 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
98
THE SPIRIT COURT OF PRACTICE AND PRETENCE.
Ye who but wake as wakes the morning light,
And go to rest like roosting fowls at night,
Deeming this outside world of earth and stone
The only world to man immortal known,—
Ye who have ne'er discovered in the breast
Another world, as in a lake at rest,
Reflected to the spirit's raptured eye,
More wonderful than this of cloud and sky,—
Ye, who mid darkness in a dungeon stand,
Twirling a key all idly in the hand,
Which used aright would draw the bolts aside,
And throw the gates of glorious vision wide—
Go to your rest, and leave this noon of night,
Blackness to you, to me, a world of light!
Sleep! and re-count, in dreams, your yellow store,
Or taste again your vulgar pleasures o'er;
Pursue with greedy hand the bubble prize
Of fame or fortune, cheating as it flies—
Climb to the mountain top with eager gasp,
For seeming gems that perish in the grasp,—
And while the nightmare, brooding o'er your rest,
Draws sighs and moans alternate from your breast,
Let wizard fancy with its wand of power,
Roll up the shadowy curtain of the hour,
And to my soul the hidden things unfold,
That night and silence in their bosom hold.
And go to rest like roosting fowls at night,
Deeming this outside world of earth and stone
The only world to man immortal known,—
Ye who have ne'er discovered in the breast
Another world, as in a lake at rest,
Reflected to the spirit's raptured eye,
More wonderful than this of cloud and sky,—
Ye, who mid darkness in a dungeon stand,
Twirling a key all idly in the hand,
Which used aright would draw the bolts aside,
And throw the gates of glorious vision wide—
Go to your rest, and leave this noon of night,
Blackness to you, to me, a world of light!
Sleep! and re-count, in dreams, your yellow store,
Or taste again your vulgar pleasures o'er;
Pursue with greedy hand the bubble prize
99
Climb to the mountain top with eager gasp,
For seeming gems that perish in the grasp,—
And while the nightmare, brooding o'er your rest,
Draws sighs and moans alternate from your breast,
Let wizard fancy with its wand of power,
Roll up the shadowy curtain of the hour,
And to my soul the hidden things unfold,
That night and silence in their bosom hold.
'Tis midnight, and the waveless sea of gloom
Sinks the wide city to a dreamless tomb:
No footfall wakes an echo in the street,
No voices come from those who part or meet:
No setting stars the lapsing hours reveal,
But the dim Heavens are shut as with a seal!
Hushed o'er the awful scene of mimic death,
Time folds his weary wing, and holds his breath.
My eye is closed, yet lingering beams of light
Steal o'er the inward soul, like things of sight,
Seeming the shapeless hues that dimly glide
Within, when first the visual lid is tied;
Yet as the spirit gazes, melting, take
Pinions of fire, and bid a world awake!
With glittering gold the starry heavens ascend,
And skies auroral, o'er the landscape bend.
Glancing around on waving pinions fly,
A thousand forms all radiant as the sky.
Flashing, yet faint, they distant seem to glide,
Like dreams away—light shadows o'er a tide;
Yet nearer seen, each brow is well defined,
And the high impress speaks the lofty mind;
Gazing they pass, with their keen vision bent,
On the uncurtained bosom, deep, intent!
Sinks the wide city to a dreamless tomb:
No footfall wakes an echo in the street,
No voices come from those who part or meet:
No setting stars the lapsing hours reveal,
But the dim Heavens are shut as with a seal!
Hushed o'er the awful scene of mimic death,
Time folds his weary wing, and holds his breath.
My eye is closed, yet lingering beams of light
Steal o'er the inward soul, like things of sight,
Seeming the shapeless hues that dimly glide
Within, when first the visual lid is tied;
Yet as the spirit gazes, melting, take
100
With glittering gold the starry heavens ascend,
And skies auroral, o'er the landscape bend.
Glancing around on waving pinions fly,
A thousand forms all radiant as the sky.
Flashing, yet faint, they distant seem to glide,
Like dreams away—light shadows o'er a tide;
Yet nearer seen, each brow is well defined,
And the high impress speaks the lofty mind;
Gazing they pass, with their keen vision bent,
On the uncurtained bosom, deep, intent!
Startled, and shrinking from a scene so new,
My naked spirit all revealed to view,
I turned around to seek some friendly guide,
And found a gentle vision at my side.
She spoke, and whispering in my wondering ear,
Revealed the story that I burned to hear.
‘Spirit of earth! I bid thee mark my theme,
Nor hold this scene a light fantastic dream—
A veil hangs lightly 'twixt thine earth and heaven,
A thin partition which thy soul hath riven,—
Unclouded now, thy spirit-searching eye,
Looks on this scene, the threshold of the sky.
Stay! for thy wing hath yet an earthy stain,
And seeks to win a higher flight in vain,—
Enough for thee this glorious vision sent,
Till from thy soul the mortal shroud is rent.
Here in this midway space 'twixt Earth and Light,
We hold our Spirit Court, this beaming night:
Passing before, as in a mirror true,
Scenes from your world, will come in stern review,
And as the players rise to act their part,
We lift the veil that seeks to hide the heart—
Discerning thus, unfolded to the sense,
The gulf that yawns 'twixt Practice and Pretence.’
My naked spirit all revealed to view,
I turned around to seek some friendly guide,
And found a gentle vision at my side.
She spoke, and whispering in my wondering ear,
Revealed the story that I burned to hear.
‘Spirit of earth! I bid thee mark my theme,
Nor hold this scene a light fantastic dream—
A veil hangs lightly 'twixt thine earth and heaven,
A thin partition which thy soul hath riven,—
Unclouded now, thy spirit-searching eye,
101
Stay! for thy wing hath yet an earthy stain,
And seeks to win a higher flight in vain,—
Enough for thee this glorious vision sent,
Till from thy soul the mortal shroud is rent.
Here in this midway space 'twixt Earth and Light,
We hold our Spirit Court, this beaming night:
Passing before, as in a mirror true,
Scenes from your world, will come in stern review,
And as the players rise to act their part,
We lift the veil that seeks to hide the heart—
Discerning thus, unfolded to the sense,
The gulf that yawns 'twixt Practice and Pretence.’
She spoke, and pointed to a dazzling throne,
That like a cloud of summer glorious shone!
There, in their snowy robes with sapphire blent,
The awful judges, Truth and Reason, bent.
Waked from its sleep, as by a bugle call,
The past came summoned from its shadowy thrall.
Nearer I drew, and saw the mimic show,
Reveal the story of the world below;
All that had chanced on earth, the by-gone year,
Passed in review—a fearful vision here!
Touched by the light that issued from the throne
Each heart was seen, each hidden purpose known.
The weeded widow covering 'neath her veil,
Thoughts of new joys that breath in passion's gale—
The city dame who casts her portals wide,
Shewing cut glass and plate on every side,—
Seeking by vulgar pomp and gauche display,
In ‘good society,’ to make her way—
The whirling waltzer, half alive to shame,
Affecting coolness in the midst of flame—
The fortune-hunter, on his bended knee,
To some rich heiress swearing lustily
A holy passion, while his truant breast
Is only constant to the glittering chest—
The craven critic hid in candor's mask,
Urged by some paltry spite, bent o'er his task—
Intent to wound, yet if the feeble bow,
Fail of its mark, the pole cat's shaft can throw—
The editor—a thing of thousand tongues,
Empowered to speak with nation-stirring lungs—
To throw fair freedom's banner on the wind,
And forward lead the glorious march of mind—
Reason's artillery placed at his command,
And wit's keen sword entrusted to his hand—
While yet unmindful of his high behest,
Taking close counsel with his narrow breast,
The flag unfurled, displays a party sign,
As passion prompts or interest may incline—
Reason's loud battery, basely turned aside,
Becomes the pop-gun of his petty pride,
And wit's bright steel, now sullied, dull and weak,
The sly stiletto of his private pique—
The politician seeking votes to get,
Like the shrewd spider weaving wide his net,
Flattering the throng and wooing to his snare,
The weak or wicked, with insidious care—
Seeking to melt with passion's focal glass,
All he can cheat, into one ductile mass—
Agrarian, atheist, tippler—one and all—
Wrong-headed moths predestined to his thrall—
Mixed with fanatic flies of every hue,
All sent of God, if what they tell is true—
Discordant elements, which but agree
To be his dupes and wear his livery—
The heartless statesman, shifting to the breeze,
Reckless of shame—if he the mob may please—
And while his heart is deeply bent on spoil,
His soft pretences flow around like oil—
By love of man pretending to be swayed,
While love of self is still his only trade—
Himself the point from which each ripple bends,
To which each backward wave reflected tends—
Willing to grovel on and grime his soul,
If so it leads to power, and strong control—
To day unsaying what he said before,
This week forswearing what last week he swore—
Juggling with honor, truth, his country's good—
For what? an office—or perchance for food!—
The shrewd sectarian, fearing Heaven will be
Too full to grant him ample farm and fee,
Seeking to station at the guarded gate,
A sharp police to watch the traveller straight—
With pettifogging arts to strain the law,
Or in the passport find some specious flaw—
Another—conscious of his bleachless sin,
Battering Heaven's gate to let each scoundrel in—
Another still—the atheist—worst of all—
Seeking in death the immortal soul to thrall,
Filling the pit where crime should find its doom,
And shrouding Heaven in everlasting gloom—
The lordly master, clinging to the tie,
That holds the slave, himself enslaved thereby—
Like the Etruscan convict bound to death,
Clasping the corse and feasting on its breath—
Yet tells you this is glorious liberty,
Ordained of old, and sealed by God's decree!—
The hot enthusiast, warned, but warned in vain,
Seeking to rend the hapless negro's chain—
And while he strikes to break the galling clasp,
Clenches each rivet with a sterner grasp!—
These, these, like insects of a thousand dyes,
Passed and repassed before our wondering eyes.
Mixed with the good, the virtuous and the true,
Catching their hues the hypocrite came to view;
And well I marked where pride and fashion reigned,
The tide of life flowed on more darkly stained;
While oft where poverty had thrown its blight,
Truth shone around, with Heaven's redeeming light.
O'er scenes like these the Court bent smiling down,
While others still provoked their fearful frown!
That like a cloud of summer glorious shone!
There, in their snowy robes with sapphire blent,
The awful judges, Truth and Reason, bent.
Waked from its sleep, as by a bugle call,
The past came summoned from its shadowy thrall.
Nearer I drew, and saw the mimic show,
Reveal the story of the world below;
102
Passed in review—a fearful vision here!
Touched by the light that issued from the throne
Each heart was seen, each hidden purpose known.
The weeded widow covering 'neath her veil,
Thoughts of new joys that breath in passion's gale—
The city dame who casts her portals wide,
Shewing cut glass and plate on every side,—
Seeking by vulgar pomp and gauche display,
In ‘good society,’ to make her way—
The whirling waltzer, half alive to shame,
Affecting coolness in the midst of flame—
The fortune-hunter, on his bended knee,
To some rich heiress swearing lustily
A holy passion, while his truant breast
Is only constant to the glittering chest—
The craven critic hid in candor's mask,
Urged by some paltry spite, bent o'er his task—
Intent to wound, yet if the feeble bow,
Fail of its mark, the pole cat's shaft can throw—
The editor—a thing of thousand tongues,
Empowered to speak with nation-stirring lungs—
To throw fair freedom's banner on the wind,
103
Reason's artillery placed at his command,
And wit's keen sword entrusted to his hand—
While yet unmindful of his high behest,
Taking close counsel with his narrow breast,
The flag unfurled, displays a party sign,
As passion prompts or interest may incline—
Reason's loud battery, basely turned aside,
Becomes the pop-gun of his petty pride,
And wit's bright steel, now sullied, dull and weak,
The sly stiletto of his private pique—
The politician seeking votes to get,
Like the shrewd spider weaving wide his net,
Flattering the throng and wooing to his snare,
The weak or wicked, with insidious care—
Seeking to melt with passion's focal glass,
All he can cheat, into one ductile mass—
Agrarian, atheist, tippler—one and all—
Wrong-headed moths predestined to his thrall—
Mixed with fanatic flies of every hue,
All sent of God, if what they tell is true—
Discordant elements, which but agree
104
The heartless statesman, shifting to the breeze,
Reckless of shame—if he the mob may please—
And while his heart is deeply bent on spoil,
His soft pretences flow around like oil—
By love of man pretending to be swayed,
While love of self is still his only trade—
Himself the point from which each ripple bends,
To which each backward wave reflected tends—
Willing to grovel on and grime his soul,
If so it leads to power, and strong control—
To day unsaying what he said before,
This week forswearing what last week he swore—
Juggling with honor, truth, his country's good—
For what? an office—or perchance for food!—
The shrewd sectarian, fearing Heaven will be
Too full to grant him ample farm and fee,
Seeking to station at the guarded gate,
A sharp police to watch the traveller straight—
With pettifogging arts to strain the law,
Or in the passport find some specious flaw—
Another—conscious of his bleachless sin,
105
Another still—the atheist—worst of all—
Seeking in death the immortal soul to thrall,
Filling the pit where crime should find its doom,
And shrouding Heaven in everlasting gloom—
The lordly master, clinging to the tie,
That holds the slave, himself enslaved thereby—
Like the Etruscan convict bound to death,
Clasping the corse and feasting on its breath—
Yet tells you this is glorious liberty,
Ordained of old, and sealed by God's decree!—
The hot enthusiast, warned, but warned in vain,
Seeking to rend the hapless negro's chain—
And while he strikes to break the galling clasp,
Clenches each rivet with a sterner grasp!—
These, these, like insects of a thousand dyes,
Passed and repassed before our wondering eyes.
Mixed with the good, the virtuous and the true,
Catching their hues the hypocrite came to view;
106
The tide of life flowed on more darkly stained;
While oft where poverty had thrown its blight,
Truth shone around, with Heaven's redeeming light.
O'er scenes like these the Court bent smiling down,
While others still provoked their fearful frown!
Two duellists we saw twelve yards apart,
Waiting the word to fire, with flickering heart.
Swelling they stood, and bravely sought to bear,
A lofty courage in their haughty air,
While hid beneath we read the thin deceit,
And saw each breast confess the shallow cheat.
Fear of light fashion's law, which bade them fight,
And do the law of God and man despite—
Fear of disdain, forsooth, from ladies' lashes,
Fear of the wit from leaden brains that flashes—
Fear, and the craven hope, that luck would guide,
His bullet true, and turn his foeman's wide,—
These were the motives playing round the heart,
In either bosom, veiled with conscious art.
Waiting the word to fire, with flickering heart.
Swelling they stood, and bravely sought to bear,
A lofty courage in their haughty air,
While hid beneath we read the thin deceit,
And saw each breast confess the shallow cheat.
Fear of light fashion's law, which bade them fight,
And do the law of God and man despite—
Fear of disdain, forsooth, from ladies' lashes,
Fear of the wit from leaden brains that flashes—
Fear, and the craven hope, that luck would guide,
His bullet true, and turn his foeman's wide,—
These were the motives playing round the heart,
In either bosom, veiled with conscious art.
Before a court, on trial for his life—
Amidst the crowd, his children and his wife—
A prisoner stood—the jury ranged around—
And grisly judges with their looks profound.
The world believed him guilty, and the law
Was but the halter which they wished to draw.
This was enough—the prosecutor too
Saw that the rope was but the rascal's due.
The proof, indeed—the proof, was rather lame,
And the poor fellow might acquittal claim.
But danger stared the lawyer in the face—
The prisoner's rescue might be his disgrace.
Should he escape, the disappointed throng
Would hold his talents lighter than a song.
How light the feather of a life became
When weighed against the lawyer's love of fame!
His plea he opened—'twas a noble theme—
Mercy he painted as a holy dream;
And then in sudden contrast, boldly drew,
The midnight murderer to the startled view!
The prisoner quailed beneath the speaker's frown,
And the poor stricken wife fell senseless down.
The children shrieked,—and o'er the rabble crew
A flash of mercy, like an angel flew;
It passed, and as the deeper gloom of night
Drinks the red lightning, vanished from the sight!
I gazed upon the lawyer's bosom—bare
To me—though curtained o'er with studious care.
He caught the mercy from the crowd—the gloom—
I marked in that the prisoner's certain doom!
Deep in his heart I read the stern intent,
And saw his genius to the effort bent—
With magic skill, he wove the fatal woof,
Turning light gossamer to cable proof;
And as the spider, conscious of his art,
Wound it and wound it round his victim's heart.
The spell of eloquence fell all around,
And judge and jury in its toils were bound—
The verdict, guilty, and the doom of death,
Came to the lawyer's ear like music's breath.
What tho' perchance the man was guiltless? still
The greater triumph of his matchless skill—
And if stern conscience whisper in his ear,
That he perchance is more the murderer here—
Cold to the accusation, he replies,
I'm but the agent—'tis the court that tries!
Amidst the crowd, his children and his wife—
107
And grisly judges with their looks profound.
The world believed him guilty, and the law
Was but the halter which they wished to draw.
This was enough—the prosecutor too
Saw that the rope was but the rascal's due.
The proof, indeed—the proof, was rather lame,
And the poor fellow might acquittal claim.
But danger stared the lawyer in the face—
The prisoner's rescue might be his disgrace.
Should he escape, the disappointed throng
Would hold his talents lighter than a song.
How light the feather of a life became
When weighed against the lawyer's love of fame!
His plea he opened—'twas a noble theme—
Mercy he painted as a holy dream;
And then in sudden contrast, boldly drew,
The midnight murderer to the startled view!
The prisoner quailed beneath the speaker's frown,
And the poor stricken wife fell senseless down.
The children shrieked,—and o'er the rabble crew
A flash of mercy, like an angel flew;
It passed, and as the deeper gloom of night
108
I gazed upon the lawyer's bosom—bare
To me—though curtained o'er with studious care.
He caught the mercy from the crowd—the gloom—
I marked in that the prisoner's certain doom!
Deep in his heart I read the stern intent,
And saw his genius to the effort bent—
With magic skill, he wove the fatal woof,
Turning light gossamer to cable proof;
And as the spider, conscious of his art,
Wound it and wound it round his victim's heart.
The spell of eloquence fell all around,
And judge and jury in its toils were bound—
The verdict, guilty, and the doom of death,
Came to the lawyer's ear like music's breath.
What tho' perchance the man was guiltless? still
The greater triumph of his matchless skill—
And if stern conscience whisper in his ear,
That he perchance is more the murderer here—
Cold to the accusation, he replies,
I'm but the agent—'tis the court that tries!
The Drama rose—and in the gorgeous glare
The circling boxes glittered full and fair.
Fresh from the hand of art, the temple gleams,
And this, its opening night—how fair it seems!
Mother and daughter, father, son and heir—
All, all, expectant—they are seated there.
The manager appears, with bow profound
Answering the cheers that burst from all around.
The shout subsides and in the breathless pause,
Thus in a shrewd address he pleads his cause—
“Is this the hour when smiles around us beam,
To think of sorrow, and of ills to dream?
Forgive—a mist hangs brooding o'er the night,
And a deep vision comes before my sight!
As a far cloud a shadowy form doth rise,
And mark its giant outline on the skies.
There, there it stands, a thing of awful form,
And o'er the landscape hovers like a storm—
Stretching its sway abroad, and sending far
A threatening sound of ruin, waste and war.
A muttered echo comes o'er hill and height,
As if a whirlwind gathered there its might;
Then, like the lifted tide, an eager band
Of ruthless men came sweeping o'er the land.
109
Fresh from the hand of art, the temple gleams,
And this, its opening night—how fair it seems!
Mother and daughter, father, son and heir—
All, all, expectant—they are seated there.
The manager appears, with bow profound
Answering the cheers that burst from all around.
The shout subsides and in the breathless pause,
Thus in a shrewd address he pleads his cause—
“Is this the hour when smiles around us beam,
To think of sorrow, and of ills to dream?
Forgive—a mist hangs brooding o'er the night,
And a deep vision comes before my sight!
As a far cloud a shadowy form doth rise,
And mark its giant outline on the skies.
There, there it stands, a thing of awful form,
And o'er the landscape hovers like a storm—
Stretching its sway abroad, and sending far
A threatening sound of ruin, waste and war.
A muttered echo comes o'er hill and height,
As if a whirlwind gathered there its might;
Then, like the lifted tide, an eager band
Of ruthless men came sweeping o'er the land.
110
Alas! what desolation marks the path
Of the fell tempest in its march of wrath!
Temples are mared and godlike statues broke,
Proud arches fall, fair towers are wreathed in smoke:
The silver lyre is dumb, sweet music hushed,
And all around is desolate and crushed;
All that was beautiful hath lost its form,
And only tells the fury of the storm.
Such is the scene where vulgar passion reigns,
And gothic prejudice hath burst its chains.
And shall the Drama live, when music dies,
The arts are banished, and sweet pity flies?
Shall the dark spirit of a darker age
Lift its red banner, and yet spare the Stage?
It may not be,—they mark its classic dome,
And as a surge the swelling legions come—
Before the shock its costly columns bend,
The arches totter and the walls descend;
One heavy sound—one echo to the skies,
And the fair edifice in ruin lies!
See! Shakspeare's godlike form is now defaced,
His hallowed fane by savage feet debased,
While babbling lips revile his mighty name,
And his immortal leaves light up the flame!
Of the fell tempest in its march of wrath!
Temples are mared and godlike statues broke,
Proud arches fall, fair towers are wreathed in smoke:
The silver lyre is dumb, sweet music hushed,
And all around is desolate and crushed;
All that was beautiful hath lost its form,
And only tells the fury of the storm.
Such is the scene where vulgar passion reigns,
And gothic prejudice hath burst its chains.
And shall the Drama live, when music dies,
The arts are banished, and sweet pity flies?
Shall the dark spirit of a darker age
Lift its red banner, and yet spare the Stage?
It may not be,—they mark its classic dome,
And as a surge the swelling legions come—
Before the shock its costly columns bend,
The arches totter and the walls descend;
One heavy sound—one echo to the skies,
And the fair edifice in ruin lies!
See! Shakspeare's godlike form is now defaced,
His hallowed fane by savage feet debased,
111
And his immortal leaves light up the flame!
'Tis a dread scene, for in the ghastly glare,
Vice stalks abroad, and folly dances bare;
The villain fears stern satire's lash no more,
And easy conscience feels no smarting sore.
That startling mirror which displayed the heart,
And made the self-detected sinner start—
That mirror now by bigot heels is trod,
Beat down and trampled with the common sod;
And o'er its ruins, beaming still with light,
That flashes from its fragments free and bright,
Full many a monster holds his revel time,
And celebrates the jubilee of crime!
Alas! is this the doom of that which sprung
To birth and beauty, when the skies were young?
Is this the end of that which came in light,
At Athens, rising o'er a world of night?
Shall that which drew the throng, and ruled their fire,
Where Tully spoke, and Maro swept the lyre,—
Shall virtue's school, and virtue's champion quail,
And the dark reign of ignorance prevail?
Shall Shakspeare, Racine, Otway be forgot,
And Roscius, Garrick, Siddons be a blot?
Shall superstition wave her wand again,
The world roll back, and priestcraft forge its chain?
Vice stalks abroad, and folly dances bare;
The villain fears stern satire's lash no more,
And easy conscience feels no smarting sore.
That startling mirror which displayed the heart,
And made the self-detected sinner start—
That mirror now by bigot heels is trod,
Beat down and trampled with the common sod;
And o'er its ruins, beaming still with light,
That flashes from its fragments free and bright,
Full many a monster holds his revel time,
And celebrates the jubilee of crime!
Alas! is this the doom of that which sprung
To birth and beauty, when the skies were young?
Is this the end of that which came in light,
At Athens, rising o'er a world of night?
Shall that which drew the throng, and ruled their fire,
Where Tully spoke, and Maro swept the lyre,—
Shall virtue's school, and virtue's champion quail,
And the dark reign of ignorance prevail?
Shall Shakspeare, Racine, Otway be forgot,
112
Shall superstition wave her wand again,
The world roll back, and priestcraft forge its chain?
Nay, 'tis a dream, ye boding thoughts away!
The world is free, and reason holds its sway:
The Drama lives, and triumphs here to-night,
In smiles of kindness, and in beauty's light!
The Drama lives, and with the dawning year
Catches new beams, and brighter omens here.
And, oh! the Drama, made for noblest ends,
The Good, the Wise, the Fair, be ye its friends!
As plants that flourish in a genial sky,
Fair fruits unfold, and healing dews supply;
Yet flowerless wither in the chilling gale,
Creep with the weeds, and noxious airs exhale,—
So is the Drama formed for good or ill,
And ye, its masters, shape it as ye will!
To its deep art, the earth, the air, the sea,
And the dark caverns of the soul are free.
Ambition, busy as the restless deep—
Revenge, as ruthless as the lion's leap,—
Delusive hope that gilds our distant views,
As rainbow's touch the hills with heavenly hues—
Pale fear that walks with wizard wand by night,
And bids dim spectres haunt the cheated sight—
The sailing clouds, like spirits on the air,
Now dark as demons, now as angels fair—
The lofty mountain with its purple beams,—
The sloping valley and its silver streams,—
The waving forest, meadow, lawn and lake—
The glassy wave, and waves that wildly break
In surges on the rocks—the deep voiced storm—
The whirlwind, and the tempest's fearful form—
The lightning flash, the thunder stroke that rings
Like the loud chariot of the King of Kings,—
The bugle blast that from the rampart peals—
The mellow lute, on twilight wing that steals—
And woman's voice, that well might rise to Heaven,
Mix with the seraph song, and be forgiven—
These, these are subject to the Drama's art,
And lend their aid to move and mend the heart.
The world is free, and reason holds its sway:
The Drama lives, and triumphs here to-night,
In smiles of kindness, and in beauty's light!
The Drama lives, and with the dawning year
Catches new beams, and brighter omens here.
And, oh! the Drama, made for noblest ends,
The Good, the Wise, the Fair, be ye its friends!
As plants that flourish in a genial sky,
Fair fruits unfold, and healing dews supply;
Yet flowerless wither in the chilling gale,
Creep with the weeds, and noxious airs exhale,—
So is the Drama formed for good or ill,
And ye, its masters, shape it as ye will!
To its deep art, the earth, the air, the sea,
And the dark caverns of the soul are free.
Ambition, busy as the restless deep—
Revenge, as ruthless as the lion's leap,—
Delusive hope that gilds our distant views,
113
Pale fear that walks with wizard wand by night,
And bids dim spectres haunt the cheated sight—
The sailing clouds, like spirits on the air,
Now dark as demons, now as angels fair—
The lofty mountain with its purple beams,—
The sloping valley and its silver streams,—
The waving forest, meadow, lawn and lake—
The glassy wave, and waves that wildly break
In surges on the rocks—the deep voiced storm—
The whirlwind, and the tempest's fearful form—
The lightning flash, the thunder stroke that rings
Like the loud chariot of the King of Kings,—
The bugle blast that from the rampart peals—
The mellow lute, on twilight wing that steals—
And woman's voice, that well might rise to Heaven,
Mix with the seraph song, and be forgiven—
These, these are subject to the Drama's art,
And lend their aid to move and mend the heart.
Such is the Stage, and in your smiles I read,
A generous verdict for the cause I plead,
And as the blushing hills reflect the day,
So shall our hearts their grateful homage pay.
Our task shall be to gather fruits and flowers
From nature's field, and fancy's ample bowers;
To mix a moral with the wreath we bind,
And while we feast, to heal the sickened mind.
And as the rod that lifts its slender spire,
To teach a harmless path to Heaven's fierce fire—
So shall our art direct wild passion's way,
And bid its lightnings for your pleasure play!”—
A generous verdict for the cause I plead,
And as the blushing hills reflect the day,
114
Our task shall be to gather fruits and flowers
From nature's field, and fancy's ample bowers;
To mix a moral with the wreath we bind,
And while we feast, to heal the sickened mind.
And as the rod that lifts its slender spire,
To teach a harmless path to Heaven's fierce fire—
So shall our art direct wild passion's way,
And bid its lightnings for your pleasure play!”—
Such was the plea, and thundering plaudits sent,
Up to the dome its echoing arches rent—
Then twanged the choir, and pelting showers of sound,
Relentless fell one very ear around—
Viol and serpent, trumpet, harp and horn,
In rival rage put melody to scorn!
Up to the dome its echoing arches rent—
Then twanged the choir, and pelting showers of sound,
Relentless fell one very ear around—
Viol and serpent, trumpet, harp and horn,
In rival rage put melody to scorn!
The curtain rose, and bursting on the view,
From mimic bowers a form fantastic flew,
Ample above, below, with wonderous art,
Her insect waist seemed nearly cut apart.
With twinkling feet she came, and tripped along,
As if she floated on a fairy's song—
No envious gauze her swelling bosom dims,
No prudish drapery hides her tapering limbs;
Poised on her toe, she twirling flew around,
Then upward leaped with high aerial bound—
And then—but stay! the decent muse must pause,
And drop the curtain, midst the loud applause!
From mimic bowers a form fantastic flew,
Ample above, below, with wonderous art,
Her insect waist seemed nearly cut apart.
115
As if she floated on a fairy's song—
No envious gauze her swelling bosom dims,
No prudish drapery hides her tapering limbs;
Poised on her toe, she twirling flew around,
Then upward leaped with high aerial bound—
And then—but stay! the decent muse must pause,
And drop the curtain, midst the loud applause!
The Ballet o'er, again the crashing choir,
Poured forth their volley like a muster-fire.
Not their's the task to elevate the soul,
And banish vice by melody's control.
Despising simple strains that touch the heart,
They only sought to show their wond'rous art;
To draw down thunders from the shouting band,
Who most applaud what least they understand;
Or please the few, whose souls are in the ear,
Alive to sounds, but dead to music dear—
On heartless “execution” ever bent,
Feeling with sense, but not with sentiment.
Poured forth their volley like a muster-fire.
Not their's the task to elevate the soul,
And banish vice by melody's control.
Despising simple strains that touch the heart,
They only sought to show their wond'rous art;
To draw down thunders from the shouting band,
Who most applaud what least they understand;
Or please the few, whose souls are in the ear,
Alive to sounds, but dead to music dear—
On heartless “execution” ever bent,
Feeling with sense, but not with sentiment.
This done, the whirling curtain upward flew,
And the bright Opera shone upon our view!
It was a scene from some far sunny clime,
Where love is but the gentler name of crime:
Where sly intrigue is still the business dear,
From the light marquis to the gondolier;
Where truth and virtue are but vulgar saws,
The banished exiles of voluptuous laws:
Where 'neath the olive grove and mantling vine,
The voice of man and nature seems divine:
Where lawyers plead and brigands rave in rhyme,
And arrant vixens scold in tune and time!
Such was the scene, and well the unfolding story,
Act after act, displayed the opera's glory.
The gallant priest, the light voluptuous wife,
The generous corsair, played it to the life!
And all was music, soft, seductive, sweet,—
How cold the critic to condemn the cheat!
How hard the heart that did not feel it best,
To mock religion, and make truth a jest—
To laugh at virtue, as a thing of yore,
A musty prejudice—a vulgar bore,—
Fit for the puritans who knew no better,
Than to interpret scripture to the letter!
But all unworthy those of brighter days,
Who draw their morals from Italian lays—
Who by this precious ‘school of virtue’ taught,
Conceive that pleasure only claims our thought—
That life is but a merry masquerade,
The soul a plaything, and intrigue our trade—
That oaths are songs, that lies are peccadilloes,
And gentle bandits quite the best of fellows.
116
It was a scene from some far sunny clime,
Where love is but the gentler name of crime:
Where sly intrigue is still the business dear,
From the light marquis to the gondolier;
Where truth and virtue are but vulgar saws,
The banished exiles of voluptuous laws:
Where 'neath the olive grove and mantling vine,
The voice of man and nature seems divine:
Where lawyers plead and brigands rave in rhyme,
And arrant vixens scold in tune and time!
Such was the scene, and well the unfolding story,
Act after act, displayed the opera's glory.
The gallant priest, the light voluptuous wife,
The generous corsair, played it to the life!
And all was music, soft, seductive, sweet,—
How cold the critic to condemn the cheat!
How hard the heart that did not feel it best,
To mock religion, and make truth a jest—
To laugh at virtue, as a thing of yore,
A musty prejudice—a vulgar bore,—
Fit for the puritans who knew no better,
Than to interpret scripture to the letter!
117
Who draw their morals from Italian lays—
Who by this precious ‘school of virtue’ taught,
Conceive that pleasure only claims our thought—
That life is but a merry masquerade,
The soul a plaything, and intrigue our trade—
That oaths are songs, that lies are peccadilloes,
And gentle bandits quite the best of fellows.
The play was o'er, and as the curtain fell,
I gazed around, to mark the audience well.
There sat the sallow rake with sunken cheek—
There at his side the maiden, modest, meek.
At home, around the bright fire-side, her heart
Strong in its purity, with shrinking start,
As when a serpent seeks to fascinate,
Had spurned in scorn the hollow reprobate.
But now beneath a softer atmosphere,—
His voice did not offend her—nay, 'twas dear—
His gaze was kind—and gentle was his sigh—
And she returned it, tho' with downcast eye.
I saw her breast—a mirror pure and true,
But sullying vapors o'er its surface flew—
A healthful flower, that breathed a noxious air,
And sick'ning strewed its dying fragrance there—
A gentle bird half charmed, which, though it 'scape,
Bears on its soul the coiling serpent's shape.
I gazed around, to mark the audience well.
There sat the sallow rake with sunken cheek—
There at his side the maiden, modest, meek.
At home, around the bright fire-side, her heart
Strong in its purity, with shrinking start,
As when a serpent seeks to fascinate,
Had spurned in scorn the hollow reprobate.
But now beneath a softer atmosphere,—
His voice did not offend her—nay, 'twas dear—
His gaze was kind—and gentle was his sigh—
And she returned it, tho' with downcast eye.
I saw her breast—a mirror pure and true,
But sullying vapors o'er its surface flew—
A healthful flower, that breathed a noxious air,
118
A gentle bird half charmed, which, though it 'scape,
Bears on its soul the coiling serpent's shape.
O'er scenes like this, around each circling tier,
I bent my gaze, in sorrow and in fear—
From many a youthful heart, I saw the bloom
Of purity, brushed rudely to its tomb.
That holiest thing on earth, the blossom-flush
Of maiden modesty, had lost its blush—
And the soiled bosom like the scentless rose,
No sweet returning fragrance ever knows—
The priceless bloom of innocence once fled—
It will not bud again—the root is dead.
I bent my gaze, in sorrow and in fear—
From many a youthful heart, I saw the bloom
Of purity, brushed rudely to its tomb.
That holiest thing on earth, the blossom-flush
Of maiden modesty, had lost its blush—
And the soiled bosom like the scentless rose,
No sweet returning fragrance ever knows—
The priceless bloom of innocence once fled—
It will not bud again—the root is dead.
Not o'er the young, the gentle and the true,
Alone, that night the red sirocco flew:
O'er harder hearts it swept with softening sway,
And ties of duty melted light away.
Things it were insult to a lady's ear,
To name elsewhere, were lawful topics here—
And who will fail to speak of what they see,
And feel, together, in close sympathy?
Not that the heart gives way before a shock—
But drop by drop the water wears the rock.
By light attrition, manners ever change—
What once we spurned, soon ceases to be strange—
My lady's hat that seemed at first a fright,
Is soon in fashion, and we deem it right.
The thing we hated, now familiar grown,
We take of course, and wear it as our own:
And thus that wall, our pious fathers built—
Strict conversation—as a bar to guilt—
O'erthrown by manners foreign to our clime,
Will not the weak or wicked rush to crime?
Will not the willing fortress soon be won,
When once the insidious parley is begun?
Alone, that night the red sirocco flew:
O'er harder hearts it swept with softening sway,
And ties of duty melted light away.
Things it were insult to a lady's ear,
To name elsewhere, were lawful topics here—
And who will fail to speak of what they see,
And feel, together, in close sympathy?
Not that the heart gives way before a shock—
119
By light attrition, manners ever change—
What once we spurned, soon ceases to be strange—
My lady's hat that seemed at first a fright,
Is soon in fashion, and we deem it right.
The thing we hated, now familiar grown,
We take of course, and wear it as our own:
And thus that wall, our pious fathers built—
Strict conversation—as a bar to guilt—
O'erthrown by manners foreign to our clime,
Will not the weak or wicked rush to crime?
Will not the willing fortress soon be won,
When once the insidious parley is begun?
Next comes the Farce—an importation new,
From London—where if Bulwer tells us true,
A lying fop, like Pelham is genteel,
And where in high life, 'tis the vogue to steal—
Not, gentle reader, such vile stuff as cash—
For that, in good society, is trash—
But like the naked lords of Papua's isle,
They steal each other's wives, once in a while.
Strange, it might seem, to boast of equal laws,
Where if one steal a horse, the halter draws:
While yet to steal a wife, brings no attaint,
And at St. James's does not soil a saint!
And yet more strange, that we should love the tale,
That lifts from this low life, the decent veil—
That thus we pore o'er Bulwer's sullying page,
And cheer the offspring of the British stage—
Induced to sanction what is vile and silly,
Because, forsooth, 'tis done in Piccadilly.
From London—where if Bulwer tells us true,
A lying fop, like Pelham is genteel,
And where in high life, 'tis the vogue to steal—
Not, gentle reader, such vile stuff as cash—
For that, in good society, is trash—
But like the naked lords of Papua's isle,
They steal each other's wives, once in a while.
Strange, it might seem, to boast of equal laws,
Where if one steal a horse, the halter draws:
120
And at St. James's does not soil a saint!
And yet more strange, that we should love the tale,
That lifts from this low life, the decent veil—
That thus we pore o'er Bulwer's sullying page,
And cheer the offspring of the British stage—
Induced to sanction what is vile and silly,
Because, forsooth, 'tis done in Piccadilly.
But to the Farce: the scene in London laid,
Told the old story of the lord and maid;
And while the latter like a leaf was cast,
Down to her grave, the lordling braved the blast—
Nay—as a feather in his tossing plume,
Wore the black record of that maiden's doom;
And with seduction added to his fame,
His grace, his fortune and his lordly name,
Who could resist? He wooed a lady bland,
And she, forgiving, fondly gave her hand!
Told the old story of the lord and maid;
And while the latter like a leaf was cast,
Down to her grave, the lordling braved the blast—
Nay—as a feather in his tossing plume,
Wore the black record of that maiden's doom;
And with seduction added to his fame,
His grace, his fortune and his lordly name,
Who could resist? He wooed a lady bland,
And she, forgiving, fondly gave her hand!
The curtain fell, and on their faces grave,
I read the sentence, Truth and Reason gave:
And with their frown imprinted on my sight,
The solemn vision faded into night!
I read the sentence, Truth and Reason gave:
And with their frown imprinted on my sight,
The solemn vision faded into night!
The passage, Romans vii. 24, ‘Who shall deliver me from the body of this death,” is supposed to refer to a custom of punishing crimes, by tying the culprit to a dead body. Valerius Maximus says, the Etruscans were not a little cruel in the invention of punishments; that they tied the living to the dead body, face to face, and thus they rotted together.
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