POETRY.
AT THE GARRICK CLUB.
Dissolve frigus, heap the logs ; I hate these chill December fogs, The hard-bound earth, the dreary sky, The torpor as if death were nigh.
What shadows fill the darkening room !
What well-known faces pierce the gloom !- Wine, waiter ! Ere the vision fades, I drink to the familiar shades.
And now old echoes reach my ear.
Dreaming, with half-shut eyes, I hear Trollope's full voice, while loud and long, He talks of politics or song ; Ending discussion with a stroke, Like woodman cleaving heart of oak ; Manliest of men, yet gentlest, too, For Lily Dale we owe to you ; And many a charming English lass Is mirrored in your magic glass, Wherein is nothing foul or base.
Ah ! never in the accustomed place Shall we this genial spirit see.
Hail and farewell, dear Anthony !
Now, Lewes, tiger-like in features, But kindliest of human creatures- . Unless some ignominy low Sent all the colour to his brow— Talks of George Eliot's gift in story, And proudly prophesies her glory. While Forster, sitting at his ease, Dogmatic, but not slow to please, And holding Dickens king of men, Praises with voice as well as pen, Or passing back to Swift and Stella, Forgets his Pecksniff and Sam Weller. And Shirley Brooks, whose handsome face Made sunshine in the shadiest place, Sends jets of wit about at pleasure, Indulging in his well•earned leisure. And Bell, whose hospitable board Welcomed the tyro and the lord, Cheery, and rich in English lore,— All these upon the silent shore Have met; and, wiser far than we, Have solved life's deepest mystery. What do we know, who linger here Dead voices speak no word of cheer, Dead eyes send forth no ray of light, Dead hearts have lost their human might, And all the genius writ or spoke Lies silent in a box of oak.
Thus did I speak in my despair, Thus cried in despicable fear; As if the fog that hid the sky Had entered heart, and brain, and eye; As if the soul that tends to heaven Were stifled by its earthly leaven ; As if the in-born sense of right Had failed to reach the Infinite ; As if, when dust is turned to dust, No room were left for hope and trust. J. D.
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