Read Ebook: Poet-Lore: A Quarterly Magazine of Letters. April May June 1900 by Various

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Ebook has 370 lines and 59747 words, and 8 pages

"Mother, tell him to come to me While my hair is gold and beautiful And my lips and eyes are young While the songs that are welling up in my heart May still be sung.

"The days go by so wearily Like crooked goblins, e?rily, Like silly shadows, fast and still, Wind-driven and drearily.

"Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother, Like them, heavy as things grown old Only the clouds' tears are but dream-tears-- Lifeless, cold.

"Last night I had the strangest dream,-- It seemed I stood on a barren hill Where the wings of the ragged clouds went by Hurrying and still.

"And all of a sudden the moon came out Making a pathway over the down,-- And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother, To light the way to Shadowtown.

"But when I did not see him coming, And because the clouds grew dark and gray I walked through the shadows down the hillside To help him better to find the way.

"And in some wise I came to a forest When all around was so strange and dim,-- That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness, How could my hair be light for him?'

"But groping, I found I was on a pathway Where low soft branches swept my face,-- When suddenly, close beside, and before me I knew dim forms kept even pace.

"They were so cowering, shivering, white That I felt some ill thing came behind And I heard a moan on the wind go by 'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'

"Then I looked behind, and saw that near Like a wan marsh-fog, came a cloud Hurrying on,--and I knew it wrapped A dead love--as a shroud.

"And guiltily the figures went, Like coward things in a guilty race And not one dared to look behind For fear he knew that dead love's face.

"Then suddenly at my side I knew He I loved went;--but, for my hair, Shadowed and blown about my face, He knew me not beside him there.

"And he, too, cowered with shaking hands Over his eyes, for fear to meet Haunting and still, my pallid face In that strange mist of winding-sheet.

"So on the shadowy figures went Hurrying the loath?d cloud before,-- Seeking an end of a fated path That went winding evermore.

"Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,-- Long and ill and hideous-- And the way was so near to Shadowtown,-- Fairer to Shadowtown-- But the gold of my hair shall not light the way For anyone else to Shadowtown."

Gray-eyed Marah of Shadowtown Turns away wearily, wearily Weaving her gold hair back and forth, Thus she sings, and drearily-- "Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I, Ha, merrily!

"Then let them put us in some deep spot Where one the growing of trees' roots hears And you at my heart, all wet with tears, All wet with tears.

"Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,-- From what rainy land have you come, and far,-- Or who that has held you was crying so,-- Who, little Love--? My eyes are heavy and wet with tears Whose eyes besides are heavy so--? --Oh, little Love, how dumb you are!--

"Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heart Come, take my hand, we will go together, Hemlock boughs are full of sleep Out of the way of the weather.

"For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heart Will not the hemlock boughs be better Over our feet and under our heads Keeping us from the weather?"

Her gold hair duskily glints in her hands Marah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,-- You, little Love, and I, will go Into the Land of Pleasanter Weather."

DIES IRAE.

Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer, Cheer in the lust of strength and brutal pride; Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox, Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.

Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry, To pray and prod and purchase, wheedle, wile; Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds, Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.

Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream, The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope, Of brotherhood and light and love on earth-- Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.

Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years, The world's best wisdom woven in its woe; Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy fane That holds the heart hopes of humanity.

Let loose greed, envy, lust, and avarice, The myriad throated dragon of desire; Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek, The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.

Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died; Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength; Bade man put up the sword, lest by the sword He perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.

Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow, Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not; Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak; Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."

Forget each drop of blood burns in the race, Cries for atonement while the last man lives; That murder for the state is murder still, The gilded not less guilty though more great.

Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deaf To piteous cries without, and voice within; Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won, Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.

GEORGE MEREDITH ON THE SOURCE OF DESTINY.

If, as has so often been said, literature is an expression of life, surely we may study literature to discover the laws of life. Not all our writers, but all our masters, have given us records from which we may learn what has been discerned and accepted concerning life by the race.

The scientific study of our day has led men to consider genius from the modern point of view. Is genius a natural product? If so, whence comes it, and what are its laws? These are among the most interesting questions of the present time. Formerly, men contented themselves with calling the literary faculty a "gift," the result of "inspiration." Of late we have been told that it is a natural race impulse which finds expression in some individual. Personally, we believe genius to be the heated, pregnant condition of a great mind under the influence of a great enthusiasm. However our definitions of genius may differ, on one point we all agree. We are all sure that genius is true to life, that genius teaches us the truth.

In its formed philosophical theories it may err, but not in its perceptions of life. Shelley may teach atheistic views in 'Queen Mab,' and he may err, for intellectual belief is a matter of opinion. Nevertheless Shelley's inspired interpretation of life can but be accepted as real. George Meredith may teach in his 'Lord Ormond and his Aminta' doctrines of free love, resulting from an attempt to separate what can not be separated in our human lives,--the physical and the spiritual loves; and in doing this he may err. Nevertheless, in his inspired representations of life and character, coming not from thought alone but from his whole nature, Meredith cannot err.

Those of us who read thoughtlessly, without formed theory, accept literature as real. Have you never, when asked: "Did you ever know of a case of love at first sight?" answered carelessly: "Oh, yes! There's Romeo and Juliet, you know?" Or have you never instanced, as the most persuasive oration you ever heard, Mark Antony's speech in 'Julius Caesar?'

Thinkers who claim a natural mental origin for the literary gift must believe in its reality as a matter of course. Those who speak reverently of its "inspiration" claim a spirit of truth, not of error, for its parent. Even those who enjoy comparisons of the states of genius and insanity, ranging from Shakespeare, with his words: "The fool, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact" to the masterly modern treatment of John Fiske, agree that the sharp division line of truth and error separates the two. They confess that while the insane mind may accept hallucinations, the mind of genius deals only with the truth. The results of both are imaginative; only those of insanity are imaginary.

All thinkers, then, accept the masterpieces of literature as among life's real phenomena. Whether Meredith's novels hold this high place is at present a matter of opinion. For men do not know Meredith very well. A knowledge of his position on this question of Destiny will help us to learn whether or not he ranks among the elect.

In our great literature there has always appeared a close sequence between wisdom and success, righteousness and happiness, and, on the other hand, between the choice of moral evil and suffering. This sequence has been not merely expressed in words, but built into the very structure of the plot through the workings of the imagination kindled by genius. The law of this succession, and its relationship with other laws, philosophers have always been seeking. It is this search that has led men into the mazy discussions of freedom and fatalism. For in this law lies the crucial point of the question of human destiny.

'Beowulf,' our first epic, tells us not only much of the manner of life of our rude Saxon ancestors, but also much of their thought. The note of fatalism in its chord of life is no weak one. "A man must bear his fate," the hero says when about to go into a dangerous combat. Yet even in 'Beowulf' we find the contrasting element, the character choice appearing.

As a child boldly states a problem as though it were a solution, Beowulf na?vely says: "Fate always aids the undoomed man, if his courage holds out." This expression side by side of the two elements of the question has never been surpassed, and is, in its way, matchless.

Have we learned much more to-day? We cannot fail to recognize the duality of the truth, but have we been able yet to join the two sides into one, to discover the unity that surely lies behind the seeming contrast?

Each side of the question has been largely developed. Some, in a narrow spirit, have echoed merely Beowulf's, "Fate always aids the undoomed man"; while others, often as narrowly, have answered, "A man succeeds, if his courage holds out." Ever in our greatest literature the two elements have appeared side by side. The mystery has always been recognized.

That even Shakespeare is reverent before fate, yet believes in the influence of character on a man's life can easily be seen from words like Helena's in 'All's Well that Ends Well':--

"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull."

'Macbeth,' with its successive steps of unhappiness following one critical evil choice is sufficient proof of Shakespear's belief in the determining power of character. 'King Lear,' with its sad result of folly shows his belief in the influence of the critical foolish decision. In the uncrowned king's conversation with his fool, occur these words:

In Robert Browning literature has brought even up to the present time the old mystery, the ever continuing struggle between fatalism and freedom. But to him, as to most thinkers of his day, fate has become the instrument of a God, a divine Providence rules the world, while man, too, has his little realm of choice.

At the present time this discussion is carried to a greater extent than ever before. The one side finds its expression in our modern idealistic philosophy, the other in our modern sceptical science. Idealistic philosophy, since Kant, has been trying to lay the responsibility for all life upon the free moral choice. It has been seeking to prove that the spiritual is the source of life.

Once accept physical life, and science is, in so far, free from impassable gulfs. Once accept mental life and that realm also becomes capable of study. Let the free moral nature once be accepted, and again we shall have reached firm footing. But to cross between these realms by law, by reason, is impossible; for life, any kind of life, is its own only explanation.

While the problem of freedom becomes simple for one who, like Meredith, will take this view, there are many who will not or cannot do so, and the very impossibility of the question from reason's point of view makes the path a very labyrinth for them. We all try to solve the question, and different personalities arrive at different answers; but all are partial. They vary from the logical, but dead outcome of Swinburne: "There is no bad nor good," to the struggling faith of Omar Khayyam:

"The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But here or there as strikes the Player goes; And he that toss'd you down into the Field, He knows about it all--He knows--He knows."

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