 | Poems |  |
82
VATES.
The Poets! who though dead, yet live among us,
And haunt our hearths like spirits—they who dwell
Not in old letters only, nor in realms
Peopled by Phantasy—but in our souls;
Who, when the eyes are dim, and the heart heavy,
And the soul sick with anguish, till all words
Of comfort fall unmeaning on the ear,
Like parrots' prate, and all seems false and cold—
Can gently lure us to forget our woes,
And wander with them—listening to deep words,
And sharing their companionship, whose mien
Is never cold or wayward—
Oft I see them,
Not prisoned in the parchment—not on shelves
Dust-laden—but in each original form
Of beauty or calm-featured thoughtfulness,
They rest, reclined in peace—their labors done,
Or pass like shadows.
First, yet far withdrawn,
In the dim realms of Old Tradition throned,
One, who though blind, and clad in homely weeds,
Looks like a god—those sealed and sightless orbs,
(Their pale lids drooping o'er the imprisoned soul
Like the dark curtain drawn before a shrine)
Veiling unutterable majesty.
And haunt our hearths like spirits—they who dwell
Not in old letters only, nor in realms
Peopled by Phantasy—but in our souls;
Who, when the eyes are dim, and the heart heavy,
And the soul sick with anguish, till all words
Of comfort fall unmeaning on the ear,
Like parrots' prate, and all seems false and cold—
Can gently lure us to forget our woes,
And wander with them—listening to deep words,
And sharing their companionship, whose mien
Is never cold or wayward—
Oft I see them,
Not prisoned in the parchment—not on shelves
Dust-laden—but in each original form
Of beauty or calm-featured thoughtfulness,
83
Or pass like shadows.
First, yet far withdrawn,
In the dim realms of Old Tradition throned,
One, who though blind, and clad in homely weeds,
Looks like a god—those sealed and sightless orbs,
(Their pale lids drooping o'er the imprisoned soul
Like the dark curtain drawn before a shrine)
Veiling unutterable majesty.
'Tis that beloved, blind old man, dear Homer!
Who, in the morning of this clouded life,
(Its seventh summer yet not long completed)
Welcomed, as one might welcome a dear child,
My wandering footsteps to that glorious realm,
Which first he founded and shall rule for ever.
And told me wondrous tales—of Heroes, Kings—
God-dwelt Olympus—the Abyss below—
Monsters unshaped and dread—then showed me forms
More beautiful than waking dreams can image,
Helen, Briseis—such as in old time,
Sprang from the strong embrace of Demigods,
And well might set a camp—a world in arms.
Who, in the morning of this clouded life,
(Its seventh summer yet not long completed)
Welcomed, as one might welcome a dear child,
My wandering footsteps to that glorious realm,
Which first he founded and shall rule for ever.
And told me wondrous tales—of Heroes, Kings—
God-dwelt Olympus—the Abyss below—
Monsters unshaped and dread—then showed me forms
More beautiful than waking dreams can image,
Helen, Briseis—such as in old time,
84
And well might set a camp—a world in arms.
All half-forgotten—yet in after years,
When first the artist's chaste and classic limning
So statue-like, yet life-like, lay before me,
What was my wonder, what my joy to see
The very forms that once in childhood haunted
Its sleeping, waking dreams—here, here they were,
The same proud faces—thus looked Agamemnon,
And thus Ulysses—“the immortal slave,”
And her immortal master—all unchanged.
Nor marvellous—the thoughts of children are
Simple, yet vast—their clear fresh minds can image
Full many a Truth—full many a pure Ideal—
To them revealed like instinct—sought by us
With toil and failure in maturer years.
When first the artist's chaste and classic limning
So statue-like, yet life-like, lay before me,
What was my wonder, what my joy to see
The very forms that once in childhood haunted
Its sleeping, waking dreams—here, here they were,
The same proud faces—thus looked Agamemnon,
And thus Ulysses—“the immortal slave,”
And her immortal master—all unchanged.
Nor marvellous—the thoughts of children are
Simple, yet vast—their clear fresh minds can image
Full many a Truth—full many a pure Ideal—
To them revealed like instinct—sought by us
With toil and failure in maturer years.
Else wherefore those sweet trances, which could lull
The fiends Pain, Want, and Care (who even then
Their prey had scented) when, by the dim lamp,
I sat a wayward child, and pored and pondered
On the worm-eaten ancient page that told
Of those, so brave, so lovely in old days,
Who long have lain beneath Sigæan mounds.
The fiends Pain, Want, and Care (who even then
85
I sat a wayward child, and pored and pondered
On the worm-eaten ancient page that told
Of those, so brave, so lovely in old days,
Who long have lain beneath Sigæan mounds.
Or when, half-dreaming near some salt-sea pool,
Left by the tides upon a Northern strand—
Why on my truant steps, came hand in hand,
The Wonderful and Beautiful—why rose
Such visions of the unseen world?—of halls
Meet for the step of Deity to rove—
Of the sea-people in their voiceless caves,
Where never Echo came—the wealth of coral
And pearls, and sunny amber all around them?
Of bright Neptunian shores—and ancient galleys
Freighted with Demigods—each keel an Argo—
Like that old bark first on the Euxine launched,
Which steered her way untried, unpiloted,
(Save by thine oak oracular, Dodona!)
From Aulis' sea-worn strand to Colchis, laden
From helm to prow with heroes—Theseus
And the brave Twins—Ancæus, Hercules,
Apollo's gifted offspring, soon to fall
Adonis-like, in Lyncean woods—and Orpheus
On the high stern, as I have seen him pictured
In some rude, quaint design (not void of merit,
Though centuries old), his fingers on the lyre
Wandering distractedly, now half forget
To wake the strains angelic, and withal
A slight compression of the lips—the brow,
As her keel sweeps amid those fearful rocks
So soon to close—the dread Symplegades!
Himself the last!—a scene to be remembered.
Left by the tides upon a Northern strand—
Why on my truant steps, came hand in hand,
The Wonderful and Beautiful—why rose
Such visions of the unseen world?—of halls
Meet for the step of Deity to rove—
Of the sea-people in their voiceless caves,
Where never Echo came—the wealth of coral
And pearls, and sunny amber all around them?
Of bright Neptunian shores—and ancient galleys
Freighted with Demigods—each keel an Argo—
Like that old bark first on the Euxine launched,
Which steered her way untried, unpiloted,
(Save by thine oak oracular, Dodona!)
From Aulis' sea-worn strand to Colchis, laden
From helm to prow with heroes—Theseus
86
Apollo's gifted offspring, soon to fall
Adonis-like, in Lyncean woods—and Orpheus
On the high stern, as I have seen him pictured
In some rude, quaint design (not void of merit,
Though centuries old), his fingers on the lyre
Wandering distractedly, now half forget
To wake the strains angelic, and withal
A slight compression of the lips—the brow,
As her keel sweeps amid those fearful rocks
So soon to close—the dread Symplegades!
Himself the last!—a scene to be remembered.
Who should succeed the Master? what hand raise
The weighty sceptre? none—although we mark,
Long after, one who in deep-visioned trance,
Sees the Eumenides, and the stern Victim
Breathing defiance from his couch of stone:
Another (what! we youth must live!) gray-haired,
Yet crowned with roses, and deep-flushed with wine,
Trolling loose lays to no unwilling ears:
And Two, that now sit quaffing at the board
Of the world's master—then, if we may heed them,
(Credat Judæus) driving goats afield
With a green switch.
And now a dreary void.
All that is beautiful and spiritual,
All that is gentle and sublime, seem lost
In outer darkness. Yet, like holy lamps
Burning at dead midnight in some old chapel,
Stand Three, of name inseparably twined
With other three—who knows them, knowing not
Of those fair ones—two cruel, and one lost.
The weighty sceptre? none—although we mark,
Long after, one who in deep-visioned trance,
Sees the Eumenides, and the stern Victim
Breathing defiance from his couch of stone:
Another (what! we youth must live!) gray-haired,
Yet crowned with roses, and deep-flushed with wine,
87
And Two, that now sit quaffing at the board
Of the world's master—then, if we may heed them,
(Credat Judæus) driving goats afield
With a green switch.
And now a dreary void.
All that is beautiful and spiritual,
All that is gentle and sublime, seem lost
In outer darkness. Yet, like holy lamps
Burning at dead midnight in some old chapel,
Stand Three, of name inseparably twined
With other three—who knows them, knowing not
Of those fair ones—two cruel, and one lost.
They fade in turn—that night-capped, laurelled head—
Those eyes that look with deep prophetic gaze
Through Heaven and Hell—that worn, inspiréd face,
That haunts us, as it haunted Leonora.
Those eyes that look with deep prophetic gaze
Through Heaven and Hell—that worn, inspiréd face,
That haunts us, as it haunted Leonora.
Now here and there a gleam of light seems breaking,
And here and there an eager form is seen
From the deep darkness striving to emerge.
Yet none like him who went before—save One
Greater than all preceding—or to come!
Him of the pointed beard and front majestic,
The features grave yet pleasant, and the brow
Worthy of Jove—the Limner of the Soul—
The Utterer of imperishable words,
Each line a proverb on the lips of men
For centuries—what thought shall number them,
If this earth hold?—The Enchanter, at whose word,
The furies rise—Hate, Murder, Lust, Revenge
Take human forms and flit across the stage—
While, all unneeded, follow in their train
The axe, the headsman, and the draught of death.
Anon a merry laugh rings on the ear,
And Falstaff, Bardolph come—and Ancient Pistol!
And lived they not, these beings of the brain
So closely twined with all Belief and Fancy?
And here and there an eager form is seen
From the deep darkness striving to emerge.
88
Greater than all preceding—or to come!
Him of the pointed beard and front majestic,
The features grave yet pleasant, and the brow
Worthy of Jove—the Limner of the Soul—
The Utterer of imperishable words,
Each line a proverb on the lips of men
For centuries—what thought shall number them,
If this earth hold?—The Enchanter, at whose word,
The furies rise—Hate, Murder, Lust, Revenge
Take human forms and flit across the stage—
While, all unneeded, follow in their train
The axe, the headsman, and the draught of death.
Anon a merry laugh rings on the ear,
And Falstaff, Bardolph come—and Ancient Pistol!
And lived they not, these beings of the brain
So closely twined with all Belief and Fancy?
Frown as we may, yet who can choose but feel
A strange, sad sympathy with that old knight,
(So gross, so satyr-like, yet how immortal!)
Less, haply, in his revels, cheek by jowl
With royal Hal, carousing pottle-deep,
Mid all that goodly, roystering company,
Than when, at last, abandoned, desolate,
(“Put not your trust in princes”—'tis well written)
In his simplicity, reviled, rejected
By him whose merriest hours poor Jack had made,
And dying, broken-hearted, in the tavern,
Wit, friendship, merriment, mind itself, all gone,
And talking, not too wisely, in his fits,
He “babbled o' green fields”—
A strange, sad sympathy with that old knight,
(So gross, so satyr-like, yet how immortal!)
Less, haply, in his revels, cheek by jowl
89
Mid all that goodly, roystering company,
Than when, at last, abandoned, desolate,
(“Put not your trust in princes”—'tis well written)
In his simplicity, reviled, rejected
By him whose merriest hours poor Jack had made,
And dying, broken-hearted, in the tavern,
Wit, friendship, merriment, mind itself, all gone,
And talking, not too wisely, in his fits,
He “babbled o' green fields”—
Oh, there are scenes
Might touch the coldest heart—and this is one.
It might be, at that hour, (thus fancy loves
To chase even phantoms, so they mimic life)
A shadow crossed his eyes—and he beheld
Not the dark city, nor the care-worn faces,
Nor the old haunts endeared by drunken mirth—
Which long had made his world—but the sweet sunlight
Falling once more on well-known fields and forests,
Scenes long-forgotten—and the village trees
Waving once more, as in that pleasant time,
When life and sunshine were enough for pleasure,
And little Jack, the happiest of the happy,
Could find a joy in the gay wealth of meadows,
Culling most carefully, and deftly twining
The choicest field-flowers for his little loves,
Primrose and daisy, or the violet sweet.
Might touch the coldest heart—and this is one.
It might be, at that hour, (thus fancy loves
To chase even phantoms, so they mimic life)
A shadow crossed his eyes—and he beheld
Not the dark city, nor the care-worn faces,
Nor the old haunts endeared by drunken mirth—
Which long had made his world—but the sweet sunlight
Falling once more on well-known fields and forests,
Scenes long-forgotten—and the village trees
Waving once more, as in that pleasant time,
90
And little Jack, the happiest of the happy,
Could find a joy in the gay wealth of meadows,
Culling most carefully, and deftly twining
The choicest field-flowers for his little loves,
Primrose and daisy, or the violet sweet.
These traits bespeak the Master—one who knows
That universal thought—that sympathy
Which lies at the root of all things—and hath mourned
O'er thy sad lot, O poor Humanity!
That universal thought—that sympathy
Which lies at the root of all things—and hath mourned
O'er thy sad lot, O poor Humanity!
Nor seldom, after a long life-time wasted
In strife, in fraud, in lust, or sordid gain,
(These the true dungeon of man's erring soul)
At the approach of Death, their victims seem
To loose each ancient bond—their fetters fall,
(As at the Angels' touch) no link remaining
In the long chain of slavery which had bound them.
In strife, in fraud, in lust, or sordid gain,
(These the true dungeon of man's erring soul)
91
To loose each ancient bond—their fetters fall,
(As at the Angels' touch) no link remaining
In the long chain of slavery which had bound them.
One such I can recall—a mariner
Rough as the seas he sailed, and in his youth,
When scarce an eye that scans this page had opened,
Contending, and not vainly, on the deck
With our old foes, for gain and victory.
But his last days were peaceful, and went down
Tranquilly to their grave, as he to his.
Rough as the seas he sailed, and in his youth,
When scarce an eye that scans this page had opened,
Contending, and not vainly, on the deck
With our old foes, for gain and victory.
But his last days were peaceful, and went down
Tranquilly to their grave, as he to his.
When now his hundredth year was well nigh told,
And that old frame seemed subject to a child—
Just ere the spark so long and faintly burning,
Went out forever, leaving all in darkness—
A strange intelligence once more possessed
That soul age-wearied—for he spake of men,
Children with him, and names which half a century
Had been forgotten quite, save by the idler
Who roves mid tombstones—yea, and many more,
Whereof none knew, though, doubtless, once they were,
Even as ourselves—and now he dwelt among them,
And George was king again, whose fleets he fought.
Nor wanting softer, gentler memories
Of childhood's wanderings, and the murmured name
Of brother,—not the brother of past days,
With whom he trafficked, even as strangers might—
But him who shared each boyish holiday,
And swam the flood, and launched the mimic bark,
Each all unconscious of the storms and seas
And bitter gales thereafter to be borne,
On the dark waters they should rove so long.
And that old frame seemed subject to a child—
92
Went out forever, leaving all in darkness—
A strange intelligence once more possessed
That soul age-wearied—for he spake of men,
Children with him, and names which half a century
Had been forgotten quite, save by the idler
Who roves mid tombstones—yea, and many more,
Whereof none knew, though, doubtless, once they were,
Even as ourselves—and now he dwelt among them,
And George was king again, whose fleets he fought.
Nor wanting softer, gentler memories
Of childhood's wanderings, and the murmured name
Of brother,—not the brother of past days,
With whom he trafficked, even as strangers might—
But him who shared each boyish holiday,
And swam the flood, and launched the mimic bark,
Each all unconscious of the storms and seas
And bitter gales thereafter to be borne,
On the dark waters they should rove so long.
Too long we linger by the springs that gush
From each rude rock stricken by prophet touch.
Raise but the inner lids, and we behold
Another form of mild, majestic aspect,
Long silver locks on either cheek descending,
Yet in a meagre habit, old and poor
And blind again!—does Nature hate her loveliest?
Nay, haply merciful, for they who felt
Upon their darkening lids that icy touch
More dread than Azrael's—and knew they ne'er
Again should gaze on this sun-gladdened earth—
(All things familiar, palpable, beloved
Again resolved to chaos and drear night)
Yet, with a deeper vision, looked beyond
And saw what mortal eyes had never seen.
From each rude rock stricken by prophet touch.
93
Another form of mild, majestic aspect,
Long silver locks on either cheek descending,
Yet in a meagre habit, old and poor
And blind again!—does Nature hate her loveliest?
Nay, haply merciful, for they who felt
Upon their darkening lids that icy touch
More dread than Azrael's—and knew they ne'er
Again should gaze on this sun-gladdened earth—
(All things familiar, palpable, beloved
Again resolved to chaos and drear night)
Yet, with a deeper vision, looked beyond
And saw what mortal eyes had never seen.
He fades, like those before—a train succeeds
Of lesser light and varied destiny.
Sharing like Dives' heirs, unequally,
The rich inheritance—most favored, one
Of soul and strain discordant—(though oft gracing
The noblest theme,) mingling melodious verse
With harshest thought—another of pure life
And faith full orthodox (so vouched his priest)
And conscience clear—yet haunted by a dread
Of infinite anguish—ever stumbling
Amid dark mountains—on whose soul oft fell
(As once on his, who, doubting, asked a sign)
“A horror of great darkness.” Sad he lived,
And died despairing
—yet perchance, (if that
Which Bunyan dreamed, and he believed, were true)
When waking from the phantom-haunted sleep,
Which men called life—beheld the Eternal One,
Whose loving kindness he had doubted so,
Smiling upon him—and the Heavenly Host
Welcoming, through their ever-bright array,
The brother, weary and astray so long.
Another and another—Thou the First,
Of haughty, yet of spiritual beauty,
Whom foes and bigots, conscious of thy might,
(Yelping like curs who view the huntsman's lash,
Yet crouching, whining still, and ill at ease)
Have in their impotent malice, loved to name
The lost archangel!—and indeed, if Strength
Greater than all among the Sons of Earth,
And the firm will, and the unyielding pride,
Not to be moved by obloquy or blame,
Could make thee such, thou wert—when thoughts and passions
Such as for centuries had not stirred the heart
Of hoar Humanity, thronged side by side,
Like fiends and angels mingled—in an age
So prodigal of greatness, that it seemed
As if a new race had arisen to people
The worn-out earth—amid names which for ever
Shall shine like beacons down the stream of Life,
To guide and warn the wanderer o'er its depths—
Then, like the Angel seen by him of old,
('Neath each Titanic footstep sea and land)
One Soul stood forth, the mightiest of them all
That rule the immeasurable realms of Thought.
One Light of Genius rose, unseen before,
And with strange gleam shone through the firmament,
Brilliant and vague, like some erratic star
That mocks the astronomer, and half eludes
With its new glory, all the rules of art.
Of lesser light and varied destiny.
Sharing like Dives' heirs, unequally,
The rich inheritance—most favored, one
Of soul and strain discordant—(though oft gracing
The noblest theme,) mingling melodious verse
With harshest thought—another of pure life
94
And conscience clear—yet haunted by a dread
Of infinite anguish—ever stumbling
Amid dark mountains—on whose soul oft fell
(As once on his, who, doubting, asked a sign)
“A horror of great darkness.” Sad he lived,
95
Which Bunyan dreamed, and he believed, were true)
When waking from the phantom-haunted sleep,
Which men called life—beheld the Eternal One,
Whose loving kindness he had doubted so,
Smiling upon him—and the Heavenly Host
Welcoming, through their ever-bright array,
The brother, weary and astray so long.
96
Of haughty, yet of spiritual beauty,
Whom foes and bigots, conscious of thy might,
(Yelping like curs who view the huntsman's lash,
Yet crouching, whining still, and ill at ease)
Have in their impotent malice, loved to name
The lost archangel!—and indeed, if Strength
Greater than all among the Sons of Earth,
97
Not to be moved by obloquy or blame,
Could make thee such, thou wert—when thoughts and passions
Such as for centuries had not stirred the heart
Of hoar Humanity, thronged side by side,
Like fiends and angels mingled—in an age
So prodigal of greatness, that it seemed
As if a new race had arisen to people
98
Shall shine like beacons down the stream of Life,
To guide and warn the wanderer o'er its depths—
Then, like the Angel seen by him of old,
('Neath each Titanic footstep sea and land)
One Soul stood forth, the mightiest of them all
That rule the immeasurable realms of Thought.
One Light of Genius rose, unseen before,
And with strange gleam shone through the firmament,
Brilliant and vague, like some erratic star
That mocks the astronomer, and half eludes
With its new glory, all the rules of art.
And thus mankind, still ever in th' extreme,
Feared, hated, loved, admired, and marvelled sore
How one could be so great and yet so little.
We, who can look more calmly, well may see
Somewhat to grieve at, yet how much to love,
In that strange Life, so brief, so sorrowful.
Feared, hated, loved, admired, and marvelled sore
How one could be so great and yet so little.
We, who can look more calmly, well may see
Somewhat to grieve at, yet how much to love,
In that strange Life, so brief, so sorrowful.
And cold it were to think without a sigh,
Almost a tear, upon its mournful ending:
That sullen shore, washed by the dark Ægæan—
The war-beleaguered town—the gloomy chamber,
Where like a dying lamp, that glorious spirit,
So bright, so luminous once, yet long consuming
All unperceived, the brain, the heart that fed it—
Waxed fainter, feebler—and at last shot up
One fitful gleam—then passed away for ever.
Almost a tear, upon its mournful ending:
That sullen shore, washed by the dark Ægæan—
99
Where like a dying lamp, that glorious spirit,
So bright, so luminous once, yet long consuming
All unperceived, the brain, the heart that fed it—
Waxed fainter, feebler—and at last shot up
One fitful gleam—then passed away for ever.
Oft hath that hour, that scene of sadness haunted
My lonely thoughts—and with him ever comest
Thou of the gentle form and sorrowful mien,
Who wast, among the eager sons of men,
Like some pale sojourner from other worlds—
Earth's weary lessons all as yet unlearned.
Whose soul seemed ever in dim paths astray,
And though oft mingling sadly right and wrong,
Though wandering darkly oft in doubt and error,
Still sought the Truthful—still essayed the Good.
With all that should have made thee loved, revered,
Doomed through thy life to meet with hate, reproach,
False friends, stern foes, and scarce a kindred soul.
My lonely thoughts—and with him ever comest
Thou of the gentle form and sorrowful mien,
Who wast, among the eager sons of men,
Like some pale sojourner from other worlds—
Earth's weary lessons all as yet unlearned.
Whose soul seemed ever in dim paths astray,
And though oft mingling sadly right and wrong,
Though wandering darkly oft in doubt and error,
Still sought the Truthful—still essayed the Good.
With all that should have made thee loved, revered,
Doomed through thy life to meet with hate, reproach,
False friends, stern foes, and scarce a kindred soul.
Yet, haply, there is one, whom (had he lived
But a few lustra sooner, or thou later)
Thou mightst have loved—who surely had loved thee;
And, if thou wouldst, right brotherly had shared
All thine unmerited griefs, thy simple pleasures:
Oft, as thou loved'st, friendly intercourse
Far in the night protracting, held high converse
Of all we are, and shall be—theme the dearest
(Unsicklied by the feverish breath of Cant)
To an immortal mind—at early dawn,
Climbed mountains with thee, pitying the dark world
That lay below—sailed with thee in thy boat
O'er summer seas,—nor shunned the adventurous helm,
When winds were highest on the rough Tyrrhenian,
Thy play-ground—and alas! thine early grave.
But a few lustra sooner, or thou later)
100
And, if thou wouldst, right brotherly had shared
All thine unmerited griefs, thy simple pleasures:
Oft, as thou loved'st, friendly intercourse
Far in the night protracting, held high converse
Of all we are, and shall be—theme the dearest
(Unsicklied by the feverish breath of Cant)
To an immortal mind—at early dawn,
Climbed mountains with thee, pitying the dark world
That lay below—sailed with thee in thy boat
O'er summer seas,—nor shunned the adventurous helm,
When winds were highest on the rough Tyrrhenian,
Thy play-ground—and alas! thine early grave.
Ye are all vanished from a world of care,
Which knew ye, but too late—all silently
Unto the grave ye went, no monument,
Save in the souls of men.
—Amid them, one
Who hath retracked the past to dwell among ye—
Sat with ye in your chambers—walked with ye,
Sharing high thoughts: and though tis many a year
Since last he scanned your kind familiar faces,
(Neglect half impious) and although ye need
No praise of mine, no incense to your fame—
Receive, immortal Brotherhood, the homage
Of one who erst was all your own, and when
His love was worth acceptance, (if the tribute
Of a pure heart's affection may be deemed
An offering not unworthy) loved ye well.
Which knew ye, but too late—all silently
Unto the grave ye went, no monument,
Save in the souls of men.
—Amid them, one
Who hath retracked the past to dwell among ye—
Sat with ye in your chambers—walked with ye,
Sharing high thoughts: and though tis many a year
Since last he scanned your kind familiar faces,
101
No praise of mine, no incense to your fame—
Receive, immortal Brotherhood, the homage
Of one who erst was all your own, and when
His love was worth acceptance, (if the tribute
Of a pure heart's affection may be deemed
An offering not unworthy) loved ye well.
Nor unremembered be each living bard,
Upon whose brow the laurel yet is green—
They, who, though merged in earth's too busy commerce,
Though living in this iron age—have sung
Strains not unworthy of the Great of Old.
And on each sacred hearth, by Lares guarded,
Yet keep the vestal flame of Learning bright.
Upon whose brow the laurel yet is green—
They, who, though merged in earth's too busy commerce,
Though living in this iron age—have sung
Strains not unworthy of the Great of Old.
And on each sacred hearth, by Lares guarded,
Yet keep the vestal flame of Learning bright.
Nor They, whose souls, all Harmony—all Beauty,
Have ne'er, or seldom worn the garb of verse,
Poets of prose—for many such there be,
Thou first of all, whom all delight to honour,
True-souled American! who wandering long
In old and distant lands, hast ne'er forgotten
Thine own—nor ever been forgot of Her.
For with thy name what pleasant thoughts arise,
Half nameless—thoughts of old primeval days,
The vanished Indian, and the stern, quaint race,
That came upon his happy hunting-grounds.
Of ancient Hendrick with his spectre-crew
Bound China-ward—and those long thunderous peals
Still rolling of a summer's afternoon.
While ever, (like the pleasant interlude
Of Puck or Shallow in some grand old play)
Comes each mirth-moving scene—of Ichabod,
Lank-sided—and Mynheer, with nether raiments
Innumerable—and of that goodly cloud
Which hung o'er Mannahatta, shadowing forth
Chimney, and dome, and steeple.
Now we stand
Amid old chambers, moss-grown stairs, and arches
Decayed, yet beautiful in their decay,
And ruined fountains—yet, even now, methinks,
The footsteps of Zorayda—Lindaraxa—
(Their white feet rivalling the marble floor)
Still echo lightly in Alhambra's Halls.
Then pause with thee on yon far mountain-ridge—
And lo! the Hill of Tears—the Moor's last Sigh!
One labor yet remained. One mighty Name
Yet waited the Historian. Who should equal
That Life? theme worthy of no common pen!
Meetest of all for thine, who hast, like him,
The high Adventurer of thy chronicle,
Explored and founded on these western shores
A new and noble world—the world of Letters.
Have ne'er, or seldom worn the garb of verse,
Poets of prose—for many such there be,
Thou first of all, whom all delight to honour,
True-souled American! who wandering long
In old and distant lands, hast ne'er forgotten
Thine own—nor ever been forgot of Her.
102
Half nameless—thoughts of old primeval days,
The vanished Indian, and the stern, quaint race,
That came upon his happy hunting-grounds.
Of ancient Hendrick with his spectre-crew
Bound China-ward—and those long thunderous peals
Still rolling of a summer's afternoon.
While ever, (like the pleasant interlude
Of Puck or Shallow in some grand old play)
Comes each mirth-moving scene—of Ichabod,
Lank-sided—and Mynheer, with nether raiments
Innumerable—and of that goodly cloud
Which hung o'er Mannahatta, shadowing forth
Chimney, and dome, and steeple.
Now we stand
Amid old chambers, moss-grown stairs, and arches
Decayed, yet beautiful in their decay,
And ruined fountains—yet, even now, methinks,
The footsteps of Zorayda—Lindaraxa—
(Their white feet rivalling the marble floor)
Still echo lightly in Alhambra's Halls.
Then pause with thee on yon far mountain-ridge—
And lo! the Hill of Tears—the Moor's last Sigh!
103
Yet waited the Historian. Who should equal
That Life? theme worthy of no common pen!
Meetest of all for thine, who hast, like him,
The high Adventurer of thy chronicle,
Explored and founded on these western shores
A new and noble world—the world of Letters.
And thou, who scarce art second in our hearts,
Dear Charles! (for here we hardly may inscribe
Thy less euphonious, not less cherished name)
I have not seen thee, nor thou me,—these words
May never meet thine eye—yet, if they should,
Let it not irk thee once again to hear
(What thou so oft must needs have heard before)
That one to all so kindly, save the bad,—
And those, reclaimed—hath yet another friend,
Who, though he may be nought to thee, surrounded
By kindred, countrymen, admiring hearts,
And “troops of friends”—yet cherishes esteem,
Heartfelt as theirs—and love not less sincere.
And thou,
who pondering deep and scholarly
O'er men and books, calm weighing thought and action,
Hast fathomed the deep Springs of Past and Present,
And analyzed the subtle soul itself.
Who, wizard-like, or liker some deep chemist,
From the chaotic mass of Laws and Letters,
And the confused wanderings of Art,
Hast drawn the True, the Beautiful, the Right.
Dear Charles! (for here we hardly may inscribe
Thy less euphonious, not less cherished name)
I have not seen thee, nor thou me,—these words
May never meet thine eye—yet, if they should,
Let it not irk thee once again to hear
(What thou so oft must needs have heard before)
That one to all so kindly, save the bad,—
And those, reclaimed—hath yet another friend,
Who, though he may be nought to thee, surrounded
By kindred, countrymen, admiring hearts,
And “troops of friends”—yet cherishes esteem,
Heartfelt as theirs—and love not less sincere.
104
O'er men and books, calm weighing thought and action,
Hast fathomed the deep Springs of Past and Present,
And analyzed the subtle soul itself.
Who, wizard-like, or liker some deep chemist,
From the chaotic mass of Laws and Letters,
And the confused wanderings of Art,
Hast drawn the True, the Beautiful, the Right.
Not incoherent these thy graver toils
With bright Romance and Genius—witness Ivry!
And ye, Old Lays, to which, Amphion-like,
Again Rome rises—not the Rome of now—
Nor that, where Angelo, Bramante built
Their mountainous domes—the men whose names and deeds
Seem Titan-like even yet—but that Old City,
Even at whose name throngs back upon the soul
All that is grand, and strong, and terrible.
And here once more She stands—and all along
Her crowded Forum, and her busy streets
The Forms are moving, we have seen or dreamed
In the old days—Horatius, Chaste Lucrece,
And thy Virginia—ever sacred name!
Rememb'ring truth and purity of life;
Yet saddened by their woes, who kept it well—
Martyrs to Love and Virtue—from the maid
Whose wrongs, whose innocence thou so well hast told—
To her, for whom her island-lover watched
Over the ocean tide so long—in vain.
She came at last—alas! t'was vainer still!
With bright Romance and Genius—witness Ivry!
And ye, Old Lays, to which, Amphion-like,
Again Rome rises—not the Rome of now—
Nor that, where Angelo, Bramante built
Their mountainous domes—the men whose names and deeds
Seem Titan-like even yet—but that Old City,
105
All that is grand, and strong, and terrible.
And here once more She stands—and all along
Her crowded Forum, and her busy streets
The Forms are moving, we have seen or dreamed
In the old days—Horatius, Chaste Lucrece,
And thy Virginia—ever sacred name!
Rememb'ring truth and purity of life;
Yet saddened by their woes, who kept it well—
Martyrs to Love and Virtue—from the maid
Whose wrongs, whose innocence thou so well hast told—
To her, for whom her island-lover watched
Over the ocean tide so long—in vain.
She came at last—alas! t'was vainer still!
Peace hover o'er your dwellings! yea, and all,
Dwell where ye may, who in your bosoms cherish
The spark divine, Promethean—reft of which
The world's a den—a brother's heart salutes ye,
And offers all it may, a friendly greeting.
Dwell where ye may, who in your bosoms cherish
The spark divine, Promethean—reft of which
The world's a den—a brother's heart salutes ye,
And offers all it may, a friendly greeting.
Strive as we may, it is a weary world
For those who look beyond the common ken,
The purblind glimpse that satisfies the most,
And hath been wearier—but a better dawn
Seems breaking, and our children may behold
The day—for which, how long! how wearily!
The Watchers of the Mind have looked.—
For those who look beyond the common ken,
106
And hath been wearier—but a better dawn
Seems breaking, and our children may behold
The day—for which, how long! how wearily!
The Watchers of the Mind have looked.—
Alas!
If we but glance beyond these scenes, and mark
The ghastly Shapes that haunt the fleeing night
Which for so long hath brooded o'er man's soul,
What sights we see! what tales are told by Her,
The Beldame who hath listened to its ravings
Through the long, fevered watches—now She tells
Of mightiest souls o'ercome with want and madness—
Of injured Genius pining in foul dungeons,
Of pleasant comedies, writ by starving men,
Folly in purple—wit and worth in rags—
The unhappy children of high Destiny, now
Feasting with princes—now with Chatterton
Gnawing their hearts —or Otway in his garret
When, striving in his hungered agony
To sate starvation on the wretched crust
That mocked his famine, choking the dry throat,
He died, the bitter morsel yet unswallowed.
If we but glance beyond these scenes, and mark
The ghastly Shapes that haunt the fleeing night
Which for so long hath brooded o'er man's soul,
What sights we see! what tales are told by Her,
The Beldame who hath listened to its ravings
Through the long, fevered watches—now She tells
Of mightiest souls o'ercome with want and madness—
Of injured Genius pining in foul dungeons,
Of pleasant comedies, writ by starving men,
Folly in purple—wit and worth in rags—
The unhappy children of high Destiny, now
Feasting with princes—now with Chatterton
Gnawing their hearts —or Otway in his garret
When, striving in his hungered agony
To sate starvation on the wretched crust
107
He died, the bitter morsel yet unswallowed.
Sad though the want—yet oft-times sadder yet,
The unhappy fortune, the disgraceful honor
Waiting the Sons of Genius—now they stand,
Stemming each brutal tide of popular wrong,
Or with brave mien uttering truths from which
Tyrants might shrink, and Vice retreat in shame,—
And now, forgetful of their high estate,
Fawning upon the hands that give them bread.
The unhappy fortune, the disgraceful honor
Waiting the Sons of Genius—now they stand,
Stemming each brutal tide of popular wrong,
Or with brave mien uttering truths from which
Tyrants might shrink, and Vice retreat in shame,—
And now, forgetful of their high estate,
Fawning upon the hands that give them bread.
But sights like these—(the sycophant, the beggar)
May vanish, and are vanishing fast—yet still,
Though many forms of woe are gone, that once
Held fiercest conflict in the noblest breast—
No few of their sad comrades yet remain,
Phantoms no light can scare—we still behold
The same fond hope—alas, how vainly cherished!
For Goodness, Wisdom, Loveliness united.
And the same irrepressible thirst for Love,
Too seldom quenched, save at unholy fountains,
The same wild worship of the Beautiful,
And that o'erflowing tenderness of heart
Which folds in its embrace all living things,
And is most mocked by that it most would cherish.
May vanish, and are vanishing fast—yet still,
Though many forms of woe are gone, that once
Held fiercest conflict in the noblest breast—
No few of their sad comrades yet remain,
Phantoms no light can scare—we still behold
The same fond hope—alas, how vainly cherished!
For Goodness, Wisdom, Loveliness united.
And the same irrepressible thirst for Love,
Too seldom quenched, save at unholy fountains,
108
And that o'erflowing tenderness of heart
Which folds in its embrace all living things,
And is most mocked by that it most would cherish.
These, and yet others sadder far than these,
Have cast in turn their dreary shadows o'er
How many!—yet of each we still may deem
That not in vain he lived—in vain he died.
Like faded leaves they fall—yet even like them
Their being all fulfilled—their destiny
Not unaccomplished, nor its purpose void.
Hopes withered—ruined fortunes—crushed affections—
And Love laid how in dust—these are the soil
From whence the Immortal springs—bright, amaranthine.
Have cast in turn their dreary shadows o'er
How many!—yet of each we still may deem
That not in vain he lived—in vain he died.
Like faded leaves they fall—yet even like them
Their being all fulfilled—their destiny
Not unaccomplished, nor its purpose void.
Hopes withered—ruined fortunes—crushed affections—
And Love laid how in dust—these are the soil
From whence the Immortal springs—bright, amaranthine.
If any untoward reminiscences of Mistresses Page, Ford, and Quickly, or even of the unfortunate Doll Tearsheet, intrude upon this allusion, we must remember that to infuse any degree of sentiment into the nature of Falstaff has been tacitly held impossible by Shakespeare himself.—The only trace of such a feeling is found in that most truthful and moving description of his end, and in the pathetic exclamation of his poor follower, Bardolph, “Would that I were with him, whether a's in Heaven or Hell.”
During the war of the Revolution, he commanded a merchantman which was captured by a British cruiser. Being left on board with only two of his hands, by a bold and skilful manœuvre he retook the vessel, and navigated her into an American port. The prize-crew, (who had been dexterously clapped under hatches) swore that, if not immediately released, they would blow up the ship. “You may blow and be d---d,” was the emphatic response, “I have as many friends in h*ll, as you have!” It is needless to remark that the magazine was not fired.
Mr. John Newton—the original genius who studied theology in the cabin of a slave-ship, and sailed to the coast of Guinea with an assorted cargo of prayer-books and manacles. He seems to have possessed a certain heat and activity of temperament, which were supposed eminently to qualify him for a “fisher of men,” either in the long-boat, or the pulpit. It appears, however, that he met with rather more success in his latter vocation, as he naively remarks, on quitting the scene of his former exertions—“I was, upon the whole, satisfied with it, as the appointment that Providence had marked out for me; yet it was in many respects far from eligible. It is, indeed, accounted a genteel employment, and is usually very profitable, though to me it did not prove so, the Lord seeing that a large increase of wealth could not be good for me.”
That such a mind should have assumed and maintained a spiritual ascendency over that of Cowper! a perfect moral mimosa —shrinking from the touch and not safely to be approached except with the gentlest support and encouragement.
His last words indicated an utter hopelessness of future mercy or happiness.
After death, however, the expression of his countenance (says his friend and relation, Mr. Johnson) “was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with a holy surprise.”
Had Bunyan written a century later, we should certainly suppose that he had in his mind's eye the unhappy Cowper, when drawing the picture of his well-meaning, faint-hearted pilgrim, Mr. Fearing,—concerning whose misadventures, his conductor Mr. Great-heart, gives so lively a narrative.
“He was a man that had the root of the matter in him, but he was one of the most troublesome pilgrims that ever I met with in all my days.
“When he was come to the entrance of the Valley of the Shaddow of Death, I thought I should have lost my man—
“Oh! the hobgoblins will have me! the hobgoblins will have me! cried he; and I could not beat him out of it. He made such a noise and such an outcry here, that had they but heard him, it was enough to encourage them to come and fall upon us.
Upon the enchanted ground he was very wakeful. But when he was come to the river where there was no bridge, there again he was in a heavy case. Now, now, he said, he should be drowned for ever, and so never see that face with comfort that he had come so many miles to behold. And here also, I took notice of what was very remarkable; the water of that river was lower at this time than ever I saw it in all my life: so that he went over at last, not much over wet-shod.”—
Pilgrim's Progress.“No forsooth, he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard—a cain-colored beard [OMITTED] but he is a tall man of his hands [OMITTED] he hath fought with a warrener.”—
Merry Wives of Windsor.It is curious to observe how many men have come down to us with a reputation in literature founded upon a title somewhat like Master Slender's to that of valor—they have “fought a warrener.”
But for Pope, who would ever have heard of Dennis? but for Voltaire, of Maupertuis? but for Milton, of Salmasius?
Had not Shakspeare been tried before his worship, Sir Thomas Lucy might have slept with his fathers. But for Horace and Virgil the names of Bavius and Mævius had been silent for ever.
We may even venture to predict that Messrs. Jeffrey and Southey, men of real and acknowledged ability, will be less known to posterity from the writings which influenced their contemporaries, than as swelling, (by their controversy with Byron) the long list of those who have attained this rather questionable kind of immortality.
It will be unnecessary to suggest to any one, who (as Lord Ch. Justice Crewe says) “hath any apprehension of gentry or nobility,” the names of Irving, Dickens, and Macaulay—men to whose prose we are indebted for more of the true spirit of poetry,than to nine tenths of those who write, or ever have written in rhyme or metre.
| Poems | |