University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

MOCKHEROICKS

Alas! how many Geese are plucked by Men
Who draw their Inspiration from the Pen;
How many Paperwasters, for the Head
Might wellemploy what none but Fools eér read;
Tho' Fashions change, the cap has never yet
Been to the Taste—nor ever will, I bet—
Men may be Fools, as arrant as you please,
The Name they hate, the Thing they bear with Ease.
But I will set th' Example, and do thou
Divinest Folly! place it on my Brow;
One Fool makes many, so I trust that I
Shall not want Followers, therefore I cry,
With far more Zeal than Richard for a Horse,
Careless of Brains or any greater Loss,
«A Kingdom for a Foolscap.» tis the best
Safeguard, when Commonsense has lost all Zest:
Hard Truths displease—éen Asses prick their Ears,
And Kick; but with the Cap I feel no Fears;
Safe thrò the Madhouse I hold on my way,
Fools mark the Cap, and laugh at all I say,
Chuckling at one who seems more Fool than they;
Thus like Achilles, armed from Top to Toe
In Folly's-armour, unopposed I go;
Thus freely I can speak my Thoughts, and some
Will in the Caps' despite, I trust pierce home;
The Few will see wherefore I put it on,
The Head is not at Fault, the Cap alone;
At least, I trust, the Heart's in the right Place,
And from that, eén the Foolscap borrows Grace;
And even such a Fool as I am, dares
To have some Brains, when wiser men lose theirs;
'Tis all a Scramble, catch who will, who can,
With borrowed Wits, the Fool becomes a man.
Then if some Method in my Madness be,
'Tis got from «Malthus's Economy».
But I must change my Tone, I like a Jest,
Yet at ones own Expense, is not the best;
Mark, Reader; I by nomeans say at mine,
I love myself too well, I meant at thine!!
But I'll be grave as any Clergyman
When he asks who forbids the Marriageban;
Or when with Argument profound and high,
He pleads the cause of Tithes and Prophecy;
Or as the Lawyer, when he cannot see,
The way to find a Quibble or a Fee.
Or Poet when a botchlike Rhyme he makes,
Scratches his own, and Priscian 's bald Pate breaks,
For they sometimes put words instead of Sense,
Like Priests, when arguing «Nonresidence»;
The simile may stand, tho' but so so,
For Priests as all the Oxford-Scholars Know,
Can Logic chop, as they do in the Schools,
To puzzle wisemen and convince eén Fools;
Their Syllogisms stand as firm and true,
On their own Bottoms, as a Tub can do;
And if there nothing in the Inside be,
'Tis not their Fault, that was not meant to see;
They must be with a certain Reverence viewed,
And then the Argument holds doubly Good.
But I will now be serious, so turn
The leaf for «Thoughts that breathe and words that burn»,
I don't mean burn thy Fingers, but thy Heart,
If divine warmth my poor Verse may impart!
And Oh! my God, our Hearts are cold indeed,
Not warmth enough to quicken up the seed
Of thy own blessed word; rank is the Soil,
And weeds of Bane alone repay our Toil;
For with unblessed Sweat it is bedewed,
And Mammon, stern Taskmaster, long has stood
Beside us, and as we have held the Lash
Over the Slave, so He oér us, whose rash
Inhuman Laws, in vicious Circle still
Working, hurl back on our own Heads, the Ill
At others aimed; Intolerance has sown
Her seeds abroad, and when the Crop was grown,
We reaped it, and the Harvest thus brought back,
The Harvest of Iniquity, not slack
Has borne its retribùtive crop here too,
And of the bitter Bread, we eat, as due,
Our share. For Fellowcreaturefeeling dead
In Many, is the Leaven of the Bread
Of Christian Freedom; and in vain we trust
To be Freemen at Home, when by the Lust
Of Gain, we're led to violate abroad
The Rights of Man, at Home in vain adored.
For whomsoe'er ye injure, 'tis a Man,
Like your ownselves; his Rights are yours; nor can.
Ye rob him of the least of these, and not
Partake the Degradation of his Lot;
Still in the same proportion as ye free
Your Fellowmen, the freer will ye be.
And He who makes one slave, will surely find,
The chains of Prejudice his own Soul bind;
He too who elsewhere Right, and Wrong confounds,
Will not at Home o'erstrictly mark their Bounds.
The Good of one man is that of the whole,
Thro' all, the one can only reach the Goal,
In each Man's Breast the Heart of all should be,
And with the Eyes of all men should He see,
Each in the whole, the whole in each combined,
One man in Millions, Millions with one mind
And Soul, one Heart within the Mighty Breast,
Yea! God's own Heart, felt conscious in the least.

DEDICATION TO THE SPIRIT OF HUMANITY.

SUNSETTHOUGHT.

The Sun is burning with intensest Light
Behind yon Grove; and in the golden Glow
Of unconsuming Fire, it doth show,
Like to the Bush, in which to Moses' Sight
The Lord appeared! and oh! am I not right
In thinking that He reappears eén now
To me, in the old Glory, and I bow
My Head, in wonder hushed, before his Might!
Yea! this whole world so vast, to Faiths' clear Eye,
Is but that burning Bush, full of his Power,
His Light, and Glory; not consumed thereby,
But made transparent; till in each least Flower!
Yea! in each smallest Leaf, she can descry,
His Spirit shining thrò it visibly!

WHEREIN ALL MEN MAY BE GREAT.

The greatest Man is not so great, but we
May imitate him, so far as he is
A Man; for to be quite a Man, this, this
Is in the Reach of all! however He be,
In Wealth, Power, Genius, raised above us, He
Is but our equal as a Man; nay his
Best Glory is to be so! let him miss
This brightest Crown of true Humanity,
And he is no more Great! in doing Good,
None need be little, for the Poorest can
Give most, tho' but the crust which is his Food!
And He whom Fancy with her Rainbowspan
Made first of Poets, by a pure Heart could
Be, and was, something more; He was, a Man.

ON OBTAINING THINGS BY GENTLE MEANS.

Seek nothing thro' brute Force, when thou canst by
Love win it—if not, let it go, and nought
Will be lost, be assured. The Good you thought
To find, would be no more so, for in thy
Own Soul, its whole worth lies; and foolishly,
Thou vexest, troublest that, for the Thing Sought,
The great Good for the less! and how can aught
Divine, impart its own Sublimity
Unto the Soul, when our own Feelings grow
Distuned by Strife? and besides these is no
Medium for Godlike Things; but that wihch we
Obtain by Love, tho' little worth it be,
Brings this chief Good with it; it puts the Soul
In Harmony with itself, and this Whole,
This lovely Whole, and does so thro' our own
Best Feelings; and if it did this alone,
Methinks the greatest Good of all Earths' Store,
Gained otherwise, could not enrich us more;
Nor half so much; for what we feel, that is
Real wealth; and Love, however caused is Bliss,
In itself perfect, and who can have more than this?

GREATNESS.

In little Things a man may still be great;
Nay, He who is not So in these, will néer
Be great in great Things-Lifes' most weekday Sphere,
Yields Opportunities, and every State
Occasions endless, by which to create
True Grandeur both of Heart and Mind-whoéer
Lives simply and thinks grandly, need not fear
That He to work the Godlike long must wait.
Had Christ thought thus, he would not have preached to
The Poor and Humble-'tis the Feelings, by
Which all's ennobled-and if these be true
And Godlike, what have Time or Place to do
Therewith? the Man alone attracts the Eye
Of God, and what is sublime in his View,
Cannot be small in anyones, except
In his, who is far less than least—tho' nought
But the Crust by the hungry Beggar kept
For his poor halfstarved Dog, whose Life is bought
By his own Pains, sublimed, forgotton in that Thought.

ON SEEING ALL THINGS IN THEIR TRUE LIGHT.

WONDERWORKING.

HOW TO MAKE THE WORLD PLEASANT.

Seek not to alter things; but alter thou
Thy mode of looking at them. Thy Soulseye,
Such power dwells in the Godlike faculty,
Can turn what seems most distort to thee now
To best Proportion; until all things grow
Around thee, into perfect harmony
With thine own Being. And how easily
Canst thou accomplish this! how much, oh how
Much easier, methinks, this simple way,
Yet most effectual, to change all things
To that which thou wouldst have them be! for say,
Are they not by thine own Imaginings
As truly changed, and brought beneath thy sway,
(As 'neath the skilful hand the Lyrés strings
With the whole compass of its melody)
As if thou wert, like God, Allmighty? yea!
Thou canst build up the world so lovelily,
In thine own mind, that thou shalt on thy way
Move joyous and content, néertroubled by
The Ills that fret the heart, and turn the hair to gray!

WEEKDAY WONDERWORKING.

One Day I prayed, that Heaven would send me down
An Angel, that the same might confort me,
And as a token everafter be.
And Lo! my prayer was heard; no form was shown,
Unto Mine eye; 'twas in the Soul alone
He made his presence felt; Heaven's Gifts must 'we
Receive, as they are given, Spiritually,
Thus soul to soul can only be made known.
Whenéer our hearts are warmed by Divine Thought,
When past Gooddeeds urge gently on to new,
Then is the Angel sent, for whom we sought,
He ministers to us; we ourselves do
Become the Angel which we prayed for, wrought
To that diviner shape our wishes drew!
Thus God gives more than what we ask for—Nay!
He himself is in us, when we sincerely pray!

WEEKDAY WONDERS.

TRUE GREATNESS.

The truly Great, is great in all Things; there
Is nothing little unto Him, for He
In small Things sees great Principles-most free
From Pomp, most grand-a Statue massive, bare,
From Nature's Quarry hewn; for his works are,
Like God's, enduring, and his Eye can see
No Littleness, where aught that lives may be
Made happier, nor aught beneath his Care,
Tho' but the worm beneath his Feet. His Mind
Is Catholic; his Eye is single, clear,
Like God's, and when therein thou seest a Tear,
'Tis as if Christ himself wept for Mankind;
His views are large; no Partyfeelings blind,
No names delude him; far too wide his sphere
For these; for allembracing is his Heart,
And in it éen the least Thing has a Part,
Yea! éen his Enemies; He loves them all,
And would be ready at his Master's call
To shed his Blood for them; his Sympathies
Are comprehensive; from the Household Hearth,
Their surest Cradle, they embrace all Earth,
But thither still return for fresh Supplies;
For He who loves not his own Home, how should
He love the State? who has not grown a good
Man there, how can He be a noble or
Good Citizen? or how observe the Law
Of Man, who that of God observes not, nor
Has learnt to read it, in his own Heart, by
The Light of Love-Here is the great Man still
More great, for he has Duties to fulfill,
Without which He could not be éen a Man;
First in his Home he grows all that He can
Become, of great and Godlike, thro' his wife
And Children, conscious first of what this Life
May be wrought into, and of what He owes
To God and Man, for his Sake and for theirs,
Who gave this Life its nobler Hopes and Cares.
Go! Seek him there then; haply at the Plough,
Like Cincinnatus, you may find him now,
Neath God's own open Sky, and like it free
And Sublime in man's naked Majesty,
Heart, Ear, and Eye, familiar with the Sights
And Sounds of Nature; to her loftiest Heights
Ascending, easy as the Eagleswing
Unto the Mountaintops, scarce conscious of
His Grandeur, without Effort, far above
Ambition's Ken; yet with the meanest Thing
Still sympathizing; comprehending it
In its own kind, and turning it to fit-
-Est use and Service; still extracting Good,
Like God, from Evil, by that sublime Mood,
Which thinking that whatever is, is right,
At length can make it so, in selfdespite!
This is the man to rule a State, whose Soul,
Epitomizes in itself, the whole!
Who grasps both Great and small—in small Things great,
For small Things make up greatest-Yea! the state
Itself, is made of these, and He who is
Not great therein-true Greatness still must miss!
For grand occasions He lies by, that men
May point their Fingers at Him, and the Pen
Of Fame, bepraise Him; meanwhile, scorn'd as nought,
Full many thousand small Events have wrought
Out mightiest Issues, 'neath the watchful Eye
Of Wisdom, toiling for Humanity!
Yea! mightier, far mightier, than those
He seeks, tho far less noisy-Lo! the Rose
Has climbed meanwhile round many a Cottagedoor,
And Nature helps to humanize the Poor;
The barren Field now laughs, and many a Nook
Rejoices, where Ambition could not brook
To stoop his Eye; Art unto Nature lends
Her Hand, with her toils to sublimer Ends;
Hallows familiar Things to higher Use,
And opens Hearts impervious to the Muse
Till now, by means despised, unthought of-yea!
These, these are Triomphs, like the Light of Day,
Beneficent and universal-these
The Trulygreat prefers to crowned Ease,
Or Cesar's Laurels; He toils for Mankind
And like God, his best Recompence will find
In his own Heart; a Nation's Joy is his,
And who can come more near to God than this?
He is à Perfect Man, for Millions blend
Their Hearts with his, to that most sublime End;
He has exalted and perfected thro'
His Laws, Mankind; and Mankind, as is due,
Has perfected him also; for the one
Man, thro' all, grows a perfect Man alone!

ON THE PLANET LUCIFER.

How still and holy that bright Star upon
Th' Horizon's Verge is burning; silent there
He fills with modest splendour all the Air,
Unenvious and unenvied-tho' the Sun
Will merge him in his gorgeous Rise anon,
He no least Sign of Discontent doth wear!
So be thy Soul, as if that Star so fair
Were burning stilly, in thy Breast. If one
Greater than thou, shine forth upon Mankind,
With one meek Triomph be Content. Altho'
Lost for awhile to Man, God is not blind!
Shine on tho' unobserved, for there is no,
No Littleness-Beams make that Sun, thy mind
Too is a Beam of God-as such then know
And feel it, for unfelt it is not so!
The Godlike is of God the Consciousness;
Be conscious then and in Him all possess!

POVERTY.

Talk not of Rich or poor; for in the Eye
Of God, all, all are equal; there is none
So poor, but can find words to call upon
Him, and to say with meek Sublimity,
«Our Father which art in Heaven,» for 'tis by
That name He loves best to be called; and on
This Earth, which he has blessed for all, no one
Is poor who feels in its whole Force, the high
And Divine Solace of that noblest Prayer!
The poorest wretch may call him Father, more
The richest cannot do; and those who are
The most in need of him, the Heart made sore
By Grief, the Childless, Fatherless, who bear
His Cross in Meekness, feel its sublime Lore
The most, and by their very Poverty
Inherit all the Treasures of the Sky!
And what, tho' seemingboundless, is Earths' Store,
Compared with Heaven's; from whose Treasury,
One Single Jewell calm Content, can give
All Riches summed in one; the Power to live
With Heart as serene as there up on high,
Some bright Star, shining still and holily!
He, He alone is poor! who never felt
That Prayer, nor to God as his Father knelt!

ON FANCYDREAMERS WHO THINK REAL LIFE TOO COMMONPLACE FOR THEM.

«What would'st thou breathe, if not this Common Air!»
Is it not Ether? are thy Fellowmen
Not with thee here as Angels? what more then
Canst thou require? view Man as if He were
All that is Godlike! and let all who bear
That Name be holy to thee; yea! éen when
'Tis'but a Beggar, give him back again
His Greeting in all Love and Awe, nor dare
To think the least ill thought of him when gone!
And then, the more, more sobermindedly
Thou breathest this air, which makes us Men alone,
As simply what it is, The deeper thy
Belief that all are Godlike, from thine own
Heart feeling it; the more Reality
Thou givest this Truth in Act, unshaken by
Vain Doubts and Fancies, then wilt thou have grown
By so much more an Angel, that thine Eye
In all who meet thee'neath the holy Sun
Will see nought but the Angel—yea! thou' It own
That Fancy's Dreams were but a gilded Lie,
And that this Common Air which we live on,
Is the pure Ether of God's blessed Sky!

NATURE.

TO CLARKSON, ON THE PASSING OF THE SLAVETRADEABOLITIONBILL.

THE STARS.

The Stars come forth, a silent Hymn of Praise
To the great God, and shining everyone,
Make up the glorious Harmony, led on
By Hesperus their Chorister: each Plays
A Part in the grand Concert with its Rays,
And yet so stilly, modestly, as none
Claimed to himself aught of the Good thus done
By all together, mingled in soft Blaze.
Each has his Path, there moves unerringly,
Nor seeks for empty Fame: do we as they.
Let each Soul lend its utmost Light, each play
In the grand Concert of Humanity
Its destined Part-then mankind on its way
Shall move as surely as those stars on high!

PRAYER.

Hear me, Oh Father: hear, and grant that I
May work out something for thy Glory now,
Tho' but to bring a Blush unto the Brow
Of Mammon's slave, a soft Tear to the Eye
Of wretched Sinner, thro' which to descry
Some Mercymissioned Angel drop below
To comfort Him; or Thou thyself; for no
Eye sees thee clearer, unto none seems thy
Pure Presence, so, so unapproachable,
So far; as to the contrite Sinner's; who,
Looking but at the Height from whence he fell,
Not at thy Mercy, sinks dismayed into
His Sorrow; yet 'tis just for this, thou art
Nearer than ever, yea! in his own Heart!
Pardon me Father, if I ask not well:
Thou hast no need of me or Mine, to move
The Heart of Man to Worship and to Love;
Thou mads't it; 'tis thy Mastermiracle!
And if the Dayseye speaks so eloquent
Of thee, which is less than intelligent,
Shall that be silent in which thou dost dwell?
Yet would I show the Love that fills my Breast;
Grant me thy Blessing then—that is the best
Of Inspirations! and with that, whate'er
I think, feel, say, or do, will, like the year
Which thou hast bless'd likewise, bring forth' unto
Thy Praise, in its fit Season, and so tell
Of Thee, and bear the Stamp of whence it drew
Whatever Good is in it; yea! as clear
As in that Sinner's Eye the holy Tear!

NATURE.

ON BEING MUCH ALONE.

'Tis ill to be alone, at least in Thought
Be never thou so. Fancy that by Thee
A radiant Angel ever stands, that He
Is sent by Providence, to note down aught
Unworthy thought or done, when thou deem'st nought
Is by, to mark-Thus will an Angel be
Really close at thy side, tho' thou canst see
His Form not, and his Presence will be fraught
With Blessings, as if he were visible!
Thus thine own Thoughts grow to pure Angels here,
Thy best, thy Guardianangels! and quite near,
Yea! in thee, Heaven, with all its Joys may dwell!
Oh Wonder! yet familiar and as clear
As that each in himself doth bear the Spell!

ON SIMPLE ENJOYMENTS.

SELFGREATNESS.

The Beggarsstaff has oft a wider sway
Than the kingssceptre! vaster Empire far,
Far nobler subjects—his own thoughts, which are
Best ministers of Good from Day to day!
Content, He forms no fretting wish to stray
Beyond his destined Sphere, where, like a star,
His soul moves calm and still, above the war
Of Earth's vain cares, on its Eternal way.
Till thus become a Spirit, Spirits wait
Upon him, ever round thaut viewless throne
Which He, on Passions earlytaught to own
Wisdom's supremacy, has raised, a State
Wherein Celestial Powers have sway alone;
The Lord of his own Soul is truly great!

DAY-DREAMING.

I see them rise; the forms of other Days,
And this strange Room, and all these objects here,
That speak not to the heart, with one light wave
Of Fancyswand, are gone like unreal things.
Yea! like a dream, give place to a real dream,
Which for the Moment is by far more true,
And has a far more real Existence, than
The palpable Objects which around me stand.
Then mark one Thing well! Dreams are actual Life;
That which we feel alone exists to us,
And what we feel not, is as if 'twere not;
Thus absent Things are often nearer and
More present than the Present themselves, yea!
What we have lost is thus more at our Heart
Than what we have! but you may justly ask,
«How can it then be lost!» yea! verily,
Thou sayst it: that which we have at the Heart
Is never lost, until that Heart itself
Be crumbled into Dust; for what do we
Possess so truly as that which we have
At Heart? then take all Godlike Things to Heart,
And none wilt thou éer lose; nor Love, nor Youth,
Nor Friendship, nay, they become more thine own!
Before they were withont thee, but they now
Are in thee, with thee, yea! unto the last,
More beautiful from being lost, and more
Truly existent because they exist
No longer! is not this a wonder! yea!
And yet so true that thou hast but to think
And it is wrought! then dream thou wisely, dream
Rightoften, till possessing in thy Dreams
Whatever thou hast lost, thou canst no more
Lose anything; until thou com'st to think
The waking Notion of some bitter Loss,
An idle Dream! till, éen when from thy Dream
Thou wak'st, thou bringëst with thee into Life,
A firm Belief that thou hast nothing lost;
And then, then be assurred thou really hast
Lost Nothing! thus, thus often do I dream,
And were I at such moment roused, I should
Feel like one suddenly transported to
Some unknown World; the eventful Interval
Forgot, in which I grew from Boy to man;
The tears, the Heartbreak, and the sufferings;
And I should wake just as I was of old,
At heart the very, very selfsame Boy,
Whose timeuntouchëd form I now behold.
I see the Armchair by the Fireside,
Wherein my Father sat, and connëd o'er
The Daysnewspaper, full of sound and noise,
Of bubbles which have burst, of news so stale,
That were a man to read it now, it would
Set him ayawning, tho' He reads the same,
Or like, each morning, and bewunders, and
Bestares his neighbour, knowing not that there
Is nothing new beneath the sun; That he
Himself alone, is new in this grey Earth.
Now see I too my Brothers, happy Boys,
Full of their schemes, and laying out their time,
As if the Hourglass was held by their
And not his hand; as if with all their strength,
They could urge on one little, little grain,
Before th' allotted moment, or retard
It but a second, tho'it were about
To drag them down into the darksome grave.
And there is the old Housedog, muchbeloved,
And loving much too, living on from meal
To meal, yet by Affection dignified.
And there I see myself, or rather there
I feel myself, and am; once more a boy!
The load of fifteen years thrown from my heart.
And if the moments in Time's glass still run,
While I thus dream, at least I grow not old
With them, as on they speed-I do but live
Them o'eragain, and rob them from the Past.
And could I but preserve within my breast
The young heart of that Dream, Oh! I should go
Down to the Grave still with a Child's glad soul;
As little touched by Care as is the flower,
As joyous as the wave which breaks upon
The beach, then sinks back to the Mighty Deep
From whenee it had its being: and if this
Be not attainable, yet still at least,
I from Time's spiritgalling yoke, have drawn
My neck, and like the weary steed, have breathd
In Peace awhile-then once more on my way,
In calm content, and hoping all things good,
Yea making them so by that very hope,
I move, and from my deep heart there is sent,
A perfume, as from flowers but just fill'd
With freshest dew, which maketh sweet the breath,
The weekday and familiar breath of Life,
Yea! sweet as that of Paradise-as tho'
I were an angel! Lo? I am so now,
Tho' but for one brief moment; for the heart
Which beats so blessedly within my breast,
Is that same pure and loving heart which at
Life's dawn, fresh from the hands of God himself,
Lit up my young eyes in their deep Delight,
When for the first time opening gently up,
They met my Mother's holy face bent o'er
Me like an angel's, from that sphere, which I
Had but just left. Thus Heaven is everywhere,
Where heavenly feelings stir within the heart.
It is no place, no time, no Afterlife,
'Tis now, 'tis here, it is all Time, all Place
It is ourselves! yea! Paradise is but
The small space bosomed in the heart of man,
And Ether boundless, limitless as thought,
Could not enlarge its sphere, no, no, not one
Least Tittle! for where God is, there is all!

WORLDGRATITUDE.

When thou pluck'st down the apple from the tree,
Thank'st thou the root which nourished it below?
From thence, allviewless as it is, doth flow
The sap which makes that fruit so sweet to thee.
So in the State; the Blessings which may be
In sight and reach of all men, which all know
How to appreciate, these ever grow
From causes which the vulgar neither see
Nor thank: thence is it that the Godlike Soul
Must toil with sad conviction that the Goal
Reserves no Garland for his sublime head.
Like God, tho' He gives motion to the whole
He is unseen, unthought of, and when dead
His empty name is worshipped in his stead!
But to be thus like God, that sublime Thought;
More than consoles for being held as nought
By Men; and like a Halo on his Brow
Reveals his coming Glory even now!

LIFE.

SUBMISSION TO PROVIDENCE.

Use me, Oh! God, Oh use me, as may seem
Best to thyself, that sublime Faith which fears
Nought, And hopes all be mine, Then let my years
Be numbered like the seasands, till no Beam
Of this thy blessed Light upon me gleam,
Till voice of Brook or Bird no more endears
Life's few last Days, and all without appears
A Blank; or let them fleet with youth's brief Dream;
Only keep quick my Heart within my Breast
And let the inner Light be dimmëd ne'er.
Deal with me, in thy Wisdom as seems Best.
Let me be as a Vessel destined here
To draw up from the well of Life, some blest
Draughts of Truth's living waters, fresh and clear,
That Men may drink them and get sight again.
Then let the Vessel, this my poor Heart lie
Shattered in Fragments with the stroke of Pain,
By the Wellsbrink left there forgetfully.
Thou canst raise up according to thy Need,
Far nobler Means to quicken the good seed;
Enough, if in Life's brief or lengthened Day,
I have fulfilled its End as best I may,
Mighty thro' thee, without whom Strength is vain:
For all are strong who thy Commands obey!

STRONGFEELING.

'Tis well on some one Point to feel both deep-
-Ly And intensely — but take first good Heed
What that point be. Strong Feeling is the Seed
Of all true Action; if thy Feelings sleep,
Then thou art as the Dead. Now wouldst thou reap
A Harvest from thy Feelings rich indeed,
Wouldst thou from all vain Hopes and Fears be freed,
Which paralyze thine Action, and make steep
And hard the Path of Virtue, then I say,
Feel deeply, but upon Eternal Things
Alone! then will thy Thoughts be like strong Wings
To lift thee from this Earth — thus day by Day
Wilt thou grow calm, for the Eternal brings
With it still its own Changelessness; for aye
To its own Nature turning all beneath its Sway!

TRUE GREATNESS.

I love to see the great man seated by
His Fireside wilh children round his knee,
Sharing their little sports and harmless Glee;
No Ostentation in his speech or Eye,
Hinself a Child too in Simplicity
Of Heart, altho'a God in Mind He be!
And most the last, when most the first! For He
Whose wisdom puckers up his Brow, is nigh-
-Er unto Folly than He thinks: it is
A barren Lore whose Fruit is not of Bliss.
I love to see the great Man great in Week-
-Day Life's familiar Intercourse; 'tis this
That makes him so; he waits not for the Call
Of great Occasions, He is great in all.
For wisdom knows no Littleness; with his
Least Fellowcreature, as the greatest, meek
And simple, sharing their least Joys and Fears,
And Hopes, but still subliming these to high-
-Er Ends; and hallowing the common Tears,
And beating Heart of frail Humanity,
By bright Prophetic Touches, from the years
To come, and Glimpses of Eternity!

SUNSETSCENE.

Once more, Oh! once more, let me fill mine Eyes,
My Heart and Soul, with all I gaze upon.
One Moment and the vision will be gone;
The gorgeous Pageantry swept from the skies,
As wantonly, as tho'but to surprize
Us with her Wonderworks thus briefly shown,
Then snatched away, were Nature's aim alone.
No tokens will be left, save those which rise
Before the dreamy Sight of Memory:
As noiselessly as Thought all melts away;
Night draws her Curtain, and the Landscapes die.
This glorious Poem of another Day,
In which my Soul's a Hymn, fades off for aye
This silent Harmony, this music for the Eye!

ON OVERSCRUPULOUS VIRTUE.

She is a Sinner, and thou turn'st as tho'
Thou wert an Angel in thy Purity;
Yet wherefore has God given thee an Eye
To see, an Heart to feel, save it be to
Work all the Good, which thou hast Power to do?
And tho' she be so! art thou then so high,
That thou canst not stoop down to her? then why
Did God send his own Son to us? are you
Higher than God, or purer than the son?
Shame on ye! in the Sight of God, None, none
Are vile; none, none contemptible, nor e'er
By Mercy thrust aside! He, who alone
Is himself nought but Purity, his Ear
Shuts not, not e'en to Her; nay He will hear
With far more Joy than when the Angels hymn
His Praise, that lost sheep praying unto Him,
«Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be
Thy Name,» have mercy, thou who read'st the Heart,
Who know'st the Burthen it has had to bear,
For these, these but the sin alone can see
And know not what the strong Temptations were.
Shame on thee! art thou more than God, or art
Thou less than Man? Yea! verily, I say,
Thy Sin is more than Hers a thousandfold,
For in God's sight, who is all Love, a cold
Hard Heart is of all sins the greatest; yea!
'Twere easier to make the waters flow
From the hard Flint, than Good from such a Breast!
Her Sin is nobler than thy virtue — aye,
A thousand times; for haply it doth owe
To that, which of all virtues is the best,
To Love, its origin — for there is no,
No virtue without Love; of all the Rest,
It is the End and the Beginning, the
Completion, and the crowning Grace; and tho'
She be a Sinner! Wherefore should she be
So, longer than there is necessity?
Has she not still a Heart? must one Illdeed
Of neverfailing Evil sow the seed?
Beause ye do not, or ye will not know,
That Man is no machine to work out ill,
Which having done so once, must do so still!
And who compels her to remain so? ye,
Ye, ye, ye Hypocrites with puckered Brow
And lip of scorn, ye thrust her down to Hell,
And laugh like Demons o'er an Angel's Fall,
When she should sit in Glory' bove ye all!
She had a Soul of Good still in Her; Woe,
Then woe to ye, who suffer Her to dwell
In Sin, when ye might save! God will require
Her at your Hands, and great will be his Ire,
For this one, one lost soul: far better 'twere
That to your necks a Millstone had been tied,
And ye been cast into the deep sea, there
To perish, ere ye hardened thus your Hearts from Pride!

BLESSINGS.

No Blessings can be earned in this Life, till
Thou hast prepared thyself for them — hast brought
Thy Mind into a fitting Mood. For nought
Divine can be attained, till Heart and Will
Are purified — the inward Fount whence still
All Good must flow. Life's coarsest Stuff is wrought
To pure Etherial Forms, by thy own Thought,
When schooled its sublime Duty to fulfill.
Our Thoughts are our best Blessings — these alone
Deserve the Name — all others are but Dross,
Where these are not-and where these are, the Loss
Of those, unfelt: the Treasure is thine own
Already, which thou sought'st without; it lies
Within thee; think but so, and it is won.
Make thyself worthy of it first, (for none
Who earn not, gain the Treasures of the Skies),
And then thou needst not seek for it, 'tis thine!
Live pure then, as an Angel! be divine,
Be Godlike, yea! for such thou art, and then
Thou wilt become an Angel — wilt possess
In thine own Bosom, every Blessing, when
Thou hast thereof but a due Consciousness!
And to this End, ask nought of Heaven, but take
Whate'er it sends, in calm Contentedness;
For such a Temper Good of all can make,
Till Life's worst Ills departing, turn and bless
Thy Threshhold, changed to Angels for thy sake!

ALL THINGS A HYMN TO GOD.

Hear'st thou the Hymn? from star to star it flows,
Like the deep sound of many waters; on,
For ever on, thro' boundless space — not one
Sole Thing, but duly pays the Debt it owes
Of Praise, according to its kind! the Rose-
-E's Scent and Beauty are its hymn! the sun
With each Daysdawn, and when his Course is run,
Sets forth with colours fairer far than those
Of Raphael, on the Clouds that bar his way,
His Maker's Glory, And as from the Sky
They melt, with silent Language for the Eye,
They hymn his Praise! — And thou, my Soul, too play
Thy Part; and under his Name modestly
Work out the Godlike, like the Stars, nor pray
For vain reward or Recompense, for by
Becoming Godlike will thou best repay
At once thyself, and serve the Deity!
The Rose is quite a Rose, and what that can
Accomplish, canst not thou? be quite a Man!
Then will thy Being, like the Rose's, be
A Hymn, and Godlike wilt thou live and die;
Fit, like its Scent, to mix with Ether, free
As Angels, yea! an Angel verily!

TRUE LIFEDEVELOPING.

Friend, think not that a mighty Actionsphere
Is needful to unfold the soul within thee!
If thou wert Alexander with the World
Before thee, or Napoleon, thou wert
Not more a Man, no, not one tittle; nay,
The rather dispossessed of thy true Self!
For then thou wert the creature of a Dream,
Holding a Shadowsceptre, ruling o'er
Vain forms, as fleeting e'en as those left by
Thy passing shape upon the ground, and more
Unreal than such as haunt the sleeper's brain.
For when thou stand'st before the Judgmentseat,
Wilt thou stalk on a mighty crowned Ghost,
And to the assembled Angels, shouting cry,
«Lo, I am Alexander», what thinkst thou
Of Alexander overpassed the Grave?
Himself my friend, the man, the simple man,
Unbuskin'd and unstilted from the Stage
Whereon he played his Drama, full of sound
And idle uproar; Oh! believe me, friend,
If thou wouldst be thyself, wouldst be a man,
Live thine own Life; live for thyself, yet still
In others; live thou like the violet,
With all thy dear ones, like a Knot of true
And faithful hearts, that in each other pour
Their fragrance, so that one is sweet as all;
So that the Life of one be that of all;
And as the violet has many flowers,
But growing from one root, and as the Dew
That falls on one refre shes all, the blow
Which wounds one woundeth all, so shall it be
With you and yours; the Life of man is not
In outward things, 'tis in his inner self,
And that which he there gains is gained for ever!
And when He feels the Consciousness of Self,
Then is he himself, then, but not till then!

ON INJURYBEARING.

If a man injures thee: of thy Goodname
Would rob thee: with Unthankfullness repay
Thy Goodwill, and Gooddeeds, do not I pray
Indulge in Hate and Anger — 'twere a shame
To fret at such a Cause — think that the same,
The Good God up in Heaven suffers! yea!
How many give him Ill for Good, and say
Harsh Things of Him, emboldened oft to blame
By his so long Forbearance! Would'st thou then
Other Example than thy God? Know too
That none can injure thee so much, so true-
-Ly as thyself! and this thou dost most, when
Thro' Hate and Anger at thy Fellowmen,
Thou troublest thy own Soul, the One Good thro'
Which all the rest becomes so unto you!

ON USING IMAGINATION.

Thy Fancy was not given thee for nought,
Then sway it kinglike: 'tis a Magicwand
And even Spirits wait at its Command,
At least thy own Thoughts, in which must be sought
All Blessings really durable! a Thought
Can make the Beggar rich, place in his Hand
The sceptre of an Empire never spanned
By Heavenarching Iris; then be taught
To use it well and often; e'en in this
Dull Weekday Life, for that its best Sphere is.
Keep it not for Life's grand Solemnities,
Nor mouth it but in Poet's-Rhapsodies,
And dull dead Books, else thou its End wilt miss.
Draw thy Life's Poetry from it, for his
Imagination profits him alone,
Who beautifies its harsh Realities
With Hues as fresh as Raphael breathed on
His bright «Transfiguration»; 'tis all one
If in the Objet itself, or thine Eyes,
The Beauty dwell: enough if felt by thee!
This is Imagination's End, to see
All Things as if transfigured by its own
Celestial Light, éen Pain and Misery!
And know, that of the daily Bread of Bliss,
Tho' the main substance by the Heart must be
Supplied, yet still a little Fancy is
No unfit Leaven; this will set it free
From what of Earthly round the Heart has grown,
And make it Food for Angels; e'en Love's kiss
Without a Touch of Fancy were Halfjoy,
This hallows it, and then it cannot cloy!

POVERTY, WHAT REALLY.

What Constitutes the Force of Poverty?
The many wants which it cannot appease.
Now, tho' the Richman satisfies with Ease
His Wishes, yet not being sobered by
The chastening Power of necessity,
And not real wants, they quickly cease to please,
And wilder wishes follow — thus thro' these
Many new Wants, 'mid all his Luxury,
Is He still poor; nay, poorer than the man,
Who having but few Wants, with Little can
Be rich and happy: and the Richman too
Is more the Slave of Circumstances, than
The Poorman, 'spite of all his wealth, nay, thro'
That very Wealth. Like a Slave, owing to
Others his Happiness — that Beggar is
Truliest so, who begs his daily Bliss,
And not his daily Bread. Thus Poverty
Is not the having little wealth, for by
Gold, none was e'er made happy; but 'tis this:
To have too many wants, and thus to miss
Thro' the superfluous the necessary!

EVIL OF SUSPICIONS.

Oft, oft have I been cheated — often too
Repaid with Injuries for Good — yet still
I trust my Fellows nottheless, untill
Deceived again, thus ever will I do.
Of those chief Goods of Soul, the being true
To onesownself, the Singleness of Will
And Heart, the living ever as if Ill
Were not in this fair world, thus keeping new
The unsuspecting Heart of Infancy,
The open Brow, fresh Feelings and clear Eye,
The Maintenance of these I say, is worth
In my Esteem, all, all the Gold of Earth!
And for what should we make a Sacrifice,
If not for our own «Souls»? He, He is wise
Alone, who deems all Loss as nought to this,
For where the Soul is Godlike, no Loss is!
But to live in Suspicions vile and low,
This is to soil the Soul till no more so.
And to suspect all men, is to degrade
Mankind, and thyself with it! to which no,
No Ill should e'er a noble mind persuade!

TRUE MIGHT.

There is a might in gentleness, a power
That owns no ruder symbol than a look
Or softbreathed word, and yet our souls are shook
Thereat, far more than is the lightest flower
By the stormblast; to whom yields Earth her dower
Of Beauty? to the crashing winds that brook
No gentle voice of bird or running brook,
Or to the springbreath which, in one brief hour,
Unfolds a thousand shapes of Loveliness?
E'en so it is! still Violence and strife
Can perfect nought for human happiness!
They do but reach the outward forms of life
Which, like themselves, are dust and nothingness;
Th' Enduring Mighty they nor know nor give.

MONEYTHIRST.

Laugh on and sneer, ye moneymaking Crew,
Ye who, than wealth, no worthier aims can see,
Sweeter than gold are my daydreams to me
Tho' empty pursed, yet richer far than you,
Who have no use of yours; Oh! tell me, who
Deserves by wisdom to be callëd free
That unto Mammon sells his Liberty?
He who for this vile yellow dust would do
A meansouled action is a slave indeed.
And who to its possession would assign
Of degradation the cheappurchased meed,
Deserves to taste of nothing more divine
Than Gold can buy, and in his hour of pain
To find it turn to what it is again,
To Common Dust, like that on which we tread!

FREEDOM.

Think ye that forms of Government alone
Or idle names can make men truly free?
Ye may be slaves in a Democracy,
And freemen 'neath a Despot! 'tis all one,
For if the outward form be not bas'd on
Virtue, and Truth, and Justice, it can be
Quickened by no true soul of Good — think ye
That Freedom's holy light hath ever shone
On brows bent down for Mammon's yellow dust?
Think ye they ever breathed her Ether, who
No holy aspirations ever knew,
Whose thoughts like Earth are Earthy, and whose trust
Is placed in fleeting things, that to the heart
Their own unrest and baselessness impart?

VILLAGEBELLS.

SEEMINGPOOR.

Why poor? tho' coarselyclothed his body be,
His food the commonest that Earth supplies,
Yet scanty as it is, his Luxuries
Are neither few nor small — content is He,
Therefore he has an ample sovereignty;
He is a true philosopher, and wise
In that profoundest of all mysteries,
In selfenjoyment: in his thought he's free,
As a bird i'the air, from life's vain woes.
Looking on earthly gains as passing shows,
He hath a quiet smile for such as mourn
For pleasures which, at latest, at life's close
Must be resign'd — he seeks a higher bourne,
Nor unprovided on his journey goes!
He has sought nothing but himself, thus he
Cannot lose what he is, for that he still must be!

SUNSETTHOUGHT.

What is it, that mine Eyes look on? some bright
And radiant Angel, from the Settingsun
Alighting on yon Hill? no, 'tis but one
Of Earth's poor Dwellers, whom the Heaven's light
Has steeped in its own Glory, till to Sight
He seems transfigured: but the Glory's gone,
And there He stands, a simple Man alone,
The Halo faded from his Brow: Like might,
Yea! more hath virtue! She can lasting make
That Glory; can transfigure inwardly
The Mortal, till the Angel's Form he take,
And be, not seem — till ever in God's Eye,
From his whole being its clear Light will break
Transparent made, like moses' Bush, thereby!

OVERSHARPSIGHTEDNESS.

Oh! woe unto the man whose keener eye
Hath looked too deep beueath the surface; who
Will not take forms for things, nor false for true,
Nor ape and farce it, like the rest, nor buy
By Idolworship like security
From persecution; he will live to rue
That he had eyes among the blind, and knew
Too much to be a Dupe; what misery
Can equal that man's, who finds nothing here
To fill his heart? Who yearns for something more
Than this Life offers; to his eyes, the clear
And blessed forms of nature's self seem sear;
He seeks but cannot find the golden Lore,
The Alchymy, Life's lost charm to restore!

SECONDTHOUGHTS ON THE ABOVE

Pardon, great God! most idly was it said;
'Twas in a fit of Sadness, And mine Eye
Was filmed; but now the dark Cloud has pass'd by
Earth laughs before my Feet, and Heaven is spread,
In all its Boundlessness, above my Head,
And 'neath the bright blue dome, I kneel for thy
Forgiveness, for the Thought was Blasphemy.
But now, like yon dim Cloudlet, it has fled,
And left me, like the Heavens, full of Light,
Thy Light, and by it I again see right.
And could I say, «that there was nothing here
To fill the Heart», when even now the Tear
From thoughts unutterable, dims my Sight;
When it is so, so full, that but to hear
The Bird's least note makes it gush over quite!
And canst thou not vain Mortal find out ánght
To fill thy Heart? is it so great then, so
Capacious, that the Godliest Feeling, tho'
Love itself, is but as a Drop, as nought
Therein? Can that which fills God's own Heart, yea!
To overflowing, not fill thine, I say?
Is not the Rosebud full of its own Scent?
Is not the Vine with its own Clusters bent?
And canst thou then not fill thy Human Heart
With human Feeling? then, I say, thou art
Not yet a Man! And can the Godlike, can
The thought of God, whose overflowing Love
Stoops from emblazoning the clouds above,
To streak the Dayseye with the selfsame Hue
That crimsons them, not fill the Heart of Man?
Oh Fool! then for the Flower one Drop of Dew
Does more than what the Godlike does for you,
Which is thy Being! And if this Life gives
Full Scope unto the Godlike, Fair and True,
What matters it then where or how one lives,
More than to live Godlike, can no one do!

TIME.

E'en as the Bee has Honey and a sting,
So has each Moment; take thou then good heed,
To lay that up against thine hour of need,
And to avoid the other: if a thing
Tempt thee, first ask thyself if it will bring
Pleasure, but in the Present; Joy indeed,
When worthy of the name, doth ever breed
After its kind, the one, still ministring
Unto the other; and the more they be
Divine the richer is their progeny;
But earthly joys are barven, and they die
Issueless; for if they at will could be
Renewed, then Virtue were a mockery,
Whose essence is more pure, the more from these set free!

EVENINGTHOUGHT.

Not one least Leaf is stirring in the Sky;
Yon lazyflakëd clouds hang stilly, where
The wind has wafted them, as if the Air,
With its last Breathings, faint and sleepily
Had urged them thither — softlytingëd by
The sinking Sun, their Edges glow, and there
Beneath, those Trees, which columnlike upbear
Their lazy weight, are steeped so lovelily
In purple, while the mists begin to rise
Around their Stems, and quiet as a Dream,
This soft work of Enchantment mirrored lies
In the broad surface of yon' slumbering stream!
No longer know I where I am, mine Eyes
Reel with Delight; I myself feel and seem
Dissolved into the Elements, a Beam
Of purple Sunlight, blent with this fair Whole.
Oh! that I might be ever thus; my soul
Like yon calm Stream; the Mirror in my Breast
Giving the Semblance of its inward Rest
To all reflected in it, even to
The troubled, and the fleeting Forms w'thout:
Until this rude, hard world, there in its true
Meaning reflected, should show fair as do
The clouds and Landscape in this Water here!
Which shows all as it is, and yet more clear,
Soft, and transparent, with a Magic Hue
Which its own Depth and chrystal Pureness gives!
So too in thy Soul's Depth and Purity
May be reflected truly all that lives,
There, with its Moral joined to beautify,
Like the Reflection of yon quiet Sky!
And even then, when dark and troublous Forms
Cast their deep Shadows on it, tho' they be
Gloomy without, and there foretell of storms,
Yet their Reflection, by the Light in thee
Transparent made, enables thee to see
Thro' them, the calm and cloudless Sky behind!
And tho' the storm should burst without, that is
No Reason, why it should disturb thy Bliss;
Without it is a storm, but in in thy Mind,
A calm Reflection only; and who e'er
Was by a Picture really moved to Fear,

OBSERVE ALL THINGS CAREFULLY.

Tho' even not a Father, scorn not thou
To look on the least child with serious eye;
'Tis only from a Child, that thoroughly
Thou canst know what a child is. Books can show,
At best, but false or feeble Copies; tho'
The living specimen is ever nigh,
Philosophers, just for this, pass it by,
The sole source whence real knowledge e'er can flow.
Be thou then not so foolish; keep thy mind,
Thy heart and senses open — feel, live, see;
Wouldst thou know what a Man is, thou must be
Thyself a Man: each thing in its own kind,
Is comprehended but by sympathy,
And without this thou mightst as well be blind!

BOOKS.

Oh Books, if ye had but a heart to beat
In unison with ours, then ye would
Be to us an unmixed and perfect Good!
And yet methinks'tis so, would we but see it
In the true Light; else whence the sacred Heat,
Which ye breathe into us, the lofty mood,
The human yearnings strong, which send the Blood
To the full Heart with Impulse deep and sweet?
Oh yes, ye have a Heart; the Poet's Heart;
Yea! and of that the very noblest Part,
Freed from all mixture, from all drossy, low
And worldly Feelings, in his verse doth glow;
And if his Inspiration be the Smart,
At Times, of its own agony, His woe
Exalts and purifies, and can impart
Like to the Crown of Thorns upon Christ's brow,
A Glory to that agony, for He,
Like Christ, too suffers for Humanity!
And as the Spirit of the frozen wine
Gathers unto the Centre, strong and clear,
So in the Poet's Heart all that's Divine;
The earthly Sorrow, and the mortal Fear,
The Common, Vulgar, these are frozen, gone,
The Man is lost, the Angel lives alone!

ON A GRAVEBRINKSPORTING CHILD.

WISDOM

Bow down thine Ear, and close it not in pride,
But list in Humbleness, and thou shalt hear
The Voice of Wisdom, whispering low but clear;
Wisdom, who loves to walk still at the side
Of Meekness, and of Innocence, doth hide
Her ways from the proud Heart. Oh stoop thine Ear,
For oft her Voice is then most surely near,
When thou hast bent it lowest; oft 'twill glide
Along the still Earth with the Cricket's cry,
Sublime beneath thy feet, as up on high
Amid the hymning spheres! and if thy Soul
Hath aught Divine in it, or profit by
Her Lessons, then wilt thou strive towards Life's Goal
Without one Touch of idle Vanity;
Content to feel thyself one with this Whole,
This lovely Whole! ascribing nought to thy
Sole self, but like the flowers, modestly,
All, all to him who doth all things control.

AGAINST PRIDE: ADDRESSED TO THE SPIRIT OF HUMANITY.

TO MILTON.

Milton! my lip is hallowed by thy name,
And my heart beats with silent gratitude,
Yet not allwordless, tho' its voice be crude
And harsh, for such a theme: what was true fame
I asked, and whence the glory of a Name,
And many a darkling oracle upstood,
Pointing to deeds of folly and of blood,
From which the heart recoils in grief and shame.
I turned from these blind leaders of the blind
To thee, and thou from out thy Gloriescloud,
On the Eternal mount of Truth, enshrined,
Didst speak, and Heaven seemed to voice aroud
Its high behest, and say; seek, and thou'lt find,
Fame dwells with Truth and Time, not with the fickle crowd!

TO VENICE.

LAWS.

Yes! Ye may fence with sharp and thorny Laws
Your o'ergrown wealth, and scare off the poor man
From your Domains, and shut him in the span
Of life's dull, dusty Highway; but some Flaws
Nature finds in your Titledeeds! She was,
And is, impartial, as when she began,
And lets none violate her mighty Plan
Unpunished: and mark how she does it; Laws
May guard your wealth, tho' scarcely: something more,
Yea! Something more is needful to make ye
Real Masters of your own — a higher power
Must give the godlike Privilege to be;
To feel, as well as call it yours! the Flower,
Wherever Sun and Wind are grows — so free,
On all, doth Nature her chief Blessings shower!
And the poor Beggar whom his grudged Path o'er
Your wide Park leads, beneath the old Oaktree,
Throws off his wallet and for half an hour,
Munching his hard Bread, sweetened by the Glee
Of God's bless'd Creatures in fresh Grass and Bower,
Is Lord of all that ye call your's, for he
Hath other titledeeds whereby to take
Possession, such as Nature owns, a Breast
To feel and love, of all her Gifts the best,
A Heart by its own beatings kept awake!

ON NAPOLEON.

What tho' the stream of wisdom flows on slow
Thro' Error's quicksands, lost to casual Sight,
Yet shall it join at length with swelling might
The open sea of Truth: true fame doth grow
Not from the seed that in war's fields we sow,
Polluted with man's gore, which on the bright
And dazzling day of triomph, sheds a Blight;
Shadows of Ill forecast! for human woe
Mingles with that false brightness, and the blood
Shed thus unholily, shall rise to curse
The selfishness of cold ambition's mood.
Tis with the milk of Human Love we nurse
True fame, on contemplation's sober food,
Peace, Charity, the Fear of God, and Brotherhood!

AN EVENINGSTORM.

HOW TO ENJOY THE WHOLE.

If thou art all that God can be in Man,
Then thou art what the whole must be in one,
Then feel it so, for in thyself alone
Canst thou enjoy the whole— the widest span
Of outward Power, yields thee far less than
Thy least Thought, and till o'er these thou hast won
Dominion, over outward Things is none!
And having once acquired this, what can
Mere outward Things add to thee? this great whole,
Thou canst enjoy, if thou enjoyst thy Soul!
For is not God the whole? and dwells not He
Eternally, as thy ownself, in thee?
Then feel and be thyself, thus will thy Mind
All other Goods summed in its ownself find;
Whereas the highest outward Blessing is
Still but a Part, and the least Part of this,
This inward Good, which— thou thyself must be!

WESTMINSTERABBEY.

THE ALLHALLOWING POWER OF THE HEART.

How the Heart beautifies the smallest thing
That feels its influence, and o'er it throws
Hues, still by time untouched! this withered Rose,
Long Stranger to the Dew's soft visiting;
No more an Emblem of the scented Spring,
But a sad Proof how soon Joy comes and goes;
This Type of very Bliss, might now lie close
To Time's own Hourglass, and add a Sting
Unto his moral! Yet to me'tis dear,
So dear, that tho' nought-worth in other Eyes,
I would not for the fairest Flower that e'er
The Dew lay on, exchange it-laugh not, wise
Philosopher, with puckered Brow, and Sneer
Of Selfsuperiority, at youth
Who plucks the Rose, and likening the Prize
To the fair Maiden's cheek he loves so true,
Places it in her Bosom, and when sear
It still seems so, so fairylovely to
His Sight, for on the Breast, where now it lies,
It drew the Perfume of the Heart, by which
Its faded Leaves in Love's immortal dies
Were steeped, and therefore is its odour rich,
As when himself still pure, he thought all too
Was Godlike, and not doubting of its Truth,
Grew that which he believed! And when the years
Have wrinkled that young Brow, and like the Rose,
No trace of its first Loveliness appears,
Still o'er her Form a holy Atmosphere
Of Beauty, his Heart throws; and She, the Flower,
Seem still the same he gazed on at that Hour!
Yea! gazing steadily into that Face,
O'er which the Touch of Sorrow and the Trace
Of mortal change, have passed, he sees alone
An Angel, and to him she still is one!
Oh wise Man! wise Man! there is Wisdom, Yea!
Which enters not into thy narrow Brain;
A Wisdom, which with its calm divine ray,
Gives back their Springtide Loveliness again
To all Life's Forms; and as beneath the Play
Of purple Sunlight, in the common way,
The coarse Dust gleams like Jewels, so this can
Make all things lovely for the eyes of Man,
However mean and common it appears!
Then kneel, and weep, yea! weep thou bitter Tears,
If thou hast never felt, or been as he!
Weep bitter Tears, yea! bitterer still, if thou
Hast been so, and art so, so changëd now,
As not to feel thine Heart rejoice in thee
At that which is so lovely in itself!
Weep Tears, they are the most acceptable
Of Offerings to God; for they can tell
Alone, how deep is this thy misery.
Weep, for thy Lot is worthyer of Tears
Than if thou wert a Cripple without use
Of Limb and Sense, for thy Heart doth refuse
A Tear unto thine Eye! Paralysis
Hath struck it, and as cold as Ice it is!
O God, I pity thee; first, that no more
Thou canst pluck that so fair, fair Rose, and laste
A divine joy, in placing it before
Thy dear one's breast, with thoughts as pure and chaste,
As those of the just now unfolding Flower!
For if itself thinks not, it is a thought
Of him who made it, and by it is taught,
The Good, the Beautiful, and True, as well
As by the Lips of Wisdom her own Self!
And secondly, oh thou whom Gold and Pelf,
And the World's Glitter, can alone impel,
I pity thee, that thou do'st not yet know
Thy misery, but gloryest in thy woe:
The Curse to be imaginationless,
And never once in raptured thought to press
Thy dear one's Lips again, though long, long gone,
And feel the yearning Heart beat back thine own!
Oh! better far it were that thou shouldst stand
By the Roadside and stretch thy skinny Hand
For Bread, than wear a smile of Mockery,
At that which should bring Tears into thine Eye!

CHURCHYARDTHOUGHTS.

'Tis twilight; not a sound stirs on the air,
Save the scarcebreathëd nightwind; the mindseye
As fades the outward Scene, rapt inwardly,
Feeds on strange fancies, 'mid these graves, which are
The meetingplace of Generations, where
Dust communes with past Dust — Friend, Enemy,
Rich, Poor, Son, Father, Kindred, mingled lie,
An undistinguished throng! years pass, and wear
Away the earth that severs grave from grave,
And dust must mix tho' twere of deadliest foes!
The grave knows no distinctions, it will close
Alike o'er kings and beggars, and nought save
The costlier Tomb that to the gazer shows
Its gilded Lie, nought marks the Tyrant from the Slave!

TO DANTE.

Dante! methinks on thy so thoughtworn face,
Thy haggard eye, and wrinklefurrowed Brow,
The Shadow of the Past, an inward woe,
Tho' held aloof by pride, in each worn trace
Still lingers: 'tis in vain we would efface
From the frail flesh the spirit's burning glow
Of thought and passion — Still the features show
The Soul's deep workings — tho' the thankless Race,
That cast thee forth from out its serpentbreast,
Could not degrade; yet still, the vilest thing
At times can sting the noblest, and the test
To which thy fate subjected thee, could wring
E'en from thy lips the bitter thoughts that wrest
The spirit from its pride, and bow to Earth its wing!

CHILDREN.

WHAT MAKES US RICH.

TO COLOGNE CATHEDRAL.

TO THE SPIRIT OF HUMANITY.

To thee divinest Spirit, kneeling low,
I, on thine Altar, offer up my Heart;
Accept it: purify the baser Part,
And fill it with thy holy Flame, e'en tho'
Therewith't must be consumed; enough, if no
Unworthy Feeling of brute Fear impart
Aught earthly to that sacred Flame — thou art
My Muse; thou touch'dst my Heart, and thence did flow
The Poesy of Life, for there alone
The Springhead is. And eversince the Day,
When on thy divine Breast, a Child I lay,
And to thy mighty Heart attuned mine own,
Sweeter than Minstrelssong or Poetslay,
Has ever seemed to me the simplest Tone
Of human Love, to cheer me on my Way!
And now, great Spirit, thankfully I kneel
And ask of thee nought more, than still to feel
And be a Man, before all else — not Fame,
Nor Garland for my Brow, nor Wealth, nor Name,
I ask, but only in my Breast an Heart,
In all Man's Joys and Griefs to take a Part!

WISDOM.

Good: Evil! to the Wiseman are all one;
Nay! in his sublime Eye, the chastened Tear
Of Grief, serves but to make all Things more clear
And beautiful, beneath God's blessed Sun;
It dims not; throws no sickly Hues upon
The fresh, fair Forms of Being; and the Sphere,
Where he to full Advantage doth appear,
Is Suffering's hard School — there hath he won
The Sceptre of the Kingdom of Freewill!
There reigns supreme o'er his own Thoughts, in which
True Empire lies; for these, thro' Good and Ill
Abide with him unaltered! — these make rich
The Beggar, and his Mind, like Angels, fill,
And keep him, e'en in Rags, a Godlike Being still!
And as the sickly Muscle daily to
The Pearl which kills it, gives new Lustre, by
The Sacrifice of its own Wellfare; so
By earthly Suffering and Misery,
The Wiseman perfects his own Soul — and when
On the Worldoceansshore, the Pearl doth lie,
To which the meaner Part was offer'd, then
The Angels stoop, and hymning joyously,
Replace the Jewel in God's Crown again!

ON HEARING AN ELDTIME SONG.

AN UNBRIDLED FANCYBURST, OR PRELUDE TO A DEATHTALE.

Let my discourse be as the Nightowlscry,
The Forenote to a deed of Darkness; let
Its Hue, be as the Air, wherein he oars
His unsunned and illomened Flight, athawrt
The dank, gravetenanted Churchyard, what time
Midnight, the still and sightless Labourer,
Builds up the keystone of nightsarch, on which
The coming Day has placed his unseen Foot;
And the sad Clock tolls out the past Day's Death,
When the last hour of all the twelve, fullfledged,
Has flown in silence to Eternity!
Let the Deathraven's earoffending Note,
Robed in the darkness of his plumage, on
The Gibbetchains, expectant of his prey,
Be Music unto mine; and let my Tongue,
The very Messenger of Horror's self,
Unto a tuneless deed, lend tuneless notes,
Coined by Fear's ashen Lip — Now let your Blood
Be icetouched at the Thought, whose outline dim,
Like to a Ghost's, steals on you; let each Hair,
As with an individual touch of dread,
Start up on End. Imagination! lift
The Veil, which hides the portals of the Grave,
And unlid quite the Mindseye, for all sense
Of feebler Edge were out of Season here,
To look upon the thing that I would draw;
And push Conception to the farthest Brink
Of Crime's most fathomless, eyedazzling height,
And in the dread Abyss behold my thought
Shadowed in hues which are not of this Earth!
But gaze not long, lest dizziness and dread
Should overbalance thee, and thou be lost
Beyond all reach of Heaven's blessëd Light;
Where never ray of Star or Sun was sent,
But baleful Glooms, and shapeless Darkness wrap
Thee round for evermore!

TO MILTON.

Milton! by thee true Glory's Goal was won;
Yet meaner spirits may not copy thee,
Or to such height of true sublimity
Uplift their Thoughts. Shall earthborn Spirits run
A Race with thee, thou courser of the Sun,
Whose path was thro' the Heaven's privacy,
A solitude of Light and Glory, nigh
The Eternal Fount of Truth? thou stand'st alone,
In Mind quite unapproachable; yet still
The humblest Heart may learn to imitate
Thy Patriotspirit, selfsubduëd Will,
And that blest art, which from the Ills of fate
Extracts a blessing; glorying to fulfill
In thy high footsteps what it owes the state!

THE ALPROSE.

Hast thou not bade the Alprose bloom to thee
Allbounteous God! tho' mortal foot has rare,
Or never trod the Eternal Snows, which there
Worship thee silently; nor curious Eye
Sought in the wilderness thy testimony?
Let us not idly deem that aught in Air
Or Earth is barren beauty, so it bear
A witness unto thee; 'tis hallowëd by
That thought, and has a moral beauty far
Beyond the pomp of thrones! that lone flower might
Emblem true piety; which, like a star,
Dwells 'mid a privacy of modest light,
Blessing unseen, unnoticed 'mid the glare,
Her sole reward, the Bliss of acting right!

THE DAYSEYE.

Sweet Flower, thou art a link of memory,
An emblem to the heart of bright Days flown;
And in thy silence too there is a tone
That stirs the inmost Soul, more potently
Than if a Trumpetsvoice had rent the sky!
I love thee much, for when I stray alone,
Stealing from Nature her calm thoughts, which own
No selfdisturbance, and my curious eye
Catches thy magic glance, methinks a spell
Has touched my Soul; once more I grow a Boy;
Once more my thoughts, that, as a Passingbell,
Seemed to toll o'er departed shapes of Joy,
Change to old chimes, and in my bosom swell
Fresh Pulses of a bliss without Alloy!

ON THE ROADSIDESEATS IN PARTS OF GERMANY.

What Hand, with kind solicitude, has sown
These shady Trees along life's toilsome way,
And placed these rudecarved seats, that seem to say,
«Rest, weary Traveller, for 'tis thine own,
'Tis dedicate to thee» — Pride, Pomp, have shown
Me their most dazzling scenes — alas! they may
Not touch the Heart; from wealth we turn away,
Illgot, illused, with Indignation's frown
Of just contempt! but in Humanity,
The simplest act of Love, how small so e'er
We find a Beauty and a Sanctity
Beyond the pomp of Thrones, that renders dear
To Heart and Memory; with meanings high,
Hallowing the meanest thing we see and hear!

TO THE GENTIAN.

Sweet flower of holiest blue! why bloom'st thou so
In solitary Loveliness, more fair
In this thy artless beauty, than the rare
And costliest Gardenplant? why do'st thou grow
On the unthankful Icecliff's printless brow,
Like the fond offerings, which true Hearts bear
To the cold Inmate of the grave! the Air
Is redolent of Heaven, and thy glow
Of azure blue is caught from thence; but why
Hid'st thou thy beauties from the sight of man?
There is a Moral in thy privacy!
Truth will not grow where vulgar eyes may scan,
Or hand's unholy pluck-'tis for the sky
She blooms, and those who seek, must climb, nor fear to die!

HOME.

Home! word that sums all Joy, sole fountainhead
Of the deep stream of Bliss, if any be;
There is no substitute on Earth for thee;
Once lost, the sense of happines is fled,
And in the heart, a cold, dull void instead
Is left, that Time cannot fill up — thy high
And holy pleasures have the purity
Of Heaven's best gifts; and e'en the daily bread
Wrung from the sweat of poverty and pain,
With thee, is sweeter than the costly fare
Of Kings who know thee not; who in their vain
And empty pageantry, can have no share
Of these thy inward blessings, which disdain,
Save in the pure heart, their sweet fruits to bear!

A NIGHTSTORMSEASCENE!

The Clouds are piled in wild confusion, like
The fragments of a World just broken up,
In Giantshapes of gloom: and dim, the Moon
Faintraying makes but darkness visible,
As tho' she dared not gaze on such a scene!
More rayless grows the Night, for from the face
Of Heaven she's swept; and straight the Mountainclouds,
Like Icebergs, in collision dire clash,
And forth the Thunder's pent-up Fury leaps,
Like some mad courser plunging thro' the Sky;
As tho' the Stormfiend's steed had cast the rein,
And with his Thunderhoof and Lightningeye,
Was dashing past upon his midnight-track
Of murkiest darkness, while at each dread stamp
Heaven's shuddering vault seems rent; at each far flash
Of his dilated Eye, the cloudwreaths shrink,
Up withered like a scroll, beneath his glance,
That ploughs the womb of night up far and nigh
With Light unutterable — then, a pause,
A fearful Lull broods on the sulphurous air,
As when Hate gathers up his outbreathed might;
And save a nervous quiver all seems still!
The Giantclouds are stirless, and the fiend,
The Stormfiend hovers on highpoisëd wing,
Like a vast vulture, ere he swoops down on
His cowering Prey: but, hark! a thunderpeal
Fills the still heavens with a thousand tongues
Of gathering wrath; and every teeming cloud,
As 'twere a spirit's shroud, is rent in twain,
And flash on flash, and peal on peal, in bright
And quick succession pour; while the mad winds
Sweep the wild Panorama o'er the sky,
O'er glen and echoing vale, o'er flashing stream,
Foaming in fireflakes through forestshades,
Whose moist leaves sparkle like a thousand Gems,
And o'er the towering Mountain's brows, awhile
Crown'd with flamewreaths, then clothed in tenfold Gloom.
At fitful intervals, with ghastly smile,
Like that, which comes and goes, on dying Cheek,
Thro' her cloudveil, the Moon steals out, now dark,
Now dim, now brighter; as the varying Winds
Sweep the stormfragments, dense or thin, away;
Still some stray Thunderclap, with far off growl,
Dies, like a muttered curse, upon the gale,
As down below the Horizon's verge, once more,
The Stormfiend hurries with his panting Steeds,
Into Chaotic Night; and as he sinks,
The Ocean's yeasty breast seeths wild and high,
Flashing in foam and fury 'neath the tread
Of the wavespurning steeds, whose thunderhoofs
Strike lightning thro' the Deeps, as tho' they were
Ploughed in firefurrows, and each foaming Crest
A cataract of light, o'ercurving down
To the dark Gulf below! a moment, and
Night strews a deeper mantle o'er the scene;
And save the sullen Dash of hurtling waves,
That fall tumultuous, as with a dead,
Unsinewed weight, Silence broods o'er the Deep,
And Terror, clothed in Darkness, with her sits!

SABBATHBELLS.

THE ART OF ENJOYMENT.

Whate'er thou wouldst enjoy, enjoy it quite,
As perfect in itself— thus will it be,
Even if otherwise, so unto thee;
Thou mak'st it so: 'tis so unto thy Sight,
And that's enough! think not still how it might
Be better with this and with that; keep free
Thy Mind from idle Wishes; these are the
Worst Bane of Happiness: wish what is right,
The Sureattainable; and if thou'rt wise,
Thou wilt have one Wish only, but that one
Will the Fullfilment in itself comprize
Of every other; wish to be alone
Thyself; to be the Soul which in thee lies;
This Good once gained, then thou canst want for none;
For who dwells in thee? God! — then if thou art
That which is in thee, thou must be a Part
Of Him; and where He is what want can rise?
To say, «how pleasant would it be, if I
Had this and that»; this is the Fool's dull Way
Who for the Distant spoils the Sure and Nigh,
Makes vain the beating Heart and open Eye!
Go to 'yon Hound for Wisdom; in the Ray
Of Sunlight, which the Clouds may snatch away
Ere the next Moment, careless doth he lie,
Basking, as if 'twould last eternally!
So in the passing Hour lives the Wise,
It yields enough to fill both Heart and Eye;
And from a full Heart no vain Wishes rise!

A PASSING THOUGHT.

'Twas in Arezzo; in the public Square,
I stood hardby the Fountain gushing clear;
I saw, yet saw not; heard, yet did not hear,
The Maidens fill their Pails; for I was there
As in a Dream: mine Eyes fixed in a Stare,
Yet heedless what they gazed at; and mine Ear,
Unconscious of the Bustle, tho' so near.
One of those Moments, when our Spirts are
As disembodied — a Surcease of Thought,
When the Wheel rests, and all the Toil is o'er,
Wherewith the busy Brain its Fancies wrought;
And when our Souls, like Dewdrops, are once more
By the great Whole absorbed, and Earth seems nought
But as a rolling Ball, or Wave seen from the Shore;
It whirls unfelt beneath our Feet, and as
A Bubble, from our Eyes we see it pass;
Time, Space exist no more, we feel alone
Ourselves, and all Things then to us are one!

TRUE REFORM.

If ye can change men's Thoughts; if inwardly
Ye alter them, then shortly will ye see,
(As when the new Sap rises in the Tree),
The outward Features of Society,
Change of themselves, and unavoidably.
There is the viewless Spirit, which should be
Like to the Breath of God; which none can see
And yet all feel as still it passes by
Over the Face of Earth— it breathes upon
The Thrones of Tyrants, and behold! they're gone,
Like Dewdrops melted— it glides past their Side,
And at its viewless Presence, in their Pride
They tremble; Lo! their Hearts with sudden Fear
Are struck, and in their mantles would they hide
Their Heads, as tho' some Spectreform did glide
Before them; but it whispers in their Ear,
'Tis God's own Voice, and they perforce must hear!
It breathes upon the Nations, and they wake,
And like a Nightmare, from their Bosoms shake
The Prejudices which are worn and sere!

THE POETSHARP.

Oh change the Harpstrings, change them once again,
For those of old, those of my Heart are now
Nighbroken, and the Music which would flow
From them, would be so steeped in utter Pain,
That if ye've Hearts, ye could not bear the Strain.
Oh that mine Heart might never speak of Woe,
But, like the Seashell, echoing only to
The Might and Gladness of the changeless Main,
Tell of the Blessedness, and Peace alone
And changeless Durableness of Whence it came,
Nor take from Man's so troubled Life one Tone!
Like to this lovely World, which to his Name
Who made it, is a Hymn of Joy; the same
That at Creation's Dawn rose to his Throne!

THE HOUR OF HOMEPARTING TOLD BY A CHURCHCLOCK.

ON A FLOWERWORRED STONETABLE.

Ye Flowers, your Stonehues still delight the Eye;
Your Marbleblooms have known no sere Decay
Of Elements; rude Autumn cannot lay
Your brightness in the dust or bid ye die!
Yet has the Heart with ye small sympathy,
Ye artmade things: e'en Fancy will not play
'Mid your unwindstirred clusters, which no ray
Of sunshine ever warmed; we pass ye by
With a Chanceglance, and dream of ye no more;
For we can pluck ye not to deck the Brow
Of those we love; ye give us back no store
Of early thoughts; and tho' the flowers that grow
Wild in the fields, must wither in their Hour?
'Tis like ourselves, with hopes ye never know!

THOUGHT.

What is the Warrior's Sword compared with thee?
A brittle Reed against a Giant's might.
What are the Tyrant's countless Hosts? as light
As Chaff before the Tempest: tho' He be
Shut in with Guards, and all the Panoply
Guilt's Cowardbosom loves, still canst thou smite
Him with thy viewless Arm, and from that Height
Hurl him into the Dust! for thou art free,
Boundless, omnipotent, like God, who gave
Thee for his Crowninggift to Man: and when
Thou work'st with thy best Weapon, Truth's high Pen,
To punish and reform, exalt and save,
Thou canst combine Men's Minds, like Rays, in one
Allmighty Thought; one Voice, like Heaven's own!

THE WISH.

What wouldst thou like best on this Earth to see?
I know not: so, so many Things throng to
My Mind, but of all there are one or two,
Which, more than all the Rest must ever be
My Heart's deep Longing— Fancy, plant for me
A Bose round every Cottagedoor, and thro'
The flowermantled Casement let me view
The Housewife with her Children round her knee,
Drawing some blessed Lesson from the Page
Of God's own Book, and to their tender Age
Adapting it, with Illustration clear
From Nature's open Volume: for who e'er
Taught Wisdom like to her; who touches so
And wakes the Heart? thricehappy those who hear
Her speak thus by a Mother's Lips so dear!
For as, when Children, Nature thus spoke to
Them by their Mother's Lip, so when she thro'
Death's Gate has passed, she to them will speak by
Great Nature's Voice, each thus reciprocally
Interpreting the other, and each too
More loved and understood, revealed as one, not two!

AN ODE,

Addressed to a Marble-Lowrelief, in which is represented a Town, with the Townhall crowded as on Marketday, and a Marblesunshine.

MONEYSTANDARDS.

What is our Meritmeasure on life's high
And beaten Road, where with dustsoilëd feet.
The Sabbathless Herd crawls on with toil and sweat.
In Mammonstrain? is it Humanity,
Faith, Fatherlandslove, Wisdom, Piety,
Or anyother quality that's meet
To be revered within the soul's high seat,
Where holy and eternal things alone
Should be received? alas! it is not so;
A Moneymeasure is the rule of worth;
The earthborn, earthreturning, and the low,
Of that which has no Type or Rule on Earth!
We laugh at him who'd measure Heaven's bow
With an Ellwand, yet with less ground for Mirth!

ON THE APOLLO BELVEDERE.

Thou art of Stone, yet soul too dwells in thee!
A ray imparted by the mind that first
Moulded thy shape of beauty, which has nursed
The kindred Minds of those whom sympathy
Makes of quick apprehension to descry
Th' etherial essence, in all forms that burst
From sense's narrow limits; from that worst
And basest Thralldom of the outward Eye.
Voice too dwells on those Marblelips for Ears
Of ample faculty, not bounded to
The narrow Language of Earth's hopes and fears;
Wordless, except to him, whose hearing true
And vast, has caught the Music of the spheres,
By this interprets that and blends in one the two!

ON READING TWO SONNETS ONE WRIT IN YOUTH, AND THE OTHER IN AGE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

MAN AND NATURE.

TO A FRIEND.

Oh if in Happiness thy lot be cast,
Then turn a thankful Eye unto the Past,
And ask whence it hath sprung: if other Heart
Did aught of worth unto thine own impart
By Commune and by Love, infusing thro'
One soul, the life, the force, and truth of two,
Like sunrays blent together: if there be
One whom the Past makes dear to memory,
Call up his soul that he thy bliss may share.
Tho' from thine Eyes he's pass'd, still is he here,
In the same Life with thee unfailingly!
Still thro' the mist of Years, the loving Eye
Dwells on the shapes of former Joys, still sees
The fresh Dew of young Hope, which as it lay
In your glad path, your feet would brush away
In lovetimed step together, in your sport
Of youthfull Fancies, or when holy thought,
Sprang, sweet as flowers, from the root of bliss
In its true Soil a selfcontented Heart.
If of those Days the memory depart,
Then thou must be an altered man indeed!
And the sweet dew falls not where thy steps tread.
But such thou canst not be— then keep the thought
Of those glad Days, within a Heart not wrought
To selfishness by Time; may Life renew
Unto thine Afterpath the blessed Dew
Of early promise, making all around
Thee fresh and joyous, as the gladsome sound
Of Mountainstreams, and when upon the Brink
Of a calm Grave thy foot is placed, then think
Of him, whose bark Life's Tide hath swept from thine,
As bound to one same Haven of sweet rest.

THE RAINBOW.

One End on Land, and one on Sea,
The glorious Arch o'erspans the sky,
Beneath the Earth laughs in fresh glee,
And darkwinged Clouds before it fly!
Bright Rainbow! tempestcradled form
Of Beauty 'mid the passing storm,
That hast thy Birth and death with it,
The spirit by whose smile 'tis lit.
Thou 'mid the darkling Clouds dost sit
In calm untroubled loveliness,
As perfect as tho' thou couldst dress
Thy form in lasting glory, or
Wert born of Peace, not 'mid the War
Of Elements, in which thou livest,
And to their strife a moral giv'st.
How many times to man's dim Eye,
'Mid Heaven's gorgeous pageantry
Of Tempestclouds hast thou appeared,
A Peacepledge, by a World revered:
By a relenting Maker placed,
A token of high Wrath effaced!
Still in thy primal Glory, thou
Do'st span with manycolored Bow
The Heavens above and Earth below.
And all beneath thy cloudarch seems
As beautiful, as Hopes young dreams!
But thou, unlike to these, canst live
While round thee Storm and Darkness strive,
'Mid these a bright reality
While cold Experience bids them die!
Thou art a Type of no mean power,
Of Faith, who has like thee the dower
Of calm, enduring Loveliness;
Who o'er all griefs which here distress,
All clouds of passing pain and care,
That dim this lowbreathed nether air,
Can shed her pure celestial light,
Like thine, a Peacepledge everbright;
And like thine too, her radiant form
Shines brightest in the darkest storm!
Thus Nature in her silent shows,
Teaches us deeper truths than Science knows.
Lovely to the sage's eye
As to the Child's, who asks not why
Thou spann'st the Heavens with thy Bow,
Content to see, to feel and know
Thy Glory, in his young delight.
For all forms of Sense and Sight
Which in Nature's realms we view,
All are perfect, all are true;
Whether with childhood's simple eye
We gaze in awe and ecstacy,
Or with proud Philosophy,
Dealing in rule and theory,
To God's high secrets we aspire,
And the «first cause» of things enquire!
Rainbow! be thou still to me
A Beauty and a Mystery,
And when mine Eyes agedim shall grow,
Still shine thou as of yore, e'en so
As in my boyish Days, a sign,
A Something wondrous and Divine,
Where Faith may fitly exercise
Her aspirations, and uprise
From these vain, bounded shows of Time,
Unto thy vast and ampler clime;
For from the Heavensbosom thou
With Heavenspeace art poured below:
Building thy arch of Cloud and Rain,
The sunshine's child, then lost again,
When thou hast stamped upon the storm
The Impress of thy radiant form:
'Mid elements of passing strife,
The symbol of a happier life.
A second Rainbow 'mid the Storm
Unfolds the shadow of thy form,
'Tis gone, and like a Soul set free
From Earthliness, thy Shape we see
Melting into Eternity!

SEASUNSETSCENE.

How strange yon' Cloud! round whose more solid height,
Tho' Cloud itself, like Cloudlets, vapors grey
Are curling, gilded with the setting ray.
Yon' rosy wave, now seen, now lost to sight,
Blends with a thousand Playmates, each more bright
And lovely than his fellow: how they play
Whelplike, on their vast parent's Bosom! Day
Is melting gorgeous, with rainbowlight,
From the far West, and sober Evening,
Like Thought on some high Pageantry's
Fastfleeting splendors watching, on slow wing
Advances unobserved athawrt the skies,
With surer conquest. Lo! the Blazoning
Of Hand Divine fades off, the Glory dies!
Gone, like a Dream; snatched from my wondering Eyes,
As Nature were too rich to care for such a Thing!

WEALTHCOVETERS.

Better to be a savage, than of these
Selfseeking, grovelling, moneymaking worms,
These Goldwebweavers, who in all their forms,
Are the same Earthgrubs still: the Savage sees
And owns a higher Power in the breeze
That sweeps o'er his Turfcot, and to the storms
He hearks with holy awe: a soul informs
His breast, ethereal tenant! and sets free
His fancies from Earth's dust and darkness, by
The inborn Majesty of Mind, altho'
Untaught— he errs from ignorance; not so,
Ye Allinstructed, ye whose lives belie
Your proud Enlightenment; ye learn to know
Evil from Good, yet knowledge to worst ends apply!

SUGGESTED BY THE FIRST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

— There are Occasions,
When Cowards-selves fling off their Nothingness,
And giantize their Thoughts unto the Shape
And Temper of the Times, and in their own
Despite become the Instruments of Fate;
Swelled into Heroes, that pass muster with
The easygullëd Multitude, which feeds
Upon the Garbage of Opinion; and
Yet afterall, they're but Strawsubstitutes,
Just patched up for the Nonce, to fool the Herd,
Which looks but at the Surface, and if that
But glitters, there it points its Finger, there
Its Shouts and Praises follow — what, shall then
Men of real Mark and Likelihood play false
Unto themselves, when ripe Occasion smiles
And beckons onward to the Goal? no! let
Them match the Time: the Tide must at the Full
Be taken, else they will be left upon
The strand to rot: and if the Good hold back,
When selfish men and bad would grasp the Helm,
The vessel of the State must perish, and
Its goodly Freight be lost unto Mankind.
Then, Goodmen, stand ye forward: for the Hearths
Of your dear Homes, and for the Altar of
Your God, all Sacrifice is little— who
For Life would lose what makes Life liveable?
Had God held back, in what state should we be
E'en at this moment? and if he thus gave
His Son, his spirit, his ownself, shall we
Grudge him a little Dust and Dross of Earth?
And that too for our Good alone: then keep
Not back: with Voice and Hand uphold the Right;
Even a Woman, Sickman, or a Child,
Can speak the Right, and where they do so, God
Speaks by them! and, when He speaks, e'en the Dumb
Have Ears to understand Him! and if all
Together speak, who shall withstand the Voice
Of God himself-for that which all men feel
And speak, that is the Feeling, is the Voice,
Of God himself!

RAILROADTRAVELLING.

TO MILTON.

Milton! thine age was allunworthy thee,
And thy most godlike worth but stung the hate
Of conscious baseness: who would purge a state
Form slavery's deep leprosy, must be
Martyr himself to those he seeks to free!
Of the God-Martyr know ye not the fate?
What happier lot on earthborn Hopes should wait?
Who that has sown in such a soil may see
The harvest ripen to his hand! but thou
Sought'st not reward or harvest; thou alone
In the Lord's Field didst labour, there to sow
The Good Seed far and near; and toiling on,
Still in thy great Taskmaster's Eye, didst show
Sublime Example, how true Fame is won,
Transfigured by the Sweat upon thy Brow!

EVENINGTHOUGHTS.

Awake my soul! not silent shouldst thou be,
When all around is adoration — Hark!
The Vesperhymn of Evening, rises soft,
And soulawaking from the ends of Earth;
From the four quarters of the Winds, from all
That has a sense, and where is that has not,
From yon' bright Stars, down to the Glowworm here,
Of thee, allbounteous, Eternal God,
Allseeing eye, that lookëst in thy Love
Over all shapes and modes of Being; thou
That hallowest the meanest thing on Earth,
With signs and tokens of a Wisdom, which,
As snatches of sweet harmony suggest
The perfect Whole, of which they are but parts,
Flashes upon our dark and groping sense
Convictions high, and rays of purest Light!
Oh! let thy blessing be upon me now
And evermore; and as this dew descends
From heavën, fresh on these sweet flowers here
Bowed gently down to Earth, as if in Prayer,
In still Thanksgiving; tho' they have no Tongue,
Yet in their silence far more eloquent
Than Solomon, thus teaching to proud man,
A lesson of sublime humility!
They wait for their refreshment, if to day
It come not, yet to morrow 't will: and if
Not then, whene'er it be, 't will be in «His»
Good season, fittest, wisest, best! Oh thus
Then let the spiritsdew descend on me,
Awaiting meekly, whether it may be,
The third hour or the ninth; for oft it most
Falls on us when we least expect it, as
On these sleepfolded Flowers— let but Faith
Uphold us then, and it will never fail!
For God forsakes not tho' He tests and tries
His true Heartworshippers; when least they deem,
He's with them, and within them, and all round;
Oft in the windstirred Leaf, the meanest Flower
That springs beneath our feet, he speaks unto
The Heart that loves him, while th' Incredulous
Hears but the common wind, sees but a flower,
A little painted flower 'neath his feet,
And hears no oracle that tells of Good,
Of Selfcontent, and Peace, and Blessedness
Existing 'neath the troublous, changeful form
Of outward things, as at the Ocean's Heart
Sleeps waveless Calm, while storms the surface shake;
Of outward things, through which the Eye of faith
Alone can pierce unto the Centretruth,
Where beats the soul of Harmony and Love,
Of which our own are but pulsations, still
Stronger or weakerunisoned, as from,
Or to, our Being's End and Aim we move;
Concentric or eccentric, as the small
Within the greater wheel of this vast sphere,
With which we are bound up in one wise scheme
Of endless and indissoluble being!
Allmother Earth, whose child I am, and ye
Spirits that track the earthroundgirdingbelt
Of Oceanwaves, which grasp this bounded World,
As Faith would grasp Eternity; and ye
That wake sweet Echo on the printless sands,
Which have been, and may be again, the shores
Of mighty Empires, unto which the wave's
Shipcradling bosom wafts in foamy scorn
The conquestwingëd Fleets, that proudly bear
The spoils of Nations, oft stormstrewn by thee,
Thou azurebrowed and timeunchangëd Main,
When at the Eternal's Voice thou puttest forth
Thy Might, and scarce a Bubble marks their Grave.
These Shores, nightmantled, which are now all left,
A Playground unto you and yours— and ye,
That where the Rainbow rests do love to quaff
The Dewwine fresh from out the Flowercups,
One Drop of which mixed with the Wildbee's mead,
'Gives him a summertide of Bliss; and ye
Ye hilltophaunting Nymphs, ye seacave Fays,
That make the Echos hoarse with answering,
And ye, the mossy Fountainguardians,
That woo bright Moombeams to your chosen spring,
To fresh the wave for favoured Poetslip,
Ye too, Oakelves, Woodfays, and Wildheathsprites,
That fright the Traveller with harmless Pranks;
And ye that on the moonkissed Midnightwave
Dance to its soullike Motion with young Glee;
Airsprites, that on the Setsunsdownslopebeam,
Chace the goldfeathered Foambirds, as they dip
Their snowplumed Wings amid the seething brine,
Less white than they! and ye, wavecradled tribes,
Innumerous as motes, that down the West
Float in the glorious suntrack as he sinks,
Anthemed by spherematemusic, to far worlds
Lightbearing orb: tuning the harmonies
Of Worlds, that starrëd round his Gloryzone,
Move at his voice and bidding, and bear on
The Seasons and their Changes to far Lands,
With Interchange of good and ill, of light
And darkness; weaving on their mystic course
The manymeshëd fatewoof: the birthhour
Of kingdoms, framed from oldworld Fragments, and
The Fall of Thrones, and Darkening of suns
And systems, thro' immeasurable space!
Ye Spirits, one and all, ye I invoke,
With voice of adoration: for with ye
The Soul hath its communion; ye bring
To the worldwearied spirit thoughts of peace,
And tidings of a faroff Home, of peace,
Beneath these Surfacechanges, calm and deep,
Subsisting in the universal Heart
Of which our own Heart is a pulse, tho' oft
It beat with feverish wishes and vain Fears,
Discordant from its Source and End; oh yes!
Spirits as ye, tho' cooped in this Clayhouse,
We are as thoughtunlimited as ye,
Tho' spacebound far on this side of our hopes;
And in such viewless Intercourse we have
Yearnings, Heartyearnings, to be e'en as ye,
Free o' the Air, Earth, Ocean, as that Thought
Which is undying in us; in whose Might,
Tho' not yet freed, we still can mix with ye,
And to the Mindseye body forth your shapes,
Allviewless tho' ye be: for spirit yearns
Tow'rds Spirit, and are we not Spirits too?
Ye are but parts as we are even now
Of that allseeing, wise Intelligence,
Unborn, Undying, Allencompassing,
Coliving wth each living thing wherein
A Soulspark kindles, or a hope is felt,
For Something better than the passing shows
Of this vain Timescene, which is but a Dream,
Tho' it seem as if real, for still we sleep!
Hear me, ye spirits, let my young voice be
Heard in your Mornthanksgivings, in your Hymns
Of Vespervoices which along the Leaves,
The dewmoist leaves pass to Eternity;
Whenever on the one eternal God
Ye call in wordless prayer, let my Voice too
Mingle with yours, not alldiscordantly;
Whether above the orient wave of Light,
Dancing, ye hymn the coming Daygod on,
Or o'er the midnightdeeps, when all is still,
Save the wave whispering his playmatewave
Spheremusicsecrets, and on widespread Wing
Sits Heavenly Meditation, brooding o'er,
Dovelike, the Universe, your voices lift
Their Undersong of neverwearied praise,
To the allbounteous Giver of all Good!
Oh in whatever Place, whatever Time,
At Morn, or dewy Eve, or Middayheat,
On land or sea or air, oh let my voice
Be heard with yours, and not unworthily,
Ethereal tho' ye be: for in such hymn,
The meanest voice is tuned by Love and Faith,
And cannot be discordant tunëd thus!
Yet once more for another boon I ask;
When in the weekday fret, and strife of this
Dark World, my spirit sinks, Oh then bring back
Upon your unseen Wings, the Dews of youth,
The Freshness of the Heart, the eversweet,
The pure imaginings of youth, which keep
The soul from blight, and are as a fresh spring
Of Life, amid the desert of this World!

ON LOVE.

DRAMATIC SCENES.

SCENE I.st

A Bedroom; Storm heard without. Edward, the Gambler, lyeing on the Bed, on which he has thrown himself after Midnight, in a state of halfdrunkenness, to which he is accustomed in order to drown his Thoughts; starts up, halfasleep, at the Thunderclap.
EDWARD.
O God! Hell; furies; help, or — oh! oh! oh!
(He sees himself in a glass, by the lightningsflash and starts back aghast).
'Tis there, there still, with fixed and glassy Eye,
Looking damnation, as it meant to say,
Down, down to Hell— ha, ha, ha, (hysterically)
fool, idiot, 'twas but
An idle Dream — an idle dream! e'en so;
And yet so like the life that I could swear
It real; methought I was annihilated, and
The warm, fresh, current of the blood within
My Heart was froze — that fearful thunderclap!
Plunging so madly thro' the womb of Night,
As it would rend the thickest veil of crime
And mystery, that with a blacker Night,
Hideth Man's Heart, in vain —
Methought the Voice of the Eternal God
(Shuddering and glancing fearfully round.)
Awoke my Soul, as from the cold, cold Grave,
And the vast fabric of this mighty Globe,
Like to a toppling Tower, o'erpoisëd by
The weight of boundless guilt, was swept away
Into th' abyss of dread Eternity,
And sounds as of the damned rang in my Ears!
Ha, ha, (hysteric Laugh, and echo):
the voice of the Eternal God!
Ha, ha; who laughs?— Methinks the very walls
Jabber in mockery; fool, fool, 'twas but
The echo of thy Voice, that thus unmans
Thy Cowardspirit like a sickly Girl
O'ermastered by her fears —
I ne'er believed in God, and will not now
When I've outgrown these cradlefancies, and
Know myself Man. I trembled not, nor shrank
At my own shadow, when I did it, no!
My Heart beat true, and my firm Hand was prompt
To second Head and Heart: for what then now
Should I prove false unto myself, when nought
Is near to harm?— a Thunderclap forsooth,
A little Stir up in the Air, that long
Ago has melted into Emptiness,
And a wild dream? am I not still myself?
Do I not love myself? are Head and Heart
Forsooth turned traitors to a common cause,
And to themselves? pah! mere fooleries and fumes
Of th' o'ernight's supper— and yet 'tis most strange,
I seem no longer Master of myself,
But in myself a mightier than myself,
Seems in my own despite, as tho'I were
A struggling Infant in a Giant's grasp,
To force me on unto the very face
And front of my offending, and to strip
The veil from off my Eyes, bidding me see
And loathe myself— Oh Conscience! Conscience!
There is more in that word than meets the Ear.
The grinning Devil, Sophistry, can dupe
Full well th'Intention, but when once 'tis done,
The veil is rent, and naked stands the Truth;
Before the deed Temptation's magic touch
Can gild the leaden hue of blackest crime,
And clothe the withered skeleton of cold,
Heartsickening disappointment with the shape
And form of ripe fruition — Fool, fool, fool,
The sport of idle thoughts, that bubblelike,
Toss thee upon a sea of doubt, despair:
The sickly hue of fancy, long indulged,
Will change Man's resolution to a dream.
There is no God; and guilt is but the name
With which the coward speciously conceals
His lack of Soul; or if there be a God
That thus o'erlooks the World, and guilt be guilt,
Why has the Thunderclap that's spent in air,
Not crushed me with his vengeance, as it should,
If he were provident of Right or Wrong,
And not all impotent to punish? fool!
I laugh to think how great a fool I've been
For nothing; but I'm now myself again.
Yet would I sleep no more— how a mere nought
Can all unhinge the firmset mind of Man,
And fling him from his centre, like a star
Cast from its orbit, in an airy maze
Of baseless and unending doubts! enough,
Would it were day; and yet the Day is scarce
More sweet to me than Night; for then, methinks,
The prying Eye of every idiot can
Unlock my Heart, and every casual word
That folly utters seems to point the way
To that which I would wrap in utter Night.
My fellowmen are prying fiends, and hate
Doth seem to dog my steps where'er I turn,
While sleep is but another name for Hell!
Oh I could wish a wish, and I would give
(breaks short)
What? fool, idiot! once more a greater fool
Than ever, 'tis too late! who says so? who?
The fiend, the fiend, there, there he stands for aye
Grinning damnation; ha, ha, ha;—
O God! footsteps— discovered— curse on't, who comes?

(Gasping and leaning on a chair; enters his sister with a light, who has heard him paceing up and down, she appears in Undress.)
SISTER
SPEAKS.
Dear brother! at this hour, and dressed? your looks
Are haggard and distracted— oh what ails you?
Come tell me— let us have no secrets now
I pray; you know I love you, do I not?

EDWARD
SPEAKS.
Yes, sister, and such love as yours might well
Demand a greater sacrifice; but still
Another time, dear, we will talk of that
Which now disturbs my Mind. I came to rest,
Overfatiguëd with a Day of toil,
And layd me down undressed; but the worn Mind,
When o'erexcited by its fretting thoughts,
Rests not itself, nor lets the body rest.
This, with the jarring storm, has quite untuned
My Spirit's harmony, of which the strings
Are rudely fingered by a thousand wild,
Discordant fancies, and no less a hand
Than thine can set it right again.

(He walks away from her, and speaks apart, muttering to himself.)
EDWARD
SPEAKS.
(He draws near, takes her hand, and speaks aloud.)
Sister, how fair this hand,
From Spot or Speck quite free! look now at this.
Seest thou nought on it?— 'tis no more the same
As that, with which in early Infancy
I culled for thee the Flowers that we loved!
(He shrinks from her touch, and lets her hand drop. Then starts aside and speaks apart, while she leans on a Chair and watches him in Astonishment.)
Avaunt, thou Fiend of lieing memory!
Why wilt thou rack my Heart beyond all Power
Of Man's Endurance? I was innocent,
As the unborn babe, and now black, black as Hell!
My life has but two epochs, two dread points
Of dire collision, and my heart between
Is ground to dust with agony; I am;
I was — but there is still a dread, to be,
From which my glance shrinks withered up, as tho'
The nerve were firetouched: the Hell to come,
Tho' blacker than the hell of now 'tis not,
Is yet more dread in apprehension; thus
E'en in this life our crimes themselves do scourge,
And in the next vengeance exacts her due.
Thus the foul fiend doth mould us to his will,
Making us tools unto ourselves and him,
And is the first to turn and taunt us with
The crime he prompted to! as if 'twere not
Enough to sin, but we must foolëd be,
E'en in the depth of our most boasted lore,
Like shallow novices, and bear the scorn
Of sneering fiends; and last, yet worst of all,
Feel that we've laid the snare for our own feet,
And own it just; while yet we curse the chance,
The chance! my heart belies the empty word:
There's more of Providence in this same chance;
Than my fears dare to credit: if 'twere chance,
And Guilt were but an idle name, why then
To kill a cat should wake as much remorse,
As to outrage in Man the Deity
Who stamped him in his Image! oh that thought
Should ever thus be at the Heels of action,
Damning with Afteradmonition still,
Like sickness after surfeit! But enough;
Peace for the present thou most fearful voice,
That ringest like a sentence in my ear,
And leave me master of myself once more.
Avaunt! (Aloud, and rousing himself at last as his Sister, who has been watching him at a distance in wonder and terror, and has in vain accosted him several times, ultimately succeeds in calling his attention.)
— His Sister clasping him.
Speak, speak, my dearest Edward, speak,
Say but one word, to break this dreadful, deep,
Inexplicable mystery, which weighs
Like death upon one.

EDWARD.
—Nay, my dearest Girl,
Be but a moment calm, and all is well;
I did but wander. I felt ill: sick, sick,
Here at the heart— But now 'tis gone, 'tis gone,
And I am still thine own, own Edward; too,
Too happy in so kind a Sister.

SISTER.
Oh Edward,
Your words have more than meet the Ear, and like
Some straynote of a broken tune, they wake
In the stirred heart a throng of blended thoughts,
Wild and confused, yet meaning much, and full
Of feelings which we cannot body forth,
Whose vagueness tortures the racked breast the more.
For the last moment I have watched thy face,
(While thy Lips moved, and muttered broken words)
Varying each instant, like a cloudy Day,
Now dark, now still, now allobscured, now wrung
And writhing, as each separate Sinew had
An individual Life— while from thine eye
Thoughts flashed, like lightninggleams, which vaguely hint
At the fierce elements within, that will
Not vent themselves, yet cannot allconceal
Their wild intensity— nay dearest, nay
Such griefs as these do weigh too heavy for
A single Breast, let me but share a part,
And we shall both be happier.—

EDWARD.
It may
Not be; thou know'st not what thou ask'st, yet still
I'll think upon it, and meanwhile, adieu,
I am too worn for further converse, and
Would fain repose awhile — once more farewell.
(She departs, and he looks after her.)
She's gone! the Past, the innocent Past, awhile
Like a sweet vision, rose before my eyes,
As she stood by me; but dread solitude,
Like a chill deathshroud, wraps my soul once more.
My Heart is stirred: the thoughts of early days
Are on me, and I fain would pray — «O God» —
(Kneels, then breaks short.)
I cannot; how should I extend to Him,
These bloodstained hands in prayer? where find
The words of Grace, when Hell is in my breast?
If I should say, «our Father which art in Heaven,»
I call down Vengeance on myself; if thus,
«Do unto others as thou wouldst be done
Unto.» I do pronounce on mine own head,
Damnation everlasting: in mine ear
A voice is ringing like a damnëd knell,
And it saith «Blood doth cry up unto Heaven,»
«It will not sink into the Earth.» But hark!
My God! what noise is that upon the stairs?
'Tis as of many feet! if it should be?
The— the— my Heart misgives me sadly; is
There no escape? this Window is too high.
(goes to the Window.)
A hand is on the Doorlock! God in Heaven!
'Tis they! a Deathdamp gathers on my brow;
Oh that I could now shrink up into nought.

(Leans on a Chairback, looking in terrorstruck Expectation at the Door, which opens, and four Policeofficers armed, enter.)
FIRST POLICEOFFICER.
Look to the Door that he escapes not.

SECOND POLICEOFFICER,
DRAWING OUT A POLICEWARRANT.
You are my Prisoner, Sir.

EDWARD.
Upon what charge?

(violently agitated.)
SECOND POLICEOFFICER.
Neither more nor less than: Murder!

(Edward sinks into a chair, while the Officers handcuff him, without resistance, he being quite stupified; his Mother and Sister rush into the room only halfdressed, it being very early morning.)
THE MOTHER.
Almighty God! what do I see with these
Old, feeble Eyes? am I reserved for this?
What has he done; how called down on his Head
The vengeance of the Laws? a playdebt, some
Unhappy brawl, or public Misdemeanour?
Speak, say what he has done, thus to disgrace
My grey old Hairs? speak, gentlemen, I pray ye;

EDWARD
(whispering in agony.)
Say debt— brawl — anything, but that one word.
For her sake then, if not for mine.

THIRD OFFICER.
Madam, we
Do but our Duty, tho' unwillingly.

MOTHER.
But, but, kind gentlemen, in mercy speak;
Break not my Heart, I will pay all I have
To bail him, are ye sure that there is no
Mistake? let pity for these old grey Hairs
Move ye—ye too have Mothers! ye have sons!
Feel for them then in me!

(all keep a dead silence.)
MOTHER.
— Will no one speak?

SECOND POLICEOFFICER.
(His sister hearing this, faints, remenbering her conversation just before with him, and feeling all her suspicions confirmed. In the confusion, while two of the Officers raise her into a Chair, and the two others hold the Prisoner, his Mother seizes the Warrant on the Table, and with a Horrorshriek, reads

And drops senseless: various domesticks make their appearance, and as the scene drops, he is led out.)

SCENE the SECOND.

EDWARD
waking on his Strawpallet in a Prisoncell— alone.
I have no rest, no peace by Day or Night;
Dream crowds on dream, thought presses upon thought,
Urging each others heels to madness— why
Then do I drag this everlengthening Chain
Of Misery, to which each passing Day,
Cursëd Artificer! adds one more link,
Till it will crush me down into the grave.
The Grave! Death has no terrors; and the Grave
Is but a quiet pillow, soft as Down,
Compared with this: why then not go to rest,
And end this struggle, tentimes worse than Death?
Death's but a painted scarecrow, a bugbear,
Coined from old Nursestales, and childhood's fears,
That babies most of us to our last day.
A dartarmed Skeleton weak Fancy sees,
Yet all this melts in Air, into thin Air,
At the bold glance of calm Philosophy.
Is there no more then than a Jugglery
Of vain imagination? nothing more
Beyond the Grave? that makes so many shrink
With one foot in it, from the deed half done?
Better to plunge at once and not think on it.
Thought gets beyond his depth, and in his fear.
Catches at any straw to keep himself
Afloat, and get to shore again: I have strange Doubts:
These Prisonwalls are little fitted to
Add force to Sophistries.

CLERGYMAN
ENTERS.
My Friend, I come
To offer Consolation, and to mix
My Tears with yours— this aweful trial has
Opened, I trust, thy Heart? The seed that's sown
In the deep Furrow of real Misery
Is likeliest to grow—

PRISONER.
— it is too deep,
'Tis choked beneath the weight: your Pains are vain;
And yet I thank thee, I have need of Solace,
If such deep anguish can admit of it.

CLERGYMAN.
Sincere Repentance, though it be delayd
Too long, must ever be acceptable
To God, and where that is, is ever Hope.

PRISONER.
Think you so?— no, it cannot be— too great,
Too long, have been my Sins; I dare not hope,
I dare not think — to think is Madness — Fiends
Laugh in my Ear, and glare upon my Sight!
And with his stony Eye fixed on me, with
(The Clergyman looks in awestruck Silence)
His icelike Glance, so stirless, look! 'tis He!
Dost thou not see him? where are then thine Eyes?
He comes towards me— Save me— save me—

(The prisoner sinks on his Strawbed, and covers his eyes).
CLERGYMAN.
—Strange
((apart)
How the Mind can subdue the Sense, made thus
Obedient to its will, and people space
With the dread Image of the haunted Soul!
My Friend! (aloud)
that which thou seest exists alone
In thy own Mind, which casts the Shadow of
Its Thought on outward things: that must be cleansed,
Ere this dread Spectre can be layd: then seek
For Consolation, where alone 'tis found,
In Penitence and Prayer.

PRISONER.
— 'tis gone: 'tis gone.
And yet'twas no vain Dream: alas! too real.
What matters whether it were seen with, or
Without, the Body's Eye, if it be seen?
'Tis horrible —

CLERGYMAN.
— Come kneel we down, and pray
To him, who can alone from such Dreams free
The waking Soul.

PRISONER.
I cannot, dare not pray,
Methinks some Devil laughs into my Ear
And jabbers o'er the words with me, until
They lose all meaning— leave me for awhile,
Perhaps I may be in a fitter Mood.

CLERGYMAN.
Beware of rash delay — the Time is short,
And a few moments now are worth long years:
Cast them then not away

PRISONER.
— thou speakëst well.
This hour còmments shrewdly many a Page,
Which at the first Perusal seemed to bear
Far other meaning— our Booktheories
Are not worth one halfhour of real Life;
They do well for the Closet and the Lamp,
Where the Philosopher pens down what Facts
He pleases, and curtails the Life of Man
In the Straightwaistcoat of a Syllogism;
I will repent me; I will learn to pray
But leave me, I must with my Thoughts awhile
Wage war.

CLERGYMAN.
— Do so, but seek that better Light,
Without which they must lead thee still astray.
I leave thee to his mercy, who knows far,
Far better even than ourselves, what 'tis
We do and suffer — fare thee well awhile,
And may he lead thy Thoughts to good Result.

PRISONER
alone, looking round till his Eye rests on a Spidersweb.
How busyly yon spider on the wall
Spins his frail web! I never thought till now
That the Philosopher might learn from him!
What a vile Masquerade is life! a Man
Scarce knows himself, till Time lifts up the veil,
And shows him in Truth's glass the very face
And feature of his Being— what a game
Of dull Crossquestions are we ever at!
Fools of Halfinsight, and of Halfresolve!
And when the Play is up, the most surprised
Of all who took a part in it, is he,
Who, in his spiderwisdom, thought to hold
Each Thread and Line securely in his hand,
Flattering himself that thro' the mighty web
Of causes and effects, his eye could trace
Unto its destination each least thread!
That he could guide them all, and at his will,
Immesh his Enemies, secure himself.
But this Foxcunning's a depravëd thing,
And oft outwits itself; it grasps too much.
The indirect effects, that multiply
Beyond all calculation, these lie not
Within man's feeble foresight — thus the web
He spins so cunningly, is rounded and
Embraced still by the workings of a Power,
Which some call Chance and others Providence,
That turns into a certain Instrument
Of retribution some uncared for thread,
Whose manywinding course the planner's eye
Has followed not aright; transforming it
Into the mainefficient cause to bring
His schemes to nought! now will I pray awhile.

(kneels) (The Jailor enters, and he starts up).
JAILOR.
I meant not to intrude. I knew not that—

(breaks short)
PRISONER
apart.
I like not these coarse Natures to behold
The Struggles of my Soul — what would'st thou, Man?

(aloud)
JAILOR.
The news I bring you is not of the best,
I love not these same Errands, tho' they be
All in the way of Trade: this Paper here
Will spare my Telling.

PRISONER
takes the Paper, and reads.
—then the Day is fixed!
(pauses and goes on)
Tomorrow, the last Morrow of them all!
It sounds just like the Rest, as if it were
But an unmeaning Fellow to them; so,
The Play is out!— but when that Morrow is
A Yesterday! what then? Tomorrow, and
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, thus we live,
And with one Foot already in the Grave,
Talk of Tomorrow as a thing of Course,
And Yesterday was a Tomorrow too,
Tho' now as flat and stale as yon' hard Bread.
And that same aweful Morrow, that is made
But by a Yesterday!

JAILOR
— Wish you aught else?

PRISONER
I had a wish: but let it go: 'tis not
The Time or Place for Wishing— these four walls,
And this same Paper cripple both Hope's wings.

JAILOR
Farewell, I pity thee!

PRISONER
—And this Pang too
Must be endured: the Pity of such Men!
The veriest wretch must point his finger at,
And say, «he pities me»

LAST SCENE.

PRISONER
(alone.)
—a prison is a wondrous School!
A world apart! and in brief space of time
Twill teach the wisest much that he ne'er knew,
Or dreamt of in his Airphilosophizings,
And sober down his Bubblefancies to
The shape of stern reality: it makes
A Jack-of-all-trades in a few short hours!
A Man can turn his hand to anything,
From picking locks to true Philosophy
And problems in Selfknowledge! aye, e'en so!
Into how few short moments Thought can crowd
The actions of a life! oh cursed Thought,
That in thy vicelike grasp canst crush the Heart;
To thee all Time's the same: by thee the grave
And cradle touch — the Past and Future are
As one, and in thine Immortality,
Man feels his deep damnation, and is his
Own Hell already: aye! a prison can
Force cold conviction down the throat of Guilt,
Tho' it be hard as iron to digest,
And ask an Ostrichstomach: here I am,
Self left with Self, a deadly Pair of Foes,
When not the best of Friends: no specious tongue
To cozen conscience with its gilded baits,
No merry Booncompanions still to chase
Unpleasant thoughts, and snatch me from myself.
My scornings and my mockeries of God
Now turn like trodden Asps to sting me, but
With tenfold hate; and every scoffing word
Returns like a vile vomit to my Lips.
Not one good deed to sweeten memory,
To stay the avenging hand of God, or give
The slightest hope that late repentance may
Atone sins past! Hell gapes for me: oh God!
Have mercy on my Soul — help, help, help

(falls senseless)
(Enter the Jailor and assistant.)
JAILOR
SPEAKS.
Poor wretch! tho' I am little wont to weep
O'er vulgar Sorrows, yet such misery
As this might stir a Heart of Stone to tears,
This trance, death's shadowy Type, that seals awhile
The sense of woe, were better lost in Death:
For Life is but poor boon to such as he!

ASSISTANT
SPEAKS.
Aye, aye, poor Devil he were better dead,
Than thus to die by Inches, and to be
Hanged after all: such griefs as this, methinks,
Might split the stoutest Heart, tho' 'twere of Oak.
(The Jailor throws water from the prisoner's Jug on his face, and he comes to: the Jailor speaks.)
Yet in the course and usage of my trade
I have oft marked that grievous Ills have power
To counteract our nature, and preserve
The life which we would cast away: but hush!
He moves. —
(The prisoner, half lying and supported by the Jailor.)
—'tis cold; my Heart is very cold,
As if an icy hand had clutched it, and
Outsqueezd the Lifesblood: where am I? oh where,
Speak, say, in Hell? or does this hated Life
Still cling unto me, like a curse: avaunt!
Ye Hellfiends! I am not yet yours — not yet,
No, no, not yet, not yet! Oh, oh: oh.
(shuddering.)
Who says I murdered him?— thou! thou! that stand'st
Staring upon me with thy glazëd Eyes,
Thou art long since but Dust and Rottenness,
And canst not rise up from thy bloody Grave
To witness 'gainst me! down, down, down into
Thy Coffin; ha: ha: ha: 'tis gone.

JAILOR
SPEAKS.
Pray calm yourself, poor soul, there is none here
To harm or torture you: the fiend himself
Might pity your condition, were he here;
But your poor, old, heartbroken Mother waits,
And fain would see her son once more.

PRISONER
SPEAKS.
— The fiend!
Yes, yes, he's here, he burns within my breast
Like Hellfire!

JAILOR
SPEAKS.
— Nay, nay now your fancy roves
Downright; I said your Mother waited here
And fain would see you once more — ere —

(breaks short.)
PRISONER
SPEAKS.
— My Mother!—

JAILOR
SPEAKS.
Yes, your own old Mother?

PRISONER.
My Mother?

JAILOR.
Why! have you no Mother?

PRISONER,
(shuddering.)
Have I no Mother!
Mother! Mother! Mother! what means that word?
Is it a spell, that like the Lightningsflash
Through the dark Shroud of Night, it thus calls up
The spirit of departed years, each trace,
However faint, of Evildeeds, whose stain
Has dyed my Heart until each rising thought
Is hued, as though 'twere dipped in Blood, in spite
Of all I do to shape it otherwise:
As to the Infant's gaze each object takes
The colour of its fears: my Mother — aye!
I had a Mother too— she'd sing to me,
And take me on her knee, a little Boy,
A little happy Boy — her Hair is gray!
What saydst thou, man, of her? my Mother, she
Who gave me Life: oh cursëd Life: thricecurs'd,
And now once more bestows the hated Boon
Of Life and Consciousness. Oh God! Oh God!
Why wilt thou not reduce me unto dust?
I cannot look on her: it is too much:
And yet my Heart would fain break on the Heart
That bade it beat, and ask her blessing once —
(breaks short and shudders.)
Her Blessing, whom I've cursed! oh Mockery!

(Bursts into Tears and falls, supported by the Jailor: his Mother enters, flying towards him, and violently agitated; the Clergyman follows.)
PRISONER.
— Oh Christ! 'tis her!

MOTHER
SPEAKS.
My Son, my Son; have mercy on him, God!
Oh give him Breath that he may hear my Blessing,
And then receive us both into thy peace.

(falls on his Neck.)
SON
SPEAKS.
And can you bless me, Mother, whose gray Hairs
I have brought down in sorrow to the Grave?
And in whose Deathbedpillow I thus plant
The Thorns that wound thy anguishstricken Head?

MOTHER
SPEAKS.
I can forgive thee all — thou art my Child,
I feel but this, and may God pardon thee,
As now I do!

SON
SPEAKS.
Oh sweet drop in this Cup of Bitterness!

(Prisonbell rings: his Mother faints at it.)
SON
SPEAKS.
Mother, what ails you? help, my God! she dies.
And I have murdered her too. help, some water.

(They throw some of the Prisoner's drinkingwater in her face, but in vain.)
CLERGYMAN SPEAKS,
(while he supports the Mother.)
My Son, be patient, God is merciful;
He gives and takes away in his good time,
And Death is a benificent angel,
The sole Peacebringer to such grief as this:
He seals the Eye and Ear, when every sense
Is but a varied Inlet to new shapes
Of Agony; and she, be thou assured,
Is even now among the blessed, where
This mortal Coil oppresses her no more!
She hath drank off the cup of bitterness
E'en to the Dregs, and by this suffering
Is purified unto salvation: Oh!
My Son, think that thou seest her kneeling by
The Mercyseat and praying unto God
To pardon thee, and take thee to his Peace.
Come join thy Prayer with hers, that Mercy's ear
The readier may incline; a broken and
A contrite Heart the Lord will not despise!
He himself bids thee hope, then be assured:
But yet a little while 't will all be o'er.
(The Prisoner who has been looking intently in his Mother's Face and lost to everything else, now clasps her in his arms and breaks out.)
Oh God! my Mother, speak to me, one word!
You shall not die; you shall not leave me thus.
Give me a Glass —
(a Glass is brought, which he holds up to her Mouth).
Oh God! dead, dead, stonedead!
(flings himself on the Ground).
Would that I were but such a Clod as this,
Feeling and knowing nought for evermore,
A little worthless Dust, no more nor less,
Which the winds scatter, and the rain doth wet.

CLERGYMAN.
Oh Heavenly Father, look thou down on these
Poor Sinners; by thy secret Agency
Accomplish thou what we frail Beings here
Cannot effect, and unto my weak words
Impart that balm which is not in themselves.
Speak by my Lip— my Son, look up to Heaven,
Whence comfort only comes, not down on this
Sad token of the Past— forward alone
Is Peace, behind thee all is Doubt and Fear!

PRISONER,
(hanging over his Mother's Body).
Oh God! and is it come to this— have these
Dear Lips not one, one word for me— where then
Is Comfort, if that Heart which beat for me,
Be cold, cold as a stone—Mother! Mother!
(shaking the Body)
Wake from this Sleep; 'tis cruel thus to sleep.
What sayst thou? that I made thee sleep? God, God,
'Tis true: but thou sleep'st well— no frightful Dreams
Vex thy calm Rest, nor Hope nor Terror stretch
Thee on their Rack, like me.

CLERGYMAN.
— come, come, enough:
Tis idle thus to add fresh Bitterness
Unto the Cup of Sorrow—

PRISONER.
— Man, begone!
Thou know'st not what it is to suffer; look,
Look on these poor gray Hairs— they are a Mother's,
And I have— murdered her— dost understand?—
No, no, ye cannot.— I, I only can.

CLERGYMAN.
Poor Soul, I feel for you indeed, but calm
Yourself a little; the worst Pain is o'er,
Methinks, and that to come will scarce be felt.

PRISONER.
Yes, yes, I feel that this Deathagony,
((staring at his mother's Body which is being carried out).
Could not endure much longer, though I were
Not doomed to die that horridest of Deaths,
To dangle in the Air before the gaze—
(breaks short)
Let me not think on that, it makes my flesh
Creep, and my Hair to rise; Death is dreadful,
When sweetened with kind looks and loving words,
When all good wishes do attend us on
Our journey to that bourne whence none return;
Aweful in its obscurity and gloom
E'en to the best, who trust there to receive
The due reward for what they suffer here,
For fortune's buffets, the oppressor's scorn,
For unrequited good, repaid with Ill,
For sufferings where no guilt hath drawn them down
On th' unoffending Head, while Crime hardby
Thriving and bold, treads with his insolent foot
Poor patient Merit down into the dirt.
What is it then to me, if I receive
According to my deeds? and where, oh where,
Is this dread Journey, on whose aweful brink
I stand, to end? the leap is into Hell!

CLERGYMAN
SPEAKS.
My Son, thou'rt overcurious; to doubt,
Is now perdition: If there be no trust,
How shall the Lord accept thine offering?
That Bourne, which thou so fearëst, cannot be
Beyond his Mercy, be it where it may;
Yea, in the bottomest pit of Hell He's there:
The Dread lies in the apprehension more
Than in the fact, and busy fancy fills
The void with her own fears; come conquer her,
See with the Eye of Faith, and all that's dark,
With her celestial light she will make clear,
And thou shalt stumble not; 'twill soon be o'er.—

PRISONER
SPEAKS.
Yes, yes, 'twill soon be o'er! 'tis brief indeed —
(mastering his emotion.)
But terrible!— a moment's suffering,
Where every second is split up into
A separate Agony, boundless, infinite;
For it is not by time we measure pain.
The Twitching of some Muscle, the hard Gasp
Of the stopp'd Breath! and then— Oh God! Oh God!
I shall be where!— in —
(shudders, and recovers himself, then resumes, as the Deathofficers come to lead him off, and the Deathbell rings again)
Headache or Heartache, 'twill be soon all one!
Lead on, I am myself again, the worst
Is over; God have mercy on my Soul!

CLERGYMAN.
Amen—(all)
Amen —

(Scene drops)

REVERIES OF NATURE.

DESPONDENCY

REMOVED BY A DREAM, AND THOUGHTS THEREUPON.

EMMA A TALE.

THOUGHTS ON MAN, ART AND NATURE

SEASONCHANGES, THEIR SIGNS, AND MORAL.

THOUGHTS ON TRUE AND FALSE AMBITION.

THOUGHTS WRITTEN ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

GENIUS A SERIES OF THOUGHTS

THE SPANISH ARMADA,

A FANCYSKETCH WRITTEN IN PARTS OF TWO DAYS.

TO ENGLAND, ON OCCASION OF THE MONEYPANIC, OR THOUGHTS ON NATIONAL MORALITY.