The venerable poet, James Montgomery, bears strong testimony to Elliott's poetic talent: "I am," says he, "quite willing to hazard my critical credit, by avowing my persuasion, that in originality, power, and even beauty, when he chose to be beautiful, he might have measured heads beside Byron in tremendous energy, Crabbe in graphic description, and Coleridge in effusions of domestic tenderness, while in intense sympathy with the poor, in whatever he deemed their wrongs or their sufferings, he exceeded them all-and perhaps everybody else among contemporaries-in prose or verse. He was, in a transcendental sense, the poet of the poor, whom, if not always wisely, I, at least, dare not say he loved too well. His personal character, his fortunes, and his genius would require, as they deserve, a full investigation, as furnishing an extraordinary study of human nature." In the following singular piece, we have a key to many of the Rhymer's rhymes. It is the complaint of a heart breaking for want of human sympathy, and taking hold, in the yearnings of its tender nature, upon household pets where there are no home companions : POOR ANDREW. The loving poor!-So envy calls But oh! I choke, my heart grows faint, When I approach my door! Behind it there are living things, Whose silent frontlets say They'd rather see me out than in Feet foremost borne away! My heart grows sick when home I come- If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. My dog and cat, when I come home, She mewing, with her tail on end, My smother'd sob they hear, When down my heart sinks, deathly down, My heart grows faint when home I come- If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. I'd rather be a happy bird, Than, scorn'd and loathed, a king; Thou busy bee! how canst thou choose Oh, blessed bee! thy glad wings say But I, when I come home-O God! Why come they not? They do not come A heavier darkness on me falls- Oh, yes, they come !-they never fail My poor heart brightens when it meets Again they come to meet me-God! If 'twere not for my dog and cat, This heart is like a churchyard stone; My playful cat and honest dog Are all the friends I have; And yet my house is fill'd with friends- What makes them hostile? IGNORANCE; But oh! I sigh when home I come- In the following piece, we see the hostility of ignorance overcome. The cat and dog are replaced by human beings, and the home of taste is the home of happiness: Oh, give him taste! it is the link That leads him to her mother's chair, SATURDAY. To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann- The fine folks use the plate he makes, Then let us shake the carpet well, And polish thou the grate, my love; The autumn winds blow damp and chill; And bring the new white curtain out, And brush the little table, child, And fill the music-glasses up With water fresh and clear; To-morrow, when he sings and plays, The street will stop to hear. And throw the dead flowers from the vase, And rub it till it glows; For in the leafless garden yet He'll find a winter rose. And lichen from the wood he'll bring, And mosses from the dell; And from the shelter'd stubble-field The scarlet pimpernell. "All this preparation is made for the father of the family, the poor mechanic, who has got to the end of his week of toil, and is coming-home! not to look like a king, but to be a king for two nights and a day. Do we say the poor mechanic? Why, there is no king in Europe so rich! He has earned his otium cum dignitate, (which they have not;) it is his right, not inherited from dead men, but the achievement of his own power and will; and for the bows and grimaces and lip-service of hollow courtiers, he is surrounded by loving looks, and sympathizing hearts, and willing hands." RUB OR RUST. Idler, why lie down to die? Better rub than rust. Hark! the lark sings in the sky- In the grave there's sleep enough- Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof, Men are mowing, breezes blowing, He who will not work shall want; Bees are flying, sloth is dying, THE PRESS. God said "Let there be light!" Then startled seas and mountains cold "Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd The thunderous cloud that flamed And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd, Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast; And, blushing, murmur'd-" Light!" Then was the skylark born; In glory, bloom! And shall the mortal sons of God By God, our sire! Our souls have holy light within; By earth, and hell, and heaven, Is light, and hope, and life, and power! Oh, pallid Want! Oh, Labor stark! The Press! the Press! the Press! FOREST WORSHIP. Within the sun-lit forest, Our roof the bright blue sky, Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow, Beneath the frown of wicked men Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God, they can't prevent The lone wild flowers from blowing! High, high above the tree-tops, The lark is soaring free; Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see; Beneath the might of wicked men The poor man's worth is dying; The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!" The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts How softly in the pauses Of song re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide! |