The mind its powers, beauties, and pleasures. With songs and ballads. By Charles Swain. Fifth edition |
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1
THE MIND: ITS POWERS, BEAUTIES, AND PLEASURES.
1. PART FIRST.
2
ANALYSIS.—PART I.
The Mind:—Its divine and imperishable nature—creative faculties— dominion over all animate and inanimate objects. Eloquence:—Its power over the passions—Cicero and Demosthenes—Chatham and Sheridan.
Painting:—Emotions of the mind produced by the beautiful, sublime, or melancholy character of scenery. Masters of the imitative Arts—Angelo, Raphael, Correggio. Influence of the productions of Art upon the imagination. Remembrances connected with the Portraits of deceased relatives and friends.
Poesy:—The beauty and elevation of its impressions upon the heart. Invocation to Shakspere, Milton, Byron, Hemans, and Landon.— Whatever is beautiful in creation must perish ere the feeling of Poesy shall become extinct.
Episode:—Fatal consequences of Dissipation upon the Mind.
3
As in the presence of the Sun—grown blind
In contemplation of this Light supreme,
This mystery and this majesty of Mind—
The glory and the vastness of its beam—
I bend!—Yet trust that He who can redeem
Mine eyes from darkness, and my heart make strong,
Will sanctify my spirit to the theme!—
Will lend an inspiration to my tongue,
That it may language win immortal as my Song.
In contemplation of this Light supreme,
This mystery and this majesty of Mind—
The glory and the vastness of its beam—
I bend!—Yet trust that He who can redeem
Mine eyes from darkness, and my heart make strong,
Will sanctify my spirit to the theme!—
Will lend an inspiration to my tongue,
That it may language win immortal as my Song.
4
To breathe of beauty and eternal youth,
To sing the Mind's perceptions and its power,
Its grandeur, grace, divinity and truth;
The triumphs of its genius—which o'ertower
The stars in glory!—and record each hour
Improvement celebrates in every clime!—
Lending a foretaste of that heavenly dower,
When this immortal visitant of Time
Shall speak with angel-minds in angel-worlds sublime.
To sing the Mind's perceptions and its power,
Its grandeur, grace, divinity and truth;
The triumphs of its genius—which o'ertower
The stars in glory!—and record each hour
Improvement celebrates in every clime!—
Lending a foretaste of that heavenly dower,
When this immortal visitant of Time
Shall speak with angel-minds in angel-worlds sublime.
We seek not with the scholiast to dissect
This subtle frame of matter;—how 't was wrought:
Can finite sight infinity inspect?—
This organ of intelligence, and thought,
We know with sympathies supernal fraught;
But how to trace, or how their source define,
Vainly, as yet, Philosophy hath sought:
God, in his own creations, sets the line,
Nor sun, nor star, nor Mind, beyond that bound may shine.
This subtle frame of matter;—how 't was wrought:
Can finite sight infinity inspect?—
This organ of intelligence, and thought,
We know with sympathies supernal fraught;
But how to trace, or how their source define,
Vainly, as yet, Philosophy hath sought:
God, in his own creations, sets the line,
Nor sun, nor star, nor Mind, beyond that bound may shine.
5
But, oh! the world of wonder and delight
Our God hath portioned us!—how much for prayer—
For praise—for gratitude—should we unite?—
To taste this fount of loveliness,—this air
Of life to breathe,—this golden earth to share!—
The Poet's heart may find abundant store,
It needs no metaphysic wing to bear
The Mind in search of a remoter shore,
Here Nature's living fruit shows Heaven at its core!
Our God hath portioned us!—how much for prayer—
For praise—for gratitude—should we unite?—
To taste this fount of loveliness,—this air
Of life to breathe,—this golden earth to share!—
The Poet's heart may find abundant store,
It needs no metaphysic wing to bear
The Mind in search of a remoter shore,
Here Nature's living fruit shows Heaven at its core!
Love Poetry—for she is Heaven's growth!
Wisdom's sublimer spirit,—made alone
For man, and man for her;—Nature for both:—
Affection makes her glowing heart its throne,—
Beauty meets music on her lips—her tone
Gives life to thought when all save thought's expired!
Love Poetry, and make her charms thine own;
She loves thee;—never spirit more desired
To bless and grace mankind than she—the God-inspired.
Wisdom's sublimer spirit,—made alone
For man, and man for her;—Nature for both:—
Affection makes her glowing heart its throne,—
Beauty meets music on her lips—her tone
Gives life to thought when all save thought's expired!
Love Poetry, and make her charms thine own;
She loves thee;—never spirit more desired
To bless and grace mankind than she—the God-inspired.
6
Neglect her not—but cultivate her joy!—
And she will lead thee to each classic shrine;
Show thee her Works, which Time could ne'er destroy:—
Paintings—where taste and genius combine,
And Colours speak with eloquence divine;
Lead thee where o'er her kingdom of the dead,
Sculpture sits throned:—oh, make her treasures thine!
Love Poetry!—she comes with angel-tread,
With heart for all mankind! Blessings for every head!—
And she will lead thee to each classic shrine;
Show thee her Works, which Time could ne'er destroy:—
Paintings—where taste and genius combine,
And Colours speak with eloquence divine;
Lead thee where o'er her kingdom of the dead,
Sculpture sits throned:—oh, make her treasures thine!
Love Poetry!—she comes with angel-tread,
With heart for all mankind! Blessings for every head!—
Devotion reigns wherever she has trod;
For she is Virtue's and Religion's friend!
Unto the footstool of a listening God
Upon her wings the Sabbath Hymns ascend!—
Her steps to all sublimer regions tend,
Man's dark and still repining doubts to quell;
She 'gainst Oppression's front her bow did bend;
She struck for Freedom in the shaft of Tell,—
And Brutus heard her voice when the last Tarquin fell!—
For she is Virtue's and Religion's friend!
Unto the footstool of a listening God
Upon her wings the Sabbath Hymns ascend!—
Her steps to all sublimer regions tend,
Man's dark and still repining doubts to quell;
She 'gainst Oppression's front her bow did bend;
She struck for Freedom in the shaft of Tell,—
And Brutus heard her voice when the last Tarquin fell!—
7
Ray of the living God!—Ethereal Mind!—
Immortal image of the Deity!—
Spirit! by whatsoever name defined,
My young adoring lyre would sing of thee!—
For thou art of the Great Sublimity
A portion and a sign;—the mighty seal
Of an Almighty writer:—hence, to be
A glory round the throne where Angels kneel,
Or festering in the woes which tongue may not reveal!
Immortal image of the Deity!—
Spirit! by whatsoever name defined,
My young adoring lyre would sing of thee!—
For thou art of the Great Sublimity
A portion and a sign;—the mighty seal
Of an Almighty writer:—hence, to be
A glory round the throne where Angels kneel,
Or festering in the woes which tongue may not reveal!
Thou hast dominion over space and time!
The treasures of all nations are thine own;
Whate'er of vast—or noble—or sublime
Lies stretch'd within the shadow of each zone,
Is thine—imperishably thine—alone!
The destiny of worlds affects thee not;—
Age may consume the monarch and his throne—
Oblivion whelm the palace and the cot—
But thou wilt still survive when these are all forgot.
The treasures of all nations are thine own;
Whate'er of vast—or noble—or sublime
Lies stretch'd within the shadow of each zone,
Is thine—imperishably thine—alone!
The destiny of worlds affects thee not;—
Age may consume the monarch and his throne—
Oblivion whelm the palace and the cot—
But thou wilt still survive when these are all forgot.
8
Thou art the strength of Freedom—and the light
That animates the Patriot to declaim
Against the vendors of his country's right,
And stamp their deeds with everlasting shame!
Upon thy pinions soars the bard to fame,
And emulates the grandeur of the sky!—
His sole ambition to deserve a name
Within his Island's records, pure and high;
To win one fadeless wreath—then bless his lyre—and die!
That animates the Patriot to declaim
Against the vendors of his country's right,
And stamp their deeds with everlasting shame!
Upon thy pinions soars the bard to fame,
And emulates the grandeur of the sky!—
His sole ambition to deserve a name
Within his Island's records, pure and high;
To win one fadeless wreath—then bless his lyre—and die!
Were there no stone in Rome, left to record
The splendour and the grace of Cicero's name,
Language must perish, wither every word,
Ere fate could all annihilate his fame:
And Athens, thou hast an immortal claim,
A spell to wake the reverence of song;—
Where Philip, baffled,—foiled in every aim,—
Fell 'neath Demosthenes,—whose gifted tongue
Lent vigour to the weak, and valour to the strong!—
The splendour and the grace of Cicero's name,
Language must perish, wither every word,
Ere fate could all annihilate his fame:
And Athens, thou hast an immortal claim,
A spell to wake the reverence of song;—
Where Philip, baffled,—foiled in every aim,—
Fell 'neath Demosthenes,—whose gifted tongue
Lent vigour to the weak, and valour to the strong!—
9
And shall the mind of Sheridan expire?—
Must Chatham's voice be soundless as the grave?—
Is there no atom of a quenchless fire—
Is there no charm in memory to save
The eloquence of genius from the wave
Of dull oblivion—echoless decay?—
Oh, whilst one pulse remains that nature gave,
Whilst feeling beats within a breast of clay—
Not thus shall virtue fall, and genius pass away.
Must Chatham's voice be soundless as the grave?—
Is there no atom of a quenchless fire—
Is there no charm in memory to save
The eloquence of genius from the wave
Of dull oblivion—echoless decay?—
Oh, whilst one pulse remains that nature gave,
Whilst feeling beats within a breast of clay—
Not thus shall virtue fall, and genius pass away.
Oh my own land! my beautiful free land!—
Soil of the gifted—mother of the brave—
I love the very shells that gem thy strand—
I gaze with pride upon thy bounding wave:
Though o'er my head the thunder storm may rave,
Thus do I greet the elemental ire—
Rage on, and strike!—if thou canst find a slave,
A heart that doth not glow with freedom's fire—
Strike!—These are Albion's shores—we bend but to thy sire!
Soil of the gifted—mother of the brave—
I love the very shells that gem thy strand—
I gaze with pride upon thy bounding wave:
Though o'er my head the thunder storm may rave,
Thus do I greet the elemental ire—
Rage on, and strike!—if thou canst find a slave,
A heart that doth not glow with freedom's fire—
Strike!—These are Albion's shores—we bend but to thy sire!
10
The dust we tread is portion of the bold—
The heroic ashes of the charnell'd dead,
Whose arms were mighty in the days of old:
Chivalrous days!—Brave hearts!—for ever fled;—
For this—for this their gallant bosoms bled;
No selfish honour—but a nation's gain!—
That free might be our shrines—the homes we tread—
Free,—free the mountain and the vernal plain—
And shiver'd every link of Wrong's oppressive chain.
The heroic ashes of the charnell'd dead,
Whose arms were mighty in the days of old:
Chivalrous days!—Brave hearts!—for ever fled;—
For this—for this their gallant bosoms bled;
No selfish honour—but a nation's gain!—
That free might be our shrines—the homes we tread—
Free,—free the mountain and the vernal plain—
And shiver'd every link of Wrong's oppressive chain.
Thine are, oh Mind!—the colours which delight
The artist in his visionary mood!—
Thou art the inspiration and the might—
The deep enchantment of his solitude!
What time nor breath, nor sounds of life intrude—
Where Alps on Alps eternally seem piled—
Then is thy best—thy holiest impulse wooed!
Amid the grand, the wonderful, the wild,
For ever have thy loftiest revelations smiled.
The artist in his visionary mood!—
Thou art the inspiration and the might—
The deep enchantment of his solitude!
What time nor breath, nor sounds of life intrude—
Where Alps on Alps eternally seem piled—
Then is thy best—thy holiest impulse wooed!
Amid the grand, the wonderful, the wild,
For ever have thy loftiest revelations smiled.
11
The mighty and immortal energies
That crown'd the genius of young Angelo,
And steep'd his spirit in the richest dyes
That nature's wealthiest fountains could bestow;
The tastes, the passions, sentiments, which show
The eloquence of colours—and those fine
Mysterious sympathies that thrill and glow,
Like stars which burn and tremble as they shine,—
Gifting the painter's sight with glories all divine.
That crown'd the genius of young Angelo,
And steep'd his spirit in the richest dyes
That nature's wealthiest fountains could bestow;
The tastes, the passions, sentiments, which show
The eloquence of colours—and those fine
Mysterious sympathies that thrill and glow,
Like stars which burn and tremble as they shine,—
Gifting the painter's sight with glories all divine.
Who may behold the works of Raphael's hand
And feel no mountings of the soul within;
Find not his sphere of intellect expand,
And the creations of the pencil win
His thoughts towards heaven,—to which they are akin!
Ennobling his whole being,—touching chords
Of holiest sweetness,—purifying sin—
Raising a deathless moral that records
The majesty of truth, in tints surpassing words!—
And feel no mountings of the soul within;
Find not his sphere of intellect expand,
And the creations of the pencil win
His thoughts towards heaven,—to which they are akin!
Ennobling his whole being,—touching chords
Of holiest sweetness,—purifying sin—
Raising a deathless moral that records
The majesty of truth, in tints surpassing words!—
12
Hues which are immortalities!—for age,
That moulders the high hand which gave them birth,
Consigns to dust the painter, poet, sage,
Increases but their glory and their worth:—
They are the gifts which dignify the earth!—
Exalt humanity, refine, inspire;
And lend a charm to grief—a grace to mirth!—
That wake the finest echoes of the lyre—
And stir the kindling heart with Hope's Promethean fire.
That moulders the high hand which gave them birth,
Consigns to dust the painter, poet, sage,
Increases but their glory and their worth:—
They are the gifts which dignify the earth!—
Exalt humanity, refine, inspire;
And lend a charm to grief—a grace to mirth!—
That wake the finest echoes of the lyre—
And stir the kindling heart with Hope's Promethean fire.
What though pale penury may haunt the spot
That genius hallows with its earliest flame,
Correggio lives while princes are forgot—
The canvas speaks when kingdoms lose their name.
Where lie the great whose gold was all their fame?—
May costly cenotaph—can sculptur'd tomb—
Save titled ashes from oblivion's claim?—
Yet there be names that years may not consume,
Nor misery corrode—nor death despoil their bloom.
That genius hallows with its earliest flame,
Correggio lives while princes are forgot—
The canvas speaks when kingdoms lose their name.
Where lie the great whose gold was all their fame?—
May costly cenotaph—can sculptur'd tomb—
Save titled ashes from oblivion's claim?—
Yet there be names that years may not consume,
Nor misery corrode—nor death despoil their bloom.
13
West,
Reynolds, Wilson, Lawrence—these are names,
My country!—dear—ay, doubly dear, to thee;
Gems of thine own heart's mine, whose lustre shames
The earlier record of thine history;
High denizens of immortality,—
Enduring pillars of their native shore,—
Whose memories are a people's legacy!—
A rich bequeathment, and beloved the more,
For they were good as great, brave spirits born to soar.
My country!—dear—ay, doubly dear, to thee;
Gems of thine own heart's mine, whose lustre shames
The earlier record of thine history;
High denizens of immortality,—
Enduring pillars of their native shore,—
Whose memories are a people's legacy!—
A rich bequeathment, and beloved the more,
For they were good as great, brave spirits born to soar.
'T is not alone the poesy of form—
The melody of aspect—the fine hue
Of lips half blushing, odorous and warm,
Of eyes like heaven's own paradise of blue;
Nor all the graces that encharm the view
And render beauty still more beautiful;
But the resemblances that can renew
Past youth, past hopes, past loves, no shade may dull;
Affections, years may dim—but never quite annul!—
The melody of aspect—the fine hue
Of lips half blushing, odorous and warm,
Of eyes like heaven's own paradise of blue;
Nor all the graces that encharm the view
And render beauty still more beautiful;
But the resemblances that can renew
Past youth, past hopes, past loves, no shade may dull;
Affections, years may dim—but never quite annul!—
14
Wresting from death and darkness, undecayed,
The kindred lineaments we honoured here;
The breast on which our infant brow had laid,
The lips that kiss'd away our first brief tear—
The all we lost, ere yet the funeral bier
Convey'd to our young souls how great a blow
Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear;—
Oh, heart!—too early wert thou doom'd to know
The grave that held thy sire, held all thy hopes below!
The kindred lineaments we honoured here;
The breast on which our infant brow had laid,
The lips that kiss'd away our first brief tear—
The all we lost, ere yet the funeral bier
Convey'd to our young souls how great a blow
Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear;—
Oh, heart!—too early wert thou doom'd to know
The grave that held thy sire, held all thy hopes below!
Then, ah!—for ever sacred be the Art
Which gave me all the grave had left of mine!
I gaze upon this portrait till my heart
Remembers every touch and every line;
And almost do I deem the gift divine,
Direct from heaven, and not from human skill:—
Instinct with love, those noble features shine—
The eyes some new expression seems to fill—
And half I know thee dead—half hope thee living still!
Which gave me all the grave had left of mine!
I gaze upon this portrait till my heart
Remembers every touch and every line;
And almost do I deem the gift divine,
Direct from heaven, and not from human skill:—
Instinct with love, those noble features shine—
The eyes some new expression seems to fill—
And half I know thee dead—half hope thee living still!
15
Through all the orphan loneliness of years
The lyre breath'd first to glad my silent way;
Dispell'd the gathering night of doubts and fears,
And, like Aurora, wreath'd the wings of day!—
No longer drooped my heart to gloom a prey:
That charm smiled o'er me, even in my dreams—
The source and spirit of all harmony—
Touching the future with romantic beams,
And pouring freshness forth as from exhaustless streams.
The lyre breath'd first to glad my silent way;
Dispell'd the gathering night of doubts and fears,
And, like Aurora, wreath'd the wings of day!—
No longer drooped my heart to gloom a prey:
That charm smiled o'er me, even in my dreams—
The source and spirit of all harmony—
Touching the future with romantic beams,
And pouring freshness forth as from exhaustless streams.
Spirit of Poesy! whom love first sought
Beside the founts of truth—the living springs
Of Beauty infinite:—Spirit of thought,
Of youth, hope, joy!—Angels array'd thy wings
In glory, and endow'd thy harp's bright strings
With power, with music, and sublimity—
Enwreath'd thee with immortal offerings—
Stretch'd out the heavens before thee far and free,
And sent thy genius forth through all immensity!—
Beside the founts of truth—the living springs
Of Beauty infinite:—Spirit of thought,
Of youth, hope, joy!—Angels array'd thy wings
In glory, and endow'd thy harp's bright strings
With power, with music, and sublimity—
Enwreath'd thee with immortal offerings—
Stretch'd out the heavens before thee far and free,
And sent thy genius forth through all immensity!—
16
First from the mount thou saw'st the sea launch'd wide
Through the unfathom'd channels of the earth;
Thou saw'st the Light flash from Jehovah's side—
The primal wonders of the world burst forth;
Thou heard'st the Word that call'd the skies to birth,
And woke the planets to their watch of years;—
Thou heard'st creation sing His boundless worth,
While like the flashing of ten thousand spears
Outsprung the blazing sun amidst the heavenly spheres!
Through the unfathom'd channels of the earth;
Thou saw'st the Light flash from Jehovah's side—
The primal wonders of the world burst forth;
Thou heard'st the Word that call'd the skies to birth,
And woke the planets to their watch of years;—
Thou heard'st creation sing His boundless worth,
While like the flashing of ten thousand spears
Outsprung the blazing sun amidst the heavenly spheres!
For ever hast thou been a gift of light,—
A voice in the eternity of days,—
A presence in the everlasting sight,
Soaring where even seraphs fear to gaze—
Snatching the secret fire of heaven's own rays—
Wielding the thunders in thy fearless hold;
The awful hand alone, that made thee, stays
Thy vast ambition—thine aspirings bold,—
And with its touch of might bids thy wild pinions fold.
A voice in the eternity of days,—
A presence in the everlasting sight,
Soaring where even seraphs fear to gaze—
Snatching the secret fire of heaven's own rays—
Wielding the thunders in thy fearless hold;
The awful hand alone, that made thee, stays
Thy vast ambition—thine aspirings bold,—
And with its touch of might bids thy wild pinions fold.
17
Who hath not proved the power of poesy,
When from the sepulchres of greatness fled,
He watch'd the clouds of centuries roll by,
And stood and spake with the illustrious dead!—
Oh! who with Shakspere could regardless tread—
Unmov'd behold the handmaids of his muse
Dispensing beauties, as their garlands shed
Innumerable blossoms of all hues,
Rich with the breath of morn and spring's celestial dews.
When from the sepulchres of greatness fled,
He watch'd the clouds of centuries roll by,
And stood and spake with the illustrious dead!—
Oh! who with Shakspere could regardless tread—
Unmov'd behold the handmaids of his muse
Dispensing beauties, as their garlands shed
Innumerable blossoms of all hues,
Rich with the breath of morn and spring's celestial dews.
And He! who built his temple in the clouds
And made the Heavens his altar—at whose feet
The stars lay dreaming in their misty shrouds,
And angel-echoes sigh'd in music sweet
From many a solemn shrine and high retreat!
He, Bard of Paradise, whose inward sight
Surpass'd all outward vision—so replete,
That blindness followed that unbounded light,
As clouds grow doubly dark where broods the lightnings might.
And made the Heavens his altar—at whose feet
The stars lay dreaming in their misty shrouds,
And angel-echoes sigh'd in music sweet
From many a solemn shrine and high retreat!
He, Bard of Paradise, whose inward sight
Surpass'd all outward vision—so replete,
That blindness followed that unbounded light,
As clouds grow doubly dark where broods the lightnings might.
18
There was a genius in that mighty man,
A portion of the present and the past,
And of the future, more than thought may scan;
An immortality which shall outlast
The monuments all ages have amass'd,
Till Fame weeps o'er the skeleton of Time,
And Earth lies like a shadow fading fast;—
Then lovelier far, than in its earliest prime,
That genius from its wings shall scatter rays sublime.
A portion of the present and the past,
And of the future, more than thought may scan;
An immortality which shall outlast
The monuments all ages have amass'd,
Till Fame weeps o'er the skeleton of Time,
And Earth lies like a shadow fading fast;—
Then lovelier far, than in its earliest prime,
That genius from its wings shall scatter rays sublime.
Is the sound fled that whisper'd of the grave?—
Pass'd are the tears from Memory's mournful cheek?—
Furl'd lie the funeral banners of the brave?—
Are the hills silent—doth the ocean speak
No more of him, whose passion was to seek
Communion with their nature—and to feel
An interest in the lonely sea-bird's shriek;
A language in the elemental peal
That struck the zenith dark—made earth's foundations reel?
Pass'd are the tears from Memory's mournful cheek?—
Furl'd lie the funeral banners of the brave?—
Are the hills silent—doth the ocean speak
No more of him, whose passion was to seek
Communion with their nature—and to feel
An interest in the lonely sea-bird's shriek;
A language in the elemental peal
That struck the zenith dark—made earth's foundations reel?
19
Yes; there is sadness on the brow of earth—
Still must we mourn that Bard's untimely doom,
Whose mind, like a volcano, scatter'd forth
Its lava depths of mystery and gloom;
Whose passions—terrible as the Simoom,
Fed upon ruin—and 'mid darkness sought
Stern spectres, demons from unholy tomb—
He from all breasts the fiercer feelings caught
And threw a shade of guilt o'er every scene he wrought.
Still must we mourn that Bard's untimely doom,
Whose mind, like a volcano, scatter'd forth
Its lava depths of mystery and gloom;
Whose passions—terrible as the Simoom,
Fed upon ruin—and 'mid darkness sought
Stern spectres, demons from unholy tomb—
He from all breasts the fiercer feelings caught
And threw a shade of guilt o'er every scene he wrought.
Magnificent in daring soar'd that mind—
Proud in dominion—its majestic tone
Still vibrates through the spirit of mankind:
He reign'd o'er human hearts as on a throne,
Making their inmost secrets all his own—
Bared every movement to his earnest eyes—
Reveal'd all agencies that power hath known!—
And lives not Byron still?—'t is dust that dies?
His genius walks the world, and time and death defies!
Proud in dominion—its majestic tone
Still vibrates through the spirit of mankind:
He reign'd o'er human hearts as on a throne,
Making their inmost secrets all his own—
Bared every movement to his earnest eyes—
Reveal'd all agencies that power hath known!—
And lives not Byron still?—'t is dust that dies?
His genius walks the world, and time and death defies!
20
Forget them not! oh, still forget them not!
The bards whose spirit hath inspired their page;
Be not the memory of the dead forgot,
Whose genius is a nation's heritage!
Alas for life! what bosom might presage
The shadow of the grave was with each name?
Some, gray and lonely at the door of age!
Some in the golden morning of their fame—
Yet on the path of death all stricken down the same!
The bards whose spirit hath inspired their page;
Be not the memory of the dead forgot,
Whose genius is a nation's heritage!
Alas for life! what bosom might presage
The shadow of the grave was with each name?
Some, gray and lonely at the door of age!
Some in the golden morning of their fame—
Yet on the path of death all stricken down the same!
The voice of Spring is breathing! where art thou,
Daughter of Genius, whose exalted mind
From Nature's noblest and sublimest brow
Snatch'd inspiration? thou, whose art combined
Passions most pure, affections most refined;
Whose muse with silver clarion wakes the land,
Thrilling the finer feelings of mankind!
Thine is the song to arm a patriot hand,—
Or start a thousand spears midst Freedom's mountain band!
Daughter of Genius, whose exalted mind
From Nature's noblest and sublimest brow
Snatch'd inspiration? thou, whose art combined
Passions most pure, affections most refined;
Whose muse with silver clarion wakes the land,
Thrilling the finer feelings of mankind!
Thine is the song to arm a patriot hand,—
Or start a thousand spears midst Freedom's mountain band!
21
Thine is the song to fill the mother's heart,
Whose children bless thee—Hemans—round her knee:—
Thine is the gifted page that can impart
A beauty born of immortality!
The temple—shrine—and trophied urn—to thee
Were themes enduring! where'er Grief had trod,
Or Hope fled tired from human misery,
Thou stood'st with song uplifted to thy God,
Thou sooth'st the mourner's tears e'en by the burial sod.
Whose children bless thee—Hemans—round her knee:—
Thine is the gifted page that can impart
A beauty born of immortality!
The temple—shrine—and trophied urn—to thee
Were themes enduring! where'er Grief had trod,
Or Hope fled tired from human misery,
Thou stood'st with song uplifted to thy God,
Thou sooth'st the mourner's tears e'en by the burial sod.
The beauteous spirit of the minstrel dead
Comes with the harmonies and hues of morn;
Sits with my sorrowing heart when day hath fled,
And folds her glorious wings—Elysian born!
A broken rose and violet dim adorn
With their expressive grace her silent lyre:
But, oh! the wreath by that immortal worn!
The inspiration and the seraph fire,
Which light those pleading eyes that unto heaven aspire!
Comes with the harmonies and hues of morn;
Sits with my sorrowing heart when day hath fled,
And folds her glorious wings—Elysian born!
A broken rose and violet dim adorn
With their expressive grace her silent lyre:
But, oh! the wreath by that immortal worn!
The inspiration and the seraph fire,
Which light those pleading eyes that unto heaven aspire!
22
Still mourns Erinna—ever by that coast,
Whose dismal winds shriek to each weeping cloud,
Whose waves sweep solemn as a funeral host,
Still mourns she Love's own minstrel, in her shroud;
The Sappho of that isle, in genius proud;
The Improvisatrice of our land;
The daughter of our soul—our fame endowed;
For her Erinna seeks the fatal strand,
And lifts to distant shores her wo-prophetic hand!
Whose dismal winds shriek to each weeping cloud,
Whose waves sweep solemn as a funeral host,
Still mourns she Love's own minstrel, in her shroud;
The Sappho of that isle, in genius proud;
The Improvisatrice of our land;
The daughter of our soul—our fame endowed;
For her Erinna seeks the fatal strand,
And lifts to distant shores her wo-prophetic hand!
The blighted one! the breast, whose sister-tear
Sprang to each touch of feeling, heaves no more!
Our Landon, silent on her funeral bier,
Far from our heart, sleeps on a foreign shore;
The voice of her—the song-inspired—is o'er;
Oh, she who wept for others found no tone
To soothe the many parting griefs she bore;
None had a tear for that sweet spirit lone—
All sorrows found a balm save that far Minstrel's own!
Sprang to each touch of feeling, heaves no more!
Our Landon, silent on her funeral bier,
Far from our heart, sleeps on a foreign shore;
The voice of her—the song-inspired—is o'er;
Oh, she who wept for others found no tone
To soothe the many parting griefs she bore;
None had a tear for that sweet spirit lone—
All sorrows found a balm save that far Minstrel's own!
23
Thou, who receivedst her rose-encircled head,
Our Minstrel in the bloom of her young fame,
Give back our lost and loved! Restore our dead!
Return once more her first and dearest name!
We claim her ashes—'tis a Nation's claim!
Her—in her wealth of mind—to thee we gave;
Yet—plead we for the dust of that dear frame:
Oh, bear our world-lamented o'er the wave!
Let England hold at last—'tis all she asks—her Grave!
Our Minstrel in the bloom of her young fame,
Give back our lost and loved! Restore our dead!
Return once more her first and dearest name!
We claim her ashes—'tis a Nation's claim!
Her—in her wealth of mind—to thee we gave;
Yet—plead we for the dust of that dear frame:
Oh, bear our world-lamented o'er the wave!
Let England hold at last—'tis all she asks—her Grave!
The feelings stirr'd to utterance by death,
Refin'd by memory—may freely burn;
There is a vital freshness in the breath
That consecrates the laurel round the urn!—
And fondly would my admiration turn
To living heirs of Song's immortal crown,
But, ah! where beats the heart that's yet to learn
Their mighty names, whose memories shall float down
The tide of unborn years, in honour and renown?
Refin'd by memory—may freely burn;
There is a vital freshness in the breath
That consecrates the laurel round the urn!—
And fondly would my admiration turn
To living heirs of Song's immortal crown,
But, ah! where beats the heart that's yet to learn
Their mighty names, whose memories shall float down
The tide of unborn years, in honour and renown?
24
Yielding the meanest stream that idly strays
By sedgy bank, or mountain copse along,
A charm to fix the pilgrim's lonely gaze,
As though each passing ripple were a tongue:
Vesting the woods and flowers and all in song!—
Leaving great Nature's self their monument
And record of their being! while the throng
Of human lives like aimless waves are spent;
And pride's forgotten tombs lie mould'ring, void and rent.
By sedgy bank, or mountain copse along,
A charm to fix the pilgrim's lonely gaze,
As though each passing ripple were a tongue:
Vesting the woods and flowers and all in song!—
Leaving great Nature's self their monument
And record of their being! while the throng
Of human lives like aimless waves are spent;
And pride's forgotten tombs lie mould'ring, void and rent.
Thou art, oh Poesy!—the heart that speaks,
And will speak on for ever—whilst one chord
Holds true to feeling,—and ere that charm breaks,
The rose shall perish, ne'er to be restored,—
The lark soar hence in silence—the fond word
Of love and early friendship be unknown—
All harmonies of beauty be unheard—
All holy inspirations lose their tone—
And man forsake his home to fade and fall alone!
And will speak on for ever—whilst one chord
Holds true to feeling,—and ere that charm breaks,
The rose shall perish, ne'er to be restored,—
The lark soar hence in silence—the fond word
Of love and early friendship be unknown—
All harmonies of beauty be unheard—
All holy inspirations lose their tone—
And man forsake his home to fade and fall alone!
25
Say, have ye watched the early hue of Morn
Slow rising o'er the darkness of the hour,
Till ray by ray the God of Light was born,
And outshone hill and forest—vale and tower?—
Such is the dawn of Reason—such its power—
Filling the mind with loveliness and light;
Unfolding thought by thought, like flower by flower,
Till soaring to its full meridian height
It pours upon the soul the splendour of its might.
Slow rising o'er the darkness of the hour,
Till ray by ray the God of Light was born,
And outshone hill and forest—vale and tower?—
Such is the dawn of Reason—such its power—
Filling the mind with loveliness and light;
Unfolding thought by thought, like flower by flower,
Till soaring to its full meridian height
It pours upon the soul the splendour of its might.
