University of Virginia Library

A RHAPSODY.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[1812.]

O, thou, whom we have known so long, so well,
Thou who didst hymn the Maid of Arc, and framed
Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song,
And in later tale of Times of Old,
Remindest us of our own patriarch fathers,
The Madocs of their age, who planted here
The cross of Christ, and liberty, and peace!
Minstrel of other climes, of higher hopes,
And holier inspirations, who hast ne'er
From her high birth debased the goddess muse,
To grovel in the dirt of earthly things;
But learned to mingle with her human tones
Some breathings of the harmonies of heaven!
Joyful to meet thee yet again, we hail
Thy last, thy loftiest lay; nor chief we thank thee
For every form of beauty, every light
Bestowed by brilliancy, and every grace
That fancy could invent and taste dispose,
Or that creating, consummating power,
Pervading fervor, and mysterious finish,
That something occult, indefinable,
By mortals, genius named; the parent sun
Whence all those rays proceed; the constant fount
To feed those streams of mind, th' informing soul
Could e'er describe, whose fine and subtle nature
Seems like the aerial forms which, legends say,
Greeted the gifted eye of saint or seer,
Yet ever mocked the fond inquirer's aim
To scan their essence!
Such alone we greet not,
Since genius oft (so oft the tale is trite)
Employs its golden art to varnish Vice
And bleach Depravity, till it shall wear
The whiteness of the robes of Innocence;
And Fancy's self forsakes her truest trade,
The lapidary for the scavenger;
And Taste, regardful of but half her province,
Self-sentenced to a partial blindness, turns
Her notice from the semblance of perfection,
To fix its hood-winked gaze on faults alone,
And, like the owl, sees only in the night;
Not like the eagle soars to meet the day.
Oblivion to all such! For thee we joy
Thou hast not misapplied the gifts of God,
Nor yielded up thy powers, illustrious captives,
To grace the triumph of licentious Wit.
Once more a female is thy chosen theme,
And Kailyal lives a lesson to the sex,
How more than woman's loveliness may blend
With all of woman's worth; with chastened love,
Magnanimous exertion, patient piety,
And pure intelligence. Lo! from thy wand
Even faith, and hope, and charity, receive
Something more filial and more feminine.
Proud praise enough were this; yet is there more:
That 'neath thy splendid Indian canopy
By fairy fingers woven, of gorgeous threads,
And gold and precious stones, thou hast enwrapped
Stupendous themes that Truth divine revealed,
And answering Reason owned—naught more sublime,
Beauteous, or useful, e'er was charactered
On Hermes' mystic pillars—Egypt's boast,
And more, Pythagoras' lesson, when the maze
Of hieroglyphic meaning awed the world!
Could Music's potent charm, as some believed,
Have warmth to animate the slumbering dead,
And “lap them in Elysium,” second only
To that which shall await in other worlds,
How would the native sons of ancient India
Unclose on thee that wondering, dubious eye,
Where admiration wars with incredulity!
Sons of the morning! first born of creation!
What would they think of thee—thee, one of us,
Sprung from a later race, on whom the ends
Of this our world has come, that thou shouldst pen
What Varanasis' venerable towers,
In all their pride and plenitude of powers,
Ere conquest spread their bloody banner o'er them,
Or Ruin trod upon their hallowed walls,
Could ne'er excel, though stored with ethic wisdom,
And epic minstrelsy and sacred lore!
For there Philosophy's Gantami first
Taught man to measure mind; there Valmic hymned
The conquering arms of heaven-descended Ruma;
And Calidasa and Viassa there,
At different periods, but with powers the same,
The Sanscrit song prolonged, of Nature's works,
Of human woes, and sacred Crishna's ways.
That it should e'er be thine, of Europe born,
To sing of Asia! that Hindostan's palms
Should bloom on Albion's hills, and Brahma's Vedas
Meet unconverted eyes, yet unprofaned!
And those same brows the classic Thames had bathed,
Be laved by holy Ganges! while the lotus,
Fig-tree, and cusa, of its healing banks,
Should, with their derva's vegetable rubies,
Be painted to the life! Not truer touches,
On plane-tree arch above, or roseate carpet
Spread out beneath, were ever yet employed
When their own vale of Cashmere was the subject,
Sketched by its own Abdallah!
He, too, of thine own land, who long since found
A refuge in his final sanctuary
From regal bigotry, could thy voice reach him,
His awful shade might greet thee as a brother
In sentiment and song; that epic genius
From whom the sight of outward things was taken
By Heaven in mercy—that the orb of vision
Might totally turn inward—there concentrated
On objects else perhaps invisible,
Requiring and exhausting all its rays,
Who (like Tiresias, of prophetic fame,)
Talked with Futurity! that patriot
Poet of Paradise, whose daring eye
Explored “the living throne, the sapphire blaze,”
But, blasted with “excess of light,” retired
And left to thee to compass other heavens
And other scenes of being!
Bard beloved
Of all who virtue love—revered by all
That genius reverence—Southey! if thou art
“Gentle as bard beseems,” and if thy life
Be lovely as thy lay, thou wilt not scorn
This rustic wreath; albeit 'twas entwined
Beyond the western waters, where I sit
And bid the winds that wait upon their surges,
Bear it across them to thine island-home.
Thou wilt not scorn the simple leaves, though culled
From that traduced, insulted spot of earth
Of which thy contumelious brethren oft
Frame fables, full as monstrous in their kind
As e'er Munchausen knew—with all his falsehood,
Guiltless of all his wit! Not such art thou—
Surely thou art not, if as Rumor tells,
Thyself, in the high hour of hopeful youth,
Had cherished nightly visions of delight,
And day-dreams of desire, that lured thee on
To see the sister States, and painted to thee
Our frowning mountains and our laughing vales,
The countless beauties of our varied lakes,
The dim recesses of our endless woods,
Fit haunt for sylvan deities, and whispered
How sweet it were in such deep solitude,
To talk to Nature, but to think of man;
Then thou, perchance, like Scotia's darling son,
Hadst sung our Pennsylvanian villages,
Our bold Oneidas, and our tender Gertrudes,
And sung, like him, thy listeners into tears!
Such were thy early musings; other thoughts,
And happier, doubtless, have concurred to fix thee
On Britain's venerated shore; yet still
Must that young thought be tenderly remembered,
Even as romantic minds are sometimes said
To cherish their first love—not that 'twas wisest,
But that 'twas earliest. If that morning dream
Still lingers to thy noon of life, remember,
And for its own dear sake, when thou shalt hear,
(As oft, alas! thou wilt,) those gossip tales
By lazy Ignorance or inventive Spleen
Related, of the vast, the varied country
We proudly call our own, O! then refute them,
By thy just consciousness that still this land
Has turned no adder's ear toward thy muse,
That charms so wisely; that where'er her tones,
Mellowed by distance, o'er the waters come,
They meet a band of listeners—those who hear
With breath-suspending eagerness, and feel
With feverish interest. Be this their praise,
And sure they'll need no other! Such there are,
Who, from the centre of an honest heart,
Bless thee for ministering to the purest pleasures
That man, whilst breathing earthly atmosphere,
In this minority of being, knows;
That of contemplating immortal verse,
In fit communion with Eternal Truth!