EXTACTS FROM " HONOURS," A POEM BY JEAN INGELON.

Otago Witness, Issue 620, 16 October 1863, Page 6

EXTACTS FROM " HONOURS," A POEM BY JEAN INGELON.

[from the atmesjeum.]

This poem is notable for its self-questioning reach of thought, its probing of a wounded spirit, its striking out straight towards the Cross of Christ for the balm of healing ; and in the dramatic poem entitled ' Brothers, and a Sermon.' In the latter, two brothers, the elder of whern. has just coins into possession of his large heirdom, lie out on a reef of rocks, watching the u syle"corae in, the star-fish creep, the mackerel shoot, the snow-white gulls sitting lovingly in social rings, twittering as they feed. The elder brother grumbles at his hard lot, in being born to riches and robbed of his birthright— work. The younger rails at him for his ingratitude. To them comes an old fisherman, with his unfathomable simplicity of face. lie tells them how the Giace, of Sunderland, was wrecked just below:— The gale was high, The sea was all a boiling froth, And God Almighty's gxins were going off, And the land trembled. When she took the ground, She went to pieces like a lock of hay Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, The Captain reeled on deck with two small things, One in each arm— liis little lad and lass. Their hair was long and blew before his face, Or else we thought he had been saved; he tell, But held them fast. Tiie crew, poor luckless souls ! The breakers licked them off: and some were crusht, Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung- up dead, The dear breath beaten out of them : not one Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back With eyes wide open. But the Captain lay And clung— the only man alive. They prayed— For God's sake, Captain, tlu-ow the chikfren here ! And he threw one, a pretty two-years' child, But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, And down he went. They say they heard him cry. Then yip he rose and took tiie other one, And all our men reached out their hungry arms, And cried out, " Throw her, throw her ! " and he did : He threw her right against the parson's breast, And al! at once a sea broke over them. And they that saw it from the shore have said It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, Just as the woman might the lump of salt That twixt her hands into the kneading-pnn She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. We hauled our men in : two of them were dead— The sea bad beaten them, their heads hung down • Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; We often sec him stand besida her grave : But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. Thus introduced to the parson, and hearing the bells chiming for church, the brothers ask if the people attend service on week-evenings. Aye, Sir, they count it mean to stay away, He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, Our parson; half a head above us nil. So to the church the brothers go, and hear such a sermon as is seldom preached. The text is, " Behold, I stand at the door and knock ; " and never has it been more pathetically enforced than by this grey-headed speaker, with his grand gruff voice, within hearing of the sound of that sea which keeps knocking for ever at its cliffs for poor fishermen' 3 ami sailors' lives. We quote one episode :—: —

There was a poor old man Who sat and listened to the raging- sea, And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs As like to tear them down. Ho lay at night • And " Lord have mercy on the lads," saiJ he' "That sailed at noon, tho' they be none of mine; lor when the gale gets up, and when the wind Flings at the window, when it boats the roof, And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave, And scatters it like feathers up the field, Why then I thinks of my two lads : my lads That would have worked and never let me want And never let me take the parish pay. ' No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea— My two — before the most of these were born. I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife Walked up and down, and still walked up and down, And I walked after, and one could not hear A word the oilier said for wind and sea That raged aud beat and thundered in tlu night— The nwfullest, the long-eat, lightest iiig-Jit That ever parents had to spend. A moon That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. Ah, me ! and other men have lost their lads And other women wiped their poor dead mouths And got tiicm home and dried them in the house And seen the drift-wood lie along tiie coast That was a tidy boat but one dny back, ' And seem next tide the neighbours gather it To lay it on their fires. Aye, I was stron<And able bodied— loved my work;— but now lam a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk; I am in all men's way? I trouble them ; I am a trouble to myself: but yet I feel for wives that watch ashore. Aye aye If I had learning I would pray the Lord ' To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no • Book learning is a world too hard for me : But I make bold to say, ' O Lord, good Lord, I am a broken-down, poor man, a fool To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ As I hear say from others that can read, How when Thou earnest Thou didst love the sen, And live with fisher-folk, whereby ! tis sure Thou knowest all the peril they go through And all their trouble.

As for me, good Lord, I have no boat ; lam too old, too old— My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife; My little lasses died so long ago That mostly I forgot what they were like. Thou knowet, Lord, they were such little ones : I know they went to Thee, but I forget Their faces, tho' I missed them sore. O Lord, I was a strong man : I have drawn good food And made good money out of Thy great sea : But yet I cried for thorn at nights; and now, AUho' I be so old, I miss my lads, And there be many folk tliis stormy night Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride And let them hear next ebb the blessede3r ' Best sound— the boat keels grating on the sand I cannot pray with finer words, I know Nothing: I have no learning, cannot learnToo old, too old. They say I want for noutrht I have the parish pay ; but lam dull ' Ot hearing, and the fire scarce warms me thro' God save me, I have been a sinful man And save the lives of them that still can work For they are good to me ; aye, good to me. ' But, Lord, lam a trouble ; ana I sit And I am lonesome, and the night are few That any think to come and draw a chair, And sit m my poor place and talk awbUe Why should thy come, Ibrsooth ? Only the wind Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, The only thing Gad made that has a mind To enter in.' "

Yea, thus the old man spake, These were the last words of his aged mouth I tell you that Qne knocked v.hile it was dark. What He said In that poor place where lie did talk awhile, I cannot tell. But when tho neighbors saw The smile the old man passed away in, they said, « He looks As he had woke and seen the fhee of Christ, And with that rapturous smile held out liis arms To come to Mm."