Have ye beheld the glory of that day
Dethron'd by sudden tempest—till the skies
Seem one vast sepulchre of black decay,
Where, in her funeral shroud, dead nature lies?—
So lowers the sphere of mind when Reason flies:
Without one spark to light that dreadful gloom
Where Judgment wanders, blind;—where Memory dies;
Where Truth is lost;—where Hope no more may bloom;
And all the powers of thought lie dead, as in a tomb!—
Dethron'd by sudden tempest—till the skies
Seem one vast sepulchre of black decay,
Where, in her funeral shroud, dead nature lies?—
So lowers the sphere of mind when Reason flies:
Without one spark to light that dreadful gloom
Where Judgment wanders, blind;—where Memory dies;
Where Truth is lost;—where Hope no more may bloom;
And all the powers of thought lie dead, as in a tomb!—
26
And whence this awful ruin of the brain—
This wreck of mental elements—this fall
Of man's majestic faculties—this chain
Which links him to the grave?—Alas! of all
The myriad ills which may the mind enthral,
Vice stands the first and last!—the fiend whose wings
Scatter destruction like a deathly pall;
That o'er each orb of faith her shadow flings,
And poisons with her lips God's noblest, holiest springs.
This wreck of mental elements—this fall
Of man's majestic faculties—this chain
Which links him to the grave?—Alas! of all
The myriad ills which may the mind enthral,
Vice stands the first and last!—the fiend whose wings
Scatter destruction like a deathly pall;
That o'er each orb of faith her shadow flings,
And poisons with her lips God's noblest, holiest springs.
I do remember one whose early days
Were radiant with the light that genius sends;
He was the favoured of his country's gaze—
The loved of all—the idol of his friends—
For there's a charm in intellect which lends
An added glory to the gift of birth;
And royalty, 'mid all its grandeur, bends
Before that spring-tide of the soul on earth—
And yields to Mind its due,—its high acknowledged worth!
This melancholy instance of the criminal consequences of dissipation, is no imaginary picture:—not many years ago a similar event occurred in the North of England.
A gentleman of family and fortune, highly esteemed and beloved, gradually fell a victim to the unhappy vice of inebriation; and during a temporary aberration of intellect, committed that crime for which he now languishes within the walls of a Lunatic Asylum.
Were radiant with the light that genius sends;
He was the favoured of his country's gaze—
The loved of all—the idol of his friends—
For there's a charm in intellect which lends
An added glory to the gift of birth;
And royalty, 'mid all its grandeur, bends
Before that spring-tide of the soul on earth—
And yields to Mind its due,—its high acknowledged worth!
27
He loved:—Love is the poetry of youth—
Its music and its worship—'tis the star
That seeks the altar of eternal truth—
The hope of days whose dawn is yet afar!—
Oh youth and love, how eloquent ye are—
How glorious the affections ye create:
The maid, the wife, the mother—who would mar
The sweets which blossom on the brink of fate—
And leave life's Eden dark—despoiled and desolate!
Its music and its worship—'tis the star
That seeks the altar of eternal truth—
The hope of days whose dawn is yet afar!—
Oh youth and love, how eloquent ye are—
How glorious the affections ye create:
The maid, the wife, the mother—who would mar
The sweets which blossom on the brink of fate—
And leave life's Eden dark—despoiled and desolate!
And she he loved was fair, a very Grace,
A form half radiant with divinity;
'T was beautiful to gaze upon her face;
So gently gay—so innocently free!
Well might she win his heart's idolatry,
For virtue and affection were her dower;
And joy sang round her by love's own decree;
Oh, not alone in beauty lived her power—
No: charms less fleeting far enwreathed that peerless flower.
A form half radiant with divinity;
'T was beautiful to gaze upon her face;
So gently gay—so innocently free!
Well might she win his heart's idolatry,
For virtue and affection were her dower;
And joy sang round her by love's own decree;
Oh, not alone in beauty lived her power—
No: charms less fleeting far enwreathed that peerless flower.
28
Oft would they wander where the moonlit dell,
A dreamy picture of contentment lay,—
And silence, like an angel's blessing, fell
O'er rock and mountain, shore and quiet bay;
And far-off ships upon their homeward way:
Filling their fancies with a thousand sights
Of future happiness; one bright, glad day,
One long reciprocation of delights—
One cloudless smile of home to consecrate their nights.
A dreamy picture of contentment lay,—
And silence, like an angel's blessing, fell
O'er rock and mountain, shore and quiet bay;
And far-off ships upon their homeward way:
Filling their fancies with a thousand sights
Of future happiness; one bright, glad day,
One long reciprocation of delights—
One cloudless smile of home to consecrate their nights.
For, oh! the bliss to love and to believe
Ourselves beloved!—to linger o'er each dream
Of happiness, we cannot choose but weave,—
To breathe but only in the beauteous beam
Of Love's own dear, delicious eyes!—to deem
One form the paragon of earth!—Oh, fair
As moonlight upon lilies of the stream!—
Those water jewels—delicate and rare—
Those chaste and fitting wreaths for Beauty's raven hair.
Ourselves beloved!—to linger o'er each dream
Of happiness, we cannot choose but weave,—
To breathe but only in the beauteous beam
Of Love's own dear, delicious eyes!—to deem
One form the paragon of earth!—Oh, fair
As moonlight upon lilies of the stream!—
Those water jewels—delicate and rare—
Those chaste and fitting wreaths for Beauty's raven hair.
29
Months pass'd—and found them a connubial pair:
An ancient mansion peeping through the trees,
White as the silver blossoms shining there;
Young roses that enrich the loitering breeze
With perfum'd gifts—with summer memories—
Laburnums sparkling 'neath the graceful dome,
Like golden treasures under azure seas,
And singing streams, that blithe as minstrels roam,
Reveal their favourite spot, their own sweet summer home.
An ancient mansion peeping through the trees,
White as the silver blossoms shining there;
Young roses that enrich the loitering breeze
With perfum'd gifts—with summer memories—
Laburnums sparkling 'neath the graceful dome,
Like golden treasures under azure seas,
And singing streams, that blithe as minstrels roam,
Reveal their favourite spot, their own sweet summer home.
One little cherub blessed their happy eyes,—
A lovely flower among the flowers at play;
With eyes that imaged the cerulean dyes
Of the germander—ringlets like the ray
Of sunset on the pale hills far away;
Hands, white as snowdrops midst the bloomy wild,
And mouth where kisses laughed like buds of May;
The very traveller blessed the babe, and smiled;
He was so fair a hope, so beautiful a child.
A lovely flower among the flowers at play;
With eyes that imaged the cerulean dyes
Of the germander—ringlets like the ray
Of sunset on the pale hills far away;
Hands, white as snowdrops midst the bloomy wild,
And mouth where kisses laughed like buds of May;
The very traveller blessed the babe, and smiled;
He was so fair a hope, so beautiful a child.
30
And from this paradise, young Love had charm'd
With all the gifts his presence may impart,
This home, with every rare attraction formed—
Grace without pride—and beauty without art!—
What spell could lure the father to depart?—
Seek not to trace how, shade by shade, the gloom
Of dissipation darkens o'er his heart;—
The revel and the wine his hours consume,
And for the gambler's joy he quits domestic bloom.
With all the gifts his presence may impart,
This home, with every rare attraction formed—
Grace without pride—and beauty without art!—
What spell could lure the father to depart?—
Seek not to trace how, shade by shade, the gloom
Of dissipation darkens o'er his heart;—
The revel and the wine his hours consume,
And for the gambler's joy he quits domestic bloom.
It is the morn;—the judgment waits in wrath,—
Some sudden aberration of the brain
Strikes the lost parent on his homeward path;
Horrors beset his track, a ghastly train,
And demon shadows haunt the vernal plain
Where sports his child;—still burn his frenzied eyes;
Rages insanity in every vein!—
One blow!—'tis o'er; his child,—the loved one—dies!
And on his guilty head glare down the threatening skies!
Some sudden aberration of the brain
Strikes the lost parent on his homeward path;
Horrors beset his track, a ghastly train,
And demon shadows haunt the vernal plain
Where sports his child;—still burn his frenzied eyes;
Rages insanity in every vein!—
One blow!—'tis o'er; his child,—the loved one—dies!
And on his guilty head glare down the threatening skies!
31
From his delirium, as from some brief dream
Of direful influence, woke the wretched sire:—
The hapless mother heard her infant's scream—
Rush'd forth to save—and saw her child expire!
She clasped him to her heart—her brain was fire:—
She looked upon the father as he stood,
While for an instant, Reason—as in ire—
Showed to his trembling soul that deed of blood,
Then fled—and never more its banished light renewed.
Of direful influence, woke the wretched sire:—
The hapless mother heard her infant's scream—
Rush'd forth to save—and saw her child expire!
She clasped him to her heart—her brain was fire:—
She looked upon the father as he stood,
While for an instant, Reason—as in ire—
Showed to his trembling soul that deed of blood,
Then fled—and never more its banished light renewed.
The universal face of things grew blank—
Identity was lost—and vision made
A sphere of shapeless fancies;—memory sank
For ever into chaos;—and that shade
In which the mind's proportions shrink and fade,
Gather'd around him;—the proud shrines whereon
The treasures of a poet's heart were laid
Fell into dust and ashes, one by one,—
Till of the mind's pure flame the last faint glimpse was gone!
Identity was lost—and vision made
A sphere of shapeless fancies;—memory sank
For ever into chaos;—and that shade
In which the mind's proportions shrink and fade,
Gather'd around him;—the proud shrines whereon
The treasures of a poet's heart were laid
Fell into dust and ashes, one by one,—
Till of the mind's pure flame the last faint glimpse was gone!
32
Unheeded, to the mother, came all change;
May's genial heat, December's blasts severe;
O'er lonely mountains 'twas her wont to range
Without a path to guide her wanderings drear;
And oft, half kneeling, in the moonlight clear
Upon the bleak snow would she trace a cot;
A few wild flowers, and one sweet infant dear,
And many a trait of beauty unforgot;
Then upwards would she start, and shrieking flee the spot!
May's genial heat, December's blasts severe;
O'er lonely mountains 'twas her wont to range
Without a path to guide her wanderings drear;
And oft, half kneeling, in the moonlight clear
Upon the bleak snow would she trace a cot;
A few wild flowers, and one sweet infant dear,
And many a trait of beauty unforgot;
Then upwards would she start, and shrieking flee the spot!
END OF FIRST PART.
33
2. PART SECOND.
34
ANALYSIS.—PART II.
The subject continued:—The source of the sublimity and beauty of external nature—the simple perception of any object insufficient to excite high emotions, unless accompanied with the operations of the Mind—without the gift of Mind, it were impossible that we should have had any conception of grandeur, sublimity, delicacy, or beauty.
The Poetry of Sculpture:—Its antiquity and splendour—Angelo— the tomb of Julius II.—the Apollo Belvidere—the creation of Canova.— Music. Its influence upon the Mind.
Episode:—Instance of heroic fortitude in Woman.
The Science of the Stars:—Newton—the sublimity and intellectual splendour of his theory.—Declare His name, ye stars, who set His everlasting covenant in the sky. “O ye heavens, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever.”
35
The fine associations of the Mind,
With their own loveliness, invest each hue
And form of nature!—Unless thus combined
With feelings holy,—eloquent,—and true,
What were this gorgeous firmament of blue—
These floating mountains of a vapoury sphere—
This commonwealth of flowers,—this vast review
Of worldly splendour, bursting far and near?
Oh! what were Earth itself, unless the Mind were here?
With their own loveliness, invest each hue
And form of nature!—Unless thus combined
With feelings holy,—eloquent,—and true,
What were this gorgeous firmament of blue—
These floating mountains of a vapoury sphere—
This commonwealth of flowers,—this vast review
Of worldly splendour, bursting far and near?
Oh! what were Earth itself, unless the Mind were here?
36
There's beauty in the soft, warm, summer morn,
When leaves are sparkling with the early dew;
When birds awake, and buds and flowers are born,
And the rich sun appears, half trembling, through
The crimson haze, and dim luxurious blue
Of the far eastern heav'ns:—there's beauty deep
From mountain-tops to catch the distant view
Of quiet glen—wood path—wild craggy steep—
Or cool sequester'd coast where lonely waters sleep.
When leaves are sparkling with the early dew;
When birds awake, and buds and flowers are born,
And the rich sun appears, half trembling, through
The crimson haze, and dim luxurious blue
Of the far eastern heav'ns:—there's beauty deep
From mountain-tops to catch the distant view
Of quiet glen—wood path—wild craggy steep—
Or cool sequester'd coast where lonely waters sleep.
There's beauty in the noontide atmosphere;
When willows bend their graceful boughs to meet
The fountain waters—delicately clear;—
When mid-way heaven the wild lark carols sweet:
There's beauty in the tender traits which fleet
Along the skiey shores and isles of gold,—
That seem just formed for holy angels' feet,—
Gleaming with gifts of an immortal mould!
God!—could thy name be lost, while men such scenes behold!
When willows bend their graceful boughs to meet
The fountain waters—delicately clear;—
When mid-way heaven the wild lark carols sweet:
There's beauty in the tender traits which fleet
Along the skiey shores and isles of gold,—
That seem just formed for holy angels' feet,—
Gleaming with gifts of an immortal mould!
God!—could thy name be lost, while men such scenes behold!
37
There's beauty in the still, blue hour of night,
When streams sing softly through the moonlit vale;
When, one by one, shoot forth the stars to light,
Dreamy and cold, and spiritually pale:—
There's beauty on the ocean, when the gale
Dashes the merry billows to the strand;
When like a phantom flits some wand'ring sail,
White as the moonbeam on the glittering sand,
And distant flute-notes rise, touched by some skilful hand.
When streams sing softly through the moonlit vale;
When, one by one, shoot forth the stars to light,
Dreamy and cold, and spiritually pale:—
There's beauty on the ocean, when the gale
Dashes the merry billows to the strand;
When like a phantom flits some wand'ring sail,
White as the moonbeam on the glittering sand,
And distant flute-notes rise, touched by some skilful hand.
There's beauty on the quiet lake afar,
When wild-birds sleep upon its voiceless breast;—
The lonely mirror of a single star,
Pale shining in the solitary west;
There's harmony and beauty in that rest—
So placid—stirless—lonely—and so deep—
We scarcely move, or dare to whisper—lest
A word should break the magic of that sleep,
And start the spirit nymphs who watch around it keep!
When wild-birds sleep upon its voiceless breast;—
The lonely mirror of a single star,
Pale shining in the solitary west;
There's harmony and beauty in that rest—
So placid—stirless—lonely—and so deep—
We scarcely move, or dare to whisper—lest
A word should break the magic of that sleep,
And start the spirit nymphs who watch around it keep!
38
There's beauty on the mountains—when the snow
Of thousand ages on their forehead lies;
Purple and glittering in the sun-set glow,
The gala light of the Italian skies:—
When gorgeously the clear prismatic dyes
Illumine ice-built arches—crystal walls
That, like the Mirrors of the Spheres, arise;
Or proud magician's visionary halls,
Arrayed for merry masques—for pomps and carnivals.
Of thousand ages on their forehead lies;
Purple and glittering in the sun-set glow,
The gala light of the Italian skies:—
When gorgeously the clear prismatic dyes
Illumine ice-built arches—crystal walls
That, like the Mirrors of the Spheres, arise;
Or proud magician's visionary halls,
Arrayed for merry masques—for pomps and carnivals.
There's beauty in the old monastic pile,
When purple twilight, like a nun, appears
Bending o'er ruin'd arch—and wasted aisle—
Majestic glories of departed years,—
Whilst dark above the victor-ivy rears
Its sacrilegious banner o'er the shrine,
Once holy with a dying martyr's tears;
Yet amidst dust—and darkness—and decline,
A beauty mantles still the edifice divine!
When purple twilight, like a nun, appears
Bending o'er ruin'd arch—and wasted aisle—
Majestic glories of departed years,—
Whilst dark above the victor-ivy rears
Its sacrilegious banner o'er the shrine,
Once holy with a dying martyr's tears;
Yet amidst dust—and darkness—and decline,
A beauty mantles still the edifice divine!
39
But, ah! bereft of mind—which is the light
That melts the shadows of futurity!
Nor early morn—nor noon—nor summer night—
Nor the wild billows of the lonely sea—
No—nor the sweet and plaintive melody
Of distant flute-notes on the moonlight shore,
May touch one heart with beauty?—If the free
And god-like spring of thought could act no more;
Dark were the past to Man, and dark his path before!—
That melts the shadows of futurity!
Nor early morn—nor noon—nor summer night—
Nor the wild billows of the lonely sea—
No—nor the sweet and plaintive melody
Of distant flute-notes on the moonlight shore,
May touch one heart with beauty?—If the free
And god-like spring of thought could act no more;
Dark were the past to Man, and dark his path before!—
All beauty is the Mind's!—The dews of earth,
Her loveliest breathings—her serenest skies
Ne'er warmed such noble feelings into birth,
As from our own imaginations rise;
The bright, illuminated memories
Which are the rays of the soul's world!—the gay,
And fond creations of our youthful eyes:—
Beauties which set not with the setting day;
But hold a life within—a charm against decay!
Her loveliest breathings—her serenest skies
Ne'er warmed such noble feelings into birth,
As from our own imaginations rise;
The bright, illuminated memories
Which are the rays of the soul's world!—the gay,
And fond creations of our youthful eyes:—
Beauties which set not with the setting day;
But hold a life within—a charm against decay!
40
Approach the tomb of Julius
—and behold
The might of human intellect—view grace
And saintly majesty in marble mould:—
There stands the Prophet, as before the face
Of his Eternal Master,—there we trace
The source and strength of inspiration—there
Our feelings grow too mighty for the space
That earth may yield them—and far onward bear
The soul to loftier spheres to which that form seems heir.
Not in one point of view only is Angelo's genius to be contemplated. Sculptor of the Moses, painter of the Last Judgment, architect of the Cupola,—we behold him in the greatest of the works of art. The Moses, on the tomb of Julius II., amid the creations of genius, rises a solitary and matchless monument! Without a model in the productions of antiquity, it has remained inimitable and unimitated in modern times.
The might of human intellect—view grace
And saintly majesty in marble mould:—
There stands the Prophet, as before the face
Of his Eternal Master,—there we trace
The source and strength of inspiration—there
Our feelings grow too mighty for the space
That earth may yield them—and far onward bear
The soul to loftier spheres to which that form seems heir.
Sculpture is Mind enchanted into stone!
A voiceless record—a mute harmony—
Omnipotent in grandeur all its own;
Majestic shrine of a World's memory;—
Whose shadow rises from antiquity
Girt by the genius of proud empires dead!—
All forms heroic, eminent, and free;
Spirits, whose good or evil names have shed
Dishonour or renown upon the earth we tread.
A voiceless record—a mute harmony—
Omnipotent in grandeur all its own;
Majestic shrine of a World's memory;—
Whose shadow rises from antiquity
Girt by the genius of proud empires dead!—
All forms heroic, eminent, and free;
Spirits, whose good or evil names have shed
Dishonour or renown upon the earth we tread.
41
Can it be marble upon which we gaze?
That brow is burning with intelligence,
Language alone its melody delays,
As loth to leave a lip whose excellence
Surpasseth mortal beauty!—Stir not hence,—
'T will breathe—'t will move—the spell will be unbound
That chains the magic of its eloquence;
Thy heart be ravished with the gifts of sound,
For, oh! if truth's on earth—here is Apollo found!—
That brow is burning with intelligence,
Language alone its melody delays,
As loth to leave a lip whose excellence
Surpasseth mortal beauty!—Stir not hence,—
'T will breathe—'t will move—the spell will be unbound
That chains the magic of its eloquence;
Thy heart be ravished with the gifts of sound,
For, oh! if truth's on earth—here is Apollo found!—
Wonder of Art—Immortal statue—Thou,
Whom the transcendent genius of man
Endow'd with glory!—unto thee we bow,
Thou look'st indeed eternal!—here we can
Compress all loveliness into one span
Of inspiration—'t is the glance, the mould,
The impress of divinity!—began
And finished, ere the glorious thought grew cold
That gave the Sun-God birth,—and bade the world behold!
Whom the transcendent genius of man
Endow'd with glory!—unto thee we bow,
Thou look'st indeed eternal!—here we can
Compress all loveliness into one span
Of inspiration—'t is the glance, the mould,
The impress of divinity!—began
And finished, ere the glorious thought grew cold
That gave the Sun-God birth,—and bade the world behold!
42
Canova!
—at thy well-loved name I leap
The antique splendours of the past—to see
Thine elegant creations—and to weep,
Rejoice, applaud, or venerate: to be
Mirthful or pensive, as the poesy
Of thy harmonious marbles may inspire;—
Thou hast revealed the grace, the mastery
Of virtue kindled with heroic fire,—
Expression all must feel, and all alike admire.
“The compositions of Canova have enriched modern art with the most glowing conceptions of elegance and grace; raised, and yet more refined, by the expression of some elevating or endearing sentiment. Here, indeed, has been allotted his peculiar and unapproachable walk. In the monumental series of works, Canova displays all the practical excellencies of his genius, with more perhaps of originality and simplicity than generally characterise his other labours. This class consists of architectural elevations, supporting colossal statues, and of tablets in relievo. Of the former, the tombs of the Popes of Rome, of Alfieri at Florence, and of the Archduchess Maria Christina at Vienna, are magnificent examples. —Memes.
The antique splendours of the past—to see
Thine elegant creations—and to weep,
Rejoice, applaud, or venerate: to be
Mirthful or pensive, as the poesy
Of thy harmonious marbles may inspire;—
Thou hast revealed the grace, the mastery
Of virtue kindled with heroic fire,—
Expression all must feel, and all alike admire.
Warm from his couch of rose—there Cupid springs
Radiant with love,—fair as a star new born;
Like moonbeams glitter his ethereal wings;—
Ah! who the witchery of those wings may scorn!—
See Venus rising like the bashful morn
Upon her lover's gaze; with curls half bound—
And brow that nature could no more adorn;
With how divine a step she treads the ground,
Less soft the light dews press the amorous leaves around.
Radiant with love,—fair as a star new born;
Like moonbeams glitter his ethereal wings;—
Ah! who the witchery of those wings may scorn!—
See Venus rising like the bashful morn
Upon her lover's gaze; with curls half bound—
And brow that nature could no more adorn;
With how divine a step she treads the ground,
Less soft the light dews press the amorous leaves around.
43
Here could I gaze—forgetting that I gaze!—
Rapt in the glory of the Sculptor's themes,
And gathering in my soul their gifted rays
Like a pale dreamer who recks not he dreams!
Oh! could my spirit fix these wandering beams
That float around me,—could it but convey
One half the charm with which its vision teems,
This verse should live unto a later day,
This page enshrine my heart when life had passed away.
Rapt in the glory of the Sculptor's themes,
And gathering in my soul their gifted rays
Like a pale dreamer who recks not he dreams!
Oh! could my spirit fix these wandering beams
That float around me,—could it but convey
One half the charm with which its vision teems,
This verse should live unto a later day,
This page enshrine my heart when life had passed away.
Where lives the power to touch—to soothe—to charm—
To animate—depress—appal—inspire
The human Mind!—its energies to warm
With all a Hampden's patriotic fire?—
To stir the bosom with unquench'd desire
Of war's triumphant glory and renown?—
Hark!—'t is the sound of clarions and the lyre—
Banners are waving through the festal town—
The Hero comes!—he comes—with his victorious crown!
To animate—depress—appal—inspire
The human Mind!—its energies to warm
With all a Hampden's patriotic fire?—
To stir the bosom with unquench'd desire
Of war's triumphant glory and renown?—
Hark!—'t is the sound of clarions and the lyre—
Banners are waving through the festal town—
The Hero comes!—he comes—with his victorious crown!
44
Feel ye it not?—'t is Music's matchless spell
Thrilling from nerve to nerve—gushing the sight
With tears of feeling indescribable,—
With sensibility's refined delight!—
List!—Hear ye, through the still and lonely night,
The distant hymn of mournful voices roll,
Solemn and low?—It is the burial rite:—
How deep its sadness sinks into the soul,
As slow the passing bell wakes its far, lingering knoll!
Thrilling from nerve to nerve—gushing the sight
With tears of feeling indescribable,—
With sensibility's refined delight!—
List!—Hear ye, through the still and lonely night,
The distant hymn of mournful voices roll,
Solemn and low?—It is the burial rite:—
How deep its sadness sinks into the soul,
As slow the passing bell wakes its far, lingering knoll!
Yes; Music is the Memory of the heart;
And Memory is the Melody of love!—
How many dear affections round us start,
How many social pleasures do we prove,
When Music—like a Spirit from above—
Hallows the hour until it seems divine!—
When voices in melodious feeling move,
When Poesy and Harmony combine,
To soften and subdue—to gladden and refine!
And Memory is the Melody of love!—
How many dear affections round us start,
How many social pleasures do we prove,
When Music—like a Spirit from above—
Hallows the hour until it seems divine!—
When voices in melodious feeling move,
When Poesy and Harmony combine,
To soften and subdue—to gladden and refine!
45
Oh, when the Rans des Vaches no more with tears
The spirit of the exiled Switzer fills;
When the shrill Pibroch the young Clansman hears,
Without one blessing to the “Land of Hills;”
Oh!—when a British heart no longer thrills
To the bold Anthem of his native shore;
When Music's breath no sentiment instils
Of reverence—love—or honour;—nevermore
May Memory lift the soul, and bid the heart adore!
The spirit of the exiled Switzer fills;
When the shrill Pibroch the young Clansman hears,
Without one blessing to the “Land of Hills;”
Oh!—when a British heart no longer thrills
To the bold Anthem of his native shore;
When Music's breath no sentiment instils
Of reverence—love—or honour;—nevermore
May Memory lift the soul, and bid the heart adore!
The intellectual beauty of the soul
Ne'er beams more lovely than from Woman's eye;
Her softness hath a natural control
O'er the dark feelings of humanity:—
And when in Woman's gentle breast we see
Affection, firmness, and devotion dwell,
With that best, noblest spirit—Constancy!—
That strength, not ev'n calamity may quell;
Our hearts must owe the praise the tongue may fail to tell!
Ne'er beams more lovely than from Woman's eye;
Her softness hath a natural control
O'er the dark feelings of humanity:—
And when in Woman's gentle breast we see
Affection, firmness, and devotion dwell,
With that best, noblest spirit—Constancy!—
That strength, not ev'n calamity may quell;
Our hearts must owe the praise the tongue may fail to tell!
46
I look upon the Past—into the gray
And silent heart of Time—and I behold
A City in its grandeur, like the day,
Emerging from the East in lines of gold!—
I look again—and what doth Time unfold?—
A shapeless ruin—and a wasted crowd—
The young—the ag'd—the beautiful—the bold;—
All, by some strange o'erwhelming ill, seem bowed,
And pale and wild rush on—and shriek and weep aloud.
And silent heart of Time—and I behold
A City in its grandeur, like the day,
Emerging from the East in lines of gold!—
I look again—and what doth Time unfold?—
A shapeless ruin—and a wasted crowd—
The young—the ag'd—the beautiful—the bold;—
All, by some strange o'erwhelming ill, seem bowed,
And pale and wild rush on—and shriek and weep aloud.
All—all save one—and she bends by his side,
Whose arms were first to clasp her with a love
Fond as a bridegroom's for his blushing bride—
Strong as a parent's heart alone may prove!
And she is there, beside him, like a dove,
Tending his drooping form with pitying care;—
And oft her tearful eyes she lifts above,—
And offers to her God a quiet prayer—
With looks that heaven-ward seem to meet the Angels there!
Whose arms were first to clasp her with a love
Fond as a bridegroom's for his blushing bride—
Strong as a parent's heart alone may prove!
And she is there, beside him, like a dove,
Tending his drooping form with pitying care;—
And oft her tearful eyes she lifts above,—
And offers to her God a quiet prayer—
With looks that heaven-ward seem to meet the Angels there!
47
I turn once more—'t is midnight—and the sound
Of arms and revelry burst on mine ear!—
Some sudden horror hath profaned the ground—
Slaughter and wreck!—the shivered sword and spear!
Oh, gentle Love!—so young, so true, so dear,—
Could she not 'scape the Victor's wrath—for this
Sought she her sire—while thousands fled in fear,
To calm his anguish with a daughter's kiss;
To tend his dying form—and soothe his soul to bliss?
Of arms and revelry burst on mine ear!—
Some sudden horror hath profaned the ground—
Slaughter and wreck!—the shivered sword and spear!
Oh, gentle Love!—so young, so true, so dear,—
Could she not 'scape the Victor's wrath—for this
Sought she her sire—while thousands fled in fear,
To calm his anguish with a daughter's kiss;
To tend his dying form—and soothe his soul to bliss?
Alas! there is no chord of human life
Whose natural tone breathes not of woe!—there seems
Even in boyhood, when the world is rife
With buds and birds—with flowers and sunny beams—
Along our being's course, where'er it streams,
Some haunting fever of decay—some shade
From whose destructive taint no aid redeems!
Woe, that it reached thy generous heart, sweet maid;
Woe! that so white a breast should be so darkly laid!
Whose natural tone breathes not of woe!—there seems
Even in boyhood, when the world is rife
With buds and birds—with flowers and sunny beams—
Along our being's course, where'er it streams,
Some haunting fever of decay—some shade
From whose destructive taint no aid redeems!
Woe, that it reached thy generous heart, sweet maid;
Woe! that so white a breast should be so darkly laid!
48
In that distracting—agonizing hour,
Thou reap'dst the grief which seem'd for ages sown;
What then sustain'd and gave thy spirit power
To wrestle with the horrors round thee thrown?—
It was the Mind—the god-like Mind—alone!—
That rock of virtue 'mid a stormy sea;
That spell which lends to truth its noblest tone—
Shatters the chain and sets the captive free;—
And mitigates the throes even of Mortality.
Thou reap'dst the grief which seem'd for ages sown;
What then sustain'd and gave thy spirit power
To wrestle with the horrors round thee thrown?—
It was the Mind—the god-like Mind—alone!—
That rock of virtue 'mid a stormy sea;
That spell which lends to truth its noblest tone—
Shatters the chain and sets the captive free;—
And mitigates the throes even of Mortality.
What penetrates the mystery that lies
The splendid azure and the spheres beyond—
Explores the depths of the religious skies—
Opens the vault as with a Prophet's wand!
What comprehends the ever-during bond—
The imperishable law—the chain of might
Which links each secret feeling—fast and fond—
Connects the finite with the Infinite—
Save thou—resplendent Mind—our Spirit's guide and light!
The splendid azure and the spheres beyond—
Explores the depths of the religious skies—
Opens the vault as with a Prophet's wand!
What comprehends the ever-during bond—
The imperishable law—the chain of might
Which links each secret feeling—fast and fond—
Connects the finite with the Infinite—
Save thou—resplendent Mind—our Spirit's guide and light!
49
Thou art the temple of thy God!—the home
Of sacred truth! Religion's vital shrine!—
How far—how wide soe'er beliefs may roam,
Still thou 'rt the glass that mirrors the divine!—
The hope round which unsetting glories shine;—
The seal of immortality:—the scroll
On which is writ the everlasting line
Of an Almighty love!—Death may control,
Destroy the outward form—but never reach the soul.
Of sacred truth! Religion's vital shrine!—
How far—how wide soe'er beliefs may roam,
Still thou 'rt the glass that mirrors the divine!—
The hope round which unsetting glories shine;—
The seal of immortality:—the scroll
On which is writ the everlasting line
Of an Almighty love!—Death may control,
Destroy the outward form—but never reach the soul.
'T is sweet to look upon the stars, and deem
A spiritual influence breathes around;
That we are nearer heaven than we seem,
And mission'd seraphs make earth hallowed ground;
That our own nature with yon sphere is bound
In mystic harmony—in link divine—
Celestial correspondence,—that when found
'Twixt soul and star—our coming fate define
And shape our horoscope with Truth's unerring line.
A spiritual influence breathes around;
That we are nearer heaven than we seem,
And mission'd seraphs make earth hallowed ground;
That our own nature with yon sphere is bound
In mystic harmony—in link divine—
Celestial correspondence,—that when found
'Twixt soul and star—our coming fate define
And shape our horoscope with Truth's unerring line.
50
Come, view the golden fabric of the spheres!
Read the majestic volume of the sky!—
Mark the grand dial of eternal years
The round of ages ever wheeling by!—
The watch of worlds!—the index set on high
To teach the proud how little is their pride:
Let them regard the planets,—and forth try
To sum the time—myriads of ages wide—
Their cycle may be made:—then, number all who've died!
Read the majestic volume of the sky!—
Mark the grand dial of eternal years
The round of ages ever wheeling by!—
The watch of worlds!—the index set on high
To teach the proud how little is their pride:
Let them regard the planets,—and forth try
To sum the time—myriads of ages wide—
Their cycle may be made:—then, number all who've died!
Alas for life!—but we will on with those
Who have an age beyond their being's day,—
Mount with our Newton where Light ever flows;
See him unveil its marvels—and display
The hidden richness of a single ray!—
Unfold its latent hues like blossoms shed,
Or flowers of Air, outshining flowers of May!—
A luminous wreath in rainbow beauty spread,
The noblest Fame could leave round starry Newton's head.
Who have an age beyond their being's day,—
Mount with our Newton where Light ever flows;
See him unveil its marvels—and display
The hidden richness of a single ray!—
Unfold its latent hues like blossoms shed,
Or flowers of Air, outshining flowers of May!—
A luminous wreath in rainbow beauty spread,
The noblest Fame could leave round starry Newton's head.
51
Ascend the spheres to yonder world remote—
Millions of leagues beyond the race of thought,
And from Uranus bid thy fancy note
The Sun—a speck;—this giant globe as nought
In the immense of space—as though unwrought!
Its pomp of thrones and titles—where are they?—
If Power allures thee, here it should be sought,
Here, where the movements of the heavens convey
Truths 'neath whose calm rebuke Man's theories decay.
Millions of leagues beyond the race of thought,
And from Uranus bid thy fancy note
The Sun—a speck;—this giant globe as nought
In the immense of space—as though unwrought!
Its pomp of thrones and titles—where are they?—
If Power allures thee, here it should be sought,
Here, where the movements of the heavens convey
Truths 'neath whose calm rebuke Man's theories decay.
The architects of intellectual worlds,—
Mortal imagination ne'er contained
The opening grandeur which yon vault unfurls;
Yet Newton's mind that wondrous frame explained,
Revealed the secret influence which retained
The planets in their orbits:—his bold hand
The gloomy gates of superstition chained,
The boundless firmament triumphant spann'd,
And traversed without chart the works which God hath plann'd!
Mortal imagination ne'er contained
The opening grandeur which yon vault unfurls;
Yet Newton's mind that wondrous frame explained,
Revealed the secret influence which retained
The planets in their orbits:—his bold hand
The gloomy gates of superstition chained,
The boundless firmament triumphant spann'd,
And traversed without chart the works which God hath plann'd!
52
Then, in the glorious company of spheres,
Confess His glory who conceived their birth;—
Let not the splendour which around appears
Eclipse the splendour whence they drew their worth;
Nor let proud Earth hide Him who made the Earth!
Who, in supreme intelligence enthroned,
Called Nature forth from dark and utter dearth.
No!—still 'mongst human errors unatoned—
In God's Creations still be never God disowned!
Confess His glory who conceived their birth;—
Let not the splendour which around appears
Eclipse the splendour whence they drew their worth;
Nor let proud Earth hide Him who made the Earth!
Who, in supreme intelligence enthroned,
Called Nature forth from dark and utter dearth.
No!—still 'mongst human errors unatoned—
In God's Creations still be never God disowned!
END OF SECOND PART.
53
3. PART THIRD.
54
ANALYSIS.—PART III.
Imagination and Fancy:—The Fairy Mythology—its spiritual beauty and gracefulness; delightful associations awakened by the influence of flowers upon Memory and Imagination. The pleasure and improvement derivable from an intimate study of Nature.
Science:—In the scientific department the creative genius of man appears to the highest advantage. Picture of a Ship at Sea. Commerce: viewed as an instrument destined to humanize the whole world; extending instruction and intelligence to the most remote and uncultivated shores; linking mankind in one vast bond of mutual benefit and interest. The Victories of Commerce paramount to the Conquests of the Sword.
Tributes to Franklin, Dalton, and Watt.
55
Earth, Air, Sky, Ocean—are the elements
Through which the images of mind appear;
The robes of beings, Fancy still invents!—
Homes of the Muse that ages yet revere!—
For what is each dominion but the sphere
In which the mind's august creations shine?—
Come Earth, our mother:—Air, thou sister dear;—
And Sky—thou Prophecy of Worlds divine!
Come Nature to our souls and make us wholly thine!
Through which the images of mind appear;
The robes of beings, Fancy still invents!—
Homes of the Muse that ages yet revere!—
For what is each dominion but the sphere
In which the mind's august creations shine?—
Come Earth, our mother:—Air, thou sister dear;—
And Sky—thou Prophecy of Worlds divine!
Come Nature to our souls and make us wholly thine!
56
The streams of thought and fancy never rest
But quick the ocean of the mind supply
Like tribute currents of the sun-loved west;—
Now flowing as from banks where violets lie;—
Or now from mountain summits speeding by
Heave their tumultuous waters o'er the soul;—
Anon, from forest scenes discursive hie,
Radiant with life,—and singing as they roll;—
Now—stained by evil track, all tainted reach their goal!—
But quick the ocean of the mind supply
Like tribute currents of the sun-loved west;—
Now flowing as from banks where violets lie;—
Or now from mountain summits speeding by
Heave their tumultuous waters o'er the soul;—
Anon, from forest scenes discursive hie,
Radiant with life,—and singing as they roll;—
Now—stained by evil track, all tainted reach their goal!—
The Mind its revolutions hath,—its change,—
Its conquests,—its defeats—and its decay!—
Its revolutions,—past all History, strange:—
Its conquests,—Science bid thy worlds display!—
Defeats,—Hope's armies scatter'd in a day,
Ambition's mighty wrecks hurled on Fate's strand;—
Oh, Earth, upon thy sons how weighs thy clay!—
The Ruins of the Mind, as of the Land,
Spread dark through ages gone—a sad and spectral band!
Its conquests,—its defeats—and its decay!—
Its revolutions,—past all History, strange:—
Its conquests,—Science bid thy worlds display!—
Defeats,—Hope's armies scatter'd in a day,
Ambition's mighty wrecks hurled on Fate's strand;—
Oh, Earth, upon thy sons how weighs thy clay!—
The Ruins of the Mind, as of the Land,
Spread dark through ages gone—a sad and spectral band!
57
Yet e'en decay and darkness have their world!
Nothing is lost,—nothing forsaken here:
In dull, rank weeds unnumbered hosts lie curled;—
Root, branch, stem, flower—have each their insect sphere;
Even darkness hath its population drear;
Each turf impregnate with existence heaves!—
More countless metamorphoses appear—
More marvels haunt our feet than thought conceives,
While worlds of insect tribes hang quivering on the leaves.
Nothing is lost,—nothing forsaken here:
In dull, rank weeds unnumbered hosts lie curled;—
Root, branch, stem, flower—have each their insect sphere;
Even darkness hath its population drear;
Each turf impregnate with existence heaves!—
More countless metamorphoses appear—
More marvels haunt our feet than thought conceives,
While worlds of insect tribes hang quivering on the leaves.
From the bright chamber of the vestal rose
No more the fairies to their revels bound;
The lily's ivory halls no more disclose
Their elfin tribe—nor fays, with goss'mer crowned,
Slow float on silver blossoms to the ground:
No more we hear their viewless minstrels play,
As when in emerald rings they danced around,—
The vision and the grace have left our day,
And England's fairy world passed, with its youth, away!
No more the fairies to their revels bound;
The lily's ivory halls no more disclose
Their elfin tribe—nor fays, with goss'mer crowned,
Slow float on silver blossoms to the ground:
No more we hear their viewless minstrels play,
As when in emerald rings they danced around,—
The vision and the grace have left our day,
And England's fairy world passed, with its youth, away!
58
The bright mythology of vanished days!—
We are too learn'd its credence to allow;
Science hath oped too wide our colder gaze:—
But are we better—wiser—happier—now
That we fair fancy's birth-right disavow?—
No more believe the midnight eyes behold
Shapes, born of air, to which the planets bow?
Nor longer seek the fairy palace old
Which elves chivalrous guard, with straw-like spears of gold.
We are too learn'd its credence to allow;
Science hath oped too wide our colder gaze:—
But are we better—wiser—happier—now
That we fair fancy's birth-right disavow?—
No more believe the midnight eyes behold
Shapes, born of air, to which the planets bow?
Nor longer seek the fairy palace old
Which elves chivalrous guard, with straw-like spears of gold.
Hither, ye fays!—fantastic elves!—that leap
The slender hare-cup,—climb the cowslip bells—
And tease the wild bee as she lies asleep!
Hitherfrom shrines of bloom and glow-worm cells,—
From leafy halls—and flowery citadels,—
Hither, bright fairies;—hither to my breast!
Lead me once more where childhood's memory dwells
In its believing beauty—heaven imprest!—
Bring innocence and faith,—be each again my guest!
The slender hare-cup,—climb the cowslip bells—
And tease the wild bee as she lies asleep!
Hitherfrom shrines of bloom and glow-worm cells,—
From leafy halls—and flowery citadels,—
Hither, bright fairies;—hither to my breast!
Lead me once more where childhood's memory dwells
In its believing beauty—heaven imprest!—
Bring innocence and faith,—be each again my guest!
59
Visions of immortality!—that show
The longing of the mind for something more
Than mortal being!—the deep wish to know
The things of other worlds,—the angel store
Of mystery learnt but on the spirit-shore,
Where mid-way fairies sport on fancy's track!—
Glad elves! our season of romance restore,—
Come, our Aladdin-years we 'll wander back,—
See fairy-hunters gay, and their bold insect-pack!
The longing of the mind for something more
Than mortal being!—the deep wish to know
The things of other worlds,—the angel store
Of mystery learnt but on the spirit-shore,
Where mid-way fairies sport on fancy's track!—
Glad elves! our season of romance restore,—
Come, our Aladdin-years we 'll wander back,—
See fairy-hunters gay, and their bold insect-pack!
We have breasts, now, in which affections dead
Have left their “withered rings” around the heart!
And bosoms whence the child of hope hath fled,
Although no fairy in its loss had part!
The cup o'erturned, though by no elfin art!
The rifled chalice, and the broken bowl,
Where memory, by the fount whence sorrows start,
Keeps green the old mythology of soul,—
Those fairy realms of youth o'er which Time's death-wheels roll!—
Have left their “withered rings” around the heart!
And bosoms whence the child of hope hath fled,
Although no fairy in its loss had part!
The cup o'erturned, though by no elfin art!
The rifled chalice, and the broken bowl,
Where memory, by the fount whence sorrows start,
Keeps green the old mythology of soul,—
Those fairy realms of youth o'er which Time's death-wheels roll!—
60
Have we not tasted of the fairy dew?—
Do we behold things as they really are?
Or, like Titania, gaze with spell-bound view,
And lavish love on what were best afar?—
Proves that not oft a stone, we deemed a star?—
Alas, each bosom hath its Oberon too;—
Susceptibility—which seeks to war
With what it loves, and most desires to woo;
Yet urged—unknowing why—to wound, and still pursue!
Do we behold things as they really are?
Or, like Titania, gaze with spell-bound view,
And lavish love on what were best afar?—
Proves that not oft a stone, we deemed a star?—
Alas, each bosom hath its Oberon too;—
Susceptibility—which seeks to war
With what it loves, and most desires to woo;
Yet urged—unknowing why—to wound, and still pursue!
Oh, Queen of Fancy, what an empire's thine?—
What classic loveliness pervades thy shore!—
Creations which the bard hath made divine—
Idols and gods—all creeds alike adore—
The mental deities of ages hoar;
Harmonious moulds where deathless pæans sound
Sole consecrate to genius evermore!—
Where every step finds intellectual ground,
Thronged by the kings of mind, that time and fame have crowned.
What classic loveliness pervades thy shore!—
Creations which the bard hath made divine—
Idols and gods—all creeds alike adore—
The mental deities of ages hoar;
Harmonious moulds where deathless pæans sound
Sole consecrate to genius evermore!—
Where every step finds intellectual ground,
Thronged by the kings of mind, that time and fame have crowned.
61
Have not the flowers a language? Speak, young rose,
Speak, bashful sister of the footless dell!
Thy blooming loves,—thy sweet regards disclose;
Oh, speak!—for many a legend keep'st thou well;
Old tales of wars—crusading knights who fell,
And bade thee minister their latest sighs!—
Speak, grayhaired daisy!—ancient primrose, tell!
Ye, vernal harps! ye, sylvan harmonies!—
Speak, poets of the fields!—rapt gazers on the skies!—
Speak, bashful sister of the footless dell!
Thy blooming loves,—thy sweet regards disclose;
Oh, speak!—for many a legend keep'st thou well;
Old tales of wars—crusading knights who fell,
And bade thee minister their latest sighs!—
Speak, grayhaired daisy!—ancient primrose, tell!
Ye, vernal harps! ye, sylvan harmonies!—
Speak, poets of the fields!—rapt gazers on the skies!—
Mark, how like modesty, with drooping grace,
The violet veils her breast; the sister young
Of hope, that lifts to ruder hours her face,
The lonely snowdrop! earliest of the throng
To call the truant Spring with leaves and song!—
See, zephyr-nursed, and cradled in the grass,
Slumbers, like innocence,—the lily long!—
And there, sweet flattery,—flower few maidens pass
Without one sidelong glance!—'t is Venus' looking-glass!
The violet veils her breast; the sister young
Of hope, that lifts to ruder hours her face,
The lonely snowdrop! earliest of the throng
To call the truant Spring with leaves and song!—
See, zephyr-nursed, and cradled in the grass,
Slumbers, like innocence,—the lily long!—
And there, sweet flattery,—flower few maidens pass
Without one sidelong glance!—'t is Venus' looking-glass!
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Lo, type of pride the amaryllis blooms;
Whilst humbler friendship with the wall-flower stays;
Their vain Narcissus, like self-love, consumes
The hours, enamour'd of his own fond gaze!—
And there the myrtle,—love!—with coy delays
Reveals her heart's young perfume! Flower most dear;
Blest be thy modest leaves to endless days!—
Oh, never come the inconstant primrose near,
But heart's-ease be thy zone—and orange wreaths sincere!
Whilst humbler friendship with the wall-flower stays;
Their vain Narcissus, like self-love, consumes
The hours, enamour'd of his own fond gaze!—
And there the myrtle,—love!—with coy delays
Reveals her heart's young perfume! Flower most dear;
Blest be thy modest leaves to endless days!—
Oh, never come the inconstant primrose near,
But heart's-ease be thy zone—and orange wreaths sincere!
Seek we the forest's quiet pathways deep,
And nature's flowery page together read:—
How ocean-like the billowy branches sweep!—
This mild, green gloom is just the light we need.
And the young fawns—how silently they feed,—
How still and statue-like,—half-life, half-dream!
Slow mounts the wood-dove, like a spirit freed!
And now a swan comes sailing up the stream,
And o'er the waters dark floats like the morning beam!—
And nature's flowery page together read:—
How ocean-like the billowy branches sweep!—
This mild, green gloom is just the light we need.
And the young fawns—how silently they feed,—
How still and statue-like,—half-life, half-dream!
Slow mounts the wood-dove, like a spirit freed!
And now a swan comes sailing up the stream,
And o'er the waters dark floats like the morning beam!—
63
Ye, poetry of woods!—romance of fields!
Nature's imagination bodied bright!
Earth's floral page, that high instruction yields!
For not—oh, not alone to charm our sight,
Gave God your blooming forms—your looks of light:—
Ye speak a language which we yet may learn—
A divination of mysterious might!
And glorious thoughts may angel-eyes discern,
Flower-writ in mead and vale,—where'er man's footsteps turn.
Nature's imagination bodied bright!
Earth's floral page, that high instruction yields!
For not—oh, not alone to charm our sight,
Gave God your blooming forms—your looks of light:—
Ye speak a language which we yet may learn—
A divination of mysterious might!
And glorious thoughts may angel-eyes discern,
Flower-writ in mead and vale,—where'er man's footsteps turn.
Linger we yet—unmindful of the length
Of this our theme—the simplest Song may find!—
Simple?—Simplicity is Nature's strength!—
And Flowers the imprints of the Eternal Mind!—
The wood-born Savage,—though to god-head blind,
Stayed his dark foot to mark the floweret bend,
And culled it for his Indian-maid to bind
Within her pluméd tresses!—'t was Love's friend
Since Hours commenced their march—and will, till they shall end.
Of this our theme—the simplest Song may find!—
Simple?—Simplicity is Nature's strength!—
And Flowers the imprints of the Eternal Mind!—
The wood-born Savage,—though to god-head blind,
Stayed his dark foot to mark the floweret bend,
And culled it for his Indian-maid to bind
Within her pluméd tresses!—'t was Love's friend
Since Hours commenced their march—and will, till they shall end.
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Hearts—cold amidst the beautiful and grand,
When Spring her leaves and dewy garlands throws
And hangs her rainbow-banners o'er the land
In triumph o'er her oft-defeated foes!—
Yes, hearts—shut to the fragrance of the rose,
To which the stars are silent from their dome,—
Still throb to bliss—to poetry—with those
Sweet infant-flowers—from whom their thoughts ne'er roam.
