Chapter IV: Part 4

Come, I will tell thee of a joy, which the parasites of pleasure have not known, Though earth and air and sea have gorged all the appetites of sense. Behold, what fire is in his eye, what fervour on his cheek! That glorious burst of winged words! how bound they from his tongue! The full expression of the mighty thought, the strong triumphant argument, The rush of native eloquence, resistless as Niagara, The keen demand, the clear reply, the fine poetic image, The nice analogy, the clenching fact, the metaphor bold and free, The grasp of concentrated intellect wielding the omnipotence of truth, The grandeur of his speech in his majesty of mind! Champion of the right,--patriot, or priest, or pleader of the innocent cause, Upon whose lips the mystic bee hath dropped the honey of persuasion, Whose heart and tongue have been touched, as of old, by the live coal from the altar, How wide the spreading of thy peace, how deep the draught of thy pleasures! To hold the multitude as one, breathing in measured cadence, A thousand men with flashing eyes, waiting upon thy will; A thousand hearts kindled by thee with consecrated fire, Ten flaming spiritual hecatombs offered on the mount of God: And now a pause, a thrilling pause,--they live but in thy words,-- Thou hast broken the bounds of self, as the Nile at its rising, Thou art expanded into them, one faith, one hope, one spirit, They breathe but in thy breath, their minds are passive unto thine, Thou turnest the key of their love, bending their affections to thy purpose, And all, in sympathy with thee, tremble with tumultuous emotions: Verily, O man, with truth for thy theme, eloquence shall throne thee with archangels.

OF READING.

One drachma for a good book, and a thousand talents for a true friend;-- So standeth the market, where scarce is ever costly: Yea, were the diamonds of Golconda common as shingles on the shore, A ripe apple would ransom kings before a shining stone: And so, were a wholesome book as rare as an honest friend, To choose the book be mine: the friend let another take. For altered looks and jealousies and fears have none entrance there: The silent volume listeneth well, and speaketh when thou listest: It praiseth thy good without envy, it chideth thine evil without malice, It is to thee thy waiting slave, and thine unbending teacher. Need to humour no caprice, need to bear with no infirmity; Thy sin, thy slander, or neglect, chilleth not, quencheth not, its love: Unalterably speaketh it the truth, warped nor by error nor interest; For a good book is the best of friends, the same to-day and for ever.

To draw thee out of self, thy petty plans and cautions, To teach thee what thou lackest, to tell thee how largely thou art blest, To lure thy thought from sorrow, to feed thy famished mind, To graft another's wisdom on thee, pruning thine own folly, Choose discreetly, and well digest the volume most suited to thy case, Touching not religion with levity, nor deep things when thou art wearied. Thy mind is freshened by morning air, grapple with science and philosophy; Noon hath unnerved thy thoughts, dream for a while on fictions: Grey evening sobereth thy spirit, walk thou then with worshippers: But reason shall dig deepest in the night, and fancy fly most free.

O books, ye monuments of mind, concrete wisdom of the wisest; Sweet solaces of daily life; proofs and results of immortality; Trees yielding all fruits, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations; Groves of knowledge, where all may eat, nor fear a flaming sword: Gentle comrades, kind advisers; friends, comforts, treasures: Helps, governments, diversities of tongues; who can weigh your worth?-- To walk no longer with the just; to be driven from the porch of science; To bid long adieu to those intimate ones, poets, philosophers, and teachers; To see no record of the sympathies which bind thee in communion with the good; To be thrust from the feet of Him who spake as never man spake; To have no avenue to heaven but the dim aisle of superstition; To live as an Esquimaux, in lethargy; to die as the Mohawk, in ignorance: O what were life, but a blank? what were death, but a terror? What were man, but a burden to himself? what were mind, but misery? Yea, let another Omar burn the full library of knowledge, And the broad world may perish in the flames, offered on the ashes of its wisdom!

OF WRITING.

The pen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened? Ask of the scholar, he shall know,--to the chains that bind a Proteus: Ask of the poet, he shall say,--to the sun, the lamp of heaven: Ask of thy neighbour, he can answer,--to the friend that telleth my thought: The merchant considereth it well, as a ship freighted with wares; The divine holdeth it a miracle, giving utterance to the dumb. It fixeth, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment; Chaining up a thought, clearing it of mystery, and sending it bright into the world. To think rightly, is of knowledge; to speak fluently, is of nature; To read with profit, is of care; but to write aptly, is of practice. No talent among men hath more scholars, and fewer masters: For to write is to speak beyond hearing, and none stand by to explain. To be accurate, write; to remember, write; to know thine own mind, write; And a written prayer is a prayer of faith: special, sure, and to be answered. Hast thou a thought upon thy brain, catch it while thou canst; Or other thoughts shall settle there, and this shall soon take wing: Thine uncompounded unity of soul, which argueth and maketh it immortal, Yieldeth up its momentary self to every single thought; Therefore, to husband thine ideas, and give them stability and substance, Write often for thy secret eye; so shalt thou grow wiser. The commonest mind is full of thoughts; some worthy of the rarest: And could it see them fairly writ, would wonder at its wealth.

