THERE are several among our foremost prose writers in the present
century, who, possessing high imagination, and a considerable power of
rhythmical expression, have occasionally produced verse of a high though
not of the first order. Lord Macaulay will not be remembered either by
his prize poems, or by his “Lays of Ancient Rome,” but one who wrote such
eloquent prose could hardly fail ignobly when he attempted verse. Thomas
Carlyle, in spite of his energetic denunciation of modern poetry as mere
dilettantism and trifling, has occasionally courted the muse, and were
the original pieces and translations from the German which lie scattered
through his earlier writings, collected together, they would by
themselves form a volume of no mean value. They have a wild, rugged
melody of their own, as have also the occasional verses of Emerson; the
latter bear in many respects a remarkable resemblance to those of Blake.
The author of _Modern Painters_ might also have gained some reputation as
a poet, had he chosen to preserve in a more permanent form his scattered
contributions to annuals. Indeed, it would seem that no eloquent writer
of prose is altogether devoid of the lyric gift if he chooses to exercise
it. The only attempt at poetry by Charles Dickens which is at all known
to the general public is the famous song of “The Ivy Green,” in the
Pickwick Papers. This exquisite little lyric, with its beautiful
refrain, so often wedded to music and so familiar to us all, would alone
suffice to give him no mean rank among contemporary writers of verse.
But in the Comic Opera of the Village Coquettes, {334} to which we
alluded in our Introduction, there were a dozen songs of equal tenderness
and melody, though, as the author has never thought fit to reprint the
little piece, they are now forgotten.
The first is a song of Harvest-Home, supposed to be sung by a company of
reapers.
It must be mentioned that this and the other songs had the advantage of
being set to music by John Hullah. The next, “Love is not a feeling to
pass away,” was a great favourite at the time. We quote the first
stanza, the last line of which recalls the little song in the Pickwick
Papers:
“Love is not a feeling to pass away,
Like the balmy breath of a summer day;
It is not—it cannot be—laid aside;
It is not a thing to forget or hide.
It clings to the heart, ah, woe is me!
As the ivy clings to the old oak tree.”
The next is a Bacchanalian song, supposed to be sung by a country squire.
But the gem of all these little lyrics, in our opinion, is that of
“Autumn Leaves,” of which the refrain strikes us as being peculiarly
happy. The reader, however, shall judge for himself, from the following
quotation:—
“Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
How like the hopes of childhood’s day,
Thick clustering on the bough!
How like those hopes is their decay,
How faded are they now!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!”
The next lyric, “The Child and the Old Man,” was sung by Braham at
different concerts, long after the piece from which it is taken, had been
forgotten, and was almost invariably encored.
Mr. Dickens’s poetical attempts have not, however, been confined to
song-writing. In 1842 he wrote for a friend a very fine Prologue to a
new tragedy. Mr. Westland Marston came to London in his twenty-first
year, and resolved to try his success in the world of letters: after
writing for several of the second-class magazines, he finished his
tragedy of the “Patrician’s Daughter,” and introduced himself to Mr.
Dickens, who became interested in the play. Struck with the novelty of
“a coat-and-breeches tragedy,” the good-tempered novelist recommended
Macready to produce it, and after some little hesitation, this
distinguished actor took himself the chief character—Mordaunt,—and also
recited a prologue by Mr. Dickens, {336} from which we quote a few lines.
Impressing the audience strongly with the scope and purpose of what they
had come to see, this prologue thoroughly prepared them for welcome and
applause. The strength and truth of some of the concluding lines address
themselves equally to a larger audience.
“No tale of streaming plumes and harness bright
Dwells on the poet’s maiden theme to-night.
* * * *
Enough for him if in his boldest word
The beating heart of man be faintly stirr’d.
That mournful music, that, like chords which sigh
Through charmed gardens, all who hear it die;
That solemn music he does not pursue,
To distant ages out of human view.
* * * *
But musing with a calm and steady gaze
Before the crackling flame 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 solemn purpose springs?
Can this eventful life no moral teach,
Unless he be for aye beyond its reach?
* * * *
Awake the Present! What the past has sown
Is in its harvest garner’d, reap’d, and grown.
How pride engenders pride, and wrong breeds wrong,
And truth and falsehood hand in hand along
High places walk in monster-like embrace,
The modern Janus with a double face;
How social usage hath the power to change
Good thought to evil in its highest range,
To cramp the noble soul, and turn to ruth
The kindling impulse of the glowing youth,
Crushing the spirit in its house of clay,—
Learn from the lesson of the present day.
Not light its import, and not poor its mien,
Yourselves the actors, and your home the scene.”
We now come to a very curious fact. Mr. R. H. Horne pointed out
twenty-five years ago, {337} that a great portion of the scenes
describing the death of Little Nell in the “Old Curiosity Shop,” will be
found to be written—whether by design or harmonious accident, of which
the author was not even subsequently fully conscious—in blank verse, of
irregular metre and rhythms, which Southey, Shelley, and some other poets
have occasionally adopted. The following passage, properly divided into
lines, will stand thus: