O better wrong and strife,Better vain deeds or evil than such life!The silent heavens have goings-on;The stars have tasks—but these have none!Oh, better wrong and strife(By nature transient) than this torpid life:Life which the very stars reproveAs on their silent tasks they move.R. Hodgson(Letter, 1877, when aged 21).
O better wrong and strife,Better vain deeds or evil than such life!The silent heavens have goings-on;The stars have tasks—but these have none!Oh, better wrong and strife(By nature transient) than this torpid life:Life which the very stars reproveAs on their silent tasks they move.R. Hodgson(Letter, 1877, when aged 21).
O better wrong and strife,Better vain deeds or evil than such life!The silent heavens have goings-on;The stars have tasks—but these have none!
O better wrong and strife,
Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
The silent heavens have goings-on;
The stars have tasks—but these have none!
Oh, better wrong and strife(By nature transient) than this torpid life:Life which the very stars reproveAs on their silent tasks they move.
Oh, better wrong and strife
(By nature transient) than this torpid life:
Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move.
R. Hodgson(Letter, 1877, when aged 21).
R. Hodgson(Letter, 1877, when aged 21).
In 1877 Blake was little appreciated. (I remember only that in our children’s books we had “Tiger, Tiger burning bright”—and it was a strange thing to include in such books a poem which raises the problems of the existence of evil and the nature of God). Hence it will be evident why so keen a student of poetry as Hodgson did not couple Blake with Cowper as a precursor of the Romantic Revival. As a matter of fact Blake had more of the “Romantic” spirit than Cowper, and really preceded him, for the poor verse that Cowper published the year before Blake’sPoetical Sketchesneed not be considered. While still in his teens Blake wrote (“To the Muses”):... Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.Curiously enough Gray also had in him an element of the Romanticwhich he suppressed. It is very remarkable that in his Elegy (published 1751) he cut out the following verse:There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,By hands unseen are showers of violets found;The redbreast loves to build and warble there,And little footsteps lightly print the ground.
In 1877 Blake was little appreciated. (I remember only that in our children’s books we had “Tiger, Tiger burning bright”—and it was a strange thing to include in such books a poem which raises the problems of the existence of evil and the nature of God). Hence it will be evident why so keen a student of poetry as Hodgson did not couple Blake with Cowper as a precursor of the Romantic Revival. As a matter of fact Blake had more of the “Romantic” spirit than Cowper, and really preceded him, for the poor verse that Cowper published the year before Blake’sPoetical Sketchesneed not be considered. While still in his teens Blake wrote (“To the Muses”):
... Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
... Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
... Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
... Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,
How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.
Curiously enough Gray also had in him an element of the Romanticwhich he suppressed. It is very remarkable that in his Elegy (published 1751) he cut out the following verse:
There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,By hands unseen are showers of violets found;The redbreast loves to build and warble there,And little footsteps lightly print the ground.
There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,By hands unseen are showers of violets found;The redbreast loves to build and warble there,And little footsteps lightly print the ground.
There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,By hands unseen are showers of violets found;The redbreast loves to build and warble there,And little footsteps lightly print the ground.
There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unseen are showers of violets found;
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;His daily teachers had been woods and rills,The silence that is in the starry sky,The sleep that is among the lonely hills.Wordsworth(Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle).
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;His daily teachers had been woods and rills,The silence that is in the starry sky,The sleep that is among the lonely hills.Wordsworth(Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle).
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;His daily teachers had been woods and rills,The silence that is in the starry sky,The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Wordsworth(Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle).
Wordsworth(Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle).
Ambition tempts to rise,Then whirls the wretch from highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.Thomas Gray(On a Distant Prospect of Eton College).
Ambition tempts to rise,Then whirls the wretch from highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.Thomas Gray(On a Distant Prospect of Eton College).
Ambition tempts to rise,Then whirls the wretch from highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.
Ambition tempts to rise,
Then whirls the wretch from high
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
And grinning Infamy.
Thomas Gray(On a Distant Prospect of Eton College).
Thomas Gray(On a Distant Prospect of Eton College).
Slightly altered verbally to admit of quotation.
Slightly altered verbally to admit of quotation.
MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE
All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?Westward across the ocean, and Northward across the snow,Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know?Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarmLike the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm;In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,Yet we all say, “Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?”A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings,As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the figures of ancient kings;And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cryOf those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loth to die.For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills,Above is the sky, and around us the sound of the shot that kills;Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim,And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim;And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest,Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side.Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breathOf the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race,Ever I watch and worship—they sit with a marble face.And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests,The revels and rites unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts!What have they wrung from the Silence? Hath even a whisper comeOf the secret, Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea?“The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?”It is nought but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens began,How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man.I had thought, “Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main—”Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake?Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and goneFrom the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled,But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleepWith the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and the voices of women who weep.Sir Alfred Lyall.
All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?Westward across the ocean, and Northward across the snow,Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know?Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarmLike the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm;In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,Yet we all say, “Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?”A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings,As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the figures of ancient kings;And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cryOf those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loth to die.For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills,Above is the sky, and around us the sound of the shot that kills;Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim,And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim;And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest,Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side.Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breathOf the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race,Ever I watch and worship—they sit with a marble face.And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests,The revels and rites unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts!What have they wrung from the Silence? Hath even a whisper comeOf the secret, Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea?“The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?”It is nought but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens began,How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man.I had thought, “Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main—”Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake?Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and goneFrom the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled,But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleepWith the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and the voices of women who weep.Sir Alfred Lyall.
All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?Westward across the ocean, and Northward across the snow,Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know?
All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,
Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?
Westward across the ocean, and Northward across the snow,
Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know?
Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarmLike the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm;In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,Yet we all say, “Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?”
Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm;
In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,
Yet we all say, “Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?”
A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings,As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the figures of ancient kings;And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cryOf those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loth to die.
A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings,
As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the figures of ancient kings;
And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry
Of those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loth to die.
For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills,Above is the sky, and around us the sound of the shot that kills;Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.
For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills,
Above is the sky, and around us the sound of the shot that kills;
Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,
We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.
The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim,And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim;And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest,Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?
The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim,
And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim;
And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest,
Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?
