The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Well may the pure Philanthropist complain
Of Barbarism's rude, protracted reign;
Well may he yearn to curb its savage sway,
When insult galls him on the public way;
When every human haunt, in every hour,
Can furnish proofs of a degrading power,—
Where lewd deportment and unpolished jeer
Offend the eye, and jar upon the ear,
And beings, fashioned by a Power benign,
Seem to forget their Maker's hand divine.

Turn to the city, and let Truth declare
How much of what we mourn is centred there;
At every step how many evils greet
The wandering eye, and catch unwary feet—
The thousands who neglect each worthy aim,
For brutalising sport and vulgar game;
The stately tavern, with unholy light,
Glaring athwart the shadows of the night;
The sickening scene of drunkenness and din,
Where song and music minister to sin;
The ribald language, and the shameless face,
The guilty passion, and the lewd embrace;
The crafty mendicant, the felon vile,
The ruffian's menace, and the harlot's wile;

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The artful gesture, the lascivious leer,
The lip of falsehood, and the specious tear;
The gambler broken upon Fortune's wheel,
The deep despair which pride can not conceal;
And, closing all, the dungeon's awful gloom,
Where ripe transgression finds an early doom.

Such is this moral wilderness; and so
Profuse and rank its thousand evils grow;
And though 'tis true that worthier plants are found,
Struggling for life in uncongenial ground,—
Their buds of promise wither as they spring,
Fanned by Adversity's malignant wing;
Or, far too few a just regard to share,
They waste their “sweetness on the desert air;”
While sordid ignorance and sorrowing ruth,
Usurp the place of happiness and truth.

Not to the town are vicious things confined,
But fly abroad, unfettered as the wind;
O'er human feelings sway with stern control,
And sit in shadow on the human soul.

Behold the wretch, besotted and beguiled,
Whose hours are wasted, and whose thoughts defiled,
Within those dens of drunkenness, that stand
Breathing a moral poison o'er the land:
Say, can ye view his lineaments, and trace
Aught of intelligence and manly grace?
Where is the soul's serene effulgence—where?
Worse than Cimmerian darkness broodeth there.
Pent in a narrow and a noisome room,
Where sound is discord, and where light is gloom—
He drinks, talks loudly, and with many a curse,
Rails at his lot, yet blindly makes it worse;
Of freedom and oppression learns to rave,
Himself at once the enslaver and the slave;—

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Slave to a thousand vices that destroy
His public honour, and his private joy;
Surround him with an atmosphere of strife,
And take all sweetness from his cup of life.
But hark! at once forgetful of his theme,
“A change comes o'er the spirit of his dream;”
Renewed potations put all cares to flight,
And mirth becomes the watchword of the night.
The ribald tale, loose jest, and song obscene,
Provoke the draught, and fill the pause between;
And as the cup of frenzy circles round,
The last remains of decency are drowned;
Through every vein the subtle demon flies,
Distorts the visage and inflames the eyes;
Brings out the hidden rancour of the breast,
In selfish thoughts malignantly expressed:
From every tongue a loud defiance falls,
Till general uproar echoes round the walls.

Seek ye the drunkard at his sober toil,
Tending the loom, or sweating o'er the soil,—
An unenlightened slave your glance shall greet,
Scarce wiser than the clod beneath his feet.
Then turn ye to his household; who can tell
The daily feuds of that domestic hell?
Where the harsh husband and the fretful wife
Live in a bitter element of strife;
Where sons, grown wild, no gentle force can tame,
Heirs to the father's vices and his shame;
Where daughters from the path of duty stray,
And cast the charm of modesty away:
Without one sweet remembrance of the past,
They wed themselves to misery at last.

Though sad the subject of my feeble strain,
'Tis no creation of the poet's brain;

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Though rude and dark the picture I have traced,
Its painful truth has yet to be effaced.
All are not equally in heart depraved,—
All are not equally in soul enslaved;
Yet, even those who curb some few desires,
And walk with prudence as the world requires,—
They cannot feel the pure delight that springs
From constant converse with all nobler things;
Bound to a beaten track, they cannot know
How many flowers along its margin grow;
They reap no joy from wit or wisdom's lore,
But toil, eat, drink, and sleep—and nothing more.

