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/i^r * i ? J0nritOltH* I
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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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/I^R * I ? J0nritolth* I
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POETS IN PARLIAMENT . The prominence which the " winged words" of Victor Hugo have recently { liven him in the Assembly has called forth sarcastic insinuations and bitter diatribes from all the Conservative journals . There seems to be an intensity of exasperation , arising from the ancient prejudice against poets . A poet treating of politics ! Let him keep to rhymes , and leave the serious business of life to us practical men , sober-minded men—men not led away by our imaginations—men not moved to absurdities by sentiment—solid , sensible , moderate men ! Let him play with capricious hand on the chords which are resonant to his will ; but let him not mistake his frivolous accomplishment for the power to play upon the world ' s great harp , drawing from its grander chords the large responses of more solemn themes . Let him " stride the light guitar" as long as women will listen , and fools applaud . But politics is another sphere : into that he can only pass to make himself ridiculous . Thus reason the profound . Thus saith the good practical man , who , because his mind is a congeries of commonplaces , piques himself on not being led away by his imagination . The owl prides himself on the incontestable fact that he is not an eagle . To us the matter has another aspect . The appearance of Poets and men of Sentiment in the world of Politics is a good symptom ; for at a time like the present , when positive doctrine can scarcely be said to exist in embryo , and assuredly not in any maturity , the presence of Imagination and Sentiment—prophets who endow the present with some of the riches borrowed from the future—is needed to give grandeur and generosity to political action , and to prevent men from entirely sinking into the slough of egotism and routine . Salt is not meat , but we need the salt to preserve meat from corruption . Lamartine and Victor Hugo may not be profound statesmen ; but they have at least this one indispensable quality of statesmanship : they look beyond the hour , and beyond the circle , they care more for the nation than for " measures ; " they have high aspirations and wide sympathies . Lamartine in power committed many errors , but he also did great things , moved thereto by his " Imagination . " He abolished capital punishment ; and he freed the slaves ; had the whole Provisional Government been formed of such men it would have been well for it and for France ! We are as distinctly aware of the unfitness of a poet for politics , as any of those can be who rail at Hugo and Lamartine . Images , we know , are not convictions ; aspirations will not do the work ; grand speeches will not solve the problems . The poet is a " phrasemaker "; true ; but show us the man in these days who is more than a phrasemaker ! Where is he who has positive ideas beyond the small circle of his speciality ? In rejecting the guidance of the Poet to whom shall we apply ? To the Priest ? He mumbles the litany of an ancient time which falls on unbelieving ears . To the Lawyer ? He is a metaphysician with precedents for data . To the Litterateur ? He is a phrasemaker by profession . To the Politician ? He cannot rise above the conception of a " bill . " One and all are copious in phrases , empty o £ positive ideas as drums . The initial laws of social science are still to be discovered and accepted , yet we sneer at phrasemakers ! Carlyle , who never sweeps out of the circle of sentiment—whose eloquence is always indignation—who thinks with his heart , has no words too scornful for phrasemakers and poets ; forgetting that he , and we , and they , are all little more than phrasemakers waiting for a doctrine ! There is something in the air of late which has called forth the Poets and made them Politicians . Formerly they were content to leave these troubled waters undisturbed j but finding that others now are as ignorant as them-
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OLD FEELINGS . Once in my childish days I heard A woman ' s voice that slowly read , How ' twixt two shadowy mountains sped Four coloured steeds , four chariots whirr'd . * I watched until she laid the book On the white casement-ledge again ; My heart beat high with joyful pain On that strange oracle to look . Day after day I would ascend The staircase in that large old house , And still and timorous as a mouse I sat and made that book my friend . I saw the birth of seas and skies , The first sweet woman , first brave man ; I saw how morning light began , How faded—over Paradise . I stood with the first Arab boy ; I saw the mother and the child , Of Oriental vision wild , Laugh by the well for utter joy . I saw a youth go forth at morn , A traveller to the Syrian land , And in . the lonely evening stand An exile weary and forlorn . I saw him by the roadside lay His sunken head upon a stone , And while he slumbered , still and lone , A dream fell on him , fair as day . I saw a golden ladder reach From earth to heaven among the stars , And up and down its gleaming bars Trod stately angels , without speech .
What wonders did I not behold ! Dark gorgeous women , turbaned men , White tents , like ships , in plain and glen , Slaves , palm trees , camels , pearls , and gold . Ah ! many an hour I sat and read , And God seemed with me all day long ; Joy murmured a sweet undersong , I talkt with , angels , with them fed . It was an old deserted room ; There was a skylight straight above , And the blue sky lookt thro' like love , Softening and colouring mortal gloom . No playmate had I , knew no game , Yet sometimes left ray book to run And blow bright bubbles in the sun—In after life we do the same . That time is gone ; you think me weak That I regret that perisht time , That I recal my golden prime With , beating heart and blushing cheek . That Book so prized , you tell me , friend , Is full of false and deadly tales : You say , a palsied world bewails Its influence ; but it soon shall end . " Thank God for that : I live for truth , Glad to resign each rainbow sham ; But , still remembering what I am , I praise my sweet and saintly youth . It was so genial and sincere , My joy and wonder were so strong , So rare and delicate a song Young Life was singing in mine ear . I therefore still in fancy climb Up to that old and faded room , Where feelings like fresh roses bloom Over the grave of that fair time . M
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COMPENSATIONS . One day an Antelope was lying with her fawn at the foot of the flowering Mimosa . The weather was intensely sultry , and a Dove , who had sought shelter from the heat among the leaves , was cooing above her head . " Happy bird ! " said the Antelope . " Happy bird ! to whom the air is given for an inheritance , and whose flight is swifter than the wind . At your will you alight upon the ground , at your will you sweep into the sky , and fly races with driving clouds ; while I , poor I , am bound a prisoner to this miserable earth , and wear out my pitiable life crawling to and fro upon its surface . " Then the Dove answered , " It is sweet to sail along the sky , to fly from land to land , and coo among the valleys ; but , Antelope , when I have sate above amidst the branches and watched your little one close its tiny lips upon your breast , and feed its lips on yours , I have felt that I would strip off my wings , lay down my plumage , and remain all my life upon the ground only once to know such blessed enjoyment . " The breeze sighed among the boughs of the Mimosa , and a voice came trembling out of the rustling leaves . " If the Anlelope mourns her destiny what should the Mimosa do ? The Antelope is the swiftest among the animals . It rises in the morning ; the ground flies under its feet—in the evening it is a hundred miles away . The Mimosa is feeding its old age on the same soil which quickened its seed cell into activity . The seasons roll by me and leave me in the old place . The winds sway among my branches , as if they longed to bear me away with them , but they pass on and leave me behind . The wild birds come and go . The flocks move by me in the evening on their way to the pleasant water . I can never move . My cradle must be my grave . " Then from below , at the root of the tree , came a voice which neither bird , nor Antelope , nor tree had ever heard . As a Rock Crystal from its prison in the granite followed on the words of the Mimosa . " Are ye all unhappy ? " it said . " If you are , then what am I ? Ye all have life . You ! O Mimosa , you ! whose fair flowers year by year come again to you , ever young , and fresh , and beautiful . You who can drink the rain with your leaves , who can wanton with the summer breeze , and open your breast to give a home to the wild birds , look at me and be ashamed . I only am truly wretched . " " Alas ! " said the Mimosa , " we have life , which you have not , it is true . We have also what you have not , its shadow—death . My beautiful children , which year by year I bring out into being , expand in their loveliness only to die . Where they are gone I too shall soon follow , while you will flash in the light of the last sun which rises upon the earth . F .
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We should do our utmost to encourage the Beautiful , for the Useful encourages itself . — Goethe .
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June 22 , 1850 . ] SCfte 3 t £ after * 307
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• For a magnificent personification of the winds , see Zachariah , chap . iv .
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Citation
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Leader (1850-1860), June 22, 1850, page 307, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/vm2-ncseproduct1843/page/19/
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