The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery Collected and Revised by the Author |
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| II. | CANTO II.
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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
CANTO II.
(In relation unto Sentiment).
“Yours was the nobler birth,
For you from man were made; man but of earth,
The son of dust!”
—Randolph.
For you from man were made; man but of earth,
The son of dust!”
—Randolph.
ANALYSIS OF CANTO II.
Man in Paradise—His sense of Loneliness—Creation of Woman—Social Instincts—Injustice of History to Female worth—Woman's gradual degradation— Greece and Rome—Their domestic wants—Civilising effects of feminine influence—Chivalry and its sway—Christianity the Social restorer of Woman —Heroism and benevolence of her nature—Blessings of her Empire—Her dominion in Home—Single Misery!—Poets and Poetry—How Woman has inspired both—Dante and Beatrice—Petrarch and Laura—Shakespeare and his Love—Tasso and Leonora—Milton and his affections—His History— Klopstock and Meta—Burns and Highland Mary— His mournful Fate—Byron—Harrow—Retrospective glance.
When first the wings of Light unfurl'd
Their radiance o'er a new-born World,
And choral music, faint and far,
Awoke in each melodious star,
Until the glowing Earth began
To thrill beneath the gaze of man,
Ah, who can paint the primal bliss
That charm'd an hour divine as this!
Their radiance o'er a new-born World,
And choral music, faint and far,
Awoke in each melodious star,
Until the glowing Earth began
To thrill beneath the gaze of man,
Ah, who can paint the primal bliss
That charm'd an hour divine as this!
How beauteous in his dawn of birth
Without a shade of sullied earth,
Without one touch of deadly sin
To mar the perfect soul within,
The lord of Eden must have stood,
When God beheld, and call'd him, good!
Oh! to have heard his lips reveal
The first delight that dust could feel;
Have listen'd to each wild address
He paid to Nature's loveliness;
Or, flashing from his heaven-turn'd eye,
Have mark'd the spirit's majesty,
While round his heart religion stole
And mirror'd Him who made the whole!
Without a shade of sullied earth,
Without one touch of deadly sin
To mar the perfect soul within,
The lord of Eden must have stood,
When God beheld, and call'd him, good!
Oh! to have heard his lips reveal
The first delight that dust could feel;
Have listen'd to each wild address
He paid to Nature's loveliness;
Or, flashing from his heaven-turn'd eye,
Have mark'd the spirit's majesty,
While round his heart religion stole
And mirror'd Him who made the whole!
A melody from leaf and flower,
Responding to the breeze's power
That warbled with exulting tone;
A blooming light on all things thrown,
On fruit, and foliage, grass, and lake;
The song that in sweet gushes brake
From birds which flew on fearless wing
And taught the very air to sing!—
The mute delight, majestic trance
Of things that shunn'd no mortal glance,
But gazed on man with love or glee
And felt that life was amity;
While stainless as a pall of light
The cope of heaven hung crystal bright,
And pour'd upon each perfect limb
A lustre which apparell'd him;
While ever, as he raised his eye,
A seraph, floating through the sky,
With gleams of glory track'd his way
Or arch'd his wings in beaming play,—
Though all like this composed a scene
To testify where God had been,
A soft disease of soul began
To prey upon the bliss of man:
A yearning which no language spoke
Within his clouded bosom woke;
A loneliness with awful weight
Lay brooding o'er his desert fate,
And darken'd with ideal shade
The countenance which heaven display'd;
Till sadly was each primal word
Upon the placid breezes heard?—
“Some other Form, oh! let there be,
To live, and love, and roam with me
This lone but gorgeous wilderness
Of sights that woo, and sounds that bless!
A Spirit whom my own can meet,
Some hand to hold, some eye to meet;
Creator! if thy wisdom can
Oh, let there be a mate for man!”
Responding to the breeze's power
That warbled with exulting tone;
A blooming light on all things thrown,
On fruit, and foliage, grass, and lake;
The song that in sweet gushes brake
From birds which flew on fearless wing
And taught the very air to sing!—
The mute delight, majestic trance
Of things that shunn'd no mortal glance,
But gazed on man with love or glee
And felt that life was amity;
While stainless as a pall of light
The cope of heaven hung crystal bright,
And pour'd upon each perfect limb
A lustre which apparell'd him;
While ever, as he raised his eye,
A seraph, floating through the sky,
With gleams of glory track'd his way
Or arch'd his wings in beaming play,—
Though all like this composed a scene
To testify where God had been,
A soft disease of soul began
To prey upon the bliss of man:
A yearning which no language spoke
Within his clouded bosom woke;
A loneliness with awful weight
Lay brooding o'er his desert fate,
And darken'd with ideal shade
The countenance which heaven display'd;
Till sadly was each primal word
Upon the placid breezes heard?—
“Some other Form, oh! let there be,
To live, and love, and roam with me
This lone but gorgeous wilderness
Of sights that woo, and sounds that bless!
A Spirit whom my own can meet,
Some hand to hold, some eye to meet;
Creator! if thy wisdom can
Oh, let there be a mate for man!”
298
More lovely than a vision brought
From out the fairy realms of Thought;
Serene and silent, with a grace
Divinely breath'd o'er form and face,
In full array of love and light
Which dazzled his adoring sight,
By soul and sense to be revered
The Angel of the world appear'd.
Then, what a starry welcome rang!
Each orb an hymeneal sang;
While Shapes unutterably bright
From heaven gazed down with new delight,
When first the ground a woman trod
Just moulded by the hand of God!
Around her breast, in wreathy play
Her locks like braided sunbeams lay;
And limbs unveil'd a radiance cast
Of purity, as on she pass'd
Amid the bloom and balm of flowers
Which clustered round elysian bowers;
The bird and breeze together blent
Their lulling notes of languishment;
The Sun grew brighter as he shed
His glory round her living head,—
As if no conscious thing were free
From one fine spell of sympathy,
When woman rose upon the scene
Creation's fair and faultless Queen!
From out the fairy realms of Thought;
Serene and silent, with a grace
Divinely breath'd o'er form and face,
In full array of love and light
Which dazzled his adoring sight,
By soul and sense to be revered
The Angel of the world appear'd.
Then, what a starry welcome rang!
Each orb an hymeneal sang;
While Shapes unutterably bright
From heaven gazed down with new delight,
When first the ground a woman trod
Just moulded by the hand of God!
Around her breast, in wreathy play
Her locks like braided sunbeams lay;
And limbs unveil'd a radiance cast
Of purity, as on she pass'd
Amid the bloom and balm of flowers
Which clustered round elysian bowers;
The bird and breeze together blent
Their lulling notes of languishment;
The Sun grew brighter as he shed
His glory round her living head,—
As if no conscious thing were free
From one fine spell of sympathy,
When woman rose upon the scene
Creation's fair and faultless Queen!
When Adam's trancèd eyelids woke,
Thus brightly on his vision broke
A living Shape for whom he pined,
To share his unpartaken mind.
Awhile they gazed in hush'd delight,
Each dazzled with the other's sight;
Then saw within their mutual eyes
Magnetic rays of soul arise,
And heard their lips fond tones repeat,
And heard their hearts in concert beat,
And felt within electric fire
Their spirit, blood, and brain, inspire:
Then Woman was espoused by Man!
The bridal dawn of Love began.
Oh! then was born of breathing truth
A feeling in ambrosial youth,
That soars above the vile decay
Of things which time and sense array,
And when the dying World departs
Still blooms within celestial hearts!
Thus brightly on his vision broke
A living Shape for whom he pined,
To share his unpartaken mind.
Awhile they gazed in hush'd delight,
Each dazzled with the other's sight;
Then saw within their mutual eyes
Magnetic rays of soul arise,
And heard their lips fond tones repeat,
And heard their hearts in concert beat,
And felt within electric fire
Their spirit, blood, and brain, inspire:
Then Woman was espoused by Man!
The bridal dawn of Love began.
Oh! then was born of breathing truth
A feeling in ambrosial youth,
That soars above the vile decay
Of things which time and sense array,
And when the dying World departs
Still blooms within celestial hearts!
And thus, with all that forms a friend
The finer tints of love to blend;
To soothe the tempest, share the calm,
And pour on grief unfailing balm,
Did woman on the world appear.
And hath she fail'd in life's career?—
The Warrior wins a bright renown,
The Poet wears a peerless crown,
And History with heroic grace
Hath laurell'd their triumphant race;
But where, in what recording book
Can unforgetting Nature look,
To count, since first her ages ran,
What Woman hath endured for Man?
Alas! like dews which night hath felt
Within ungrateful earth to melt,
And freshen into living flowers
The grove that smiles at morning hours,
The virtues born of woman's soul,
(Though time has drunk their mild control
And had by them the heart supplied
With what the ruder sex denied)
In cold oblivion seem to fade,
Unknown, unsung, and undisplay'd!
The finer tints of love to blend;
To soothe the tempest, share the calm,
And pour on grief unfailing balm,
Did woman on the world appear.
And hath she fail'd in life's career?—
The Warrior wins a bright renown,
The Poet wears a peerless crown,
And History with heroic grace
Hath laurell'd their triumphant race;
But where, in what recording book
Can unforgetting Nature look,
To count, since first her ages ran,
What Woman hath endured for Man?
Alas! like dews which night hath felt
Within ungrateful earth to melt,
And freshen into living flowers
The grove that smiles at morning hours,
The virtues born of woman's soul,
(Though time has drunk their mild control
And had by them the heart supplied
With what the ruder sex denied)
In cold oblivion seem to fade,
Unknown, unsung, and undisplay'd!
But, might those Spirits who have been
Calm Watchers of our troubled scene,
Beholding with dejected eye
The throes of human agony,—
To earth repeat the tale of Life
Since first convulsed with gloom and strife,
How much, methinks, would Virtue prize
That never dazzled mortal eyes,
As Angels read the awful story
Of Empires dim, and ages hoary,
And, while they scorn'd a hero's crown
To Woman give the heart's renown!
For pangs endured with secret sway,
For tears by night, and toils by day;
For tortures by the world untraced
When love was wreck'd, and truth defaced:
For fondness in the fiercest hour
Of tyrant wrath, or ruin's power,
For every sad and silent wrong
That weakness suffer'd from the strong,—
For these, and all young Feeling bore
When misery made it love the more!
A chaplet of celestial light
Would Angels weave for Woman's right.
Oh! she is all that soul can be
In deep, undying sympathy!
When life is scarce a moving dream
'Tis like her spirit's native beam,
Which never from its fountain strays
But lives alone within her rays!
And round an infant how divine
The wreath a mother's arm can twine?
And when dark years of manhood bring
Their load of fated suffering,
As true as echo to the sound
Her blessings to his wants abound!
In sickness, ah! how smooth the bed
Her duteous hand alone can spread;
And, when the shades of Death advance,
What paradise within her glance,
Where all the yearning soul appears
Dissolved in sympathetic tears!
Calm Watchers of our troubled scene,
Beholding with dejected eye
The throes of human agony,—
To earth repeat the tale of Life
Since first convulsed with gloom and strife,
How much, methinks, would Virtue prize
That never dazzled mortal eyes,
As Angels read the awful story
Of Empires dim, and ages hoary,
And, while they scorn'd a hero's crown
To Woman give the heart's renown!
For pangs endured with secret sway,
For tears by night, and toils by day;
For tortures by the world untraced
When love was wreck'd, and truth defaced:
For fondness in the fiercest hour
Of tyrant wrath, or ruin's power,
For every sad and silent wrong
That weakness suffer'd from the strong,—
For these, and all young Feeling bore
When misery made it love the more!
A chaplet of celestial light
Would Angels weave for Woman's right.
Oh! she is all that soul can be
In deep, undying sympathy!
When life is scarce a moving dream
'Tis like her spirit's native beam,
Which never from its fountain strays
But lives alone within her rays!
And round an infant how divine
The wreath a mother's arm can twine?
And when dark years of manhood bring
Their load of fated suffering,
As true as echo to the sound
Her blessings to his wants abound!
In sickness, ah! how smooth the bed
Her duteous hand alone can spread;
And, when the shades of Death advance,
What paradise within her glance,
Where all the yearning soul appears
Dissolved in sympathetic tears!
299
Yet scarce had Eden pass'd away
And sin begun its blighting sway,
Ere woman lost her mental rank
And in domestic thraldom sank
A Thing to be, whose witching power
Might serve to gild a wanton hour,
To feed a passion, soothe a frown,
Or magnify her lord's renown,
But ever, with unvalued heart,
In life to play the menial part!
And e'en in Greece, that land sublime
Whose glory lit the wings of time,
E'en there, where Beauty's faultless mould
Surpass'd what Sculpture's dreams behold,
In vain would truth a model see,—
Her love breathes no divinity!
From earth it sprung, on earth to live
On every charm mere Sense can give;
But all proud Sentiment could teach
Divine in thought, or pure in speech,
By Greece unfelt, or unadmired,
Hath scarce one classic page inspired.
And Rome, whose wizard banner waved
O'er half the isles far Ocean laved,
By conquest was not taught to school
The passions Heaven alone can rule;
But offer'd up each female Right
On altars of their stern delight,
Where rage might spend its haughty breath
And doom a guiltless heart to death.
And sin begun its blighting sway,
Ere woman lost her mental rank
And in domestic thraldom sank
A Thing to be, whose witching power
Might serve to gild a wanton hour,
To feed a passion, soothe a frown,
Or magnify her lord's renown,
But ever, with unvalued heart,
In life to play the menial part!
And e'en in Greece, that land sublime
Whose glory lit the wings of time,
E'en there, where Beauty's faultless mould
Surpass'd what Sculpture's dreams behold,
In vain would truth a model see,—
Her love breathes no divinity!
From earth it sprung, on earth to live
On every charm mere Sense can give;
But all proud Sentiment could teach
Divine in thought, or pure in speech,
By Greece unfelt, or unadmired,
Hath scarce one classic page inspired.
And Rome, whose wizard banner waved
O'er half the isles far Ocean laved,
By conquest was not taught to school
The passions Heaven alone can rule;
But offer'd up each female Right
On altars of their stern delight,
Where rage might spend its haughty breath
And doom a guiltless heart to death.
But Rome and Greece, eternal two!
Have shown the world what mind can do;
And still from them the streams of mind
With living freshness charm mankind:
Their language in immortal notes
Around our list'ning spirit floats;
Their genius, throned in classic state,
Is haunted by the wise and great;
And high-born is the zeal that pays
True homage to heroic days
When valour woke the lyre of thought,
And poets sang the fields they fought!
Yet when prevail'd in Greece or Rome
The magic of a modern home?
There, lives the light our spirit hails!
There, beats the heart that never fails;
There, smiles beyond a realm to bring
Round calmest hours are clustering!
Where queens of mild affection reign;
The bloom of joy, the balm of pain;
And thus are more, when grey or young,
Than Homer dream'd, or Maro sung.
Have shown the world what mind can do;
And still from them the streams of mind
With living freshness charm mankind:
Their language in immortal notes
Around our list'ning spirit floats;
Their genius, throned in classic state,
Is haunted by the wise and great;
And high-born is the zeal that pays
True homage to heroic days
When valour woke the lyre of thought,
And poets sang the fields they fought!
Yet when prevail'd in Greece or Rome
The magic of a modern home?
There, lives the light our spirit hails!
There, beats the heart that never fails;
There, smiles beyond a realm to bring
Round calmest hours are clustering!
Where queens of mild affection reign;
The bloom of joy, the balm of pain;
And thus are more, when grey or young,
Than Homer dream'd, or Maro sung.
When first on Rome a tameless horde
From forest-depths their myriads pour'd,
And down to dust her empire broke,
Refinement's moral dawn awoke.
The gloomy brow, the glaring eye,
The breast which never heaved a sigh,
But nurtured in its wild domain
The glory of surmounted pain,—
Amid them all there lived a sense
Of woman's meek pre-eminence;
While Chastity within the heart
Was shrined beyond pollution's art.
Thus, Nature! in thy darkest mood
How much remains of bright and good!
What Learning in her proudest day,
What Genius in her fiery sway,
With blended power might never reach,
These warriors of the wild could teach!
'Tis pleasant in the storm to see
The battle of some glorious tree,
Whose branches with resentful play
Can awe the beaten winds away;
But, beautiful! in calmer hours
To view it wave o'er meadow-flowers,
And hearken to its whisper mild
Like blessing murmur'd o'er a child:—
And thus, methinks, the contrast seen
When beauty reign'd where war had been;
When lion port and eagle eye
Had laid their horrid menace by,
And, resting in some oaken shade,
While round him laughing infants play'd,
The savage of the desert grew
Refined beneath a woman's view!
From forest-depths their myriads pour'd,
And down to dust her empire broke,
Refinement's moral dawn awoke.
The gloomy brow, the glaring eye,
The breast which never heaved a sigh,
But nurtured in its wild domain
The glory of surmounted pain,—
Amid them all there lived a sense
Of woman's meek pre-eminence;
While Chastity within the heart
Was shrined beyond pollution's art.
Thus, Nature! in thy darkest mood
How much remains of bright and good!
What Learning in her proudest day,
What Genius in her fiery sway,
With blended power might never reach,
These warriors of the wild could teach!
'Tis pleasant in the storm to see
The battle of some glorious tree,
Whose branches with resentful play
Can awe the beaten winds away;
But, beautiful! in calmer hours
To view it wave o'er meadow-flowers,
And hearken to its whisper mild
Like blessing murmur'd o'er a child:—
And thus, methinks, the contrast seen
When beauty reign'd where war had been;
When lion port and eagle eye
Had laid their horrid menace by,
And, resting in some oaken shade,
While round him laughing infants play'd,
The savage of the desert grew
Refined beneath a woman's view!
Next, Chivalry, heroic child,
With brow erect, and features wild,
Placed Love upon his matchless throne,
For Gallantry to guard alone.
Then, Woman! in that reign of heart
How peerless was thy magic part!
A word was more than human breath;
A smile dissolved the gloom of death;
And Beauty, while it awed the brave,
But made the mind a noble slave
To Honour, in the chastest light
That ruled the soul, or charm'd the sight.
And shall we, in a venal age
When love hath grown more coldly sage,
With frigid laugh and frown decry
The bright return of Chivalry?
The trumpet-music of the Past,
In tales of glory doom'd to last,
No longer must one echo stir
The pulse of English character?
Alas! our life is worldly lore;
The reign of heart-romance is o'er;
And all which fired heroic toil
Hath now become a meaner spoil
For time and circumstance to win,
While Self is throned secure within.—
Yet, valour in its fine excess;
A scorn that wither'd littleness;
Devotion in its grandest shape
And love that sought no mean escape,—
Oh! darkly sunk, and vilely sway'd
The Clime that wills their might decay'd:
But ever prompts each servile art
To flourish in th' unweeded heart,
Till day by day we learn to see
False self is true philosophy!
With brow erect, and features wild,
Placed Love upon his matchless throne,
For Gallantry to guard alone.
Then, Woman! in that reign of heart
How peerless was thy magic part!
A word was more than human breath;
A smile dissolved the gloom of death;
And Beauty, while it awed the brave,
But made the mind a noble slave
To Honour, in the chastest light
That ruled the soul, or charm'd the sight.
And shall we, in a venal age
When love hath grown more coldly sage,
With frigid laugh and frown decry
The bright return of Chivalry?
The trumpet-music of the Past,
In tales of glory doom'd to last,
No longer must one echo stir
The pulse of English character?
Alas! our life is worldly lore;
The reign of heart-romance is o'er;
And all which fired heroic toil
Hath now become a meaner spoil
For time and circumstance to win,
While Self is throned secure within.—
Yet, valour in its fine excess;
A scorn that wither'd littleness;
300
And love that sought no mean escape,—
Oh! darkly sunk, and vilely sway'd
The Clime that wills their might decay'd:
But ever prompts each servile art
To flourish in th' unweeded heart,
Till day by day we learn to see
False self is true philosophy!
But far beyond all forming powers
Which made expressive Beauty ours,
In that pure shape by God design'd
To soften, soothe, and sway mankind,—
Religion, voiced from Heaven, began
To rouse the fallen soul of man:
Then spirit, by the sense unbound,
Arose with grace immortal crown'd:
Emotions deep, unstain'd desires,
Serener hopes, and chaster fires,
Came flowing from a Fount above
All freshen'd with ethereal love!
'Twas then that Woman like a star,
Whose beam had flutter'd dim and far
And shed upon the troubled soul
A ray of undiscern'd control,—
Advanced above life's daily sphere,
Disclosed her radiance, full and near;
And kindled for beclouded man
The light a Christian woman can.
