THE DEAD SOUL
[Thomas Cooper, in his Autobiography, gives an account of William Thom, whose fate was a very sad one. Coming to London, he fell into dissipated habits, and consequently into distress. "Again and again," says Cooper, "I carried invitations to him from Douglas Jerrold to contribute to the 'Shilling Magazine,' and from William Howitt to contribute to his periodical, but it was in vain. 'Nay, nay,' he used to say with an air of wretchedness, 'I can do nae such thing as they ask, although they promise me siller for it. I threw off my lilts o' the heart in auld times when I had a heart, but I think I've none left noo.'"
The following poem was suggested by the above story; but it is intended to have a general application rather than to be understood as relating to William Thom.]
With fire poetic filled,
With which my fervent youth was blessed,
Ere disillusion chilled:
Oh then what glorious visions came
My spirit to delight!
How did Life's pure aspiring flame
Burn ever dear and bright!
My soul how great its scope!
I wandered in a blessed dream,
Bathed in the light of hope;
A Paradise I found where'er
Were seen blue sky, green earth,
An angel was each maiden fair;
Fresh joys each hour had birth.
Base metal tamed to gold;
Bright inspirations came unsought,
Earth all its secrets told:
I dwelt with saints and sages dead,
And made their raptures mine;
A luxury was common bread,
And water was as wine.
Shelley upon me smiled;
Burns did his fiery spirit lend
Keats ravished and beguiled:
I heard the minstrels of all time
One wondrous chorus singing,
Whose dominant recurrent rhyme
With lore and joy was ringing,
Unworthy of its flame;
And now I shiver, faint and die,
Lost every noble aim:
The glorious palace of my soul
Is now a prison drear;
Darkly I burrow like a mole,
Ghostlike I linger here.
But oh! that hope how vain!
The corse long dead to life restore,
Bid roses bloom again!
When once the summer-time is o'er
Winter will have his reign,
But my lost summer never more
Shall I, like earth, regain.
And they his muse inspire;
When they have fled his soul is dead,
And silent is his lyre;
One burst of anguish and despair
May from his spirit come,
Then he his grievous cross must bear,
Heart-broken, soulless, dumb!