_Wordsworth’s Horse_
Will Wordsworth was a steady man,
That lived near Ambleside,
And much he longed to have a horse,
Which he might easy ride.
It chanced one day a horse came by,
Of pure Arabian breed,
Gentle, though proud, and strong of limb;
It was a gallant steed!
Full many a noble rider bold
This gallant steed had borne;
And every one upon his brow
The laurel wreath had worn.
Those noble riders dead and gone,
And in the cold earth laid,
The gallant steed by Wordsworth’s door
Without an owner strayed.
No more ado; the steed is caught;
Upon him Wordsworth gets;
The generous courser paws and rears,
And ’gainst the bridle frets.
“He’s too high mettled,” Wordsworth says,
“And shakes me in my seat;
He must be balled, and drenched, and bled,
And get much less to eat.”
So balled, and drenched, and bled he was,
And put on lower diet;
And Wordsworth with delight observed
Him grow each day more quiet.
At first he took from him his oats,
And then he took his hay;
Until at last he fed him on
A single straw a day.
What happened next to this poor steed
There’s not a child but knows;
Death closed his eyes, as I my song,
And ended all his woes.
And on a stone, near Rydal Mount,
These words are plain to see,—
“Here lie the bones of that famed steed,
High-mettled Poesy.”
_A Sylvan Reverie_
_Scene, Hawarden Park._ [_Mr. Gladstone discovered engaged in felling
a tree, surrounded by fourteen hundred liberals of Bolton. He
strikes a few blows; the crowd cheer vociferously. Mr. Gladstone
pauses from his labors, reflects a few moments, and then sings sotto
voce_:]
How sweet are the sounds of the popular voice
In an ex-ministerial ear!
How surely I know that the national choice
_Must_ go with the noisiest cheer!
As I gaze upon votaries faithful as those,
And their incense of worship ascends,
I forget for a moment the malice of foes
And—still better—the coldness of friends.
I feel I am great, and I know I am good,
And no longer regret my position
As statesman who’s taken to chopping of wood
And abandoned the paths of ambition.
Is it vanity prompting me? Is it self-love?
Can I, safe in my conscience, decide
That it is not such feelings my bosom that move?
Yes ... I think it’s legitimate pride.
I am not—or I hope not—a lover of praise;
I am humble—I hope so at least.
It will do me no harm—on occasional days—
Such a rich popularity-feast.
For perhaps I _am_ great, and I think I am good,
And it’s surely a mark of submission
To take, though a statesman, to chopping of wood,
And abandon the paths of ambition.
[_He strikes a few more blows with his axe; then again pauses. The
cheering is renewed._]
How simple I look! how unconsciously grand,
As I rest from my toil for a space,
With my waistcoat thrown off, and my axe in my hand,
And humanity’s dew on my face!
Oh, my brethren in toil, who stand wond’ring around,
By what ties have I bound you to me?
An orator, scholar and statesman renowned,
Condescending to cut down a tree!
Yes, I know I am great, something tells me I’m good;
And I feel it’s a lofty position,
A statesman’s, who’s taken to chopping of wood,
And forsaken the paths of ambition.
[_He gazes round him for a few moments with visibly increasing
complacency._]
The consular woodman! this citizen host!
Could the old world’s imperial Queen
In the days of her early simplicity boast
A more nobly republican scene?
Let me think, as I watch the admirers who note
The simple pursuits of my home,
Of Lucius Quintus summoned by vote
Of the state from the furrow to Rome.
Yes, I feel I am great, and I know I am good,
And I’m greater by far, with submission,
As statesman, when occupied chopping of wood
Than when treading the paths of ambition.
But Rome? Is it Roman or Greek that’s recalled?
’Tis the heroes so dear to my pen,
Pelides, whose war-cry the Trojans appalled,
Agamemnon the leader of men.
For have I not led men aright when astray?
Turned them back from the false to the true?
And do not the Tories and Turks with dismay
Recollect what my war-cry can do?
Yes, yes, I am great, and I surely am good,
Or I could not endure the position
Of statesman resigned to the chopping of wood,
And renouncing the paths of ambition.
But both Roman dictator and Danaan chief
In one cardinal point I excel,
For I am—as I hazard the humble belief—
Conscientiously Christian as well.
And content with all this, let detractors repeat—
As with angry persistence they do—
That my claim to the homage I p’r’aps might complete
Were I only an Englishman too.
Let them rave—I am great; let them sneer—I am good;
And they vex not the happy condition
Of statesmen who, taking to chopping of wood,
Have abandoned the paths of ambition.
_Carlyle as a Masquerader_
He was a masquerader of great ability and still greater erudition. If we
read his works with careful scrutiny we find nothing new in them except
his odd and barbarous way of expressing his ideas. His originality is in
his language, which is a miserable model, affording the reader no
improved forms of expression. He assumed the character of a censor; but
he told the public no new truths, and sought to keep alive the public
interest in his writings by his savage personalities. He seems to have
masqueraded in the character of Dr. Johnson; but he could not come up to
his original except in what was offensive. If he was a smasher of idols,
he immediately set them up again for men’s worship after he had cemented
the pieces together in ridiculous shapes.