Human Fate A Poem. By the Late Sir Egerton Brydges ... Now First Printed (Verbatim) from the Author's MSS. in the Possession of Charles Clark. With an Appendix. A Very Limited Number Printed |
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 | Human Fate |  |
HUMAN FATE.
A POEM.
1
Of competence and ease, may look with scorn
And pity mingled with severe reproach
On him, who struggles with the waves and winds.
All seems to him a strait and lucid path.
He shrugs his shoulders, and in accents smooth
He gives advice: and then with voice oracular
Tells us that trouble is the lot of man.
He has no trouble but of dull ennui!
He, who denies the facts which every day
Obtrude themselves upon his eyes and ears,
In blind obedience to a doctrine false,
Prattles the nonsense, which revolts his heart:
Mankind are not alike to happiness
Or evil born! Some in the cradle lie,
Ere conscience operates, in pain and sickness
Surrounded by discordant tones and curses,
And destin'd to temptation, and to wrong!
Others upon the bed of Fortune thrown,
With goodness round them, health, and smiling pleasure,
Have nothing to withdraw them from the paths
Of rectitude and wisdom, or benign
Sympathies for the pangs of fellow beings!
He, who from earliest childhood has alone
Been conversant with want, oppression, artifice;
Who not the lessons of the sage and virtuous
Has learn'd; but cries of ravenous hunger, thirst,
And pinching cold, and “comfortless despair,”
Must steel his heart, unless a mighty spirit
Of fortitude heroic, and sublimity,
Inform, direct, enlighten human frailty!
Happiness cannot without knowledge be;
But knowledge only is not happiness!
To know and not to follow is a curse
Where keen regret cankers all genuine pleasure.
So knowledge draws the veil from those delusions
Which may the seeds of future woe conceal—
But knowledge is not in the power of all.
Who works for daily bread by bodily sweat
Can only by some rare exertion gain it
2
So Burns acquir'd it! And the obstacles
Of poverty and humble labour conquer'd,
So shines he in resplendent glory high!
From ignorance, from narrow selfishness,
Which is but ignorance, all wickedness,
Springs;—we believe that joy is, where it is not;
The robber steals to t'enjoy, or to avoid
The pangs of famine, but the gain possesses
No zest. If leisure, discipline, and conscience
Reigning o'er native faculties of mind
Alone can gain instruction—strict wisdom,
How sparingly are those rich blessings given!
Which is but ignorance, all wickedness,
Springs;—we believe that joy is, where it is not;
The robber steals to t'enjoy, or to avoid
The pangs of famine, but the gain possesses
No zest. If leisure, discipline, and conscience
Reigning o'er native faculties of mind
Alone can gain instruction—strict wisdom,
How sparingly are those rich blessings given!
The native feelings of the heart by long
And most severe controul may turn from bad
To good: but when does human frailty give
Examples of such painful self-denial?
An outward cover to the vicious movement
Of a Satanic bosom may be worn
But all within too probably impels
Its course along the channels nature prompted!
Then who shall say, that equal happiness
Is spread within the reach of all mankind?
Of some the destiny is solitude,
Obscurity, neglect, and hard privation,
Or leisure dull in dull scenes and dull climes.
But all the various shapes of human misery
Where effort cannot Fate's decree surmount
Who shall describe? Virtue is not th' attainment
Of a fix'd point; but length of distance gone
From whence it starts. Among the first of virtues
Is to learn wisdom, and detect the mingled
Colours of light and shade in moral truths.
Acutely and profoundly to consider
Our intellectual and our moral duties
And study to pursue what mental conscience
After long meditation dictates to us.
And most severe controul may turn from bad
To good: but when does human frailty give
Examples of such painful self-denial?
An outward cover to the vicious movement
Of a Satanic bosom may be worn
But all within too probably impels
Its course along the channels nature prompted!
Then who shall say, that equal happiness
Is spread within the reach of all mankind?
Of some the destiny is solitude,
Obscurity, neglect, and hard privation,
Or leisure dull in dull scenes and dull climes.
But all the various shapes of human misery
Where effort cannot Fate's decree surmount
Who shall describe? Virtue is not th' attainment
Of a fix'd point; but length of distance gone
From whence it starts. Among the first of virtues
Is to learn wisdom, and detect the mingled
Colours of light and shade in moral truths.
Acutely and profoundly to consider
Our intellectual and our moral duties
And study to pursue what mental conscience
After long meditation dictates to us.
But ah! how few can from their own resources
Conclusions draw, or into order throw
The thoughts that mistily upon the mind
Obtrude themselves! They come and go as quick
E'en as they come, and leave no trace behind!
But he, who first digests, and brings the fruit
To ripe maturity, and then preserves it
In language clear and durable, performs
A task becoming intellectual worth!
There ever is disquiet in the mind
That nothing does:—it feels a painful torpor
And with itself is peevish and dissatisfied.
We live but lightly, on the types of memory,
Which to the bosom's deep recesses come not!
We prattle of them, but no active faith
Have we: as toys we take them and reject!
That which is drawn from inmost meditation
Upon the elements of sage observance
Mingles with all the veins of our existence
We give our full belief, and have conviction
In heart, in fancy, conscience, as in head!
Conclusions draw, or into order throw
The thoughts that mistily upon the mind
Obtrude themselves! They come and go as quick
E'en as they come, and leave no trace behind!
But he, who first digests, and brings the fruit
To ripe maturity, and then preserves it
In language clear and durable, performs
A task becoming intellectual worth!
There ever is disquiet in the mind
3
And with itself is peevish and dissatisfied.
We live but lightly, on the types of memory,
Which to the bosom's deep recesses come not!
We prattle of them, but no active faith
Have we: as toys we take them and reject!
That which is drawn from inmost meditation
Upon the elements of sage observance
Mingles with all the veins of our existence
We give our full belief, and have conviction
In heart, in fancy, conscience, as in head!
All but the few, whom gifts of Providence
With mental powers of strength original
Have favour'd, keep their course like silly sheep
Following their leader with blind confidence
Their theoretic lessons for sole ornament
They take, and act as those around them act.
Wantonly to repeat betrays a bosom
Of levity;—but to repeat designedly
To delude others with pretence of goodness,
Is the deep hopeless crime of curs'd hypocrisy.
With mental powers of strength original
Have favour'd, keep their course like silly sheep
Following their leader with blind confidence
Their theoretic lessons for sole ornament
They take, and act as those around them act.
Wantonly to repeat betrays a bosom
Of levity;—but to repeat designedly
To delude others with pretence of goodness,
Is the deep hopeless crime of curs'd hypocrisy.
Rightly to apprehend the mysteries
Of earth, and its most polish'd human habitants
Exalts the faculties of enjoyment in us;
But with it comes the keen and dire perception
Of wrongs and follies, which the heart embitters,
Then morbidness surmounts the pure delight
Of senses open to creation's charms.
The spells that play upon the surface, better
Perchance may frail humanity befit!
Without reflection, or comparison
They take what offers to th' untroubled mirror
Of their slight intellects; no poignant thoughts
Of past or future intervene to throw
Clouds on the gentle sunshine of the moment.
The sting of recollection is not theirs;
Nor terror of the storm that in repose
Lies hush'd; full gather'd in the distant sky.
Thus then, may seem, equality is brought,
And counterbalances for nature's treasures.
Darkly we see, and e'en the wisest see
We know not why we are so fearfully
Made, and so contradictory in nature.
Misfortune oft upon the heels attends
Of Virtue and grand qualities of mind,
And never quits them! It may be defect
Of worldly cunning, and the serpent's wisdom.
To semble and dissemble, is the art
To be successful in this life of falsehood!
And politicians play a game of trickery
In private paths, as in affairs of state!
Who are the rich? and how gain they their treasures?
How rare is new-got wealth with honesty
Acquir'd! The gambles of the Stock-Exchange;
Its lies habitual and incessant; frauds
Of foulness horrible, and unsuspected,
Extortion from the blood of famish'd faith;
Plunder of public funds, and perjury,
And murder of the innocent;—too oft
Whole tribes and nations! and then daily pilfer
By little and by little in all dealings;
And Jewish interest, and cruel loans
Of mean deception to necessity!
Such is too oft the scource of new-got riches!
Were Riches but the power to benefit
Our suffering fellow-beings,—wipe the tear
From misery and want, and lift the good
And highly-gifted with the ornaments
And strength of native talent, or great hearts,
Then by all virtuous means, at least, we might
Desire it, and put forth our efforts for it:
But e'en when honestly inherited,
Or gain'd by virtuous means, how rarely is it
Dispens'd for good, or innocently us'd!
How oft it pampers indolence, that generates
Ennui, and feebleness, and rank disease!
And then the mind and heart deteriorate,
And lose the intellectual rank of man!
Of earth, and its most polish'd human habitants
Exalts the faculties of enjoyment in us;
But with it comes the keen and dire perception
Of wrongs and follies, which the heart embitters,
Then morbidness surmounts the pure delight
Of senses open to creation's charms.
The spells that play upon the surface, better
Perchance may frail humanity befit!
Without reflection, or comparison
They take what offers to th' untroubled mirror
Of their slight intellects; no poignant thoughts
Of past or future intervene to throw
Clouds on the gentle sunshine of the moment.
The sting of recollection is not theirs;
Nor terror of the storm that in repose
Lies hush'd; full gather'd in the distant sky.
Thus then, may seem, equality is brought,
And counterbalances for nature's treasures.
Darkly we see, and e'en the wisest see
We know not why we are so fearfully
Made, and so contradictory in nature.
Misfortune oft upon the heels attends
Of Virtue and grand qualities of mind,
And never quits them! It may be defect
Of worldly cunning, and the serpent's wisdom.
4
To be successful in this life of falsehood!
And politicians play a game of trickery
In private paths, as in affairs of state!
Who are the rich? and how gain they their treasures?
How rare is new-got wealth with honesty
Acquir'd! The gambles of the Stock-Exchange;
Its lies habitual and incessant; frauds
Of foulness horrible, and unsuspected,
Extortion from the blood of famish'd faith;
Plunder of public funds, and perjury,
And murder of the innocent;—too oft
Whole tribes and nations! and then daily pilfer
By little and by little in all dealings;
And Jewish interest, and cruel loans
Of mean deception to necessity!
Such is too oft the scource of new-got riches!
Were Riches but the power to benefit
Our suffering fellow-beings,—wipe the tear
From misery and want, and lift the good
And highly-gifted with the ornaments
And strength of native talent, or great hearts,
Then by all virtuous means, at least, we might
Desire it, and put forth our efforts for it:
But e'en when honestly inherited,
Or gain'd by virtuous means, how rarely is it
Dispens'd for good, or innocently us'd!
How oft it pampers indolence, that generates
Ennui, and feebleness, and rank disease!
And then the mind and heart deteriorate,
And lose the intellectual rank of man!
A sensual course of wearisome existence
Riches may give; and as a cypher man
May pass along to a forgotten grave,
But in an honourable fame alone
Is consciousness of pure and deep-felt joy.
How many painful labours, perils, torments,
Privations, insults, calumnies, diseases,
Does it outweigh! When cold neglect, and rude
Reproach hang over us to blight and paralyse
Our steps, a beam wakes in us, and dispels
The trembling chill, and backward drives the arrow.
When we alone in the dark desert pick
Our way, the distant gleam comes glowing
Gradual, then blazes on our thorny path,
And right before our feet a certain guide
Of joy to temples mounted in the air
Of splendor, and aërial notes, becomes!
Riches may give; and as a cypher man
May pass along to a forgotten grave,
But in an honourable fame alone
Is consciousness of pure and deep-felt joy.
How many painful labours, perils, torments,
Privations, insults, calumnies, diseases,
Does it outweigh! When cold neglect, and rude
Reproach hang over us to blight and paralyse
Our steps, a beam wakes in us, and dispels
The trembling chill, and backward drives the arrow.
When we alone in the dark desert pick
Our way, the distant gleam comes glowing
Gradual, then blazes on our thorny path,
And right before our feet a certain guide
Of joy to temples mounted in the air
Of splendor, and aërial notes, becomes!
5
Through the chief tenor of the outward life
Attends it; such was Dante, Tasso, Milton,
Otway, and Collins, Burns, and gentle Bloomfield!
And magic Chatterton! We know their miseries;
We know not the intensity of their raptures!
But the rapt spirit, which has suffer'd here
From senses too refin'd for human concourse,
Assuredly will in an higher sphere
Enjoy its recompence—Eternity
Seems here in matter, not in mind: the river
Rolls, as it roll'd thousands of years ago!
And mountains lift their heads, and forests wave
And shade and whisper, and to tempests echo,
The same: but numberless successive races
Of human beings start, live, turn to dust,
Nor leave a visible atom of existence!
Where are the countless millions of the spirits
That once inform'd an earthy shape—departed?
Have they by transmigration more than once
Pass'd through the trial of this frame of clay?
Whence came each Spirit? from what other world?
Who shall conjecture? Some there are, who seem
To bring with them the tints of other worlds,
And throw them on this globe's more rude creation.
Indignantly they thus, perchance, consort
With beings of a less etherial rank,
And to some temporary destiny
Of essence more degraded are condemn'd.
And then their finer texture ill can suffer
The weight of atmosphere for mortals fitted:
But sink by torture, or by slow decay,
And gladly from a world they hate escape,
Ere half the days of man's allotted space!
Oh! eloquent and sensitive young Bard,
Painter of Clifton's Grove, who though of birth
Seemingly humble, and by occupations
Parental that the heart make hard surrounded,
Yet melted with all tenderness, and music,
As harps before the breeze that whisper love!
Thou wert some Spirit sent from seats of bliss,
Where all the Muses sing symphonious airs.
For what mysterious cause we dare not guess,
But short thy trial was, and to congenial
Climes in the skies wert thou transported soon:
The turf lies light upon thine earthly relics,
And tears bedew them ever; and sweet flowers
Spring up; and nightly notes of harmony
Aërial over them, and round about,
Sound, as if magic on the spot was playing!
Many there are who think that accident
Opens the fountain wheels alike to all
Common—produces inward the same waters,
But only to a few are these same waters
Of purity and holy spirit given!
We lead a life of lost and anxious care
Honours to win, which some pronounce a breath,
An empty bubble! and which, after all,
As Falstaff says, Detraction clouds and covers!
But when the swelling treasures of the soul
Are full, they, like the smouldering flame, will find
A vent, and out! The images that play
Upon the mirror of the mind, will pierce
And burst the veil, and strive to show their shapes,
And tints of bright magnificence and beauty
Before a wondering world! But if they were
The mirrors which reflected only forms
External, much of value they would lose.
By some mysterious power they represent
Forms of their own creation, or inspir'd
By visions, as it seems, of other worlds!
The spectacles this earthly scene of things
Exhibits are sublime; but much they have not,
In their material essence, which the mind
Of Genius gives them! It is magical,
The spell that wakes such wonders! As a dream
Is all the beauty that the Bard brings forth!
Thus speaks he better of the past than present,
Because the cold and calculating eye
Pretends not to detect him by the absence
Of those invisible images he draws!
Thus Memory mingles up the actual,
Impress'd upon the brain from outward shapes,
With the creations woven in the loom
That works within: and thus to the poet
All past life is but as a shadowy vision,
That which when present was but dull and hard,
Or painful, is converted in the retrospect
To bright, soft, mellow tints of exquisite
Grandeur or gentleness, and fond attraction!
Painter of Clifton's Grove, who though of birth
Seemingly humble, and by occupations
Parental that the heart make hard surrounded,
Yet melted with all tenderness, and music,
As harps before the breeze that whisper love!
Thou wert some Spirit sent from seats of bliss,
Where all the Muses sing symphonious airs.
For what mysterious cause we dare not guess,
But short thy trial was, and to congenial
Climes in the skies wert thou transported soon:
The turf lies light upon thine earthly relics,
And tears bedew them ever; and sweet flowers
Spring up; and nightly notes of harmony
6
Sound, as if magic on the spot was playing!
Many there are who think that accident
Opens the fountain wheels alike to all
Common—produces inward the same waters,
But only to a few are these same waters
Of purity and holy spirit given!
We lead a life of lost and anxious care
Honours to win, which some pronounce a breath,
An empty bubble! and which, after all,
As Falstaff says, Detraction clouds and covers!
But when the swelling treasures of the soul
Are full, they, like the smouldering flame, will find
A vent, and out! The images that play
Upon the mirror of the mind, will pierce
And burst the veil, and strive to show their shapes,
And tints of bright magnificence and beauty
Before a wondering world! But if they were
The mirrors which reflected only forms
External, much of value they would lose.
By some mysterious power they represent
Forms of their own creation, or inspir'd
By visions, as it seems, of other worlds!
The spectacles this earthly scene of things
Exhibits are sublime; but much they have not,
In their material essence, which the mind
Of Genius gives them! It is magical,
The spell that wakes such wonders! As a dream
Is all the beauty that the Bard brings forth!
Thus speaks he better of the past than present,
Because the cold and calculating eye
Pretends not to detect him by the absence
Of those invisible images he draws!
Thus Memory mingles up the actual,
Impress'd upon the brain from outward shapes,
With the creations woven in the loom
That works within: and thus to the poet
All past life is but as a shadowy vision,
That which when present was but dull and hard,
Or painful, is converted in the retrospect
To bright, soft, mellow tints of exquisite
Grandeur or gentleness, and fond attraction!
There is excess of misery in the world,
But there is also rapture, and sublimity,
And minglement of pleasure, both material
And spiritual, which defies all words!
But Heaven's surrounding air must be as bland,
And soft, and glowing, as the vernal sun
Breaking through gold-ting'd clouds. The habitant
Of low, dank, marshy plains, in atmospheres
Heavy, oppressive, colourless, unchangeable,
Feels his soul frozen, and without emotion!
Pent in this mould of earth, we are not free
From its effects on the immortal soul!
Beneath dull skies dull labour may pursue
Its useful course of body, or of intellect,
But weak and cloudy will the gleams of spirit,
And humble be! O! for Italian skies
To ripen the rich products of the mind!
But there is also rapture, and sublimity,
And minglement of pleasure, both material
And spiritual, which defies all words!
7
And soft, and glowing, as the vernal sun
Breaking through gold-ting'd clouds. The habitant
Of low, dank, marshy plains, in atmospheres
Heavy, oppressive, colourless, unchangeable,
Feels his soul frozen, and without emotion!
Pent in this mould of earth, we are not free
From its effects on the immortal soul!
Beneath dull skies dull labour may pursue
Its useful course of body, or of intellect,
But weak and cloudy will the gleams of spirit,
And humble be! O! for Italian skies
To ripen the rich products of the mind!
Providence, in its goodness, has ordain'd
That humble talents should be fit to work
The common business of mankind's affairs;
While Genius, like a fine-edg'd instrument,
Is blunted by encount'ring hard materials.
The task is others' deep to penetrate
To distant motives—principles extract—
Take a wide range beyond the circumstances
That press upon particular interests,
And to devise, and resolutions form
For general, not mean individual good!
Here Genius only can supply the requisite
Power, light, acuteness, and profundity.
That humble talents should be fit to work
The common business of mankind's affairs;
While Genius, like a fine-edg'd instrument,
Is blunted by encount'ring hard materials.
The task is others' deep to penetrate
To distant motives—principles extract—
Take a wide range beyond the circumstances
That press upon particular interests,
And to devise, and resolutions form
For general, not mean individual good!
Here Genius only can supply the requisite
Power, light, acuteness, and profundity.
The mighty insight of the exploring mind
Throws rays that shine for ever!—not before
Touch'd, and not touch'd again,—though it were easy
To follow, where the path had once been open'd!
Thus Daniell, moral poet, of intense,
Most subtle, and most searching, and original
Thought; yet of language clear—harmonious,
Bright and elastic, strikes a thousand lights
By the collisions of his vigorous mind!
A plaintive melancholy sentiment
Of human frailties mellows all the strains,
And thrills the tender bosom with a virtuous
And lovely sympathy! Oh! what a lesson
Of intellectual wisdom—to be studied
With close abstraction of sharp faculties,
Are those wrought emanations of intensity!
There will be met nice truths elicited,
Not elsewhere found! and evanescent tints
Of moral lights and shades, no other hand
Has ever trac'd, or had perception of,
If they had died with him! What head so dull
Among the children of the Muse, to be
Insensible how much had Intellect
Lost of its gems! Oh! name of worth, yet now
But little noticed, and still less regarded,
Yet well repaid for all neglect of others
By that great living Critic, whose pure praise
Is fame itself,—the virtuous, eloquent,
And all-accomplish'd Laureate! Sleep, then, excellent
And sagest Daniell, tranquil in thy tomb:
Thy name in golden letters is inscrib'd,
Which never more a cloud or stain will know!
Throws rays that shine for ever!—not before
Touch'd, and not touch'd again,—though it were easy
To follow, where the path had once been open'd!
Thus Daniell, moral poet, of intense,
Most subtle, and most searching, and original
Thought; yet of language clear—harmonious,
Bright and elastic, strikes a thousand lights
By the collisions of his vigorous mind!
A plaintive melancholy sentiment
Of human frailties mellows all the strains,
And thrills the tender bosom with a virtuous
And lovely sympathy! Oh! what a lesson
Of intellectual wisdom—to be studied
With close abstraction of sharp faculties,
Are those wrought emanations of intensity!
There will be met nice truths elicited,
Not elsewhere found! and evanescent tints
Of moral lights and shades, no other hand
Has ever trac'd, or had perception of,
If they had died with him! What head so dull
8
Insensible how much had Intellect
Lost of its gems! Oh! name of worth, yet now
But little noticed, and still less regarded,
Yet well repaid for all neglect of others
By that great living Critic, whose pure praise
Is fame itself,—the virtuous, eloquent,
And all-accomplish'd Laureate! Sleep, then, excellent
And sagest Daniell, tranquil in thy tomb:
Thy name in golden letters is inscrib'd,
Which never more a cloud or stain will know!
But ever must the living Bard encounter
The chills and blights which stupor, envy, malice,
Intrigue, and rivalry, pour on his efforts!
His zeal with them is but an eagerness
To blow vain bubbles: they, forsooth, would have him
Rest on his oars; and sleep, or play, or whistle,
Seeking amusement which no labour costs,
In lieu of toilsome products, nothing worth!
The chills and blights which stupor, envy, malice,
Intrigue, and rivalry, pour on his efforts!
His zeal with them is but an eagerness
To blow vain bubbles: they, forsooth, would have him
Rest on his oars; and sleep, or play, or whistle,
Seeking amusement which no labour costs,
In lieu of toilsome products, nothing worth!
But what is meditated with profound
Pondering of all the mind's most chosen strength,
Were all committed to the fading marks
Of treacherous memory, in foolish faith,
That if it vanishes 'twill come again!
Bursts of the mind there are which come but once,
And if not noted then, are lost for ever!
Deluder vain! who thinks that what he once
Has known, in future he shall ever know!
Sometimes by accidental processes
The brain arrives at truths that ne'er again
Will shine upon it! In an happier mood,
The hope of novelty has led him on,
And never will that impulse strong return!
There is a train which, when the light is caught,
By its own course proceeds: arrest its course—
Cut short the blaze, and all is dark for ever!
Thus in the misty twilight of the brain,
As if in love with darkness, man consumes
His precious days, and to the dust descend
His mouldering relics, black Oblivion's prey.
Pondering of all the mind's most chosen strength,
Were all committed to the fading marks
Of treacherous memory, in foolish faith,
That if it vanishes 'twill come again!
Bursts of the mind there are which come but once,
And if not noted then, are lost for ever!
Deluder vain! who thinks that what he once
Has known, in future he shall ever know!
Sometimes by accidental processes
The brain arrives at truths that ne'er again
Will shine upon it! In an happier mood,
The hope of novelty has led him on,
And never will that impulse strong return!
There is a train which, when the light is caught,
By its own course proceeds: arrest its course—
Cut short the blaze, and all is dark for ever!
Thus in the misty twilight of the brain,
As if in love with darkness, man consumes
His precious days, and to the dust descend
His mouldering relics, black Oblivion's prey.
Is there in discipline of Intellect
Aught that can save us from the woes of life?
No! but full much there is that greatly heightens
Life's noblest pleasures! Cruel, false philosopher,
That would'st attempt to cavil, and to argue
Those charms away! for what imagination
By magic spell creates, is best reality!
Most bright—most unalloy'd by earthly evil!
—Oh! talk not of delusive tints of error;
Talk not of mischievous and quagmire lights!
Truth in Imagination's golden vests
With most enchantment shines! The poet's pen
Embodies them, that, like the rainbow's hues
And shapes, dart forth, change, flit, and fade away!
Aught that can save us from the woes of life?
No! but full much there is that greatly heightens
Life's noblest pleasures! Cruel, false philosopher,
That would'st attempt to cavil, and to argue
Those charms away! for what imagination
9
Most bright—most unalloy'd by earthly evil!
—Oh! talk not of delusive tints of error;
Talk not of mischievous and quagmire lights!
Truth in Imagination's golden vests
With most enchantment shines! The poet's pen
Embodies them, that, like the rainbow's hues
And shapes, dart forth, change, flit, and fade away!
But when we see the great ones of the world
Ride over us in cars of burnish'd ore,
Then does the Muse a shield afford, or covers us
With mantles, proof 'gainst their insulting strains!
Odious the arts by which the coarser talents
Of bold ambition scale the heights of Fortune!
'Tis confidence in self, and readiness,
Perception quick—not thought original—
Which works its progress thro' the thorns and barriers!
He who can catch the lights which others generate,
Bears all the palm away from the creator;
It costs him nought but memory; all the toil
Is done for him, and his fresh unspent vigour
Is ready for the skilful application.
In Statesmen—Legislators—Governors,
How rarely has that sole great gift been found,
That marks Invention's mighty faculty!
For here alone the glory lies: all else
A mind of mediocrity, by industry,
Art, accident, and cunning disciplined,
May reach, while working for the public good
Plausibly,—for itself alone in heart
And truth! But honours, station, riches, thus,
And luxuries, and the base world's applause,
Are gain'd, enjoy'd, heap'd, spent, forgot, dissolv'd.
Ride over us in cars of burnish'd ore,
Then does the Muse a shield afford, or covers us
With mantles, proof 'gainst their insulting strains!
Odious the arts by which the coarser talents
Of bold ambition scale the heights of Fortune!
'Tis confidence in self, and readiness,
Perception quick—not thought original—
Which works its progress thro' the thorns and barriers!
He who can catch the lights which others generate,
Bears all the palm away from the creator;
It costs him nought but memory; all the toil
Is done for him, and his fresh unspent vigour
Is ready for the skilful application.
In Statesmen—Legislators—Governors,
How rarely has that sole great gift been found,
That marks Invention's mighty faculty!
For here alone the glory lies: all else
A mind of mediocrity, by industry,
Art, accident, and cunning disciplined,
May reach, while working for the public good
Plausibly,—for itself alone in heart
And truth! But honours, station, riches, thus,
And luxuries, and the base world's applause,
Are gain'd, enjoy'd, heap'd, spent, forgot, dissolv'd.
Then what is birth? Does it exalt the soul,
Give generous sentiments, heroic courage,
And firm resolves? or does it lull to rest
The energies of body and of mind?
In animals, the character of blood
Is ever valued: spirit, force, formation
Of limbs, and nerves, and veins. In human nature,
The qualities of head and heart, which Time
Has seen descending through a long succession
Of centuries, and bearing still the palm
Amid the conflicts of society,
Must still have something of inherent power
To make them hold their place, and be preeminent.
The origin of true nobility
Is buried in the night of Time; it takes
Its fountain from the earliest restoration
Of laws and civil order, when the reign
Of Charlemagne the beautiful gradation
Of feudal structure through his empire cast;
Who cannot from this ancient stock of Princes
Derive their streams of heritable blood,
Have not pretension to strict ancientry
Of noble stock! Thus rare the genuine brood
Of noble vein in England! One or two
Of Saxon Princes sprung, complexly mingled
With Norman chieftains, but from Normandy
The Carlovingran Peerage plac'd its feet,
And spread its broad black pinions o'er the land,
From Dover's heights to Wallia's mountain bounds.
There Chester's Earl his vast domains extended,
And left by heiresses a long succession
Of mighty feudal Peers. The blood is dwindled,
And now diluted into puny races!
But once there was a living vigour in it,
That roll'd through centuries in pride and glory.
Give generous sentiments, heroic courage,
And firm resolves? or does it lull to rest
The energies of body and of mind?
In animals, the character of blood
Is ever valued: spirit, force, formation
Of limbs, and nerves, and veins. In human nature,
The qualities of head and heart, which Time
Has seen descending through a long succession
Of centuries, and bearing still the palm
Amid the conflicts of society,
Must still have something of inherent power
To make them hold their place, and be preeminent.
The origin of true nobility
10
Its fountain from the earliest restoration
Of laws and civil order, when the reign
Of Charlemagne the beautiful gradation
Of feudal structure through his empire cast;
Who cannot from this ancient stock of Princes
Derive their streams of heritable blood,
Have not pretension to strict ancientry
Of noble stock! Thus rare the genuine brood
Of noble vein in England! One or two
Of Saxon Princes sprung, complexly mingled
With Norman chieftains, but from Normandy
The Carlovingran Peerage plac'd its feet,
And spread its broad black pinions o'er the land,
From Dover's heights to Wallia's mountain bounds.
There Chester's Earl his vast domains extended,
And left by heiresses a long succession
Of mighty feudal Peers. The blood is dwindled,
And now diluted into puny races!
But once there was a living vigour in it,
That roll'd through centuries in pride and glory.
Now all is change, and no one knows his station,
And institutions tremble to their base;
Now dignity has lost its reverence,
And none obey upon authority
And reason, but by force; for every one
Would make the law himself to regulate!
Thus whom condition, birth, and destiny,
Have made to be restrain'd, must be the rulers!
Thus uproar soon will come, and anarchy,
Plunder, and bloodshed: knowledge and the arts
Will die, and one black ruin cover all!
And institutions tremble to their base;
Now dignity has lost its reverence,
And none obey upon authority
And reason, but by force; for every one
Would make the law himself to regulate!
Thus whom condition, birth, and destiny,
Have made to be restrain'd, must be the rulers!
Thus uproar soon will come, and anarchy,
Plunder, and bloodshed: knowledge and the arts
Will die, and one black ruin cover all!
If tyranny and hard oppression move
The bosoms of the great, let bold revenge
Strike, and to ashes tumble down abuse
Of human power! but let not upstart insolence,
From fretful and delusive self-opinion,
And morbid discontent, attack the lawful
And necessary bonds of Government!
Laws operate more by usage than by force,
And therefore novelty of enactment is
An ill intrinsic of the wisest laws!
The bosoms of the great, let bold revenge
Strike, and to ashes tumble down abuse
Of human power! but let not upstart insolence,
From fretful and delusive self-opinion,
And morbid discontent, attack the lawful
And necessary bonds of Government!
Laws operate more by usage than by force,
And therefore novelty of enactment is
An ill intrinsic of the wisest laws!
But not by laws alone a people live;
Those gifts of nature, and those moral habits,
Too nice for laws to regulate, inspire
Content and happiness, which rods of rulers
Can nor bestow, controul, nor take away!
Indolence, and her squalid progeny,
Mean reckless Want, or daring thirst of plunder,
Sprung from th' excitement of the elements,
Too feeble are, or too unmalleable,
By legislative wisdom to be chang'd!
But individual genius knows not country,
Government, climate, manners: 'tis in all
Nearly the same! The Bard in every nation—
In every age—of similar elements
His song composes;—ever are the sympathies
Of the heart's sensibilities the same!
The force and processes of mind will vary—
Never the heart! Beneath the savage rule
Of cruel despots, and in war, and blood,
Or penury, and cold, and hunger, thus
Has the Muse struck the undecaying lyre!
Thus Spencer's rich and prodigal invention
Put forth his brilliant stores of fabulous tales,
'Mid hordes barbarian raging round with fire
And sword, and yells of fierce vindictive slaughter!
Thus Sackville, when the scaffold and the stake
Threaten'd all ranks, gave forth his Legend bold
Of picturesque sublimity! And thus
Chatterton sung, the cup of poison steaming
E'en at his lips! He breath'd the notes of music
To the last gasp, then clos'd his earthly sighs
Within the soothing Muses' arms, and died!
Rays from the stars descend to light the earth,
And sometimes the frail human shape inhabit;
Then tir'd, revolted, burst away again,
And seek their native skies!
Those gifts of nature, and those moral habits,
Too nice for laws to regulate, inspire
11
Can nor bestow, controul, nor take away!
Indolence, and her squalid progeny,
Mean reckless Want, or daring thirst of plunder,
Sprung from th' excitement of the elements,
Too feeble are, or too unmalleable,
By legislative wisdom to be chang'd!
But individual genius knows not country,
Government, climate, manners: 'tis in all
Nearly the same! The Bard in every nation—
In every age—of similar elements
His song composes;—ever are the sympathies
Of the heart's sensibilities the same!
The force and processes of mind will vary—
Never the heart! Beneath the savage rule
Of cruel despots, and in war, and blood,
Or penury, and cold, and hunger, thus
Has the Muse struck the undecaying lyre!
Thus Spencer's rich and prodigal invention
Put forth his brilliant stores of fabulous tales,
'Mid hordes barbarian raging round with fire
And sword, and yells of fierce vindictive slaughter!
Thus Sackville, when the scaffold and the stake
Threaten'd all ranks, gave forth his Legend bold
Of picturesque sublimity! And thus
Chatterton sung, the cup of poison steaming
E'en at his lips! He breath'd the notes of music
To the last gasp, then clos'd his earthly sighs
Within the soothing Muses' arms, and died!
Rays from the stars descend to light the earth,
And sometimes the frail human shape inhabit;
Then tir'd, revolted, burst away again,
And seek their native skies!
Upon this globe
To be cast destitute, devoid of food,
Of raiment, and of roof, seems a strange fate
For the all-bounteous rule of Providence!
The fruits of earth would seem sufficient for
The sustenance of human population,
But by the toil of hands, and sweat of brow,
It must be gain'd! And ere the harvest comes,
Where are the funds the labour to sustain?
The progeny of man reduplicates
Upon the earth, and can alone by art
And force of body generate its food.
But slow it comes,—inadequate to meet
Instant demand; and hence heart-torn dependence,
And work at will of others, and the pay
Of maintenance doled out. But hence the efforts
Of human ingenuity—of science—
Imagination; all that touches the senses,
And all the beating echoes of the bosom!
Hence capitals of states, cities and towns,
Live by contrivance—good and evil mix'd—
Industry virtuous; fraud, and perfidy,
And trick, and foul extortion,—wretches live
In multitudes upon the very vitals
Of fellow-beings. Half of boasted London,
Dense in its numberless inhabitants,
Lives, fattens, gorges on the other half!
Day after day, its means precarious
Of dearly-bought existence, by expedients
Of crime and cunning, are with pain procur'd.
Jews, jobbers, gamblers, thieves, and usurers,
And hell-scap'd myrmidons of tortur'd law.
Thus as society becomes complex,
And laws and schemes of human cunning grow,
Vice swells, and ramifies, and turns to poison,
Disease, and misery, the ways of life.
And thus Corruption grows and lifts her head
Gigantic, and her thousand arms abroad,
Till with foul blood she mortifies, and down
At once she sinks into the pit of death.
The havoc of her gangren'd body throws
Its ruin far and wide, and pestilence
Infests the skies, and fertile lands become
Unpeopled deserts, where the rank remains
Of former habitations breed infection,
And human footsteps can no longer tread.
To be cast destitute, devoid of food,
Of raiment, and of roof, seems a strange fate
For the all-bounteous rule of Providence!
The fruits of earth would seem sufficient for
The sustenance of human population,
But by the toil of hands, and sweat of brow,
It must be gain'd! And ere the harvest comes,
Where are the funds the labour to sustain?
The progeny of man reduplicates
Upon the earth, and can alone by art
And force of body generate its food.
But slow it comes,—inadequate to meet
Instant demand; and hence heart-torn dependence,
And work at will of others, and the pay
Of maintenance doled out. But hence the efforts
12
Imagination; all that touches the senses,
And all the beating echoes of the bosom!
Hence capitals of states, cities and towns,
Live by contrivance—good and evil mix'd—
Industry virtuous; fraud, and perfidy,
And trick, and foul extortion,—wretches live
In multitudes upon the very vitals
Of fellow-beings. Half of boasted London,
Dense in its numberless inhabitants,
Lives, fattens, gorges on the other half!
Day after day, its means precarious
Of dearly-bought existence, by expedients
Of crime and cunning, are with pain procur'd.
Jews, jobbers, gamblers, thieves, and usurers,
And hell-scap'd myrmidons of tortur'd law.
Thus as society becomes complex,
And laws and schemes of human cunning grow,
Vice swells, and ramifies, and turns to poison,
Disease, and misery, the ways of life.
And thus Corruption grows and lifts her head
Gigantic, and her thousand arms abroad,
Till with foul blood she mortifies, and down
At once she sinks into the pit of death.
The havoc of her gangren'd body throws
Its ruin far and wide, and pestilence
Infests the skies, and fertile lands become
Unpeopled deserts, where the rank remains
Of former habitations breed infection,
And human footsteps can no longer tread.
States have their rises and their falls; the height
Attain'd, they rest not long upon that giddy summit,
More rapidly descending than they rose again,—
And, as they go, the horrible velocity
Gains strength, and to the pit with thunder bounds,
And, into atoms crush'd, awakes a noise,
As if the elements had come together!
So clouds o'er Europe gather, that predict
A dread return of centuries of darkness;
When all the sweet civilities of life
Must cease, and rudeness, rapine, fall of temples,
And palaces, and mansions, must lie spread
In fragments on the desolated soil!
Riches must cease, and poverty, without
The aid of what it fed on, must grow poorer;
And man, ferocious, lose the light of mind,
And roam and grovel in the woods like brutes.
Attain'd, they rest not long upon that giddy summit,
More rapidly descending than they rose again,—
And, as they go, the horrible velocity
Gains strength, and to the pit with thunder bounds,
And, into atoms crush'd, awakes a noise,
As if the elements had come together!
So clouds o'er Europe gather, that predict
A dread return of centuries of darkness;
When all the sweet civilities of life
Must cease, and rudeness, rapine, fall of temples,
And palaces, and mansions, must lie spread
In fragments on the desolated soil!
Riches must cease, and poverty, without
The aid of what it fed on, must grow poorer;
And man, ferocious, lose the light of mind,
And roam and grovel in the woods like brutes.
13
Tend, through man's frailty, ever to abuse.
Knowledge wide-spread, to ill-digested brains,
Becomes delusion; ill-plac'd confidence
In self-opinion generates fumes and mists,
Inebriates the patient, and before him
Puts forth false rays which lead to snares and ruin.
Wisdom the child of tranquil Leisure is,
And humble Contemplation,—not of hasty
Passion, and narrow prospect of surrounding
Events, and pressing interests of a few!
But ever will the multitude believe
What flatters their own habits, and their tastes
Pampers; and thus, authority set loose,
Lets all things quickly dash themselves to chaos.
Each his own bounded ken is taught to trust,
And think that what a partial ill creates
Repugnant is to heavenly dispensation.
Thus pitiful conceit believes it can
New-make creation in a better form;
Authors must now to popular taste devote
Their pliant wits for sordid lucre's sake,
And higher minds, too weak to stem the tide
Of democratic clamour, first surrender
The guidance, then in mere despondence bend
Their own elastic talents to the storm
And thus an universal dissolution
Of reason sound, and deep philosophy,
Insinuates itself through every rank,
And every nation! Wisdom rules no more,
Nor Genius, nor sound learning;—plausible
Pretensions of the people's rights, and clamourous
Demands of universal distribution,
Of equal franchises, and equal judgment,
Equal respect to each's own opinion,
And nothing yielded to the force and weight
Of talents by experience, age, and labour,
Lifted above the common lot of intellect,—
These are the rulers of the times; precursers
Of fearful overturns, and rude distraction!
But let not tyranny, and narrow thoughts
Of partial favour, and vile privilege,
Triumph at doctrines and remarks like these!
There are abuses in old governments
Which patience can no longer suffer! Faith
In principles of optimists is folly,
And mean subjection to such power is criminal;
Idolatry of wealth or rank is vile—
Pusillanimity of head and heart!
In upstart greatness, there's a ruling passion
To ride upon the backs of the companions
Whom once it knew in its debased state,
And insult, with unjust success, combines
To fix respect and awe by marks of power.
The tranquil conscience of hereditary
Title to seats of grave preeminence
Resorts not to excitement, or the tone
Of insolent authority, and threats.
But waters in commotion, when the mud
Is upward stirr'd, and what should float at top
Is sunk by the disturbance, spread disorder
Over the banks, throwing effluvia forth,
Whence dangerous maladies distain the air:
Oft, in the lapse of time, the chaiu that galls
Is left when the necessity has ceas'd.
Of partial favour, and vile privilege,
Triumph at doctrines and remarks like these!
There are abuses in old governments
Which patience can no longer suffer! Faith
In principles of optimists is folly,
And mean subjection to such power is criminal;
Idolatry of wealth or rank is vile—
Pusillanimity of head and heart!
14
To ride upon the backs of the companions
Whom once it knew in its debased state,
And insult, with unjust success, combines
To fix respect and awe by marks of power.
The tranquil conscience of hereditary
Title to seats of grave preeminence
Resorts not to excitement, or the tone
Of insolent authority, and threats.
But waters in commotion, when the mud
Is upward stirr'd, and what should float at top
Is sunk by the disturbance, spread disorder
Over the banks, throwing effluvia forth,
Whence dangerous maladies distain the air:
Oft, in the lapse of time, the chaiu that galls
Is left when the necessity has ceas'd.
Oh, bigotry, how hateful is thy reign!
Oh, prurient love of change, how full of ills
Untired, unseen, is thy presumptious passion!
Rash blindness! fanciful belief in prospects,
Which only in the fancy's mirror shine!
To hope for better lights, and sound improvements,
But hope with caution, and long meditation;
And to suspect the seeming good which others
Of deeper wisdom in past ages miss'd.
'Tis pleaded that the course of public state,
If it goes ill, regards not private men!
But all the small concerns of private life
Ill legislation deeply trenches on.
Do wanton and unskilful taxes take
Nothing of comfort from pinch'd poverty?
Laws of miscall'd protection to the person,
And purse, but add a weapon to the strong,
And aggravate the weakness of the weak!
Is justice only to be had for gold?
Then he who most completely robs his victim
Acts with impunity, and is most secure!
Better no laws than such as these, too complex
For use of those who most a shield require.
Error, caprice, uncertainty is bad,
From instant judgment of frail, thoughtless men,
But chance of rectitude is also there;
And thus the humble, as the high, may find
Some hope, some possible relief and comfort.
Now villainy triumphant reigns, and fraud
Is furnish'd with the surest means to cover it.
When Courts are arguing knotty points of meaning,
Consuming days and nights in useless subtleties,
It nought avails to anxious litigants,—
Neither can gain the prize—the ravenous lawyer
Takes all! and thus the intricate web is wove,
Victims to catch, and death is in its nets.
Oh, prurient love of change, how full of ills
Untired, unseen, is thy presumptious passion!
Rash blindness! fanciful belief in prospects,
Which only in the fancy's mirror shine!
To hope for better lights, and sound improvements,
But hope with caution, and long meditation;
And to suspect the seeming good which others
Of deeper wisdom in past ages miss'd.
'Tis pleaded that the course of public state,
If it goes ill, regards not private men!
But all the small concerns of private life
Ill legislation deeply trenches on.
Do wanton and unskilful taxes take
Nothing of comfort from pinch'd poverty?
Laws of miscall'd protection to the person,
And purse, but add a weapon to the strong,
And aggravate the weakness of the weak!
Is justice only to be had for gold?
Then he who most completely robs his victim
Acts with impunity, and is most secure!
Better no laws than such as these, too complex
For use of those who most a shield require.
Error, caprice, uncertainty is bad,
From instant judgment of frail, thoughtless men,
But chance of rectitude is also there;
And thus the humble, as the high, may find
Some hope, some possible relief and comfort.
Now villainy triumphant reigns, and fraud
Is furnish'd with the surest means to cover it.
15
Consuming days and nights in useless subtleties,
It nought avails to anxious litigants,—
Neither can gain the prize—the ravenous lawyer
Takes all! and thus the intricate web is wove,
Victims to catch, and death is in its nets.
The wind blows fierce and cold, and hollow shrieks
Ride on the night-storm! Down the swelling Rhone
Come the careering blasts! A sable mantle
Invests the skies, and loud the rage is heard,
But nought is seen: rock'd in my bed I lie,
And in the tumult fuller flows my Muse.
The night is as the day to me,—no time
Of my declining years for work I lose!
The midnight hours speed quick while at my task,
And in sleep's torpor little is consumed.
Ride on the night-storm! Down the swelling Rhone
Come the careering blasts! A sable mantle
Invests the skies, and loud the rage is heard,
But nought is seen: rock'd in my bed I lie,
And in the tumult fuller flows my Muse.
The night is as the day to me,—no time
Of my declining years for work I lose!
The midnight hours speed quick while at my task,
And in sleep's torpor little is consumed.
Perchance by perseverance, self-denial,
And firm reliance on the mind's omnipotence,
This clog of earthly clay may be cast off,
And we may to pure intellect and spirit
Convert ourselves, and live on air, and drink
Etherial springs! and then the film will fall,
And we celestial objects shall behold!
Now human cares and sorrows, and the blight
Of dire adversity, suppress our fires.
The glow of human charity no more
Shines on misfortune; black neglect, reproach,
Calumny, insult, single or in groups,
Assail their victim with conflicting weapons.
How often to the grave I look for peace,
Finding no mercy in the human heart!
The prosperous may talk of smiles and joys,
And sympathies, and friendships, and applauses;
Only where they are useless are they lavish'd.
Oh, wretched human fate! 'tis Vice that walks
The world in worship, honour, pride, and smiles.
Minds dull and ignorant, yet full of faith
In their own petty faculties and knowledge,
Assume the reins and rule the course of kingdoms.
Then narrow and distorted measures come,
Concession, where resistance bold is fit,
And obstinate resistance, where to yield
Alone can save a kingdom from convulsion:
Thus foul corruption, when to purify
Is the grand boast on which they place their claims!
Genius, without intrigue, ne'er wins its way
Up the steep, slippery scale of public station;
Secret manœuvre, bribery, mutual pledge
Of wicked counter-payments, treacherous promises,
Each to give up a victim-friend, or foe;
Impregnable concealment of intention,
Smiles where revenge is plotted, surly frowns
Outwardly on the hooded tool of ill—
The hidden agent of the frowner's mischief.
Plain-dealing, steps direct, and open heart,
Are caught at every pace by ambush'd Wrong!
He who looks back upon the precipices
He has escap'd, in working up his way
To worldly honours, trembles at the sight,
And would not pass again the same deep dangers
For all that man and life's first prize can give.
Care, restless watchfulness, and sting of conscience,
And pining, pale, and palsy-struck regret;
Suspicion, troubled sleep, and sickly thought,
And dread of solitude, and daggers hung
By slender threads over the beating brain.
And firm reliance on the mind's omnipotence,
This clog of earthly clay may be cast off,
And we may to pure intellect and spirit
Convert ourselves, and live on air, and drink
Etherial springs! and then the film will fall,
And we celestial objects shall behold!
Now human cares and sorrows, and the blight
Of dire adversity, suppress our fires.
The glow of human charity no more
Shines on misfortune; black neglect, reproach,
Calumny, insult, single or in groups,
Assail their victim with conflicting weapons.
How often to the grave I look for peace,
Finding no mercy in the human heart!
The prosperous may talk of smiles and joys,
And sympathies, and friendships, and applauses;
Only where they are useless are they lavish'd.
Oh, wretched human fate! 'tis Vice that walks
The world in worship, honour, pride, and smiles.
Minds dull and ignorant, yet full of faith
In their own petty faculties and knowledge,
Assume the reins and rule the course of kingdoms.
Then narrow and distorted measures come,
Concession, where resistance bold is fit,
And obstinate resistance, where to yield
Alone can save a kingdom from convulsion:
Thus foul corruption, when to purify
Is the grand boast on which they place their claims!
Genius, without intrigue, ne'er wins its way
Up the steep, slippery scale of public station;
Secret manœuvre, bribery, mutual pledge
16
Each to give up a victim-friend, or foe;
Impregnable concealment of intention,
Smiles where revenge is plotted, surly frowns
Outwardly on the hooded tool of ill—
The hidden agent of the frowner's mischief.
Plain-dealing, steps direct, and open heart,
Are caught at every pace by ambush'd Wrong!
He who looks back upon the precipices
He has escap'd, in working up his way
To worldly honours, trembles at the sight,
And would not pass again the same deep dangers
For all that man and life's first prize can give.
Care, restless watchfulness, and sting of conscience,
And pining, pale, and palsy-struck regret;
Suspicion, troubled sleep, and sickly thought,
And dread of solitude, and daggers hung
By slender threads over the beating brain.
But who can find the road to happiness
In this mysterious globe, where Misery
Rules paramount o'er ev'ry joy and blessing?
Vice is successful, but not therefore happy;
Virtue is wretched, for 'tis robb'd, tormented,
Malign'd, and vultures live upon its blood:
Genius can find no audience, and the mountebank
Engrosses public favour—profit—praise.
The people hear not aught that does not echo
Their own opinions, feelings, arguments:
If Genius is successful, 'tis by accident,
And comes not from her merit, but her fate.
In this mysterious globe, where Misery
Rules paramount o'er ev'ry joy and blessing?
Vice is successful, but not therefore happy;
Virtue is wretched, for 'tis robb'd, tormented,
Malign'd, and vultures live upon its blood:
Genius can find no audience, and the mountebank
Engrosses public favour—profit—praise.
The people hear not aught that does not echo
Their own opinions, feelings, arguments:
If Genius is successful, 'tis by accident,
And comes not from her merit, but her fate.
Is there an art by which we can escape
From damps of hope, and chills of spiritual pleasure?
By the hard world th' attempt is stigmatiz'd;
'Tis call'd delusion, weakness, folly, crime.
Still in the battle's front—the hope forlorn—
Malice and envy ever place our lot!
Angels in clouds descend, and Spirits walk
In vest etherial cloath'd,—but these would pierce
The veil, and all the bareness of mortality
Expose. But who the shadows of delusion
Would use, in momentary dreams to fly
From danger and oppression, when the blow
That pierces through the misty covering,
Will heavier come at last? Oh! not more heavy,
But soften'd by the magic of the mind,
Whose genuine movements emanate from Truth.
Each hour that we by virtuous means delay
The misery that human fate imposes,
Is a clear gain which wisdom sanctifies.
The curse of Malice often on the good
Hangs like a vulture, not to be shook off!
But the good persecuted man holds on
His course amid the tempest, sad at heart,
Yet not in courage or in vigour quail'd.
From damps of hope, and chills of spiritual pleasure?
By the hard world th' attempt is stigmatiz'd;
'Tis call'd delusion, weakness, folly, crime.
Still in the battle's front—the hope forlorn—
Malice and envy ever place our lot!
Angels in clouds descend, and Spirits walk
In vest etherial cloath'd,—but these would pierce
The veil, and all the bareness of mortality
Expose. But who the shadows of delusion
Would use, in momentary dreams to fly
From danger and oppression, when the blow
That pierces through the misty covering,
Will heavier come at last? Oh! not more heavy,
But soften'd by the magic of the mind,
Whose genuine movements emanate from Truth.
17
The misery that human fate imposes,
Is a clear gain which wisdom sanctifies.
The curse of Malice often on the good
Hangs like a vulture, not to be shook off!
But the good persecuted man holds on
His course amid the tempest, sad at heart,
Yet not in courage or in vigour quail'd.
Who bears a lamp along the darkling road,
Which, though it keeps not perils from himself,
Throws rays at distance which direct the world,
Is a blest pole-star, whose benign appearance
Shall live in memory when its light is set.
Spirits are sent on earth for good to man
Who for themselves incur incessant evil,
And are by those pursued for whom they toil.
They love the inward conscience of the worth
By which they merit glory, when they lose it.
Dark is their brow and suff'ring pale thin cheek,
And Care her wrinkles deep upon it ploughs;
Feebly the feet the body bears along,
And every limb and nerve with sorrow trembles.
But still they live, and though, without, all clouds
And massy darkness, in the sanctuary
Of the soul's temple burns the purest brightness.
Which, though it keeps not perils from himself,
Throws rays at distance which direct the world,
Is a blest pole-star, whose benign appearance
Shall live in memory when its light is set.
Spirits are sent on earth for good to man
Who for themselves incur incessant evil,
And are by those pursued for whom they toil.
They love the inward conscience of the worth
By which they merit glory, when they lose it.
Dark is their brow and suff'ring pale thin cheek,
And Care her wrinkles deep upon it ploughs;
Feebly the feet the body bears along,
And every limb and nerve with sorrow trembles.
But still they live, and though, without, all clouds
And massy darkness, in the sanctuary
Of the soul's temple burns the purest brightness.
The wind, that to repose had hush'd itself,
Again begins to mutter. Arno's white wave
And Rhone's blue tumbling billow greet each other
Across the istmus, as they near approach
Into each others' arms to throw themselves!
Blasts, lightly shrieking, ride again upon
The ruffled summits of their surfaces;
And cars with rumbling wheels seem rapidly
To roll upon them. Tones of th' elements
Are to the poet music rapturous:
In the still midnight ever Nature's sounds
Speak as oracular voices,—then the Muse
Within her glowing arms embraces us,
And we lie bath'd in bliss most exquisite.
Then only her dear sister, Contemplation,
Sits by our sides, and consecrates our slumbers.
