 | The Demon of Destiny |  |
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THREE EPISTLES TO MY SONS.
FIRST EPISTLE—CONDUCT.
Be blithe, dear boys: the hope that you are so
Is all the happiness I now can know;
For ails and cares my weary couch molest,
And aimless reveries prohibit rest.
Is all the happiness I now can know;
For ails and cares my weary couch molest,
And aimless reveries prohibit rest.
As one beholds, benighted on the shore,
Stopp'd by the stream he ne'er shall ferry more,
The lights of love in his far home so bright,
And looks, forgetful of the low'ring night,
Fond Fancy giv'n to minister relief,
Renews your gambols, and grows gay in grief.
Stopp'd by the stream he ne'er shall ferry more,
The lights of love in his far home so bright,
And looks, forgetful of the low'ring night,
Fond Fancy giv'n to minister relief,
Renews your gambols, and grows gay in grief.
Ah! gladd'ning scenes that never can return,—
The change that must be, wherefore do I mourn?
But never more shall such dear scenes again
Return to mitigate distress or pain.
For envious Time hath to its dismal den
Convey'd my boys, and substituted men;
Quench'd the pure sparklings of the joyous day,
Like morning dews that noon so sweeps away—
Bade darkening skies with drifting clouds impend,
And Truth austere your bounding boyhood end.
The change that must be, wherefore do I mourn?
But never more shall such dear scenes again
Return to mitigate distress or pain.
For envious Time hath to its dismal den
Convey'd my boys, and substituted men;
Quench'd the pure sparklings of the joyous day,
Like morning dews that noon so sweeps away—
Bade darkening skies with drifting clouds impend,
And Truth austere your bounding boyhood end.
Sometimes I try, with unavailing art,
To raze the pictures glowing on my heart,
And in their stead to paint maturer forms;
But still with yours, delighted mem'ry warms,
Yours ever fair—the dimpled young of joy,
Such as I knew, and know what cares annoy.
To raze the pictures glowing on my heart,
And in their stead to paint maturer forms;
But still with yours, delighted mem'ry warms,
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Such as I knew, and know what cares annoy.
Oh! if ordain'd,—and gnawing worms infest
The bowers where Innocence was once a guest,
And hopes grown sere, as yellow foliage there
Omen the season of inclement care—
May still your spirit, blest with Nature's aid,
Encounter Fortune ever undismay'd:
For half the malice which afflicts her thrall,
The eye serene of courage may appal,—
Not the bold courage of the boist'rous brave,
With passion insolent, the vices' slave,
But the calm worthy, who intrepid dares,
With open bosom bar'd, hath honour'd scars.
Feel as your kind, but as your betters show
That golden fortitude that's bright in woe;
And if foredoom'd, you yet must vanquish'd lie,
Grasp firm the staff of your integrity.
The bowers where Innocence was once a guest,
And hopes grown sere, as yellow foliage there
Omen the season of inclement care—
May still your spirit, blest with Nature's aid,
Encounter Fortune ever undismay'd:
For half the malice which afflicts her thrall,
The eye serene of courage may appal,—
Not the bold courage of the boist'rous brave,
With passion insolent, the vices' slave,
But the calm worthy, who intrepid dares,
With open bosom bar'd, hath honour'd scars.
Feel as your kind, but as your betters show
That golden fortitude that's bright in woe;
And if foredoom'd, you yet must vanquish'd lie,
Grasp firm the staff of your integrity.
'Tis not the booty, when the battle's won,
That makes the honour of the laurel crown,
But dauntless manhood in the strife of Death,—
The deed of glory is the victor's wreath.
That makes the honour of the laurel crown,
But dauntless manhood in the strife of Death,—
The deed of glory is the victor's wreath.
And yet not victory ever is the prize
Of him who wrong or insolence defies—
A brighter guerdon in his breast is bright,
When Duty perishes subdued by might.
Abash'd, abas'd, the baffled victor shrinks,
Sham'd with success, and honourless he slinks,
To rue with fame a stain'd ignoble fate;
For but the motive makes the hero great.