The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side.Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breathOf the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.
The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?
The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side.
Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath
Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.
Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race,Ever I watch and worship—they sit with a marble face.
Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race,
Ever I watch and worship—they sit with a marble face.
And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests,The revels and rites unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts!What have they wrung from the Silence? Hath even a whisper comeOf the secret, Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.
And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests,
The revels and rites unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts!
What have they wrung from the Silence? Hath even a whisper come
Of the secret, Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.
Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea?“The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?”It is nought but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens began,How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man.
Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea?
“The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?”
It is nought but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens began,
How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man.
I had thought, “Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main—”Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.
I had thought, “Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,
Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,
They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main—”
Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.
Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake?Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and goneFrom the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?
Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake?
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and gone
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?
Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled,But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleepWith the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and the voices of women who weep.
Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled,
But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep
With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and the voices of women who weep.
Sir Alfred Lyall.
Sir Alfred Lyall.
MEDITATION OF A HINDU PRINCE AND SCEPTIC
I think till I weary with thinking, said the sad-eyed Hindu King,But I see but shadows around me, illusion in everything.How knowest thou aught of God, of his favour or his wrath?Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, or map out the eagle’s path?Can the finite the infinite search,—did the blind discover the stars?Is the thought that I think a thought, or a throb of the brain in its bars?For aught that my eye can discern, your god is what you think good,Yourself flashed back from the glass when the light pours on it in flood!You preach to me of his justice, and this is his realm, you say,Where the good are dying of hunger, and the bad gorge every day.You tell me he loveth mercy, but the famine is not yet gone,—That he hateth the shedder of blood, yet he slayeth us, everyone.You tell me the soul must live, that spirit can never die,If he was content when I was not, why not when I’ve passed by?You say that I must have a meaning! So has dung,—and its meaning is flowers:What if our lives are but nurture for souls that are higher than ours?When the fish swims out of the water, when the bird soars out of the blue,Man’s thought shall transcend man’s knowledge, and your God be no reflex of you!Author not traced.
I think till I weary with thinking, said the sad-eyed Hindu King,But I see but shadows around me, illusion in everything.How knowest thou aught of God, of his favour or his wrath?Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, or map out the eagle’s path?Can the finite the infinite search,—did the blind discover the stars?Is the thought that I think a thought, or a throb of the brain in its bars?For aught that my eye can discern, your god is what you think good,Yourself flashed back from the glass when the light pours on it in flood!You preach to me of his justice, and this is his realm, you say,Where the good are dying of hunger, and the bad gorge every day.You tell me he loveth mercy, but the famine is not yet gone,—That he hateth the shedder of blood, yet he slayeth us, everyone.You tell me the soul must live, that spirit can never die,If he was content when I was not, why not when I’ve passed by?You say that I must have a meaning! So has dung,—and its meaning is flowers:What if our lives are but nurture for souls that are higher than ours?When the fish swims out of the water, when the bird soars out of the blue,Man’s thought shall transcend man’s knowledge, and your God be no reflex of you!Author not traced.
I think till I weary with thinking, said the sad-eyed Hindu King,But I see but shadows around me, illusion in everything.
I think till I weary with thinking, said the sad-eyed Hindu King,
But I see but shadows around me, illusion in everything.
How knowest thou aught of God, of his favour or his wrath?Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, or map out the eagle’s path?
How knowest thou aught of God, of his favour or his wrath?
Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, or map out the eagle’s path?
Can the finite the infinite search,—did the blind discover the stars?Is the thought that I think a thought, or a throb of the brain in its bars?
Can the finite the infinite search,—did the blind discover the stars?
Is the thought that I think a thought, or a throb of the brain in its bars?
For aught that my eye can discern, your god is what you think good,Yourself flashed back from the glass when the light pours on it in flood!
For aught that my eye can discern, your god is what you think good,
Yourself flashed back from the glass when the light pours on it in flood!
You preach to me of his justice, and this is his realm, you say,Where the good are dying of hunger, and the bad gorge every day.
You preach to me of his justice, and this is his realm, you say,
Where the good are dying of hunger, and the bad gorge every day.
You tell me he loveth mercy, but the famine is not yet gone,—That he hateth the shedder of blood, yet he slayeth us, everyone.
You tell me he loveth mercy, but the famine is not yet gone,—
That he hateth the shedder of blood, yet he slayeth us, everyone.
You tell me the soul must live, that spirit can never die,If he was content when I was not, why not when I’ve passed by?
You tell me the soul must live, that spirit can never die,
If he was content when I was not, why not when I’ve passed by?
You say that I must have a meaning! So has dung,—and its meaning is flowers:What if our lives are but nurture for souls that are higher than ours?
You say that I must have a meaning! So has dung,—and its meaning is flowers:
What if our lives are but nurture for souls that are higher than ours?
When the fish swims out of the water, when the bird soars out of the blue,Man’s thought shall transcend man’s knowledge, and your God be no reflex of you!
When the fish swims out of the water, when the bird soars out of the blue,
Man’s thought shall transcend man’s knowledge, and your God be no reflex of you!
Author not traced.
Author not traced.
The preceding poem by Lyall had the same title as these verses, “Meditation of a Hindu Princeand Sceptic” when first published in theCornhill, September, 1877. I was fully convinced, for reasons that would take too long to set out here, that these verses were by Hodgson. But Mrs. Piper, the well-known trance-medium, says that Hodgson gave her a copy signed with other initials than his, and that she is sure he was not the author. She has mislaid the copy she refers to. In view of this statement I must not attribute the verses to Hodgson, although I cannot but doubt whether Mrs. Piper’s recollection is correct.
The preceding poem by Lyall had the same title as these verses, “Meditation of a Hindu Princeand Sceptic” when first published in theCornhill, September, 1877. I was fully convinced, for reasons that would take too long to set out here, that these verses were by Hodgson. But Mrs. Piper, the well-known trance-medium, says that Hodgson gave her a copy signed with other initials than his, and that she is sure he was not the author. She has mislaid the copy she refers to. In view of this statement I must not attribute the verses to Hodgson, although I cannot but doubt whether Mrs. Piper’s recollection is correct.
