Makes me amazed that you, two tiny rills, should deem
You can be e’en compared with me—enormous _me_!
Of rivers I’m the king!—Let that acknowledged be!”
“Absurd!” cried Tiber. “_Size_—and all that sort of thing
Are never reckon’d points in fixing on a king.
But Rome was _mine_! And _mine_ her conquests, laws, and fame,
In fact, her total past is coupled with _my_ name!”
“Be silent!” said the Thames; “I’m greater than you both!
Not hist’ry and not miles can match with present growth.
I’m proud to say _I_ own a trading wealthy place,
By Anglo-Saxons built—that fearless, active race!”
The contest grew more sharp, they roll’d their waves in storm;
Thermometers, if there, had shown the waters warm.
Thames wreck’d some twenty ships, and Amazon still more,
While Tiber caused dire dread to Romans as of yore.
At length the mighty sea, lamenting such a fray,
By these wise words prevailed their envious wrath to stay.
“Dear streams! you once were one—to me you all return.
Oh! cease then—being one—with jealousies to burn!”
FOOTPATH
BETWEEN THE PATHWAY AND RIVER.
“FOLLOW that pathway till you come to some arches, and turn under them,
and you will find the Blind School,” was the answer given whenever we
stopped in our bewildered pilgrimage to inquire: but no arches were
visible, save one disreputable old bridge, under which no self-respecting
school seemed likely to find shelter; so we went on hopelessly, asking
the way from waggoners and countrymen, who all seemed interested in the
question, but were unable to give us any guidance. A pitiless hailstorm
rattled on our umbrellas and splashed the mud upon our boots: while the
path, it was evident, was leading us on towards the river, not the
school; so at last in despair we turned, and flying before the storm
sought refuge under the despised railway bridge, where a group of
children were playing dry and comfortable, while we were wet and muddy.
Once again we inquired for the Blind School, and were told to go on. The
path led under a succession of iron girders which apparently stand for
arches in those regions, and we tramped on discontentedly, feeling we had
been deceived, and that we too might have been dry and safe like the
children, if only our misinformants had called a spade a spade, and a row
of iron girders something else than arches. But the path took a turn,
and we saw cottages and green fields, and we reached a house which had
two doors, on one of which we read, “Mr. Wallis,” and on the other
nothing: so we chanced the second door, knocked, and were soon among a
group of children, all neat, healthy, and cheerful—but blind. In this
blind school there were but two people who could see, and these were not
the only teachers, for here the blind helped the blind, as the rich
helped the poor.
For this school began with a blind man. Five years ago, near the banks
of the Severn, a cart containing vitriol was overturned; and of four
people who were there, only two were left alive, and one of these was
blind. Childless and blind, this man had to begin life again—to learn to
live in darkness, and in darkness to work for others. For as soon as he
had learned to grope his way, he learned to read in the books provided
for the blind, and went from village to village to find other blind
persons, and teach them how to read also. Then a noble-hearted woman
came forward to help him, and founded the school; where blind children
are trained to work as well as read, and blind men and women come every
day to be taught trades. These latter come daily to the school, groping
their way along the path that had been so tedious to our impatience; and
learn to work, and also to read, helped sometimes by the teachers,
sometimes by the blind man: who also still goes as before, from village
to village, teaching and comforting those in the same straits as himself.
We were guided through a back way, intricate and uneven, where our blind
guide warned us carefully of every step—though he said the children ran
about everywhere and never fell—till we went through the school and
entered his little house alongside, and found ourselves in a bright
little parlour upstairs, full of books, and tastefully furnished, with a
woman’s taste; for the woman who survived the accident which left her
childless and crippled, had still the sight of one eye. There was an
harmonium in the room, and one of the children came to play it. He was
called Abraham; but this old name belonged to an intelligent,
bright-faced English lad of twelve, well dressed and handsome but for his
sad dim eyes. He is the son of a well-to-do farmer, and in education and
intelligence far removed from some of his companions. He handled the
harmonium with his small, delicate fingers as only a real musician can,
and while the music lasted I nearly forgot all the sadness of the scene,
and the hopeless life of the musician and the other children, who, one by
one, guided by the sound, crept up the narrow stairs and came noiselessly
into the room, and stood listening spell-bound till he finished. “And
now, Lizzie, play,” said some one, and a girl came to the harmonium. She
knew far less of music than Abraham, and had as yet little execution, but
the sweet, true feeling which she gave to the old hymn tunes stirred the
heart and brought tears to my eyes. “And would you like to hear us sing
the hymn we sang when she was buried?” they asked. For their
benefactress and friend, the woman whose untiring energy had begun and
carried on this work among them, rousing sympathy for them among her
townspeople, and begging for them when her own means were insufficient,
died a few weeks ago, and the children of the school had seen her laid in
the churchyard. The harmonium was hushed, Lizzie only struck the
keynote, and they all sang, as they had all sung at the grave in the cold
February morning when they saw her lowered into the cold earth,
“I know there is a land where all is bright,”
and they turned their poor sightless eyes to the light, as if that were
to them the symbol of the heaven they longed to reach. It was too sad.
