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    /i^r * i ? J0nritOltH* I

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    /I^R * I ? J0nritolth* I

    ^ nrtfnlin .

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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 .

• Citation
  • 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/