The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 34

LVI. TO THE EVENING WIND.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.--1794-1878.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea.

Nor I alone;--a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier at coming of the wind of night; And languis.h.i.+ng to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight.

Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, G.o.d's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pa.s.s, And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the gra.s.s.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go,--but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the sh.o.r.e; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dream He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

LVII.--DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR.[M]

THOMAS CARLYLE.--1795-1881.

_From_ OLIVER CROMWELL'S LETTERS AND SPEECHES.

And so we have now nothing more;--and Oliver has nothing more. His Speakings, and also his Actings, all his manifold Strugglings, more or less victorious, to utter the great G.o.d's-Message that was in him,--have here what we call ended. This Summer of 1658, likewise victorious after struggle, is his last in our World of Time. Thenceforth he enters the Eternities; and rests upon his arms _there_.

Oliver's look was yet strong; and young for his years, which were Fifty-nine last April. The "Three-score and ten years," the Psalmist's limit, which probably was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those of others there, might have been antic.i.p.ated for him: Ten Years more of Life;--which, we may compute, would have given another History to all the Centuries of England. But it was not to be so, it was to be otherwise. Oliver's health, as we might observe, was but uncertain in late times; often "indisposed" the spring before last. His course of life had not been favorable to health! "A burden too heavy for man!" as he himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant toil; inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand; toil, peril, and sorrow manifold, continued for near Twenty years now, had done their part: those robust life-energies, it afterwards appeared, had been gradually eaten out. Like a Tower strong to the eye, but with its foundations undermined; which has not long to stand; the fall of which, on any shock, may be sudden.--

The Manzinis and Ducs de Crequi, with their splendors, and congratulations about Dunkirk, interesting to the street-populations and general public, had not yet withdrawn, when at Hampton Court there had begun a private scene, of much deeper and quite opposite interest there.

The Lady Claypole, Oliver's favorite Daughter, a favorite of all the world, had fallen sick we know not when; lay sick now,--to death, as it proved. Her disease was of a nature, the painfullest and most hara.s.sing to mind and sense, it is understood, that falls to the lot of a human creature. Hampton Court we can fancy once more, in those July days, a house of sorrow; pale Death knocking there, as at the door of the meanest hut. "She had great sufferings, great exercises of spirit."

Yes:--and in the depths of the old Centuries, we see a pale anxious Mother, anxious Husband, anxious weeping Sisters, a poor young Frances weeping anew in her weeds. "For the last fourteen days" his Highness had been by her bedside at Hampton Court, unable to attend to any public business whatever. Be still, my Child; trust thou yet in G.o.d: in the waves of the Dark River, there too is He a G.o.d of help!--On the 6th day of August she lay dead; at rest forever. My young, my beautiful, my brave! She is taken from me; I am left bereaved of her. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Name of the Lord!--...

In the same dark days, occurred George Fox's third and last interview with Oliver.--.... George dates nothing; and his facts everywhere lie round him like the leather-parings of his old shop: but we judge it may have been about the time when the Manzinis and the Ducs de Crequi were parading in their gilt coaches, That George and two Friends "going out of Town," on a summer day, "two of Hacker's men" had met them,--taken them, brought them to the Mews. "Prisoners there awhile:"--but the Lord's power was over Hacker's men; they had to let us go. Whereupon:

"The same day, taking boat I went down" (_up_) "to Kingston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about the Sufferings of Friends. I met him riding into Hampton-Court Park; and before I came to him, as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw and felt a waft" (_whiff_) "of death go forth against him."----Or in favor of him, George? His life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thing for this man, now or heretofore! I fancy he has been looking, this long while, to give it up, whenever the Commander-in-Chief required. To quit his laborious sentry-post; honorably lay-up his arms, and be gone to his rest:--all Eternity to rest in, O George! Was thy own life merry, for example, in the hollow of the tree; clad permanently in leather? And does kingly purple, and governing refractory worlds instead of st.i.tching coa.r.s.e shoes, make it merrier? The waft of death is not against _him_, I think,--perhaps against thee, and me, and others, O George, when the Nell-Gwynn Defender and Two Centuries of all-victorious Cant have come in upon us! My unfortunate George----"a waft of death go forth against him; and when I came to him, he looked like a dead man. After I had laid the Sufferings of Friends before him, and had warned him according as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me come to his house. So I returned to Kingston; and, the next day, went up to Hampton Court to speak farther with him. But when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited on him, told me the Doctors were not willing that I should speak with him.

So I pa.s.sed away, and never saw him more."

Friday the 20th of August 1658, this was probably the day on which George Fox saw Oliver riding into Hampton Park with his Guards, for the last time. That Friday, as we find, his Highness seemed much better: but on the morrow a sad change had taken place; feverish symptoms, for which the Doctors rigorously prescribed quiet. Sat.u.r.day to Tuesday the symptoms continued ever worsening: a kind of tertian ague, "b.a.s.t.a.r.d tertian" as the old Doctors name it; for which it was ordered that his Highness should return to Whitehall, as to a more favorable air in that complaint. On Tuesday accordingly he quitted Hampton Court;--never to see it more.

"His time was come," says Harvey; "and neither prayers nor tears could prevail with G.o.d to lengthen out his life and continue him longer to us.

Prayers abundantly and incessantly poured out on his behalf, both publicly and privately, as was observed, in a more than ordinary way.

Besides many a secret sigh,--secret and unheard by men, yet like the cry of Moses, more loud, and strongly laying hold on G.o.d, than many spoken supplications. All which,--the hearts of G.o.d's People being thus mightily stirred up,--did seem to beget confidence in some, and hopes in all; yea some thoughts in himself, that G.o.d would restore him."

"Prayers public and private:" they are worth imagining to ourselves.

Meetings of Preachers, Chaplains, and G.o.dly Persons; "Owen, Goodwin, Sterry, with a company of others, in an adjoining room"; in Whitehall, and elsewhere over religious London and England, fervent outpourings of many a loyal heart. For there were hearts to whom the n.o.bleness of this man was known; and his worth to the Puritan Cause was evident.

Prayers,--strange enough to us; in a dialect fallen obsolete, forgotten now. Authentic wrestlings of ancient Human Souls,--who were alive then, with their affections, awestruck pieties; with their Human Wishes, risen to be _transcendent_, hoping to prevail with the Inexorable. All swallowed now in the depths of dark Time; which is full of such, since the beginning!--Truly it is a great scene of World-History, this in old Whitehall: Oliver Cromwell drawing nigh to his end. The exit of Oliver Cromwell and of English Puritanism; a great Light, one of our few authentic Solar Luminaries, going down now amid the clouds of Death.

Like the setting of a great victorious Summer Sun; its course now finished. "_So stirbt ein Held_," says Schiller, "So dies a Hero! Sight worthy to be wors.h.i.+pped!"--He died, this Hero Oliver, in Resignation to G.o.d; as the Brave have all done. "We could not be more desirous he should abide," says the pious Harvey, "than he was content and willing to be gone." The struggle lasted, amid hope and fear, for ten days....

On Monday August 30th, there roared and howled all day a mighty storm of wind.... It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking winds, heard in the sickroom and everywhere, were piping aloud, that Thurloe and an Official person entered to enquire, Who, in case of the worst, was to be his Highness's Successor? The Successor is named in a sealed Paper already drawn-up, above a year ago, at Hampton Court; now lying in such and such a place. The Paper was sent for, searched for; it could never be found.

Richard's is the name understood to have been written in that Paper: not a good name; but in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had ten years more been granted, Richard might have become a fitter man; might have been cancelled, if palpably unfit. Or perhaps it was Fleetwood's name,--and the Paper, by certain parties, was stolen? None knows. On the Thursday night following, "and not till then," his Highness is understood to have formally named "Richard",--or perhaps it might only be some heavy-laden "Yes, yes!" spoken, out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe's _question_ "Richard?" The thing is a little uncertain. It was, once more, a matter of much moment;--giving color probably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this answer!--...

Thursday night the Writer of our old Pamphlet [Harvey] was himself in attendance on his Highness; and has preserved a trait or two; with which let us hasten to conclude. Tomorrow is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgiving day, since the Victories of Dunbar and Worcester. The wearied one, "that very night before the Lord took him to his everlasting rest," was heard thus, with oppressed voice, speaking:

"'Truly G.o.d is good; indeed He is; He will not'----Then his speech failed him, but as I apprehended, it was, 'He will not leave me.' This saying, 'G.o.d is good,' he frequently used all along; and would speak it with much cheerfulness, and fervor of spirit, in the midst of his pains.--Again he said: 'I would be willing to live to be farther serviceable to G.o.d and His People: but my work is done. Yet G.o.d will be with His People.'

"He was very restless most part of the night, speaking often to himself.

And there being something to drink offered him, he was desired To take the same, and endeavor to sleep.--Unto which he answered: 'It is not my design to drink or sleep; but my design is, to make what haste I can to be gone.'--

"Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy expressions, implying much inward consolation and peace; among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing words, _annihilating_ and judging himself. And truly it was observed, that a public spirit to G.o.d's Cause did breathe in him,--as in his lifetime, so now to his very last."

When the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless; between three and four in the afternoon, he lay dead. Friday 3rd September 1658. "The consternation and astonishment of all people," writes Fauconberg, "are inexpressible; their hearts seem as if sunk within them. My poor Wife,--I know not what on earth to do with her. When seemingly quieted, she bursts out again into a pa.s.sion that tears her very heart in pieces."--Husht, poor weeping Mary! Here is a Life-battle right n.o.bly done. Seest thou not,

"The storm is changed into a calm, At His command and will; So that the waves which raged before Now quiet are and still!

"Then are _they_ glad,--because at rest And quiet now they be: So to the haven He them brings Which they desired to see."

"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord;" blessed are the valiant that have lived in the Lord. "Amen, saith the Spirit,"--Amen. "They do rest from their labors, and their works follow them."

"Their works follow them." As, I think, this Oliver Cromwell's works have done and are still doing! We have had our "Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially called "glorious"; and other Revolutions not yet called glorious; and somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind.

Men's ears are not now slit-off by rash Officiality; Officiality will, for long henceforth, be more cautious about men's ears. The tyrannous Star-chambers, branding-irons, chimerical Kings and Surplices at All-hallowtide, they are gone, or with immense velocity going. Oliver's works do follow him!--The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities; remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the least avails in the matter.--But we have to end here.

Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism, laboriously built together by this man, and made a thing far-s.h.i.+ning, miraculous to its own Century, and memorable to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without its King, is _kingless_, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self-collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can now none be found;--and nothing is left but to recall the old disowned Defender with the remnants of his Four Surplices, and Two Centuries of _Hypocrisis_ (or Play-acting _not_ so-called), and put-up with all that, the best we may. The Genius of England no longer soars Sunward, world-defiant, like an Eagle through the storms, "mewing her mighty youth," as John Milton saw her do: the Genius of England, much liker a greedy Ostrich intent on provender and a whole skin mainly, stands with its _other_ extremity Sunward; with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other "sheltering Fallacy" there may be, and _so_ awaits the issue. The issue has been slow; but it is now seen to have been inevitable. No Ostrich, intent on gross terrene provender, and sticking its head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day,--in a terrible _a-posteriori_ manner, if not otherwise!----Awake before it come to that; G.o.ds and men bid us awake! The Voices of our Fathers, with thousand-fold stern monition to one and all, bid us awake.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] The author's use of capital letters and punctuation marks has been retained.

LVIII. EACH AND ALL.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.--1803-1882.

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloak'd clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The s.e.xton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, While his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.

All are needed by each one-- Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest, at even, He sings the song, but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear--they sang to my eye.

The delicate sh.e.l.ls lay on the sh.o.r.e; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam-- I fetch'd my sea-born treasures home; But the poor unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the sh.o.r.e, With the sun and the sand, and the wild uproar.

The lover watch'd his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she stray'd; Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir.

At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; The gay enchantment was undone-- A gentle wife, but fairy none.