 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
389
I. PART I.
ANALYSIS OF PART I.
Intellectual greatness—The homage due to any Establishment tending to promote it—Oxford—Feelings and associations awakened by its first appearance— Its mental quiet — Its literary Past — Studies — Ancient and Modern Learning—Classical Bigots— System of Study and Examination—The necessity of one General Standard—Reason why Men of Genius have often contemned it—Mind independent of Circumstance—The University—Present appearance— View from the Radcliffe—New College Chapel and Service—Biographical Associations—Illustrations of the same in Addison, Steele, Collins, Johnson, Sir Philip Sydney, Ben Jonson, and Locke—Origin of Locke's famous Essay—Intellectual Society—A Contrast—Canning—Davenant— Wesley — Hervey — Denham — Chatham — Thomas Warton—Lisle Bowles—Country Clergymen—Their seclusion, how fondly anticipated—A Scene suggesting such anticipation — Blenheim — Balliol — Ridley and Latimer—Their Martyrdom—Evelyn—
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Round the vast miracles achieved by Mind
Throng the deep raptures of entranced mankind:
For what though Empires spread their proud control
Far as the winds exult or waters roll;
Though Tyrian merchandise their ports bedeck
And navies thunder at their awful beck,
The pride of Commerce and the awe of Power
Melt into dreams, at desolation's hour:
Then, what remains of Kingdoms which have been?
Lo! deserts wave, where Capitals were seen!
The wild grass quivers o'er each mangled Pile,
And winter moans along the archless aisle;
Where once they flourished ruins grimly tell,
And shade the air with melancholy spell,
While from their wreck a tide of feeling rolls
In awful wisdom through reflective souls.
Throng the deep raptures of entranced mankind:
For what though Empires spread their proud control
Far as the winds exult or waters roll;
Though Tyrian merchandise their ports bedeck
And navies thunder at their awful beck,
The pride of Commerce and the awe of Power
Melt into dreams, at desolation's hour:
Then, what remains of Kingdoms which have been?
Lo! deserts wave, where Capitals were seen!
The wild grass quivers o'er each mangled Pile,
And winter moans along the archless aisle;
Where once they flourished ruins grimly tell,
And shade the air with melancholy spell,
While from their wreck a tide of feeling rolls
In awful wisdom through reflective souls.
What then alone majestically reigns
When Empires grovel on deserted plains,
In morning lustre to illume the night
Which Time engenders o'er their vanish'd might?
'Tis Mind! an immortality below
That gilds the past and bids the future glow;
'Tis mind!—heroic, pure, devoted Mind
To God appealing for corrupt mankind,
Reflecting back the image that He gave
Ere sin began, or Earth became a slave!
When Empires grovel on deserted plains,
In morning lustre to illume the night
Which Time engenders o'er their vanish'd might?
'Tis Mind! an immortality below
That gilds the past and bids the future glow;
'Tis mind!—heroic, pure, devoted Mind
To God appealing for corrupt mankind,
Reflecting back the image that He gave
Ere sin began, or Earth became a slave!
If then from soaring intellect arise
Perennial triumphs, England's heart may prize,
In towery dimness, gothic, stern, or grand,
Behold her palaces of Learning stand!
When Day was dying into sunset glow
I first beheld them in their beauteous show,
The solemn turrets of each ancient pile,
And thought—How noble is our native Isle!
A silent worship o'er my spirit came,
While feelings far too exquisite for name
Exultingly began their rapt control,
And fluttered, like faint music, in the soul.
Where Greatness trod, is hallow'd ground to me;
There can I lift the heart, and bow the knee,
The past awake to all its living might,
And charm my fancy with unearthly sight,
Restore the features of the famous dead,
Nor take a Kingdom for the tear I shed!
Perennial triumphs, England's heart may prize,
In towery dimness, gothic, stern, or grand,
Behold her palaces of Learning stand!
When Day was dying into sunset glow
I first beheld them in their beauteous show,
The solemn turrets of each ancient pile,
And thought—How noble is our native Isle!
A silent worship o'er my spirit came,
While feelings far too exquisite for name
Exultingly began their rapt control,
And fluttered, like faint music, in the soul.
Where Greatness trod, is hallow'd ground to me;
There can I lift the heart, and bow the knee,
The past awake to all its living might,
And charm my fancy with unearthly sight,
Restore the features of the famous dead,
Nor take a Kingdom for the tear I shed!
And how poetic is that haunted Spot
Where life is mental, and the world forgot!
A spirit wafted from collegiate bowers
And the dim shadow of her ancient towers
To Alma Mater holy calm impart,
And make her scene harmonious with the heart.
The very air seems eloquently fraught
With the deep fulness of devoted thought;
While all around her, famed as eye desires,
Each mind ennobles or some heart inspires.
And here, how many a youthful Soul began
To sketch the drama of the future man;
How many an Eye o'er coming years hath smiled,
And sparkled, as incessant hope beguiled!
The star-like spirits, whose enduring light
Beams on the World, and turns its darkness bright,
In radiant promise here began to rise,
And glow ambitious for eternal Skies.
Oh! none whose souls have felt a mighty name
Thrill to their centre with its sound of fame;
Whose hearts have warm'd at wisdom, truth, or worth,
And half which makes the heaven we meet on earth,
Can tread the ground by Genius often trod,
Nor feel a nature more akin to God!
Here in their blended magic float along
Pindaric rapture and Virgilian song;
Still Homer charms as when he first prevail'd
And honour'd Greece her idol poet hail'd;
See Athens in her classic bloom revive,
Her sages worshipp'd, and her bards alive;
See Rome triumphant, with her banner furl'd,
Awaken genius to enchant a world!
Where life is mental, and the world forgot!
A spirit wafted from collegiate bowers
And the dim shadow of her ancient towers
To Alma Mater holy calm impart,
And make her scene harmonious with the heart.
The very air seems eloquently fraught
With the deep fulness of devoted thought;
While all around her, famed as eye desires,
Each mind ennobles or some heart inspires.
And here, how many a youthful Soul began
To sketch the drama of the future man;
How many an Eye o'er coming years hath smiled,
And sparkled, as incessant hope beguiled!
The star-like spirits, whose enduring light
Beams on the World, and turns its darkness bright,
In radiant promise here began to rise,
And glow ambitious for eternal Skies.
Oh! none whose souls have felt a mighty name
Thrill to their centre with its sound of fame;
Whose hearts have warm'd at wisdom, truth, or worth,
And half which makes the heaven we meet on earth,
Can tread the ground by Genius often trod,
Nor feel a nature more akin to God!
Here in their blended magic float along
Pindaric rapture and Virgilian song;
Still Homer charms as when he first prevail'd
And honour'd Greece her idol poet hail'd;
See Athens in her classic bloom revive,
Her sages worshipp'd, and her bards alive;
See Rome triumphant, with her banner furl'd,
Awaken genius to enchant a world!
There are, who see no intellectual rays
Flash from the spirit-light of other Days;
Who deem no Age transcendent as their own,
And high the Present o'er the Past enthrone.
Yet, not in vain the world hath aye adored
The treasured wisdom ages gone afford;
Or loved the freshness of that youthful Time
When Science woke, and Man became sublime!
For then, the Elements of mind were new,
And Fancy from their unworn magic drew;
Creation's self was one unrifled theme
To form the Poet, and enchant his dream:
As yet unhaunted by inquiring thought,
Each track of mind with mental bloom was fraught;
The first in nature were the first to feel
Impassion'd wonder and romantic zeal;
Hence matchless vigour nerved their living page,
That won the worship of a future age;—
From ancient Lore see modern Learning rise,
The last we honour, but the first we prize.
Flash from the spirit-light of other Days;
Who deem no Age transcendent as their own,
And high the Present o'er the Past enthrone.
Yet, not in vain the world hath aye adored
The treasured wisdom ages gone afford;
Or loved the freshness of that youthful Time
When Science woke, and Man became sublime!
For then, the Elements of mind were new,
And Fancy from their unworn magic drew;
391
To form the Poet, and enchant his dream:
As yet unhaunted by inquiring thought,
Each track of mind with mental bloom was fraught;
The first in nature were the first to feel
Impassion'd wonder and romantic zeal;
Hence matchless vigour nerved their living page,
That won the worship of a future age;—
From ancient Lore see modern Learning rise,
The last we honour, but the first we prize.
Then long enshrined in this august retreat
May Greece and Rome for high communion meet;
Long may their forceful page and free-born style
From year to year enamour'd Youth beguile;
The Judgment form, uncertain Taste direct,
Teach Truth to feel, and Fancy to reflect;
And Learning, hallow'd by immortal fame,
See England glory in her Oxford name!
Yet not forsaken be the proud career
Which circles through the realm of Thought severe;
The studies vast which measure earth and sky,
Or open worlds on the undaunted eye:
Which more offends,—the bigot who can read
No volume from the dust of Ages freed;
Or he who owns no intellectual grace,
But makes a cargo of the human race,
And values man like produce from the ground,—
'Tis hard to say, yet both, alas! are found.
The dark idolater of ancient Time,
And solemn Epicure in prose or rhyme,
The groping Pedant with a gloomy eye,
Who whines an elegy o'er days gone by,—
Oh! still from Oxford be such race removed,
And nobler far her gifted scions proved.
May Greece and Rome for high communion meet;
Long may their forceful page and free-born style
From year to year enamour'd Youth beguile;
The Judgment form, uncertain Taste direct,
Teach Truth to feel, and Fancy to reflect;
And Learning, hallow'd by immortal fame,
See England glory in her Oxford name!
Yet not forsaken be the proud career
Which circles through the realm of Thought severe;
The studies vast which measure earth and sky,
Or open worlds on the undaunted eye:
Which more offends,—the bigot who can read
No volume from the dust of Ages freed;
Or he who owns no intellectual grace,
But makes a cargo of the human race,
And values man like produce from the ground,—
'Tis hard to say, yet both, alas! are found.
The dark idolater of ancient Time,
And solemn Epicure in prose or rhyme,
The groping Pedant with a gloomy eye,
Who whines an elegy o'er days gone by,—
Oh! still from Oxford be such race removed,
And nobler far her gifted scions proved.
What soul so vacant, so profoundly dull,
What brain so wither'd in a barren skull,
As his who, dungeon'd in the gloom of Eld,
From all the light of living mind withheld,
Can deem it half an intellectual shame
To glow at Milton's worth, or Shakspere's name!
What brain so wither'd in a barren skull,
As his who, dungeon'd in the gloom of Eld,
From all the light of living mind withheld,
Can deem it half an intellectual shame
To glow at Milton's worth, or Shakspere's name!
Farewell to Bigots! whatso'er their hue,
Who darken Learning, and disgrace it too;
Another charge let Alma Mater own
By frequent Sages on her wisdom thrown:
Alike one Standard for the great and small
Her Laws decree, by which she judges all;
Hence in one mould must oft confound at once
The daring thinker with the plodding dunce;
The soaring Mind must sink into a plan,
Forget her wings, and crawl where Dulness can;
Those bolder traits, original and bright,
Fade into dimness when they lose the light
Of open, free, and self-created day
Where all the tints of Character can play.
