"You may boast of jewels, coronets,--
Ermine, purple, all you can--
There is that within them nobler;--
Something that we call--a man!
Something all the rest surpassing;
As the flower is to the sod;
As to man is high archangel;
As is to archangel--God!
"Running o'er with tears and weakness;
Flaming like a mountain fire;
Racked by hate and hateful passions;
Tossed about by wild desire;
There is still within him mingled
With each fault that dims or mars,
Truth, and pity, virtue, courage,--
Thoughts that fly beyond the stars!
"You, who prize the book's fair paper
Above its thoughts of joy and pain;
You, who love the cloud's bright vapor
More than its soul,--the blessing, rain;
Take the gems, the crowns, the ermine;
Use them nobly, if you can;
But give _us_--in rags or purple--
The true, warm, strong heart of man!"
Mr. Procter was born and spent his youth at Finchley, in a house which
we understand is now pulled down. He was educated for the bar. He was
some years at school at Harrow, where he was the cotemporary of the
present Duke of Devonshire, Lord Byron, and Sir Robert Peel. On
leaving Harrow, it had been the intention of his father to send him to
one of the universities; but from this he was deterred, in consequence
of the son of some friend or acquaintance having run a wild and
ruinous career at one of these seminaries of extravagance and
dissipation. From Harrow he, therefore, went to Calne, in Wiltshire,
where he remained for some time under the care of an excellent man of
the name of Atherton, who lived, it was said, in the house which at
one time had been the residence of Coleridge, and opposite to another
called the "Doctor's house," because it had once been occupied by Dr.
Priestley. Two miles from Calne was Bremhill, the rector of which
place, William Lisle Bowles, was on friendly terms with young Procter.
With a head and heart much more fitted for the noble business of
poetry than law, Mr. Procter devoted himself for twenty years to his
profession, until a few years ago he was appointed one of the
Government Commissioners of Lunacy, with a good income, but with less
leisure than ever for his favorite studies. He has resided altogether
in London, for some time, in Gray's-inn; and after his marriage, with
the step-daughter of Mr. Basil Montague, in what was in those days a
very pretty cottage and suitable poet's home, at No. 5,
Grove-end-place, St. John's-wood; and latterly in Upper Harley-place,
Cavendish-square; where we sincerely hope he may yet find leisure, if
not to write some noble drama, for which we consider him eminently
qualified, at least to enrich the lyrical poetry of his country with
fresh lays that will add honor to his reputation, at the same time
that they assist struggling humanity in its great contest with the
cruelty and selfishness of the world.
There is a healthy, active vigor about all the latter writings of
Barry Cornwall, that show that he has never yet fairly and fully
developed his whole power. His reputation is of the first class, but
every one feels, in reading one of his lyrics, that he would not
surprise us now to come forth with some high and stirring drama of
real life, that would stamp him as a true tragic poet. The elements of
this lie everywhere in his poems. There is a clear and decided
dramatic tact and cast of thought. Pathos and indignation against
wrong live equally and vividly in him. His thoughts and feelings are
put forth with a genuineness and a perspicuous life, that tell at once
on the reader, making him feel how real and how earnest is his spirit.
Spite of the long and continuous labors of his daily life, we shall
still trust to some future outburst of his powers and impulses in a
fitting form. In the mean time, the prompt and quick spirit of his
lyrics is doing great service to the cause of progress far and wide.
[Illustration: Birthplace at Somersby]