And must this ever be? must man's sad doom
Be still to walk in fetters and in gloom;—
An unimproving savage from his birth—
A mere machine of animated earth?
Must he still live in mind and limb a slave,
Groping his weary passage to the grave?
If so, then he was born to wear a chain,
And God endowed him with a soul in vain!

Ye wealthy magnates of my native land,
Stretch forth, in pity, an assisting hand;
Give back a portion of your ample store,
To purchase wholesome knowledge for the poor;
Knowledge to search the universe, and find
Exhaustless food and rapture for the mind;
Knowledge to nurse those feelings of the breast
Which yield them peace, and banish all the rest;
Knowledge to know the wrong and choose the right,
Increasing still in intellectual might,
Till falsehood, error, thraldom, crime, and ruth,
Melt in the splendour of immortal truth.

Priests of Religion, if to you be given
A delegated love and power from heaven,

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Forget the jar of interests and creeds,
And cherish virtue less in words than deeds.
Give us a proof of your high mission here,—
Be zealous, gentle, upright and sincere;
Use the pure doctrines of the Sacred Page,
To rouse and rectify the selfish age;
Speak to the millions with a father's voice,
Till every child of darkness shall rejoice;
Reject the formal prayer, the flowery speech,—
Your best and noblest province is to teach;
Nor need ye spend your energies for nought,
While one sad soul is willing to be taught.

Oh! glorious task! and be that task your own,
To wake new feelings in the heart of stone,
To free the mind from each unworthy thrall,
And bring the boon of liberty to all.

Go to the sons of Labour, and inspire
Their sluggish souls with intellectual fire:
Teach them to think, and, thinking, to explore
A glorious realm unknown to them before;
Give them the eyes of Knowledge, to behold
The wondrous things which Science can unfold;
Teach them to feel the beauty and the grace
Which breathe unceasingly from Nature's face;
The purity of Spring's delicious morn,
When pleasant sounds and mingled sweets are born;
The silent splendour of a Summer's noon,
When earth is sleeping in the lap of June:
The gorgeous hues of Autumn's evening hour,—
Corn in the fields, and fruitage in the bower;
The night of Winter, whose vast flag unfurled,
Is gemmed with stars, and every star a world:
From these the mind shall wing its way above,
To Him, the soul of harmony and love.

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Oh, teach them this,—and more than this, impart
A humanizing sympathy of heart;
That God-like feeling of the gentle breast,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest;
That charitable link, which ought to bind
The highest and the humblest of mankind!

Would they be free,—Oh, teach them to despise
The heart of hatred, and the lip of lies,
Of those who seek to lead them from the way
Of peace and truth, to dazzle and betray;
Tell them that freedom never yet was won
By the rash deeds that Anarchy hath done;
Tell them that mental, and that moral power,
Which grows and strengthens with each passing hour,
Shall break the tyrant's rod, the bondsman's chain,
Without the bleeding of one human vein.

Would they be blest,—Oh, teach them to become
The source of blessings in their tranquil home;
To break the stubborn spirit of the child,
With firm example and with precept mild;
To pour into the ear of growing youth,
All the pure things of knowledge and of truth;
To help the gentle and enduring wife,
To banish care, and poverty, and strife;
In every word, in every deed, to blend
The sage, the sire, the husband, and the friend.

Ye sacred Preachers, who profess to show
The shortest path to happiness below,—
Ye sons of Science, who have brought to birth
Ten thousand hidden wonders of the earth,—
Ye mighty Poets, who have sung so well
The beauties of the world wherein ye dwell,—
Ye true Philanthropists, who yearn to chase
The sins and sorrows of the human race,—

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Your love, your power, your intellect unite,
And bring mankind from darkness into light!

They come, a feeling and a faithful band,
To teach the lowly of my native land;
Knowledge is waving her exulting wings,
And truth is bursting from a thousand springs;
A few brief years, this present hour shall seem
The dim remembrance of a painful dream.

Blest be your efforts, ye enlightened few,
Followers of knowledge, and of virtue too;
Ye who are toiling with a generous zeal,
Your end and hope, the poor man's mental weal:
Blest be your liberal, well-directed plan,
To cheer, instruct, and elevate the man,—
Yield him a solace to subdue his cares,
And make him worthy of the form he wears!