University of Virginia Library

Gaze on the human frame!—the active foot—
The unwearied hand—the eye intelligent—
The powers and motions—the unceasing breath—
The impulse, the resistance,—each to each
Proportion'd,—all dependant upon all,—
All fearfully, all wonderfully made!—
—But view the soul,—it hath been rightly call'd
A world within,—an agitated world,
Where Passions, Prejudices, Weaknesses,
Bold Aspirations, Terrors tremulous
Hold restless conflict, warring ceaselessly,
Even like the outer earth; aspiring Hope,
With pinions quivering, longs to bathe in heaven;
Lo! Fear, unsteady, hopeless of support,
His dim eye casts upon a deeper gulf,
That indistinctly swims before his sight;
A thousand, thousand phantoms more are there,
That, shifting, mock the pencil which would range
Their shadowy groupes;—such is the human soul,
And such the inmates who hold empire there!
—In each man's bosom thus there lies a world,
All peopled with the same inhabitants,
Each shining with its own peculiar light,
Each with its own peculiar atmosphere—
Oh, I could dwell upon this fond conceit,
Till lost in contemplation;—and such dreams
Are not without their uses;—one man's soul
Commands respect, and “marks him from mankind.”
Fair is the promise of his opening youth,
Fortune hath garlanded his glorious brow;
He stands alone:—the pyramid itself,
That frown'd through ages, and through ages more
Shall frown defiance to the lightning's bolt,
Seems not to press more proudly on its base.
—Where stands this mighty man? Do kings still bend
The humbled knee, or, with vain show of strength,
Send armies to their doom? Do senates still,
With mockery of counsel, legalize
Slavish submission to this lord of earth?
Where stands he?—All have heard the monstrous tale!
The man, who gazed in horror on his crimes,
Whose daily supplication for his son,
Forc'd to the tyrant's arms, came to the ear
Of heaven, as though it were in truth a curse
Upon the tyrant; he, even he, half grieves,
As, dazzled with the glory, he looks back
On former days, and sees the heavy doom
That righteously awaits the man of blood!—
—I have not struggled to repress the sigh
His fate awoke, when I had heard that smiles
Were on his cheek, that laughter curl'd his lip,
That mirth was glancing in the restless eye
When he departed!—'tis a saddening thought
To see such glorious gifts bestow'd in vain,—
To see the lessons of experience prov'd
Thus fruitlessly,—to see a man, whose mind
Was fashion'd to ascend the proudest heaven,
Sink thus abased, till he become the scoff
Of worthless hordes:—but it is sure more sad
To see himself assume the scorner's part,
And join the jester in his mockery!—
Well, I have often pictur'd to myself
This proud destroyer, and I thought that Pride
Would still preserve him, still would fire the eye,
Still darken in the tutor'd countenance;—
I did not deem that Feeling there could dwell,
I did not look for Virtue, and Remorse
Hath too much Virtue in its elements
To mingle with a mind, whose every thought
Is sin—whose every breath is blasphemy!—
—From thy sad place of former banishment,
Didst thou not look at times upon the sea?
It should have given an emblem to thy view,
How many a bark above the barren wave
Hath past, and left no trace,—how many a ball
Hath hiss'd along the waters,—oh, how oft
Hath Man, 'gainst Man array'd, encounter'd here,
In hope of glory; all are now forgot,—
The dwellers of the neighbouring coasts, no more,
Can hold their deeds in memory, than the eye
Dwell on the cloud, or colour, that is past,
Or these still waves retain the imaged form,
While, near some distant shore, the gallant bark
On other waters flings its heavy shade:—
Such is the Conqueror's fame,—a few brief years,
And what remains?—The Antiquarian's search,
The Sophist's sentence, and the School-boy's song!
—Yes, Fame is thine: when to another race
Thy purchas'd slaves have pour'd their flattery,
When scorn hath ceas'd to titter at thy name,
Thou yet shalt live—the Patriot's curse is thine,
The tale of Europe's groans, of murder'd man,
Of violated woman yet shall live,
And give thy deeds to immortality!
—Yes! Fame is thine, and thou hast paid its price!
There was a time—but it is now gone by;
It is but as an hour in dateless years,—
When it was said, the shade of coming night
Assum'd a deeper horror to the eye,
While guilt was busy in the kindred breast;
'Twas said that murderers, in the dead of night,
Started and shriek'd in their oppressive dreams,
Nay, fancy dwelt so on another world,
That even the circle of the joyous sun
Was, to the sickly and distracted sense,
The haunt of demons, and his living light
Seem'd the hot blazes of the penal fire;
'Twas said that furies o'er the bed of sleep
Watch'd with red eye, and, from the throbbing brow,
Drank with delight the dew that agony
Forc'd forth;—but this, it seems, is fable all!—
The tyrant now can rest as quietly
As wearied infant; yea, his features now
Are character'd, it seems, with merriment,
And 'tis the craft of Priesthood, that hath shap'd
A future world,—the kings of distant days
Have countenanc'd the fraud, that fools content
Might look for blessings in another scene,
And bear the yoke more tranquilly in this!—
'Tis, as the kingdom of some petty prince,
Useful to regulate the scales of power,
And yield fair pretext, when the lords of earth
Would sanctify their crimes with Virtue's name—
Oh, we live fearlessly in latter times!
Hath not Philosophy disprov'd a God?—
Ere yet the chymist call'd the bolt from heav'n,
We spoke of spirits governing its beam,—
Ere yet he learn'd to part and analyze
The rock, we deem'd some more than human pow'r
Had planted it in ocean,—'till he stirr'd
The muscles of the dead with mimic breath,
And call'd the cold convulsion life, we deem'd
That Heaven alone could bid the dry bones shake!
—But joy to Man! progressive centuries
Have erred, and Wisdom now at length appears—
And, lo! the Goddess! not with brow austere,
Features, that tell of silent toil, and locks
Laurell'd, as erst in the Athenian schools;—
Nor yet with garment symbol'd o'er with stars,
And signs, and talismans, as in the halls
Of parent Egypt; not with pensive eye,
And dim, as though 't were wearied from its watch
Through the long night, what time, to shepherd-tribes
Of fair Chaldæa, she had imag'd forth
The host of Heav'n, and mapp'd their mazy march,
While the bright dew on her tiara'd brow,
And the cold moonlight on her pallid face,
And the loose wandering of her heavy hair,
(As the breeze lifted the restraining bands,)
And the slow motion of the graceful stole,
When with her jewell'd wand she trac'd the line
Of milky light—all gave a sober air
Of mild solemnity.—She comes not now,
Like that tall matron, on whose sunny cheek
The smile of pleasure shone, when over earth
She yok'd her cloudy chariot to the breeze,
And scatter'd blessings with a bounteous hand,
While young Triptolemus, with flushing face
And animated eye, reveal'd his love,
And sporting with the brown lock's floating length,
Wreath'd her dark temples with the curling shoots,
And green leaves of the vine!—Hath Wisdom rob'd
Her form with mystery, as when Athens bow'd,
At old Eleusis' venerable shrine,
The suppliant knee, while cymbal clash'd, and song
Re-echoed, and, with pomp of sacrifice,
The victims bled to pale Persephone,
'Till all was perfected—then came a pause,
And stop of sound most sudden, and the step
Of votaries falling on the earth so soft,
That not an echo caught the still small sound,
As sad they enter'd the interior vault;
And not a stir was heard among the crowd,
Till from the fane, with sadness in their looks,
The venerable sages issued forth,
Burthen'd with thoughts they never may reveal!

But now Philosophy hath thrown aside
These old austerities; with smiling lip,
And features painted for the last night's dance,
She reels into the chair; around her seat
Attends a motley throng,—and first Old Age,
With solemn countenance, disturb'd at times,
When hoarse hard coughs convulse the palsied frame,
Mark! with what rapture he unlearns his creed!—
The stammering tongue of Boyhood next is taught
To mutter over some unmeaning words,
“Motion” and “Matter,” “Liberty” and “Chance.”
Youth lingers here to learn the silly cant,
And soon with fevered soul, and blood on fire,
Will rush more madly to the wild debauch.—
The maiden must not blush to hear the name
Of maiden held in mockery, to hear
All the kind charities of life profan'd,
And lessons taught, at which our ancestors
Are shuddering in their startled sepulchres;—
And these are they,—these, who such doctrines preach,
These are the men, whom France hath deified!—
Heavens! I would rather bow before the stone,
Would lead my children to the mountain's brow,
And teach them all the old observances,
That ever frantic fanatic hath dream'd;—
Would rear an obelisk, on whose high top,
Shivering in cold, and cheerless penitence,
I might at length demand the martyr's crown,
Than hear such sickening immorality,
And themes, that force on the abhorrent soul
Harsh feelings, that refuse to harmonize
With such tranquillity as Wisdom loves!