CHARLES MACKAY'S LAST POEMS.
Reading edition
We always read the poems of Charles Mackay, who, though not of the highest class, even of the living poets of England, is yet earnest, sensible, and good-hearted, and has always a point, and generally some happy fancies, in his least considered pieces. He has published two collections of short poems, one entitled "Voices from the Crowd," and the other and last, "Egeria, or the Spirit of Nature," &c. from which we take the following specimens:
WHY THIS LONGING?
Why this longing, clay-clad spirit? Why this fluttering of thy wings? Why this striving to discover Hidden and transcendent things? Be contented in thy prison, Thy captivity shall cease— Taste the good that smiles before thee; Restless spirit, be at peace! With the roar of wintry forests, With the thunder's crash and roll, With the rush of stormy water, Thou wouldst sympathize, O soul! Thou wouldst ask them mighty questions In a language of their own, Untranslatable to mortals, Yet not utterly unknown. Thou wouldst fathom Life and Being, Thou wouldst see through Birth and Death, Thou wouldst solve the eternal riddle— Thou a speck, a ray, a breath, Thou wouldst look at stars and systems, As if thou couldst understand All the harmonies of Nature, Struck by an Almighty hand. With thy feeble logic, tracing Upward from effect to cause, Thou art foiled by Nature's barriers, And the limits of her laws. Be at peace, thou struggling spirit! Great Eternity denies The unfolding of its secrets In the circle of thine eyes. Be contented with thy freedom— Dawning is not perfect day; There are truths thou canst not fathom, Swaddled in thy robes of clay. Rest in hope that if thy circle Grow not wider here in Time, God's Eternity shall give thee Power of vision more sublime. Clogged and bedded in the darkness, Little germ abide thine hour, Thoul't expand in proper season, Into blossom, into flower. Humble faith alone becomes thee In the glooms where thou art lain: Bright is the appointed future; Wait—thou shalt not wait in vain. Cease thy struggling, feeble spirit! Fret not at thy prison bars; Never shall thy mortal pinions Make the circuit of the stars. Here on Earth are duties for thee, Suited to thine earthly scope; Seek them, thou Immortal Spirit— God is with thee—work in hope.
YOU AND I.
Who would scorn his humble fellow For the coat he wears? For the poverty he suffers? For his daily cares? Who would pass him in the footway With averted eye? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I. Who, when vice or crime repentant, With a grief sincere Asked for pardon, would refuse it— More than heaven severe? Who to erring woman's sorrow Would with taunts reply? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I. Who would say that all who differ From his sect must be Wicked sinners, heaven-rejected, Sunk in Error's sea, And consign them to perdition With a holy sigh? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I. Who would say that six days' cheating, In the shop or mart, Might be rubbed by Sunday praying From the tainted heart, If the Sunday face were solemn, And the credit high? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I. Who would say that Vice is Virtue In a hall of State? Or that rogues are not dishonest If they dine off plate? Who would say Success and Merit Ne'er part company? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I. Who would give a cause his efforts When the cause is strong, But desert it on its failure, Whether right or wrong? Ever siding with the upmost, Letting downmost lie? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I. Who would lend his arm to strengthen Warfare with the right? Who would give his pen to blacken Freedom's page of light? Who would lend his tongue to utter Praise of tyranny? Would you, brother? No—you would not. If you would—not I.
"A people among whom Charles Mackay is a popular writer," says the Dublin University Magazine, "must possess largely the elements of greatness and the reality of goodness."