 | Modern aristocracy |  |
Facit indignatio versum.
Yellow Leaves.
Leaves sere and yellow of the falling year,Scatterd to Earth by the dark sobbing breeze
Of Life's woe-wan November-and impressd
With the old cross, that once on shield or banner
Crownd by the golden Leopard's furious grin
At Palestine, or field of Axincourt,
Or Poitiers, or on lowers of white-cliff'd Calais,
Shone proudly, by its feudal bands adord.
1851.
7
MODERN ARISTOCRACY,
OR THE BARD'S RECEPTION.
11 March 1830.
'Tis said that men are equal, and that birth
And rank and genius, in this thing of earth,
Are but the babbles that the fools believe,
The cunning proffer, and the dupes receive!
Sometimes I've thought so in this world of toys,—
Solid in sorrows,—light alone in joys:—
At least of birth and rank I've often seen
Vice in the heart, and baseness in the mien!
Where is the worth of those we call the great,—
Conclaves of high-born title, office, state?
Tools of intriguers, ignorant of right,
Reckless in justice, obstinate in spite;
Open to trifles children would discard,—
To truth, when most it blazes, dull and hard;
Boasting to come from conquerors and from kings;—
Slaves to the bribery of the meanest things;
Standing on claims of privilege and power
Darted thro tracks of time from glory's hour;
Yet oftner won by foul corruption's toil,—
The pay of perfidy,—of fraud the spoil;
To be a slave to conclaves such as these;
On floors so stain'd with filth to bend the knees;—
Wait at the bar, and waste the livelong day,
When vernal brightness calls the heart away;
To tremble at the pomp-invested brow;—
Stunn'd by his order, to his frown to bow;
Hear hollow nonsense cloath'd in sounding words,
And own the rule that prejudice records;—
Not thus would Youth its precious moments spend;
But ply its vigour to a nobler end!
And rank and genius, in this thing of earth,
Are but the babbles that the fools believe,
The cunning proffer, and the dupes receive!
Sometimes I've thought so in this world of toys,—
Solid in sorrows,—light alone in joys:—
At least of birth and rank I've often seen
Vice in the heart, and baseness in the mien!
Where is the worth of those we call the great,—
Conclaves of high-born title, office, state?
Tools of intriguers, ignorant of right,
Reckless in justice, obstinate in spite;
Open to trifles children would discard,—
To truth, when most it blazes, dull and hard;
8
Slaves to the bribery of the meanest things;
Standing on claims of privilege and power
Darted thro tracks of time from glory's hour;
Yet oftner won by foul corruption's toil,—
The pay of perfidy,—of fraud the spoil;
To be a slave to conclaves such as these;
On floors so stain'd with filth to bend the knees;—
Wait at the bar, and waste the livelong day,
When vernal brightness calls the heart away;
To tremble at the pomp-invested brow;—
Stunn'd by his order, to his frown to bow;
Hear hollow nonsense cloath'd in sounding words,
And own the rule that prejudice records;—
Not thus would Youth its precious moments spend;
But ply its vigour to a nobler end!
O years for ever lost;—O kindling heart,
That with its glorious ardors thus could part,—
That when the path of fame before it lay,
And flowers of heaven were spread upon the way,
Linger'd in gloom within polluted walls,
Where tyrant office by his frown appals,—
And bloated Pride, the spawn of Hatred's crew,
Usurps the place to highborn Virtue due!
There is no hope, where fools, in ermine clad,
With fumes of new-won dignity are mad!—
Open the door to upstart Vanity;
Then back upon its hinges let it fly;
Bring forth an hundred bars to guard the close,
Lest some more ancient right should interpose!
That with its glorious ardors thus could part,—
That when the path of fame before it lay,
And flowers of heaven were spread upon the way,
Linger'd in gloom within polluted walls,
Where tyrant office by his frown appals,—
And bloated Pride, the spawn of Hatred's crew,
Usurps the place to highborn Virtue due!
There is no hope, where fools, in ermine clad,
With fumes of new-won dignity are mad!—
Open the door to upstart Vanity;
Then back upon its hinges let it fly;
Bring forth an hundred bars to guard the close,
Lest some more ancient right should interpose!
Genius of Byron, whose Barouial name
Stood for six ages in the lists of Fame,—
Whose mind, emerging from the gloom of night,
Came forth all powerful in a blaze of light,—
What, when the door, reluctant to the call,
Receiv'd thy footsteps to the assembled Hall,
What were the smiles that met thee? Was the cheer
Joyous and warmth-inspiring to thine ear?—
No!—cold each eye; and cold each hand; and cold
The voice, the long-neglected name that told!
An hundred new-coin'd sounds; (and hundreds more
Might yet be added to the countless store,)
Rose up in barbarous clamour to out-vie
The faded voice of ancient gallantry!
From dales, and boroughs, and from busy towns,
Whose wealth the spindle and the frame-work crowns;
Men of the sword, and members of the robe,
Men who have run the circuit of the globe,
Kneelers in courts, and labourers in plumes,
Men whose broad wit a senate's depths illumes,
Busy, familiar, full of jests and gibes,
Dispers'd, yet all in self-complacent tribes,
Scowl'd on the stranger, as of one who bore
Marks of intrusion on the sacred floor!—
Stood for six ages in the lists of Fame,—
9
Came forth all powerful in a blaze of light,—
What, when the door, reluctant to the call,
Receiv'd thy footsteps to the assembled Hall,
What were the smiles that met thee? Was the cheer
Joyous and warmth-inspiring to thine ear?—
No!—cold each eye; and cold each hand; and cold
The voice, the long-neglected name that told!
An hundred new-coin'd sounds; (and hundreds more
Might yet be added to the countless store,)
Rose up in barbarous clamour to out-vie
The faded voice of ancient gallantry!
From dales, and boroughs, and from busy towns,
Whose wealth the spindle and the frame-work crowns;
Men of the sword, and members of the robe,
Men who have run the circuit of the globe,
Kneelers in courts, and labourers in plumes,
Men whose broad wit a senate's depths illumes,
Busy, familiar, full of jests and gibes,
Dispers'd, yet all in self-complacent tribes,
Scowl'd on the stranger, as of one who bore
Marks of intrusion on the sacred floor!—
Poet, who cam'st, in verdant wreaths array'd,
On their new lights to cast a gathering shade,
Sunk thy bold heart at breath of tainted air;
And did thy spirit quit it in despair?
Not one within that mingled circle found,
Not one to greet thee with a friendly sound!
O, how was that once-honour'd station chang'd,
Where heroes of illustrious name were rang'd,—
Congenial names, where Byron's glorious race
Friends, rivals, blood, in every voice could trace!
On their new lights to cast a gathering shade,
Sunk thy bold heart at breath of tainted air;
And did thy spirit quit it in despair?
Not one within that mingled circle found,
Not one to greet thee with a friendly sound!
O, how was that once-honour'd station chang'd,
Where heroes of illustrious name were rang'd,—
Congenial names, where Byron's glorious race
Friends, rivals, blood, in every voice could trace!
Ye few, who from a long illustrious line
Of sires, that in each page of history shine,
Drew blood, that ought to flow in generous streams,—
Warmth to the heart, and to the fancy beams,—
Where were ye then, when Byron's firey eye
Look'd round you, to renew the long-lost tie?
Hood-wink'd, as if a potent spell was cast
To veil for ever from your sight the past;—
As if your baser blood had only birth
In veins fresh issuing from congenial earth!
As if rank, genius, ancient glory, join'd,
Were blank, if not with modern wealth combin'd!
Riches, that spring from fraud, and fiendlike arts,
From red-stain'd crimes, and woes, and broken hearts,
From ruin'd races, and wide-wasted lands,
And prostrate intellects, and wither'd hands!
Accursed riches, open to the slave,
Whose harden'd conscience all disgrace can brave!
Of sires, that in each page of history shine,
10
Warmth to the heart, and to the fancy beams,—
Where were ye then, when Byron's firey eye
Look'd round you, to renew the long-lost tie?
Hood-wink'd, as if a potent spell was cast
To veil for ever from your sight the past;—
As if your baser blood had only birth
In veins fresh issuing from congenial earth!
As if rank, genius, ancient glory, join'd,
Were blank, if not with modern wealth combin'd!
Riches, that spring from fraud, and fiendlike arts,
From red-stain'd crimes, and woes, and broken hearts,
From ruin'd races, and wide-wasted lands,
And prostrate intellects, and wither'd hands!
Accursed riches, open to the slave,
Whose harden'd conscience all disgrace can brave!
Rank, Title, Privilege, and Power of State,
That steps on crime and meanness to be great,
Where is your just pretension? Where the base,
On which that lofty tower of pride ye place?
The tower, whence looking arrogantly down,
On humble worth ye throw your reckless frown?
Built on the sands; bare to the tempest's stroke;
Courting fierce vengeance, as its wrongs provoke,
Your days are number'd; and the mighty blow
Fate with high hand stands ready to bestow!
That steps on crime and meanness to be great,
Where is your just pretension? Where the base,
On which that lofty tower of pride ye place?
The tower, whence looking arrogantly down,
On humble worth ye throw your reckless frown?
Built on the sands; bare to the tempest's stroke;
Courting fierce vengeance, as its wrongs provoke,
Your days are number'd; and the mighty blow
Fate with high hand stands ready to bestow!
When from the night of barbarous ages Time
At length brought order forth, mid blood and crime,
Power, the reward of the victorious Mind,
Which peace and law from anarchy design'd,
Won from barbarian tribes th'uncultur'd land,
And guarded with the sword what Wisdom plann'd.
Theirs was the right, that gave to future days
The star, that round their distant children plays;
The claim to rule, to legislate, provide,
In senates to debate, in courts decide,
To steer between the people and the crown,
To stem the people's rage, the monarch's frown,
To dazzle with the spell of glories gone,
And raise new hopes from Birth's rekindled dawn.
Blest were their lot, had fate, and wit, and worth,—
The moral that alone can sanction birth,—
Blended their gifts with generous rivalry,
Only in intellectual force to vie!
But Time, the great reformer, and the great
Destroyer of this passing earthly state,—
Time with his scythe, and his all-withering arm.
Has otherwise resolv'd, and broke the charm!
Pour'd on the cauldrou, where the witches wait,
Is mean ambition, servitude, and hate,
And love of pelf, and rude insensate force,
Pride of success that scorns to trace its source,
And scorn of sympathy, disdain of wrong,
And boast that virtue lives but with the strong!
Behold, where ancient birthrights melt away,
And upstart Grandeur holds th'insulting sway!
At length brought order forth, mid blood and crime,
Power, the reward of the victorious Mind,
Which peace and law from anarchy design'd,
Won from barbarian tribes th'uncultur'd land,
And guarded with the sword what Wisdom plann'd.
Theirs was the right, that gave to future days
The star, that round their distant children plays;
11
In senates to debate, in courts decide,
To steer between the people and the crown,
To stem the people's rage, the monarch's frown,
To dazzle with the spell of glories gone,
And raise new hopes from Birth's rekindled dawn.
Blest were their lot, had fate, and wit, and worth,—
The moral that alone can sanction birth,—
Blended their gifts with generous rivalry,
Only in intellectual force to vie!
But Time, the great reformer, and the great
Destroyer of this passing earthly state,—
Time with his scythe, and his all-withering arm.
Has otherwise resolv'd, and broke the charm!
Pour'd on the cauldrou, where the witches wait,
Is mean ambition, servitude, and hate,
And love of pelf, and rude insensate force,
Pride of success that scorns to trace its source,
And scorn of sympathy, disdain of wrong,
And boast that virtue lives but with the strong!
Behold, where ancient birthrights melt away,
And upstart Grandeur holds th'insulting sway!
Ere seven and twenty rolling years had spread
The bloom of manhood on my fervid head,
Thus at the motley bar I stood, and heard
The claim of rank, my grandsires held, preferr'd!
Then youthful faith my trembling bosom warm'd,
And glorious visions of the future charm'd:
Soon the quick eye, that pierces thin disguise,
Saw clouds behind, full gathering in the skies.
Round as the visage of the pamper'd host,
Like a storm-wizard scowling round the coast,
The foeman was abroad , and here and there,
On this side and on that, his cunning leer
Veil'd in a smile, or in the sterner look
Of new-discovery the listner took!
Blood of an hundred chiefs, that age to age
Shone bright in arms and arts on Honour's stage,
What pest was in the air? what loathsome Sprite
Could bring foul vapours on thy stream of light?
Loud in the fray, and joyous in the strife,
In wrong alone couldst thou enjoy thy life?
To strew with thorns a youthful poet's ways,
And make dark Care companion of his days,—
Was this thy triumph? In that heart of plot
Were all the glories of thy sires forgot?
But onward still, inflexible and fierce,
Years roll'd, yet no regrets thy breast could pierce!
The bloom of manhood on my fervid head,
Thus at the motley bar I stood, and heard
The claim of rank, my grandsires held, preferr'd!
Then youthful faith my trembling bosom warm'd,
And glorious visions of the future charm'd:
Soon the quick eye, that pierces thin disguise,
Saw clouds behind, full gathering in the skies.
Round as the visage of the pamper'd host,
Like a storm-wizard scowling round the coast,
The foeman was abroad , and here and there,
On this side and on that, his cunning leer
12
Of new-discovery the listner took!
Blood of an hundred chiefs, that age to age
Shone bright in arms and arts on Honour's stage,
What pest was in the air? what loathsome Sprite
Could bring foul vapours on thy stream of light?
Loud in the fray, and joyous in the strife,
In wrong alone couldst thou enjoy thy life?
To strew with thorns a youthful poet's ways,
And make dark Care companion of his days,—
Was this thy triumph? In that heart of plot
Were all the glories of thy sires forgot?
But onward still, inflexible and fierce,
Years roll'd, yet no regrets thy breast could pierce!
When eloquence is lost, and deaf the ear;
And proof is air; and reason will not hear;
Turn back th'indignant voice, and swelling brain,
And hasten to thy woods and fields again!
There let imagination's brilliant wand
Raise better worlds, and scorn thee to despond!
Does thy blood flow, all flame, from purple springs,
That shone unstain'd in poets, heroes, kings?
They cannot pluck it from thy veins, and throw
A baser stream within that course to flow!
They cannot chain thy dignity of mind,
By charter free as the careering wind!
High as thy thought, thy self-commanding pace
May travel, still unbound, in glory's race!
Conclaves of nobles, new, and mix'd, and old,
Their proud communion with themselves may hold;
But thou mayst tread on loftier ground than they;
And speed encircled by a purer ray!
And proof is air; and reason will not hear;
Turn back th'indignant voice, and swelling brain,
And hasten to thy woods and fields again!
There let imagination's brilliant wand
Raise better worlds, and scorn thee to despond!
Does thy blood flow, all flame, from purple springs,
That shone unstain'd in poets, heroes, kings?
They cannot pluck it from thy veins, and throw
A baser stream within that course to flow!
They cannot chain thy dignity of mind,
By charter free as the careering wind!
High as thy thought, thy self-commanding pace
May travel, still unbound, in glory's race!
Conclaves of nobles, new, and mix'd, and old,
Their proud communion with themselves may hold;
But thou mayst tread on loftier ground than they;
And speed encircled by a purer ray!
'Twas thus in sorrow, anger, scorn, disgust,
Within me died our social being's trust!
I bade the worldling's hateful steps avaunt,
And swore the silent woods should be my haunt !
But soon methought that in this deep retreat
Malice might deem there was a base defeat;
And to my name might cowardice ally,
And triumph in his foul-won victory!
Then rois'd again, and with resentment warm,
Of arrowy poison I defied the storm!
Mines were beneath me, thunders were around,
And where I trod, there was no certain ground!
Within me died our social being's trust!
13
And swore the silent woods should be my haunt !
But soon methought that in this deep retreat
Malice might deem there was a base defeat;
And to my name might cowardice ally,
And triumph in his foul-won victory!
Then rois'd again, and with resentment warm,
Of arrowy poison I defied the storm!
Mines were beneath me, thunders were around,
And where I trod, there was no certain ground!
Rich in resources, keen in fight, the foe
Still from new points, when foil'd, sent forth the blow.
From day to day, and e'en from year to year,
The weight of arms defensive doom'd to bear,
Watchful with linx-ey'd caution to repell
Th'assault, that came in characters of hell,
Long suns revolv'd, yet was the deepen'd dart
Plied by the deadly vulture at my heart!
In rural hall, in thickly-murmuring town
There were no spells the quivering care to drown!
The song the heart refus'd,—the deeper thought,
(Of reason and of grave researches wrought,)
Broke in its chain, and weaken'd in its pierce,
Fail'd in the fruit that memory dar'd rehearse!
Still from new points, when foil'd, sent forth the blow.
From day to day, and e'en from year to year,
The weight of arms defensive doom'd to bear,
Watchful with linx-ey'd caution to repell
Th'assault, that came in characters of hell,
Long suns revolv'd, yet was the deepen'd dart
Plied by the deadly vulture at my heart!
In rural hall, in thickly-murmuring town
There were no spells the quivering care to drown!
The song the heart refus'd,—the deeper thought,
(Of reason and of grave researches wrought,)
Broke in its chain, and weaken'd in its pierce,
Fail'd in the fruit that memory dar'd rehearse!
Meanwhile by thirty summers ripening Time
My rivals taught to build the lofty rhyme,
Senates to lead by varied powers combin'd,
That blend the brilliance of th'eclipsing mind;
By storied magic charm the melting breast.
And masters of the passions stand confest;
Thro history's page the tale profound to draw,
And teach a nation policy and law!—
My rivals taught to build the lofty rhyme,
Senates to lead by varied powers combin'd,
That blend the brilliance of th'eclipsing mind;
By storied magic charm the melting breast.
And masters of the passions stand confest;
14
And teach a nation policy and law!—
These arts were theirs:—how proud the fabric rose!
How sweet upon their toils must Evening close!
But not to me that fate assign'd:—my brain
Still hung in langour on th'unfinish'd strain:
And as by chemic power the force dissolv'd
Of patent drugs, to atoms is revolv'd,
My mind's young springs, assail'd by sorrow's blast,
In waste to the dispersing winds were cast!
How sweet upon their toils must Evening close!
But not to me that fate assign'd:—my brain
Still hung in langour on th'unfinish'd strain:
And as by chemic power the force dissolv'd
Of patent drugs, to atoms is revolv'd,
My mind's young springs, assail'd by sorrow's blast,
In waste to the dispersing winds were cast!
O thou
, from whose firm course thy steadier heart
No wildering fires could dazzle to depart,
By force concenter'd, reason, memory, toil,
Who kepst one pace, nor art nor hate could foil,—
O thou, with whom one task in boyish days,
One friendly rivalry, one aim of praise,
One sport, one taste, of summer suns one shade,
One growing theme by winter's fires essay'd,
My better hopes and fairer prospects crown'd,—
How wide the lot thy happier age has found!
Plac'd at ambition's summit, on the seat
Where Justice, Mercy, Wisdom, Honours meet;
The toil by day the nightly sleep that draws;—
A nation's loud concurrence of applause;—
A conscience pure and high, that proudly knows
From no base arts the lofty guerdon flows!—
The thought that, if the toil intense is pain,
For public good thou labour'st not in vain;—
Th'assurance, when this scene is clos'd by fate,
Honours thy long posterity shall wait;—
O what a bright career of just renown,
That pays thy virtues with an earthly crown!
No wildering fires could dazzle to depart,
By force concenter'd, reason, memory, toil,
Who kepst one pace, nor art nor hate could foil,—
O thou, with whom one task in boyish days,
One friendly rivalry, one aim of praise,
One sport, one taste, of summer suns one shade,
One growing theme by winter's fires essay'd,
My better hopes and fairer prospects crown'd,—
How wide the lot thy happier age has found!
Plac'd at ambition's summit, on the seat
Where Justice, Mercy, Wisdom, Honours meet;
The toil by day the nightly sleep that draws;—
A nation's loud concurrence of applause;—
A conscience pure and high, that proudly knows
From no base arts the lofty guerdon flows!—
The thought that, if the toil intense is pain,
For public good thou labour'st not in vain;—
Th'assurance, when this scene is clos'd by fate,
Honours thy long posterity shall wait;—
O what a bright career of just renown,
That pays thy virtues with an earthly crown!
15
For me, with flowing locks in manhood's bloom,
Whose hues not firey cares could yet consume,
The stormy struggle turn'd those locks to grey,
Ere yet was ended the despiteful fray!
Too late with weakend faculties I strove
In glory's better field at ease to move!
Then wrong succeeded wrong, and woe to woe;
Nor ceas'd the bitter cup to overflow:
The stricken deer the herd came drooping round,
And doubled threat on threat, and wound on wound.
Yet writhing, mad with pain, but not subdued,
I nurs'd my haughty soul in solitude!
I pierc'd the pathless wood;—night-echoes join'd,
And on the fleeting courser rac'd the wind:
In fruitless energies my strength consum'd,
And toil'd with ills to which my lot was doom'd.
My rivals rose, and push'd their bold career,
Gathering new strength with each successive year,
While I, neglected, lorn, obscure, enchain'd,
To mingle, where I could not rule, disdain'd.
Buzzing around me travel'd many a name;
Exulted many a child of happier fame;
Of many a just, and many a false renown,
Th'eclipsing splendor in my face was thrown.
Then genius, fancy, talent, were decried,
And clans combin'd to mortify my pride.
But Age, tho Time with loads of care and grief
Mov'd slow, advanc'd, relentless of reprief.
Nor yet the fire was gone, that burn'd in youth,
Nor visions yet of hope, nor search of truth;
But still in spite of calumny and scorn,
With mental strength I strove my soul t'adorn;
Still my fierce eye became with sorrow dim,
Wrinkled my brow, and feeble every limb;
In flights dispers'd my wandering fancy rov'd,
Driv'n by the weights that ne'er could be remov'd.
Whose hues not firey cares could yet consume,
The stormy struggle turn'd those locks to grey,
Ere yet was ended the despiteful fray!
Too late with weakend faculties I strove
In glory's better field at ease to move!
Then wrong succeeded wrong, and woe to woe;
Nor ceas'd the bitter cup to overflow:
The stricken deer the herd came drooping round,
And doubled threat on threat, and wound on wound.
Yet writhing, mad with pain, but not subdued,
I nurs'd my haughty soul in solitude!
I pierc'd the pathless wood;—night-echoes join'd,
And on the fleeting courser rac'd the wind:
In fruitless energies my strength consum'd,
And toil'd with ills to which my lot was doom'd.
My rivals rose, and push'd their bold career,
Gathering new strength with each successive year,
While I, neglected, lorn, obscure, enchain'd,
To mingle, where I could not rule, disdain'd.
Buzzing around me travel'd many a name;
Exulted many a child of happier fame;
Of many a just, and many a false renown,
Th'eclipsing splendor in my face was thrown.
Then genius, fancy, talent, were decried,
And clans combin'd to mortify my pride.
But Age, tho Time with loads of care and grief
Mov'd slow, advanc'd, relentless of reprief.
Nor yet the fire was gone, that burn'd in youth,
Nor visions yet of hope, nor search of truth;
But still in spite of calumny and scorn,
With mental strength I strove my soul t'adorn;
Still my fierce eye became with sorrow dim,
Wrinkled my brow, and feeble every limb;
In flights dispers'd my wandering fancy rov'd,
Driv'n by the weights that ne'er could be remov'd.
16
What is the fire, that, pelting waves among
,
And pressing clouds, still blazes pure and strong?
Anger exhausts the mind, and Sorrow binds,
And Care distracts; and black Despondence blinds.
The wilder'd fancy lets its visions fly;
Nor hopeless toil will fix them to the eye.
In reckless wanderings is the spirit spent,
Nor thought intense on buried truth is bent.
And pressing clouds, still blazes pure and strong?
Anger exhausts the mind, and Sorrow binds,
And Care distracts; and black Despondence blinds.
The wilder'd fancy lets its visions fly;
Nor hopeless toil will fix them to the eye.
In reckless wanderings is the spirit spent,
Nor thought intense on buried truth is bent.
Not thus the palm is won; not thus the wreath
For ever green with life's eternal breath:
Mind cannot work her labour due; nor rise
With faculties unstrung to gain the prize.
By day the vigorous task; by midnight oil
The strife, that swerves not in its sleepless toil;—
No pang of self, no vulture at the heart,
That bids the coming thought again depart!
In one concenter'd, every growing power
Throws its broad light, and sanctifies the hour.
Then come fame, honours, and respect, and blaze
Of cheering feasts, and darts of Beauty's rays,
Assent of ages, and re-echoed song,
Whose notes from hundred lips the strain prolong!—
For ever green with life's eternal breath:
Mind cannot work her labour due; nor rise
With faculties unstrung to gain the prize.
By day the vigorous task; by midnight oil
The strife, that swerves not in its sleepless toil;—
No pang of self, no vulture at the heart,
That bids the coming thought again depart!
In one concenter'd, every growing power
Throws its broad light, and sanctifies the hour.
Then come fame, honours, and respect, and blaze
Of cheering feasts, and darts of Beauty's rays,
Assent of ages, and re-echoed song,
Whose notes from hundred lips the strain prolong!—
This is a world of magic;—but, alas,
E'en then the charm will die;—the glory pass!
Genius, whose workings in the breast expire,
Smouldering within, no breeze to fan the fire,
Nurses a strength where morbid humour reigns,
And feeds disease, and woe, and death-like pains.
A Spirit whispers still the gift within,
And calls its languid hopes the wreath to win:
But lifeless falls each effort, and the breast
Feels gloomier darkness, by despair opprest!
E'en then the charm will die;—the glory pass!
Genius, whose workings in the breast expire,
Smouldering within, no breeze to fan the fire,
Nurses a strength where morbid humour reigns,
And feeds disease, and woe, and death-like pains.
A Spirit whispers still the gift within,
And calls its languid hopes the wreath to win:
But lifeless falls each effort, and the breast
Feels gloomier darkness, by despair opprest!
17
What were the days, when Summer saw me laid
Beneath the same impenetrable shade,
No noble task perform'd, that from the grave
The memory of my hapless name might save?
Wrong in the present;—in the distant, gloom
That spread its gathering blackness to the tomb;
Why was I born with agony so keen,
To sink beneath Displeasure's frowning mien?
To pine beneath Neglect; of Friendship broke
With helpless woe to tremble at the stroke;
To Indignation's impulse fierce to yield;
Then weep the foeman's triumph which it seal'd;
Anger in words to speak, but leave the deed
To honied tongues that snatch at virtue's meed;
Then haunted by revenge for words of wind
By those who to the cruel act are blind:
Aim of foul tongues, insulted, scorn'd, despoil'd,
By those whose lives in rapine's race have toil'd?
Beneath the same impenetrable shade,
No noble task perform'd, that from the grave
The memory of my hapless name might save?
Wrong in the present;—in the distant, gloom
That spread its gathering blackness to the tomb;
Why was I born with agony so keen,
To sink beneath Displeasure's frowning mien?
To pine beneath Neglect; of Friendship broke
With helpless woe to tremble at the stroke;
To Indignation's impulse fierce to yield;
Then weep the foeman's triumph which it seal'd;
Anger in words to speak, but leave the deed
To honied tongues that snatch at virtue's meed;
Then haunted by revenge for words of wind
By those who to the cruel act are blind:
Aim of foul tongues, insulted, scorn'd, despoil'd,
By those whose lives in rapine's race have toil'd?
Is it that in this world of masquerade
Falsehood is virtue; character a trade;
Cunning is wisdom; honour a pretence;
And guile and affectation eloquence?—
It cannot be! avaunt the frightful tale!
A little while the serpent shall prevail;
And worldly arts shall have their fleeting day;
And curs'd Hypocrisy shall hold her sway:
But the bright Spirit shall at last o'ercome;
Nor sink eternal under Sorrow's gloom;
The veil shall be withdrawn; the selfish soul
His dark designs shall to the light unroll;
And clear the path, and brilliant shall appear,
That Genius travels in his fond career!
Then flowers beneath his footsteps shall be spread,
And fragrant chaplets wove around his head;
And fairy tones his gifted ear entrance,
And fairy circles round about him dance;
And round his throne shall meet a tribe of seers.
Whose veins shall never know the frost of years;
From conscious wisdom happiness shall flow,
And smiles of fame shall give th'eternal glow!
Falsehood is virtue; character a trade;
Cunning is wisdom; honour a pretence;
And guile and affectation eloquence?—
It cannot be! avaunt the frightful tale!
A little while the serpent shall prevail;
And worldly arts shall have their fleeting day;
And curs'd Hypocrisy shall hold her sway:
But the bright Spirit shall at last o'ercome;
Nor sink eternal under Sorrow's gloom;
The veil shall be withdrawn; the selfish soul
His dark designs shall to the light unroll;
And clear the path, and brilliant shall appear,
That Genius travels in his fond career!
Then flowers beneath his footsteps shall be spread,
And fragrant chaplets wove around his head;
And fairy tones his gifted ear entrance,
And fairy circles round about him dance;
18
Whose veins shall never know the frost of years;
From conscious wisdom happiness shall flow,
And smiles of fame shall give th'eternal glow!
Fame, is thy temple mounted in the sky?
And who are they, the steep ascent can try?
Is thy door clos'd but to those Spirits rare,
Whom Inspiration's self exalts in air?
Or may of mind and art the mingled crew
With pain the herculean task subdue?
Down towards this earth thine outward portal stands,
Guarded by swords less bright, and human hands!
There enter many a tribe of mortal mould,
Who with more earthly powers communion hold;
While far within, and mounted high on clouds,
Whose sun-pierc'd shade thy sacred seat enshrouds,
Thy person in majestic splendor sits;
And none but Inspiration's sons admits!
Victims of sorrow, in whose hearts the Muse
Of living genius threw the fire profuse,
If drench'd in streams the flame has dimly blaz'd,
Nor high to heaven its struggling brilliance rais'd,
Must ye for ever at the threshold wait,
Nor by your labours gain the lower gate?
And who are they, the steep ascent can try?
Is thy door clos'd but to those Spirits rare,
Whom Inspiration's self exalts in air?
Or may of mind and art the mingled crew
With pain the herculean task subdue?
Down towards this earth thine outward portal stands,
Guarded by swords less bright, and human hands!
There enter many a tribe of mortal mould,
Who with more earthly powers communion hold;
While far within, and mounted high on clouds,
Whose sun-pierc'd shade thy sacred seat enshrouds,
Thy person in majestic splendor sits;
And none but Inspiration's sons admits!
Victims of sorrow, in whose hearts the Muse
Of living genius threw the fire profuse,
If drench'd in streams the flame has dimly blaz'd,
Nor high to heaven its struggling brilliance rais'd,
Must ye for ever at the threshold wait,
Nor by your labours gain the lower gate?
All this is as accurate a narrative, as I could have written in prose, of the course of my feelings and thoughts.
When this material part, whose fragile form
But few brief years the springs of life can warm,
Shall down to death descend, and mouldering earth
Shall cover all that liv'd of mortal birth,
The Spirit, that beneath misfortune bow'd,
And to defeated aims her efforts vow'd,
Shall never be, by failures not its own,
Condemn'd in shades of night to rest unknown!
Affection fond shall on the turf be found,
And Love in floods of tears shall hover round;
Esteem, and Reverence, and Remembrance sweet,
Shall at the spot with solemn dirges meet;
And in the tender tributes of the Sage,
The Poet's glowing rhymes, th'Historian's page,
The name shall shine in hues of watry light,
Like stars that glitter in an Autumn night!
But few brief years the springs of life can warm,
Shall down to death descend, and mouldering earth
Shall cover all that liv'd of mortal birth,
The Spirit, that beneath misfortune bow'd,
And to defeated aims her efforts vow'd,
Shall never be, by failures not its own,
Condemn'd in shades of night to rest unknown!
19
And Love in floods of tears shall hover round;
Esteem, and Reverence, and Remembrance sweet,
Shall at the spot with solemn dirges meet;
And in the tender tributes of the Sage,
The Poet's glowing rhymes, th'Historian's page,
The name shall shine in hues of watry light,
Like stars that glitter in an Autumn night!
Where have I wander'd? Thro what maze of thought
The future and the past together brought?
Trac'd the sad scenes of a disastrous life,
And warm'd again with a forgotten strife?
O deep Regret, that bidst each trembling string
Of my worn heart with sorrows past to ring!
O mingled tissue of a web, whose forms
The weïrd sisters wove in clouds and storms!
O sad descendant of a fallen race
Usurpers would oppress, and knaves displace;—
That when from age succeeding age it stood
Above th'assaults of war and fire and blood,
And deep into the night of Time could track
Its lofty steps for ten long centuries back,
To thee, when now devolv'd the chieftain's crest,
From thee alone twas striv'n the gem to wrest!
Was there no blood to dignify the lot?
Were all the purple streams of kings forgot?
Were there in thee no breathings of the mind?
Was nothing with the Muse's impress sign'd?
The future and the past together brought?
Trac'd the sad scenes of a disastrous life,
And warm'd again with a forgotten strife?
O deep Regret, that bidst each trembling string
Of my worn heart with sorrows past to ring!
O mingled tissue of a web, whose forms
The weïrd sisters wove in clouds and storms!
O sad descendant of a fallen race
Usurpers would oppress, and knaves displace;—
That when from age succeeding age it stood
Above th'assaults of war and fire and blood,
And deep into the night of Time could track
Its lofty steps for ten long centuries back,
To thee, when now devolv'd the chieftain's crest,
From thee alone twas striv'n the gem to wrest!
Was there no blood to dignify the lot?
Were all the purple streams of kings forgot?
Were there in thee no breathings of the mind?
Was nothing with the Muse's impress sign'd?
What is the life that, pass'd in rural halls,
On its own heart with ravenous fancy falls?
Space for its thoughts, and fields of ample room,
Are gifts forbidden to its narrow doom.
The village Cromwell, tyrant of a toy,
Strives by mean wrongs his neighbour to annoy;
By vile intrigues, that noble minds disdain,
He works, the petty mastery to gain.—
Not for the great of soul are days like these,
Tho spent beneath hereditary trees:
The petty circuit of the petty crew
Fits not the distant ken, the bolder view!
On its own heart with ravenous fancy falls?
Space for its thoughts, and fields of ample room,
Are gifts forbidden to its narrow doom.
The village Cromwell, tyrant of a toy,
Strives by mean wrongs his neighbour to annoy;
20
He works, the petty mastery to gain.—
Not for the great of soul are days like these,
Tho spent beneath hereditary trees:
The petty circuit of the petty crew
Fits not the distant ken, the bolder view!
O let me not those gloomy days revive,
Where Pride, with baser wrongs condemn'd to strive,
In the full heart with flames of fierceness burn'd,
And the bright fount to bitterest poison turn'd;
The dark conspiracy, th'unsoften'd hate,
Relentless as the destiny of fate,
Combin'd the courage of the soul to shake
With shades, that hope in vain essay'd to break!
Where Pride, with baser wrongs condemn'd to strive,
In the full heart with flames of fierceness burn'd,
And the bright fount to bitterest poison turn'd;
The dark conspiracy, th'unsoften'd hate,
Relentless as the destiny of fate,
Combin'd the courage of the soul to shake
With shades, that hope in vain essay'd to break!
Times, when I sought, from morn to evening's close,
In books the sweet oblivion of my woes,
With generous toil, yet vain, on wisdom's lore
Taught by the seers of happier days to pore;
When with the love of arms and beauty fir'd,
The gorgeous show of Chivalry inspir'd,
Not fall'n amongst the base of heart and soul,
Learning denied her volumes to unroll:
But feeble was the brain, and dim the ray,
That wont upon each weary sense to play;
And still, as if by stealth, with scatter'd force
The Fancy struggled to pursue her course:
No chearer's voice was heard to lead me on,
And all the visions of my youth were gone.
Robb'd of my birthright;—by the lawyer's league
A prey to mean Rapacity's intrigue,
Th'ungenerous world the Muse's offerings loath'd,
Not in the trappings of the prosperous cloath'd!
In books the sweet oblivion of my woes,
With generous toil, yet vain, on wisdom's lore
Taught by the seers of happier days to pore;
When with the love of arms and beauty fir'd,
The gorgeous show of Chivalry inspir'd,
Not fall'n amongst the base of heart and soul,
Learning denied her volumes to unroll:
But feeble was the brain, and dim the ray,
That wont upon each weary sense to play;
And still, as if by stealth, with scatter'd force
The Fancy struggled to pursue her course:
No chearer's voice was heard to lead me on,
And all the visions of my youth were gone.
Robb'd of my birthright;—by the lawyer's league
A prey to mean Rapacity's intrigue,
Th'ungenerous world the Muse's offerings loath'd,
Not in the trappings of the prosperous cloath'd!
Rest in thy grave, thou Man, whose heart of steel
No sprinkles of thy long-trac'd blood could feel!
Slumber unwept by genius or by worth,
And rot unsav'd in thy congenial earth ! [OMITTED]
No sprinkles of thy long-trac'd blood could feel!
21
And rot unsav'd in thy congenial earth ! [OMITTED]
I had scarce written down these last lines with a trembling and almost illegible hand, when my disorder rose to a frightful height, and I was convulsed for eight and forty hours.
POETS AND MODERN POETRY.
Who would not wish a poet's holy name;—
Still more a poet's empire than his fame?
Ask ye the test that proves the genuine strain;—
If the tide flows from an undoubted vein?
Let the heart tell, if when the drink is first
In sparkling murmurs offer'd to the thirst,
The trembling glow its arteries attest;
And the brain fires, and swells the kindling breast!
If such the spell, tho critics ply their taste,
And all their chymic arts in censure waste,
From fount of Helicon the stream proceeds,
And justly claims the poet's laureate meeds.
Not narrow is the poet's theme, nor bound
His means of pleasure to a narrow ground:
Rules, that would limit his excursive mind,
To forms of fiction, language, thought, confin'd,
Image or sentiment, or wandering flight
Of fancy in a phrenzy of delight,
Beholding shapes to mortal eyes unknown,
And maddening with creations of its own;
Morals that man, by nature's impress taught,
Deems by the hand of puff'd up Folly wrought;
Gorgeous invention of discordant things,
That shapes impossible together brings;—
Are rules like these the genius free to chain,
And bind to tasteless laws the poet's brain?
Not to the mighty range the eye surveys,
However beautiful are Nature's ways,
Is the Bard's theme restrain'd:—with equal joy
Th'invisible of mind his lays employ;
Thought is his empire;—every subtle ray
That loves upon the inmost soul to play,
'Tis his to paint; and every trembling dart,
That runs along the fibres of the heart,
Beyond the shapes of this material scene,
E'en when the Spring puts forth her emerald green;
Beyond the golden views of Summer's blaze;
Or gentler splendor of Autumnal days,—
Enchants fine reason's strain, to feeling join'd,
That lifts to loftier heights th'aspiring mind!
We live but in the mind: material life
Is the base contest of a mortal strife;
Joy ending in ennui, disgust, regret,
And Grief in ambush where our hopes are set;
But mental pleasures stronger grow, the more
Th'indulging passion feeds upon the store;
And when the feast is done,—the moment past,—
Backward our eyes with fond delight we cast.
The forms that tire,—the scene of earthly mould,
That loses soon its charm as we behold,—
Must these in song delight us, yet the strain
The shadowy tribes of Intellect disdain?
Tribes, in whose converse ne'er the charm abates,
Nor pain, nor sorrow, nor repentance waits!
But wisdom, that our being's end and aim
Teaches to follow with an holy flame;
The bosom's movements, and the springs to know
Whence mystic man's recondite actions flow,
The hopes and fears, the secret joys, the pangs
With which the soul on some dread evil hangs,
Pierce the thick veil, and to the light of day
The mind's conflicting elements display.
Fruits of the genuine spring we seek in vain
In the wild whims of a distemper'd brain;
Hobgoblin imps, imagination draws,
In her forc'd freaks defying human laws;
Passions of monstrous fierceness, that demand
Admiring plaudits for the blood-stain'd hand;
Capricious will for reason's milder sway,—
The reckless chace of a delusive ray!
Still more a poet's empire than his fame?
Ask ye the test that proves the genuine strain;—
If the tide flows from an undoubted vein?
Let the heart tell, if when the drink is first
In sparkling murmurs offer'd to the thirst,
The trembling glow its arteries attest;
And the brain fires, and swells the kindling breast!
If such the spell, tho critics ply their taste,
And all their chymic arts in censure waste,
From fount of Helicon the stream proceeds,
And justly claims the poet's laureate meeds.
Not narrow is the poet's theme, nor bound
His means of pleasure to a narrow ground:
Rules, that would limit his excursive mind,
To forms of fiction, language, thought, confin'd,
26
Of fancy in a phrenzy of delight,
Beholding shapes to mortal eyes unknown,
And maddening with creations of its own;
Morals that man, by nature's impress taught,
Deems by the hand of puff'd up Folly wrought;
Gorgeous invention of discordant things,
That shapes impossible together brings;—
Are rules like these the genius free to chain,
And bind to tasteless laws the poet's brain?
Not to the mighty range the eye surveys,
However beautiful are Nature's ways,
Is the Bard's theme restrain'd:—with equal joy
Th'invisible of mind his lays employ;
Thought is his empire;—every subtle ray
That loves upon the inmost soul to play,
'Tis his to paint; and every trembling dart,
That runs along the fibres of the heart,
Beyond the shapes of this material scene,
E'en when the Spring puts forth her emerald green;
Beyond the golden views of Summer's blaze;
Or gentler splendor of Autumnal days,—
Enchants fine reason's strain, to feeling join'd,
That lifts to loftier heights th'aspiring mind!
We live but in the mind: material life
Is the base contest of a mortal strife;
Joy ending in ennui, disgust, regret,
And Grief in ambush where our hopes are set;
But mental pleasures stronger grow, the more
Th'indulging passion feeds upon the store;
And when the feast is done,—the moment past,—
Backward our eyes with fond delight we cast.
The forms that tire,—the scene of earthly mould,
That loses soon its charm as we behold,—
Must these in song delight us, yet the strain
The shadowy tribes of Intellect disdain?
27
Nor pain, nor sorrow, nor repentance waits!
But wisdom, that our being's end and aim
Teaches to follow with an holy flame;
The bosom's movements, and the springs to know
Whence mystic man's recondite actions flow,
The hopes and fears, the secret joys, the pangs
With which the soul on some dread evil hangs,
Pierce the thick veil, and to the light of day
The mind's conflicting elements display.
Fruits of the genuine spring we seek in vain
In the wild whims of a distemper'd brain;
Hobgoblin imps, imagination draws,
In her forc'd freaks defying human laws;
Passions of monstrous fierceness, that demand
Admiring plaudits for the blood-stain'd hand;
Capricious will for reason's milder sway,—
The reckless chace of a delusive ray!
Muses! who sitting round the sacred spring
Of Helicon, your liquid incense fling
On votaries kneeling at your inmost shrine!
The gravest, deepest of these drops be mine!
To moral truths, to reason let me bow,
To nature, as she is, my studies vow!
Stern be the lesson,—plain and unadorn'd
The precept by whose light the world is warn'd!
But let its lofty tone, and breathing force,
Bespeak the sacred regions of its source!
Of Helicon, your liquid incense fling
On votaries kneeling at your inmost shrine!
The gravest, deepest of these drops be mine!
To moral truths, to reason let me bow,
To nature, as she is, my studies vow!
Stern be the lesson,—plain and unadorn'd
The precept by whose light the world is warn'd!
But let its lofty tone, and breathing force,
Bespeak the sacred regions of its source!
Nurs'd in the woods, from nature's voice I drew
The ceaseless fire that in my bosom grew;
And growing still in age's frozen clime,
Still bursts unblighted forth in fluent rhyme!
Shades of my Fathers, Wootton's spreading trees,
That fann'd my infant struggles by your breeze,
Ye taught me first to love the learned lore,
That mighty bards pour'd forth in days of yore;
On Milton's holiest song with rapture dwell,
And glow at tuneful Dryden's lyric shell!
With Shakespeare's fairy dreams, at evening hour,
To yield each wondering sense to Fancy's power;
And breathless view, at Spenser's magic calls,
Knights, arms, fair ladies, and enchanted halls!
The ceaseless fire that in my bosom grew;
And growing still in age's frozen clime,
Still bursts unblighted forth in fluent rhyme!
Shades of my Fathers, Wootton's spreading trees,
That fann'd my infant struggles by your breeze,
28
That mighty bards pour'd forth in days of yore;
On Milton's holiest song with rapture dwell,
And glow at tuneful Dryden's lyric shell!
With Shakespeare's fairy dreams, at evening hour,
To yield each wondering sense to Fancy's power;
And breathless view, at Spenser's magic calls,
Knights, arms, fair ladies, and enchanted halls!
Apart I liv'd upon enchanted ground,
No worldly strife my hopes and joys to bound;
The clamour, and intrigue, and force, and art,
That damp the kindling ardors of the heart,
The fame, esteem, the wonder, and the praise,
That wait on wily deeds, and honied phrase,
Far from my haunts in woods, and meads, and vales,—
Ne'er reach'd my ear, nor mingled with my tales:
The world I saw was of the good and wise,
In books related, crown'd with virtue's prize!
When mid the throngs of elbowing mobs I fell,
No charm the tumults of my heart could quell:
My senses in the silence of retreat
Had learn'd no strength the noisy crews to meet:
Appal'd, o'erwhelm'd, they sunk in helpless gloom,
And Hope refus'd the future to illume.
Long was the darkness; many a weary year
Upon my fate obscure I drop'd the tear;
But broke at length from cells of black Despair,
And strove to wave my new-plum'd wings in air.
Then came the spring of life within my brain,
And op'd the regions of my former reign:
Imagination drew the mighty Dead
Up from the tomb to lift the palmy head,
And Virtue once again before my eyes
Began in her attractive glow to rise;
And Wisdom shone in beamy looks, and told
The lore that realms of future joy unroll'd!
No worldly strife my hopes and joys to bound;
The clamour, and intrigue, and force, and art,
That damp the kindling ardors of the heart,
The fame, esteem, the wonder, and the praise,
That wait on wily deeds, and honied phrase,
Far from my haunts in woods, and meads, and vales,—
Ne'er reach'd my ear, nor mingled with my tales:
The world I saw was of the good and wise,
In books related, crown'd with virtue's prize!
When mid the throngs of elbowing mobs I fell,
No charm the tumults of my heart could quell:
My senses in the silence of retreat
Had learn'd no strength the noisy crews to meet:
Appal'd, o'erwhelm'd, they sunk in helpless gloom,
And Hope refus'd the future to illume.
Long was the darkness; many a weary year
Upon my fate obscure I drop'd the tear;
But broke at length from cells of black Despair,
And strove to wave my new-plum'd wings in air.
Then came the spring of life within my brain,
And op'd the regions of my former reign:
Imagination drew the mighty Dead
Up from the tomb to lift the palmy head,
And Virtue once again before my eyes
Began in her attractive glow to rise;
And Wisdom shone in beamy looks, and told
The lore that realms of future joy unroll'd!
29
What are the wanton musings nurs'd by fools?
What is the jest, the fleeting hour that rules?
Will this frail life for ever last, and give
Time for all trifling tasks to those who live?
Ah, not a day has mortal man to spare!—
Let reason, truth, and knowlege be his prayer;
The moral lesson;—skill to scan the state
To which his being here is doom'd by fate,—
The talents, passions, whims of brother men;—
The movements that escape a hasty ken!—
To these alone the labours are confin'd,
That task a virtuous and a solid mind:—
Here is imagination's scope;—her light
Shews the deep secrets to the searching sight;
Shews all the subtlest workings of the breast;
Each throb that most beneath the veil is prest;
Each flying thought; each momentary aim;
The wish of honour, or the scheme of shame.
Not as the feeble fancy's vain conceit,
Not as proud labour, in factitious heat,
Would draw the picture of the scene of things,
Is the fair tale, from Helicon that springs!
Ah! fairer far than toilsome Art can tell;—
More bright the visions of the Muse's well!—
Cold is the fiction, that the false pretence
Of empty bardlings offers to the sense:
Not to the eye the willing splendors rise,
Not to the heart a glow the verse supplies:
A waste of gorgeous words;—fantastic forms,
With which no vein of Nature's bosom warms!
What is the jest, the fleeting hour that rules?
Will this frail life for ever last, and give
Time for all trifling tasks to those who live?
Ah, not a day has mortal man to spare!—
Let reason, truth, and knowlege be his prayer;
The moral lesson;—skill to scan the state
To which his being here is doom'd by fate,—
The talents, passions, whims of brother men;—
The movements that escape a hasty ken!—
To these alone the labours are confin'd,
That task a virtuous and a solid mind:—
Here is imagination's scope;—her light
Shews the deep secrets to the searching sight;
Shews all the subtlest workings of the breast;
Each throb that most beneath the veil is prest;
Each flying thought; each momentary aim;
The wish of honour, or the scheme of shame.
Not as the feeble fancy's vain conceit,
Not as proud labour, in factitious heat,
Would draw the picture of the scene of things,
Is the fair tale, from Helicon that springs!
Ah! fairer far than toilsome Art can tell;—
More bright the visions of the Muse's well!—
Cold is the fiction, that the false pretence
Of empty bardlings offers to the sense:
Not to the eye the willing splendors rise,
Not to the heart a glow the verse supplies:
A waste of gorgeous words;—fantastic forms,
With which no vein of Nature's bosom warms!
Of Bards most rich, most varied, most sublime,
Most tender, most intense,—whom ripening Time
Ne'er yet has equal'd, and will ne'er again
Reach in the height of Inspiration's strain,
Shakespeare, whose wand stretch'd o'er creation's range,—
Each outward, inward, shape, each subtle change!
Thou didst not seek, by tales which Truth disclaims,
To fill the wondering breast with childish flames!
The happiest notes of thy enchanting lyre,
Most touch'd by every Muse's purest fire,
True to each feature, shape, and tint, and shade,
Are nature's voice in nature's form array'd!
Most tender, most intense,—whom ripening Time
Ne'er yet has equal'd, and will ne'er again
Reach in the height of Inspiration's strain,
30
Each outward, inward, shape, each subtle change!
Thou didst not seek, by tales which Truth disclaims,
To fill the wondering breast with childish flames!
The happiest notes of thy enchanting lyre,
Most touch'd by every Muse's purest fire,
True to each feature, shape, and tint, and shade,
Are nature's voice in nature's form array'd!
Each step that we from Nature's likeness part,
Shews the weak efforts of a sickly art!
There is no strain but Truth's, the wise can hear;
There is no voice but Nature's, charms the ear:
All else is wasting on an idle theme
Hours, we too late must struggle to redeem!
Shews the weak efforts of a sickly art!
There is no strain but Truth's, the wise can hear;
There is no voice but Nature's, charms the ear:
All else is wasting on an idle theme
Hours, we too late must struggle to redeem!
Strange is frail man's existence; grief and joy
And vice and virtue mingled form th'alloy;
When if the good alone could have its sway,
Earth would a perfect Paradise display.
Rapture is in the sight of hills and vales,
And woods and meads, and Ocean spread with sails,
And mountain-tops by rosy suns array'd,
And golden lights that billowy clouds pervade:
And rapture in the sound, when Nature's voice
Begins at the reviving Spring rejoice:
The low of herds, the bleat of lambs, the song
Of birds that in the opening foliage throng;
And when the falling leaf, all pale and sere,
Bemoans in gentle sounds the dying year;
And when from Summer clouds the lightning breaks,
And Winter's roaring storm in thunder speaks;
Rapture to all, in whom nor vice nor art
Has crush'd the simple movements of the heart!
And vice and virtue mingled form th'alloy;
When if the good alone could have its sway,
Earth would a perfect Paradise display.
Rapture is in the sight of hills and vales,
And woods and meads, and Ocean spread with sails,
And mountain-tops by rosy suns array'd,
And golden lights that billowy clouds pervade:
And rapture in the sound, when Nature's voice
Begins at the reviving Spring rejoice:
The low of herds, the bleat of lambs, the song
Of birds that in the opening foliage throng;
And when the falling leaf, all pale and sere,
Bemoans in gentle sounds the dying year;
And when from Summer clouds the lightning breaks,
And Winter's roaring storm in thunder speaks;
Rapture to all, in whom nor vice nor art
Has crush'd the simple movements of the heart!
Ye Muses, sitting round the heavenly throne,
With harps all strung to a celestial tone,
Ye, when the great Creator's word gave birth,
Pois'd in mid air, to this great globe of Earth
Struck up with echoing hand your notes of praise,
Till Heav'n's whole concave trembled with the lays!
Ye, who thus sung its primal being, wait
With anxious hearts upon its passing state!
'Tis yours to teach the favour'd few, whose toils,
By worship pure inspir'd, have won your smiles;
To sing this work of the Creator's hand,
Such as it started forth at his command!
No struggle vain still fairer hues to throw,
And make its skies with brighter gold to glow;
Mankind to cast in moulds of heavenlier form,
And souls with more celestial fire to warm!
Enough, vain Bard, enough, that man should be
Such as he came on earth by heaven's decree! [OMITTED]
With harps all strung to a celestial tone,
31
Pois'd in mid air, to this great globe of Earth
Struck up with echoing hand your notes of praise,
Till Heav'n's whole concave trembled with the lays!
Ye, who thus sung its primal being, wait
With anxious hearts upon its passing state!
'Tis yours to teach the favour'd few, whose toils,
By worship pure inspir'd, have won your smiles;
To sing this work of the Creator's hand,
Such as it started forth at his command!
No struggle vain still fairer hues to throw,
And make its skies with brighter gold to glow;
Mankind to cast in moulds of heavenlier form,
And souls with more celestial fire to warm!
Enough, vain Bard, enough, that man should be
Such as he came on earth by heaven's decree! [OMITTED]
39
STANZAS
ON INDEPENDENCE.
1
If the calm wisdom, which in sober ageTeaches the mazy paths of life to thread,
In youth were ours, we by a gradual stage
Should gently journey to our mortal bed!
2
False faith, false hopes, false pleasures lead us on;Till deep entangled in delusion's net,
(The moment of escape forever gone,)
In lasting chains of ruin we are set!
40
3
For wild desires, which, when possess'd, bestowScarce a short moment of uncertain joy,
We pay long lingering years of certain woe,
Which patience cannot soothe, nor prayer destroy!
4
To catch the favour, that will never come;To win the praise, that is an idle sound,
On others' wanton will we fix our doom;
And in the yoke of servitude are bound!
5
There is no bliss, but on ourselves depends;There is no mercy in another's heart;
No anchor-ground in breasts of fickle friends;
No fountain, that will aid in need impart!
6
The feeblest power in hand, (which prudence heedsToo lightly the most humble wish to fill,)
In true substantial value far exceeds
The chance of empires at another's will!
etc. etc.
| Modern aristocracy | |