The Visionary :: :: University of Virginia Library

In this cold hollow World how many live
In a dream-wrought Creation of their own,
And slight attention to its vexed scenes give
Of strife and trouble—happier far alone,
When thought doth take a more melodious tone,
And outward things assume a lovelier guise,
And more delightful grows the wind's low moan,
And Earth seems nearer to the blessed skies,
And they stand breathless, mute, as fixed in sweet surprise!

II

Oh! the triumphal morning comes to such,
For ever beautiful—for ever new,
Dull worldly Care's benumbing cankering touch,
Hath nothing with their waking hours to do;
They hear the birds' sweet matins—and they view
Light's dawning glory—and no rankling thorn
To pain converts their pleasure, pure and true—
While thou, resplendent and rejoicing Morn,
Art in a thousand ways—a thousand shapes new-born!

III

Or when on luminous occupation bent,
The thrilling stars make night a glorious scene,
Like proud ambassadors from Heaven's court sent,
That speak to man in language most serene;
When wondrous Nature doth a holier mien
Assume—and Thought, on strong wings passes on
To that which shall be, even from what hath been—
And Contemplation pure, and deep and lone,
Seeks Worlds more blest, more bright, round the Creator's throne.

IV

They're tranced and rocked then, on Night's mighty heart,
And thence drink Inspiration—they are led
By their own yearning thoughts to stray apart,
And lonely paths they brightly musing tread—
So deep grows their delight, it pants like dread.
But they grow ever stronger to sustain,
And revel in the gladness o'er them shed,
Even though it almost quickens into pain;
And they would feel it still, again and oft again!

V

They hear a mighty music deep and clear,
Where busy careful worldlings can hear nought;
Oh! many a blessed thing they see and hear
With truth and love, and power and feeling fraught,
Because to Nature's altar they have brought
A watchful spirit, and a quick sense borne,
Most willing to be led, and to be taught—
And farthest from their thoughts are doubt and scorn;
Thus doubly blessed to them, come night and joyous morn!

VI

Am I of such?—a something I may claim
Of fellowship with them—yet woe is me—
Not altogether can I be the same,
Though if I could how gladly would I be!
But though I am as fervent and as free—
Too much of an impatient restlessness;
Nay, oft an aimless dim anxiety
Blends with my happier feelings—to oppress—
To o'erpower them oft, when they should most delight and bless!

VII

Yet partly I do claim with those to feel;
Mine is the prescient sense, the passionate dream,
The ecstatic thrill that through the frame doth steal,
Mixed with a glow that we might almost deem
Was breathed in with a noon-sun's molten beam!
So warmly through the soul it seems to spread,
Till rosy runs life's smoothly flowing stream;
As though by highest, heavenliest springs 't was fed,
As though undimmed 't was poured from life's great fountain head!

VIII

Mine is the passion, and at times the power,
And in a world of dreams I ofttimes stray;
My path is strewed with many an amaranth flower,
For me ambrosial fruits load branch and spray;
I go rejoicing on my haunted way,
And still to Nature lend an earnest ear,
For all is pure, all true, that she doth say;
She draws all love, she banishes all fear,
'Tis well to cling to her, nearer and yet more near.

IX

Hark—Holy! Holy! Holy! saith the Morn,
With all her tones of music and of might,
And dare the sluggard sleep, the scoffer scorn,
While she so sweetly, brightly doth invite?—
Dare they that high and happy summons slight,
To vigilant ears so palpable and plain?
They lose they know not what of rare delight,
For Morn, emparadising Morn—doth reign;
And splendours, witcheries, joys, shine in her shining train.

X

Hark—Holy! Holy! Holy! saith the Morn,
And Holy! Holy! Holy! doth reply
The awful Night, whom countless worlds adorn
That take up that dread chorus through the sky,
While all is power and love and harmony;
And blest with noblest bliss—how truly blessed!
Are those who with Devotion's rapturous sigh,
Join in the solemn strain with tranquil breast;
Proud to confess the zeal—saints, angels have confessed!

XI

List!—Holy! Holy! Holy! saith the Morn,
Hark! 'tis the lark's song! free and far he skims
Her paths of flame—on rapid pinions borne,
Till distance dwindles that slight form, and dims—
His song divine is like the Seraphims'—
A strain that's not of knowledge, but of love!
And O! his joyous and exuberant hymns
The bosom meltingly and sweetly move
To join him in his rites, his tuneful rites above!

XII

Those glad hymns many a heart shall more dispose
To pious thoughts than thousand homilies;
Who, all against them can his bosom close,
What time resound their exquisite harmonies?
Unconsciously we lift adoring eyes—
Unconsciously with kindred fires we glow—
We breathe our souls in prayer unto the skies,
Almost forgetful of the world below,
At least forgetful all, of its vile cares and woe!

XIII

How oft when Night's great reign was spread o'er all
In Youth's glad dawn of life, entranced I stood;
Nor could its gloom, its loneliness appal,
But bright emotions in a glowing flood
Shook my soul's depths—O! 'twas a rapturous mood—
I gazed on those blest worlds so proud, so fair,
And banquetted on that ambrosial food,
Which young Imagination doth prepare
For her fond votaries true, who her sweet fetters wear.

XIV

I sphered and I unsphered my thoughts in joy,
Nor from th' enchanted cup one drop did spill—
My proud enjoyment then had no alloy—
I sphered and I unsphered my thoughts at will,
Now to some dazzling world as to fulfil
Most glorious destinies—I, dreaming, passed;
Now in some soft, mild planet, calm and still
Awhile remained—then journeying far and fast,
Back to my native earth, returned in peace at last!

XV

I sphered and I unsphered my thoughts in joy—
Now Fancy bore me in her volant car—
(Ah! pleasure, too unlike earth's bliss to cloy),
To some particular and selected star;
The loveliest among those which loveliest are,
A sun 'midst suns, where triumphed beings bright
As their most dazzling home; where nought could mar,
Nor mock my bliss—where nought could blunt, nor blight
My ecstasies divine that gathered still fresh might!

XVI

Methought to my charmed eyes were then laid bare,
All, all the secret principles of things—
And I beheld, unshrinking, then and there—
The finest workings of their farthest springs;
The veil which nature o'er her mystery flings
Withdrawn, appeared to leave unchecked my glance,
Assuaging, for awhile, the goading stings
Of sleepless Curiosity—in trance
Sublime—while she forbore, to cry “On! On! advance!”

XVII

I sphered and I unsphered my thoughts at will—
None that ne'er felt, ere dreamt of such delight!
The soul mounts Nature like a throne; and still
Feels proud increase of joy and strength and might;
Still communing with the heavens, the winds, the night,
The world of worlds that lies spread proudly round,
While thus she bursts away on her far flight;
While thus she soars where is no bar nor bound,
And leaves fear, trouble, care, on their own earthly ground!

XVIII

But 'twas Imagination's doing all!
Yet, though not truth, it looked as bright and clear!
And though in fact still frowned the encircling wall,
Spread thick the impervious veil—that dream was dear!
'Twas a foretaste of that which must be near,
When earth's poor span and bounded field's resigned,
When Truth, for the first time, shall full appear—
No more with error witheringly entwined,
For that on earth 't was so; then shall the sagest find!

XIX

Imagination! thou'rt for ever known
Youth's fairest of possessions, and belongs
To thee the wand! to thee belong the throne,
The victory and the feast! thy pæan songs
(Which if she scorns proud Reason harshly wrongs)
Are Wisdom's words to music charmed by Love,
Thou'rt framed of wings, and eyes, and tuneful tongues,—
Whose sweet soliloquies thy zeal improve
The while those eyes pierce all, through which those swift wings rove!

XX

Oh! when the quiet seal of middle age
Is stamped upon my brow—and manhood's prime
Is overpast, should I not seek to assuage
My Soul with contemplations less sublime
But far more solid, and root out in time
These wild hallucinations of the brain,
And dwell in spirit in a soberer clime,
And exile Fancy and her motley train,
And other quests pursue; haply not all in vain!

XXI

Yet if these dear illusions were expelled
For sordid interests, and for worldly cares,
These pleasures crushed, those glad excitements quelled,
With all their quickening beams, their freshening airs
But for the fruit the World's rank vineyard bears,
But for its boasted vanities abhorred,
Indignantly my swelling Soul prepares
To scorn the exchange,—oh! let them be restored,
Those free proud rapturous dreams, loved—cherished—and deplored!

XXII

Are there in this strange world no vainer dreams,
No wild illusions, guiltier far than mine?
Mark where the Statesman weaves his web, and deems
The public weal doth with his projects twine,
Yet oftener to his own good doth incline;
The Conqueror too, who ruins with one stroke
A land's glad hope, and bids a nation pine,
Doth he not through a strange false medium look,
And deem he nobly doth, Earth's paths with dead to choke?

XXIII

And the Freethinker, who is but bent to undo
Whate'er hath claimed Mankind's respect before,
And thinks his theory only can be true,
Though rank it be, and rotten at the core—
For the world's gain, he dreams 't is, he doth pore
Over his midnight lamp;—if he succeeds,
Many may haply his vain skill deplore,
Propped on Philosophy's frail feeble reeds,
And weakened in their faith in best and noblest creeds.

XXIV

My fancies can to others do no harm,
Whate'er they to myself perchance may do;
And there's in them a soft redeeming charm,
That wins me to them—ever fair and new;
Bright cheats and smiling mischiefs, though 't is true
They may be—yet in sooth, their very stings
Are painless in compare with thorns that strew
Life's worldlier path;—thorns red Ambition brings
Or love, or trust too firm in Earth's real solid things.

XXV

Oh! World! oh! Man! supremely, greatly blest,
Who little know of ye—untaught—untried,
Still the most fortunate who know the least!
But if such ignorance should be denied,
Let, let the bitter knowledge then be wide—
Wide, clear and deep! enough to teach them well
To avoid the thousand rocks that lurking hide
Their pointed perils wheresoe'er they swell—
The human tides smoothed o'er, but fatal, false, and fell!

XXVI

Oh! World! World; as thy mightiest Master said,
When even he found thee hard to melt or move—
When even he almost bowed his haughty head
Beneath thy yoke—thy treacheries doom'd to prove!
“World! World!” as he exclaimed—that earthborn Jove,
When his fierce lip with ire impatient curled,
When vainly 'gainst opposing Fate he strove—
And from the heights of boundless triumph hurled—
Arraigned, denounced, rebuked his God—his Slave—his World!

XXVII

Disdain, distrust, defiance, hatred, grief,
Spoke there!—the schemes he wrought, the plans he wove,
Must they thwart him?—that King-compelling Chief!
Oh! had he known himself thus to reprove!
World! World!—how happy he whose mind's above
Thy changes and thy strife!—who doth not take
His hints from thee—for they who have had thy Love,
Thy Honours, and thy Praises, most awake,
Are, or shall be, to all, which these must worthless make!

XXVIII

Yes! happy, happiest he whose chosen path
Is far from all thy emptiness and noise—
Far from thy variable uproar and wrath,
Who prizes not thy solemn shown and toys,—
But breathes untroubled breath, reaps cloudless joys,
Whose sweet continuance not alone depends
On thy capricious whim—not him annoys
The unloving look which Fortune on him bends,
Heaven, Nature, Conscience, Truth, and Feeling are his friends!

XXIX

And yet but few exist, who have not known,
Sooner or later known—or more or less—
Thine influence—forced thy tyrannous power to own!
And doomed to mould their mimic happiness
After thy laws.—Oh! impotent to bless
That wretched shade of Pleasure, which would ape
Another shade!—'tis but refined distress,
While, closely they must measure it and shape,
By thy fixed standards else, none shall thy sentence 'scape!

XXX

They may not seek to improve, nor vary—what!
Shall Man dare to be happy his own way?
Shall he affect to mark out his own lot?
No! in the World all rule and all obey—
A common slavery—as a common sway!—
Resistance and remonstrance were but vain,
The strict exacted tribute all must pay
Society,—that boundless pest and bane
That Juggernaut grinds all, beneath her ponderous wain!

XXXI

That treacherous Janus-Juggernaut that seems
To proffer Peace, while she is revolving War,—
Whose kindliest smile with deadliest malice teems,
Whose wide waved hundred arms reach near and far;
She urges—yield! or bleed beneath her car,—
Your glowing feelings you must put to school—
Be of a piece with all, and on a par,
Be wise by pattern, and be blest by rule,
Or thou'rt confessed indeed, a madman and a fool!

XXXII

Indeed a Madman if to choose thou'rt free,
And still wilt herd with that harsh World's mad train,
Not formed to sympathize or to agree
With her or hers, nor taught to forge nor feign
Resemblance!—to be sober thus and sane
Is phrenzy—where all frantic are the same,
Shall not the monster Many rule and reign?—
Shall not the wild flock fall upon the tame?—
Shall not the myriad Mad crush the sane few's weak claim?

XXXIII

Not any right canst thou have to complain,
If thou indeed art unconstrained and free,
Yet in the Vortex choosest to remain—
Would'st thou stand still?—so thou may'st giddier be
—Ten thousand wild contortions thou shalt see
Which thou might'st mark not, bearing too thy share,
But watching, in cold blood, the Insanity
Of others may plunge thee in worse despair—
One dizzying dreadful doubt of Right—Worth—Truth—beware!

XXXIV

'T is not alone that— [OMITTED]

XXXV

All must endure the yoke—the rod must kiss,
Taste, Custom, Circumstance, Opinion—these
Rule all—if one would build some tower of bliss,
Which he would not have bowed to every breeze
Of their vile variance—dares he hope for ease?
Shall not the World, defied, denied, destroy?
And while with Worldly judgments not agrees
His daring Soul, shall these not blunt his joy?
Shall he not reck and rue, Man's hate can bring annoy?

XXXVI

Oh! very different would this World be found,
If men were bent each other still to assist,
In lieu of hindering ever—that on ground
Of vantage they themselves may high i' the list
Shine blazoned; as though each did but exist
For Self and Self-advancement—'t is even so
They gracious Nature's pure intentions twist,
But mixed together to work mutual woe;
Is this as it should be?—must it be thus below?

XXXVII

Hail! beatific Nature! thou indeed,
Art ever Comforter, and ever Friend!
Thou turn'st not from us in our bitter need,
When our Souls droop—our burthened shoulders bend—
But gentlest Consolations know'st to send
Into our inmost hearts—yet oft we turn
From thee, dull ingrates! all our souls to lend
To the false hollow World, and still to yearn
For its inconstant joys, that leave us oft to mourn!

XXXVIII

Even now from Contemplations vain and keen—
Fatiguing to the thoughts, to apostrophize
Thee, thee I turn—thee now in varied scene,
Appealing to my sense! Earth, Air, and Skies
Now to my gladdened and enlightened eyes
A charm, a power, a living Glory wear,
That Morning lends, with her fresh blooming dyes;
Oh! Nature, thou canst banish gloom and care,
Thou only, ever, found—beneficent and fair!

XXXIX

Go forth! for Morning comes!—in all her pride,
And all her grace, Go forth, for welcomed thou
Shalt be by Nature, Man's half Deified,
Who knows how to enjoy with fair-smoothed brow
And calmed heart such hours, she seems to avow
Her Lord! his Pageantry—his Festival
She makes her own, and while we onward plough
Our way, 't is well to listen to her call,
And drink that milk of love she gives instead of gall!

XL

Ever I joyed to hold communion calm
With her—Yea! ever 't was my Soul's delight,
For still that Soul had need of her deep balm,
And I, her own, still kept her in my sight—
I loved to watch the old solemn royal Night
That wraps her Purple round the Stars august,
As though she called them Children, and i' the might
Of love maternal far from these would thrust
All Evil—and still win, those treasures to her trust!

XLI

I loved the Sea, whose every wave becomes
A mirror of the Firmament and Spheres;
Do ye, oh! Stars! write there the impending dooms
Of men and nations—for that the unborn years
Glanced from your rays, the superstitious fears
And phantasies of dreaming Sages old
Taught them to think—and yet despite the sneers
Of Reason more matured, can we behold
Your Godlike aspects bright, nor own an awe untold.

XLII

Say, were not that dread Main a fitting page
For such divine transcription, such proud theme?
Unsullied and unchanged from age to age!
Doth it not almost seem itself to teem
With strange oracular hints, doth it not seem
With all its watery tongues to murmur deep
Warnings and prophesies?—but ah! ye dream
No more, ye Sages, wrapt in leaden sleep
And minds of sapience now, a different creed they keep!

XLIII

Yet sometimes when our soaring spirits yearn
For nobler things—for loftier Destinies,
To ye—proud Commonwealth of Suns! we turn,
That look unto our vision-haunted eyes
Almost a Commonwealth of Deities!
Then the wish ushers in the fond belief,
We dare to think in those World-peopled Skies
Our fates, claims, triumphs, trials, joy or grief
Are cared for, nay that these are Heaven's first care and chief!

XLIV

The very thought that what on Earth is done
Can those high Worlds affect, must make us feel
Our glorious Immortality begun,
What! do those shape our destinies and seal,
What! are they conscious of our Woe and Weal,
Those Heavens in Heaven! those Giant hosts in space,
Do those controul our Sympathies, and deal
Our Fortunes and speak of us in their place,
And shall we, can we, flag on Life's momentous race?

XLV

Perhaps 't was fancy, folly, wild and vain,
A daring and presumptuous phantasy,
A vapoury coinage of the Enthusiast's brain,
A bold Encroachment on the o'er-arching Sky—
But 't was a kingly weakness—and to sigh,
Smit by such pure ambition, might not bring
Heaven's vengeance on the Soul, free, proud, and high;
No! we might imp our Spirit's unclipped wing
For such flights unreproved—and ever soar and spring!

XLVI

'T was Fancy, Folly, Phrenzy—what you will—
But oft such glimmerings of a baseless thought
Play o'er the Soul—warm, quick and powerful still;
And if for Truth we've duly searched and sought—
Have we not still invariably been taught
Through all great Nature's thronged Immensity—
Through all things by the Almighty Maker wrought,
Sympathy—Unity—Analogy—
Association clear—Connexion close to see?

XLVII

Nothing, in Nature—Nothing—is alone,
One fine electric chain doth quickening run
Through all things—lengthening from the Eternal's throne,
All forms one mighty Whole—distinct are none—
Kindred are Worm and World—the Mote and Sun,
The least link lost might make Heaven's dread Worlds start
Forth from their Orbits—ruined and undone;
And man dreams all ev'n of himself a part,
Feeling the hidden God—that breathes about his heart!

XLVIII

Say, is 't impossible that even with ours,
Those Worlds may feel—and be perchance endued
Unconsciously, with strange prophetic Powers;
And when Dismay doth o'er Earth's Nations brood,
When Revolutions spread, and broil and feud,
And Tribulations shake her Empires wide;
'Tis haply too that changes dire intrude
'Mongst those bright Sister Realms of might and pride,
For closer than we think—all yet may be allied!

XLIX

Like mighty members of one glorious Frame,
Fraughtwith one Feeling—filled with one great Soul,
Each—as it were, another and the same,
The harmonious part of an harmonious whole!
Yea! though they seem distinct, detached, to roll
In lofty Independence—proudly lone,
That Hand which could each vast circumference bowl
Into the Deep of Space, may chain each one
In sympathetic bonds, that shall not be undone!

L

Nature! great Soother of my Spirit's cares,
When aught perplexes me, to thee I turn,
Well for thy heart it is thy peace that shares,
Well for the eye that can thy worth discern;
'Tis from the lilies of the field we learn
Not to disquiet us—and from those Stars,
To dwell with all in Harmony—nor spurn
Our fellows in Life's march—no blood-stain'd Wars
Are brewed up there—nor worse—poor vile, vain, civil jars!

LI

Our inner-being shapes itself serene,
And half-unconsciously to thee; we grow
More than spectators of thy beauteous Scene—
(The happiest hours are such we pass below!)
Parcels and portions of Thee—and we glow
With feelings most intense—yet most unblamed,
While our Life's blood doth deeply sweetly flow
In our calmed veins—we seemed renewed, and framed
Of Elements more pure, in mould and heart reclaimed!

LII

And this, most mighty Mother! is thy work,
And yet mid crowds how oft we choose to stay,
Where no bright lesson doth serenely lurk,
At every instant to illume our way—
But our checked Souls sink weltering in their clay;
Where if in something different from the rest,
Trembling, lest we such difference should betray,
We dungeon down our quick thoughts in our breast,
To fit ourselves to be their comrade and their guest!

LIII

Thus bowed beneath a double Tyranny,
Theirs and our own—for still those thoughts rebel,
And, like the Spartan boy—while none can see,
We are torn by that, which we have concealed too well,
Yet deign nor dare our heavy case to tell,
But wear the mask of carelessness and mirth,
Martyrs of secret tortures, fierce and fell,
Victims of Vanity, fast chained to Earth,
Though long since it hath lost, for us its charms and worth!

LIV

Oh! what a joy upon yon Sea sublime,
With lingerings of uncloyed delight to look,
Great Image of Eternity and Time!
Whose waves type years, but whose huge vastness took
Heaven's face in from the first! dread Sea! dost brook
From yon proud ship upon her gallant march
Commandment, or defiance, or rebuke?
The Firmaments bend o'er her in bright arch!—
Let Fancy's dreaming eye, raised there, for auguries search.

LV

'Tis sunny, cloudless all! No!—one light speck
Frowns in the Horizon, doth it hold the Storm?
And shall that Storm pour down on thy thronged deck,
Thee to defeat, destroy, or to deform?
Alas! when with high hopes elate and warm
We start on Life's strange march, such shining roof
May seem above us bent, where sunbeams swarm
While darkness and dismay keep far aloof—
Yet one slight cloud may lower, to give our pride reproof!

LVI

'T is thus Events most trivial, weak, and slight,
Come laden with our fates untoward and dark,
We ne'er avoided them, though full in sight,
For nought of threatening might we there remark;
Dread Conflagrations spread from smouldering spark—
Springs from beginnings small, most dire mischance—
The Storm that's destined to o'erwhelm our bark,
May sleep above us in a cloudy trance
Till it at length burst forth, in dread predominance.

LVII

Light Accidents o'ercome us by surprise
And mock us, who had striven with thoughtful care
To shape the Future to our phantasies;
We had wrought for years—our projects meltin air—
And moments, moments oft our dooms prepare—
Thyself, seek, if thou canst, then to defend
From instantaneous casualties! Still bear
These things in mind—nor all too fondly tend
On far wide-reaching hopes, that oft find sudden end!

LVIII

Oh! if we are wronged by Fortune, 't is at least
A consolation, or should be, to view
What things become her Favourites—of her feast
Partaking as it were their merits due—
Who have carved their way opposing barriers through—
Who bask them in her smiles unchangingly—
Yea, well to observe her choice elected few
And those who with thyself contemned may be,
If that consoles thee not, then, then, I pity thee!

LIX

How oft, hath she adopted for her own—
Her own spoiled children—the low-souled and mean,
And all her gilded gaudes about them thrown,—
Invested them with all her glittering sheen—
Who hath lived long in this wild World nor seen
Her vile injustice?—who if good and wise
Hath learned not, firm and steadfastly serene,
Herself and her vain favourites to despise,
Pitying the Winners oft—nor coveting the prize!

LX

Matter it is to make a Stoic laugh
To watch those wretched puppets strut and prate,
Those things of dust and dross—and clay and chaff
Propped up by freakish Fortune and blind Fate!
Lo! Emptiness and Nothingness in State!
These foist their dull opinions on the deep
But misled mind of Man—that mind shall date—
Evil—from the hour they caught it in its sleep—
Aye matter 't is in sooth—to make Fiends laugh or weep!

LXI

Look on them in their insignificance!
Authority into their hands consigned—
But a bald meanness in their sidelong glance
Fatuity and falsehood in their mind!
There are, who will indulgently be blind
To their dull foibles, and there are who deign
Shape their own judgments by the shapeless kind
Of theirs, and then aloud they dare complain
And cry that Man is wronged—and his high Hopes are vain!

LXII

Oh! Fortune! thou hast ne'er flattered me nor raised,
And I have ne'er followed thee—for thine own sake—
My hope was to be loved and to be praised
In earlier days, ere grief my soul could shake—
Such hopes I find were bubbles—let them break!
My fault and folly 't is—or 't was, Oh! most
Should I have felt this had thy fearful Snake
Remorse, been gendered 'mid their growth—then crossed,
We have no resource within, and so are doubly lost!

LXIII

But not thus was my object, or my aim
Parent of Guilt—but innocent as strong
Let worldly Censors harshly scorn and blame
Even as they will—could such sweet hopes be wrong?
They are lost, but to my lonely thoughts belong
An independence and a freshness still
That never can remain when once among,
Those thoughts, that deadly Snake doth wind at will,
Poisoning them ev'n as may, vile weeds some close-choaked rill!

LXIV

Ev'n if our friends desert us, let us think
The Shame and the remorse shall be their own!—
Who could from their own fond professions shrink!—
Themselves, of us, they have thus unworthy shown,
Since if inconstant and estranged they have grown,
Not from our fault—then we may well be sure
That while we loved them, for themselves alone
'T was interest took in them the semblance pure
And guise of Friendship—so, our grief should find its cure!

LXV

And if indeed we miss them from our side
When from our eyes, Misfortune harshly draws
Grief's blistering tear, they on whom we relied
For aid—for comfort—this should make us pause—
Should teach us to scorn those who spurn thy laws
Blest Friendship! Yea! if they have fallen away
From their proclaimed adhesion, without cause
Then let us raise our drooping heads and say
“The Sorrow and the Shame be theirs who could betray!”

LXVI

There are so soft of Nature, and so deep
In Feeling, that they will not, cannot, bring
Themselves to view things thus, they groan and weep
But struggle not, nor ever strive to wring
The Affliction from their Soul, Alas! they fling
Their strength away in poisoning more the dart
That's poisoning them,—and their deep Being's spring
All tears—those Arethusas of the Heart
In faint Dejection melt, unsolaced and apart!

LXVII

Could they arise and see their fond mistake
How would they gladly arm themselves with Scorn—
But then few eyes would weep—few hearts would break,
And few would wander cheerless and forlorn
For what hath Life to give—what fruits adorn
Its tree, worth half the toils we stoop to accord?—
Dreams lighter than the exhaling mists of Morn
Are prospects vain of bliss—let Peace be stored
Deep in your heart of hearts—on Earth bliss is a word!

LXVIII

Why do we writhe in a perplexed unrest
And lay not balm, but gall unto our soul,
And feed ten thousand adders in our breast
Lest all too smooth Life's torrent-stream should roll?
Why do we strive to embitter its wide whole,
And discontented with our sorrow's store
Seek to increase it ever till the Knoll
Sounds in our ears—and we must seek that Shore
Where joy or grief must be, our own for evermore!

LXIX

Do we not madden in a Calenture
Of feeling most diseased?—as though we came
From some far Heavenly Land, bright, glorious, pure?
Such Beauty doth our Fancy in its flame
Bestow on Life's rough waves!—even thus we frame
The Paradise we yearn for—and thus throw
Ourselves midst those fierce billows—in fond aim
For that which is not!—and so court our woe
And all too late the Truth—and the Delusion know!

LXX

Fearful Adversity!—whatever shape
Thou'st skilled to take, at least thou teachest much
And none may hope from thy dread Scourge to escape;
How many that never deigned their pangs to avouch
Have tired all Suffering out!—yet could not crouch
And would not shrink, but braved the thronging ills
They could stand firm to bear—Praise be to such!
Such noble Courage, Duty's law fulfils,
And more than Victory waits, on such unflinching Wills!

LXXI

All well might act thus, who would pause to think
What are the Inflictions—and inflicted why!—
Who would reflect how soon they'll reach the brink
Of Life's rough precipice-bounded path—and die!
How many mourn—Lo! while they sit and sigh
The Grief they weep o'er 's dwindling to a shade!—
Moments go hurrying past—and long years fly
While they are fools of their vain fondness made—
While they have in Mourning Robes, themselves by choice arrayed.

LXXII

Pitying themselves—declining all relief—
They study Sorrow's mummery and grimace—
Though they've survived their real and proper grief
Of whose original form remains no trace—
A Phantom 't is, they grasp in their Embrace
A Shade—The Substance perished in the Past!—
And so they close Life's great eventful race,
Tenacious but of Suffering to the last—
Extracting from its cup—each drop of bitterest taste!

LXXIII

We make our food of poison and surprised
We are that we should suffer—let it go—
All that we've coveted or sought or prized
Or soon or late shall cost us care and woe.
It is to be—it shall it must be so
And we must wait for our Deliverance
From our worst foes—ourselves—for still below
Men do their trials and their pains enhance
By every possible means, and make their crutch—a lance!

LXXIV

Why for ourselves do we unwearied toil—
To frame the strong and adamantine band—
To wreathe the closely-clasping numbing coil—
Why choose to linger, fettered foot and hand?—
Why for ourselves have we for ever planned
Restraints—forbidding us to freely move—
Trembling we stir—or totteringly we stand
So cramped with Selfish motives—let the Dove
The Stork teach better things—and lesson us in Love!

LXXV

Selfishness is our bane—hath it been mine?
No! no! not wholly Selfishness it was—
Love's breath did make my being half-divine
In days now gone for ever—and alas!
When that dear dream did with its sweetness pass
I was more severed from my fellows all
Than Man should be, while in the World's great mass
Of Being—subject to one selfsame thrall
With all that round him crowd—intent to climb or crawl!

LXXVI

'T is well to be so severed—if 't is not
Too much and widely—Man's too apt to make
His fellow man his judge, and of his Lot
The Mover and Controller—nor for the sake
Of Heaven and Heavenly Hopes, to watch and wake,
But still, preferment from Man's hand to gain
Advantage and advancement, that must slake
His thirst for fame or lucre—if the chain
In some links loosened be, it shall not be in vain!

LXXVII

There are who can almost abstract their hearts
From the dull business of this work-day Earth,
And even 'midst all its toils, broils, snares and arts
Keep still unfettered in their glowing worth
Their best Emotions; So 'mongst all the dearth,
The nothingness and noise, they pass along
Bless'd by the noblest gift bestowed by birth,
The faculty of feeling—deep, bright, strong—
Themselves—their thoughts—their own—even in the o'erpowering throng!

LXXVIII

But others—and the larger number much
Become the prey of its infection vile,
And poisoned are, by its dread venomed touch!
While numbed by its dire basilisk-eye's cold smile—
And bound and crushed by its culebra coil,
They grow Nonentities—and still the more
They lose all claim to Honour's flattering style
The more do they require it—and deplore,
If merited Contempt, should o'er them fiercely pour!

LXXIX

Save me from this!—whate'er hath Nature's hand,
Made me, so let me be! I would not turn
With every touch of Fortune's fickle wand—
But hold my Sould unchanged, though kind or stern
This hollow World should seem—nor let me yearn
For its vain pleasures—varying—yet the same
In Emptiness! No! from whatever Urn,
The dark or bright, my cup be filled, I claim
Proud Independence still—that stoops not to false shame!

LXXX

Is there a sadder or more sickening sight,
Than to see one, who hath no thought beyond
This wretched world—his Worship and Delight—
Chasing its phantoms desperately fond,
Fulfilling to the last its rigourous bond!
One who hath sought but its precarious good,
Its harsh laws studied, and its vile tasks conned—
And ceaselessly hath watched it—worshipped—wooed,
To each varying vain caprice, varying his servile mood!

LXXXI

How oft his fond zeal its own end defeats!
He would be first among his fellows found,
Yet scarce dares move, lest frowns, or that which meets
Ambition, with a withering check, to bound,
Its haughty flight, harsh Ridicule should sound
In his pained ears, and so he longs, yet dreads
To climb—his hopes—his Aspirations drowned
In abject doubt and deference—till to shreds
Fall all his fair-woven Schemes—and Darkness round him spreads!

LXXXII

Detested Mediocrity results,
From thence—with stagnant soul and frigid mind!
Palmy Ambition its plumed glory moults,
And fiery zeal lies cabinned and confined
With gall, ice, lead,—to embitter, numb, and bind!
The immortal Spirit drags its weary way,
Till Death, or Child-changed age severely kind,
Ends its regrets and sufferings in the clay—
Since consciousness in Eld, oft sinks as its first prey.

LXXXIII

Not yet—not yet, Oh! cruel World! hast forked
Thy deadly Lightnings through my soul—not yet,
Hast in my Spirit Alteration worked—
Warped from what 't was, and 't would be! may'st thou set,
Star of my destiny! without the let
Of poisonous Exhalations to obstruct,
Thy beams—though pale and few they may forget
Their early brightness—I have willingly plucked
On Earth but wholesome plants, and their pure nectar sucked!

LXXXIV

My heart 't is true at times hath gone astray,
In deadliness of aching—for I've known,
The debt of suffering to harsh Life to pay—
And paid it unsupported and alone,
Till my Soul one dark sacrifice had grown—
But then came Mercy to staunch every wound!
And Pain's black vulture-brood at length hath flown—
And Peace, calm golden Peace my Soul hath found,
And Gratitude my mind, shall cherish without bound!

LXXXV

Yes! I have suffered—and let no Man judge
What others' griefs and trials may have been,
Some may be found to doubt, dodge, droil, and drudge
In this dull drudging World—but bright and keen
Some Natures cannot keep the fitting mean,
But rush upon Excess!—Woe, woe to them,
Woe—woe to all who on Life's troubled scene
Are wanting in that blunt, cold, worldly phlegm,
Which sole enables men, Earth's various tides to stem!

LXXXVI

[OMITTED]

LXXXVII

We are distracted from each other now,
My once Beloved!—and yet at times I deem,
Our Souls converse—mine own once more art thou—
But then the pitiless currents of Life's stream,
Bear us afar—Still that one little beam
Long, long lights up my course, I will not sink,
But stir up those sweet ashes of a Dream,
To warm and cheer me, and will fondly think,
There is yet between our Souls, a rivet and a link.

LXXXVIII

That honey-drop shall bless my bitter cup
Haply far more than floods of nectar may
Theirs, who too unregardfully drink up
Their dealt draughts of Life's stream, I cannot pay
Homage to many Shrines, but I can play
Calmly my fond and faithful part, and snatch
Real pleasure from those blossoms of a day,
Love, Friendship, Hope, Delight, they which attach
To Earth, yet teach the while, that Earth Heaven's hues to catch!

