It is, nevertheless, wide in its scope as the conflict between
Death and Life, although dealing with the individual and not with the
race. The former poems named of Pierce Ploughman are the cry of John the
Baptist in the English wilderness; this is the longing of Hannah at home,
having left her little son in the temple. The latter _seems_ a poorer
matter; but it is an easier thing to utter grand words of just
condemnation, than, in the silence of the chamber, or with the well-known
household-life around, forcing upon the consciousness only the law of
things seen, to regard with steadfastness the blank left by a beloved
form, and believe in the unseen, the marvellous, the eternal. In the
midst of "the light of common day," with all the persistently common
things pressing upon the despairing heart, to hold fast, after what
fashion may be possible, the vanishing song that has changed its key, is
indeed a victory over the flesh, however childish the forms in which the
faith may embody itself, however weak the logic with which it may defend
its intrenchments.
The poem which has led me to make these remarks is in many respects
noteworthy. It is very different in style and language from any I have
yet given. There was little communication to blend the different modes of
speech prevailing in different parts of the country.
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