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Read Ebook: The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens by Dickens Charles Kitton Frederic George Editor
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Ebook has 76 lines and 8039 words, and 2 pages
TO WESTLAND MARSTON'S PLAY 'THE PATRICIAN'S DAUGHTER'
TO 'THE PATRICIAN'S DAUGHTER'
TO 'THE PATRICIAN'S DAUGHTER'
No tale of streaming plumes and harness bright Dwells on the poet's maiden harp to-night; No trumpet's clamour and no battle's fire Breathes in the trembling accents of his lyre; Enough for him, if in his lowly strain He wakes one household echo not in vain; Enough for him, if in his boldest word The beating heart of MAN be dimly heard.
Its solemn music which, like strains that sigh Through charm?d gardens, all who hearing die; Its solemn music he does not pursue To distant ages out of human view; Nor listen to its wild and mournful chime In the dead caverns on the shore of Time; But musing with a calm and steady gaze Before the crackling flames of living days, He hears it whisper through the busy roar Of what shall be and what has been before. Awake the Present! Shall no scene display The tragic passion of the passing day? Is it with Man, as with some meaner things, That out of death his single purpose springs? Can his eventful life no moral teach Until he be, for aye, beyond its reach? Obscurely shall he suffer, act, and fade, Dubb'd noble only by the sexton's spade? Awake the Present! Though the steel-clad age Find life alone within its storied page, Iron is worn, at heart, by many still-- The tyrant Custom binds the serf-like will; If the sharp rack, and screw, and chain be gone, These later days have tortures of their own; The guiltless writhe, while Guilt is stretch'd in sleep, And Virtue lies, too often, dungeon deep. Awake the Present! what the Past has sown Be in its harvest garner'd, reap'd, and grown!
How pride breeds pride, and wrong engenders wrong, Read in the volume Truth has held so long, Assured that where life's flowers freshest blow, The sharpest thorns and keenest briars grow, How social usage has the pow'r to change Good thoughts to evil; in its highest range To cramp the noble soul, and turn to ruth The kindling impulse of our glorious youth, Crushing the spirit in its house of clay, Learn from the lessons of the present day. Not light its import and not poor its mien; Yourselves the actors, and your homes the scene.
A WORD IN SEASON FROM THE 'KEEPSAKE'
A WORD IN SEASON
A WORD IN SEASON
They have a superstition in the East, That ALLAH, written on a piece of paper, Is better unction than can come of priest, Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper: Holding, that any scrap which bears that name, In any characters, its front imprest on, Shall help the finder through the purging flame, And give his toasted feet a place to rest on.
Accordingly, they make a mighty fuss With ev'ry wretched tract and fierce oration, And hoard the leaves--for they are not, like us, A highly civilized and thinking nation: And, always stooping in the miry ways, To look for matter of this earthy leaven, They seldom, in their dust-exploring days, Have any leisure to look up to Heaven.
So have I known a country on the earth, Where darkness sat upon the living waters, And brutal ignorance, and toil, and dearth Were the hard portion of its sons and daughters: And yet, where they who should have ope'd the door Of charity and light, for all men's finding, Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor, And rent the Book, in struggles for the binding.
The gentlest man among these pious Turks, God's living image ruthlessly defaces; Their best high-churchman, with no faith in works, Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places: The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse , Walks thro' the world, not very much the worse-- Does all the good he can, and loves his brother.
VERSES FROM THE 'DAILY NEWS'
VERSES FROM THE 'DAILY NEWS,' 1846
THE BRITISH LION
A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY
TUNE--'THE GREAT SEA-SNAKE'
Oh, p'r'aps you may have heard, and if not, I'll sing Of the British Lion free, That was constantly a-going for to make a spring Upon his en-e-me; But who, being rather groggy at the knees, Broke down, always, before; And generally gave a feeble wheeze Instead of a loud roar. Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being 'sold!'
He was carried about, in a carawan, And was show'd in country parts, And they said, 'Walk up! Be in time! He can Eat Corn-Law Leagues like tarts!' And his showmen, shouting there and then, To puff him didn't fail, And they said, as they peep'd into his den, 'Oh, don't he wag his tail!'
Now, the principal keeper of this poor old beast, WAN HUMBUG was his name, Would once ev'ry day stir him up--at least-- And wasn't that a Game! For he hadn't a tooth, and he hadn't a claw, In that 'Struggle' so 'Sublime'; And, however sharp they touch'd him on the raw, He couldn't come up to time.
And this, you will observe, was the reason why WAN HUMBUG, on weak grounds, Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry In all unlikely sounds. So, there wasn't a bleat from an Essex Calf, Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim; But he said, with a wery triumphant laugh, 'I'm blest if that ain't him.'
At length, wery bald in his mane and tail, The British Lion growed: He pined, and declined, and he satisfied The last debt which he owed. And when they came to examine the skin, It was a wonder sore, To find that the an-i-mal within Was nothing but a Boar! Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being 'sold!'
CATNACH.
THE HYMN OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURERS
'Don't you all think that we have a great need to Cry to our God to put it in the hearts of our greassous Queen and her Members of Parlerment to grant us free bread!'
Oh GOD, who by Thy Prophet's hand Didst smite the rocky brake, Whence water came, at Thy command, Thy people's thirst to slake; Strike, now, upon this granite wall, Stern, obdurate, and high; And let some drops of pity fall For us who starve and die!
The GOD, who took a little child, And set him in the midst, And promised him His mercy mild, As, by Thy Son, Thou didst: Look down upon our children dear, So gaunt, so cold, so spare, And let their images appear Where Lords and Gentry are!
Oh GOD, teach them to feel how we, When our poor infants droop, Are weakened in our trust in Thee, And how our spirits stoop; For, in Thy rest, so bright and fair, All tears and sorrows sleep: And their young looks, so full of care, Would make Thine Angels weep!
The GOD, who with His finger drew The Judgment coming on, Write, for these men, what must ensue, Ere many years be gone! Oh GOD, whose bow is in the sky, Let them not brave and dare, Until they look on high, And see an Arrow there!
Oh GOD, remind them! In the bread They break upon the knee, These sacred words may yet be read, 'In memory of Me!' Oh GOD, remind them of His sweet Compassion for the poor, And how He gave them Bread to eat, And went from door to door!
CHARLES DICKENS.
NEW SONG LINES ADDRESSED TO MARK LEMON
NEW SONG
Dickens, like Silas Wegg, would sometimes 'drop into poetry' when writing to intimate friends, as, for example, in a letter to Maclise, the artist, which began with a parody of Byron's lines to Thomas Moore--
'My foot is in the house, My bath is on the sea, And, before I take a souse, Here's a single note to thee.'
NEW SONG
TUNE--'LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE'
Lemon is a little hipped, And this is Lemon's true position-- He is not pale, he's not white-lipped, Yet wants a little fresh condition. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon Old Ocean's rising, falling billers, Than on the Houses every one That form the street called Saint Anne's Willers! Oh my Lemon, round and fat, Oh my bright, my right, my tight 'un, Think a little what you're at-- Don't stay at home, but come to Brighton!
Lemon has a coat of frieze, But all so seldom Lemon wears it, That it is a prey to fleas, And ev'ry moth that's hungry, tears it. Oh, that coat's the coat for me, That braves the railway sparks and breezes, Leaving ev'ry engine free To smoke it, till its owner sneezes! Then my Lemon, round and fat, L., my bright, my right, my tight 'un, Think a little what you're at-- On Tuesday first, come down to Brighton!
T. SPARKLER.
WILKIE COLLINS'S PLAY 'THE LIGHTHOUSE'
'THE LIGHTHOUSE'
With regard to 'The Song of the Wreck,' Dickens evidently intended to bestow upon it a different title, for, in a letter addressed to Wilkie Collins during the preparation of the play, he said: 'I have written a little ballad for Mary--"The Story of the Ship's Carpenter and the Little Boy, in the Shipwreck."' The song was rendered by his eldest daughter, Mary ; it was set to the music composed by George Linley for Miss Charlotte Young's pretty ballad, 'Little Nell,' of which Dickens became very fond, and which his daughter had been in the habit of singing to him constantly since her childhood. Dr. A. W. Ward, Master of Peter-house, Cambridge University, refers to 'The Song of the Wreck' as 'a most successful effort in Cowper's manner.'
THE
A story of those rocks where doom'd ships come To cast them wreck'd upon the steps of home, Where solitary men, the long year through-- The wind their music and the brine their view-- Warn mariners to shun the beacon-light; A story of those rocks is here to-night. Eddystone Lighthouse!
In its ancient form, Ere he who built it wish'd for the great storm That shiver'd it to nothing, once again Behold outgleaming on the angry main! Within it are three men; to these repair In our frail bark of Fancy, swift as air! They are but shadows, as the rower grim Took none but shadows in his boat with him.
THE SONG OF THE WRECK
The wind blew high, the waters raved, A ship drove on the land, A hundred human creatures saved Kneel'd down upon the sand. Three-score were drown'd, three-score were thrown Upon the black rocks wild, And thus among them, left alone, They found one helpless child.
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