The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens Part 6

Awake the Present! Shall no scene display The tragic pa.s.sion of the pa.s.sing day?

Is it with Man, as with some meaner things, That out of death his single purpose springs?

Can his eventful life no moral teach Until he be, for aye, beyond its reach?

Obscurely shall he suffer, act, and fade, Dubb'd n.o.ble only by the s.e.xton's spade?

Awake the Present! Though the steel-clad age Find life alone within its storied page, Iron is worn, at heart, by many still-- The tyrant Custom binds the serf-like will; If the sharp rack, and screw, and chain be gone, These later days have tortures of their own; The guiltless writhe, while Guilt is stretch'd in sleep, And Virtue lies, too often, dungeon deep.

Awake the Present! what the Past has sown Be in its harvest garner'd, reap'd, and grown!

How pride breeds pride, and wrong engenders wrong, Read in the volume Truth has held so long, a.s.sured that where life's flowers freshest blow, The sharpest thorns and keenest briars grow, How social usage has the pow'r to change Good thoughts to evil; in its highest range To cramp the n.o.ble soul, and turn to ruth The kindling impulse of our glorious youth, Crus.h.i.+ng the spirit in its house of clay, Learn from the lessons of the present day.

Not light its import and not poor its mien; Yourselves the actors, and your homes the scene.

A WORD IN SEASON FROM THE 'KEEPSAKE'

1844

A WORD IN SEASON

_The Keepsake_, one of the many fas.h.i.+onable annuals published during the early years of Queen Victoria's reign, had for its editor in 1844 the 'gorgeous' Countess of Blessington, the reigning beauty who held court at Gore House, Kensington, where many political, artistic, and literary celebrities forgathered--Bulwer Lytton, Disraeli, d.i.c.kens, Ainsworth, D'Orsay, and the rest. Her ladys.h.i.+p, through her personal charm and natural gifts, succeeded in securing the services of eminent authors for the aristocratic publication; even d.i.c.kens could not resist her appeal, and in a letter to Forster (dated July 1843) he wrote: 'I have heard, as you have, from Lady Blessington, for whose behalf I have this morning penned the lines I send you herewith. But I have only done so to excuse myself, for I have not the least idea of their suiting her; and I hope she will send them back to you for _The Examiner_.' Lady Blessington, however, decided to retain the thoughtful little poem, which was referred to in the _London Review_ (twenty-three years later) as 'a graceful and sweet apologue, reminding one of the manner of Hood.' The theme of the poem, which Forster describes as 'a clever and pointed parable in verse,' was afterwards satirised in Chadband (_Bleak House_), and in the idea of religious conversion through the agency of 'moral pocket-handkerchiefs.'

A WORD IN SEASON

They have a superst.i.tion in the East, That ALLAH, written on a piece of paper, Is better unction than can come of priest, Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper: Holding, that any sc.r.a.p which bears that name, In any characters, its front imprest on, Shall help the finder through the purging flame, And give his toasted feet a place to rest on.

Accordingly, they make a mighty fuss With ev'ry wretched tract and fierce oration, And h.o.a.rd the leaves--for they are not, like us, A highly civilized and thinking nation: And, always stooping in the miry ways, To look for matter of this earthy leaven, They seldom, in their dust-exploring days, Have any leisure to look up to Heaven.

So have I known a country on the earth, Where darkness sat upon the living waters, And brutal ignorance, and toil, and dearth Were the hard portion of its sons and daughters: And yet, where they who should have ope'd the door Of charity and light, for all men's finding, Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor, And rent the Book, in struggles for the binding.

The gentlest man among these pious Turks, G.o.d's living image ruthlessly defaces; Their best high-churchman, with no faith in works, Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places: The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse (They curse all other men, and curse each other), Walks thro' the world, not very much the worse-- Does all the good he can, and loves his brother.

VERSES FROM THE 'DAILY NEWS'

1846

I.--THE BRITISH LION

VERSES FROM THE 'DAILY NEWS,' 1846

The _Daily News_, it will be remembered, was founded in January 1846 by Charles d.i.c.kens, who officiated as its first editor. He soon sickened of the mechanical drudgery appertaining to the position, and resigned his editorial functions the following month. From January 21st to March 2nd he contributed to its columns a series of 'Travelling Sketches,' afterwards reprinted in volume form as _Pictures from Italy_. He also availed himself of the opportunity afforded him, by his a.s.sociation with that newspaper, of once more taking up the cudgels against the Tories, and, as in the case of the _Examiner_, his attack was conveyed through the medium of some doggerel verses. These were ent.i.tled 'The British Lion--A New Song, but an Old Story,' to be sung to the tune of 'The Great Sea-Snake.' They bore the signature of 'Catnach,' the famous ballad-singer, and were printed in the _Daily News_ of January 24, 1846.

