Poems by Dickens and Thackeray.
Reading edition
Verses from the Pen of Two of England's Most Celebrated Novelists.
With the notable exception of Sir Walter Scott, no writer of English novels has attained any marked distinction as a poet. But like men engaged in hundreds of other occupations, celebrated novelists have at times succumbed to the allurements of the muse, and have offered some of their thoughts to the world through the medium of verse. Among these were Dickens and Thackeray.
"The Ivy Green," by Dickens, lends grace to the "Pickwick Papers," while Thackeray's "The Church Porch" plays an interesting part in the novel "Pendennis."
THE IVY GREEN.
[Recited by the Old Clergyman at Manor Farm.]
Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the moldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he; How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge oak-tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round, The rich mold of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
THE CHURCH PORCH.
[Arthur Pendennis made his entry into literature by writing these verses for Mr. Bacon's "Spring Annual." The Hon. Percy Popjoy, a regular contributor to that fashionable publication, had sent in a poem which Mr. Bacon's reader condemned as too execrable to inflict upon the public. To take its place, at George Warrington's suggestion, Pendennis was invited to turn off a copy of verses to accompany an engraving which showed a damsel entering a church porch, with a young man watching her from a near-by niche. The poem printed below was the result.]
Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover: And near the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout And noise and humming: They've stopped the chiming bell; I hear the organ's swell: She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes—she's here—she's past— May heaven go with her! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it.