The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-09-06
THE POET.
church.

| The poet that is not dead-ripe with sympa-
thy and full of all the rich juices OF human
nature is no poet at all. in the best sense. Ths
rhymester who is saturnine, bilious and
morse is not the kind of poet we care to deal
with here Most poets have period in their
existence during which their liver is bigger than
their heart; but mercful Providence has ar
ranged it so that with lapsing years they out
| grow this unnatural morbidness, and are then
| fit to fellowship with the great body
of sensible men and women who have never gone
astray. The true poet is being of infinite
tenderness, instant in response to every human
| emotion Of joy or sadness. To only too many
the bare idea of poet is ludicrous, and many
an irreverent one has laughed at the mere state
ment that certain man or woman is poet
and such q one would probably rather be sus
pected of being something else than poet. Yet
there have been poets all the way down from
Homer to those that now contribute to the Sun
day Journal who have never been laughed at,
| never ridiculous. The true poet is not
always rhymster, and does not
always betray himself in verse. Many
an one has never told his love-" nsver given
wing to fancy nor liberty to the sweet thoughts
Such an one, we suspect is The Poet of this
series Bubbling to the point of boiling over, he
still restraints himself and makes no sign. save in
unconsciousy betraying himself in his close
| sympathy with all beautiful all poetic things.
| AS we become better acquainted with The Poet
| we shall be better able to understand how this
can be, and we shall probably learn to like him,
despite the evident weakness that we, who pride
ourselves on being stronger, affect to despise.
| **
| The Poet was looking over map the other
day. Now map, as rule, is not matter to
grow poetic over. The Grumbler would almost
as soon become sentimental over an almanac.
| But even map may suggest something; for
who can contemplate map of Italy without in
| imagination, catching glimpse of italian skies
and the scent of Italian fruits and fowers2
And who thinks of that country without recall
| ing its magnificent history from the landing of
the storm tossed Eneas to the warrior
| Garibaldi. The map that The Poet studied
| was that of the Roman empire at its best.
What most struck The Poet about this
map was the ancient dividing line between Gal
| liza and Germania Of od-the river Rhine, the
| natural boundary between two distinct peoples
To the north and east beside its blue waters rose
| the peaks of one country, to the south and west
| stretched the quiet valleys Of another. Senti
mentalizing over the thoughts that flowed in
| upon him, The Poet felt that Koeln should still
| be Cologne, and Strassburg should return to the
| other way of spelling it, Strasbourg The Poet
would like to see each people hold its
own in peace and quiet; would be
| O1oH Eropl> hoI
been impelled to enter upon costly conquests,
only to fail and be shorn of his own glory.
| France and Germany should shake hands at the
| Rhine instead of the Insignificant Avricourt. He
would be happier if Poland could be restored to
| herself, and her unhappy people delivered from
| unsympathetic despoilers, who divided her fair
| possessions much as a butcher might a carcass
| under his knife Turning to the left of the map,
| the poet sees Ireland, and shares the wellnigh
universal regret that that unhappy bit of green
| soil is not removed by thousand or
more miles from the country across the narrow
Irish Sea. He can't but feel that the people of
| Ireland would have been happier and more con-
| tented under Brian Boru and his kind than
under the Henrys and Georges of England
| About the now imaginary line between England
and Scotland he is not so certain. The people
are gradually amalgamating there, as they are
among the mountain Businesses of Wales Still,
it would be pleasing to call out of the dead past
| the kings and queens of Scotland. They
seem as native to it as the blue bells and the
heather. Hei would like to see all the ladies
again in fiilbcg and to hear the weird and thrill
ing pibroch as once it sounded to rally the gal
| liant and leal to oppose the remorseless invader
| Highland laddie and sonse lassie should preserve
their individuality, now being lost in the adop-
| ton of British dress, and ma nners, and tongue
Still, there is little of poetry in the logic of
history, and less in the logic of force.
| But speaking of maps there is another that
| The Poet turns to with unmnged pleasure. He
| is glad that no broad, red line runs between
| Pennsylvania and Virginia, Ohio and Kentucky,
Iowa and Missouri. He reioices that Mason and
Dixon's line is a tradition that few of the
| younger generation understand without being
| told He is glad that "the land of Dixie has
no tangibility, no boundaries that can be marked
on the map. Here is one people from North to
South, of one origin and fed by the same
streams of immigration. It is we'll that the
hand of secession was stricken down and par
alyzed- There is more poetry in peace
than In war; more prosperity in
elevators then in fortresses along the
Ohio more songs of oontentment coming from
the hearts of happy families then from the
bivouac or tented field; more satisfaction in
turning up the burrows for future harvests than in
casting up breastworks or digging trenches for
the bloody dead. There is more of good in the
laughter of children than in the shrek of shell
or whistle of mimic ball; more of good in the
smile of wife and sweetheart than in all the
glory that ever hung over field of battle. A
united people is safest augury of peace, an un-
divided country best guaranty OF progress.
This is the poetry of lfe the spirit of Christian
4 49, ....a e.. IL