Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature By Charles Mackay |
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| I. | No. I.—SELF-ASSERTION. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
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 | Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature |  |
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.
| Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature | |