The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery Collected and Revised by the Author |
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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
BOOK V.
“This royal throne of Kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars—
England!”
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars—
England!”
How gloriously the festal chimes resound
Their pealing gladness through the azure night,
And thrill the air with jubilee and joy!—
As though the triumph of ten thousand hearts
In full-voiced chorus shook the starry heaven,
And made it conscious music! Now they swell
Aloft, in one excited wave of sound;
Then, faintly die, like war-notes on the wind,
Rousing the empire with a brave delight.
Their pealing gladness through the azure night,
And thrill the air with jubilee and joy!—
As though the triumph of ten thousand hearts
In full-voiced chorus shook the starry heaven,
And made it conscious music! Now they swell
Aloft, in one excited wave of sound;
Then, faintly die, like war-notes on the wind,
Rousing the empire with a brave delight.
England hath laid her sceptre on the Deep,
And, with her thunder, chased her ocean-foes
Like leaves before the breathing of a blast!
England hath rear'd her banners on the plain
Of battle; victory waved them; and the world
Again shall echo with her haughty name.
And hence, a stormy rapture shakes the isle;
Hence the loud music of her steepled fanes,
Whether in cities emulously tower'd
Among the skies, or in lone hamlets seen,—
Still pouring out the language of the land;
With all those pageantries, and fiery pomps,
That hang and glitter from her window'd piles
Emblazed with mottoes, and triumphal scenes.
And, with her thunder, chased her ocean-foes
Like leaves before the breathing of a blast!
England hath rear'd her banners on the plain
Of battle; victory waved them; and the world
Again shall echo with her haughty name.
And hence, a stormy rapture shakes the isle;
Hence the loud music of her steepled fanes,
Whether in cities emulously tower'd
Among the skies, or in lone hamlets seen,—
Still pouring out the language of the land;
With all those pageantries, and fiery pomps,
That hang and glitter from her window'd piles
Emblazed with mottoes, and triumphal scenes.
Not one, to whom the name of country sounds
Like heaven-born music, but this hour adores.
The old men feel the sunshine of far youth
Returning, fresh as when the hero glow'd.
The young,—lip, eye, and daring heart, are stirr'd;
Their very blood seems rippled with delight,
So deep the fulness of this warlike joy.
Yea, hollow cheeks of Sadness, and the brows
Of Poverty, and lean-faced Want itself,
Forget their nature in a share of fame!
And yet, most hideous are some human shapes
Which revel near me, by a tow'ring blaze
Of triumph;—as it flings its glaring life
Upon their faces, each one gleams beneath
The mockery, like a ruin'd shrine when noon
In bright derision dances o'er the walls.
Like heaven-born music, but this hour adores.
The old men feel the sunshine of far youth
Returning, fresh as when the hero glow'd.
The young,—lip, eye, and daring heart, are stirr'd;
Their very blood seems rippled with delight,
So deep the fulness of this warlike joy.
Yea, hollow cheeks of Sadness, and the brows
Of Poverty, and lean-faced Want itself,
Forget their nature in a share of fame!
And yet, most hideous are some human shapes
Which revel near me, by a tow'ring blaze
Of triumph;—as it flings its glaring life
Upon their faces, each one gleams beneath
The mockery, like a ruin'd shrine when noon
In bright derision dances o'er the walls.
Let Fancy to a distance wing her flight,
And learn the glory whence this scene is born.
How Sorrow treads upon the heels of Joy!
What puts a smile on some great Empire's cheek,
Hath wrung the life-blood from another's heart;
While one is revelling with impassion'd glee
Another moans like misery's bleakest child:
Thus seems the world a round of joy and wo,
Alike divided for the doom of things.
And learn the glory whence this scene is born.
How Sorrow treads upon the heels of Joy!
357
Hath wrung the life-blood from another's heart;
While one is revelling with impassion'd glee
Another moans like misery's bleakest child:
Thus seems the world a round of joy and wo,
Alike divided for the doom of things.
Hither, thou frantic Bacchanal! whose voice
Rings loudest, stand upon the hoof-scared heath,
And say if Heaven on such a scene can smile!
Here, deep as in thine own exulting land,
Night reigns; but not with noon-like azure crown'd,
While sympathetic stars, all gaily bright,
Look down on gladness: but with sullen calm
Where moans the conscious wind, and pensive stars
Seem pale-eyed watchers o'er those trodden dead,
In tombless havoc weltering on the plain.
Each heart now cold, to other hearts was chain'd,
Whose links were out of years of fondness framed;
Each eye now darken'd with eclipsing death
Once beam'd the sun of happiness and home;
Each of the dead hath flung a shade o'er life,
Henceforth to be a living agony.—
Mark! where the moon her icy lustre flings
What dead-romance! what visions of the slain!
One, calmly-brow'd, as though his native trees
Had waved their beauty o'er his dying head;
Another, marr'd with agonising lines
And dreams of home yet lingering in his face.—
Now go, and sing the splendour of the War!
Go, tell the Mother of the brave and free,
How beautiful this patriotic shout
Of Victory, when she counts the new-made dead,
Like Madness reeling with a murd'rous joy;
So shall a war-fame flourish ever-green,
And laurell'd History be trumpet-tongued,
To fire ambition with a bloody thirst,
Which makes the world a slaughter-house for man!
Rings loudest, stand upon the hoof-scared heath,
And say if Heaven on such a scene can smile!
Here, deep as in thine own exulting land,
Night reigns; but not with noon-like azure crown'd,
While sympathetic stars, all gaily bright,
Look down on gladness: but with sullen calm
Where moans the conscious wind, and pensive stars
Seem pale-eyed watchers o'er those trodden dead,
In tombless havoc weltering on the plain.
Each heart now cold, to other hearts was chain'd,
Whose links were out of years of fondness framed;
Each eye now darken'd with eclipsing death
Once beam'd the sun of happiness and home;
Each of the dead hath flung a shade o'er life,
Henceforth to be a living agony.—
Mark! where the moon her icy lustre flings
What dead-romance! what visions of the slain!
One, calmly-brow'd, as though his native trees
Had waved their beauty o'er his dying head;
Another, marr'd with agonising lines
And dreams of home yet lingering in his face.—
Now go, and sing the splendour of the War!
Go, tell the Mother of the brave and free,
How beautiful this patriotic shout
Of Victory, when she counts the new-made dead,
Like Madness reeling with a murd'rous joy;
So shall a war-fame flourish ever-green,
And laurell'd History be trumpet-tongued,
To fire ambition with a bloody thirst,
Which makes the world a slaughter-house for man!
And this is “glory!” such as charms these days
When godly temples every street adorn;
While Tenderness, with its bewailing lip,
At ages of barbaric gloom affects
To wonder:—how the heart its flattery weaves!
Of proud deception, or intense desire,
The victim ever in its wariest mood.
To be the bulwark of a land beloved,
And drive aggression with avenging sword
From her indignant shore, commands renown:
But say, Thou Centre of created life,
Who charter'd man, and bade Thy heavens to mile
When from his eye outlook'd the living God!
What myriads upon myriads heap'd, to fill
The circle of ambitious thought, or please
Some royal dreamer who would dash a throne
To hear his trumpets pealing through the world,—
On hill and plain, and ocean's ravening waves,
The red libation of their hearts have pour'd!
But this is kingly:—so let tyrants dream;
Nor round their pillows may one death-cry ring:
The day, when dust shall give its monarchs back,—
Methinks I see it, and the fiery glance
Of Judgment scathing many a royal soul!
When godly temples every street adorn;
While Tenderness, with its bewailing lip,
At ages of barbaric gloom affects
To wonder:—how the heart its flattery weaves!
Of proud deception, or intense desire,
The victim ever in its wariest mood.
To be the bulwark of a land beloved,
And drive aggression with avenging sword
From her indignant shore, commands renown:
But say, Thou Centre of created life,
Who charter'd man, and bade Thy heavens to mile
When from his eye outlook'd the living God!
What myriads upon myriads heap'd, to fill
The circle of ambitious thought, or please
Some royal dreamer who would dash a throne
To hear his trumpets pealing through the world,—
On hill and plain, and ocean's ravening waves,
The red libation of their hearts have pour'd!
But this is kingly:—so let tyrants dream;
Nor round their pillows may one death-cry ring:
The day, when dust shall give its monarchs back,—
Methinks I see it, and the fiery glance
Of Judgment scathing many a royal soul!
But night departs, the revelry is o'er,
And nature woos me. Through the orient heaven
A dawn advances with a beauteous glow;
And now, array'd in clouds of crimson pomp
The gradual Morn comes gliding o'er the waves
Which freshen under her reflected smiles,
And veils the world with glory. Rocks and hills
Are radiantly bedeck'd; the glimm'ring woods
And plains are mantled with their greenest robe,
And night-tears glisten in her rosy beam.
But in yon valleys, where from ivied cots
Like matin incense, wreathing smoke ascends,
How exquisite the flush of life! The birds
Are wing'd for heaven, and charm the air with song,
While in the gladness of the new-born breeze
The young leaves flutter, and the flow'rets sigh
Their blending odours out. And ye, bright streams,
Like happy pilgrims, how ye rove along
By mead and bank where violets love to dwell
In solitude and stillness: all is fresh,
And gaysome. Now the peasant, with an eye
Glad as the noon-ray sparkling through a shower,
Comes forth, and carols in thy waking beam
Thou sky-god! reigning on thy throne of light.
Sure airy painters have enrich'd thy sphere
With regal pageantry; such cloudy pomps
Adorn the heavens, a poet's eye would dream
His ancient gods had all return'd again
And hung their palaces around the sun!
And nature woos me. Through the orient heaven
A dawn advances with a beauteous glow;
And now, array'd in clouds of crimson pomp
The gradual Morn comes gliding o'er the waves
Which freshen under her reflected smiles,
And veils the world with glory. Rocks and hills
Are radiantly bedeck'd; the glimm'ring woods
And plains are mantled with their greenest robe,
And night-tears glisten in her rosy beam.
But in yon valleys, where from ivied cots
Like matin incense, wreathing smoke ascends,
How exquisite the flush of life! The birds
Are wing'd for heaven, and charm the air with song,
While in the gladness of the new-born breeze
The young leaves flutter, and the flow'rets sigh
Their blending odours out. And ye, bright streams,
Like happy pilgrims, how ye rove along
By mead and bank where violets love to dwell
In solitude and stillness: all is fresh,
And gaysome. Now the peasant, with an eye
Glad as the noon-ray sparkling through a shower,
Comes forth, and carols in thy waking beam
Thou sky-god! reigning on thy throne of light.
Sure airy painters have enrich'd thy sphere
With regal pageantry; such cloudy pomps
Adorn the heavens, a poet's eye would dream
His ancient gods had all return'd again
And hung their palaces around the sun!
And this is England, bathed in morning glow:
The isle where Freedom bears a lion-mien,
The Land whose echoes thrill the earth around,
The ocean-throned; the ancient battle-famed,
The Palestine of waters! O'er her realms
Enchantingly propitious Nature smiles;
Whose frowns and awfulness are seen afar,
Where snow-hills whiten in eternal glare,
Or soundless ocean, lock'd in icy sleep,
Deadens the polar world: but here alone
With summer hymning through the haunted vales,
'Tis beauty, bloom, and brightness all! How rich
The scented luxury of floral meads,
Reposing in the noon; where gentle winds
Exult, and many a choral brooklet sings:
Sure Admiration might be poet here!
Tall mansions, shadow'd by patrician trees,
Romantic farms, grey villages and cots,
With castled relics, and cathedral-piles
Where dreaming Solitude can muse and sigh,
Enchant dead Ages from their tombs, or hear
The dark soliloquy of ancient Time,—
Adorn the landscape and delight the view;
While haggard rocks, and heaven-aspiring hills
The sea o'ergazing, here and there create
A mountain-charm to solemnise the scene.
The isle where Freedom bears a lion-mien,
The Land whose echoes thrill the earth around,
The ocean-throned; the ancient battle-famed,
The Palestine of waters! O'er her realms
358
Whose frowns and awfulness are seen afar,
Where snow-hills whiten in eternal glare,
Or soundless ocean, lock'd in icy sleep,
Deadens the polar world: but here alone
With summer hymning through the haunted vales,
'Tis beauty, bloom, and brightness all! How rich
The scented luxury of floral meads,
Reposing in the noon; where gentle winds
Exult, and many a choral brooklet sings:
Sure Admiration might be poet here!
Tall mansions, shadow'd by patrician trees,
Romantic farms, grey villages and cots,
With castled relics, and cathedral-piles
Where dreaming Solitude can muse and sigh,
Enchant dead Ages from their tombs, or hear
The dark soliloquy of ancient Time,—
Adorn the landscape and delight the view;
While haggard rocks, and heaven-aspiring hills
The sea o'ergazing, here and there create
A mountain-charm to solemnise the scene.
Or turn from Nature, in her fresh array
Of beauty, to behold the haunts of man,
In high-domed Capitals or cities huge
With varied grandeur round the island spread;
Here towers and temples overshade the streets
Where sound the life-floods in continuous roar,
And Commerce, whom the winds and waves revere,
To him whose veins are proud with English blood,
A scene suggests that bids the patriot glow.
Then Ocean,—listen, how th' intruding waves
With loud resentment trample on the shore,
Like pawing steeds, impatient for the war!
Of beauty, to behold the haunts of man,
In high-domed Capitals or cities huge
With varied grandeur round the island spread;
Here towers and temples overshade the streets
Where sound the life-floods in continuous roar,
And Commerce, whom the winds and waves revere,
To him whose veins are proud with English blood,
A scene suggests that bids the patriot glow.
Then Ocean,—listen, how th' intruding waves
With loud resentment trample on the shore,
Like pawing steeds, impatient for the war!
And such the magical array of things
By art and nature o'er this island strewn;
Than which, though envious clouds her sun
Conceal, and vapours curtain oft the sky,
Heaven canopies no lovelier clime. And they,
The children of her Freedom, with an air
Of kingliness they walk thy consecrated soil,
And thoughtful manhood, on their brows enthroned.
Though perfect beauty lost its moral grace
When Sin unmask'd her hideous front, and shades
Of hell rose frowning o'er this human scene,
It reigneth still; as mind though overthrown
And darken'd, yet hath gleams of glorious prime.
And here, methinks, a noble beauty dwells
These islanders among:—the daring eye,
Majestic brow, the gallant bloom of health
And dignity of their regardless mien
A power denote, which beautifies the free:
While they who move in loveliness and light,
Like memories of vanish'd paradise
Around the sternness of ungrateful man,
Have beauty such as perish'd Angels loved!
By art and nature o'er this island strewn;
Than which, though envious clouds her sun
Conceal, and vapours curtain oft the sky,
Heaven canopies no lovelier clime. And they,
The children of her Freedom, with an air
Of kingliness they walk thy consecrated soil,
And thoughtful manhood, on their brows enthroned.
Though perfect beauty lost its moral grace
When Sin unmask'd her hideous front, and shades
Of hell rose frowning o'er this human scene,
It reigneth still; as mind though overthrown
And darken'd, yet hath gleams of glorious prime.
And here, methinks, a noble beauty dwells
These islanders among:—the daring eye,
Majestic brow, the gallant bloom of health
And dignity of their regardless mien
A power denote, which beautifies the free:
While they who move in loveliness and light,
Like memories of vanish'd paradise
Around the sternness of ungrateful man,
Have beauty such as perish'd Angels loved!
And yet, of myriads who this matchless isle
From day to day enjoy, from year to year
Environ'd with her fairest smiles, few dream
Or whence, or why, she hath the world surpass'd.
Thus hath it ever been, since time and truth
Have wrestled with that contradiction, Man!
Partaken mercies are forgotten things.
But Expectation hath a grateful heart,
Hailing the smile of promise from afar:
Enjoyment dies into ingratitude,
Till God is hidden by the boundless stores
Himself created; eyeless nature knows
Him not, for mighty Self absorbeth all!
From day to day enjoy, from year to year
Environ'd with her fairest smiles, few dream
Or whence, or why, she hath the world surpass'd.
Thus hath it ever been, since time and truth
Have wrestled with that contradiction, Man!
Partaken mercies are forgotten things.
But Expectation hath a grateful heart,
Hailing the smile of promise from afar:
Enjoyment dies into ingratitude,
Till God is hidden by the boundless stores
Himself created; eyeless nature knows
Him not, for mighty Self absorbeth all!
That gulf descend where pristine ages sleep,
And lone, benighted in the savage gloom
Of her untravell'd woods and wilds, no light,
Save that of reason, struggling through a cloud
Intense,—lo! haughty-featured England lies;
An orphan region nursed amid the deep,
A fameless isle, imprison'd by the waves,
A speck upon the vasty globe. Who raised
Her littleness to lofty state? who bade
The daring majesty of Cæsar's mind
O'er her rude wilds a Roman spirit breathe,
Till, in the nursing shadow of his throne
She grew to youthful glory? Who hath been
Through perils, and volcanic bursts of war,
Earth-shaking tumult, and appalling strife
The guardian of her destinies till now,
When Ocean, wreathed around her rocky shore,
Hath lent his champion-billows to defend
Her fame, while storming at her daunted foes,
She spurns them with avenging roar?—Forth steps
The little greatness of a learned man,
And in the rapture of presuming thought
Through the dim valley of departed years
Sends down his spirit, and aloud proclaims,
The prince, the hero, and aspiring hearts
Which breathe omnipotence round mortal power,
Have made, and shall preserve us, as we stand,
The mighty and the free!—A proud response
Of hell-born feeling such as I would nurse;
And that which empires have of old indulged
Till, dizzy with renown, they reel'd away
Amid the havoc and the whirl of time.
For power and greatness are the awful twins
Of Destiny, whereby the earth is moved:
The first, a property of God Himself,
Which, when imparted to the soul, becomes
A curse, or blessing, in its moral sway:
The second will be judged by truthful Heaven
Convicted, or absolved. Of England's past,
When Time's dread chronicle shall be unroll'd
What glory then will clear-eyed Truth perceive?
And lone, benighted in the savage gloom
Of her untravell'd woods and wilds, no light,
Save that of reason, struggling through a cloud
Intense,—lo! haughty-featured England lies;
An orphan region nursed amid the deep,
A fameless isle, imprison'd by the waves,
A speck upon the vasty globe. Who raised
Her littleness to lofty state? who bade
The daring majesty of Cæsar's mind
O'er her rude wilds a Roman spirit breathe,
Till, in the nursing shadow of his throne
She grew to youthful glory? Who hath been
Through perils, and volcanic bursts of war,
Earth-shaking tumult, and appalling strife
The guardian of her destinies till now,
When Ocean, wreathed around her rocky shore,
Hath lent his champion-billows to defend
Her fame, while storming at her daunted foes,
She spurns them with avenging roar?—Forth steps
The little greatness of a learned man,
And in the rapture of presuming thought
Through the dim valley of departed years
Sends down his spirit, and aloud proclaims,
The prince, the hero, and aspiring hearts
Which breathe omnipotence round mortal power,
Have made, and shall preserve us, as we stand,
The mighty and the free!—A proud response
Of hell-born feeling such as I would nurse;
And that which empires have of old indulged
Till, dizzy with renown, they reel'd away
Amid the havoc and the whirl of time.
For power and greatness are the awful twins
359
The first, a property of God Himself,
Which, when imparted to the soul, becomes
A curse, or blessing, in its moral sway:
The second will be judged by truthful Heaven
Convicted, or absolved. Of England's past,
When Time's dread chronicle shall be unroll'd
What glory then will clear-eyed Truth perceive?
Should I deny thee, angels would declare,
That spirits who enrich eternity
Have deck'd thine island-clay. Immortal kings,
Who sanctified their sceptres, and their thrones;
Patriots sublime, with whom hoar wisdom dwelt,
And tutor'd ages by advancing thought;
With saints and martyrs, heroes of the skies,
Approaching, shed their glory on thy name.
But paramount o'er all thy mental gods
Shakspeare and Milton, see those peerless two!
The one, a mind omnipotently dower'd,
Which multiplied itself through space and time,
Passing like nature through the soul of things!
Aloft, companion of the Sun he soars
Awhile, then travels with the moonless night,
Mounts on the wind, or marches with the sea,
And, god-like, gives the Elements a tone
Of grandeur, when his spirit walks abroad!
But Life! how well he tore thy mask away,—
The great Interpreter of man to man.
So royal are his kings, his maids so pure,
Such perfect heroes, and prudential knaves,
Such feeling smiles and unaffected tears,
So stern or sweet, so melting or sublime,—
Such life-warm substance in the vast array
Of Shapes, who live along his moving Scene,
Men deem the world were in him when he wrote,
And he the sum and soul of all mankind!
That spirits who enrich eternity
Have deck'd thine island-clay. Immortal kings,
Who sanctified their sceptres, and their thrones;
Patriots sublime, with whom hoar wisdom dwelt,
And tutor'd ages by advancing thought;
With saints and martyrs, heroes of the skies,
Approaching, shed their glory on thy name.
But paramount o'er all thy mental gods
Shakspeare and Milton, see those peerless two!
The one, a mind omnipotently dower'd,
Which multiplied itself through space and time,
Passing like nature through the soul of things!
Aloft, companion of the Sun he soars
Awhile, then travels with the moonless night,
Mounts on the wind, or marches with the sea,
And, god-like, gives the Elements a tone
Of grandeur, when his spirit walks abroad!
But Life! how well he tore thy mask away,—
The great Interpreter of man to man.
So royal are his kings, his maids so pure,
Such perfect heroes, and prudential knaves,
Such feeling smiles and unaffected tears,
So stern or sweet, so melting or sublime,—
Such life-warm substance in the vast array
Of Shapes, who live along his moving Scene,
Men deem the world were in him when he wrote,
And he the sum and soul of all mankind!
The last, who lived on earth, but thought in heaven,
Beyond compare the brightest who have scaled
The empyrean, and whose lyre might charm
The seraphim with its melodious spell,—
That sightless Bard, whose paradise of song
Hallows Britannia's isle, how deep he plunged
Into the infinite sublime of thought,
Flaming with visions of eternal glare!
How high amid the alienated Hosts
Of warring angels he could dare ascend,
Look on the lightnings of almighty wrath,
Array the thunders, and their God reveal!
Beyond compare the brightest who have scaled
The empyrean, and whose lyre might charm
The seraphim with its melodious spell,—
That sightless Bard, whose paradise of song
Hallows Britannia's isle, how deep he plunged
Into the infinite sublime of thought,
Flaming with visions of eternal glare!
How high amid the alienated Hosts
Of warring angels he could dare ascend,
Look on the lightnings of almighty wrath,
Array the thunders, and their God reveal!
These deities of earth, thy past sublime;
The birth of an immortal soul proclaim,
And show how far bright inspiration soars:
But thou, brave England! shalt for crimes be judged,
When they in awful resurrection rise
With thine own children, ere the world expires.
My Spirit hath encompass'd thee! Thy hosts
Who in the anarchy and ruffian stir
Of civil war, have won the sanguine wreath;
Thy lewd-soul'd princes, and voluptuous kings
Whose courtly halls were palaces of vice
That sensualised the land; the sins untold
Within thee nursed, and those remorseless deeds
Of vile aggression, haunting thy great name,—
Yet sully thee, and claim atoning tears.
The birth of an immortal soul proclaim,
And show how far bright inspiration soars:
But thou, brave England! shalt for crimes be judged,
When they in awful resurrection rise
With thine own children, ere the world expires.
My Spirit hath encompass'd thee! Thy hosts
Who in the anarchy and ruffian stir
Of civil war, have won the sanguine wreath;
Thy lewd-soul'd princes, and voluptuous kings
Whose courtly halls were palaces of vice
That sensualised the land; the sins untold
Within thee nursed, and those remorseless deeds
Of vile aggression, haunting thy great name,—
Yet sully thee, and claim atoning tears.
And now reigns England in her noon of might
Secure; the future, with victorious eye
Prophetically dooming; distant Lands
Beneath her sceptre bow, and though her soul
Doth gather wisdom from her own domain,
In proud neglect of equal climes,—there spreads
No empire on the map of earth, where fame
Hath scatter'd not her mind's nobility.
Commerce,—the spirit of this guarded isle
Wherein the attributes supremely dwell
Of all which dignifies or nurtures power,—
Enthrones her on a peerless height, and works
Like inspiration through her mighty heart,
And yet, a poison at the core! To eyes,
Where avarice hath raised a blinding film
That flatters, while it bounds the view, her scenes
Array'd and glowing with commercial pomp,
More costly than the sun-enchanted skies
Appear. Triumphantly outspreads her show
Of trade and traffic round the sumptuous world!
See! from yon ports what merchant-vessels waft,
Daunting the winds, and dancing o'er the waves,
Rich wares and living burden, while the breeze
Toys with the flag, and fills the panting sail.
Others from many a tempest-haunted track
Return'd, in thunder beat their homeward way
And send their spirit wreathing on the gales.
Then hark! amid this wilderness of domes
Dark lanes, and smoke-roof'd streets, what mingled roar,
While Commerce, in her thousand shapes and moods
With eager hand and greedy eye, pursues
Her round of wonders and of gain! All arts,
All natures, and all elements are forced
To such obedience by transforming Power,
That matter quickens into living soul
And works harmonious to the will of man!
Secure; the future, with victorious eye
Prophetically dooming; distant Lands
Beneath her sceptre bow, and though her soul
Doth gather wisdom from her own domain,
In proud neglect of equal climes,—there spreads
No empire on the map of earth, where fame
Hath scatter'd not her mind's nobility.
Commerce,—the spirit of this guarded isle
Wherein the attributes supremely dwell
Of all which dignifies or nurtures power,—
Enthrones her on a peerless height, and works
Like inspiration through her mighty heart,
And yet, a poison at the core! To eyes,
Where avarice hath raised a blinding film
That flatters, while it bounds the view, her scenes
Array'd and glowing with commercial pomp,
More costly than the sun-enchanted skies
Appear. Triumphantly outspreads her show
Of trade and traffic round the sumptuous world!
See! from yon ports what merchant-vessels waft,
Daunting the winds, and dancing o'er the waves,
Rich wares and living burden, while the breeze
Toys with the flag, and fills the panting sail.
Others from many a tempest-haunted track
Return'd, in thunder beat their homeward way
And send their spirit wreathing on the gales.
Then hark! amid this wilderness of domes
Dark lanes, and smoke-roof'd streets, what mingled roar,
While Commerce, in her thousand shapes and moods
With eager hand and greedy eye, pursues
Her round of wonders and of gain! All arts,
All natures, and all elements are forced
To such obedience by transforming Power,
That matter quickens into living soul
And works harmonious to the will of man!
360
But here, methinks, had not one hideous thirst
For lucre parch'd all pity from the mind,
The hollow cheeks and livid brow of Toil
That, lean, and yellow'd by infectious gloom,
Droops o'er his hateful task—might thrill the heart
Of Selfishness, in her most griping hour.
And here amid the pestilential glow
Of heated chambers, where in sad revenge
Art flourishes o'er fading life, are pent
The infant young, and friendless orphan-poor;
They who should gambol on the golden meads,
While health the limbs, and beauty clad their cheeks,
Thus doom'd to anguish in degenerate toils!
Why, what a hell-slave will this Commerce prove,
When life and feeling perish for her cause!
For lucre parch'd all pity from the mind,
The hollow cheeks and livid brow of Toil
That, lean, and yellow'd by infectious gloom,
Droops o'er his hateful task—might thrill the heart
Of Selfishness, in her most griping hour.
And here amid the pestilential glow
Of heated chambers, where in sad revenge
Art flourishes o'er fading life, are pent
The infant young, and friendless orphan-poor;
They who should gambol on the golden meads,
While health the limbs, and beauty clad their cheeks,
Thus doom'd to anguish in degenerate toils!
Why, what a hell-slave will this Commerce prove,
When life and feeling perish for her cause!
Already hath an evil spell begun;
Though a proud Empire will not see, her heart
Is fever'd with a fest'ring mass of vice,
And lust of gain which rankles into lies
Deceptive, horrible, and base; while Truth
Integrity and Honour are diseased,
And die away in avaricious dreams
Of Mammon, that vile despot of the soul.
The happy meekness of contented minds
Is fretted with ambition; home and love,
The heart-links, and the brotherhood of joy
In life, and tomb-companionship in death,
Are nothing: money, God of England seems!
Though a proud Empire will not see, her heart
Is fever'd with a fest'ring mass of vice,
And lust of gain which rankles into lies
Deceptive, horrible, and base; while Truth
Integrity and Honour are diseased,
And die away in avaricious dreams
Of Mammon, that vile despot of the soul.
The happy meekness of contented minds
Is fretted with ambition; home and love,
The heart-links, and the brotherhood of joy
In life, and tomb-companionship in death,
Are nothing: money, God of England seems!
There is another and a nobler scene
Of triumph, for dark spirits to survey.
For knowledge,—true nobility of mind
When temper'd with a sanctifying tone,
Without it, but an ornamental curse,—
In full omnipotence is reigning now;
Yet haply, with a spirit and a power
Which breed an earthquake in the boastful heart
Of this free isle. A thunder-charged sky
When clouds float meaningly along the face
Of its dread stillness, not more threat'ning looks
Than England, bloated with ambitious minds
That dream in darkness, and await the hour
That like a storm-burst will the world arouse!
Sooner shall winds be caged, or billows hush'd,
Than pride be rooted from one human soul
By aught which man's corrective wisdom yields.
For dust with deity will dare contend,
The creature with his own Creator war
The most, where meek religion reigns the least.
To vanity a wildering charm, for vice
A weapon, to the fool a powerless gift
Is Learning.—Doth she lift her eyes to heaven,
Or downward gaze to idolise that world
Of promise, which around her seems to smile?
Of triumph, for dark spirits to survey.
For knowledge,—true nobility of mind
When temper'd with a sanctifying tone,
Without it, but an ornamental curse,—
In full omnipotence is reigning now;
Yet haply, with a spirit and a power
Which breed an earthquake in the boastful heart
Of this free isle. A thunder-charged sky
When clouds float meaningly along the face
Of its dread stillness, not more threat'ning looks
Than England, bloated with ambitious minds
That dream in darkness, and await the hour
That like a storm-burst will the world arouse!
Sooner shall winds be caged, or billows hush'd,
Than pride be rooted from one human soul
By aught which man's corrective wisdom yields.
For dust with deity will dare contend,
The creature with his own Creator war
The most, where meek religion reigns the least.
To vanity a wildering charm, for vice
A weapon, to the fool a powerless gift
Is Learning.—Doth she lift her eyes to heaven,
Or downward gaze to idolise that world
Of promise, which around her seems to smile?
The soul of Intellect is spread abroad,
In whose gay flush men see flatt'ring bloom;
Yet, vain and unimpressive as the dance
Of leaf-shades, figured in the dreaming sun,
Are trivial fancies o'er a Nation's mind
For ever by inglorious spirits thrown.
As pictured Nature in the rich deceit
Of servile art, undignified appears
When with its glorious archetype compared,
So dim the genius of the living day
To that which brighten'd an heroic race
Of warriors, famous in the fields of mind;
High-soul'd and stern, they gave to time unborn
The heirship of their fame; but venal smiles
Which low accordance with the bounded view
Of spirits levell'd to the dust, procures,
Were spurn'd away in their immortal taste
For Truth, and her transcendent cause:—how few
Dare emulate these godlike of the past;
Renown immediate, from the vassal lip
Of smiling Dulness, is the dear reward
For which your intellectual pigmies grasp.
Hence, sickly woes, and sentimental lies
By passion woven to bewilder souls.—
Romantic panders! may your kingdom spread;
Let Beauty, Love, and Gentleness, and Thoughts
Which grasp eternity and heaven unveil,
Expire; but give to crime pathetic grace
And treat the world with new made decalogues!
In whose gay flush men see flatt'ring bloom;
Yet, vain and unimpressive as the dance
Of leaf-shades, figured in the dreaming sun,
Are trivial fancies o'er a Nation's mind
For ever by inglorious spirits thrown.
As pictured Nature in the rich deceit
Of servile art, undignified appears
When with its glorious archetype compared,
So dim the genius of the living day
To that which brighten'd an heroic race
Of warriors, famous in the fields of mind;
High-soul'd and stern, they gave to time unborn
The heirship of their fame; but venal smiles
Which low accordance with the bounded view
Of spirits levell'd to the dust, procures,
Were spurn'd away in their immortal taste
For Truth, and her transcendent cause:—how few
Dare emulate these godlike of the past;
Renown immediate, from the vassal lip
Of smiling Dulness, is the dear reward
For which your intellectual pigmies grasp.
Hence, sickly woes, and sentimental lies
By passion woven to bewilder souls.—
Romantic panders! may your kingdom spread;
Let Beauty, Love, and Gentleness, and Thoughts
Which grasp eternity and heaven unveil,
Expire; but give to crime pathetic grace
And treat the world with new made decalogues!
Creator! what a triumph can we boast
When oracles which fool, or flatter; dull
Expounders of a duller creed,—those mean
Arraigners, shrouded by a saving gloom
Which wraps them in false glory, as far scenes
In darkness magnify the truth of Day;
When such as these, in life and feeling, heart
And creed, and elements of thought, can win
A base surrender from a free-born soul
Cringing, or cowering, as their wands direct!—
Why, Hell may laugh, and liberty's no more.
When oracles which fool, or flatter; dull
Expounders of a duller creed,—those mean
Arraigners, shrouded by a saving gloom
Which wraps them in false glory, as far scenes
In darkness magnify the truth of Day;
When such as these, in life and feeling, heart
And creed, and elements of thought, can win
A base surrender from a free-born soul
Cringing, or cowering, as their wands direct!—
Why, Hell may laugh, and liberty's no more.
So awful is the sway of human mind:
For good or evil an enduring charm,
Inweaved with ages, silently it works,
Reaping uncounted spoils from deeds and words,
And thoughts, which spring like blossoms from a ray
Of influence, by some ruling Spirit cast.—
There is a stormy greatness, by the sense
Of vulgar Apprehension hail'd, yet vain
When match'd against one all-prevailing mind.
A warrior's glory in his banner waves;
And ocean-heroes, when the tempest roars,
Outdare the winds; and echoes of renown
Roll mighty round the living head of each,
Yet ebb away to indistinct applause
By History echoed round memorial graves.
For good or evil an enduring charm,
Inweaved with ages, silently it works,
Reaping uncounted spoils from deeds and words,
And thoughts, which spring like blossoms from a ray
Of influence, by some ruling Spirit cast.—
There is a stormy greatness, by the sense
361
When match'd against one all-prevailing mind.
A warrior's glory in his banner waves;
And ocean-heroes, when the tempest roars,
Outdare the winds; and echoes of renown
Roll mighty round the living head of each,
Yet ebb away to indistinct applause
By History echoed round memorial graves.
But he, who out of mind a fame erects,
In his eternity of thought will live
And flourish, till the Earth itself decays!
And what a tale would Time have told, had none
Burst through the thraldom of degrading sense,
And bade the spirit eloquently tell
Of Truth, of Beauty, and pervading Love!
The heavens they scale; the elements array
With glory; give the herb a greener hue,
The flower a fresher magic, and the stream
A melody which nature never sang;
Thus bright'ning all without by rays within
From light's great Source proceeding, they create
A second Eden, pure as sinless Adam saw.
In his eternity of thought will live
And flourish, till the Earth itself decays!
And what a tale would Time have told, had none
Burst through the thraldom of degrading sense,
And bade the spirit eloquently tell
Of Truth, of Beauty, and pervading Love!
The heavens they scale; the elements array
With glory; give the herb a greener hue,
The flower a fresher magic, and the stream
A melody which nature never sang;
Thus bright'ning all without by rays within
From light's great Source proceeding, they create
A second Eden, pure as sinless Adam saw.
The dark enchantment of corrupted mind
Not less prevailing in its secret course
Hath proved. For Havoc may be heal'd; and tears
And wrongs of desolated Kingdoms, cease;
But genius triumphs o'er decaying time
And taints a century with corrupting thought.
Ye prostituted Souls! when mind is judged,
How ghastly from your slumber will ye wake!
At that dread hour Perversion may not plead,
Nor Will deny, what Understanding own'd.
The wretched martyrs!—for a vain renown
From Unbelief, and her heart-blasted crew
Derived, they rouse the idiot-laugh, in clouds
Of falsehood clothe each attribute within,
Lend Infidelity a voice, the vile
Delude with flatteries such as impious ears delight,
And fashion doubts to mystify the world:
So be it! there is loud applause below!
Not less prevailing in its secret course
Hath proved. For Havoc may be heal'd; and tears
And wrongs of desolated Kingdoms, cease;
But genius triumphs o'er decaying time
And taints a century with corrupting thought.
Ye prostituted Souls! when mind is judged,
How ghastly from your slumber will ye wake!
At that dread hour Perversion may not plead,
Nor Will deny, what Understanding own'd.
The wretched martyrs!—for a vain renown
From Unbelief, and her heart-blasted crew
Derived, they rouse the idiot-laugh, in clouds
Of falsehood clothe each attribute within,
Lend Infidelity a voice, the vile
Delude with flatteries such as impious ears delight,
And fashion doubts to mystify the world:
So be it! there is loud applause below!
For wealth too gasping, for a wise content
Too madly fever'd by ambitious thirst,
The moral greatness of this mighty Land
Thus charms me with a promise of decay.
Her heart is canker'd: I have roam'd unseen
Around her; lightly do her virtues weigh
Against the burden of her wickedness.—
By fortune moulded, what a countless herd
Who live to fascinate the palling hours
With pleasure, making life one masquerade!
Refinement is their heaven; and thus few crimes
Are nourish'd there; but lesser sins abound;
Revenge and spite, all vanities and hates,
The virgin whiteness of the soul deform:
Concealment is a virtue: virtue oft
Bare policy; religion but a form,
A taste most delicate for things divine!
The truth, convenience; and a lie,—the same.
Too madly fever'd by ambitious thirst,
The moral greatness of this mighty Land
Thus charms me with a promise of decay.
Her heart is canker'd: I have roam'd unseen
Around her; lightly do her virtues weigh
Against the burden of her wickedness.—
By fortune moulded, what a countless herd
Who live to fascinate the palling hours
With pleasure, making life one masquerade!
Refinement is their heaven; and thus few crimes
Are nourish'd there; but lesser sins abound;
Revenge and spite, all vanities and hates,
The virgin whiteness of the soul deform:
Concealment is a virtue: virtue oft
Bare policy; religion but a form,
A taste most delicate for things divine!
The truth, convenience; and a lie,—the same.
And what a homage doth the tongue present
To evil! what alertness of delight
Attentive, comes it in whatever shape
The turn of accident assume; in blood,
Disaster, or some grand depravity
Where passions like heart-demons reign'd! But tears
Of charity, that language of the soul!
Some fine denial of a feeling mind,
Some noble act, or heaven-reflecting scene,
Let such be named, and weariness begins:
Nothing so dull as Virtues when admired!
Let Slander, with her false envenom'd lip,
Her aping mood, her sly assassin tone,
Appear,—and eye and ear and heart attend
To feed upon the foulness of her tongue;
Whether on crooked limb, or character
It fall; whether She waste it on a foe
Successful, or a rival far too good;
Or faintly drop it o'er a dying friend,—
Nothing so sweet as slander to the vile!
To evil! what alertness of delight
Attentive, comes it in whatever shape
The turn of accident assume; in blood,
Disaster, or some grand depravity
Where passions like heart-demons reign'd! But tears
Of charity, that language of the soul!
Some fine denial of a feeling mind,
Some noble act, or heaven-reflecting scene,
Let such be named, and weariness begins:
Nothing so dull as Virtues when admired!
Let Slander, with her false envenom'd lip,
Her aping mood, her sly assassin tone,
Appear,—and eye and ear and heart attend
To feed upon the foulness of her tongue;
Whether on crooked limb, or character
It fall; whether She waste it on a foe
Successful, or a rival far too good;
Or faintly drop it o'er a dying friend,—
Nothing so sweet as slander to the vile!
But deeper in society are bred
The vices ravening on a Nation's weal.
Philosophy! dar'st Thou confront me here?
Descend and look into degenerate life;
See deadly Vice, with brazen front, abroad,
And Murder, stalking through her savage round
Of midnight blood; see Theft her felon-hand
Uprear; and infamies of heart and tongue;
And Guilt, with godless triumph on her brow:
Mark Hell in miniature! wherever crime
Depraves, or poverty allures,—and pause;
Millennium is not come, nor Man reclaim'd!
The vices ravening on a Nation's weal.
Philosophy! dar'st Thou confront me here?
Descend and look into degenerate life;
See deadly Vice, with brazen front, abroad,
And Murder, stalking through her savage round
Of midnight blood; see Theft her felon-hand
Uprear; and infamies of heart and tongue;
And Guilt, with godless triumph on her brow:
Mark Hell in miniature! wherever crime
Depraves, or poverty allures,—and pause;
Millennium is not come, nor Man reclaim'd!
Thus greedy, worldly, and defiled, how poor
The sum of happiness in England's heart!
Like other climes, her thousand children seek
A Shadow flying from their false embrace,
Still adding to the cheats of mocking time,
And with strange madness making life far worse
Than Adam left it. Earth indeed no more
Retains an Eden, and her richest hour
Yearns with deep longing for more glorious bliss,
Immortal as the mind itself;—yet joy
And hope, serenity without, and calm
Within, e'en here might visit gentle souls,
Who haunt the confines of a better world.
Like food to body, happiness to mind
Alone is healthful, when ingredients pure
Are mingled to create the charm they bring.
The sum of happiness in England's heart!
Like other climes, her thousand children seek
A Shadow flying from their false embrace,
Still adding to the cheats of mocking time,
And with strange madness making life far worse
Than Adam left it. Earth indeed no more
Retains an Eden, and her richest hour
Yearns with deep longing for more glorious bliss,
Immortal as the mind itself;—yet joy
And hope, serenity without, and calm
Within, e'en here might visit gentle souls,
Who haunt the confines of a better world.
Like food to body, happiness to mind
362
Are mingled to create the charm they bring.
What numbers, on whose features the false smile
For ever plays; whose eyes, so brightly charged
With happy meaning, quicken envious fire
In other hearts; what wretches gaily-tongued,
And scattering words whence emulations spring,—
Have I beheld, whom Happiness is deem'd
With her full heaven to crown! yet where, oh where
Blind Mortals, is that priceless gem obtain'd
Which many seek, yet few in life have found?
For ever plays; whose eyes, so brightly charged
With happy meaning, quicken envious fire
In other hearts; what wretches gaily-tongued,
And scattering words whence emulations spring,—
Have I beheld, whom Happiness is deem'd
With her full heaven to crown! yet where, oh where
Blind Mortals, is that priceless gem obtain'd
Which many seek, yet few in life have found?
The palace, and the parasitic host
Of minions, with that soft and sneaking race,
Who in the court of princes lie away
Existence, gasping for some golden lot,
I've mark'd:—the happy do not flourish there!
Then look'd I on a mightier Scene, where men
Draw glory from a Nation's heart, and voice
Their spirit round the listening World! How vain
And valueless this haunt of mind has proved
To all who battle for some cause adored!
Oh, England! such as Rome and Athens paid
Their architects of greatness, thou hast giv'n
To many who bequeath thee fame. There live
A host, who in the splendour of thy Great
Live, bask, and breed, like reptiles in the sun;
Who feast on venom, and infect the Land
With malice, and all miserable wounds.
Of minions, with that soft and sneaking race,
Who in the court of princes lie away
Existence, gasping for some golden lot,
I've mark'd:—the happy do not flourish there!
Then look'd I on a mightier Scene, where men
Draw glory from a Nation's heart, and voice
Their spirit round the listening World! How vain
And valueless this haunt of mind has proved
To all who battle for some cause adored!
Oh, England! such as Rome and Athens paid
Their architects of greatness, thou hast giv'n
To many who bequeath thee fame. There live
A host, who in the splendour of thy Great
Live, bask, and breed, like reptiles in the sun;
Who feast on venom, and infect the Land
With malice, and all miserable wounds.
Alas, Ambition! see yon gifted man
A while stand forth, surpassing and sublime:
His brow imperial; in his eye a blaze
Of meaning, pour'd from a majestic soul;
Borne on the whirlwind of triumphant thought
Through the wide universe his genius sweeps!
Thrones, Monarchies, and States,—he summons each
To strict accompt, their victories and kings
Arraigns, and bids Britannia front them all!
The Senate wonders, rapture finds a tongue,
And envy sinks abash'd to praise. But go,
Young Emulation! when this glowing scene
Hath cool'd to common life, and mark him well!
The hero is no hero here! the mean
Have tortured whom a Kingdom could not bend:
Around him, too regardful, scandal flies;
And words, like gnawing vipers, poison life
Away, or rankle in the spirit's core.—
A while stand forth, surpassing and sublime:
His brow imperial; in his eye a blaze
Of meaning, pour'd from a majestic soul;
Borne on the whirlwind of triumphant thought
Through the wide universe his genius sweeps!
Thrones, Monarchies, and States,—he summons each
To strict accompt, their victories and kings
Arraigns, and bids Britannia front them all!
The Senate wonders, rapture finds a tongue,
And envy sinks abash'd to praise. But go,
Young Emulation! when this glowing scene
Hath cool'd to common life, and mark him well!
The hero is no hero here! the mean
Have tortured whom a Kingdom could not bend:
Around him, too regardful, scandal flies;
And words, like gnawing vipers, poison life
Away, or rankle in the spirit's core.—
From the proud Senate, to a sunnier realm,
Where Gaiety and her unseemly crew,
Like flowers of fancy in a hot-bed rear'd,
An artificial life enjoy,—I turn'd.
In such a sphere could happiness abide?
Where Fashion, that great harlequin of Life,
For ever plays the comedy of fools;
Where Luxury breathes a pamper'd air; where Love
Is venal; Wealth, a wearisome array;
And time, a curse,—the happy do not dwell.
A false delight, a snatch of feverish joy
And jading rounds of pleasure are supplied;
But oft the heart beats echoless to all
Though Custom wear its contradicting smile.
Where Gaiety and her unseemly crew,
Like flowers of fancy in a hot-bed rear'd,
An artificial life enjoy,—I turn'd.
In such a sphere could happiness abide?
Where Fashion, that great harlequin of Life,
For ever plays the comedy of fools;
Where Luxury breathes a pamper'd air; where Love
Is venal; Wealth, a wearisome array;
And time, a curse,—the happy do not dwell.
A false delight, a snatch of feverish joy
And jading rounds of pleasure are supplied;
But oft the heart beats echoless to all
Though Custom wear its contradicting smile.
And the rank vileness of their pleasures vain
'Mid theatres of vice, I frequent view.
Music and Pomp their mingling spirit shed
Around me; Beauties in their cloudlike robes
Shine forth,—a scenic paradise, it glares
Intoxication through the reeling sense
Of flush'd Enjoyment. In the motley host
Three prime gradations may be rank'd; the first,
To mount upon the wings of Shakspeare's mind,
And view the flashes of Promèthean thought,
To smile and weep, to shudder, and admire,—
Attend; the second are a sensual tribe,
Convened to hear romantic harlots sing,
On forms to banquet a lascivious gaze
While the bright perfidy of wanton eyes
Through brain and spirit darts delicious fire:
The last,—a throng most pitiful! who seem
With their corroded figures, rayless glance,
And death-like struggle of decaying age,
Like painted skeletons in charnel-pomp
Set forth, to satirise the human Kind!—
How fine a prospect for demoniac view!
“Creatures, whose souls outbalance worlds, awake!”
Methinks I hear some pitying Angel cry.
'Mid theatres of vice, I frequent view.
Music and Pomp their mingling spirit shed
Around me; Beauties in their cloudlike robes
Shine forth,—a scenic paradise, it glares
Intoxication through the reeling sense
Of flush'd Enjoyment. In the motley host
Three prime gradations may be rank'd; the first,
To mount upon the wings of Shakspeare's mind,
And view the flashes of Promèthean thought,
To smile and weep, to shudder, and admire,—
Attend; the second are a sensual tribe,
Convened to hear romantic harlots sing,
On forms to banquet a lascivious gaze
While the bright perfidy of wanton eyes
Through brain and spirit darts delicious fire:
The last,—a throng most pitiful! who seem
With their corroded figures, rayless glance,
And death-like struggle of decaying age,
Like painted skeletons in charnel-pomp
Set forth, to satirise the human Kind!—
How fine a prospect for demoniac view!
“Creatures, whose souls outbalance worlds, awake!”
Methinks I hear some pitying Angel cry.
Another scene, where happiness is sought!
A festive chamber, with its golden hues,
Its dream-like sounds and languishing delights.—
Since the far hour when England lay begirt
With savage darkness, how divinely raised
Art thou, Society! The polish'd mode,
The princely mien, the acquiescing smile
Of tutor'd lips, with all that beauty, love,
Accomplishment and sumptuous Art, bestow,—
Are thine; but oh, the hollowness within!
One mingled heart society should be
Of glowing words and generous feelings made,
And hallow'd by sincerity; but hark,
The whisper'd venom of invidious tongues!
The shrug of falsehood, or the sly deceit
Of changing looks; the drama of the eyes,
And all the pantomime Refinement acts!
From simpering youth to unregarded age
'Tis vapour, vanity, and meanness all!
Where honest nature sickens with disgust;
While school'd hypocrisy, with glozing tongue,
Performs the social serpent of the night.
A festive chamber, with its golden hues,
Its dream-like sounds and languishing delights.—
Since the far hour when England lay begirt
With savage darkness, how divinely raised
Art thou, Society! The polish'd mode,
The princely mien, the acquiescing smile
Of tutor'd lips, with all that beauty, love,
Accomplishment and sumptuous Art, bestow,—
Are thine; but oh, the hollowness within!
One mingled heart society should be
Of glowing words and generous feelings made,
And hallow'd by sincerity; but hark,
The whisper'd venom of invidious tongues!
The shrug of falsehood, or the sly deceit
363
And all the pantomime Refinement acts!
From simpering youth to unregarded age
'Tis vapour, vanity, and meanness all!
Where honest nature sickens with disgust;
While school'd hypocrisy, with glozing tongue,
Performs the social serpent of the night.
From Fashion moved I to the loftier scenes
Where hosts by Learning titled, for renown
And rank more elevate than kings bestow
Their inward toil pursue,—and yet how vain!
There is a craving for some higher gift,
A thirst which fame and wisdom fail to quench
Alone; the fountain hath a deeper well.
And what is Fame? When hope, the morning-star
Of life arose, Enthusiast! thou wouldst climb
Her envied rock, to hear the lauding tones
Of grateful myriads round thee, like the glee
Of waters wafted o'er a mountain-head.
Amid the dreams of some poetic shade
Where Fancy prophesies proud years to come;
Or by some gush of beauty, or the glow
Of emulation, or by spells of mind
Perchance her music whisper'd—be thou great!
No matter: midnight-watchings, gloom and tears,
Thy heart a fever, and thy brain on fire,—
The martyrdom of thought hath won the prize;
And midmost thou, among the laurell'd tribe
A Paramount art throned! And dear to thee,
Young hero of the mind, is first renown;
Fresh, warm, and pure, as early love, ere Time
Hath nipt it with a killing blight. Awhile
In paradise thou dream'st and seem'st to hear
The hailing worship of Posterity.
But now, come down from yon celestial height!
Descend, and struggle with the heartless crew
Who out of others' tears extract their joy.
The rocky nature of ignoble minds,
Ambitious Spite, or unrelenting Hate,
'Tis thine to wrestle with; the spell unwinds,
And Glory's hollowness appears at last!
Where hosts by Learning titled, for renown
And rank more elevate than kings bestow
Their inward toil pursue,—and yet how vain!
There is a craving for some higher gift,
A thirst which fame and wisdom fail to quench
Alone; the fountain hath a deeper well.
And what is Fame? When hope, the morning-star
Of life arose, Enthusiast! thou wouldst climb
Her envied rock, to hear the lauding tones
Of grateful myriads round thee, like the glee
Of waters wafted o'er a mountain-head.
Amid the dreams of some poetic shade
Where Fancy prophesies proud years to come;
Or by some gush of beauty, or the glow
Of emulation, or by spells of mind
Perchance her music whisper'd—be thou great!
No matter: midnight-watchings, gloom and tears,
Thy heart a fever, and thy brain on fire,—
The martyrdom of thought hath won the prize;
And midmost thou, among the laurell'd tribe
A Paramount art throned! And dear to thee,
Young hero of the mind, is first renown;
Fresh, warm, and pure, as early love, ere Time
Hath nipt it with a killing blight. Awhile
In paradise thou dream'st and seem'st to hear
The hailing worship of Posterity.
But now, come down from yon celestial height!
Descend, and struggle with the heartless crew
Who out of others' tears extract their joy.
The rocky nature of ignoble minds,
Ambitious Spite, or unrelenting Hate,
'Tis thine to wrestle with; the spell unwinds,
And Glory's hollowness appears at last!
And thou, religion, hell's appalling foe,
Yet least prevailing, on whose seraph-wing
Far, far away from this benighted orb,
A spirit mounts, though many Temples shrine
Thy sanctitude, and many tongues thy charm
Repeat, how few have found thee as Thou art,
The living Saviour of mankind! What hosts
Who boast my attributes, or ape my power,
Yet carry gospels in their saintly looks!
Ye hypocrites! how often have I torn
Your veils away! how often have I seen
A midnight where the world saw only day;
Beheld a Demon, where they dreamt a God!
Yet least prevailing, on whose seraph-wing
Far, far away from this benighted orb,
A spirit mounts, though many Temples shrine
Thy sanctitude, and many tongues thy charm
Repeat, how few have found thee as Thou art,
The living Saviour of mankind! What hosts
Who boast my attributes, or ape my power,
Yet carry gospels in their saintly looks!
Ye hypocrites! how often have I torn
Your veils away! how often have I seen
A midnight where the world saw only day;
Beheld a Demon, where they dreamt a God!
'Tis not the vileness of hypocrisy
From which alone a hellish harvest springs;
But that contempt which on religion frowns
When hypocrites in unmask'd truth appear:
Then Vice is comforted, and lifts Her voice
Triumphant; pleased to have a broken step
However slippery, where to stand and cry,
Thank God! my soul religion never sway'd!
Delusion vain and exquisitely vile,
How gloriously thy cheating spells can work!
For thus might Painting and her fairy scenes
Be scouted, when a daubing mimic fails;
Or Music have her seraph-voice denied
When a poor screech-owl apes a melody;
As true Religion have her heaven disown'd
Because a false professor fools the world.
From which alone a hellish harvest springs;
But that contempt which on religion frowns
When hypocrites in unmask'd truth appear:
Then Vice is comforted, and lifts Her voice
Triumphant; pleased to have a broken step
However slippery, where to stand and cry,
Thank God! my soul religion never sway'd!
Delusion vain and exquisitely vile,
How gloriously thy cheating spells can work!
For thus might Painting and her fairy scenes
Be scouted, when a daubing mimic fails;
Or Music have her seraph-voice denied
When a poor screech-owl apes a melody;
As true Religion have her heaven disown'd
Because a false professor fools the world.
Nor dwells that happiness which mortals seek,
With them, fanatically crazed or wild:
Two Orders breathe there of this graceless crew:
The one, on ecstasy profanely soar
Full in the face of Deity, and sing
And shout, with more than archangelic joy!
And yet, so earthly is excessive love,
No heathen to a sensual god e'er raved
With more lip-service of degrading rant
Than dark Fanatics, when their roar is up!
The other, sink as deep as these ascend,
And so exult in self-accusing thought,
That nought's more proud than their humility.
With them, fanatically crazed or wild:
Two Orders breathe there of this graceless crew:
The one, on ecstasy profanely soar
Full in the face of Deity, and sing
And shout, with more than archangelic joy!
And yet, so earthly is excessive love,
No heathen to a sensual god e'er raved
With more lip-service of degrading rant
Than dark Fanatics, when their roar is up!
The other, sink as deep as these ascend,
And so exult in self-accusing thought,
That nought's more proud than their humility.
And this is homage for the Dread Supreme!
Who comes—and Mountains from His glory flee;
Who speaketh—and a Universe begins;
Who frowneth—and Creation is no more!
So awful, that the dazzled Angels shrink
In veil'd humility His Throne beneath;
To such these holy maniacs cry, and bid
Him bow the heavens in thunder, and appear!
Or, in the vaunting of devotion's power
Can dare to humanise their Deity;
While others, with a superstitious cloud
Array His attributes, conceal His love,
And level Mercy to their own despair.
Who comes—and Mountains from His glory flee;
Who speaketh—and a Universe begins;
Who frowneth—and Creation is no more!
So awful, that the dazzled Angels shrink
In veil'd humility His Throne beneath;
To such these holy maniacs cry, and bid
Him bow the heavens in thunder, and appear!
Or, in the vaunting of devotion's power
Can dare to humanise their Deity;
While others, with a superstitious cloud
Array His attributes, conceal His love,
And level Mercy to their own despair.
Nor let them boast, who in the vile content
Of worldly meanness, sepulchred in Self
And worm-like clinging to their genial clay,
The wisely good and only happy deem
Their narrow lot: to such earth-loving race
The seen and felt make all their paradise;
Should Hell be vision'd,—let it burn away!
If Heaven—bombast is thunder'd in their ears!
When yawns the tomb, then comes the hour to pray,
When death appears, the awe of future worlds.
Most glorious! could I wither all men down
And tame them from their true immortal rank
To what these are, how demonised the earth
Would grow! all feeling curdled into self,
All nobleness of thought a dream denounced,
All bright and beautiful sensations mock'd,
The world a vortex for engulphing heart
And soul,—one living curse this Life would prove!
Were I a mortal, with capacious mind
To grasp, and heart to feel, around me strewn
Such glory, pomp, magnificence, and might
In visible array,—I'd rather live
Some free-born creature of the stately woods,
Than with the form of Man a life of brutes
Embody, beathing but of earth and sin!
Of worldly meanness, sepulchred in Self
And worm-like clinging to their genial clay,
The wisely good and only happy deem
Their narrow lot: to such earth-loving race
The seen and felt make all their paradise;
Should Hell be vision'd,—let it burn away!
If Heaven—bombast is thunder'd in their ears!
364
When death appears, the awe of future worlds.
Most glorious! could I wither all men down
And tame them from their true immortal rank
To what these are, how demonised the earth
Would grow! all feeling curdled into self,
All nobleness of thought a dream denounced,
All bright and beautiful sensations mock'd,
The world a vortex for engulphing heart
And soul,—one living curse this Life would prove!
Were I a mortal, with capacious mind
To grasp, and heart to feel, around me strewn
Such glory, pomp, magnificence, and might
In visible array,—I'd rather live
Some free-born creature of the stately woods,
Than with the form of Man a life of brutes
Embody, beathing but of earth and sin!
Glory and Pleasure, Learning, Power, and Fame,
All Idols of deceptive sway,—mankind
Have crown'd them for the master-spells of Life;
And yet, a mocking destiny they bear.
How often dwelleth gladness in the smile
They raise, or rapture in the heaven they dream?
Unknown, unhonour'd, in the noiseless sphere
Of humbleness, one happy man I found.
It was not that the tears or toils of fate
Escaped him; or that no tempestuous grief
The stream-like current of calm life perturb'd.
But in him dwelt that true philosophy
That flings a sunshine o'er the wintriest hour.
The proud he envied not; no splendours craved,
Nor sigh'd to wear the laurels of Renown;
But look'd on Greatness with contented eye,
Then, smilingly to his meek path retired:
Thus o'er the billows of a troublous world,
As o'er the anarchy of waters moves
The seaman's bark, in safety did he ride,
His woes forgot, and left his wants to Heaven.
I wove my spell, but could not once decoy
The eyes of that contented Soul. He look'd,
When Glory woo'd him with a traitorous glare,
On the calm luxuries of humble life;
There was the Image of his own pure mind,
The peaceful sharer of his love and lot:
What beaming fulness in that tender eye,
What a bright overflow of spirit shone!
When by her cradled babe she mused, who lay
In beauty, still and warm as summer-air:
And what could camp, or court, or palace yield,
Of nobler, deeper, more exalted bliss,
Than when, as weary Daylight sunk to rest,
He shut his door upon the noisy world,
And, with no harrowing dream of guilty hue,
To stain the crystal hours of love and home,
Sat by his hearth, and bathed his soul in bliss?
All Idols of deceptive sway,—mankind
Have crown'd them for the master-spells of Life;
And yet, a mocking destiny they bear.
How often dwelleth gladness in the smile
They raise, or rapture in the heaven they dream?
Unknown, unhonour'd, in the noiseless sphere
Of humbleness, one happy man I found.
It was not that the tears or toils of fate
Escaped him; or that no tempestuous grief
The stream-like current of calm life perturb'd.
But in him dwelt that true philosophy
That flings a sunshine o'er the wintriest hour.
The proud he envied not; no splendours craved,
Nor sigh'd to wear the laurels of Renown;
But look'd on Greatness with contented eye,
Then, smilingly to his meek path retired:
Thus o'er the billows of a troublous world,
As o'er the anarchy of waters moves
The seaman's bark, in safety did he ride,
His woes forgot, and left his wants to Heaven.
I wove my spell, but could not once decoy
The eyes of that contented Soul. He look'd,
When Glory woo'd him with a traitorous glare,
On the calm luxuries of humble life;
There was the Image of his own pure mind,
The peaceful sharer of his love and lot:
What beaming fulness in that tender eye,
What a bright overflow of spirit shone!
When by her cradled babe she mused, who lay
In beauty, still and warm as summer-air:
And what could camp, or court, or palace yield,
Of nobler, deeper, more exalted bliss,
Than when, as weary Daylight sunk to rest,
He shut his door upon the noisy world,
And, with no harrowing dream of guilty hue,
To stain the crystal hours of love and home,
Sat by his hearth, and bathed his soul in bliss?
But more convulsive is the life I'd see;
And few shall flourish in this homely sphere!
Excitement is my great enchanter, whence
The wisdom of the worldly fain would reap
That blissful nothing which delusion shapes;
That onward, day by day, from year to year,
Through gloom and glory mocks them to the grave!—
I thank thee, Britain! though religious call'd,
The perfect beauty of her living form
Thou hast not yet adored.—There is a sense,
A selfish, innate law of right and wrong,
Which makes a heathen moral: such is thine.
And few shall flourish in this homely sphere!
Excitement is my great enchanter, whence
The wisdom of the worldly fain would reap
That blissful nothing which delusion shapes;
That onward, day by day, from year to year,
Through gloom and glory mocks them to the grave!—
I thank thee, Britain! though religious call'd,
The perfect beauty of her living form
Thou hast not yet adored.—There is a sense,
A selfish, innate law of right and wrong,
Which makes a heathen moral: such is thine.
A loftier air the Christian breathes, who owns
The Alpha and the Omega of all
In life or destiny, is God alone.
Bid colour to enchant the blind; or sounds
Of melody through deafen'd ears to glide,
Or dream of sensibility in stones;
But think not, world-slaves! to imagine all
That boundless yearning for ethereal bliss,
That more than rapture of a heart redeem'd
A Christian nurseth; 'tis the heaven-wove charm
Which Devils hate, but cannot yet destroy.
Divinity is there! Two thousand Years
In glorious witness gather round mankind
Attesting it divine;—to conscience, peace;
To Ignorance, beyond what sages teach,
It gives to poverty that wealth of heaven,—
The inward quiet of a grateful mind.
The Alpha and the Omega of all
In life or destiny, is God alone.
Bid colour to enchant the blind; or sounds
Of melody through deafen'd ears to glide,
Or dream of sensibility in stones;
But think not, world-slaves! to imagine all
That boundless yearning for ethereal bliss,
That more than rapture of a heart redeem'd
A Christian nurseth; 'tis the heaven-wove charm
Which Devils hate, but cannot yet destroy.
Divinity is there! Two thousand Years
In glorious witness gather round mankind
Attesting it divine;—to conscience, peace;
To Ignorance, beyond what sages teach,
It gives to poverty that wealth of heaven,—
The inward quiet of a grateful mind.
To such how welcome dawns this hallow'd day,
The Sabbath! Hell perceives her darksome power
Confronted, when its smile salutes the earth;
For, like a freshness out of Eden wing'd,
A sainted influence comes: the toils and woes,
The cankering wear of ever-busy life
In spiritual oblivion smooth'd away,
On such a dawn, celestial hearts by grace
Refined, can mingle in delicious calm
Like many clouds which into one dissolve.
The Sabbath! Hell perceives her darksome power
Confronted, when its smile salutes the earth;
For, like a freshness out of Eden wing'd,
A sainted influence comes: the toils and woes,
The cankering wear of ever-busy life
In spiritual oblivion smooth'd away,
On such a dawn, celestial hearts by grace
Refined, can mingle in delicious calm
Like many clouds which into one dissolve.
How mildly beautiful this blessed morn!
Thy sky all azure; not a cloud abroad;
A sunny languor in the air; the breeze
Gentle enough to fan an Angel's brow:
And thou, the Lord of beauty and of light
Enthroned, how oriently thy splendours shine
And make a loveliness where'er they fall!
Thy sky all azure; not a cloud abroad;
A sunny languor in the air; the breeze
Gentle enough to fan an Angel's brow:
And thou, the Lord of beauty and of light
Enthroned, how oriently thy splendours shine
And make a loveliness where'er they fall!
365
Hark! on the stillness of the sabbath-air
From tower and steeple floats the mellow chime
Of matin-bells; and plaintively ascends
That pealing incense! up to heaven it glides,
As though it heralded creation's prayer.
From tower and steeple floats the mellow chime
Of matin-bells; and plaintively ascends
That pealing incense! up to heaven it glides,
As though it heralded creation's prayer.
And now, from England's countless homes and streets,
In motley garb, the trooping myriads come,
To kneel in Temples where their fathers knelt.
Among them, there are heaven-toned spirits found,
Hailing a sabbath as the blissful type
Of that which in eternity shall reign:
Others, whom Custom's all-resistless sway
Beguileth, in their pompous robes appear,
And use them for religion; many pine
For action, though a sacred mockery proved:—
While the loud wheels of common Life stand still,
And round it an unwholesome quiet reigns,
The show and music of the temple-pomp
May o'er the heart some fascination fling:
Yet what more weary than to worship God!
In motley garb, the trooping myriads come,
To kneel in Temples where their fathers knelt.
Among them, there are heaven-toned spirits found,
Hailing a sabbath as the blissful type
Of that which in eternity shall reign:
Others, whom Custom's all-resistless sway
Beguileth, in their pompous robes appear,
And use them for religion; many pine
For action, though a sacred mockery proved:—
While the loud wheels of common Life stand still,
And round it an unwholesome quiet reigns,
The show and music of the temple-pomp
May o'er the heart some fascination fling:
Yet what more weary than to worship God!
But now for Country, and her chaster scenes!
The melody of summer-winds; the wave
Of herbage in a verdant radiance clad;
And chant of trees, which languishingly bend
As gazing on their shadows, meet around
This haunt, where Loneliness and Nature smile.—
How meekly piled, how venerably graced
This hamlet-fane! by mellowing age imbrown'd,
And freckled like a rock of sea-worn hue.
No marble tombs of agonising Pomp
Are here; but turf-graves of unfading green,
Where loved and lowly generations sleep:
And o'er them many a votive sigh is heaved
From hearts which love the sacredness of tombs.
The melody of summer-winds; the wave
Of herbage in a verdant radiance clad;
And chant of trees, which languishingly bend
As gazing on their shadows, meet around
This haunt, where Loneliness and Nature smile.—
How meekly piled, how venerably graced
This hamlet-fane! by mellowing age imbrown'd,
And freckled like a rock of sea-worn hue.
No marble tombs of agonising Pomp
Are here; but turf-graves of unfading green,
Where loved and lowly generations sleep:
And o'er them many a votive sigh is heaved
From hearts which love the sacredness of tombs.
And such is thine, lone muser! by yon grave
Now lingering with a soul-expressive eye
Of sorrow. Corn-fields glowing brown, and bright
With promise, sumptuous in the noon-glare seen;
The meadows speckled with a homeward-tribe
Of village matrons, sons, and holy sires;
The hymning birds, all music as they soar;
And those loud streams so beautifully glad
With life and beauty all the landscape robe,
And yet,—one tomb-shade overclouds it all!
Now lingering with a soul-expressive eye
Of sorrow. Corn-fields glowing brown, and bright
With promise, sumptuous in the noon-glare seen;
The meadows speckled with a homeward-tribe
Of village matrons, sons, and holy sires;
The hymning birds, all music as they soar;
And those loud streams so beautifully glad
With life and beauty all the landscape robe,
And yet,—one tomb-shade overclouds it all!
A churchyard! 'tis a homely word, yet full
Of feeling; and a sound which o'er the heart
Might shed religion. In the gloom of graves
I read the Curse primeval; and the Voice
That wreak'd it, seems to whisper by these tombs
Of village quiet, which around me lie,
Unmottoed, and unknown. Can Life the dead
Among be musing, nor to Me advance
The spirit of her thought? True, nature wears
No rustic mourning here: in golden play
Yon sprightly grass-flowers wave; the random breeze
Hums in the noon, or with yon froward boughs
A murmuring quarrel wakes: and yet how oft
In such a haunt the insuppressive sigh
Is heard, while feelings which may hallow years
With virtue, spring from out a minute's gloom!
Of feeling; and a sound which o'er the heart
Might shed religion. In the gloom of graves
I read the Curse primeval; and the Voice
That wreak'd it, seems to whisper by these tombs
Of village quiet, which around me lie,
Unmottoed, and unknown. Can Life the dead
Among be musing, nor to Me advance
The spirit of her thought? True, nature wears
No rustic mourning here: in golden play
Yon sprightly grass-flowers wave; the random breeze
Hums in the noon, or with yon froward boughs
A murmuring quarrel wakes: and yet how oft
In such a haunt the insuppressive sigh
Is heard, while feelings which may hallow years
With virtue, spring from out a minute's gloom!
Mind overcomes me here. Amid the pomp
Of monumental falsehoods, piled o'er men
Whose only worth is in their epitaphs,
I fear thee not, thou meditating One!
Infinity may blacken round thy dream
Perchance, and words inaudible thy soul
With dread prediction fill!—but worldly gauds
Entice thee; whisper'd vanities of thought
Arise, and though Life lose all glare awhile,
Ambition tints the moral of the tomb.—
'Tis not so here: pathetic eyes can dwell
On few distinctions, save of differing age;
The heart is free to ponder, and the mind
To be acquainted with itself alone.
And more development of Man is found
In such calm scene, than in the warring rush
Of life.—I watch him thus, and mark
How creed and conscience lift him up to God;
Or dark imaginings, from tombs derived,
O'erwhelm His spirit with a cold despair.
Of monumental falsehoods, piled o'er men
Whose only worth is in their epitaphs,
I fear thee not, thou meditating One!
Infinity may blacken round thy dream
Perchance, and words inaudible thy soul
With dread prediction fill!—but worldly gauds
Entice thee; whisper'd vanities of thought
Arise, and though Life lose all glare awhile,
Ambition tints the moral of the tomb.—
'Tis not so here: pathetic eyes can dwell
On few distinctions, save of differing age;
The heart is free to ponder, and the mind
To be acquainted with itself alone.
And more development of Man is found
In such calm scene, than in the warring rush
Of life.—I watch him thus, and mark
How creed and conscience lift him up to God;
Or dark imaginings, from tombs derived,
O'erwhelm His spirit with a cold despair.
Nature begins; and in the white-roll'd shroud
The ghastly nothingness of Death appears.—
And then, a knell, Time's world-awaking tongue,
Rings in the soul, and by a new-turn'd grave
He paints a mourning vision; sees the tears
Telling of many a day's remember'd joy
Down cheeks of Anguish dropping; and can hear
The careless mutter of the broken clod
Upon his coffin echo.—Then, a dream!
The solemn dream! of where his spirit-home
May be, and what the everlasting World.
Thou mortal! ask the overarching Heavens,
The mystic wind, the ever-murmuring Deep,
And all which night and day around thee dwells:
Doth nought reply? The elements all dumb?
Then ask thy soul, there God Himself replies!
The ghastly nothingness of Death appears.—
And then, a knell, Time's world-awaking tongue,
Rings in the soul, and by a new-turn'd grave
He paints a mourning vision; sees the tears
Telling of many a day's remember'd joy
Down cheeks of Anguish dropping; and can hear
The careless mutter of the broken clod
Upon his coffin echo.—Then, a dream!
The solemn dream! of where his spirit-home
May be, and what the everlasting World.
Thou mortal! ask the overarching Heavens,
The mystic wind, the ever-murmuring Deep,
And all which night and day around thee dwells:
Doth nought reply? The elements all dumb?
Then ask thy soul, there God Himself replies!
I thank thee, Man! and all those mocking scenes
Wherein such vassalage of mind abounds,
That thoughts of death are exiled from the heart
Of many, till the sepulchre doth yawn.
Thus aid my black deception; and become
The sole omnipotent mere sense obeys!
And ever, when thou hear'st some true divine
Of nature's teaching, a Hereafter tell,
Then, brand Him as the martyr of mistake!
Oh, think not, Worldling!—or thy soul would say
The man who hangs on every smiling hour
A coward proves to questionings of thought;
While he, who dares with an undreading eye
To fathom his own nature, in the grave
Descend, eternity's deep gates unbar,—
Unblasted can the face of God behold
And grow familiar with the World to come.
Wherein such vassalage of mind abounds,
366
Of many, till the sepulchre doth yawn.
Thus aid my black deception; and become
The sole omnipotent mere sense obeys!
And ever, when thou hear'st some true divine
Of nature's teaching, a Hereafter tell,
Then, brand Him as the martyr of mistake!
Oh, think not, Worldling!—or thy soul would say
The man who hangs on every smiling hour
A coward proves to questionings of thought;
While he, who dares with an undreading eye
To fathom his own nature, in the grave
Descend, eternity's deep gates unbar,—
Unblasted can the face of God behold
And grow familiar with the World to come.
England is bless'd in all which nature lends:
No fields spread greener magic to the gaze,
No streams of purer freshness flow, no winds
In richer harmony their wings unfold,
Than hers: and though invading grandeur frown
A heartless contrast o'er some ruin'd scenes;
Though petty tyrants and domestic lords
That elevating charm have long eclipsed
Of happy peasantry, with honest hearts
For country glowing, and for God prepared,
And wither'd much by pastoral poets sang,—
Enough for homage, or refreshing thought
Doth consecrate her yet. And thus, methinks,
Sweet Country might imparadise the soul,
Where fine perceptions hold their placid sway.
Grey towers, and streets all surfeited with throngs
Of worldlings, greedy-eyed, and stale of heart,
As the dead air around them,—who should deem
Enchantment, when a lovelier world is free?
From dusky Cities, where forced nature grieves
To wear the meanness of surrounding men,
On wings of gladness might her lovers fly
To haunts divine as these. Lo! how She laughs
In sunshine, tinting with her bright romance
Hill, wood, and valley, rock, and wayward stream;—
What arch'd immensity of bending sky!
What flowery hues, what odorous delight
And, as her gales on wings of freshness come,
What ocean-mockery from th' excited trees
Is heard, in rapture echoing the winds!
No fields spread greener magic to the gaze,
No streams of purer freshness flow, no winds
In richer harmony their wings unfold,
Than hers: and though invading grandeur frown
A heartless contrast o'er some ruin'd scenes;
Though petty tyrants and domestic lords
That elevating charm have long eclipsed
Of happy peasantry, with honest hearts
For country glowing, and for God prepared,
And wither'd much by pastoral poets sang,—
Enough for homage, or refreshing thought
Doth consecrate her yet. And thus, methinks,
Sweet Country might imparadise the soul,
Where fine perceptions hold their placid sway.
Grey towers, and streets all surfeited with throngs
Of worldlings, greedy-eyed, and stale of heart,
As the dead air around them,—who should deem
Enchantment, when a lovelier world is free?
From dusky Cities, where forced nature grieves
To wear the meanness of surrounding men,
On wings of gladness might her lovers fly
To haunts divine as these. Lo! how She laughs
In sunshine, tinting with her bright romance
Hill, wood, and valley, rock, and wayward stream;—
What arch'd immensity of bending sky!
What flowery hues, what odorous delight
And, as her gales on wings of freshness come,
What ocean-mockery from th' excited trees
Is heard, in rapture echoing the winds!
Yet well for me, that Town's eventful sphere
Enchants the many more than nature can.
No sound melodious as the roar of streets;
No sky delightful as the smoke-dimm'd air
Above them, like a shrouding death-pall hung;
No joy prevailing as the selfish stir
Whilst interest, craft, or petty wants produce,
And on Life's stream those fleeting bubbles raise,
In bursting which their day-born wisdom lies.
Why, this is taste Corruption should enjoy!
She cannot fancy what she never felt.
There is an outward and an inward Eye,
Reciprocally moved; when that which sees
Within, is dimm'd, the eye of outward sense
Is darken'd too; creation wears a cloud,
And life a veil; when both are bright and free,
The world of nature and the world of man
A garment of celestial glory wear!
Enchants the many more than nature can.
No sound melodious as the roar of streets;
No sky delightful as the smoke-dimm'd air
Above them, like a shrouding death-pall hung;
No joy prevailing as the selfish stir
Whilst interest, craft, or petty wants produce,
And on Life's stream those fleeting bubbles raise,
In bursting which their day-born wisdom lies.
Why, this is taste Corruption should enjoy!
She cannot fancy what she never felt.
There is an outward and an inward Eye,
Reciprocally moved; when that which sees
Within, is dimm'd, the eye of outward sense
Is darken'd too; creation wears a cloud,
And life a veil; when both are bright and free,
The world of nature and the world of man
A garment of celestial glory wear!
Both form and mind a fellow magic steal
Where the free visiting, of nature act:
As the fresh lustres of a cloudless morn
The languor of a dying eve excels,
So doth the beauty of yon country-girl
Surpass the city maiden in her charms;
The rich enamel of the rosy blood
Is painted on her cheek; and her glad eye,—
From the full joy and glory of the meads,
The freedom of the woods and waterfalls,
And the proud spirit of her village hills
Its glances come!—her step is like the breeze;
Her forehead arch'd, to face the skies; her form,
Perfection out of nature's hand; and words,
The native breathings of a happy soul.
Where the free visiting, of nature act:
As the fresh lustres of a cloudless morn
The languor of a dying eve excels,
So doth the beauty of yon country-girl
Surpass the city maiden in her charms;
The rich enamel of the rosy blood
Is painted on her cheek; and her glad eye,—
From the full joy and glory of the meads,
The freedom of the woods and waterfalls,
And the proud spirit of her village hills
Its glances come!—her step is like the breeze;
Her forehead arch'd, to face the skies; her form,
Perfection out of nature's hand; and words,
The native breathings of a happy soul.
Nor less in contrast to the bolder mien
Of city-manner, is thine artless air
Whom now a wanderer in the fields I view,
With sunshine lovingly around thee thrown.
A sweet unwillingness to be observed
Dwells in that maiden-glance; and oft away
From the bright homage of adoring eyes
In delicate timidity thou glid'st;
Like a coy stream which from fond daylight speeds
To hide its beauty in sequester'd dells.
Of city-manner, is thine artless air
Whom now a wanderer in the fields I view,
With sunshine lovingly around thee thrown.
A sweet unwillingness to be observed
Dwells in that maiden-glance; and oft away
From the bright homage of adoring eyes
In delicate timidity thou glid'st;
Like a coy stream which from fond daylight speeds
To hide its beauty in sequester'd dells.
Yet Fashion does, what Feeling would deny;
Making a charm where none is found: thus, hills
And lakes, the mountain-winds, and sea-fresh gales,
The idle from their town-retreats allure,
When fair-brow'd Spring appears. And some there live
Among them, of that undetermined race,
O'er whom the earthly and the heavenly sway
With fitful interchange, mere Epicenes
In mind. Worn by the hot and feverish stir
Of city-life, the many-mansion'd views,
Those pathways bleaching in the glare of noon,
And the fierce clatter of conflicting wheels,—
Some wearied heart romantically sighs
“O for the luxury of living gales,
And wafted music of ten thousand trees,
Whose young leaves dance like ringlets on the brow
Of Joy, and glitter gaily to the sun!
O for some deep-valed haunt, where all alone,
Saving the mute companionship of Hills,
My feet may wander, and mine eye exult!”
Making a charm where none is found: thus, hills
And lakes, the mountain-winds, and sea-fresh gales,
The idle from their town-retreats allure,
When fair-brow'd Spring appears. And some there live
Among them, of that undetermined race,
O'er whom the earthly and the heavenly sway
With fitful interchange, mere Epicenes
In mind. Worn by the hot and feverish stir
Of city-life, the many-mansion'd views,
Those pathways bleaching in the glare of noon,
And the fierce clatter of conflicting wheels,—
Some wearied heart romantically sighs
“O for the luxury of living gales,
367
Whose young leaves dance like ringlets on the brow
Of Joy, and glitter gaily to the sun!
O for some deep-valed haunt, where all alone,
Saving the mute companionship of Hills,
My feet may wander, and mine eye exult!”
So wish'd a Worldling; and behold him come,
And roused by new enchantment, thus exclaim:
“Again thine own, my heart, I give to thee
Sweet Nature! once again thy fondling breath
Of music plays around my faded brow,
Pure as a father's blessing o'er a child
Forgiven, gently murmur'd. Let me look
With eyes impassion'd on this glorious scene.
Dilated, as with gladness, glows the blue
O'erhanging sky, untinctured with a cloud:
Around me, hills on hills are greenly piled,
Each crowning each in billowy ascent
And beautiful array: a breeze is up
In bird-like motion winging the bright air;
Or by the flow'rets, giddy with delight,
And dancing gaily o'er the golden meads.
Nor am I lonesome in this hour of bliss:
The grazing flocks which speckle the glad fields;
The larks; and butterflies that tint their path
With beauty, and yon group of laughing babes,
Fit company for sunbeams and for flowers,
So brightly innocent they seem,—partake
The heavenliness of this romantic hour:
And thou, beneath me in thy waveless mood
Luxuriant spread, with ripples twinkling gay
As insect-wings which flutter in the sun,
Calm Ocean! often has thy phantom swell'd
Upon me, in the rush of busy life,
With smile as glorious as thou wearest now.”—
And canst thou, with a mind thus deeply toned
To all which nature for congenial heart
Provides, again be mingled in the mass
Of vulgar spirits, and their vain employ?—
Yes, Worldling! earth is heaven enough for thee.
And roused by new enchantment, thus exclaim:
“Again thine own, my heart, I give to thee
Sweet Nature! once again thy fondling breath
Of music plays around my faded brow,
Pure as a father's blessing o'er a child
Forgiven, gently murmur'd. Let me look
With eyes impassion'd on this glorious scene.
Dilated, as with gladness, glows the blue
O'erhanging sky, untinctured with a cloud:
Around me, hills on hills are greenly piled,
Each crowning each in billowy ascent
And beautiful array: a breeze is up
In bird-like motion winging the bright air;
Or by the flow'rets, giddy with delight,
And dancing gaily o'er the golden meads.
Nor am I lonesome in this hour of bliss:
The grazing flocks which speckle the glad fields;
The larks; and butterflies that tint their path
With beauty, and yon group of laughing babes,
Fit company for sunbeams and for flowers,
So brightly innocent they seem,—partake
The heavenliness of this romantic hour:
And thou, beneath me in thy waveless mood
Luxuriant spread, with ripples twinkling gay
As insect-wings which flutter in the sun,
Calm Ocean! often has thy phantom swell'd
Upon me, in the rush of busy life,
With smile as glorious as thou wearest now.”—
And canst thou, with a mind thus deeply toned
To all which nature for congenial heart
Provides, again be mingled in the mass
Of vulgar spirits, and their vain employ?—
Yes, Worldling! earth is heaven enough for thee.
No marvel, when by moral rust decay'd
In each perception of ethereal growth,
That millions never know a joy sublime,
And call romance the sin of tender souls.—
How little do these menials of the mind
From their blind prison-house of earth perceive
That moods predictive of diviner scenes
Come oft inspired; and though morosely scorn'd,
Form inward foretaste of the Unreveal'd.
In each perception of ethereal growth,
That millions never know a joy sublime,
And call romance the sin of tender souls.—
How little do these menials of the mind
From their blind prison-house of earth perceive
That moods predictive of diviner scenes
Come oft inspired; and though morosely scorn'd,
Form inward foretaste of the Unreveal'd.
But this enchantment of reposing thought,
When solitude falls heaven-like on the soul
Reflective, soars above thine aimless gloom,
Retirement! When in fame or fortune wreck'd,
To make a winter where bright summer reigns
And sadden all things with sarcastic gloom,
The misanthrope to his dull haunt retires
For saturnine felicity; tis vain.
For as the deep, unvisited by wind
And motion, tainted with pollution lies;
So turns the stagnant heart to foul conceits,
Unholy fancies, and unhealthful thoughts;
The world must wake it, as the angel stirr'd
The healing waters into glorious life
And motion,—making them to bless mankind.
Oh! how I scorn false Eremites! these mock
Philosophers, most elegantly sad,
Because outrageously befool'd. The man
Who battles nobly with his lot, and starves
Without a tear, hath more philosophy
In his true nature, than your Sages dream,
Who mope, for want of sterling misery!
When solitude falls heaven-like on the soul
Reflective, soars above thine aimless gloom,
Retirement! When in fame or fortune wreck'd,
To make a winter where bright summer reigns
And sadden all things with sarcastic gloom,
The misanthrope to his dull haunt retires
For saturnine felicity; tis vain.
For as the deep, unvisited by wind
And motion, tainted with pollution lies;
So turns the stagnant heart to foul conceits,
Unholy fancies, and unhealthful thoughts;
The world must wake it, as the angel stirr'd
The healing waters into glorious life
And motion,—making them to bless mankind.
Oh! how I scorn false Eremites! these mock
Philosophers, most elegantly sad,
Because outrageously befool'd. The man
Who battles nobly with his lot, and starves
Without a tear, hath more philosophy
In his true nature, than your Sages dream,
Who mope, for want of sterling misery!
But lo! a vision fair as fancy sees.
Beside yon Deep, alive with laughing waves,
An infant stands, and views the billowy range
Of its immensity, with lips apart
Like a cleft rose hung radiant in the sun,—
Hush'd into sweetest wonder. How divine
The innocence of childhood! Could it bloom
Unwither'd through the scorching waste of years,
Men would be angels, and my realm destroy'd:
With eyes whose blueness is a summer heaven;
And cheeks where Cherubim might print a kiss,
And forehead fair as moonlit snow,—thy form
Might be encradled in the rosy clouds
At twilight grouping amid the sun's farewell,
So gentle and so glowing thou appear'st.
And heavenly is it for maternal eyes
In their fond light to mark thee growing day
By day, with a warm atmosphere of Love
Around thee circled with unceasing watch;
While, like a ray from her own spirit shed
The lights of waking thought begin to gleam.
'Tis now the poetry of life to thee!
With fancies young, and innocent as flowers,
And manner sportive as the free-wing'd air,
Thou seest a friend in every smile; thy days
Like singing birds, in gladness speed along,
And not a tear which trembles on thy lids
But shines away, and sparkles into joy!
Beside yon Deep, alive with laughing waves,
An infant stands, and views the billowy range
Of its immensity, with lips apart
Like a cleft rose hung radiant in the sun,—
Hush'd into sweetest wonder. How divine
The innocence of childhood! Could it bloom
Unwither'd through the scorching waste of years,
Men would be angels, and my realm destroy'd:
With eyes whose blueness is a summer heaven;
And cheeks where Cherubim might print a kiss,
And forehead fair as moonlit snow,—thy form
Might be encradled in the rosy clouds
At twilight grouping amid the sun's farewell,
So gentle and so glowing thou appear'st.
And heavenly is it for maternal eyes
In their fond light to mark thee growing day
By day, with a warm atmosphere of Love
Around thee circled with unceasing watch;
While, like a ray from her own spirit shed
The lights of waking thought begin to gleam.
'Tis now the poetry of life to thee!
With fancies young, and innocent as flowers,
And manner sportive as the free-wing'd air,
Thou seest a friend in every smile; thy days
Like singing birds, in gladness speed along,
And not a tear which trembles on thy lids
But shines away, and sparkles into joy!
Yet Time shall envy such a dream as this;
And when I see thee in thine after-years,
As far as Virtue from her primal height
Is fallen, will thy tarnish'd nature be
From that which blasts me with its pureness now.
And when I see thee in thine after-years,
As far as Virtue from her primal height
Is fallen, will thy tarnish'd nature be
From that which blasts me with its pureness now.
368
But need I travel into years unborn
To gather misery? Behold it here!
Here, where a childless mother by the tomb
Of her dead offspring, wan and wither'd, sits
In the dull stupor of despairing grief.
Her brow is bent; her visage thin and worn;
Her garments fading like neglected flowers,
And not a glance but speaks an agony.
Oh, Wretch! whose sorrow all thy virtue makes!
For she who perish'd in a timeless grave
Though beautiful as ever sunshine clad,
In love and truth most tenderly endow'd,
When living, was a curse to thee! Thy hate
Pursued her, and thy blighting envy frown'd
Like a dark hell-shade on her youthful path:
Oft in the midnight thou wouldst mutt'ring wake
And bid the grave to open on thy child.
Yet when her dwelling was the loathsome tomb,
And scowling Envy had no charms to dread,—
When that was dust which once an Angel look'd,
The mother's heart return'd again, and grief,
Too late, then rack'd thy being to remorse,
Making thee all which Demons could desire!
For hope, nor faith, one reconciling beam
Imparts, to brighten thy dark woes; unwatch'd,
Unseen, thou visitest the haunt and home
Of Death, and in the muteness of despair
Beneath a pining yew-tree lonely sitt'st,
In deep'ning anguish round a daughter's tomb.
To gather misery? Behold it here!
Here, where a childless mother by the tomb
Of her dead offspring, wan and wither'd, sits
In the dull stupor of despairing grief.
Her brow is bent; her visage thin and worn;
Her garments fading like neglected flowers,
And not a glance but speaks an agony.
Oh, Wretch! whose sorrow all thy virtue makes!
For she who perish'd in a timeless grave
Though beautiful as ever sunshine clad,
In love and truth most tenderly endow'd,
When living, was a curse to thee! Thy hate
Pursued her, and thy blighting envy frown'd
Like a dark hell-shade on her youthful path:
Oft in the midnight thou wouldst mutt'ring wake
And bid the grave to open on thy child.
Yet when her dwelling was the loathsome tomb,
And scowling Envy had no charms to dread,—
When that was dust which once an Angel look'd,
The mother's heart return'd again, and grief,
Too late, then rack'd thy being to remorse,
Making thee all which Demons could desire!
For hope, nor faith, one reconciling beam
Imparts, to brighten thy dark woes; unwatch'd,
Unseen, thou visitest the haunt and home
Of Death, and in the muteness of despair
Beneath a pining yew-tree lonely sitt'st,
In deep'ning anguish round a daughter's tomb.
And many, sad as thee, have I beheld
In my dark pilgrimage round Britain's isle.
A tree by lightning blasted to the ground,
And those proud branches which the seasons loved
To beautify, in leafless ruin laid;
A wreck upon the savage waters toss'd
And darkly hinting a terrific tale;
Or grey-wall'd castle, where of old were seen
The banner'd triumph and baronial pomp
But now the prey of melancholy winds,—
For each, how oft a meditative sigh
Or moral tear, awakes; yet what so sad
As creedless anguish in a guilty soul,
And human sorrow by no hope assuaged?
“My God! it is a miserable world,”
May'st thou, the wretched, cry. From faded years
No flower to rescue for remembering love,
Or blissful woe; the Future but a dread
Unknown; the Present all a blacken'd scene;
By friends unloved, or in the tomb, forgot,—
How desolate thy doom must be! Abroad,
The sunshine mocks thee with a cruel glare;
And in the smile of each unthinking crowd
No bright reflection for thy heart is found;
At home—blank weariness of soul awaits
Thee there, and turns it into dismal thought:
Or haply, when the sallow evening shrouds
Yon echoing city, at thy window placed,
With vacant eye thou view'st the yielding glow
Of day; or hear'st the moan of evening-bells,
Like elegies by air-born spirits sung.
In my dark pilgrimage round Britain's isle.
A tree by lightning blasted to the ground,
And those proud branches which the seasons loved
To beautify, in leafless ruin laid;
A wreck upon the savage waters toss'd
And darkly hinting a terrific tale;
Or grey-wall'd castle, where of old were seen
The banner'd triumph and baronial pomp
But now the prey of melancholy winds,—
For each, how oft a meditative sigh
Or moral tear, awakes; yet what so sad
As creedless anguish in a guilty soul,
And human sorrow by no hope assuaged?
“My God! it is a miserable world,”
May'st thou, the wretched, cry. From faded years
No flower to rescue for remembering love,
Or blissful woe; the Future but a dread
Unknown; the Present all a blacken'd scene;
By friends unloved, or in the tomb, forgot,—
How desolate thy doom must be! Abroad,
The sunshine mocks thee with a cruel glare;
And in the smile of each unthinking crowd
No bright reflection for thy heart is found;
At home—blank weariness of soul awaits
Thee there, and turns it into dismal thought:
Or haply, when the sallow evening shrouds
Yon echoing city, at thy window placed,
With vacant eye thou view'st the yielding glow
Of day; or hear'st the moan of evening-bells,
Like elegies by air-born spirits sung.
But now a sunset, with impassion'd hues
Of splendour, deepens round yon curving bay;
'Tis Inspiration's hour, when heaven descends
In dream-like radiance on the earth becalm'd.
Hither! thou victim of luxurious halls,
The glory of these westering clouds behold
That rich as eastern fancies fleat the skies
Along: and hark!—the revelry of waves;
Now, like the whirling of unnumber'd wheels
In faint approach; then wild as battle-roar
In shatter'd echoes voyaging the wind;
And now, in foaming wildness they advance,
Dissolve, and mark the pebbled beach with foam.
Of splendour, deepens round yon curving bay;
'Tis Inspiration's hour, when heaven descends
In dream-like radiance on the earth becalm'd.
Hither! thou victim of luxurious halls,
The glory of these westering clouds behold
That rich as eastern fancies fleat the skies
Along: and hark!—the revelry of waves;
Now, like the whirling of unnumber'd wheels
In faint approach; then wild as battle-roar
In shatter'd echoes voyaging the wind;
And now, in foaming wildness they advance,
Dissolve, and mark the pebbled beach with foam.
Brief as a fancy, and as brightly vain,
The sky-pomp fades; and in his sumptuous robe
Of cloudy sheen, the great high-Priest of earth
Calmly descends beyond the ocean-bound.
Like weary eyelids, flowers are closing up
Their beauty; faint as rain-falls sound the leaves,
When ruffled by the dying breath of Day;
And twilight, that true hour for placid dreams
Or tender thoughts, now dimly o'er the wave
Its halcyon wing unfolds; in spectral gloom
The cloud-peak'd hills depart; and all the shore
Is lull'd, where nothing mars its deep repose,
Save when the step of yon lone wanderer moves,
Watching the boats in sailless pomp reposed;
Or, mournful listening to the curfew-sound
Of eve-bells, hymning from their distant spires.
The sky-pomp fades; and in his sumptuous robe
Of cloudy sheen, the great high-Priest of earth
Calmly descends beyond the ocean-bound.
Like weary eyelids, flowers are closing up
Their beauty; faint as rain-falls sound the leaves,
When ruffled by the dying breath of Day;
And twilight, that true hour for placid dreams
Or tender thoughts, now dimly o'er the wave
Its halcyon wing unfolds; in spectral gloom
The cloud-peak'd hills depart; and all the shore
Is lull'd, where nothing mars its deep repose,
Save when the step of yon lone wanderer moves,
Watching the boats in sailless pomp reposed;
Or, mournful listening to the curfew-sound
Of eve-bells, hymning from their distant spires.
And who art thou, of wither'd aspect there,
Whose slow faint footfalls sound of misery?
Consuming want thy lot hath never been:
But thou art one, from out whose bygone days
No memories breathe for retrospective moods
To welcome; the true dignity of life
Thy consecrated powers hath ne'er employ'd;
Thy past is blacker than the sunless tomb;
Reflection murders thy vain peace of mind!—
The moonlight, paving with a glassy shore
Of wrinkled lustre all yon desert-main;
The night's sad umbrage and her mystic hush
O'erwhelmingly becalm thee; thou wouldst fain
Again be flatter'd with the gorgeous Day,
And lose thy sadness in its fawning smile.
Whose slow faint footfalls sound of misery?
Consuming want thy lot hath never been:
But thou art one, from out whose bygone days
No memories breathe for retrospective moods
To welcome; the true dignity of life
Thy consecrated powers hath ne'er employ'd;
Thy past is blacker than the sunless tomb;
Reflection murders thy vain peace of mind!—
The moonlight, paving with a glassy shore
Of wrinkled lustre all yon desert-main;
The night's sad umbrage and her mystic hush
O'erwhelmingly becalm thee; thou wouldst fain
Again be flatter'd with the gorgeous Day,
And lose thy sadness in its fawning smile.
So terrible a speechless hour! when Thought
Banish'd by guilt, hath long an exile been
From Nature, dreading down herself to gaze.
In vengeance and convicting truth it comes
With the dread quickness of a lightning-glance,
Detecting all the danger of the soul,
Till conscience tremble, and the summon'd past
Is past no more!—but present, with a fire
And force concenter'd for terrific sway;
“I AM,” which voices God's eternity,
Is heard, and fearful sounds the truth therein!
Banish'd by guilt, hath long an exile been
From Nature, dreading down herself to gaze.
In vengeance and convicting truth it comes
With the dread quickness of a lightning-glance,
369
Till conscience tremble, and the summon'd past
Is past no more!—but present, with a fire
And force concenter'd for terrific sway;
“I AM,” which voices God's eternity,
Is heard, and fearful sounds the truth therein!
But oh, how bounded would my kingdom be
If what is life in common language deem'd,
Which unreflectively hath flow'd away,
Were all the law of Being did require!
Yet is there life, where no reflection acts?
Was Spirit with divinity endow'd,
Blindly to live by sense alone?—How well
For many, had they brute enjoyers been
Of homely nature; or, as trees and flowers,
Than charter'd with undying mind, to live
Mere breath and blood, without a spirit train'd
To pure advancement, by the hallow'd power
Of truths, which up to heaven and glory lead.
He lives the longest who has thought the most;
And by sublime anticipation felt
That what's immortal must progressive prove,
Or, retrograde in everlasting night!
If what is life in common language deem'd,
Which unreflectively hath flow'd away,
Were all the law of Being did require!
Yet is there life, where no reflection acts?
Was Spirit with divinity endow'd,
Blindly to live by sense alone?—How well
For many, had they brute enjoyers been
Of homely nature; or, as trees and flowers,
Than charter'd with undying mind, to live
Mere breath and blood, without a spirit train'd
To pure advancement, by the hallow'd power
Of truths, which up to heaven and glory lead.
He lives the longest who has thought the most;
And by sublime anticipation felt
That what's immortal must progressive prove,
Or, retrograde in everlasting night!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |