Part 17

Moreover, what art thou,--so vainly impatient of Neglect, Where then is thy worthiness, that so thou claimest honour? Let the true judgment of humility reckon up thine ill deserts, How little is there to be loved, how much to stir up scorn! The double heart, the bitter tongue, the rash and erring spirit, Be these, ye purest among men, your passports unto favour? It is mercy in the Merciful, and justice in the Just, to be jealous of His creature's love, But how should evil or duplicity arrogate affection to itself? Where love is happiness and duty, to be jealous of that love is godlike, But who can reverence the guilty? who findeth pleasure in the mean? Check the presumption of thy hopes: thankfully take refuge in obscurity, Or, if thou claimest merit, thy sin shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.

Yet again: consider them of old, the good, the great, the learned, Who have blessed the world by wisdom, and glorified their God by purity. Did those speed in favour? were they the loved and the admired? Was every prophet had in honour? and every deserving one remembered to his praise? What shall I say of yonder band, a glorious cloud of witnesses, The scorned, defamed, insulted,--but the excellent of earth? It were weariness to count up noble names, neglected in their lives, Whom none esteemed, nor cared to love, till death had sealed them his. For good men are the health of the world, valued only when it perisheth, Like water, light, and air, all precious in their absence. Who hath considered the blessing of his breath, till the poison of an asthma struck him? Who hath regarded the just pulses of his heart, till spasm or paralysis have stopped them? Even thus, an unobserved routine of daily grace and wisdom, When no more here, had worship of a world, whose penitence atoned for its neglect. And living genius is seen among infirmities, wherefrom the commoner are free; And other rival men of mind crowd this arena of contention; And there be many cares; and a man knoweth little of his brother; Feebly we appreciate a motive, and slowly keep pace with a feeling: And social difference is much; and experience teacheth sadly, How great the treachery of friends, how dangerous the courtesy of enemies. So, the sum of all these things operateth largely upon all men, Hedging us about with thorns, to cramp our yearning sympathies, And we grow materialized in mind, forgetting what we see not, But, immersed in perceptions of the present, keep things absent out of thought: Thus, where ingratitude, and guilt, and labour, and selfishness would harden, Humbly will the good man bow, unmurmuring, to Neglect.

Yet once more, griever at Neglect, hear me to thy comfort, or rebuke: For, after all thy just complaint, the world is full of love. O heart of childhood, tender, trusting, and affectionate, O youth, warm youth, full of generous attentions, O woman, self-forgetting woman, poetry of human life, And not less thou, O man, so often the disinterested brother, Many a smile of love, many a tear of pity, Many a word of comfort, many a deed of magnanimity, Many a stream of milk and honey pour ye freely on the earth, And many a rosebud of love rejoiceth in the dew of your affection. Neglect? O liberal world, for thine are many prizes: Neglect? O charitable world, where thousands feed on bounty; Neglect? O just world, for thy judgments err not often; Neglect? O libel on a world where half that world is woman! Where is the afflicted, whose voice, once heard, stirreth not a host of comforters? Where is the sick untended, or in prison, and they visited him not? The hungry is fed, and the thirsty satisfied, till ability set limits to the will, And those who did it unto them, have done it unto God! For human benevolence is large, though many matters dwarf it, Prudence, ignorance, imposture, and the straitenings of circumstance and time. And if to the body, so to the mind, the mass of men are generous; Their estimate, who know us best, is seldom seen to err; Be sure the fault is thine, as pride, or shallowness, or vanity, If all around thee, good and bad, neglect thy seeming merit: No man yet deserved, who found not some to love him; And he, that never kept a friend, need only blame himself: Many for unworthiness will droop and die, but all are not unworthy; It must indeed be cold clay soil, that killeth every seed. Therefore, examine thy state, O self-accounted martyr of Neglect, It may be, thy merit is a cubit, and thy measure thereof a furlong; But grant it greater than thy thoughts, and grant that men thy fellows, For pleasure, business, or interest, misuse, forget, neglect thee,-- Still be thou conqueror in this, the consciousness of high deservings; Let it suffice thee to be worthy; faint not thou for praise; For that thou art, be grateful; go humbly even in thy confidence; And set thy foot upon the neck of an enemy so harmless as Neglect.

OF CONTENTMENT.

Godliness with Contentment,--these be the pillars of felicity, Jachin, wherewithal it is established, and Boaz, in the which is strength; And upon their capitals is lily-work, the lotus fruit and flower, Those fair and fragrant types of holiness, innocence, and beauty; Great gain pertaineth to the pillars, nets and chains of wreathen gold, And they stand up straight in the temple porch, the house where Glory dwelleth.

The body craveth meats, and the spirit is athirst for peacefulness, He that hath these, hath enough; for all beyond is vanity. Surfeit vaulteth over pleasure, to light upon the hither side of pain; And great store is great care, the rather if it mightily increaseth. Albeit too little is a trouble, yet too much shall swell into an evil, If wisdom stand not nigh to moderate the wishes: For covetousness never had enough, but moaneth at its wants for ever, And rich men have commonly more need to be taught contentment than the poor. That hungry chasm in their market-place gapeth still unsatisfied, Yea, fling in all the wealth of Rome,--it asketh higher victims; So, when the miser's gold cannot fill the measure of his lust, Curtius must leap into the pit, and avarice shall close upon his life.

Behold Independence in his rags, all too easily contented, Careful for nothing, thankful for much, and uncomplaining in his poverty: Such an one have I somewhile seen earn his crust with gladness; He is a gatherer of simples, culling wild herbs upon the hills; And now, as he sitteth on the beach, with his motherless child beside him, To rest them in the cheerful sun, and sort their mints and horehound,-- Tell me, can ye find upon his forehead the cloud of covetous anxiety, Or note the dull unkindled eyes of sated sons of pleasure?-- For there is more joy of life with that poor picker of the ditches, Than among the multitude of wealthy who wed their gains to discontent.

I have seen many rich, burdened with the fear of poverty, I have seen many poor, buoyed with all the carelessness of wealth: For the rich had the spirit of a pauper, and the moneyless a liberal heart; The first enjoyeth not for having, and the latter hath nothing but enjoyment. None is poor but the mean in mind, the timorous, the weak, and unbelieving; None is wealthy but the affluent in soul, who is satisfied and floweth over. The poor-rich is attenuate for fears, the rich-poor is fattened upon hopes; Cheerfulness is one man's welcome, and the other warneth from him by his gloom. Many poor have the pleasures of the rich, even in their own possessions; And many rich miss the poor man's comforts, and yet feel all his cares. Liberty is affluence, and the Helots of anxiety never can be counted wealthy; But he that is disenthralled from fear, goeth for the time a king; He is royal, great, and opulent, living free of fortune, And looking on the world as owner of its good, the Maker's child and heir: Whereas, the covetous is slavish, a very Midas in his avarice, Full of dismal dreams, and starved amongst his treasures: The ceaseless spur of discontent goaded him with instant apprehension, And his thirst for gold could never be quenched, for he drank with the throat of Crassus.

Vanity, and dreary disappointment, care, and weariness, and envy; Vanity is graven upon all things; wisely spake the preacher. For ambition is a burning mountain, thrown up amid the turbid sea, A Stromboli in sullen pride above the hissing waves; And the statesman climbing there, forgetful of his patriot intentions, Shall hate the strife of each rough step, or ever he hath toiled midway: And every truant from his home, the happy home of duty, Shall live to loathe his eminence of cares, that seething smoke and lava. Contentment is the temperate repast, flowing with milk and honey: Ambition is the drunken orgy, fed by liquid flames: A black and bitter frown is stamped upon the forehead of Ambition, But fair Contentment's angel-face is rayed with winning smiles.

There was in Tyre a merchant, the favourite child of fortune, An opulent man with many ships, to trade in many climes; And he rose up early to his merchandize, after feverish dreaming, And lay down late to his hot unrest, overwhelmed with calculated cares. So, day by day, and month by month, and year by year, he gained; And grew grey, and waxed great: for money brought him all things. All things?--verily, not all; the kernel of the nut is lacking,-- His mind was a stranger to content, and as for Peace, he knew her not: Luxuries palled upon his palate, and his eyes were satiate with purple; He could coin much gold, but buy no happiness with it. And on a day, a day of dread, in the heat of inordinate ambition, When he threw with a gambler's hand, to lose or to double his possessions, The chance hit him,--he had speculated ill,--and men began to whisper;-- Those he trusted, failed; and their usuries had bribed him deeply; One ship foundered out at sea,--and another met the pirate,-- And so, with broken fortunes, men discreetly shunned him. He was a stricken stag, and went to hide away in solitude, And there in humility, he thought,--he resolved, and promptly acted: From the wreck of all his splendours, from the dregs of the goblet of affluence, He saved with management a morsel and a drop, for his daily cup and platter: And lo, that little was enough, and in enough was competence; His cares were gone,--he slept by night, and lived at peace by day; Cured of his guilty selfishness,--money's love, envy, competition,-- He lived to be thankful in a cottage that he had lost a palace: For he found in his abasement what he vainly had sought in high estate, Both mind and body well at ease, though robed in the russet of the lowly.

Once more; a certain priest, happy in his high vocation, With faith, and hope, and charity, well served his village altar; As men count riches, he was poor; but great were his treasures in heaven, And great his joys on earth, for God's sake doing good: He had few cares and many consolations, one of the welcome everywhere; The labourer accounted him his friend, and magnates did him honour at their table: With a large heart and little means he still made many grateful, And felt as the centre of a circle, of comfort, calmness, and content. But, on a weaker sabbath,--for he preached both well and wisely,-- Some casual hearer loudly praised his great neglected talents: Why should he be buried in obscurity, and throw these pearls to swine? Could he not still be doing good,--the whilst he pushed his fortunes? Then came temptation, even on the spark of discontent; The neighbouring town had a pulpit to be filled; hotly did he canvass, and won it: Now was he popular and courted, and listened to the spell of admiration, And toiled to please the taste, rather than to pierce the conscience. Greedily he sought, and seeking found, the patronizing notice of the great; He thirsted for emoluments and honours, and counted rich men happy: So he flattered, so he preached; and gold and fame flowed in; They flowed in,--he was reaping his reward, and felt himself a fool. Alas, what a shadow was he following,--how precious was the substance he had left! Man for God, gold for good, this was his miserable bargain. The village church, its humble flock, and humbler parish priest, Zeal, devotion, and approving Heaven,--his books, and simple life, His little farm and flower-beds,--his recreative rambles with a friend, And haply, at eventide, the leaping trouts, to help their humble fare, All these wretchedly exchanged for what the world called fortune, With the harrowing conscience of a state relapsed to vain ambitions. Then,--for God was gracious to his soul,--his better thoughts returned, And better aims with better thoughts, his holy walk of old. Sickened of style, and ostentation, and the dissipative fashions of society, He deserted from the ranks of Mammon, and renewed his allegiance to God: For he found that the praises of men, and all that gold can give, Are not worthy to be named, against godliness and calm contentment.

OF LIFE.

A child was playing in a garden, a merry little child, Bounding with triumphant health, and full of happy fancies; His kite was floating in the sunshine,--but he tied the string to a twig And ran among the roses to catch a new-born butterfly; His horn-book lay upon a bank, but the pretty truant hid it, Buried up in gathered grass, and moss, and sweet wild-thyme; He launched a paper boat upon the fountain, then wayward turned aside, To twine some fragrant jessamines about the dripping marble: So, in various pastime shadowing the schemes of manhood, That curly-headed boy consumed the golden hours: And I blessed his glowing face, envying the merry little child, As he shouted with the ecstasy of being, clapping his hands for joyfulness: For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is happiness and hope, Thy days are bright, thy flowers are sweet, and pleasure the condition of thy gift.

A youth was walking in the moonlight, walking not alone, For a fair and gentle maid leant on his trembling arm: Their whispering was still of beauty, and the light of love was in their eyes, Their twin young hearts had not a thought unvowed to love and beauty; The stars and the sleeping world, and the guardian eye of God, The murmur of the distant waterfall, and nightingales warbling in the thicket, Sweet speech of years to come, and promises of fondest hope, And more, a present gladness in each other's trust, All these fed their souls with the hidden manna of affection, While their faces shone beatified in the radiance of reflected Eden: I gazed on that fond youth, and coveted his heart, Attuned to holiest symphonies, with music in its strings: For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is love and beauty, Thy joys are full, thy looks most fair, thy feelings pure and sensitive.

A man sat beside his merchandize, a careworn altered man, His waking hope, his nightly fear, were money, and its losses: Rarely was the laugh upon his cheek, except in bitter scorn For his foolishness of heart, and the lie of its romance, counting Love a treasure. His talk is of stern Reality, chilling unimaginative facts, The dull material accidents of this sensual body; Lucreless honour were contemptible, impoverished affection but a pauper's riches, Duty, struggling unrewarded, the bargain of a cheated fool: The market value of a fancy must be measured by the gain it bringeth, No man is fed or clothed by fame, or love, or duty:-- So toiled he day by day, that cold and joyless man, I gazed upon his haggard face, and sorrowed for the change: For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is care and weariness, Thy soil is parched, thy winds are fierce, and the suns above thee hardening.

A withered elder lay upon his bed, a desolate man and feeble: His thoughts were of the past, the early past, the bygone days of youth: Bitterly repented he the years stolen by the god of this world: Remembering the maiden of his love, and the heart-stricken wife of his selfishness. For the sunshiny morning of life came again to him a vivid truth, But the years of toil as a long dim dream, a cloudy blighted noon: He saw the nutting schoolboy, but forgat the speculative merchant; The callous calculating husband was shamed by the generous lover: He knew that the weeds of worldliness, and the smoky breath of Mammon Had choked and killed those tender shoots, his yearnings after honour and affection; So was he sick at heart, and my pity strove to cheer him, But a deep and dismal gulf lay between comfort and his soul. Then I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is vanity and sorrow, Thy storms at noon are many, and thine eventide is clouded by remorse.

Now, when I thought upon these things, my heart was grieved within me: I wept, with bitterness of speech, and these were the words of my complaining: "Wherefore then must happiness and love wither into care and vanity,-- Wherefore is the bud so beautiful, but flower and fruit so blighted? Hard is the lot of man; to be lured by the meteor of romance, Only to be snared, and to sink, in the turbid mudpool of reality."

Suddenly, a light,--and a rushing presence,--and a consciousness of Something near me,-- I trembled, and listened, and prayed: then I knew the Angel of Life: Vague, and dimly visible, mine eye could not behold Him, As, calmly unimpassioned, He looked upon an erring creature; Unseen, my spirit apprehended Him; though He spake not, yet I heard: For a sympathetic communing with Him flashed upon my mind electric.

Pensioner of God, be grateful; the gift of Life is good: The life of heart, and life of soul, mingled with life for the body. Gladness and beauty are its just inheritance,--the beauty thou hast counted for romance: And guardian spirits weep that selfishness and sorrow should destroy it. Thou hast seen the natural blessing marred into a curse by man; Come then, in favour will I show thee the proper excellence of life. Keep thou purity, and watch against suspicion,--love shall never perish; Guard thine innocency spotless, and the buoyancy of childhood shall remain. Sweet ideals feed the soul, thoughts of loveliness delight it, The chivalrous affection of uncalculating youth lacketh not honourable wisdom. Charge not folly on invisibles, that render thee happier and purer, The fair frail visions of Romance have a use beyond the maxims of the Real.

Behold a patriarch of years, who leaneth on the staff of religion; His heart is fresh, quick to feel, a bursting fount of generosity: He, playful in his wisdom, is gladdened in his children's gladness, He, pure in his experience, loveth in his son's first love: Lofty aspirations, deep affections, holy hopes are his delight; His abhorrence is to strip from Life its charitable garment of Idea. The cold and callous sneerer, who heedeth of the merely practical, And mocketh at good uses in imaginary things, that man is his scorn: The hard unsympathizing modern, filled with facts and figures, Cautious, and coarse, and materialized in mind, that man is his pity. Passionate thirst for gain never hath burnt within his bosom, The leaden chains of that dull lust have not bound him prisoner: The shrewd world laughed at him for honesty, the vain world mouthed at him for honour, The false world hated him for truth, the cold world despised him for affection: Still, he kept his treasure, the warm and noble heart, And in that happy wise old man survive the child and lover. For human Life is as Chian wine, flavoured unto him who drinketh it, Delicate fragrance comforting the soul, as needful substance for the body: Therefore, see thou art pure and guileless; so shall thy Realities of Life Be sweetened, and tempered, and gladdened by the wholesome spirit of Romance.

Dost thou live, man, dost thou live,--or only breathe and labour? Art thou free, or enslaved to a routine, the daily machinery of habit? For, one man is quickened into life, where thousands exist as in a torpor, Feeding, toiling, sleeping, an insensate weary round: The plough, or the ledger, or the trade, with animal cares and indolence, Make the mass of vital years a heavy lump unleavened. Drowsily lie down in thy dulness, fettered with the irons of circumstance, Thou wilt not wake to think and feel a minute in a month. The epitome of common life is seen in the common epitaph, Born on such a day, and dead on such another, with an interval of threescore years. For time hath been wasted on the senses, to the hourly diminishing of spirit: Lean is the soul and pineth, in the midst of abundance for the body: He forgat the worlds to which he tended, and a creature's true nobility, Nor wished that hope and wholesome fear should stir him from his hardened satisfaction. And this is death in life; to be sunk beneath the waters of the Actual, Without one feebly-struggling sense of an airier spiritual realm: Affection, fancy, feeling--dead; imagination, conscience, faith, All wilfully expunged, till they leave the man mere carcase. See thou livest, whiles thou art: for heart must live, and soul, But care and sloth and sin and self, combine to kill that life. A man will grow to an automaton, an appendage to the counter or the desk, If mind and spirit be not roused, to raise the plodding groveller: Then praise God for sabbaths, for books, and dreams, and pains, For the recreative face of nature, and the kindling charities of home; And remember, thou that labourest,--thy leisure is not loss, If it help to expose and undermine that solid falsehood, the Material.

Life is a strange avenue of various trees and flowers; Lightsome at commencement, but darkening to its end, in a distant massy portal. It beginneth as a little path, edged with the violet and primrose, A little path of lawny grass, and soft to tiny feet: Soon, spring thistles in the way, those early griefs of school, And fruit-trees ranged on either hand show holiday delights: Anon, the rose and the mimosa hint at sensitive affection, And vipers hide among the grass, and briars are woven in the hedges: Shortly, staked along in order, stand the tender saplings, While hollow hemlock and tall ferns fill the frequent interval: So advancing, quaintly mixed, majestic line the way Sturdy oaks, and vigorous elms, the beech and forest-pine: And here the road is rough with rocks, wide, and scant of herbage, The sun is hot in heaven, and the ground is cleft and parched: And many-times a hollow trunk, decayed, or lightning-scathed, Or in its deadly solitude, the melancholy upas: But soon, with closer ranks, are set the sentinel trees, And darker shadows hover amongst Autumn's mellow tints; Ever and anon, a holly,--junipers, and cypresses, and yews; The soil is damp; the air is chill; night cometh on apace: Speed to the portal, traveller,--lo, there is a moon, With smiling light to guide thee safely through the dreadful shade: Hark,--that hollow knock,--behold, the warder openeth, The gate is gaping, and for thee;--those are the jaws of Death!

OF DEATH.