Three weeks later some verses of a totally different character appeared in the columns of the _Daily News_, signed in full 'Charles d.i.c.kens.' One Lucy Simpkins, of Bremhill (or Bremble), a parish in Wilts.h.i.+re, had just previously addressed a night meeting of the wives of agricultural labourers in that county, in support of a pet.i.tion for Free Trade, and her vigorous speech on that occasion inspired d.i.c.kens to write 'The Hymn of the Wilts.h.i.+re Labourers,' thus offering an earnest protest against oppression. Concerning the 'Hymn,' a writer in a recent issue of _Christmas Bells_ observes: 'It breathes in every line the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount, the love of the All-Father, the Redemption by His Son, and that love to G.o.d and man on which hang all the law and the prophets.'

THE BRITISH LION

A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY

TUNE--'THE GREAT SEA-SNAKE'

Oh, p'r'aps you may have heard, and if not, I'll sing Of the British Lion free, That was constantly a-going for to make a spring Upon his en-e-me; But who, being rather groggy at the knees, Broke down, always, before; And generally gave a feeble wheeze Instead of a loud roar.

Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold!

That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being 'sold!'

He was carried about, in a carawan, And was show'd in country parts, And they said, 'Walk up! Be in time! He can Eat Corn-Law Leagues like tarts!'

And his showmen, shouting there and then, To puff him didn't fail, And they said, as they peep'd into his den, 'Oh, don't he wag his tail!'

Now, the princ.i.p.al keeper of this poor old beast, WAN HUMBUG was his name, Would once ev'ry day stir him up--at least-- And wasn't that a Game!

For he hadn't a tooth, and he hadn't a claw, In that 'Struggle' so 'Sublime'; And, however sharp they touch'd him on the raw, He couldn't come up to time.

And this, you will observe, was the reason why WAN HUMBUG, on weak grounds, Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry In all unlikely sounds.

So, there wasn't a bleat from an Ess.e.x Calf, Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim; But he said, with a wery triumphant laugh, 'I'm blest if that ain't him.'

At length, wery bald in his mane and tail, The British Lion growed: He pined, and declined, and he satisfied The last debt which he owed.

And when they came to examine the skin, It was a wonder sore, To find that the an-i-mal within Was nothing but a Boar!

Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold!

That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being 'sold!'

CATNACH.

II. THE HYMN OF THE WILTs.h.i.+RE LABOURERS

THE HYMN OF THE WILTs.h.i.+RE LABOURERS

'Don't you all think that we have a great need to Cry to our G.o.d to put it in the hearts of our grea.s.sous Queen and her Members of Parlerment to grant us free bread!'

LUCY SIMPKINS, _at Bremhill_.

Oh G.o.d, who by Thy Prophet's hand Didst smite the rocky brake, Whence water came, at Thy command, Thy people's thirst to slake; Strike, now, upon this granite wall, Stern, obdurate, and high; And let some drops of pity fall For us who starve and die!

The G.o.d, who took a little child, And set him in the midst, And promised him His mercy mild, As, by Thy Son, Thou didst: Look down upon our children dear, So gaunt, so cold, so spare, And let their images appear Where Lords and Gentry are!

Oh G.o.d, teach them to feel how we, When our poor infants droop, Are weakened in our trust in Thee, And how our spirits stoop; For, in Thy rest, so bright and fair, All tears and sorrows sleep: And their young looks, so full of care, Would make Thine Angels weep!

The G.o.d, who with His finger drew The Judgment coming on, Write, for these men, what must ensue, Ere many years be gone!

Oh G.o.d, whose bow is in the sky, Let them not brave and dare, Until they look (too late) on high, And see an Arrow there!

Oh G.o.d, remind them! In the bread They break upon the knee, These sacred words may yet be read, 'In memory of Me!'

Oh G.o.d, remind them of His sweet Compa.s.sion for the poor, And how He gave them Bread to eat, And went from door to door!

CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.