The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P.

by Edward Bulwer Lytton.

THE NEW TIMON.

I.

O'er royal London, in luxuriant May, While lamps yet twinkled, dawning crept the day.

Home from the h.e.l.l the pale-eyed gamester steals; Home from the ball flash jaded Beauty's wheels; The lean grimalkin, who, since night began, Hath hymn'd to love amidst the wrath of man, Scared from his raptures by the morning star, Flits finely by, and threads the area bar; From fields suburban rolls the early cart; As rests the revel, so awakes the mart.

Transfusing Mocha from the beans within, Bright by the crossing gleams the alchemic tin,-- There halts the craftsman; there, with envious sigh, The houseless vagrant looks, and limps foot-weary by.

Behold that street,--the Omphalos of Town!

Where the grim palace wears the prison's frown, As mindful still, amidst a gaudier race, Of the veil'd Genius of the mournful Place-- Of floors no majesty but Griefs had trod, And weary limbs that only knelt to G.o.d.[A]

What tales, what morals, of the elder day-- If stones had language--could that street convey!

Why yell the human bloodhounds panting there?-- To drown the Stuart's last forgiving prayer.[B]

Again the bloodhounds!--whither would they run?

To lick the feet of Stuart's ribald son.

There, through the dusk-red towers, amidst his ring Of Vans and Mynheers, rode the Dutchman king; And there--did England's Goneril thrill to hear The shouts that triumph'd o'er her crownless Lear?

There, where the gaslight streams on Crockford's door, Bluff Henry chuckled at the jests of More; There, where you gaze upon the last H. B., Swift paused, and mutter'd, "Shall I have that see?"

There, where yon pile, for party's common weal, Knits votes that serve, with hearts abhorring, Peel, Blunt Walpole seized, and roughly bought, his man;-- Or, tired of Polly, St. John lounged to Anne.

Well, let the world change on,--still must endure While Earth is Earth, one changeless race--the Poor!

Within that street, on yonder threshold stone, What sits as stone-like?--Penury, claim thine own!

She sate, the homeless wanderer,--with calm eyes Looking through tears, yet lifted to the skies; Wistful, but patient, sorrowful, but mild, As asking G.o.d when He would claim his child.

A face too youthful for so hush'd a grief;-- The worm that gnaw'd the core had spared the leaf; Though worn the cheek, with hunger, or with care, Yet still the soft fresh childlike bloom was there; And each might touch you with an equal gloom, The youth, the care, the hunger, and the bloom;-- As if, when round the cradle of the child With lavish gifts the gentler fairies smiled, One vengeful sprite, forgotten as the guest, Had breathed a spell to disenchant the rest, And prove how slight each favour, else divine, If wroth the Urganda of the Golden Mine!

Now, as the houseless sate, and up the sky Dawn to day strengthen'd, pa.s.s'd a stranger by: He saw and halted;--she beheld him not-- All round them slept, and silence wrapt the spot.

To this new-comer Nature had denied The gifts that graced the outcast crouch'd beside: With orient suns his cheek was swarth and grim, And low the form, though lightly shaped the limb; Yet life glow'd vigorous in that deep-set eye, With a calm force that dared you to defy; And the strong foot was planted on the stone Firm as a gnome's upon his mountain throne; Simple his garb, yet what the wealthy wear, And conscious power gave lordship to his air.

Lone in the Babel thus the maid and man; Long he gazed silent, and at last began: "Poor homeless outcast--dost thou see me stand Close by thy side, yet beg not? Stretch thy hand."

The voice was stern, abrupt, yet full and deep: The outcast heard, and started as from sleep, And meekly rose, and stretch'd the hand and sought To murmur thanks--the murmur fail'd the thought.

He took the slight thin hand within his own: "This hand hath nought of honest labour known; And yet methinks thou'rt honest!--speak, my child."

And his face broke to beauty as it smiled.

But her unconscious eyes, cast down the while, Met not the heart that open'd in the smile: Again the murmur rose, and died in air.

"Nay, what thy mother and her home, and where?"

Lo, with those words, the rigid ice that lay Layer upon layer within, dissolves away, And tears come rushing from o'ercharged eyes:-- "There is my mother--there her home--the skies!"

Oh, in that burst, what depth of lone distress!

O desolation of the motherless!

Yet through the anguish how survived the trust, Home in the skies, though in the grave the dust!

The man was moved, and silence fell again; Upsprung the sun--Light re-a.s.sumed the reign;-- Love ruled on high! Below, the twain that share Men's builded empires--Mammon and Despair!

At length, with pitying eye and soothing tone, The stranger spoke: "Thy bitterer grief mine own; Amidst the million, lonely as thou art, Mine the full coffers, but the beggar'd heart.

Yet Gold--earth's demon, when unshared, receives G.o.d's breath, and grows a G.o.d, when it relieves.

Trust still our common Father, orphan one, And He shall guide thee, if thou trust the son.

Nay, follow, child." And on with pa.s.sive feet, Ghost-like she follow'd through the death-like street.

They paused at last a stately pile before; The drowsy porter oped the noiseless door; The girl stood wistful still without;--the pause The guide divined, and thus rebuked the cause:-- "Enter, no tempter let thy penury fear; I have a sister, and her home is here."

II.

And who the wanderer that hath shelter won Beneath the roof of Fortune's favour'd son?

Ill stars predoom'd her, and she stole to birth Fresh from the Heaven,--Law's outcast on the earth; The child of Love betraying and betray'd, The blossom open'd in the Upas shade;-- So ran the rumour; if the rumour lied, The humble mother wept, but not denied: Ne'er had the infant's slumber known a rest On childhood's native shield--a father's breast.

Dead or neglectful, 'twas to her the same; } But, oh, how dear!--yea, dearer for the shame, } All that G.o.d hallows in a mother's name! } Here, one proud refuge from a world's disdain, Here the lost empress half resumes her reign;-- Here the deep-fallen Eve sees Eden's skies Smile on the desert from the cherub's eyes.

Sweet to each human heart the right to love; But 'tis the deluge consecrates the dove; And haply scorn yet more the child endears, Cradled in misery, and baptized with tears.

Each then the all on earth unto the other,-- The sinless infant and the erring mother: The one soon lost the smile which childhood wears, Chill'd by the gloom it marvels at--but shares; The other, by that purest love made pure, Learn'd to redeem, by labouring to endure; Who can divine what hidden music lies In the frail reed, till winds awake its sighs?

Hard was their life, and lonely was their hearth; There, kindness brought no holiday of mirth; No kindred visited, no playmate came;-- Joy, the proud worldling, shunn'd the child of shame!

Yet in the lesson which, at stolen whiles, 'Twixt care and care, the respite-hour beguiles, The mother's mind the polish'd trace betrays } Of early culture and serener days; } And gentle birth still moulds the delicate phrase. } By converse, more than books (for books too poor), Learn'd Lucy more than books themselves insure; For if, in truth, the mother's heart had err'd, Pure now the life, and holy was the word: The fallen state no grov'ling change had wrought; Meek if the bearing, lofty was the thought; So much of n.o.ble in the lore instill'd, You felt the soul had ne'er the error will'd;-- That fraud alone had duped its wings astray From their true instinct tow'rds empyreal day.

Thus life itself, if sadd'ning, still refined, And through the heart the culture reach'd the mind.

As to the moon the tides attracted move, So flow'd the intellect beneath the love.-- To nurse the sickness, to a.s.suage the care, To charm the sigh into the happier prayer; Forestall the unutter'd wish with ready guess; Wise in the exquisite tact of tenderness!

These Lucy's study;--and, in grateful looks, Seraphs write lessons more divine than books.

So dawn'd her youth:--Youth, Nature's holiday!

Fair time, which dreams so gently steal away; When Life--dark volume, with its opening leaf Of Joy,--through fable dupes us into grief-- Tells of a golden Arcady;--and then Read on,--comes truth;--the Iron world of men!

But from her life thy opening poet page Was torn!--Its record had no Golden Age.

Behold her by the couch, on bended knees!

There the wan mother--there the last disease!