Of him who wrong or insolence defies—
A brighter guerdon in his breast is bright,
When Duty perishes subdued by might.
Abash'd, abas'd, the baffled victor shrinks,
Sham'd with success, and honourless he slinks,
To rue with fame a stain'd ignoble fate;
For but the motive makes the hero great.
Though low and laborous your lot be cast
From storms of strife, the battle and the blast,
Remember still that life itself is war,
And needs the courage which inspires to dare.
Man ever is, whate'er his garb may be,
But as a soldier, and in jeopardy:
The highest posted, Fortune may abase;
None are so low that Fortune may not raise.
From storms of strife, the battle and the blast,
Remember still that life itself is war,
And needs the courage which inspires to dare.
Man ever is, whate'er his garb may be,
But as a soldier, and in jeopardy:
The highest posted, Fortune may abase;
None are so low that Fortune may not raise.
Yet 'tis not meet in every turn of life
To show the valour that defies in strife;
For gentle habitudes, and aims to please,
Sweeten the solace of unburthen'd ease.
Yes, life though rugged, hath green nooks and dells,
Where Leisure rests, and Mem'ry sometimes dwells:
Nor is it wise, in such serene retreats,
To think stern thoughts, and muse tempestuous threats.
To show the valour that defies in strife;
For gentle habitudes, and aims to please,
Sweeten the solace of unburthen'd ease.
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Where Leisure rests, and Mem'ry sometimes dwells:
Nor is it wise, in such serene retreats,
To think stern thoughts, and muse tempestuous threats.
Oh! rather strive with courtesy to wile
The pensive labourer passing from his toil,
To cheerful fancies as he plods along,
And charm the heavy hearted's sigh to song;
For blessed charity that loves to give
Her alms and boons, and lure the lost to live,
Has a reward from her own gracious breast;
And to be kind is to be doubly blest—
Blest in bestowing sympathy on woe,
And in the bliss of having to bestow.
The pensive labourer passing from his toil,
To cheerful fancies as he plods along,
And charm the heavy hearted's sigh to song;
For blessed charity that loves to give
Her alms and boons, and lure the lost to live,
Has a reward from her own gracious breast;
And to be kind is to be doubly blest—
Blest in bestowing sympathy on woe,
And in the bliss of having to bestow.
12th August, 1836.
SECOND EPISTLE. PRINCIPLES.
There is much virtue in a high intent,
However short it fell of what was meant;
Therefore, my boys, still greatly aim, nor think
The prize less worthy effort when you sink.
A sordid purpose is in the essay
To him as difficult, crouch'd with dismay,
As the endeavour for all-honour'd gain
To those who nobly after glory strain;
And be your pray'r but for the meed that's giv'n,
When the pure heart is recompens'd by Heav'n,
For here below it is not always bright,
That what seems prosperous is therefore right.
However short it fell of what was meant;
Therefore, my boys, still greatly aim, nor think
The prize less worthy effort when you sink.
A sordid purpose is in the essay
To him as difficult, crouch'd with dismay,
As the endeavour for all-honour'd gain
To those who nobly after glory strain;
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When the pure heart is recompens'd by Heav'n,
For here below it is not always bright,
That what seems prosperous is therefore right.
Do still your best, and ever strive to do,
Nor deem that failure is a cause to rue,
Unless self-will'd you dare to fight with Fate,
And mourn her victor when it is too late.
For success never, in life's anxious game,
Can e'er be known, unless we know the aim,—
Some for renown, and some for grandeur try,
Some play for wealth, some for authority,—
But he that wins, is only him that takes,
Whate'er it be, the prize for which he stakes.
Nor deem that failure is a cause to rue,
Unless self-will'd you dare to fight with Fate,
And mourn her victor when it is too late.
For success never, in life's anxious game,
Can e'er be known, unless we know the aim,—
Some for renown, and some for grandeur try,
Some play for wealth, some for authority,—
But he that wins, is only him that takes,
Whate'er it be, the prize for which he stakes.
Though o'er the future—wherefore who can say—
As night conceals the landscape of the day,
A mystic veil the Heavens in wisdom spread,
Dark, as unseen, of mingled hope and dread,—
They yet disclose that virtue unsubdued,
Shall see alike the evil and the good,
And prove as plainly as if speech had said,
None but the hypocrite need be afraid.
As night conceals the landscape of the day,
A mystic veil the Heavens in wisdom spread,
Dark, as unseen, of mingled hope and dread,—
They yet disclose that virtue unsubdued,
Shall see alike the evil and the good,
And prove as plainly as if speech had said,
None but the hypocrite need be afraid.
True; oft the advents as the curtain's drawn,
In shapes and hues, as dire abortions dawn,
And fearful accidents, by flood and fire,
Confound the schemes and projects of desire:
But these belong not to what mortals plan,
Nor e'er for such may hold responsive man;
And still remember, what we evil call,
Is but a consequence, the doom of all;
For all inferior to the Infinite
Is tinged with it, as darkness tinges light;
Yes, all the hues that in the Iris shine
Are but the sullied rays of light divine.
In shapes and hues, as dire abortions dawn,
And fearful accidents, by flood and fire,
Confound the schemes and projects of desire:
But these belong not to what mortals plan,
Nor e'er for such may hold responsive man;
And still remember, what we evil call,
Is but a consequence, the doom of all;
For all inferior to the Infinite
Is tinged with it, as darkness tinges light;
Yes, all the hues that in the Iris shine
Are but the sullied rays of light divine.
This felt, should teach that pain, and grief, and care,
With every ill that flesh is doom'd to heir,
May in some other state of man display
Some glorious harmony, prismatic gay,
As various densities of darkness show
The beauteous vision of the promise bow.
For but to think some heavenly end's attained,
By what we suffer when the spirit's pain'd,
Allays the anguish of all-darking thoughts,
And cheerful manliness to brave promotes.
With every ill that flesh is doom'd to heir,
May in some other state of man display
Some glorious harmony, prismatic gay,
As various densities of darkness show
The beauteous vision of the promise bow.
For but to think some heavenly end's attained,
By what we suffer when the spirit's pain'd,
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And cheerful manliness to brave promotes.
Oh! ever strive to quell the selfish yearn,
And milder moods from gentle wishes learn.
The blessed brightens for a better state,
Whose master'd passions upon Reason wait.
And milder moods from gentle wishes learn.
The blessed brightens for a better state,
Whose master'd passions upon Reason wait.
Still when blind Fortune, ever devious lures,
Let the clear path still on the right be yours;
And still conducted by the light of day,
Avoid the brambles that perplex the way;
But trust that light,—all other guides eschew,—
The path entangl'd can but lead to rue.
Let the clear path still on the right be yours;
And still conducted by the light of day,
Avoid the brambles that perplex the way;
But trust that light,—all other guides eschew,—
The path entangl'd can but lead to rue.
If haply, boys, in some malignant hour,
When storms are roaring, you for shelter cow'r
To some unenter'd cave, remember then
That Fear's Discretion near the lion's den.
Oh! rather front undauntedly the squall,
Than couch with reptiles, or risk headlong fall—
Nor e'er the courteous proffer'd wine partake
Without some knowledge,—flowers may hide a snake.
When storms are roaring, you for shelter cow'r
To some unenter'd cave, remember then
That Fear's Discretion near the lion's den.
Oh! rather front undauntedly the squall,
Than couch with reptiles, or risk headlong fall—
Nor e'er the courteous proffer'd wine partake
Without some knowledge,—flowers may hide a snake.
Besides firm rectitude, I would impress:
Never receive as favour what's redress.
It weakens justice, and makes those that wrong'd
Believe they give more than of right belong'd.
The world requires us to regard effect;
And what is principle should be erect.
Never receive as favour what's redress.
It weakens justice, and makes those that wrong'd
Believe they give more than of right belong'd.
The world requires us to regard effect;
And what is principle should be erect.
Ne'er ask a favour which you may not claim
As due for services of gen'rous aim,—
Nor think you ever in your task succeed,
Until some other ratifies the deed.
Still bear in mind that for the world you live,—
And for its welfare ever bound to strive;
For though it grovel,—even crimes applaud,—
It is the echo that prolongs the laud
Of the pure conscience, and that conscience still
Is God's vicegerent, and should rule the will.
As due for services of gen'rous aim,—
Nor think you ever in your task succeed,
Until some other ratifies the deed.
Still bear in mind that for the world you live,—
And for its welfare ever bound to strive;
For though it grovel,—even crimes applaud,—
It is the echo that prolongs the laud
Of the pure conscience, and that conscience still
Is God's vicegerent, and should rule the will.
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EPISTLE THIRD. MANNERS.
Though cherish'd feelings of high-mindedness
Be the firm basis of all true success,
And health far better than much-envied gold,
They are not all which the rich heart should hold.
Be the firm basis of all true success,
And health far better than much-envied gold,
They are not all which the rich heart should hold.
In every contest, almost in the van,
Place the calm manners of the gentleman,—
Mask the reserve,—I only say almost,
When in the field defiles your marshall'd host;
For in the warfare man is doom'd to wage,
Promiscuous all his forces must engage.
Place the calm manners of the gentleman,—
Mask the reserve,—I only say almost,
When in the field defiles your marshall'd host;
For in the warfare man is doom'd to wage,
Promiscuous all his forces must engage.
In action simple, frank, and firmly bold,
Brave not superiors, nor inferiors scold:
The first is ever but a vain attempt,—
The last from scorn is not always exempt.
An equal course serenely still pursue,
And do to others, not what they to you
Will sometimes practice, but still, like the sun,
High, bright and openly your journey run.
Dark clouds, remember, often interpose
Between the world, and where on high he glows;
But still, like him, impartial be to all—
Nor heed the consequence. Man is a thrall—
The thrall of Heaven, though—whose great tasks are still
To search for good—that fossil found in ill;
But what the owner with the good—the gold—
Is pleas'd to do, to slaves is never told;
To form an idol, or to help the poor,
Let Heaven determine, mortals but procure.
Brave not superiors, nor inferiors scold:
The first is ever but a vain attempt,—
The last from scorn is not always exempt.
An equal course serenely still pursue,
And do to others, not what they to you
Will sometimes practice, but still, like the sun,
High, bright and openly your journey run.
Dark clouds, remember, often interpose
Between the world, and where on high he glows;
But still, like him, impartial be to all—
Nor heed the consequence. Man is a thrall—
The thrall of Heaven, though—whose great tasks are still
To search for good—that fossil found in ill;
But what the owner with the good—the gold—
Is pleas'd to do, to slaves is never told;
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Let Heaven determine, mortals but procure.
Some may deride my sermon and my text,
And say that manners are but the effects
Of heart-lov'd principles, the which, if true,
Becoming manners will of course ensue.
Yes, but not always,—many a noble mind
Is to the faults of early habits blind;
And strangers oft the style of manners scan
The tailor's work, before they trust the man.
And say that manners are but the effects
Of heart-lov'd principles, the which, if true,
Becoming manners will of course ensue.
Yes, but not always,—many a noble mind
Is to the faults of early habits blind;
And strangers oft the style of manners scan
The tailor's work, before they trust the man.
“Do I advise,” you then perhaps may say,
“The meek, the dry, the placid or the gay?”
Neither, I answer, but what best accords
With pleasing intercourse, as sheaths to swords:
So shall you, with the confidence and love
Of those you deal with, and of Him above,
As genial breezes, in the vernal hours,
Unclose the roughest buds to sweetest flowers,
“The meek, the dry, the placid or the gay?”
Neither, I answer, but what best accords
With pleasing intercourse, as sheaths to swords:
So shall you, with the confidence and love
Of those you deal with, and of Him above,
As genial breezes, in the vernal hours,
Unclose the roughest buds to sweetest flowers,
“But every station,” you again may add,
“Needs different styles, the vivid or the sad.”
No: every station but the mood requires,
Which Reason gives to mod'rated desires.
All err in masqueing, as the shrewd discern—
Subdue yourselves, and you will manners learn.
“Needs different styles, the vivid or the sad.”
No: every station but the mood requires,
Which Reason gives to mod'rated desires.
All err in masqueing, as the shrewd discern—
Subdue yourselves, and you will manners learn.
Beware of form, 'tis but a thing of files,—
A posture-master, with a player's smiles;
Nor think the world may take ignoble ice
For those bright jewels which but monarchs price.
But, after all, my lecture comes to this,—
Unbridl'd passion will correct amiss.
A posture-master, with a player's smiles;
Nor think the world may take ignoble ice
For those bright jewels which but monarchs price.
But, after all, my lecture comes to this,—
Unbridl'd passion will correct amiss.
Nor is it wise to deem the scene of life
A throng'd arena of continual strife.
No: rather, lads, regard it as a stage,
Where, though sometimes proud tyrants strut and rage,
The varied show, the music and the lights,
Make Earth a theatre of wond'rous nights.
A throng'd arena of continual strife.
No: rather, lads, regard it as a stage,
Where, though sometimes proud tyrants strut and rage,
The varied show, the music and the lights,
Make Earth a theatre of wond'rous nights.
If in the drama you sustain a part,
And seek resounding recompense for art,
But fail, depend on't you mistake your powers,
The fault is not the managers, but yours.
Thus laugh-compelling Liston, pensive swain,
In Hamlet prov'd the Danish prince insane.
And seek resounding recompense for art,
But fail, depend on't you mistake your powers,
The fault is not the managers, but yours.
Thus laugh-compelling Liston, pensive swain,
In Hamlet prov'd the Danish prince insane.
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To know the difference of desire and can,
Makes half the talent of the ablest man;
With aims effortless he is doom'd to pine,
Who strives for triumphs, without power to shine;
And yet how often in the world appear
Men urg'd by Hope, who should be held by Fear.
Makes half the talent of the ablest man;
With aims effortless he is doom'd to pine,
Who strives for triumphs, without power to shine;
And yet how often in the world appear
Men urg'd by Hope, who should be held by Fear.
How calm, how firm, how cheerful, too, is he
Who knows himself, and feels his just degree,
Not of his Fortune,—that he oft may rue,—
But what with confidence he well may do.
For though he, shipwreck'd, on the bed be cast,
And wild around him howl th' impassion'd blast,
Still proudly conscious of a right intent,
He smiles at Fate amidst the element,
And undismay'd by darkness and the storm,
Resumes the purpose that he would perform;
Yea, e'en the harms that made him, wounded, yield,
Become as trophies of a well-fought field.
Who knows himself, and feels his just degree,
Not of his Fortune,—that he oft may rue,—
But what with confidence he well may do.
For though he, shipwreck'd, on the bed be cast,
And wild around him howl th' impassion'd blast,
Still proudly conscious of a right intent,
He smiles at Fate amidst the element,
And undismay'd by darkness and the storm,
Resumes the purpose that he would perform;
Yea, e'en the harms that made him, wounded, yield,
Become as trophies of a well-fought field.
Success can ne'er a wise design denote,
If success come from what could not be thought.
Nor can disasters prove a scheme unwise,
Unless from things men could foresee they rise.
For accidents the mystic Heavens award,
And mortals may but wonted courses guard.
One truth we know—the man, howe'er distress'd,
That seeks the beautiful, will see the best.
If success come from what could not be thought.
Nor can disasters prove a scheme unwise,
Unless from things men could foresee they rise.
For accidents the mystic Heavens award,
And mortals may but wonted courses guard.
One truth we know—the man, howe'er distress'd,
That seeks the beautiful, will see the best.
| The Demon of Destiny | |