Yet, what could Education's art provide
For countless Minds by varying standard tried?
For public Weal, not individual Mind
As mental Nurse was Oxford first design'd;
And blindly wrong would be her guardian eye,
To love the great, but pass the lesser by;
From each due toil impassion'd Genius save,
And crown for merit what mere Nature gave.
Not all alike discerning Heaven endows,
Nor equal mind to equal heart allows:
Full oft th' ingenuous pang, the noble tear
Or modest Doubt, the phantom-child of fear,
To humble Worth a consecration lends,
Which proves for lost renown sublime amends;—
Let mind be nursed, though doom'd a narrow sphere,
And what his Maker gives, let man revere!
Who darken Learning, and disgrace it too;
Another charge let Alma Mater own
By frequent Sages on her wisdom thrown:
Alike one Standard for the great and small
Her Laws decree, by which she judges all;
Hence in one mould must oft confound at once
The daring thinker with the plodding dunce;
392
Forget her wings, and crawl where Dulness can;
Those bolder traits, original and bright,
Fade into dimness when they lose the light
Of open, free, and self-created day
Where all the tints of Character can play.
Yet, what could Education's art provide
For countless Minds by varying standard tried?
393
As mental Nurse was Oxford first design'd;
And blindly wrong would be her guardian eye,
To love the great, but pass the lesser by;
From each due toil impassion'd Genius save,
And crown for merit what mere Nature gave.
Not all alike discerning Heaven endows,
Nor equal mind to equal heart allows:
Full oft th' ingenuous pang, the noble tear
Or modest Doubt, the phantom-child of fear,
To humble Worth a consecration lends,
Which proves for lost renown sublime amends;—
Let mind be nursed, though doom'd a narrow sphere,
And what his Maker gives, let man revere!
Allow that Genius feels a curbless soul,
Which chafes in fetters, and defies control;
And, haughty as the mountain eagle-chain'd,
Hath every empire but her own disdain'd:
Though customs old, like ancient roots, are found
With stubborn grasp to cling to native ground,
Fain would her boldness to Herself be rule,
And energy its own majestic school!
But when hath Mind such education lost,
However cabin'd, and however cross'd?
Alike triumphant over college-wall,
The mouldy cellar, and plebeian stall
We mark the Soul of Inspiration rise,
Expand her wings, and revel in the skies!
Which chafes in fetters, and defies control;
And, haughty as the mountain eagle-chain'd,
Hath every empire but her own disdain'd:
Though customs old, like ancient roots, are found
With stubborn grasp to cling to native ground,
Fain would her boldness to Herself be rule,
And energy its own majestic school!
But when hath Mind such education lost,
However cabin'd, and however cross'd?
Alike triumphant over college-wall,
The mouldy cellar, and plebeian stall
We mark the Soul of Inspiration rise,
Expand her wings, and revel in the skies!
Then vainly let the powerless sophist frown,
To hide one ray of Oxford's fair renown:
Or quote some verse to vindicate his cause,
Of scornful meaning at her ancient Laws.
Spirits have lived, who could not suffer chains;
The fire which fever'd their electric veins
Burn'd all too restless for obedient thought,
And hence the solace indignation brought.
Yet when was Order known, or due Control,
To quench divinity within the soul?
Oh! little think they, how sublimely pure,
In godlike state above the World secure,
That earthless nature which they Genius call!
In vain the tides of circumstance appal;
Though clouds repress, and darksome woe detain,
The Soul remounts, and is Herself again.
Go, ask of Ages what made dungeons bright,
Vile Sufferance sweet, and Danger a delight?—
'Twas Spirit, independent as sublime,
The King of nature and the Lord of time!
To hide one ray of Oxford's fair renown:
Or quote some verse to vindicate his cause,
Of scornful meaning at her ancient Laws.
Spirits have lived, who could not suffer chains;
The fire which fever'd their electric veins
Burn'd all too restless for obedient thought,
And hence the solace indignation brought.
Yet when was Order known, or due Control,
To quench divinity within the soul?
Oh! little think they, how sublimely pure,
In godlike state above the World secure,
That earthless nature which they Genius call!
In vain the tides of circumstance appal;
Though clouds repress, and darksome woe detain,
The Soul remounts, and is Herself again.
Go, ask of Ages what made dungeons bright,
Vile Sufferance sweet, and Danger a delight?—
'Twas Spirit, independent as sublime,
The King of nature and the Lord of time!
The Sun is up! behold a genial day,
And all things glorious in its glorious ray;
Ascend the Radcliffe's darkly-winding coil
Of countless steps, nor murmur at the toil;
For lo! a Scene, when that ascension's o'er,
Which Painters love, when most their feelings soar.
There, from the base of her commanding Dome
O'er many a mile the spell-bound glance may roam,
While music-wing'd, the winds of freshness sound,
Like airy haunters of the region round.
Yon heavens are azured by one cloudless die;
Beneath—romance in stone to charm the eye!
Spire, tower, and steeple, roofs of radiant tile,
The costly Temple, and collegiate Pile,
In sumptuous mass of mingled form and hue,
Await the wonder of thy lingering view.
Far to the west, autumnal meadows wind
Whose fading tints fall tender on the mind;
And near, a hoary Tower with dial'd side,
And nearer still, in many-window'd pride,
All Souls', with central towers superbly grand;
But see! the clouds are rent,—they break,—expand,
And sunshine, welcomed by each ancient pile,
Like Past and Present when they meet to smile,
With tinting magic beautifully falls
On fretted pinnacles, and fresco'd walls,
Till dark St. Mary, with symmetric spire,
Swells into glory as her shades retire;
And Maudlin' trees, which wave o'er Cherwell-stream,
Flash on the view and flutter in the beam:
In yellow faintness, lo! that sun-burst dies,
The vision changes with the change of skies;
Again have Centuries their dominion won,
And shadows triumph o'er the failing Sun.
And all things glorious in its glorious ray;
Ascend the Radcliffe's darkly-winding coil
394
For lo! a Scene, when that ascension's o'er,
Which Painters love, when most their feelings soar.
There, from the base of her commanding Dome
O'er many a mile the spell-bound glance may roam,
While music-wing'd, the winds of freshness sound,
Like airy haunters of the region round.
Yon heavens are azured by one cloudless die;
Beneath—romance in stone to charm the eye!
Spire, tower, and steeple, roofs of radiant tile,
The costly Temple, and collegiate Pile,
In sumptuous mass of mingled form and hue,
Await the wonder of thy lingering view.
Far to the west, autumnal meadows wind
Whose fading tints fall tender on the mind;
And near, a hoary Tower with dial'd side,
And nearer still, in many-window'd pride,
All Souls', with central towers superbly grand;
But see! the clouds are rent,—they break,—expand,
And sunshine, welcomed by each ancient pile,
Like Past and Present when they meet to smile,
With tinting magic beautifully falls
On fretted pinnacles, and fresco'd walls,
Till dark St. Mary, with symmetric spire,
Swells into glory as her shades retire;
And Maudlin' trees, which wave o'er Cherwell-stream,
Flash on the view and flutter in the beam:
In yellow faintness, lo! that sun-burst dies,
The vision changes with the change of skies;
Again have Centuries their dominion won,
And shadows triumph o'er the failing Sun.
And every where time-hallow'd Temples rise,
Whose classic pomp corroding age defies.
What solemn beauty by the spirit felt!
While feelings into adoration melt,
As in their depth of Gothic gloom we tread
Amid the hush of Ages which are dead.
I well remember, when a stranger, first,
What stately Vision on my senses burst!
From towering lamps a noon-like radiance shone
O'er pavement mottled with mosaic stone,
And white-robed Choristers in due array,
Whose vestments glitter'd like the sheen of day.
There, silver-voiced, in many a heav'nward note,
I heard rich Music in soft billows float,
Now faintly ebb, then loudly swell again,
And grow resistless as the organ-strain
Came river-like, in one impassion'd roll
From the deep harmony of Handel's soul!
Whose classic pomp corroding age defies.
What solemn beauty by the spirit felt!
While feelings into adoration melt,
As in their depth of Gothic gloom we tread
Amid the hush of Ages which are dead.
I well remember, when a stranger, first,
What stately Vision on my senses burst!
From towering lamps a noon-like radiance shone
O'er pavement mottled with mosaic stone,
And white-robed Choristers in due array,
Whose vestments glitter'd like the sheen of day.
There, silver-voiced, in many a heav'nward note,
I heard rich Music in soft billows float,
Now faintly ebb, then loudly swell again,
And grow resistless as the organ-strain
Came river-like, in one impassion'd roll
From the deep harmony of Handel's soul!
And tell me, thou whose wandering feet have trod
Like his who trembled on the ground of God,
The hallow'd soil where classic glories shine
Back on thy spirit with their beam divine,
Hath Oxford, haunted by her long array
Of Memories which cannot glide away,
No local Magic to entrance thy mind,
And make it prouder of thy Human Kind?
Whate'er of good and glorious, learn'd or grand,
Delighted ages and adorn'd the land,
Was foster'd here:—the Senate, Pulpit, Bar,
The scenes of Ocean, and the storms of War,
Wherever Mind hath high dominion shown
To counsel Kingdoms, or secure a Throne,—
There may Oxonia sons of glory hail,
And see the Spirit which she nursed, prevail!
Forget awhile the fever of the hour,
And give the Past its resurrection-power;
Around thee Bards and Sages muse or stray,
And wind the garden that is walk'd to-day.
The pilgrim-clouds, those time-worn trees which wave
On banks whose beauty constant waters lave,
Their eyes beheld:—do burning thoughts begin?
Then dare to rival what you dream within!
Like his who trembled on the ground of God,
The hallow'd soil where classic glories shine
Back on thy spirit with their beam divine,
Hath Oxford, haunted by her long array
Of Memories which cannot glide away,
No local Magic to entrance thy mind,
And make it prouder of thy Human Kind?
Whate'er of good and glorious, learn'd or grand,
Delighted ages and adorn'd the land,
Was foster'd here:—the Senate, Pulpit, Bar,
The scenes of Ocean, and the storms of War,
Wherever Mind hath high dominion shown
To counsel Kingdoms, or secure a Throne,—
There may Oxonia sons of glory hail,
And see the Spirit which she nursed, prevail!
Forget awhile the fever of the hour,
And give the Past its resurrection-power;
Around thee Bards and Sages muse or stray,
And wind the garden that is walk'd to-day.
The pilgrim-clouds, those time-worn trees which wave
On banks whose beauty constant waters lave,
Their eyes beheld:—do burning thoughts begin?
Then dare to rival what you dream within!
Too vast Her list, might pen achieve it all,
Each form of memory into life to call;
Yet fain would fondness with some imaged few
Partake a moment, and believe it true.
Adown yon path, beside the grassy sweep
Of Maudlin' park, where light deer couch and leap,
And giant elms the haughty Winds delay,
There gentle Addison was wont to stray:
And where the mill-stream turns yon restless wheel,
As writhing on those broken waters steal,
His tree-lined walk of beauteous length began,
For ever hallow'd by that holy man!
In many a whirl hath Autumn's driving blast
From these fond trees their summer-foliage cast,
And leafy showers now mournfully abound,
In sallow redness scatter'd o'er the ground;
But here, full oft, the branches waving green,
And heaven's blue magic smiling in between,
The pensive Rambler dream'd an hour away,
Or wove the music of his Attic lay;
Saw Cato's grandeur on his soul arise,
And Heaven half open to a heathen's eyes:
Or, happier themes, whose ethic pureness glows
With every tint that character bestows,
From ancient Lore his tender heart beguiled,
And lit his features when his fancy smiled,
Nor be forgot, who all his worth could feel,
The friend of Addison, delightful Steele!
Whose classic morn let Merton's annals claim,
Where first the Drama woo'd him on to fame:
More roughly hewn than his Athenian friend,
And venturing oft where Virtues never tend;
Yet warm of soul, and child-like to a tear,
As when it dropp'd on Love's parental bier;
Now madly sunk in passion's deep excess,
Now high in wisdom which a saint might bless!
A mixture wild of all that man admires,
Whose faults may warn him, while his fame inspires.
Each form of memory into life to call;
Yet fain would fondness with some imaged few
Partake a moment, and believe it true.
Adown yon path, beside the grassy sweep
Of Maudlin' park, where light deer couch and leap,
And giant elms the haughty Winds delay,
There gentle Addison was wont to stray:
And where the mill-stream turns yon restless wheel,
As writhing on those broken waters steal,
His tree-lined walk of beauteous length began,
For ever hallow'd by that holy man!
In many a whirl hath Autumn's driving blast
From these fond trees their summer-foliage cast,
And leafy showers now mournfully abound,
In sallow redness scatter'd o'er the ground;
But here, full oft, the branches waving green,
And heaven's blue magic smiling in between,
The pensive Rambler dream'd an hour away,
Or wove the music of his Attic lay;
Saw Cato's grandeur on his soul arise,
And Heaven half open to a heathen's eyes:
Or, happier themes, whose ethic pureness glows
With every tint that character bestows,
From ancient Lore his tender heart beguiled,
And lit his features when his fancy smiled,
Nor be forgot, who all his worth could feel,
The friend of Addison, delightful Steele!
395
Where first the Drama woo'd him on to fame:
More roughly hewn than his Athenian friend,
And venturing oft where Virtues never tend;
Yet warm of soul, and child-like to a tear,
As when it dropp'd on Love's parental bier;
Now madly sunk in passion's deep excess,
Now high in wisdom which a saint might bless!
A mixture wild of all that man admires,
Whose faults may warn him, while his fame inspires.
Ere Steele began, what Addison pursued,
The path still trod with mental gratitude,
Those day-born graces, whose refinement blends
The charm of Manner with the soul of friends,
La Casa first in Italy awoke,
And sketch'd the Courtier with a master-stroke.
But next, a Gallic Theophrastus threw
His playful archness o'er the scene he drew,
Dissected truth with Satire's keenest knife,
And mirror'd Nature on the glass of life.
Then rose on English ground the gifted pair,
Who taught to either Sex a softer air,
Proved Elegance to Virtue's self allied,
And laugh'd at Dulness, till her follies died!
O'er weeds and thorns which social life beset,
And tease their martyr into vain regret,
Their morning-smile satirically pass'd,
Till fools turn'd wise, and fops were cured at last!
Nor small the debt Society should pay
To him who flaps her buzzing Flies away;
Those noisesome Insects on eternal wing,
That hum at banquets, or in ball-rooms sting,
Which, though they cannot heart and mind o'erpower,
May fret the smoothness of the calmest hour.
The path still trod with mental gratitude,
Those day-born graces, whose refinement blends
The charm of Manner with the soul of friends,
La Casa first in Italy awoke,
And sketch'd the Courtier with a master-stroke.
But next, a Gallic Theophrastus threw
His playful archness o'er the scene he drew,
Dissected truth with Satire's keenest knife,
And mirror'd Nature on the glass of life.
Then rose on English ground the gifted pair,
Who taught to either Sex a softer air,
Proved Elegance to Virtue's self allied,
And laugh'd at Dulness, till her follies died!
O'er weeds and thorns which social life beset,
And tease their martyr into vain regret,
Their morning-smile satirically pass'd,
Till fools turn'd wise, and fops were cured at last!
Nor small the debt Society should pay
To him who flaps her buzzing Flies away;
Those noisesome Insects on eternal wing,
That hum at banquets, or in ball-rooms sting,
Which, though they cannot heart and mind o'erpower,
May fret the smoothness of the calmest hour.
Here Collins, too, whose perfect numbers roll
Pathetic music o'er the dreaming soul,
In melancholy loneness pined and thought
'Mid the sad gloom by stricken genius wrought.
E'en now the curse was breeding in his brain,—
A nerveless spirit, and a soul insane;
While moon-born fairies would around him throng,
And genii haunt him in the hush of song:
Ill-fated bard! like Chatterton's thy doom,
To seek for fame, and find it in the tomb!
Pathetic music o'er the dreaming soul,
In melancholy loneness pined and thought
'Mid the sad gloom by stricken genius wrought.
E'en now the curse was breeding in his brain,—
A nerveless spirit, and a soul insane;
While moon-born fairies would around him throng,
And genii haunt him in the hush of song:
Ill-fated bard! like Chatterton's thy doom,
To seek for fame, and find it in the tomb!
To Pembroke turn, and what undying charm,
Breathed from the Past, shall there thy spirit warm?
There Johnson dwelt! the dignified and sage,
The noblest Honour of a noble age;
Whose mien and manners, though of graceless kind,
Were all apart from his heroic mind;
They were the bark around some royal tree
Whose branches towering in the heavens we see.
Here lived and mused that unforgotten Man!
Might Language speak, what only Feeling can,
As here I view these venerable walls
And slow as in some fane my footstep falls,
Young hearts would echo to a welcome strain,
And feel, as I do,—Johnson live again!
O'er Time's vast sea a century's waves have roll'd,
And many a knell hath unregarded knoll'd,
Since, fondly wrapt in meditative gloom,
The sage of England sat in this lone room:
Yet, well may Fancy, at yon evening-fire
Behold him seated; and when moods inspire,
(As Sorrow droop'd, or Hope her wings unfurl'd)
His spirit hover through the varied world
Of life and conduct, fortune, truth, or fate,
His future glory, and his present state:
Or, when the noonshine reign'd in golden power
And dimly smiled some melancholy Tower,
Muse at his window with far-wandering eye,
And drink the freshness of the open sky;
Or round the gateway woo admiring Ears
To listen, while he charm'd beyond his years,
By spoken magic, or electric wit
That flash'd severe, yet sparkled where it hit:—
A bright deception! far too often seen
To hide the heart where agony has been.
Oh! hideous mockery the mind endures,
To forge the smile whose merriment allures,
To gild a moment with fictitious ray
Yet feel a viper on the spirit prey!
Departed Soul! how oft when Laughter fed
On the bright frolic which thy fancy bred,
And happy natures, as they saw thee smile,
Seem'd mingling with thy sunny heart awhile,
Back to thy chamber didst thou darkly steal,
And there the blight of thine own bosom feel?
Then sink to slumber with a heated brain,
To-morrow wake, and wear that smile again!
Breathed from the Past, shall there thy spirit warm?
There Johnson dwelt! the dignified and sage,
The noblest Honour of a noble age;
Whose mien and manners, though of graceless kind,
Were all apart from his heroic mind;
They were the bark around some royal tree
Whose branches towering in the heavens we see.
Here lived and mused that unforgotten Man!
Might Language speak, what only Feeling can,
As here I view these venerable walls
And slow as in some fane my footstep falls,
Young hearts would echo to a welcome strain,
And feel, as I do,—Johnson live again!
O'er Time's vast sea a century's waves have roll'd,
And many a knell hath unregarded knoll'd,
Since, fondly wrapt in meditative gloom,
The sage of England sat in this lone room:
Yet, well may Fancy, at yon evening-fire
Behold him seated; and when moods inspire,
(As Sorrow droop'd, or Hope her wings unfurl'd)
His spirit hover through the varied world
Of life and conduct, fortune, truth, or fate,
His future glory, and his present state:
Or, when the noonshine reign'd in golden power
And dimly smiled some melancholy Tower,
Muse at his window with far-wandering eye,
And drink the freshness of the open sky;
Or round the gateway woo admiring Ears
To listen, while he charm'd beyond his years,
By spoken magic, or electric wit
That flash'd severe, yet sparkled where it hit:—
A bright deception! far too often seen
To hide the heart where agony has been.
Oh! hideous mockery the mind endures,
To forge the smile whose merriment allures,
To gild a moment with fictitious ray
Yet feel a viper on the spirit prey!
Departed Soul! how oft when Laughter fed
On the bright frolic which thy fancy bred,
And happy natures, as they saw thee smile,
Seem'd mingling with thy sunny heart awhile,
Back to thy chamber didst thou darkly steal,
And there the blight of thine own bosom feel?
396
To-morrow wake, and wear that smile again!
I know not why, but since a dream of Fame,
My heart hath gloried in great Johnson's name,
And deeper worship to his Spirit vow'd
Than others have to loftier worth allow'd.
In what a mould was his high nature cast,
Who never ventured, but he all surpass'd!
And reign'd amid the realms of thought alone,
Nor left an equal to ascend his throne.
How truly deep, how tenderly divine;
The lofty meaning, the majestic line!
A moral sweetness, a persuasive flow
Of happy diction, whether joy or wo
Touch'd the deep springs of his devoted mind,
Where'er they muse, delighted myriads find;
And though the bleakness of his spirit threw
Round earth's rare sunshine too severe a hue,
How Life and Character before him stand,
Their mysteries open, and their scenes expand!
And well for wisdom, could the loud pretence
Of puny language with profoundest sense,
Such massy substance in the meaning show,
As that which ages to a Johnson owe!
My heart hath gloried in great Johnson's name,
And deeper worship to his Spirit vow'd
Than others have to loftier worth allow'd.
In what a mould was his high nature cast,
Who never ventured, but he all surpass'd!
And reign'd amid the realms of thought alone,
Nor left an equal to ascend his throne.
How truly deep, how tenderly divine;
The lofty meaning, the majestic line!
A moral sweetness, a persuasive flow
Of happy diction, whether joy or wo
Touch'd the deep springs of his devoted mind,
Where'er they muse, delighted myriads find;
And though the bleakness of his spirit threw
Round earth's rare sunshine too severe a hue,
How Life and Character before him stand,
Their mysteries open, and their scenes expand!
And well for wisdom, could the loud pretence
Of puny language with profoundest sense,
Such massy substance in the meaning show,
As that which ages to a Johnson owe!
Descend from learning to the nearer view,
Where Man appears in vital colours true;
And where was Piety more deeply shrined,
Than in the temple of that awful Mind
Whence day and night eternal incense rose
To Him from whom the tide of Being flows!
That self-respect, around whose constant sway
The purest beams of happiness must play,
He ever felt; the same proud dream it gave
To hours that wither'd in the toils of Cave,
And him, in aidless fortune high and free,
Who taught a Lord how mean a Lord could be!
And, mix'd with harshness, irritably loud,
Which came like thunder from the social cloud
Which pride or pertness round the moment threw,
His faith, how firm! his tenderness, how true!
For Goldsmith's worth, or Garrick's lighter grace,
The tears of fondness trembled down his face;
And when did Want or Wo to him appeal,
Nor find a hand to give, a heart to feel?
While Truth he worshipp'd with severest awe,
Of Fame the glory, and to life a law.
So great he lived: yet round the greatest soul
How weakness hovers with its vile control!
As when some organ of the frame appears
In matchless strength beyond the mould of years,
A weakness balancing that strength is found;
So oft in mind where miracles abound,
The lying pettiness of nature seems
Revenged in mocking what perfection dreams.
In Johnson thus: the piety which trod
Each path of life, communing with his God,
In gloomy hours could childish phantoms see,
And give to Penance what was due to tea!
The mind that reason'd on the fate of Man,
And soar'd as high as wingless nature can,
Would oft descend, the petty bigot show,
And roll lip-thunders o'er some prostrate foe!
Or else, in whirlwind fury sweep along,
And risk the right, to prove a victor wrong.
The Soul which spake angelically wise
When Truth and he were throned amid the skies,
In human life his Rasselas forgot
To wear the meanness of our common lot,
By passion bow'd, each prejudice obey'd,
And grew ferocious o'er a smile betray'd!
Yet peace to such! of all by men adored,
Than Johnson, who could better, faults afford?
Let Time exult that such a man hath been,
And England follow where his steps are seen.
Where Man appears in vital colours true;
And where was Piety more deeply shrined,
Than in the temple of that awful Mind
Whence day and night eternal incense rose
To Him from whom the tide of Being flows!
That self-respect, around whose constant sway
The purest beams of happiness must play,
He ever felt; the same proud dream it gave
To hours that wither'd in the toils of Cave,
And him, in aidless fortune high and free,
Who taught a Lord how mean a Lord could be!
And, mix'd with harshness, irritably loud,
Which came like thunder from the social cloud
Which pride or pertness round the moment threw,
His faith, how firm! his tenderness, how true!
For Goldsmith's worth, or Garrick's lighter grace,
The tears of fondness trembled down his face;
And when did Want or Wo to him appeal,
Nor find a hand to give, a heart to feel?
While Truth he worshipp'd with severest awe,
Of Fame the glory, and to life a law.
So great he lived: yet round the greatest soul
How weakness hovers with its vile control!
As when some organ of the frame appears
In matchless strength beyond the mould of years,
A weakness balancing that strength is found;
So oft in mind where miracles abound,
The lying pettiness of nature seems
Revenged in mocking what perfection dreams.
In Johnson thus: the piety which trod
Each path of life, communing with his God,
In gloomy hours could childish phantoms see,
And give to Penance what was due to tea!
The mind that reason'd on the fate of Man,
And soar'd as high as wingless nature can,
Would oft descend, the petty bigot show,
And roll lip-thunders o'er some prostrate foe!
Or else, in whirlwind fury sweep along,
And risk the right, to prove a victor wrong.
The Soul which spake angelically wise
When Truth and he were throned amid the skies,
In human life his Rasselas forgot
To wear the meanness of our common lot,
By passion bow'd, each prejudice obey'd,
And grew ferocious o'er a smile betray'd!
Yet peace to such! of all by men adored,
Than Johnson, who could better, faults afford?
Let Time exult that such a man hath been,
And England follow where his steps are seen.
To swell the records of collegiate-fame
See Lincoln rise, and claim her Davenant's name;
Within her walls the minstrel-student wove
Poetic dreams of melody and love.
On him, as yet a verse-enchanted child,
The prince of nature, Shakspeare's self, had smiled!
Oh! to have listen'd to that glorious Tongue,
And seen the Man on whom a World has hung,
Till admiration, too intensely wrought,
Becomes a worship, and adores in thought!
And, Wesley! often in thy room I see
A holy Shadow which resembles thee;
Let others laugh at that o'erheated mind
Which never gloried but to bless Mankind;
Be ours the tribute to as pure a soul
As Fame recordeth in her sacred roll.
A kindred line to pious Hervey pay,
Whom Lincoln boasted in his morning-day:
When night begins, and starry wonders teem,
My fancy paints him in some mental dream,
With eye upturn'd to where th' Almighty shone
While vision'd angels warbled round His throne.
See Lincoln rise, and claim her Davenant's name;
Within her walls the minstrel-student wove
Poetic dreams of melody and love.
On him, as yet a verse-enchanted child,
The prince of nature, Shakspeare's self, had smiled!
Oh! to have listen'd to that glorious Tongue,
And seen the Man on whom a World has hung,
Till admiration, too intensely wrought,
Becomes a worship, and adores in thought!
And, Wesley! often in thy room I see
A holy Shadow which resembles thee;
Let others laugh at that o'erheated mind
Which never gloried but to bless Mankind;
Be ours the tribute to as pure a soul
As Fame recordeth in her sacred roll.
A kindred line to pious Hervey pay,
Whom Lincoln boasted in his morning-day:
When night begins, and starry wonders teem,
My fancy paints him in some mental dream,
With eye upturn'd to where th' Almighty shone
While vision'd angels warbled round His throne.
From Christ Church, lo! a dazzling Host appears
Whom Time has hallow'd, and the World reveres,
Of prelates, orators, and statesmen high,
To be forgotten,—when the world shall die!
'Twas here the muse of Tragedy divine
Bade Jonson rise, and picture Catiline;
Immortal Ben! to Selden dear, and fraught
With all that Homer loved, or Plato taught.
A later age, and Locke's eternal mind
Here soar'd to Reason, such as Heaven design'd;
Help'd Understanding to redeem her sway,
And out of night call'd intellectual day.
Whom Time has hallow'd, and the World reveres,
397
To be forgotten,—when the world shall die!
'Twas here the muse of Tragedy divine
Bade Jonson rise, and picture Catiline;
Immortal Ben! to Selden dear, and fraught
With all that Homer loved, or Plato taught.
A later age, and Locke's eternal mind
Here soar'd to Reason, such as Heaven design'd;
Help'd Understanding to redeem her sway,
And out of night call'd intellectual day.
One evening, when delightful converse glow'd,
As friend on friend his gleam of thought bestow'd,
That spark was struck which set the soul on fire,
Whence sprang the work fond ages shall admire.
Hours worthy Heaven! when cultured spirits meet
Within the chamber of divine retreat;
There Friendship lives; there mental Fondness reigns;
And hearts, oblivious of their lonely pains,
By feeling blended, one communion make,
To keep the brightness of the soul awake.
As friend on friend his gleam of thought bestow'd,
That spark was struck which set the soul on fire,
Whence sprang the work fond ages shall admire.
Hours worthy Heaven! when cultured spirits meet
Within the chamber of divine retreat;
There Friendship lives; there mental Fondness reigns;
And hearts, oblivious of their lonely pains,
By feeling blended, one communion make,
To keep the brightness of the soul awake.
But who can languish through the leaden hour
When Heart is dead, and only Wine hath power?
That brainless meeting of congenial fools
Whose highest wisdom is to hate the Schools,
Discuss a Tandem, or describe a race,
And curse the Proctor with a solemn face;
Swear Nonsense wit, and Intellect a sin,
Loll o'er the wine, and asininely grin,—
Hard is the doom when awkward chance decoys
A moment's homage to their brutal joys!
What fogs of dulness fill the heated room
Bedimm'd with smoke, and poison'd with perfume!
Where now and then some rattling tongue awakes
In oaths of thunder, till the chamber shakes.
Then Midnight comes, intoxicating maid!
What heroes snore, beneath the table laid!
But, still reserved to upright posture true,
Behold! how stately are yon sterling few:—
Soon o'er their sodden nature wine prevails,
Decanters triumph, and the drunkard fails:
As weary tapers at some wondrous rout
Their strength departed, winkingly go out,
Each spirit flickers till its light is o'er,
And all are darken'd who were drunk before!
When Heart is dead, and only Wine hath power?
That brainless meeting of congenial fools
Whose highest wisdom is to hate the Schools,
Discuss a Tandem, or describe a race,
And curse the Proctor with a solemn face;
Swear Nonsense wit, and Intellect a sin,
Loll o'er the wine, and asininely grin,—
Hard is the doom when awkward chance decoys
A moment's homage to their brutal joys!
What fogs of dulness fill the heated room
Bedimm'd with smoke, and poison'd with perfume!
Where now and then some rattling tongue awakes
In oaths of thunder, till the chamber shakes.
Then Midnight comes, intoxicating maid!
What heroes snore, beneath the table laid!
But, still reserved to upright posture true,
Behold! how stately are yon sterling few:—
Soon o'er their sodden nature wine prevails,
Decanters triumph, and the drunkard fails:
As weary tapers at some wondrous rout
Their strength departed, winkingly go out,
Each spirit flickers till its light is o'er,
And all are darken'd who were drunk before!
Oh! thou, whose eloquence and wit combined
To make their throne the heart of all Mankind;
Whom Memory visions in his wonted place
Where passions lighten'd o'er a speaking face,
And sounds of feeling from the soul were heard,
While music hung on every magic word,—
Regretted Canning! oft has Christ Church seen
Thy glance of lustre sparkle round her scene:
From Eton famed, where dazzling merit shone
In each young theme thy Genius smiled upon,
Her walls received thee; where thy talents grew,
Bright in the welcome of her fostering view,
Till glowing Senates mark'd thy spirit rise,
And England hail'd it with applauding eyes.
Alas! that in thy Manhood's noble bloom,
The shades of death hung grimly o'er thy doom,
Thy frame, too weak, a fiery spirit wore,
Though Mind prevail'd till Life's last pulse was o'er!
To make their throne the heart of all Mankind;
Whom Memory visions in his wonted place
Where passions lighten'd o'er a speaking face,
And sounds of feeling from the soul were heard,
While music hung on every magic word,—
Regretted Canning! oft has Christ Church seen
Thy glance of lustre sparkle round her scene:
From Eton famed, where dazzling merit shone
In each young theme thy Genius smiled upon,
Her walls received thee; where thy talents grew,
Bright in the welcome of her fostering view,
Till glowing Senates mark'd thy spirit rise,
And England hail'd it with applauding eyes.
Alas! that in thy Manhood's noble bloom,
The shades of death hung grimly o'er thy doom,
Thy frame, too weak, a fiery spirit wore,
Though Mind prevail'd till Life's last pulse was o'er!
Thy funeral knell, oh! when I heard it moan
Like the deep echo of a Nation's groan;
That Sky beheld, where sorrow loves to gaze
When mystery wraps us or the world betrays;
And thought how soon thy glorious sun had set!
I felt a sadness, which inspires me yet:
But had I, demon-like, e'er wing'd the dart
Whose poison fed upon thy feeling heart,
Inflicted pangs where only praise was due,
And vilely thwarted every soaring view,
A more than melancholy for him who died,
Slain by the weapons which Renown supplied,
My soul had borne; and, wrung with inward shame,
Cursed the dark hour that wounded Canning's fame!
Like the deep echo of a Nation's groan;
That Sky beheld, where sorrow loves to gaze
When mystery wraps us or the world betrays;
And thought how soon thy glorious sun had set!
I felt a sadness, which inspires me yet:
But had I, demon-like, e'er wing'd the dart
Whose poison fed upon thy feeling heart,
Inflicted pangs where only praise was due,
And vilely thwarted every soaring view,
A more than melancholy for him who died,
Slain by the weapons which Renown supplied,
My soul had borne; and, wrung with inward shame,
Cursed the dark hour that wounded Canning's fame!
The yew-tree'd walk, and wilderness of shade
Where rosily the twilight-hues have play'd,
By Denham haunted, Trinity! revere;
There wander'd he, no step invasive near,
The world forgot, amid Parnassian skill,
And dream'd the melodies of “Cooper's Hill.”
And haughty Chatham, at whose humbling word
Proud Walpole trembled, when its sway was heard;
Who baffled Spain, America, and Gaul,
To throne his England like a Queen o'er all,—
Thy paths have echo'd his immortal feet,
Thy Shades enjoy'd him in sublime retreat.
Here Warton's soul emparadised his hours,
And strew'd Antiquity with classic flowers;
Where'er he went, saw dim Cathedrals rise,
Or Gothic windows in their sunset-dyes.
Where rosily the twilight-hues have play'd,
By Denham haunted, Trinity! revere;
There wander'd he, no step invasive near,
The world forgot, amid Parnassian skill,
And dream'd the melodies of “Cooper's Hill.”
And haughty Chatham, at whose humbling word
Proud Walpole trembled, when its sway was heard;
Who baffled Spain, America, and Gaul,
To throne his England like a Queen o'er all,—
Thy paths have echo'd his immortal feet,
Thy Shades enjoy'd him in sublime retreat.
Here Warton's soul emparadised his hours,
And strew'd Antiquity with classic flowers;
398
Or Gothic windows in their sunset-dyes.
And thou, whose ever-gentle page is fraught
With the sweet lore poetic sadness taught,
Not unremember'd let thy name be found
Where Genius hallows an enchanted ground.
Upon that brow the seal of Time hath set
A mournful grace, but left no dark regret
For wither'd years, whose flowery bloom remains
In the pure freshness of Aonian strains.
Yet oft thy Memory in creative gloom
May fondly sigh o'er many a distant tomb,
Where moulder forms which brighten'd other Days
Whose eyes have glisten'd o'er thy youthful lays!
Thy noontide spent, serener twilight glows
Around thy spirit like a soft repose;
And oft I turn, when fancy wanders free,
Romantic Bowles! to meditate with thee:
Oh! long in Bremhill may the village-chime
Peal solemn anthems o'er departed Time;
And fairy echoes, while they float along,
Awaken visions which were born in song,
Of hope and fame, when first thy feeling Youth
Their beauty painted on a world of truth.
With the sweet lore poetic sadness taught,
Not unremember'd let thy name be found
Where Genius hallows an enchanted ground.
Upon that brow the seal of Time hath set
A mournful grace, but left no dark regret
For wither'd years, whose flowery bloom remains
In the pure freshness of Aonian strains.
Yet oft thy Memory in creative gloom
May fondly sigh o'er many a distant tomb,
Where moulder forms which brighten'd other Days
Whose eyes have glisten'd o'er thy youthful lays!
Thy noontide spent, serener twilight glows
Around thy spirit like a soft repose;
And oft I turn, when fancy wanders free,
Romantic Bowles! to meditate with thee:
Oh! long in Bremhill may the village-chime
Peal solemn anthems o'er departed Time;
And fairy echoes, while they float along,
Awaken visions which were born in song,
Of hope and fame, when first thy feeling Youth
Their beauty painted on a world of truth.
Thy pleasing life, in pastoral quiet spent,
Where heaven and earth comminglingly are blent,
A prayer evokes, that England long may see
In wood-hung vales, from city-murmur free
That landscape-charm in varied shadow drest—
The village-steeple with its towery crest,
When dimly taper'd by romantic height,
Or grayly melted into morning-light.
Not Windsor vast, with battlemented towers,
With charm so deep a pensive gaze o'erpowers
As village-spires, in native valleys seen,
With nature all around them, hush'd and green:
How oft some eye, as o'er the wheel-track'd road
The whirling Coach conducts its motley load,
Hath wistful gazed where neat the parsonage rose,
With Church behind it in revered repose!
Where heaven and earth comminglingly are blent,
A prayer evokes, that England long may see
In wood-hung vales, from city-murmur free
That landscape-charm in varied shadow drest—
The village-steeple with its towery crest,
When dimly taper'd by romantic height,
Or grayly melted into morning-light.
Not Windsor vast, with battlemented towers,
With charm so deep a pensive gaze o'erpowers
As village-spires, in native valleys seen,
With nature all around them, hush'd and green:
How oft some eye, as o'er the wheel-track'd road
The whirling Coach conducts its motley load,
Hath wistful gazed where neat the parsonage rose,
With Church behind it in revered repose!
Ah! little know they, whom the harsh declaim
Of Folly leads to scorn a Curate's name,
In hamlets lone what lofty minds abound
And spread the smiles of charity around!
It was not that a frowning Chance denied
An early wreath of honourable pride:
In College-rolls triumphantly they shine,
And proudly Alma Mater calls them, “mine!”
But heavenlier dreams than ever Fame inspired
Their spirit haunted, as the World retired.
The fameless quiet of parochial care
And sylvan home, their fancy stoop'd to share;
And when arrived, no deeper bliss they sought
Than that which undenying heaven had brought.
On such, perchance, renown may never beam,
Though oft it glitter'd in some College-dream;
But theirs the fame no worldly scenes supply,
Who teach us how to live, and how to die!
Of Folly leads to scorn a Curate's name,
In hamlets lone what lofty minds abound
And spread the smiles of charity around!
It was not that a frowning Chance denied
An early wreath of honourable pride:
In College-rolls triumphantly they shine,
And proudly Alma Mater calls them, “mine!”
399
Their spirit haunted, as the World retired.
The fameless quiet of parochial care
And sylvan home, their fancy stoop'd to share;
And when arrived, no deeper bliss they sought
Than that which undenying heaven had brought.
On such, perchance, renown may never beam,
Though oft it glitter'd in some College-dream;
But theirs the fame no worldly scenes supply,
Who teach us how to live, and how to die!
In life so calm, unworldly, and refined,
What pictured loveliness allures the mind!
Hast thou forgot that balmy summer-noon
That glow'd so fair, and fled, alas! so soon,
My chosen Friend! in whose fond smile I see
A spirit noble, and a nature free,
When Blenheim woo'd us to that proud domain
Where History smiles, and Marlborough lives again.
And on the way how sweet retirement threw
A shade of promise o'er Life's distant view?
How softly-beautiful the bending sky,
Like heaven reveal'd, burst radiant on the eye!
A Spirit, bosom'd in the winds, appear'd
To chant noon-hymns, where'er a sound career'd;
While ev'ry leaf a living gladness wore
And bird-like flutter'd as the breeze pass'd o'er:
The lark made music in the golden air;
The green earth, yellow'd by a sunny glare,
In twinkling dyes beheld its flowery race
Dance to the wind and bloom with sparkling grace;
Faint, sweet, and far, we heard the sheep-bell sound,
While insect-happiness prevail'd around:
And rich varieties of hill and glade,
Where viewless streams, by verdure oft betray'd,
(Like Charity, who walks the world unseen
Yet leaves a light where'er her hand hath been)
By bank and mead roll'd windingly away,—
'Twas ours to witness in adorn'd array.
What pictured loveliness allures the mind!
Hast thou forgot that balmy summer-noon
That glow'd so fair, and fled, alas! so soon,
My chosen Friend! in whose fond smile I see
A spirit noble, and a nature free,
When Blenheim woo'd us to that proud domain
Where History smiles, and Marlborough lives again.
And on the way how sweet retirement threw
A shade of promise o'er Life's distant view?
How softly-beautiful the bending sky,
Like heaven reveal'd, burst radiant on the eye!
A Spirit, bosom'd in the winds, appear'd
To chant noon-hymns, where'er a sound career'd;
While ev'ry leaf a living gladness wore
And bird-like flutter'd as the breeze pass'd o'er:
The lark made music in the golden air;
The green earth, yellow'd by a sunny glare,
In twinkling dyes beheld its flowery race
Dance to the wind and bloom with sparkling grace;
Faint, sweet, and far, we heard the sheep-bell sound,
400
And rich varieties of hill and glade,
Where viewless streams, by verdure oft betray'd,
(Like Charity, who walks the world unseen
Yet leaves a light where'er her hand hath been)
By bank and mead roll'd windingly away,—
'Twas ours to witness in adorn'd array.
Noon glided on, till day's declining glow
Beheld us sweeping o'er the verdant flow
Of meadow'd vales, to where the village-hill
In garden bloom we welcomed, bright and still.
That sunny eve in smiling converse fled
Around a banquet generously spread,
Beneath a roof where Elegance combined
The pure in Taste with Fancy the refined:—
The Church antique, whose ivied turret won
The dream-like changes of departing sun
And glanced upon us at our parting hour,
I still remember in its beauteous power.
Then home we sped beside romantic trees
Whose leaf-pomp glitter'd to the starting breeze,
And fondly view'd in symmetry of shade
The mimic branches on the meadows laid.
In wave-like glory burn'd the sunset sky;
Where rosy billows seem'd to swell and lie
Gleaming and vast;—as if that haughty Day
Ere yet th' horizon saw him sink away,
His clouds and colours vassal-like would see
Once more awake, and own their deity!
Beheld us sweeping o'er the verdant flow
Of meadow'd vales, to where the village-hill
In garden bloom we welcomed, bright and still.
That sunny eve in smiling converse fled
Around a banquet generously spread,
Beneath a roof where Elegance combined
The pure in Taste with Fancy the refined:—
The Church antique, whose ivied turret won
The dream-like changes of departing sun
And glanced upon us at our parting hour,
I still remember in its beauteous power.
Then home we sped beside romantic trees
Whose leaf-pomp glitter'd to the starting breeze,
And fondly view'd in symmetry of shade
The mimic branches on the meadows laid.
In wave-like glory burn'd the sunset sky;
Where rosy billows seem'd to swell and lie
Gleaming and vast;—as if that haughty Day
Ere yet th' horizon saw him sink away,
His clouds and colours vassal-like would see
Once more awake, and own their deity!
Where Balliol frowns along yon ancient road,
By Evelyn hallow'd, his endear'd abode
I never pass, nor think of them who died,
Heroic Martyrs, burning side by side!
Upon her walls there hung a crimson glare,
And red fires raven'd on the breezeless air;
But thou, false Bigot! in that murderous hour
To heaven couldst look, and on thy victims lour,
Then feed thy gaze with agonies of fire,
As limb by limb the tortured Saints expire!
In serpent-writhings, lo! the flames awake,
Hiss as they whirl, and riot round the Stake;
While mitred fiends, as they behold them rise,
Glare on the martyrs with their wolfish eyes!
Yet firm they stand: behold! what Glories smile
Above the fury of that burning pile;
Ten thousand harps, ten thousand anthems swell.
And heaven is worshipp'd in a scene of hell!
By Evelyn hallow'd, his endear'd abode
I never pass, nor think of them who died,
Heroic Martyrs, burning side by side!
Upon her walls there hung a crimson glare,
And red fires raven'd on the breezeless air;
But thou, false Bigot! in that murderous hour
To heaven couldst look, and on thy victims lour,
Then feed thy gaze with agonies of fire,
As limb by limb the tortured Saints expire!
In serpent-writhings, lo! the flames awake,
Hiss as they whirl, and riot round the Stake;
While mitred fiends, as they behold them rise,
Glare on the martyrs with their wolfish eyes!
Yet firm they stand: behold! what Glories smile
Above the fury of that burning pile;
Ten thousand harps, ten thousand anthems swell.
And heaven is worshipp'd in a scene of hell!
Here Southey, in the spring-like morn of youth,
His feeling, conduct, and his fancy, truth,
Beheld the orb of Liberty arise
To gild the earth with glory from the skies:
What wonder, then, if his Chaldean gaze
With glowing worship met her morning-rays,
Beheld them bright as freedom's rays should be
And thought they darted from a deity?
Who did not feel, when first her shackles fell,
The truth sublime that France inspired so well,—
There is a freedom in the Soul of man
No Tyrant quenches, and no Torture can!
But when high Virtue from her throne was hurl'd
And Gaul became the dungeon of the World,
No mean deserter was that patriot proved
Whose Manhood censured what his Youth had loved.
His feeling, conduct, and his fancy, truth,
Beheld the orb of Liberty arise
To gild the earth with glory from the skies:
What wonder, then, if his Chaldean gaze
With glowing worship met her morning-rays,
Beheld them bright as freedom's rays should be
And thought they darted from a deity?
Who did not feel, when first her shackles fell,
The truth sublime that France inspired so well,—
There is a freedom in the Soul of man
No Tyrant quenches, and no Torture can!
But when high Virtue from her throne was hurl'd
And Gaul became the dungeon of the World,
No mean deserter was that patriot proved
Whose Manhood censured what his Youth had loved.
In bloom of life he sought domestic shade,
Devoting hours a world had not betray'd
In deep affection to delightful lore,
Which Feeling loves, and Wisdom may adore.
While others linger'd in the restless Town
To wear the thorny wreath of young renown:
Or, spirit-worn, see rivals mount above,
With few to honour, and with none to love,—
Afar to Keswick's mountain-calm he hied,
And found the haven which a Home supplied.
There Nature pure to his pure soul appeals,
With Her he wanders, and with Her he feels,
While earth and sky for poesy unite,
And the hush'd mountains hallow morn and night.
Thus flowingly the fairy hours depart
And each day adds a virtue to the heart.
Ah, blissful Lot! which few have lived to share
Who haunt the world, and seek to find it there?
Forgetful that one day of Life is fraught
With years of meaning for inductive Thought,
In baffled hope the mind exhales away,
Their each to-morrow a renew'd to-day;
Too meanly anxious for some poor applause,
They burn for Glory, but betray her cause.
True fame is genius, in its earthless hour
Sent from the soul with world-subduing power,
From heart to heart electrically known
Till Realms admire, and Ages are its own!
Devoting hours a world had not betray'd
In deep affection to delightful lore,
Which Feeling loves, and Wisdom may adore.
While others linger'd in the restless Town
To wear the thorny wreath of young renown:
Or, spirit-worn, see rivals mount above,
With few to honour, and with none to love,—
Afar to Keswick's mountain-calm he hied,
And found the haven which a Home supplied.
There Nature pure to his pure soul appeals,
With Her he wanders, and with Her he feels,
While earth and sky for poesy unite,
And the hush'd mountains hallow morn and night.
Thus flowingly the fairy hours depart
And each day adds a virtue to the heart.
Ah, blissful Lot! which few have lived to share
Who haunt the world, and seek to find it there?
Forgetful that one day of Life is fraught
With years of meaning for inductive Thought,
In baffled hope the mind exhales away,
Their each to-morrow a renew'd to-day;
Too meanly anxious for some poor applause,
They burn for Glory, but betray her cause.
True fame is genius, in its earthless hour
Sent from the soul with world-subduing power,
From heart to heart electrically known
Till Realms admire, and Ages are its own!
Oh! blest resolve which consecrates a life
To leave for studious calm the noisome strife
Of London's everlasting round of self,
Pursued by Learning, or career'd for Pelf.
In wise seclusion heaven-ward thoughts incline
To form in Man the elements divine;
From day to day their semblance nearer grows,
Till kindred Mind a kindred Maker knows;
And then, what beautiful accordance seen
In all that Wisdom taught, or time hath been!
What once was dark becomes divinely clear,
And earth itself a heaven-reflecting sphere.
That living God enthron'd all worlds above
Whose Name and Nature are reveal'd by Love,
Our spirit feels within itself abide,
The Will direct, and o'er each thought preside;
In man or nature, whatso'er befal—
True faith can fathom and interpret all!
To leave for studious calm the noisome strife
Of London's everlasting round of self,
Pursued by Learning, or career'd for Pelf.
In wise seclusion heaven-ward thoughts incline
To form in Man the elements divine;
From day to day their semblance nearer grows,
Till kindred Mind a kindred Maker knows;
401
In all that Wisdom taught, or time hath been!
What once was dark becomes divinely clear,
And earth itself a heaven-reflecting sphere.
That living God enthron'd all worlds above
Whose Name and Nature are reveal'd by Love,
Our spirit feels within itself abide,
The Will direct, and o'er each thought preside;
In man or nature, whatso'er befal—
True faith can fathom and interpret all!
Turn from the calm secluded life bestows,
A life which Evelyn loved and Southey knows,
To London; where a world of anxious mind
In one dark fever of excess we find;
Where talent sparkles with incessant rays,
And authors perish—for the want of praise!
Though minds abound, whose magical control,
Like truth from heaven, can elevate the soul,
Too rapidly our soaring authors teem
For each to fill the circle of his dream.
Though high the hope which Energy awakes,
And far the flight a free-wing'd Spirit takes,
A thousand hearts o'er disappointment bleed,
The many venture, but the few succeed.
Hence of all crimes, the last to be forgiven
Eternal barrier to some critic's heaven,
Success is proved;—that hour Her star appears
In daring brightness to outdazzle years,
The fogs of hate, the clouds of dulness rise,
To quench her lustre, and deface her skies;
Hence martial pens in pugilistic rage,
And venom oozing from each vulgar page,
Slander abroad on its exulting wings
To frighten fools, or flap the face of kings,
While faded authors, overcome with bile,
Turn into villains, and lampoon the Isle!
A life which Evelyn loved and Southey knows,
To London; where a world of anxious mind
In one dark fever of excess we find;
Where talent sparkles with incessant rays,
And authors perish—for the want of praise!
Though minds abound, whose magical control,
Like truth from heaven, can elevate the soul,
Too rapidly our soaring authors teem
For each to fill the circle of his dream.
Though high the hope which Energy awakes,
And far the flight a free-wing'd Spirit takes,
A thousand hearts o'er disappointment bleed,
The many venture, but the few succeed.
Hence of all crimes, the last to be forgiven
Eternal barrier to some critic's heaven,
Success is proved;—that hour Her star appears
In daring brightness to outdazzle years,
The fogs of hate, the clouds of dulness rise,
To quench her lustre, and deface her skies;
Hence martial pens in pugilistic rage,
And venom oozing from each vulgar page,
Slander abroad on its exulting wings
To frighten fools, or flap the face of kings,
While faded authors, overcome with bile,
Turn into villains, and lampoon the Isle!
But, hark! to sounds so musically dear,
By Flattery melted into Folly's ear;
Behold a “Lion” who must roar to-night,
And doubt if homage be not man's delight!
Amid the sweet, soft words, which come and go
From lord to lady, and from belle to beau,
There in thyself a night-throned Idol see,
'Tis all thou art, and all a fool should be!
Enamour'd thus, nonsensically dream
Thy mental worth a supernat'ral theme;
Yet, look around thee ere the night be o'er,
Thy heart is free, and thou a fool no more!
Thy mien, thy manners, and thy person tend
To make no charm Politeness could commend;
And, lest they should not quite sufficient see,
The faults of others are bestow'd on thee;
Thus on, till all that once was “glory” thought
From tongue to tongue is whisper'd into nought;
While each is conscious, as thy fame's o'erthrown,
To wound another's, is to heal his own.
By Flattery melted into Folly's ear;
Behold a “Lion” who must roar to-night,
And doubt if homage be not man's delight!
Amid the sweet, soft words, which come and go
From lord to lady, and from belle to beau,
There in thyself a night-throned Idol see,
'Tis all thou art, and all a fool should be!
Enamour'd thus, nonsensically dream
Thy mental worth a supernat'ral theme;
Yet, look around thee ere the night be o'er,
Thy heart is free, and thou a fool no more!
Thy mien, thy manners, and thy person tend
To make no charm Politeness could commend;
And, lest they should not quite sufficient see,
The faults of others are bestow'd on thee;
Thus on, till all that once was “glory” thought
From tongue to tongue is whisper'd into nought;
While each is conscious, as thy fame's o'erthrown,
To wound another's, is to heal his own.
Yet oft ambiguous Hate her truth beguiles,
And Envy wriggles into serpent-smiles!
Some cringing, cawing, sycophantic Sneak
With heart as hollow as his head is weak,
In smother'd voice will chance a rival sue
To feed the pages of a starved Review:
“Dear Sir! I think your genius quite divine,”—
To-morrow, turn, and lash it line by line!
And can it be, to such ignoble life
Of ceaseless longing and chicaning strife,
Where fever'd passion frets the hour along,
That woman's gentler soul would fain belong?
Oh! deem not the assuming pride of Man
Would claim a glory which no Woman can;
Nor think to her soft nature is not given
The flame of genius with the form of heaven.
Her tenderness hath made our harshness weep,
And hush'd our passions into child-like sleep;
Her dewy words fall freshly on the soul;
Her numbers sweet as seraph-music roll;
And beautiful the morn-like burst of mind
When first her spirit wakens o'er mankind!
Now painting clouds, now imaging the sea,
Bloom on the flower, and verdure on the tree!
But diff'rent far a genius thus display'd,
From mind corrupted into menial trade,
When reputation is the theme adored,
And pilfer'd learning all its charms afford,
Those hues divine which delicately please,
The smile unfashion'd, and the soul at ease,
All, all that language is too frail to tell
Which forms in woman what we feel so well,
In public life too often dies away
Like dreams forgotten in the flush of day.
There, taunting Pens dissect her dubious claim,
Or jeering coxcombs jest away her fame:—
Behold the beauty of yon garden-flower
In lovely bloom beside its native bower;
What winning freshness in its healthful dye,
Pure as the spring, and radiant as the sky!
Transplant it thence to some o'erheated room,
Where hands profane it,—and, alas, the bloom!
And Envy wriggles into serpent-smiles!
Some cringing, cawing, sycophantic Sneak
With heart as hollow as his head is weak,
In smother'd voice will chance a rival sue
To feed the pages of a starved Review:
“Dear Sir! I think your genius quite divine,”—
To-morrow, turn, and lash it line by line!
And can it be, to such ignoble life
Of ceaseless longing and chicaning strife,
Where fever'd passion frets the hour along,
That woman's gentler soul would fain belong?
Oh! deem not the assuming pride of Man
Would claim a glory which no Woman can;
Nor think to her soft nature is not given
The flame of genius with the form of heaven.
Her tenderness hath made our harshness weep,
And hush'd our passions into child-like sleep;
Her dewy words fall freshly on the soul;
Her numbers sweet as seraph-music roll;
And beautiful the morn-like burst of mind
When first her spirit wakens o'er mankind!
Now painting clouds, now imaging the sea,
Bloom on the flower, and verdure on the tree!
But diff'rent far a genius thus display'd,
From mind corrupted into menial trade,
When reputation is the theme adored,
And pilfer'd learning all its charms afford,
Those hues divine which delicately please,
The smile unfashion'd, and the soul at ease,
All, all that language is too frail to tell
Which forms in woman what we feel so well,
402
Like dreams forgotten in the flush of day.
There, taunting Pens dissect her dubious claim,
Or jeering coxcombs jest away her fame:—
Behold the beauty of yon garden-flower
In lovely bloom beside its native bower;
What winning freshness in its healthful dye,
Pure as the spring, and radiant as the sky!
Transplant it thence to some o'erheated room,
Where hands profane it,—and, alas, the bloom!
Let Man his intellectual sceptre wield;
To him have Ages in their march appeal'd
To shape the Elements of mind and power
Through the vast scene of Life's unrestful hour.
But thou, fond Woman! on affection's throne,
Behold a kingdom of the Heart thine own!
Their feelings form the subjects of thy sway,
And all is Eden where thy glances play:
'Tis thine to brighten far from public strife
The daily windings of domestic life,
And by thy grace and gentleness of mien
Adorn and beautify Home's varied scene.
To him have Ages in their march appeal'd
To shape the Elements of mind and power
Through the vast scene of Life's unrestful hour.
But thou, fond Woman! on affection's throne,
Behold a kingdom of the Heart thine own!
Their feelings form the subjects of thy sway,
And all is Eden where thy glances play:
'Tis thine to brighten far from public strife
The daily windings of domestic life,
And by thy grace and gentleness of mien
Adorn and beautify Home's varied scene.
Pleasant is Morning, when her radiant eye
Opes on the world, enchanting all the sky;
And Ev'ning, with her balmy glow of light,
The beauteous herald of romantic night:
And pleasant oft to some poetic Mind
The sound of water, and the sweep of wind,
A friend renew'd in some heart-welcomed place,
With years of fondness rising in his face;
The tear which answers to a tale of woe,
And happy feelings in their heavenward flow:
But sweeter far proves his revengeful lot
Whom Fame hath slighted, or the World forgot,
When printed falsehood gratifies each bent,
And mangles volumes to the heart's content;
Corrupts what style, creates what fault you please,
Laughs o'er the truth, and lies with graceful ease!
Thus Envy lives; and Disappointment heals;
The gangrened wounds a tortured memory feels;
And wither'd hopes delightful vengeance wreak,
While pages witness more than scorn could speak.
Opes on the world, enchanting all the sky;
And Ev'ning, with her balmy glow of light,
The beauteous herald of romantic night:
And pleasant oft to some poetic Mind
The sound of water, and the sweep of wind,
A friend renew'd in some heart-welcomed place,
With years of fondness rising in his face;
The tear which answers to a tale of woe,
And happy feelings in their heavenward flow:
But sweeter far proves his revengeful lot
Whom Fame hath slighted, or the World forgot,
When printed falsehood gratifies each bent,
And mangles volumes to the heart's content;
Corrupts what style, creates what fault you please,
Laughs o'er the truth, and lies with graceful ease!
Thus Envy lives; and Disappointment heals;
The gangrened wounds a tortured memory feels;
And wither'd hopes delightful vengeance wreak,
While pages witness more than scorn could speak.
And thus with one, whose life I now recal;
When pens were daggers, he endured them all!
Each Reptile started from his snug review
To spit out poison,—as most reptiles do;
Oh, how they feasted on each faulty line,
And generously made their dulness thine!
From page to page they grinn'd a ghastly smile,
Yet seem'd to look so heaven-like all the while:
Then, talk'd of merit to the world unknown,
Ah! who could doubt them, for they meant their own.
When pens were daggers, he endured them all!
Each Reptile started from his snug review
To spit out poison,—as most reptiles do;
Oh, how they feasted on each faulty line,
And generously made their dulness thine!
From page to page they grinn'd a ghastly smile,
Yet seem'd to look so heaven-like all the while:
Then, talk'd of merit to the world unknown,
Ah! who could doubt them, for they meant their own.
Religion, too! what right had Youth to scan
That scheme of Glory which Heaven unveils for man;
Or paint around him, wheresoe'er he trod,
The glowing fulness of eternal God?
Indeed, 'twas hinted,—hoped it was untrue!
His heart had worn an atheistic hue;
And still religion, though its hallow'd name
Imparted freshness to his early fame,
Had not alike both heart and head inspired;
In short, the World was sick, and they were tired;
And then to prove his verse was more than vile
They wrote bad prose with overflowing bile!
But venal Commerce hired a Serpent too
To sound his rattle in the Scotch review;
And yet, (alas! that such ignoble end
Should baffle those who injured Taste defend!)
Though perfect lies were most profoundly said
A Poet triumph'd and the Public read;
For truth is stronger than the envious know,
And gains new vigour from the vilest blow;
And when abusive falsehoods cease to pay,
Malice grows dumb, and slander dies away.
That scheme of Glory which Heaven unveils for man;
Or paint around him, wheresoe'er he trod,
The glowing fulness of eternal God?
Indeed, 'twas hinted,—hoped it was untrue!
His heart had worn an atheistic hue;
And still religion, though its hallow'd name
Imparted freshness to his early fame,
Had not alike both heart and head inspired;
In short, the World was sick, and they were tired;
And then to prove his verse was more than vile
They wrote bad prose with overflowing bile!
But venal Commerce hired a Serpent too
To sound his rattle in the Scotch review;
403
Should baffle those who injured Taste defend!)
Though perfect lies were most profoundly said
A Poet triumph'd and the Public read;
For truth is stronger than the envious know,
And gains new vigour from the vilest blow;
And when abusive falsehoods cease to pay,
Malice grows dumb, and slander dies away.
The faded past my fancy haunts again;
And lo! thine image shadow'd o'er my strain,
Thou lovely Spirit of celestial worth!
Whose saint-like pureness so adorn'd the earth,
And, when it vanish'd, thrill'd a world with woe,
And thoughts, which seldom into language flow,
But silently within the soul retire
And all the sacredness of grief inspire.
And lo! thine image shadow'd o'er my strain,
Thou lovely Spirit of celestial worth!
Whose saint-like pureness so adorn'd the earth,
And, when it vanish'd, thrill'd a world with woe,
And thoughts, which seldom into language flow,
But silently within the soul retire
And all the sacredness of grief inspire.
Yet, words and tears have minglingly adored,
Deep, warm, and true, as feeling Hearts afford,
Those angel-attributes which good men prize,
Lamented Heber! when they leave the skies,
A while some Spirit pure as thine array,
Smile on the World, and heaven-like pass away.
Deep, warm, and true, as feeling Hearts afford,
Those angel-attributes which good men prize,
Lamented Heber! when they leave the skies,
A while some Spirit pure as thine array,
Smile on the World, and heaven-like pass away.
There is a shadow round the holy Dead:
A mystery, wherein we seem to tread,
As oft their lineaments of Life awake
And sorrowing Thoughts their hallow'd semblance take.
What once they dreamt, when mortal nature threw
Phantasmal dimness round each soaring view,
Now, all unearth'd, beatified, and free
From toil and tears,—their unscaled Eyes can see:
No more on them the fitful whirl of things
From joy to gloom, eternal trial brings;
In light array'd, before The Throne they shine,
And learn the mysteries of Love Divine:
Why tears were shed, why pangs of woe prevail'd,
Why Goodness mourn'd, and Virtue often fail'd,
No longer now a with'ring shadow throws
Like that which hovers round the World's repose.
A mystery, wherein we seem to tread,
As oft their lineaments of Life awake
And sorrowing Thoughts their hallow'd semblance take.
404
Phantasmal dimness round each soaring view,
Now, all unearth'd, beatified, and free
From toil and tears,—their unscaled Eyes can see:
No more on them the fitful whirl of things
From joy to gloom, eternal trial brings;
In light array'd, before The Throne they shine,
And learn the mysteries of Love Divine:
Why tears were shed, why pangs of woe prevail'd,
Why Goodness mourn'd, and Virtue often fail'd,
No longer now a with'ring shadow throws
Like that which hovers round the World's repose.
The holy dead! of Earth and Heaven the dear!
Whene'er the darkness of our troubled sphere
'Twixt God and Man will demon-like arise,
The soul deject, and doubt away the skies,
Then Mem'ry points to where their feet have trod,
Redeems our nature, and recals her God.
Creation's debt to discontented Time
They help'd to cancel by a worth sublime,
And wisdom, which enthrones the good and great
High o'er the meanness of our mortal state;
The smile that withers in its cynic play
Each hope of earth when budding into day,
By merit awed, in forceless meaning falls,
Whenever mind exalted mind recals,
Since eras bright of holiness and love
Their spirits promise from a World above!
Whene'er the darkness of our troubled sphere
'Twixt God and Man will demon-like arise,
The soul deject, and doubt away the skies,
Then Mem'ry points to where their feet have trod,
Redeems our nature, and recals her God.
Creation's debt to discontented Time
They help'd to cancel by a worth sublime,
And wisdom, which enthrones the good and great
High o'er the meanness of our mortal state;
The smile that withers in its cynic play
Each hope of earth when budding into day,
By merit awed, in forceless meaning falls,
Whenever mind exalted mind recals,
Since eras bright of holiness and love
Their spirits promise from a World above!
And such was he, whose toiling virtues won
A tomb of fame beneath a foreign sun.
In childhood, ev'ry dawning sweetness made
A tender magic which no truth betray'd;
While, fond as feeble, blendingly began
Those mental traits that ripen into man.
Romance and fairies, and Crusades inspired
The poesy which deeper Years admired:
Heaven's awful Book he loved to learn and read,
And mourn'd to see the great Redeemer bleed;
In all he did, benevolence prevail'd,
And from his frown no shrinking pauper quail'd;
Nor form of Woe, nor face of Grief, he pass'd,
But pitied all, and pitied to his last!
A tomb of fame beneath a foreign sun.
In childhood, ev'ry dawning sweetness made
A tender magic which no truth betray'd;
While, fond as feeble, blendingly began
Those mental traits that ripen into man.
Romance and fairies, and Crusades inspired
The poesy which deeper Years admired:
Heaven's awful Book he loved to learn and read,
And mourn'd to see the great Redeemer bleed;
In all he did, benevolence prevail'd,
And from his frown no shrinking pauper quail'd;
Nor form of Woe, nor face of Grief, he pass'd,
But pitied all, and pitied to his last!
From Neasden fresh, lo! Oxford hails him now,
And fancies new are bright'ning o'er his brow:
Too warmly toned, too feelingly endow'd,
Companionless to linger in the crowd,
A brother's fame around him lives and blooms,
His mind awakes,—and magic fills his rooms!
Where souls have listen'd as he charm'd the hour,
And young eyes sparkled to confess his power.
Still, unentangled by the social net,
Though smile and banquet oft the heart beset,
Each dawn beheld him at his classic tome,
And pure, as in his unforgotten home.
And fancies new are bright'ning o'er his brow:
Too warmly toned, too feelingly endow'd,
Companionless to linger in the crowd,
A brother's fame around him lives and blooms,
His mind awakes,—and magic fills his rooms!
Where souls have listen'd as he charm'd the hour,
And young eyes sparkled to confess his power.
Still, unentangled by the social net,
Though smile and banquet oft the heart beset,
Each dawn beheld him at his classic tome,
And pure, as in his unforgotten home.
Scarce enter'd yet, and honours flower'd his way!
And soon the music of a master-lay
From circling thousands woke a thrill divine
While England wept o'er weeping “Palestine!”
There are, that still in this cold world remain,
Whose ears are haunted by that holy strain,
Whose eyes dejected Salem still behold
As scene on scene the vision was unroll'd,
When invocation with her sweetest sound
Woo'd angel-forms, and angels watch'd around!
While grandly swelling into giant view,
“Like some tall palm the noiseless Fabric grew!”
Then Israel harping by her willow'd streams,
And Prophets bright with more than prophet-dreams,
The poet vision'd in his pictured strain
Amid the glory of Millennium's reign:
Then, bade his Thunders tell of time no more,
Till Nature shudder'd at their dooming roar!
And soon the music of a master-lay
From circling thousands woke a thrill divine
While England wept o'er weeping “Palestine!”
There are, that still in this cold world remain,
Whose ears are haunted by that holy strain,
Whose eyes dejected Salem still behold
As scene on scene the vision was unroll'd,
When invocation with her sweetest sound
Woo'd angel-forms, and angels watch'd around!
While grandly swelling into giant view,
“Like some tall palm the noiseless Fabric grew!”
Then Israel harping by her willow'd streams,
And Prophets bright with more than prophet-dreams,
The poet vision'd in his pictured strain
Amid the glory of Millennium's reign:
Then, bade his Thunders tell of time no more,
Till Nature shudder'd at their dooming roar!
Fond eyes were fix'd upon the Minstrel now;
A raptured sire beheld his laurell'd brow;
And blest his boy with all that tears bestow
When Heaven seems by, and human hearts o'erflow:
And where was he? escaped the glowing throng,
In the proud moment of triumphant song
He sought his chamber;—silent and alone
A Mother saw him at his Maker's throne!
A raptured sire beheld his laurell'd brow;
And blest his boy with all that tears bestow
When Heaven seems by, and human hearts o'erflow:
And where was he? escaped the glowing throng,
In the proud moment of triumphant song
He sought his chamber;—silent and alone
A Mother saw him at his Maker's throne!
That hour hath pass'd: a village-curate made,
How nobly seen amid the pastoral shade!
Parochial cares his cultured mind employ,
Domestic life and intellectual joy.
The old men cry, a blessing on his head!
And Angels meet him at the dying bed;
Let fever rage; disease or famine roll
Tormenting clouds which madden o'er the soul,
Where life exists, there Heber's love is found,
And heaven created by its welcome sound!
How nobly seen amid the pastoral shade!
Parochial cares his cultured mind employ,
Domestic life and intellectual joy.
The old men cry, a blessing on his head!
And Angels meet him at the dying bed;
Let fever rage; disease or famine roll
Tormenting clouds which madden o'er the soul,
Where life exists, there Heber's love is found,
And heaven created by its welcome sound!
None are all blest; without some mental strife
To ripple, not destroy, the calm of life:
That heart for ever open to the poor,
Who weeping came, but smiling left his door,
Was all unapt, when mean annoyments rose
From rustic fools or mercenary foes,
By happy lightness to o'erleap them all,
And melt the clouds which daily life befal.
More wisely oft, where common nature guides,
A pliant spirit of the world presides,
Than he, whose loftiness of feeling fails
To stoop or wind, as subtlety prevails.
Nor could that Soul, though high its lot had been,
Forget to paint a more expanded scene,
Or sphere of duty where his mind would sway
The wider realms of intellectual day.
They dawn'd at length! a not unclouded dream,
From golden climes by Ganga's idol-stream.
That Indian soil poetic Fancy knew,—
Her sculptured wrecks, and mountain's roseate view,
Her palmy meads by banks of radiant green,
And dusky cots where cooling plantains lean.
But when he felt a meek-eyed Mother's gaze,
And thought how soon might end her lonely days!
Beheld his child in cradled hush asleep,
Too frail to dare the thunders of the deep;
His books deserted, friendship's riven chain,
And he, a pilgrim on the boundless main,—
That strife of soul might well forbid him roam,
And softly hue the tenderness of home!
To ripple, not destroy, the calm of life:
That heart for ever open to the poor,
Who weeping came, but smiling left his door,
Was all unapt, when mean annoyments rose
From rustic fools or mercenary foes,
By happy lightness to o'erleap them all,
And melt the clouds which daily life befal.
405
A pliant spirit of the world presides,
Than he, whose loftiness of feeling fails
To stoop or wind, as subtlety prevails.
Nor could that Soul, though high its lot had been,
Forget to paint a more expanded scene,
Or sphere of duty where his mind would sway
The wider realms of intellectual day.
They dawn'd at length! a not unclouded dream,
From golden climes by Ganga's idol-stream.
That Indian soil poetic Fancy knew,—
Her sculptured wrecks, and mountain's roseate view,
Her palmy meads by banks of radiant green,
And dusky cots where cooling plantains lean.
But when he felt a meek-eyed Mother's gaze,
And thought how soon might end her lonely days!
Beheld his child in cradled hush asleep,
Too frail to dare the thunders of the deep;
His books deserted, friendship's riven chain,
And he, a pilgrim on the boundless main,—
That strife of soul might well forbid him roam,
And softly hue the tenderness of home!
Those shading doubts a Providence dispell'd;
Each home-born fear aspiring goodness quell'd:
The parting o'er, behold! the billows sweep
In rushing music as he rides the Deep,
That wafts him onward to his Indian clime,
While mused his heart on future toil sublime,
Whereby Redemption and her God would smile
On heathen Lands, and many a lonely isle,
Where stinted Nature, in degraded gloom
From age to age had wither'd to the tomb!
And haply, too, when rose the twilight-star,
And billows flutter'd in a breezy war,
At that dim hour regretted England came,
Familiar walks, and sounds of early fame,
And village-steeple, with the lowly race,
Whose fondness brighten'd to behold his face!
Each home-born fear aspiring goodness quell'd:
The parting o'er, behold! the billows sweep
In rushing music as he rides the Deep,
That wafts him onward to his Indian clime,
While mused his heart on future toil sublime,
Whereby Redemption and her God would smile
On heathen Lands, and many a lonely isle,
Where stinted Nature, in degraded gloom
From age to age had wither'd to the tomb!
And haply, too, when rose the twilight-star,
And billows flutter'd in a breezy war,
At that dim hour regretted England came,
Familiar walks, and sounds of early fame,
And village-steeple, with the lowly race,
Whose fondness brighten'd to behold his face!
The Land was reach'd; and oh! too fondly known
How Heber made that sunny Land his own,
Till pagan souls a Christian nature wore,
And feelings sprang which never bloom'd before,
As toil'd he there with apostolic truth,
Redeem'd the Aged, and reform'd her Youth,
For praise to honour with a powerless line
A heart so deep, a spirit so divine!
He lived; he died; in life and death the same,
A Christian martyr! whose majestic fame
In beacon-glory o'er the world shall blaze,
And lighten Empires with celestial rays,
While Virtue throbs, or human hearts admire
A poet's feeling with a prophet's fire,
Or pure Religion hath a shrine to own
Where man can worship at his Maker's throne!
How Heber made that sunny Land his own,
Till pagan souls a Christian nature wore,
And feelings sprang which never bloom'd before,
As toil'd he there with apostolic truth,
Redeem'd the Aged, and reform'd her Youth,
For praise to honour with a powerless line
A heart so deep, a spirit so divine!
He lived; he died; in life and death the same,
A Christian martyr! whose majestic fame
In beacon-glory o'er the world shall blaze,
And lighten Empires with celestial rays,
While Virtue throbs, or human hearts admire
A poet's feeling with a prophet's fire,
Or pure Religion hath a shrine to own
Where man can worship at his Maker's throne!
It was in prison that Boëthius composed his excellent work on the “Consolations of Philosophy;” it was in prison that Goldsmith wrote his “Vicar of Wakefield;” it was in prison that Cervantes wrote “Don Quixote,” which laughed chivalry out of Europe; it was in prison that Charles I. composed that excellent work, the “Portraiture of a Christian King;” it was in prison that Grotius wrote his “Commentary on St. Matthew;” it was in prison that Buchanan composed his excellent “Paraphrase on the Psalms of David;” it was in prison that Daniel De Foe wrote his “Robinson Crusoe;” (he offered it to a bookseller for ten pounds, which that liberal encourager of literature declined giving); it was in prison that Sir W. Raleigh wrote his “History of the World;” it was in prison that Voltaire sketched the plan and composed most of the poem of “The Henriade;” it was in prison that Howel wrote most of his “Familiar Letters;” it was in prison that Elizabeth of England and her victim, Mary Queen of Scots, wrote their best poems; it was in prison that Margaret of France (wife of Henry IV.) wrote an “Apology for the Irregularities of her Conduct;” it was in prison that Sir John Pettas wrote the book on metals, called “Fleta Minor;” it was in prison that Tasso wrote some of his most affecting poems. With the fear of a prison how many works have been written!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |