Classic Poem

The ruined writer walks the room —
No carpet on the floor —
The fanlight shows the gathering gloom
Above the dingy door.
The writing table thrust aside,
The evening runs its course;
And still he keeps his shortened stride —
A riddle in remorse.

Though shoulder-bowed, and thin and pale,
With heart and head at strife,
He heeds not the unwritten tale
Of his unwritten life.
He is not thinking of retreat,
For Life's not finished yet;
But something keeps him on his feet —
A mystery in regret.

His parents' shades do not condemn —
For, save in infancy,
He knows he'd never given them
One hour's anxiety:
He, without shame, in that day gone
(Ah! could he do it now!)
Might lay his writing hand upon
Each cold and pallid brow.

It is not for his " buried loves "
(He had but one that died)
Nor yet the living one that shoves
His writing gear aside.
'Tis not the girl who lay secure,
Her baby on her breast;
Because their loves were very pure,
And she was well at rest.

'Tis not the book he never wrote
Because of greed of men,
Of Custom's fingers on his throat,
And Want's upon his pen.
'Tis well the volume is deferred
Lest other hearts might bleed —
'Tis writ in many a burning word
For only him to read.

'Tis not the hurried work for bread,
That he was forced to write,
For ailing wife and children dead
That hurts his heart to-night:
That was the shame of other men,
And still the rough work shines
Because the blood was on the pen —
The soul between the lines.

'Tis not the folly and the wine —
(Regret, but not remorse) —
Those fellow bards of his and mine,
Before out throats grew hoarse;
The hours to Hell — or Heaven — hurled,
The pleasure and the pain:
Ah me! he'd give this godly world
To have them back again.

'Tis not the mutilated work,
Condensed, with ruthless hand,
By editors who dared to shirk
Their duty to their land.
Cut down, for Policy, or space,
Till all lines seemed to halt —
The Truth his readers still could trace;
The rest was not his fault.

(O for the " Press " 'neath southern skies —
The pen a poisoned dirk,
Where budding rivals criticize
One's private life and work!
Where little men are sat on high
To play the giant's part,
And every mediocrity
An editor at heart!)

It is not for his " failing powers " ,
For still the current runs —
It is not for his " childhood hours " ,
For they were haunted ones.
Nor yet his boyhood, nor his youth,
Nor Love-time's ecstasies,
Because to tell the bitter truth,
He has had none of these.

'Tis not for " home and kindred dear "
Who censure and condemn,
For he, for many a thankless year
Was but a slave to them.
No quarrel in the past could be
The cause of his distress —
He knows the grim philosophy
Of unforgiveness.

But it is this that makes him think
And tremble for his name: —
The rotten stuff he wrote for drink
And published to his shame!
The lie that he was led to sign,
For a paltry pound or two —
Who never yet had penned a line
That he believed untrue!

Ah! could he blot those pages out,
And blot them from his heart,
He'd toil without a fear or doubt
To play such other part —
He'd starve to let his honour live,
His prestige to maintain,
And not for all the land could give
Would shame the truth again.

An honest man might rise and fall
And hurt himself alone —
A writer injure one and all
On fields he calls his own.
The gods that give the gift they've got
To certain favoured men
Forgive a prostitute but not
A prostituted pen.

The writer walked the dusky room
(Night carpeted the floor),
The fanlight showed a less'ning gloom
Above the dingy door:
He almost wished the night had stayed
And day would come no more —
He fell upon his face and prayed
To Friga, and to Thor.

Take heart, my brother, in a power
By most misunderstood —
You're not the only one of our
Unhappy brotherhood.
For fear of poverty or death
Or conscience many died,
But many lived to purer breath —
Remember! Peter lied.

But you must turn again and work
As in the days of old
In streets where haunting shadows lurk
Round hearts of beaten gold;
Rest for a while and you shall rise
Not spurred by gibe or sneer,
But for your friends — your drunkard's eyes
And inner vision clear.

In royal robes invisible,
Save to your friends alone:
They'll lead you up from whence you fell,
And set you on your throne,
The tracks seem blind where'er you look,
The sky seems overcast,
But you shall write the living book
That shall redeem the past.

Write as you used to write in youth
(Your books are on the shelf) —
Of land and people, love and truth,
And not your little self.
Sit down and write, and take no heed,
Of wrongs by others hid,
And you may do as grand a deed
As Sidney Carton did.