Poems. Volume 2. George Meredith

      Let Fate or Insufficiency provide

      Mean ends for men who what they are would be:

      Penned in their narrow day no change they see

      Save one which strikes the blow to brutes and pride.

      Our faith is ours and comes not on a tide:

      And whether Earth’s great offspring, by decree,

      Must rot if they abjure rapacity,

      Not argument but effort shall decide.

      They number many heads in that hard flock:

      Trim swordsmen they push forth: yet try thy steel.

      Thou, fighting for poor humankind, wilt feel

      The strength of Roland in thy wrist to hew

      A chasm sheer into the barrier rock,

      And bring the army of the faithful through.

      Now farewell to you! you are

      One of my dearest, whom I trust:

      Now follow you the Western star,

      And cast the old world off as dust.

      From many friends adieu! adieu!

      The quick heart of the word therein.

      Much that we hope for hangs with you:

      We lose you, but we lose to win.

      The beggar-king, November, frets:

      His tatters rich with Indian dyes

      Goes hugging: we our season’s debts

      Pay calmly, of the Spring forewise.

      We send our worthiest; can no less,

      If we would now be read aright,—

      To that great people who may bless

      Or curse mankind: they have the might.

      The proudest seasons find their graves,

      And we, who would not be wooed, must court.

      We have let the blunderers and the waves

      Divide us, and the devil had sport.

      The blunderers and the waves no more

      Shall sever kindred sending forth

      Their worthiest from shore to shore

      For welcome, bent to prove their worth.

      Go you and such as you afloat,

      Our lost kinsfellowship to revive.

      The battle of the antidote

      Is tough, though silent: may you thrive!

      I, when in this North wind I see

      The straining red woods blown awry,

      Feel shuddering like the winter tree,

      All vein and artery on cold sky.

      The leaf that clothed me is torn away;

      My friend is as a flying seed.

      Ay, true; to bring replenished day

      Light ebbs, but I am bare, and bleed.

      What husky habitations seem

      These comfortable sayings! they fell,

      In some rich year become a dream:—

      So cries my heart, the infidel! . . .

      Oh! for the strenuous mind in quest,

      Arabian visions could not vie

      With those broad wonders of the West,

      And would I bid you stay?  Not I!

      The strange experimental land

      Where men continually dare take

      Niagara leaps;—unshattered stand

      ’Twixt fall and fall;—for conscience’ sake,

      Drive onward like a flood’s increase;—

      Fresh rapids and abysms engage;—

      (We live—we die) scorn fireside peace,

      And, as a garment, put on rage,

      Rather than bear God’s reprimand,

      By rearing on a full fat soil

      Concrete of sin and sloth;—this land,

      You will observe it coil in coil.

      The land has been discover’d long,

      The people we have yet to know;

      Themselves they know not, save that strong

      For good and evil still they grow.

      Nor know they us.  Yea, well enough

      In that inveterate machine

      Through which we speak the printed stuff

      Daily, with voice most hugeous, mien

      Tremendous:—as a lion’s show

      The grand menagerie paintings hide:

      Hear the drum beat, the trombones blow!

      The poor old Lion lies inside! . . .

      It is not England that they hear,

      But mighty Mammon’s pipers, trained

      To trumpet out his moods, and stir

      His sluggish soul: her voice is chained:

      Almost her spirit seems moribund!

      O teach them, ’tis not she displays

      The panic of a purse rotund,

      Eternal dread of evil days,—

      That haunting spectre of success

      Which shows a heart sunk low in the girths:

      Not England answers nobleness,—

      ‘Live for thyself: thou art not earth’s.’

      Not she, when struggling manhood tries

      For freedom, air, a hopefuller fate,

      Points out the planet, Compromise,

      And shakes a mild reproving pate:

      Says never: ‘I am well at ease,

      My sneers upon the weak I shed:

      The strong have my cajoleries:

      And those beneath my feet I tread.’

      Nay, but ’tis said for her, great Lord!

      The misery’s there!  The shameless one

      Adjures mankind to sheathe the sword,

      Herself not yielding what it won:—

      Her sermon at cock-crow doth