Reverberations :: :: University of Virginia Library

The good tidings of the Agricultural Labour movement reached me while wintering on the Riviera in 1871-72. That movement appeared to me to be characterised by intelligence and moderation. Though cordially sympathising with all measures that have for their object the elevation of the labouring classes, I cannot but deplore that rash and fiery words have sometimes been uttered by their advocates, or forget that the conduct of the men living on the wages of labour, in town or country, is not always prudent or unselfish. Professor Fawcett calls attention to the slight increase which has occurred in the rate of wages in Great Britain contem-poraneously to the large additions recently made to our national wealth; and it is difficult to resist the conviction that, without confiscating the property of the rich, organic reforms might be devised which should have for their result an equitable distribution of the social advantages which the improvements of civilisation accumulate in the nation. Professor Cairnes, though at one with the Socialists on the point of raising the working man from the position of a mere labourer, finds himself wholly unable to accept the means which Socialism proposes for effecting the required elevation, and is of opinion that Co-operation constitutes the one and only solution of our present problem. Mr Fawcett entertains a similar opinion, as did also the late Mr Mill. The contribution towards a common fund to be employed as capital, which is the essence of this system, Professor Cairnes declares must be derived from the savings of the working men themselves, and that they have a margin of increase he considers proved by the Excise returns. As to the British Plutocracy, I agree with Mr Goldwin Smith that it is not deserving of any particular respect. With him, too, I believe that, among the better part of the race, property is being gradually modified by duty; and with him I venture to surmise that before Humanity reaches its distant goal, property and duty will be merged in affection.

A far-off voice from England comes,
O'er lands late red with strife,
While round me gathering glows and hums
This bright Italian life.

The voice of thousand sons of toil
From Western glade and glen,
Or where the climbing hop-wreaths coil,
Near homes of Eastern men.

Across the woodlands, o'er the fields,
Among the apple-bowers,
Or where the bean her perfume yields,
Or where the wheat-ear flowers.

From Shakespeare's regal country comes
The innumerous voice to me,
No hateful sound of battle-drums,
To shake my olive-tree:

167

The olive-tree, with grey-green bloom,
Where now I sit and write,
While freshening waters flash and boom
Beneath this vine-clad height.

No warlike sound of drum or fife
Disturbs my dreaming ear,
Or mars this sweet Italian life
With notes of hate and fear.

But as the sighs of orange-flower
On odorous winds are borne,
And as I hear at noon's bright hour
The approaching railway-horn:

And tread as when, in olden days,
In visions of my own,
I trod in more majestic ways
Than yet our star has known:

I hear that voice, which still to me
Recalls a dream of mine,
That whispers men shall brothers be,
And man grow half divine.

From that great Isle where Milton sang,
The notes that greet me rise,
Heard through the echoing battle-clang
Of French and German skies,

168

In this fair land, where one late dead
Still seems in death to speak,
To beckon from each mountain head,
To call from every peak:

The immortal exile, that once made
Our English land his home,
The patriot whose majestic shade
Haunts the Eternal Rome:

The new Prometheus, whose strange fire,
In swift electric strife,
Flashed through the land of his desire,
And called the dead to life:

And roused the Mother of Mankind
From her long-centuried sleep,
Gave glorious vision to the blind,
And smiles to men that weep.

Ay! to the dead Mazzini's land,
And by the wandering wave,
That, now by pitying breezes fanned,
Was once sweet Shelley's grave.

A voice from my own English clime,
A dream that some will praise,
Blends with these memories sublime
Of dear departed days.

169

For not the sound of fleeting breath
In that glad pastoral cheer
Which wakens field, and holt, and heath,
Is all the sound I hear.

I hear a low harmonious voice,
As of the choiring spheres,
And in the prophet-tones rejoice
Which tell of statelier years;

When starry Freedom round her waist
Shall clasp the golden chain
Of Order, that, but half embraced,
Will loosen it again;

When Christ-like Wealth shall follow Christ,
And Man to men shall be
Like that Great Presence which sufficed
By blue Tiberias-Sea.

Such voice I hear, or seem to hear,
Remote from fields of strife,
While round me murmurs, far and near,
This bright Italian life.