The cherub kiss—the love—the poetry of Home!
When Spring her leaves and dewy garlands throws
And hangs her rainbow-banners o'er the land
In triumph o'er her oft-defeated foes!—
Yes, hearts—shut to the fragrance of the rose,
To which the stars are silent from their dome,—
Still throb to bliss—to poetry—with those
Sweet infant-flowers—from whom their thoughts ne'er roam.
The cherub kiss—the love—the poetry of Home!
What rock so rugged but gives life to some
Lone blossom on its stern and sterile head?—
Is there a breast where feeling's flowers ne'er come?
Where love is mute?—where poetry is dead?—
No:—though thou'dst smile, gray shepherd, if we said
Thou wert romantic!—yet, lone sire, 't is true!—
List!—was not that thy beauteous daughter's tread?—
In what sweet fancies—dreams—didst thou not view
The maid the wise should praise—the good be proud to woo!
Lone blossom on its stern and sterile head?—
Is there a breast where feeling's flowers ne'er come?
Where love is mute?—where poetry is dead?—
No:—though thou'dst smile, gray shepherd, if we said
Thou wert romantic!—yet, lone sire, 't is true!—
List!—was not that thy beauteous daughter's tread?—
In what sweet fancies—dreams—didst thou not view
The maid the wise should praise—the good be proud to woo!
65
Yes, hear it, Earth! be witness thou vast sky!
There's not a foot which treads this living sod,—
There's not a brow that heavenward lifts its eye
Of weariest toiler that may homeward plod,
But feels the poetry of Nature's God!—
'T is in some corner of his soul confest
Though all unconscious of its source he's trod,
'T is with his cottage fire,—his evening rest,—
Breathes in his wife's fond voice,—his children's kisses, blest!
There's not a foot which treads this living sod,—
There's not a brow that heavenward lifts its eye
Of weariest toiler that may homeward plod,
But feels the poetry of Nature's God!—
'T is in some corner of his soul confest
Though all unconscious of its source he's trod,
'T is with his cottage fire,—his evening rest,—
Breathes in his wife's fond voice,—his children's kisses, blest!
Disparity?—why, 't is through Nature found!—
Some drops the nettle meet—and some the rose!—
Some, wedding dust, are trodden with the ground,—
Others sweep on where Ocean grandly flows;
With stream, or river, glide where beauty glows,—
And thus the chain of circumstance obey!—
Not every bud to ripened sweetness blows,—
Not every leaf may reach the topmost spray,—
Yet all harmonious take their own allotted way!—
Some drops the nettle meet—and some the rose!—
Some, wedding dust, are trodden with the ground,—
Others sweep on where Ocean grandly flows;
With stream, or river, glide where beauty glows,—
And thus the chain of circumstance obey!—
Not every bud to ripened sweetness blows,—
Not every leaf may reach the topmost spray,—
Yet all harmonious take their own allotted way!—
66
No; In the mystic balance of our fate,
The chance incomprehensible of birth,
One, heir to ancient honours and estate!
Another, to the toils and tears of earth!
One, nursed upon the golden lap of Mirth—
The other an unwelcome care and cost,
Left hard to struggle on by dint of worth:—
Still 'midst disparity of fortunes crost
Each human state's alike—if happiness be lost!
The chance incomprehensible of birth,
One, heir to ancient honours and estate!
Another, to the toils and tears of earth!
One, nursed upon the golden lap of Mirth—
The other an unwelcome care and cost,
Left hard to struggle on by dint of worth:—
Still 'midst disparity of fortunes crost
Each human state's alike—if happiness be lost!
One step from rectitude—one single vice—
Though but Extravagance may be its name—
Is selling Happiness at Satan's price,
And buying hours of sin with years of shame;—
Most men their own Improvidence may blame
For nearly all they suffer! By degrees
More and yet more beyond their means they claim,
Till Ruin counsels desperate remedies,
And never more they know that bliss—a mind at ease!
Though but Extravagance may be its name—
Is selling Happiness at Satan's price,
And buying hours of sin with years of shame;—
Most men their own Improvidence may blame
For nearly all they suffer! By degrees
More and yet more beyond their means they claim,
Till Ruin counsels desperate remedies,
And never more they know that bliss—a mind at ease!
67
What are unseen—ideal forms—compared
With the quick springs and energies of man!
Feelings, affections, sympathies, unspared,—
The human, breathing, elements we scan,
To rocks or hills—how huge so e'er their plan!—
'Midst men—not trees, pass thou thy studious hours;
Leave pastoral valleys and their flowery clan;
Towns find the sinews of a poet's power—
And proffer fitter themes than woodland hall or bower.
With the quick springs and energies of man!
Feelings, affections, sympathies, unspared,—
The human, breathing, elements we scan,
To rocks or hills—how huge so e'er their plan!—
'Midst men—not trees, pass thou thy studious hours;
Leave pastoral valleys and their flowery clan;
Towns find the sinews of a poet's power—
And proffer fitter themes than woodland hall or bower.
Shall Indolence enchant the poet's lyre,
Yet Industry awake no kindred song?
Spirit of Commerce, hear!—thy son inspire!
Show him thy seas where masts, like forests, throng;
Thy sails each breeze of heaven impels along,
An universal presence o'er the tide!
Tell him, where'er mankind hath heard thy tongue,
Intelligence hath march'd with rapid stride,—
And mental freedom sprung rejoicing by thy side!
Yet Industry awake no kindred song?
Spirit of Commerce, hear!—thy son inspire!
Show him thy seas where masts, like forests, throng;
Thy sails each breeze of heaven impels along,
An universal presence o'er the tide!
Tell him, where'er mankind hath heard thy tongue,
Intelligence hath march'd with rapid stride,—
And mental freedom sprung rejoicing by thy side!
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And thou, whose spirit walks the firmament,
Speeding her track where human sight must fade;
Inspiring Science! to whose arm is lent
A skill no earthly rival ere display'd:
Oh!—who, save thou, bright Science hath essay'd
To measure space, and sound the depths of time;
Snatch unregarded knowledge from the shade:
Direct the winds,—ascend the spheres sublime,—
Or search the mines of thought through every age and clime.
Speeding her track where human sight must fade;
Inspiring Science! to whose arm is lent
A skill no earthly rival ere display'd:
Oh!—who, save thou, bright Science hath essay'd
To measure space, and sound the depths of time;
Snatch unregarded knowledge from the shade:
Direct the winds,—ascend the spheres sublime,—
Or search the mines of thought through every age and clime.
Thou, true Prometheus!—that endow'st the rude
Inanimate materials of the earth,
With motion—order—power!—that hast endued
With a perpetual life, with active worth,
The meaner things that 'neath the soil have birth!—
Opening new worlds for mental enterprize;—
Revealing riches, where before lay dearth!—
Who may discern where thy vast limit lies,
Who count thy works to come, thy future victories?
“Science has increased the sum of human happiness, not only by calling new pleasures into existence, but by so cheapening former enjoyments as to render them attainable by those who before never could have hoped to share them. Nor are its effects confined to England alone; they extend over the whole civilised world; and the savage tribes of America, Asia, and Africa, must ere long feel the benefits, remote or immediate, of this all-powerful agent.” —Lardner.
Inanimate materials of the earth,
With motion—order—power!—that hast endued
With a perpetual life, with active worth,
The meaner things that 'neath the soil have birth!—
Opening new worlds for mental enterprize;—
Revealing riches, where before lay dearth!—
Who may discern where thy vast limit lies,
Who count thy works to come, thy future victories?
69
The elements most subtle in their range,
Fire,—water,—are thy servants; and the air—
The boundless air obeys thee;—thou canst change
The barren dales of earth, to valleys fair!—
Touch the bleak waste, and leave a garden there;—
From stagnant marshes drain the vernal rill;—
Give to confusion, beauty!—and repair
The scale of years with grace-directed skill;—
Even from noxious herbs the dews of life distil!
Fire,—water,—are thy servants; and the air—
The boundless air obeys thee;—thou canst change
The barren dales of earth, to valleys fair!—
Touch the bleak waste, and leave a garden there;—
From stagnant marshes drain the vernal rill;—
Give to confusion, beauty!—and repair
The scale of years with grace-directed skill;—
Even from noxious herbs the dews of life distil!
Thine is that mighty fountain of the Mind
Whose universal waters, like a sea,
Spread forth their blessings to all humankind;—
Source of all knowledge—present, or to be:—
The arbiter of immortality!—
The visible embodiment of thought!—
Was this the only boon we owed to thee,—
This, Science, this thy just renown had wrought;
Still hadst thou been a name with inspiration fraught.
“The early appearance and the universality of traditional learning seems to establish the opinion, that the love of knowledge is among the first and most irresistible desires of the human heart. That many of the noblest efforts of ancient genius, though committed to writing on a substance so frail as papyrus, and so subject to erasure as the waxen tablet, should have reached the present age, is an event only to be accounted for by supposing, that their conspicuous beauties occasioned uncommon vigilance and solicitude in their preservation. To the Art of Printing may be attributed that change in the manners, sentiments, and information of the people, which has taken place within the interim of a century or two, and which cannot escape the most superficial observer.” —Knox.
Whose universal waters, like a sea,
Spread forth their blessings to all humankind;—
Source of all knowledge—present, or to be:—
The arbiter of immortality!—
The visible embodiment of thought!—
Was this the only boon we owed to thee,—
This, Science, this thy just renown had wrought;
Still hadst thou been a name with inspiration fraught.
70
Far as existence glows thy gifts are thrown
Like stars around creation—thou dost raise
Forth from the valley and the desert lone
Kingdoms whose stately beauty is the gaze
And marvel of the world!—a theme of praise
To after ages, and for each, a name
That while the last recording stone decays
Shall light the memory with as proud a flame
As when supreme they stood, the idolized of fame!
Like stars around creation—thou dost raise
Forth from the valley and the desert lone
Kingdoms whose stately beauty is the gaze
And marvel of the world!—a theme of praise
To after ages, and for each, a name
That while the last recording stone decays
Shall light the memory with as proud a flame
As when supreme they stood, the idolized of fame!
Greece, Egypt, Syria—from the antique dome,
To the colossal pile whose fragments rise
Like mountains on the classic plains of Rome;
Whose treasures are the wonders of all eyes;—
The miracles of human faculties!—
Rivers are spann'd,—the mighty oceans shrink
Before thy mightier skill; thy grasp defies
All known impediment, and link by link
Connects creation's tribes to earth's remotest brink!
To the colossal pile whose fragments rise
Like mountains on the classic plains of Rome;
Whose treasures are the wonders of all eyes;—
The miracles of human faculties!—
Rivers are spann'd,—the mighty oceans shrink
Before thy mightier skill; thy grasp defies
All known impediment, and link by link
Connects creation's tribes to earth's remotest brink!
71
A glorious object breasts the stately main!—
A winged wonder of the sunny air!—
With loveliness to make a seraph vain,—
With strength the armament of kings to bear;
To front the tempest in his treacherous lair,
And dash the ruin, smiling, from her wings!—
Oh! gaze upon her, looks she not most fair
Of all terrestial, perishable things,
Save only that which from the eternal Godhead springs?
A winged wonder of the sunny air!—
With loveliness to make a seraph vain,—
With strength the armament of kings to bear;
To front the tempest in his treacherous lair,
And dash the ruin, smiling, from her wings!—
Oh! gaze upon her, looks she not most fair
Of all terrestial, perishable things,
Save only that which from the eternal Godhead springs?
Onward to distant climes—romantic lands—
Where'er the glowing waves of ocean roll,
The queenly ship conveys her wide commands
From realm to realm—from pole to utmost pole—
Reckless of danger—vanquishing control—
She seems the agent of a throne divine;
A living creature with a dauntless soul,—
A form in which the finer powers combine,
And, Science, this great gift—this noble work is thine!—
Where'er the glowing waves of ocean roll,
The queenly ship conveys her wide commands
From realm to realm—from pole to utmost pole—
Reckless of danger—vanquishing control—
She seems the agent of a throne divine;
A living creature with a dauntless soul,—
A form in which the finer powers combine,
And, Science, this great gift—this noble work is thine!—
72
Throw wide thy gates—oh, Commerce!—teach mankind
The wondrous good which from thy bosom glows!
Bid Industry thy golden kingdoms find;—
Lift thou Mechanic Arts before their foes,
And challenge Pride to speak but what it knows;
Display thy vast establishments of trade;
Thy railways,—wharfs,—canals,—whence fortune flows,—
Match the derided shuttle 'gainst the spade!—
The weaver's humble thread—against the warrior's blade!—
The wondrous good which from thy bosom glows!
Bid Industry thy golden kingdoms find;—
Lift thou Mechanic Arts before their foes,
And challenge Pride to speak but what it knows;
Display thy vast establishments of trade;
Thy railways,—wharfs,—canals,—whence fortune flows,—
Match the derided shuttle 'gainst the spade!—
The weaver's humble thread—against the warrior's blade!—
Nor England scorn the Loom! from its abode
Heroes have led thine armies to the plain;
Statesmen, from whose majestic genius flowed
Wit to aspire, and wisdom to attain
The loftiest rank and rule thy sons may gain!—
Scorn not Mechanic Art!—Be it thy pride
Its universal franchise to obtain!—
Ne'er from thy grateful acts its hopes divide,—
For Franklin, Dalton, Watt—have crown'd thee from its side.
Heroes have led thine armies to the plain;
Statesmen, from whose majestic genius flowed
Wit to aspire, and wisdom to attain
The loftiest rank and rule thy sons may gain!—
Scorn not Mechanic Art!—Be it thy pride
Its universal franchise to obtain!—
Ne'er from thy grateful acts its hopes divide,—
For Franklin, Dalton, Watt—have crown'd thee from its side.
73
Franklin, whose hand in lines of lightning wrote
A name illustrious on the heavens' blue page!—
And though the flash his daring sight had smote—
He 'd welcomed death,—to live in after-age!
A poet's vision did his soul engage;—
The electric god sublime on tempests rode,
And devastating elements might rage—
From cloud to cloud he with the lightning strode,
And struck the thunder mute even in his own abode!—
A name illustrious on the heavens' blue page!—
And though the flash his daring sight had smote—
He 'd welcomed death,—to live in after-age!
“Franklin perceived an analogy between the effects of thunder and electricity, which struck him greatly. He conceived the idea of an apparatus, by means of which he proposed to interrogate the heavens; he makes the experiment, and the answer fully confirms his conjectures. Thus the cause of lightning is now known: its effects, so ruinous, so irregular in appearance, are not only explained, but imitated.
“We at length know why the lightning silently and peaceably follows certain bodies, and disperses others with a loud noise; why it melts metals, sometimes shivers to atoms and sometimes seems to respect those substances which surround it.
“But it was but little to imitate the thunder; Dr. Franklin conceived the audacious idea of averting its vengeance. He imagined that a bar of iron pointed at the end, and connected with the ground, or rather with the water, would establish a communication between the clouds and the earth; and thus guarantee or protect the objects in the immediate neighbourhood of such a conductor. The success of this idea was fully commensurate to all his wishes.”
—Condorcet.A poet's vision did his soul engage;—
The electric god sublime on tempests rode,
And devastating elements might rage—
From cloud to cloud he with the lightning strode,
And struck the thunder mute even in his own abode!—
Yes, he—whose philosophic genius joyed
To chain the lightning in its own domain—
To face the flash, which kingdoms had destroyed;
And scatter'd wreck and ruin o'er the main!
Whose blaze had lighted Superstition's fane,
And held in bigot awe the trembling sight!—
He—broke that wing of fire,—and did restrain
With iron-rule its wild, destructive flight;—
And left a guardian shield amidst the storms of night.
To chain the lightning in its own domain—
To face the flash, which kingdoms had destroyed;
And scatter'd wreck and ruin o'er the main!
Whose blaze had lighted Superstition's fane,
And held in bigot awe the trembling sight!—
He—broke that wing of fire,—and did restrain
With iron-rule its wild, destructive flight;—
And left a guardian shield amidst the storms of night.
74
In Science as in Literature—the same
Creative spirit elevates the tone!—
Philosopher and Bard must mount to fame
Each by Imagination's power alone;
The first conception Dalton's mind made known
Of the Atomic Theory—was then
A vision beautiful as Fancy's own!—
A fine poetic thought—worth Milton's pen!—
Waiting a Mind to grasp, and give its form to Men.
Creative spirit elevates the tone!—
Philosopher and Bard must mount to fame
Each by Imagination's power alone;
“The gift of a lively fancy is an important requisite to every physical observer. This faculty has accordingly been conspicuous among all the great discoverers. The imagination of the Philosopher differs from that of the Poet, only because it calls forth less vivid images: but it is equally creative, and equally alert in seizing the flitting scenes of Nature.” —Sir John Leslie, Prof. of Nat. Phil.
The first conception Dalton's mind made known
Of the Atomic Theory—was then
A vision beautiful as Fancy's own!—
A fine poetic thought—worth Milton's pen!—
Waiting a Mind to grasp, and give its form to Men.
The laws which regulate the starry height—
These planetary masses, as they sweep
Immeasurable space—'twas Newton's right
The fame of their discovery to reap!—
The Worlds of Atoms in their systems keep
Laws as defined as those the stars that guide!—
And Dalton triumphed with a power as deep,
When he the Atomic Theory applied,
As Newton when his mind the Laws of Worlds descried.
These planetary masses, as they sweep
Immeasurable space—'twas Newton's right
The fame of their discovery to reap!—
The Worlds of Atoms in their systems keep
Laws as defined as those the stars that guide!—
And Dalton triumphed with a power as deep,
When he the Atomic Theory applied,
As Newton when his mind the Laws of Worlds descried.
75
Where lies the wealth of nations?—can we rate
The statesman's genius in the highest grade?
Is it the Sword which leaves a Nation great?
How then was Rome o'erthrown?—or Greece betrayed?
No:—by a Watt's—a Newton's—Dalton's aid
A nation's truest fame and wealth are found,
The sons of Science have our greatness made!
For they the Sovereignty of Commerce crowned;
And shed its prosperous light on every shore around!—
The statesman's genius in the highest grade?
Is it the Sword which leaves a Nation great?
How then was Rome o'erthrown?—or Greece betrayed?
No:—by a Watt's—a Newton's—Dalton's aid
A nation's truest fame and wealth are found,
The sons of Science have our greatness made!
For they the Sovereignty of Commerce crowned;
And shed its prosperous light on every shore around!—
Wintry and pale the gray-eyed Day awoke
And drew the cloudy curtains of his sleep;
Dawn—like a smile—upon the cold town broke,—
The footless pavement—and the silence deep:—
Yet there watched one who ceaseless thought did keep
Upon the movement of an iron rod;—
As though fame, power, and fortune, at one leap
Would reach the spot that pale mechanic trod,—
There—where his Engine moved like some organic-god!—
And drew the cloudy curtains of his sleep;
Dawn—like a smile—upon the cold town broke,—
The footless pavement—and the silence deep:—
Yet there watched one who ceaseless thought did keep
Upon the movement of an iron rod;—
As though fame, power, and fortune, at one leap
Would reach the spot that pale mechanic trod,—
There—where his Engine moved like some organic-god!—
76
'Twas Watt—whose eye the breaking day first caught
Flushed with victorious science!—Watt, whose hand
A conquest over time and tide had wrought,
And held the Elements in his command!
Magician of Mechanics—whose Steam-wand
Annihilated space, and gave to Mind
Dominion over matter!—Sea and Land,
Like vassals which his mighty will could bind,
Acknowledging his power as first of humankind!—
Flushed with victorious science!—Watt, whose hand
A conquest over time and tide had wrought,
And held the Elements in his command!
Magician of Mechanics—whose Steam-wand
Annihilated space, and gave to Mind
Dominion over matter!—Sea and Land,
Like vassals which his mighty will could bind,
Acknowledging his power as first of humankind!—
Oh! thou mysterious and eternal Mind!—
Haply I sing of thee but as a bird,
Whose lonely notes float feebly on the wind,
Passing away unnoticed or unheard:—
But, oh! had I the energy of word—
The eloquence to utter all I feel—
The gift—the power to grasp Thought like a sword,
And what I know as I could wish reveal;—
My song should find a voice deep as the thunder's peal!
Haply I sing of thee but as a bird,
Whose lonely notes float feebly on the wind,
Passing away unnoticed or unheard:—
But, oh! had I the energy of word—
The eloquence to utter all I feel—
The gift—the power to grasp Thought like a sword,
And what I know as I could wish reveal;—
My song should find a voice deep as the thunder's peal!
77
Exquisite Spirit;—if thine aspect here
Is so magnificent;—if on earth thou art
Thus admirable: in thy sainted sphere,
What newer glories wilt thou not impart?
What powers—what unknown faculties may dart
Like sunlight through the heaven of thy mould!—
What rich endowments into life may start!—
What hidden splendours mayst thou not unfold,—
Which earthly eyes ne'er view'd—which human tongue ne'er told.
Is so magnificent;—if on earth thou art
Thus admirable: in thy sainted sphere,
What newer glories wilt thou not impart?
What powers—what unknown faculties may dart
Like sunlight through the heaven of thy mould!—
What rich endowments into life may start!—
What hidden splendours mayst thou not unfold,—
Which earthly eyes ne'er view'd—which human tongue ne'er told.
When Time stands mute before Eternity,
And the god-gifted Mind, new filled with light
From living fountains, glorified and free,
Soars in transcendent majesty and might;
An Angel in its first immortal flight!—
Gazing upon the heaven of heavens, to find
The bliss of wings!—the ecstacy of sight!—
A glory amidst glories of its kind!—
A disembodied Soul!—a re-created Mind!—
And the god-gifted Mind, new filled with light
From living fountains, glorified and free,
Soars in transcendent majesty and might;
An Angel in its first immortal flight!—
Gazing upon the heaven of heavens, to find
The bliss of wings!—the ecstacy of sight!—
A glory amidst glories of its kind!—
A disembodied Soul!—a re-created Mind!—
78
Then—and then only—may the clouds that hide
The stars of inspiration burst away;
Then may the gates of Knowledge open wide,
And Genius find its own eternal ray:—
Oh! for the coming of that future day!—
The Spirit-light—the Intellectual dower—
The melody of that undying lay—
The bliss—the bloom of that Elysian bower—
When Time shall breathe no more!—when Tombs have lost their power!
The stars of inspiration burst away;
Then may the gates of Knowledge open wide,
And Genius find its own eternal ray:—
Oh! for the coming of that future day!—
The Spirit-light—the Intellectual dower—
The melody of that undying lay—
The bliss—the bloom of that Elysian bower—
When Time shall breathe no more!—when Tombs have lost their power!
END OF THIRD PART.
79
4. PART FOURTH.
80
ANALYSIS.—PART IV.
The subject continued:—The Mind metaphysically considered. Thought:—The divinity of its source—allusion to the sceptical philosophy of Hume. Memory, Perception, and Reflection illustrated. The influence of Christianity upon the destiny of Man. The Power of the Mind when fortified by Religion—its conquest over difficulties— its triumph amidst torture and death.
Episode:—Knox before the Lords of the Congregation. The sublime impressions of a Sabbath-morn—the increased refinement, gentleness, and loveliness observable upon the Lord's Day. Sabbath on the Seas. Christ walking upon the waters.
Episode:—Consolations of the Mind in approaching death—the insufficiency of all earthly Hope. Apostrophe to the Star of Bethlehem. Conclusion.
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Whether the Mind be merely substance—earth,
That may again to native earth decline,
Or spirit,—essence of ethereal birth—
That, despite death, above the stars shall shine;
It hath been hitherto no aim of mine
To question, or propound:—to nobler things
I would this long continued theme confine;—
Nor rashly soil the Mind's exalting wings
With that scholastic dust the wrangling sophist flings.
That may again to native earth decline,
Or spirit,—essence of ethereal birth—
That, despite death, above the stars shall shine;
It hath been hitherto no aim of mine
To question, or propound:—to nobler things
I would this long continued theme confine;—
Nor rashly soil the Mind's exalting wings
With that scholastic dust the wrangling sophist flings.
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Whether indeed the particles of brain,
By mere vibration of each atom ball,
Engender thought? let casuists explain:—
How thought's produced, and present at what call?
Or if what we term Thought be thought at all?
I leave for speculation to dispute,
Nor bury Faith 'neath Doubt's sepulchral pall!—
For if the Mind's a tree, and Thought's the fruit,
Oh, still beyond the grave I trust to find its root!—
By mere vibration of each atom ball,
Engender thought? let casuists explain:—
How thought's produced, and present at what call?
Or if what we term Thought be thought at all?
I leave for speculation to dispute,
Nor bury Faith 'neath Doubt's sepulchral pall!—
For if the Mind's a tree, and Thought's the fruit,
Oh, still beyond the grave I trust to find its root!—
All substance must have limits,—who may trace
The limits of the Mind? what pedant lore
Fix its expansion?—the autumnal tree
Its leaf, flower, fruit, complete;—its end is o'er!—
Its principle of life effects no more!—
But how compute the intellectual height?—
What powers, desires, ideas, may it store?—
Is there an autumn for its fruitage bright,
A product it must bear;—then moulder dark in night?—
The limits of the Mind? what pedant lore
Fix its expansion?—the autumnal tree
Its leaf, flower, fruit, complete;—its end is o'er!—
Its principle of life effects no more!—
But how compute the intellectual height?—
What powers, desires, ideas, may it store?—
Is there an autumn for its fruitage bright,
A product it must bear;—then moulder dark in night?—
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No:—measureless as God's own nature is!
Its spirit limitless and unconfined!—
Seek first to span the heaven's sublimities,
Ere fix the attributes and powers of mind
To forms material:—seek to grasp the wind,
And count its undulations:—'t were in vain!—
Oh, deaf to harmony,—to beauty blind,—
That would the destiny of Mind constrain;—
Darken its glowing hopes; its soaring pinions chain!
Its spirit limitless and unconfined!—
Seek first to span the heaven's sublimities,
Ere fix the attributes and powers of mind
To forms material:—seek to grasp the wind,
And count its undulations:—'t were in vain!—
Oh, deaf to harmony,—to beauty blind,—
That would the destiny of Mind constrain;—
Darken its glowing hopes; its soaring pinions chain!
Whether the Mind external things perceives,
Or but their mirror'd images arrayed;—
Or, as some say, the mind the body leaves,
And comes in contact with each shape and shade,
'T were weak to argue:—if the brain be made
A vacant hall for outward sense to fill,
And our perceptions through the nerves conveyed,
Are vassals prompt and active at our will,
Still there is something more,—we want a Master still!
Or but their mirror'd images arrayed;—
Or, as some say, the mind the body leaves,
And comes in contact with each shape and shade,
'T were weak to argue:—if the brain be made
A vacant hall for outward sense to fill,
And our perceptions through the nerves conveyed,
Are vassals prompt and active at our will,
Still there is something more,—we want a Master still!
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That which directs the senses—wills, and thinks;—
The storehouse gives no order for its store,
It but receives:—say, what connects those links?
Combines,—selects,—arranges,—and goes o'er
Things, eyes have never seen?—nor hand yet bore?—
That in-creation is of right divine!
Its essence never science may explore,
Nor compass reach;—nor balance, rule, nor line
Guess at its form or end;—nor origin define!—
The storehouse gives no order for its store,
It but receives:—say, what connects those links?
Combines,—selects,—arranges,—and goes o'er
Things, eyes have never seen?—nor hand yet bore?—
That in-creation is of right divine!
Its essence never science may explore,
Nor compass reach;—nor balance, rule, nor line
Guess at its form or end;—nor origin define!—
Come, let us measure feelings by the square!—
Pain must be triangle—and pleasure round;—
Our sentiments are but a change of air;
Emotions are the growth of foreign ground;—
Motion is Thought!—oh, science most profound;
Research most learned!—why not with Hume agree,
And seek the simple with it to astound:
That “objects may exist yet nowhere be”
Say all is not—and doubt thine own identity!—
Pain must be triangle—and pleasure round;—
Our sentiments are but a change of air;
Emotions are the growth of foreign ground;—
Motion is Thought!—oh, science most profound;
Research most learned!—why not with Hume agree,
And seek the simple with it to astound:
That “objects may exist yet nowhere be”
Say all is not—and doubt thine own identity!—
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Ask what is Mind when from all thoughts, and dreams,
Passions, emotions, pains,—it stands alone?—
First say what is the Sun without its beams?
What 's sight to those confined till death in stone?
The mind may only by its powers be known:—
If to identify we must bereave
The mind of all by which the mind is shown;
The narrow sophist will his search deceive,
Entangled in the web his brains bewildered weave.
Passions, emotions, pains,—it stands alone?—
First say what is the Sun without its beams?
What 's sight to those confined till death in stone?
The mind may only by its powers be known:—
If to identify we must bereave
The mind of all by which the mind is shown;
The narrow sophist will his search deceive,
Entangled in the web his brains bewildered weave.
The thing remembered brings not Memory too!—
Dungeon'd in darkness eyes could know but night,
Yet to the captive should morn rise to view
The scene that blessed him would not bring him sight:
Thus Memory is an innate gift of light,
Not an induction; but 't is fruitless aim
To follow Truth through Doubt's deluding flight;—
To question and distrust, seems Learning's claim:—
And Doubt, Philosophy, is thy dark child of shame!—
Dungeon'd in darkness eyes could know but night,
Yet to the captive should morn rise to view
The scene that blessed him would not bring him sight:
Thus Memory is an innate gift of light,
Not an induction; but 't is fruitless aim
To follow Truth through Doubt's deluding flight;—
To question and distrust, seems Learning's claim:—
And Doubt, Philosophy, is thy dark child of shame!—
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The morning Wind that lingers o'er the rose,—
Plays with the willow,—or the harp-string finds,—
Wakes perfume,—music,—grace;—but where are those
Would say grace, perfume, music—were the Wind's?—
So are there agencies of many kinds
Waking intelligence by thousand ways;—
But fancy, taste, and feeling,—are the Mind's!
The agency is but the wind that plays
Over our spirit's chords; and nature's law obeys!—
Plays with the willow,—or the harp-string finds,—
Wakes perfume,—music,—grace;—but where are those
Would say grace, perfume, music—were the Wind's?—
So are there agencies of many kinds
Waking intelligence by thousand ways;—
But fancy, taste, and feeling,—are the Mind's!
The agency is but the wind that plays
Over our spirit's chords; and nature's law obeys!—
The low, gray stone—within the churchyard gate—
She loves it well, old Malpas, deaf and blind;—
There oft on Sabbath eves she used to wait
To meet his glance; and list those whispers kind,
Which won,—ere half her heart seem'd love inclined;—
Now fourscore years, like spirits, haunt that stone;
Blind,—yet she sees!—can there be eyes in Mind?—
Deaf,—yet she hears of lips beloved the tone
The spirit-language sweet of children once her own!
She loves it well, old Malpas, deaf and blind;—
There oft on Sabbath eves she used to wait
To meet his glance; and list those whispers kind,
Which won,—ere half her heart seem'd love inclined;—
Now fourscore years, like spirits, haunt that stone;
Blind,—yet she sees!—can there be eyes in Mind?—
Deaf,—yet she hears of lips beloved the tone
The spirit-language sweet of children once her own!
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Each name above the burial sod appears;
And pitying voices round poor Malpas rise:—
But not a sound of human tongue she hears;—
Not one graved letter meets those night-shut eyes;—
Yet still she hears—the voices of the skies!—
Still views bright forms, green lanes, and summer leaves;
If hearing to the Deaf—the Mind supplies;—
If sight unto the Blind—the Mind conceives;—
What but a present God the miracle achieves!—
And pitying voices round poor Malpas rise:—
But not a sound of human tongue she hears;—
Not one graved letter meets those night-shut eyes;—
Yet still she hears—the voices of the skies!—
Still views bright forms, green lanes, and summer leaves;
If hearing to the Deaf—the Mind supplies;—
If sight unto the Blind—the Mind conceives;—
What but a present God the miracle achieves!—
Perception and Reflection,—godlike gifts,—
Like Memory, are ingenerate in soul;—
The first the mind to Nature's knowledge lifts;
The second regulates and tests the whole:—
That power which keeps all others in control;—
And these—whate'er the rest—are not of earth;—
But God their source! and Paradise their goal,—
Since Revelation taught angelic worth;—
And Christ, the Saviour, gave to Man a second birth.
Like Memory, are ingenerate in soul;—
The first the mind to Nature's knowledge lifts;
The second regulates and tests the whole:—
That power which keeps all others in control;—
And these—whate'er the rest—are not of earth;—
But God their source! and Paradise their goal,—
Since Revelation taught angelic worth;—
And Christ, the Saviour, gave to Man a second birth.
