And won a victory that hath overcome
Many misdoings in a well-done deed;

And more, I think, the mind of Christ revealing,
Yea, more of common-sense and human feeling
Than all the Creeds and Bulls of Christendom.

A.

Yet was he only one of them that slew :

The fiend had taken a deadly wound from Bayle;
And did he 'roar to see his kingdom fail'
'Neath Robespierre, or raise his head anew?
Nay, Voltaire's teaching never cured the heart:
The lack of human feeling blots his art.
When most his phrase with indignation burns,
Still to the gallery his face he turns.

You bear him hard.

B.

Men are of common stuff,

Each hath some fault, and he had faults enough:

But of all slanderers that ever were

A virtuous critic is the most unfair.

In greatness ever is some good to see;
And what is character, unless it be
The colour of persistent qualities,

That, like a ground in painting, balances
All hues and forms, combining with one tone
Whatever lights or shades are on it thrown?
Now Voltaire had of Nature a rich ground,
Two virtues rarely in conjunction found:
Industry, which no pedant could excel,
He matched with gaiety inexhaustible;
And with heroic courage held these fast,
As sailors nail their colours to the mast,
With ruling excellence atoning all.

Though, for the rest, he still for praise may call ;

Prudent to gain, as generous to share
Le superflu, chose si nécessaire;

To most a rare companion above scorn,
To not a few a kind, devoted friend

Through his long battling life, which in the end
He strove with good works richly to adorn.
I have admired, and why should I abuse
A man who can so long and well amuse?

A.

To some Parisian art there's this objection, 'Tis mediocrity pushed to perfection.

B.

'Judge not,' say I, 'and ye shall not be judged!'

A.

Let me say, 'praise men, if ye would be praised:'
Let your unwholesome flattery flow ungrudged,
And with ungrudging measure shall men pour
Their stifling homage back till ye be crazed,
And sane men humour you as fools past cure.
But these wise maxims deal not with the dead,
'Tis by example that the young are led,
And judgement owes its kindness but to them;
Nor will I praise, call you me hard or nice,
One that degraded art, and varnished vice.
They that praise ill thereby themselves condemn.

B.

Béranger could not praise.

A.

Few are who can ;

Not he: if ever he assay'd to impart
A title loftier than his own renown,

Native irreverence defied his art,

His fingers soil'd the lustre of his crown.
Here he adored what he was envious of,
The vogue and dazzling fashion of the man.
But man's true praise, the poet's praise, is love.

B.

And that, perhaps, was hardly his affair . . .
Pray, now, what set you talking of Voltaire?

A.

This only, that in weeding out my shelves,
In fatherly regard for babes upgrown,
Until they learn to garden for themselves,
Much as I like to keep my sets entire,

When I came out to you I had just thrown
Three of his precious works behind the fire.

14

TO ROBERT BURNS

AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT

I

THOU art a poet, Robbie Burns,
Master of words and witty turns,
Of lilting songs and merry yarns,
Drinking and kissing:

There's much in all thy small concerns,
But more that's missing.

2

The wisdom of thy common sense,
Thy honest hate of vain pretence,
Thy love and wide benevolence

Full often lead thee

Where feeling is its own defence;

Yet while I read thee,

3

It seems but chance that all our race Trod not the path of thy disgrace, And, living freely to embrace

The moment's pleasure,

Snatch'd not a kiss of Nature's face

For all her treasure.

4

The feelings soft, the spirits gay
Entice on such a flowery way,
And sovran youth in high heyday
Hath such a fashion

To glorify the bragging sway
Of sensual passion.

5

But rakel Chance and Fortune blind Had not the power :-Eternal Mind

Led man upon a way design'd,

By strait selection

Of pleasurable ways, to find

Severe perfection.

6

For Nature did not idly spend

Pleasure she ruled it should attend

On every act that doth amend

Our life's condition:

"Tis therefore not well-being's end,

But its fruition.

7

Beasts that inherited delight

In what promoted health or might, Survived their cousins in the fight: If some-like Adam

Prefer'd the wrong tree to the right, The devil had 'em.

8

So when man's Reason took the reins,
She found that she was saved her pains;
She had but to approve the gains
Of agelong inscience,

And spin it fresh into her brains
As moral conscience.

9

But Instinct in the beasts that live
Is of three kinds; (Nature did give
To man three shakings in her sieve)--
The first is Racial,

The second Self-preservative,

The third is Social.

10

Without the first no race could be,
So 'tis the strongest of the three e;
Nay, of such forceful tyranny

'Tis hard to attune it,

Because 'twas never made to agree
To serve the unit:

II

Art will not picture it, its name

In common talk is utter shame :

And yet hath Reason learn'd to tame

Its conflagration

Into a sacramental flame

Of consecration.

12

Those hundred thousand years, ah me!
Of budding soul! What slow degree,
With aim so dim, so true! We see,
Now that we know them,

Our humble cave-folk ancestry,
How much we owe them: