9S 3545 
 .H528 
 
 R6 
 
 1905 
 
 Copy ^ 
 
Robert Ellsworth, 
 Failure. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, J905, 
 
 BY 
 
 HERBERT BRIGKAM WHITE 
 HARTFORD, CONNr 
 
 the mavsidc Print. 
 
UBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 DEC 29 1905 
 
 CopyrltfM Entry 
 ASS a, XXc. No. 
 
 ml 
 
* 
 
 ^^ Foreword : 
 
 Should this little volume carry, 
 
 To the serious give a thrill of pleasure, 
 
 Or make the frivolous merr}', 
 
 It will prove to all alike a treasure, 
 
 And beside, the mind will measure. 
 
ROBERT ELLSWORTH, FAILURE. 
 
 I mean to present to my fellow-mortals 
 so much of the thought and history of 
 Robert Ellsworth, as I have been able 
 to glean from him, from his journals 
 and manuscripts, which were be- 
 queathed to me, and from his very few 
 acquaintances. 
 
 Always prone to the study of man- 
 kind, I found in him an ideal subject, 
 and knew the sensitive soul through its 
 various intricacies, to the very depth 
 of his artistic nature. 
 
 Robert possessed a heart that always 
 responded to the emotional. His mind 
 was frequently so engrossed by a single 
 thought that he was oblivious to all 
 the world beside — space for the moment 
 annihilated, his spirit roved in realms 
 we wot not of. At such times could he 
 be aroused, without waking, if I may 
 be allowed the expression, he would 
 speak fluently ; but the animation having 
 subsided, if anyone looked at him or 
 if he were forced to speak, his embar- 
 assment was painfully apparent. 
 
 He was conscious of this weakness, 
 and it caused him much real suffering, 
 that when brought in contact with his 
 
fellow men, he could acquit himself 
 with so little honor. He increased 
 this embarassment, no doubt, by al- 
 ways thinking of himself as a failure, 
 and men, influenced by reflected thought, 
 it may be, generally spoke of him as a 
 most complete one. 
 
 He believed, erroneously perhaps, 
 (being of a visionary turn of mind), 
 that, as a failure, he was born over a 
 century ago, when one of his great- 
 grand-sires, son of the Lord Mayor of 
 London-town, ruined both his health 
 and his fortune by ill-directed efforts 
 to regain the vigor wasted during his 
 youth by excessive indulgence in the 
 luxuries incident to his time and age. 
 
 Compelled to submit to the humili- 
 ation of comparative poverty, chagrin, 
 preying on a nervous system, already 
 weakened, gradually undermined his 
 strength until he became almost to- 
 tally incapacitated — and lo, generations 
 later, a youth in a New England town, 
 thousands of miles from the old English 
 home of his illustrious ancestor, the Lord 
 Mayor, and his frivolous son, inherits the 
 strength of the one, and the weakness 
 of the other. 
 
 As a consequence, the strong mind 
 dominated the weak, responsive, emo- 
 
tional nature — and in the stillness of the 
 night, alone,in his chamber, his soul was 
 uplifted by beautiful thoughts, which 
 his untutored mind could never put 
 into words. Pictures, resplendent with 
 color and graceful forms, flashed in 
 quick succession across his mental 
 vision; but always if he essayed to ex- 
 ecute them, the canvas reflected only 
 failure, and always failure, until at last, 
 in anguish, he conceived an idea that 
 tortured and yet comforted him. 
 
 With his colors he carefully printed 
 and illumined the word "Failure," and 
 fastened it to his mirror; and each day 
 as he arose, he carefully scanned his 
 features, trying vainly to decide that 
 his failures were not apparent in his 
 countenance. His nature, however, was 
 formed in such a mould, it was impos- 
 sible for him to off-cast the illusion 
 that his acquaintances, nay, all the 
 world, could clearly read "Failure" 
 written there. The air, the hills, the 
 trees, the placid bosom of the stream, 
 the innocent eyes of the flocks and herds, 
 the eyes of his fellows, and above all 
 his own mind echoed or reflected the 
 thought. 
 
 He was still further grieved by the 
 unhappy termination of the visions 
 
attending the worship of what was to 
 him, the fairest girl in all the world, as 
 he saw her reflected in that enchanted 
 mirror, his mind. 
 
 Always quivering with emotion, in 
 the grasp of abject Misery, or enthralled 
 with Delight on her highest pinnacle, 
 he knew no middle course. His emo- 
 tions endowed the girl of his heart with 
 all that was beautiful, exalted her far 
 above all other women; and there he 
 worshiped humbly at her feet, until at 
 last, his goddess, tiring of his adulation, 
 or perchance through coquetry, (which 
 he, always serious, failed to understand), 
 dismissed him; and in the depth of the 
 despondency into which he was plunged, 
 his misery buried him in a grave of 
 utter hopelessness: and from that time 
 on to the end, the very fibres of his 
 being were laid bare for the harsh 
 fingers of an unfeeling world to play 
 upon, as the wind upon the harp; and 
 many a m.an, his inferior in everything 
 save only assurance, so manipulated 
 the strings, that poor Robert, intel- 
 lectually strong, and conscious he was 
 being duped, gradually responded to 
 their touch almost to the extent of his 
 little fortune; and when his little patri- 
 mony was nearly exhausted, he quietly 
 
removed his lodgings to a less fashion- 
 able and more obscure quarter of 
 the town, and there lived in seclusion 
 on the very slender means remaining 
 to him. 
 
 Never robust, and more unhappy 
 now than ever before, disheartened, 
 grieving by the tomb of his shattered 
 ideals, brooding over many failures, 
 living almost entirely within himself 
 and within his chamber, in the world 
 but not of it, his health failed rapidly. 
 
 It was at about this time, I think, 
 that the pride of his strong and 
 successful forbears smouldering low 
 within his breast, almost extinguished 
 but not quite, so exaggerated both the 
 importance and the extent of his deteri- 
 oration, that wholly abashed and sub- 
 dued, hiding from the world, he engen- 
 dered a longing to sleep unheeded; — 
 his failures, with himself, the supreme 
 failure of all, to lie, together with their 
 memory, in one unmarked, forgotten 
 grave. 
 
 So much I know, that at the last he 
 expressed such a desire. 
 
 One September evening near the 
 close of his life, I called upon him, just 
 at dusk. The sunset had been a par- 
 ticularly glorious one, and the after- 
 
glow was still beautifully apparent 
 from his chamber window. He was 
 visibly affected when I entered and 
 asked nervously for a pad and pencil, 
 being too weak to secure them for 
 himself. 
 
 As he wrote, his dark hair shading a 
 brow high and smooth, and porten- 
 tiously pale, deep-set eyes, soft, but 
 glowing with the fires of artistic passion 
 long suppressed, cheeks flushed with 
 the hectic pink incident to the disease 
 from which he suffered, now increased 
 by the excitement of the moment, he 
 presented a picture as of one inspired. 
 Not without some hesitation, he com- 
 posed several lines, and then welcomed 
 me with a smile, too much overcome 
 by weakness and emotion for words. 
 
 I never saw him again in life, but 
 often did I tramp out to the old cem- 
 etery to visit his grave, not only be- 
 cause I had been much attached to him 
 during his life, but partly to ascertain 
 if his resting place were to remain 
 unmarked. 
 
 About a year after his demise, I 
 received a packet from his mother 
 addressed to me in his own handwriting, 
 which contained what I believe to be 
 the verses he wrote on the evening 
 
that proved to be his last on earth; 
 and could he have endowed the un- 
 finished lines with all the beauty he 
 saw, and felt, and tried to describe, 
 his name, I think, would have needed 
 no other memorial to have been remem- 
 bered long after all his failures had been 
 forgotten. Just as he wrote them, on 
 that last evening of his life, I present 
 them here, crude and unfinished, but 
 typical of him, bravely struggling to 
 express in his simple way, the visions 
 he saw from the portals of eternity. 
 
 iroie 
 
Sunset's glow, God's broad pathway 
 home, alight; 
 Evening bells, the Soul's sweet curfew 
 tolled for me, 
 Softly calling through the misty night, 
 Calling Home, gently sets my spirit 
 free. 
 
 Earth's abode I leave for Thee, only 
 Thee, 
 Thy kindly eyes beckon me, far to 
 roam, 
 Their rays shine far across an azure 
 sea. 
 And weave a shining path, to light 
 me Home. 
 
 In addition to these lines 1 append 
 a number of verses selected from the 
 manuscript and journals which he left at 
 my disposal, all embraced in the little 
 packet I received from the hands of his 
 mother. 
 
RESURRECTION, 
 
 ROBERT ELLSWORTH, 
 
Nature weeps by thy funereal bier; 
 The nodding grass is bathed in dewy 
 
 tears ; 
 The sighing zephyr pauses on its 
 
 restless way, 
 Softly, Even' enfolds the dying day. 
 
 In bright array the starry tapers burn; 
 From yonder pine, just at the torrent's 
 
 turn, 
 The moping owl chants a funeral dirge, 
 And with muffled notes drowsy mourners 
 
 urge. 
 
 x\ll Nature's dressed in somber hues 
 
 and cold, 
 Save where the western sky in flaming 
 
 gold. 
 Gleams through the forests on yon 
 
 mountain's crest, 
 And gilds the eagle circling o'er its 
 
 nest. 
 
 Mingled with voices of the savage wild, 
 Throbs the tuneful notes of the dove so 
 
 mild; 
 And over all the cataract presides, 
 Swelling the pealing anthem to the skies. 
 
In whispers, the tongues of the forest 
 speak ; 
 
 From out the west o'erpowering dark- 
 ness creeps, 
 
 The bright tapers shrouding, in mourn- 
 ing deep: — 
 
 Hushed are the voices in the jungle's 
 keep. 
 
 Portentious calm foretells the tempest's 
 
 reign ; 
 Flaming tongues rend the nocturnal 
 
 pall in twain; 
 And awed by reverberant Nature's 
 
 grief, _ 
 The mountains tremble as the aspen's 
 
 leaf. 
 
 Before the Eastern Star, Herald of 
 dawn, 
 
 The storm on the black wings of night 
 is borne; 
 
 Then,— embowered in the meadow's 
 fragrant hay, 
 
 The sweet-toned lark proclaims a new- 
 born day. 
 
 Joy is caroled from every flowering 
 
 spray, 
 The world, rejoicing, swells the melody; 
 The day has perished, and again is born, 
 With thee, O Nature, death is but the 
 
 dawn. 
 
THE RECLUSE, 
 
A foreigner in my own, my native land; 
 Of the human family, without a fellow 
 
 man; 
 In the midst of friends, unfriended and 
 
 alone, 
 A stranger, beside my own, my own 
 
 hearthstone. 
 
 To thee I turn, O Nature, and e'er at 
 
 Even' I find, 
 A hearth, aglow, along thy West's 
 
 horizon line ; 
 Where all are welcome, and none are 
 
 e'er constrained. 
 For all mankind thy flaming hearth's 
 
 maintained. 
 
 And so, with thee I dwell upon thy 
 
 mountain's side. 
 My swelling heart responds to every 
 
 throb of thine ; 
 I rejoice with thee, O Nature, and oft 
 
 with thee repine. 
 And in thee, a refuge from every woe, 
 
 I find. 
 
FAITH 
 
Mow beautiful art thou, elusive Star, 
 
 Thy radiance, as incense of the East, 
 Delights, o'erpowers me, wafts my spirit 
 far 
 Beyond my ken, my beating heart 
 has ceased. 
 
 For me, the azure robe is drawn aside; 
 Beyond, — O hark, — my thrilling 
 senses reel; 
 Sustained by notes deep as the booming 
 tide. 
 The voices of a host of angels peal. 
 
 The Anthem rings with mingled melody ; 
 
 The ether, crystalized to vibrant song, 
 Palpitates with the grand old rhapsody. 
 
 Quivering, reflects the glorious throng. 
 
 The spread of wings, — then only 
 throbbing space, 
 Throbbing, as when the toll of bells 
 ceaseth ; 
 My soul o'erwrought, seeks thy radiant 
 face, 
 My guiding Star, — fainting, weakness 
 freeth. 
 
ttow beautiful Thou art, thy rays serene, 
 
 So calm, renew my strength from 
 
 far, — 
 
 Illumine space for the impending scene, 
 
 The soul's requital at God's judgment 
 
 bar. 
 
 Oh source of strength, sustain me now^ 
 mine own; 
 With thy radiance dealing death to 
 night. 
 Through space, from heaven to earth, 
 not once alone. 
 But thrice, uplift me with thy constant 
 light. 
 
 A note mingling the harmonies of all, 
 Sends echoes rocking through the 
 universe ; 
 A throng that fills heaven's judgment 
 hall 
 With song, intones a ringing herald's 
 verse. 
 
 Time, ages pause, — all creation riven, 
 rocks ; 
 The splendor, but now a shining 
 
 Outshone, sinks paling into dimming 
 spots ; 
 All former glories are as darkest 
 night ; — 
 
Peace, — -the voices of hosts of angels 
 speak: 
 As, — the sighing of murmuring wind, 
 And whispering leaves when forests 
 weep, 
 Defenseless in the shadow of His 
 wing. 
 
 r|» 
 
THE PASSING OF THE SEASONS, 
 
 Being a little Conceit, 
 
 by an Idler, namely, 
 ROBERT ELL3WORTH, 
 
Youth, — the spring-time of life; 
 
 The most precious, and perhaps the 
 least appreciated 
 
 Of all the gifts bountiful nature vouch- 
 safes. 
 
 We dwell above the clouds, 
 
 In a world of delightful enchantment, 
 Seemingly as real, — as enduring, 
 
 As the crags of the mountain. 
 
