Madmoments: or First Verseattempts By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison |
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TO ENGLAND, ON OCCASION
OF THE MONEYPANIC, OR THOUGHTS ON NATIONAL MORALITY. |
| II. |
 | Madmoments: or First Verseattempts |  |
432
TO ENGLAND, ON OCCASION OF THE MONEYPANIC, OR THOUGHTS ON NATIONAL MORALITY.
Finished 1831.
Has God made this fair World a Prisonhouse,
That we grow pale, like Men who momently
A wait their Chains? has he then made the Mind
Of Man so little capable, his Heart
So barren of Affections, that he can
Find naught to love or labour for but Gold?
Can Thought and Feeling not fill out his Life,
And make it great and rich, e'en tho' his Food
Be Bread and Water? wherefore should ye fear
To lose a little Gold? would this Life then
Yield a less ample Field for all that is
Most godlike in Man's Being, would he cease
To be the Father, Christian, Citizen?
Or would he not, the less he has of that,
Be trulier these, more undividedly,
Not serving God and Mammon as before,
But God alone? would Nature then become
Less lovely? would Love, Freedom, Friendship, Truth
Lose all their divine Relish and their Gloss?
Or rather being no more bought and sold,
Nor desecrated by the Pander's Hand,
Would they not then become, as meant, the chief
Grand Goods of Life, which make it liveable?
Yes! yes! I say: then wherefore do ye talk
Of Loss, when Life's most godlike Goods remain?
Of which none, none can rob ye, save yourselves!
But this ye do most, most effectively
By holding them as naught compared with Gold!
Then wherefore stand ye thus in blank Amaze
As Nature had foregone her Functions, as
Tho' the Larksvoice had grown quite out of Date,
The Rose had lost its Perfume, and Man's Life
Its Crowningcharm? if but the Dayseye had
Passed from this Earth, then first were Cause to weep,
For it is something natural and true,
And therefore godlike: but fear not, just for
This Reason it, and all that like it is
So true and natural, will never pass
Away from this fair Earth, whate'er it be,
A Work of Nature, or a Thought of Man!
Small as it seems its Roots are deep and strong,
Yea! reaching to the Heart of Things, and still
Unfailingly amid the Wreath which Spring
Weaves, like a Daughter with officious Hands
Of Love, for Nature's holy Brows, shalt thou
Find the «wee, modest, crimsontippëd Flower»,
When Thrones and Kingdoms pass and are forgot!
That we grow pale, like Men who momently
A wait their Chains? has he then made the Mind
Of Man so little capable, his Heart
So barren of Affections, that he can
Find naught to love or labour for but Gold?
Can Thought and Feeling not fill out his Life,
And make it great and rich, e'en tho' his Food
Be Bread and Water? wherefore should ye fear
To lose a little Gold? would this Life then
Yield a less ample Field for all that is
Most godlike in Man's Being, would he cease
To be the Father, Christian, Citizen?
Or would he not, the less he has of that,
Be trulier these, more undividedly,
Not serving God and Mammon as before,
But God alone? would Nature then become
Less lovely? would Love, Freedom, Friendship, Truth
Lose all their divine Relish and their Gloss?
Or rather being no more bought and sold,
Nor desecrated by the Pander's Hand,
Would they not then become, as meant, the chief
Grand Goods of Life, which make it liveable?
Yes! yes! I say: then wherefore do ye talk
Of Loss, when Life's most godlike Goods remain?
Of which none, none can rob ye, save yourselves!
But this ye do most, most effectively
By holding them as naught compared with Gold!
Then wherefore stand ye thus in blank Amaze
433
Tho' the Larksvoice had grown quite out of Date,
The Rose had lost its Perfume, and Man's Life
Its Crowningcharm? if but the Dayseye had
Passed from this Earth, then first were Cause to weep,
For it is something natural and true,
And therefore godlike: but fear not, just for
This Reason it, and all that like it is
So true and natural, will never pass
Away from this fair Earth, whate'er it be,
A Work of Nature, or a Thought of Man!
Small as it seems its Roots are deep and strong,
Yea! reaching to the Heart of Things, and still
Unfailingly amid the Wreath which Spring
Weaves, like a Daughter with officious Hands
Of Love, for Nature's holy Brows, shalt thou
Find the «wee, modest, crimsontippëd Flower»,
When Thrones and Kingdoms pass and are forgot!
Why is it thus, that i'the Middaysun
Our Hearts be dark as Midnight, and our Pulse
Like Waters that creep sluggishly beneath
The numbing Ice? oh! 'tis a sorry Sight!
A Sight that makes me sick at Heart, to think
That the inspiring Breath of breezy Morn,
Which lifts the Birdswing, like a Thought, to Heaven,
Cannot blow o'er the meanest Sod of Earth,
The most uncared for Lea, and not awake
A thousand Flowers which, howsmallsoe'er,
Are perfect in their kind, that this same Air
Fresh from the green Leaves and the sunny Hills,
Breathes on the Face of Man and leaves in him
No more Trace than upon the waste Seasands,
And worse, far worse too, that the Breath of God
Breathed into Man can quicken him no more,
Nor call from him half so much of the Good,
The Fair and Useful as the Wind does from
The Clod which Plough ne'er broke nor Hand e'er sowed!
Tho' one be but of gross, material Earth,
The other of ethereal Element
With Seeds of Growths eternal, such as are
Not subject unto Chance and Change, to frail
Vicissitudes of Seasons and of Times,
But planted here for endless Blossoming
Hereafter, where no sere Decay is known!
Our Hearts be dark as Midnight, and our Pulse
Like Waters that creep sluggishly beneath
The numbing Ice? oh! 'tis a sorry Sight!
A Sight that makes me sick at Heart, to think
That the inspiring Breath of breezy Morn,
Which lifts the Birdswing, like a Thought, to Heaven,
Cannot blow o'er the meanest Sod of Earth,
The most uncared for Lea, and not awake
A thousand Flowers which, howsmallsoe'er,
Are perfect in their kind, that this same Air
Fresh from the green Leaves and the sunny Hills,
Breathes on the Face of Man and leaves in him
No more Trace than upon the waste Seasands,
And worse, far worse too, that the Breath of God
Breathed into Man can quicken him no more,
Nor call from him half so much of the Good,
434
The Clod which Plough ne'er broke nor Hand e'er sowed!
Tho' one be but of gross, material Earth,
The other of ethereal Element
With Seeds of Growths eternal, such as are
Not subject unto Chance and Change, to frail
Vicissitudes of Seasons and of Times,
But planted here for endless Blossoming
Hereafter, where no sere Decay is known!
My God! and hast thou in thy Image framed
Thy Creature, in his Make so fair and free,
So goodly to behold, that but to look
Once on his heavenlifted Brow must wake
A Consciousness of what he is, and is
To be hereafter: is it then in vain
That thou hast made him thus? with Faculties
Divine inform'd him, placed in this fair World,
Its Masterpiece and sole Interpreter;
The Highpriest of a far, far greater than
The Delphic Shrine, of holier Secrets, thro'
Whose Mouth, as from some thoughtunfathomed Depth,
Nature gives forth her Oracles, reveals
Th' invisible Things of God, and in him as
Both Man and Nature prophecies of an
Eternal Being, of a Future far
More clearly and sublimely than of old
The Pythia from her Tripod! hast thou made
Him vainly then this fair World's Centrethought,
There with his Hopes and Feelings to complete
The higher Links of that unbroken Chain
Of Harmonies, which from the least, least Form
Of Being runs up to the very Throne
Of that eternal Love, from whence he draws
His Birth and Blessing!
Thy Creature, in his Make so fair and free,
So goodly to behold, that but to look
Once on his heavenlifted Brow must wake
A Consciousness of what he is, and is
To be hereafter: is it then in vain
That thou hast made him thus? with Faculties
Divine inform'd him, placed in this fair World,
Its Masterpiece and sole Interpreter;
The Highpriest of a far, far greater than
The Delphic Shrine, of holier Secrets, thro'
Whose Mouth, as from some thoughtunfathomed Depth,
Nature gives forth her Oracles, reveals
Th' invisible Things of God, and in him as
Both Man and Nature prophecies of an
Eternal Being, of a Future far
More clearly and sublimely than of old
The Pythia from her Tripod! hast thou made
Him vainly then this fair World's Centrethought,
There with his Hopes and Feelings to complete
The higher Links of that unbroken Chain
Of Harmonies, which from the least, least Form
Of Being runs up to the very Throne
Of that eternal Love, from whence he draws
His Birth and Blessing!
435
—Oh my God, is this
A Prisonhouse in which we dwell? are these
Blue Heavens stretching far as Thought away
But stifling Dungeonwalls: is this green Earth,
This flowerscented Earth, a Dungeonfloor?
Are all the sweet Vicissitudes of Times
And Seasons, all the Poesy of Eye
And Ear, become so hackneyed to our Sense,
That we must turn away like heartsick Men,
Like feverfretted Prisoners, whose Eyes
Have drunk Despair from their damp Dungeonwalls,
And turn to Scoffings and Revilings at
Our Maker and his Gifts, because forsooth!
We are selfwearied, selfdebased, selfslaved,
In our own Souls imprisoned, chained by Thoughts,
Those worst of Chains, which bind far tighter than
The fleshcompressing Iron, to a far,
Far narrower Compass, and wheree'er we move
Stand 'twixt the Light and us, God's blessed Truth,
Still intercepting and discoloring it
Far more than do the thickest Prisonwalls
And dingiest Dungeonbars: that blessed Truth,
Which he who wants is less a man than Beast,
Degraded more, as made for highest Things!
A Prisonhouse in which we dwell? are these
Blue Heavens stretching far as Thought away
But stifling Dungeonwalls: is this green Earth,
This flowerscented Earth, a Dungeonfloor?
Are all the sweet Vicissitudes of Times
And Seasons, all the Poesy of Eye
And Ear, become so hackneyed to our Sense,
That we must turn away like heartsick Men,
Like feverfretted Prisoners, whose Eyes
Have drunk Despair from their damp Dungeonwalls,
And turn to Scoffings and Revilings at
Our Maker and his Gifts, because forsooth!
We are selfwearied, selfdebased, selfslaved,
In our own Souls imprisoned, chained by Thoughts,
Those worst of Chains, which bind far tighter than
The fleshcompressing Iron, to a far,
Far narrower Compass, and wheree'er we move
Stand 'twixt the Light and us, God's blessed Truth,
Still intercepting and discoloring it
Far more than do the thickest Prisonwalls
And dingiest Dungeonbars: that blessed Truth,
Which he who wants is less a man than Beast,
Degraded more, as made for highest Things!
Oh God! to think that this most glorious Sense,
This Eye, the Instrument of that within,
Whereby it looks abroad upon the Modes
And Forms of outward Being, 'till they grow
Part of our Spirit, stealing from the Heart,
As Winds from Flowers, its rich Perfumes, which
Tho' borne as 'twere upon the pathless Winds
In seeming Barrenness, fall yet again,
Embodied in a sweeter Shape, on the
Same Heart whence they were stolen, thus put out
To richest Usury—this glorious Eye,
That faithsubdued has seen the cloudy Veil
Of Heaven halfwithdrawn, for Sense may be
Transfigured, so as to be bound no more
By vulgar Laws or limited to Earth.
Oh! that this Eye wherewith the Soul has seen
Things which it moulds within unto the Shape
Of its own Yearnings, making thus the Heart
A Fount of Beauty, whose elysian Drops
Embathe with Edentints, and make eterne
To Love and to Enjoyment, Things that else
Would pall upon the outward Sense and fade,
If that which is imperishable had
Not breathed on them. Oh! that this noble Eye
Thro' which the Soul roams over Hill and Dale,
And lives abroad, free Denizen of Air,
Should be dwarf'd into a mere Microscope
To magnify Time's paltry Interests,
To make out Ledgers and to sum up Pence!
'Till those farstretching Visionviews of Things,
Glimpses of Light unutterable, fade:
Invisible Glories, dreamlike Mysteries,
Which are or are not as the Soul doth will,
From whence too grows a fairer World around
Us, like a Life within a Life, a World
Not realized, but in which we still are!
As in the Water some fair Landscape floats
Softmirrored, like a Magicpicture, where
Familiar Objects may be recognized,
But as it were transfigured, glorified,
Translated to a calmer, ampler Sphere;
Where we may be too with our Souls, there like
Those objects glorified, translated, tho'
Not with our Bodies: yet the most real Life
Is that of Soul, for where our Souls are we
Must truliest be! thus it is and is not!
Like a bright Bubble which exists to Sight
But not to Touch: be wise then, touch it not,
And it will gladden still thy Heart: what good
Can touching it do thee? as if thy Hand
Could grasp what fills thy Soul, or aught that it
Feels could be made more real by being touched!
This Eye, the Instrument of that within,
Whereby it looks abroad upon the Modes
And Forms of outward Being, 'till they grow
Part of our Spirit, stealing from the Heart,
As Winds from Flowers, its rich Perfumes, which
Tho' borne as 'twere upon the pathless Winds
In seeming Barrenness, fall yet again,
Embodied in a sweeter Shape, on the
Same Heart whence they were stolen, thus put out
To richest Usury—this glorious Eye,
436
Of Heaven halfwithdrawn, for Sense may be
Transfigured, so as to be bound no more
By vulgar Laws or limited to Earth.
Oh! that this Eye wherewith the Soul has seen
Things which it moulds within unto the Shape
Of its own Yearnings, making thus the Heart
A Fount of Beauty, whose elysian Drops
Embathe with Edentints, and make eterne
To Love and to Enjoyment, Things that else
Would pall upon the outward Sense and fade,
If that which is imperishable had
Not breathed on them. Oh! that this noble Eye
Thro' which the Soul roams over Hill and Dale,
And lives abroad, free Denizen of Air,
Should be dwarf'd into a mere Microscope
To magnify Time's paltry Interests,
To make out Ledgers and to sum up Pence!
'Till those farstretching Visionviews of Things,
Glimpses of Light unutterable, fade:
Invisible Glories, dreamlike Mysteries,
Which are or are not as the Soul doth will,
From whence too grows a fairer World around
Us, like a Life within a Life, a World
Not realized, but in which we still are!
As in the Water some fair Landscape floats
Softmirrored, like a Magicpicture, where
Familiar Objects may be recognized,
But as it were transfigured, glorified,
Translated to a calmer, ampler Sphere;
Where we may be too with our Souls, there like
Those objects glorified, translated, tho'
Not with our Bodies: yet the most real Life
Is that of Soul, for where our Souls are we
Must truliest be! thus it is and is not!
Like a bright Bubble which exists to Sight
437
And it will gladden still thy Heart: what good
Can touching it do thee? as if thy Hand
Could grasp what fills thy Soul, or aught that it
Feels could be made more real by being touched!
'Till these all fade and die, nor these alone,
But with them (since the Soul nought godlike can
Accomplish unless in the Godlike it
Believes) the generous Thoughts and genial Powers,
The pure Imaginings, the loftier Hopes,
The Love of noble Things, which not alone
Do beautify the individual Life
Of Man and sanctify the Poetspage,
But in a Nation's Heart are the grand Pulse
Of all true Energy: Mainartery
Of its best Lifeblood, which thro every Vein
Spreads the soulsaving Health of moral Worth;
Hence is that Selfrespect, the best Safeguard
'Gainst Selfdebasement: hence that noblest Pride
Which deems it glory to be even least
In the good Cause, and something to be last:
Hence that true Wisdom of the Fireside
Which thro' all kindly Exercise of Love
Teaches the Lore of Peace and Charity:
Not wreathing round his Brows the Laurel by
Blood watered and the Widowstears, whose Root
Is in the barren Soil of Strife, whence Seed
Of Good ne'er sprang: not reaping with the Sword,
Unreason's Sickle! the so sudden and
Unripened Harvests of brute Violence
And Wrong, but gathering them duly in
When old Experience has had her full
And perfect Work: matured by sober Thought,
By Fellowcreaturelove and weekday Toils,
Not loud and dazzling to attract the Eye
Of shallow Vanity, but bringing home
Unto the daily Heart a daily Bliss!
Not fitful Good, but equally diffused,
And like the Springsap of a healthy Tree,
Which allpervading gives no prurient Strength
To this Part or to that, but at one Time
Impregnates Root and Branch, the budding Leaf,
The scarceformed Flower and the Embryofruit,
With the Extremities in Earth and Air;
So thro' the State's wide Growth of moral Ties,
Of mutual and entwinëd Interests
Public and private, there should circulate
One same Lifespirit from the mightly Heart,
Pulsing unweariëd thro' every Vein
To keep the Bodypolitic in Health;
And all its Members should true Wisdom bind
Into one compact Shape of moral Worth,
Blending tenmillion Hearts into one Pulse,
One mighty Pulse of universal Love,
Of Tolerance, and Truth and Liberty,
Whose Beatings should be those of God's own Heart!
But with them (since the Soul nought godlike can
Accomplish unless in the Godlike it
Believes) the generous Thoughts and genial Powers,
The pure Imaginings, the loftier Hopes,
The Love of noble Things, which not alone
Do beautify the individual Life
Of Man and sanctify the Poetspage,
But in a Nation's Heart are the grand Pulse
Of all true Energy: Mainartery
Of its best Lifeblood, which thro every Vein
Spreads the soulsaving Health of moral Worth;
Hence is that Selfrespect, the best Safeguard
'Gainst Selfdebasement: hence that noblest Pride
Which deems it glory to be even least
In the good Cause, and something to be last:
Hence that true Wisdom of the Fireside
Which thro' all kindly Exercise of Love
Teaches the Lore of Peace and Charity:
Not wreathing round his Brows the Laurel by
Blood watered and the Widowstears, whose Root
Is in the barren Soil of Strife, whence Seed
Of Good ne'er sprang: not reaping with the Sword,
Unreason's Sickle! the so sudden and
Unripened Harvests of brute Violence
And Wrong, but gathering them duly in
When old Experience has had her full
And perfect Work: matured by sober Thought,
By Fellowcreaturelove and weekday Toils,
Not loud and dazzling to attract the Eye
438
Unto the daily Heart a daily Bliss!
Not fitful Good, but equally diffused,
And like the Springsap of a healthy Tree,
Which allpervading gives no prurient Strength
To this Part or to that, but at one Time
Impregnates Root and Branch, the budding Leaf,
The scarceformed Flower and the Embryofruit,
With the Extremities in Earth and Air;
So thro' the State's wide Growth of moral Ties,
Of mutual and entwinëd Interests
Public and private, there should circulate
One same Lifespirit from the mightly Heart,
Pulsing unweariëd thro' every Vein
To keep the Bodypolitic in Health;
And all its Members should true Wisdom bind
Into one compact Shape of moral Worth,
Blending tenmillion Hearts into one Pulse,
One mighty Pulse of universal Love,
Of Tolerance, and Truth and Liberty,
Whose Beatings should be those of God's own Heart!
And oh! my England, my dear Fatherland,
Must this high Wisdom, which was once the Dower
Of earlier Days, which shed a Beauty on
Cottage and Hall and Palace, like a Charm
Hallowing the meanest Thing it fell upon,
Must this high Wisdom, this pure Presence of
The God, be from its living Temple in
Mens' Hearts cast out, cherished but in dead Books,
Vain Records of those nobler Days when Life
Was as a Mirror to the written Lore,
Truth, Faith and Chivalry in Action, which
Are banished now from this prosaic World,
As Dreams from Broaddaylight, or linger but
On some Enthusiast's Lips whom Youth and Love
Keep still contaminationfree! alas!
Our Sidneys and our Miltons are no more;
A Sabbathwisdom in a Weekdaylife
We cannot comprehend! we have none such,
Who on the broad Highway and beaten Track,
In Company with Souls that never once
Have shaken Custom's Dust from off their Feet,
Could make high Poesy a living Truth,
Sublimed and not debased by being brought
Down to the Level of real Life, and made
Familiar to the Eyes and Hearts of Men;
Another Sense, itself worth all the Rest,
And giving unto these a tenfold Worth!
We have none such who live their Poesy
As well as write it: who are first great Men
And then great Poets, who can unto Life's
Most common Forms impart the Freshness of
A Dream and turn all Things within their Sphere
Of Thought to their own Worth: still holding, and
Most rightly, that the Elements of e-
Ven more than epic Grandeur in real Life
Alone abound, for there alone can Man
Be and work out the Godlike; and methinks
The Godlike is the highest Poesy
And Truth in one: the highest Poesy
As Fact, in which Light it is felt by God!
And who feels Poesy if he does not,
Who made, not wrote the sublime Poem of
This fair World? who for Words gives Images,
For mere Thoughts, Things, and lays bare to the Eye
The Hall of Wonders which the Poet dreams!
These noble Hearts are gone! and Milton's Mind,
Which lightninglike flashed forth from that dark Cloud,
(That Tempestcloud, which burst above this Land,)
Its Birthplace, wherein Might and Right had met
To measure Strength, tho' it still dwell with us,
A Presence as of high Divinity,
And might be as the Nation's Soul, to give
Us olden Days again and Deeds of Worth,
Yet quickens us no more, but as it were
Some heathen Oracle's forsaken Shrine,
Is dead to Good: no more the mighty Voice
Of the indwelling Spirit prophecies
And warns from out its holy Depths, as from
Another World: instructing us how still
A Nation may be great tho' poor, how shake
Off Custom's galling Yoke, not seldom borne
So long that Freedom's self seems strange, a Gift,
A Blessing vain!
Must this high Wisdom, which was once the Dower
Of earlier Days, which shed a Beauty on
Cottage and Hall and Palace, like a Charm
Hallowing the meanest Thing it fell upon,
Must this high Wisdom, this pure Presence of
The God, be from its living Temple in
Mens' Hearts cast out, cherished but in dead Books,
Vain Records of those nobler Days when Life
Was as a Mirror to the written Lore,
Truth, Faith and Chivalry in Action, which
Are banished now from this prosaic World,
As Dreams from Broaddaylight, or linger but
On some Enthusiast's Lips whom Youth and Love
439
Our Sidneys and our Miltons are no more;
A Sabbathwisdom in a Weekdaylife
We cannot comprehend! we have none such,
Who on the broad Highway and beaten Track,
In Company with Souls that never once
Have shaken Custom's Dust from off their Feet,
Could make high Poesy a living Truth,
Sublimed and not debased by being brought
Down to the Level of real Life, and made
Familiar to the Eyes and Hearts of Men;
Another Sense, itself worth all the Rest,
And giving unto these a tenfold Worth!
We have none such who live their Poesy
As well as write it: who are first great Men
And then great Poets, who can unto Life's
Most common Forms impart the Freshness of
A Dream and turn all Things within their Sphere
Of Thought to their own Worth: still holding, and
Most rightly, that the Elements of e-
Ven more than epic Grandeur in real Life
Alone abound, for there alone can Man
Be and work out the Godlike; and methinks
The Godlike is the highest Poesy
And Truth in one: the highest Poesy
As Fact, in which Light it is felt by God!
And who feels Poesy if he does not,
Who made, not wrote the sublime Poem of
This fair World? who for Words gives Images,
For mere Thoughts, Things, and lays bare to the Eye
The Hall of Wonders which the Poet dreams!
These noble Hearts are gone! and Milton's Mind,
Which lightninglike flashed forth from that dark Cloud,
(That Tempestcloud, which burst above this Land,)
Its Birthplace, wherein Might and Right had met
To measure Strength, tho' it still dwell with us,
440
And might be as the Nation's Soul, to give
Us olden Days again and Deeds of Worth,
Yet quickens us no more, but as it were
Some heathen Oracle's forsaken Shrine,
Is dead to Good: no more the mighty Voice
Of the indwelling Spirit prophecies
And warns from out its holy Depths, as from
Another World: instructing us how still
A Nation may be great tho' poor, how shake
Off Custom's galling Yoke, not seldom borne
So long that Freedom's self seems strange, a Gift,
A Blessing vain!
—Alas! my Countrymen.
Lay not the flattering Unction to your Souls:
Freedom's an arduous Thing, and must be won
With Toil and Sacrifice: she must be loved
For her ownself, (since this alone is Love)
Ere she will show herself in her true Shape,
Or make Return of Love; who worships her
To figure on this World's loud Stage and make
Her Name a Steppingstone to selfish Ends,
Him she disclaims, he's but an Actor there
For such brief Time as suits his own base Views,
And sympathizes with the Part he plays
About as warmly as the Mummer with
The Tinselrobe and Waxenmask in which
He rants upon the Stage! nor deigns she with
Her Name to sanction the too fickle Crowd,
That with the bloodstained Sword would cut intwain
The Bonds by their own Baseness twined around
Their brutish Necks; she loves not Violence,
And still less needs: she can accomplish more
With patient Wisdom and a few plain Truths
Than armëd Hosts and mighty Monarchies,
And with a Milton's Thought she can work out
Regeneration for a fallen Race
Far surer than by Sinew and by Nerve!
For Thought works on Men's Hearts, the Godlike on
The Godlike, and he who controuls but these
Can sway the Hand and Sword as he thinks fit;
Like God, into Men's Minds he enters, with
His Thought as theirs, unconsciously to them,
Directs their Efforts and controuls their Will!
With this then she loves most to work, by that
Which in Man is most godlike: for by what
Else could the Spiritual be attained?
And when no other Way by Vice is left,
When the Dearth of the Godlike is so great
That she too must perforce use palpable Means,
'Tis with a Hampden's Hand she grasps the Sword
Which then is that of Justice! she loves not
A wealthencumbered, pompbesotted Race,
These are of outward and of fleeting Things,
They're from and of the Dust, and who loves these
Too dearly cannot love his Freedom, for
He would be loath to part with these for it,
Therefore 'tis not that highest Good to him
Which it becomes then only when we think
And feel it really so!
Lay not the flattering Unction to your Souls:
Freedom's an arduous Thing, and must be won
With Toil and Sacrifice: she must be loved
For her ownself, (since this alone is Love)
Ere she will show herself in her true Shape,
Or make Return of Love; who worships her
To figure on this World's loud Stage and make
Her Name a Steppingstone to selfish Ends,
Him she disclaims, he's but an Actor there
For such brief Time as suits his own base Views,
And sympathizes with the Part he plays
About as warmly as the Mummer with
The Tinselrobe and Waxenmask in which
He rants upon the Stage! nor deigns she with
Her Name to sanction the too fickle Crowd,
That with the bloodstained Sword would cut intwain
The Bonds by their own Baseness twined around
Their brutish Necks; she loves not Violence,
And still less needs: she can accomplish more
With patient Wisdom and a few plain Truths
Than armëd Hosts and mighty Monarchies,
441
Regeneration for a fallen Race
Far surer than by Sinew and by Nerve!
For Thought works on Men's Hearts, the Godlike on
The Godlike, and he who controuls but these
Can sway the Hand and Sword as he thinks fit;
Like God, into Men's Minds he enters, with
His Thought as theirs, unconsciously to them,
Directs their Efforts and controuls their Will!
With this then she loves most to work, by that
Which in Man is most godlike: for by what
Else could the Spiritual be attained?
And when no other Way by Vice is left,
When the Dearth of the Godlike is so great
That she too must perforce use palpable Means,
'Tis with a Hampden's Hand she grasps the Sword
Which then is that of Justice! she loves not
A wealthencumbered, pompbesotted Race,
These are of outward and of fleeting Things,
They're from and of the Dust, and who loves these
Too dearly cannot love his Freedom, for
He would be loath to part with these for it,
Therefore 'tis not that highest Good to him
Which it becomes then only when we think
And feel it really so!
—Alas for us!
The Shadow of a coming Woe is thrown
Aforetime on us, but still in the Dust
At Mammon's Feet we lie, and offer up
Unhallowed Prayers to curse ourselves withal:
'Till Heaven offended, but in Wrath still just,
And dealing most appropriate Punishment,
Curses us with Fulfillment of our Prayers,
Giving us endless Wealth that we may reap
Most bitter Degradation, that e'en by
Our darling Sin we may receive the full
Amount of Retribution: growing less
And less adapted 'to all lofty Things,
'Till our Souls have no longer Fellowship
With Essence, nor can recognize in Life's
Familiar Forms the During and the True.
Thus by our Thirst for Wealth we see all Things
Distort, yet know it not, 'till that which is
Most strange, unnatural and most opposed
Unto our Being's End becomes at length
So commonhackneyed that we no more feel
How monstrous this our Transformation is.
We fashion exquisite Machines and thus
Intelligencing them, become alas!
Ourselves less than intelligent, halfbrute:
Degraded from that Wisdom which should look
Before and after, which alone can judge
Life's Aims aright, referring them to Truths
Eterne, not by the Ellwand which is used
In the World's Traffic and vile Bartering
To measure Forms and Customs, and the low
And meagre Product of Reality,
But that high Measure which alone has Scope
To compass the Unchanging and Eterne,
Being akin to these; our very Thoughts
Themselves do carry, as it were, the Stamp
Of Machineproduce, coarse, material,
Reducing all Things to the Positive
And Palpable, Religion to its Forms,
Faith to her Creed, and Freedom to her Signs
And outward Images: alas for us!
Who hope to win the highest Goods of Life
By Mechanism and to frame at Will,
Like so much Broadcloth, a proposed Amount
Of Freedom, Knowledge, Truth and Happiness,
Who roake a Trade of these celestial Things
And think that intellectual Light may be
Diffused like Gas thro' Pipes, or sold from Door
To Door by Ounce and Pound, dol'd niggardly,
Like other Shopwares, at its own fixed Price:
Not fructified by Love nor spread abroad
Like God's ungrudgëd Daylight that all Eyes
May reap the common Blessing, that all Things,
All Persons, Usages, Pursuits and Aims,
May have their own true Comment from the Lips
Of catholic Wisdom looking calmly o'er
The Scene of Man's Exertions, keeping still
In View his loftier Bourne and steadily
Distinguishing those Things which are eterne
And heavenly from passing Modes of Time
And Man's frail Institutions, on which he
Has built the Pile of Error towering high
Tho' sandbased, being raised on Sophistry
And Prejudice and hollow Forms, which with
That mightiest Lever, Man's enlightened Thought,
Embodying Nature's Instincts, Reason's Laws
Into a Voice of calmest, holiest,
And most majestic Utterance, as 'twere
An Echo of God's own, the Nation might
Raze to the Earth, yet shake not one least Stone
Of that vast Temple, beautiful and firm
Upon its Basis of eternal Truth,
Where, in the Service of the Mosthigh God,
Love, Reason, Freedom, like pure Vestals still
Unwearied in their Office, ever watch
The Altarflame of Faith and therewith touch
And purify the Lips of all who come
To vow a pure, enduring Ministry
To Freedom, ever labouring with Hand
And Heart in that high Service: not by Strife
And Violence debasing her fair Name,
Nor so unconscious of that which She is
And of the Inspiration which they claim
For her true Votaries as to believe
That she would stoop to palpable Agency
Of Muscle and of Sinew to work out
Her godlike Ends: but bringing holily
To her high Altars Trophies from the calm
And blessëd Victories of Truth, who binds
Not with material Bonds the Limbs, nor makes
Slaves of those whom she conquers, no! not e'en
Of him who is the least among her least,
But with her Touch of Light strikes from the Soul
The inward Shackles, leading it with her
A willing Captive, ever then most free
When most devoted to her: having then
The fullest Use of all its Faculties
And noblest Priviledges when it bears
The Badge of her high Service readiest!
And serving best that Wisdom, serving her,
Which on all vital Interests decides,
Still in Decision authorizëd by
The Beatings of the universal Heart,
True Wisdom and true Feeling being one!
Thus on eternal Basis building up
That best Equality where Men are made
Equal by Virtue, Love and Godliness,
Acknowledging Superiors in those
Alone who serve their heavenly Master best
By doing Good to all Men, and who show
Their Zeal not in disputing about Place
And Precedence, but in obeying Him,
Wellknowing that the least in doing Good
Is more than first in Earth's vain Pageantry!
The Shadow of a coming Woe is thrown
Aforetime on us, but still in the Dust
At Mammon's Feet we lie, and offer up
Unhallowed Prayers to curse ourselves withal:
'Till Heaven offended, but in Wrath still just,
And dealing most appropriate Punishment,
Curses us with Fulfillment of our Prayers,
Giving us endless Wealth that we may reap
Most bitter Degradation, that e'en by
442
Amount of Retribution: growing less
And less adapted 'to all lofty Things,
'Till our Souls have no longer Fellowship
With Essence, nor can recognize in Life's
Familiar Forms the During and the True.
Thus by our Thirst for Wealth we see all Things
Distort, yet know it not, 'till that which is
Most strange, unnatural and most opposed
Unto our Being's End becomes at length
So commonhackneyed that we no more feel
How monstrous this our Transformation is.
We fashion exquisite Machines and thus
Intelligencing them, become alas!
Ourselves less than intelligent, halfbrute:
Degraded from that Wisdom which should look
Before and after, which alone can judge
Life's Aims aright, referring them to Truths
Eterne, not by the Ellwand which is used
In the World's Traffic and vile Bartering
To measure Forms and Customs, and the low
And meagre Product of Reality,
But that high Measure which alone has Scope
To compass the Unchanging and Eterne,
Being akin to these; our very Thoughts
Themselves do carry, as it were, the Stamp
Of Machineproduce, coarse, material,
Reducing all Things to the Positive
And Palpable, Religion to its Forms,
Faith to her Creed, and Freedom to her Signs
And outward Images: alas for us!
Who hope to win the highest Goods of Life
By Mechanism and to frame at Will,
Like so much Broadcloth, a proposed Amount
Of Freedom, Knowledge, Truth and Happiness,
Who roake a Trade of these celestial Things
443
Diffused like Gas thro' Pipes, or sold from Door
To Door by Ounce and Pound, dol'd niggardly,
Like other Shopwares, at its own fixed Price:
Not fructified by Love nor spread abroad
Like God's ungrudgëd Daylight that all Eyes
May reap the common Blessing, that all Things,
All Persons, Usages, Pursuits and Aims,
May have their own true Comment from the Lips
Of catholic Wisdom looking calmly o'er
The Scene of Man's Exertions, keeping still
In View his loftier Bourne and steadily
Distinguishing those Things which are eterne
And heavenly from passing Modes of Time
And Man's frail Institutions, on which he
Has built the Pile of Error towering high
Tho' sandbased, being raised on Sophistry
And Prejudice and hollow Forms, which with
That mightiest Lever, Man's enlightened Thought,
Embodying Nature's Instincts, Reason's Laws
Into a Voice of calmest, holiest,
And most majestic Utterance, as 'twere
An Echo of God's own, the Nation might
Raze to the Earth, yet shake not one least Stone
Of that vast Temple, beautiful and firm
Upon its Basis of eternal Truth,
Where, in the Service of the Mosthigh God,
Love, Reason, Freedom, like pure Vestals still
Unwearied in their Office, ever watch
The Altarflame of Faith and therewith touch
And purify the Lips of all who come
To vow a pure, enduring Ministry
To Freedom, ever labouring with Hand
And Heart in that high Service: not by Strife
And Violence debasing her fair Name,
Nor so unconscious of that which She is
444
For her true Votaries as to believe
That she would stoop to palpable Agency
Of Muscle and of Sinew to work out
Her godlike Ends: but bringing holily
To her high Altars Trophies from the calm
And blessëd Victories of Truth, who binds
Not with material Bonds the Limbs, nor makes
Slaves of those whom she conquers, no! not e'en
Of him who is the least among her least,
But with her Touch of Light strikes from the Soul
The inward Shackles, leading it with her
A willing Captive, ever then most free
When most devoted to her: having then
The fullest Use of all its Faculties
And noblest Priviledges when it bears
The Badge of her high Service readiest!
And serving best that Wisdom, serving her,
Which on all vital Interests decides,
Still in Decision authorizëd by
The Beatings of the universal Heart,
True Wisdom and true Feeling being one!
Thus on eternal Basis building up
That best Equality where Men are made
Equal by Virtue, Love and Godliness,
Acknowledging Superiors in those
Alone who serve their heavenly Master best
By doing Good to all Men, and who show
Their Zeal not in disputing about Place
And Precedence, but in obeying Him,
Wellknowing that the least in doing Good
Is more than first in Earth's vain Pageantry!
Serving, yet neither ostentatiously,
That Wisdom which, by teaching us to seek
And value that which is essential to
And constitutes Man's Being, best instructs
Us how to estimate aright the World
And all its glittering Vanities, yet not
To look with Scorn upon the meanest Thing,
The poorest Beggar, tho' he be in need
Of all that Prejudice and Wealth and Pride
Deem indispensible: for he may still
Want nothing in God's Eyes who looks not at
The Rags upon his Back, nor less for these
Enters into his Soul and from him speaks
The Godlike and the True! yea! he may still
Be no mean Being! he may have a Soul
Mighty and comprehensive, full of Faith,
Yea! even Love to all, which neither Pain,
Nor Want, nor Suffering can lessen: yea!
He may be one of those whom Christ would chuse
For a Disciple should he come again,
For not 'neath Silk and Ermine only beats
The godlike Heart, nor thro' the haughty Veins
Of ancient Birth alone the genuine Blood
Of pure Humanity flows strong! and he
Whom Injury and Insult have not made
A Hater of his Kind, in whom no Wrong
Can make the Eye of Wisdom look asquint
Or chill the Heart of Love, that Man might sit
Upon the Monarch's Throne and grace it more
Than any on whose Brows the Hand of Chance
Has dropp'd the golden Circle of a Crown!
Yea! he is crowned already! on his Head
He bears a viewless Diadem, the Crown
Of pure Humanity, which even God
Would not disdain to wear, he is a King,
A King of his ownself, the greatest, best!
By divine Right, not Usurpation, called
To fill the Throne which he becomes so well!
And yet how many pass him by, or look
Upon him as an Outcast: but from what
Is he an Outcast? from his Father's Love?
No, no, of that he has an ample Share:
Yea! having nothing else on Earth it is
His all-in-all, and therefore too God is
«The Father» to him! and how can he be
Called poor who of so rich a Father is
The Child, and whose Inheritance is so,
So sure? from what is he an Outcast then?
No! ye, ye are the Outcasts who look on
His poor, bare Head with Scorn: for if ye were
Children of that same Father ye would see
In him a Brother, as he is, and press
Him to your Hearts as such! and then, yea! then
Your heavenly Father would rejoice to think
He had such Children and would feel himself
More rich thro' them than by unnumbered Worlds!
Ye are the Outcasts then, for ye have no,
No Father, nor in his so, so godlike
Inheritance have any Share, of that
Divinest Love which is its noblest Part!
Better, far better were it for ye to
Want all Things, yea! e'en Food and Raiment, than
This one most indispensible of all!
Ye are the Poor, the Beggars, for ye want
E'en Love, which e'en the Beggar himself has,
And having which is godlike! what more then
Can ye be, unless ye were God himself,
For he's all Love, and therefore is he God!
That Wisdom which, by teaching us to seek
And value that which is essential to
445
Us how to estimate aright the World
And all its glittering Vanities, yet not
To look with Scorn upon the meanest Thing,
The poorest Beggar, tho' he be in need
Of all that Prejudice and Wealth and Pride
Deem indispensible: for he may still
Want nothing in God's Eyes who looks not at
The Rags upon his Back, nor less for these
Enters into his Soul and from him speaks
The Godlike and the True! yea! he may still
Be no mean Being! he may have a Soul
Mighty and comprehensive, full of Faith,
Yea! even Love to all, which neither Pain,
Nor Want, nor Suffering can lessen: yea!
He may be one of those whom Christ would chuse
For a Disciple should he come again,
For not 'neath Silk and Ermine only beats
The godlike Heart, nor thro' the haughty Veins
Of ancient Birth alone the genuine Blood
Of pure Humanity flows strong! and he
Whom Injury and Insult have not made
A Hater of his Kind, in whom no Wrong
Can make the Eye of Wisdom look asquint
Or chill the Heart of Love, that Man might sit
Upon the Monarch's Throne and grace it more
Than any on whose Brows the Hand of Chance
Has dropp'd the golden Circle of a Crown!
Yea! he is crowned already! on his Head
He bears a viewless Diadem, the Crown
Of pure Humanity, which even God
Would not disdain to wear, he is a King,
A King of his ownself, the greatest, best!
By divine Right, not Usurpation, called
To fill the Throne which he becomes so well!
And yet how many pass him by, or look
446
Is he an Outcast? from his Father's Love?
No, no, of that he has an ample Share:
Yea! having nothing else on Earth it is
His all-in-all, and therefore too God is
«The Father» to him! and how can he be
Called poor who of so rich a Father is
The Child, and whose Inheritance is so,
So sure? from what is he an Outcast then?
No! ye, ye are the Outcasts who look on
His poor, bare Head with Scorn: for if ye were
Children of that same Father ye would see
In him a Brother, as he is, and press
Him to your Hearts as such! and then, yea! then
Your heavenly Father would rejoice to think
He had such Children and would feel himself
More rich thro' them than by unnumbered Worlds!
Ye are the Outcasts then, for ye have no,
No Father, nor in his so, so godlike
Inheritance have any Share, of that
Divinest Love which is its noblest Part!
Better, far better were it for ye to
Want all Things, yea! e'en Food and Raiment, than
This one most indispensible of all!
Ye are the Poor, the Beggars, for ye want
E'en Love, which e'en the Beggar himself has,
And having which is godlike! what more then
Can ye be, unless ye were God himself,
For he's all Love, and therefore is he God!
Alas for us who with the holiest Things
Work out but vilest, commonest: who with
The highest Instruments accomplish naught
But the dull Drudgery of weekday Life.
Thus Education, that divinest Boon
Which Charity from out the goodly Store
Of Heaven's choicest Gifts bestowed on Man,
And whose ethereal Lamp should kindled be
With purest Altarfire of Faith, sheds but
A scant, imperfect Light on this poor Space
Of Earth we tread on, on the fleeting Aims
And Interests of Time, by which we grope
Still blindly after Seeminggoods when with
Firm Step and skyward Glance we might move on
Securely to our blessed Heritage!
Alas for Education, she is not
The Handmaid of Religion, she stands not
Like a benificent Angel robed in White
Beside the Templedoor to beckon us
To that her noblest School, and open it
With radiant Smile unto our Infantfeet
Ere they have gone astray, while yet the Heart
Is plastic for the Impress of its God!
Alas! we have debased her: she is now
The Handmaid of this cold and heartless World,
And, fitly punished, we receive from her,
Who should dispense all heavenly Gifts, the Chains
Which Prejudice and Custom rivet on
The yet-unconscious Soul, those inward Chains
That fetter Freedom's Spirit at its Birth,
And which we bear with us e'en when we seem
And think ourselves most free, yea! even then
We are as Slaves, for we have learnt to judge
By a false Standard, crookëd as Untruth,
Thus that which is most straight unto our Eyes
Distorted seems—
Work out but vilest, commonest: who with
The highest Instruments accomplish naught
But the dull Drudgery of weekday Life.
Thus Education, that divinest Boon
Which Charity from out the goodly Store
447
And whose ethereal Lamp should kindled be
With purest Altarfire of Faith, sheds but
A scant, imperfect Light on this poor Space
Of Earth we tread on, on the fleeting Aims
And Interests of Time, by which we grope
Still blindly after Seeminggoods when with
Firm Step and skyward Glance we might move on
Securely to our blessed Heritage!
Alas for Education, she is not
The Handmaid of Religion, she stands not
Like a benificent Angel robed in White
Beside the Templedoor to beckon us
To that her noblest School, and open it
With radiant Smile unto our Infantfeet
Ere they have gone astray, while yet the Heart
Is plastic for the Impress of its God!
Alas! we have debased her: she is now
The Handmaid of this cold and heartless World,
And, fitly punished, we receive from her,
Who should dispense all heavenly Gifts, the Chains
Which Prejudice and Custom rivet on
The yet-unconscious Soul, those inward Chains
That fetter Freedom's Spirit at its Birth,
And which we bear with us e'en when we seem
And think ourselves most free, yea! even then
We are as Slaves, for we have learnt to judge
By a false Standard, crookëd as Untruth,
Thus that which is most straight unto our Eyes
Distorted seems—
Alas! unhappy Men,
Born to experience how noblest Things
Perverted turn to worst: who have but learnt
From Education that which fits them for
The Moleways of the World, whom she has taught
But to outwit eachother in the vile
And crooked Paths of human Policy,
Of Pelf and Gain—Foxwisdom which can plan
right cunningly and of its narrow Sphere
Knows all the Ins and Outs, but cannot see
The Nothingness of all it seeks, nor grasp
The End and the Beginning of all Life,
Nor know what in the Interval may be
Worthy a Wiseman's Choice: what matters it
That the Mind be wellstored, the Faculties
Quick, forgetive and exercised, if still
They lack the vital and inspiring Heat
Of holy Aspiration, if the Will
Remain unpurified, if tho' we see
That which is right we love it not nor seek:
If our Affections be not schooled, so that
Instinctively, e'en as the Ivy climbs
The neighbouring Tree, they may be led to twine
Themselves around the Pillars which support
The glorious Temple of the living God,
Truth, Faith, Love, Justice, upon which the Dome
Of Heaven itself rests everlastingly!
Born to experience how noblest Things
Perverted turn to worst: who have but learnt
From Education that which fits them for
The Moleways of the World, whom she has taught
But to outwit eachother in the vile
448
Of Pelf and Gain—Foxwisdom which can plan
right cunningly and of its narrow Sphere
Knows all the Ins and Outs, but cannot see
The Nothingness of all it seeks, nor grasp
The End and the Beginning of all Life,
Nor know what in the Interval may be
Worthy a Wiseman's Choice: what matters it
That the Mind be wellstored, the Faculties
Quick, forgetive and exercised, if still
They lack the vital and inspiring Heat
Of holy Aspiration, if the Will
Remain unpurified, if tho' we see
That which is right we love it not nor seek:
If our Affections be not schooled, so that
Instinctively, e'en as the Ivy climbs
The neighbouring Tree, they may be led to twine
Themselves around the Pillars which support
The glorious Temple of the living God,
Truth, Faith, Love, Justice, upon which the Dome
Of Heaven itself rests everlastingly!
What is a Nation worth if it bear not
The Impress of the Godlike grandly on
Its weekday Character? if all its Toils
And Institutions tend not to exalt
The Faculties of Soul, but only serve
To multiply the vile Accessories,
The physical Comforts of this sensual Life,
As tho' the Body were our only God,
As tho' Man's noblest Heritage were but
The brief Enjoyments which Sensation yields!
What boots it that Religion teach to such
Her blessëd Truths? what profits it to say
To men who worship Mammon, «take no Heed
For that ye eat, or that which ye shall drink,
Or that the Body shall put on», for Life,
The Breath of Reason and the Soul of Faith,
To these is less than Food or Raiment! yea!
To such her Words are Foolishness, mere Sounds,
Mere empty Sounds, mouthed on the Sabbathday
By some cold Hireling to whom God's Word,
God's blessëd Word so full of Life and Health
And all Regeneration, is but as
The Trade by which he earns his daily Bread,
Unhappy Man! far better in the Sweat
Of Toil and Misery to labour on
Than thus to sin unto the Holy Ghost,
Profaning the sublimest Instrument
Of human Good by making it a Tool
In a vile Hand of mercenary Gain!
And who are they that listen? who are they
To whom the lifedispensing Words are taught
By Lips which Faith has never purified
With her high Altarfire nor enriched
With Utterance for her own hidden Truths?
Who are they? Men and Women that by Rote
Repeat the Words to which their Hearts and Minds
Give neither Warmth nor Meaning, who are met
For Formssake in Godshouse, because forsooth!
Custom so wills it and the outward Rules
Of Decency, and who, when this dull Farce
Is ended, bear away unquickened Hearts,
Untouched by one blest Thought, to mingle once
Again in the World's Turmoil as before,
Amid its Fret and Fever to renew
The Nothingness of former Toils, to strive,
To jostle and blaspheme, to hate and grudge!
The Impress of the Godlike grandly on
Its weekday Character? if all its Toils
And Institutions tend not to exalt
The Faculties of Soul, but only serve
To multiply the vile Accessories,
The physical Comforts of this sensual Life,
As tho' the Body were our only God,
As tho' Man's noblest Heritage were but
The brief Enjoyments which Sensation yields!
What boots it that Religion teach to such
Her blessëd Truths? what profits it to say
To men who worship Mammon, «take no Heed
For that ye eat, or that which ye shall drink,
449
The Breath of Reason and the Soul of Faith,
To these is less than Food or Raiment! yea!
To such her Words are Foolishness, mere Sounds,
Mere empty Sounds, mouthed on the Sabbathday
By some cold Hireling to whom God's Word,
God's blessëd Word so full of Life and Health
And all Regeneration, is but as
The Trade by which he earns his daily Bread,
Unhappy Man! far better in the Sweat
Of Toil and Misery to labour on
Than thus to sin unto the Holy Ghost,
Profaning the sublimest Instrument
Of human Good by making it a Tool
In a vile Hand of mercenary Gain!
And who are they that listen? who are they
To whom the lifedispensing Words are taught
By Lips which Faith has never purified
With her high Altarfire nor enriched
With Utterance for her own hidden Truths?
Who are they? Men and Women that by Rote
Repeat the Words to which their Hearts and Minds
Give neither Warmth nor Meaning, who are met
For Formssake in Godshouse, because forsooth!
Custom so wills it and the outward Rules
Of Decency, and who, when this dull Farce
Is ended, bear away unquickened Hearts,
Untouched by one blest Thought, to mingle once
Again in the World's Turmoil as before,
Amid its Fret and Fever to renew
The Nothingness of former Toils, to strive,
To jostle and blaspheme, to hate and grudge!
There is no Hope for us, for if the Eye
Be evil, if the Light within us be
As Darkness, must we not then go astray?
If from our earliest Years Religion be
Not a Conviction of the inmost Soul
And a most real Affection of the Heart:
But a mere Dogma stripped of all that makes
It beautiful and dear to daily Life,
A Skeleton with no warm, beating Heart:
If it be not the Poetry by which
We keep alive all Feeling, then it is
Unprofitable as the Priest's dull Lie:
'Tis Superstition, Bigotry and Hate,
A Firebrand of Strife and not the Kiss,
The blessëd Kiss of Love which heals all Wounds
And reconciles all Creeds: for there is one,
One Creed alone, intelligible un-
To all alike, yea! even to the Babe
Upon his Mother's Breast, and which all, all
Can practice too, for it requires naug ht
But what all, all, yea! e'en the least can give,
A little human Love! for none is so,
So poor as Love with Love not to repay,
And he who even Injuries requites
Therewith is godlike, yea! as God alone!
This is the easy Creed, not learnt by Rote
From Prayerbooks, but from all we hear and see,
And most from our own Hearts, where it is by
God's own Voice sanctioned and enjoined, and made
By his sublime Example so, so clear
That e'en the Blind by Feeling read it right!
He is the one true Blind who cannot see,
By Love, what e'en the Blindman sees as 'twere
With open Eyes: he stumbles at Midday,
For in his Eye he has the «Beam» of which
Our Saviour spoke and will not pluck it out;
Far better 'twere had he plucked out both Eyes
And halted on a Staff, than stumbled thus!
Be evil, if the Light within us be
As Darkness, must we not then go astray?
450
Not a Conviction of the inmost Soul
And a most real Affection of the Heart:
But a mere Dogma stripped of all that makes
It beautiful and dear to daily Life,
A Skeleton with no warm, beating Heart:
If it be not the Poetry by which
We keep alive all Feeling, then it is
Unprofitable as the Priest's dull Lie:
'Tis Superstition, Bigotry and Hate,
A Firebrand of Strife and not the Kiss,
The blessëd Kiss of Love which heals all Wounds
And reconciles all Creeds: for there is one,
One Creed alone, intelligible un-
To all alike, yea! even to the Babe
Upon his Mother's Breast, and which all, all
Can practice too, for it requires naug ht
But what all, all, yea! e'en the least can give,
A little human Love! for none is so,
So poor as Love with Love not to repay,
And he who even Injuries requites
Therewith is godlike, yea! as God alone!
This is the easy Creed, not learnt by Rote
From Prayerbooks, but from all we hear and see,
And most from our own Hearts, where it is by
God's own Voice sanctioned and enjoined, and made
By his sublime Example so, so clear
That e'en the Blind by Feeling read it right!
He is the one true Blind who cannot see,
By Love, what e'en the Blindman sees as 'twere
With open Eyes: he stumbles at Midday,
For in his Eye he has the «Beam» of which
Our Saviour spoke and will not pluck it out;
Far better 'twere had he plucked out both Eyes
And halted on a Staff, than stumbled thus!
451
Consoler of the Poor, the sick of Heart,
Th' oppress'd and injured, Faith! what Friend have they
If to their bitter Lot thou bringëst not
Some heavenly Consolation, if thy sweet,
Low Voice ne'er whisper to the breaking Heart
Those joyous Words, not for the Ears of Kings
And Potentates designed, but for the Poor,
«Blessëd are they that mourn, for they shall be
Consoled and comforted»: a daily Want
Of the Heart unto them art thou, yea! more
So than their daily Bread: their Life is an
Inexplicable Riddle without thee,
But with thee 'tis a godlike Suffering!
Therefore the Poorman is no Sceptic, in
the Absence of all meaner Stays he falls
Back on his God and is upborne by him
As Thrones are not by Armies and by Gold!
Then let mankind upon that Pillar lean
And godlike will it stand by its ownself
When Thrones are shaken to their Base! for why
Should it lean on a Reed? God speaks from it,
Feels by and with it, therefore let it trust
Itself, for doing so it trusts in God!
And who shall turn it then from its high Path?
Then calmly onward let it move like to
A mighty Army marshalled by the Lord,
The Lord of Hosts, who as its Spirit leads
It on ward: its least Whisper is enough
To scatter Armies, for it is the Breath
Of God and who shall stand before the Lord?
To doubt of itself is to doubt of Him,
And then of all its Strength must it be shorn,
And, like to Sampson, into Bondage led!
But fear not this: its Strength is in its Heart,
Not like to Sampson's, then let it take Heart
And it will not want Strength, of this be sure!
Th' oppress'd and injured, Faith! what Friend have they
If to their bitter Lot thou bringëst not
Some heavenly Consolation, if thy sweet,
Low Voice ne'er whisper to the breaking Heart
Those joyous Words, not for the Ears of Kings
And Potentates designed, but for the Poor,
«Blessëd are they that mourn, for they shall be
Consoled and comforted»: a daily Want
Of the Heart unto them art thou, yea! more
So than their daily Bread: their Life is an
Inexplicable Riddle without thee,
But with thee 'tis a godlike Suffering!
Therefore the Poorman is no Sceptic, in
the Absence of all meaner Stays he falls
Back on his God and is upborne by him
As Thrones are not by Armies and by Gold!
Then let mankind upon that Pillar lean
And godlike will it stand by its ownself
When Thrones are shaken to their Base! for why
Should it lean on a Reed? God speaks from it,
Feels by and with it, therefore let it trust
Itself, for doing so it trusts in God!
And who shall turn it then from its high Path?
Then calmly onward let it move like to
A mighty Army marshalled by the Lord,
The Lord of Hosts, who as its Spirit leads
It on ward: its least Whisper is enough
To scatter Armies, for it is the Breath
Of God and who shall stand before the Lord?
To doubt of itself is to doubt of Him,
And then of all its Strength must it be shorn,
And, like to Sampson, into Bondage led!
But fear not this: its Strength is in its Heart,
Not like to Sampson's, then let it take Heart
And it will not want Strength, of this be sure!
452
The rich Man may be sceptical; Faith is
No Want to him, and when he prays to God
«Give us this Day our daily Bread» he scarce
Knows what he prays for: but it is the Hand
Of God himself which brings it each Day to
The poor Man, for he knows not who else would
Provide him with it, and therefore it is
So godlike, Food fit e'en for Angelslips,
As a Foretaste of Heaven! but that which
The rich Man eats is not brought to him by
The Hand of God, for he who has too much
May make sure that it came not from God's Hand,
For he distributes better, tho' Men will
Not do as he: and therefore too the Bread
The rich man eats is brought him not by God's
But by the Baker's Hand! and how can he
Be poor then whom God himself feeds and serves?
Yea! he is served as is no rich Man! then,
Then leave the Poor their Faith, the sublime Thought
Of taking thus their daily Bread from God's,
As from a Father's, Hand, not thinking how
They shall be clothed or fed! for if ye rob
The last, sole Solace left to them on Earth,
If this Belief be not inculcated
And made a Motive, oh! then take ye heed
Ye Nationrulers, ye to whom it is
As clay within the Potter's Hands, take Heed
Lest they indemnify themselves on Earth
For what they suffer and from Surfeit take
The Overmuch which it were vain to ask!
Alas! for us, who revel in brute Pomp
And Luxury, yet dole with niggard Hand
The Means which would diffase the saving Health
Of pure Religion thro' the Nation's Soul;
Alas for us who dream the Happiness
And Glory of a People e'er can be
By sordid Wealth and brute Machinery
Attained or maintained, knowing not this Truth,
That never was a Nation truly great
Save and except by Virtue, and that where
Undue Esteem attaches unto Things
Allied to Chance and Change, and when thereby
A false Direction is imparted to
Exertion and Affection, there can be
No Freedom, Nobleness or moral Worth:
And that the Nation, which thus blindly seeks
The Nothingness of Wealth, is punished by
The outraged and offended Majesty
Of Truth and Virtue scorning there to dwell
Where Mammon is adored! alas for us,
Who strive to rival by Machinery
The boundless Powers of Soul and realize
In palpable Forms that which exists in Thought
And Mind alone! poor, drivelling Idiots!
We may augment the Body's Comforts 'till
Wrapped up in Silk and Selfishness we nigh
Forget there is a God, or that the Wind
Blows sharply on the Back of Poverty
And naked Want: may make the Elements
Like Spirits wait on us, the changeful Wave,
Like a whiteman 'd Seahorse obedient to
The Rein, crouch at our Feet, the fickle Breath
Of Heaven lend its Wings, nighrivalling
Those of Imagination, to each bold
Design, and stubborn Earth our daily Drudge!
We may destroy, as 't were, both Time and Space,
Yet still in Time and Space, we cannot pass
The Bounds assigned us; still the mighty Realm
Of Soul in its Immensity is ruled
But by the Spirit dwelling there alone:
Not for such Things allmighty Wisdom here
Has placed us, not that with Machinery
We might subdue the stubborn Elements
Of Earth and Water, tho' this too be good,
But the more stubborn Elements of Will:
To perfect this divine Machine we call
The human Being, that its Products may
Last to Eternity and be approv'd
In God's own Sight, when Dust and Darkness lie
On these vain, fleeting Forms and Boasts of Earth
Wherein we place our Pride, mistaking still
Means for the End!
No Want to him, and when he prays to God
«Give us this Day our daily Bread» he scarce
Knows what he prays for: but it is the Hand
Of God himself which brings it each Day to
The poor Man, for he knows not who else would
Provide him with it, and therefore it is
So godlike, Food fit e'en for Angelslips,
As a Foretaste of Heaven! but that which
The rich Man eats is not brought to him by
The Hand of God, for he who has too much
May make sure that it came not from God's Hand,
For he distributes better, tho' Men will
Not do as he: and therefore too the Bread
The rich man eats is brought him not by God's
But by the Baker's Hand! and how can he
Be poor then whom God himself feeds and serves?
Yea! he is served as is no rich Man! then,
Then leave the Poor their Faith, the sublime Thought
Of taking thus their daily Bread from God's,
As from a Father's, Hand, not thinking how
They shall be clothed or fed! for if ye rob
The last, sole Solace left to them on Earth,
If this Belief be not inculcated
And made a Motive, oh! then take ye heed
Ye Nationrulers, ye to whom it is
As clay within the Potter's Hands, take Heed
Lest they indemnify themselves on Earth
For what they suffer and from Surfeit take
The Overmuch which it were vain to ask!
Alas! for us, who revel in brute Pomp
And Luxury, yet dole with niggard Hand
The Means which would diffase the saving Health
Of pure Religion thro' the Nation's Soul;
Alas for us who dream the Happiness
And Glory of a People e'er can be
453
Attained or maintained, knowing not this Truth,
That never was a Nation truly great
Save and except by Virtue, and that where
Undue Esteem attaches unto Things
Allied to Chance and Change, and when thereby
A false Direction is imparted to
Exertion and Affection, there can be
No Freedom, Nobleness or moral Worth:
And that the Nation, which thus blindly seeks
The Nothingness of Wealth, is punished by
The outraged and offended Majesty
Of Truth and Virtue scorning there to dwell
Where Mammon is adored! alas for us,
Who strive to rival by Machinery
The boundless Powers of Soul and realize
In palpable Forms that which exists in Thought
And Mind alone! poor, drivelling Idiots!
We may augment the Body's Comforts 'till
Wrapped up in Silk and Selfishness we nigh
Forget there is a God, or that the Wind
Blows sharply on the Back of Poverty
And naked Want: may make the Elements
Like Spirits wait on us, the changeful Wave,
Like a whiteman 'd Seahorse obedient to
The Rein, crouch at our Feet, the fickle Breath
Of Heaven lend its Wings, nighrivalling
Those of Imagination, to each bold
Design, and stubborn Earth our daily Drudge!
We may destroy, as 't were, both Time and Space,
Yet still in Time and Space, we cannot pass
The Bounds assigned us; still the mighty Realm
Of Soul in its Immensity is ruled
But by the Spirit dwelling there alone:
Not for such Things allmighty Wisdom here
Has placed us, not that with Machinery
454
Of Earth and Water, tho' this too be good,
But the more stubborn Elements of Will:
To perfect this divine Machine we call
The human Being, that its Products may
Last to Eternity and be approv'd
In God's own Sight, when Dust and Darkness lie
On these vain, fleeting Forms and Boasts of Earth
Wherein we place our Pride, mistaking still
Means for the End!
—What is true Strength I ask?
Do ye know what it is? have ye e'er look 'd
Into the mystic Depths of your own Souls,
Whence spring the primal Sources of all Life,
All Action, Being? Truth, Faith, Liberty,
Religion, Poetry, the Love of all
Things high and holy, without which we are
But as the Beasts that perish: thence is Strength,
That Strength whose viewless Might is as the Breath
Of God himself, and of which the most fit
And sublime Emblem is the Thought of Man
In which it most appears! thence is that Strength
Which can build up the broad and ample Base
Of mighty Empires, else on Stubble raised
And fleeting as a Dream! the Base of Right
And Justice which alone can bear the Weight
Of during Majesty, whose Roots are struck
Deeper than Earth's deep Centre, to the Core
Of universal Being, beyond Time,
Removed from Chance and Change, for ever firm!
And can Machinery, tho' it should lay
Pyramid on Pyramid and Rock on Rock,
Build up a Base like this? the Earthquake 's Stroke
Would shatter it, and Time would wear away
Its palpable Strength when that of which I speak
Would stand a Glory and a Joy for aye!
Would ye know what true Strength is? ask ye then
Of Time who tests it and of History
Whose Page loves to record its Victories
O'er the brute Foes who bar awhile its Course,
O'er Error, Ignorance and Prejudice,
And all the palpable Might of armëd Hosts
In vain resisting: subtler than the Light
It interpenetrates all Forms, yea! e'en
The inmost Thought of Man, and moulds them to
Its divine Will, while Sword, and Tower and Wall
And Armies melt before its gentle Breath,
So gentle yet so irresistible!
Like Snowflakes in the viewless Breathings of
The soft Favonian Wind: and mighty Thrones
Pass from their Place, like Dreams from God's pure Light,
Before its Glance of genuine Majesty!
It is invincible: no proud Array,
No idle Tumult waits upon its Step,
But like the Air it moves wheree 'er it lists,
Felt tho' unseen and unimpedeable!
One Man with it can conquer Millions and
Without it Millions are but as the Chaff
Before the Wind, soon trodden into Dust
By Time's unresting Foot! for he who has
True Strength fights not alone, but ever by
His Side are mighty Champions, unseen
By sensual Sight yet to the Mindseye clear,
Like Angels clad in Heavenspanoply,
Skytemper, fashioned in ethereal Forge
And allinvulneràble, Wisdom, Truth,
Eternal Love and Justice by him stand,
And like to Sampson with the Assesjaw
He needs no Weapon save the Consciousness
Of his good Cause! he is then something more
Than Man, he is an Incarnation of
Eternal Truth, and thus what he works out
Bears no Proportion to his seeming Means.
He may have Rags upon his Back, yet if
He be the Mouthpiece of the Deity,
That Deity can so enlarge his Voice
That it shall fill all Mankind's ample Ear:
He gives the Want of its great Heart a Voice,
That Want which, long-aforming, takes in him
A positive Development and thus
Made clear and definite fulfills its End,
In and thro' him, yet still it is Mankind's
Great Heart that into his one Breast has passed
And makes Use of his Voice!
Do ye know what it is? have ye e'er look 'd
Into the mystic Depths of your own Souls,
Whence spring the primal Sources of all Life,
All Action, Being? Truth, Faith, Liberty,
Religion, Poetry, the Love of all
Things high and holy, without which we are
But as the Beasts that perish: thence is Strength,
That Strength whose viewless Might is as the Breath
Of God himself, and of which the most fit
And sublime Emblem is the Thought of Man
In which it most appears! thence is that Strength
Which can build up the broad and ample Base
Of mighty Empires, else on Stubble raised
And fleeting as a Dream! the Base of Right
And Justice which alone can bear the Weight
Of during Majesty, whose Roots are struck
Deeper than Earth's deep Centre, to the Core
Of universal Being, beyond Time,
Removed from Chance and Change, for ever firm!
And can Machinery, tho' it should lay
Pyramid on Pyramid and Rock on Rock,
Build up a Base like this? the Earthquake 's Stroke
Would shatter it, and Time would wear away
Its palpable Strength when that of which I speak
Would stand a Glory and a Joy for aye!
455
Of Time who tests it and of History
Whose Page loves to record its Victories
O'er the brute Foes who bar awhile its Course,
O'er Error, Ignorance and Prejudice,
And all the palpable Might of armëd Hosts
In vain resisting: subtler than the Light
It interpenetrates all Forms, yea! e'en
The inmost Thought of Man, and moulds them to
Its divine Will, while Sword, and Tower and Wall
And Armies melt before its gentle Breath,
So gentle yet so irresistible!
Like Snowflakes in the viewless Breathings of
The soft Favonian Wind: and mighty Thrones
Pass from their Place, like Dreams from God's pure Light,
Before its Glance of genuine Majesty!
It is invincible: no proud Array,
No idle Tumult waits upon its Step,
But like the Air it moves wheree 'er it lists,
Felt tho' unseen and unimpedeable!
One Man with it can conquer Millions and
Without it Millions are but as the Chaff
Before the Wind, soon trodden into Dust
By Time's unresting Foot! for he who has
True Strength fights not alone, but ever by
His Side are mighty Champions, unseen
By sensual Sight yet to the Mindseye clear,
Like Angels clad in Heavenspanoply,
Skytemper, fashioned in ethereal Forge
And allinvulneràble, Wisdom, Truth,
Eternal Love and Justice by him stand,
And like to Sampson with the Assesjaw
He needs no Weapon save the Consciousness
Of his good Cause! he is then something more
Than Man, he is an Incarnation of
Eternal Truth, and thus what he works out
456
He may have Rags upon his Back, yet if
He be the Mouthpiece of the Deity,
That Deity can so enlarge his Voice
That it shall fill all Mankind's ample Ear:
He gives the Want of its great Heart a Voice,
That Want which, long-aforming, takes in him
A positive Development and thus
Made clear and definite fulfills its End,
In and thro' him, yet still it is Mankind's
Great Heart that into his one Breast has passed
And makes Use of his Voice!
—Live ye in Soul,
And let your Thought be of the bygone Days
From whence a steady Brilliance still shines forth,
Undimmed by Time and Change: transport yourselves
To that old Wilderness from whence was heard,
Dimsounding, as the Spirit of the World,
Forefeeling in its inmost Depths the Spell,
Had uttered it, a Voice of solemn Note,
Prophetic of a mighty Change to pass
Over the Face of Earth, the Baptist's Voice:
Then with the spiritual Stream, whereof
At its Springhead the Solitary's Soul
Had drank, move on, and in Time's Fullness see
It to a mighty River broadening
Of pure, majestic Waters, unwithstood,
And tell me if true Strength dwells not with Truth?
What else could overthrow the Prejudice
And Error which lay like a Shroud on Earth!
Could Sword and Spear do this? can they destroy
One single Error of the human Mind?
Or can the Conqueror with all his Hosts
Root out one Prejudice, can he with these
Work out what but a few, few Words of Truth
With a divine Constraint accomplish so,
So beautifully thro' the Minds of Men
Themselves, the only certain Instrument?
And therefore not with Sword or Spear he wrought,
For having heavenly Things in view he would
Not use mere earthly Means! nor had he need:
The Highest by the Highest easiest
Is wrought out, Truth acts direct on the Soul,
Man's Highest, and therefore he stood alone,
Unarmed, defenceless, but embodying
The Powers of Heaven in Simplicity
And Lowliness of Heart, in these was great,
In these invincible: thus too he raised
His spiritual Empire on the best
Affections of Mankind, on Truths which Man
Does not so much believe as is, and which
He therefore must believe so long as he
Is Man at least.
And let your Thought be of the bygone Days
From whence a steady Brilliance still shines forth,
Undimmed by Time and Change: transport yourselves
To that old Wilderness from whence was heard,
Dimsounding, as the Spirit of the World,
Forefeeling in its inmost Depths the Spell,
Had uttered it, a Voice of solemn Note,
Prophetic of a mighty Change to pass
Over the Face of Earth, the Baptist's Voice:
Then with the spiritual Stream, whereof
At its Springhead the Solitary's Soul
Had drank, move on, and in Time's Fullness see
It to a mighty River broadening
Of pure, majestic Waters, unwithstood,
And tell me if true Strength dwells not with Truth?
What else could overthrow the Prejudice
And Error which lay like a Shroud on Earth!
Could Sword and Spear do this? can they destroy
One single Error of the human Mind?
Or can the Conqueror with all his Hosts
Root out one Prejudice, can he with these
Work out what but a few, few Words of Truth
457
So beautifully thro' the Minds of Men
Themselves, the only certain Instrument?
And therefore not with Sword or Spear he wrought,
For having heavenly Things in view he would
Not use mere earthly Means! nor had he need:
The Highest by the Highest easiest
Is wrought out, Truth acts direct on the Soul,
Man's Highest, and therefore he stood alone,
Unarmed, defenceless, but embodying
The Powers of Heaven in Simplicity
And Lowliness of Heart, in these was great,
In these invincible: thus too he raised
His spiritual Empire on the best
Affections of Mankind, on Truths which Man
Does not so much believe as is, and which
He therefore must believe so long as he
Is Man at least.
—What has brute Force wrought out
Of Godlike or Enduring? it may pile
Its Monuments and urge its Hosts along
At one Man's Bidding to accomplish some
Eyedazzling but unmeaning Pageantry,
Which Time shall scatter like the Morningmists:
But for the Life of Life it can do naught.
Thro' the whole Range of History look back
And say what it has done: it reaches but
To the mere outward Form and on its Track
Lank Desolation waits, for it destroys
Not betters: nay, it cannot change the Form
Enduringly untill it changes too
The Spirit which alone the Form creates!
Of all that constitutes Man's Dignity,
Of all the Powers of human Weal and all
The loftier Elements and Faculties,
The Source is to be found in his ownself,
In his own infinite Expanse of Soul
Where Nature has epitomized herself,
As the Rose in its Scent: what has Force had
To do with the grand Revolutions of
Man's Life, they were the Work of silent Thought
Who like a mighty Spirit moves at Will
Over the Face of Earth, which as he moves
He quickens with his viewless Breath, and lo!
A Change is at the mighty Heart, its Pulse
Is quickened, and thereof a Shadow on
Time's Glass is thrown beforehand, as it were
A Spirit moving o'er it ere he take
A sightbare Shape, and with a Thought 'tis there!
'T has passed into Mankind, which, as if by
The Breath of God inspired, onward moves
With mighty Stride, godlike and confident!
Say what had force to do with that high Voice
Which called for Reformation, heard of yore
Ringing from Side to Side in this our Isle,
Stirring Mens' Hearts with vast, ideal Hopes,
And Yearnings towards a Good not realized,
Yet in that Voice forefelt, and dazzling Gleams
From the bright Wings of that old Glory which
Had shone on Man's dim Eyes upon the Birth
Of the World's Saviour, for in those Days
The universal Heart, the Nation 's Heart
Was stirred in all its Depths, and feeling deep-
Ly and intensely it was capable
Of mighty Issues.
Of Godlike or Enduring? it may pile
Its Monuments and urge its Hosts along
At one Man's Bidding to accomplish some
Eyedazzling but unmeaning Pageantry,
Which Time shall scatter like the Morningmists:
But for the Life of Life it can do naught.
Thro' the whole Range of History look back
And say what it has done: it reaches but
To the mere outward Form and on its Track
Lank Desolation waits, for it destroys
Not betters: nay, it cannot change the Form
Enduringly untill it changes too
The Spirit which alone the Form creates!
Of all that constitutes Man's Dignity,
Of all the Powers of human Weal and all
The loftier Elements and Faculties,
The Source is to be found in his ownself,
458
Where Nature has epitomized herself,
As the Rose in its Scent: what has Force had
To do with the grand Revolutions of
Man's Life, they were the Work of silent Thought
Who like a mighty Spirit moves at Will
Over the Face of Earth, which as he moves
He quickens with his viewless Breath, and lo!
A Change is at the mighty Heart, its Pulse
Is quickened, and thereof a Shadow on
Time's Glass is thrown beforehand, as it were
A Spirit moving o'er it ere he take
A sightbare Shape, and with a Thought 'tis there!
'T has passed into Mankind, which, as if by
The Breath of God inspired, onward moves
With mighty Stride, godlike and confident!
Say what had force to do with that high Voice
Which called for Reformation, heard of yore
Ringing from Side to Side in this our Isle,
Stirring Mens' Hearts with vast, ideal Hopes,
And Yearnings towards a Good not realized,
Yet in that Voice forefelt, and dazzling Gleams
From the bright Wings of that old Glory which
Had shone on Man's dim Eyes upon the Birth
Of the World's Saviour, for in those Days
The universal Heart, the Nation 's Heart
Was stirred in all its Depths, and feeling deep-
Ly and intensely it was capable
Of mighty Issues.
Rut, alas! in us
The primal Sympathies are dead awhile,
And great things stir us no more greatly: thus
The Beautiful, the Holy and the True,
Being beyond the Compass of our Thought,
We have curtailed and dwarfed to suit the vile
And meagre Standard of Utility,
Not elevating our ownselves to them
But bringing down their Natures unto us!
We are no longer taught to love the Truth
And to do Good for their own blessëd Sakes
Because the Highest in our Nature, but
For Prudence sake, for Decency, because
It is the Fashion and would be bad Taste
Not to do as the rest—Religion 's self
Is but mere Calculation, as it were
A Debtor-and a Creditoraccount
'Twixt God and Conscience; no more unto Faith
Are given now the Things which are her own,
Her Eye is filmy and no longer has
Its Visions, and no longer in the Heart
Of Man keeps she her Sabbath, there is no
Holy of Holies there for her, e'en there
Does Profanation clamour and blaspheme!
The Church, the outward and the visible Form
Wherein Religion dwells, what is it now?
But as a Tree that has outlived itself,
With no more Lifesap to produce good Fruit
Or flourish as of yore, when in the Soil,
Racy and fresh, of genuine Belief
She struck her mighty Roots and 'neath the Shade
The grateful Nations sat; but now, alas!
The Spirit has departed and elsewhere
It seeks a Home, for it is, like the Air
And Sunshine, universal, meant for all,
The Breath of the Soul's daily Life, the Light
Of all its Seeing, it may not be shut
Up in dead Forms nor limited unto
The Crosier and the Surplice, else 'tis but
An outward Sign with naught to correspond,
A costly Garment on a Skeleton!
Yea! we have Preachers from whose Lips the Word,
God 's blessëd Word in which is Life and Health,
Drops but as a dead Thing: aye, Men who clothe
In Purple and fine Linen, and yet call
Themselves God's Servants, knowing not that He
Escheweth these Things, being like a Child
In Meekness and Simplicity, but these
Are pompbesotted and prideblind, and deem
That Wealth and Show find Favor in God's Eyes.
And in the Stead of this high Faith which built
Cathedrals, bending to the mighty Task
Of Love and Duty an whole People's Mind,
The persevering Force of Ages thus
Embodied to create a fitting Shrine
For Him, who tho' in Space He dwells not, yet
Might deign to hallow such a Dwellingplace!
The Faith that planted in the Soul of Man
An infinite Love, infinite like itself,
For all Things beautiful and holy: not
A barren Love, but still in Word and Deed
Prolific: not a bounded Love, to Hope
And Fear, to Chance and Change allied, but all-
Embracing, boundless, limitless as Air!
The Faith that gave us Men who still fulfilled
Unswervingly their Being's End, who knew
No Rest save in their Task, and no Reward
Sought or desired save the Consciousness
Of working in their great Task master s Eye,
Men who passed o 'er this Earth as if their Foot
For one brief Moment rested on it as
A Steppingstone towards Eternity
And nothing more, like Gods, yet lowly as
The Child, fulfilling their high Mission and
By that absorbed from earthly Cares and Fears!
The Faith that gave the Reformation, which
By Milton spoke, and made the cruel Flame
A Glory to transfigure and sublime!
The Faith that gave us Shakespears, Harringtons,
Sydneys and Marvels, Men of Faculties
Infinite, for that they felt was infinite,
And in Infinitude they lived and died.
The primal Sympathies are dead awhile,
And great things stir us no more greatly: thus
The Beautiful, the Holy and the True,
Being beyond the Compass of our Thought,
We have curtailed and dwarfed to suit the vile
And meagre Standard of Utility,
459
But bringing down their Natures unto us!
We are no longer taught to love the Truth
And to do Good for their own blessëd Sakes
Because the Highest in our Nature, but
For Prudence sake, for Decency, because
It is the Fashion and would be bad Taste
Not to do as the rest—Religion 's self
Is but mere Calculation, as it were
A Debtor-and a Creditoraccount
'Twixt God and Conscience; no more unto Faith
Are given now the Things which are her own,
Her Eye is filmy and no longer has
Its Visions, and no longer in the Heart
Of Man keeps she her Sabbath, there is no
Holy of Holies there for her, e'en there
Does Profanation clamour and blaspheme!
The Church, the outward and the visible Form
Wherein Religion dwells, what is it now?
But as a Tree that has outlived itself,
With no more Lifesap to produce good Fruit
Or flourish as of yore, when in the Soil,
Racy and fresh, of genuine Belief
She struck her mighty Roots and 'neath the Shade
The grateful Nations sat; but now, alas!
The Spirit has departed and elsewhere
It seeks a Home, for it is, like the Air
And Sunshine, universal, meant for all,
The Breath of the Soul's daily Life, the Light
Of all its Seeing, it may not be shut
Up in dead Forms nor limited unto
The Crosier and the Surplice, else 'tis but
An outward Sign with naught to correspond,
A costly Garment on a Skeleton!
Yea! we have Preachers from whose Lips the Word,
God 's blessëd Word in which is Life and Health,
460
In Purple and fine Linen, and yet call
Themselves God's Servants, knowing not that He
Escheweth these Things, being like a Child
In Meekness and Simplicity, but these
Are pompbesotted and prideblind, and deem
That Wealth and Show find Favor in God's Eyes.
And in the Stead of this high Faith which built
Cathedrals, bending to the mighty Task
Of Love and Duty an whole People's Mind,
The persevering Force of Ages thus
Embodied to create a fitting Shrine
For Him, who tho' in Space He dwells not, yet
Might deign to hallow such a Dwellingplace!
The Faith that planted in the Soul of Man
An infinite Love, infinite like itself,
For all Things beautiful and holy: not
A barren Love, but still in Word and Deed
Prolific: not a bounded Love, to Hope
And Fear, to Chance and Change allied, but all-
Embracing, boundless, limitless as Air!
The Faith that gave us Men who still fulfilled
Unswervingly their Being's End, who knew
No Rest save in their Task, and no Reward
Sought or desired save the Consciousness
Of working in their great Task master s Eye,
Men who passed o 'er this Earth as if their Foot
For one brief Moment rested on it as
A Steppingstone towards Eternity
And nothing more, like Gods, yet lowly as
The Child, fulfilling their high Mission and
By that absorbed from earthly Cares and Fears!
The Faith that gave the Reformation, which
By Milton spoke, and made the cruel Flame
A Glory to transfigure and sublime!
The Faith that gave us Shakespears, Harringtons,
461
Infinite, for that they felt was infinite,
And in Infinitude they lived and died.
And for this lofty Faith, this genuine Breath
Of Inspiration coming from on high
What have we substituted in the Pride
And Folly of our Hearts? can Mechanism
Accomplish or create aught for the Soul,
Th' illimitable Soul? can it call forth
The Spirit of eternal Wisdom from
Its mystic Depths within the Heart of Man?
Can it create those Forms of Loveliness
Which from the Poet's Brain spring into Life,
Aerial Shapes scarce touching this dim Earth
On which they walk? can Mechanism blend
The vast and many Discrepancies of
Man 's individual Will into one high
And holy Purpose, one likeminded Hope
And Effort before which the Thrones of Kings
Are but as Bubbles to the onward Wave?
Is Love more beautiful in these dull Days
Than when Andromache on Hector's Breast,
Threethousand Years ago, her beating Heart
Laid in its Womansfondness, and a Tear
Started into the hardy Warrior's Eye
As o 'er the Good and Beautiful he bent
His manly Brow, and in the Shadow stood,
But for a Moment, of the coming Grief,
Then straightway in the Light of his own Soul,
(Like to the Sun emerging from a Cloud,)
Moved on in calm and sublime Confidence,
Prepared alike to suffer or to do,
As the Gods willed or as his Country ask'd!
Is Courage nobler now than when upon
The Persian Hosts Leonidas looked down
And felt a solemn Joy to think that he
By Fate was chosen for the Sacrifice?
Is Faith more ardent than when Latimer
From 'midst the Flames sent forth those Prophetwords,
And gave his Body as a Faggot to
The Fire, the divine Fire which first warmed
This Nation's Heart unto celestial Things?
Oh Fools! the Heart of Man is as it beat
In Adam 's Breast, ye cannot add one Pulse
Or alter it a Tittle, and his Soul,
For all that ye can do, will never look
Beyond the Moment which lies dim and dark,
Dark as the farthest Future in its Way!
Still must it trust and hope, still with the Staff
Of Faith in sublime Confidence move on,
Content to feel in Sorrow and in Joy
That which it is not given us to know,
How greater are we than we seem, yea! than
Ourselves can comprehend, for in us dwells
A God tho' but as yet revealed in Part,
Of whom our Souls a Revelation are,
Whose Presence we can feel but not explain:
Content if, doubting not, we thus become
More than we seem yet less than what we are!
Conscious, yet knowing not the why or how!
Can ye be more than this, than godlike, then?
Ye Fools! by Mechanism ye may clothe
Your Backs with costlier Raiment and may fill
Your Bellies with the good Things of the Earth,
But here ye stop! ye cannot add one Hue
To the least Flower of the Field or make
The Violet's Perfume sweeter, how much less,
Oh how much less, ye Fools, can ye then add
A Tittle to the Soul which is of God!
And God, if ye could feel him but in it!
How much less can ye make the Beautiful
Which haunts the inmost Soul more beautiful,
The True more true, the Divine more divine!
'Tis He who first created it alone
Can change its Nature and unfold its Wings,
Those hidden Angelswings the Wish to spread
Out which and soar away alone we feel,
Vain Yearnings without Power so to do!
Ye cannot pluck a Dayseye from the Grass
And bid another spring up in its Place,
Oh how much less then from the human Heart
Can ye remove one Feeling, or replace
The Holiness, the Freshness if once lost!
Ye would take Clay and like a Potter mould
The Heart of Man therewith and fashion it
In Mammon's Likeness and from it efface
The Image of its Maker; but, thank God!
These Things are placed far, far beyond your Reach!
Then toil and sweat, your Works are Nothingness,
Dust, Dust, and with them shall ye be forgot!
But if ye be so great as yourselves boast,
Do but this Miracle, replace the Dew
Within the Flower, or to that which is
The least of Nature's Works add but some Gift,
Some Property whereby it may fulfill
Better the End for which God called it forth,
And then, ye Fools, I will have Faith in ye,
Believe that Nature erred and ye are right!
Of Inspiration coming from on high
What have we substituted in the Pride
And Folly of our Hearts? can Mechanism
Accomplish or create aught for the Soul,
Th' illimitable Soul? can it call forth
The Spirit of eternal Wisdom from
Its mystic Depths within the Heart of Man?
Can it create those Forms of Loveliness
Which from the Poet's Brain spring into Life,
Aerial Shapes scarce touching this dim Earth
On which they walk? can Mechanism blend
The vast and many Discrepancies of
Man 's individual Will into one high
And holy Purpose, one likeminded Hope
And Effort before which the Thrones of Kings
Are but as Bubbles to the onward Wave?
Is Love more beautiful in these dull Days
Than when Andromache on Hector's Breast,
Threethousand Years ago, her beating Heart
Laid in its Womansfondness, and a Tear
Started into the hardy Warrior's Eye
As o 'er the Good and Beautiful he bent
His manly Brow, and in the Shadow stood,
But for a Moment, of the coming Grief,
Then straightway in the Light of his own Soul,
(Like to the Sun emerging from a Cloud,)
Moved on in calm and sublime Confidence,
Prepared alike to suffer or to do,
As the Gods willed or as his Country ask'd!
Is Courage nobler now than when upon
The Persian Hosts Leonidas looked down
462
By Fate was chosen for the Sacrifice?
Is Faith more ardent than when Latimer
From 'midst the Flames sent forth those Prophetwords,
And gave his Body as a Faggot to
The Fire, the divine Fire which first warmed
This Nation's Heart unto celestial Things?
Oh Fools! the Heart of Man is as it beat
In Adam 's Breast, ye cannot add one Pulse
Or alter it a Tittle, and his Soul,
For all that ye can do, will never look
Beyond the Moment which lies dim and dark,
Dark as the farthest Future in its Way!
Still must it trust and hope, still with the Staff
Of Faith in sublime Confidence move on,
Content to feel in Sorrow and in Joy
That which it is not given us to know,
How greater are we than we seem, yea! than
Ourselves can comprehend, for in us dwells
A God tho' but as yet revealed in Part,
Of whom our Souls a Revelation are,
Whose Presence we can feel but not explain:
Content if, doubting not, we thus become
More than we seem yet less than what we are!
Conscious, yet knowing not the why or how!
Can ye be more than this, than godlike, then?
Ye Fools! by Mechanism ye may clothe
Your Backs with costlier Raiment and may fill
Your Bellies with the good Things of the Earth,
But here ye stop! ye cannot add one Hue
To the least Flower of the Field or make
The Violet's Perfume sweeter, how much less,
Oh how much less, ye Fools, can ye then add
A Tittle to the Soul which is of God!
And God, if ye could feel him but in it!
How much less can ye make the Beautiful
463
The True more true, the Divine more divine!
'Tis He who first created it alone
Can change its Nature and unfold its Wings,
Those hidden Angelswings the Wish to spread
Out which and soar away alone we feel,
Vain Yearnings without Power so to do!
Ye cannot pluck a Dayseye from the Grass
And bid another spring up in its Place,
Oh how much less then from the human Heart
Can ye remove one Feeling, or replace
The Holiness, the Freshness if once lost!
Ye would take Clay and like a Potter mould
The Heart of Man therewith and fashion it
In Mammon's Likeness and from it efface
The Image of its Maker; but, thank God!
These Things are placed far, far beyond your Reach!
Then toil and sweat, your Works are Nothingness,
Dust, Dust, and with them shall ye be forgot!
But if ye be so great as yourselves boast,
Do but this Miracle, replace the Dew
Within the Flower, or to that which is
The least of Nature's Works add but some Gift,
Some Property whereby it may fulfill
Better the End for which God called it forth,
And then, ye Fools, I will have Faith in ye,
Believe that Nature erred and ye are right!
This Faith which ye have lost, the Heritage
Bequeathed by mighty Spirits who were heard
Preaching in olden Time the one grand Truth,
That in the Soul of Man all Happiness,
All Powers of Being dwell, is not to be
Regainëd thus: ye must go back I say
Unto the primal Sympathies and these
Must cherish and enlarge untill they bear
The good old Fruits again, but if ye forge
Chains for yourselves e'en from that very Thought
Which still should set ye free, ye are lost Men;
For ye no more this blessëd Sun can shine,
The green Hills greet ye not, this pleasant Earth
Can send into your Souls no Sense of Joy,
No sweet Perceptions of that Love which so
Ungrudgingly with its own Blessedness,
As with an Atmosphere, all Things surrounds:
Ye cannot kneel beneath the brightblue Cope
Of Heaven, as in a Temple, and to Him
Who made it lift the Song of Thanks and Praise:
Ye shall be of the Herd that daily treads
The City's Streets, unwearied in the Search
Of Mammon who there reigns supreme o'er Men
Degraded to the Likenesses of Brutes!
Ye may be shrewd, for Life to ye is but
A Plotting and a Tricking, not the so,
So sublime Sphere wherein the Christian forms
His Soul and fashions it to godlike Things:
Who simple as a Child (and like it too
Setting more Store by the least Flower of
The Field than all Earth's Pelf, and rightly too,
For 'tis God's Work and clearly of him speaks,
Clearer than ye tho' with his own divine
Intelligence endowed,) becomes to ye
An easy Dupe, a Scoff and Byword! ye
May pile your Moleheaps cunningly, and in
Your narrow Sphere with microscopic Ken
Outwit the Wiseman gazing at the free
And ample Sky above him, towards which as
He onward moves, o'er ye and your vain Works
He steps and sees ye not, for his high Soul
Looks down on ye as on the crawling Worm,
Tho' crawling that fulfills its End and is
But in its destined Place, tho' ye are not!
Bequeathed by mighty Spirits who were heard
Preaching in olden Time the one grand Truth,
That in the Soul of Man all Happiness,
All Powers of Being dwell, is not to be
Regainëd thus: ye must go back I say
Unto the primal Sympathies and these
Must cherish and enlarge untill they bear
464
Chains for yourselves e'en from that very Thought
Which still should set ye free, ye are lost Men;
For ye no more this blessëd Sun can shine,
The green Hills greet ye not, this pleasant Earth
Can send into your Souls no Sense of Joy,
No sweet Perceptions of that Love which so
Ungrudgingly with its own Blessedness,
As with an Atmosphere, all Things surrounds:
Ye cannot kneel beneath the brightblue Cope
Of Heaven, as in a Temple, and to Him
Who made it lift the Song of Thanks and Praise:
Ye shall be of the Herd that daily treads
The City's Streets, unwearied in the Search
Of Mammon who there reigns supreme o'er Men
Degraded to the Likenesses of Brutes!
Ye may be shrewd, for Life to ye is but
A Plotting and a Tricking, not the so,
So sublime Sphere wherein the Christian forms
His Soul and fashions it to godlike Things:
Who simple as a Child (and like it too
Setting more Store by the least Flower of
The Field than all Earth's Pelf, and rightly too,
For 'tis God's Work and clearly of him speaks,
Clearer than ye tho' with his own divine
Intelligence endowed,) becomes to ye
An easy Dupe, a Scoff and Byword! ye
May pile your Moleheaps cunningly, and in
Your narrow Sphere with microscopic Ken
Outwit the Wiseman gazing at the free
And ample Sky above him, towards which as
He onward moves, o'er ye and your vain Works
He steps and sees ye not, for his high Soul
Looks down on ye as on the crawling Worm,
Tho' crawling that fulfills its End and is
But in its destined Place, tho' ye are not!
465
Ye shall be of those dimeyed Slaves who ne'er
Have gazed in Rapture at the chrystal Arch
Of Heaven's vast Dome when on the Eveningclouds
The Sun has painted glorious Imagery,
«Fortunate Fields» where blessëd Spirits rove,
Floating amid the liquid Ether, like
Those «happy Isles» which erst the Soul of Man
Placed in th' Atlantic Main 'mid unknown Waves,
Yearning towards a higher Dwellingplace
By Instinct ineffaceable, that burned
With steady Light thro' all the Mists of Doubt
In Fable and in Fiction: kept alive
By Poet sage, who with the holy Warmth
Of high Imagination cherished still
A Truth dull Reason would not comprehend!
Into due Sense of which the lively Greek
By happy Chance surprized, or rather, led
By Nature's divine Hand, caught Glimpses bright
Of Glory yet undreamt, clear Openings up
Into Eternity, as when thro' Clouds
A sudden Sunburst clears a Vista bright
Into the Bosom of the farthest Sky,
Celestial Vision! which, tho' snatched away
Ere we can say «it is», suffices to
Awake the primal Instinct of the Soul.
Thricehappy Greek! whom cold, material Laws
Enslaved not to the Bondage of brute Sense!
Still true to Nature, she repay'd thy Trust
By leading thee thro' Blessedness and Love,
And healthy Sympathies, to highest Truths;
For never has she failed the loving Heart
Whose quiet Pulse thrills at the Song of Bird
Or Voice of natural Joy, that with all Things,
As Coinheritors of one same Life,
Has shared its Sympathies; she still upholds,
Exalts and purifies, thro' Ear and Eye
Enlarges Faith's Domain, infusing thus
Into the Heart Sensations sweet and pure,
And Sentiments of Thankfulness for Bliss
So largely spread abroad, until the Soul,
To which so many Sources of Delight
Are opened up, grows eager to repay
By giving Joy the Joy which it receives;
'Till Love grows Adoration, 'till it grows
Into a comprehensive Consciousness
Of its so divine Source, of God! for he
Who feels Love must feel God, since He is Love,
Feels Him too thus in His own purest and
Most godlike Form, in which He most is God!
Thus haply when beneath the chrystal Cope
Of his own cloudless Sky, as in a vast
And natural Temple, pillared up by Hills
And roofed with the blue Dome of Heav'n itself,
Or haply when the passing Rainbow's Arch,
With skyembracing Span, rose o'er his Head
As built by unseen Spirits, when 'mid Forms
In which the Power of the living God
Is shadowed forth, with Ear and Eye supplied
On all sides with clear Intuitions, with
Signs numberless and Proofs, in outward Things
As in his own Perceptions, a deep Sense
Of some pervading Presence, alldiffus'd,
Felt in the Air, in Nature's calm, deep Joy,
And in the Beatings of his Heart: when thus
At some high Festival, met to award
The Laurelcrown of Immortality,
(All Things thus tending to force on his Thought
The one grand Truth, of which that evergreen
Wreath was the visible Emblem, growing thence
As from the Root that kept it ever fresh,
And only as a Symbol of which it
Was deemed of Worth) when thus he heard the Voice
Of Poet singing of the olden Time,
Exalting Memory to an Act of Faith,
And holding up unto eternal Praise
The Deed heroic and the high Contempt
Of Death and Suffering, and who, as 'round
Him gathered thousands listened, gave unto
And caught from all those many Hearts, as 't were
Identified with his and speaking by
His Lips, the grand Conviction which Men in
Large Masses feel sublimely, and which as
God's Presence awes, controuls, and binds in one,
And makes Mankind Mankind! oh surely then
His Aspirations were a holy Heat
In which all meaner Sentiments consumed
And lost fed but the Flame of pure Belief.
Have gazed in Rapture at the chrystal Arch
Of Heaven's vast Dome when on the Eveningclouds
The Sun has painted glorious Imagery,
«Fortunate Fields» where blessëd Spirits rove,
Floating amid the liquid Ether, like
Those «happy Isles» which erst the Soul of Man
Placed in th' Atlantic Main 'mid unknown Waves,
Yearning towards a higher Dwellingplace
By Instinct ineffaceable, that burned
With steady Light thro' all the Mists of Doubt
In Fable and in Fiction: kept alive
By Poet sage, who with the holy Warmth
Of high Imagination cherished still
A Truth dull Reason would not comprehend!
Into due Sense of which the lively Greek
By happy Chance surprized, or rather, led
By Nature's divine Hand, caught Glimpses bright
Of Glory yet undreamt, clear Openings up
Into Eternity, as when thro' Clouds
A sudden Sunburst clears a Vista bright
Into the Bosom of the farthest Sky,
Celestial Vision! which, tho' snatched away
Ere we can say «it is», suffices to
Awake the primal Instinct of the Soul.
Thricehappy Greek! whom cold, material Laws
Enslaved not to the Bondage of brute Sense!
Still true to Nature, she repay'd thy Trust
By leading thee thro' Blessedness and Love,
And healthy Sympathies, to highest Truths;
For never has she failed the loving Heart
Whose quiet Pulse thrills at the Song of Bird
Or Voice of natural Joy, that with all Things,
As Coinheritors of one same Life,
Has shared its Sympathies; she still upholds,
Exalts and purifies, thro' Ear and Eye
466
Into the Heart Sensations sweet and pure,
And Sentiments of Thankfulness for Bliss
So largely spread abroad, until the Soul,
To which so many Sources of Delight
Are opened up, grows eager to repay
By giving Joy the Joy which it receives;
'Till Love grows Adoration, 'till it grows
Into a comprehensive Consciousness
Of its so divine Source, of God! for he
Who feels Love must feel God, since He is Love,
Feels Him too thus in His own purest and
Most godlike Form, in which He most is God!
Thus haply when beneath the chrystal Cope
Of his own cloudless Sky, as in a vast
And natural Temple, pillared up by Hills
And roofed with the blue Dome of Heav'n itself,
Or haply when the passing Rainbow's Arch,
With skyembracing Span, rose o'er his Head
As built by unseen Spirits, when 'mid Forms
In which the Power of the living God
Is shadowed forth, with Ear and Eye supplied
On all sides with clear Intuitions, with
Signs numberless and Proofs, in outward Things
As in his own Perceptions, a deep Sense
Of some pervading Presence, alldiffus'd,
Felt in the Air, in Nature's calm, deep Joy,
And in the Beatings of his Heart: when thus
At some high Festival, met to award
The Laurelcrown of Immortality,
(All Things thus tending to force on his Thought
The one grand Truth, of which that evergreen
Wreath was the visible Emblem, growing thence
As from the Root that kept it ever fresh,
And only as a Symbol of which it
Was deemed of Worth) when thus he heard the Voice
467
Exalting Memory to an Act of Faith,
And holding up unto eternal Praise
The Deed heroic and the high Contempt
Of Death and Suffering, and who, as 'round
Him gathered thousands listened, gave unto
And caught from all those many Hearts, as 't were
Identified with his and speaking by
His Lips, the grand Conviction which Men in
Large Masses feel sublimely, and which as
God's Presence awes, controuls, and binds in one,
And makes Mankind Mankind! oh surely then
His Aspirations were a holy Heat
In which all meaner Sentiments consumed
And lost fed but the Flame of pure Belief.
Think ye that he whose Eye by Love made clear
And Faith, scarce known unto himself, could see
The Forms of spiritual Beings by
The Elements, as with a Garment, clothed,
The Oread on some distant Mountainside,
An airy Presence out of Sunbeams wrought
And Clouds, which blending, alternating swift,
Left Fancy free to coin her Fairyshapes.
Think ye that he whose Hand, by holy Awe
Withheld and Veneration for the Spot,
Would never pluck a Branch from the tall Oak
Whose antique Shade the Dryad loved to haunt:
That he who, ere unto the gushing Spring
He bent his thirsty Lip, first offered up
A grateful Prayer unto the Guardiannymph,
Who sometimes, if the Votary had Faith,
Half rose from out the chrystal Wave to bless
His mortal Vision and then disappeared:
Think ye that he who thus in Detail made
All Things to sympathize with his own Faith,
Who gave a Soul and Principle of Life
Even to senseless Forms, forefeeling tru-
Ly as sublimely the great God in all,
And anxious by the Fancy's divine Aid
T adorn and bring still nearer to the Heart
This vital Truth: nor yet content, strove to
Combine these scattered Gleams of divine Light
Into a still more spiritual Form,
A pure Conception of essential Being,
Felt in the Yearnings of the human Heart,
And in the breathing Air, and in each Pulse
Of alldiffusëd Life, in great and small,
As that by which they live and without which
There is no Being, Happiness or Life,
The universal Pan! who himself is
The millionpulsing Soul of this wide World,
Who like the Air encompasses all Things
And interpenetrates, upholds, maintains,
All Modes of Being, felt by each as what
Is highest in it, as its Law and End:
The Uniondeity, the All-in-All,
In whom these Detailessences, each Pulse
Of spiritual Being was summed up
As in th' including Whole! think ye that he
Who by his Heart and Fancy rose thus high
Above the Shackles of this sensual Life,
And breathed, to all Intents and Purposes,
If we look calmly to the Heart of Things,
The Ether of Man's spiritual Life,
Think ye that he was less expressly made
In God's own Image, less erect than ye,
Or that God placed him in a lower Rank
Of rational Existence, that his Heart
Was harder or his Eye and Ear more dull
Than yours, who deem it Waste of Time to lift
Your Brows up to the loveliest Sky that e'er
Made the Soul yearn for Immortality?
Ye who, (with Hearts that in the glorious Forms
Of Nature recognize no kindred Spirit,
No Pulse that beats in Unison with yours,
Nor e'en the divine Hand which on the least,
Least Flower of the Field has left its Trace!)
Look briefly up, then turning to the Dust
Which ye have grovelled in until your Souls
Are parched and vile as it, exclaim in Scorn
At the poor «Fool» who loitering on his Way
Drinks from the glorious Vision, sway'd as by
The Breath of God himself, pure Draughts of Life
And sweet Forgetfulness of passing Griefs,
«They are but Clouds at which the Idiot stares,
Poor pennyless Wretch, when he had better think
How he shall fill his Purse»! yea! verily,
They are but Clouds, as baseless as a Dream,
A little Vapor by the Sunbeams hued,
Into thin Air soon melting all away,
Nor more nor less! yet if a passing Cloud
Can fill the Eye with Tears of holy Joy,
The Heart with Thankfulness, the Soul with Faith,
Better it were to gaze upon that Cloud
Barefooted and bareheaded, than to roll
In Luxury and Wealth and see it not!
'Tis but a Cloud which from th' eternal Blue
Fades and is lost, by Chymistry resolved
Into a little Gas! and what is all
Your boasted Wealth before th' eternal God?
And into what will He resolve it all,
That greatest Chymist! who resolves all Things
To their real Elements? is it then worth
More than that Cloud? no, no, not half so much!
For it awakes not one, one godlike Thought
Within your Hearts, while that can call up Tears
Of Bliss and fill it with the Sense of God!
And oh! believe me, that which can do this,
That must be godlike, natural and true,
To do so, for naught, naught can speak of Him
But what is true unto its End and Use:
Then were your Wealth so it would do the same,
But it is dumb! then cast it from ye, for
If it were godlike it would make ye so!
Ye call the Greek a Heathen! why?—because
Ye mouthe the Gospel as a Dog a Bone
From which no Good can come, and go to Church
And stand at the Streetcorners and pray loud,
Then rob the Orphan of his scanty Mite
To swell your Overmeasure! but the Lord
Is good and just, he gives the Burthen and
He knows the Bearer's Strength: then if the Greek
Without the Gospel has done more than ye,
Ye Hypocrites, that very Light ye boast
Condemns ye, yea! the Wisdom which ye claim,
That very Wisdom is your Stumblingblock!
But Wisdom knows ye not, for she is one
With Truth, Religion, and all lofty Things,
Of all her Children is she justified,
Then surely among these ye cannot be:
And without Wisdom Freedom too is but
An idle Name, for he who is not wise
Unto Salvation neither is he free!
For in the spiritual Life of Man
All Freedom dwells: but spiritual Life
Is none, unless we live in and from God!
All outward Circumstance and passing Form
Are then but as the Clouds which o'er the Sun
Pass, and receiving all, to him give naught!
Who will may everywhere be free, the Lord
Of amplest Sovereignty, vaster than
Eye grasps within its Ken and fairer far!
Accountable to none save God alone,
And owning but one Law, the godlike, which,
By being godlike he fulfills too best!
Yea! 'neath the worst of Tyrannies he's free,
A Citizen of a rightnoble State,
Whose Charter was established and confirmed
Ere the Foundations of the Hills were laid,
Far deeper and more durable than they!
He is a Freeman too, and not because
He holds some paltry Space of this brute Earth,
Which is not free, and has no Priviledge
To make or set free, but because he holds
A Patent from Allmighty God! a Soul
That is and dares to be true to itself,
Keeping its Birthright as a holy Thing
For which the World has no equivalent!
The Sanctions of that Law by which he claims
His Freedom are derived direct from God,
Not graven upon perishable Brass
But in the Heart, there ineffaceable:
And of their Tenor not one Letter may
Be altered, nor can Change of Time and Place
Aught lessen their eterne Authority:
To Black and White, beneath the torrid Clime
Or at the icy Pole, they are the same!
Not to wormeaten Parchments, not to Laws
Of human Institution or to Rights
Forced from proud Despots by the chaingalled Serf
Is he indebted for his Liberty!
These are but idle Forms, a narrow Base
Whereon to rear the noble Edifice
Of genuine Independence, dear alone
To him who, ignorant of what he is
And whence he comes, is still content to owe
Life's highest Blessing to an Equal's Hand,
A Creature like himself: who looks upon
The Birthright of his Soul but as a Boon
Of changeful Time, an Acquisition made
And hallowed by Tradition, tho' herself
But his frail Daughter, having neither Right
Nor Power to establish and confirm
Upon the Basis of eternal Truth
The Heritage she brings! these are mere Forms
And worthless in his Eyes, for Liberty
Is underived, not borrowing from these
Her divine Rights but giving unto them
Their Meaning and Significance: they are
But varying Modes in which from Age to Age
The undimm 'd Truth still reappears amid
Earth's grosser Elements, 'till casting off
All foreign Mixture and Alloy it breaks
Forth in its Purity upon Mankind!
He looks beyond this Earth, where Race to Race,
And Generation unto Generation, like
Waves by new Waves effaced unceasingly,
Succeed eachother, looks beyond all this,
Up to the God who having given Man
A Portion of his o wn pure Soul, therewith,
Included necessàrily in it
As the Scent in the Rose, bestowed likewise
All that is godlike, therefore Freedom too
Among the rest, and which in his own Right
He of his Father claims so long as he
Is godlike, for if not he for feits it!
What matter Revolutions then to him,
And Rights and Charters? or what can he gain
That he has not already in a far,
Far purer Form, or how extend one Jot
His Freedom when as wide as Thought itself,
As hard to be infringed on and destroyed?
He feels that he is free, by other Right
Than Statesman e'er invented, of a far,
Far nobler Commonwealth, whereof he is
A worthy Citizen approved by Truth!
Not from an Equal's Hand deigns he to take
His divine Birthright when by God's own Hand
'Tis proffered to him, knowing well that Kings
As easily might breathe the Breath of Life
Into a Deadman's Nostrils as confer
The Boon of Freedom on their meanest Thrall!
A greater than the «magna Charta» gives
Him his high Priviledge, strikes from his Soul
The inward Chains and purifies it 'till
A Temple worthy of the living God,
God condescends to dwell in it, and in
It entering, appropriates it to
Himself and fills it with his divine Light!
There are no Bonds for him! Hand cannot forge
The Fetters that shall hold him or build up
His Prisonwalls! ye might as well believe
To bind the living God himself as take
One Tittle from his Birthright! in his Chains
He is more free, a thousand Times more frce
Than those who thus constrain him: yea! e'en then,
Oh ye of little Faith, I say, there comes
A radiant Angel, robed in Heavenslight,
To strike his Chains off, and to lead him forth
Into his Father's Kingdom, as of old
Appeared unto St Peter in the Dead
Of Night, when Sword and Spear lay nerveless in
The Hands that watched him, impotent and vain
As their own Shadows! yea! I say, he's free,
He can fulfill his Being be he where
He may, in Prison as at Liberty,
For from itself the Soul draws all its Good,
And he who is a Law unto himself
None violates nor needs! but how can Law
Or outward Circumstance make free the Man
Who is the Slave of a depravëd Will,
Who has no Law within himself nor knows
Why God created him!
And Faith, scarce known unto himself, could see
The Forms of spiritual Beings by
The Elements, as with a Garment, clothed,
The Oread on some distant Mountainside,
An airy Presence out of Sunbeams wrought
And Clouds, which blending, alternating swift,
Left Fancy free to coin her Fairyshapes.
Think ye that he whose Hand, by holy Awe
Withheld and Veneration for the Spot,
Would never pluck a Branch from the tall Oak
Whose antique Shade the Dryad loved to haunt:
That he who, ere unto the gushing Spring
He bent his thirsty Lip, first offered up
A grateful Prayer unto the Guardiannymph,
Who sometimes, if the Votary had Faith,
Half rose from out the chrystal Wave to bless
His mortal Vision and then disappeared:
Think ye that he who thus in Detail made
All Things to sympathize with his own Faith,
468
Even to senseless Forms, forefeeling tru-
Ly as sublimely the great God in all,
And anxious by the Fancy's divine Aid
T adorn and bring still nearer to the Heart
This vital Truth: nor yet content, strove to
Combine these scattered Gleams of divine Light
Into a still more spiritual Form,
A pure Conception of essential Being,
Felt in the Yearnings of the human Heart,
And in the breathing Air, and in each Pulse
Of alldiffusëd Life, in great and small,
As that by which they live and without which
There is no Being, Happiness or Life,
The universal Pan! who himself is
The millionpulsing Soul of this wide World,
Who like the Air encompasses all Things
And interpenetrates, upholds, maintains,
All Modes of Being, felt by each as what
Is highest in it, as its Law and End:
The Uniondeity, the All-in-All,
In whom these Detailessences, each Pulse
Of spiritual Being was summed up
As in th' including Whole! think ye that he
Who by his Heart and Fancy rose thus high
Above the Shackles of this sensual Life,
And breathed, to all Intents and Purposes,
If we look calmly to the Heart of Things,
The Ether of Man's spiritual Life,
Think ye that he was less expressly made
In God's own Image, less erect than ye,
Or that God placed him in a lower Rank
Of rational Existence, that his Heart
Was harder or his Eye and Ear more dull
Than yours, who deem it Waste of Time to lift
Your Brows up to the loveliest Sky that e'er
469
Ye who, (with Hearts that in the glorious Forms
Of Nature recognize no kindred Spirit,
No Pulse that beats in Unison with yours,
Nor e'en the divine Hand which on the least,
Least Flower of the Field has left its Trace!)
Look briefly up, then turning to the Dust
Which ye have grovelled in until your Souls
Are parched and vile as it, exclaim in Scorn
At the poor «Fool» who loitering on his Way
Drinks from the glorious Vision, sway'd as by
The Breath of God himself, pure Draughts of Life
And sweet Forgetfulness of passing Griefs,
«They are but Clouds at which the Idiot stares,
Poor pennyless Wretch, when he had better think
How he shall fill his Purse»! yea! verily,
They are but Clouds, as baseless as a Dream,
A little Vapor by the Sunbeams hued,
Into thin Air soon melting all away,
Nor more nor less! yet if a passing Cloud
Can fill the Eye with Tears of holy Joy,
The Heart with Thankfulness, the Soul with Faith,
Better it were to gaze upon that Cloud
Barefooted and bareheaded, than to roll
In Luxury and Wealth and see it not!
'Tis but a Cloud which from th' eternal Blue
Fades and is lost, by Chymistry resolved
Into a little Gas! and what is all
Your boasted Wealth before th' eternal God?
And into what will He resolve it all,
That greatest Chymist! who resolves all Things
To their real Elements? is it then worth
More than that Cloud? no, no, not half so much!
For it awakes not one, one godlike Thought
Within your Hearts, while that can call up Tears
Of Bliss and fill it with the Sense of God!
470
That must be godlike, natural and true,
To do so, for naught, naught can speak of Him
But what is true unto its End and Use:
Then were your Wealth so it would do the same,
But it is dumb! then cast it from ye, for
If it were godlike it would make ye so!
Ye call the Greek a Heathen! why?—because
Ye mouthe the Gospel as a Dog a Bone
From which no Good can come, and go to Church
And stand at the Streetcorners and pray loud,
Then rob the Orphan of his scanty Mite
To swell your Overmeasure! but the Lord
Is good and just, he gives the Burthen and
He knows the Bearer's Strength: then if the Greek
Without the Gospel has done more than ye,
Ye Hypocrites, that very Light ye boast
Condemns ye, yea! the Wisdom which ye claim,
That very Wisdom is your Stumblingblock!
But Wisdom knows ye not, for she is one
With Truth, Religion, and all lofty Things,
Of all her Children is she justified,
Then surely among these ye cannot be:
And without Wisdom Freedom too is but
An idle Name, for he who is not wise
Unto Salvation neither is he free!
For in the spiritual Life of Man
All Freedom dwells: but spiritual Life
Is none, unless we live in and from God!
All outward Circumstance and passing Form
Are then but as the Clouds which o'er the Sun
Pass, and receiving all, to him give naught!
Who will may everywhere be free, the Lord
Of amplest Sovereignty, vaster than
Eye grasps within its Ken and fairer far!
Accountable to none save God alone,
471
By being godlike he fulfills too best!
Yea! 'neath the worst of Tyrannies he's free,
A Citizen of a rightnoble State,
Whose Charter was established and confirmed
Ere the Foundations of the Hills were laid,
Far deeper and more durable than they!
He is a Freeman too, and not because
He holds some paltry Space of this brute Earth,
Which is not free, and has no Priviledge
To make or set free, but because he holds
A Patent from Allmighty God! a Soul
That is and dares to be true to itself,
Keeping its Birthright as a holy Thing
For which the World has no equivalent!
The Sanctions of that Law by which he claims
His Freedom are derived direct from God,
Not graven upon perishable Brass
But in the Heart, there ineffaceable:
And of their Tenor not one Letter may
Be altered, nor can Change of Time and Place
Aught lessen their eterne Authority:
To Black and White, beneath the torrid Clime
Or at the icy Pole, they are the same!
Not to wormeaten Parchments, not to Laws
Of human Institution or to Rights
Forced from proud Despots by the chaingalled Serf
Is he indebted for his Liberty!
These are but idle Forms, a narrow Base
Whereon to rear the noble Edifice
Of genuine Independence, dear alone
To him who, ignorant of what he is
And whence he comes, is still content to owe
Life's highest Blessing to an Equal's Hand,
A Creature like himself: who looks upon
The Birthright of his Soul but as a Boon
472
And hallowed by Tradition, tho' herself
But his frail Daughter, having neither Right
Nor Power to establish and confirm
Upon the Basis of eternal Truth
The Heritage she brings! these are mere Forms
And worthless in his Eyes, for Liberty
Is underived, not borrowing from these
Her divine Rights but giving unto them
Their Meaning and Significance: they are
But varying Modes in which from Age to Age
The undimm 'd Truth still reappears amid
Earth's grosser Elements, 'till casting off
All foreign Mixture and Alloy it breaks
Forth in its Purity upon Mankind!
He looks beyond this Earth, where Race to Race,
And Generation unto Generation, like
Waves by new Waves effaced unceasingly,
Succeed eachother, looks beyond all this,
Up to the God who having given Man
A Portion of his o wn pure Soul, therewith,
Included necessàrily in it
As the Scent in the Rose, bestowed likewise
All that is godlike, therefore Freedom too
Among the rest, and which in his own Right
He of his Father claims so long as he
Is godlike, for if not he for feits it!
What matter Revolutions then to him,
And Rights and Charters? or what can he gain
That he has not already in a far,
Far purer Form, or how extend one Jot
His Freedom when as wide as Thought itself,
As hard to be infringed on and destroyed?
He feels that he is free, by other Right
Than Statesman e'er invented, of a far,
Far nobler Commonwealth, whereof he is
473
Not from an Equal's Hand deigns he to take
His divine Birthright when by God's own Hand
'Tis proffered to him, knowing well that Kings
As easily might breathe the Breath of Life
Into a Deadman's Nostrils as confer
The Boon of Freedom on their meanest Thrall!
A greater than the «magna Charta» gives
Him his high Priviledge, strikes from his Soul
The inward Chains and purifies it 'till
A Temple worthy of the living God,
God condescends to dwell in it, and in
It entering, appropriates it to
Himself and fills it with his divine Light!
There are no Bonds for him! Hand cannot forge
The Fetters that shall hold him or build up
His Prisonwalls! ye might as well believe
To bind the living God himself as take
One Tittle from his Birthright! in his Chains
He is more free, a thousand Times more frce
Than those who thus constrain him: yea! e'en then,
Oh ye of little Faith, I say, there comes
A radiant Angel, robed in Heavenslight,
To strike his Chains off, and to lead him forth
Into his Father's Kingdom, as of old
Appeared unto St Peter in the Dead
Of Night, when Sword and Spear lay nerveless in
The Hands that watched him, impotent and vain
As their own Shadows! yea! I say, he's free,
He can fulfill his Being be he where
He may, in Prison as at Liberty,
For from itself the Soul draws all its Good,
And he who is a Law unto himself
None violates nor needs! but how can Law
Or outward Circumstance make free the Man
Who is the Slave of a depravëd Will,
474
Why God created him!
—My Countrymen,
What matters it that at your own good Will
Ye frame your Laws, if still the Fountainhead
Be of unwholesome Waters, that you have
High Priviledges and Facilities,
If ye want Wisdom to apply aright
These precious Blessings, which are yet but so
As each Man's Virtue makes them, else naught but
Mere empty and highsounding Forms to cheat
The selffooled Spirit, which to its vain Pride
Thus offers up a savoury Sacrifice!
What tho' your Fieldwalks spite the grasping Hand
Of Wealth, who grudges to the poor man e'en
Free Passage o'er God's blessed Earth as if
'Twere consecrate to his proud Foot alone,
Be open to the Peasant as the King;
What tho' ye be as free as Heavensbreath
To blow on whom ye please, or as the Lark
In the blue Sky to utter what ye feel:
What tho' ye bear no foreign Shackles on
Your freeborn Limbs which like the blessëd Air
May roam thro' every Nook of this dear Isle
Unquestioned, unreproved, if in yourselves
Ye be not free? think not that Freedom lies
Within his Reach who's wedded to this Earth,
To its vain Pomps and Shows, he is a Slave,
For Mammon claims his Due, and not for naught
Serves he his Votaries! we have become
A moneyloving, wealthencumbered Race,
And gilded Vice is decent in our Eyes,
For this we live, we write, make War and die!
He who would win the Favours of the World
Must by Compliance with her Humours seek
To sway her Will, must pander to her Tastes
And worship her according to her Ways,
By her own Guiles must win her; thus by Crime
Must the Rootcrime be nourished, 'till it spread
Its baleful Shades above the Nation which
Beneath it harbours! they who plant must pluck
The Fruit of their own Sowing: still Unright
By selfbegetting Evil is maintained,
And like must follow like until the Cloud
Of gathered Evil has discharged its Wrath
Above the offending Head. thus Ill to Ill
Succeeds, 'till in Fate's surecast Net immeshed,
Nations, like Individuals, are taught
To do no Wrong! and when some Afterrace,
Warned by the mighty Teacher, Time, who throws
Light on th' Enigma-page of bygone Days,
Crime's dread Sphynxriddle, which to Ruin leads
And Selfperdition all who have not learnt
By divine Truth to solve it and to turn
Their Wisdom to Account, thus when, tho' late,
Some Afterrace would expiate old Sins,
Still the unfailing Forfeit must be pay 'd,
The fearful Heritage which they receive
From their Forefathers' Errors, and that too
With all the gathered Interest of Years:
Justice is even with us still at last!
And when too late we would restore their Rights
To those whom we have injured, that same Act
Applies the selfmade Scourge to our own Backs:
Thus are the Fathers' Misdeeds punished in
Their Childrenschildren, sure however late!
Alas! that those who sowed the Seed would think
On what the Crop must bring forth: prosperons Days
and Treasures flowing in may blunt the Edge
Of sorrowkeen Reflection, but Success
Like this is vengeancesent and falls upon
A Nation like a sudden Blindness, in
Which as one vast Blindman it gropes upon
The Brink of Selfperdition, whence the least
Blow or Selfdistrust plunges it headlong,
A Warning and Example! Afterwoes
Are but the Shadows which upon the Heels
Of Crime their Substance follow—these sometimes
Are cast before and warn ere yet they wrap
A Nation's Soul in Mourning; 'tis as if
the Shadow of the evil One were thrown
Upon his Victim from afar, ere he
Himself draws near and seizes on his Prey!
What matters it that at your own good Will
Ye frame your Laws, if still the Fountainhead
Be of unwholesome Waters, that you have
High Priviledges and Facilities,
If ye want Wisdom to apply aright
These precious Blessings, which are yet but so
As each Man's Virtue makes them, else naught but
Mere empty and highsounding Forms to cheat
The selffooled Spirit, which to its vain Pride
Thus offers up a savoury Sacrifice!
What tho' your Fieldwalks spite the grasping Hand
Of Wealth, who grudges to the poor man e'en
Free Passage o'er God's blessed Earth as if
'Twere consecrate to his proud Foot alone,
Be open to the Peasant as the King;
What tho' ye be as free as Heavensbreath
To blow on whom ye please, or as the Lark
In the blue Sky to utter what ye feel:
What tho' ye bear no foreign Shackles on
Your freeborn Limbs which like the blessëd Air
May roam thro' every Nook of this dear Isle
Unquestioned, unreproved, if in yourselves
Ye be not free? think not that Freedom lies
Within his Reach who's wedded to this Earth,
To its vain Pomps and Shows, he is a Slave,
For Mammon claims his Due, and not for naught
Serves he his Votaries! we have become
A moneyloving, wealthencumbered Race,
And gilded Vice is decent in our Eyes,
For this we live, we write, make War and die!
He who would win the Favours of the World
Must by Compliance with her Humours seek
475
And worship her according to her Ways,
By her own Guiles must win her; thus by Crime
Must the Rootcrime be nourished, 'till it spread
Its baleful Shades above the Nation which
Beneath it harbours! they who plant must pluck
The Fruit of their own Sowing: still Unright
By selfbegetting Evil is maintained,
And like must follow like until the Cloud
Of gathered Evil has discharged its Wrath
Above the offending Head. thus Ill to Ill
Succeeds, 'till in Fate's surecast Net immeshed,
Nations, like Individuals, are taught
To do no Wrong! and when some Afterrace,
Warned by the mighty Teacher, Time, who throws
Light on th' Enigma-page of bygone Days,
Crime's dread Sphynxriddle, which to Ruin leads
And Selfperdition all who have not learnt
By divine Truth to solve it and to turn
Their Wisdom to Account, thus when, tho' late,
Some Afterrace would expiate old Sins,
Still the unfailing Forfeit must be pay 'd,
The fearful Heritage which they receive
From their Forefathers' Errors, and that too
With all the gathered Interest of Years:
Justice is even with us still at last!
And when too late we would restore their Rights
To those whom we have injured, that same Act
476
Thus are the Fathers' Misdeeds punished in
Their Childrenschildren, sure however late!
Alas! that those who sowed the Seed would think
On what the Crop must bring forth: prosperons Days
and Treasures flowing in may blunt the Edge
Of sorrowkeen Reflection, but Success
Like this is vengeancesent and falls upon
A Nation like a sudden Blindness, in
Which as one vast Blindman it gropes upon
The Brink of Selfperdition, whence the least
Blow or Selfdistrust plunges it headlong,
A Warning and Example! Afterwoes
Are but the Shadows which upon the Heels
Of Crime their Substance follow—these sometimes
Are cast before and warn ere yet they wrap
A Nation's Soul in Mourning; 'tis as if
the Shadow of the evil One were thrown
Upon his Victim from afar, ere he
Himself draws near and seizes on his Prey!
477
Thricecursëd Wealth! thou hast so soiled our Minds
That e'en Philosophy, who should unteach
These souldebasing Sophistries, degrades
Herself to be the Pander to a Lie,
Teaching the» Wealth of Nations» as it were
A Merchantsledgerreckoning, a base
And sordid Summing up of Pounds and Pence!
And art thou sunk thus low, my Country, art
Thou come to this? to set thy Heart on Things
which are but as the Dust beneath our Feet,
By which we measure Knaves and Fools, for these
Cannot distinguish seeming Goods from real,
The one thro' Folly and the others thro'
Corrupted Will, thus Vice is Folly too,
And the Knave is both Knave and Fool at once!
Is this thy Wealth? thou in whose favored Tongue
Sages and Seers gave Oracles: wherein
A Shakespear and a Milton wrote, and which
God himself chose to speak by Lips he loved!
Are these thy Treasures? thou to whom Time's Page
Bequeaths such Wealth of holy Memories,
Thou who in Fredom's sacred Cause hast shed
Thine own Veinsblood, and offered at her Shrine
Names which should be as Watchwords to all Time!
I cannot think that thou art sunk so low,
So selfdegraded, yet how fallen off
From that which Poets and Historians paint!
From those bright Days when generous Love could bind
In high Familiarity, in free
Communion of Soul and Selfrespect
More Hearts than cursëd Gold dissevers now:
Sowing base Jealousies and paltry Hates,
Vain Discontents and Struggles to outdo
In Things where 'tis disgraceful to be first!
Where each Man, selfdissatisfied with that
Which Providence assigns or Labour earns,
Scorns his own State, tho' in it Wisdom might
Find ample Scope and Room enough for Bliss,
And will be miserable, wretched Thrall
Of others' Thoughts, not daring to be what
God made him, but the Ape at secondhand
Of other Apes, as tho' he were not free
To wear the Heart within his Breast, to breathe,
Feel, speak, or act, save when exampled by
Due Precedent to tread where others trod,
Who will not use his own, because, forsooth!
His nextdoor Neighbour is a richer Man,
An o'ergrown Child 'mid Toys that please no more,
Pampered and babyed upon Overwealth!
What is this Wealth which neither gives Content,
Nor Wisdom, Selfrespect, nor Worth, nor Peace?
Which at our Death is squandered to our Shame
By Knaves or Fools, by which too one Man bribes
Another's Honesty or buys his Way
To the first Honors of a worthless State,
Which thus exalts its Vices that they may
Scourge it with Crimes and Follies as is meet,
'Till the Shamecup be filled!
That e'en Philosophy, who should unteach
These souldebasing Sophistries, degrades
Herself to be the Pander to a Lie,
Teaching the» Wealth of Nations» as it were
A Merchantsledgerreckoning, a base
And sordid Summing up of Pounds and Pence!
And art thou sunk thus low, my Country, art
Thou come to this? to set thy Heart on Things
which are but as the Dust beneath our Feet,
By which we measure Knaves and Fools, for these
Cannot distinguish seeming Goods from real,
The one thro' Folly and the others thro'
Corrupted Will, thus Vice is Folly too,
And the Knave is both Knave and Fool at once!
Is this thy Wealth? thou in whose favored Tongue
Sages and Seers gave Oracles: wherein
A Shakespear and a Milton wrote, and which
God himself chose to speak by Lips he loved!
Are these thy Treasures? thou to whom Time's Page
Bequeaths such Wealth of holy Memories,
Thou who in Fredom's sacred Cause hast shed
Thine own Veinsblood, and offered at her Shrine
Names which should be as Watchwords to all Time!
I cannot think that thou art sunk so low,
So selfdegraded, yet how fallen off
From that which Poets and Historians paint!
From those bright Days when generous Love could bind
In high Familiarity, in free
Communion of Soul and Selfrespect
More Hearts than cursëd Gold dissevers now:
Sowing base Jealousies and paltry Hates,
Vain Discontents and Struggles to outdo
In Things where 'tis disgraceful to be first!
Where each Man, selfdissatisfied with that
Which Providence assigns or Labour earns,
478
Find ample Scope and Room enough for Bliss,
And will be miserable, wretched Thrall
Of others' Thoughts, not daring to be what
God made him, but the Ape at secondhand
Of other Apes, as tho' he were not free
To wear the Heart within his Breast, to breathe,
Feel, speak, or act, save when exampled by
Due Precedent to tread where others trod,
Who will not use his own, because, forsooth!
His nextdoor Neighbour is a richer Man,
An o'ergrown Child 'mid Toys that please no more,
Pampered and babyed upon Overwealth!
What is this Wealth which neither gives Content,
Nor Wisdom, Selfrespect, nor Worth, nor Peace?
Which at our Death is squandered to our Shame
By Knaves or Fools, by which too one Man bribes
Another's Honesty or buys his Way
To the first Honors of a worthless State,
Which thus exalts its Vices that they may
Scourge it with Crimes and Follies as is meet,
'Till the Shamecup be filled!
Awake once more,
My Country dear! for in thy grassy Lap
Thou bear'st the Pledge of glorious Deeds which must
Not be belied, but yield the promised Fruit
According to the Stock whereof they come!
The Dust of those who suffered at the Stake
Is mingled with thine Earth, that holy Earth
Not made for slavish Feet, and God who knows
The Future suffers not such Seed to die.
Think ye that Latimer and Ridley gave
Their Lives but for the passing Hour? no!
They died to serve the Future and with ye
Their Spirits, viewless Fellowworkmen! still
Cooperate, pass into, quicken your
Own Hearts, with your own Thoughts and Hands assist
Each godlike Undertaking, unto whom
They, as the noblest Heritage, bequeathed
Their Lives and their Examples, which become
A Curse or Blessing as ye yourselves make!
The Reformation's Seed sprung from their Blood,
A precious Harvest from a precious Soil
Which God has blessed and quickened! then once more
Arise, the Vineyard now is ready for
The Labourers and each is worth his Hire;
A greater Reformation still must be,
Reform ye your ownselves, and consecrate
Your Souls as Temples unto Truth, who loves
The human Heart, disdaining meaner Shrines,
An unwalled Temple vaster far than Dome,
Cathedralpile or Heav'n itself! and 'till
This Reformation be wrought out, in vain
Your Laws and Constitutions will ye change.
There is a Light beyond the Light of Day,
And as athwart this dim, nightmantled Earth
The Sunrays stream, an unseen Flood of pure,
Clear Radiance towards the far off Moon, so too
This better Light from Age to Age and from
One Land unto another, tho' oft un-
Observed, unknown, across the changing Mists
Of Time its divine Radiance pours upon
A Nation's Soul, and from its sublime Face
The old Light breaks, the Light, the Spirit of
The living God, as from the Moon thro' all
Her Changes the unseen Sun's Light, 'till full,
Full opposite she stands and godlike shines
Near bright as he, yet still but by his Light!
So too Mankind! when at its greatest Height
And Fullness of Perfection, it returns
Unto the Bosom of its God, comple-
Ting thus its destined Cycle, as the Moon
At Full gives back her Light unto the Sun!
But when its Soul grows earthly, dark Mists rise
Betwixt it and its Source, and it receives
That Light no more, then wanes the Nation's Strength
And Glory with it, like a sapless Tree!
Then cherish ye this Light, let it not be
Extinguished in your Hearts, but kindle there-
At Education's holy Flame and let
The Sparks be scattered far and wide, that so
Our Souls, like to the Stars of Heaven, may
Give Light unto eachother! then once more
Shall Echos of the good, old Days be heard,
And Milton's Name be mightier than the Glaive
To punish and defend, redeem and free!
My Country dear! for in thy grassy Lap
Thou bear'st the Pledge of glorious Deeds which must
Not be belied, but yield the promised Fruit
According to the Stock whereof they come!
The Dust of those who suffered at the Stake
Is mingled with thine Earth, that holy Earth
Not made for slavish Feet, and God who knows
The Future suffers not such Seed to die.
Think ye that Latimer and Ridley gave
Their Lives but for the passing Hour? no!
They died to serve the Future and with ye
Their Spirits, viewless Fellowworkmen! still
Cooperate, pass into, quicken your
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Each godlike Undertaking, unto whom
They, as the noblest Heritage, bequeathed
Their Lives and their Examples, which become
A Curse or Blessing as ye yourselves make!
The Reformation's Seed sprung from their Blood,
A precious Harvest from a precious Soil
Which God has blessed and quickened! then once more
Arise, the Vineyard now is ready for
The Labourers and each is worth his Hire;
A greater Reformation still must be,
Reform ye your ownselves, and consecrate
Your Souls as Temples unto Truth, who loves
The human Heart, disdaining meaner Shrines,
An unwalled Temple vaster far than Dome,
Cathedralpile or Heav'n itself! and 'till
This Reformation be wrought out, in vain
Your Laws and Constitutions will ye change.
There is a Light beyond the Light of Day,
And as athwart this dim, nightmantled Earth
The Sunrays stream, an unseen Flood of pure,
Clear Radiance towards the far off Moon, so too
This better Light from Age to Age and from
One Land unto another, tho' oft un-
Observed, unknown, across the changing Mists
Of Time its divine Radiance pours upon
A Nation's Soul, and from its sublime Face
The old Light breaks, the Light, the Spirit of
The living God, as from the Moon thro' all
Her Changes the unseen Sun's Light, 'till full,
Full opposite she stands and godlike shines
Near bright as he, yet still but by his Light!
So too Mankind! when at its greatest Height
And Fullness of Perfection, it returns
Unto the Bosom of its God, comple-
Ting thus its destined Cycle, as the Moon
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But when its Soul grows earthly, dark Mists rise
Betwixt it and its Source, and it receives
That Light no more, then wanes the Nation's Strength
And Glory with it, like a sapless Tree!
Then cherish ye this Light, let it not be
Extinguished in your Hearts, but kindle there-
At Education's holy Flame and let
The Sparks be scattered far and wide, that so
Our Souls, like to the Stars of Heaven, may
Give Light unto eachother! then once more
Shall Echos of the good, old Days be heard,
And Milton's Name be mightier than the Glaive
To punish and defend, redeem and free!
This Passage refers to our Conduct to India: the Subjugation and Oppression of a Nation for the Sake of wringing Wealth and Luxury from its Misery, is alike against the Order of Nature and the Law of God: one Sin must always be maintained by another, thus the first Act of Oppression compelled its Perpetrators to follow it up by checking all Enlightenment, wellknowing that the Darkness of their own Deeds could not coexist with the Light of Truth, thus have they perverted the most sublime Occasion of enlightening a Nation into an Instrument of its Degradation and their own: often have I mourned that so many Pages of our History should be stained with Blood and Tears which might be grand Chapters inscribed to Love and Justice! had England done her Duty, her Name would be hailed at this Hour in India with Delight, and by the godliest of all Means, Love and Gratitude, would she easily maintain what is insecurely upheld by brute Force; then would a Word of her Mouth accomplish by divine Constraint what the Might of Armies would be unequal to! still however the moral Machinery of the World selfcorrects these Anomalies, and from our Crimes elicits their Punishment!—
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