This ingenious style of versification, where the last word or phrase in each line is taken for the beginning of the next, is sometimes also called “Concatenation” verse. The invention of this mode of composition is claimed by M. Lasphrise, a French poet, who wrote the following: “Falloit-il que le ciel me rendit amoreux,
Amoreux, jouissant d’une beautÉ craintive,
Craintive À recevoir la douceur excessive,
Excessive au plaisir que rend l’amant heureux?
Heureux si nous avions quelques paisibles lieux,
Lieux oÙ plus surement l’ami fidÈle arrive,
Arrive sans soupÇon de quelque ami attentive,
Attentive À vouloir nous surprendre tous deux.” | The poem which follows is from a manuscript furnished by an American gentleman, who states that he has never seen it in print, and knows not the author’s name. The “rhythm somewhat resembles the ticking of a clock,” from whence the poem derives its name of The Musical Clock. “Wing the course of time with music,
Music of the grand old days—
Days when hearts were brave and noble,
Noble in their simple ways.
Ways, however rough, yet earnest,
Earnest to promote the truth—
Truth that teaches us a lesson,
Lesson worthy age and youth.
Youth and age alike may listen—
Listen, meditate, improve—
Improve in happiness and glory,
Glory that shall Heavenward move.
Move, as music moves, in pathos,
Pathos sweet, and power sublime,
Sublime to raise the spirit drooping,
Drooping with the toils of time.
Time reveals, amid its grandeur,
Grandeur purer, prouder still—
Still revealing dreams of beauty,
Beauty that inspires the will—
Will a constant sighing sorrow,
Sorrow full of tears restore,
Restore but for a moment, pleasure?
Pleasure dead can live no more.
No more, then, languish for the buried,
Buried calmly let it be.
Be the star of promise Heaven,
Heaven has sweeter joys for thee.
For thee perchance, though dark the seeming,
Seeming dark, may yet prove bright,
Bright through mortal cares, shall softly,
Softly dissipate the night.
Night shall not endure for ever,—
Ever! no, the laws of Earth,
Earth inconstant, shall forbid it—
Bid it change from gloom to mirth.
Mirth and grief, are light and shadow—
Shadows light to us are dear.
Dear the scene becomes by contrast—
Contrast there, in beauty here.
Here, through sun and tempest many,
Many shall thy being pass—
Pass without a sigh of sorrow,
Sorrow wins not by alas!
Alas! we pardon in a maiden,
Maiden when her heart is young,
Young and timid, but in manhood,
Manhood should be sterner strung,
Strung as though his nerves were iron,
Iron tempered well to bend—
Bend, mayhap, but yielding never,
Never, when despair would rend—
Rend the pillars from the temple,
Temple in the human breast,
Breast that lonely grief has chosen,
Chosen for her place of rest—
Rest unto thy spirit, only,
Only torment will she bring.
Bring, oh man! the lyre of gladness,
Gladness frights the harpy’s wing!” | The following two pieces are similar in style to some of our seventeenth-century poets: Ad Mortem. “The longer life, the more offence;
The more offence, the greater pain;
The greater pain, the less defence;
The less defence, the greater gain—
Wherefore, come death, and let me die!
The shorter life, less care I find,
Less care I take, the sooner over;
The sooner o’er, the merrier mind;
The merrier mind, the better lover—
Wherefore, come death, and let me die!
Come, gentle death, the ebb of care;
The ebb of care, the flood of life;
The flood of life, I’m sooner there;
I’m sooner there—the end of strife—
The end of strife, that thing wish I—
Wherefore, come death, and let me die!” |
Truth. “Nerve thy soul with doctrines noble,
Noble in the walks of time,
Time that leads to an eternal
An eternal life sublime;
Life sublime in moral beauty,
Beauty that shall ever be;
Ever be to lure thee onward,
Onward to the fountain free—
Free to every earnest seeker,
Seeker for the Fount of Youth—
Youth exultant in its beauty,
Beauty of the living truth.” | The following hymn appears in the Irish Church Hymnal, and is by Mr. J. Byrom: “My spirit longs for Thee
Within my troubled breast,
Though I unworthy be
Of so Divine a Guest.
Of so Divine a Guest
Unworthy though I be,
Yet has my heart no rest,
Unless it come from Thee.
Unless it come from Thee,
In vain I look around;
In all that I can see
No rest is to be found.
No rest is to be found.
But in Thy blessÈd love;
Oh, let my wish be crowned
And send it from above.” | Dr., as he was commonly called, Byrom, seems to have been an amiable and excellent man, and his friends after his death in September 1763 collected and published all the verses of his they could lay hands on, in 2 vols. 12mo, at Manchester in 1773. A more complete edition was issued in 1814. Many of Byrom’s poems evince talent, but a great part are only calculated for private perusal: his “Diary” and “Remains” were published by the Chetham Society (1854-57). Byrom was the inventor of a successful system of shorthand. He was a decided Jacobite, and his mode of defending his sentiments on this point are still remembered and quoted: “God bless the King! I mean the Faith’s defender;
God bless—no harm in blessing—the Pretender!
But who Pretender is, or who the King,
God bless us all—that’s quite another thing!” |
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