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Creeds change as ages come and go; We see by faith, but little know: Perchance the sense was not so dim, To her who “strove to follow Him."
ICHARD CRASHAW, now nearly two and a
RIGHT. The hours are growing shorter for the millions who
are toiling, And the homes are growing better for the mil
lions yet to be; And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste
and sin are spoiling The fairest and the finest of a grand humanity. It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are
growing deeper; They are giving of their millions as they never
gave before; They are learning the new Gospel; man must be
his brother's keeper, And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.
- The New Era.
Fresh as the roses which she sits among,
- A Picture.
CLOUDS. Ah! life is changeful as summer clouds; Some black for mourning, some white for shrouds; Yet tenderly, often God's face shines through 'The stormy sky, like a bit of blue.
- A Bit of Blue Sky.
- The Human Harp.
-On the Heights.
With tender sunlight overflow;
With the sweet, dreamy afterglow,
That fills the soul at soft twilight;
— The Afterglow.
general readers of poetry until the middle of the present century, when in a few anthologies he was appreciatively, but inadequately, represented. His poems ran through several editions during his lifetime, and were reprinted in 1652 and 1670, after which no issue appeared until they were included in the bulky collections of Chalmers and Anderson (1793-1810), with the exception of the selection made by Peregrine Phillips, published in 1785. Dr. Johnson did not include Crashaw in his “ Lives of the Poets,” though he included the lives of much inferior poets in that work. Pope appreciated Crashaw, but his higher qualities seem to have been unperceived or ignored by the author of " The Dunciad." He said of him that “he was none of the worst versificators;” and considered his best pieces to be “
the paraphrase of Psalm xxiii, On Lessius, Epitaph on Mr. Ashton, Wishes to his supposed Mistress, and Dies Iræ.” What can be said of such judgment in the face of such glorious poems as “ Music's Duel," "Sospetto d' Herode,"
To the Name above every name,” “ Hymn to St. Teresa," "" Psalm cxxxvii," “ To the Morning," etc.?
Crashaw's verse is marked by some of the highest qualities of poetry. He has strong affinities to two of our great nineteenth-century poets; he has the rich imagination and sensuousness of Keats, and the subtlety of thought and exquisite lyrical flow of Shelley.
Crashaw is essentially a sacred poet, and, compared with George Herbert, is his superior, judged from the purely poetic standpoint. Herbert is, in a limited degree, a popular poet; Crashaw is not, and has never been so. One of the reasons for this is (probably) the taste for artificial poetry of the school of Waller, Dryden, Pope, etc., during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The fact of his being a Catholic would also deter many readers from studying his works; but, poetical thought now being wider, and religious intolerance almost a thing of the past, it may be hoped that Crashaw will soon receive the recognition which is his due.
The text of the following selections follows that adopted and amended from original sources by Rev. A. B. Grosart in his complete edition of Crashaw's Works in “The Fuller Worthies' Library," but the spelling has been modernized.
J. R. T.
Now Westward Sol had spent the richest beams Of Noon's high glory, when hard by the streams
Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood
string A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them sing To their own dance; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long drawn dash Blends all together; then distinctly trips From this to that; then quick returning skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleek passage of her open throat, A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that being rear'd In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet self she wrangles. He amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet; that tickled with rare art The tattling strings (each breathing in his part) Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base In surly groans disdains the treble's grace; The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides, Until his finger (Moderator) hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson too
She gives him back; her supple breast thrills out
Shame now and anger mixed a double stain
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
Or to thyself, sing thine own obsequy:
This done, he lists what she would say to this, And she, (although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat) Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul!) she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
AN EPITAPH UPON MR. ASHTON, A
CONFORMABLE CITIZEN. The modest front of this small floor, Believe me, Reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can; Here lies a truly honest man. One whose conscience was a thing, That troubled neither Church nor King. One of those few that in this town, Honor all Preachers, hear their own. Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practice any. He heard them rev'rently, and then His practice preach'd them o'er again. His Parlor-Sermons rather were Those to the eye, than to the ear. His prayers took their price and strength, Not from the loudness, nor the length. He was a Protestant at home, Not only in despite of Rome. He loved his Father; yet his zeal Tore not off his Mother's veil. To th' Church he did allow her dress, True Beauty, to true Holiness. Peace, which he loved in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end. When Age and Death call'd for the score No surfeits were to reckon for. Death tore not — therefore — but sans strife Gently untwined his thread of life. What remains then, but that thou Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow, And by his fair example's light, Burn in thy imitation bright. So while these lines can but bequeath A life perhaps unto his death; His better Epitaph shall be, His life still kept alive in thee.
TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PKAY.
Two went to pray! O, rather say,
-- Divine Epigrams.
UPON THE SEPULCHRE OF OUR LORD.
He saw how, in that blest Day-bearing Night,
The Heaven-rebuked shades made haste away; How bright a dawn of angels with new light
Amazed the midnight world, and made a Day Of which the Morning knew not. Mad with spite He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay
Their simple tribute to the Babe, Whose birth
- Satan. CRUELTY.
Here, where our Lord once laid His head,
- Divine Epigrams.
BUT NOW THEY HAVE SEEN AND HATED.
Fourth of the cursed knot of hags is she,
Or rather all the other three in one; Hell's shop of slaughter she does oversee,
And still assist the execution. But chiefly there does she delight to be, Where Hell's capacious cauldron is set on: And while the black souls boil in their own
gore, To hold them down, and look that none seethe o'er.
- Sospetto d' Herode.
Now had the Night's companion from her den,
Where all the busy day she close doth lie,
Day's sweat; and by a gentle tyranny
Of Sorrow, with a soft and downy hand.
Seen ? and yet hated Thee ? they did not see,
To The Morning.
– In Praise of Lessius's Rule of Health.
O cheeks! Beds of chaste loves, By your own showers seasonably dashed. Eyes! Nests of milky doves,
In your own wells decently washed. O wit of Love! that thus could place Fountain and garden in one face.
– St. Mary Magdalene, or The W’eeper.
Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by thee
We are not where nor what we be, But what and where we would be. Thus art thou Our absent presence, and our future now. Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire! Fear's antidote! a wise and well-stay'd fire! Temper 'twixt chill Despair, and torrid Joy! Queen regent in young Love's minority!
GIVE TO CÆSAR - AND TO GOD.
A SNOWFLAKE IN MAY. I saw a snowflake in the air
When smiling May had decked the year, And then 't was gone, I knew not where, I saw a snowflake in the air, And thought perchance an angel's prayer
Had fallen from some starry sphere; I saw a snowflake in the air
When smiling May had decked the year.
HE year 1860 is notable as the birth-year of at
least three of the younger poets of America, all of whom are now familiarly known to readers of the verse of our day, and who gained the public ear at not far from the same time: Charles G. D. Roberts, Dempster Sherman and Clinton Scollard. Clinton Scollard, the youngest of the trio by a few months was born in the village of Clinton, Oneida County, New York, September 18, 1860. His father, Dr. James J. Scollard, has been for many years a physician of note in that locality and still in middle life remains in the active practice of his profession besides being connected with many of the leading business interests in that region. Clinton, his only son, was educated at private schools in his native town and after passing four years successfully at Hamilton College in the same place, was graduated from that institution in 1881. Like most boys with literary leanings, he wrote more or less indifferent verse and prose during his later years at school and in his college course. His father seems hardly to have approved of these early efforts, but his mother encouraged him by her intelligent sympathy, criticising freely and praising where praise could fairly be given. "Little of this first work has been preserved. A certain ease of rhyming was its most noteworthy characteristic as it is a pronounced feature of his later work.
For a year or two after leaving college Mr. Scollard was engaged as a teacher of elocution in a school in Brooklyn, New York, and then, his health becoming uncertain, he spent some time in travel in California and Florida. During these few years he wrote much in verse, and in December, 1884, published a collection of a number of his poems with the title, “ Pictures in Song." This book could not be called a strong one, but showed promise and was pleasantly noticed by the reviewers.
In October, 1884, Mr. Scollard removed to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and was for two years a graduate student at Harvard University, devoting his attention while there mainly to purely literary courses of study. During these years he wrote largely and his verse appeared in periodical literature with increasing frequency. " With Reed and Lyre,” his second book, was published in September, 1886, and met with favorable attention in many quarters. The latter half of 1886 was spent by Mr. Scollard in European travel, and returning in January, 1887, he conducted classes in literature in Boston and Cambridge. A second trip to Europe was made by him in July of the same year. In September, 1888, he was appointed assistant professor of rhetoric and literature at Hamilton College, a position he now holds. “Old and New World Lyrics," his third volume, appeared in November. 1888.
O. F. A.
A TWILIGHT PIECE. I STRAYED from the bower of the roses as the dusk
of the day drew on, From the purple palm-tree closes where the crim
son cactus shone; Along the sycamore alley and up through the town
I strode, Nor paused where the gay groups dally at curves
of the wide white road. And I came to a pathway climbing through an
olive orchard gray, As the last faint bells were chiming in a chapel far
away. Only the stir of the lizard in the long sparse grass
I heard, And the wind, like an unseen wizard, with its
mystical whispered word. But at last I broke from the glooming of boughs,
and the darkling place, And beheld tall warders looming o'er a wide and
lonely space; Old cypress trees intoning a chant that was weird
and low, And as sad as the ghostly moaning from the lips
of the Long-ago. Here many a time at the margin of day, ere the
bats grew brave, Had I seen the low sun sink large in the dip of
the western wave; Seen the hues of the magical painter Aush half of
the sky's broad zone, And then grow fainter and fainter till the flowers
of the night were blown, Enwrapt by the drowsy quiet, I sank on the turf,
and long I yearned for the rhythmic riot of the night-bird's
soaring song; A song that should pulse and thrill me, and tides
of the heart unbar, A song that should surge and fill me with thoughts
of a clime afar; For I felt the passionate sadness of the mourner
who may not weep,