LXXXIX

We are distracted from each other now—
Oh! could I teach another, but to love
As I have loved—then with far smoother brow
Along my briary pathway I might rove,
Since I should know, that thou at least shouldest prove
What a divinest blessing Life may find
Love—Love immortal—and that thou should'st move
Scatheless along—a deep, deep heart and mind
'Twixt thee and every storm, and shock of Fate Unkind.

XC

Is't not a perilous way we have to tread
With dangers and with sorrows compassed round?
Bright starry glories beam out overhead
But thorns and ashes every step surround—
And most inconstant is the shifting ground,
Yet there is for our hand a mighty staff
That shall support us—there have yet been found
Immortal treasures near—not dust nor chaff,
And fountains of which we, may all securely quaff.

XCI

Alas! we catch at straws and grasp them fast
Who have the Rock of all Defence at hand,
It hath been so for ever in the Past,
And will be so while Time doth still expand
His awful wings—we've plotted and we've planned
And been our hardest Taskmasters to ourselves,
We've built our fond frail Edifice on sand—
Wev'e steered our bark 'gainst black Destruction's shelves—
We've fallen in that dank pit,—our own Corruption delves!

XCII

Dull Vanities of Life! how can ye hold
Even for a moment Souls for Heaven designed—
Souls cast and fashioned in immortal mould—
How can ye charm down an aspiring mind,
And file, and clip, and damp, and clog, and bind
The Thoughts, the Imaginings that should be free
As Light, or Flame, or Ocean, or the Wind?
Dull Vanities of Life! that ye should be
Perchance the bars accursed, to a blest Eternity.

XCIII

Oh! to renounce those Vanities—forswear
Those follies!—and to calm the restless Soul
And shut those avenues to long Despair—
While moments pile themselves to years and roll
The Stars and Worlds—while the Universe's whole
Proceeds and progresses!—this—this were well,
Then should we drain not Sorrow's tragic bowl,
Nor should the Soul with sick impatience swell,
Nor in a vain suspense, unsoothed, unsettled, dwell!

XCIV

To struggle on without one blessed Hope
To torch us on our long and dreary way—
With very Spirit-sickness bowed to droop—
And dread the rising of another day—
Save 't is upon our ashes—this I say
Is Misery—I have known it—to have known
Perhaps is well—it weans us from the clay,
Teacheth us Earth's vain Influence to disown—
To seek far brighter realms—and mansions for our own!

XCV

Oh! heavy World!—how many bowed and bent
Have courted still thy load—though still increased
While their presumption grows their punishment—
Their worst of terrors, 't is to be released—
And so they stumble on—the wiser beast
Is glad to miss his burthen—while they hug
Theirs ever more and more, till all hath ceased
And their deep grave in Mother Earth is dug
And they are nestled close with kindred Worm and Slug!

XCVI

Thou heavy heavy World! where Time doth wield
His terrible scythe in triumph and in pride
And ever rests the master of the field
And priceless treasure doth in dim vaults hide—
He treads on Capital cities—and they glide
Into a pit of darkness—he waves high
His Sceptre-scythe—and he doth glorying ride
On the bowed necks of Empires—while Years fly,
Creeds, Codes, and Systems cease—tongues fail—and mortals die!

XCVII

And Thought—the Imperial Faculty of man
Is filed, and held in adamantine bands,
And though at times it foils the unrighteous clan
Of Persecutors—and with just demands
Acceded to, hath made the listening Lands
Record its triumphs and accomplish'd things
Sublime and Wond'rous—yet on adverse Strands
Oft wrecked—the hyæna Prejudice springs, clings,
And fastens to it still, and tears and gripes and wrings.

XCVIII

Stars of the Night! when in sad sleeplessness
I've watched your beams—how seemed ye to reprove
A Mortal's Sorrow—ye! that proudly press
On your immortal race like things of Love,
Of Loveliness and Duty! Worlds above!
Men look on ye, then turn away to pour
Their souls on some all idle aim—they move
Earth—Earth and Heaven for this—their bosom's core
Is still disquieted—for what?—let them explore!

XCIX

Stars of the Night! when of the Past I think
Time, Death, Change, Distance, at your view take flight
Ye Pilgrims of the Eternity—how sink
Our measurements of months and years in sight
Of ye! I greet ye with intense delight!
If these were not—would not quick Minds and deep
Imagine such things in their innate might?
And take in thought far, far, a flashing leap
O'er the outstretched Space to pierce to these—with these to sweep!

C

The Soul hath its own grand Necessities!—
August Necessities and glorious Wants!—
From Earth it breaks away and seeks the Skies
And for new hopes, new Worlds, new Triumphs pants
Proudest and princeliest of all Mendicants,
With little less than all things satisfied—
High Heaven in those sublime Desires ev'n grants
A fund of royal riches!—and allied,
Through these to all that's great, Man doth on Earth abide.

CI

Oft when at Midnight's deep still solemn hour
I ponder lone—they whom I have loved and lost
Come back on me—in beauty and in power,
And 'twixt regret and hope my Soul is toss'd—
They live! I feel they live! though a dread Host
Of Worlds may sunder us—but in the Strife
Of this World's occupations—I feel most
Their Silence on my Soul—with miseries rife
Their Memory on my Hope—their Death on—in my Life!

CII

There—then—there is nor room nor time to think,
We almost feel by rote!—such feelings lack
All sense of inborn solace—and they drink
A wine of their mixed blood and tears, black, black
And bitter, who on lonely desolate track
Move lorn mid crowds, their veins run tears, weeps blood
Their brain—their thoughts upon themselves forced back
Grow sufferings and make suffer—until Good
Too oft their Evil proves—warped to their morbid mood.

CANTO II.

I

The wavering reek of mortal breath may not
Or serve to aggrandize or to blight my name;
Humble and most sequestered is my lot—
Yet something I demand far more than Fame,
That something may be mine, for my calm claim
Is just and strong, the prayers I have preferred
(Still I have played an unambitious game)
Shall surely be, by Heavenly Mercy heard,
Let me not by vain doubts, be shaken now nor stirred.

II

Yet who, in this world, loves feels, hopes admires
Nor owns at times a faultering and a fear,
A sinking and a smothering of the fires,
That most could animate and brightly cheer?—
Their path no more shows smooth or straight or clear,
A cloud of dim and ill-defined distress—
Heavy and lowering dull, and dense and drear,
Like a cold wintry fog doth all oppress,
Who hath e'er seen unveiled—the Phantasm, Happiness?

III

All—all the fardel and the canker—nay,
Haply the worldly sordor too, have borne
(That sordor of vile Selfishness which they
Whose Souls are noble quickly thrust with Scorn
Aside)—but so Humanity must mourn—
Mortality's its nature and its name,
And still the immortal-mortal's inly torn
With adverse feelings—till the Air's ice—and flame,
The Heavens are lead—the Earth, one huge hard chill stony frame.

IV

Humanity must mourn—too oft the best
Mourn most, for not in this dark Life is 't good
To bear a kindly or a generous breast—
A Noble or an Elevated mood—
The cold, the narrow-minded oft have stood,
When the excellent and kind have bit the dust,
And inwardly shed their heart's own dearest blood—
Most fatal shedding—from the deadly thrust
Of Sorrow's poisoned darts, that in the unhealed wounds rust—

V

The spreading deepening wounds—they will not close,
They have a deadly life, all, all, their own—
And oft they bleed afresh at sudden blows
Unconsciously inflicted—since not shown,
They are not suspected! not avowed—not known!
Alas!—how many may we daily meet,
Who bleed in secret thus, and inly groan,
That hide their Sorrow in its veiled retreat—
Their griefs—that prisoned thus, through brain and bosom eat!

VI

Perchance, the most terrific tasks are still
Performed in silence—and the World knows nough
Of their attempts and struggles, who with will
Inflexible and patient zeal have wrought
With hidden powers—nor hath it loudly brought
Their names to honour,—nor its favours poured
On their deserving heads—nor ever sought
To aid them,—they, who fight not with the sword,
Whose brows no wreaths adorn—whose deeds no Scrolls record.

VII

Yet the most stubborn and the hardest fight,
Hath it been theirs to wage, deep deep in the Core
Of their own hearts—as in the secret night,
And no applause—no loud tumultuous roar
Of praise hath these encouraged! but the more
They have girded up their Spirits to press on,
And do without that Glory which their War
Leaves far behind in sooth, upheld by none
They their hard strife maintained, till was all nobly won!

VIII

Still the achievements of the just and sage,
Even of the very gentlest of the Good,
Although inscribed upon no earthly page
Are blazoned forth where Angels o'er them brood
In Admiration—all unstained by blood
As Earth's proud Conquerors are—nor clouded round
By discord and dispute, as those who have stood
Founders of Sects, Schools, Systems—these are found
Blameless, and worthy of—that Fame which knows no bound.

IX

The Fame in Heaven attained—which at the last
Shall honour bring to those who had rebuke
And cold neglect on Earth—who meekly cast
Ashes on their bowed heads, yet whose firm look
Was Heavenwards and not Earthwards—and who took
Reproach from all, but chief from those who well
Had done, to have searched each cell and inmost nook
Of their own bosoms, ere they fiercely fell
On others—slanderous tales, 'gainst them to invent and tell.

X

Alas! the best must often mourn the most—
Not here is their reward or their repose,
'Tis when the deserts of this life are cross'd,
That they may smile delivered from their woes,
Then shall their tears be dried, their wounds shall close,
But here—speak, speak, ye thousands that lie down,
Wronged Martyrs! Saints uncanonized! though blows
And racks and flames had purchased more renown,
Could aught of deadlier been, than the ills that here ye have known?

XI

But oh! to name my nameless self 'mongst those
With rash presumptuous pride I venture not,
Though Heaven knows I have borne my share of woes
And battled with a bitter, bitter lot,
Nor hath Shame hitherto impressed her blot
On my life's page—I have struggled long and hard—
My friends forgiven and my foes forgot,
How long shall Fate my sweet reprieve retard?
Say—shall I forfeit ere, I have reaped my rich reward!

XII

The day I write's the first of the New Year,
Old days are gone, and new ones coming on,
To bring but the old Events in their career—
For what is new beneath the all-seeing Sun?—
We do what millions have before us done,
We see what multitudes before have seen,
We run the same race myriads too have run—
What is, What shall be, but what still hath been,
While still we trace fresh schemes, with expectations keen.

XIII

Yet wond'rous things shall still his thoughts engage,
And proud impressive sights shall he behold
Who gazes from a distance on Life's stage,
And sees its mighty Pageant-pomp unrolled—
Even I, though I am now in sooth not old,
Have seen such marvellous changes in my time,
Such dark miraculous destinies unfold—
Such strange events—too dread and deep for rhyme—
That Memory scarce can grasp, her shadowy stores sublime,

XIV

Yea! I have Spectator and Survivor been
Of such strange things as make me stand aghast,
When she would fain rehearse what o'er the scene
Hath full of dread absorbing interest passed,
And I have viewed the threatening Heavens o'ercast
With huge dense clouds that seemed o'ercharged to swell
With Thunders such as well might burst to blast
All Nature and Existence—yet that fell
At last in peaceful rains, or passed—and all was well!

XV

I have watched with mine own pained and wildered eyes
Man's fickle nature, changing with the wind,
I've marked the lapse of ancient Dynasties,
The wreck of old Opinions long enshrined
In Sanctuaries of the human heart and mind—
I have hailed Discoveries glorious and sublime—
Even such as bless and benefit Mankind—
I've viewed in fleeting periods of winged time,
Prosperity and Peace, take flight from Clime to Clime!

XVI

Awe-struck I heard—in Childhood's sensitive years
The echoing thunders of a lengthened War—
When the leagued Nations cast aside their fears
And sought to arrest the Conqueror on his Car—
He on whose forehead Fortune's blazing Star
Seemed set by fiends in fierce infernal mirth,
A gorgeous brand—like Cain's to Scathe and Scar!
Have I not seen on this unstable Earth
Of Empires the overthrow, of bourgeoning States the birth?

XVII

The end of Empires and the birth of States—
The unfolding of gigantic Shadowy Schemes—
Such as the wildest-working brain creates
When one Chimæra-Chaos seem its dreams,
Yet what were Fancy's strangest flights and themes
To the Actual Stern Realities which smite
With Consternation—while for ever teems
Fresh cause for wonder, till the aching sight
Can scarcely seize and trace—the varying forms aright!

XVIII

Charters and Constitutions I have seen formed,
Some to be broken through—patched up again—
Then slowly sapped—if not defied and stormed—
Warped to the sanction for a Tyrant-reign!
The Letter not the Spirit taught to retain!
And I have watched, abhorred dissensions rise
I'the heart of Kingdoms while in vain, in vain
Freedom—Religion—form the factious cries
Till both lie crushed beneath—War's worst—Home-anarchies.

XIX

I have seen Realms torn from their anointed Kings,
And Kings to kingless States dependent given,—
Remodelled Laws—Improvement, such as brings
From its rash suddenness—a deep fear driven
Through thoughtful Minds, that not unrent—unriven
Shall Fabrics stand, which lack foundations fixed
Firm, firm and fasti' the ground, since with the leaven
Of Imperfection all Man's works are mixed,
Weigh well—if Right and Wrong thoud'st justly choose betwixt.

XX

But who shall tell me that these things are new—
Have regal Sceptres ne'er been flung before
From hand to hand, have men ne'er striven to undo
What their forefathers did!—hath purple War
Not dyed the ensanguined Earth from shore to shore,
Or in a listed space hemmed in—confined
Even in a self-stung Country's bleeding core,
More sternly stormed, in revel fierce and blind?
Hath rashness never marked, the councils of Mankind?

XXI

Have Sciences and novel Arts ere this
Not been discovered by the human brain?
Mankind—impatient still of that which is—
Make ceaseless efforts to extend their reign,
To enlarge their sources of power, knowledge, gain,
Yea! even these, these things have their rise, and fall,
While Barbarism o'erpowered, o'erpowers again,
Mind, Freedom, Luxury, Civilization—all
That we too fondly deem—defies Decay's stern thrall.

XXII

Perchance more crowded, more compressed, more close,
The Occurrences may heaped and hastened be
In these wild days—the wonders and the woes,
The jubilees—the jars;—more hurryingly
These waves in their succession—full and free,
May, while the shore beneath them shakes—be rolled!
But they're the billows of the self-same Sea,
'T is but the restless tide that heaved of old,
And History's page presents, tales thrice three times retold.

XXIII

Away! no Sybil's scroll do we require—
Though strange events come thronging thick and fast,
Though hope or dread the Horizon may inspire—
No Sybil's scroll we need! thy page, great Past
Is opened to us! therein crowd amassed
All answers to our questionings, and 't is there
If our calm looks unprejudiced we cast
We the end shall trace, of deeds and dooms that wear
To their Conclusion on, like all things Earth may share!

XXIV

In sooth no Sybil do we need—nor Seer,
Experience hath enriched us with her store
Piled through the increase of ages, which each year,
Each day augments, and well may we adore
The ways of Providence, since still to explore
The Annals of Nations should instruct us still
In Faith and Piety's celestial lore;
How Good hath oft extracted been from Ill!
How all things have conspired, to unfold Heaven's gracious will!

XXV

A mighty Hand although by us unseen
Doth all this Earth's affairs mould—regulate,
A mighty Eye is over all—I ween,
To which lie bared the latent springs of Fate.
All the Orders of Events with all their weight
Of consequences have been deeply planned
By dread Omniscience, and in Embryo state
Been good pronounced—ere stood fast that command,
Which bade them spring to birth;—yea they've been weighed, judged, scanned.

XXVI

The day of the New Year! no storms convulse
Its quiet dawn—may none distract the march
Of the unborn after-days, with harsh repulse
Of Peace and Harmony—may the sweet arch
Of Heaven pour Sunshine o'er us, not to parch
Nor choak with tares the ground—but to ensure
Bright Plenty with redundant horn!—we search
In vain with prying eyes, the array obscure
Of coming days, and ask—“What yet have we to endure?”

XXVII

May all be prosperous and be peaceful! yet,
The echo of that fond prayer is a sigh,
For one winged instant can we not forget,
That 't is a vain hope for Mortality!
Alas! the days that come shall fleet and fly
Too like their brethren—that pale shadowy host—
Not to demand a sad reverted eye
Weeping o'er all that's perished, past, but most
O'er bright Occasions missed—o'er Heaven-lent prospects lost!

XXVIII

Aye! fair Occasions still shall granted be
To build high fabric of immortal trust,
And thrice alas! for human vanity
Oft oft be slighted, for though we're but dust
Rashly we choose our own course, and so thrust
The proffered good away—skilful to miss
The open path and thread the obscure which must
Or lead us into Worlds more dire than this,
Or be retrod with pain—if we'd avoid the abyss!

XXIX

The Seasons and their wonders shall, displayed,
Recall that Word which these of old ordained,
While Man as though of Heaven's voice still afraid
Shall faintly shrink, nor revel unrestrained
In Nature's bounty—he is cramped and chained,
And most unwise of prisoners would not taste
Of freedom, but pays heaviest price, though pained
By stinging conscience still, his life to waste—
A price of cares, toils, griefs—and would—in Eden placed!

XXX

The first of the New Year! thoughts thronging come
Upon my Soul like clouds that spread abroad
Their magical diversities; i' their loom,
Invisible, so fast spun that none may goad
Their Fancy to overtake them—thus her road
Doth Reason lose midst complicated dreams—
Oh! Past! lie not upon my Soul a load,
Oh! Future! hide not from me Hope's dear beams,
Nor let me now mock thee, with too presumptuous schemes.

XXXI

Life! thou hast moments full, how full of bliss,
And yet they are but moments, felt and gone,
Melting even in our grasp, away;—'t is this
That doth embitter all the joy we've known,
Perchance some wish is granted, or just won
Some long-sought prize, even in possession palls
The things so much desired—the charm's undone,
The spell is broken—to the ground it falls,
Soon lures some other hope—some new illusion calls!

XXXII

Different the means employed, yet the same end
Have most, few, few have not—o'er others 't is
To acquire some influence and if not a friend
To gain, to win some flatterers; is 't not this
That exiles many from their proper bliss,
Upon a wild and wretched aim to tend,
Which whether they accomplish or must miss,
Shall little pleasure with their feelings blend?
Too much upon the rest, they evermore depend!

XXXIII

Mark! where the fond Aspirants pass along—
For are not all Aspirants more or less!
Perchance the deep desire may glow most strong,
Where we conceive it can no power possess—
Where scarce its bare Existence we could guess.
In various ways men hide this or—betray,
Various as are their dispositions—yes!
This is revealed in many a startling way,
Or studiously concealed—mark! how their parts they play!

XXXIV

Some with a look of haughty unconcern,
As though despising praise, defying blame,
Some with anxiety that doth but earn,
Repulse and ridicule—in lieu of fame,
Some with an open, some a covert aim,
Some with much fear, and others with much hope,
Yet each and every one condemned the same
To sorrow or rejoice—or tower or droop
As they succeed or fail, in their fond wishes' scope.

XXXV

For so it is ordained—well, wisely too—
(If that the feeling's fitly chastened down,
Nor suffered to acquire a force undue)
That not indifferent to the smile or frown
Of others should we be—while 'mongst them thrown,
In this loud busy populous World below,
Would we indeed their influence all disown?
Few, few have e'er accomplished this, and know
Perchance not happier these, when crushed the generous glow.

XXXVI

Even thus it is contrived—well, wisely too,
Since were it not so wilder pranks would Men
Play i' the face of Heaven than now they do,
Though that were hard in sooth!—and yet again
This is the cause of ills and plagues that then
Might not be heard of—still 't is better far
We should not skulk like Cynics in our den—
Or in defiance, wage contentious war
Still 'gainst our fellows, nor for their Opinions care!

XXXVII

Not now the buzzing clamour of the crowd
Rings in mine ears—I dwell awhile, alone—
And few the echoes, distant, few,—nor loud
That vex me, of that harsh monotonous tone—
Now for a time my thoughts shall be mine own,
But no! a tyrant-spirit o'er them sways
Deep powerful Memory, and of pleasures flown—
(While all too well my heart her call obeys)
She still discourses much—and of the dear old days!

XXXVIII

The Old Days come back on me when all I saw
Was Beauty, Power, Joy, Mystery and Surprise,
What now my Spirit's icy mail can thaw?
How can I see delight with these dim eyes?
Though still to admire Earth, Ocean, Air and Skies
Is mine and must be—yet 't is feeling void
Of glowing bliss, my heart within me dies
Even while my mind enjoys as that enjoyed
Of old—with it!—I feel, my hope and heart, destroyed.

XXXIX

And wherefore? oh what boots it to return
To all that dire Necessity hath willed,
It is enough from her stern law to learn
To grind the Soul down till 't is steeled—or stilled.
Once in forgetfulness I well was skilled
A Stranger to my past self I had grown!
While, still through all my being's well instilled
This best art, to be blown as leaves are blown
By Autumn winds along—without a plaint or moan.

XL

This hollow World inhospitable, cold,
Arraigns—amerces for most venial sins,
And oft the worst doth most unmoved behold,
Since Merit's touchstone is success; if wins
Its prize foul Crime, 't is honoured, praised!—while spins
Hypocrisy her web—to entangle all,
While Custom shakes her fell rod—while begins
Suspicion ever 'gainst the best to call
For explanations vain—whose Lives should speak and shall!

XLI

Contagion of Corruption doth await
Whoso unguarded on the field, the Stage
Of that World moves, let him beware his fate!
Wretched shall be his youth, wretched his age,
If he seeks not to keep his mind's broad page
Clear and unsullied—Angels then may write
Thereon, nor baffled dæmons in blind rage
Mix their vile characters with words of light—
Still thy Soul's whiteness guard, and keep it pure and bright!

XLII

Yet if impatient of Corruption some
Thus stand 'gainst its advances false and vile,
How often it decides their hapless doom
And seals their Misery with a bitter smile,
Eager to blight what it can not beguile!
No! all must worship with bent knee, bowed head,
(Although detesting it and them the while)
The golden Idols it sets up, thus led
Are thousand thousands still, through thoughtlessness or dread!

XLIII

Oh! let those take divinely-tempered arms—
Who would pass free midst all the perils round,
And keep immoveably mid all alarms—
The bright resolve which pure minds still have found
If persevered in with just zeal profound
Shall bring peace, comfort, triumph, at the last,
But they must hope not to 'scape stripe and wound,
Nor think unscared, to tread Life's dreary waste,
Nor dream its harsh fruits can, be sweetened to their taste.

XLIV

For them do pits innumerable gape
And snares are multiplied—sharp swords are hung
Over their heads, hair-held, and many a shape
Masked, wreathed, tricked, tinselled o'er, with honeyed tongue
Strives to delude, and they are cast among
Those, who will ever seek to make them share
The shame that burns, the torture that hath wrung,
The rage, the pain, the hate, and the despair,
Since hard 't is for the fallen, with the Upright to compare.

XLV

How Good and Evil their dread fight maintain
Deep in our deepest heart, nor e'er relax
Their efforts, but with shock and strife and pain
For mastery seek—now one doth stronger wax
And now the other, Men's strength is as flax
If helped not from above—and oft they lean
To Evil, treacherous fiend, who with keen axe
And fatal knife, all wholesome plants yet green
Still tries with envious spite, to extirpate close and clean.

XLVI

To bear—to do—but chiefly 't is to bear
We must gird up our Souls—nor let us tire
But still proceed with caution and with care!—
With each expiring moment doth expire
Existence—what is borne is borne—though dire
And difficult 't was once to bear—through ill
Through grief, let this console, while high and higher
Burns our bright hope as near and nearer still
We press to the great goal—even till our hearts grow chill!

XLVII

To be must be on Earth for aye to bear,
To know—to disapprove—if not despise,
To do for ever must be found to dare,
To feel,—to suffer in a soft disguise!
But let us, strong in hope, in faith arise
And do what may our future bliss ensure,
We yet may feel—and faint not—in the Skies!
Our Knowledge there may be deep, glad and pure,
To be may there be all, to enjoy—where joys endure!—

XLVIII

Keen bitter thoughts distract my Soul from rest,
Oh! Soul too troubled and too vexed thou art,
Too anxiously this heart throbs in my breast,
Be still—be hushed—thou fond and foolish heart,
Throw not thyself upon the threatened dart
It may glance off from thee—solicitous fear
Doth forestall grief—bear thou thy destined part
When't is disclosed!—Deliverance may be near
When least expected ev'n—it may start from thy bier.

XLIX

Oh! Life! unsolvēd problem that thou art,
The more thou'rt studied still the more thou'rt made
Deeply, insuperably obscure, we dart
Our thoughts in thy abyss of gloom and shade
Through all the clouds and coverings o'er it laid
By restless Curiosity—still spurred
And goaded sharply,—and are we repaid?
Alas! more turbid still the more they're stirred
Thy Waters grow—we are thus mocked, cheated, foiled, deterred!

L

Life is a Study to which all may bend
Their Energies most fruitfully, and find
It is a theme, a subject without end!
He shall do service true to Humankind
Who can unloose its Gordian knots close-twined,
Its complications into Order bring—
Its labyrinthine paths explore, that wind
With many a tortuous turn, and ring round ring,
By subterraneous vault, masked rock, and hidden spring!

LI

For little't is we— [OMITTED]

LII

Oh! that I now could teach this heart of mine
That best, first of Life's blessings, dear Content!
Then should a brightness o'er my pathway shine
Nor I in young decrepitude be bent—
'T is worse than madness when in vile clay pent
We would be all we dream—or dare affect.
Upon this Earth not every one was sent
To build an Empire, or to found a Sect,
Yet few, few, can their own deficiencies deteet.

LIII

Roses nor Laurels can thy Palms surpass
Oh honey-sweet Content—a thousand charms
Are thine that wither not like sun-scorched grass—
Lo! the Stern Conqueror proud of feats in arms
Nought but War's furnace-blast his bosom warms,
His destinies are writ on iron leaves,
He towers i' the van of his vile locust-swarms
Till the Earth astounded round his footsteps heaves—
And while she lauds his name, she turns aside and grieves.

LIV

The vain Voluptuary—whose Selfish heart
Beats but for Pleasure—who at ease reclines
Untouched by Feeling's glow or Sorrow's smart—
Ere long each flower that in his Garland twines
Falls, faded, scentless, inly he repines
Too soon the vision Happiness hath fled—
Still on each studied luxury he refines—
Still Pleasure seeks but finds Regret instead
Roughening the rose-leaves' folds beneath the Sybarite spread!

LV

Pride saith, “For me, for me this World behold,
Shine! shine! ye Skies to light me and to cheer,
Roll on, ye Seas—be all your billows rolled
To pleasure me and serve, for rich ships steer
O'er ye their course—with dazzling treasures rare
Freighted for me! blaze, Stars of Heaven! above,
Great Sun! for me adjust the varying year,
Ye Elements! my slaves and minions prove,
And all things for my State, in proud Procession move.”

LVI

Not so saith meek and equable Content,
Yet all in truth doth unto her belong;
Nature and her transcendancies are lent
To her for ever—on her lips the song
Of praise and not self-boasting, sweet and strong,
Ascribes to Heaven the glory—round her move
Bright blessed Spirits of peace—a guardian throng—
—With heavenliest ministrations still! meek Dove!
All, all things are thine own—though not through Pride but Love.

LVII

More rich thou movest o'er this Earth's varied face—
More rich than revenue-commanding Kings;
Thine is no wayward wish—no causeless chase,
Nor thine Ambition's scourge—nor Envy's stings:
Yea—half unconsciously dost thou all things
Possess, that sharest in other's weal,—behold
How sweet a pleasure in thy calm breast springs,
Blessed through their bliss, made wealthier with their gold,
Richer than Kings art thou—an hundred, thousand fold.

LVIII

Well said the Roman of a by-gone day,
Well said the Roman of a time long past,
While gazing at the Triumph's long array,
(Alas! three hundred such all failed at last);
“Continuance” 't was it lacked, the laurels cast
Before the Conqueror might be shadowed o'er
By sad reflections, of how soon and fast
The pomp and pride should pass—and be no more—
Decay, Oblivion, Death, Change, Change these last—these four!

LIX

These blend with all beneath the Eternal skies,
These mix with all things like the Elements—
Religions—Dynasties—Philosophies
Are sapped by these—and Man and his intents
O'erthrown; alas! the erazures and the rents,
The dread confusions and divisions drear—
The o'ershadowings and the undoings, while the events
Of Earth come thickening round us, gendering fear,
Or joy, as even to us, blind Mortals they appear!

LX

These four stern Powers in their dim cloudy tents,
As at the World's four corners seem to sit—
They that convince without learned Arguments,
Or florid sophistries of human wit,
To hear their fearful Edict's, to submit;
With cozenage strange, they cheat themselves indeed
(While round them all things fade, or fall, or flit),
Who can with day-dream hopes their fancies feed
That aught on Earth can last—their pillar is a reed!

LXI

How in this dark Arena of the World
Do men for evermore engage and strive,
And seek while Destiny's page is fast unfurled
The foremost in each daring aim to drive,
So in a Maelstroom, and a Storm they live,
Not to be better, but conspicuous more
Their quest and object—let them fail or thrive—
Can aught repay the burthen that they bore,
While struggling hand to hand in feuds they must deplore?

LXII

What, what by Notoriety do men gain,
If Scorn the finger points at them and shame?
If they have built their pride on others' pain,
Or compassed on Crime's Catalogue a name?
Vain shall their triumphs be, as vile their aim—
Their infamous honours they shall wish away.
How would they compromise with lessened Fame
The stings of tyrannous Conscience to allay,
Hate's sharp hissed curse to avert—and blame's loud ban to stay.

LXIII

Nay! even men's hollow praises shall a bane
And mockery grow, if praises may be theirs—
And though like hollow pleasure they may feign,
They shall be inly torn with sleepless cares;
The vulture whose fierce beak their bosom tears,
Ever more fierce and strong and pitiless grows,
Nor respites his tormented prey, nor spares,
No peace they find—the unhallowed Fame they chose,
Turned evil still shall rack—in verge of their repose.

LXIV

Could'st thou but hunt such to their Solitude,
And view them, without effort or disguise—
Then should thy breast with more Content imbued
Thank the indulgent mercies of the Skies
That kept thee from such triumphs, and such prize
Then should'st thou, finding the emptiness and dearth
Of this World's dull and criminal Vanities,
Seek to partake its melody and mirth
Without the staining soil, the weight,—the cramp of Earth.

LXV

He who but for himself would work and stir
Denies himself the richest blessing quite—
And doth a miserable chain prefer
To fairest liberty and range of might—
To peace, and hope, and feeling and Delight.
Oh! let us choose the part more lofty far,
For others still to feel, in noble spite
Of slippery Fortune, who shall veil her star
In vain for us—since we, can her worst efforts mar.

LXVI

Since, independent of ourselves almost
Shall we become, in many another's fate
Our lot's then deeply cast—nor wholly lost
Can so our chance of bliss be,—what a freight
Of hopes we bear—we can retaliate
Upon our tyrant Fortune,—sweet and new
Ten thousand precious interests can create
For every lovely dream she wills to undo—
Nor vain light fancies these—but feelings brightly true.

LXVII

Thus we ourselves can on ourselves bestow
Such boons as Fortune never could contrive,
And salutary make our very woe—
As bees are skilled to treasure in the hive
The juice of poison-flowers, which they deprive
Of all its venom—to pure liquid gold—
Turned by those cunning alchemists! while we live
Shall we thus glean deep dear delights untold,
And when we die, shall find these slide not from our hold.

LXVIII

Could but the ambitious Man, the Mal-content,
Survey the boundless blessings in his power,
And the true greatness, lofty and unbent,
Which might be his in some rewarding hour,
(Though now perchance the horizon seem to lower)
If noble means for noble ends, to adopt
He seek!—the heavenly harvest and blest dower—
The Victory-wreaths from trees immortal lopped—
And the everlasting blooms, by streams Celestial cropped,

LXIX

Oh! could he but behold these, and survey
The glorious fields of promise that lie spread
Before him, if he choose the appointed way,
And in the paths of Peace and Duty tread—
Not through the World's choaked ways complacent led,
Where tyrannous Custom holds her iron reign,
Still stretching all on her Procrustes bed,
Till of themselves faint semblance they retain,
So doth she those transform, whom she doth stint or strain!

LXX

Could he do this—oh! how would he despise
His poor ambition, and his puny aim.
Lo! new-discovered Worlds appear the Skies!
Life's little lottery and contentious game,
Its frail precarious breath and fluttering flame—
Of these he thinks—but not as erst he thought
(With altered feelings and repentant shame)
When once the heavenly Inspiration's caught,
And reformation blest within his spirit hath wrought.

LXXI

Pranked out in vain pretensions, what we are,
Nor to ourselves nor others is well known—
They are too much sundered from us,—they are too far,
And we ourselves too near! to One alone,
Is the inner man completely wholly, shewn;
And midst the many that we may much deceive,
Perchance none are by such false treacherous tone
Duped, as ourselves are; and we 're doomed to grieve
O'er such deceit when Fate, her deadly web doth weave.

LXXII

Some have been born into this lower Earth
So high, so glorious, scarce can labouring Fame
Compass their Greatness—o'er their mortal birth
They towered—the mighty thoughts which they could frame
Shook, moved the World, their all-immortal name
Should be our Talisman and Triumph-Cry—
Not that like them we can Men's Spirits tame
Or lead, or fire, but that they proved how nigh
Our clouded Nature is, to Worlds beyond the sky.

LXXIII

Though their outshining and excelling powers
Upraised them far o'er Man's frail mortal state,
Though their quick minds were gifted more than ours,
Yet that we can admire, judge, estimate—
Appreciate thus,—though hope not to imitate,
Proves us their brethren and their fellows still,
The more we honour these, the Immortal Great,
The more our memories and our minds they fill,
The more we prove our breasts, with fires congenial thrill!

LXXIV

Our brethren they! and though our Souls soar not
As theirs have done—the likeness and the link
Fail not—since the Earthly taint and tinge and spot,
The weight of human clay, which oft will sink
The loftiest natures, we may justly think
Were theirs,—how many weaknesses and woes
Stamped them as men and mortals! they could shrink
From pain and sorrow, and implore repose,
And they could find perchance, Life's happiest part—the close!

LXXV

The Heavenly Galileo,—he who trod
Undizzied midst Creation's Mysteries, still
Was Brother unto the heaviest carle and clod
That seemed to stagnate, without thought or will—
Perchance developed far from the dull chill
Of this low mortal clime shall be at last
The Powers, that latent lay, and masked, until
Existence' pettiest portion should be past,
Until the pilgrim Soul—its fleshly slough should cast.

LXXVI

Then may the fettered Spirit be set free!
A thousand Miltons then may higher and higher
In Inspiration's immortality
Revel sublime, and grasp the sounding lyre
Their bright thoughts tossing on a sea of fire—
A thousand Lockes with ampler field may pore
O'er noblest studies glorious, while to acquire
Fresh Knowledge—shall be ever more and more
To marvel at Heaven's power—to tremble and to adore!

LXXVII

Those who have towered above their fellows, not
To enchain them, nor to injure—but to bless
And to improve their changeful human lot,
And sow for them new seeds of Happiness,
They asked not Fame their labours to redress,
Nor worldly good, nor aught that those demand
Who for themselves alone would onwards press,
And seek not to conciliate—but command!—
'T was the blest toil itself, repaid that princely band!

LXXVIII

Majesty was their Nature—and their breath
A royalty of peace—not a keen fire
That nought can quench nor cool but icy Death,
Nor was their Being one wild will to aspire!
When such as these (since mortal these!) expire,
Then are their souls seized with the deep true hope!
And then uplifted from Earth's clayey mire,
They feel that they no more shall sink or droop,
In death they lift their heads—'t is but on Earth they stoop!

LXXIX

When with the wish to exalt and to improve
Is blent the power, in happiest union rare,
When Genius twines with philanthropic Love,
When Man's first interests claim the Aspirant's care,
How fair the field, how true the triumph there,
Heaven blesses from the first the pure design,
Heaven doth in love, their love-taught labours share,
Such Spirits as those have passed the boundary line
'Twixt the Earth and Sky—while still, they sought to illume—not shine.

LXXX

Such, such have been the Spirits too that have burnt
Their thoughts into the Eternal Universe,
And in their Glory and Success but learnt
Oh! not their Strength, their Greatness—the reverse!
And humbly that deep lesson did rehearse,
Yet amidst all they taught, still that was found
Most hard, most vain, to teach! and for their curse
Thousands, their steps have followed, yet around
Forborne to look and own, themselves still, cramped—held—bound!

LXXXI

They in their bright humility, confessed
Their Nothingness before the Lord of all—
Yet still on their steep path unfaultering pressed,
And found the triumph while they felt the thrall.
He—at whose dread—at whose Commanding Call
Worlds leapt to life, hath set strict bounds below—
But glorious was their failure, proud their fall,
(For their Success, their Victory must seem so
To Him!)—if these His Might, his Greatness served to show.

LXXXII

Yea—if, even in the coil and soil of dust,
They to the Eternal's service might be vowed,
Their bonds were bright—their Nothingness august—
Their fleeting evanescence blest—and proud
That Nothingness, Omnipotence could shroud
Even with Itself!—with Grace, Strength, Glory, Power,
Until they passed off like a melting cloud
Into that Vastness, which their thoughts would scour
In vain, in Life's strait Yoke—its brief and feverish hour.

LXXXIII

They—though they felt their present Nothingness—
Rejoiced in boundless hopes that soared sublime,
Hopes that might well console and richly bless—
And save them from the rough assaults of Time,
And from the rigours of this mortal clime,
The proffered pardon and the promised joy
Upheld them through this World of gloom and crime—
They knew its sweetest witcheries could destroy,
And strenuously eschewed each glittering gaude and toy.

LXXXIV

They whetted their great Energies on the Hope
Of Universal Usefulness—their steep Aims
They wreaked on Execution! could they droop
Whose hallowed purpose was to give their names
Unto that noblest of all Earthly Fames,
That which speaks with a common daily Voice—
Leagued with no fierce, foul deeds, no blushing shames,
That bids the enlightened Nations to rejoice—
Oh! who, but would that could, make such Fame their own choice?

LXXXV

Nothing am I in Life's tempestuous whirl
Save a most mute Spectator—nothing am
Midst all its stir, and desperate strife, while curl
Its billows round me—they which know no dam,
Nor sprinkleth me their spray, nor crush nor jam
My form, those rocks that ever frown around,
While angry Water-Spouts refalling ram
Down to the Abyss those strugglers that are bound
In Selfishness supreme, till their deep grave is found!

LXXXVI

So to be nothing is't not to be all?
Unfettered by vain selfish thoughts or aims,
And living through all things as though the call
Of Death's dread voice had sounded, that which tames
The loftiest to the lowliest, when our frames
Are elements consigned to elements—
And when our spirits rush like wind toss'd flames
Even to rejoin the Universe, and vents
Find in a myriad worlds—for their Earth—checked intents!

LXXXVII

How stilly is this Operation dread
Of the vast Universe, the slightest sound,
The echo of a whisper, soft is shed
Upon the air, my foot-fall on the ground
Is loud, yet on their awful wondrous round
Prescribed, uncounted Worlds stupendous go
Conjointly with our own, their is no bound
To the dread marvels that do round us flow,
In one continuous stream, not shallow and not slow.

LXXXVIII

Man hath within his Soul some thoughts that seem
As planted there by Heaven for Heaven alone,
And ever and anon vague as some dream
They stir within his spirit and a tone
And token grow, and are a Symbol shown
Of his high origin and glorious end,
Yet shall not bear their fruit, nor blush full-blown,
Till Death, that mighty Husbandman befriend
And snatch him to that clime, towards which all footsteps tend.

LXXXIX

Thrice-radiant visions! all-bewitching dreams!
The Oasis-spots in life's long dreary waste—
The honeyed fountains midst its brackish streams—
The flower-wreaths midst its wild-weed growths of haste,
The priceless gems that have the stern fronts graced
Of deep and arbitrary Destinies,
The ambrosial, glad Enchantments brightly placed
'Mongst iron Life's cold hard Realities,
The banquets of the Soul—the blossoms of the Skies.

XC

My best-loved friends, mine only flatterers be
Ever 'twixt me and the obdurate Real, stand—
No proud Enchanter ere more rapt could see
The outshining wonders that obeyed his wand,
Than I, the Worlds that rise at my command—
Oh! my bless'd Empires—my sweet Realms of Light,
My Jewel-hoards, my Mines, my Fairy-Land!
My Court, my Counsellors, my Winged Armies bright,
Dazzling to the o'er-wrought soul as noon-suns to the sight!

XCI

No! never came at the olden Magians' call
Such wondrous pomps—spread in such rich display,
As crowd upon my Soul—thrice-glorious all—
In proud successions and sublime array—
Bright sea-like suns—whose splendours ray by ray
Break o'er the thought, like waves upon the strand,
(That leave it sparkling, lustrous even as they
Are lustrous—till one diamond gleams the sand)
And Worlds on Worlds shine there,—too radiant to be scanned.

XCII

Midst the disruption of all dearest ties,
These only tempered my torn soul to bear,
These and submission to the Eternal Skies,
Else had I sunk beneath the inflicted care,
And my life's fire had smouldered in despair;
But I was so sustained and so inspired,
And did that iron in my spirit wear
Calmly, howe'er oppressed, and wrung, and tired—
Nor did Endurance fail—nor Hope herself expired.

XCIII

The more o'er-clouded mine Horizon grew,
The more I wooed the Ideal's sweet unveiled sun—
The fiercer round me Life's loud tempests blew,
To agitate and vex, and shake and stun,
Till comforts were but few—and pleasures none—
The more I cherished in my bosom's core
The heavenly halcyon calm that soothed and won
My heart to peace, that calm which brightly wore
Those winged, deep, smiling dreams, that blessed me evermore.

100

XCIV

Such thoughts as these became my life of life—
My joy—my trust—my stay—my all in all—
They saved me from much sorrow, and more strife;
For mine was not a mind to endure the thrall
Of this world's despotism, and ice and gall
My chill'd embittered blood had been, if won
To enter in the lists where thousands fall
And few succeed—yes, I had been undone
But for those gentle dreams, that o'er my spirit shone.

XCV

What though at times my being they disturbed,
And troubled all the waters of my soul,
Soon—soon I charmed them down, and calmly curbed
My mood till thence the stormy wildness stole;
What though at times they shook my being's whole,
And a distraction and a fever grew,
Yet their departure had become the knoll
Of all my Happiness, and I had few
Hopes to afford to lose, though those I had proved true.

101

XCVI

Yes, this has saved me—this, and this alone,
From the Agitation and the Agony
That all too surely my quick heart had known,
Had I mid this world's waste been doomed to sigh;
But so to roam beneath a glorious sky
Peopled with my own dreams, and to infuse
My spirit through all Nature, and mine eye
To turn unwearyingly on her, and muse
On her for ever, yields, delight I ne'er can lose.

XCVII

What wondrous difference shews 'twixt man and man!
There you behold one of a towering mind—
Yet with his honours meekly borne; you scan
No wretched arrogance inflated—blind
And loathsome in the loftiest there—nor find
Repulse of selfishness, but all is just,
Pure, open, true—and here you mark refined
And hateful Egotism, and Pride that must
In Wisdom's Eyes cast down, their bold claims to the dust.

102

XCVIII

Some Men do seem to elevate and raise
Us to themselves in lieu of seeking much
To abase and trample on, to them be praise!
'T is they who have felt the real awakening touch
Of lofty genius, and 't is true that such
More noble make us by their presence high—
And its supreme contagion vouch, oh! vouch
This bright truth, Ye! who have ever lingered nigh
The Exalted of the Earth, till ye too trod the sky.

XCIX

As Persia's minstrel did so sweetly say
In the olden time with tenderness and force,
That the rich Rose enriched the commmonest clay—
So our minds feel that while the inspired discourse
Of such men stirs in us the impassioned source
Of admiration, they do make us glow
With almost kindred feelings—the remorse
Of Approbation shall even, softly flow
Through envious minds at length, those little minds and low.

103

C

But these are the true Noble—the real Great—
Indulgent, generous, open as the day—
Not coldly vain, nor pompously elate,
Nor overweeningly fastidious—say,
Can we ere fear that such minds will betray,
That such can mock, or such mislead—ah no!
Large are their views and straight their shining way,
And Gladly would they share with all below
The immortal Hopes they feel—the exalted Truths they know.

CI

Alas! that Genius ever should be found
Commixed with villanous qualities and base,
Scattering a thousand specious plagues around—
Instead of brightening all Earth's dædal face,
And showering blessings o'er the human race—
Though circling all with its own magic zone—
Still clasping all in pestilent embrace,
With proudest gifts and noblest powers their own,
That mighty minds should e'er—Corruption teach alone!

104

CII

To thousands, millions, myriads, even may be
Fatal, their flexile, flattering theories vain!
With varying tastes framed artfully to agree—
Those plausible and Proteus doctrines gain
A host of followers—yet do these retain
Their ill-got influence?—no, awhile believed,
Or wilfully adopted—their dire reign
Continueth—but ere long all undeceived
Their fond Admirers mourn, of every hope bereaved.

CIII

As fireworks cast into a summer sky,
Awhile to affront the stars and then to sink,
To perish into ashes and to die—
So do their thoughts tend to Destruction's brink;
A moment brilliant they may seem to drink
The brightness from all ancient Truths—but soon
Relapse to darkness and to fragments shrink—
Their light was not their own—an ominous boon,
And thus they have fallen away, as dew-drops dried at noon.

105

CIV

[OMITTED]

CV

It is a sorrow—but it must be borne
To feel Doubt darkening more, Hope growing less,
To mingle still mid things we have learned to scorn,
To brunt the churme, the shock, the throng, the press
Of mortals—when that bubble Happiness
Hath burst in our foiled grasp, oh! when to steel
The heart is vain, we still prove—still possess—
Still bear, and know, seek, toil, trust, fear, and feel,
Then, then we are taught keen pangs, no language can reveal.

106

CVI

How oft mistaking and misunderstood
Walk we this world, and this doth fill our years
With sorrow and vexation, for we brood
Over imagined wrongs—or we shed tears
That others should distrust us, all this wears
Delusion oft, for they dislike not us,
But that false something which to them appears
To be ourselves,—and we too blunder thus,
Judging them ill—on Earth to judge is hazardous.

CVII

Our slightest actions may assume in sooth
A thousand different colourings unto eyes
Prejudiced and distempered, and the truth
Of the veiled motive's feature, who descries?
Not the earthly-minded—not the worldly-wise!
Not as they are they're seen, but as the mood
Of others may distort them, and disguise—
Thus We grope on, through Evil, and through Good,
Misunderstanding oft—and oft misunderstood!

107

CVIII

Could we be lenient as we would be spared,
Could we extend the indulgence that we claim
To others—Discord's dread torch, which hath flared
So fiercely through all time, that torch whose flame
Seems from the infernal element caught, should tame
And lowly sink, and harmony and peace
And confidence and joy should sweetly blame
The too, too speedy hours for their short lease,
Since happiness and love, like all besides must cease.

CIX

Though words and works may widely differ here,
Let us content ourselves with scrupulous care
To examine evermore our own, in fear
And watchfulness, and studiously compare—
Conscientiously o'erlook them, so that there
May lurk no error nor discrepancy,
But all be open—candid, frank and fair
As we wish those of others even should be,
So let our works and words, at least be found to agree.

108

CX

Fear not for evermore the ambushed Snare
Lingering with wakeful eye, and watchful ear,
Nor ever in self-torturing doubt prepare
'Gainst dark remote Contingencies!—in fear
Weigh not all possible chances still 'gainst clear
Plain simple seemings; there are some who make
A policy of their feelings, and who steer
So carefully, that they no pleasure take
Nor give in life—but keep, Suspicion's eyes awake!

CXI

This World's Vexations and distractions may
Perplex, but let us still trust to the Skies,
And so our life shall calmer glide away.
Weak—wrong—are they who deem they 're very wise
To blunt all youthful Sensibilities,
The World will do that for them, and too soon—
Much, much I pity him who ever lies
In fear of being deceived—the rolling Moon
Beholds him sleepless still—in fear he walks at Noon.

109

CXII

All passes—but a little, little while
And all we most could feel, shall we forget—
Safe from the cold chicane of human guile,
And worse, the snares by tempting dæmons set,
Malice' fell sneer and open Hatred's threat
Shall grieve no more—but while on Earth, we must
Endure the checks and crosses all have met,
And see our dearest hopes borne down to dust,
Broken our tenderest ties—deceived our fondest trust.

CXIII

All through the same ordeals must pass below;
But in what manner they through these may pass
Shall stamp and fix their future weal or woe—
Aye all is light as air and frail as grass;
Fickle as clouds—and fleeting ev'n as grass;
But mighty consequences shall arise
From these slight things—though we are too apt, alas!
To avoid such thoughts—all, all that tempts, that tries—
That purifies, corrects—is sent us from the skies.

110

CXIV

Let these things animate—let these things aid
And not o'erwhelm us, nor surprise, nor grieve;
Let us be confident and not dismayed,
And Fortune's buffet patiently receive—
So may the crown of thorns that the may weave,
Bud into roses round our brows at last—
So may we calmly wait our long reprieve,
Nor shudder, nor shrink back, nor cower aghast,
Whate'er the Future is—we know 'twill be the Past.

CXV

There is indeed satiety of joy—
There is satiety of sorrow too!
Her draughts of bitterness can sickening cloy,
And so we turn to seek for something new;
Though like a fond uneasy nurse, she through
Our paths appointed follow, we escape
From her from time to time, and then we strew
Flowers round our franchised footsteps, and we shape
A thousand passionate dreams—and our past selves do ape!

111

CXVI

Begone pale Sorrow! take thy leaden hand
From off my heart! Its pulses must be free.—
Oh! but 't would feel, and prove, and understand,
And pierce all folds of mighty mystery—
But thus o'erborne and checked, and chained of thee,
It knows not, may not see,—all seemeth cast
In darkest mould—all mocks its search—to be
Unchained is its chief prayer,—oh Grief, at last
Depart,—come Future, come, and 'venge the embittered Past!

CXVII

I deemed at last I was full deeply skilled
To more than cloak my feelings—to controul—
To be but what I planned and what I willed,
The master of mine own well-governed Soul,
Of all my being—of my feeling's whole—
A dream and a delusion! and I sigh
To think how such vain clouds about us roll—
A thaw hath come o'er my Philosophy—
I am but what I was—must I thus live—thus die?

112

CXVIII

[OMITTED]

CXIX

Vexed are the Nations now—a murmur comes
Upon the troubled air, dull deep and low,
As it arose from the Under-world of tombs—
And who its meaning to the full doth know?
A thousand Changes seem to impend below,
For Good or Evil, who shall dream or tell?
Who, who shall the End of these strange ferments show,
'Tis dark, 't is cloudy—hark! like a dread knell
Of all things ancient—known, that sound might seem to swell.

113

CXX

Now Men would rule their Rulers, and do judge
The Authorities above them, and would tower
High o'er the Exalted of the Land—and grudge
To all besides the privilege and the power—
The feverish rage doth every breast devour—
But Time in his progressive course shall show
How vain the favourite fallacies of the hour,
Could those who claim proud Independence know
How near that envied state, are they—are all—below!

