The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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THE CORRESPONDENCIES OF NATURE WITH MAN. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
182
THE CORRESPONDENCIES OF NATURE WITH MAN.
The rose, the type of beauty, and the bay,
That shades the poet's brows: the cypress-wreath,
Sepulchral ornament of solemn Death:
The sweet Forgetmenot, which links To-day
With Yesterday, reminder on life's way:
And many more beside, which I want breath
And rhyme to tell, are emblems all beneath
The sun of Man, his life and his decay—
Hidden analogies there are beside
These obvious ones: and Nature, though she feel
No grief herself, doth flatter yet Man's pride
With show of sympathy, his griefs to heal.
In spring she greets him like a blooming bride,
And winter to his age makes mute appeal!
That shades the poet's brows: the cypress-wreath,
Sepulchral ornament of solemn Death:
The sweet Forgetmenot, which links To-day
With Yesterday, reminder on life's way:
And many more beside, which I want breath
And rhyme to tell, are emblems all beneath
The sun of Man, his life and his decay—
Hidden analogies there are beside
These obvious ones: and Nature, though she feel
No grief herself, doth flatter yet Man's pride
With show of sympathy, his griefs to heal.
In spring she greets him like a blooming bride,
And winter to his age makes mute appeal!
Echos she has for almost every tone
Of feeling, changes too for every mood:
And pulses in her heart, scarce understood,
Responsive truly yet unto our own;
Yearnings, in her mute fashion, and unknown
Presentiments: rejoicings over Good,
Sorrowings for Evil, with similitude
Of human life in thousand fashions shown.
And is all this by chance? or, rather, was
Not Nature made to hold to Man her glass,
To show him his true image, that his soul
Might love and sympathize with this vast Whole?
That its true meaning into him might pass,
And all be clear, the journey and the goal.
Of feeling, changes too for every mood:
And pulses in her heart, scarce understood,
Responsive truly yet unto our own;
Yearnings, in her mute fashion, and unknown
Presentiments: rejoicings over Good,
Sorrowings for Evil, with similitude
Of human life in thousand fashions shown.
And is all this by chance? or, rather, was
Not Nature made to hold to Man her glass,
To show him his true image, that his soul
Might love and sympathize with this vast Whole?
That its true meaning into him might pass,
And all be clear, the journey and the goal.
183
Ere steam was yet discovered, Man nor knew
Nor dreamt of half that Science had in store:
Yet Nature all those powers, and far more,
Contained, and still continues so to do;
And, day by day, she labours, with a view
To his real happiness, with gentle lore,
To draw his notice, further to explore,
As in a child's hand mothers put the clue!
She dropped the apple in a Newton's sight,
As 't were a plaything for her grown-up child,
At whose first essays (essays infinite
To Man) she, in her wisdom, only smiled!
And so she leads Man on, from height to height,
To nearer view of God, to fuller light!
Nor dreamt of half that Science had in store:
Yet Nature all those powers, and far more,
Contained, and still continues so to do;
And, day by day, she labours, with a view
To his real happiness, with gentle lore,
To draw his notice, further to explore,
As in a child's hand mothers put the clue!
She dropped the apple in a Newton's sight,
As 't were a plaything for her grown-up child,
At whose first essays (essays infinite
To Man) she, in her wisdom, only smiled!
And so she leads Man on, from height to height,
To nearer view of God, to fuller light!
And yet she with the least, least child will play,
And fill her lap with daisies for him still,
And sing him lullabies with bird and rill,
And, like a mother, never from him stray,
But still prepare fresh pleasures by the way,
And wisdom, lovingly, each step instill
Into his little heart, and school his will,
Until her wise instructions men gainsay.
All this she does, and how much more than this!
How gently doth she wean Man from the Wrong!
She sends the bird to sing him his sweet song,
The flower to blossom, the child's smile and kiss,
“Forgetmenots,” still as he goes along,
To teach him that his “Gold” is not Man's bliss!
And fill her lap with daisies for him still,
And sing him lullabies with bird and rill,
And, like a mother, never from him stray,
But still prepare fresh pleasures by the way,
And wisdom, lovingly, each step instill
Into his little heart, and school his will,
Until her wise instructions men gainsay.
All this she does, and how much more than this!
How gently doth she wean Man from the Wrong!
She sends the bird to sing him his sweet song,
The flower to blossom, the child's smile and kiss,
“Forgetmenots,” still as he goes along,
To teach him that his “Gold” is not Man's bliss!
184
O holy Nature, pardon, then, if I
In vain thy name have taken, when I call
These poor “attempts,” with right equivocal,
“Touches on thy great harp:” whose strings are, sky,
Earth, ocean, víbrating eternally:
And hearts unnumbered, making musical
Accord therewith, down to the least of all,
In the great concert of Humanity!
Pardon me, for I am but as a child,
That has ta'en up a flute by accident,
And with a passing note or two beguiled
His little hour—then laid the instrument
Aside, and, as its echos faded, smiled,
In wonder at his own experiment!
In vain thy name have taken, when I call
These poor “attempts,” with right equivocal,
“Touches on thy great harp:” whose strings are, sky,
Earth, ocean, víbrating eternally:
And hearts unnumbered, making musical
Accord therewith, down to the least of all,
In the great concert of Humanity!
Pardon me, for I am but as a child,
That has ta'en up a flute by accident,
And with a passing note or two beguiled
His little hour—then laid the instrument
Aside, and, as its echos faded, smiled,
In wonder at his own experiment!
I am, indeed, but as a little child,
Who, in the grass, has filled his lap brimfull,
With all the flowers he had time to pull—
And, ere yet to the wonder reconciled,
With which he on the daisy looked and smiled,
For the first time, by his so bountiful,
Great “Father,” who permitted him to cull
Those flowers, which his little hour beguiled,
Unto some other task is called away!
Alas! of all this lovely world how small
A part we know! yet e'en one summer's day,
With opening flower, and song of bird, and fall
Of shadowy eve, can fill the heart! and, pray,
If that be full, what wants it after all?
Who, in the grass, has filled his lap brimfull,
With all the flowers he had time to pull—
And, ere yet to the wonder reconciled,
With which he on the daisy looked and smiled,
For the first time, by his so bountiful,
Great “Father,” who permitted him to cull
Those flowers, which his little hour beguiled,
Unto some other task is called away!
Alas! of all this lovely world how small
A part we know! yet e'en one summer's day,
With opening flower, and song of bird, and fall
Of shadowy eve, can fill the heart! and, pray,
If that be full, what wants it after all?
185
The music of the days which are to come
Doth haunt me ever, and my footsteps move
In time unto it—paces of deep love
And faith unchangeable! I hear the hum
Of mighty workings, and cannot be dumb—
To the grand concert of the spheres above
Mankind moves on, vain omens to disprove:
While, overhead and in the vanward, some
Prophetic soul, larklike, doth soar and sing—
A few, poor snatches of that music here,
My fellow-men, I, as a pledge, would bring—
The music at my heart, still answering clear:
Which tells me that there must be yet some string
Untouched, that God intended Man to hear!
Doth haunt me ever, and my footsteps move
In time unto it—paces of deep love
And faith unchangeable! I hear the hum
Of mighty workings, and cannot be dumb—
To the grand concert of the spheres above
Mankind moves on, vain omens to disprove:
While, overhead and in the vanward, some
Prophetic soul, larklike, doth soar and sing—
A few, poor snatches of that music here,
My fellow-men, I, as a pledge, would bring—
The music at my heart, still answering clear:
Which tells me that there must be yet some string
Untouched, that God intended Man to hear!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |