Desultory Thoughts in London Titus and Gisippus, with Other Poems. By Charles Lloyd |
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| II. | SECOND BOOK. |
 | Desultory Thoughts in London |  |
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SECOND BOOK.
On the Connection between different degrees of Spiritualization, in Religion, and a taste for the Arts in general, and a material or metaphysical taste in Poetry.
1
Seemeth it not to you that speculateOn Man, that in degree as he has gaz'd
On a Religion Spiritual, elevate
Above the senses,—by abstraction rais'd,—
That e'en his tastes in arts participate
In this propensity, and that is prais'd
As lofty, to whose praises would demur
A more material philosopher?
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2
Witness the Ancients. Whence may we deriveThat which most certainly in them is found,
A sense more exquisitely perceptive
Of beautiful in sight, or touch, or sound,
But from the fact that outward forms receive
An apotheosis from the scant bound
Of their religion, which the soul condenses
In outward forms, not lifts above the senses.
3
Or shall we more gratuitously deemThat this, which we cannot, in fact, disprove,
Is but coincidence? To us 'twould seem
Less easy this hypothesis to prove.
Trace all the links from first to last extreme,
In all societies where ardent love
Of Art has been, in coexistent stress
With a Religion abstract more or less.
4
Begin with times of Greece and Rome most fam'd;—Can, of arts' triumph, instances more high,
Than these, without the Christian faith, be nam'd;
Go where Catholicism has well nigh
Succeeded, and irrefragably aim'd
To press their rites on Christianity;
From these proceed to countries where the school
Of the reformers is the establish'd rule,
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5
From high Episcopacy yet steer onTo the more lively faith, more meagre rule,
Which has in Scotia's land the victory won:
From this proceed to the conventicle:
And last of all, when ye've the gauntlet run
Thro' all these tribes, with Quakerism dwell.
There as an instance, in supreme perfection,
Will ye behold the triumph of abstraction.
6
Now have not all these classes we have nam'd,Just incorporeal, as their faith has been,
Been stripp'd of art, which, when religion aim'd
To make some compromise with taste, we've seen
Incorporate with her rule, and with unblam'd
Zeal, in her service press'd? this contravene,
Ye who can do it! Has art ever kept
Her state, where faith of ornament was stripp'd!
7
Beauty, to the ancients, was a love, devotion:Power was their symbol of sublimity!
Attitude, Passion, Symmetry, and Motion,
With them were fix'd in forms of statuary!
Methinks, as all minds are impell'd to a notion
Of power, o'er which man has no agency,
Thence to religion; so, as this directs,
Man's character, in taste, it much affects;
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8
Whether it turn to high abstractedness;Or whether, where'er there is beauty, grace,
Love, with accommodating cheerfulness,
To enshrine itself, as in a holy place.
I fear that some may think that, too much stress
We lay on this; and say “the equal pace
The arts may keep with sensuous zeal, is hence,
That the same minds receive each influence.”
9
“That our religion is sublime or physical,Imaginative, abstract, or indulgent,
From previous causes, which have nought at all
To do with love of art: and that the bent
Devotion takes, in such a line, will fall,
As from deficiency, or from extent
Of previous culture, squares best with our wit.
Religion makes not us, but we make it.
10
I grant there's action and re-action. “And,”Continues my opponent, “that the arts,
More than on Christian, on the Heathen land
Flourish'd, is not because the law imparts
Of one, an influence to these arts bland;
And t'other, with contumacy, still thwarts;
But that it happen'd so; perhaps, since civil
Their sun was, Rome, Greece, lov'd the beau ideal.”
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11
“'Tis more in climate, and cause physical,Than their religion's opposite pretensions,
That th' ancients have, in point of taste, (though tall
In other things we are) dwarfed our dimensions.”
—Well! it may be so; oftentimes there's small
(Though it give birth to violent contentions)
Difference between causation and coincidence.
I'll not be stiff. This may, in proof, be instance.
12
But, if it be coincidence, or cause,The fact we must allow, that, in a region
Where faith towards abstract contemplation draws,
The arts are treated as, of devils, a legion.
Again, if ever faith the arts espouse,
As, by this means, the latter, with religion,
Share all the honours, then new motives press
On those whose fame's involv'd in art's success.
13
'Tis difficult to reach the utmost lengthOf exquisite refinement in the senses,
And to retain that venerable strength,
Which turns, to moral ends, their influences.
It must, I fear, be granted us, at length,
To Epicurus's indulgences
The arts owe more than to the stoic's sermons.
The arts ne'er kept the senses on short commons.
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14
But since 'tis pleasanter to paint effectsThan flounder in the dark abyss of causes;
And, since he who creates, than who dissects,
'Tis probable will challenge more applauses;
Since 'tis more pleasant to be architects,
Than be employ'd in pulling down old houses;
And other whys and wherefores, the synthetic
I must prefer to the style analytic.
15
Well, then, proceed we on our hobby horse,And pick up facts as fast as we can find 'em;
But when we're mounted, 'twould be worse than gorse
In king's highway, if systems round us twin'd 'em.
Proceed we then, for better and for worse,
Like men that look before, around, behind 'em;
Not like astrologer, as if to move him
Things indispensably must be above him.
16
'Tis pleasant, no doubt, many of my readersCan tell, to loiter on a sunny day;
When e'en the fly puts forth its little feelers,
So soft the air, so genial the sun's ray:
To catch the gales, Nature's benignant healers,
Bring their rich fragrance from the tedded hay,
Whose kisses, like a dear friend's welcome home,
Gladden, while telling of more joys to come.
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17
'Tis sweet to linger near a little brook,Which trips so murmuringly 'mid stones, grass, flowers;
Sweet to be stretch'd at length, with favourite book,
In Nature's own self-consecrated bowers.
'Tis sweet on eyes of a dear friend to look,
More, if that friend be female, and be ours.
Sweetest of sweets! a summer day's bewildering
With our own offspring, while, like them, we're children.
