Thoughts Upon English Poetry, Part I [pp. 327-329]

A Threefold Song.-Thoughts upon English Poetry.
PART JIll.
A THREEFOLD SONG.
PART I.
THE ICE TO THE WATER.
Thou art weak, my sister,
The falling leaf
Stirs in thy bosom,
A quivering grief.
Deep in thy current
The keel is pressed,
Ruthlessly wounding
Thy loving breast.
A teardrop shakes thee,
The echoes fright,
The soft winds chase thee,
In wavy flight.
Moving and trembling,
With endless start,
Ceaselessly beateth
Thy feeling heartBut I stand with bosom careless,
Haughty brow and spirit fearless,
For the tempest cannot harm me,
Trampling steed or rushing army.
On presses the mass,
Nor do I shake,
The nations may pass,
I shall not break, Come to me, sister,
The cold can bless
'Thy changefuil being,
With hardiness.
PART II.
THE WATER TO THE ICE.
Thou art stern, my sister,
Thy heavy eye
Bears not in image
The happy sky.
Chained by thy greatness
Movelessly still,
Thou never feelest
Love's holy thrill.
Over thee passeth
The living swarm;
Over thee rageth
The shattering storm.
These do not hurt thee,
Firm that thou art,
Lonely in Nature,
Without a heart,
But I move with bosom living
Ever taking, ever giving,
Ever parting, ever greeting,
Ever missing, ever meeting.
In storm or in calm,
In death or birth
I utter the psalm
Of loving earth.
Come to mne sister,
-— The sun will shine
And make thy being
As meek as mine.
THE WATER AND THE ICE.
With murmuring song the gently speaking water
Embraced her sister closely and besought her,
While smiling look'd the sun upon the twainThe soul of love breath'd on her and she felt it,
And bending toward the open arms, she melted,
And stream and ice were one again.
G. G.
THOUGHTS UPON ENGLISH POETRY.
Genuine English Poetry had its rise with
Chaucer, about 450 years ago. In this time it
must, necessarily, have undergone great changes;
for otherwise, it would have escaped the law of
all other human things, or rather, it alone would
have been deprived of the benefit experienced
by every thing else, from the progress of time.
In the course of these 450 years, England has
been many times revolutionised, physically, politically and socially. Man's capabilities have
been multiplied a thousand fold, and so have his
enjoyments; new arts have sprung up, new subjects of thought have been presented to the
mind, and new motives have stimulated to action. Our language has changed from a rude
instrument of mental communication, into a
strong, diversified, and polished organ of expression. Entire departments altogether new, have
been added to the range of Literature-dogmas
formerly believed have been discarded-doubtful
doctrines have been tried, and new truths have
swelled the amount of human knowledge. Yet,
notwithstanding the conditions under which mankind exists are incessantly changing, man is
everywhere, and at all times. essentially the same
being, guided by the same intellect, moved by
the same passions, and going through the same
round of life. The Englishman of to-day, is the
same with the Kelt who rushed into the surf to
prevent the landing of the Romans, the same
with the Anglo-Saxon adventurer, and the Norman conqueror. The Red Rose and the White
Rose are the same flower-the Cavalier and the
Roundhead, the Catholic and the Protestant,
however they may set themselves the one against
the other, are alike in the outer and in the inner
man, in strength and in weakness, in the cradle
and in the grave.
Now poetry is the mirror at once of the unchanging nature of man, and of the shifting
conditions of life. We may expect to find it
therefore, as we look over its history, thy same
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