 Far above the sordid reality of life we 
 
 are borne. 
 The cares and perplexities of later 
 
 life, 
 Mere fables, myths, unworthy serious 
 
 thought : 
 
 But alas, — almost without warning. 
 As a candle flame iii a draught, our 
 illusions vanish: — 
 And Youth is forever lost in the impen- 
 etrable past, 
 With its lights and shadows:— 
 Its remembered pleasures, its half- 
 
 forgotten sorrows. 
 Reluctantly, — with slowly unclasping 
 hands. 
 The springtime of life is relinquished. 
 Launched on the boundless sea of time, 
 Never to cease its drift, deeper and 
 deeper into antiquity. 
 
The summer rapidly dissipates the 
 mists of youth, 
 And we live largely for the acquisition 
 of material things : 
 Gold, the key that unlocks all doors; 
 Position, social standing, — ^the respect 
 of the community. 
 
 At times, however, we escape from the 
 
 grasp of ambition 
 And fondly live over in imagination, 
 The little tragedies and comedies of our 
 
 earlier existence. 
 
 The hobgoblins always waiting for us 
 at bedtime. 
 In the shadows of the stairway, just 
 around the turn. 
 
 The mild old gentleman with the snowy 
 beard. 
 Whom we always venerated as Santa 
 Claus, 
 And to whom, though we often longed to, 
 We never ventured speak. 
 
 The little girl in the pinafore, 
 
 For whom we turned innumerable 
 somersaults, 
 
 All in vain, until one memorable morning 
 We walked the old school fence, 
 
And never felt the tumbles, 
 
 Until mother with her needle mended 
 the many rents. 
 
 And thus, in the midst of the fierce 
 struggles 
 On Ambition's battle field. 
 We find opportunities occasionally. 
 
 To renew our youth in reveries ; 
 But Father Time is never slothful, is 
 ever on the march, 
 And not without misgiving, 
 We feel the chill approach of melancholy 
 autumn, — 
 Dread winter's gorgeous Herald. 
 
 A portion of our aspirations having been 
 realized, 
 We are now disappointed, perchance, 
 To find the joy resulting from our 
 successes. 
 Something less than we anticipated. 
 
 Our infirmities keep pace with our 
 increasing 3^ears, 
 And the rapidly progressing world. 
 Has now no place for us in its activities. 
 
 However, as we sit by the fire of a 
 winter's afternoon. 
 We are not altogether lonely. 
 
The greatest minds the nations have 
 produced, 
 Though they lived in ages past and 
 spake in unfamiliar tongues, 
 Are vouchsafed us as companions. 
 
 Our failing eyes may be brightened, 
 Our old hearts warmed, 
 
 By the beauteous words of Masters, 
 Long since passed away. 
 
 And so, in the waning light. 
 
 We read, — and doze, — and doze, — 
 and read, in turn, 
 The comforting fire radiating its cheerful 
 light and warmth about us, 
 And dozing, perchance, some day, 
 With peace in our hearts, and good- will 
 toward men, 
 Our life may go out, as the fire smould- 
 ering low upon the hearth. 
 And when God wills it so, it is our hope 
 and prayer, 
 We may be ushered into a life of 
 eternal spring; 
 And who could wish for an existence 
 more blessed, more beautiful, 
 Than a continuity of the illusions of 
 youth, realized. 
 
KNOWLEDGE 
 
I'hy light, — as gleams the luminous Star, 
 Shining clear and bright through 
 encircling gloom, 
 Tints beauty with new lustre from 
 afar, — 
 Thy kindly shadows the uncouth 
 entomb. 
 
THE PRIMITIVE, 
 
Shaggy mountain's beetling brow, hoary 
 
 head, 
 
 Shading the placid bosom of the lake, 
 
 Where the Indian finds his daily bread, 
 
 The supple spear, his harrow, plow 
 
 and rake. 
 
 The lake, his field and storehouse, none 
 disturb ; 
 The horizon's ring bounds his cragged 
 farm ; 
 The finny fish, the deer, his flock and 
 herd, 
 The Seasons' frown or smile, can ne'er 
 alarm. 
 
 The starry canopy above, his roof, 
 The waving grass his coverlet and 
 crest. 
 His bed grown soft b}^ long accustomed 
 use. 
 He lays him down in luxury to rest. 
 
 Would that I were that simple, happy 
 child, 
 
 That I might lay me down in peace to 
 sleep, 
 Midst mountains' crags and torrents 
 wild, 
 In sweet repose, at rugged Nature's 
 feet. 
 
OEC 29 i90d 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 873 967 7 •