Chapter 3

TO

G. THORN DRURY

My youth was ever constant to one dream,Though hope failed oft—so hopeless did it seem—That in the ripeness of my days I mightSomething achieve that should the world requiteFor my existence; for it was a painTo think that I should live and live in vain:And most my thoughts were turned towards the Muse,Though long she did my earnest prayers refuse,And left me darkling and despairing; thenBy happy chance there came within my kenA hapless poet, whom—I thank kind fate!—It was my privilege to help instateIn that proud eminence wherein he shinesNow that no more on earth he sadly pines.This was a fortune such as I must everBe thankful for—yet still 'twas my endeavour,With what, I hope, was no unworthy zeal,My life-work with some other deed to seal,And lo! when such a dream might well seem vain,Propitious fate smiled on me once again,And through the mists of time's close-woven pallA glint of light on one dim form did fall,Which, as I gazed more earnestly, becameA living soul, discovered by the flameOf glowing inspiration which possessedEven now, as when he lived, the poet's breast.Did I deceive myself? Could it be trueA new poetic star was in my view,And shining with a lustre bright and clear,Where, constellated in the heavenly sphere,Herbert and Vaughan, Crashaw and Milton shineWith varying brightness, yet alike divine?I gazed again, but still that star burned on,And ever with a deeper radiance shone,Until I knew no Will-o'-th'-Wisp's false light,No meteor delusive mocked my sight,But 'twas indeed a fulgent planet whichHenceforth shall with its beams the heavens enrich.Some vanity, I know, is in this strain,But men may be with reason sometimes vain:Shall he alone who does a worthy deedNot pay himself, if so he will, that meedOf self-applause from which all virtues spring,—Without it who would do a noble thing?So let the world arraign me as it will,It cannot now my satisfaction chill,Since you, dear friend! and all whose praise I prize,Look on my labours with approving eyes.This book to you 'tis fit I dedicateSince you, my friend, so well appreciate—Nay, rather love, our poets of old time,Responding ever to their notes sublime:Who, though you treasure most those sons of light,Whose radiance glitters on the brow of night,Do not despise the faintest twinkling starThat shines where Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton are:Who can, like Lamb, a brilliant flower descryWhere all seems sterile to the common eye,Who, like Lamb, too, to no strait bounds confined,Have room for all fair fancies in your mind,And, with a taste that never errs, discoverFaults like a censor, beauties like a lover.Here is another offering for your store,Though not arrayed in that brown garb of yoreWhich, with quaint type and paper stained with age,Were for the Spirit of our Poet-SageA fitter dwelling, more becoming page.I could not give him these, and so have soughtTo match his noble and exalted thoughtWith the best raiment that our time affordsOf comely type, fine paper, seemly boards,Which, centuries hence, to our children's children's eyesMay have an antique look which they shall prize,When Traherne's name, familiar to their ears,Shall hold assured a place among his peers.

My youth was ever constant to one dream,Though hope failed oft—so hopeless did it seem—That in the ripeness of my days I mightSomething achieve that should the world requiteFor my existence; for it was a painTo think that I should live and live in vain:And most my thoughts were turned towards the Muse,Though long she did my earnest prayers refuse,And left me darkling and despairing; thenBy happy chance there came within my kenA hapless poet, whom—I thank kind fate!—It was my privilege to help instateIn that proud eminence wherein he shinesNow that no more on earth he sadly pines.This was a fortune such as I must everBe thankful for—yet still 'twas my endeavour,With what, I hope, was no unworthy zeal,My life-work with some other deed to seal,And lo! when such a dream might well seem vain,Propitious fate smiled on me once again,And through the mists of time's close-woven pallA glint of light on one dim form did fall,Which, as I gazed more earnestly, becameA living soul, discovered by the flameOf glowing inspiration which possessedEven now, as when he lived, the poet's breast.Did I deceive myself? Could it be trueA new poetic star was in my view,And shining with a lustre bright and clear,Where, constellated in the heavenly sphere,Herbert and Vaughan, Crashaw and Milton shineWith varying brightness, yet alike divine?I gazed again, but still that star burned on,And ever with a deeper radiance shone,Until I knew no Will-o'-th'-Wisp's false light,No meteor delusive mocked my sight,But 'twas indeed a fulgent planet whichHenceforth shall with its beams the heavens enrich.Some vanity, I know, is in this strain,But men may be with reason sometimes vain:Shall he alone who does a worthy deedNot pay himself, if so he will, that meedOf self-applause from which all virtues spring,—Without it who would do a noble thing?So let the world arraign me as it will,It cannot now my satisfaction chill,Since you, dear friend! and all whose praise I prize,Look on my labours with approving eyes.This book to you 'tis fit I dedicateSince you, my friend, so well appreciate—Nay, rather love, our poets of old time,Responding ever to their notes sublime:Who, though you treasure most those sons of light,Whose radiance glitters on the brow of night,Do not despise the faintest twinkling starThat shines where Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton are:Who can, like Lamb, a brilliant flower descryWhere all seems sterile to the common eye,Who, like Lamb, too, to no strait bounds confined,Have room for all fair fancies in your mind,And, with a taste that never errs, discoverFaults like a censor, beauties like a lover.Here is another offering for your store,Though not arrayed in that brown garb of yoreWhich, with quaint type and paper stained with age,Were for the Spirit of our Poet-SageA fitter dwelling, more becoming page.I could not give him these, and so have soughtTo match his noble and exalted thoughtWith the best raiment that our time affordsOf comely type, fine paper, seemly boards,Which, centuries hence, to our children's children's eyesMay have an antique look which they shall prize,When Traherne's name, familiar to their ears,Shall hold assured a place among his peers.

