Poems (Cook)/Silence—a fragment
SILENCE—A FRAGMENT.
Poverty has a sharp and goading powerTo wring the torture-cry, and fill the breathWith frantic curses or despairing sighs;But her cold, withering grasp is deepest feltBy the fine spirit that endures in Silence,And trembles lest his shallow purse be soundedBy the sleek friends about him—him who dreadsThe taunting mockery that ever waits On sensibility unwarrantedBy wealth. Distress, with heavy, mildew blight,Blackens each flower that else would cheer his path;It steals health's steady lustre from his glance,Draws his pale lip into a stronger curve—Pinches his lank cheek—whitens his thin hand,And saps the very roots of joy and hope:But none may dream of the consuming fireThat spends his oil of life. He does not showThe vagrant's rags, and tell the whining taleOf doleful falsehood. He has never learntTo shape his language in beseeching tone,And stand a mendicant beneath the roofOf some rich kin—who gives such good adviceTo qualify the charitable gold,That proud and honourable palms shrink back,And rather grapple with the spectre handOf Famine, than accept the boon so granted.He is not one of the contented poorWho, if they have their simple meals insured,Care not, though thousands mark the trencher'd scrap,And spurn it! He is not a mindless brute,To meet misfortune in a ruffian garb,And leap the low-pitch'd barrier that partsMean, shivering Want, from bold and well-fed Crime.Mix'd with the wealthy crowd he walks erect,And screens his beggar's fester from the world,As closely as the Spartan boy of oldHid the fierce talons tearing out his heart.
Love hath its utterance of magic sound,When soft confession calls the ruddy flushInto the maiden's cheek, and gentle vowsBreathe whisper'd music in the willing ear;Even as the nightingale is said to wooThe listening rose. And Love, too, hath its kindAnd merry mood of fond loquacity; When happy confidence and long-tried truthSet the soul prating of its full delightWith easy freedom; but the hallow'd toneOf pure Affection's richest, sweetest string,Affords no echo of its thrilling noteIn measured syllables. When sever'd longFrom the dear chosen one whose presence flingsA summer sunshine on our wintry way,That ever comes as welcome to our sightAs the cool stream amid the desert sand;—Oh! words can never tell our ecstasyWhen once again we hold the idol formClose to our heart, and look into the eyes.Where fond devotion finds a faithful mirror,And doting glances are reflected backIn silent bliss.
The debt of GratitudeIs not the best remember'd where the lipsPour forth their voluble and fluent tideOf warm acknowledgment. Fair-spoken phrases,Graced with a courtier's bow, are pleasant things,But rarely hold much more of grateful truthThan the bright slime that cunning reptiles spreadTo catch their prey,—and they who oftenest turnIn fierce recoil upon the helping hand,Are oftenest those whose hollow hearts have swornA changeless sense of benefits received.The breast where Gratitude is firm and deepGives least expression to the one it serves;As trees that bear the heaviest of fruitYield the least rustling to the cherishing breeze.
Prayer has its decalogue and well-set chantTo say or sing; but prayer can offer upA purer tribute to the mighty OneWho rules the thunder and restrains the wave, Than ever cloister'd walls responded to.—The lonely orphan child, who steals at nightWhere the round moon shines on a mother's grave,Knows little how to mould his trusting faith.In proper sentences; but the dim eyeThat sheds its blinding tear upon the turf,And then looks up to the fair silver stars,Carries a ray of holy fervencyThat will not be rejected at the throneOf Him who suits the "wind to the shorn lamb,The erring one, whose right arm has been strongIn working evil, may repent, "and saveHis soul alive." He cannot frame his thoughtsIn saintly code, but the pale, moping browThat droops in silence, penitence, and shame,Shall plead for him at the eternal bar,Where boundless mercy fills the judgment-seat.
The Poet wins the world with minstrelsy,And holds the ear of wondering nations fast;But fuller melodies and rarer themesDwell in his soul, and people his quick brain,Than any that his burning song can give.Swift-flashing streams from Helicon's high fountRush through his breast; but their cherubic soundsOf murmuring music are too strangely wildTo live again, even upon his lyre.—Let the proud Orator assert the powerThat Language holds; but the Soul, prouder still,Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own,And mock the tongued interpreter.