The singing ceased, and we all tried to speak of something else. “How
did you get that Indian picture?” I asked, looking round, and as the
words left my lips, I reproached myself for speaking to one who could not
see it, of a thing that could have no present interest to him. But I had
made no mistake, as it chanced. “Ay, my brother brought it me,” he
answered. “I know what you mean.” “It is painted on ivory, is it not?”
“Oh no! this is a picture; my sister wears the one on ivory for a brooch,
though it is rather large for that, maybe; but my brother brought them.
He was at Agra during the mutiny, and he brought a ball in his shoulder,
too, back—that’s what he brought; but I’d forgotten the picture till you
mentioned it. But will you hear the children read now? Read the history
of England, Abraham.” And Abraham read, opening the book at hazard, and
reading clearly and distinctly the death of Cœur de Lion, his forgiveness
of his enemy, and his burial in Fontevrault in token of his deep
repentance. The children all listened with pleasure till one little one,
the pet of the flock, whimpered because “Bessie” did not read; so Bessie,
whose fingers were busy with her knitting, was compelled to read,
although coming after Abraham it was rather a trying ordeal. Still the
pet had to be satisfied, and then every one went on with their straw
work, for the funds of the home are dependent on charity or the sale of
work, as friends visiting Worcester will do wisely to remember. Straw
mats, baskets, and balls were the work of the little ones, and they took
the keenest interest in the question whether I preferred blue and white
mats, or purple and white. I bought both, and shook hands all round, and
in a few minutes was retreading my way towards the broad rolling Severn.
Never did I feel how intense the joy of sight was as I did when I stood
by its silver stream, and thought of those I had just left in the little
house near the railway bridge.
THE FOOTPATH.
OUT at the doorway with shrill delight
Ringing, clear of alloy,
After a butterfly flashing so white
As it wheels and floats in the soft sunlight,
He darts, O adventurous joy!
Away! the fields are waving, the wheat
Stands proudly over the path,
The path winds onward, winning his feet
Through avenues arched and shady and sweet,—
Sweet vista that childhood hath.
But stay: the butterfly has upflown
High in the stainless blue;
Under the shadowing wheat alone,
He stands and wonders, still as a stone,
For all the world is new.
He sees each beautiful stem, blue-green,
Standing alone in its grace,
Great pendulous poppies aflame between,
And little convolvulus climbing to screen
That dim forest world from his face.
He sees overhead as they dance to its tune
The ears flash white in the wind,
But that musical laugh before mid-noon
Ripples far and faint in the heat, and soon
Leaves silence only behind.
And the silence falls on his fresh young soul,
Like the far sound of the sea,
Infinite, solemn; its strange control
Possesses him quite; quick fancies roll
Through his brain; half fearfully
He looks; and the long path seems to strain
His tremulous lips apart;
Some sudden trouble his eyes sustain;
For so the folded blossom of pain
Has broke in his childish heart.
What is it?—some swift intuitive glance,
Half-shapen only in thought,
Of stranger worlds, of wide mischance?
Some intimate sense of severance
Or loss?—I know not what.
He turns and leaps; for his mother’s arms
Out of the doorway lean;
She folds him safely from all alarms,
And rallies his courage with rhythmical charms,—
Yet knows not what he has seen.
FOOTPATH.
ONWARD, where through dewy grass
Slowly wading footsteps pass;
Where the daisy’s peaceful eye
Gazes trustful to the sky;
Where the river rippling by
Makes scarce heeded harmony
With the deep bell’s distant chime,
And the wandering waifs of rhyme,
Flung at random from the mind,
While the thought still lags behind,
Held in check by idle musing
Born of chance, not wilful choosing.
Now, more clear on either side,
See the meadows green divide;
Clearer lies the path before us;
Varied sounds are floating o’er us;
All the stirring noise of life,
All the ceaseless daily strife;
The larger world breaks strongly in
Where footpaths end and roads begin.
THE FOOTPATH.
I.
REMEMBER how, the winter through,
While all the ways were choked with mire,
Half-maddened at the rain, we two
Have nestled closer to the fire,
And talk’d of all that should be done
When April brought us back the sun,
What gardens white with butterflies,
What soft green nooks of budded heather,
What moorlands open to the skies,
We two would scour together!