18
But neither ramble on a sunny day,Nor ling'ring near a little brook, more sweet;
Nor with a favourite author stretch'd, to lay
Ourselves at length; nor dear friends' eyes to meet;—
I scarce know what of woman's eyes to say;—
Or when, with children, pleasure is complete!
Those being excepted, no, not one of these
More sweet, than pouring out one's thoughts at ease.
19
Proceed we once more to our theme neglected.—Whence comes it, that the ancients, when they 'affect
Topics that with man's passions are connected,
Confine themselves to physical effect?
By them, as by us, mind is not dissected;
Speak they of love? The passion they depict:
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A picture's given! The rest we must suppose.
20
Thus, in the tragic scene, where fell remorseDistracts the breast of Agamemnon's son;
'Stead of describing it in all its force—
Like Shakspeare, when hell's mysteries, one by one,
Knell out the death of Duncan: from their source,
When his great powers develope thoughts that shun
A grasp less skilful, and when he reveals
Whate'er Guilt's agonizing victim feels;
21
Instead of these, in the more antique scene,The stern-ey'd Furies rise, and circle round
Orestes' form: in that the felt is seen!
Little recourse is had to the profound,
Mysterious, and impalpable, I ween!
In painter's art, there might as much be found
Of thought, as we find there: I grant, there much is
Oft, of true pathos, which profoundly touches.
22
Now cannot we suppose, that something mayOf this so very marked discrepancy,
Ascribed be, to the very different way
In which religious things we 're apt to see?
Perhaps, that no sense more than this doth sway
The texture of the mind, we shall agree.
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It is a stubborn fact, that all our skill
23
Cannot o'erturn; by matter, they, the mind—And by material forms, its various powers—
Illustrate. To the latter is assigned
Subserviency by them. The task is ours,
By intellectual processes refined
(As, in some climes, meaning's convey'd by flowers)
All objects of creation to controul,
As vassals to phenomena of soul.
24
It seems to me, so much Religion's powerSways human souls, and so much is combin'd
With all their faculties, that, when we tower
Beneath its influence with thoughts heaven-enshrin'd,
'Tis likely that a taste will be our dower,
E'en in indifferent objects, more refin'd,
More lofty far, than what can those befal,
In whom it tends to objects physical.
25
Besides, when we Religion thus divestOf what is definite, those soaring wings
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To her will minister in other things:
'Tis thus, the eagle, which hath built her nest
Upon a cloud-capt rock, aspiring springs
Towards the source of light, e'en when with food
She goes to satisfy her callow brood.
26
Surely no blending of material hues,Though language its prodigious wealth should pour,
Nothing that skill most exquisite could chuse,
(Tho' were of form, tinct, sound, the copious store
Exhausted) could, from the Athenian muse,
Equal thy use of metaphysic lore,
Oh, bard of Avon; in our heart sink deep
As his self-cursings who had “murder'd sleep!”
27
We grant, that much is done when one choice wordOf psychologic meaning, aptly caught,
By subtle application, doth afford
A long excursion to conjectural thought.
Than lavishly the philologic hoard
(While expletive to expletive is brought.)
Unlock, 'tis better to be terse, sententious:
Better to be laconic, than licentious.
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28
By him, whose idiosyncratic verveNever will be, nor yet has rivalled been,
In course of Gallic literature, observe,
With what relentless, though impartial, spleen
Corneille is analyzed! The finest nerve
(Howe'er by nice refinement made more keen)
One little saucy word shall not distress,
Marring its erudite voluptuousness.
29
Like their religion is their art of writing;The one an exponent of priest's finesse;
Of burnished phrase the other: both uniting
The beau-ideal of fastidiousness!
Could all the brilliant nothings, so inviting,
But masquerade it in an English dress,
Which gave their “petits soupers” such a savour,
They'd make us sick, in spite of all their flavour.
30
Of all the writers that I can recall,Who were, in Rome, to poetry devoted,
As partial to the metaphysical,
Next to Lucretius, Ovid may be quoted.
An exquisite sense of beauty physical
Is his first attribute; next may be noted
A wond'rous power to paint the human breast,
When by conflicting impulses impressed.
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31
As instances of this, Althæa take,When, in the flames, the brand she would have flung,
On whose safe-guard her son's life was at stake;
Take Byblis, Myrrha! (both by passion wrung,
And loth, at the same instant, to forsake
The path of virtue)—when did human tongue,
Ever pour forth, in words of fiercer fire,
Pangs of remorse, and burnings of desire?
32
On th' other hand, in Virgil, it should seem,An intuition forces us to think,—
Although his words flow like a stately stream,
And, 'neath its surface plunged, he never sink,
From its abyss to bring, for passion's dream,
Mysteries that in its hidden caves might shrink—
That 'tis a purpos'd abstinence: his draught,
Tho' not charg'd with it, wakes profoundest thought.
33
His words so fitly placed; his subtle art;Impress us as a face which is so fine,—
(Although it promises whate'er the heart
Conceives, in eloquence, and thought, divine)
That we from injuring its repose should start:
Its sublime silence leads us to decline
(It is so satisfying) further quest!
We fear a dream so heavenly to molest!
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34
I've heard it said by one, whose praise is fame,That 'tis a higher triumph of the bard
To fix the soul by a well-woven frame
Of outward forms, than by indulged regard
Into the secret springs, and inward aim,
Of every character: by hues prepar'd,
Plac'd in nice shades, as thro' transparent medium,
To shew man's attributes, but not explain 'em.
35
This, to do well, he would have said, requir'dMore skill than that of him who brings to light
The hidden mysteries of the mind: attired
They by the former are, and though t' excite
Less fit, have by their drapery acquir'd
A grace, for this compensatory quite.
Thus, well-bred gentleman a feast who gives,
Tells not each guest whence he his cheer receives.
36
The guest must know the power of wealth is there,By fruits from foreign climes, and by the train
Of viands exquisite as they are rare:
But as his business is to entertain,
And, as he thinks that object tarnished were
By an attempt its causes to explain;
As much as one, less an adept, reveals—
The secret mechanism he conceals.
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37
I grant there's much in this. A poet onceProved, by his characters' consistency,
That he in metaphysics was no dunce:
Now every character we hear, or see,
Or read of, in such haste is to announce
The hidden motives of its agency,
That, from anticipation, ere achieved,
The coup de théâtre, with yawns received.
38
Late novel writers of this fault partake.—Richardson, Fielding, Smollet, Le Sage, read,
Cervantes—and observe the path they take,
Would they engage our interest. 'Tis indeed
By accurate portrait they know how to make
Of their own species, whence from them proceed
(As face to face in mirror is resembling)
That which hath set the nerve of nature trembling.
39
It is for this we love them; and love tooTheir fabled characters, as they were real;
It is for this, when we have travelled through
Their pages, that our own life more ideal
Seems than the one to which we've bade adieu:
Lastly, for this it is that we indeed feel
For them the interest which our friends might claim!
E'en would they rival them, gain'd is their aim.
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40
For this superiority have theyO'er real beings of a common nature,
That heart too much disposed to throw away
Its love, in them can never find a traitor.
There is, to most of us, a short-liv'd day
In which we friendship read in every feature.
That day soon fades! Its night how dark it were,
Did not feign'd beings rescue us from care.
41
With scant accommodations that await,And with ill-grace received at every stage,
How long, how toilsome, and how desolate,
To us the melancholy pilgrimage,
From that bright bower where youth in rapture sate
Conning its visions, while the Archimage
Stern truth divulging, led us from its shade
To pathless wastes, which not a flower displayed.
42
Yet still we have this treasure, though we turnSlightingly from it, 'till reflection's glance
Has taught us not at palliatives to spurn:
Ours are your pages, authors of romance!
No more can we imagine to sojourn
With beings angelic; but with you perchance
That we again may find which we thought fled!
And live with you, though to the world we're dead.
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43
Ah! who can tell what it is, drop by drop,To feel the warm blood oozing from the heart?
Now on this eminence, now that, to stop,
As lost in haze the outlines quite depart
Of native scenes, to bid adieu to hope?
In early life from a high mount we start,
What, in a future vantage station, more
Can charm us, than its summit to restore?
44
From that most monstrous of all monstrous things,A tale contrived to serve hypothesis,
Who ever felt the pleasure which that brings
Whose only archetype the natural is?
While authors soar on surreptitious wings,
All facts must wait on theory; and a Miss
Not love, till she has, to our time's perdition,
Proved if love govern, or obey, volition.
45
There cannot be a series of action,In real life, that has not its own moral;
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Mechanical as organ with a barrel:
Stuffed with good people, who to the least fraction,
Of newest systems wear the quaint apparel,
And through five volumes live on paradox;
You snug meanwhile like charlatan with shew-box.
46
'Tis you, not they, are speaking all the while.They live by syllogism; die by theory:
And only prove they have, (after vast toil)
Infallibility, when they would weary.
Carry a system to 't, if you would spoil
A sketch of life,—for it will then miscarry.
'Tis as portentous as a doctor's sign is,
And quite as emblematic of a finis.
47
“'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreatTo peep at such a world.” So sung thy bard,
Religion! But as here, where can we meet
With such exemption from mankind's regard.
Here, he, indulgence to his wish, complete
May give, who social ties would fain discard.
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That crowds create the deepest solitude!
48
Live in the country where you may, you will(Indeed, you must, for life's accommodation)
One neighbour have: this one,—another still;—
And thence a little world has its creation.
There where few things occur the void to fill;—
To satisfy man's craving for sensation,
Your walks, your meals, visits, and visitors,
Each is the theme of pert inquisitors.
49
Again, the individual temper muchA man's perception of retirement sways;
No man can be in solitude, whose touch
With tremulous conformity obeys
(Like needle at the magnet's near approach)
The voice of censure, or the voice of praise.
Opinion, like a ghost, was never known
To let him, whom she haunted, feel alone.
50
Witness Geneva's prodigy! Though woodsReceiv'd him in their bosom; and though skies
And mountains kiss'd each other; though the floods
Emptied their cataracts of mighty size
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To shroud him from imagined enemies;
Still absent hostile forms around him glared;
Him, with her spells, still vanity ensnared.
51
Some find a solitude where'er they fly;There are who could not find it if they would;
Victims of grief, where's your society?
And where, joy's votaries, your solitude?
Remorse! Thou art alone, and thousands nigh!
Virtue! in converse high, 'mid desarts rude!
The first may be 'mid millions, and alone!
The last, in bless'd society, though one!
52
Think ye, that He , who, on the mountain's height,Spent all the night in commune with his God,
Was e'er alone? Or, was his darkness, night?
Can solitude and darkness make abode
With one, on whose heart, ever springing light,
Fresh dews from heaven are ceaselessly bestowed.
No! To the good man, blessed in his thought,
And blessing, loneliness can ne'er be brought!
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His prayers are blessedness; his thoughts are praise;His love is fellowship! Performance high,
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His aspirations 'bove mortality.
The unseen powers that wait upon his ways,
“Millions of spiritual creatures” flitting by,
His eye almost beholds them! From the air
Their song distils! His God is every where!
54
This is the intercourse for which I pine;The Universal Eye of Heaven can see
With how much truth and force this wish is mine!
Then, welcome, prisons! welcome, chains, to me!
Then since I might the more my thoughts confine,
To thee, my God, the more should I be free;
Since, although fettered, more were I endued
With that which is my soul's solicitude.—
55
My God! Wouldst Thou, e'en from this bed of pain,Mark this one wish, the only wish I have;
All former sufferings to me were gain!—
I should have nothing left from thee to crave.
Me of all dispossess! Of all the train
Of joys which are on this side of the grave;
Of friends that once were mine, of Hope, Fame, Health,
Gav'st thou thyself, abundant were my wealth.
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The earth was once a mirror whence, reflected,God's presence made each object to allure;
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The means such bliss in future to secure.
Oh, let my prayer be not at last rejected;
I have lost all! I am desolate and poor!
So am I wean'd from life, I know not how
(E'en if I might) to ask its blessings now.
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But in this city's vast receptacleHow many are there who are vowed to thee?
How many are there, when it lyeth still
At night, and when the curtained canopy
Its countless eyes, its multitudinous will,
Shrouds from the stars, how many may there be
That hear thee, when the day hath ceased its noise,
To their souls whisper in the “still small voice?”
58
Few, few, alas! To beds of down they go—From business, pleasure, or from idleness;
And save the numerous progeny of woe,
Who, while, unrested, the hard earth they press,
Feel scalding tears from aching eye-balls flow;
How few are there but sleep, nor rising, bless,
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Their draperied couch, and curtain'd close their head.
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Father! And cannot I, in this resort,One being find to sympathize with me?
Here came I, hoping to derive support
From one of all the many forms there be
In this vast focus, towards which, as t' a court,
Converge all phantasms of variety;
Here came I, hoping that (amidst them all)
One to my smart might be medicinal!
60
As, in romantic legends, or feign'd tales,'Tis said that (by some potent wizard bound)
Th' adventurous knight whom Glamourie assails
Shackles defying human power surround:
So 'twill not be! Not all man's power avails
(When from on high come fetters that confound)
Their knots to unloose: yet He each knot who wreathes,
Could burst them, as did “Sampson his green withes.”
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That Power alone, who arm'd the shepherd's son'Gainst the proud boast of the Philistine band;
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And in an unknown stripling's untaught hand,
Gave potency—miraculously shewn—
Shield, sword, and spear, of giant to withstand:
He only can release th' imprison'd soul,
And billowy passions of the heart controul.
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What aid can horses, or can chariots, bring?What aid can palaces, and sumptuous halls?
What aid can theatres, whose ceilings ring
With shouts which shake its decorated walls?
What aid can spires, and cupolas, whence fling
Roseate sun-beams, o'er crowded capitals,
At morn, or eve, their glittering golden light?
Or splendour's triumphs, dazzling to the sight?
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What aid can busy streets, or peopled marts,Where, forest-like, the crowd of masts upsoars;
In ports, where Commerce, with her thousand arts,
Collects the nations from a thousand shores?
What aid, though population, from all parts
In one swift channel disembogue her stores,
Could these confer on him, on whom his God
Hath laid the chastisement of his fierce rod?
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No; in the pathless desart there's a voice,A voice of gladness, to the soul heaven loves;
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And the way-faring man who through them roves:
The thickets—echoing only with the noise
Of hissing reptiles, where the thistle moves,
Or nettle, with the fierce sirocco—sing,
And their lone tenants, 'neath the Almighty's wing.
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Place me in burning sands of Araby,Where never zephyr fann'd the thirsty waste;
Place me on ice-cliff, 'mid a frozen sea,
Where ne'er green herb the trackless snow-drifts grac'd;
Tho' atmosphere, with life at enmity,
Condens'd to heavy clouds, the scene defac'd;
Confounding earth with heaven, the heaven with earth,
As Chaos reign'd ere Nature's rose to birth;
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Pierc'd I the veil, my God! 'twixt Thee and me!I should be well content, whate'er my lot;
I should appropriate to my destiny,
That which—once gain'd—though other things were not—
Would raise me 'bove life's mutability:
Reasoners, that argue of ye know not what,
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By facts' criterion be its doctrine tried.
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The blind as well might doubt of sense of sight;Peruse their lives, who thus have vow'd pursuit
Of heavenly communion: in despite
Of all your arguments, ye can't dispute
Their singleness of heart: except ye fight
'Gainst facts, ye, self-convicted, must be mute.
Will ye deny, that they've a secret found
To baffle fate, and heal each mortal wound?
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Will ye deny, to them alone 'tis given,Who its existence, as a faith, embrac'd?
'Tis mainly requisite, to partake of heaven,
That the heart's treasures there should first be plac'd.
According to thy faith shall it be given
To thee, with spiritual glories, to be grac'd.
As well all facts whence man experience hath,
As doubt immunities bound up in faith.
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'Tis easy thing to say, that men are knaves;'Tis easy thing to say, that men are fools;
'Tis easy thing to say, an author raves;
Easy, to him who always ridicules
The incomprehensible, to allege—and saves
Trouble of farther thought—that oft there rules
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That half-pretence oft ekes out half-insane.
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We know all this; but we know also well,These men we speak of, tried by every test
Admissible, all other men excel
In virtue, and in happiness. Since bless'd
Are they, stern Fate, spite of thy direst spell!
Infection, loathsome maladies, each pest
And plague,—for these have they,—should they assail,
A panacea which will never fail!
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God is their rock, their fortress of defence,In time of trouble, a defence most holy;
For them the wrath of man is impotence;
His pride, a bubble; and his wisdom, folly.
That “peace” have they—unspeakable, intense,—
“Which passeth understanding!” Melancholy
Life's gauds to them: the unseen they explore:
Rooted in heaven, to live is—to adore!
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Ye, that might cavil at these humble lays,Peruse the page of child-like Fenelon;
Hear what the rapt, transfigur'd Guyon says,
With ills of body such as few have known;—
Tedious imprisonment; in youthful days
To luxuries used, they all aside are thrown;
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Its sorest ills, blessing the sacrifice.
73
Was e'er an instance known, that man could tasteTrue peace of mind, and spurn religion's laws?
In other things were this alliance trac'd;
Constant coincidence; effect, and cause,
We scruple not to call them; or, at least,
Condition indispensable, whence draws
The one, the other. This coincidence
But grant me here;—and grant the consequence.
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Facts, facts, are stubborn things! We trust the senseOf sight, because th' experience of each day
Warrants our trust in it. Now, tell me whence
It is, no mortal yet could dare to say,
Man trusted in his God for his defence,
And was confounded? cover'd with dismay?
Loses he friends? Religion dries his tears!
Loses he life? Religion calms his fears!
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Loses he health? Religion balms his mind,And pains of flesh seem ministers of grace,
And wait upon a rapture more refin'd,
Than e'en in lustiest health e'er found a place.
Loses he-wealth? the pleasure it can find
He had before renounc'd; thus can he trace
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What through a hand less affluent scantier flows.
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He too as much enjoys the spectacleOf good, when done by others as by him:
Loses he fame? the honour he loves well
Is not of earth, but that which seraphim
Might prize! Loses he liberty? his cell,
And all its vaults, echo his rapturous hymn!
He feels as free as freest bird in air!
His heaven-shrin'd spirit finds heaven every where!
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'Tis not romance which we are uttering! No;Thousands of volumes each word's truth attest!
Thousands of souls redeem'd from all below
Can bring a proof, that, e'en while earthly guest,
'Tis possible for man that peace to know,
Which maketh him impassive to the test
Of mortal sufferance! Many and many a martyr
Has found this bound up in religion's charter.
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Pleasure, or philosophical or sensual,Is not, ought not to be, man's primary rule;
We often feel bound by a law potential
To do those things which e'en our reasons fool.
God, and he only, sees the consequential;
The mind, well nurtur'd in religion's school
Feels that He only—to whom all's obedient—
Has right to guide itself by the expedient
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Duty is man's first law, not satisfaction!That satisfaction comes from this perform'd,
We grant! But should this be the prime attraction
That led us to performance, soon inform'd
By finding that we've miss'd the meed of action,
We shall confess our error. Oft we're warm'd,
By a strong spirit we cannot restrain,
To deeds, which make all calculation vain.
80
Had Regulus reason'd, whether on the scaleOf use, in Rome, his faculties would most,
Or Carthage—patriotism's cause avail,
He never had resum'd his fatal post.
Brutus, Virginius, had they tried by tale
Their country's cause, had never been her boast.
Yet had it not these self-doom'd heroes seen,
Rome, “the eternal city,” ne'er had been!
81
Shall Christ submit upon the cross to bleed,And man for all he does a reason ask?
Have martyrs died, and confessors, indeed,
That he must seek a why for every task?
If it be so, to prate we've little need
Of this enlighten'd age! Take off the mask!
If it be so, and ye'll find this our proud age,—
Its grand climacterick past, is in its dotage.
98
82
Thy name, Thermopylæ, had ne'er been heard,Were not the Greeks wiser than our wise men.
I grant, that heaven alone to man transferr'd,
When he would raise up states for history's pen,
This more than mortal instinct! Yet absurd
It is (because, perhaps, our narrower ken
Their heights cannot descry; yea, and a curse
'Twill bring) to make a theory of the worse.
83
A theory for a declining race!No, let us keep at least our lips from lies;
If we have forfeited Truth's soaring grace,
Let us not falsify her prodigies.
We well may wear a blush upon our face,
From her past triumphs so t' apostatize
In deeds; but let us not with this invent
An infidelity of argument.
84
Go to Palmyra's ruins; visit Greece,Behold! The wrecks of her magnificence
99
The sting of satire on his impotence.
As to betray how soon man's glories cease;
Tombs, time defying, of the most pretence
But only make us feel with more surprise,
How mean the things they would immortalize!
85
Man is a riddle! Lofty in his feeling!But, like an idiot, driveling in what lends
Form to that feeling! Tho' fire from heaven he's stealing,
'Tis on some child's play that that fire he spends—
Dice, women, any thing! Thus, while he's reeling,
And thus in act the despicable blends
With the sublime in impulse, he employs
Powers, that might immortalize, on toys.
86
Our station we perversely abdicate:Self-disinherited, we tumble down,
Wilfully tumble, from our Godlike state:
Wilfully barter our immortal crown
For gawds and trifles: contradict what fate
Has legibly inscrib'd of high renown
On man's imperial destiny, and die
Suicides of our immortality.
100
87
Once more, oh, London, I thy worth proclaim,As giving all facilities to those
Who, for their rational enjoyment, aim
T'ensure refin'd society's repose.
Graces and fascinations, without name,
So versatile their lustre, while it glows,
In “numbers without number” here resort;
Invite attention, and acceptance court.
88
Here, loveliest of all lovely things, may we,In most bewitching aspect, woman find,
With each perfection that kind destiny
Confers, when art and nature are combin'd!
Fashion, and sense, and sensibility,
Each grace of body, and each grace of mind,
While flatteries for each sense around her shine,
We see her plac'd as on a worthy shrine.
89
Nature! with homeliness do not confound her!Without a paradox, I would affirm
The daintiest daughter of patrician grandeur
Has more that well may lay claim to the term,
Than low-born maid, tho' town or country train'd her.
Flowers spring from Nature, so does woman's charm,
And 'tis an art to those in low degree
Unknown, in best sense natural to be.
101
90
'Tis not the things we do that vulgar are:Who ever thought those high-born votaries
Of self-denial, who would oft repair
To prisons, hospitals, and monasteries,—
In climes where sways Rome's ritual,—vulgar were?
Go with them! See, in lowest offices,
And most repulsive maladies, their toil!
Not one of these their natural grace doth soil!
91
All that in any way we can connectWith thoughts of property must vulgar be;
How difficult then is it, in effect,
From this alloy entirely to be free,
When every instant is the architect—
And all life's pressures urge necessity—
Contrivances prudential, of your sway!
And guarded interest marks the happy day!
92
'Tis hence the poor are vulgar: now and then,E'en among them, a soul is found above
The sway of his condition. There are men
Not by impressions ruled, who (made to move
In a particular orbit) o'er them reign.
These cause us (in what rank soe'er) to prove
For them a reverence. Menials there are,
Whom I had blush'd to see behind my chair.
102
93
There is a soul, which never can admit(Whate'er the pressure of necessity)
A vulgar thought. But it were lack of wit,
In argument like this, since this may be,
Exceptions such as these as rules to admit.
Since then, most spirits have the faculty
To allow such influence, we're forced to prefer
That lot, whence such impressions fewest are.
94
As Virtue sits with easiest grace on thoseIn whom 'tis deeply rooted, not on such
As wear her mask; so Grace most truly glows
On them who never felt an adverse touch.
Thence, in any given hour, should we suppose
That he so trained (wish it, however much
He might) that vulgar he could never be,
Is less than he polite from mimickry.
95
A word, a look, a gesture, may betrayA volume of disgusting consciousness;
Tho', where that consciousness exists, we may
By extreme thought, and consummate address,
Prevent divulging it. But then the sway
Of circumspection will all ease repress.
Let the glass freely circulate; 'tis rare
The secret's kept, in spite of all our care.
103
96
A laugh, tone of the voice, glance of the eye,All may betray us: nothing;—any thing;—
An instant's lapse, or inadvertency:—
With these flaws, when we them together bring,
We cannot join those of timidity;
From want of usage, or ill health, may spring
A bashful manner; but no one, e'er grounded
In manners, this with vulgarness confounded.
97
An aukward, is not thence a vulgar, gesture;A soul the most refined may feel mal-aise,
In mixed society: a man, whose posture
The most constrain'd is, still no smile may raise.
Let our guest have all that the thought doth foster—
Respectful feeling his demeanour sways,
That he by pledges of respect, insists on
Respect again, no one his claims will question.
98
To him, not well versed in the scenes of life,An exquisite perception of the graces
May often with performance be at strife;
And, of good breeding, banish all the traces.
Yet e'en low souls, (for souls like these are rife
In highest scenes) with all their fade grimaces,
'Twixt one ill-bred, and one too timid—well
To acquit himself—the difference can tell.
104
99
Failure in manners and in manner, areTwo different things: a man may not display—
When he presents himself—an easy air;
Aukward in gesture be, and—what to say—
Know not; and yet preserve, with nicest care,
The art of not offending. Where the sway
Of moral feeling is profoundly wrought,
Instinctively we catch another's thought.
100
On the other hand, a man may be at ease,And love, with brutal insolence, to wound,
With selfish vanity; and, more than these,
E'en with politeness, will low pride confound.
We have seen those in all the mysteries
Of high-bred circles learnedly profound,
Yet by their egotism so inflam'd,
Manner but sharpened darts their manners aim'd.
101
Manners and manner, be ye both combined,Who'll not their suffrage give to your pretensions;
Graces of body, graces of the mind,
When joined, increase their several dimensions.
'Tis to be glowing with a sense refined
That man has feelings language never mentions;
'Tis to have full command of all the charm,
By which man's eye, speech, attitude, can warm.
105
102
Yet, as with innocence, to make it pure,It should be wholly ignorant of ill;
So for man's manners perfectly t'allure,
Supreme of grace should be th' instinctive will.
That innocence no longer doth endure
Than while all avenues are shut, whence skill
Is learn'd, to judge between the wrong and right;
So finished manners know no opposite.
103
We e'en would say a dame with fingers glovedWill fidget them, like bird new caught in cage,
Had custom not, like second nature, proved
That 'twas her ordinary equipage.
We scarce know why, yet on those who have moved
In rank patrician, is that heritage
Of fascination, whose charm never failed,
Chiefly, if not exclusively, entailed.
104
Talk not to us of honest open faces;—Talk not to us of manners frank and free;
We like the smothered tones, the stately paces,
Of those whose voice is breathing melody.
Of those whose gait of business has no traces;
There is a calm consummate mystery
In those, whate'er they do, who seem to say,
Manner, not motive, doth the action sway.
106
105
Low tones we love them! and slow steps we love!We love a manner prodigal of time!
For affectation and pretension, prove
Only less hatred than for actual crime.
We love a stillness that (e'en though they move)
To fashion's daughters give, in act, to chime
With our most earnest breathings, and impart
Motion's sweet music to the melting heart.
106
Yet deem not we would purchase one, the best,Of all these graces, were a tittle lost
Of moral feeling! No! Though we've confessed
Their charm enthralls us, they can never boast
That charm except 'tis mainly manifest
They spring like gorgeous flowers in climates most
By nature blessed. Howe'er they ask much toil;
To grace—they must be natural to—the soil.
107
Heaven oft asks less of us than we suppose:To weed out our bad tempers he requires;
But some, not gifted mysteries to disclose,
Because a lot his breast with envy fires
Measures its snares by charms it may propose;
Thus he imagines, if to man's desires
It be congenial, that it must be fatal
To those whose creed commands life's joys to hate all.
107
108
But, perhaps, those, on whom, with mind so froward,They thus pass sentence, never having dwelt
In scenes more full of incidents untoward,
Self greeting from their fortunes never felt.
Leave them in quiet, then! Nor, like a coward,
Smite Fortune's nurselings! Rather let it melt
Thy heart, that such there be! Though thou'rt a slave,
He that from thee took, to thy brother gave!
109
'Tis vulgar,—'tis ridiculous,—'tis mean;—Of inward toils to judge by what we see;
There are who 're fenced by luxuries' daintiest skreen,
Whose hearts decay with daily agony.
Yet what is he, to whom it could have been
A palliative to know that such things be?
Who triumphs in the thought—since he is curs'd—
That all mankind in misery is immers'd?
110
There is a cell, where no light e'er did spring;There is a cave that no feet ever trod;
The eagle hath not found it with his wing,
Nor his keen eye hath marked its dim abode.
Its labyrinthine windings never ring
E'en with the wolf's wild howl: nor on its sod
Does “the swart faëry of the mine” e'er dance;
Or quivering moonlight fling a silvery glance.
108
111
It is the dwelling-place of unrepeal'dAnd unrepealable Remorse! I would
Not dare to body forth its unreveal'd,
Peculiar horrors! Nor to freeze the blood
By dismal catalogue (fitlier conceal'd)
Of shapes, and shrieks, and monsters, lapping blood
Of man, that there inhabit: nor prophane
Your ear with clank of its eternal chain.
112
Here, Sisyphus doth ever roll his stone;Ixion, there lies stretched upon his wheel;
Tantalus, earnestly doth gaze upon—
Stretching his hands that grasp at—waves that steal
Within his reach, apparent; yet doth groan,
Still doomed an everlasting thirst to feel!
There all the furies—all the harpies—dwell!
All forms of Erebus! All forms of hell!
113
Yet could Religion's light e'en on this fall!Through cranny deep, a cheering ray might bring
Some solace to the shapes (like shades, on wall,
By light's effect, from optic lens we fling)
That ever haunt it. Discords that appal,
Henceforward with more dulcet note might ring
Thro' the ill-mansion; and by slow degrees
Her triumph shew e'en o'er such scenes as these.
109
114
Yet on earth is there many a smaller denWhere woes inferior still unceasing urge
On different classes of devoted men
Their merciless inevitable scourge.
It has been glorious to the glowing ken
Of those, who, o'er woes that to earth converge,
Incessant mourn, to see in time's last date
So many rais'd these woes to mitigate.
115
Have not a Hanway, Woolman, Howard, been?Clarkson, Bell, Lancaster, now are they not?
Have not the enslav'd and the imprison'd seen
Virtue repeal or mitigate her lot?
They who, in gloomier thraldom, were, I ween,
Of pining ignorance, hark! how it shot
Through air — the voice — 'till each with gladness started!
“To every man be science' truths imparted.”
116
Thus many avenues have late been op'd,Through which thy light, Benevolence, has cast
On man's calamity, where'er it mop'd,
Healing, not thought of in the ages past.
Beneficence 'till lately idly grop'd,
And, heedless of its tendency, still class'd
110
Now care and thought with charity combine.
117
Their character much would we deprecate,Who (clad in complete panoply of steel;
And, from abetting schemes like these, elate)
Deem they're exempted from the toil to feel.
Co-operation, like to this, should wait—
One of its ministers—on general zeal
For general good: let it not interfere
With Charity's warm impulse, or her tear!
118
For these, the last, we have the highest claim;For He who pledg'd himself, that those who gave
“Cup of cold water in disciple's name,”
Though late, a certain recompense should have.
We cannot say, that He will those proclaim,
(When his elect he summons from the grave)
As of peculiar worth, who hospitals
Have built, or founded schools, or college halls.
119
When the rich spikenard on Christ's feet was pour'dBy zealous Mary, Judas, as he view'd
The deed reprovingly, urg'd, that a hoard,
Had it so barter'd been, had hence accru'd,
111
“No, rather,” said He, “by the magnitude
Of this her offering, she the doctrine proves,
That to whom much forgiven is, much loves.”
120
This lesson read; ye cavillers 'bout use—And economical expediencies;
It tells ye, that the affections do suffuse
All the sweet scent from whence our sacrifice
To God a goodly savour can produce.
Us, he requires not as auxiliaries,
The mighty God! It is man's heart he asks,
A will intense soars 'bove all merit's tasks.
121
Would not have argued, as Christ's followers did,The good wise men of our more modern time?
The offering of the Magdalene have chid?
With decent descant on forsaken crime?
After such comment, must we not concede
That it is not the deed the most sublime,—
And winning most from other men renown,—
But a devoted heart,—that gains the crown?
122
Here was full adoration! In one senseHere, e'en to waste, was prodigality;
That indiscriminate munificence,
Which ventures all upon a single dye!
112
Here was oblivion of expediency!—
In one word—Here was all that Heaven requires;
A soul absorb'd in self-renounc'd desires.
123
Public munificence, no doubt, in mostAddicted to it, may but aspect be
Of that dispensing spirit, chiefest boast
Of liberal, open-handed charity.
It has (we blush to say, at human cost)
This merit, that it holds the master key,
When truth would heart of vanity unlock;
Cleaving what else were adamantine rock.
124
'Tis an invidious task, praise to bestowAt other men's expense: willingly then
Farther pursuit of this theme we forego.
The ink flows freelier from our humble pen
When we announce the contemplation, (so
Humiliating yet consoling) that good men
See good (since 'tis from Heaven's educing hand)
E'en when our frailties bend to his command.
125
When means are all an humble soul can give;E'en though the smallest, good men their aid bless;
When ends are to be gain'd, good men forgive,
E'en though man's frailties work God's righteousness.
113
As herald of our truth they it caress!
See they great wealth the pious structure raise,
That God who worketh all in all, they praise!
126
'Tis as impossible for Him to beFastidious, his own defects who knows;
As to examine with severity
Motives, where heart with real bounty glows.
There are souls, in the gift of Pharisee,
As in the widow's mite, whose deep repose
Is as much bound. For them a stream there gushes,
By none polluted, yet which all refreshes!
127
My muse would still her lofty theme resume,And hail the genial dawning of that day,
When mercy penetrates the prison's gloom,
And e'en the captive feels hope's cheering ray.
Can all the triumphs or of Greece or Rome
Commemorate such wonders, or display
So much to cheer man's heart, as thou hast done,
Whom Heaven has sealed as an elected one?
114
128
A timid female, arm'd with gospel faith;—A timid female, arm'd with gospel love;—
To haunts hath pierc'd, where, ne'er before the path
To virtue dedicate, led one to move;
Not only hath confronted vice; (worst scath
God lays on man) but those whom crimes remove
From human pity (healing Fate's last wound)
She to her heart with ties of love hath bound.
129
Thy “praise is not of men;” I know full wellThat human lips' approval is to thee
(E'en though made potent by the daintiest spell
That art could cull from stores of flattery;
E'en though its tones like “blare” of trump should swell)
But “sounding brass,” and solemn mockery.
Yet as a soul is eas'd this boon to bear,
Accept:—the human soul is thy first care.
130
Think what it must to those be, only wontTo hear the ribald song, or oath prophane;
What it must be for those who—vice made gaunt
By misery, in aspect most obscene,—
Were used to see; whom chilling scowls did daunt,
Or laughing madness with her clanking chain;
To hear the truth persuasive made by thee?
In thee religion's real charm to see?
115
131
The gospel promise is fulfill'd in thee,The prisoner is set free; he that is bound
Hath felt deliverance: for the unity
Of comprehensive love hath now been crown'd
By this last test of gospel verity.
For since from prison walls hath gone a sound
Through all the earth, that they who linger there
Are called in Christ, thy chains are snapp'd, Despair!
132
We know not better liberty than this,E'en for the veriest freeman upon earth;
Refuse not then the uplifted rod to kiss;—
And if, from it, the blooms of faith bud forth,
The prisoner's manacle no longer is:
There are no barriers which this second birth
May not despise: they do but designate
Another way to an immortal state.
133
And had not heaven's hand been in this, could one,A gentle female, thus all prejudice;—
All preconceptions;—every hindrance thrown
To bar the way;—each proud hypothesis;—
116
The “might of weakness ” in a work like this:
The wisdom of gown'd delegates countervail?
And plant a paradise within a jail?
134
There is a might which the world little heeds,The irresistible armour of the weak,
Who only dare move onward as God leads!
As God gives utterance only dare to speak!
This faith the martyrs teach; for this faith bleeds
The saint, who (caring not man's praise to seek)
Draws down (though none from whence it comes can tell)
Blessing, like dew from heaven, where'er he fell.
135
This faith a Fox proclaimed; a Penn confirmed;A Barclay!—For an universal truth
Why from a sect bring evidence? It warmed
A Fenelon, a Guion, in their youth
All to renounce, that most man's heart hath charmed.
A Sales, a Kempis, a Molinos, soothe,
By the same faith, those who devoutly feel
How poor the efforts of unhallow'd zeal!
117
136
Religion is a quiet, inward thing;It is all hope, all happiness, all love;
But oft it soars not here on seraph wing;
And those especially whom zeal doth move,
For human vice and misery, ere it bring
A sure relief, through their means, oft must prove
The billowy waves to welter o'er their head:
Long trial, ere on others balm it shed.
137
God be your guide, where'er ye go, where'erYe be, that seek for fall'n man to repeal—
The dread anathema of vice and care
Entail'd on him,—by your devoted zeal.
God be your guide! That he, who breathes it, were
Worthy—the blessing of this wish—to feel!
Oh! in your mission could I with you share,
Blessed—though last in deed and name—I were!
138
God be your guide! And may a time soon comeWhen not a vice but human interest hath!
When not a woe, but hath a friend, its doom
To share in, and thus palliate its scath!
When not a misery, pang, or care, or gloom,
But some compensatory friend—whose path
Is less with these afflicted—may allure;
Who heals himself—administering a cure!
118
139
Then would the wintry wand of woe be broken!E'en Wretchedness would have her pleasant bowers,
Since she infallibly would have a token
Recognizable by fraternal powers!
The language then of tears, e'en were it spoken,
Would steal from hearts (like, from earth, vernal showers
Rich incense raise, while they are fertilizing)
To love responsive, blooms and sweets surprising.
140
Thus in one family would man soon be!Need then no prate 'bout equal wealth or right;
Each then would equally perceive that he—
In charter from the source of all true light—
Had share: soon more the sacred ministry—
Than minister'd to be to—would excite.
Were equal rights with fellow beings won,
What were their price to heaven's adopted son?
141
Oh, did despair not weigh upon the breast,With utterance ardent as a seraph's hymn,
I would put up a prayer, that thou would'st haste,—
Thou, high enthron'd above the cherubim,—
This glorious advent! Oh! could I but taste
Of that bless'd fount (to which, while such dreams swim
Before us, we seem t' have made good our claim)
What grateful raptures would my heart inflame!
119
142
Some are there who not prize religion's treasure:But of all miseries, 'tis a misery most
To be deplor'd, when all our sense of pleasure,
When that of which the world doth chiefly boast,
We deem as dross, and futile beyond measure,
Compar'd with her, yet to her hopes are lost!
When that which (with imagination strong)
We prized 'bove utterance of human tongue,
143
Eludes our search! When we believe in itMost reverentially; yet can't conceal
The greatest effort of our human wit
Religion's lowest truths cannot reveal.
Oh! As the potter doth his vessel fit
To the evolutions of his shaping wheel,
Or breaks in pieces, that which doth conduce
('Till it once more be plastic) to no use;
144
Do by me!—Do!—Almighty Father! Thou!I fear not!—hesitate not;—thus to throw
Myself before thee: asking not the how,—
The when,—the wherefore,—with my fate below!
Only so far accept my infirm vow,
As—that—into thy hands—to let me know—
Me,—Thou dost deign to take. Knowing but this,
Blindness my faith is, and my torments bliss!
120
145
Yes, with the Seer of Patmos, could I hearThe voice that, to the thirsty, cries to “come,”
And “freely drink” of Faith's immortal, clear,
And living, waters, human wants were dumb!
'Fore the great “bridegroom” could I so appear,
And feel “the spirit” pointing to his home;
Then voice there needed not—tongue—lip—nor pen—
To the soul's passive, though sublime, amen!
See Lord Byron's poems; in one of which, or in the notes to one of which, as far as the author remembers, he says, that flowers of different descriptions convey, from the lover to his mistress, different meanings connected with the process of passion.
See Emma Courtenay, a novel, written to prove that love is at the command of a moral agent, if his understanding can once be convinced of the fitness of another, as the object of that passion.
The author must here mean a finis not to the voluminousness, but to the success, of the writers' efforts.
The cast of thought in this stanza suggests the recollection of Mr. Wordsworth's glorious sonnet, “composed upon Westminster Bridge, (see his Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 172) which the author commends to the perusal of his readers.
Though the author here alludes to the doctrine of expediency, methodized into a system by Paley; yet he can never be insensible, how much British Society is indebted to the author of the “Natural Theology.”
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