Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FREDERIC, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FREDERIC, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: As these sheets came in from the printer
Last Line: When I heard little frederic was dead.
Subject(s): Death; Writing & Writers; Dead, The


As these sheets came in from the printer,
My lad who had brought me them said,
"Please, Sir, as I passed his office,
They told me that Frederic was dead."

And I knew in a moment thrill through me,
A keen little sorrow and smart,
Then a sudden revolt and rebellion
Assail me and fetter my heart,

As he went on with boyish prattle,
Before I had courage to speak:
"He died of consumption, they said, Sir;
And he earned sixteen shillings a week."

"How old was he?" "Just seventeen, Sir:
He had grown very tall and white."
And I thought of the childish features,
The bright cheeks, and eyes still more bright,

When, withdrawn from his school far too early,
He came with his treasured prize,
To show to his new-found master,
With a simple pride in his eyes;

And how it soon proved that his writing
Was so clear, and skilful, and fine,
That I set him the task to decipher
The hieroglyphs which are mine.

'Twas four years ago, and so splendid
Did my first book of songs appear,
That, though ofttimes already rejected,
I sent them forth then without fear.

Nor in vain. For now many minds know them,
And many are kindly in praise,
But the cold little hand that adorned them
Has cast up the sum of its days!

Sixteen shillings! this pittance could purchase
The flower of those boyish years!
This could give to that humble ambition
Dull entries, whose total is tears!

Poor young life which was bursting to blossom,
Which had borne its own fruitage one day,
Had those budding years mingled together
Slow labour with healthfuller play!

Is it man that has done this, or rather,
These dead blasts that blow, blow, blow, blow,
Week by week, month by month, till beneath them
Life withers and pulses beat slow?

The dull winds that to-day are slaying
Young and old with their poisonous breath,
Which slew the rash singer who praised them,
Not the less with a premature death.

Is it man with bad laws and fools' customs,
Pride, poverty, ignorant greed?
Is it God making lives for His pleasure,
Dooms these innocent victims to bleed?

Great riddle which one day shall be clearer,
Be our doubts with all reverence said;
But a strong power constrained me to write them,
When I heard little Frederic was dead.





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