II.
And now the month comes round again!
Cool interchange of genial hours,
Soft gleams of sunlight, streams of rain,
Have starred the meadow-lands with flowers,
And in the orchards on the hills
The grass is gold with daffodils,
And we have wander’d, hand in hand,
Where sea below and sky above
Seem narrowing to a strip of land
The pathway that we love!
III.
Our path looks out on the wide sea,
And knows not of the land; we sit
For hours in silent reverie,
To watch the sea, and pulse with it;
Its deep monotonous refrain
Brings melancholy, almost pain:
We scarcely wish to speak or move,
But just to feel each other there,
And sense of presence is like love,
And silence more than prayer.
IV.
Sharp round the steep hill’s utmost line
It winds, and, just below, the grass
Sinks with tumultuous incline
To where the rock-pools shine like glass;
The tufts of thrift can drink their fill
Of sea-wind on this rugged hill,
And all the herbage, toss’d and blown,
Is stain’d with salt and crush’d with wind,
Save where behind some boulder-stone
A harbour flowers may find.
V.
The bright sea sparkles, sunbeam-kiss’d,
And o’er its face such breezes float
As lightly turn to amethyst
The pearl-grey of a ring-dove’s throat;
Thus stirr’d and ruffled, shines anew
The radiant plain of changing hue,
So gentle, that the eye divines
No reason why the foam should fall
So loudly, in such serried lines,
Against the dark rock-wall.
VI.
The wind is low now; even here,
Where all the breezes congregate,
The softest warbler need not fear
To linger with its downy mate;
And here where you have long’d to be
So many weeks and months with me,
Sit silently, or softly speak
Or sing some air of pensive mood,
Not loud enough to mar or break
This delicate solitude.
VII.
Are we not happy? Sun-lit air,
Soft colour, floods of dewy light,
A flowery perfume everywhere
Pour out their wealth for our delight;
Through dreary hours of snow and sleet
The hope of these wing’d winter’s feet;
We have them now! The very breath
Of Nature seems an altar-fire
That wakes the bright world’s heart from death
To satiate our desire!
VIII.
Sing to me, therefore, sing or speak!
Wake my dull heart to happiness;
Perchance my pulses are too weak
To stir with all this sweet excess!
Perhaps the sudden spring has come
Too soon, and found my spirit dumb!
Howe’er it be, my heart is cold,
No echo stirs within my brain,
To me, too suddenly grown old,
This beauty speaks in vain!
IX.
Why are you silent? Lo! to-day
It is not as it once hath been;
I cannot sit the old sweet way,
Absorbed, contented, and serene;
I cannot feel my heart rejoice,
I crave the comfort of your voice!
Speak, speak! remind me of the past!
Let my spent embers at your fire
Revive and kindle, till at last
Delight surpass desire!
X.
Yea! are you silent, only press
My hand, and turn your face away;
You wince, too, from the fierce caress
That April flings on us to-day?
O human heart, too weak to bear
The whole fulfilment of a prayer!
This sudden summer strikes us dumb;
The wild hope, realized, but scares!
The substances of dreams become
A burden unawares.
XI.
How can we sit here and not thrill
With but the pleasure of past time?
This footpath winding round the hill
Should stir us like remember’d rhyme
Nay! for the dull and sluggish brain
Is spurred to action all in vain,
And when the spirit cannot rise
Through natural feeling into light,
No perfumed air, no splendid skies,
Can lend it wings for flight.
XII.
Come, then, and leave the sovereign sea
To sparkle in the laughing air;
Another day its face will be
No less refulgent, no less fair,
And we by custom be made strong
To bear what we desired so long;
To-day the slackening nerves demand
A milder light, a sadder air,
Some corner of forgotten land,
Still winter-like and bare.
XIII.
Come! leave our pathway for to-day,
And turning inland, seek the woods,
Where last year’s sombre leaves decay
In brown sonorous solitudes;
The murmurous voice of those dark trees
Will teach us more than sun or seas,
And in that twilight we may find
Some golden flower of strange perfume,
A blossom hidden from the wind,
A flame within the tomb.
THE FOOTPATH.
YOU gave your hand to me, as through
The low scrub-growth that spanned
The Danes’ old tower, we caught anew
The sharp salt-burdened breeze that blew
Across the reach of sand.
Too proud! the grace you scorned to do,
Where scarce your foot could stand;—
’Twas but from sheer fatigue, I knew,
You gave your hand!
How well that scene comes back to view!
Your cheeks’ faint roses fanned,—
The gorge,—the twinkling seaward blue,
The black boats on the strand;
I gave you all my heart, and you—
You gave your hand.
A TURN OF THE TIDE.
ONLY a turn of the tide!
I was sitting here, by myself alone
On this rock, now hardly three hours agone,
With my book on my knees, and my eyes on the sea,
And my thoughts still further adrift, when he
So suddenly stood by my side.
The sun shone white on the sails,
The waves were dimpling and sparkling in light;
And I, my visions were almost as bright.
But a mist is now creeping along the shore,
And I shiver with cold—it is nothing more;
If it were—what now avails?
Only one turn of the tide!
He told me his love was so deep and strong,
That in saying him nay, I did him wrong,
That I had not the right his life to break,
And before I half knew the words I spake
I had promised to be his bride.
I can see his footprints yet;
Though the stealthy waves have almost effaced
From the sand’s dry bed the track they traced,
But I feel as if years had gone over my head,
As if I had died, and been raised from the dead,
Since those sands were glistening wet.
Only a turn of the tide!
Is it always so when our dreams come true?
Is the present so grey, and the future so blue?
Is the rainbow we chased nought but drizzling mist?
And the hope we hugged to our hearts and kiss’d,
Delusion, and nought beside?
I had liked him truly for years,
I know he is greater and nobler than I,
With a larger brain and a clearer eye;
That my life is of small account, if it give
Him comfort; but shall I, so long as I live,
Feel these half-unreasoning fears?
Ah me! one turn of the tide!
This morning I was a careless child,
So gay, so petted, so thoughtless and wild;
I’m content with my fate, but one more year
Of freedom would have been very dear.
Was it I, or the wind that sigh’d?
I thought so—here comes the rain,
The mist grows dense, and the clouds gather fast,
And the tide has covered the sands at last;
I must hasten, and think of regrets no more,
But—could all things be as they were before,
I would not promise again.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
FAR up the shingle crept the cruel wave,
With seeming coy reluctance to his feet,
Which—faint with toiling in the noonday heat—
He let his foe with flattering murmur lave,
Nor sought to flee the cool and pleasant grave
Its soft arms laid about him, nor to cheat
The patient billow of its victim meet,
For he had lost all power himself to save.
When, while he waited, thinking death was slow,
Eyesight and hearing dim with tired despair,
The whisper of the sea grew faint and low,
And, waked by stirring of the evening air,
He rose, and saw the waves in sunset glow,
Gleaming far off in beauty new and rare.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
I.
THE harbour lights are dim with smoke
Which hangs about the under sky,
And wraps the simple fisher-folk
In lurid mist as they go by.
Along the shore the wind blows free,
Keen twilight kisses the wan sea
Far out; steer thither, watch with me
The tender stars come out on high.
II.
The sky is deepening overhead:
The sail flaps loose: the wind has died:
The water laps the boat like lead:
Faint ripples plash against the side,
And shimmer with unearthly light,
The harbour lamps are out of sight;
We drift into a starless night
Together on the ebbing tide.
III.
How still—how strange—the tide is slack,
We eddy round—we drift no more.
What swell is this which sweeps us back
To where the gathering breakers roar?
About the pale unlighted land?
Can any tell if we shall stand
Safe in the morning hand in hand
Upon the steep and rock-bound shore?
COMPROMISE.
“COME, promise, dear,” I whispered low,
“That you will take my name.”
I never said I’d give it, but
They swore ’twas all the same.
They brought an action to extort
Four thousand pounds from me—
The Judge said “compromise,” and so
I had to give her three.
By my hard fate, unwary youth,
Take warning, and be wise:
Once with “_come promise_” you begin,
The end is _compromise_.
FAREWELL.
FAR through the vista of receding years
I dimly catch a glimpse through falling tears,
Of faces bending o’er some pictured glory
Or—brightly list’ning to some magic story,
Told by a gifted wielder of the Pen
Whose power and pathos touch’d the hearts of men.
But when the pathos ’gan to sadden all,
A comic writer would our smiles recall:
And by his clever travesty and fable
Excite a merry laughter round the table.
Then some philosopher with voice sonorous
Would read an essay—not too long, to bore us.
The papers read, around the board we press’d,
To scan the pictures of each artist-guest.
Then to discussion of a slight repast
Of fish and rolls, and velvet cream we’d haste,
Ere Pens and Pencils all would speed away,
To meet again some happy future day.
That day, alas! has pass’d, the night has come,
And witty Pens and Pencils all are dumb.
FOOTNOTES
{43} Although Mazzini was not a member of Pen and Pencil, he wrote this
letter at the request of the President.