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AN EXPOSTULATORY EPISTLE TO LORD BYRON.
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WHAT days are these! in which the rabble rout,
At once, from Stygian realms, come pouring out,
Truth to subvert, and burst the social chain,
That chaos, and old night, once more might reign!
At once, from Stygian realms, come pouring out,
Truth to subvert, and burst the social chain,
That chaos, and old night, once more might reign!
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Amid ephemeral swarms of graceless things,
Now scoffing at the Highest, now at kings,
Who, wisdom, in her sanctity, despise,
Leagued close to do what evil in them lies,
(Seeking to undermine, assault, o'erthrow,
Whate'er of excellence is found below,—
The goodly Fane our virtuous fathers rear'd;
The Book they honour'd, and the God they fear'd,)
Some foremost stand, though not unknown to fame!
To wage th' assault on decency and shame!
Their keenest arrow urged, their stoutest spear
At each who dares the fainting Virtues cheer;
Their sworn and deadliest foes, whoe'er may strive
To keep the vestal spark of Faith alive.
Now scoffing at the Highest, now at kings,
Who, wisdom, in her sanctity, despise,
Leagued close to do what evil in them lies,
(Seeking to undermine, assault, o'erthrow,
Whate'er of excellence is found below,—
The goodly Fane our virtuous fathers rear'd;
The Book they honour'd, and the God they fear'd,)
Some foremost stand, though not unknown to fame!
To wage th' assault on decency and shame!
Their keenest arrow urged, their stoutest spear
At each who dares the fainting Virtues cheer;
Their sworn and deadliest foes, whoe'er may strive
To keep the vestal spark of Faith alive.
Towering above the abjects, who surpass,
In size, and feature, all earth's morbid mass,
(Those who confound, in numbers, right and wrong,
And desecrate the sacred gift of song,)
Is there one man, of harsh plebeian mind,
On all his race, who wars with fury blind?
Of such perverted principles, and ways,
Whose praise is censure, and whose censure, praise;
With human sympathies, who scorns to dwell,
Proud as was he, who chose to rule in hell;
Disdaining, born to move in regions higher,
Whate'er the great, the good, the pure, admire;
The gaunt, and fearful aspect of whose soul
Bursts thro' his Tales, like peals, that round us roll?
One such there is, from Erebus, and Night,
Whom nobles blush to own, a waspish wight!
With spleen and gall, from infancy, who grew,
With henbane nurtured, not hymettian dew:
Who, though preferring deeds of darker dye,
Oft sports, in monstrous pastimes, none knows why;
Who, urged by instinct, follies to pursue,
“Exhausts” the old, “and then imagines new.”
O, Helicon, thy recreant son bewail!
O, deed, at which barbarians might turn pale!
He, spurn'd of Nature, callous more than dull
Can quaff libations from his Father's Skull!
In size, and feature, all earth's morbid mass,
(Those who confound, in numbers, right and wrong,
And desecrate the sacred gift of song,)
Is there one man, of harsh plebeian mind,
On all his race, who wars with fury blind?
Of such perverted principles, and ways,
Whose praise is censure, and whose censure, praise;
With human sympathies, who scorns to dwell,
Proud as was he, who chose to rule in hell;
Disdaining, born to move in regions higher,
Whate'er the great, the good, the pure, admire;
The gaunt, and fearful aspect of whose soul
Bursts thro' his Tales, like peals, that round us roll?
One such there is, from Erebus, and Night,
Whom nobles blush to own, a waspish wight!
With spleen and gall, from infancy, who grew,
With henbane nurtured, not hymettian dew:
Who, though preferring deeds of darker dye,
Oft sports, in monstrous pastimes, none knows why;
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“Exhausts” the old, “and then imagines new.”
O, Helicon, thy recreant son bewail!
O, deed, at which barbarians might turn pale!
He, spurn'd of Nature, callous more than dull
Can quaff libations from his Father's Skull!
Would, that to outrage decency and sense,
Shame to deride, and mock at penitence,
Were all the heart deplored in his career!
Yet, deeper shades, in long array, appear.
Impetuous, some in paths of madness run,
Each crime bewail'd the moment it is done,
But he, with spirit cold, and hard as steel,
In fostering ill, compunction cannot feel.
Through Tomes up-piled, with poison deep imbued!
(Advancing to terrific magnitude!)
He seeks all hallow'd precincts to invade,
Vice to exalt, and virtue to degrade,
And, whilst a thousand sighs to Heaven are sent,
Serenely sits in Moral Banishment!
Shame to deride, and mock at penitence,
Were all the heart deplored in his career!
Yet, deeper shades, in long array, appear.
Impetuous, some in paths of madness run,
Each crime bewail'd the moment it is done,
But he, with spirit cold, and hard as steel,
In fostering ill, compunction cannot feel.
Through Tomes up-piled, with poison deep imbued!
(Advancing to terrific magnitude!)
He seeks all hallow'd precincts to invade,
Vice to exalt, and virtue to degrade,
And, whilst a thousand sighs to Heaven are sent,
Serenely sits in Moral Banishment!
Is there a man, how fallen! still to fall!
Who bears a dark precedency o'er all:—
Rejected by the land which gave him birth,
And wandering now an outcast through the earth;
A son, dismember'd, and to aliens thrown,
Corrupting other climes, but, first, his own?
One such there is! whom sires unborn will curse,
Hasting, with giant stride, from bad to worse;
Seeking, untired, to gain the sensual's smile,
A pander for the profligate and vile!
His head, rich fraught (like some Bazaar's sly stall,)
With “lecherous lays” that “come” at every call!
Who still at sacred things can gibe and jeer,
Loud-laughing at the nursery bug-bear, fear,
And, of the Scriptures, just enough retain
To quote them with flagitious heart profane!
Who bears a dark precedency o'er all:—
Rejected by the land which gave him birth,
And wandering now an outcast through the earth;
A son, dismember'd, and to aliens thrown,
Corrupting other climes, but, first, his own?
One such there is! whom sires unborn will curse,
Hasting, with giant stride, from bad to worse;
Seeking, untired, to gain the sensual's smile,
A pander for the profligate and vile!
His head, rich fraught (like some Bazaar's sly stall,)
With “lecherous lays” that “come” at every call!
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Loud-laughing at the nursery bug-bear, fear,
And, of the Scriptures, just enough retain
To quote them with flagitious heart profane!
Mangling, like some voracious tiger blind,
Whome'er he deems the humbler of his kind,
He next, for havoc, furious springs on high,
He must, like slander, stigmatize, or die!
Now, wrathful, he assails each letter'd Peer,
(The oak, to charm, must have no rival near!)
Insulting next — his Prince (by gnats unhurt)
With all a butcher's coarseness, “blood” and “dirt”!
(The kindred champion, hail'd, with savage smiles,
By all the bullying H---, and base C---!)
Then paints himself, with features that appal!
The least traduced, and most deform'd of all!
Whome'er he deems the humbler of his kind,
He next, for havoc, furious springs on high,
He must, like slander, stigmatize, or die!
Now, wrathful, he assails each letter'd Peer,
(The oak, to charm, must have no rival near!)
Insulting next — his Prince (by gnats unhurt)
With all a butcher's coarseness, “blood” and “dirt”!
(The kindred champion, hail'd, with savage smiles,
By all the bullying H---, and base C---!)
Then paints himself, with features that appal!
The least traduced, and most deform'd of all!
There is a man, usurping lordly sway,
Aiming, alone, to hold a world at bay,
Who, mean as daring, arrogant as vain,
Like chaff, regards opinion with disdain;
As if the privilege with him were found,
The laws to spurn by which mankind are bound!
As if the arm which drags a despot down,
Must palsied fall before a Byron's frown!—
That spectre fading fast, that tarnish'd gem,
Which those who most admire, the most condemn!
Aiming, alone, to hold a world at bay,
Who, mean as daring, arrogant as vain,
Like chaff, regards opinion with disdain;
As if the privilege with him were found,
The laws to spurn by which mankind are bound!
As if the arm which drags a despot down,
Must palsied fall before a Byron's frown!—
That spectre fading fast, that tarnish'd gem,
Which those who most admire, the most condemn!
Spirit of Milton! and ye bards of old!
Great minds! who tinsel ne'er bequeath'd for gold!
What are his titles, his credentials strong,
Like you, to awe, when years have roll'd along?
With much, for which e'en scribblers will not plead,
Frothy, and vulgar, worthless as the weed,
Hath he the stately theme, the chaste design,
The thought that “breathes” and “burns” in classic line?
Is his the fabric rear'd for every age;
The intellectual being's heritage?
Though many a bellowing trumpet swells his fame,
Some sceptics will this “Liberal Don” proclaim,—
Meteor, at first, mistaken for a star,
A marsh-bred Ignis in inflated car!
The flimsy idol of a flimsy day,
Like monarch Thespis, hurrying fast away;
Predicting, spite of bays and parsley crown,
That, what so soon goes up, will soon go down!
Huns! Vandals! dead to the mellifluous line!
Treason against Parnassus and the Nine!
Of his substantial claims the doubt to raise,
When profligates pour forth such floods of praise!
More heterodox than rancorous Jew or Turk,
Let them peruse his Everlasting Work!
And, when the twelfth huge quarto! meets their eyes,
Their folly own, and, with the mob, be wise.
Great minds! who tinsel ne'er bequeath'd for gold!
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Like you, to awe, when years have roll'd along?
With much, for which e'en scribblers will not plead,
Frothy, and vulgar, worthless as the weed,
Hath he the stately theme, the chaste design,
The thought that “breathes” and “burns” in classic line?
Is his the fabric rear'd for every age;
The intellectual being's heritage?
Though many a bellowing trumpet swells his fame,
Some sceptics will this “Liberal Don” proclaim,—
Meteor, at first, mistaken for a star,
A marsh-bred Ignis in inflated car!
The flimsy idol of a flimsy day,
Like monarch Thespis, hurrying fast away;
Predicting, spite of bays and parsley crown,
That, what so soon goes up, will soon go down!
Huns! Vandals! dead to the mellifluous line!
Treason against Parnassus and the Nine!
Of his substantial claims the doubt to raise,
When profligates pour forth such floods of praise!
More heterodox than rancorous Jew or Turk,
Let them peruse his Everlasting Work!
And, when the twelfth huge quarto! meets their eyes,
Their folly own, and, with the mob, be wise.
But now the muse on graver theme must dwell,
Or scorn'd, or not, before the word “farewell,”
Although the meeting want the courtier's grace,
We must draw near, in converse, face to face,
Or scorn'd, or not, before the word “farewell,”
Although the meeting want the courtier's grace,
We must draw near, in converse, face to face,
Receive from him the passing apothegm,
Who would rejoice to honour, not condemn.—
How poor is he, illumined, and yet dark,
Who trusts his genius to a crazy bark;
No star to guide, no pharos, helm, or chart,
Who owns a head, but cannot boast a heart.
Learn! and this trace let memory long retain;
The grand, the choicest inmate of thy brain!—
Worthless is song, alike in peer or clown,
(Doom'd not to wear Time's amaranthine crown)
If, on the strain, insulted Virtue frown.
Who would rejoice to honour, not condemn.—
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Who trusts his genius to a crazy bark;
No star to guide, no pharos, helm, or chart,
Who owns a head, but cannot boast a heart.
Learn! and this trace let memory long retain;
The grand, the choicest inmate of thy brain!—
Worthless is song, alike in peer or clown,
(Doom'd not to wear Time's amaranthine crown)
If, on the strain, insulted Virtue frown.
Is there no moment, when, the storm at rest,
Reflection steals, like twilight, o'er thy breast?
No hour, relieved from revelry's loud din,
When chill misgivings shake thy towers within?
Is Retrospect no stern intruder rude?
No foe, with pointed dagger, Solitude?
Canst thou on night, in pomp of glory, gaze,
Her depths unknown, her congregated blaze,
Her starry voyagers, of high degree,
Sailing through oceans of infinity,
While silence holds her universal sway,
And earth, and man, like atoms, pass away?
Caust thou o'er scenes, like these, thy glance extend,
And hear no voice, which spirits comprehend,
Telling, in soft celestial cadence clear,
Of worlds beyond this low sublunar sphere?
With destinies before thee, so sublime!
Why pinion down thy soul to sense, and time?
Must never one, of all thy readers, rise,
Fresh from thy page, more purified? more wise?
No future mind, kindling with virtue's fire,
Look back on Harold's Bard, and bless his lyre?
Reflection steals, like twilight, o'er thy breast?
No hour, relieved from revelry's loud din,
When chill misgivings shake thy towers within?
Is Retrospect no stern intruder rude?
No foe, with pointed dagger, Solitude?
Canst thou on night, in pomp of glory, gaze,
Her depths unknown, her congregated blaze,
Her starry voyagers, of high degree,
Sailing through oceans of infinity,
While silence holds her universal sway,
And earth, and man, like atoms, pass away?
Caust thou o'er scenes, like these, thy glance extend,
And hear no voice, which spirits comprehend,
Telling, in soft celestial cadence clear,
Of worlds beyond this low sublunar sphere?
With destinies before thee, so sublime!
Why pinion down thy soul to sense, and time?
Must never one, of all thy readers, rise,
Fresh from thy page, more purified? more wise?
No future mind, kindling with virtue's fire,
Look back on Harold's Bard, and bless his lyre?
From thy compeers in genius wisely learn:—
From which of Southey's lines must virtue turn?
(Who, bold, with Hell's vicegerents war to wage,
Brands the “Satanic School” to every age;
His visitings, Herculean, chief descending,
Upon the “Head and front of the offending”)
Which verse shall Wordsworth ever blush to own?
Or Coleridge? spirit still of height unknown!
What tongue of Scotland's Regal Bard shall say,
Poison, with pleasure, mingles in his lay?
When shall Montgomery baneful lines bewail?
Or Crabbe? who haunts us, like the nursery tale;—
Bowles? Rogers? Barton? rich in native store;
Or Campbell? (“Little?” whelm'd in night,) or Moore?
From which of Southey's lines must virtue turn?
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Brands the “Satanic School” to every age;
His visitings, Herculean, chief descending,
Upon the “Head and front of the offending”)
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Or Coleridge? spirit still of height unknown!
What tongue of Scotland's Regal Bard shall say,
Poison, with pleasure, mingles in his lay?
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Or Crabbe? who haunts us, like the nursery tale;—
Bowles? Rogers? Barton? rich in native store;
Or Campbell? (“Little?” whelm'd in night,) or Moore?
Were powers, to stir the passions, such as thine,
A wit so subtile, fancies so divine,
Entrusted to corrupt, and turn aside
Whoe'er may take thy fatuus for a guide?
Nor to one age confined, but (wave on wave!)
Prolong'd, when thou art moulder'd in thy grave!
As soon the marble crust thy head must hold,—
Eternity! so soon, her gates unfold!
Canst thou reflect, and stamp with firmer tread,
Upon that changeless state, so near! so dread!
Nor feel one rising wish, with those to dwell,
Who stemm'd the tide of ill, and practised well?
Names sent embalmed to every age and shore,
Like Howard, Thornton, Wilberforce, and More?
Prospect, diffusing sun-shine through the breast,—
To reign with spirits perfected, and blest!
A wit so subtile, fancies so divine,
Entrusted to corrupt, and turn aside
Whoe'er may take thy fatuus for a guide?
Nor to one age confined, but (wave on wave!)
Prolong'd, when thou art moulder'd in thy grave!
As soon the marble crust thy head must hold,—
Eternity! so soon, her gates unfold!
Canst thou reflect, and stamp with firmer tread,
Upon that changeless state, so near! so dread!
Nor feel one rising wish, with those to dwell,
Who stemm'd the tide of ill, and practised well?
Names sent embalmed to every age and shore,
Like Howard, Thornton, Wilberforce, and More?
Prospect, diffusing sun-shine through the breast,—
To reign with spirits perfected, and blest!
Ah! thought of dread! thine is a shoreless sea!
Such vernal zephyrs never light on thee!
Climbing to heights the Gallic Fiend ne'er trod,
Thou lift'st thy front against the Throne of God!
Heading the Atheist crew! and, dost obtrude
Thy scoff of all that — moves the multitude!
Of hope, descrying better worlds afar!—
Of faith, still fixed upon her “morning star!”
Best Antidote! “which he who runs may read,”
Thy life, the lucid comment on thy creed;
Thy refuge, the drear trust, some, comfort call!
That endless sleep, ere long, will cover all!
Such vernal zephyrs never light on thee!
Climbing to heights the Gallic Fiend ne'er trod,
Thou lift'st thy front against the Throne of God!
Heading the Atheist crew! and, dost obtrude
Thy scoff of all that — moves the multitude!
Of hope, descrying better worlds afar!—
Of faith, still fixed upon her “morning star!”
Best Antidote! “which he who runs may read,”
Thy life, the lucid comment on thy creed;
Thy refuge, the drear trust, some, comfort call!
That endless sleep, ere long, will cover all!
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Dost thou aspire, like a Satanic mind,
With vice, to waste and desolate mankind!—
Toward every rude, and dark, and dismal deed,
To see them hurrying on with swifter speed?
To make them, from restraint and conscience free,
Stretch, fiend-like, at new heights of infamy?
With vice, to waste and desolate mankind!—
Toward every rude, and dark, and dismal deed,
To see them hurrying on with swifter speed?
To make them, from restraint and conscience free,
Stretch, fiend-like, at new heights of infamy?
Sunk, but not lost, from dreams of death arise!
No longer tempt the patience of the skies!
Confess, with tears of blood, to frowning Heaven,
The foul perversion of His talents given!
Retrace thy footsteps! Ere the wish be vain,
Bring back the erring thousands in thy train!
Let none, at death, despairing, charge on thee
Their blasted peace, in shuddering agony!
Their prop, their heart's last solace, rent away,
That one long night might quench their “perfect day!”
No longer tempt the patience of the skies!
Confess, with tears of blood, to frowning Heaven,
The foul perversion of His talents given!
Retrace thy footsteps! Ere the wish be vain,
Bring back the erring thousands in thy train!
Let none, at death, despairing, charge on thee
Their blasted peace, in shuddering agony!
Their prop, their heart's last solace, rent away,
That one long night might quench their “perfect day!”
Lest Shelley's fate be thine, or one more dread,
(Thy home associate, in one cradle bred!)
That Being who could raise his ghastly eye;
Encompass'd by the blaze of Deity,
And utter, whilst his blood serenely flows,—
“There is no God!”— whose terrors now he knows!
Lest in his wrath thy Maker's lifted hand
Brand thee, a spectacle to every land;
Or the portentous moment thou deplore,
When vengeance wakes, and mercy pleads no more;
Redeem the future! Cleanse the Augean sty!
Learn better how to live! and how to die!
(Thy home associate, in one cradle bred!)
That Being who could raise his ghastly eye;
Encompass'd by the blaze of Deity,
And utter, whilst his blood serenely flows,—
“There is no God!”— whose terrors now he knows!
Lest in his wrath thy Maker's lifted hand
Brand thee, a spectacle to every land;
Or the portentous moment thou deplore,
When vengeance wakes, and mercy pleads no more;
Redeem the future! Cleanse the Augean sty!
Learn better how to live! and how to die!
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