Encircled in the hooded veil, she whispers
Lullabies; and the spirit from deep slumbers
Hears, and is sooth'd the more, and sleeps again!
Who are th' interpreters of airy visions
Like these? The dreamer is too lost in rapture,
And all the notes are airy and inaudible
To others, and the shapes are light and flitting.
But sometimes when the dream has pass'd away,
The memory still retains it on the fancy;—
Thus fancy renovates what rich creation
Invents; for fancy merely is a mirror,
And has no faculty which recombines.
Again begins to mutter. Arno's white wave
And Rhone's blue tumbling billow greet each other
Across the istmus, as they near approach
Into each others' arms to throw themselves!
Blasts, lightly shrieking, ride again upon
The ruffled summits of their surfaces;
And cars with rumbling wheels seem rapidly
To roll upon them. Tones of th' elements
Are to the poet music rapturous:
In the still midnight ever Nature's sounds
Speak as oracular voices,—then the Muse
Within her glowing arms embraces us,
And we lie bath'd in bliss most exquisite.
Then only her dear sister, Contemplation,
Sits by our sides, and consecrates our slumbers.
Encircled in the hooded veil, she whispers
Lullabies; and the spirit from deep slumbers
Hears, and is sooth'd the more, and sleeps again!
Who are th' interpreters of airy visions
Like these? The dreamer is too lost in rapture,
18
To others, and the shapes are light and flitting.
But sometimes when the dream has pass'd away,
The memory still retains it on the fancy;—
Thus fancy renovates what rich creation
Invents; for fancy merely is a mirror,
And has no faculty which recombines.
Let dust to dust return, and take the fate
Of its materials of mortality:
The soul within has died from its corruption.
If man to crawl with worms is well content,
And live upon the foulness of the earth,
The fate of earth he must endure, and never
Ascend the skies! and then his brother worm
Will eat the lifeless carcase, and no Spirit
Hover to call back the etherial particle!
Milton has said, that man imbrutes by sensual
Sin; and the joy of mere material pleasure
Is full of disappointment and regret.
Satan rules o'er the world, and in the shape
Of the sly serpent ever tempts to ill:
Disguise, and treachery, and hypocrisy,
Are the chief crimes that desolate the world,—
Then fraud, extortion, plunder. Purge foul London
Of nineteen-twentieths of its habitants,
And there will be enough to govern well!
But multitudes conceal the hell-like practices
Of rapine, theft, and juggle, blood, and torture.
How live the crowds that round the carrion flock
Of the vile Public Funds? By daily lies,
For fraud and robbery alone invented!
There solitude, amid innumerable
And dense collections of unknown and nameless
Masses of men, o'ercomes the drooping spirit,
And, with a fearful dread of rude oppression,
Makes the heart sink itself to mean abasement.
How different is the solitude of woods,
And vallies, and green meadows, and soft rills!
There tranquil self-complacence may revive,
And fond Imagination may conform,
All which surrounds it to its own delight.
There native love and purity of bosom
Has leisure to be good, and to dispense
Light from the rays within upon the scene,
When the wind breathes the music of the skies.
Here only can the Muse her heavenly fire
Nurse, and the mind forget its earthly bonds,
And spiritual Virtue spread her glittering wings!
There is no joy but in deep solitude,—
When by the world to be forgotten, little
Imports us if we that base world forget!
Give me but books and a smooth-running pen,
And bread and water and a roof of straw
Suffice for me upon the lonely mountain,
Where I may see the blessed sun arise
And set again, and from a trackless distance
See towers and cities glitter, but not hear
The sounds discordant of their clamourous strifes!
I would that I had thus a life whose troubles
Have darken'd every moment pass'd away;
I was not fitted for the frays of man,
Contending ever with his jealous neighbour.
Of its materials of mortality:
The soul within has died from its corruption.
If man to crawl with worms is well content,
And live upon the foulness of the earth,
The fate of earth he must endure, and never
Ascend the skies! and then his brother worm
Will eat the lifeless carcase, and no Spirit
Hover to call back the etherial particle!
Milton has said, that man imbrutes by sensual
Sin; and the joy of mere material pleasure
Is full of disappointment and regret.
Satan rules o'er the world, and in the shape
Of the sly serpent ever tempts to ill:
Disguise, and treachery, and hypocrisy,
Are the chief crimes that desolate the world,—
Then fraud, extortion, plunder. Purge foul London
Of nineteen-twentieths of its habitants,
And there will be enough to govern well!
But multitudes conceal the hell-like practices
Of rapine, theft, and juggle, blood, and torture.
How live the crowds that round the carrion flock
Of the vile Public Funds? By daily lies,
For fraud and robbery alone invented!
There solitude, amid innumerable
And dense collections of unknown and nameless
Masses of men, o'ercomes the drooping spirit,
And, with a fearful dread of rude oppression,
Makes the heart sink itself to mean abasement.
How different is the solitude of woods,
And vallies, and green meadows, and soft rills!
There tranquil self-complacence may revive,
And fond Imagination may conform,
All which surrounds it to its own delight.
There native love and purity of bosom
Has leisure to be good, and to dispense
Light from the rays within upon the scene,
When the wind breathes the music of the skies.
Here only can the Muse her heavenly fire
Nurse, and the mind forget its earthly bonds,
And spiritual Virtue spread her glittering wings!
19
When by the world to be forgotten, little
Imports us if we that base world forget!
Give me but books and a smooth-running pen,
And bread and water and a roof of straw
Suffice for me upon the lonely mountain,
Where I may see the blessed sun arise
And set again, and from a trackless distance
See towers and cities glitter, but not hear
The sounds discordant of their clamourous strifes!
I would that I had thus a life whose troubles
Have darken'd every moment pass'd away;
I was not fitted for the frays of man,
Contending ever with his jealous neighbour.
But I must end this fitful song, or come,
At least, to a pause; and how can I have strength
To raise my voice, or drive the current on?
Woes cluster on my hoary head anew,
And I am call'd this head to prostrate low,
E'en to the wildest fury of the storm:
It seems a crime to listen to the Muse,
And by her magic voice to lull my torments!
But still I throw me in her shielding arms,
And in her voice's sweet forgetfulness
Am sooth'd again by night to airy dreams.
The day too troublous is, and mortal noises
Drown all the notes of her seraphic tongue;
But midnight stillness tempts her forth again,
And on the solemn murmer of the breeze
Her heavenly strain comes floating,—then again
Of empyrean air I draw the freshness,
And cast away the load of human sorrow.
At least, to a pause; and how can I have strength
To raise my voice, or drive the current on?
Woes cluster on my hoary head anew,
And I am call'd this head to prostrate low,
E'en to the wildest fury of the storm:
It seems a crime to listen to the Muse,
And by her magic voice to lull my torments!
But still I throw me in her shielding arms,
And in her voice's sweet forgetfulness
Am sooth'd again by night to airy dreams.
The day too troublous is, and mortal noises
Drown all the notes of her seraphic tongue;
But midnight stillness tempts her forth again,
And on the solemn murmer of the breeze
Her heavenly strain comes floating,—then again
Of empyrean air I draw the freshness,
And cast away the load of human sorrow.
Thou whom these melancholy strains displease,
Avert thy world-besotted ears, and spit
The hateful scorn of thy obdurate heart:
If thou art fond of gorgeous imagery,
Or fairy fiction, here thou wilt not find it.
The texture of the web is grave and moral,
Scorning all ornament; the lessons stern,
But not the less by sweet emotions soften'd
Of sympathy for man's afflicted fate.
Avert thy world-besotted ears, and spit
The hateful scorn of thy obdurate heart:
If thou art fond of gorgeous imagery,
Or fairy fiction, here thou wilt not find it.
The texture of the web is grave and moral,
Scorning all ornament; the lessons stern,
But not the less by sweet emotions soften'd
Of sympathy for man's afflicted fate.
| Human Fate | |