Part 11
1. Stability[377] of character is, in all pursuits, the surest foundation of success. It is a common error of the indolent[378] and the imprudent to attribute the success of others to some peculiar talents, or original superiority of mind, which is not to be found in the generality of men. Of the falseness of this opinion, the slightest observation of human life may satisfy us. The difference of talents, indeed, and the varieties of original character, may produce a difference in the aims and in the designs of men; and superior minds will naturally form to themselves superior objects of ambition. But the attainment of these ends, the accomplishment of these designs, is, in all cases, the consequence of one means alone—that of steadfastness and perseverance in pursuit.
2. “It is the hand of the diligent,” saith the wise man, “that maketh rich.” It is the same diligence, when directed to other ends, that maketh great. Every thing which we see with admiration in the world around us, or of which we read with delight in the annals of history—the acquisitions of knowledge, the discoveries of science, the powers of art, the glories of arms, the dignities of private, or the splendors of public virtue—all have sprung from the same fountain of mind, from that steady but unseen perseverance which has been exerted in their pursuit. The possession of genius alone, is, alas! no certain herald of success; and how many melancholy instances has the world afforded to us all, of how little avail mere natural talents are to the prosperity of their possessors, and of the frequency with which they have led to ruin and disgrace, when unaccompanied with firmness and energy of mind!
3. This stability of character is the surest promise of honor. It supposes, indeed, all the qualities of mind that are regarded by the world with respect; and which constitute the honorable and dignified in human character. It supposes that profound[379] sense of duty, which we every where look for as the foundation of virtue, and for the want of which no other attainments can ever compensate.[380] It supposes a chastened and regulated imagination, which looks ever to “the things that are excellent,” and which is incapable of being diverted from their pursuit, either by the intoxications[381] of prosperous, or the depressions of adverse fortune. It supposes, still more, a firm and intrepid[382] heart, which neither pleasure has been able to seduce, nor indolence to enervate,[383] nor danger to intimidate,[384] and which, in many a scene of trial, and under many severities of discipline, has hardened itself at last into the firmness and consistency of virtue.
4. A character of this kind can never be looked upon without admiration; and wherever we meet it, whether amid the splendors of prosperity, or the severities of adversity, we feel ourselves disposed to pay it a pure and an unbidden homage.[385] The display of wild and unregulated talents may sometimes, indeed, excite a temporary admiration; but it is the admiration we pay to the useless glare of the meteor, which is extinguished while it is beheld; while the sentiment we feel for the steady course of principled virtue, is the admiration with which we regard the majestic path of the sun, as he slowly pursues his way, to give light and life to nature.
5. This stability of character is, in another view, the surest foundation of happiness. There are, doubtless, many ways in which our happiness is dependent upon the conduct and the sentiments of others; but the great and perennial[386] source of every man’s happiness is in his own bosom—in that secret fountain of the heart, from which the “waters of joy or of bitterness” perpetually flow.
6. It is from this source, the man of steadfast and persevering virtue derives his peculiar happiness; and the slightest recurrence to our own experience, can tell us both its nature and its degree. It is pleasing, we all know, to review the day that is past, and to think that its duties have been done; to think that the purpose with which we rose, has been accomplished; that in the busy scene which surrounds us, we have done our part, and that no temptation has been able to subdue our firmness and our resolution.
7. Such are the sentiments with which, in every year of life, and still more in that solemn moment when life is drawing to its close, the man of persevering virtue is able to review the time that is past. It lies before him, as it were, in order and regularity; and, while he travels, over again, the various stages of his progress, memory restores to him many images to soothe and to animate his heart. The days of trial are past; the hardships he has suffered, the labors he has undergone, are remembered no more, but his good deeds remain, and from the grave of time seem to rise up again to bless him, and to speak to him of peace and hope.
8. Such are, then, the consequences of firmness and stability of character; and such the rewards which he may look for, who, solemnly devoting himself to the discharge of the duties of that station or condition which Providence has assigned him, pursues them with steady and undeviating labor. It is the character which unites all that is valuable or noble in human life, the tranquillity of conscience, the honors of wisdom, and the dignity of virtue.
[377] STA-BILˊ-I-TY, firmness.
[378] INˊ-DO-LENT, lazy, slothful.
[379] PRO-FOUNDˊ, deep, thorough.
[380] COMˊ-PEN-SATE, make amends.
[381] IN-TOXˊ-I-CAˊ-TION, inclination.
[382] IN-TREPˊ-ID, fearless, bold.
[383] ENˊ-ER-VATE, to weaken, to deprive of nerve or strength.
[384] IN-TIMˊ-I-DATE, to inspire with fear.
[385] HOMˊ-AGE, reverence, respect.
[386] PER-ENˊ-NI-AL, perpetual.
THE YEAR OF SORROW—IRELAND—1849.
AUBREY DE VERE.
XLVIII.—SPRING.
1. Once more through God’s high will, and grace Of hours that each its task fulfills, Heart-healing Spring resumes her place, The valley throngs and scales the hills
2. In vain. From earth’s deep heart o’ercharged The exulting life runs o’er in flowers; The slave unfed is unenlarged: In darkness sleep a Nation’s powers.
3. Who knows not Spring? Who doubts, when blows Her breath, that Spring is come indeed? The swallow doubts not; nor the rose That stirs, but wakes not; nor the weed.
4. I feel her near, but see her not; For these with pain-uplifted eyes Fall back repulsed, and vapors blot The vision of the earth and skies.
5. I see her not—I feel her near, As, charioted in mildest airs, She sails through yon empyreal sphere, And in her arms and bosom bears
6. That urn of flowers and lustral dews, Whose sacred balm, o’er all things shed, Revives the weak, the old renews, And crowns with votive wreaths the dead.
7. Once more the cuckoo’s call I hear; I know, in many a glen profound, The earliest violets of the year Rise up like water from the ground.
8. The thorn I know once more is white; And, far down many a forest dale, The anemones in dubious light Are trembling like a bridal veil.
9. By streams released, that singing flow From craggy shelf through sylvan glades; The pale narcissus, well I know, Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.
10. The honeyed cowslip tufts once more The golden slopes; with gradual ray The primrose stars the rock, and o’er The wood-path strews its milky way.
11. From ruined huts and holes come forth Old men, and look upon the sky! The Power Divine is on the earth: Give thanks to God before ye die!
12. And ye, O children worn and weak! Who care no more with flowers to play, Lean on the grass your cold, thin cheek, And those slight hands, and whispering, say,
13. “Stern Mother of a race unblest, “In promise kindly, cold in deed,— “Take back, O Earth, into thy breast, “The children whom thou wilt not feed.”
XLIX.—SUMMER.
1. Approved by works of love and might, The Year, consummated and crowned, Has scaled the zenith’s purple height, And flings his robe the earth around.
2. Impassioned stillness—fervors calm— Brood, vast and bright, o’er land and deep: The warrior sleeps beneath the palm; The dark-eyed captive guards his sleep.
3. The Iberian laborer rests from toil; Sicilian virgins twine the dance; Laugh Tuscan vales in wine and oil; Fresh laurels flash from brows of France.
4. Far off, in regions of the North, The hunter drops his winter fur; Sun-stricken babes their feet stretch forth; And nested dormice feebly stir.
5. But thou, O land of many woes! What cheer is thine? Again the breath Of proved Destruction o’er thee blows, And sentenced fields grow black in death.
6. In horror of a new despair His blood-shot eyes the peasant strains, With hands clenched fast, and lifted hair, Along the daily-darkening plains.
7. “Why trusted he to them his store? “Why feared he not the scourge to come?” Fool! turn the page of History o’er— The roll of Statutes—and be dumb!
8. Behold, O People! thou shalt die! What art thou better than thy sires? The hunted deer a weeping eye Turns on his birthplace, and expires.
9. Lo! as the closing of a book, Or statue from its base o’erthrown, Or blasted wood, or dried-up brook, Name, race, and nation, thou art gone.
10. The stranger shall thy hearth possess; The stranger build upon thy grave. But know this also—he, not less His limit and his term shall have.
11. Once more thy volume, open cast, In thunder forth shall sound thy name; Thy forest, hot at heart, at last God’s breath shall kindle into flame.
12. Thy brook dried up, a cloud shall rise, And stretch an hourly widening hand, In God’s good vengeance, through the skies And onward o’er the Invader’s land.
13. Of thine, one day, a remnant left Shall raise o’er earth a Prophet’s rod, And teach the coasts of Faith bereft The names of Ireland, and of God.
L.—AUTUMN.
1. Then die, thou Year—thy work is done: The work ill done is done at last. Far off, beyond that sinking sun Which sets in blood, I hear the blast
2. That sings thy dirge, and says—“Ascend, “And answer make amid thy peers, “(Since all things here must have an end,) “Thou latest of the famine years!”
3. I join that voice. No joy have I In all thy purple and thy gold; Nor in that nine fold harmony From forest on to forest rolled:
4. Nor in that stormy western fire, Which burns on ocean’s gloomy bed, And hurls, as from a funeral pyre, A glare that strikes the mountain’s head;
5. And writes on low-hung clouds its lines Of cyphered flame, with hurrying hand; And flings amid the topmost pines That crown the steep, a burning brand.
6. Make answer, Year, for all thy dead, Who found not rest in hallowed earth; The widowed wife, the father fled, The babe age-stricken from his birth
7. Make answer, Year, for virtue lost; For courage proof ’gainst fraud and force Now waning like a noontide ghost; Affections poisoned at their source.
8. The laborer spurned his lying spade, The yeoman spurned his useless plow; The pauper spurned the unwholesome aid, Obtruded once, exhausted now.
9. The roof-trees fall of hut and hall, I hear them fall, and falling cry, “One fate for each, one fate for all; So wills the Law that willed a lie.”
10. Dread power of Man! what spread the waste In circles hour by hour more wide, And would not let the past be past?— The Law that promised much, and lied.
11. Dread power of God! Whom mortal years Nor touch, nor tempt; Who sitt’st sublime In night of night—O bid thy spheres Resound at last a funeral chime!
12. Call up at last the afflicted race, Whom man, not God, abolished.—Sore, For centuries, their strife: the place That knew them once shall know no more!
LI.—WINTER.
1. Fall, snow, and cease not! Flake by flake The decent winding-sheet compose. Thy task is just and pious; make An end of blasphemies and woes.
2. Fall flake by flake! by thee alone, Last friend, the sleeping draught is given: Kind nurse, by thee the couch is strewn, The couch whose covering is from heaven.
3. Descend and clasp the mountain’s crest; Inherit plain and valley deep: This night on thy maternal breast A vanquished nation dies in sleep.
4. Lo! from the starry Temple Gates Death rides, and bears the flag of peace: The combatants he separates; He bids the wrath of ages cease.
5. Descend, benignant Power! But O, Ye torrents, shake no more the vale: Dark streams, in silence seaward flow: Thou rising storm, remit thy wail.
6. Shake not, to-night, the cliffs of Moher, Nor Brandon’s base, rough sea! Thou Isle, The Rite proceeds! From shore to shore, Hold in thy gathered breath the while.
7. Fall, snow! in stillness fall, like dew, On church’s roof and cedar’s fan; And mold thyself on pine and yew; And on the awful face of man.
8. Without a sound, without a stir, In streets and wolds, on rock and mound, O, omnipresent Comforter, By Thee, this night, the lost are found!
9. On quaking moor, and mountain moss, With eyes upstaring at the sky, And arms extended like a cross, The long-expectant sufferers lie.
10. Bend o’er them, white-robed Acolyte! Put forth thine hand from cloud and mist; And minister the last sad Rite, Where altar there is none, nor priest.
11. Touch thou the gates of soul and sense; Touch darkening eyes and dying ears; Touch stiffening hands and feet, and thence Remove the trace of sin and tears.
12. And ere thou seal those filmed eyes, Into God’s urn thy fingers dip, And lay, ’mid eucharistic sighs, The sacred wafer on the lip.
13. This night the Absolver issues forth: This night the Eternal Victim bleeds: O winds and woods—O heaven and earth! Be still this night. The Rite proceeds!
LII.—DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.
DICKENS.
1. By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner chamber. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips, “You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that—never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her—I never had—I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now.”
2. Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made no noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. For she was dead.
3. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.
4. Her couch was dressed with, here and there, some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. “When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” These were her words.
5. She was dead! Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever!
6. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. His was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.
7. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled on that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire, upon the cold, wet night, at the still bed-side of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death.
8. The old man held one languid arm in his, and kept the small hand tightly folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile—the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.
9. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was ebbing fast—the garden she had tended—the eyes she had gladdened—the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour—the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday—could know her no more.
10. “It is not,” said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, “it is not in this world that Heaven’s justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish, expressed in solemn terms above this bed, could call her back to life, which of us would utter it!”
11. When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had closed. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but as the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped and used them kindly, for she often said “God bless you!” with great fervor. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful music which she said was in the air. It may have been.
12. Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her face—such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could forget—and clung with both her arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead at first. For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered—save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them—faded like the light upon the summer’s evening.
13. And now the bell—the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice—rung its remorseless tone for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy poured forth—on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life; to gather round her with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends.
14. They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place—when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seems to them) upon her quiet grave—in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.
LIII.—SORROW FOR THE DEAD.
WASHINGTON IRVING.
1. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.[387] Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament?
2. Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon her he most loved—when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals—would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?
3. No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who could root out such a sorrow? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry?
4. No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious[388] throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him!
5. But the grave of those we loved, what a place of meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute watchful assiduities.
6. The last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh! how thrilling! pressure of hand! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited[389], every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition.