Theworld is full of fools; and sycophancy liveth on the foolish:So he groweth great and rich, that fawning supple parasite.Sometimes he boweth like a reed, cringing to the pompousness of pride,Sometimes he strutteth as a gallant, pampering the fickleness of vanity;I have known him listen with the humble, enacting silent marveller,To hear some purse-proud dunce expose his poverty of mind;I have heard him wrangle with the obstinate, vowing that he will not be convinced,When some weak youth hath wisely feared the chance of ill success:Now, he will barely be a winner,—to magnify thy triumphs afterward;Now, he will hardly be a loser,—but cannot cease to wonder at thy skill:He laudeth his own worth, that the leader may have glory in his follower;He meekly confesseth his unworthiness, that the leader may have glory in himself.Many wiles hath he, and many modes of catching,But every trap is selfishness, and every bait is praise.
Theworld is full of fools; and sycophancy liveth on the foolish:
So he groweth great and rich, that fawning supple parasite.
Sometimes he boweth like a reed, cringing to the pompousness of pride,
Sometimes he strutteth as a gallant, pampering the fickleness of vanity;
I have known him listen with the humble, enacting silent marveller,
To hear some purse-proud dunce expose his poverty of mind;
I have heard him wrangle with the obstinate, vowing that he will not be convinced,
When some weak youth hath wisely feared the chance of ill success:
Now, he will barely be a winner,—to magnify thy triumphs afterward;
Now, he will hardly be a loser,—but cannot cease to wonder at thy skill:
He laudeth his own worth, that the leader may have glory in his follower;
He meekly confesseth his unworthiness, that the leader may have glory in himself.
Many wiles hath he, and many modes of catching,
But every trap is selfishness, and every bait is praise.
Come,I would forewarn thee and forearm thee; for keen are the weapons of his warfare;And, while my soul hath scorned him, I have watched his skill from far.His thoughts are full of guile, deceitfully combining contrarieties,And when he doeth battle in a man, he is leagued with traitorous Self-love.Strange things have I noted, and opposite to common fancy;We leave the open surface, and would plumb the secret depths.For he will magnify a lover, even to disparaging his mistress;So much wisdom, goodness, grace,—and all to be enslaved?Till the Narcissus, self-enamoured, whelmed in floods of flattery,Is cheated from the constancy and fervency of love by friendship's subtle praise.Moreover, he will glorify a parent, even to the censure of his child,—O degenerate scion, of a stock so excellent and noble!Scant will he be in well-earned praise of a son before his father;And rarely commendeth to a mother her daughter's budding beauty:Yet shall he extol the daughter to her father, and be warm about the son before his mother;Knowing that self-love entereth not, to resist applause with jealousies.Wisely is he sparing of hyperbole where vehemence of praise would humble,For many a father liketh ill to be counted second to his son:And shrewdly the flatterer hath reckoned on a self still lurking in the mother,When his tongue was slow to speak of graces in the daughter.But if he descend a generation, to the grandsire his talk is of the grandson,Because in such high praise he hideth the honours of the son;And the daughter of a daughter may well exceed, in beauty, love, and learning,For unconsciously old age perceived—she cannot be my rival.These are of the deep things of flattery: and many a shallow sycophantHath marvelled ill that praise of children seldom won their parents.This therefore note, unto detection: flattery can sneer as well as smile;And a master in the craft wotteth well, that his oblique thrust is surest.
Come,I would forewarn thee and forearm thee; for keen are the weapons of his warfare;
And, while my soul hath scorned him, I have watched his skill from far.
His thoughts are full of guile, deceitfully combining contrarieties,
And when he doeth battle in a man, he is leagued with traitorous Self-love.
Strange things have I noted, and opposite to common fancy;
We leave the open surface, and would plumb the secret depths.
For he will magnify a lover, even to disparaging his mistress;
So much wisdom, goodness, grace,—and all to be enslaved?
Till the Narcissus, self-enamoured, whelmed in floods of flattery,
Is cheated from the constancy and fervency of love by friendship's subtle praise.
Moreover, he will glorify a parent, even to the censure of his child,—
O degenerate scion, of a stock so excellent and noble!
Scant will he be in well-earned praise of a son before his father;
And rarely commendeth to a mother her daughter's budding beauty:
Yet shall he extol the daughter to her father, and be warm about the son before his mother;
Knowing that self-love entereth not, to resist applause with jealousies.
Wisely is he sparing of hyperbole where vehemence of praise would humble,
For many a father liketh ill to be counted second to his son:
And shrewdly the flatterer hath reckoned on a self still lurking in the mother,
When his tongue was slow to speak of graces in the daughter.
But if he descend a generation, to the grandsire his talk is of the grandson,
Because in such high praise he hideth the honours of the son;
And the daughter of a daughter may well exceed, in beauty, love, and learning,
For unconsciously old age perceived—she cannot be my rival.
These are of the deep things of flattery: and many a shallow sycophant
Hath marvelled ill that praise of children seldom won their parents.
This therefore note, unto detection: flattery can sneer as well as smile;
And a master in the craft wotteth well, that his oblique thrust is surest.
Flatterysticketh like a burr, holding to the soil with anchors,A vital, natural, subtle seed, everywhere hardy and indigenous.Go to the storehouse of thy memory, and take what is readiest to thy hand,—The noble deed, the clever phrase, for which thy pride was flattered:Oh, it hath been dwelt upon in solitude, and comforted thy heart in crowds,It hath made thee walk as in a dream, and lifted up the head above thy fellows;It hath compensated months of gloom, that minute of sweet sunshine,Drying up the pools of apathy, and kindling the fire of ambition:Yea, the flavour of that spice, mingled in the cup of life,Shall linger even to the dregs, and still be tasted with a welcome;The dame shall tell her grandchild of her coy and courted youth,And the grey-beard prateth of a stranger, who praised his task at school.
Flatterysticketh like a burr, holding to the soil with anchors,
A vital, natural, subtle seed, everywhere hardy and indigenous.
Go to the storehouse of thy memory, and take what is readiest to thy hand,—
The noble deed, the clever phrase, for which thy pride was flattered:
Oh, it hath been dwelt upon in solitude, and comforted thy heart in crowds,
It hath made thee walk as in a dream, and lifted up the head above thy fellows;
It hath compensated months of gloom, that minute of sweet sunshine,
Drying up the pools of apathy, and kindling the fire of ambition:
Yea, the flavour of that spice, mingled in the cup of life,
Shall linger even to the dregs, and still be tasted with a welcome;
The dame shall tell her grandchild of her coy and courted youth,
And the grey-beard prateth of a stranger, who praised his task at school.
Oftimesto the sluggard and the dull, flattery hath done good service,Quickening the mind to emulation, and encouraging the heart that failed.Even so, a stimulating poison, wisely tendered by the leech,Shall speed the pulse, and rally life, and cheat astonished death.For, as a timid swimmer ventureth afloat with bladders,Until self-confidence and growth of skill have made him spurn their aid,Thus commendation may be prudent, where a child hath ill deserved it;But praise unmerited is flattery, and the cure will bring its cares:For thy son may find thee out, and thou shalt rue the remedy:Yea, rather, where thou canst not praise, be honest in rebuke.
Oftimesto the sluggard and the dull, flattery hath done good service,
Quickening the mind to emulation, and encouraging the heart that failed.
Even so, a stimulating poison, wisely tendered by the leech,
Shall speed the pulse, and rally life, and cheat astonished death.
For, as a timid swimmer ventureth afloat with bladders,
Until self-confidence and growth of skill have made him spurn their aid,
Thus commendation may be prudent, where a child hath ill deserved it;
But praise unmerited is flattery, and the cure will bring its cares:
For thy son may find thee out, and thou shalt rue the remedy:
Yea, rather, where thou canst not praise, be honest in rebuke.
I haveseen the objects of a flatterer mirrored clearly on the surface,Where self-love scattereth praise, to gather praise again.This is a commodity of merchandize, words put out at interest:A scheme for canvassing opinions, and tinging them all with partiality.He is but a harmless fool; humour him with pitiful good-nature:If a poetaster quote thy song, be thou tender to his poem:Did the painter praise thy sketch? be kind, commend his picture;He looketh for a like return; then thank him with thy praise.In these small things with these small minds count thou the sycophant a courtier,And pay back, as blindly as ye may, the too transparent honour.
I haveseen the objects of a flatterer mirrored clearly on the surface,
Where self-love scattereth praise, to gather praise again.
This is a commodity of merchandize, words put out at interest:
A scheme for canvassing opinions, and tinging them all with partiality.
He is but a harmless fool; humour him with pitiful good-nature:
If a poetaster quote thy song, be thou tender to his poem:
Did the painter praise thy sketch? be kind, commend his picture;
He looketh for a like return; then thank him with thy praise.
In these small things with these small minds count thou the sycophant a courtier,
And pay back, as blindly as ye may, the too transparent honour.
Also,where the flattery is delicate, coming unobtrusive and in season,Though thou be suspicious of its truth, be generous at least to its gentility.The skilful thief of Lacedæmon had praise before his judges,And many caitiffs win applause for genius in their callings.Moreover, his meaning may be kind,—and thou art a debtor to his tongue;Hasten well to pay the debt, with charity and shrewdness:He must not think thee caught, nor feel himself discovered,Nor find thine answering compliment as hollow as his own.Though he be a smiling enemy, let him heed thee as the fearless and the friendly;A searching look, a poignant word, may prove thou art aware:Still, with compassion to the frail, though keen to see his soul,Let him not fear for thy discretion: see thou keep his secret, and thine own.
Also,where the flattery is delicate, coming unobtrusive and in season,
Though thou be suspicious of its truth, be generous at least to its gentility.
The skilful thief of Lacedæmon had praise before his judges,
And many caitiffs win applause for genius in their callings.
Moreover, his meaning may be kind,—and thou art a debtor to his tongue;
Hasten well to pay the debt, with charity and shrewdness:
He must not think thee caught, nor feel himself discovered,
Nor find thine answering compliment as hollow as his own.
Though he be a smiling enemy, let him heed thee as the fearless and the friendly;
A searching look, a poignant word, may prove thou art aware:
Still, with compassion to the frail, though keen to see his soul,
Let him not fear for thy discretion: see thou keep his secret, and thine own.
However,where the flattery is gross, a falsehood clear and fulsome,Crush the venomous toad, and spare not for a jewel in its head.Tell the presumptuous in flattery, that or ever he bespatter thee with praise,It might be well to stop and ask how little it were worth:Thou hast not solicited his suffrage,—let him not force thee to refuse it;Look to it, man, thy fence is foiled,—and thus we spoil the plot.Self-knowledge goeth armed, girt with many weapons,But carrieth whips for flattery, to lash it like a slave:But the dunce in that great science goeth as a greedy tunny,To gorge both bait and hook, unheeding all but appetite:He smelleth praise and swalloweth,—yea, though it be palpable and plain,Say unto him, Folly, thou art Wisdom,—he will bless thee for thy lie.
However,where the flattery is gross, a falsehood clear and fulsome,
Crush the venomous toad, and spare not for a jewel in its head.
Tell the presumptuous in flattery, that or ever he bespatter thee with praise,
It might be well to stop and ask how little it were worth:
Thou hast not solicited his suffrage,—let him not force thee to refuse it;
Look to it, man, thy fence is foiled,—and thus we spoil the plot.
Self-knowledge goeth armed, girt with many weapons,
But carrieth whips for flattery, to lash it like a slave:
But the dunce in that great science goeth as a greedy tunny,
To gorge both bait and hook, unheeding all but appetite:
He smelleth praise and swalloweth,—yea, though it be palpable and plain,
Say unto him, Folly, thou art Wisdom,—he will bless thee for thy lie.
Flatterer,thou shalt rue thy trade, though it have many present gains;Those varnished wares may sell apace, yet shall they spoil thy credit.Thine is the intoxicating cup, which whoso drinketh it shall nauseate:Thine is trickery and cheating; but deception never pleased for long.And though while fresh thy fragrance seemed even as the dews of charity,Yet afterward it fouled thy censer, as with savour of stale smoke.For the great mind detected thee at once, answering thine emptiness with pity,He saw thy self-interested zeal, and was not cozened by vain-glory:And the little mind is bloated with the praise, scorning him who gave it,A fool shall turn to be thy tyrant, an thou hast dubbed him great:And the medium mind of common men, loving first thy music,After, when the harmonies are done, shall feel small comfort in their echoes;For either he shall know thee false, conscious of contrary deservings,And, hating thee for falsehood, soon will scorn himself for truth,Or, if in aught to toilsome merit honest praise be due,Though for a season, belike, his weakness hath been raptured at thy witching,Shall he not speedily perceive, to the vexing of his disappointed spirit,That thine exaggerated tongue hath robbed him of fair fame?Thou hast paid in forger's coins, and he had earned true money:For the substance of just praise, thou hast put him off with shadows of the sycophant:Thou art all things to all men, for ends false and selfish,Therefore shalt be nothing unto any one, when those thine ends are seen.
Flatterer,thou shalt rue thy trade, though it have many present gains;
Those varnished wares may sell apace, yet shall they spoil thy credit.
Thine is the intoxicating cup, which whoso drinketh it shall nauseate:
Thine is trickery and cheating; but deception never pleased for long.
And though while fresh thy fragrance seemed even as the dews of charity,
Yet afterward it fouled thy censer, as with savour of stale smoke.
For the great mind detected thee at once, answering thine emptiness with pity,
He saw thy self-interested zeal, and was not cozened by vain-glory:
And the little mind is bloated with the praise, scorning him who gave it,
A fool shall turn to be thy tyrant, an thou hast dubbed him great:
And the medium mind of common men, loving first thy music,
After, when the harmonies are done, shall feel small comfort in their echoes;
For either he shall know thee false, conscious of contrary deservings,
And, hating thee for falsehood, soon will scorn himself for truth,
Or, if in aught to toilsome merit honest praise be due,
Though for a season, belike, his weakness hath been raptured at thy witching,
Shall he not speedily perceive, to the vexing of his disappointed spirit,
That thine exaggerated tongue hath robbed him of fair fame?
Thou hast paid in forger's coins, and he had earned true money:
For the substance of just praise, thou hast put him off with shadows of the sycophant:
Thou art all things to all men, for ends false and selfish,
Therefore shalt be nothing unto any one, when those thine ends are seen.
Turnaside, young scholar, turn from the song of Flattery!She hath the Siren's musical voice, to ravish and betray.Her tongue droppeth honey, but it is the honey of Anticyra;Her face is a mask of fascination, but there hideth deformity behind;Her coming is the presence of a queen, heralded by courtesy and beauty,But, going away, her train is held by the hideous dwarf, Disgust.
Turnaside, young scholar, turn from the song of Flattery!
She hath the Siren's musical voice, to ravish and betray.
Her tongue droppeth honey, but it is the honey of Anticyra;
Her face is a mask of fascination, but there hideth deformity behind;
Her coming is the presence of a queen, heralded by courtesy and beauty,
But, going away, her train is held by the hideous dwarf, Disgust.
Knowthyself, thine evil as thy good, and flattery shall not harm thee:Yea, her speech shall be a warning, a humbling and a guide.For wherein thou lackest most, there chiefly will the sycophant commend thee,And then most warmly will congratulate, when a man hath least deserved.Behold, she is doubly a traitor; and will underrate her victim's best,That, to the comforting of conscience, she may plead his worse for better.
Knowthyself, thine evil as thy good, and flattery shall not harm thee:
Yea, her speech shall be a warning, a humbling and a guide.
For wherein thou lackest most, there chiefly will the sycophant commend thee,
And then most warmly will congratulate, when a man hath least deserved.
Behold, she is doubly a traitor; and will underrate her victim's best,
That, to the comforting of conscience, she may plead his worse for better.
Therefore,is she dangerous,—as every lie is dangerous:Believe her tales, and perish: if thou act upon such counsel.Her aims are thine not thee, thy wealth and not thy welfare,Thy suffrage not thy safety, thine aid and not thine honour.Moreover, with those aims insured, ceaseth all her glozing;She hath used thee as a handle,—but her hand was wise to turn it;Thus will she glorify her skill, that it deftly caught thy kindness,Thus will she scorn thy kindness, so pliable and easy to her skill.And then, the flatterer will turn to be thy foe, the bitterest and hottest,Because he oweth thee much hate to pay off many humblings.Thinkest thou now that he is high, he loveth the remembrance of his lowliness,The servile manner, the dependent smile, the conscience self-abased?No, this hour is his own, and the flatterer will be found a busy mocker;He that hath salved thee with his tongue, shall now gnash upon thee with his teeth;Yea, he will be leader in the laugh,—silly one, to listen to thy loss,We scarce had hoped to lime and take another of the fools of flattery.
Therefore,is she dangerous,—as every lie is dangerous:
Believe her tales, and perish: if thou act upon such counsel.
Her aims are thine not thee, thy wealth and not thy welfare,
Thy suffrage not thy safety, thine aid and not thine honour.
Moreover, with those aims insured, ceaseth all her glozing;
She hath used thee as a handle,—but her hand was wise to turn it;
Thus will she glorify her skill, that it deftly caught thy kindness,
Thus will she scorn thy kindness, so pliable and easy to her skill.
And then, the flatterer will turn to be thy foe, the bitterest and hottest,
Because he oweth thee much hate to pay off many humblings.
Thinkest thou now that he is high, he loveth the remembrance of his lowliness,
The servile manner, the dependent smile, the conscience self-abased?
No, this hour is his own, and the flatterer will be found a busy mocker;
He that hath salved thee with his tongue, shall now gnash upon thee with his teeth;
Yea, he will be leader in the laugh,—silly one, to listen to thy loss,
We scarce had hoped to lime and take another of the fools of flattery.
Atthe last; have charity, young scholar,—yea, to the sycophant convicted;Be not a Brutus to thyself, nor stern in thine own cause.Pardon exaggerated praise; for there is a natural impulse,Spurring on the nobler mind, to colour facts by feelings:Take an indulgent view of each man's interest in self,Be large and liberal in excuses; is not that infirmity thine own?Search thy soul and be humble; and mercy abideth with humility;So that, yea, the insincere may find thee pitiful, and love thee.Mildly put aside, without rudeness of repulse, the pampering hand of flattery,For courtesy and kindness have gone beneath its guise, and ill shouldst thou rebuke them.
Atthe last; have charity, young scholar,—yea, to the sycophant convicted;
Be not a Brutus to thyself, nor stern in thine own cause.
Pardon exaggerated praise; for there is a natural impulse,
Spurring on the nobler mind, to colour facts by feelings:
Take an indulgent view of each man's interest in self,
Be large and liberal in excuses; is not that infirmity thine own?
Search thy soul and be humble; and mercy abideth with humility;
So that, yea, the insincere may find thee pitiful, and love thee.
Mildly put aside, without rudeness of repulse, the pampering hand of flattery,
For courtesy and kindness have gone beneath its guise, and ill shouldst thou rebuke them.
Thouart incapable of theft: but flowers in the garden of a friendAre thine to pluck with confidence, and it were unfriendliness to hesitate:Thou abhorrest flattery: but a generous excess in praiseIs thine to yield with honest heart, and false were the charity to doubt it:The difference lieth in thine aim; kindliness and good are of charity,But selfish, harmful, vile, and bad, is Flattery's evil end.
Thouart incapable of theft: but flowers in the garden of a friend
Are thine to pluck with confidence, and it were unfriendliness to hesitate:
Thou abhorrest flattery: but a generous excess in praise
Is thine to yield with honest heart, and false were the charity to doubt it:
The difference lieth in thine aim; kindliness and good are of charity,
But selfish, harmful, vile, and bad, is Flattery's evil end.
Generousand righteous is thy grief, slighted child of sensibility;For kindliness enkindleth love, but the waters of indifference quench it:Thy soul is athirst for sympathy, and hungereth to find affection,The tender scions of thy heart yearn for the sunshine of good feeling;And it is an evil thing and bitter, when the cheerful face of Charity,Going forth gaily in the morning to woo the world with smiles,Is met by those wayfaring men with coldness, suspicion, and repulse,And turneth into hard dead stone at the Gorgon visage of Neglect.O brother, warm and young, covetous of other's favour,I see thee checked and chilled, sorrowing for censure or forgetfulness:Let coarse and common minds despise—that wounding of thy vanity,Alas, I note a sorer cause, the blighting of thy love;Let the callous sensual deride thee,—disappointed of thy praise,Alas, thou hast a juster grief, defrauded of their kindness:It is a theme for tears to feel the soft heart hardening,The frozen breath of apathy sealing up the fountain of affection;It is a pang, keen only to the best, to be injured well-deserving,And slumbering Neglect is injury,—Could ye not watch one hour?When God Himself complained, it was that none regarded,And indifference bowed to the rebuke, Thou gavest Me no kiss when I came in.
Generousand righteous is thy grief, slighted child of sensibility;
For kindliness enkindleth love, but the waters of indifference quench it:
Thy soul is athirst for sympathy, and hungereth to find affection,
The tender scions of thy heart yearn for the sunshine of good feeling;
And it is an evil thing and bitter, when the cheerful face of Charity,
Going forth gaily in the morning to woo the world with smiles,
Is met by those wayfaring men with coldness, suspicion, and repulse,
And turneth into hard dead stone at the Gorgon visage of Neglect.
O brother, warm and young, covetous of other's favour,
I see thee checked and chilled, sorrowing for censure or forgetfulness:
Let coarse and common minds despise—that wounding of thy vanity,
Alas, I note a sorer cause, the blighting of thy love;
Let the callous sensual deride thee,—disappointed of thy praise,
Alas, thou hast a juster grief, defrauded of their kindness:
It is a theme for tears to feel the soft heart hardening,
The frozen breath of apathy sealing up the fountain of affection;
It is a pang, keen only to the best, to be injured well-deserving,
And slumbering Neglect is injury,—Could ye not watch one hour?
When God Himself complained, it was that none regarded,
And indifference bowed to the rebuke, Thou gavest Me no kiss when I came in.
Moreover,praise is good; honour is a treasure to be hoarded;A good man's praise foreshadoweth God's, and in His smile is heaven:But men walk on in hardihood, steeling their sinfulness to censure,And when rebuke is ridiculed, the love of praise were an infirmity;The judge thou heedest not in fear, cannot have deep homage of thy hope,And who then is the wise of this world, that will own he trembleth at his fellows?Calm, careless, and insensible, he mocketh blame or calumny,Neither should his dignity be humbled to some pittance of their praise:The rather, let false pride affect to trample on the treasureWhich evermore in secret strength unconquered Nature prizeth;Rather, shall ye stifle now the rising bliss of triumph,Lest after, in the world's Neglect, he must acknowledge bitterness.
Moreover,praise is good; honour is a treasure to be hoarded;
A good man's praise foreshadoweth God's, and in His smile is heaven:
But men walk on in hardihood, steeling their sinfulness to censure,
And when rebuke is ridiculed, the love of praise were an infirmity;
The judge thou heedest not in fear, cannot have deep homage of thy hope,
And who then is the wise of this world, that will own he trembleth at his fellows?
Calm, careless, and insensible, he mocketh blame or calumny,
Neither should his dignity be humbled to some pittance of their praise:
The rather, let false pride affect to trample on the treasure
Which evermore in secret strength unconquered Nature prizeth;
Rather, shall ye stifle now the rising bliss of triumph,
Lest after, in the world's Neglect, he must acknowledge bitterness.
Forlo, that world is wide, a huge and crowded continent,Its brazen sun is mammon, and its iron soil is care:A world full of men, where each man clingeth to his idol;A world full of men, where each man cherisheth his sorrow;A world full of men, multitude shoaling upon multitude;A surging sea, where every wave is burdened with an argosy of self;A boundless beach, where every stone is a separate microscopic world:A forest of innumerable trees, where every root is independent.
Forlo, that world is wide, a huge and crowded continent,
Its brazen sun is mammon, and its iron soil is care:
A world full of men, where each man clingeth to his idol;
A world full of men, where each man cherisheth his sorrow;
A world full of men, multitude shoaling upon multitude;
A surging sea, where every wave is burdened with an argosy of self;
A boundless beach, where every stone is a separate microscopic world:
A forest of innumerable trees, where every root is independent.
Whatthen is the marvel or the shame, if units be lost among the million?Canst thou reasonably murmur, if a leaf drop off unnoticed?Wondrous in architecture, intricate and beautiful, delicately tinged and scented,Exquisite of feeling and mysterious in life, none cared for its growth, or its decay:None? yea,—no one of its fellows,—nor cedar, palm, nor bramble,—None? its twin-born brother scarcely missed it from the spray:None?—if none indeed, then man's neglect were bitterness;And Life a land without a sun, a globe without a God!Yea, flowers in the desert, there be that love your beauty;Yea, jewels in the sea, there be that prize your brightness;Children of unmerited oblivion, there be that watch and woo you,And many tend your sweets, with gentle ministering care:Thronging spirits of the happy, and the ever-present Good OneYearning seek those precious things, man hath not heart to love,Gems of the humblest or the highest, pure and patient in their kind,The souls unhardened by ill usage, and uncorrupt by luxury.
Whatthen is the marvel or the shame, if units be lost among the million?
Canst thou reasonably murmur, if a leaf drop off unnoticed?
Wondrous in architecture, intricate and beautiful, delicately tinged and scented,
Exquisite of feeling and mysterious in life, none cared for its growth, or its decay:
None? yea,—no one of its fellows,—nor cedar, palm, nor bramble,—
None? its twin-born brother scarcely missed it from the spray:
None?—if none indeed, then man's neglect were bitterness;
And Life a land without a sun, a globe without a God!
Yea, flowers in the desert, there be that love your beauty;
Yea, jewels in the sea, there be that prize your brightness;
Children of unmerited oblivion, there be that watch and woo you,
And many tend your sweets, with gentle ministering care:
Thronging spirits of the happy, and the ever-present Good One
Yearning seek those precious things, man hath not heart to love,
Gems of the humblest or the highest, pure and patient in their kind,
The souls unhardened by ill usage, and uncorrupt by luxury.
Andye, poor desolates unsunned, toilers in the dark damp mine,Wearied daughters of oppression, crushed beneath the car of avarice,There be that count your tears,—He hath numbered the hairs of thy head,—There be that can forgive your ill, with kind considerate pity:Count ye this for comfort, Justice hath her balances,And yet another world can compensate for all:The daily martyrdom of patience shall not be wanting of reward;Duty is a prickly shrub, but its flower will be happiness and glory.
Andye, poor desolates unsunned, toilers in the dark damp mine,
Wearied daughters of oppression, crushed beneath the car of avarice,
There be that count your tears,—He hath numbered the hairs of thy head,—
There be that can forgive your ill, with kind considerate pity:
Count ye this for comfort, Justice hath her balances,
And yet another world can compensate for all:
The daily martyrdom of patience shall not be wanting of reward;
Duty is a prickly shrub, but its flower will be happiness and glory.
Yetoo, the friendless, yet dependent, that find nor home nor lover,Sad imprisoned hearts, captive to the net of circumstance,—And ye, too harshly judged, noble unappreciated intellects,Who, capable of highest, lowlier fix your just ambition in content,—And chiefest, ye, famished infants of the poor, toiling for your parents' bread,Tired, and sore, and uncomforted the while, for want of love and learning,Who struggle with the pitiless machine in dull continuous conflict,Tasked by iron men, who care for nothing but your labour,—Be ye long-suffering and courageous: abide the will of Heaven;God is on your side; all things are tenderly remembered:His servants here shall help you; and where those fail you through Neglect,His kingdom still hath time and space for ample discriminative Justice:Yea, though utterly on this bad earth ye lose both right and mercy,The tears that we forgat to note, our God shall wipe away.
Yetoo, the friendless, yet dependent, that find nor home nor lover,
Sad imprisoned hearts, captive to the net of circumstance,—
And ye, too harshly judged, noble unappreciated intellects,
Who, capable of highest, lowlier fix your just ambition in content,—
And chiefest, ye, famished infants of the poor, toiling for your parents' bread,
Tired, and sore, and uncomforted the while, for want of love and learning,
Who struggle with the pitiless machine in dull continuous conflict,
Tasked by iron men, who care for nothing but your labour,—
Be ye long-suffering and courageous: abide the will of Heaven;
God is on your side; all things are tenderly remembered:
His servants here shall help you; and where those fail you through Neglect,
His kingdom still hath time and space for ample discriminative Justice:
Yea, though utterly on this bad earth ye lose both right and mercy,
The tears that we forgat to note, our God shall wipe away.
Nevertheless,kind spirit, susceptible and guileless,Meek uncherished dove, in a carrion flock of fowls,Sensitive mimosa, shrinking from the winds that help to root the fir,Fragile nautilus, shipwrecked in the gale whereat the conch is glad,Thy sharp peculiar grief is uncomforted by hope of compensation,For it is a delicate and spiritual wound, which the probe of pity bruiseth:Yet hear how many thoughts extenuate its pain;Even while a kindred heart can sorrow for its presence.For the sting of neglect is in this,—that such as we are all, forget us,That men and women, kith and kin, so lightly heed of other:Sympathy is lacking from the guilty such as we, even where angels minister,And souls of fine accord must prize a fellow-sinner's love;For the worst love those who love them, and the best claim heart for heart,And it is a holy thirst to long for love's requital:Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;And many a thorn is thrust into the side of him that is forgotten.The oppressive silence of reserve, the frost of failing friendship,Affection blighted by repulse, or chilled by shallow courtesy,The unaided struggle, the unconsidered grief, the unesteemed self-sacrifice,The gift, dear evidence of kindness, long due, but never offered,The glance estranged, the letter flung aside, the greeting ill received,The services of unobtrusive care unthanked, perchance unheeded,These things, which hard men mock at, rend the feelings of the tender,For the delicate tissue of a spiritual mind is torn by those sharp barbs;The coldness of a trusted friend, a plenitude ending in vacuity,Is as if the stable world had burst a hollow bubble.
Nevertheless,kind spirit, susceptible and guileless,
Meek uncherished dove, in a carrion flock of fowls,
Sensitive mimosa, shrinking from the winds that help to root the fir,
Fragile nautilus, shipwrecked in the gale whereat the conch is glad,
Thy sharp peculiar grief is uncomforted by hope of compensation,
For it is a delicate and spiritual wound, which the probe of pity bruiseth:
Yet hear how many thoughts extenuate its pain;
Even while a kindred heart can sorrow for its presence.
For the sting of neglect is in this,—that such as we are all, forget us,
That men and women, kith and kin, so lightly heed of other:
Sympathy is lacking from the guilty such as we, even where angels minister,
And souls of fine accord must prize a fellow-sinner's love;
For the worst love those who love them, and the best claim heart for heart,
And it is a holy thirst to long for love's requital:
Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;
And many a thorn is thrust into the side of him that is forgotten.
The oppressive silence of reserve, the frost of failing friendship,
Affection blighted by repulse, or chilled by shallow courtesy,
The unaided struggle, the unconsidered grief, the unesteemed self-sacrifice,
The gift, dear evidence of kindness, long due, but never offered,
The glance estranged, the letter flung aside, the greeting ill received,
The services of unobtrusive care unthanked, perchance unheeded,
These things, which hard men mock at, rend the feelings of the tender,
For the delicate tissue of a spiritual mind is torn by those sharp barbs;
The coldness of a trusted friend, a plenitude ending in vacuity,
Is as if the stable world had burst a hollow bubble.
Butconsider, child of sensibility; the lot of men is labour,Labour for the mouth, or labour in the spirit, labour stern and individual.Worldly cares and worldly hopes exact the thoughts of all,And there is a necessary selfishness, rooted in each mortal breast.The plans of prudence, or the whisperings of pride, or all-absorbing reveries of love,Ambition, grief, or fear, or joy, set each man for himself;Therefore, the centre of a circle, whereunto all the universe convergeth,Is seen in fallen solitude, the naked selfish heart:Stripped of conventional deceptions, untrammelled from the harness of society,We all may read one little word engraved on all we do;Other men, what are they unto us? the age, the mass, the million,—We segregate, distinct from generalities, that isolated particle, a self:It is the very law of our life, a law for soul and body,An earthly law for earthly men, toiling in responsible probation.For each is the all unto himself, disguise it as we may,Each infinite, each most precious; yet even as a nothing to his neighbour.O consider, we be crowding up an avenue, trapped in the decoy of time,Behind us the irrevocable past, before us the illimitable future:What wonder is there, if the traveller, wayworn, hopeful, fearful,Burdened himself, so lightly heed the burden of his brother?How shouldst thou marvel and be sad, that the pilgrims trouble not to learn thee,When each hath to master for himself the lessons of life and immortality?
Butconsider, child of sensibility; the lot of men is labour,
Labour for the mouth, or labour in the spirit, labour stern and individual.
Worldly cares and worldly hopes exact the thoughts of all,
And there is a necessary selfishness, rooted in each mortal breast.
The plans of prudence, or the whisperings of pride, or all-absorbing reveries of love,
Ambition, grief, or fear, or joy, set each man for himself;
Therefore, the centre of a circle, whereunto all the universe convergeth,
Is seen in fallen solitude, the naked selfish heart:
Stripped of conventional deceptions, untrammelled from the harness of society,
We all may read one little word engraved on all we do;
Other men, what are they unto us? the age, the mass, the million,—
We segregate, distinct from generalities, that isolated particle, a self:
It is the very law of our life, a law for soul and body,
An earthly law for earthly men, toiling in responsible probation.
For each is the all unto himself, disguise it as we may,
Each infinite, each most precious; yet even as a nothing to his neighbour.
O consider, we be crowding up an avenue, trapped in the decoy of time,
Behind us the irrevocable past, before us the illimitable future:
What wonder is there, if the traveller, wayworn, hopeful, fearful,
Burdened himself, so lightly heed the burden of his brother?
How shouldst thou marvel and be sad, that the pilgrims trouble not to learn thee,
When each hath to master for himself the lessons of life and immortality?
Moreover,what art thou,—so vainly impatient of Neglect,Where then is thy worthiness, that so thou claimest honour?Let the true judgment of humility reckon up thine ill deserts,How little is there to be loved, how much to stir up scorn!The double heart, the bitter tongue, the rash and erring spirit,Be these, ye purest among men, your passports unto favour?It is mercy in the Merciful, and justice in the Just, to be jealous of His creature's love,But how should evil or duplicity arrogate affection to itself?Where love is happiness and duty, to be jealous of that love is godlike,But who can reverence the guilty? who findeth pleasure in the mean?Check the presumption of thy hopes: thankfully take refuge in obscurity,Or, if thou claimest merit, thy sin shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.
Moreover,what art thou,—so vainly impatient of Neglect,
Where then is thy worthiness, that so thou claimest honour?
Let the true judgment of humility reckon up thine ill deserts,
How little is there to be loved, how much to stir up scorn!
The double heart, the bitter tongue, the rash and erring spirit,
Be these, ye purest among men, your passports unto favour?
It is mercy in the Merciful, and justice in the Just, to be jealous of His creature's love,
But how should evil or duplicity arrogate affection to itself?
Where love is happiness and duty, to be jealous of that love is godlike,
But who can reverence the guilty? who findeth pleasure in the mean?
Check the presumption of thy hopes: thankfully take refuge in obscurity,
Or, if thou claimest merit, thy sin shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.
Yetagain: consider them of old, the good, the great, the learned,Who have blessed the world by wisdom, and glorified their God by purity.Did those speed in favour? were they the loved and the admired?Was every prophet had in honour? and every deserving one remembered to his praise?What shall I say of yonder band, a glorious cloud of witnesses,The scorned, defamed, insulted,—but the excellent of earth?It were weariness to count up noble names, neglected in their lives,Whom none esteemed, nor cared to love, till death had sealed them his.For good men are the health of the world, valued only when it perisheth,Like water, light, and air, all precious in their absence.Who hath considered the blessing of his breath, till the poison of an asthma struck him?Who hath regarded the just pulses of his heart, till spasm or paralysis have stopped them?Even thus, an unobserved routine of daily grace and wisdom,When no more here, had worship of a world, whose penitence atoned for its neglect.And living genius is seen among infirmities, wherefrom the commoner are free;And other rival men of mind crowd this arena of contention;And there be many cares; and a man knoweth little of his brother;Feebly we appreciate a motive, and slowly keep pace with a feeling:And social difference is much; and experience teacheth sadly,How great the treachery of friends, how dangerous the courtesy of enemies.So, the sum of all these things operateth largely upon all men,Hedging us about with thorns, to cramp our yearning sympathies,And we grow materialized in mind, forgetting what we see not,But, immersed in perceptions of the present, keep things absent out of thought:Thus, where ingratitude, and guilt, and labour, and selfishness would harden,Humbly will the good man bow, unmurmuring, to Neglect.
Yetagain: consider them of old, the good, the great, the learned,
Who have blessed the world by wisdom, and glorified their God by purity.
Did those speed in favour? were they the loved and the admired?
Was every prophet had in honour? and every deserving one remembered to his praise?
What shall I say of yonder band, a glorious cloud of witnesses,
The scorned, defamed, insulted,—but the excellent of earth?
It were weariness to count up noble names, neglected in their lives,
Whom none esteemed, nor cared to love, till death had sealed them his.
For good men are the health of the world, valued only when it perisheth,
Like water, light, and air, all precious in their absence.
Who hath considered the blessing of his breath, till the poison of an asthma struck him?
Who hath regarded the just pulses of his heart, till spasm or paralysis have stopped them?
Even thus, an unobserved routine of daily grace and wisdom,
When no more here, had worship of a world, whose penitence atoned for its neglect.
And living genius is seen among infirmities, wherefrom the commoner are free;
And other rival men of mind crowd this arena of contention;
And there be many cares; and a man knoweth little of his brother;
Feebly we appreciate a motive, and slowly keep pace with a feeling:
And social difference is much; and experience teacheth sadly,
How great the treachery of friends, how dangerous the courtesy of enemies.
So, the sum of all these things operateth largely upon all men,
Hedging us about with thorns, to cramp our yearning sympathies,
And we grow materialized in mind, forgetting what we see not,
But, immersed in perceptions of the present, keep things absent out of thought:
Thus, where ingratitude, and guilt, and labour, and selfishness would harden,
Humbly will the good man bow, unmurmuring, to Neglect.
Yetonce more, griever at Neglect, hear me to thy comfort, or rebuke:For, after all thy just complaint, the world is full of love.O heart of childhood, tender, trusting, and affectionate,O youth, warm youth, full of generous attentions,O woman, self-forgetting woman, poetry of human life,And not less thou, O man, so often the disinterested brother,Many a smile of love, many a tear of pity,Many a word of comfort, many a deed of magnanimity,Many a stream of milk and honey pour ye freely on the earth,And many a rosebud of love rejoiceth in the dew of your affection.Neglect? O liberal world, for thine are many prizes:Neglect? O charitable world, where thousands feed on bounty;Neglect? O just world, for thy judgments err not often;Neglect? O libel on a world where half that world is woman!Where is the afflicted, whose voice, once heard, stirreth not a host of comforters?Where is the sick untended, or in prison, and they visited him not?The hungry is fed, and the thirsty satisfied, till ability set limits to the will,And those who did it unto them, have done it unto God!For human benevolence is large, though many matters dwarf it,Prudence, ignorance, imposture, and the straitenings of circumstance and time.And if to the body, so to the mind, the mass of men are generous;Their estimate, who know us best, is seldom seen to err;Be sure the fault is thine, as pride, or shallowness, or vanity,If all around thee, good and bad, neglect thy seeming merit:No man yet deserved, who found not some to love him;And he, that never kept a friend, need only blame himself:Many for unworthiness will droop and die, but all are not unworthy;It must indeed be cold clay soil, that killeth every seed.Therefore, examine thy state, O self-accounted martyr of Neglect,It may be, thy merit is a cubit, and thy measure thereof a furlong;But grant it greater than thy thoughts, and grant that men thy fellows,For pleasure, business, or interest, misuse, forget, neglect thee,—Still be thou conqueror in this, the consciousness of high deservings;Let it suffice thee to be worthy; faint not thou for praise;For that thou art, be grateful; go humbly even in thy confidence;And set thy foot upon the neck of an enemy so harmless as Neglect.
Yetonce more, griever at Neglect, hear me to thy comfort, or rebuke:
For, after all thy just complaint, the world is full of love.
O heart of childhood, tender, trusting, and affectionate,
O youth, warm youth, full of generous attentions,
O woman, self-forgetting woman, poetry of human life,
And not less thou, O man, so often the disinterested brother,
Many a smile of love, many a tear of pity,
Many a word of comfort, many a deed of magnanimity,
Many a stream of milk and honey pour ye freely on the earth,
And many a rosebud of love rejoiceth in the dew of your affection.
Neglect? O liberal world, for thine are many prizes:
Neglect? O charitable world, where thousands feed on bounty;
Neglect? O just world, for thy judgments err not often;
Neglect? O libel on a world where half that world is woman!
Where is the afflicted, whose voice, once heard, stirreth not a host of comforters?
Where is the sick untended, or in prison, and they visited him not?
The hungry is fed, and the thirsty satisfied, till ability set limits to the will,
And those who did it unto them, have done it unto God!
For human benevolence is large, though many matters dwarf it,
Prudence, ignorance, imposture, and the straitenings of circumstance and time.
And if to the body, so to the mind, the mass of men are generous;
Their estimate, who know us best, is seldom seen to err;
Be sure the fault is thine, as pride, or shallowness, or vanity,
If all around thee, good and bad, neglect thy seeming merit:
No man yet deserved, who found not some to love him;
And he, that never kept a friend, need only blame himself:
Many for unworthiness will droop and die, but all are not unworthy;
It must indeed be cold clay soil, that killeth every seed.
Therefore, examine thy state, O self-accounted martyr of Neglect,
It may be, thy merit is a cubit, and thy measure thereof a furlong;
But grant it greater than thy thoughts, and grant that men thy fellows,
For pleasure, business, or interest, misuse, forget, neglect thee,—
Still be thou conqueror in this, the consciousness of high deservings;
Let it suffice thee to be worthy; faint not thou for praise;
For that thou art, be grateful; go humbly even in thy confidence;
And set thy foot upon the neck of an enemy so harmless as Neglect.
Godlinesswith Contentment,—these be the pillars of felicity,Jachin, wherewithal it is established, and Boaz, in the which is strength;And upon their capitals is lily-work, the lotus fruit and flower,Those fair and fragrant types of holiness, innocence, and beauty;Great gain pertaineth to the pillars, nets and chains of wreathen gold,And they stand up straight in the temple porch, the house where Glory dwelleth.
Godlinesswith Contentment,—these be the pillars of felicity,
Jachin, wherewithal it is established, and Boaz, in the which is strength;
And upon their capitals is lily-work, the lotus fruit and flower,
Those fair and fragrant types of holiness, innocence, and beauty;
Great gain pertaineth to the pillars, nets and chains of wreathen gold,
And they stand up straight in the temple porch, the house where Glory dwelleth.
Thebody craveth meats, and the spirit is athirst for peacefulness,He that hath these, hath enough; for all beyond is vanity.Surfeit vaulteth over pleasure, to light upon the hither side of pain;And great store is great care, the rather if it mightily increaseth.Albeit too little is a trouble, yet too much shall swell into an evil,If wisdom stand not nigh to moderate the wishes:For covetousness never had enough, but moaneth at its wants for ever,And rich men have commonly more need to be taught contentment than the poor.That hungry chasm in their market-place gapeth still unsatisfied,Yea, fling in all the wealth of Rome,—it asketh higher victims;So, when the miser's gold cannot fill the measure of his lust,Curtius must leap into the pit, and avarice shall close upon his life.
Thebody craveth meats, and the spirit is athirst for peacefulness,
He that hath these, hath enough; for all beyond is vanity.
Surfeit vaulteth over pleasure, to light upon the hither side of pain;
And great store is great care, the rather if it mightily increaseth.
Albeit too little is a trouble, yet too much shall swell into an evil,
If wisdom stand not nigh to moderate the wishes:
For covetousness never had enough, but moaneth at its wants for ever,
And rich men have commonly more need to be taught contentment than the poor.
That hungry chasm in their market-place gapeth still unsatisfied,
Yea, fling in all the wealth of Rome,—it asketh higher victims;
So, when the miser's gold cannot fill the measure of his lust,
Curtius must leap into the pit, and avarice shall close upon his life.
BeholdIndependence in his rags, all too easily contented,Careful for nothing, thankful for much, and uncomplaining in his poverty:Such an one have I somewhile seen earn his crust with gladness;He is a gatherer of simples, culling wild herbs upon the hills;And now, as he sitteth on the beach, with his motherless child beside him,To rest them in the cheerful sun, and sort their mints and horehound,—Tell me, can ye find upon his forehead the cloud of covetous anxiety,Or note the dull unkindled eyes of sated sons of pleasure?—For there is more joy of life with that poor picker of the ditches,Than among the multitude of wealthy who wed their gains to discontent.
BeholdIndependence in his rags, all too easily contented,
Careful for nothing, thankful for much, and uncomplaining in his poverty:
Such an one have I somewhile seen earn his crust with gladness;
He is a gatherer of simples, culling wild herbs upon the hills;
And now, as he sitteth on the beach, with his motherless child beside him,
To rest them in the cheerful sun, and sort their mints and horehound,—
Tell me, can ye find upon his forehead the cloud of covetous anxiety,
Or note the dull unkindled eyes of sated sons of pleasure?—
For there is more joy of life with that poor picker of the ditches,
Than among the multitude of wealthy who wed their gains to discontent.
I haveseen many rich, burdened with the fear of poverty,I have seen many poor, buoyed with all the carelessness of wealth:For the rich had the spirit of a pauper, and the moneyless a liberal heart;The first enjoyeth not for having, and the latter hath nothing but enjoyment.None is poor but the mean in mind, the timorous, the weak, and unbelieving;None is wealthy but the affluent in soul, who is satisfied and floweth over.The poor-rich is attenuate for fears, the rich-poor is fattened upon hopes;Cheerfulness is one man's welcome, and the other warneth from him by his gloom.Many poor have the pleasures of the rich, even in their own possessions;And many rich miss the poor man's comforts, and yet feel all his cares.Liberty is affluence, and the Helots of anxiety never can be counted wealthy;But he that is disenthralled from fear, goeth for the time a king;He is royal, great, and opulent, living free of fortune,And looking on the world as owner of its good, the Maker's child and heir:Whereas, the covetous is slavish, a very Midas in his avarice,Full of dismal dreams, and starved amongst his treasures:The ceaseless spur of discontent goaded him with instant apprehension,And his thirst for gold could never be quenched, for he drank with the throat of Crassus.
I haveseen many rich, burdened with the fear of poverty,
I have seen many poor, buoyed with all the carelessness of wealth:
For the rich had the spirit of a pauper, and the moneyless a liberal heart;
The first enjoyeth not for having, and the latter hath nothing but enjoyment.
None is poor but the mean in mind, the timorous, the weak, and unbelieving;
None is wealthy but the affluent in soul, who is satisfied and floweth over.
The poor-rich is attenuate for fears, the rich-poor is fattened upon hopes;
Cheerfulness is one man's welcome, and the other warneth from him by his gloom.
Many poor have the pleasures of the rich, even in their own possessions;
And many rich miss the poor man's comforts, and yet feel all his cares.
Liberty is affluence, and the Helots of anxiety never can be counted wealthy;
But he that is disenthralled from fear, goeth for the time a king;
He is royal, great, and opulent, living free of fortune,
And looking on the world as owner of its good, the Maker's child and heir:
Whereas, the covetous is slavish, a very Midas in his avarice,
Full of dismal dreams, and starved amongst his treasures:
The ceaseless spur of discontent goaded him with instant apprehension,
And his thirst for gold could never be quenched, for he drank with the throat of Crassus.
Vanity,and dreary disappointment, care, and weariness, and envy;Vanity is graven upon all things; wisely spake the preacher.For ambition is a burning mountain, thrown up amid the turbid sea,A Stromboli in sullen pride above the hissing waves;And the statesman climbing there, forgetful of his patriot intentions,Shall hate the strife of each rough step, or ever he hath toiled midway:And every truant from his home, the happy home of duty,Shall live to loathe his eminence of cares, that seething smoke and lava.Contentment is the temperate repast, flowing with milk and honey:Ambition is the drunken orgy, fed by liquid flames:A black and bitter frown is stamped upon the forehead of Ambition,But fair Contentment's angel-face is rayed with winning smiles.
Vanity,and dreary disappointment, care, and weariness, and envy;
Vanity is graven upon all things; wisely spake the preacher.
For ambition is a burning mountain, thrown up amid the turbid sea,
A Stromboli in sullen pride above the hissing waves;
And the statesman climbing there, forgetful of his patriot intentions,
Shall hate the strife of each rough step, or ever he hath toiled midway:
And every truant from his home, the happy home of duty,
Shall live to loathe his eminence of cares, that seething smoke and lava.
Contentment is the temperate repast, flowing with milk and honey:
Ambition is the drunken orgy, fed by liquid flames:
A black and bitter frown is stamped upon the forehead of Ambition,
But fair Contentment's angel-face is rayed with winning smiles.
Therewas in Tyre a merchant, the favourite child of fortune,An opulent man with many ships, to trade in many climes;And he rose up early to his merchandize, after feverish dreaming,And lay down late to his hot unrest, overwhelmed with calculated cares.So, day by day, and month by month, and year by year, he gained;And grew grey, and waxed great: for money brought him all things.All things?—verily, not all; the kernel of the nut is lacking,—His mind was a stranger to content, and as for Peace, he knew her not:Luxuries palled upon his palate, and his eyes were satiate with purple;He could coin much gold, but buy no happiness with it.And on a day, a day of dread, in the heat of inordinate ambition,When he threw with a gambler's hand, to lose or to double his possessions,The chance hit him,—he had speculated ill,—and men began to whisper;—Those he trusted, failed; and their usuries had bribed him deeply;One ship foundered out at sea,—and another met the pirate,—And so, with broken fortunes, men discreetly shunned him.He was a stricken stag, and went to hide away in solitude,And there in humility, he thought,—he resolved, and promptly acted:From the wreck of all his splendours, from the dregs of the goblet of affluence,He saved with management a morsel and a drop, for his daily cup and platter:And lo, that little was enough, and in enough was competence;His cares were gone,—he slept by night, and lived at peace by day;Cured of his guilty selfishness,—money's love, envy, competition,—He lived to be thankful in a cottage that he had lost a palace:For he found in his abasement what he vainly had sought in high estate,Both mind and body well at ease, though robed in the russet of the lowly.
Therewas in Tyre a merchant, the favourite child of fortune,
An opulent man with many ships, to trade in many climes;
And he rose up early to his merchandize, after feverish dreaming,
And lay down late to his hot unrest, overwhelmed with calculated cares.
So, day by day, and month by month, and year by year, he gained;
And grew grey, and waxed great: for money brought him all things.
All things?—verily, not all; the kernel of the nut is lacking,—
His mind was a stranger to content, and as for Peace, he knew her not:
Luxuries palled upon his palate, and his eyes were satiate with purple;
He could coin much gold, but buy no happiness with it.
And on a day, a day of dread, in the heat of inordinate ambition,
When he threw with a gambler's hand, to lose or to double his possessions,
The chance hit him,—he had speculated ill,—and men began to whisper;—
Those he trusted, failed; and their usuries had bribed him deeply;
One ship foundered out at sea,—and another met the pirate,—
And so, with broken fortunes, men discreetly shunned him.
He was a stricken stag, and went to hide away in solitude,
And there in humility, he thought,—he resolved, and promptly acted:
From the wreck of all his splendours, from the dregs of the goblet of affluence,
He saved with management a morsel and a drop, for his daily cup and platter:
And lo, that little was enough, and in enough was competence;
His cares were gone,—he slept by night, and lived at peace by day;
Cured of his guilty selfishness,—money's love, envy, competition,—
He lived to be thankful in a cottage that he had lost a palace:
For he found in his abasement what he vainly had sought in high estate,
Both mind and body well at ease, though robed in the russet of the lowly.
Oncemore; a certain priest, happy in his high vocation,With faith, and hope, and charity, well served his village altar;As men count riches, he was poor; but great were his treasures in heaven,And great his joys on earth, for God's sake doing good:He had few cares and many consolations, one of the welcome everywhere;The labourer accounted him his friend, and magnates did him honour at their table:With a large heart and little means he still made many grateful,And felt as the centre of a circle, of comfort, calmness, and content.But, on a weaker sabbath,—for he preached both well and wisely,—Some casual hearer loudly praised his great neglected talents:Why should he be buried in obscurity, and throw these pearls to swine?Could he not still be doing good,—the whilst he pushed his fortunes?Then came temptation, even on the spark of discontent;The neighbouring town had a pulpit to be filled; hotly did he canvass, and won it:Now was he popular and courted, and listened to the spell of admiration,And toiled to please the taste, rather than to pierce the conscience.Greedily he sought, and seeking found, the patronizing notice of the great;He thirsted for emoluments and honours, and counted rich men happy:So he flattered, so he preached; and gold and fame flowed in;They flowed in,—he was reaping his reward, and felt himself a fool.Alas, what a shadow was he following,—how precious was the substance he had left!Man for God, gold for good, this was his miserable bargain.The village church, its humble flock, and humbler parish priest,Zeal, devotion, and approving Heaven,—his books, and simple life,His little farm and flower-beds,—his recreative rambles with a friend,And haply, at eventide, the leaping trouts, to help their humble fare,All these wretchedly exchanged for what the world called fortune,With the harrowing conscience of a state relapsed to vain ambitions.Then,—for God was gracious to his soul,—his better thoughts returned,And better aims with better thoughts, his holy walk of old.Sickened of style, and ostentation, and the dissipative fashions of society,He deserted from the ranks of Mammon, and renewed his allegiance to God:For he found that the praises of men, and all that gold can give,Are not worthy to be named, against godliness and calm contentment.
Oncemore; a certain priest, happy in his high vocation,
With faith, and hope, and charity, well served his village altar;
As men count riches, he was poor; but great were his treasures in heaven,
And great his joys on earth, for God's sake doing good:
He had few cares and many consolations, one of the welcome everywhere;
The labourer accounted him his friend, and magnates did him honour at their table:
With a large heart and little means he still made many grateful,
And felt as the centre of a circle, of comfort, calmness, and content.
But, on a weaker sabbath,—for he preached both well and wisely,—
Some casual hearer loudly praised his great neglected talents:
Why should he be buried in obscurity, and throw these pearls to swine?
Could he not still be doing good,—the whilst he pushed his fortunes?
Then came temptation, even on the spark of discontent;
The neighbouring town had a pulpit to be filled; hotly did he canvass, and won it:
Now was he popular and courted, and listened to the spell of admiration,
And toiled to please the taste, rather than to pierce the conscience.
Greedily he sought, and seeking found, the patronizing notice of the great;
He thirsted for emoluments and honours, and counted rich men happy:
So he flattered, so he preached; and gold and fame flowed in;
They flowed in,—he was reaping his reward, and felt himself a fool.
Alas, what a shadow was he following,—how precious was the substance he had left!
Man for God, gold for good, this was his miserable bargain.
The village church, its humble flock, and humbler parish priest,
Zeal, devotion, and approving Heaven,—his books, and simple life,
His little farm and flower-beds,—his recreative rambles with a friend,
And haply, at eventide, the leaping trouts, to help their humble fare,
All these wretchedly exchanged for what the world called fortune,
With the harrowing conscience of a state relapsed to vain ambitions.
Then,—for God was gracious to his soul,—his better thoughts returned,
And better aims with better thoughts, his holy walk of old.
Sickened of style, and ostentation, and the dissipative fashions of society,
He deserted from the ranks of Mammon, and renewed his allegiance to God:
For he found that the praises of men, and all that gold can give,
Are not worthy to be named, against godliness and calm contentment.
A childwas playing in a garden, a merry little child,Bounding with triumphant health, and full of happy fancies;His kite was floating in the sunshine,—but he tied the string to a twigAnd ran among the roses to catch a new-born butterfly;His horn-book lay upon a bank, but the pretty truant hid it,Buried up in gathered grass, and moss, and sweet wild-thyme;He launched a paper boat upon the fountain, then wayward turned aside,To twine some fragrant jessamines about the dripping marble:So, in various pastime shadowing the schemes of manhood,That curly-headed boy consumed the golden hours:And I blessed his glowing face, envying the merry little child,As he shouted with the ecstasy of being, clapping his hands for joyfulness:For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is happiness and hope,Thy days are bright, thy flowers are sweet, and pleasure the condition of thy gift.
A childwas playing in a garden, a merry little child,
Bounding with triumphant health, and full of happy fancies;
His kite was floating in the sunshine,—but he tied the string to a twig
And ran among the roses to catch a new-born butterfly;
His horn-book lay upon a bank, but the pretty truant hid it,
Buried up in gathered grass, and moss, and sweet wild-thyme;
He launched a paper boat upon the fountain, then wayward turned aside,
To twine some fragrant jessamines about the dripping marble:
So, in various pastime shadowing the schemes of manhood,
That curly-headed boy consumed the golden hours:
And I blessed his glowing face, envying the merry little child,
As he shouted with the ecstasy of being, clapping his hands for joyfulness:
For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is happiness and hope,
Thy days are bright, thy flowers are sweet, and pleasure the condition of thy gift.
A youthwas walking in the moonlight, walking not alone,For a fair and gentle maid leant on his trembling arm:Their whispering was still of beauty, and the light of love was in their eyes,Their twin young hearts had not a thought unvowed to love and beauty;The stars and the sleeping world, and the guardian eye of God,The murmur of the distant waterfall, and nightingales warbling in the thicket,Sweet speech of years to come, and promises of fondest hope,And more, a present gladness in each other's trust,All these fed their souls with the hidden manna of affection,While their faces shone beatified in the radiance of reflected Eden:I gazed on that fond youth, and coveted his heart,Attuned to holiest symphonies, with music in its strings:For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is love and beauty,Thy joys are full, thy looks most fair, thy feelings pure and sensitive.
A youthwas walking in the moonlight, walking not alone,
For a fair and gentle maid leant on his trembling arm:
Their whispering was still of beauty, and the light of love was in their eyes,
Their twin young hearts had not a thought unvowed to love and beauty;
The stars and the sleeping world, and the guardian eye of God,
The murmur of the distant waterfall, and nightingales warbling in the thicket,
Sweet speech of years to come, and promises of fondest hope,
And more, a present gladness in each other's trust,
All these fed their souls with the hidden manna of affection,
While their faces shone beatified in the radiance of reflected Eden:
I gazed on that fond youth, and coveted his heart,
Attuned to holiest symphonies, with music in its strings:
For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is love and beauty,
Thy joys are full, thy looks most fair, thy feelings pure and sensitive.
A mansat beside his merchandize, a careworn altered man,His waking hope, his nightly fear, were money, and its losses:Rarely was the laugh upon his cheek, except in bitter scornFor his foolishness of heart, and the lie of its romance, counting Love a treasure.His talk is of stern Reality, chilling unimaginative facts,The dull material accidents of this sensual body;Lucreless honour were contemptible, impoverished affection but a pauper's riches,Duty, struggling unrewarded, the bargain of a cheated fool:The market value of a fancy must be measured by the gain it bringeth,No man is fed or clothed by fame, or love, or duty:—So toiled he day by day, that cold and joyless man,I gazed upon his haggard face, and sorrowed for the change:For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is care and weariness,Thy soil is parched, thy winds are fierce, and the suns above thee hardening.
A mansat beside his merchandize, a careworn altered man,
His waking hope, his nightly fear, were money, and its losses:
Rarely was the laugh upon his cheek, except in bitter scorn
For his foolishness of heart, and the lie of its romance, counting Love a treasure.
His talk is of stern Reality, chilling unimaginative facts,
The dull material accidents of this sensual body;
Lucreless honour were contemptible, impoverished affection but a pauper's riches,
Duty, struggling unrewarded, the bargain of a cheated fool:
The market value of a fancy must be measured by the gain it bringeth,
No man is fed or clothed by fame, or love, or duty:—
So toiled he day by day, that cold and joyless man,
I gazed upon his haggard face, and sorrowed for the change:
For I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is care and weariness,
Thy soil is parched, thy winds are fierce, and the suns above thee hardening.
A witheredelder lay upon his bed, a desolate man and feeble:His thoughts were of the past, the early past, the bygone days of youth:Bitterly repented he the years stolen by the god of this world:Remembering the maiden of his love, and the heart-stricken wife of his selfishness.For the sunshiny morning of life came again to him a vivid truth,But the years of toil as a long dim dream, a cloudy blighted noon:He saw the nutting schoolboy, but forgat the speculative merchant;The callous calculating husband was shamed by the generous lover:He knew that the weeds of worldliness, and the smoky breath of MammonHad choked and killed those tender shoots, his yearnings after honour and affection;So was he sick at heart, and my pity strove to cheer him,But a deep and dismal gulf lay between comfort and his soul.Then I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is vanity and sorrow,Thy storms at noon are many, and thine eventide is clouded by remorse.
A witheredelder lay upon his bed, a desolate man and feeble:
His thoughts were of the past, the early past, the bygone days of youth:
Bitterly repented he the years stolen by the god of this world:
Remembering the maiden of his love, and the heart-stricken wife of his selfishness.
For the sunshiny morning of life came again to him a vivid truth,
But the years of toil as a long dim dream, a cloudy blighted noon:
He saw the nutting schoolboy, but forgat the speculative merchant;
The callous calculating husband was shamed by the generous lover:
He knew that the weeds of worldliness, and the smoky breath of Mammon
Had choked and killed those tender shoots, his yearnings after honour and affection;
So was he sick at heart, and my pity strove to cheer him,
But a deep and dismal gulf lay between comfort and his soul.
Then I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is vanity and sorrow,
Thy storms at noon are many, and thine eventide is clouded by remorse.
Now,when I thought upon these things, my heart was grieved within me:I wept, with bitterness of speech, and these were the words of my complaining:"Wherefore then must happiness and love wither into care and vanity,—Wherefore is the bud so beautiful, but flower and fruit so blighted?Hard is the lot of man; to be lured by the meteor of romance,Only to be snared, and to sink, in the turbid mudpool of reality."
Now,when I thought upon these things, my heart was grieved within me:
I wept, with bitterness of speech, and these were the words of my complaining:
Wherefore is the bud so beautiful, but flower and fruit so blighted?
Hard is the lot of man; to be lured by the meteor of romance,
Only to be snared, and to sink, in the turbid mudpool of reality."
Suddenly,a light,—and a rushing presence,—and a consciousness of Something near me,—I trembled, and listened, and prayed: then I knew the Angel of Life:Vague, and dimly visible, mine eye could not behold Him,As, calmly unimpassioned, He looked upon an erring creature;Unseen, my spirit apprehended Him; though He spake not, yet I heard:For a sympathetic communing with Him flashed upon my mind electric.
Suddenly,a light,—and a rushing presence,—and a consciousness of Something near me,—
I trembled, and listened, and prayed: then I knew the Angel of Life:
Vague, and dimly visible, mine eye could not behold Him,
As, calmly unimpassioned, He looked upon an erring creature;
Unseen, my spirit apprehended Him; though He spake not, yet I heard:
For a sympathetic communing with Him flashed upon my mind electric.
Pensionerof God, be grateful; the gift of Life is good:The life of heart, and life of soul, mingled with life for the body.Gladness and beauty are its just inheritance,—the beauty thou hast counted for romance:And guardian spirits weep that selfishness and sorrow should destroy it.Thou hast seen the natural blessing marred into a curse by man;Come then, in favour will I show thee the proper excellence of life.Keep thou purity, and watch against suspicion,—love shall never perish;Guard thine innocency spotless, and the buoyancy of childhood shall remain.Sweet ideals feed the soul, thoughts of loveliness delight it,The chivalrous affection of uncalculating youth lacketh not honourable wisdom.Charge not folly on invisibles, that render thee happier and purer,The fair frail visions of Romance have a use beyond the maxims of the Real.
Pensionerof God, be grateful; the gift of Life is good:
The life of heart, and life of soul, mingled with life for the body.
Gladness and beauty are its just inheritance,—the beauty thou hast counted for romance:
And guardian spirits weep that selfishness and sorrow should destroy it.
Thou hast seen the natural blessing marred into a curse by man;
Come then, in favour will I show thee the proper excellence of life.
Keep thou purity, and watch against suspicion,—love shall never perish;
Guard thine innocency spotless, and the buoyancy of childhood shall remain.
Sweet ideals feed the soul, thoughts of loveliness delight it,
The chivalrous affection of uncalculating youth lacketh not honourable wisdom.
Charge not folly on invisibles, that render thee happier and purer,
The fair frail visions of Romance have a use beyond the maxims of the Real.
Beholda patriarch of years, who leaneth on the staff of religion;His heart is fresh, quick to feel, a bursting fount of generosity:He, playful in his wisdom, is gladdened in his children's gladness,He, pure in his experience, loveth in his son's first love:Lofty aspirations, deep affections, holy hopes are his delight;His abhorrence is to strip from Life its charitable garment of Idea.The cold and callous sneerer, who heedeth of the merely practical,And mocketh at good uses in imaginary things, that man is his scorn:The hard unsympathizing modern, filled with facts and figures,Cautious, and coarse, and materialized in mind, that man is his pity.Passionate thirst for gain never hath burnt within his bosom,The leaden chains of that dull lust have not bound him prisoner:The shrewd world laughed at him for honesty, the vain world mouthed at him for honour,The false world hated him for truth, the cold world despised him for affection:Still, he kept his treasure, the warm and noble heart,And in that happy wise old man survive the child and lover.For human Life is as Chian wine, flavoured unto him who drinketh it,Delicate fragrance comforting the soul, as needful substance for the body:Therefore, see thou art pure and guileless; so shall thy Realities of LifeBe sweetened, and tempered, and gladdened by the wholesome spirit of Romance.
Beholda patriarch of years, who leaneth on the staff of religion;
His heart is fresh, quick to feel, a bursting fount of generosity:
He, playful in his wisdom, is gladdened in his children's gladness,
He, pure in his experience, loveth in his son's first love:
Lofty aspirations, deep affections, holy hopes are his delight;
His abhorrence is to strip from Life its charitable garment of Idea.
The cold and callous sneerer, who heedeth of the merely practical,
And mocketh at good uses in imaginary things, that man is his scorn:
The hard unsympathizing modern, filled with facts and figures,
Cautious, and coarse, and materialized in mind, that man is his pity.
Passionate thirst for gain never hath burnt within his bosom,
The leaden chains of that dull lust have not bound him prisoner:
The shrewd world laughed at him for honesty, the vain world mouthed at him for honour,
The false world hated him for truth, the cold world despised him for affection:
Still, he kept his treasure, the warm and noble heart,
And in that happy wise old man survive the child and lover.
For human Life is as Chian wine, flavoured unto him who drinketh it,
Delicate fragrance comforting the soul, as needful substance for the body:
Therefore, see thou art pure and guileless; so shall thy Realities of Life
Be sweetened, and tempered, and gladdened by the wholesome spirit of Romance.
Dostthou live, man, dost thou live,—or only breathe and labour?Art thou free, or enslaved to a routine, the daily machinery of habit?For, one man is quickened into life, where thousands exist as in a torpor,Feeding, toiling, sleeping, an insensate weary round:The plough, or the ledger, or the trade, with animal cares and indolence,Make the mass of vital years a heavy lump unleavened.Drowsily lie down in thy dulness, fettered with the irons of circumstance,Thou wilt not wake to think and feel a minute in a month.The epitome of common life is seen in the common epitaph,Born on such a day, and dead on such another, with an interval of threescore years.For time hath been wasted on the senses, to the hourly diminishing of spirit:Lean is the soul and pineth, in the midst of abundance for the body:He forgat the worlds to which he tended, and a creature's true nobility,Nor wished that hope and wholesome fear should stir him from his hardened satisfaction.And this is death in life; to be sunk beneath the waters of the Actual,Without one feebly-struggling sense of an airier spiritual realm:Affection, fancy, feeling—dead; imagination, conscience, faith,All wilfully expunged, till they leave the man mere carcase.See thou livest, whiles thou art: for heart must live, and soul,But care and sloth and sin and self, combine to kill that life.A man will grow to an automaton, an appendage to the counter or the desk,If mind and spirit be not roused, to raise the plodding groveller:Then praise God for sabbaths, for books, and dreams, and pains,For the recreative face of nature, and the kindling charities of home;And remember, thou that labourest,—thy leisure is not loss,If it help to expose and undermine that solid falsehood, the Material.
Dostthou live, man, dost thou live,—or only breathe and labour?
Art thou free, or enslaved to a routine, the daily machinery of habit?
For, one man is quickened into life, where thousands exist as in a torpor,
Feeding, toiling, sleeping, an insensate weary round:
The plough, or the ledger, or the trade, with animal cares and indolence,
Make the mass of vital years a heavy lump unleavened.
Drowsily lie down in thy dulness, fettered with the irons of circumstance,
Thou wilt not wake to think and feel a minute in a month.
The epitome of common life is seen in the common epitaph,
Born on such a day, and dead on such another, with an interval of threescore years.
For time hath been wasted on the senses, to the hourly diminishing of spirit:
Lean is the soul and pineth, in the midst of abundance for the body:
He forgat the worlds to which he tended, and a creature's true nobility,
Nor wished that hope and wholesome fear should stir him from his hardened satisfaction.
And this is death in life; to be sunk beneath the waters of the Actual,
Without one feebly-struggling sense of an airier spiritual realm:
Affection, fancy, feeling—dead; imagination, conscience, faith,
All wilfully expunged, till they leave the man mere carcase.
See thou livest, whiles thou art: for heart must live, and soul,
But care and sloth and sin and self, combine to kill that life.
A man will grow to an automaton, an appendage to the counter or the desk,
If mind and spirit be not roused, to raise the plodding groveller:
Then praise God for sabbaths, for books, and dreams, and pains,
For the recreative face of nature, and the kindling charities of home;
And remember, thou that labourest,—thy leisure is not loss,
If it help to expose and undermine that solid falsehood, the Material.