Lifes Enthusiasms | Page 4

of thought succeeds, of those who have been brave and true, of kind hearts and bold deeds, of courtesies received from strangers' hands, trifles in themselves but expressive of that good-will which is the essence of charity."
That poetry was a means of grace was known to the first man who wrote a verse or who sang a ballad. It was discovered back in the darkness before men invented words or devised letters. The only poetry you will ever know is that you learned by heart when you were young. Happy is he who has learned much, and much of that which is good. Bad poetry is not poetry at all except to the man who makes it. For its creator, even the feeblest verse speaks something of inspiration and of aspiration. It is said that Frederick the Great went into battle with a vial of poison in one pocket and a quire of bad verse in the other. Whatever we think of the one, we feel more kindly toward him for the other.
Charles Eliot Norton advises every man to read a bit of poetry every day for spiritual refreshment. It would be well for each of us if we should follow this advice. It is not too late yet and if some few would heed his words and mine, these pages would not be written in vain.
I heard once of a man banished from New England to the Llano Estacado, the great summer-bitten plains of Texas. While riding alone among his cows over miles of yucca and sage he kept in touch with the world through the poetry he recited to himself. His favorite, I remember, was Whittier's "Randolph of Roanoke:"
"Here where with living ear and eye?He heard Potomac flowing,?And through his tall ancestral trees?Saw Autumn's sunset glowing;
"Too honest or too proud to feign?A love he never cherished,?Beyond Virginia's border line?His patriotism perished.
"But none beheld with clearer eye?The plague spot o'er her spreading,?Nor heard more sure the steps of doom?Along her future treading."
This is good verse and it may well serve to relate the gray world of Northern Texas to the many-colored world in which men struggle and die for things worthwhile, winning their lives eternally through losing them.
Here are some other bits of verse which on the sea and on the lands, in the deserts or in the jungles have served the same purpose for other men, perhaps indeed for you.
"It has been prophesied these many years?I should not die save in Jerusalem,?Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land.?But bear me to that chamber, there I'll lie,?In this Jerusalem shall Hardy die."
--
"And gentlemen of England now abed?Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,?And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks?Who fought with us upon St. Crispin's day."
--
"Let me come in where you sit weeping, aye:?Let me who have not any child to die?Weep with you for the little one whose love?I have known nothing of.?The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed?Their pressure round your neck, the hands you used?To kiss. Such arms, such hands I never knew.?May I not weep with you?Fain would I be of service, say something?Between the tears, that would be comforting.?But ah! So sadder than yourselves am I?Who have no child to die."
--
"Your picture smiles as once it smiled;?The ring you gave is still the same;?Your letter tells, O changing child,?No tidings since it came!?Give me some amulet?That marks intelligence with you,?Red when you love and rosier red,?And when you love not, pale and blue.?Alas that neither bonds nor vows?Can certify possession.?Torments me still the fear that Love?Died in his last expression."
--
"He walks with God upon the hills?And sees each morn the world arise?New bathed in light of Paradise.?He hears the laughter of her rills;?She to his spirit undefiled?Makes answer as a little child;?Unveiled before his eyes she stands?And gives her secrets to his hands."
--
"Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,?The river sang below,?The dim Sierras far beyond uplifting?Their minarets of snow.?The roaring campfire with good humor painted?The ruddy tints of health?On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted?In the fierce race for wealth.?Till one arose and from his pack's scant treasure?The hoarded volume drew,?And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure?To hear the tale anew.?And as around them shadows gathered faster?And as the firelight fell,?He read aloud the book wherein the Master?Had writ of Little Nell.?Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, for the reader?Was youngest of them all,?Yet, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar?A silence seemed to fall.?The fir trees gathering closer in the shadows?Listened in every spray,?While the whole camp with little Nell, on English meadows,?Wandered and lost their way.?Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire,?And he who wro't that spell;?Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,?Ye have one tale to tell.?Lost is that camp, but let