63 



be noted by the books be asks to be brougbt to bim or by 

 tbe poetry lie half unconsciously quotes. " Oh woman . . . 

 when pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel 

 thou " — marks the first stage of weakness. As the invalid 

 advances towards convalescence " man delights not him ; 

 no, nor woman either ; " he longs for a suitable book to occupy 

 his thoughts. He does not ask for the grand old masters 

 whose mighty thoughts suggest life's endless toil and endea- 

 vour. Books like Macaulay's Lays and the poems of Sir 

 Walter Scott rivet his attention and carry him, as it were, out 

 of himself. This is just what he wants — to forget himself and 

 all his painful experiences : " Locksley Hall " sounds like music 

 in his ear. But probably beyond all he prizes the delightful 

 essays of the gentle Elia, with his dear old Mrs. Battle, and Jem 

 White, and his tales of the old Actors. 



The question may be considered in another aspect. Youth 

 revels in the lyric, manhood assays the epic, old age selects the 

 didactic, in our poetry. The child lisps the Evening Prayer of 

 Coleridge, a little later learns by heart the " We are Seven " of 

 Wordsworth ; the next age of man finds inspiration in the war- 

 hke lays of Campbell and Tennyson ; the " maiden with the 

 meek, brown eyes .... standing with reluctant feet where 

 the ^^ brook and river meet" treasures the idylUc pictures of 

 Longfellow, of Cowper, or of Goldsmith ; the young man lingers 

 over the delightful love passages with which the works of our 

 poets abound ; the man of middle life studies singly the wondrous 

 plays of Shakespeare, learns by heart the smaller poems of 

 Milton, endeavours to comprehend the profundity of Browning 

 and is amply repaid in the quest, walks with Waller amid the 

 glades of Penshurst, or traces in Lakeland the scene of the 

 inspiration of Southey and Wordsworth. Old age is comforted 

 by the lyrics and elegaics of Arnold, the " In Memoriam " of the 

 Laureate, or the " Retirement " of the recluse at Olney. As the 

 end draws nigh (for tho' the day appear ever so long at last the 

 bell ringeth to evensong) the old man loves, with Charles Lamb, 

 to think of those who have gone before to the unknown and silent 

 shore, and finds the best expression for his thoughts in the 

 pathetic words of Mrs. Barbauld ; — 



" Life ! we've been long together 



Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 



'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; 



Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 



Then steal away, give little warning, 



Choose thine own time ; 

 Say not Good Night, bat in some brighter clime 



Bid me Good Morning." 



If asked to name the distinguishing features of the age you 

 would tell of the great discoveries in science, you would dwell 