CXXI

Man's Government's indeed in his own breast,
Kings, Senates, Constitutions, Laws, in truth
Leave this fact still unchanged; and deeply blest
Is he in age and in a rational youth
Who feels this strongly: from the inspired mouth
Of Sages old hath this not been declared?
For others and yourselves feel then more ruth
Than thus to desolate what time has spared,
Than thus to raze the shrines, and towers your Fathers reared.

114

CXXII

'T were wiser would you leave things all untouched
And seek to improve your faulty inner state,
(Though proud in sooth the exalted aim avouched)
And make ye worthier of a loftier fate!
Than thus to seek to anticipate the date
When such desired Advancement shall become
And beneficially promote you,—wait,
Oh! wait awhile—till the opening blush and bloom
Mellow to ripened fruit—nor tempt a headlong doom.

CXXIII

Light bubbles have ere this been chased and clutched—
Pause! nor too rashly your own strength o'errate,
Why seek ye to be stilted, propped, and crutched?
But 't is the day's wild freak to lay strange weight
On the outward things—and miserably to abate
Zeal in the inner! Oh! that it were not so,
Then might the Good be honoured as the Great,
Peace might then shed her rosiest smiles below,
And Piety and Love, decrease our sum of Woe!

115

CXXIV

But so it is—and evil 't is and ill—
Men's minds—while signs and portents round them lower—
Still superficially—to Externals still
Directed seem—Heaven's richest Manna shower
Of Plenty's blessings were distasteful, sour,
To those who crave excitement. Lo! the cry
For Freedom is, should it not be for Power?
For this men Treason take for their ally—
And Faction, Discord, Strife, bar Earth from the orient sky.

CXXV

The Actors and the Acts seem great and proud
In these momentous times—yet Man's affairs
Are ever mixed with petty things;—avowed
Are loftiest aims, but many a bosom shares
The meanest feelings, and most selfish cares.
Could it be otherwise—then forth might shine
O'er every Land a star whose clear light bears
Hope and assurance on its beam divine,
Blest Freedom, thy bright star—that gilds pure Virtue's shrine!

116

CXXVI

In these times all Men boasting seem to claim,
That all beside should unto them defer—
Their judgments, though most impotent and lame,
They still to all the world's too much prefer!
And in the coil—and the distracting stir—
The wrath—the rage—all struggle—and each strives!
O'er others still a contumelious slur
To cast, each seeks, each at the sole aim drives
To be the first, and best,—how oft the unworthiest thrives!

CXXVII

England, my Country! doubtless it is well
For all states in firm friendship to remain,
And as a Commonwealth of Nations dwell;
Nor seek each other or to thwart or chain,
And yet I scarce can see without some pain,
Gaul's blood-steeped hand stretched forth and grasped by thine,
Too recent and too deadly is the stain,
That marks her;—severed by old Ocean's brine,
Let us not seek with her, too strictly close to entwine.

117

CXXVIII

Treacherous—inconstant—to herself she is,
How may we hope to us she will prove true,
Veering and varying with each changeful breeze,
Are trust and confidence indeed her due?
Empress of Ocean! Nature's hint pursue,
And even in Amity divided still
Remain—or sorely, vainly may'st thou rue—
Those broadly-sundering Waters that fulfil
Heaven's fixed design—and hest,—they are no scant wandering rill!

CXXIX

Upon that Ocean let thy Flag supreme
Wave still—keep—Albion! keep—thine ancient sway
Stand sunlike lone, though all bask in thy beam!—
Yon mighty masts are pillars whose proud stay
Upholds thy Realm!—towards Heaven they shoot—as they
Would like Conductors o' the armed Lightnings be—
The armed Lightnings of that Heaven's roused wrath away
From thy sweet shores—brave Armaments!—how ye,
Proclaim she still would reign—inviolate, great and free!

118

CXXX

Yea! like Conductors of the winged Lightnings fierce—
Of the oft-waked wrath divine from our loved Land,
While to the o'ershadowing clouds they lance-like pierce
Towering aloft—those proud pines seem to stand;
How many—when distant from their native strand
Have at their foot fallen low!—while safe and far
In flourishing Peace and prosperous Quiet bland
Unharmed by all the shocks and scathes of War
Their Island-home remained—girt with its billowy bar.

CXXXI

Yet fallen as Conquerors too! that Voice which spoke
That dread behest—which gave them to their grave,
Bade that 'midst Victory's sunbursts the fierce stroke
Of Fate should fall—full oft!—so 'midst the Brave,
Trafalgar's Hero perished on the wave—
The Eternal Hand chastening in blessing took
Our Country's Idol-treasure then—and gave
A dear-bought triumph—till the awed nation shook
Pondering the grace vouchsafed—and the eloquent stern rebuke!

119

CXXXII

England, crown'd England! while one Bark of thine
Walks the old Ocean—the all-imperial Sea
Casting its giant shadows o'er the brine,
Surely that winged and bannered Bark shall be
That Ocean's proud Palladium! still be free—
Be mighty, England! be thy sacred shore
Still the bless'd haunt of Godlike Liberty!
But thus to be, be as thou wert before,
Be as thou still hast been—now and for evermore!

CXXXIII

Vexed are the Nations now, the heroic Land,
The chivalrous, renowned, poetic Spain
In many a hostile and determined band
Sees her own Children formed, the red red rain
That deeply bathes each fair and smiling plain
Is all her heart's blood; will those wounds ne'er close?
The Lusian, for awhile may seem to feign
Contentment—peace—but in such outward shows
Can we put faith where late, War's deadliest Standard rose?

120

CXXXIV

In Italy—ten thousand smothered fires
Like those in their own stern Vesuvius' breast
Her Sons confess—the Spirits of their Sires
Would they resume? nor longer sink, oppressed
In idlesse vain, and ignominious rest—
Would they now bare the steel and brace the helm,
And strive the enslaving foe, whom they detest—
With one proud, fearful, glorious blaze to o'erwhelm—
Whose twilight should gild even, the Sun of their bright Realm!

CXXXV

Mine own sweet Country! what is like to thee,
Even now though cloudy Discord for awhile
Obscure thine aspect's holy brilliancy—
And chase the living glories of thy smile—
Matchless, triumphant, Beatific Isle!
Oh! may that smile return—that gloom depart—
The deep o'erflowing of the all-hallowed Nile
Of kindred blood within, ere long each heart
Shall surely softening, melt, and heal each jealous smart.

121

CXXXVI

Where'er I go—where'er I have ever been,
Whate'er I have found to approve and to admire
In distant lands disjoined, in alien scene—
Can but more fan the patriotic fire
Within my Soul, and raise it proudly, higher—
My Country! 't was thine own unaided might,
Thy pure ambition and thy large desire
That raised thee too thine all pre-eminent height,
And made thee shine supreme, robed round with Glory's light.

CXXXVII

Not the all indulged, and spoiled and favourite child
Wert thou of Nature, like Ausonia's Land—
All matchless in her wane, and, in her wild
A prodigy of luxuriance!—though the brand
Of Shame be on her brow—the heavy hand
Of Despotism upon her bowed neck—yet
How fair she shines, as though the Enchanter's wand
Waved o'er her—well may all but she forget,
That 't is the Oppressor's scourge,—and must that proud sun set?

122

CXXXVIII

Oh, Italy! who is he that can roam
Cold, uninspired through fields and groves like thine?
Like Heaven—like Heaven, thou universal home
For all Mankind—since to thy haunts divine
They hurrying throng—as pilgrims to the shrine
To see how glorious Nature can be made—
How Art can even with undimmed lustre shine
By her celestial Sister's side—arrayed
In Mind's own Light divine—without a spot or shade.

CXXXIX

I have looked from thy flowered fields, through thy clear air
Up to the pomp of thy thrice glorious Skies—
I have loved all, all thou hast of bright and fair
I have worshipped with deep inarticulate sighs,
Fervent as prayers when they too speechless rise,
All that thou hast of sacred—ruinous gloom,
Till ached with Adoration, heart and eyes,
I have mused midst thy dread World of Shadows, Rome!
And hailed thy last-born Pride—thine Apostolic Dome.

123

CXL

Yea! I have looked on thee, most glorious pile;
In moonlight and in sunshine, or when gloom
Frowned round—or twilight touched thee with pale smile.
Thy gates once passed—the great gates of the tomb
Seem also passed! and our brief years of doom
Accomplished, for even like the vestibule
Of Heaven art thou, and in thee there is room
For boundless thoughts! though sense be made the tool
Through which the inspired, freed Soul, can shake off Earth's dull rule.

CXLI

Rome! Rome! time was when thy great Freemen's swords
Swayed all! Time was when thy proud Pontiffs placed
On mountainous Eminence, as Chiefs and Lords
Of Earth's religious Polity—ev'n as graced
With powers unearthly that all power embraced,
As Soldans of the World's great Soul, high reared
Their Mitred heads—stretched forth their hands and traced
Their laws on every land—the obeyed, the feared—
The Earth's all Imperial Ark, at their own will they steered.

124

CXLII

And thou! sweet Florence! on thy smiling stream,
Thy graceful Arno, thou hast many a claim
To fondest admiration! many a Dream
Of joy arises at thy gentlest name—
The Heavenly Venus of all beauteous fame
With glorified enchantment on her brow,
Whose sov'ran aspect might a Savage tame
And teach a dæmon, Love's sweet charm to avow!
And thou, rare pictured form—transcendant Sybil—thou!

CXLIII

Looking on thee, what deep emotions dart
Through the thrilled soul that yields to their soft might,
What gentle throbbings heave the o'ermastered heart—
While the air around thee grows one flood of light,
What Spirit in thine eyes sits throned and bright?
We feel, we feel, from Earth's gross bondage free,
We rivet upon thee our raptured sight—
'T is rapture all! for thou seem'st Heaven to see,
And we, we are gazing thus, all breathlessly on thee!

125

CXLIV

Thy look doth more—transcendantly doth more
Than Music's rapt Cecilia did, I deem,
With all her charms and powers inspired of yore;
The Angel left for those Heaven's cloudless beam,
But thou mak'st Earth unto our golden dream,
A very Heaven indeed, and from thine eyes
Do we receive the impressions that so teem
Upon our spirits that they ascend the skies,
Yet scarcely know the while, how high and far they rise!

CXLV

I have left thee now, Oh! Inspiration's Land
Cærulean, sunny, bright Ausonia—yea
I have left thee now for my loved native strand,
But thy sweet name is writ with every ray
Of thine own sunshine on my heart—to essay
To blot it thence were vain—though thus won back
To each old familiar and accustomed way,
Those wonted ways perchance some charms may lack,
But still we glide again, into the habitual track.

126

CXLVI

[OMITTED]

CXLVII

Life hath but little change—dull sameness 't is—
The trivial change it hath 's monotonous—
A little fear and hope—some pain, small bliss,
Are not our destinies analogous?—
Yet—yet there is Variety for us—
Each in his secret bosom may behold
The Mirror of Great Nature—luminous
Or dark—according to the mystic mould
In which his Nature 's cast—till Life's brief tale is told.

127

CXLVIII

Within, within may change perchance be found,
Without—but little difference seems to be;
Through thrice-refined Society look round—
What on its polished surface may you see,
Save dull Mediocrity's monotony?
And if by accident some bright ray dart
Through all the chill and torpor, quick and free,
The mind whence that flashed forth soon learns its part,
Soon arms itself with all, the subtle powers of art!

CXLIX

Art! thou 'rt right lovely in thy proper place,
Right lovely and right wond'rous—but thou art vile
Upon the living field of human face.
With thine elaborate cunning and cold wile,—
Most loathsome of all things—detested guile!
Art! that on Earth thou mightest be put to shame
With thy false show, and florid, flourished style—
I shudder at the whisper of thy name,—
Would, would that all might learn, to avow and feel the same.

128

CL

Oh! in some Souls there is sublimely found
A fire—an action—a bright zeal's excess—
A scope—a spring—a vehemence without bound;
A Passion and a sense of Power which dress
Existence with a pomp of Consciousness!
Enthusiasm hath done the part of Death.
With these—to each dim, each far, each veiled recess
Of the Universe they pierce—above—beneath—
The Infinites they rejoin, i' the days of Mortal breath!

CLI

Such glorious souls, such gifted minds as these—
Their great thoughts will not miserably tame down—
Because all round them doth in torpor freeze;
Nor can they, shrinking from the World's harsh frown
Their radiant natures tremblingly disown—
Art was not made for them—they cannot seem
That which they are not—though untowardly thrown
'Mongst those who mine and countermine and scheme
Distrusting each the rest—barred even from self-esteem.

129

CLII

Through clouds and darkness spread on every side
We take our difficult and dubious way,
Too oft impatient of a better guide
Than our own Reason with its feeble ray
That just around our path doth flickering play
Only to cast a darkness more intense
O'er the awful Mysteries which the Sons of clay
With their weak faculties and bounded sense
Can never pierce! deep—dread—o'erpowering and immense.

CLIII

That Reason was but given to us to illume
Our temporary track and passage here—
When o'er dim time— and far beyond the tomb
And high above this low and petty sphere
We would direct our gaze, 't is Faith must clear
Our clouded, darken'd eyes—Faith—which alone
Can be our beacon, when we fain would steer
'Mongst hidden marvels, Faith which even hath flown
Where Knowledge ne'er can reach, to the Everlasting Throne.

130

CLIV

We cannot understand ourselves—strange 't is
That man should seek his Maker to detect—
All fathomless our springs of pain and bliss,
And can we in fatuity expect
To search His Being? if we are bleakly wrecked
On the despair of a bright Faith undone
That awful punishment may Heaven direct
As meetest for our Sin!—thus, thus we have won
But ignorance more complete—struck blind by that dread Sun.

CLV

How dare we hope to sound that Boundlessness—
Which hath nor length nor breadth nor depth nor height,
To reach that Majesty's supreme Excess—
Far easier 't were to grasp and weigh the Light,
To paint the Wind on its mysterious flight,
Than to trace that Existence—far beyond
The Arch-angel's comprehension—keenly bright,
Let us forsake rash fancies crude and fond,
Nor with presumption soar—nor with weak faith despond.

131

CLVI

Still let us be content to adore—not know—
Oh! what wert Thou could we unravel thee!
Yea! let us humbly be content, below
To acknowledge Thou still unapproached must be,
And make ourselves thy favoured Family.
Enough on Earth remains for us to do—
For our brief span is not Eternity,
Our days are short, and rapid as they are few,
And soon our little lease is dimly hurried through.

CLVII

A mote in the eye can shut out the great Sun
Borne on his thousand thousand golden wheels,
A slight sound close to the ear can sting and stun—
A vague doubt which the heart within us feels
Can bar us from the Universe!—So steels
The Soul 'gainst strong Conviction some Caprice
Of reasoning most fallacious, and so seals
Our doom—some ignoble and petty vice
That hides from jaundiced eyes—Good's noblest Edifice.

132

CLVIII

How strictly should we look through our own minds—
Our own deceitful hearts, day after day—
Where Sin innate, inherent—binds and blinds,
And countless passions stand in dread array.
Leave one unchecked, how soon its reckless sway
Spreads fierce confusion and distraction round—
In the ominous Conflagration, each sweet ray
Of truth, peace, hope, is lost—while without bound
It onward sweeps—and all bowed to its rule is found.

CLIX

Alas! even thus a slight Grief oft hath power
To embitter all the comforts that we share,
To o'ercloud the present and the future hour,
And fill our days with suffering and with care,
Till drop by drop, too surely doth it wear
The withering heart away.—I have known such grief,
And I have known too the phrenzies of Despair,
And though awhile its rage may spurn relief,
This last is easier borne—since its fierce reign is brief.

133

CLX

Wherefore this change and whence? I deemed't was past,
I deemed 't was all, all o'er—little we know
Or what we are or may become!—at last
I feel how we deceive—in bliss or woe—
Ourselves profoundly ever—and bestow
Care infinite such deceit to improve; dark Life,
Thou web of wonders! onwards as I go
The more dost thou perplex me; thou art rife
Of endless mysteries still, or in thy calm or strife.

CLXI

[OMITTED]

134

CLXII

Joy lit his torch a moment in my path
To show me but my Grief's extreme extent,
My Grief of After and Before! that breath,
That sweet and summer breath appeared but lent
To bring forth tenderest blooms—soon to be blent
With all the faded flowers of Love and Hope
Which were the reliques—without hue or scent
Of hours like them all withered—let them droop
And die as those have done!—with fate no more I cope.

CLXIII

Hence, hence, misleading Hope!—no more intrude,
Leave me! too faithless Hope!—for thou hast done
Worse mischief in an hour than grief hath brewed
In years—leave me—Oh! most perfidious One,
Oh! Irresistible!—to lean upon
Thy staff—a spear, to clasp thy rock—a rack,
Too fondly I have been, and still am prone,
But I will hunt thee to thine aërie back,
Thy far nest in the clouds, though all beneath look black!

135

CLXIV

Sorrow! I choose thee—court thee—am all thine,
Thy pensive charms have deeply, wholly won
My heart and soul—and all that is of mine
I would be thine, pale shadowy Queen alone!
Hope—restless and deceitful, hence, begone—
I banish thee with thy too constant train
Of doubts and fears and pangs—'tis lost, 'tis flown,
The only Star that could with tranquil reign
Govern my Soul's deep tides—I demand back my pain!

CLXV

To occupy and fill a feeling heart
There is enough in ever varied life
Without enacting a conspicuous part—
Without commingling in its noisy strife,
If once Endurance hath with keen cold knife
Lopped off the excrescences of selfish hope
And a sweet form hath risen—like Pluto's wife,
Smiling o'er Life's stern Stygian gloom to stoop,
Whose name Submission is—then, then no more we droop;

136

CLXVI

Then gush the deep heart's hallowed Springs again,
For others 't is we feel—fain would we learn
Or to redress their sufferings and their pain
Or sympathizingly with them to mourn
Nor proudly ask for Gratitude's return,
Let us ne'er think of that, nor dare to expect!
Yet shall we most indisputably earn
A solemn, sweet reward, nor shall be wrecked
On the worst, dreariest shore—of harsh self-disrespect.

CLXVII

When from our hold our long-loved treasures slip—
Oh! when we strip our Idols of their dress,
'T where better did we our own folly strip,
For our own folly and our own excess
Have wrought us harm and manifold distress;
Fate may pursue us angrily below,
But we ourselves do oft-times darkly press
The yoke of stern Adversity and Woe
More on our shoulders still—as we would have it so!

137

CLXVIII

We are the fools of our own foolish hearts—
The Slaves of our own Vanity's excess—
And lay our bosoms open to the darts
And stings of Fortune thus, too blindly—yes,
Our phantasies—our frailties none may guess—
They may not numbered be by mortal tongue,
The veil—the enshrouding veil we may confess
Were well withdrawn o'er our false Idols flung,
'T were better were that raised—which o'er ourselves hath hung!

CLXIX

Our weakness—our vanities—rest sure
Are ever our most dire and deadly foes;
If we would seek and find for ills a Cure,
We must arise from perilous repose,
And the Actual State of our own Minds disclose
Even to ourselves, that by the roots we may
Pluck up the plant of Evil ere it grows
Too strong and stubborn our weak hands to obey,
All undecaying then, save with our Own decay.

138

CLXX

Ten thousand trifles fling their clouds of dust
In our duped eyes; and with close trammels bind—
In lightest toys we place our solemn trust,
To our immortal interests madly blind;
We hurry on in hope at length to find
That which we promise to ourselves until
In the creation of our own vain mind
We do put faith, and seek with stubborn Will
That Paradise unseen—of our Pretension still.

CLXXI

The Paradise of our Presumption!—which
We deem we should possess, as though thou wert,
Happiness—our own sweet fee, bright and rich!
Oh! Happiness! our due and our desert!
We dare dream that, supine and all inert
We thus shall merit thee! rash fancy vain!
While haughtily and fiercely heaves the heart
Defyingly 'gainst earthly ills and pain,
But these shall come and must, with Death too in their train.

139

CLXXII

There are, who from the worst of Slavery freed—
The Slavery of the Tyrannous treacherous will,
Devote each hour, each thought, each word, and deed
Unto the good of others—and fulfil
Nobly their destinies—and finely thrill
With high and holy and august desires,
These, nothing know of the benumbing chill
Of narrow Selfishness—their Soul aspires
To free and airy heights, nor on its proud flight tires.

CLXXIII

These draw ev'n from the depths of their own minds
Their strong support—their cheer, their recompense;
Unshaken by Life's varying tides and winds,
And fired by one pure blameless hope intense—
And by a never-sleeping, fervent sense
Of solemn Duty, they shape their bright course
Through Fate's involving shadows deep and dense,
Not theirs the ills that spring from Guilt's stained source,
Nor theirs pale Discontent—nor stinging sharp Remorse.

140

CLXXIV

To exalt—to benefit—to improve Mankind—
To magnify their Maker's name divine,
They live alone, each pettier hope resigned,
That generous purpose they will not resign
Though they may baffled and discouraged pine—
With saint-like patience strengthened, they arise
At last to see the Star celestial shine,
The sweet Star of Success before their eyes—
Which pours o'er all the Earth, the brightness of the skies.

CLXXV

Such those have been who have toiled through the steep ways
Of hard and difficult Science self-sustained—
And dedicated all their studious days
To deep and lone research, those who have refrained
From self-indulgence and at once disdained
The low and little pleasures of the Earth,
And all the petty miseries that have pained
Their feelings—human still; their 's is a worth
That sheds a lustre pure, o'er all of human birth.

141

CLXXVI

They suffered—yes! they suffered, for Life hath
No fortunate clime exempt from pain and woe,
Sharp briars and thorns o'errun its fairest path,
And none may 'scape dark Sorrow's rule below—
But their high hearts could proud and tameless glow
With dreams beyond Ambition's haughtiest dreams—
And heavenly fountains soothed them with their flow,
And cloudless Suns illumed them with their beams—
To which their thoughts lent yet, more bright and glorious gleams!

CLXXVII

Such noble minds for Truth unwearied seek—
And for that truth's divine and honoured sake,
Bear scorn and wrong full oft, with sufferance meek,
And many a scoff from the distrustful take—
For slow must be the progress that they make—
Long must they plod and slave ere they arrive
At their deep object—and ere they can shake
Dull Error's mantle from Men's minds and give
Clear proofs of what they vouch—long, long 't is theirs to strive.

142

CLXXVIII

They take a great Truth in its infant state,
And with a nursing Theory they surround—
As though you would place a Palm of the earliest date
Within a crystal Urn's transparent bound—
But—lo! it springs, thrives, sprouts, spreads, nor is found
Place in the vessel to its nurture given—
At length with stateliest strength and vigour crown'd,
Behold! the while it upwards shoots towards Heaven,
That frail shell it bursts through—split—shattered—shivered—riven!

CLXXIX

Even so it happens oft i' the World of Thought,
When after zealous toil and pains profound—
To imprison some grand Truth—when thus they have wrought
And planned and raised a skeleton structure round,
Their glorious Charge expanding, scorns its bound,
Opening out—branch by branch,—before their eyes!
While fall their laboured Systems to the ground—
Their speculative schemes!—how doth it rise,
Shrouding its sovereign head, in the all o'ershadowing skies!

143

CLXXX

They must take up the fractured fragments, then—
And to their noble work unchecked, return,
They must commence their labours o'er again,
Those fragments yet may in some mightier urn
Be brought to use, then shall they humbly learn,
While the heightening, strengthening, widening, wakening Truth
Appears to escape from them, that they must spurn
Their own beginnings faulty and uncouth,
Nor seek the Giant growth, to swathe as in its Youth.

CLXXXI

Their own beginnings?—oft, too oft alas!
Those who first pierced the gloom and led the way
Have passed away from Earth whence all must pass
Ere the orient dawning of the auspicious Day—
Which saw success, supreme success, repay
The efforts of the diligent—ah! not theirs,
Who the first effort made—the first essay,
Who cheered alone by Hope's inspiring airs,
Stern difficulties dared—and plunged midst deepening cares.

144

CLXXXII

How different from those thoughtful Sages meek,
The Candidates for Worldly good and gain!
Though all as strenuously they toil—and seek
To satisfy their thirst—to shine—or reign,
Though dreams as full and complex crowd their brain,
And fiercer agitation rock their days—
How narrow seem their views, their hopes how vain,
How miserably the prize the toil repays,
The gew-gaws of vain state—the Conqueror's blood-dyed bays.

CLXXXIII

On stern atchievement wreaked they their proud minds,
And stern atchievement hath raised these to fame,
And while Ambition's cloud Man's judgment blinds,
Thousands will risk Life, Peace, Heaven for a name;
Throughout all ages it hath been the same—
Still when not made atrocious by Excess,
'T is a right noble passion!—and a flame,
Which Man is not all called on to suppress—
But in how few 't is seen, due Temperance to possess!

145

CLXXXIV

Build not your hopes of Happiness upon
The ruins of another's broken hope,
'T is worse than folly—when the prize is won,
Soon to the heavy truth your eyes shall ope—
How shall ye then, 'mid self-reproaches droop,
For Conscience shall assail ye with a sting
That finds the Soul's quick vitals, why then stoop
To ignoble Selfishness? rise, rise and wring
The accursed drop from the heart—shed from some deadly spring.

CLXXXV

From your too fond embrace should straight be wrenched
That dangerous Idol—Self!—perchance ye deem
That in that marble Selfishness entrenched
You 're safe from common griefs,—mistaken dream!
The Egotist's breast shall ever darkly teem
With countless shapes of fear, and doubt, and ill,—
Each slight and small mischance to him shall seem
A dire misfortune—while with gloomy skill
He builds on lightest grounds, his faint forebodings still.

146

CLXXXVI

Who would be happy must make others so,
Or nobly work to that praiseworthy end—
Must soothe the Sufferer's pangs, the Wretch's woe,
And of the Friendless prove the unchanging friend;
Then, then nor time nor fate from him shall rend
The sweet calm sense of self-approval meek,
Which shall with every hallowed feeling blend,
And shed o'er every path—though rough and bleak,
A glow more pure than e'er—laughed o'er Aurora's cheek.

CLXXXVII

That Kindliness of feeling it shall prove
Betwixt his heart, and light and common woes
A wall of Adamant—the Spirit of Love—
A guardian Seraph dwells in the hearts of those
Whose breast with blameless, pure Affection glows,
The thought of Self not ever uppermost
Reigns in their souls—and so they find repose—
Not on the waves of cold Suspense still tost—
But where shall these be found, on bleak Life's sterile coast?

147

CLXXXVIII

[OMITTED]

CLXXXIX

Professions and pretensions—these things seem
The staple of the World's impoverished mart—
And all indeed a vapour and a dream—
'T were well to dwell from its thronged scenes apart.
Vain, vain it is to coin the very heart,
To gain what 's oftener gained by chance or fraud
While we are left to disappointment's smart!
Let us those wiser, nobler Spirits laud,
That are not by this World, deceived, or pleased, or awed!

148

CXC

You shall see oft its fairest favours thrust
On him, who careless and unheeding, shews
No wish to obtain them—oft, oft on the unjust,
The time-servers, the extortioners, and on those
Who ne'er their own vile characters disclose,
And still distrust all others evermore—
As though their fellows must be found their foes—
With jealous hatred deep in their heart's core—
How oft on these the World, doth its just favours pour!

CXCI

We are—we act—we fancy that we bear,
While Life's great Engine works with ceaseless stir,
In the loud general business our own share,
And start to rash Excitement's sudden spur,
And spin our shred and stem while we incur
Shipwreck by such vain daring—Fate's strong wave,
While Peace for which we all our prayers prefer
Perchance would come—did we not rail and rave
Still 'gainst our doom—Joy—Joy?—that dwells beyond the grave.

149

CXCII

All think that others must be happier far,
Less tempted and less tried and less opprest
Than they themselves in their condition are—
They know the secrets of their own dark breast!
Could they as clearly read those of the rest
They might judge differently—it matters not!
Each is of Earth the temporary guest—
Soon shall his little troubles be forgot,
When the great Leveller comes, to fix his final Lot.

CXCIII

Oh! be ye sure that each his part doth bear,
Of the great yoke of Universal Pain!
Howe'er to us the surface may appear,
Could we the bosom probe to ascertain
The truth and the whole truth, we should refrain
From querulous murmurs, and from captious plaints—
How many that strive the smiles of Joy to feign,
Know how the heart beneath its anguish faints,
While wretchedness is theirs—Expression's skill ne'er paints.

150

CXCIV

All wear the links of the long galling chain—
Those who from Pomp and Pleasure seek vain aids,
And haply those who from Life's busy train
Apart, dwell calm in Home's sequestered shades,
If no specific ill their peace invades,
Perchance too well aware are they how brief
That hollow peace may prove—how quickly fades
Each flower of Joy—each hue of Love, and chief,
How soon from Life's book torn, shall be their finished leaf.

CXCV

Surely it is the heaviest grief of all,
To feel i' the midst of every dear delight—
How soon the dull, deep universal pall—
Shall hide our close clasped treasures from our sight,
Lost in the bottomless abyss of night;
To know the heart's own living tendrils round
Sweet shapes ephemeral—fragile as they are bright—
Are with a desperate vain persistance wound,
To feel our towers of trust soon, soon must strew the ground.

151

CXCVI

Perchance the wretch who nothing hath to fear
Since he hath nought to lose, whose restless glance
Seeks still some prospect to console or cheer,
To whom like dearest friends seem Change and Chance,
Who dwells for ever in a shadowy trance
Of aimless hope, may almost be more blest
Than those who shuddering see, too swift advance
The ruthless Tyrant at whose dire behest,
Of their rich treasured stores, they must be dispossessed.

CXCVII

And is the difference then so deep and wide
Between the happy and the wretched here?
No! while on this frail Earth we must abide,
While we are Sojourners of this dim sphere—
Closely allied must be the smile and tear,—
While Time and Death maintain their iron sway,
And dark Uncertainty, and doubt and fear—
Make all their trembling vassals—Say, oh! say—
Can there much difference be—indeed, 'twixt clay and clay?

152

CXCVIII

If for a moment o'er the woe-worn mind
A ray of joy with blinding brightness play,
How vivid—Oh! how exquisite, how refined,
That welcome, rare, and overpowering ray!—
It sheds the radiance of etherial day
Throughout the whole Existence, every thought
And feeling own the sweet despotic sway
Of rapture then, the bosom's depths are fraught
With full ecstatic dreams, exuberant and o'erwrought.

CXCIX

Ah! when I loved thee deeply—but in vain,
If through the heavy darkness round me spread,
One gleam of hope shot kindling to my brain,
How seemed I then, on Air and Light to tread,
From hard reality—too dull and dead,
Snatched in a moment to the purple Land
Of laughing Visions—and all gently led
Through paths of Gladness, by an unseen hand,
How did I feel my Soul, soar, quicken and expand.

153

CC

Now that calm reason and monotonous years,
Have ta'en away the point and edge of pain,
And dried the o'erflowing source of passionate tears,
Such moments come no more! though I would fain
Coin even my very vitals to regain—
Those dear-bought dreams—at times!—So bright,
So glorious were they, without one dull stain
Of Earth to lessen their supreme delight,
Like those fair shadowless Worlds, that only shine at night.

CCI

Yes! willingly at times would I endure
Mine own most costly wretchedness once more!—
That lent me joys thus perfect and thus pure—
Could I but dream as I have dreamt before,
Could I but feel to the heart's quivering core
That flash of rapturous Ecstasy, that did mock
All common happiness—that lightened o'er
Mine inmost being—riving the dull rock
Of a chilled deadened heart, with its electric shock.

154

CCII

Nature hath dowered some beings 't is most plain,
With finer capabilities of joy,
With keener sensibilities of pain,
But say, oh! ye who your deep thoughts employ
On human study—pleasure or annoy
Shall this yield to them? Since alas! below
Too soon falls broken every gilded toy
Of hope from our vain hold; but pain and woe—
These pass not from us thus—these, these depart not so.

CCIII

Their inclinations may be stronger too—
Through chequered life to evil—and to good,
But where temptations evermore pursue
Their toiling steps, hard, hard to be withstood,
Oft this must fatal prove, for still they're wooed
Unto the broad and smooth and smiling way,
And when unguarded in light heedless mood,
May be in hapless moments led astray,
And plunged in dark remorse—whose debt they trebly pay.

155

CCIV

But when these do succeed in their most hard
And painful struggle, shall they not secure
A more exalted and sublime reward,
Than those who less resist and less endure,
Who have not found so many things to allure,
So many things to combat—in the years
Of mortal life—whose trials have been fewer,
And fewer too whose triumphs? Yea! their tears
Shall all be wiped away—and soothed their trembling fears.

CCV

Might I but claim to be 'mongst those enrolled,
But no! such claims I must perforce resign,
Though cast like them in quick and passionate mould,
Alas! no such high merit may be mine.
I can but offer to the throne Divine
My penitence—mine infirmities—my tears—
My once-bright hopes in their faint dim decline;
The ruins and the shadows of wrecked years,
All that my Soul desires, and all my crushed heart bears.

156

CCVI

If sufferings—heavy sufferings—sharp and deep—
In this poor mortal state—this Earthly sphere
Endured—might ever claim and sweetly reap
A blest reward on high, then, then though here,
I weep, hereafter—without doubt or fear,
I might expect, to enjoy!—that dreariest pain
Must ever now be mine, to which no tear
Can bring relief, the thought that ne'er again
Long withered hopes can bloom—in woe-worn heart or brain.

CCVII

Linger awhile, dear thoughts of bygone joys,
And then subside and sink for evermore,
For too much memory of the Past destroys
The Present! I must wend on to the shore
Of my repose unmurmuring!—nor deplore
With impious grief, that some sweet boons bestowed
In mercy on me may be mine no more;
Still midst the ills that crowd along my road,
Some few faint Joys remain, to lighten Care's dull load.

157

CCVIII

Still as we on our pilgrimage must go,
'T were better were our eyes reverted not,
Why should we wish to chain our quick hearts so
To what is past and perished of our lot—
The Present's cloud-veiled sun glows not too hot—
Why should we seek to tame it down, and lean
Ever to what is lost—until forgot
What is appears, at last, in what hath been,
And sevenfold Shadows cross, Life's alway shadowy scene!

CCIX

Oh, Happiness, too lovely and too vain,
We doat on thee—not knowing thee—and grind
Our hearts to dust in thy name—and all pain
Endure, all danger dare, if thou behind
Appearest to shine!—as one who stands to find
Glory in Nature's Aspect and bright glow
Near some clear crystal pane,—while all resign'd
To view,—not grasp is safe, is blest,—(not so
If he stretch forth his hands, to snatch and seize—that show!)

158

CCX

Even thus, those dreamers, who content with dreams,
Seek not—oh! Phantom-Deity adored,
Oh! Happiness! thou end of countless Schemes,
To strain thee close—enriched with their bright hoard
Of glowing fancies, that have sweetly soared
Boyond this nether World; even thus may they
Escape, from Disappointment's arrows stored
In Fate's dark quivers, for the heavy day
When those who fondly hope, shall find hope melt away.

CCXI

When those who fondly hope and keenly seek,
Shall painfully and uselessly repent—
Those dreamers still as from some cloud-capped peak,
Shall look down on Delight and be content!
Not on a vain pursuit, persistent bent,—
Not urged and hurried on a troublous quest,
They lightly on the unstable reed have leant!
Perchance beyond the Worldling's dreams, ev'n blest,
Is the quick heart that thrills, deep in the Enthusiast's breast.

159

CCXII

Of all the wretches on this changeful Earth
I pity most those Sons of chance and doom,
The dull Materialists!—who in the dearth
Of all exalted feelings—and i' the gloom
Of their own darkened minds, mid all the bloom
And brightness which at times is showered around
Their steps, build up into one massive tomb,
The great Creation's vastness—blind and bound,
Emulous of the worm—aspiring to the ground!

CCXIII

Those who all bright ennobling hopes resign,
Who nail their soul down to its clog of clay—
Who turn from Revelations, bless'd, divine,—
Enamoured of corruption and decay!
Who spurn each guiding light, each gracious stay—
And their unheavenly God perversely make
Harsh, tyrannous, blind Necessity—oh! say—
Shall they not yet too fearfully awake,
To see their Soulless God's, material Temple shake!

160

CCXIV

If Accidents are burthened with our fates—
And no presiding Power doth rule our doom,
Then mad indeed is he who aggravates
The measure of his ill by thoughtful gloom;
No! from the Cradle to the Yawning Tomb,
Which by no Accident we ere escape,
Let us but weave bright threads in our poor loom,
And revel in the course we may not shape,
Man's Gods should then be all, the Poppy and the Grape.

CCXV

If ye must round Existence with a dream,
Oh! take a nobler course—a prouder flight—
Let brighter visions on your rapt Souls beam,
Nor pile the shadows of Eternal Night
Around ye!—are ye then in your own sight
The slaves of arbitrary Elements—
But names and hollow words are Wrong and Right?
Are Truth and Falsehood then but accidents—
Do Destiny—Life,—Worlds—All—hang on chance-brought Events?

161

CCXVI

Are Heaven and Earth and all the arch wonders dread
And deep, spread forth through broad, unbounded space,
But Accidents?—cold, aimless, void and dead—
And dare ye say so, in their glorious face?
Oh! when we stoop high feelings so to erase
From our immortal souls, we then become
Our own vile Miscreators—weak and base—
The aspiring Spirits Heaven gave us, we entomb
I' the nethermost pit profound, of deep and hopeless gloom.

CCXVII

Are our own Judgments Accidents? and forced
Upon our Minds against our own consent—
Those thoughts we dreamed had with the wild Winds coursed
On their triumphant way—but Accident?—
All Chance and blind Necessity?—repent
Ye Dreamers, cold, and dull and vain, and seek
Your errors to repair—for ye are bent
Beneath a tyrannous yoke in sooth, and weak
To bear it seem—would ye, retrace your footsteps, speak?

162

CCXVIII

How in a thousand ways doth man contrive
To abase his Nature, and to enthrall his fate,
Himself of noblest prospects to deprive—
To embrute his feelings and to o'ercloud his state,
Ungladdened by the soaring hopes and great
Which Heaven permitteth him to indulge—alas!—
That we in our own proud cause should abate
All zealous ardour, satisfied to amass
Earth's dross and nurse Earth's dreams—while all things round us pass.

CCXIX

Delusion on delusion! for we view
Our towers of trust incontinently fall,
Only to seek to upraise them and renew—
And deem the fault was utterly and all
In the light superstructure—so the thrall
Of a false hope we bear, nor deign to own
The true, real failing—nor consent to call
The weak foundations wrong—again o'erthrown
And oft again shall be, those towers, till all lie prone!

163

CCXX

Perchance at length we may confess too late,
Foundation—superstructure—scite and plan—
Materials—mould and model, wrong—and date
Our sufferings from the time when we began
With boastful Independence, which frail Man
Doth well to avoid—to take our own proud path—
With dreams presumptuous, Hope's quick fires to fan,
To build those Citadels of reeds and lath—
While round us then shall frown, the impending storms of wrath.

CCXXI

Then may we heavily lament and groan
O'er our poor schemes of policy and pride,
Our dreams, our hopes and our illusions flown—
A dreary desert spread on every side!—
Then shall sad memories wound the soul—allied
With sharp regrets and self-reproaches deep—
For many a selfish act we then shall chide
Ourselves full harshly—and dejected weep
O'er our own evil deeds—nor shall roused Conscience sleep.

164

CCXXII

'T were well to learn that lesson, best of all
The holy lesson to forgive, and think
How we forgiveness need! how we should call
For pardon much and oft—but we do wink
At our own faults!—not only on the brink
Of ruin do we stand for Sins more bold
'Gainst Heaven, and more immediate, but should drink
Repentance' bitter waters, and enfold
Ourselves in sackcloth too—for sins 'gainst Man untold.

CCXXIII

Yet we conceive that we can be alone
Oppressed and wronged, and injured and aggrieved,
And full of maudlin self-compassion, groan
To think we are or abandoned, or bereaved!
And—where we placed our foolish trust, deceived—
For how dare we midst creatures weak and frail,
Seek out perfection—as though we believed
The exclusive right was ours to fall and fail—
Fallible to be found—and wanting in the scale!

165

CCXXIV

We punish more ourselves too, much, much more,
By nursing that most hideous Passion's brood—
Black, foul Revenge,—within our bosom's core,
Spite—rancour—bitterness,—than the spilt blood
Of our loathed enemies could harm them! Good
For Evil to return! law worthiest Heaven!
May that be practised, honoured, understood.
Let each forgive as all would be forgiven,
And multiply and bless, the old seventy times seven!

CCXXV

Then shall we happier be, and cast a load
From off our souls! Oh! bright and matchless rule—
Seventy times seven, let us well bestowed
Our pardons freely give—then shall the fool
Learn wisdom from Example's easy school,
The Avenger stay his arm and waive his aim—
Catching the bless'd infection, and a tool
May we become of Providence to shame
The bad to better deeds, the inhuman heart to tame.

166

CCXXVI

How few do this!—how often do we strive
Rather than to cool down our senseless ire
By every studious means, to keep alive
The burning coals of discord—nor desire
That these should sink and languish and expire;
We magnify each petty slight offence
To injuries and aggressions deep and dire,
And draw a sickly pleasure even from thence,
Fostering in our warped minds—of wrong an o'erwrought sense.

CCXXVII

Upon our mortal journey evermore,
As we all stumbling, staggering, shuffling wend,
Even though Conviction smite us to the core
Still, still we seek our conduct to defend—
In lieu of labouring to improve and mend,
Still the same worthless objects we pursue,
And on the same wrong aims unchanging tend—
Nor strive to exalt, nor clear our mental View—
To adopt a nobler course—pure, upright, virtuous, true.

167

CCXXVIII

And still we twist and trim—and forge and feign,
Till dizzied, vexed, perplexed, there comes the hour
When we would willingly retrace—in vain
Our steps—alas! 't is not then in our power
So long to skim or plod, and skulk or scour
Along vile crooked ways 't was ours, we turn
To these instinctively—and crouch and cower
Along—and vainly, vainly may we yearn
Another track to attempt—and Art's base lore to unlearn!

CCXXIX

Life—full of errors and mistakes thou art,
And cold Experience comes too late—too late
To shield the suffering soul and arm the heart!
Only to mock our griefs and aggravate
Thou comest methinks, pale posthumous child of Fate.
Ah! wherefore come at all if still in vain,
Offcious and perverse? thou that dost wait
To shed thy tardy gleams through breast and brain,
Like corpse-lights o'er the Dead, o'er days and deeds i' the wane.

168

CCXXX

What art thou Life? with all thy mystic things,
Thine idols, treasures, pageants, spells, delights—
Thy clouds and rainbows—and thy rocks and springs,
Thy soft Elysian breezes and stern blights?
What art thou? with thy smile that still invites—
Beguiles us still to meet the withering check
Of thy cold frown's repulse—when the soul bites
The bitter dust of its own clay! a wreck,
A ruin, and thy skies lend, not one faint luminous speck!

CCXXXI

At times I have felt as though Life's slackened strings
Were all unwound, while its clogged wheels stood still,—
While folded were swift Thought's careering wings,
It was not with, nor yet against my will,
But there I stood resigned,—nor good nor ill,
Nor chance nor change affected me—a pause
Came o'er Existence—nor did ache nor thrill
This restless Soul that hovered in the jaws
Of cold Obstruction then—nor sought the effect's veiled cause!

169

CCXXXII

Besides the common sorrows that we share,
Mysterious, shadowy griefs the Soul oppress,
We may not sift them, nor dissect them there—
Nor of their birth nor origin can guess—
Veiled in the secret bosom's sealed recess,
But we become against our will their prey,
And bend us to a dreamy, vain Distress—
Still plodding on, our dull and beaten way—
And bearing the cold cares, and griefs of every day.

CCXXXIII

But if mysterious sorrows we endure—
Profound unearthly raptures thrill us too—
Etherial—fervent—beatific—pure—
For ever welcome and for ever new,
And both proclaim the Soul is journeying through
An alien Country—a far foreign Land—
Where endless ills and miseries must pursue—
While still the glorious Traveller's oft-times fanned
By mighty Airs from Home—now keen,—now heavenly bland.

170

CCXXXIV

Yea! verily we are mystically made—
How many a link and vein, and tint and tone—
How many a delicate trace and transient shade
Of thought and feeling do we wondering own,
Whose ends and sources are alike unknown;
Not to this World seem they to appertain,
Like precious seeds within our deep Souls sown,
Subject awhile to dull Corruption's stain,—
Till in Existence new—Mind bursts its wintry chain.

CCXXXV

Ere broken to the World's monotonous yoke,
What petty things can shake us and surprise,
A light touch then can like a thunderstroke
Come down upon the Soul—which vainly tries
To keep its own proud flight—around it rise
A thousand threatening forms—too sensitive
Neglect, Unkindness wound it, till faint dies
Its passionate hope, beneath the shocks they give,
And that once lost, no more 'gainst pitiless Fate 't will strive!

171

CCXXXVI

Fatal Discouragement! none, none may know
What noble faculties thou hast sunk and crushed;
The minds most rarely finely strung below,
O'er which Heaven's brightest colours loveliest blush'd,
Have felt thee haply deepest—they that rushed
All fire, all feeling, onward to the goal!—
Chatterton! Bird of Paradise!—how gushed
Thy heart's blood forth! Oh! Amaranth of the Soul,
Rare Star of Life! when thou receivedst its bitter dole.

CCXXXVII

And thou too, Keats! whose quick and glowing mind
Wrapt itself in a shroud of lucid words,
Who left the grosser, colder Earth behind,
And with seraphic touch thrilled tenderest chords—
How did Discouragement of thy bright hoards
Of fancy thee defraud—and to the core
Of thine Existence strike—since most it lords
O'er such as thee—who gaze and who adore,—
Who well know how to admire—a bright but fatal lore.

172

CCXXXVIII

He—from whose lips most precious words distilled,
Which fragrance, light, love, music sweetly shed—
He led the heart and spirit as he willed,
And with ambrosia every thought he fed—
Even from the chilly Empire of the Dead,
His themes come full of life and heat and power,
Those words like fabled Love's own arrows sped,
Thrill through our Souls and o'er them softly shower
A heavenly light of bliss—through many a raptured hour!

CCXXXIX

A thousand blessings he to those hath left,
Whose cold curse checked his being's mighty springs,
While of each rich expectancy bereft,
He sunk to the earth despite his glorious wings
Which should have raised him far o'er ground-born things!
A thousand blessings he hath left to those
Who wrought his wretchedness, hark! hark! he sings,
He charms away our sufferings and our woes—
With Life—alone with Life—were his ordained to close.

173

CCXL

And thus the gifts which Nature made his own
Enrich us, but impoverished him indeed—
By them was he betrayed, by them undone,
Through them his bosom was constrained to bleed—
Through them his fall was compassed, 't was decreed
That his sweet lyre should be his flower-wreathed rack,
His magic sceptre prove a faithless reed,
His golden weapons on himself flung back,
Should crush him down to the Earth—while all grew chill and black.

CCXLI

How many that sorrow o'er thy hapless fate,
That feel themselves, sweet Bard! those fires divine,
Whose minds are charged with a refulgent freight
Of sun-bright, Heaven-born phantasies—shall twine
Their Hopes with other states of being—thine
Remembering in their wreck and in their blight—
Nor seek in life's vain narrow lists to shine,
Veiling their treasures from the scorner's sight,
And soothing their checked souls, by many a far, stolen flight.

174

CCXLII

Ah me! methinks that many on this dull Earth
The highest of the high—it well may be,
Are hidden to the charnel from the birth
Haply in a profound Humility;
Haply because their Nature fine and free,
Yet quick and warm, and meekly soft and deep,
Keeps them, midst Earth's uproarious grief and glee
From apposite demonstration—so they reap
Silently Peace' sweet Fruits, till they in silence sleep.

CCXLIII

Who would be this World's favourites must consent
To have no will, no feelings of their own,
But to its will, to be conformed and bent—
To hang upon its chariot wheels—be blown
By its vile breath to any shape, then shown
Belike as the object of its sport! its smile
Must be their vitals' vitals, and its frown
Their doom, their terror, their perdition, while
Even at its bidding they, must curb their minds and file.

175

CCXLIV

True, some have made its honours all their own,
The while those honours they even seemed to slight—
Born as 't were on their Earth-o'ergazing Throne—
Receiving its deep homage as their right,
But they had not to climb the difficult height
Of steep Ambition, step by step—and hold
By every vile weed—in their dubious plight
That fringed their path, half-bedded in the mould—
Lest that their foot should fail—and they sink, downwards rolled.

CCXLV

Yet hath it truly been so? we hear now
Eternal honour coupled with their name,
But while they deigned not to accede—nor bow
To this World's arrogant dictates, nor could tame
Their Spirits to its level—wrong and blame
Pursued them—be ye sure; ere bright Success
And haply posthumous and tardy Fame
Gave them to Glory!—How dost thou suppress
Oh World! the expanding Soul—and make its triumphs less.

176

CCXLVI

Ivy oft wraps the tree which it hath killed
With falsest semblance, and like that same tree,
Or Oak or Elm appears—too subtly skilled
To weave itself round every branch and be
Its mimic—parasite,—and as we see
Its traitorous murderer too, but thus afar
The eye deceived, may well deem fair and free,
Rises the original tree, which stripp'd and bare
Might envy the scathed trunk—Seamed with Heaven's thunder scar!

CCXLVII

Its own proud foliage 't is constrained to doff—
And o'er its own dire ruin smile and shine;
To crush and drain its strength was not enough,
In vilest mockery must that Ivy twine
Around its Victim—in its faint decline
To treachery adding insult, and cold scorn,
To harsh oppression!—Say, could you divine,
The Forest's lofty child was thus forlorn,
Gazing on its veiled frame?—of strength, life, beauty, shorn?

177

CCXLVIII

Could you behold the branches so despoiled,
Those funeral-garlands could you but displace
That closely round in serpent-folds are coiled
With fell luxuriance and with deadly grace,
Then should you mournfully and clearly trace
The havoc and the devastation wrought
By that false foe within whose death-embrace—
Within whose toils inextricably caught,
Piecemeal to perish slow, the unhappy tree is taught.

CCXLIX

Doth not the world with all its Arts do so,
Withering Existence to the very roots—
Deceiving by a vain factitious show—
Hindering the natural growth of healthful shoots
And blossomy promise fair—while it pollutes
And ruins its poor Victim—and yet more
Loading each blasted bough with Dead-Sea fruits—
(Bloom at the face, corruption at the core)—
Of Vanity, vile, weak, and worthless evermore.

178

CCL

To unlock another's secret soul would be
For us a priceless lesson—for we look
Too superficially on all we see,
Nor ope the deepest pages of the book!
Not only could we bare by powerful stroke
Of magic the true depths of mighty hearts,
But could we search each close and curtained nook
Of humblest breasts, 't would teach us more than arts
Or sciences can teach—to act more rational parts!

CCLI

'T would shew us how vile littlenesses creep
O'er pure and generous feelings, and 't would shew
How the overboiling passion-fountains steep
The mind in trouble and in gloom below;
Oh! we should see how much of bitterest woe
Man brings upon himself!—yet though ne'er shewn
With all their secrets and strange mysteries, so
Can others breasts be—one, one may be known
Which we neglect to unmask—and scorn to sound—our Own!

[END OF CANTO II.]

Napoleon.

Written by the Sea-side.

Boa-Constrictor.

Written during a period of popular commotion.