Poems (Cook)/Silence—a fragment
SILENCE—A FRAGMENT.
Poverty has a sharp and goading power
To wring the torture-cry, and fill the breath
With frantic curses or despairing sighs;
But her cold, withering grasp is deepest felt
By the fine spirit that endures in Silence,
And trembles lest his shallow purse be sounded
By the sleek friends about him—him who dreads
The taunting mockery that ever waits
On sensibility unwarranted
By wealth. Distress, with heavy, mildew blight,
Blackens each flower that else would cheer his path;
It steals health's steady lustre from his glance,
Draws his pale lip into a stronger curve—
Pinches his lank cheek—whitens his thin hand,
And saps the very roots of joy and hope:
But none may dream of the consuming fire
That spends his oil of life. He does not show
The vagrant's rags, and tell the whining tale
Of doleful falsehood. He has never learnt
To shape his language in beseeching tone,
And stand a mendicant beneath the roof
Of some rich kin—who gives such good advice
To qualify the charitable gold,
That proud and honourable palms shrink back,
And rather grapple with the spectre hand
Of Famine, than accept the boon so granted.
He is not one of the contented poor
Who, if they have their simple meals insured,
Care not, though thousands mark the trencher'd scrap,
And spurn it! He is not a mindless brute,
To meet misfortune in a ruffian garb,
And leap the low-pitch'd barrier that parts
Mean, shivering Want, from bold and well-fed Crime.
Mix'd with the wealthy crowd he walks erect,
And screens his beggar's fester from the world,
As closely as the Spartan boy of old
Hid the fierce talons tearing out his heart.
To wring the torture-cry, and fill the breath
With frantic curses or despairing sighs;
But her cold, withering grasp is deepest felt
By the fine spirit that endures in Silence,
And trembles lest his shallow purse be sounded
By the sleek friends about him—him who dreads
The taunting mockery that ever waits
On sensibility unwarranted
By wealth. Distress, with heavy, mildew blight,
Blackens each flower that else would cheer his path;
It steals health's steady lustre from his glance,
Draws his pale lip into a stronger curve—
Pinches his lank cheek—whitens his thin hand,
And saps the very roots of joy and hope:
But none may dream of the consuming fire
That spends his oil of life. He does not show
The vagrant's rags, and tell the whining tale
Of doleful falsehood. He has never learnt
To shape his language in beseeching tone,
And stand a mendicant beneath the roof
Of some rich kin—who gives such good advice
To qualify the charitable gold,
That proud and honourable palms shrink back,
And rather grapple with the spectre hand
Of Famine, than accept the boon so granted.
He is not one of the contented poor
Who, if they have their simple meals insured,
Care not, though thousands mark the trencher'd scrap,
And spurn it! He is not a mindless brute,
To meet misfortune in a ruffian garb,
And leap the low-pitch'd barrier that parts
Mean, shivering Want, from bold and well-fed Crime.
Mix'd with the wealthy crowd he walks erect,
And screens his beggar's fester from the world,
As closely as the Spartan boy of old
Hid the fierce talons tearing out his heart.
Love hath its utterance of magic sound,
When soft confession calls the ruddy flush
Into the maiden's cheek, and gentle vows
Breathe whisper'd music in the willing ear;
Even as the nightingale is said to woo
The listening rose. And Love, too, hath its kind
And merry mood of fond loquacity;
When happy confidence and long-tried truth
Set the soul prating of its full delight
With easy freedom; but the hallow'd tone
Of pure Affection's richest, sweetest string,
Affords no echo of its thrilling note
In measured syllables. When sever'd long
From the dear chosen one whose presence flings
A summer sunshine on our wintry way,
That ever comes as welcome to our sight
As the cool stream amid the desert sand;—
Oh! words can never tell our ecstasy
When once again we hold the idol form
Close to our heart, and look into the eyes.
Where fond devotion finds a faithful mirror,
And doting glances are reflected back
In silent bliss.
When soft confession calls the ruddy flush
Into the maiden's cheek, and gentle vows
Breathe whisper'd music in the willing ear;
Even as the nightingale is said to woo
The listening rose. And Love, too, hath its kind
And merry mood of fond loquacity;
When happy confidence and long-tried truth
Set the soul prating of its full delight
With easy freedom; but the hallow'd tone
Of pure Affection's richest, sweetest string,
Affords no echo of its thrilling note
In measured syllables. When sever'd long
From the dear chosen one whose presence flings
A summer sunshine on our wintry way,
That ever comes as welcome to our sight
As the cool stream amid the desert sand;—
Oh! words can never tell our ecstasy
When once again we hold the idol form
Close to our heart, and look into the eyes.
Where fond devotion finds a faithful mirror,
And doting glances are reflected back
In silent bliss.
The debt of Gratitude
Is not the best remember'd where the lips
Pour forth their voluble and fluent tide
Of warm acknowledgment. Fair-spoken phrases,
Graced with a courtier's bow, are pleasant things,
But rarely hold much more of grateful truth
Than the bright slime that cunning reptiles spread
To catch their prey,—and they who oftenest turn
In fierce recoil upon the helping hand,
Are oftenest those whose hollow hearts have sworn
A changeless sense of benefits received.
The breast where Gratitude is firm and deep
Gives least expression to the one it serves;
As trees that bear the heaviest of fruit
Yield the least rustling to the cherishing breeze.
Is not the best remember'd where the lips
Pour forth their voluble and fluent tide
Of warm acknowledgment. Fair-spoken phrases,
Graced with a courtier's bow, are pleasant things,
But rarely hold much more of grateful truth
Than the bright slime that cunning reptiles spread
To catch their prey,—and they who oftenest turn
In fierce recoil upon the helping hand,
Are oftenest those whose hollow hearts have sworn
A changeless sense of benefits received.
The breast where Gratitude is firm and deep
Gives least expression to the one it serves;
As trees that bear the heaviest of fruit
Yield the least rustling to the cherishing breeze.
Prayer has its decalogue and well-set chant
To say or sing; but prayer can offer up
A purer tribute to the mighty One
Who rules the thunder and restrains the wave,
Than ever cloister'd walls responded to.
—The lonely orphan child, who steals at night
Where the round moon shines on a mother's grave,
Knows little how to mould his trusting faith.
In proper sentences; but the dim eye
That sheds its blinding tear upon the turf,
And then looks up to the fair silver stars,
Carries a ray of holy fervency
That will not be rejected at the throne
Of Him who suits the "wind to the shorn lamb,
The erring one, whose right arm has been strong
In working evil, may repent, "and save
His soul alive." He cannot frame his thoughts
In saintly code, but the pale, moping brow
That droops in silence, penitence, and shame,
Shall plead for him at the eternal bar,
Where boundless mercy fills the judgment-seat.
To say or sing; but prayer can offer up
A purer tribute to the mighty One
Who rules the thunder and restrains the wave,
Than ever cloister'd walls responded to.
—The lonely orphan child, who steals at night
Where the round moon shines on a mother's grave,
Knows little how to mould his trusting faith.
In proper sentences; but the dim eye
That sheds its blinding tear upon the turf,
And then looks up to the fair silver stars,
Carries a ray of holy fervency
That will not be rejected at the throne
Of Him who suits the "wind to the shorn lamb,
The erring one, whose right arm has been strong
In working evil, may repent, "and save
His soul alive." He cannot frame his thoughts
In saintly code, but the pale, moping brow
That droops in silence, penitence, and shame,
Shall plead for him at the eternal bar,
Where boundless mercy fills the judgment-seat.
The Poet wins the world with minstrelsy,
And holds the ear of wondering nations fast;
But fuller melodies and rarer themes
Dwell in his soul, and people his quick brain,
Than any that his burning song can give.
Swift-flashing streams from Helicon's high fount
Rush through his breast; but their cherubic sounds
Of murmuring music are too strangely wild
To live again, even upon his lyre.
—Let the proud Orator assert the power
That Language holds; but the Soul, prouder still,
Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own,
And mock the tongued interpreter.
And holds the ear of wondering nations fast;
But fuller melodies and rarer themes
Dwell in his soul, and people his quick brain,
Than any that his burning song can give.
Swift-flashing streams from Helicon's high fount
Rush through his breast; but their cherubic sounds
Of murmuring music are too strangely wild
To live again, even upon his lyre.
—Let the proud Orator assert the power
That Language holds; but the Soul, prouder still,
Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own,
And mock the tongued interpreter.