Perhaps we cannot do better than to close this rambling notice with the closing lines of this elegant and thoughtful poem:
"Man was not made for things that leave us,
For that which goeth and returneth,
For hopes that lift us yet deceive us,
For love that wears a smile yet mournetlh;
Not for fresh forests from the dead leaves springing,
The cyclic re-creation which, at best,
Yields us—betrayal still to promise clinging—
But tremulous shadows of the realm of rest;
For things immortal man was made,
God's image, latest from his hand,
Co-heir with Him, who in man's flesh arrayd
Holds o'er the worlds the heavenly-human wand:
His portion this—sublime
To stand where access none hath space or time,
Above the starry host, the cherub band,
To stand—to advance—and after all to stand!"
These lines are the real end and culmination of a book which will, on the whole, do much to raise Mr. De Vere's reputation in this country to a level nearer his deserts. With its human share of faults, it is a truer, an abler, and a more scholarly book than often issues from an American press, and contains everywhere lofty and pure thought, with never a taint of evil, and never a morally doubtful passage. And we only wish for our country, that, of his readers, there may be many in whom these his poems may sow motives as unselfish and aims as noble as those which, we sincerely believe, inform the inner life of the true poet and Christian, Aubrey De Vere.
About Several Things.
And, to begin with, about the poverty and vice of London! Hood and and Adelaide Anne Procter, Dickens, James Greenwood, [Footnote 61] have made these more familiar to us than the streets of our own cities. We have talked with Nancy on London bridge and skulked with Noah Claypole beneath its arches—swept crossings with poor Joe and starved with the little ragamuffin in Frying Pan Alley.
[Footnote 61: Author of a Night in a London Workhouse, and of the True History of a Little Ragamuffin.]
The poor of London are representative beings to us all. As we walk through the streets, each ragged or threadbare wanderer tells us a story heard long ago and half forgotten. That miserable woman huddled up in a doorway is a brickmaker's wife, and the thin shawl drawn about her shoulders hides the only marks of attention she ever receives from her pitiful husband. Her baby is dead, thank God! safe beyond the reach of blows and hunger and cold. Her story will soon be ended, if we may judge by her thin face, and the eager look in her eyes, and the short, hacking cough. The shilling you slip into her hand will only prolong her misery, but it gives you a moment's consolation, and brings a flash of gratitude into her poor face. Good-by, Jenny! When we meet you at the judgment-seat of God, we wonder if it will occur to us we might have done more for you to-day than give you a shilling and a glance of recognition.
"Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful!
In a whole city-full
Home she had none."