One summer hour abides, what time I perched,Dappled with noon-day, under simmering leaves,And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloofAn oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,Denouncing me an alien and a thief.J. R. Lowell(The Cathedral).
One summer hour abides, what time I perched,Dappled with noon-day, under simmering leaves,And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloofAn oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,Denouncing me an alien and a thief.J. R. Lowell(The Cathedral).
One summer hour abides, what time I perched,Dappled with noon-day, under simmering leaves,And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloofAn oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,Denouncing me an alien and a thief.
One summer hour abides, what time I perched,
Dappled with noon-day, under simmering leaves,
And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloof
An oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,
Denouncing me an alien and a thief.
J. R. Lowell(The Cathedral).
J. R. Lowell(The Cathedral).
The present writer ... was seated in a railway-carriage, five minutes or so before starting, and had time to contemplate certain waggons or trucks filled with cattle, drawn up on a parallel line, and quite close to the window at which he sat. The cattle wore a much-enduring aspect; and, as he looked into their large, patient, melancholy eyes,—for, as before mentioned, there was no space to speak of intervening,—a feeling of puzzlement arose in his mind.... The much-enduring animals in the trucks opposite had unquestionably some rude twilight of a notion of a world; of objects they had some unknown cognizance; but he could not get behind the melancholy eye within a yard of him and look through it. How, from that window, the world shaped itself, he could not discover, could not even fancy; and yet, staring on the animals, he was conscious of a certain fascination in which there lurked an element of terror. These wild, unkempt brutes, with slavering muzzles, penned together, lived, could choose between this thing and the other, could be frightened, could be enraged, could even love and hate; and gazing into a placid, heavy countenance, and the depths of a patient eye, not a yard away, he was conscious of an obscure and shuddering recognition of a life akin so far with his own. But to enter into that life imaginatively, and to conceive it, he found impossible. Eye looked upon eye, but the one could not flash recognition on the other; and, thinking of this, he remembers, with what a sense of ludicrous horror, the idea came,—what, if looking on one another thus, some spark of recognition could be elicited; if some rudiment of thought could be detected; if there were indeed a point at which man and ox could meet and compare notes? Suppose some gleam or scintillation of humour had lighted up the unwinking, amber eye? Heavens, the bellow of the weaning calf would be pathetic, shoe-leather would be forsworn, the eating of roast meat, hot or cold, would be cannibalism, the terrified world would make a sudden dash into vegetarianism!
Alexander Smith(On the Importance of Man to Himself).
Does not this give the reason why we do not eat dogs and horses? We, more than other nations, recognize in the horse, as well as in the dog, a life and intelligence akin to our own. We also believe that both animals reciprocate the affection we feel towards them. (Coleridge inTable Talksays: “The dog alone, of all brute animals, has a στοργή or affectionupwardsto man.”)
Does not this give the reason why we do not eat dogs and horses? We, more than other nations, recognize in the horse, as well as in the dog, a life and intelligence akin to our own. We also believe that both animals reciprocate the affection we feel towards them. (Coleridge inTable Talksays: “The dog alone, of all brute animals, has a στοργή or affectionupwardsto man.”)
When I am playing with my Cat, who knowes whether she have more sport in dallying with me, than I have in gaming with her? We entertaine one another with mutual apish trickes: If I have my houre to begin or to refuse, so hath she hers.
Montaigne(Bk. II, ch. 12).
O what are these Spirits that o’er us creep,And touch our eyelids and drink our breath?The first, with a flower in his hand, is Sleep;The next, with a star on his brow, is Death.R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).
O what are these Spirits that o’er us creep,And touch our eyelids and drink our breath?The first, with a flower in his hand, is Sleep;The next, with a star on his brow, is Death.R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).
O what are these Spirits that o’er us creep,And touch our eyelids and drink our breath?The first, with a flower in his hand, is Sleep;The next, with a star on his brow, is Death.
O what are these Spirits that o’er us creep,
And touch our eyelids and drink our breath?
The first, with a flower in his hand, is Sleep;
The next, with a star on his brow, is Death.
R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).
R. Buchanan(Balder the Beautiful).
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—He hath awakened from the dream of life—’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keepWith phantoms an unprofitable life.Shelley(AdonaïsXXXIX).
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—He hath awakened from the dream of life—’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keepWith phantoms an unprofitable life.Shelley(AdonaïsXXXIX).
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—He hath awakened from the dream of life—’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keepWith phantoms an unprofitable life.
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable life.
Shelley(AdonaïsXXXIX).
Shelley(AdonaïsXXXIX).
Have you found your life distasteful?My life did—and does—smack sweet.Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?Mine I saved and hold complete.Do your joys with age diminish?When mine fails me, I’ll complain.Must in death your daylight finish?My sun sets to rise again.R. Browning(At the Mermaid).
Have you found your life distasteful?My life did—and does—smack sweet.Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?Mine I saved and hold complete.Do your joys with age diminish?When mine fails me, I’ll complain.Must in death your daylight finish?My sun sets to rise again.R. Browning(At the Mermaid).
Have you found your life distasteful?My life did—and does—smack sweet.Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?Mine I saved and hold complete.Do your joys with age diminish?When mine fails me, I’ll complain.Must in death your daylight finish?My sun sets to rise again.
Have you found your life distasteful?
My life did—and does—smack sweet.
Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?
Mine I saved and hold complete.
Do your joys with age diminish?
When mine fails me, I’ll complain.
Must in death your daylight finish?
My sun sets to rise again.
R. Browning(At the Mermaid).
R. Browning(At the Mermaid).
“My life did—and does—smack sweet”—see note p. 236.
“My life did—and does—smack sweet”—see note p. 236.
THE LAMB
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life, and bade thee feedBy the stream and o’er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;He is called by thy name.For He calls Himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild,He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!W. Blake(1757-1827).
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life, and bade thee feedBy the stream and o’er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;He is called by thy name.For He calls Himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild,He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!W. Blake(1757-1827).
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life, and bade thee feedBy the stream and o’er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;He is called by thy name.For He calls Himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild,He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
He is called by thy name.
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!
W. Blake(1757-1827).
W. Blake(1757-1827).
Who can wrestle against Sleep? Yet is that giant very gentleness.
Martin Tupper(Of Beauty).
ON A FINE MORNING
I.Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeingWhat is doing, suffering, being,Not from noting Life’s conditions,Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;But in cleaving to the Dream,And in gazing at the GleamWhereby gray things golden seem.II.Thus do I this heyday, holdingShadows but as lights unfolding,As no specious show this momentWith its iridized embowment;But as nothing other thanPart of a benignant plan;Proof that earth was made for man.Thomas Hardy.
I.Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeingWhat is doing, suffering, being,Not from noting Life’s conditions,Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;But in cleaving to the Dream,And in gazing at the GleamWhereby gray things golden seem.II.Thus do I this heyday, holdingShadows but as lights unfolding,As no specious show this momentWith its iridized embowment;But as nothing other thanPart of a benignant plan;Proof that earth was made for man.Thomas Hardy.
I.Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeingWhat is doing, suffering, being,Not from noting Life’s conditions,Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;But in cleaving to the Dream,And in gazing at the GleamWhereby gray things golden seem.
I.
Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeing
What is doing, suffering, being,
Not from noting Life’s conditions,
Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;
But in cleaving to the Dream,
And in gazing at the Gleam
Whereby gray things golden seem.
II.Thus do I this heyday, holdingShadows but as lights unfolding,As no specious show this momentWith its iridized embowment;But as nothing other thanPart of a benignant plan;Proof that earth was made for man.
II.
Thus do I this heyday, holding
Shadows but as lights unfolding,
As no specious show this moment
With its iridized embowment;
But as nothing other than
Part of a benignant plan;
Proof that earth was made for man.
Thomas Hardy.
Thomas Hardy.
This is not in theSelected Poems. It is interesting as showing Mr. Hardy in an optimistic mood.
This is not in theSelected Poems. It is interesting as showing Mr. Hardy in an optimistic mood.
Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh, what were man? a world without a sun!Thomas Campbell(Pleasures of Hope, Pt. II).
Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh, what were man? a world without a sun!Thomas Campbell(Pleasures of Hope, Pt. II).
Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh, what were man? a world without a sun!
Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh, what were man? a world without a sun!
Thomas Campbell(Pleasures of Hope, Pt. II).
Thomas Campbell(Pleasures of Hope, Pt. II).
Of two opposite methods of action, do you desire to know which should have the preference? Calculate their effects in pleasures and pains, and prefer that which promises the greater sum of pleasures.
Think not that a man will so much as lift up his little finger on your behalf, unless he sees his advantage in it.
Jeremy Bentham(1748-1832).
These cold-blooded and repulsive aphorisms are typical of Bentham’s Utilitarian philosophy, from which all sense of duty and moral aspiration were excluded. It is strange that these views should be held by a great thinker who was himself of benevolent character. Such a doctrine could not have survived to my time, had it not been supplemented by John Stuart Mill (1806-1873), who gave a different place to the humanist element. While still adhering to Bentham’s doctrine that there is no good but pleasure and no evil but pain, he introduced as the higher forms of pleasure those derived from the wish for self-culture and the desire to satisfy our mental and moral aims. He gave priority to all the sympathetic and altruistic motives that govern our actions. Whereas Bentham held that all pleasures were equal and could be counted in one column, Mill said that they differed in quality,that they could no more be added up in one column than pounds, shillings and pence; that, in fact, there is no equivalent for a higher pleasure in any quantity of a lower one. This was typical of Mill’s sincerity: but he did not see that his additions were fatal to Bentham’s doctrine and to hedonism generally. How, for instance, is a higher pleasure to be known for a higher? In what respect is an intellectual pleasure or the satisfaction of doing one’s duty of higher quality than the gratification of the senses? To ascertain this it is necessary to pass from the pleasure itself to the thing that gives the pleasure or, in other words, to the character that finds the pleasure. Many illustrations of this might be given. In one of Sir Alfred Lyall’s poems, which is founded on fact, an Englishman who has been captured by Arabs has no religious belief; his loved ones are waiting his return; he can save his life if he will only repeat the Mahomedan formula; if he dies no one will know of his self-sacrifice: yet he decides to die for the honour of England. However, Bentham’s careful calculus of equal pleasures and pains, “push-pin” being “worth as much as poetry,”[18]came to an end through Mill, and Mill at once made way for Spencer on the one hand, and T. H. Green on the other; both of these rejected the calculation of pleasures or happiness as the standard of right either for the individual or the greatest number. In all directions the low moral stage of philosophic thought represented by Benthamism has been passed through and forgotten. We no longer hold the belief that the only sphere of Government is to protect our persons and property, but follow loftier ideals; and in art and poetry we look for higher aims than mere luxury and sensuous pleasure.
These cold-blooded and repulsive aphorisms are typical of Bentham’s Utilitarian philosophy, from which all sense of duty and moral aspiration were excluded. It is strange that these views should be held by a great thinker who was himself of benevolent character. Such a doctrine could not have survived to my time, had it not been supplemented by John Stuart Mill (1806-1873), who gave a different place to the humanist element. While still adhering to Bentham’s doctrine that there is no good but pleasure and no evil but pain, he introduced as the higher forms of pleasure those derived from the wish for self-culture and the desire to satisfy our mental and moral aims. He gave priority to all the sympathetic and altruistic motives that govern our actions. Whereas Bentham held that all pleasures were equal and could be counted in one column, Mill said that they differed in quality,that they could no more be added up in one column than pounds, shillings and pence; that, in fact, there is no equivalent for a higher pleasure in any quantity of a lower one. This was typical of Mill’s sincerity: but he did not see that his additions were fatal to Bentham’s doctrine and to hedonism generally. How, for instance, is a higher pleasure to be known for a higher? In what respect is an intellectual pleasure or the satisfaction of doing one’s duty of higher quality than the gratification of the senses? To ascertain this it is necessary to pass from the pleasure itself to the thing that gives the pleasure or, in other words, to the character that finds the pleasure. Many illustrations of this might be given. In one of Sir Alfred Lyall’s poems, which is founded on fact, an Englishman who has been captured by Arabs has no religious belief; his loved ones are waiting his return; he can save his life if he will only repeat the Mahomedan formula; if he dies no one will know of his self-sacrifice: yet he decides to die for the honour of England. However, Bentham’s careful calculus of equal pleasures and pains, “push-pin” being “worth as much as poetry,”[18]came to an end through Mill, and Mill at once made way for Spencer on the one hand, and T. H. Green on the other; both of these rejected the calculation of pleasures or happiness as the standard of right either for the individual or the greatest number. In all directions the low moral stage of philosophic thought represented by Benthamism has been passed through and forgotten. We no longer hold the belief that the only sphere of Government is to protect our persons and property, but follow loftier ideals; and in art and poetry we look for higher aims than mere luxury and sensuous pleasure.
LIFE
We are born; we laugh; we weep;We love; we droop; we die!Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?Why do we live, or die?Who knows that secret deep?Alas, not I!Why doth the violet springUnseen by human eye?Why do the radiant seasons bringSweet thoughts that quickly fly?Why do our fond hearts clingTo things that die?We toil,—through pain and wrong;We fight,—and fly;We love; we lose; and then, ere long,Stone dead we lie.Life! isallthy songEndure and—die?B. W. Procter(Barry Cornwall).
We are born; we laugh; we weep;We love; we droop; we die!Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?Why do we live, or die?Who knows that secret deep?Alas, not I!Why doth the violet springUnseen by human eye?Why do the radiant seasons bringSweet thoughts that quickly fly?Why do our fond hearts clingTo things that die?We toil,—through pain and wrong;We fight,—and fly;We love; we lose; and then, ere long,Stone dead we lie.Life! isallthy songEndure and—die?B. W. Procter(Barry Cornwall).
We are born; we laugh; we weep;We love; we droop; we die!Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?Why do we live, or die?Who knows that secret deep?Alas, not I!
We are born; we laugh; we weep;
We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?
Why do we live, or die?
Who knows that secret deep?
Alas, not I!
Why doth the violet springUnseen by human eye?Why do the radiant seasons bringSweet thoughts that quickly fly?Why do our fond hearts clingTo things that die?
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?
We toil,—through pain and wrong;We fight,—and fly;We love; we lose; and then, ere long,Stone dead we lie.Life! isallthy songEndure and—die?
We toil,—through pain and wrong;
We fight,—and fly;
We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone dead we lie.
Life! isallthy song
Endure and—die?
B. W. Procter(Barry Cornwall).
B. W. Procter(Barry Cornwall).
Stop and consider! Life is but a day;A fragile dewdrop on its perilous wayFrom a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci,—Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.Keats(Sleep and Poetry).
Stop and consider! Life is but a day;A fragile dewdrop on its perilous wayFrom a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci,—Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.Keats(Sleep and Poetry).
Stop and consider! Life is but a day;A fragile dewdrop on its perilous wayFrom a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleepWhile his boat hastens to the monstrous steepOf Montmorenci,—Why so sad a moan?Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;The reading of an ever-changing tale;The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;A laughing school boy, without grief or care,Riding the springy branches of an elm.
Stop and consider! Life is but a day;
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way
From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmorenci,—Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing school boy, without grief or care,
Riding the springy branches of an elm.
Keats(Sleep and Poetry).
Keats(Sleep and Poetry).
Life is compared to the brief fall of a dewdrop, the Indian’s unconscious sleep while his boat hastens to destruction; but life also is Hope, Intellect, Beauty, and Physical Enjoyment.
Life is compared to the brief fall of a dewdrop, the Indian’s unconscious sleep while his boat hastens to destruction; but life also is Hope, Intellect, Beauty, and Physical Enjoyment.
When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceitTrust on, and think to-morrow will repay—To-morrow’s falser than the former day;Lies worse and, while it says we shall be blessedWith some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;And, from the dregs of life, think to receiveWhat the first sprightly running would not give,I’m tired with waiting for this chymic gold,Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.John Dryden(Aureng-zebe).
When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceitTrust on, and think to-morrow will repay—To-morrow’s falser than the former day;Lies worse and, while it says we shall be blessedWith some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;And, from the dregs of life, think to receiveWhat the first sprightly running would not give,I’m tired with waiting for this chymic gold,Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.John Dryden(Aureng-zebe).
When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceitTrust on, and think to-morrow will repay—To-morrow’s falser than the former day;Lies worse and, while it says we shall be blessedWith some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;And, from the dregs of life, think to receiveWhat the first sprightly running would not give,I’m tired with waiting for this chymic gold,Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.
When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;
Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay—
To-morrow’s falser than the former day;
Lies worse and, while it says we shall be blessed
With some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
And, from the dregs of life, think to receive
What the first sprightly running would not give,
I’m tired with waiting for this chymic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.
John Dryden(Aureng-zebe).
John Dryden(Aureng-zebe).
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!R. Browning(Home-Thoughts from Abroad).
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!R. Browning(Home-Thoughts from Abroad).
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
R. Browning(Home-Thoughts from Abroad).
R. Browning(Home-Thoughts from Abroad).
PEU DE CHOSE ET PRESQUE TROP.
La vie est vaine:Un peu d’amour,Un peu de haine ...Et puis—bonjour!La vie est brève:Un peu d’espoir,Un peu de rêve ...Et puis—bonsoir!(Life is vain: A little love, A little hate, ... And then—good-day!)(Life is short: A little hope, A little dream, ... And then—good night!)Leon Montenaeken.
La vie est vaine:Un peu d’amour,Un peu de haine ...Et puis—bonjour!La vie est brève:Un peu d’espoir,Un peu de rêve ...Et puis—bonsoir!(Life is vain: A little love, A little hate, ... And then—good-day!)(Life is short: A little hope, A little dream, ... And then—good night!)Leon Montenaeken.
La vie est vaine:Un peu d’amour,Un peu de haine ...Et puis—bonjour!
La vie est vaine:
Un peu d’amour,
Un peu de haine ...
Et puis—bonjour!
La vie est brève:Un peu d’espoir,Un peu de rêve ...Et puis—bonsoir!
La vie est brève:
Un peu d’espoir,
Un peu de rêve ...
Et puis—bonsoir!
(Life is vain: A little love, A little hate, ... And then—good-day!)(Life is short: A little hope, A little dream, ... And then—good night!)
(Life is vain: A little love, A little hate, ... And then—good-day!)
(Life is short: A little hope, A little dream, ... And then—good night!)
Leon Montenaeken.
Leon Montenaeken.
This haunting little lyric is a literary curiosity from one point of view. In spite of expostulations from the author (a Belgian poet), and repeated public statements by others from time to time, the poem is constantly being wrongly attributed to one or another of the French poets. It appeared inLe Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique, 1887, but had probably been written and published some years before that date. In theNineteenth Century, September, 1893, William Sharp pointed out that the poem was always being attributed to the wrong author—even Andrew Lang being one of the culprits. The author himself wrote toThe Literary Worldof June 3, 1904, to the same effect. The subject was again spoken of inNotes and Queries, January 5, 1907, when the author’s letter was republished. LondonTruthalso brought the matter up at one time, and probably the same fact has been publicly pointed out elsewhere a hundred times—but the poem continues to be attributed to the wrong author! In theDictionary of Foreign Phrases and Classical Quotations, by H. P. Jones, published so recently as 1913, the verses are ascribed to Alfred de Musset.There is a third verse, which reads like an answer or retort to the other two:La vie est telle,Que Dieu la fit;Et telle, quelle,Elle suffit!(Life is such As God made it, And, just as it is, ... It suffices!)One of the writers toNotes and Queriesquotes the following lines:On entre, on crie,Et c’est la vie!On baîlle, on sort,Et c’est la mort!(Ausone de Chancel, 1836)(You enter, you cry, and that is life: you yawn, you go out, and that is death.)
This haunting little lyric is a literary curiosity from one point of view. In spite of expostulations from the author (a Belgian poet), and repeated public statements by others from time to time, the poem is constantly being wrongly attributed to one or another of the French poets. It appeared inLe Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique, 1887, but had probably been written and published some years before that date. In theNineteenth Century, September, 1893, William Sharp pointed out that the poem was always being attributed to the wrong author—even Andrew Lang being one of the culprits. The author himself wrote toThe Literary Worldof June 3, 1904, to the same effect. The subject was again spoken of inNotes and Queries, January 5, 1907, when the author’s letter was republished. LondonTruthalso brought the matter up at one time, and probably the same fact has been publicly pointed out elsewhere a hundred times—but the poem continues to be attributed to the wrong author! In theDictionary of Foreign Phrases and Classical Quotations, by H. P. Jones, published so recently as 1913, the verses are ascribed to Alfred de Musset.
There is a third verse, which reads like an answer or retort to the other two:
La vie est telle,Que Dieu la fit;Et telle, quelle,Elle suffit!
La vie est telle,Que Dieu la fit;Et telle, quelle,Elle suffit!
La vie est telle,Que Dieu la fit;Et telle, quelle,Elle suffit!
La vie est telle,
Que Dieu la fit;
Et telle, quelle,
Elle suffit!
(Life is such As God made it, And, just as it is, ... It suffices!)
One of the writers toNotes and Queriesquotes the following lines:
On entre, on crie,Et c’est la vie!On baîlle, on sort,Et c’est la mort!(Ausone de Chancel, 1836)
On entre, on crie,Et c’est la vie!On baîlle, on sort,Et c’est la mort!(Ausone de Chancel, 1836)
On entre, on crie,Et c’est la vie!On baîlle, on sort,Et c’est la mort!
On entre, on crie,
Et c’est la vie!
On baîlle, on sort,
Et c’est la mort!
(Ausone de Chancel, 1836)
(Ausone de Chancel, 1836)
(You enter, you cry, and that is life: you yawn, you go out, and that is death.)
A very strange, fantastic world—where each one pursues his own golden bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doing the same. I have been thinking how a moral Linnæus would classify our race.
Author not traced.
TWO LOVERS
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:They leaned soft cheeks together there,Mingled the dark and sunny hair.And heard the wooing thrushes sing,O budding time!O love’s blest prime!Two wedded from the portal stept:The bells made happy carollings,The air was soft as fanning wings,White petals on the pathway slept.O pure-eyed bride!O tender pride!Two faces o’er a cradle bent:Two hands above the head were locked;These pressed each other while they rocked.Those watched a life that love had sent.O solemn hour!O hidden power!Two parents by the evening fire:The red light fell about their kneesOn heads that rose by slow degreesLike buds upon the lily spire.O patient life!O tender strifeThe two still sat together there,The red light shone about their knees:But all the heads by slow degreesHad gone and left that lonely pair.O voyage fast!O vanished past!The red light shone upon the floorAnd made the space between them wide;They drew their chairs up side by side,Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!”O memories!O past that is!George Eliot.
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:They leaned soft cheeks together there,Mingled the dark and sunny hair.And heard the wooing thrushes sing,O budding time!O love’s blest prime!Two wedded from the portal stept:The bells made happy carollings,The air was soft as fanning wings,White petals on the pathway slept.O pure-eyed bride!O tender pride!Two faces o’er a cradle bent:Two hands above the head were locked;These pressed each other while they rocked.Those watched a life that love had sent.O solemn hour!O hidden power!Two parents by the evening fire:The red light fell about their kneesOn heads that rose by slow degreesLike buds upon the lily spire.O patient life!O tender strifeThe two still sat together there,The red light shone about their knees:But all the heads by slow degreesHad gone and left that lonely pair.O voyage fast!O vanished past!The red light shone upon the floorAnd made the space between them wide;They drew their chairs up side by side,Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!”O memories!O past that is!George Eliot.
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:They leaned soft cheeks together there,Mingled the dark and sunny hair.And heard the wooing thrushes sing,O budding time!O love’s blest prime!
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:
They leaned soft cheeks together there,
Mingled the dark and sunny hair.
And heard the wooing thrushes sing,
O budding time!
O love’s blest prime!
Two wedded from the portal stept:The bells made happy carollings,The air was soft as fanning wings,White petals on the pathway slept.O pure-eyed bride!O tender pride!
Two wedded from the portal stept:
The bells made happy carollings,
The air was soft as fanning wings,
White petals on the pathway slept.
O pure-eyed bride!
O tender pride!
Two faces o’er a cradle bent:Two hands above the head were locked;These pressed each other while they rocked.Those watched a life that love had sent.O solemn hour!O hidden power!
Two faces o’er a cradle bent:
Two hands above the head were locked;
These pressed each other while they rocked.
Those watched a life that love had sent.
O solemn hour!
O hidden power!
Two parents by the evening fire:The red light fell about their kneesOn heads that rose by slow degreesLike buds upon the lily spire.O patient life!O tender strife
Two parents by the evening fire:
The red light fell about their knees
On heads that rose by slow degrees
Like buds upon the lily spire.
O patient life!
O tender strife
The two still sat together there,The red light shone about their knees:But all the heads by slow degreesHad gone and left that lonely pair.O voyage fast!O vanished past!
The two still sat together there,
The red light shone about their knees:
But all the heads by slow degrees
Had gone and left that lonely pair.
O voyage fast!
O vanished past!
The red light shone upon the floorAnd made the space between them wide;They drew their chairs up side by side,Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!”O memories!O past that is!
The red light shone upon the floor
And made the space between them wide;
They drew their chairs up side by side,
Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!”
O memories!
O past that is!
George Eliot.
George Eliot.
Some of your griefs you have cured,And the sharpest you still have survived;But what torments of pain you enduredFrom evils that never arrived!R. W. Emerson(From the French).
Some of your griefs you have cured,And the sharpest you still have survived;But what torments of pain you enduredFrom evils that never arrived!R. W. Emerson(From the French).
Some of your griefs you have cured,And the sharpest you still have survived;But what torments of pain you enduredFrom evils that never arrived!
Some of your griefs you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived;
But what torments of pain you endured
From evils that never arrived!
R. W. Emerson(From the French).
R. W. Emerson(From the French).
This sentiment has been expressed by many different authors. Some friends of mine have as their favourite motto, “I have had many troubles in my life, and most of them never happened.”
This sentiment has been expressed by many different authors. Some friends of mine have as their favourite motto, “I have had many troubles in my life, and most of them never happened.”
With him ther was his son, a yong Squyer,[19]SquireA lovyere and a lusty bachelor,loverWith lokkès crulle, as they were leyd in presse.curly locksOf twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse....Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;playing the fluteHe was as fresh as is the month of May.Short was his goune, with slevès long and wide,Well coude he sitte on hors and fairè ride.Chaucer(Canterbury Tales—Prologue).
With him ther was his son, a yong Squyer,[19]SquireA lovyere and a lusty bachelor,loverWith lokkès crulle, as they were leyd in presse.curly locksOf twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse....Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;playing the fluteHe was as fresh as is the month of May.Short was his goune, with slevès long and wide,Well coude he sitte on hors and fairè ride.Chaucer(Canterbury Tales—Prologue).
With him ther was his son, a yong Squyer,[19]SquireA lovyere and a lusty bachelor,loverWith lokkès crulle, as they were leyd in presse.curly locksOf twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse....Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;playing the fluteHe was as fresh as is the month of May.Short was his goune, with slevès long and wide,Well coude he sitte on hors and fairè ride.
With him ther was his son, a yong Squyer,[19]Squire
A lovyere and a lusty bachelor,lover
With lokkès crulle, as they were leyd in presse.curly locks
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse....
Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;playing the flute
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his goune, with slevès long and wide,
Well coude he sitte on hors and fairè ride.
Chaucer(Canterbury Tales—Prologue).
Chaucer(Canterbury Tales—Prologue).
With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe’s, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held her goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.Keats(Fancy).
With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe’s, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held her goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.Keats(Fancy).
With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe’s, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held her goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe’s, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held her goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid.
Keats(Fancy).
Keats(Fancy).
Like Angels stopped upon the wing by soundOf harmony from heaven’s remotest spheres.Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. XIV.)
Like Angels stopped upon the wing by soundOf harmony from heaven’s remotest spheres.Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. XIV.)
Like Angels stopped upon the wing by soundOf harmony from heaven’s remotest spheres.
Like Angels stopped upon the wing by sound
Of harmony from heaven’s remotest spheres.
Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. XIV.)
Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. XIV.)
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.G. Meredith(Love in the Valley).
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.G. Meredith(Love in the Valley).
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,
Arm in arm, all against the raying West,
Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,
Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.
G. Meredith(Love in the Valley).
G. Meredith(Love in the Valley).
The blessed Damozel leaned outFrom the gold bar of Heaven;Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters stilled at even;She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary’s gift,For service meetly worn;Her hair that lay along her backWas yellow like ripe corn.D. G. Rossetti(The Blessed Damozel).
The blessed Damozel leaned outFrom the gold bar of Heaven;Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters stilled at even;She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary’s gift,For service meetly worn;Her hair that lay along her backWas yellow like ripe corn.D. G. Rossetti(The Blessed Damozel).
The blessed Damozel leaned outFrom the gold bar of Heaven;Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters stilled at even;She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.
The blessed Damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary’s gift,For service meetly worn;Her hair that lay along her backWas yellow like ripe corn.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift,
For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.
D. G. Rossetti(The Blessed Damozel).
D. G. Rossetti(The Blessed Damozel).
When as in silk my Julia goes,Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flowsThe liquefaction of her clothes!Robert Herrick(Upon Julia’s Clothes),
When as in silk my Julia goes,Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flowsThe liquefaction of her clothes!Robert Herrick(Upon Julia’s Clothes),
When as in silk my Julia goes,Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flowsThe liquefaction of her clothes!
When as in silk my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes!
Robert Herrick(Upon Julia’s Clothes),
Robert Herrick(Upon Julia’s Clothes),
The six quotations above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 85).
The six quotations above are from a series of word-pictures (see p. 85).
Whatever else may or may not work on through eternity, we are bound to believe that the love, which moved the Father to redeem the world at such infinite cost, must work on, while there is one pang in the universe, born of sin, which can touch the Divine pity, or one wretched prodigal in rags and hunger far from the home and the heart of God.
Rev. Baldwin Brown.
Canon Farrar is not happy in his rejoinder to the argument that to cast a doubt on the endlessness of punishment is to invalidate the argument for the endlessness of bliss, since both rest on exactly the same Biblical sanction. There are three replies, cumulatively exhaustive, which he has failed to adduce.... (Firstly, evil and temptation are banished from heaven; Second, the two arguments donotrest on the same Biblical sanction) ... Thirdly, the difference of the two eternities, heaven and hell, consists in the presence or absence of God. Let us put α for each of those eternities or aeons, and θ to denote Him. The assertion of the equality of the two, then, is that α + θ = α - θ, which can stand only if θ = 0, the postulate of atheism.
Rev. R. F. Littledale, D.C.L.
Both these passages come from an Article in theContemporaryfor April, 1878.As this book is partly intended to revive the memories of forty years ago, I include these out of the passages in my commonplace book which refer to the intense struggle that then raged over the question of Eternal Punishment. Surely no other word, since the world began, raised so tremendous an issue, created such conflict and caused so much heart-burning as the one word αἰώνιος.(Liddell and Scott, 1901, gives the following meanings for αἰώνιος:lasting for an age,perpetual,everlasting,eternal.)
Both these passages come from an Article in theContemporaryfor April, 1878.
As this book is partly intended to revive the memories of forty years ago, I include these out of the passages in my commonplace book which refer to the intense struggle that then raged over the question of Eternal Punishment. Surely no other word, since the world began, raised so tremendous an issue, created such conflict and caused so much heart-burning as the one word αἰώνιος.
(Liddell and Scott, 1901, gives the following meanings for αἰώνιος:lasting for an age,perpetual,everlasting,eternal.)
I thank God, and with joy I mention it, I was never afraid of Hell, nor never grew pale at the description of that place. I have so fixed my contemplations on Heaven, that I have almost forgot the Idea of Hell, and am afraid rather to lose the joys of the one, than endure the misery of the other: to be deprived of them is a perfect Hell, and needs, methinks, no addition to compleat our afflictions. That terrible term hath never detained me from sin, nor do I owe any good action to the name thereof. I fear GOD, yet am not afraid of Him: His Mercies make me ashamed of my sins, before His Judgments afraid thereof.
Sir Thomas Browne(1605-1682) (Religio Medici).
Ne nous imaginons pas que l’enfer consiste dans ces étangs de feu et de soufre, dans ces flammes éternellement dévorantes, dans cette rage, dans ce désespoir, dans cet horrible grincement de dents. L’enfer, si nous l’entendons, c’est péché même: l’enfer, c’est d’être éloigné de Dieu.
Bossuet(1627-1704).
(Let us not imagine that hell consists in those lakes of fire and brimstone, in those eternally-devouring flames, in that rage, in that despair, in that horrible gnashing of teeth. Hell, if we understand it aright, is sin itself: hell consists in being banished from God.)
(Let us not imagine that hell consists in those lakes of fire and brimstone, in those eternally-devouring flames, in that rage, in that despair, in that horrible gnashing of teeth. Hell, if we understand it aright, is sin itself: hell consists in being banished from God.)
... Sir Henry Wotton’s celebrated answer to a priest in Italy, who asked him, “Where was your religion to be found before Luther?” “My religion was to be found there—where yours is not to be found now—in the written word of God.” In Selden’sTable Talkwe have the following more witty reply made to the same question: “Where was America an hundred or six score years ago?”
Boswell’sLife of Johnson, VIII, 176.
I do not wish to introduce sectarian questions, but these answers are interesting and clever. The next quotation is pro-Catholic.
I do not wish to introduce sectarian questions, but these answers are interesting and clever. The next quotation is pro-Catholic.
During the horrible time of the Borgia Pope, Alexander VI, a French priest and a Jew became very intimate friends. The priest, very anxious for the future welfare of his friend, urged him to be received into the church: and the Jew promised to earnestly consider this advice. The priest, however, gave up all hope on learning that the Jew was called by his business to Rome, where he would see the unutterably monstrous life of the Pope and clergy. To his surprise the Jew on his return announced that he wished to be baptized, saying that a religion, which could still exist in spite of such abominations, must be the true religion.
Author not traced.
I noted this from an old French book, but the real story must be the earlier one of Boccaccio (1315-1375). Alexander Borgia was Pope, 1492-1503.
I noted this from an old French book, but the real story must be the earlier one of Boccaccio (1315-1375). Alexander Borgia was Pope, 1492-1503.
I verily believe that, if the knife were put into my hand, I should not have strength and energy enough to stick it into a Dissenter.
Sydney Smith.
Shortly before his death in 1844 he gave this as a singular proof of his declining strength! (SeeMemoirby his daughter, Lady Holland).
Shortly before his death in 1844 he gave this as a singular proof of his declining strength! (SeeMemoirby his daughter, Lady Holland).
A hundred times when, roving high and low,I have been harassed with the toil of verse,Much pains and little progress, and at onceSome lovely Image in the song rose upFull-formed like Venus rising from the sea.W. Wordsworth(Prelude, Bk. IV).
A hundred times when, roving high and low,I have been harassed with the toil of verse,Much pains and little progress, and at onceSome lovely Image in the song rose upFull-formed like Venus rising from the sea.W. Wordsworth(Prelude, Bk. IV).
A hundred times when, roving high and low,I have been harassed with the toil of verse,Much pains and little progress, and at onceSome lovely Image in the song rose upFull-formed like Venus rising from the sea.
A hundred times when, roving high and low,
I have been harassed with the toil of verse,
Much pains and little progress, and at once
Some lovely Image in the song rose up
Full-formed like Venus rising from the sea.
W. Wordsworth(Prelude, Bk. IV).
W. Wordsworth(Prelude, Bk. IV).