The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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ODE TO THE SUN. |
 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
ODE TO THE SUN.
The main object of this poem is to impress the beautiful and animating fact, that the greatest visible agent in our universe, the Sun, is also one of the most beneficent; and thus to lead to the inference, that spiritual greatness and goodness are in like proportion, and its Maker beneficence itself, through whatever apparent inconsistencies he may work. The Sun is at once the greatest Might and Right that we behold.
A secondary intention of the poem is to admonish the carelessness with which people in general regard the divinest wonders of the creation, in consequence of being used to their society—this great and glorious mystery, the Sun, not excepted. “Familiarity,” it is said, “breeds contempt.” To which somebody emphatically added—“With the contemptible.” I am far from meaning to say that all who behold the Sun with too little thought are contemptible. Habit does strange things, even with the most reflecting. But of this I am sure, that in proportion as anybody wishes to prove himself worthy of his familiarity with great objects, he will not be sorry to be reminded of their greatness, especially as reverence need not diminish delight; for a heavenly “Father” can no more desire the admiration of him to be oppressive to us, than an earthly one; else fatherliness would be unfatherly, and sunshine itself a gloom.
When the Florentines crowded to some lectures of Galileo, because they were on a comet which had just made its appearance, the philosopher was bold enough to rebuke them for showing such a childish desire to hear him on this particular subject, when they were in the habit of neglecting the marvels of creation which daily presented themselves to their eyes.
Bringer of light, and life, and joy, and beauty,—
God midst a million gods, that far and near
Hold each his orbs in rounds of rapturous duty;
Oh never may I, while I lift this brow,
Believe in any god less like a god than thou.
And thou, the mightiest, art amongst the kindest;
The planets, dreadfully and easily,
About thee, as in sacred sport, thou windest;
And thine illustrious hands, for all that power,
Light soft on the babe's cheek, and nurse the budding flower.
Tempest and flame, as on a million oceans:
Well may it be, thou heart of heavenly fire;
Such looks and smiles befit a god's emotions;
We know thee gentle in the midst of all,
By those smooth orbs in heaven, this sweet fruit on the wall.
Around me is thy mute, celestial presence;
Reverence and awe would make me fear to stand
Within thy beam, were not all Good its essence:
Were not all Good its essence, and from thence
All good, glad heart deriv'd, and child-like confidence.
Strange foes, though stranger guardian friends, of Pleasure:
I know that poor men lose, and rich men gain,
Though oft th' unseen adjusts the seeming measure:
I know that Guile may teach, while Truth must bow,
Or bear contempt and shame on his benignant brow.
And e'en when sharpest felt, still throned in kindness,
I see that greatest and that best are one,
And that all else works tow'rds it, though in blindness
Evil I see, and Fear, and Grief, and Pain,
Work under Good their lord, embodied in thy reign.
O'er the great sea of human joy and sorrow;
I hear the deep voice of a grief divine
Calling sweet notes to some diviner morrow;
And though I know not how the two may part,
I feel thy rays, O Sun, write it upon my heart.
Heart of these worlds, art writ on by a greater:
Beam'd on with love from some still mightier brow,
Perhaps by that which waits some new relator;
Some amaz'd man, who sees new splendours driven
Thick round a Sun of suns, and fears he looks at heaven.
To dare pronounce on thy material seeming:
Heav'n, for its own good ends, is mute and mild
To many a wrong of man's presumptuous dreaming.
Matter, or mind, of either what knows he?
Or how with more than both thine orb divine may be?
And do we taste thee here in light and flowers?
Art thou the first sweet place, where hearts, made even,
Sing tender songs in earth-remembering bowers?
Enough, my soul. Enough through thee, O Sun,
To learn the sure good song,—Greatest and Best are one.
Copying thy zeal untir'd, thy smile unscorning:
Glad to see gods thick as the stars above,
Bright with the God of gods' eternal morning;
Round about whom perchance endless they go,
Ripening their earths to heavens, as love and wisdom grow.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |