,
May be sick and fainting beneath his painting,
And wring his jests from a tortured heart.
Till the joyous crowd all shout and start,
May be sick and fainting beneath his painting,
And wring his jests from a tortured heart.
And if I choose to don the motley—
Motley shall be the garb I'll wear;
And if to-morrow I go in sackcloth,
It may be velvet to my despair.
Motley shall be the garb I'll wear;
And if to-morrow I go in sackcloth,
It may be velvet to my despair.
If I consent to dwell with beggars,
Or sit with forlornest courtesan,
With pedlars talk, with vagabonds walk,
I have a method, and know my plan.
Or sit with forlornest courtesan,
With pedlars talk, with vagabonds walk,
I have a method, and know my plan.
If I drink with thieves, I can dine with nobles;
At twelve o' th' clock to my lady's ball;
And at three, if so it please my fancy,
To the cold highway and the nook i' the wall.
At twelve o' th' clock to my lady's ball;
And at three, if so it please my fancy,
To the cold highway and the nook i' the wall.
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On Sunday to church, or high cathedral,
Or the chilly chapel—for all are mine;
Or a tramp far out to the field and forest,
Where the winds make music more divine.
Or the chilly chapel—for all are mine;
Or a tramp far out to the field and forest,
Where the winds make music more divine.
And all shall minister to my sorrow,
Perhaps to my scorn and my disdain;
Perhaps to the soothing of my spirit,
And the ease of a hot and bitter pain.
Perhaps to my scorn and my disdain;
Perhaps to the soothing of my spirit,
And the ease of a hot and bitter pain.
No more of self! though perhaps “my lady”
May ask if Love were all to blame;
And “my lord,”;good man! may think 'tis money,
Or nipped ambition—or blighted fame.
May ask if Love were all to blame;
And “my lord,”;good man! may think 'tis money,
Or nipped ambition—or blighted fame.
And am I youthful, or stony old?
Older than yesterday! Young as to-day!
With brown locks streaming over a forehead
That has throbbed enough to turn them gray;
And a dream in my spirit for ever and ever—
A dream of a glory passed away.
Older than yesterday! Young as to-day!
With brown locks streaming over a forehead
That has throbbed enough to turn them gray;
And a dream in my spirit for ever and ever—
A dream of a glory passed away.
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No. II.—THE RIGHT TO DISDAIN.
How shall I gain
The right to disdain?
The right to look down
With a saint-like frown
Upon sorrow and sin?
How shall I win
The right to scorn
My brother forlorn,
Or pass him by
With reproving eye,
As much as to say,
“Get out of the way,
And taint me not
With the poison spot
That comes from thy heart, thy face, thy brow,
To me, much holier than thou?”
The right to disdain?
The right to look down
With a saint-like frown
Upon sorrow and sin?
How shall I win
The right to scorn
My brother forlorn,
Or pass him by
With reproving eye,
As much as to say,
“Get out of the way,
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With the poison spot
That comes from thy heart, thy face, thy brow,
To me, much holier than thou?”
Were I far more bright
Than the heavenly light,
More pure than the snow
Where the glaciers grow,
And as undefiled as a little child
Dead and forgiven
And gone to heaven,
I should not gain
The right to disdain,
Or to stand apart
From my brother's heart,
Or turn my face
From a sinner's place,
Or breathe one word of hate or scorn
To the meanest wretch that ever was born.
Than the heavenly light,
More pure than the snow
Where the glaciers grow,
And as undefiled as a little child
Dead and forgiven
And gone to heaven,
I should not gain
The right to disdain,
Or to stand apart
From my brother's heart,
Or turn my face
From a sinner's place,
Or breathe one word of hate or scorn
To the meanest wretch that ever was born.
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No. III.—A PRAYER FOR REST.
Oh, I long to be at restFrom the struggle and the quest,
From the knavery and lies,
That beset me in disguise;
From the fever and the moil,
And the still recurring toil;
From the sorrow and regret,
From the agony and fret,
From the thirst and hunger pain,
That I feel, though I disdain;
From the mean and petty cares
Ever springing unawares,
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When my spirit is most brave.
Oh, I long to lay me down
In the green earth's bosom brown;
And to let the daisies grow
Fresh above me and my woe;
For I sicken at the guilt
Of the blood that 's daily spilt.
I am hopeless of my kind,
So degraded and so blind;
I am hopeless of the good
That's so little understood;
And I'm hopeless of the best,
And its nugatory quest;
Oh, I'm weary, very weary,
And I long to be at rest!
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No. IV.—LOSSES.
I lost a friend, but was consoled;
The world had other friends for me;
His friendship had a base of gold;
And when that vanished, so did he.
The world had other friends for me;
His friendship had a base of gold;
And when that vanished, so did he.
I lost a love; and though I sighed
To know myself most desolate,
I asked a question of my pride,
And with the answer conquered Fate.
To know myself most desolate,
I asked a question of my pride,
And with the answer conquered Fate.
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No. V.—NEVER ALONE.
Alone? alone? I'm never alone!
Ten thousand spirits walk with me,
Over the street and its flinty stone,
Over the sands of the rolling sea,
Through the quiet woodland, blithe with birds,
And the purple moor where the plover cries;
Through meadows speck'd with flocks and herds,
By lakes that mirror the evening skies.
High on the mountain's icy crest,
And down, down 'mid the dust below,
Companions come at my soul's behest,
And hover about me where'er I go.
Ten thousand spirits walk with me,
Over the street and its flinty stone,
Over the sands of the rolling sea,
Through the quiet woodland, blithe with birds,
And the purple moor where the plover cries;
Through meadows speck'd with flocks and herds,
By lakes that mirror the evening skies.
High on the mountain's icy crest,
And down, down 'mid the dust below,
Companions come at my soul's behest,
And hover about me where'er I go.
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'Tis only in the midst of men,
Their hatreds, meannesses, and spites,
Their sneering scorn, their jests forlorn,
Their base, unmannerly delights,
That I feel the weight of Solitude,
And pine for the moorlands bleak and wild,
For the freshening balms of the pathless wood,
Or the prattle of a little child;—
I long to fly to the ends of the Earth,
Into communion of mine own,
Anywhere out of their dreary mirth,—
Alone—alone—but never alone!
Their hatreds, meannesses, and spites,
Their sneering scorn, their jests forlorn,
Their base, unmannerly delights,
That I feel the weight of Solitude,
And pine for the moorlands bleak and wild,
For the freshening balms of the pathless wood,
Or the prattle of a little child;—
I long to fly to the ends of the Earth,
Into communion of mine own,
Anywhere out of their dreary mirth,—
Alone—alone—but never alone!
134
No. VI.—A NAME ON A TREE.
I carved my name on a beech-tree bole—
Fool was I!
Lithe of limb and merry of soul,
That saw no cloud on my life's bright sky,
Five-and-twenty years ago,
When my heart was pure as the drifted snow,
And I gave it away,
In the light of day,
To a fair young maid, ah! woe is me!
Under the leaves of this beechen tree.
Fool was I!
Lithe of limb and merry of soul,
That saw no cloud on my life's bright sky,
Five-and-twenty years ago,
When my heart was pure as the drifted snow,
And I gave it away,
In the light of day,
To a fair young maid, ah! woe is me!
Under the leaves of this beechen tree.
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And the five-and-twenty years have passed—
Sad am I!
Love was fated not to last,
And the dark clouds gathered upon the sky.
And I am old;—my locks are thin,
My life hath nothing more to win;
But the foolish name
Stands here, the same!
While all is changed,—Life, Hope, and Truth!
Oh, mocking Tree! oh, wasted Youth!
Sad am I!
Love was fated not to last,
And the dark clouds gathered upon the sky.
And I am old;—my locks are thin,
My life hath nothing more to win;
But the foolish name
Stands here, the same!
While all is changed,—Life, Hope, and Truth!
Oh, mocking Tree! oh, wasted Youth!
136
No. VII.—CONSOLATION.
Thou'rt down, low down, poor heart—
At bottom of the hill;
The prudent friends who knew thee
When Fortune seemed to woo thee,
Are true to Fortune still.
So deeply art thou fallen,
Who once didst soar so high,
That beggars of thy bounty
Look proud, and pass thee by;
And former boon companions
Whisper thy name and frown—
“The ways of Heaven are righteous,
So—kick him—he is down!”
At bottom of the hill;
The prudent friends who knew thee
When Fortune seemed to woo thee,
Are true to Fortune still.
So deeply art thou fallen,
Who once didst soar so high,
That beggars of thy bounty
Look proud, and pass thee by;
And former boon companions
Whisper thy name and frown—
“The ways of Heaven are righteous,
So—kick him—he is down!”
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And yet though down, poor heart,
This consolation's thine—
Thy Conscience still befriends thee,
And kindly message sends thee,
To bear, and not repine.
The sun that lights the ocean,
Shines also on the mire;
The mole-hill and the mountain
Alike receive its fire.
The humblest dewy daisy
That blossoms on the sod,
May point like the pine-tree skyward,
And drink the light of God.
This consolation's thine—
Thy Conscience still befriends thee,
And kindly message sends thee,
To bear, and not repine.
The sun that lights the ocean,
Shines also on the mire;
The mole-hill and the mountain
Alike receive its fire.
The humblest dewy daisy
That blossoms on the sod,
May point like the pine-tree skyward,
And drink the light of God.
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No. VIII.—THE LOST JEWEL.
Long ago, ah, long ago!I lost a jewel of greater worth
Than the loveliest lady of the Earth
Could hang on her bosom as white as snow,—
Or any Emperor flushed with wine
Could place on a maiden's finger fine,
And say, “Beloved, be thou mine!”
Long ago, ah, long ago!
I lost it wandering to and fro,—
Fairer and purer, brighter far
Than the Morn or Evening Star.
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To clasp it—hold it—and retain,
I'd be greater than the king,
Richer than the bloomy spring.
And where I lost it well I know;—
Skill cannot trace it,
Or wealth replace it,
Or anything else this world can show,—
This jewel so bright,
My heart's delight,
Lost in another's heart long ago,—
My richer than Ind,
My peace of mind,
Lost for ever! ah, long ago!
140
No. IX.—THE FAIR SERPENT.
I look o'er the midnight pavement,
“And the pricking of my thumbs”
Tells me, before I see it,
That something wicked comes.
It winds, it trails, it hisses,
It flashes in the light,
And gleams with its many colours
Through the darkness of the night.
A serpent, woman-headed,
With loose and floating hair.
Beware, O fool! how you touch it—
Beware for your soul! Beware!
“And the pricking of my thumbs”
Tells me, before I see it,
That something wicked comes.
It winds, it trails, it hisses,
It flashes in the light,
And gleams with its many colours
Through the darkness of the night.
A serpent, woman-headed,
With loose and floating hair.
Beware, O fool! how you touch it—
Beware for your soul! Beware!
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'Tis beautiful to look at
As it rustles through the street,
But its eyes, though bright as sunshine,
Have the glow of hell's own heat;
And worse than the deadly upas
Are the odours of its breath:
Its whispered words are poison,
Its lightest touch is death—
Death to the heart's affection,
Robbery—blight—despair.
Pass on, O fool! and scorn it,
And beware for your soul, beware!
As it rustles through the street,
But its eyes, though bright as sunshine,
Have the glow of hell's own heat;
And worse than the deadly upas
Are the odours of its breath:
Its whispered words are poison,
Its lightest touch is death—
Death to the heart's affection,
Robbery—blight—despair.
Pass on, O fool! and scorn it,
And beware for your soul, beware!
Many a noble bosom
Has that scaly serpent stung
With the darting of its eye-light,
And the witchery of its tongue;
And to feed it and amuse it,
And pamper its greedy maw,
Many a goodly heirship
Has gone like the ice in thaw—
Fortune and wide dominion
Have melted into air.
Pass on, O fool! nor touch it,
And beware for your soul, beware!
Has that scaly serpent stung
With the darting of its eye-light,
And the witchery of its tongue;
And to feed it and amuse it,
And pamper its greedy maw,
Many a goodly heirship
Has gone like the ice in thaw—
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Have melted into air.
Pass on, O fool! nor touch it,
And beware for your soul, beware!
'T will dance, and frisk, and gambol
As long as you pipe and pay,
But as soon as your heart grows weary
'T will turn on you and slay.
'T will murmur soft sweet music,
To draw you to its mesh,
And coil about you fondly,
To feed upon your flesh.
Beware of this flaunting Gorgon,
With the snakes in her wavy hair!
Beware, O fool! how you touch her—
Beware for your soul, beware!
As long as you pipe and pay,
But as soon as your heart grows weary
'T will turn on you and slay.
'T will murmur soft sweet music,
To draw you to its mesh,
And coil about you fondly,
To feed upon your flesh.
Beware of this flaunting Gorgon,
With the snakes in her wavy hair!
Beware, O fool! how you touch her—
Beware for your soul, beware!
143
No. X.—THE DIRTY LITTLE SNOB.
“There's nothing right but what I think,
There's nothing good but meat and drink,
There's nothing to compare with ‘chink,’”
Said the dirty little snob.
“And work's the greatest ‘bore’I know,
And learning's dull, and virtue ‘slow,’
So, fast shall be the road I'll go!”
Said the dirty little snob:
Devoid of sense,
An ass intense,
And dirty little Snob.
There's nothing good but meat and drink,
There's nothing to compare with ‘chink,’”
Said the dirty little snob.
“And work's the greatest ‘bore’I know,
And learning's dull, and virtue ‘slow,’
So, fast shall be the road I'll go!”
Said the dirty little snob:
Devoid of sense,
An ass intense,
And dirty little Snob.
“I'd like to know the use of friends,
Unless they serve one's pleasant ends;
The best is he who gives or lends,”
Said the dirty little snob.
“Your learned men are heavy ‘swells,’
Your moral youths tremendous ‘sells,’
And slang's the only speech that ‘tells,’”
Said the dirty little snob:
The simpering slave,
The brainless knave,
And dirty little Snob.
Unless they serve one's pleasant ends;
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Said the dirty little snob.
“Your learned men are heavy ‘swells,’
Your moral youths tremendous ‘sells,’
And slang's the only speech that ‘tells,’”
Said the dirty little snob:
The simpering slave,
The brainless knave,
And dirty little Snob.
“However chaste and pure she be,
And bright and beautiful to see,
No woman can say ‘No’to me,”
Said the dirty little snob.
Is there no husband, son, or sire,
To drag this creature through the mire,
And kick it till his toe shall tire,—
The dirty little snob?—
The foul and crass
Conceited ass—
And odious little Snob?
And bright and beautiful to see,
No woman can say ‘No’to me,”
Said the dirty little snob.
Is there no husband, son, or sire,
To drag this creature through the mire,
And kick it till his toe shall tire,—
The dirty little snob?—
The foul and crass
Conceited ass—
And odious little Snob?
145
No. XI.—THE WORN-OUT PEN.
Old stump, outworn
By toil severe,
Frail and forlorn,
Why linger here?
Thy fight is fought,
Thy victory's won,
Thy work is wrought,
Thy day is done;—
New days, old pen,
Have brought new men,
And thou must rot,
Abandoned, useless, and forgot.
By toil severe,
Frail and forlorn,
Why linger here?
Thy fight is fought,
Thy victory's won,
Thy work is wrought,
Thy day is done;—
New days, old pen,
Have brought new men,
And thou must rot,
Abandoned, useless, and forgot.
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In earlier time,
To mould an age,
Thy words sublime,
On freedom's page,
Made nations start
With patriot fire,
Or touched the heart
To pity's lyre.
That time is past,
And thou art cast
Unheeded down,
Trod by the footsteps of the town.
To mould an age,
Thy words sublime,
On freedom's page,
Made nations start
With patriot fire,
Or touched the heart
To pity's lyre.
That time is past,
And thou art cast
Unheeded down,
Trod by the footsteps of the town.
Men understand
A plough or wheel,
A draper's wand,
A sail or keel;
But pens are things
Which high and great
And popes and kings
Agree to hate;
And which the crowd,
Earth-born, earth-bowed,
Can scarcely know
For constant load of toil and woe.
A plough or wheel,
A draper's wand,
A sail or keel;
But pens are things
Which high and great
And popes and kings
Agree to hate;
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Earth-born, earth-bowed,
Can scarcely know
For constant load of toil and woe.
But yet, may be,
A century hence,
Men who can see
With keener sense,
May chance to dig
Thy relics cold;
And looking big,
May cry “Behold!
The pen of Might!
That loved the Right!”
This thy reward!—
Rot! poor old pen! Die! hapless bard!
A century hence,
Men who can see
With keener sense,
May chance to dig
Thy relics cold;
And looking big,
May cry “Behold!
The pen of Might!
That loved the Right!”
This thy reward!—
Rot! poor old pen! Die! hapless bard!
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No. XII.—THE SURE ESTATE.
What signify the care and pain
That I must yet endure,
The loss of Love—the Love in vain,
The crime of being poor?
That I must yet endure,
The loss of Love—the Love in vain,
The crime of being poor?
I've an estate of solid earth,
Nor broad nor very deep,
Where wild winds blow and daisies grow,
And moonlight shadows sleep.
Nor broad nor very deep,
Where wild winds blow and daisies grow,
And moonlight shadows sleep.
'Tis six feet long and two feet wide,
Shut out from sorrow's call.
It shall be mine some happy day—
Enough though it be small.
Shut out from sorrow's call.
It shall be mine some happy day—
Enough though it be small.
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Till trump of doom it shall be mine,
And make amends for all—
Lost health, lost heart, lost love, lost hope!
More than amends for all.
And make amends for all—
Lost health, lost heart, lost love, lost hope!
More than amends for all.
| Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature | |