Ionica | Page 6

delight in the spirit of generous boyhood. For all their wealth of idealised sentiment, they never lose sight of the fuller life of the world that waits beyond the threshold of youth, the wider issues, the glory of the battle, the hopes of the patriot, the generous visions of manhood. They are full of the romance of boyish friendships, the echoes of the river and the cricket field, the ingenuous ambitions, the chivalry, the courage of youth and health, the brilliant charm of the opening world. These things are but the prelude to, the presage of, the energies of the larger stage; his young heroes are to learn the lessons of patriotism, of manliness, of activity, of generosity, that they may display them in a wider field. Thus he wrote in "A Retrospect of School Life":--
"Much lost I; something stayed behind,?A snatch, maybe, of ancient song.?Some breathings of a deathless mind,?Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
And to myself in games I said,?'What mean the books? can I win fame?I would be like the faithful dead,?A fearless man, and pure of blame.'"
Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard. In this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the warm companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that wave their shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and dear, we must be courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley. The book is full of the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the intensity and the brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair things must fade as surely as they bloom.
The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all we hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and noble and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the race. Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief in the ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to remember and love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its generous companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave hopes and ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving and generous and high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and perhaps beyond.
ARTHUR C. BENSON.
DESIDERATO
Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,?Whose presence change and chance deny;?If angels turn your soft proud eye?To lines your cynic playmate penned,
Look on them, as you looked on me,?When both were young; when, as we went?Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant?On him who loved your staff to be;
And slouch your lazy length again?On cushions fit for aching brow?(Yours always ached, you know), and now
As dainty languishing as then,?Give them but one fastidious look,?And if you see a trace of him?Who humoured you in every whim,
Seek for his heart within his book:?For though there be enough to mark?The man's divergence from the boy,?Yet shines my faith without alloy
For him who led me through that park;?And though a stranger throw aside?Such grains of common sentiment,?Yet let your haughty head be bent
To take the jetsom of the tide;?Because this brackish turbid sea?Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore,?And though it wash thy feet no more,
Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee."?The world may like, for all I care,?The gentler voice, the cooler head,?That bows a rival to despair,
And cheaply compliments the dead;?That smiles at all that's coarse and rash,?Yet wins the trophies of the fight,?Unscathed, in honour's wreck and crash,
Heartless, but always in the right;.?Thanked for good counsel by the judge?Who tramples on the bleeding brave,?Thanked too by him who will not budge?From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.
Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear?What to that noble breast was due;?And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare?Go through the homeless world with you.
MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
You promise heavens free from strife,?Pure truth, and perfect change of will;?But sweet, sweet is this human life,?So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;?Your chilly stars I can forego,?This warm kind world is all I know.
You say there is no substance here,?One great reality above:?Back from that void I shrink in fear,?And child-like hide myself in love:?Show me what angels feel. Till then,?I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
You bid me lift my mean desires?From faltering lips and fitful veins?To sexless souls, ideal quires,?Unwearied voices, wordless strains:?My mind with fonder welcome owns?One dear dead friend's remembered tones.
Forsooth the present we must give?To that which cannot pass