The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 66

B.

Nay: for as wide a fame Was won by the gold-garnering millionaire, Who in the poet's verse might read his name And what is that? when so much froth and sc.u.m Float down the stream of Time (as Bacon saith), What is that for deliverance from the death?

Could any sober man be proud to hold A lease of common talk, or die consoled For thinking that on lips of fools to come He'll live with Pontius Pilate and Tom Thumb?

That were more like eternal punishment, The true fool's Paradise by all consent.

Beranger thought to set a crown on merit.

A.

Man's merit! and to crown it in Voltaire?

The modest eye, the gentle, fearless heart, The mouth of peace and truth, the angelic spirit!

Why Arouet was _souffle_ with the leaven, Of which the little flock was bid beware: His very ambition was to play a part; Indifferent whether he did wrong or right, So he won credit; eager to deny A lie that failed, by adding lie to lie; Repaying evil unto seven-times-seven; A fount of slander, flattery and spite; Vain, irritable; true but to his face Of mockery and mischievous grimace, A monkey of the schools, the saints' despair!

B.

Yet for his voice half Europe stood at pause To hear, and when he spoke rang with applause.

A.

Granted he was a wonder of his kind.

There is a devilish mockery in things Which only a born devil can enjoy.

True banter is of melancholy mind, Akin to madness; thus must Shakespeare toy With Hamlet's reason, ere his fine art dare Push his relentless humour to the quick; And so his mortal thrusts pierce not the skin.

But for the superficial bickerings That poison life and never seem to p.r.i.c.k, The reasonable educated grin, Truly no wag is equal to Voltaire; His never-dying ripple, wide and light, Has nigh the force of Nature: to compare, 'Tis like the ocean when the sky is bright, And the cold north-wind tickles with surprise The briny levels of the infinite sea.

--Shall we conclude his merit was his wit, His magic art and versatility?

B.

And think of those foredoom'd in Dante's pit, Who, sunk at bottom of the loathly slough, Made the black mud up-bubble with their sighs; And all because they were unkind to Mirth, And went with smoky heart and gloomy brow The while they lived upon the pleasant earth In the sweet air that rallies to the sun, And ne'er so much as smiled or gave G.o.d thanks: Surely a sparkle of the Frenchman's fun Had rescued all their souls.

A.

I think I see The Deity who in this Heaven abides, _Le bon Dieu_, holding both his aching sides, With radiant face of Pan, ruddy and hairy: Give him his famous whistles and goat-shanks, And then present him to Alighieri.

B.

Nay, 'twixt the Frenchman and the Florentine I ask no truce, grave Dante weaving well His dark-eyed thought into a song divine, Drawing high poetry from heaven and h.e.l.l-- And him who lightly mockt at all in turn.

A.

It follow'd from his mundane thought of art That he contemn'd religion: his concern Was comfort, taste, and wit: he had no heart For man's attempt to build and beautify His home in Nature; so he set all by That wisdom had evolved with purpose kind; Stamped it as folly, or as fraud attacked; Never discerning how his callow zest Was impiously defiling his own nest; Whereas the least philosophy may find The truths are the ideas; the sole fact Is the long story of man's growing mind.

B.

Upon your thistle now I see my fig-- Beranger thought of Voltaire as a seer, A latter-day John Baptist in a wig; A herald of that furious gospel-storm Of words and blood, that made the nations fear; When sickening France adulterously sinn'd With Virtue, and went mad conceiving wind.

He ranks him with those captains of reform, Luther and Calvin; who, whate'er they taught, Led folk from superst.i.tion to free thought.

A.

They did. But whence or whither led Voltaire?

The steward with fifty talents given in charge, Who spent them on himself, and liv'd at large; His only virtue that he did not hide The pounds, but squander'd them to serve his pride; His praise that, cunning in his generation, He of the heavenly treasure did not spare To win himself an earthly habitation.

B.

Deny him not this laurel, nor to France The apostolate of modern tolerance: Their Theseus he, who slew the Minotaur, The Dragon Persecution, in which war He tipp'd the shafts that made the devil bleed; 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.

B.

You bear him hard. 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 necessaire_; 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.

Beranger could not praise.

A.

Few are who can; Not he: if ever he a.s.say'd to impart A t.i.tle loftier than his own renown, Native irreverence defied his art, His fingers soil'd the l.u.s.tre 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?