Dread to the poor the least suspense of health,-- Their hands their friends, their labour all their wealth: Let the wheel rest from toil a single sun, And all the humble clock-work is undone.

The custom lost, the drain upon the h.o.a.rd, The debt that sweeps the fragment from the board, How mark the hunger round thee, and be brave-- Foresee thy orphan, and not fear the grave?

Lower and ever lower in the grade Of penury fell the mother and the maid, Till the grim close; when, as the midnight rain Drove to the pallet through the broken pane, The dying murmur'd: "Near,--thy hand,--more near!

I am not what scorn deem'd,--yet not severe The doom which leaves me, in the hour of death, The right to bless thee with my parting breath-- These, worn till now, wear thou, his daughter. Live To see thy sire, and tell him--I forgive!"

Cold the child thrills beneath the hands that press Her bended neck--slow slackens the caress-- Loud the roof rattles with the stormy gust; The grief is silent, and the love is dust; From the spent fuel G.o.d's bright spark is flown; And there the Motherless, and Death--alone!

Then fell a happy darkness o'er the mind;-- That trance, that pause, the tempest leaves behind: Still, with a timid step, around she crept, And sigh'd, "She sleeps!" and smiled. Too well she slept!

Dark strangers enter'd in the squalid cell; Rude hirelings placed the pauper in the sh.e.l.l; Harsh voices question'd of the name and age; Ev'n paupers live upon the parish page.

She answers not, or sighs, and smiles, and keeps The same meek language:--"Hush! my mother sleeps."

They thrust some scanty pence into her palm, And led her forth, scarce marv'ling at her calm; And bade her work, not beg--be good, and shun All bad companions--so their work was done, And the wreck left to drift amidst the roar Of the Great Ocean with the rocky sh.o.r.e.

And thou hast found the shelter!--from thine eyes Melt the long shadows. Dawn is in the skies.

Low on the earth, while Night endures,--unguess'd Hope folds the wing and slumbers on its nest; Let but a sunbeam to the world be given-- And hark--it singeth at the gates of Heaven!

III.

Yet o'er that house there hung a solemn gloom; The step fell timid in each gorgeous room, Vast, sumptuous, dreary as some Eastern pile, Where mutes keep watch--a home without a smile; Still as if silence reign'd there, like a law, And left to pomp no attribute but awe; Save when the swell of sombre festival Jarr'd into joy the melancholy hall, So some chance wind in mournful autumn wrings Discordant notes, although from music-strings.

Wild were the wealthy master's moods and strange, As one whose humour found its food in change; Now for whole days content apart to dwell With books and thought--his world the student's cell; And now, with guests around the glittering board, The hermit-Timon shone the Athenian lord.

There bloom'd the bright ephemerals of the hour, Whom the fierce ferment forces into flower, The gorgeous nurslings of the social life, Sprung from our hotbeds--Vanity and Strife!

Lords of the senate, wrestlers for the state, Grey-hair'd in youth, exhausted, worn,--and great; Pale Book-men,--charming only in their style; And Poets, jaundiced with eternal bile;-- All the poor t.i.tans our Cocytus claims, With tortured livers, and immortal names:-- Such made the guests, Amphitryons well may boast, But still the student travail'd in the host;-- These were the living books he loved to read, Keys to his lore, and comments on his creed.

From them he rose with more confirm'd disdain Of the thorn-chaplet and the gilded chain.

Oft, from such stately revels, to the shed Where Hunger couch'd, the same dark impulse led; Intent, the Babel, Art has built, to trace, Here scan the height, and there explore the base; That structure call'd "The Civilized," as vain As its old symbol on the Shinar plain, Where Pride collects the bricks and slime, and then But builds the city to divide the men; Swift comes the antique curse,--smites one from one, Rends the great bond, and leaves the pile undone.

Man will _o'er muse_--when musing on mankind: The vast expanse defeats the searching mind, Blent in one ma.s.s each varying height and hue:-- Wouldst thou seize Nature, Artist?--bound the view!

But He, in truth, is banish'd from the ties That curb the ardent, and content the wise; From the pent heart the bubbling pa.s.sions sweep, To spread in aimless circles o'er the deep.