G GEORGE MEREDITH. EORGE MEREDITH was born in Hampshire, England, in 1828. His parents died when he was quite young, and he obtained his education as a ward in chancery. His education was received mostly in Germany, hence the Teutonic influence on all he has written. Intended for the profession of law, he soon abandoned it for literature. For many years his life was a hand to hand struggle with poverty in its harshest form. Early married to a daughter of Thomas Love Peacock the novelist, the union proved a very unhappy one lasting twelve years, and ended with his wife's death. Mr. Meredith's second wife died three years ago. By the first marriage he had one son, now living in Italy. By the second marriage a son, twenty-three, and a daughter, eighteen years old, now living with him in his pretty little cottage in one of the valleys of Surrey Downs. Mr. Meredith was naturally robust, but after sixty years of life in which the trials and sorrows were many, and the joys few he is described as being in delicate health. Mr. Meredith is best known as a novelist, and is considered one of the greatest living writers of English fiction. In poetry he is original but obscure. Has been called "the Inarticulate Poet." It is only within the past few years that his poems have attracted any considerable attention in this country. C. W. M. THE TWO MASKS. MELPOMENE among her livid people, Ere stroke of lyre, upon Thaleia looks, Warned by old contests that one museful ripple Along those lips of rose with tendril hooks, Forebodes disturbance in the springs of pathos, Perchance may change of masks midway demand, Albeit the man rise mountainous as Athos, The woman wild as Cape Leucadia stand. For this the Comic Muse exacts of creatures But prove they under stress of action's fire HARD WEATHER. BURSTS from a rending East in flaws To strew the garden, strip the shaws, And show our Spring with banner torn. Was ever such virago morn? The wind has teeth, the wind has claws. Shrill underfoot the grassblade shrews, Is the land ship? we are rolled, we drive It peeps, it becks; 'tis day, 'tis night. The swathe is closed, like shroud on corse. Lo, as if swift the Furies flew, The Fates at heel at a cry to horse! Interpret me the savage whirr: Not otherwhere than with those tides Look in the face of men who fare To twist with him and take his bruise. Of Earth, young mother of her brood: Though farther from her nature rude, The common strokes of fortune shower. Our wits may clasp to wax in power. Than when her honeyed hands caressed, Behold the life at ease; it drifts. The sharpened life commands its course. Whence pluck they brain, her prize of gifts, Not disconnected, yet released, WHIMPER OF SYMPATHY. HAWK or shrike has done this deed Of downy feathers: rueful sight! Sweet sentimentalist, invite Your bosom's Power to intercede. So hard it seems that one must bleed O it were pleasant, with you THE QUESTION WHITHER. I. WHEN we have thrown off this old suit, Is that, think you, our ending? II. Sensation is a gracious gift, But were it cramped to station, The prayer to have it cast adrift, Would spout from all sensation. Enough if we have winked to sun, Have sped the plough a season; There is a soul for labor done, Endureth fixed as reason. III. Then let our trust be firm in Good, We children of Beneficence Are in its being sharers; And Whither vainer sounds than Whence, For word with such wayfarers. A BALLAD OF PAST MERIDIAN. LAST night returning from my twilight walk II. Death said, I gather, and pursued his way. And metal veins that sometimes fiery shone: O Life, how naked and how hard when known! Life said, As thou hast carved me, such am I. MARTIN'S PUZZLE. I. THERE she goes up the street with her book in her hand, And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do? Very well, thank you, Martin!-I can't understand! I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe! I can't understand it. She talks like a song; Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass; She seems to give gladness while limping along, Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass. II. First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart. Then, her fool of a father-a blacksmith by trade Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart! His heart!-where's the leg of the poor little maid! Well, that's not enough; they must push her downstairs, To make her go crooked: but why count the list? If it's right to suppose that our human affairs Are all ordered by heaven-there, bang goes my fist! III. For if angels can look on such sights-never mind! When your next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum. The parson declares that her woes weren't designed; But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom come. Lose a leg, save a soul—a convenient text; I call it Tea doctrine, not savoring of God. When poor little Molly wants' chastening,' why, next The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod. IV. But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles To read books to sick people!-and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles! Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage. The more I push thinking the more I revolve: I never get farther:-and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says,This crush'd body seems such a sad case.' V. Not that she's for complaining; she reads to earn pence; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough. Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense? Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff. Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord: She sings little hymns at the close of the day, Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray. VI. What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there's Law above all? Answer that if you can! Irreligious I'm not; But I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man. It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise, She holds a fixed something by which I am checked. VII. Yonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall, If you eye it a minute 'll have the same look: So kind! and so merciful! God of us all! It's the very same lesson we get from the Book. Then, is Life but a trial? Is that what is meant? Some must toil, and some perish, for others below; The injustice to each spreads a common content; Ay! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so. VIII. She's the victim of fools: that seems nearer the mark. On earth there are engines and numerous fools. Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the dark; He does, and in some sort of way they're his tools. EARTH'S SECRET. NOT solitarily in fields we find Earth's secret open, though one page is there; Yet at a thought of life apart from her, For Earth, that gives the milk, the spirit gives. MY THEME. I. Of me and of my theme think what thou wilt: He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt. 'Tis true the wisdom that my mind exacts The deader body Nature could proclaim. |