Restored to reign, as fair and good
As once in Eden's bower she stood,
Companion of the Soul to be
In love's avowed fidelity,
Religion, when its healing smile
First trembled o'er Britannia's isle,
By her assuasive meekness won
A way to visit hearts undone.
And, did her martyr'd spirit quake
To front the vengeance of the stake?—
E'en there Apostles might have known
A faith whose firmness match'd their own:
Though limb by limb the fire devour'd,
She neither shook, nor shriek'd, nor cower'd,
But gloried in the murd'rous flame
To sing a martyr'd Saviour's name!
Which made expressive Beauty ours,
In that pure shape by God design'd
To soften, soothe, and sway mankind,—
Religion, voiced from Heaven, began
To rouse the fallen soul of man:
Then spirit, by the sense unbound,
Arose with grace immortal crown'd:
Emotions deep, unstain'd desires,
Serener hopes, and chaster fires,
Came flowing from a Fount above
All freshen'd with ethereal love!
'Twas then that Woman like a star,
Whose beam had flutter'd dim and far
And shed upon the troubled soul
A ray of undiscern'd control,—
Advanced above life's daily sphere,
Disclosed her radiance, full and near;
And kindled for beclouded man
The light a Christian woman can.
Restored to reign, as fair and good
As once in Eden's bower she stood,
Companion of the Soul to be
In love's avowed fidelity,
Religion, when its healing smile
First trembled o'er Britannia's isle,
By her assuasive meekness won
A way to visit hearts undone.
And, did her martyr'd spirit quake
To front the vengeance of the stake?—
E'en there Apostles might have known
A faith whose firmness match'd their own:
Though limb by limb the fire devour'd,
She neither shook, nor shriek'd, nor cower'd,
But gloried in the murd'rous flame
To sing a martyr'd Saviour's name!
And view th' applauded domes which rise
In holy grandeur to the skies,
How much to female hands they owe
Their power to lessen human woe!
But ah! how exquisite must be
Those charities that none can see,
In lovely darkness hid awhile
Surrounded with Jehovah's smile!
Till, stealing into holy light,
They glitter on the pilgrim's sight
When haply in some village-dale
His soul has drunk the secret tale,
How Saintliness a beauty shed
Around the dying mourner's bed:—
Thus oft upon some travell'd plain,
Where Winter holds his bleakest reign,
In sudden bloom young flow'rets rise,
And blush beneath our gazing eyes.
For, leaving oft the splendid home,
Unheeded will Compassion roam,
And where the roofs of Sorrow lie
Give tear for tear, and sigh for sigh;
To Famine deal the daily bread,
For Sickness hold the drooping head,
Be mother to some orphan boy,
Make widow'd hearts to sing for joy,
And should the parting Soul despair,
Points to bright heaven, and Jesu there!
In holy grandeur to the skies,
How much to female hands they owe
Their power to lessen human woe!
But ah! how exquisite must be
Those charities that none can see,
In lovely darkness hid awhile
Surrounded with Jehovah's smile!
Till, stealing into holy light,
They glitter on the pilgrim's sight
When haply in some village-dale
His soul has drunk the secret tale,
How Saintliness a beauty shed
Around the dying mourner's bed:—
Thus oft upon some travell'd plain,
Where Winter holds his bleakest reign,
In sudden bloom young flow'rets rise,
And blush beneath our gazing eyes.
For, leaving oft the splendid home,
Unheeded will Compassion roam,
And where the roofs of Sorrow lie
Give tear for tear, and sigh for sigh;
To Famine deal the daily bread,
For Sickness hold the drooping head,
Be mother to some orphan boy,
Make widow'd hearts to sing for joy,
And should the parting Soul despair,
Points to bright heaven, and Jesu there!
And what were life, if woman's heart
Attemper'd with no guiding art
The household-morals of mankind,
Whereby the world is kept refined,
And each soft hue opinion wears
Its lovely origin declares?
Go, find a Land where female grace
Is honour'd by no gallant race,
And man's dominion deems it vile
To bend beneath a woman's smile,
But tramples with a brute delight
On mental rank and moral right,
How darkly do her people sink!
How meanly act, how basely think!
No loftiness that Clime reveals;
No purity her spirit feels;
Corruption cankers law and throne,
The language breathes a dungeon-tone;
And seldom there hath Virtue smiled;
But, wither'd, weaken'd, and defiled,
It moulders on from age to age
The scorn of hero, bard, and sage,
And seems on glorious Earth to be
A plague-spot, and an infamy!
Attemper'd with no guiding art
The household-morals of mankind,
Whereby the world is kept refined,
And each soft hue opinion wears
Its lovely origin declares?
Go, find a Land where female grace
Is honour'd by no gallant race,
And man's dominion deems it vile
To bend beneath a woman's smile,
But tramples with a brute delight
On mental rank and moral right,
How darkly do her people sink!
How meanly act, how basely think!
No loftiness that Clime reveals;
No purity her spirit feels;
Corruption cankers law and throne,
The language breathes a dungeon-tone;
And seldom there hath Virtue smiled;
But, wither'd, weaken'd, and defiled,
It moulders on from age to age
The scorn of hero, bard, and sage,
And seems on glorious Earth to be
A plague-spot, and an infamy!
But vain would Truth reflect in song
What nameless fascinations throng
Around that quiet hearth alone,
Where Tenderness hath rear'd its throne.
Oh! there are feelings rich but faint,
The hues of language cannot paint;
And pleasures, delicate as deep,
Which like the palaces of sleep
Melt into dimness, when the Light
Would look upon their fairy sight;
And there are chords of happiness
Whose spirit-tones our fancy bless,
And make the music of our joy
Complete, without one harsh alloy;
Yet ill can words one note reveal
Of melody which mind can feel!
But who hath left some calm domain
Where Home was charm'd by woman's reign,
And trifles through some magic wore
An air they never breathed before,
And enter'd where a proud abode
To ruder man its splendour owed,
Nor felt the contrast sternly cold,
Like winter o'er his spirit roll'd?
Still, there may garden, grove, and bower,
Attend on each retiring hour;
There Painting with impassion'd glow
The poetry of colours show,
While volumes rank'd in rich array
The heroes of the mind display:
But like a face when death has chill'd
The light that once each feature fill'd,
Contrasted with its living power
Beheld in some excited hour,
Are homes where single man is seen
With those where woman's spell hath been.
What nameless fascinations throng
Around that quiet hearth alone,
Where Tenderness hath rear'd its throne.
Oh! there are feelings rich but faint,
The hues of language cannot paint;
And pleasures, delicate as deep,
Which like the palaces of sleep
Melt into dimness, when the Light
Would look upon their fairy sight;
And there are chords of happiness
Whose spirit-tones our fancy bless,
And make the music of our joy
Complete, without one harsh alloy;
Yet ill can words one note reveal
Of melody which mind can feel!
301
Where Home was charm'd by woman's reign,
And trifles through some magic wore
An air they never breathed before,
And enter'd where a proud abode
To ruder man its splendour owed,
Nor felt the contrast sternly cold,
Like winter o'er his spirit roll'd?
Still, there may garden, grove, and bower,
Attend on each retiring hour;
There Painting with impassion'd glow
The poetry of colours show,
While volumes rank'd in rich array
The heroes of the mind display:
But like a face when death has chill'd
The light that once each feature fill'd,
Contrasted with its living power
Beheld in some excited hour,
Are homes where single man is seen
With those where woman's spell hath been.
Alas! for them whose toil-worn days
Uncheer'd by Love's adorning rays,
In crawling loneliness depart,
Yet fret the bloom from out the heart.
Though Life, as lord of each desire,
To intellectual thrones aspire;
May win the laurel, wear the crown,
And madden envy with renown,
How much beyond what dreams bestow
Their loveless hours can never know!
With nothing but cold Self to please,
The waters of the spirit freeze;
And years but harden while they chill
A Bosom left unsocial still:
And like a tree by autumn shorn
Of all that summer-boughs had borne,
A leafless, bare, and blighted Thing
Where scarce a breeze will deign to sing,—
Is Man bereft of that control
That emanates from female soul.
For heart with heart was born to beat,
And soul with soul was made to meet,
And sex for sex design'd to be
The dawn of endless sympathy.
Uncheer'd by Love's adorning rays,
In crawling loneliness depart,
Yet fret the bloom from out the heart.
Though Life, as lord of each desire,
To intellectual thrones aspire;
May win the laurel, wear the crown,
And madden envy with renown,
How much beyond what dreams bestow
Their loveless hours can never know!
With nothing but cold Self to please,
The waters of the spirit freeze;
And years but harden while they chill
A Bosom left unsocial still:
And like a tree by autumn shorn
Of all that summer-boughs had borne,
A leafless, bare, and blighted Thing
Where scarce a breeze will deign to sing,—
Is Man bereft of that control
That emanates from female soul.
For heart with heart was born to beat,
And soul with soul was made to meet,
And sex for sex design'd to be
The dawn of endless sympathy.
But ye! the laurell'd Host who live
A life beyond mere earth to give;
The deities of dazzled Thought,
To whom her incense aye is brought;
Ye Alexanders of the mind
Who conquer, but to charm mankind!
Enchanters! for the spirit's eyes
Remoulding ruin'd paradise;
Interpreters! whose tones declare
The dialogues of Sea and Air;
The priests of Nature taught to praise
And worship her mysterious ways;
Ye intellectual Kings of time!
Triumphant, matchless, and sublime,
How fervently your pages own
In music of transcendant tone,
That Woman in her lovely might
Drew worship, wonder, and delight
From Souls whose inward glance could see
Visions that crowd eternity!
A life beyond mere earth to give;
The deities of dazzled Thought,
To whom her incense aye is brought;
Ye Alexanders of the mind
Who conquer, but to charm mankind!
Enchanters! for the spirit's eyes
Remoulding ruin'd paradise;
Interpreters! whose tones declare
The dialogues of Sea and Air;
The priests of Nature taught to praise
And worship her mysterious ways;
Ye intellectual Kings of time!
Triumphant, matchless, and sublime,
How fervently your pages own
In music of transcendant tone,
That Woman in her lovely might
Drew worship, wonder, and delight
From Souls whose inward glance could see
Visions that crowd eternity!
Impassioned Lords of deathless song
To them the lips of Time belong,
As fired with their majestic fame
From age to age they sound their name,
And bid the world enshrine that scene
Where once a worshipp'd Bard hath been;—
For hallow'd seems his natal spot
Where thrones are crush'd, and kings forgot!
And they have earn'd that gorgeous debt
Of praise, that Time is paying yet,
Who taught us, though it bear the curse,
To love the heaven-born universe,
And trace wherever goodness trod
The lustre of a living God!
To them the lips of Time belong,
As fired with their majestic fame
From age to age they sound their name,
And bid the world enshrine that scene
Where once a worshipp'd Bard hath been;—
For hallow'd seems his natal spot
Where thrones are crush'd, and kings forgot!
And they have earn'd that gorgeous debt
Of praise, that Time is paying yet,
Who taught us, though it bear the curse,
To love the heaven-born universe,
And trace wherever goodness trod
The lustre of a living God!
And glorious is it, when the base
Would frown upon Heaven's fairest race,
To echo into life again
The music of some master-strain;
And prove amid the ranks of fame
How each who won undying name,
In love's applauding eye could see
The ruling star of Poetry.
Would frown upon Heaven's fairest race,
To echo into life again
The music of some master-strain;
And prove amid the ranks of fame
How each who won undying name,
In love's applauding eye could see
The ruling star of Poetry.
Then let me from the poet-throng
Who hymned on Earth unearthly song,
Select some all-surpassing few,
And as they rise in proud review
Let him whose spirit ever bow'd
Before the passion it avow'd,
Whose bosom hath been thrill'd or shaken
With dream fulfill'd or hope forsaken,—
Exult to find his soul hath felt
A charm which could the sternest melt;
That lent to genius half its glow,
Or taught eternal song to flow;
For fancy plumed the wing of fire,
And warm'd the soul of every lyre,
Whose language was the light of thought
From Love by consecration wrought!
Who hymned on Earth unearthly song,
Select some all-surpassing few,
And as they rise in proud review
Let him whose spirit ever bow'd
Before the passion it avow'd,
Whose bosom hath been thrill'd or shaken
With dream fulfill'd or hope forsaken,—
Exult to find his soul hath felt
A charm which could the sternest melt;
That lent to genius half its glow,
Or taught eternal song to flow;
For fancy plumed the wing of fire,
And warm'd the soul of every lyre,
Whose language was the light of thought
From Love by consecration wrought!
With paleness on his awful brow
Who riseth like a spectre now
From darkness, where his fancy dared
To wander with an eye unscared,
And gaze on Visions such as roll
Around that blighted Angel's soul,
Who baffles in his dread domain
An immortality of pain
'Tis Dante!—whose terrific flight
Through caverns of Cimmerian night
Imagination vainly tries
To track with unappallèd eyes!
Severe, august, and sternly great,
The gloom of his remorseless fate
Around him hung a dismal air
Which broodeth o'er intense despair;
Till frenzy half began to raise
A wildness in his fearful gaze,
As, roaming over crag and wood
He battled with bleak solitude!
For sooner might the maniac roar
Of ocean cease to awe the shore
When Starlight comes with fairy gleam,
Than Pity lull his tortured dream!—
Oh! 'tis not in poetic art
To paint the earthquake of his heart,
The storm of feeling's ghastly strife
When she, who form'd his life of life,
Had vanish'd like a twilight-ray
Too delicate on earth to stay.
For Love had heated blood and brain,
A fire in each electric vein,
A passion whose exceeding power
Was heaven or hell to each wild hour!
Who riseth like a spectre now
From darkness, where his fancy dared
To wander with an eye unscared,
And gaze on Visions such as roll
Around that blighted Angel's soul,
Who baffles in his dread domain
An immortality of pain
'Tis Dante!—whose terrific flight
Through caverns of Cimmerian night
302
To track with unappallèd eyes!
Severe, august, and sternly great,
The gloom of his remorseless fate
Around him hung a dismal air
Which broodeth o'er intense despair;
Till frenzy half began to raise
A wildness in his fearful gaze,
As, roaming over crag and wood
He battled with bleak solitude!
For sooner might the maniac roar
Of ocean cease to awe the shore
When Starlight comes with fairy gleam,
Than Pity lull his tortured dream!—
Oh! 'tis not in poetic art
To paint the earthquake of his heart,
The storm of feeling's ghastly strife
When she, who form'd his life of life,
Had vanish'd like a twilight-ray
Too delicate on earth to stay.
For Love had heated blood and brain,
A fire in each electric vein,
A passion whose exceeding power
Was heaven or hell to each wild hour!
But from the wreck of ruin'd days
What gorgeous visions did he raise!
Since ne'er was Beauty so divine
Embodied in a breathing shrine,
As thronèd Beatrice on high
In the dark haze of Deity!
Her forehead wreath'd with starry light,
And she herself,—oh! what a sight
On Dante glitter'd, when afar
He listen'd to her mystic car,
As wafted in a cloud of flowers
And guarded by angelic powers
In veil of fire her spirit came,
And warbled his remember'd name!
He bow'd beneath her awful look;
Then gazed until his being shook
Like water, when the winds convulse
And stir it with a quivering pulse.
But when the wing'd enchantress soar'd
To where the Godhead was adored,
Without a shadow, speck, or bound,
Eternity lay imaged round!
There on some mysterious throne
Again he saw her, bright and lone.
Ineffably one look she cast
Angelic features ne'er surpass'd,
On him who knelt entranced awhile
Within the glory of her smile;
Till lo! in deep excess of light
She faded from his yearning sight!
What gorgeous visions did he raise!
Since ne'er was Beauty so divine
Embodied in a breathing shrine,
As thronèd Beatrice on high
In the dark haze of Deity!
Her forehead wreath'd with starry light,
And she herself,—oh! what a sight
On Dante glitter'd, when afar
He listen'd to her mystic car,
As wafted in a cloud of flowers
And guarded by angelic powers
In veil of fire her spirit came,
And warbled his remember'd name!
He bow'd beneath her awful look;
Then gazed until his being shook
Like water, when the winds convulse
And stir it with a quivering pulse.
But when the wing'd enchantress soar'd
To where the Godhead was adored,
Without a shadow, speck, or bound,
Eternity lay imaged round!
There on some mysterious throne
Again he saw her, bright and lone.
Ineffably one look she cast
Angelic features ne'er surpass'd,
On him who knelt entranced awhile
Within the glory of her smile;
Till lo! in deep excess of light
She faded from his yearning sight!
As one who leaves a savage dell
Where day hath bid the sun farewell,
Comes forth to view autumnal beams
On bank, and wood, and dimpled streams,
Is he who turns from Dante's gloom
To see Parnassian flow'rets bloom,
As dreams of beauty dawn and glow
Along the page of Petrarch's wo.
How touching are those mental tears,
Delighted throbs and dazzled fears,—
The penance by his genius paid
Whenever recreant fancy stray'd
Beyond the path of pure desire!
'Twas Laura tuned his pensive lyre:
Madonna-like, and sweetly mild,
And pure as an untempted child,
Amid her white-robed virgin-throng
He saw her beauty glide along,
When lilies deck'd her sun-bright hair
Amid the walls of lone St. Claire.
That hour became a second birth!
Her lustre overveil'd the earth;
And never did a Ghebir kneel
Before his orb with truer zeal
Than Petrarch at that living shrine
Where dwelt the soul he knew divine!
To him she was a spotless Thing
Too bright for earthly lyre to sing;
A miracle of life and love,
A dream embodied from above,
A seraph whose unclouded eyes
Reflected back their native skies!
Where day hath bid the sun farewell,
Comes forth to view autumnal beams
On bank, and wood, and dimpled streams,
Is he who turns from Dante's gloom
To see Parnassian flow'rets bloom,
As dreams of beauty dawn and glow
Along the page of Petrarch's wo.
How touching are those mental tears,
Delighted throbs and dazzled fears,—
The penance by his genius paid
Whenever recreant fancy stray'd
Beyond the path of pure desire!
'Twas Laura tuned his pensive lyre:
Madonna-like, and sweetly mild,
And pure as an untempted child,
Amid her white-robed virgin-throng
He saw her beauty glide along,
When lilies deck'd her sun-bright hair
Amid the walls of lone St. Claire.
That hour became a second birth!
Her lustre overveil'd the earth;
And never did a Ghebir kneel
Before his orb with truer zeal
Than Petrarch at that living shrine
Where dwelt the soul he knew divine!
To him she was a spotless Thing
Too bright for earthly lyre to sing;
A miracle of life and love,
A dream embodied from above,
A seraph whose unclouded eyes
Reflected back their native skies!
From her his inspiration came;
Each song enshrined her hidden name;
And not a shadow, tint, or sound
Creation could produce around,
But he beguiled with beauteous art
To typify her taintless heart.
How fervently his homage glows!
Pure from the mind it springs and flows,
Exhausting as his numbers roll
The life-blood of a feeling soul.
For Laura seem'd his spirit's breath,
And ruled it when she sunk in death;
Then, day and darkness, scene and hour
Were haunted with her holy power;
And when her smile illumed it not
The faded world was soon forgot;
Since only to embalm her name
He panted for eternal fame!
Each song enshrined her hidden name;
And not a shadow, tint, or sound
Creation could produce around,
But he beguiled with beauteous art
To typify her taintless heart.
How fervently his homage glows!
Pure from the mind it springs and flows,
Exhausting as his numbers roll
The life-blood of a feeling soul.
For Laura seem'd his spirit's breath,
And ruled it when she sunk in death;
Then, day and darkness, scene and hour
Were haunted with her holy power;
And when her smile illumed it not
The faded world was soon forgot;
Since only to embalm her name
He panted for eternal fame!
Adorner of the human race!
Great Nature's rival, who could trace
Her features with such perfect skill
That Time can but remould them still,
So matchless is that mighty One
Whom Fancy now would gaze upon.
Go, lend the skies a lovelier blue,
Or sunbeams o'er the sunshine strew;
Bid Horror to the tempest bring
A louder shriek and blacker wing:
Or dare suggest a deeper tone
To Thunder on his midnight-throne;
So powerless seems a poet's line
To sing what Shakspeare's works combine!
All tears and smiles to him belong;
All clouds that round the spirit throng;
All passions, principles, and powers
Which wring the heart, or rule its hours,
In language Nature's lip had taught
By him were into action wrought!
So truly with creative art
He paints the drama of the heart,
That long as tears haunt human eyes,
Or Pleasure laughs, or Sorrow sighs,
Whatever path his genius trod,
We hail him earth's poetic god.
Great Nature's rival, who could trace
Her features with such perfect skill
That Time can but remould them still,
So matchless is that mighty One
Whom Fancy now would gaze upon.
Go, lend the skies a lovelier blue,
Or sunbeams o'er the sunshine strew;
303
A louder shriek and blacker wing:
Or dare suggest a deeper tone
To Thunder on his midnight-throne;
So powerless seems a poet's line
To sing what Shakspeare's works combine!
All tears and smiles to him belong;
All clouds that round the spirit throng;
All passions, principles, and powers
Which wring the heart, or rule its hours,
In language Nature's lip had taught
By him were into action wrought!
So truly with creative art
He paints the drama of the heart,
That long as tears haunt human eyes,
Or Pleasure laughs, or Sorrow sighs,
Whatever path his genius trod,
We hail him earth's poetic god.
And round him is a dimness thrown?
The colour of his life unknown?
While meaner names are chronicled,
And baseness in false light beheld,
That Masterpiece of mortal clay
Unhonour'd did he pass away?
Yes, like an orb whose affluent rays
Demand of earth no greeting praise,
He scatter'd intellectual light
Immortal in unconscious might;
Sublimely careless of renown
Then lay his awful spirit down,
Nor dreamt that Glory's arm would wave
Her brightest banner o'er his grave!
The colour of his life unknown?
While meaner names are chronicled,
And baseness in false light beheld,
That Masterpiece of mortal clay
Unhonour'd did he pass away?
Yes, like an orb whose affluent rays
Demand of earth no greeting praise,
He scatter'd intellectual light
Immortal in unconscious might;
Sublimely careless of renown
Then lay his awful spirit down,
Nor dreamt that Glory's arm would wave
Her brightest banner o'er his grave!
But yet there come faint shadows cast
From pining years which he had past,
That tell us how the soul could brook
Such pangs as once his bosom shook,
When dark-eyed Beauty rack'd and wrung
A heart round which the world had clung!
Her hair was like the sheen of night
When blackness seems to make it bright;
And melody her touch obey'd
When o'er the chords her fingers stray'd;
But sorrow dash'd her April years
With cold and melancholy tears;
And thus there grew a wild unrest
Within the gloom of Shakspere's breast,
Till he who sung what Romeo felt
Beneath like pangs was doom'd to melt,
And hide within his dreaming brain
The visions of a lover's pain.
From pining years which he had past,
That tell us how the soul could brook
Such pangs as once his bosom shook,
When dark-eyed Beauty rack'd and wrung
A heart round which the world had clung!
Her hair was like the sheen of night
When blackness seems to make it bright;
And melody her touch obey'd
When o'er the chords her fingers stray'd;
But sorrow dash'd her April years
With cold and melancholy tears;
And thus there grew a wild unrest
Within the gloom of Shakspere's breast,
Till he who sung what Romeo felt
Beneath like pangs was doom'd to melt,
And hide within his dreaming brain
The visions of a lover's pain.
And well may Woman proudly think
That he whose spirit thus could drink
Absorbing rays from beauty's eyes,
Hath sphered her sex amid the skies!
And none like him love's essence knew,
From hidden soul the lightning drew,
That subtile, secret, silent flame
For which the heart hath found no name.
There's not a throb that woman feels,
There's not a ray her mind reveals,
And scarce a blush on brow and cheek
When blood would rise and almost speak,—
But Shakspere hath the whole divined,
And held a mirror to the mind
That nature o'er his magic glass
Might view each play of feature pass.
And what a life-breath'd air there seems
To freshen those embodied dreams
Where character and grace arise,
To feast our unforgetting eyes
With all Affection can display,
When most we bow beneath her sway!
Bright, beautiful, and young, and warm,
With tears that melt and tongues that charm,
The creatures whom he call'd to birth
We pine to meet on mortal earth,
And trace by his revealing art
The windings of a woman's heart.
That he whose spirit thus could drink
Absorbing rays from beauty's eyes,
Hath sphered her sex amid the skies!
And none like him love's essence knew,
From hidden soul the lightning drew,
That subtile, secret, silent flame
For which the heart hath found no name.
There's not a throb that woman feels,
There's not a ray her mind reveals,
And scarce a blush on brow and cheek
When blood would rise and almost speak,—
But Shakspere hath the whole divined,
And held a mirror to the mind
That nature o'er his magic glass
Might view each play of feature pass.
And what a life-breath'd air there seems
To freshen those embodied dreams
Where character and grace arise,
To feast our unforgetting eyes
With all Affection can display,
When most we bow beneath her sway!
Bright, beautiful, and young, and warm,
With tears that melt and tongues that charm,
The creatures whom he call'd to birth
We pine to meet on mortal earth,
And trace by his revealing art
The windings of a woman's heart.
As moonlight weaves a varied spell
O'er rock and mountain, grove and dell,
So Love with his transforming beam
Hath colour'd each romantic dream,
As stern or mild the spirit lay
Beneath the spell-work of his ray.
A sense of beauty,—it was thine,
As deep, as burning, and divine
As ever fed with living fire
The passion of a poet's lyre,
Pale martyr! whom Alphonso's hate
Imprison'd for a madman's fate,
Because ere yet the lips could speak
Emotion had betray'd thy cheek,
To tell him how a bard could dare
To love a princess—and despair!
That love was like a blasting sun,
It sear'd the heart it shined upon!
But oh, how much of Tasso's strain
Was born of his devoted pain,
When feelings in their hopeless strife
Contended with those clouds of life
That 'tween him and his idol grew,
Till Death alone could break them through.
O'er rock and mountain, grove and dell,
So Love with his transforming beam
Hath colour'd each romantic dream,
As stern or mild the spirit lay
Beneath the spell-work of his ray.
A sense of beauty,—it was thine,
As deep, as burning, and divine
As ever fed with living fire
The passion of a poet's lyre,
Pale martyr! whom Alphonso's hate
Imprison'd for a madman's fate,
Because ere yet the lips could speak
Emotion had betray'd thy cheek,
To tell him how a bard could dare
To love a princess—and despair!
That love was like a blasting sun,
It sear'd the heart it shined upon!
But oh, how much of Tasso's strain
Was born of his devoted pain,
When feelings in their hopeless strife
Contended with those clouds of life
That 'tween him and his idol grew,
Till Death alone could break them through.
His youth was lonesome; and the light
Of half that won or woo'd the sight,
Enchantment from his spirit shed
Till earth was heaven beneath his tread!
And Nature like a mother smiled
On him her musing foster-child;
To whom her voice from wave or wind
Came with a magic more refined
Than echoes from the human soul:
And where a quiet stream did roll
While shade and sunshine blent their power,
He charm'd his own creative hour;
Till voiceless aspirations rose,
His bosom lost its young repose,
And round his heart a Syren came
Who murmur'd his immortal name!
Thus fancy set the soul on fire,
Till life itself he found aspire
To beauty, like that spirit bright;
When, tender as the touch of light,
Fair Leonora's vision stood
Before him, fresh in womanhood!
And all the heart's creation drew
At length his living eyes could view.
What heavenliness arrayed her form!
How exquisite the blushing storm
Of love's betray'd emotion rose!
When Tasso read his lyric woes,
And saw her eye's transparent blue
Bedimm'd with soul dissolving through!
Morn after morn, in youth's ripe age,
He read his own melodious page,
While Leonora's lips of love
The garland of his glory wove
In words whose magic seem'd to be
The tones of immortality!
Of half that won or woo'd the sight,
Enchantment from his spirit shed
Till earth was heaven beneath his tread!
And Nature like a mother smiled
On him her musing foster-child;
To whom her voice from wave or wind
Came with a magic more refined
Than echoes from the human soul:
And where a quiet stream did roll
304
He charm'd his own creative hour;
Till voiceless aspirations rose,
His bosom lost its young repose,
And round his heart a Syren came
Who murmur'd his immortal name!
Thus fancy set the soul on fire,
Till life itself he found aspire
To beauty, like that spirit bright;
When, tender as the touch of light,
Fair Leonora's vision stood
Before him, fresh in womanhood!
And all the heart's creation drew
At length his living eyes could view.
What heavenliness arrayed her form!
How exquisite the blushing storm
Of love's betray'd emotion rose!
When Tasso read his lyric woes,
And saw her eye's transparent blue
Bedimm'd with soul dissolving through!
Morn after morn, in youth's ripe age,
He read his own melodious page,
While Leonora's lips of love
The garland of his glory wove
In words whose magic seem'd to be
The tones of immortality!
And could they side by side remain
Nor feel the heart's delicious pain?
The might of that magnetic gaze
That each to each would softly raise?
Could Tasso in such perill'd hour
Be dead to passion's dawning power?
Alas for him!—Alphonso came
And bade a dungeon hide his flame!
They tore him to a hideous cell,
(Ferrara hath revered it well)
And left him, for a maniac's doom,
To rot in suffocating gloom!
Yet misery could not then decay
The dream that wore his mind away:
Though frenzy might its faith destroy
Till life became a wretched toy,
Yet Passion round his wreck would smile,
Like Evening o'er a faded pile:
But when his Leonora died
And every bard a wreath supplied
To grace the glory of her bier,
Could Tasso's Muse deny a tear?
Yes! silence was the tomb of pain,
And grief was voiceless, when 'twas vain.
Let fancied wo prepare a sigh
To deck the fate of those who die;
And hypocrites their cheeks array
With gloom to serve a venal day,
The pangs which load a loftier breast
Lie deep, and dark, and unexprest;
Yet sternness in that blank despair
Hath buried more than anguish there!
Nor feel the heart's delicious pain?
The might of that magnetic gaze
That each to each would softly raise?
Could Tasso in such perill'd hour
Be dead to passion's dawning power?
Alas for him!—Alphonso came
And bade a dungeon hide his flame!
They tore him to a hideous cell,
(Ferrara hath revered it well)
And left him, for a maniac's doom,
To rot in suffocating gloom!
Yet misery could not then decay
The dream that wore his mind away:
Though frenzy might its faith destroy
Till life became a wretched toy,
Yet Passion round his wreck would smile,
Like Evening o'er a faded pile:
But when his Leonora died
And every bard a wreath supplied
To grace the glory of her bier,
Could Tasso's Muse deny a tear?
Yes! silence was the tomb of pain,
And grief was voiceless, when 'twas vain.
Let fancied wo prepare a sigh
To deck the fate of those who die;
And hypocrites their cheeks array
With gloom to serve a venal day,
The pangs which load a loftier breast
Lie deep, and dark, and unexprest;
Yet sternness in that blank despair
Hath buried more than anguish there!
Another of the wondous see!
Whose spirit talk'd with Deity,
And, blind on earth, beheld in heaven
The glory to archangels given,
When robed in light their garments blaze
And whiten in eternal Rays!
No cavern'd prophet while he felt
A trance almighty round him melt;
Or by some Babylonian stream
From darkness shaped his awful dream
Wherein there glided, vast and dim,
The cloud-apparell'd cherubim,
Hath scarce outsoar'd his epic flight
Who sang of Chaos, Death, and Night!
Had none, methinks, but Milton's song
Pour'd its grand tide the world along;
Had never page but his reveal'd
The miracles in mind conceal'd,
The hope immortal still would rest
Unblighted in our human breast;
For never could some narrow grave
Th' immeasurable soul enslave,
Which compass'd air, and heaven, and hell,
As lord of his creative spell!
Whose spirit talk'd with Deity,
And, blind on earth, beheld in heaven
The glory to archangels given,
When robed in light their garments blaze
And whiten in eternal Rays!
No cavern'd prophet while he felt
A trance almighty round him melt;
Or by some Babylonian stream
From darkness shaped his awful dream
Wherein there glided, vast and dim,
The cloud-apparell'd cherubim,
Hath scarce outsoar'd his epic flight
Who sang of Chaos, Death, and Night!
Had none, methinks, but Milton's song
Pour'd its grand tide the world along;
Had never page but his reveal'd
The miracles in mind conceal'd,
The hope immortal still would rest
Unblighted in our human breast;
For never could some narrow grave
Th' immeasurable soul enslave,
Which compass'd air, and heaven, and hell,
As lord of his creative spell!
With what a melody divine
The river of each noble line
Flows onward!—faint, or loud, or deep,
Accordant to the numbers' sweep.
Go, enter some majestic fane
And listen to the organ-strain,
When melting clouds of music float
Down the dim aisles with blending note;
Now with wild melodious thunder
The vaulted pavement echoes under,
Then, aloft in flights of sound
The winged harmonies abound,
Evanishing like birds that stray
And skyward sing their boundless way!—
E'en thus can Milton's numbers roll
Their cadence o'er a trancèd soul.
The river of each noble line
Flows onward!—faint, or loud, or deep,
Accordant to the numbers' sweep.
Go, enter some majestic fane
And listen to the organ-strain,
When melting clouds of music float
Down the dim aisles with blending note;
Now with wild melodious thunder
The vaulted pavement echoes under,
Then, aloft in flights of sound
The winged harmonies abound,
Evanishing like birds that stray
And skyward sing their boundless way!—
E'en thus can Milton's numbers roll
Their cadence o'er a trancèd soul.
And can we deem that he who drew
In lines of love so brightly true
The Mother of our mortal race,
And made the lustre of her face
To dazzle back a Demon's guile,
When Eden laugh'd beneath her smile,
Reflected not through poet's art
The paradise of his pure heart?
The Lady-pilgrim of the wood
In star-like beauty, lone and good,
Was copied from a shape, perchance,
That kindled youth's adoring glance.
In lines of love so brightly true
The Mother of our mortal race,
And made the lustre of her face
To dazzle back a Demon's guile,
When Eden laugh'd beneath her smile,
Reflected not through poet's art
The paradise of his pure heart?
The Lady-pilgrim of the wood
In star-like beauty, lone and good,
Was copied from a shape, perchance,
That kindled youth's adoring glance.
There is a tale—and let it live
Such life as fond romance can give,—
That once as slumb'ring Milton lay
In umbrage from the noon-warm day,
Beneath the twilight of a tree,
That arch'd its waving canopy,
A maiden saw his sleeping face
And, spell-bound with its beauteous grace,
Her wonder in sweet song express'd
And placed it on the poet's breast;—
“If eyes when shut the heart can take,
How bright their vict'ry when awake!”
Oh! who can tell what beauty flow'd
From feelings by such words bestow'd?
The Eve of his enchanted thought
From hues of nature's heaven was wrought,
And she of paradise the queen
Embodied what his soul had seen.
Such life as fond romance can give,—
That once as slumb'ring Milton lay
In umbrage from the noon-warm day,
305
That arch'd its waving canopy,
A maiden saw his sleeping face
And, spell-bound with its beauteous grace,
Her wonder in sweet song express'd
And placed it on the poet's breast;—
“If eyes when shut the heart can take,
How bright their vict'ry when awake!”
Oh! who can tell what beauty flow'd
From feelings by such words bestow'd?
The Eve of his enchanted thought
From hues of nature's heaven was wrought,
And she of paradise the queen
Embodied what his soul had seen.
And could that Bard, whose mind was free
And boundless as eternity;
Who seem'd on earth to have the skies
Aye floating o'er his mental eyes;
To the low dust of life descend
And with the base its glory blend?
How nobly hath awarding Time
For Genius shaped the crown sublime,
And silenced in oblivion's shade
The war Opinion's fury made!
Till all the wounds and stabs of strife
Which agonised his bleeding life
Appear but like a mould'ring stain
That lingers on some marble fane,
But ere it rots one tint away
Hath vanish'd in some heavenly ray!
And boundless as eternity;
Who seem'd on earth to have the skies
Aye floating o'er his mental eyes;
To the low dust of life descend
And with the base its glory blend?
How nobly hath awarding Time
For Genius shaped the crown sublime,
And silenced in oblivion's shade
The war Opinion's fury made!
Till all the wounds and stabs of strife
Which agonised his bleeding life
Appear but like a mould'ring stain
That lingers on some marble fane,
But ere it rots one tint away
Hath vanish'd in some heavenly ray!
Oh! many are the pangs that wear
A spirit into proud despair;
And many are the tears which flow,
To swell the tide of human wo:
But seldom doth the sicken'd heart
From dreams of false perfection start
With pangs of such convulsive power
As when the great have ceased to tower,
Desert the sky, and fold their wings
To strive with earth's degraded things,
Like eagles when their flight is o'er
That wrangle on some weedy shore!
A spirit into proud despair;
And many are the tears which flow,
To swell the tide of human wo:
But seldom doth the sicken'd heart
From dreams of false perfection start
With pangs of such convulsive power
As when the great have ceased to tower,
Desert the sky, and fold their wings
To strive with earth's degraded things,
Like eagles when their flight is o'er
That wrangle on some weedy shore!
But one amid the poet-throng
To whom the wreaths of heaven belong,
From pride and coarser impulse free
Stands out, in solemn purity!—
His heart, by woman's power array'd,
The summons of high love obey'd,
And beautiful, beyond the light
Of language to reveal aright,
The passion of a deathless pair,
Who breathed on earth celestial air!
Before the dawn of being came
They dreamt their lot was doom'd the same,
And human love in heaven would be
A wedded immortality!
And when his Meta dying lay
And felt her spirit faint away,
Like music from a falt'ring wave
When sinking to its ocean grave,
Beside her Klopstock meekly stood,
And watch'd the pale and speaking blood
In awful changes come and go!
But never was such loving wo,
When Meta, to his fond request
That round him her bright wings should rest
While o'er the world his fate must rove,—
Responded with a burst of love,
“Who would not share that lot divine,
To be thine angel! thou art mine!”
To whom the wreaths of heaven belong,
From pride and coarser impulse free
Stands out, in solemn purity!—
His heart, by woman's power array'd,
The summons of high love obey'd,
And beautiful, beyond the light
Of language to reveal aright,
The passion of a deathless pair,
Who breathed on earth celestial air!
Before the dawn of being came
They dreamt their lot was doom'd the same,
And human love in heaven would be
A wedded immortality!
And when his Meta dying lay
And felt her spirit faint away,
Like music from a falt'ring wave
When sinking to its ocean grave,
Beside her Klopstock meekly stood,
And watch'd the pale and speaking blood
In awful changes come and go!
But never was such loving wo,
When Meta, to his fond request
That round him her bright wings should rest
While o'er the world his fate must rove,—
Responded with a burst of love,
“Who would not share that lot divine,
To be thine angel! thou art mine!”
A gentle stream which glides along
And tones the breeze with lovely song;
And that same stream, when torn at length
And arm'd with desolating strength
As down some rocky steep it pours,
And like a rival ocean roars,
May typify the tranquil soul
When calm'd by virtue's wise control,
And one by passion's whirlwind force
Compell'd to each disastrous course.
'Tis thus, when sad-eyed memory turns
From Klopstock to impassion'd Burns,
Two streams of life at once appear
In mild repose and mad career.
And tones the breeze with lovely song;
And that same stream, when torn at length
And arm'd with desolating strength
As down some rocky steep it pours,
And like a rival ocean roars,
May typify the tranquil soul
When calm'd by virtue's wise control,
And one by passion's whirlwind force
Compell'd to each disastrous course.
'Tis thus, when sad-eyed memory turns
From Klopstock to impassion'd Burns,
Two streams of life at once appear
In mild repose and mad career.
The Shakspeare of the woods and fields,
How wizard-like the sway he wields!
The heart-blood owns his lyric might
And ripples with confess'd delight
When Scottish valour fires the song,
Like clarion-music, stern and strong!
Excitement, that immortal pain,
The demon of a poet's brain,
On him it wreak'd its wildest rage!
And all that poverty could wage
Against a high and haughty mind
His trampled heart was doom'd to find.
Yet, cradled in dark misery's bed,
How nobly was his genius led!
What Man denied, great Nature gave:
His soul, no educated slave,
The Elements and Seasons taught,
Creation magnified his thought;
And when amid the foliage dim
The blackbird piped his vesper-hymn,
Or round him, like a lustrous pall
He felt the Day's bright curtain fall,
As tides th' attractive moon obey,
So throbb'd his pulse to Nature's play.
And Woman by her smile could throw
A sunbeam o'er his blackest wo,—
A ray whose beauty reach'd the soul
And bade his burning numbers roll!
How wizard-like the sway he wields!
The heart-blood owns his lyric might
And ripples with confess'd delight
When Scottish valour fires the song,
Like clarion-music, stern and strong!
Excitement, that immortal pain,
The demon of a poet's brain,
On him it wreak'd its wildest rage!
And all that poverty could wage
Against a high and haughty mind
His trampled heart was doom'd to find.
Yet, cradled in dark misery's bed,
How nobly was his genius led!
What Man denied, great Nature gave:
His soul, no educated slave,
The Elements and Seasons taught,
Creation magnified his thought;
And when amid the foliage dim
The blackbird piped his vesper-hymn,
Or round him, like a lustrous pall
He felt the Day's bright curtain fall,
As tides th' attractive moon obey,
So throbb'd his pulse to Nature's play.
And Woman by her smile could throw
A sunbeam o'er his blackest wo,—
A ray whose beauty reach'd the soul
And bade his burning numbers roll!
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Yet who can read the bitter fate
So darkly chill and desolate,
That brooded o'er the closing day
Of him who sang as proud a lay
As ever rose from Scottish lyre
On inspiration's breath of fire,
Nor weep to think that starless night
Should blacken round a soul of light!
Or, who can mark his mind's undress,
The agony of lone distress,
The curse of want that crush'd his brain
To frenzy, with a fiercer pain!—
Can hear the groan of anguish'd hours
When Misery rallied all her powers,
And thoughts like hidden scorpions tore
The mind that could no longer soar,
But prostrate in its ruin lay
A blasted wreck and bleeding prey,—
Nor ask for Pity's brightest tear
To tremble on his early bier!
Yet warmly while around him shone
The worship that his genius won,
Prophetic truth beheld afar
The cloud that would conceal his star,
And leave him, long ere life should close,
To wither in degrading woes!
Yes, he whose lines are mottoes now,
Whose genius veils his Country's brow
With glory, when his stirring lays
Are greeted with exalting praise,
Was fated like an outcast thing
To moulder in dark suffering
Down to the grave, with scarce a bed
To pillow his immortal head!
So darkly chill and desolate,
That brooded o'er the closing day
Of him who sang as proud a lay
As ever rose from Scottish lyre
On inspiration's breath of fire,
Nor weep to think that starless night
Should blacken round a soul of light!
Or, who can mark his mind's undress,
The agony of lone distress,
The curse of want that crush'd his brain
To frenzy, with a fiercer pain!—
Can hear the groan of anguish'd hours
When Misery rallied all her powers,
And thoughts like hidden scorpions tore
The mind that could no longer soar,
But prostrate in its ruin lay
A blasted wreck and bleeding prey,—
Nor ask for Pity's brightest tear
To tremble on his early bier!
Yet warmly while around him shone
The worship that his genius won,
Prophetic truth beheld afar
The cloud that would conceal his star,
And leave him, long ere life should close,
To wither in degrading woes!
Yes, he whose lines are mottoes now,
Whose genius veils his Country's brow
With glory, when his stirring lays
Are greeted with exalting praise,
Was fated like an outcast thing
To moulder in dark suffering
Down to the grave, with scarce a bed
To pillow his immortal head!
Alas! how little can the great
Feel the dread curse of blighted fate;
Or think that they, whose spirits throw
Around the world a heavenly glow,
Whose bright imaginations seem
The fragments of a Seraph's dream,
Whose words imparadise the hours
And freshen earth with Eden-flowers,—
The martyrs of the mind have been
Or suffer'd more than eye hath seen!
For, while the theme of Glory's tongue,
Their homes were wreck'd, their hearts were wrung;
And songs which flow'd so gaily free
Gush'd from a fount of misery!
Feel the dread curse of blighted fate;
Or think that they, whose spirits throw
Around the world a heavenly glow,
Whose bright imaginations seem
The fragments of a Seraph's dream,
Whose words imparadise the hours
And freshen earth with Eden-flowers,—
The martyrs of the mind have been
Or suffer'd more than eye hath seen!
For, while the theme of Glory's tongue,
Their homes were wreck'd, their hearts were wrung;
And songs which flow'd so gaily free
Gush'd from a fount of misery!
A noble Mind in sad decay
When baffled hope hath died away,
And life becomes one long distress
In bleak and barren loneliness,
Methinks 'tis like a ship on shore,
That once defied th' Atlantic roar,
And gallantly through gale and storm
Hath ventured her majestic form;
But now in stranded ruin laid
By winds and dashing seas decay'd,
Forgetful of her ocean-reign,
Must crumble into earth again!
When baffled hope hath died away,
And life becomes one long distress
In bleak and barren loneliness,
Methinks 'tis like a ship on shore,
That once defied th' Atlantic roar,
And gallantly through gale and storm
Hath ventured her majestic form;
But now in stranded ruin laid
By winds and dashing seas decay'd,
Forgetful of her ocean-reign,
Must crumble into earth again!
To crown the lyric throng appears
Another, whose poetic tears,
While a bruised spirit toils below
Shall consecrate Affection's wo;
And ever by their passion tell
The power of love's unfading spell,
Which beautified with lone despair
The visions that his lines declare.
Another, whose poetic tears,
While a bruised spirit toils below
Shall consecrate Affection's wo;
And ever by their passion tell
The power of love's unfading spell,
Which beautified with lone despair
The visions that his lines declare.
The anguish of his riven heart
Hath ceased on earth to play its part,
And o'er his laurel-shaded brow
The damp of death lies coldly now!
The storm, the shadow, and the strife
That made and magnified his life,
Have sunk like winds along the deep
And left him to untroubled sleep:
But few, when Harold died, forget
The fulness of our fond regret,
As England echoed back the knell
Which toll'd from Greece his last farewell!
Oh! nought but some ignoble breast
Where feelings, iced in stony rest,
Can baffle with a stern disdain
The lightnings of each lofty strain,
That did not unto tears admire
The dirges of his gloomy lyre,
And speculate, if years had brought
A blessed store of brighter thought,
How much of all which mars his fame
Had vanish'd in some purer aim.—
The earthquake that so rock'd his soul
With dread and undefined control,
Beneath some intellectual balm
Had soften'd to melodious calm:
Those feelings which were prompt to stray
Where all the weeds of vileness lay,
And linger with sarcastic stress
Round Nature's erring littleness,
As though in man no trait was true
But that which wore the meanest hue
And Goodness were a dream that dies
When dazzled by a poet's eyes,—
Yes, feelings dark as these, perchance
Had glorified by pure advance
The regions of exalted mind,
And loved the links of human-kind.
The spots upon Creation seen
For sorrow, not for scorn, had been,
And genius, from its darkness free,
Flash'd out in full divinity!
Hath ceased on earth to play its part,
And o'er his laurel-shaded brow
The damp of death lies coldly now!
The storm, the shadow, and the strife
That made and magnified his life,
Have sunk like winds along the deep
And left him to untroubled sleep:
But few, when Harold died, forget
The fulness of our fond regret,
As England echoed back the knell
Which toll'd from Greece his last farewell!
Oh! nought but some ignoble breast
Where feelings, iced in stony rest,
Can baffle with a stern disdain
The lightnings of each lofty strain,
That did not unto tears admire
The dirges of his gloomy lyre,
And speculate, if years had brought
A blessed store of brighter thought,
How much of all which mars his fame
Had vanish'd in some purer aim.—
307
With dread and undefined control,
Beneath some intellectual balm
Had soften'd to melodious calm:
Those feelings which were prompt to stray
Where all the weeds of vileness lay,
And linger with sarcastic stress
Round Nature's erring littleness,
As though in man no trait was true
But that which wore the meanest hue
And Goodness were a dream that dies
When dazzled by a poet's eyes,—
Yes, feelings dark as these, perchance
Had glorified by pure advance
The regions of exalted mind,
And loved the links of human-kind.
The spots upon Creation seen
For sorrow, not for scorn, had been,
And genius, from its darkness free,
Flash'd out in full divinity!
But, 'twas not so; and man must wait
The brightness of a better fate,
To tell him all which Grief would learn,
When back to dust the great return,
E'en in that hour when most they seem
To realise our noblest dream,
And purify the hopes of Earth
With promise of a second birth.
The brightness of a better fate,
To tell him all which Grief would learn,
When back to dust the great return,
E'en in that hour when most they seem
To realise our noblest dream,
And purify the hopes of Earth
With promise of a second birth.
The sanctity of Virtue stands
Above the soil of human hands,
And Genius, though the world it awe,
Must bow to her corrective law:
Yet who, unless his mind can be
Transform'd to perfect Deity,
Can judge how terrible the sway
When Impulse leads the soul astray?
The meanest tongue can brand a sin,
But who can probe the heart within,—
The gloom of agonising strife
When Principle resigns its life,
Till Passion in her fiery reign
Pours madness over blood and brain!
A soul, that like Æolian lyre
Which faintest tones of air inspire,
Was thrill'd by sound, and hue, and scene,
As though its slumber ne'er had been;
A spirit, pining for the good
Till dreams became its daily food;
Or revelling in satiric gloom
Which mock'd at all above the tomb,—
Oh! these unite to arm a spell
That few below have wielded well!
And, blended with a slakeless thirst
To find the spot by crime uncursed,
In Byron lived a haunting dread
From moods of dark inquiry bred,
Of that Unknown beyond the grave
Where fancy's wings delight to wave:
Hence, doubt and scorn, with anguish rife,
Threw blackness on the stream of Life;
Till o'er each maze of erring man
The reckless eye of Satire ran,
Which finding nought but error free,
Call'd vice the sole reality!
Above the soil of human hands,
And Genius, though the world it awe,
Must bow to her corrective law:
Yet who, unless his mind can be
Transform'd to perfect Deity,
Can judge how terrible the sway
When Impulse leads the soul astray?
The meanest tongue can brand a sin,
But who can probe the heart within,—
The gloom of agonising strife
When Principle resigns its life,
Till Passion in her fiery reign
Pours madness over blood and brain!
A soul, that like Æolian lyre
Which faintest tones of air inspire,
Was thrill'd by sound, and hue, and scene,
As though its slumber ne'er had been;
A spirit, pining for the good
Till dreams became its daily food;
Or revelling in satiric gloom
Which mock'd at all above the tomb,—
Oh! these unite to arm a spell
That few below have wielded well!
And, blended with a slakeless thirst
To find the spot by crime uncursed,
In Byron lived a haunting dread
From moods of dark inquiry bred,
Of that Unknown beyond the grave
Where fancy's wings delight to wave:
Hence, doubt and scorn, with anguish rife,
Threw blackness on the stream of Life;
Till o'er each maze of erring man
The reckless eye of Satire ran,
Which finding nought but error free,
Call'd vice the sole reality!
But where the grave of Harold lies
May Virtue bend forgiving eyes!
The meek, whose time-worn spirits know
How much that Heart must brave below
When battling with the mystic gloom
Which haunts it from the spectral tomb,
No vengeance on his glory wreak
But softly of each error speak.
For who are they, if life had been,
Like Byron's, one uncurtain'd scene
Where every eye could point a gaze
And level all its envious rays,
Whose splendour would reveal no blot
Which now lies faded and forgot?
While some regard with bitter eyes
The tomb where buried Genius lies,
And bid the gates of Mercy close
On them whom Earth denied repose,—
The hearts that wisdom's humbling power
Has taught to fear the firmest hour,
In tender awe will bend and weep
Where Byron's noble ashes sleep,
Nor love o'er sorrow's wildering track
To trace the foot of Error back;
But thank him with a proud excess
For all the poet's mightiness!
Oh, there he lies! becalm'd in death,
Whose being was a tortured breath;
Whose years in whirlwind bore him on
To the dread gulf where time is gone!
And stirless as the travell'd lake
Whose waters down the mountain break
O'er wood and wild, and ridge and rock,
Convulsed and crash'd with many a shock,
The turbulence of trial now!—
The rest can God alone avow.
May Virtue bend forgiving eyes!
The meek, whose time-worn spirits know
How much that Heart must brave below
When battling with the mystic gloom
Which haunts it from the spectral tomb,
No vengeance on his glory wreak
But softly of each error speak.
For who are they, if life had been,
Like Byron's, one uncurtain'd scene
Where every eye could point a gaze
And level all its envious rays,
Whose splendour would reveal no blot
Which now lies faded and forgot?
While some regard with bitter eyes
The tomb where buried Genius lies,
And bid the gates of Mercy close
On them whom Earth denied repose,—
The hearts that wisdom's humbling power
Has taught to fear the firmest hour,
In tender awe will bend and weep
Where Byron's noble ashes sleep,
Nor love o'er sorrow's wildering track
To trace the foot of Error back;
But thank him with a proud excess
For all the poet's mightiness!
Oh, there he lies! becalm'd in death,
Whose being was a tortured breath;
Whose years in whirlwind bore him on
To the dread gulf where time is gone!
And stirless as the travell'd lake
Whose waters down the mountain break
O'er wood and wild, and ridge and rock,
Convulsed and crash'd with many a shock,
The turbulence of trial now!—
The rest can God alone avow.
And was it nought to melt away
The frost that bound the spirit's play?
To summon into startling view
The deep, the daring, and the true,
Or light the chaos of the soul
And see its hidden waters roll!
Instead of polish'd rhyme, to raise
The stormy breath of wilder lays;
Or make us, in his milder hour,
Dissolve in dreams of beauty's power—
Such beauty as our thoughts create,
But never clad a mortal state!
The frost that bound the spirit's play?
To summon into startling view
The deep, the daring, and the true,
Or light the chaos of the soul
And see its hidden waters roll!
Instead of polish'd rhyme, to raise
The stormy breath of wilder lays;
Or make us, in his milder hour,
Dissolve in dreams of beauty's power—
Such beauty as our thoughts create,
But never clad a mortal state!
308
There are who call the Poet's bliss
Too airy for a world like this:
Alas, for Wisdom! if her voice
Can teach the heart no glorious choice;
If downward to the dust she try
For aye to fix our slavish eye,
And seldom bid one glance be given
Aloft to mind's unclouded heaven!
The freshness of poetic thought
From out the groves of Fancy brought,
And wafted o'er the soul's domain,
What is it, but a breezy strain
From winds of vanish'd Eden lent
To purify earth's element,
And summon forth those dream-born flowers
That grew in Milton's epic bowers!
'Mid all the waste of worldly arts
Oh! leave him yet some few fine hearts,
That still the Poet's wand may raise
A vision of unfallen days,
And rescue from the fangs of time
Some feelings that are yet sublime!
Too airy for a world like this:
Alas, for Wisdom! if her voice
Can teach the heart no glorious choice;
If downward to the dust she try
For aye to fix our slavish eye,
And seldom bid one glance be given
Aloft to mind's unclouded heaven!
The freshness of poetic thought
From out the groves of Fancy brought,
And wafted o'er the soul's domain,
What is it, but a breezy strain
From winds of vanish'd Eden lent
To purify earth's element,
And summon forth those dream-born flowers
That grew in Milton's epic bowers!
'Mid all the waste of worldly arts
Oh! leave him yet some few fine hearts,
That still the Poet's wand may raise
A vision of unfallen days,
And rescue from the fangs of time
Some feelings that are yet sublime!
On Harrow, when the heaven of June
Was garmented with glowing noon
And not a cloud's minutest braid
Along its liquid sapphire stray'd,
I stood beneath that haunted tree,
And heard the leaf-toned melody
Which oft in Boyhood's dreaming years
Had warbled on the pensive ears
Of Byron,—when he loved to muse
Beneath the quiet churchyard-yews.
Oh! who in such an hour could stand
And look adown the sloping land
Where meadow, vale, and roving stream
So often charm'd his chequer'd dream;
And round him feel the fresh-wing'd air
That lifted oft his waving hair,
And press the same sepulchral stone
His pressure loved to make its own,
Nor feel a sense of fame and might
That shook the heart with strange delight?
Was garmented with glowing noon
And not a cloud's minutest braid
Along its liquid sapphire stray'd,
I stood beneath that haunted tree,
And heard the leaf-toned melody
Which oft in Boyhood's dreaming years
Had warbled on the pensive ears
Of Byron,—when he loved to muse
Beneath the quiet churchyard-yews.
Oh! who in such an hour could stand
And look adown the sloping land
Where meadow, vale, and roving stream
So often charm'd his chequer'd dream;
And round him feel the fresh-wing'd air
That lifted oft his waving hair,
And press the same sepulchral stone
His pressure loved to make its own,
Nor feel a sense of fame and might
That shook the heart with strange delight?
'Twas here he mused in Fancy's bower;
And in the mind's prophetic hour
Would try with telescopic gaze
To read the brow of unborn Days,
Hail the bright orb of future fame
And glory in a minstrel's name!
Or dared with dreadless eye to see
A map of vision'd misery
In lines of awful length outspread,
Till darkness veil'd him with the dead!
And in the mind's prophetic hour
Would try with telescopic gaze
To read the brow of unborn Days,
Hail the bright orb of future fame
And glory in a minstrel's name!
Or dared with dreadless eye to see
A map of vision'd misery
In lines of awful length outspread,
Till darkness veil'd him with the dead!
And who with backward gaze can scan
The burning course his genius ran,
Nor feel how Woman's reigning star
With fervid eye he view'd afar,
And felt her beam of beauty cast
A light which heaven alone surpass'd!
His primal love—it never died,
But still within the soul supplied
The waters of affection pure
From fate and freezing time secure.
'Twas thence ideal sorrow drew
The pangs which pierce our nature through,
Till love became the breath of song,
And bore his inward life along.
But had his heart with hers entwined
Whose beauty struck his boyhood blind,
The starlight of whose cloudless eyes
Attracted his immortal sighs,
If happiness could reach the great
How bright had been his alter'd fate!
Instead of darkness, light would be
Around the soul's divinity!
Medora, Kaled, and Gulnare,
Each ruin'd maid and reckless fair,
Were vision'd from the shades of mind
Despair and passion leave behind.
But, once in home's attractive fane
Oh! had he worshipp'd woman's reign,
And seen her, not in mock romance,
Through daily paths of life advance
As angel of domestic hours,
How nobly might those lofty powers
He lavish'd on a Corsair's bride
Have been to purer love supplied!
While, feeling all which fancy drew,
His genius would have brighten'd too,
And Woman in his picture hail'd
A model that had never fail'd,
While love, by genius made divine,
Could sanctify a poet's line.
The burning course his genius ran,
Nor feel how Woman's reigning star
With fervid eye he view'd afar,
And felt her beam of beauty cast
A light which heaven alone surpass'd!
His primal love—it never died,
But still within the soul supplied
The waters of affection pure
From fate and freezing time secure.
'Twas thence ideal sorrow drew
The pangs which pierce our nature through,
Till love became the breath of song,
And bore his inward life along.
But had his heart with hers entwined
Whose beauty struck his boyhood blind,
The starlight of whose cloudless eyes
Attracted his immortal sighs,
If happiness could reach the great
How bright had been his alter'd fate!
Instead of darkness, light would be
Around the soul's divinity!
Medora, Kaled, and Gulnare,
Each ruin'd maid and reckless fair,
Were vision'd from the shades of mind
Despair and passion leave behind.
But, once in home's attractive fane
Oh! had he worshipp'd woman's reign,
And seen her, not in mock romance,
Through daily paths of life advance
As angel of domestic hours,
How nobly might those lofty powers
He lavish'd on a Corsair's bride
Have been to purer love supplied!
While, feeling all which fancy drew,
His genius would have brighten'd too,
And Woman in his picture hail'd
A model that had never fail'd,
While love, by genius made divine,
Could sanctify a poet's line.
And such hath been fond Woman's sway
Since angels hymn'd her natal day,
By law of that instinctive love
Whose archetype is God above!
And while yon heaven is o'er us hung
For ever shall the brave and young,
The free, the fervid, fond and true,
Declare what female hearts can do!
Since angels hymn'd her natal day,
By law of that instinctive love
Whose archetype is God above!
And while yon heaven is o'er us hung
For ever shall the brave and young,
The free, the fervid, fond and true,
Declare what female hearts can do!
And many a name as yet unknown,
Embalm'd in some immortal tone
Of genius, by a thrilling bard,
Shall Time exult to read and guard:
And Beauty, in domestic bowers
Now fameless as secluded flowers,
When buried queens forgotten lie
And royal tombs can raise no sigh,
In melody of deathless might
Shall live to be the World's delight,
While Love and Poetry can claim
To twine a wreath round Woman's name!
Embalm'd in some immortal tone
Of genius, by a thrilling bard,
Shall Time exult to read and guard:
And Beauty, in domestic bowers
Now fameless as secluded flowers,
When buried queens forgotten lie
And royal tombs can raise no sigh,
In melody of deathless might
Shall live to be the World's delight,
While Love and Poetry can claim
To twine a wreath round Woman's name!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |