 | Poems |  |
95
TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE MORGAN.
WRITTEN ON THE SEA-COAST.
Thou lonesome shore, I hail thee! Not a starIllumes the skies, and not a sound is heard!
Nature, as tho' to help mankind to think,
Seems a short pause to hold:—no traveller
Paces the beach; the only living thing,
Scarce living, the poor shell-fish, that I tread,
Buried in sand and stone, beneath my feet.
'Tis night—the time when real forms are still;
When superstition walks—when she creates
New eyes, new ears—and sees across the moor,
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Forms more or less than human, bloody or pale,
Slow-pacing, or quick-flying—she can hear
Foot-steps of terror, the loud clanking chain,
Disturbing the repose, at dead of night,
Of mansion, now untenanted; such forms,
As shake a very hero; sounds that stir,
In a saint's bosom, fear amid his prayers.
And ocean's waves, unruffled by the wind,
Sleep undisturb'd—and Fancy now might hear,
Far, far away, the shriek of mariners,
Faint, hopeless, lost; while the ship round and round
Tost, bulges, and then plunges in the deep.
But superstition here shall have no place,
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
Should it return: then recollection strong
Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
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Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.
His was the pastor's lot:—and tho' he doff'd
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
—Nature had cloath'd him there,—the pastor's heart.
For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
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For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.
And did he teach in vain? No—Morgan—no—
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.
Oh! ye his children, when in distant years
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
Avarice, ambition, and the abject routs
Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
But, when ye see within the peaceful vale
Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”
And, Morgan, in this breast too he shall lie:
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
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Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
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Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”
And song shall tell his worth:—nor shall that song
Seem mean, except there be who thought him mean.
Verse hath its gaieties: nor think it vain,
If sometimes, to give life to languid hours,
Or a new zest to pleasure, it may choose
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For verse is often made by skilful hands
The heart's restorative, and often tips
Love with gay wings, and makes him fly at large
Free as the air, and oft on vagrant hearts
Slips the light chain of matrimonial bonds.
Verse hath, too, nobler services; to sound
The triumphs fair of Freedom, to record
The patriot virtues, honour, justice, truth,
Benevolence; nor is less fond to strew,
When worth departs, the flow'ret on its grave,
Blooming, tho' humble, speaking to the world,
“That virtue should not die:” such, Morgan, take
A friend's poor tribute to thy brother's name.
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