Punch (58.1870)

244-

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[June 18. 1870.

EARLY FRENCH.

(mamma happens to require a glass op porter at 11 a.m.)

Master George {to the new French Housemaid). " Oh, Francoise ? " Franchise. " Oft, Monsieur Georges ?

Master George. " Oh ! Apportez ici le Portier de Maman, et Dessinez le avec tjne Tete ! "

ft Ij arte Jkkens.

born february 7, 1812. died june 9, 1870.

While his life's lamp seemed clearest, most intense,
A light of wit and love to great and small,

By the dark angel he is summoned hence,
To solve the mightiest mystery of all!

Hearing that he has passed beyond the veil,
Before the Judge who metes to men their dues,

Men's cheeks, through English-speaking lands, turn pale,
Par as the speaking wires can bear the news—

Blanched at this sudden snapping of a life,
That seemed of all our lives to hold a share ;

So were our memories with his fancies rife,
So much of his thought our thoughts seemed to bear.

Charles Dickens dead ! It is as if a light
!n every English home were quenched to-day ;

As if a face all knew had passed from sight,
A hand all loved to press were turned to clay.

Question who will his power, its range, its height,
His wisdom, insight,—this at least we know,

All in his love's warmth and his humour's light
Rejoiced and revelled,—old, young, high or low—

Learned, unlearned—from the boy at school

To the judge on the bench, none read but owned

The large heart o'er which the large brain held rule,
The fancy by whose side clear sense sat throned,

The observation that made all its own,

The shaping faculty that breathed life's breath

In types, all felt they knew and still had known,
Life-like, except that they are safe from death.

Since Shakspeare's, where the pen that so hath lent
Substance to airy nothings of the brain,

His fancies seem with men's experience blent,
Till to take each for other we are fain ?

And who that ever wielded such a power
Used it so purely, to such Christian end,

Used it to quicken the millennial hour,

When rich to poor shall be as friend to friend ?

Who can say how much of that love's pure leaven
That leavens now the lump of this our world,

With influence as of a present Heaven,
Like light athwart chaotic darkness hurled,

May be traced up to springs by him unsealed,
To clods by him stirred round affection's roots,

To hearts erst hard, but, by his fires annealed
To softness whereof Love's works are the fruits.

Mourn, England, for another great one gone
To join the great oues who have gone before—

And put a universal mourning on,

Where'er sea breaks on English-speaking shore.

His works survive him, and his works' work too—
Of love and kindness aud good will to men,

Hate of the wrong, and reverence of the true,
And war on all taat shuns truth's eagle-ken.

Earth's two chief nations mourners at his tomb :
Their memories for his monument: their love

For his reward. Such is his glorious doom,

Whom mortal praise or blame no more shall move !