My youth was ever constant to one dream,Though hope failed oft—so hopeless did it seem—That in the ripeness of my days I mightSomething achieve that should the world requiteFor my existence; for it was a painTo think that I should live and live in vain:And most my thoughts were turned towards the Muse,Though long she did my earnest prayers refuse,And left me darkling and despairing; thenBy happy chance there came within my kenA hapless poet, whom—I thank kind fate!—It was my privilege to help instateIn that proud eminence wherein he shinesNow that no more on earth he sadly pines.This was a fortune such as I must everBe thankful for—yet still 'twas my endeavour,With what, I hope, was no unworthy zeal,My life-work with some other deed to seal,And lo! when such a dream might well seem vain,Propitious fate smiled on me once again,And through the mists of time's close-woven pallA glint of light on one dim form did fall,Which, as I gazed more earnestly, becameA living soul, discovered by the flameOf glowing inspiration which possessedEven now, as when he lived, the poet's breast.Did I deceive myself? Could it be trueA new poetic star was in my view,And shining with a lustre bright and clear,Where, constellated in the heavenly sphere,Herbert and Vaughan, Crashaw and Milton shineWith varying brightness, yet alike divine?I gazed again, but still that star burned on,And ever with a deeper radiance shone,Until I knew no Will-o'-th'-Wisp's false light,No meteor delusive mocked my sight,But 'twas indeed a fulgent planet whichHenceforth shall with its beams the heavens enrich.

My youth was ever constant to one dream,

Though hope failed oft—so hopeless did it seem—

That in the ripeness of my days I might

Something achieve that should the world requite

For my existence; for it was a pain

To think that I should live and live in vain:

And most my thoughts were turned towards the Muse,

Though long she did my earnest prayers refuse,

And left me darkling and despairing; then

By happy chance there came within my ken

A hapless poet, whom—I thank kind fate!—

It was my privilege to help instate

In that proud eminence wherein he shines

Now that no more on earth he sadly pines.

This was a fortune such as I must ever

Be thankful for—yet still 'twas my endeavour,

With what, I hope, was no unworthy zeal,

My life-work with some other deed to seal,

And lo! when such a dream might well seem vain,

Propitious fate smiled on me once again,

And through the mists of time's close-woven pall

A glint of light on one dim form did fall,

Which, as I gazed more earnestly, became

A living soul, discovered by the flame

Of glowing inspiration which possessed

Even now, as when he lived, the poet's breast.

Did I deceive myself? Could it be true

A new poetic star was in my view,

And shining with a lustre bright and clear,

Where, constellated in the heavenly sphere,

Herbert and Vaughan, Crashaw and Milton shine

With varying brightness, yet alike divine?

I gazed again, but still that star burned on,

And ever with a deeper radiance shone,

Until I knew no Will-o'-th'-Wisp's false light,

No meteor delusive mocked my sight,

But 'twas indeed a fulgent planet which

Henceforth shall with its beams the heavens enrich.

Some vanity, I know, is in this strain,But men may be with reason sometimes vain:Shall he alone who does a worthy deedNot pay himself, if so he will, that meedOf self-applause from which all virtues spring,—Without it who would do a noble thing?So let the world arraign me as it will,It cannot now my satisfaction chill,Since you, dear friend! and all whose praise I prize,Look on my labours with approving eyes.

Some vanity, I know, is in this strain,

But men may be with reason sometimes vain:

Shall he alone who does a worthy deed

Not pay himself, if so he will, that meed

Of self-applause from which all virtues spring,—

Without it who would do a noble thing?

So let the world arraign me as it will,

It cannot now my satisfaction chill,

Since you, dear friend! and all whose praise I prize,

Look on my labours with approving eyes.

This book to you 'tis fit I dedicateSince you, my friend, so well appreciate—Nay, rather love, our poets of old time,Responding ever to their notes sublime:Who, though you treasure most those sons of light,Whose radiance glitters on the brow of night,Do not despise the faintest twinkling starThat shines where Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton are:Who can, like Lamb, a brilliant flower descryWhere all seems sterile to the common eye,Who, like Lamb, too, to no strait bounds confined,Have room for all fair fancies in your mind,And, with a taste that never errs, discoverFaults like a censor, beauties like a lover.

This book to you 'tis fit I dedicate

Since you, my friend, so well appreciate—

Nay, rather love, our poets of old time,

Responding ever to their notes sublime:

Who, though you treasure most those sons of light,

Whose radiance glitters on the brow of night,

Do not despise the faintest twinkling star

That shines where Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton are:

Who can, like Lamb, a brilliant flower descry

Where all seems sterile to the common eye,

Who, like Lamb, too, to no strait bounds confined,

Have room for all fair fancies in your mind,

And, with a taste that never errs, discover

Faults like a censor, beauties like a lover.

Here is another offering for your store,Though not arrayed in that brown garb of yoreWhich, with quaint type and paper stained with age,Were for the Spirit of our Poet-SageA fitter dwelling, more becoming page.I could not give him these, and so have soughtTo match his noble and exalted thoughtWith the best raiment that our time affordsOf comely type, fine paper, seemly boards,Which, centuries hence, to our children's children's eyesMay have an antique look which they shall prize,When Traherne's name, familiar to their ears,Shall hold assured a place among his peers.

Here is another offering for your store,

Though not arrayed in that brown garb of yore

Which, with quaint type and paper stained with age,

Were for the Spirit of our Poet-Sage

A fitter dwelling, more becoming page.

I could not give him these, and so have sought

To match his noble and exalted thought

With the best raiment that our time affords

Of comely type, fine paper, seemly boards,

Which, centuries hence, to our children's children's eyes

May have an antique look which they shall prize,

When Traherne's name, familiar to their ears,

Shall hold assured a place among his peers.


Back to IndexNext