O precious compensation to the dumb, to write his wants and wishes; O dear amends to the stammering tongue, to pen his burning thoughts! To be of the college of Eloquence, through these silent symbols; To pour out all the flowing mind without the toil of speech; To show the babbling world how it might discourse more sweetly; To prove that merchandize of words bringeth no monopoly of wisdom; To take sweet vengeance on a prating crew, for the tongue's dishonour, By the large triumph of the pen, the homage rendered to a writing. With such, that telegraph of mind is dearer than wealth or wisdom, Enabling to please without pain, to impart without humiliation.

Fair girl, whose eye hath caught the rustic penmanship of love, Let thy bright brow and blushing cheek confess in this sweet hour,-- Let thy full heart, poor guilty one, whom the scroll of pardon hath just reached,-- Thy wet glad face, O mother, with news of a far-off child,-- Thy strong and manly delight, pilgrim of other shores, When the dear voice of thy betrothed speaketh in the letter of affection,-- Let the young poet, exulting in his lay, and hope (how false) of fame, While watching at deep midnight, he buildeth up the verse,-- Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die, For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal,-- Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confess The blessings poured upon the earth from the pen of a ready writer.

Moreover, their preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence: When the despairing lover waiteth day after day, Looking for a word in reply, one word writ by that hand, And cursing bitterly the morn ushered in by blank disappointment: Or when the long-looked-for answer argueth a cooling friend, And the mind is plied suspiciously with dark inexplicable doubts, While thy wounded heart counteth its imaginary scars, And thou art the innocent and injured, that friend the capricious and in fault: Or when the earnest petition, that craveth for thy needs, Unheeded, yea, unopened, tortureth with starving delay: Or when the silence of a son, who would have written of his welfare, Racketh a father's bosom with sharp-cutting fears. For a letter, timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection, And a letter, untimely delayed, is as rust to the solder. The pen, flowing with love, or dipped black in hate, Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged with censure, Hath quickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword, More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune; And shouldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most profit in the world, For answer take thou this, The prudent penning of a letter.

Thou hast not lost an hour, whereof there is a record; A written thought at midnight shall redeem the livelong day. Idea is as a shadow that departeth, speech is fleeting as the wind, Reading is an unremembered pastime; but a writing is eternal: For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent, And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe. As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin, So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul: The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture, And so, the mind that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.

OF WEALTH.

Prodigality hath a sister Meanness, his fixed antagonist heart-fellow, Who often outliveth the short career of the brother she despiseth: She hath lean lips and a sharp look, and her eyes are red and hungry; But he sloucheth in his gait, and his mouth speaketh loosely and maudlin. Let a spendthrift grow to be old, he will set his heart on saving, And labour to build up by penury that which extravagance threw down: Even so, with most men, do riches earn themselves a double curse; They are ill-got by tight dealing: they are ill-spent by loose squandering. Give me enough, saith Wisdom;--for he feareth to ask for more; And that by the sweat of my brow, addeth stout-hearted Independence: Give me enough, and not less, for want is leagued with the tempter; Poverty shall make a man desperate, and hurry him ruthless into crime: Give me enough, and not more, saving for the children of distress; Wealth ofttimes killeth, where want but hindereth the budding: There is green glad summer near the pole, though brief and after long winter, But the burnt breasts of the torrid zone yield never kindly nourishment. Wouldst thou be poor, scatter to the rich,--and reap the tares of ingratitude; Wouldst thou be rich, give unto the poor; thou shalt have thine own with usury: For the secret hand of Providence prospereth the charitable all ways, Good luck shall he have in his pursuits, and his heart shall be glad within him; Yet perchance he never shall perceive, that, even as to earthly gains, The cause of his weal as of his joy, hath been small givings to the poor.

In the plain of Benares is there found a root that fathereth a forest, Where round the parent banian-tree drop its living scions; Thirstily they strain to the earth, like stalactites in a grotto, And strike broad roots, and branch again, lengthening their cool arcades: And the dervish madly danceth there, and the faquir is torturing his flesh, And the calm brahmin worshippeth the sleek and pampered bull: At the base lean jackals coil, while from above depending With dull malignant stare watcheth the branch-like boa. Even so, in man's heart is a sin that is the root of all evil; Whose fibres strangle the affections, whose branches overgrow the mind: And oftenest beneath its shadow thou shalt meet distorted piety,-- The clenched and rigid fist, with the eyes upturned to heaven, Fanatic zeal with miserly severity, a mixture of gain with godliness, And him, against whom passion hath no power, kneeling to a golden calf: The hungry hounds of extortion are there, the bond, and the mortgage, and the writ, While the appetite for gold, unslumbering, watcheth to glut its maw:-- And the heart, so tenanted and shaded, is cold to all things else; It seeth not the sunshine of heaven, nor is warmed by the light of charity.

For covetousness disbelieveth God, and laugheth at the rights of men; Spurring unto theft and lying, and tempting to the poison and the knife; It sundereth the bonds of love, and quickeneth the flames of hate; A curse that shall wither the brain, and case the heart with iron. Content is the true riches, for without it there is no satisfying, But a ravenous all-devouring hunger gnaweth the vitals of the soul. The wise man knoweth where to stop, as he runneth in the race of fortune, For experience of old hath taught him, that happiness lingereth midway; And many in hot pursuit have hasted to the goal of wealth, But have lost, as they ran, those apples of gold,--the mind and the power to enjoy it.

There is no greater evil among men than a testament framed with injustice: Where caprice hath guided the boon, or dishonesty refused what was due. Generous is the robber on the highway, in the open daring of his guilt, To the secret coward, whose malice liveth and harmeth after him; Who smoothly sank into the tomb, with the smile of fraud upon his face, And the last black deed of his existence was injury without redress: For deaf is the ear of the dead, and can hear no palliating reasons; The smiter is not among the living, and Right pleadeth but in vain. Yet shall the curse of the oppressed be as blight upon the grave of the unjust; Yea, bitterly shall that handwriting testify against him at the judgment. I saw the humble relation that tended the peevishness of wealth, And ministered, with kind hand, to the wailings of disease and discontent: I noted how watchfulness and care were feeding on the marrow of her youth, How heavy was the yoke of dependence, loaded by petty tyranny; Yet I heard the frequent suggestion,--It can be but a little longer, Patience and mute submission shall one day reap a rich reward. So, tacitly enduring much, waited that humble friend, Putting off the lover of her youth until the dawn of wealth: And it came, that day of release, and the freed heart could not sorrow, For now were the years of promise to yield their golden harvest: Hope, so long deferred, sickly sparkled in her eye, The miserable past was forgotten, as she looked for the happier future, And she checked, as unworthy and ungrateful, the dark suspicious thought That perchance her right had been the safer, if not left alone with honour: But, alas, the sad knowledge soon came, that her stern task-master's will Hath rewarded her toil with a jibe, her patience with utter destitution!-- Shall not the scourge of justice lash that cruel coward, Who mingled the gall of ingratitude with the bitterness of disappointment? Shall not the hate of men, and vengeance, fiercely pursuing, Hunt down the wretched being that sinneth in his grave? He fancied his idol self safe from the wrath of his fellows, But Hades rose as he came in, to point at him the finger of scorn; And again must he meet that orphan-maid to answer her face to face, And her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him from rising with the just: For his last most solemn act hath linked his name with liar, And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow!

A good man commendeth his cause to the one great Patron of innocence, Convinced of justice to the last, and sure of good meanwhile. He knoweth he hath a Guardian, wise and kind and strong, And can thank Him for giving, or refusing, the trust or the curse of riches: His confidence standeth as a rock; he dreadeth not malice nor caprice, Nor the whisperings of artful men, nor envious secret influence; He scorneth servile compromise, and the pliant mouthings of deceit; He maketh not a show of love, where he cannot concede esteem; He regardeth ill-got wealth, as the root most fruitful of wretchedness, So he walketh in straight integrity, leaning on God and his right.

No gain, but by its price: labour, for the poor man's meal, Ofttimes heart-sickening toil, to win him a morsel for his hunger: Labour, for the chapman at his trade, a dull unvaried round, Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it! Labour, for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated desk, Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health; Labour, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the sea; Labour, with care, for the man of law, responsible in his gains; Labour, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth; Labour, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father; Labour unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head, or spirit,-- The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is labour. Nevertheless, to the diligent, labour bringeth blessing: The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure; And time spent in doing hath a comfort that is not for the idle, The hardship is transmuted into joy by the dear alchemy of Mercy. Labour is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest, And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself useless: For wearily the body groaneth, like a door on rusty hinges, And the grasp of the mind is weakened, as the talons of a caged vulture. Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery: Enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened happiness: Enough is less than thy thought, O pampered creature of society, And he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights of his brother.

OF INVENTION.

Man is proud of his mind, boasting that it giveth him divinity, Yet with all its powers can it originate nothing; For the Great God into all His works hath largely poured out Himself, Saving one special property, the grand prerogative,--Creation. To improve and expand is ours, as well as to limit and defeat; But to create a thought or a thing is hopeless and impossible. Can a man make matter?--and yet this would-be god Thinketh to make mind, and form original idea: The potter must have his clay, and the mason his quarry, And mind must drain ideas from everything around it. Doth the soil generate herbs, or the torrid air breed flies, Or the water frame its monads, or the mist its swarming blight?-- Mediately, through thousand generations, having seed within themselves, All things, rare or gross, own one common Father. Truly spake Wisdom, There is nothing new under the sun: We only arrange and combine the ancient elements of all things. Invention is activity of mind, as fire is air in motion; A sharpening of the spiritual sight, to discern hidden aptitudes: From the basket and acanthus, is modelled the graceful capital; The shadowed profile on the wall helpeth the limner to his likeness; The footmarks, stamped in clay, lead on the thoughts to printing; The strange skin garments cast upon the shore suggest another hemisphere: A falling apple taught the sage pervading gravitation; The Huron is certain of his prey, from tracks upon the grass: And shrewdness, guessing out the hint, followeth on the trail; But the hint must be given, the trail must be there, or the keenest sight is as blindness.

Behold the barren reef, which an earthquake hath just left dry; It hath no beauty to boast of, no harvest of fair fruits: But soon the lichen fixeth there, and, dying, diggeth its own grave, And softening suns and splitting frosts crumble the reluctant surface; And cormorants roost there, and the snail addeth its slime, And efts, with muddy feet, bring their welcome tribute; And the sea casteth out her dead, wrapped in a shroud of weeds; And orderly nature arrangeth again the disunited atoms; Anon, the cold smooth stone is warm with feathery grass, And the light sporules of the fern are dropt by the passing wind, The wood-pigeon, on swift wing, leaveth its crop-full of grain, The squirrel's jealous care planteth the fir-cone and the filbert: Years pass, and the sterile rock is rank with tangled herbage; The wild-vine clingeth to the briar, and ivy runneth green among the corn, Lordly beeches are studded on the down, and willows crowd around the rivulet, And the tall pine and hazel-thicket shade the rambling hunter. Shall the rock boast of its fertility? shall it lift the head in pride?-- Shall the mind of man be vain of the harvest of its thoughts? The savage is that rock; and a million chances from without, By little and little acting on the mind, heap up the hot-bed of society; And the soul, fed and fattened on the thoughts and things around it, Groweth to perfection, full of fruit, the fruit of foreign seeds. For we learn upon a hint, we find upon a clue, We yield an hundred-fold; but the great sower is Analogy. There must be an acrid sloe before a luscious peach, A boll of rotting flax before the bridal veil, An egg before an eagle, a thought before a thing, A spark struck into tinder to light the lamp of knowledge, A slight suggestive nod to guide the watching mind, A half-seen hand upon the wall, pointing to the balance of Comparison. By culture man may do all things, short of the miracle,--Creation; Here is the limit of thy power,--here let thy pride be stayed: The soil may be rich, and the mind may be active, but neither yield unsown; The eye cannot make light, nor the mind make spirit. Therefore it is wise in man to name all novelty Invention; For it is to find out things that are, not to create the unexisting: It is to cling to contiguities, to be keen in catching likeness, And with energetic elasticity to leap the gulphs of contrast. The globe knoweth not increase, either of matter or spirit; Atoms and thoughts are used again, mixing in varied combinations; And though, by moulding them anew, thou makest them thine own, Yet have they served thousands, and all their merit is of God.

OF RIDICULE.

Seams of thought for the sage's brow, and laughing lines for the fool's face; For all things leave their track in the mind; and the glass of the mind is faithful. Seest thou much mirth upon the cheek? there is then little exercise of virtue; For he that looketh on the world, cannot be glad and good: Seest thou much gravity in the eye? be not assured of finding wisdom; For she hath too great praise, not to get many mimics. There is a grave-faced folly; and verily, a laughter-loving wisdom; And what, if surface-judges account it vain frivolity? There is indeed an evil in excess, and a field may lie fallow too long; Yet merriment is often as a froth, that mantleth on the strong mind: And note thou this for a verity,--the subtlest thinker when alone, From ease of thoughts unbent, will laugh the loudest with his fellows: And well is the loveliness of wisdom mirrored in a cheerful countenance, Justly the deepest pools are proved by dimpling eddies; For that, a true philosophy commandeth an innocent life, And the unguilty spirit is lighter than a linnet's heart: Yea, there is no cosmetic like a holy conscience; The eye is bright with trust, the cheek bloomed over with affection, The brow unwrinkled by a care, and the lip triumphant in its gladness.

And for yon grave-faced folly, need not far to look for her; How seriously on trifles dote those leaden eyes, How ruefully she sigheth after chances long gone by, How sulkily she moaneth over evils without cure! I have known a true-born mirth, the child of innocence and wisdom, I have seen a base-born gravity, mingled of ignorance and guilt: And again, a base-born mirth, springing out of carelessness and folly; And again, a true-born gravity, the product of reflection and right fear. The wounded partridge hideth in a furrow, and a stricken conscience would be left alone; But when its breast is healed, it runneth gladly with its fellows: Whereas the solitary heron, standing in the sedgy fen, Holdeth aloof from the social world, intent on wiles and death.

Need but of light philosophy to dare the world's dread laugh; For a little mind courteth notoriety, to illustrate its puny self: But the sneer of a man's own comrades trieth the muscles of courage, And to be derided in his home is as a viper in the nest: The laugh of a hooting world hath in it a notion of sublimity, But the tittering private circle stingeth as a hive of wasps. Some have commended ridicule, counting it the test of truth, But neither wittily nor wisely; for truth must prove ridicule: Otherwise a blunt bulrush is to pierce the proof armour of argument, Because the stolidity of ignorance took it for a barbed shaft. Softer is the hide of the rhinoceros, than the heart of deriding unbelief, And truth is idler there, than the Bushman's feathered reed: A droll conceit parrieth a thrust, that should have hit the conscience, And the leering looks of humour tickle the childish mind; For that the matter of a man is mingled most with folly, Neither can he long endure the searching gaze of wisdom. It is pleasanter to see a laughing cheek than a serious forehead, And there liveth not one among a thousand whose idol is not pleasure. Ridicule is a weak weapon, when levelled at a strong mind: But common men are cowards, and dread an empty laugh. Fear a nettle, and touch it tenderly, its poison shall burn thee to the shoulder; But grasp it with a bold hand,--is it not a bundle of myrrh? Betray mean terror of ridicule, thou shalt find fools enough to mock thee; But answer thou their laughter with contempt, and the scoffers will lick thy feet.

OF COMMENDATION.

The praise of holy men is a promise of praise from their Master; A fore-running earnest of thy welcome,--Well done, faithful servant; A rich preludious note, that droppeth softly on thine ear, To tell thee the chords of thy heart are in tune with the choirs of heaven. Yet is it a dangerous hearing, for the sweetness may lull thee into slumber, And the cordial quaffed with thirst may generate the fumes of presumption. So seek it not for itself, but taste, and go gladly on thy way, For the mariner slacketh not his sail, though the sandal-groves of Araby allure him; And the fragrance of that incense would harm thee, as when, on a summer evening, The honied yellow flowers of the gorse oppress thy charmed sense: And a man hath too much of praise, for he praiseth himself continually; Neither lacketh he at any time self-commendation or excuse.

Praise a fool, and slay him: for the canvas of his vanity is spread; His bark is shallow in the water, and a sudden gust shall sink it: Praise a wise man, and speed him on his way; for he carrieth the ballast of humility, And is glad when his course is cheered by the sympathy of brethren ashore. The praise of a good man is good, for he holdeth up the mirror of Truth, That Virtue may see her own beauty, and delight in her own fair face: The praise of a bad man is evil, for he hideth the deformity of Vice, Casting the mantle of a queen around the limbs of a leper. Praise is rebuke to the man whose conscience alloweth it not: And where conscience feeleth it her due, no praise is better than a little. He that despiseth the outward appearance, despiseth the esteem of his fellows; And he that overmuch regardeth it, shall earn only their contempt: The honest commendation of an equal no one can scorn, and be blameless, Yet even that fair fame no one can hunt for, and be honoured: If it come, accept it and be thankful, and be thou humble in accepting; If it tarry, be not thou cast down; the bee can gather honey out of rue: And is thine aim so low, that the breath of those around thee Can speed thy feathered arrow, or retard its flight? The child shooteth at a butterfly, but the man's mark is an eagle; And while his fellows talk, he hath conquered in the clouds. Ally thee to truth and godliness, and use the talents in thy charge; So shall thou walk in peace, deserving, if not having. With a friend, praise him when thou canst; for many a friendship hath decayed, Like a plant in a crowded corner, for want of sunshine on its leaves: With another, praise him not often--otherwise he shall despise thee; But be thou frugal in commending; so will he give honour to thy judgment: For thou that dost so zealously commend, art acknowledging thine own inferiority, And he, thou so highly hast exalted, shall proudly look down on thy esteem.

Wilt thou that one remember a thing?--praise him in the midst of thy advice; Never yet forgat man the word whereby he hath been praised. Better to be censured by a thousand fools, than approved but by one man that is wise; For the pious are slower to help right, than the profane to hinder it: So, where the world rebuketh, there look thou for the excellent, And be suspicious of the good, which wicked men can praise. The captain bindeth his troop, not more by severity than kindness, And justly, should recompense well doing, as well as be strict with an offender; The laurel is cheap to the giver, but precious in his sight who hath won it, And the heart of the soldier rejoiceth in the approving glance of his chief. Timely given praise is even better than the merited rebuke of censure, For the sun is more needful to the plant than the knife that cutteth out a canker. Many a father hath erred, in that he hath withheld reproof, But more have mostly sinned, in withholding praise where it was due: There be many such as Eli among men; but these be more culpable than Eli, Who chill the fountain of exertion by the freezing looks of indifference: Ye call a man easy and good, yet he is as a two-edged sword; He rebuketh not vice, and it is strong: he comforteth not virtue, and it fainteth. There is nothing more potent among men than a gift timely bestowed; And a gift kept back where it was hoped, separateth chief friends: For what is a gift but a symbol, giving substance to praise and esteem? And where is a sharper arrow than the sting of unmerited neglect?

Expect not praise from the mean, neither gratitude from the selfish; And to keep the proud thy friend, see thou do him not a service: For, behold, he will hate thee for his debt: thou hast humbled him by giving; And his stubbornness never shall acknowledge the good he hath taken from thy hand: Yea, rather will he turn and be thy foe, lest thou gather from his friendship That he doth account thee creditor, and standeth in the second place. Still, O kindly feeling heart, be not thou chilled by the thankless, Neither let the breath of gratitude fan thee into momentary heat: Do good for good's own sake, looking not to worthiness nor love; Fling thy grain among the rocks, cast thy bread upon the waters, His claim be strongest to thy help, who is thrown most helplessly upon thee,-- So shalt thou have a better praise, and reap a richer harvest of reward.

If a man hold fast to thy creed, and fit his thinkings to thy notions, Thou shalt take him for a man right-minded, yea, and excuse his evil: But seest thou not, O bigot, that thy zeal is but a hunting after praise, And the full pleasure of a proselyte lieth in the flattering of self? A man of many praises meeteth many welcomes, But he, who blameth often, shall not keep a friend; The velvet-coated apricot is one thing, and the spiked horse-chestnut is another, A handle of smooth amber is pleasanter than rough buck-horn. Show me a popular man; I can tell thee the secret of his power; He hath soothed them with glozing words, lulling their ears with flattery, The smile of seeming approbation is ever the companion of his presence, And courteous looks, and warm regards, earn him all their hearts.

Nothing but may be better, and every better might be best; The blind may discern, and the simple prove, fault or want in all things; And a little mind looketh on the lily with a microscopic eye, Eager and glad to pry out specks on its robe of purity; But a great mind gazeth on the sun, glorying in his brightness, And taking large knowledge of his good, in the broad prairie of creation: What, though he hatch basilisks? what, though spots are on the sun? In fulness is his worth, in fulness be his praise!

OF SELF-ACQUAINTANCE.

Knowledge holdeth by the hilt, and heweth out a road to conquest; Ignorance graspeth the blade, and is wounded by its own good sword: Knowledge distilleth health from the virulence of opposite poisons; Ignorance mixeth wholesomes, unto the breeding of disease: Knowledge is leagued with the universe, and findeth a friend in all things; But ignorance is everywhere a stranger; unwelcome, ill at ease, and out of place. A man is helpless and unsafe up to the measure of his ignorance, For he lacketh perception of the aptitudes commending such a matter to his use, Clutching at the horn of danger, while he judgeth it the handle of security, Or casting his anchor so widely, that the granite reef is just within the tether. Untaught in science, he is but half alive, stupidly taking note of nothing, Or listening with dull wonder to the crafty saws of an empiric: Simple in the world, he trusteth unto knaves; and then to make amends for folly, Dealeth so shrewdly with the honest, they cannot but suspect him for a thief; With an unknown God, he maketh mock of reason, fathering contrivance on chance, Or doting with superstitious dread on some crooked image of his fancy: But ignorant of Self, he is weakness at heart; the key-stone crumbleth into sand, There is panic in the general's tent, the oak is hollow as hemlock; Though the warm sap creepeth up its bark, filling out the sheaf of leaves, Though knowledge of all things beside add proofs of seeming vigour, Though the master-mind of the royal sage feast on the mysteries of wisdom, Yet ignorance of self shall bow down the spirit of a Solomon to idols; The storm of temptation, sweeping by, shall snap that oak like a reed, And the proud luxuriance of its tufted crown drag it the sooner to the dust.

Youth, confident in self, tampereth with dangerous dalliance, Till the vice his heart once hated hath locked him in her foul embrace: Manhood, through zeal of doing good, seeketh high place for its occasions, Unwitting that the bleak mountain-air will nip the tender budding of his motives: Or painfully, for love of truth, he climbeth the ladder of science, Till pride of intellect heating his heart, warpeth it aside to delusion: The maiden, to give shadow to her fairness, plaiteth her raven hair, Heedlessly weaving for her soul the silken net of vanity: The grey-beard looketh on his gold, till he loveth its yellow smile, Unconscious of the bright decoy which is luring his heart unto avarice: Wrath avoideth no quarrel, jealousy counteth its suspicions, Pining envy gazeth still, and melancholy seeketh solitude, The sensitive broodeth on his slights, the fearful poreth over horrors, The train of wantonness is fired, the nerves of indecision are unstrung; Each special proneness unto harm is pampered by ignorant indulgence, And the man, for want of warning, yieldeth to the apt temptation.

A smith at the loom, and a weaver at the forge, were but sorry craftsmen; And a ship that saileth on every wind never shall reach her port: Yet there be thousands among men who heed not the leaning of their talents, But cutting against the grain, toil on to no good end; And the light of a thoughtful spirit is quenched beneath the bushel of commerce, While meaner plodding minds are driven up the mountain of philosophy: The cedar withereth on a wall, while the house-leek is fattening in a hot-bed, And the dock with its rank leaves hideth the sun from violets. To everything a fitting place, a proper honourable use; The humblest measure of mind is bright in its humble sphere: The glow-worm, creeping in the hedge, lighteth her evening torch, And her far-off mate, on gossamer sail, steereth his course by that star: But ignorance mocketh at proprieties, bringing out the glow-worm at noon; And setteth the faults of mediocrity in the full blaze of wisdom. Ravens croaking in darkness, and a skylark trilling to the sun, The voice of a screech-owl from a ruin, and the blackbird's whistle in a wood, A cushion-footed camel for the sands, and a swift rein-deer for the snows, A naked skin for Ethiopia, and rich soft furs for the Pole: In all things is there a fitness: discord with discord hath its music; And the harmony of nature is preserved by each one knowing his place.

The blind at an easel, the palsied with a graver, the halt making for the goal, The deaf ear tuning psaltery, the stammerer discoursing eloquence,-- What wonder if all fail? the shaft flieth wide of the mark Alike if itself be crooked, or the bow be strung awry; And the mind which were excellent in one way, but foolishly toileth in another, What is it but an ill-strung bow, and its aim a crooked arrow? By knowledge of self, thou provest thy powers: put not the racer to the plough, Nor goad the toilsome ox to wager his slowness with the fleet: Consider thy failings, heed thy propensities, search out thy latent virtues, Analyze the doubtful, cultivate the good, and crush the head of evil; So shalt thou catch with quick hand the golden ball of opportunity, The warrior armed shall be ready for the fray, beside his bridled steed; Thou shall ward off special harms, and have the sway of circumstance, And turn to thy special good the common current of events; Choosing from the wardrobe of the world, thou shalt suitably clothe thy spirit, Nor thrust the white hand of peace into the gauntlet of defiance: The shepherd shall go with a staff, and conquer by sling and stone; The soldier shall let alone the distaff, and the scribe lay down the sword; The man unlearned shall keep silence, and earn one attribute of wisdom, The sage be sparing of his lessons before unhearing ears: Calm shalt thou be, as a lion in repose, conscious of passive strength, And the shock that splitteth the globe, shall not unthrone thy self-possession.

Acquaint thee with thyself, O man! so shalt thou be humble: The hard hot desert of thy heart shall blossom with the lily and the rose; The frozen cliffs of pride shall melt, as an iceberg in the tropics; The bitter fountains of self-seeking be sweeter than the waters of the Nile. But if thou lack that wisdom,--thy frail skiff is doomed, On stronger eddy whirling to the dreadful gorge; Untaught in that grand lore, thou standest, cased in steel, To dare with mocking unbelief the thunderbolts of heaven. For look now around thee on the universe, behold how all things serve thee; The teeming soil, and the buoyant sea, and undulating air, Golden crops, and bloomy fruits, and flowers, and precious gems, Choice perfumes and fair sights, soft touches and sweet music: For thee, shoaling up the bay, crowd the finny nations, For thee, the cattle on a thousand hills live, and labour, and die: Light is thy daily slave, darkness inviteth thee to slumber; Thou art served by the hands of Beauty, and Sublimity kneeleth at thy feet: Arise, thou sovereign of creation, and behold thy glory! Yet more, thou hast a mind; intellect wingeth thee to heaven, Tendeth thy state on earth, and by it thou divest down to hell; Thou hast measured the belts of Saturn, thou hast weighed the moons of Jupiter, And seen, by reason's eye, the centre of thy globe; Subtly hast thou numbered by billions the leagues between sun and sun, And noted in thy book the coming of their shadows; With marvellous unerring truth, thou knowest to an inch and to an instant, The where and the when of the comet's path that shall seem to rush by at thy command: Arise, thou king of mind, and survey thy dignity! Yet more,--for once believe religion's flattering tale; Thou hast a soul, yea, and a God,--but be not therefore humbled; Thy Maker's self was glad to live and die--a man; The brightest jewel in His crown is voluntary manhood: By deep dishonour, and great price, bought He that envied freedom, But thou wast born an heir of all, thy Master scarce could earn. O climax unto pride, O triumph of humanity, O triple crown upon thy brow, most high and mighty Self! Arise, thou Lord of all, thou greater than a God!-- How saidst thou, wretched being?--cast thy glance within; Regard that painted sepulchre, the hovel of thy heart: Ha! with what fearful imagery swarmeth that small chamber; The horrid eye of murder, scowling in the dark, The bony hand of avarice, filching from the poor, The lurid fires of lust, the idiot face of folly, The sickening deed of cruelty, the foul fierce orgies of the drunken, Weak contemptible vanity, stubborn stolid unbelief, Envy's devilish sneer, and the vile features of ingratitude,-- Man, hast thou seen enough? or are these full proof That thou art a miracle of mercy, and all thy dignity is dross?

Well, said the wisdom of earth, O mortal, know thyself; But better the wisdom of heaven, O man, learn thou thy God: By knowledge of self thou art conusant of evil, and mailed in panoply to meet it; By knowledge of God cometh knowledge of good, and universal love is at thy heart. Every creature knoweth its capacities, running in the road of instinct, And reason must not lag behind, but serve itself of all proprieties: The swift to the race, and the strong to the burden, and the wise for right direction; For self-knowledge filleth with acceptance its niche in the temple of utility: But vainly wilt thou look for that knowledge, till the clue of all truth is in thy hand, For the labyrinth of man's heart windeth in complicate deceivings: Thou canst not sound its depths with the shallow plumb-line of reason, Till religion, the pilot of the soul, have lent thee her unfathomable coil: Therefore, for this grand knowledge, and knowledge is the parent of dominion, Learn God, thou shalt know thyself; yea, and shalt have mastery of all things.

OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

Shame upon thee, savage Monarch-Man, proud monopolist of reason; Shame upon Creation's lord, the fierce ensanguined despot: What, man! are there not enough, hunger, and diseases, and fatigue,-- And yet must thy goad or thy thong add another sorrow to existence? What! art thou not content thy sin hath dragged down suffering and death On the poor dumb servants of thy comfort, and yet must thou rack them with thy spite? The prodigal heir of creation hath gambled away his all,-- Shall he add torment to the bondage that is galling his forfeit serfs? The leader in nature's pæan himself hath marred her psaltery, Shall he multiply the din of discord by overstraining all the strings? The rebel hath fortified his stronghold, shutting in his vassals with him,-- Shall he aggravate the woes of the besieged by oppression from within? Thou twice deformed image of thy Maker, thou hateful representative of Love, For very shame be merciful, be kind unto the creatures thou hast ruined; Earth and her million tribes are cursed for thy sake, Earth and her million tribes still writhe beneath thy cruelty: Liveth there but one among the million that shall not bear witness against thee, A pensioner of land or air or sea, that hath not whereof it will accuse thee? From the elephant toiling at a launch, to the shrew-mouse in the harvest-field, From the whale which the harpooner hath stricken, to the minnow caught upon a pin, From the albatross wearied in its flight, to the wren in her covered nest, From the death-moth and lace-winged dragon-fly, to the lady-bird and the gnat, The verdict of all things is unanimous, finding their master cruel: The dog, thy humble friend, thy trusting, honest friend; The ass, thine uncomplaining slave, drudging from morn to even; The lamb, and the timorous hare, and the labouring ox at plough; The speckled trout, basking in the shallow, and the partridge, gleaning in the stubble, And the stag at bay, and the worm in thy path, and the wild bird pining in captivity, And all things that minister alike to thy life and thy comfort and thy pride, Testify with one sad voice that man is a cruel master.

Verily, they are all thine: freely mayst thou serve thee of them all: They are thine by gift for thy needs, to be used in all gratitude and kindness; Gratitude to their God and thine,--their Father and thy Father, Kindness to them who toil for thee, and help thee with their all: For meat, but not by wantonness of slaying: for burden, but with limits of humanity; For luxury, but not through torture; for draught, but according to the strength: For a dog cannot plead his own right, nor render a reason for exemption, Nor give a soft answer unto wrath, to turn aside the undeserved lash; The galled ox cannot complain, nor supplicate a moment's respite; The spent horse hideth his distress, till he panteth out his spirit at the goal; Also, in the winter of life, when worn by constant toil, If ingratitude forget his services, he cannot bring them to remembrance; Behold, he is faint with hunger; the big tear standeth in his eye; His skin is sore with stripes, and he tottereth beneath his burden; His limbs are stiff with age, his sinews have lost their vigour, And pain is stamped upon his face, while he wrestleth unequally with toil; Yet once more mutely and meekly endureth he the crushing blow; That struggle hath cracked his heart-strings,--the generous brute is dead! Liveth there no advocate for him? no judge to avenge his wrongs? No voice that shall be heard in his defence? no sentence to be passed on his oppressor? Yea, the sad eye of the tortured pleadeth pathetically for him; Yea, all the justice in heaven is roused in indignation at his woes; Yea, all the pity upon earth shall call down a curse upon the cruel; Yea, the burning malice of the wicked is their own exceeding punishment. The Angel of Mercy stoppeth not to comfort, but passeth by on the other side, And hath no tear to shed, when a cruel man is damned.

OF FRIENDSHIP.

As frost to the bud, and blight to the blossom, even such is self-interest to Friendship: For Confidence cannot dwell where Selfishness is porter at the gate. If thou see thy friend to be selfish, thou canst not be sure of his honesty; And in seeking thine own weal, thou hast wronged the reliance of thy friend. Flattery hideth her varnished face when Friendship sitteth at his board: And the door is shut upon Suspicion, but Candour is bid glad welcome. For Friendship abhorreth doubt, its life is in mutual trust, And perisheth, when artful praise proveth it is sought for a purpose. A man may be good to thee at times, and render thee mighty service, Whom yet thy secret soul could not desire as a friend; For the sum of life is in trifles, and though, in the weightier masses, A man refuse thee not his purse, nay his all in thine utmost need, Yet if thou canst not feel that his character agreeth with thine own, Thou never wilt call him friend, though thou render him a heartful of gratitude. A coarse man grindeth harshly the finer feelings of his brother; A common mind will soon depart from the dull companionship of wisdom; A weak soul dareth not to follow in the track of vigour and decision; And the worldly regardeth with scorn the seeming foolishness of faith. A mountain is made up of atoms, and friendship of little matters, And if the atoms hold not together, the mountain is crumbled into dust.

Come, I will show thee a friend; I will paint one worthy of thy trust: Thine heart shall not weary of him: thou shalt not secretly despise him. Thou art long in learning him, in unravelling all his worth; And he dazzleth not thine eyes at first, to be darkened in thy sight afterward, But riseth from small beginnings, and reacheth the height of thine esteem. He remembereth that thou art only man; he expecteth not great things from thee: And his forbearance toward thee silently teacheth thee to be considerate unto him. He despiseth not courtesy of manner, nor neglecteth the decencies of life: Nor mocketh the failings of others, nor is harsh in his censures before thee: For so, how couldst thou tell, if he talketh not of thee in ridicule? He withholdeth no secret from thee, and rejecteth not thine in turn; He shareth his joys with thee, and is glad to bear part in thy sorrows. Yet one thing, he loveth thee too well to show thee the corruptions of his heart: For as an ill example strengthened the hands of the wicked, So to put forward thy guilt, is a secret poison to thy friend: For the evil in his nature is comforted, and he warreth more weakly against it, If he find that the friend whom he honoureth, is a man more sinful than himself. I hear the communing of friends; ye speak out the fulness of your souls, And being but men, as men, ye own to all the sympathies of manhood: Confidence openeth the lips, indulgence beameth from the eye, The tongue loveth not boasting, the heart is made glad with kindness: And one standeth not as on a hill, beckoning to the other to follow, But ye toil up hand in hand, and carry each other's burdens. Ye commune of hopes and aspirations, the fervent breathings of the heart, Ye speak with pleasant interchange the treasured secrets of affection, Ye listen to the voice of complaint, and whisper the language of comfort, And as in a double solitude, ye think in each other's hearing.

Choose thy friend discreetly, and see thou consider his station, For the graduated scale of ranks accordeth with the ordinance of Heaven. If a low companion ripen to a friend, in the full sunshine of thy confidence, Know, that for old age thou hast heaped up sorrow; For thou sinkest to that level, and thy kin shall scorn thee, Yea, and the menial thou hast pampered haply shall neglect thee in thy death: And if thou reachest up to high estates, thinking to herd with princes, What art thou but a footstool, though so near a throne? O rush among the lilies, be taught thou art a weed, O briar among the cedars, hot contempt shall burn thee. But thou, friend and scholar, select from thine own caste, And make not an intimate of one, thy servant or thy master; For only friendship among men is the true republic, Where all have equality of service, and all have freedom of command. And yet, if thou wilt take my judgment, be shy of too much openness with any, Lest thou repent hereafter, should he turn and rend thee: For many an apostate friend hath abused unguarded confidence, And bent to selfish ends the secret of the soul.