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Light of the Sabbath—soul-awaking Morn,
Thou mirror of the mystery above!—
Oh! sainted day, on prophet pinions borne,
How waits the heart thy solemn rest to prove;—
How longs the soul with deity to move
And drink thy deathless waters!—and to feel
Thy beauty, and thy wisdom, and thy love,
Sublimely o'er the soaring spirit steal,
Till ope the heavenly gates Jehovah to reveal!—
Thou mirror of the mystery above!—
Oh! sainted day, on prophet pinions borne,
How waits the heart thy solemn rest to prove;—
How longs the soul with deity to move
And drink thy deathless waters!—and to feel
Thy beauty, and thy wisdom, and thy love,
Sublimely o'er the soaring spirit steal,
Till ope the heavenly gates Jehovah to reveal!—
Whilst, mounting and expanding, the Mind's wings
Thus, like a seraph's, reach eternal day;—
Futurity its starry mantle flings
And shrinks the Past an atom in its ray!—
So mighty—so magnificent—the way
Which leads to God!—so endless,—so sublime,—
The skies grow dark, their grandeur falls away
Before the wordless glory of that clime
Which feeds with light the suns and thousand worlds of Time.
Thus, like a seraph's, reach eternal day;—
Futurity its starry mantle flings
And shrinks the Past an atom in its ray!—
So mighty—so magnificent—the way
Which leads to God!—so endless,—so sublime,—
The skies grow dark, their grandeur falls away
Before the wordless glory of that clime
Which feeds with light the suns and thousand worlds of Time.
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Light of the Sabbath—soul-awaking morn;—
Take me, Religion, on thy holy quest;
Lead me 'mid desert hills, the wild and lorn,
To mark the lowly shepherd hail his guest
And bless that Day, which ever leaves him blest!—
Makes his rude cot an altar to God's praise!
Where, 'neath a mother's pious bosom prest,
His child, with lifted hands and upward gaze,
Pleads for its parents' weal, and happy length of days!—
Take me, Religion, on thy holy quest;
Lead me 'mid desert hills, the wild and lorn,
To mark the lowly shepherd hail his guest
And bless that Day, which ever leaves him blest!—
Makes his rude cot an altar to God's praise!
Where, 'neath a mother's pious bosom prest,
His child, with lifted hands and upward gaze,
Pleads for its parents' weal, and happy length of days!—
Sun of the Sabbath—lead me to the vale
Whose verdant arms enfold yon village fair;—
Afar from towns where passions stern prevail,—
Afar from Commerce and her sons of care—
Guide me where maidens young for Church prepare
In cottage grace—and garments Sunday-white!—
With reverend step, and mild submissive air,
Oft let me hear their tuneful lips unite,
To hail with humble hearts the Sabbath's sacred light.
Whose verdant arms enfold yon village fair;—
Afar from towns where passions stern prevail,—
Afar from Commerce and her sons of care—
Guide me where maidens young for Church prepare
In cottage grace—and garments Sunday-white!—
With reverend step, and mild submissive air,
Oft let me hear their tuneful lips unite,
To hail with humble hearts the Sabbath's sacred light.
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Oh, sight the loveliest human eyes e'er found!
To view two sisters o'er the same page bend,
Their lovely arms each other's waist around—
Their soft, bright air in careless ringlets blend—
Their mingling breath like incense sweet ascend
Over God's Book,—His angel-book of Truth!—
Their hearts, minds, feelings, all emotions lend
A vision of that paradise of youth
Ere Adah's beauteous form droop'd 'neath the serpent's tooth!
To view two sisters o'er the same page bend,
Their lovely arms each other's waist around—
Their soft, bright air in careless ringlets blend—
Their mingling breath like incense sweet ascend
Over God's Book,—His angel-book of Truth!—
Their hearts, minds, feelings, all emotions lend
A vision of that paradise of youth
Ere Adah's beauteous form droop'd 'neath the serpent's tooth!
Hail Sabbath hour!—Hail comforter and guide!—
Hour when the wanderer home a blessing sends;
Hour when the seaman o'er the surges wide
To every kindred roof his heart extends!—
Hour when to all that mourn thy peace descends:
When e'en the captive's griefs less sternly lower:—
Hour when the Cross of Christ all life defends;—
Hour of Salvation! God's redeeming hour!
Eternity is thine!—and Heaven-exalting power!—
Hour when the wanderer home a blessing sends;
Hour when the seaman o'er the surges wide
To every kindred roof his heart extends!—
Hour when to all that mourn thy peace descends:
When e'en the captive's griefs less sternly lower:—
Hour when the Cross of Christ all life defends;—
Hour of Salvation! God's redeeming hour!
Eternity is thine!—and Heaven-exalting power!—
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Prayer on the waters,—o'er the wintry sea,
Where, like a spire, the lonely mast appears
Lifting the seaman's thoughts to Deity!—
Prayer on the waters! Prayer to him who hears
All human wrongs,—all human sorrow cheers;—
Prayer the best anchor of a soul deprest!—
Though sunk in doubt the shipwreck'd spirit fears
The grave to come, with horrors unconfest;—
Yet shall that anchor save clasped to a drowning breast.
Where, like a spire, the lonely mast appears
Lifting the seaman's thoughts to Deity!—
Prayer on the waters! Prayer to him who hears
All human wrongs,—all human sorrow cheers;—
Prayer the best anchor of a soul deprest!—
Though sunk in doubt the shipwreck'd spirit fears
The grave to come, with horrors unconfest;—
Yet shall that anchor save clasped to a drowning breast.
Morn, noon, or eve—oh, Sea!—solemn or wild,
I list the myriad echoes of thy tongue—
Thy first low matin to the morning mild,
Thy chorus to the sun-god, deep and strong,
Thy lonely vesper to the starry throng:—
The poetry of waters!—blending free
All harmonies of beauty, grace, and song!—
Awakening thoughts of melodies to be
Beyond thy sounding shore, thou reverential sea!—
I list the myriad echoes of thy tongue—
Thy first low matin to the morning mild,
Thy chorus to the sun-god, deep and strong,
Thy lonely vesper to the starry throng:—
The poetry of waters!—blending free
All harmonies of beauty, grace, and song!—
Awakening thoughts of melodies to be
Beyond thy sounding shore, thou reverential sea!—
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Thy breathings are the eloquence of sound;
Wordless, yet touching more than words, that wake
The finest, noblest influences around;
Whether fierce storm thy mountain billows shake,
Or, calm and cloudless as a summer lake,
Thy waters ripple to the distant shore,
Still never should my heart thy ways forsake;
But love thee in each mood yet more and more;
Thou oracle of Time, whose mysteries all adore!—
Wordless, yet touching more than words, that wake
The finest, noblest influences around;
Whether fierce storm thy mountain billows shake,
Or, calm and cloudless as a summer lake,
Thy waters ripple to the distant shore,
Still never should my heart thy ways forsake;
But love thee in each mood yet more and more;
Thou oracle of Time, whose mysteries all adore!—
All in their turn have sacrificed to thee!—
Jew, Greek, Venetian, savage or untaught;—
From heathen hordes to Christian chivalry,
What battles on thy confines have been fought!
How many generations passed to nought
Since found the Ark a desolated land!—
How many glories lost since first God brought
Thy waters in the hollow of his hand,
And bade them know their place, and mark his high command.
Jew, Greek, Venetian, savage or untaught;—
From heathen hordes to Christian chivalry,
What battles on thy confines have been fought!
How many generations passed to nought
Since found the Ark a desolated land!—
How many glories lost since first God brought
Thy waters in the hollow of his hand,
And bade them know their place, and mark his high command.
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Thou art the link and union of all time!—
For men have gazed on thee, and felt and heard
The music of thy tones in every clime;—
Thou art the same wild sea which at the word
Of the Redeemer, trembling like a bird,
Folded thy stormy pinions, and grew still!
Thou art the same which erst the world interred!—
Full well thou know'st, through His mysterious will,
To conquer without arms, and without wounds to kill!—
For men have gazed on thee, and felt and heard
The music of thy tones in every clime;—
Thou art the same wild sea which at the word
Of the Redeemer, trembling like a bird,
Folded thy stormy pinions, and grew still!
Thou art the same which erst the world interred!—
Full well thou know'st, through His mysterious will,
To conquer without arms, and without wounds to kill!—
Long hast thou borne the sorrows of mankind
Upon thy broad and agitated breast;
Since hearts first cast their hopes upon the wind;
Since Home's sweet hearth lost many a lovely guest
To seek that solace for a mind deprest
Their native clime denied them!—One I knew
Whose grace—oh, poet's feelings ne'er exprest;—
Whose semblance painter's pencil never drew;—
Droop! fall!—as from the rose fades soft the vermeil dew.
Upon thy broad and agitated breast;
Since hearts first cast their hopes upon the wind;
Since Home's sweet hearth lost many a lovely guest
To seek that solace for a mind deprest
Their native clime denied them!—One I knew
Whose grace—oh, poet's feelings ne'er exprest;—
Whose semblance painter's pencil never drew;—
Droop! fall!—as from the rose fades soft the vermeil dew.
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Dying in tints of beauty—leaf by leaf!
'Twas whisper'd Love first called the canker there:—
But if she grieved, none ever saw her grief;—
The thought were torture—should a breath declare
That unkind Love hath left her cheek less fair!—
And thus she fed on Hope, who said away
From scenes too dear; that 'neath a foreign air
No more the worm within her breast should prey;—
No more her spirit faint—her little strength decay!
'Twas whisper'd Love first called the canker there:—
But if she grieved, none ever saw her grief;—
The thought were torture—should a breath declare
That unkind Love hath left her cheek less fair!—
And thus she fed on Hope, who said away
From scenes too dear; that 'neath a foreign air
No more the worm within her breast should prey;—
No more her spirit faint—her little strength decay!
Love? I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young—and life a thing divine.
All tastes—all pleasures—all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above—the stars in shroudless beauty shine,—
Around—the streams their flowery margins kiss,—
And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young—and life a thing divine.
All tastes—all pleasures—all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above—the stars in shroudless beauty shine,—
Around—the streams their flowery margins kiss,—
And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.
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Yes, this is love,—the steadfast and the true:—
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
Oh, who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe in some green walk their first young vow
Whilst summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,—
And all was rapture then, which is but memory now.
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
Oh, who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe in some green walk their first young vow
Whilst summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,—
And all was rapture then, which is but memory now.
Her's was a form to dream of—slight and frail—
As though too delicate for earth—too fair
To meet the worldly conflicts which assail
Nature's unhappy footsteps everywhere!—
There was a languor in her pensive air,
A tone of suffering in her accents weak,
The hectic signet, never known to spare,
Darken'd the beauty of her thoughtful cheek,
And omen'd fate more sad than even tears might speak.
As though too delicate for earth—too fair
To meet the worldly conflicts which assail
Nature's unhappy footsteps everywhere!—
There was a languor in her pensive air,
A tone of suffering in her accents weak,
The hectic signet, never known to spare,
Darken'd the beauty of her thoughtful cheek,
And omen'd fate more sad than even tears might speak.
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The angel-rapt expression of her eye—
The hair descending, like a golden wing,
Adown her shoulders' faded symmetry;—
Her moveless lip—so pined and perishing,—
The shadow of itself;—its rose-like spring
Blanched ere its time:—for morn no balm might wake;
Nor youth, with all its hope, nepenthe bring!—
She looked like one whose heart was born to break;
A face on which to gaze made every feeling ache!
The hair descending, like a golden wing,
Adown her shoulders' faded symmetry;—
Her moveless lip—so pined and perishing,—
The shadow of itself;—its rose-like spring
Blanched ere its time:—for morn no balm might wake;
Nor youth, with all its hope, nepenthe bring!—
She looked like one whose heart was born to break;
A face on which to gaze made every feeling ache!
And, oh! that wreath—the last her sister twined—
Whose heart-shaped leaves, slow failing, seem'd to say
Thus shall the friends forsake thee—left behind,—
Thus pass thy memory from their souls away:
Or, but in transient thought, unlovely, stray,
Like a poor flower that welcomeless appears!—
But, no, she wronged them; where they used to play,
Oh, many yet would speak of her with tears;
And think of all her love, her truth, in those gone years.
Whose heart-shaped leaves, slow failing, seem'd to say
Thus shall the friends forsake thee—left behind,—
Thus pass thy memory from their souls away:
Or, but in transient thought, unlovely, stray,
Like a poor flower that welcomeless appears!—
But, no, she wronged them; where they used to play,
Oh, many yet would speak of her with tears;
And think of all her love, her truth, in those gone years.
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Still, still she drooped, although the heavens shone warm;
And every hour her beauty shed some leaf,—
And every day still slighter waned her form,—
Those mild blue eyes seem'd but the founts of grief;—
Whilst they who might have soothed and brought relief
Were all afar; and seas between rolled high:—
Yet, oh! for but one glance—however brief—
But once to see the faces loved come nigh,
She'd say—“Thy will be done”—nor weep so young to die!
And every hour her beauty shed some leaf,—
And every day still slighter waned her form,—
Those mild blue eyes seem'd but the founts of grief;—
Whilst they who might have soothed and brought relief
Were all afar; and seas between rolled high:—
Yet, oh! for but one glance—however brief—
But once to see the faces loved come nigh,
She'd say—“Thy will be done”—nor weep so young to die!
The peasant, hastening to the vine-ripe fields,
Oft turned with pity towards the stranger maid,
Whose faltering steps approach'd yon mount, which yields
A view from shore to farthest sea displayed;—
And there, till setting day, the maiden stayed;
Watching each sail, if haply she might find
The distant ship which her dear friends conveyed;
And still Hope gave her wings to every wind,
And whispered “See, they come!”—till ached her wearied mind.
Oft turned with pity towards the stranger maid,
Whose faltering steps approach'd yon mount, which yields
A view from shore to farthest sea displayed;—
And there, till setting day, the maiden stayed;
Watching each sail, if haply she might find
The distant ship which her dear friends conveyed;
And still Hope gave her wings to every wind,
And whispered “See, they come!”—till ached her wearied mind.
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O human heart! when may thy feelings find
As fond return,—when thine emotions claim
Response as fervent, tenderness as blind,
Or friendship which is something more than name?
Ah me! the sum of life is still the same.
Affections which would serve our latest years
Grow ashes on the altar of youth's flame;—
And all too soon Experience appears
The history of our hearts to register with tears.
As fond return,—when thine emotions claim
Response as fervent, tenderness as blind,
Or friendship which is something more than name?
Ah me! the sum of life is still the same.
Affections which would serve our latest years
Grow ashes on the altar of youth's flame;—
And all too soon Experience appears
The history of our hearts to register with tears.
The minstrel Morn called to the woods, and they
Shook their green tresses, and from slumber rose;—
The merry Morn, still singing on her way,
Called bud, and flower, and streamlet from repose:
Who could behold, and dream of earthly woes?—
From dewy bloom to darkened chamber turn—
Mark the dim eyes lift upwards to their close,—
Gaze on the wasted cheek, and inly learn,
Vainly for human hearts the lamp of Hope may burn.
Shook their green tresses, and from slumber rose;—
The merry Morn, still singing on her way,
Called bud, and flower, and streamlet from repose:
Who could behold, and dream of earthly woes?—
From dewy bloom to darkened chamber turn—
Mark the dim eyes lift upwards to their close,—
Gaze on the wasted cheek, and inly learn,
Vainly for human hearts the lamp of Hope may burn.
99
I saw a star upon the vault profound,
A star of Mercy, lending blindness sight!
Twelve names of glory wreath'd it round and round;
Luminous altars, sanctifying night!—
Whilst from the centre—each a cross of light—
Beams, on celestial missions, mounted far!
And all the Hierarchs of Heaven's vast height
From the eternal portals raised the bar,
And hailed Salvation's hope—all hailed the Bethlehem Star.
A star of Mercy, lending blindness sight!
Twelve names of glory wreath'd it round and round;
Luminous altars, sanctifying night!—
Whilst from the centre—each a cross of light—
Beams, on celestial missions, mounted far!
And all the Hierarchs of Heaven's vast height
From the eternal portals raised the bar,
And hailed Salvation's hope—all hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Then from that living firmament there grew
A shape—a shadow infinite—which shed
Perpetual happiness where'er it drew;
Crowns of all thrones and worlds moved o'erits head!—
Whilst 'neath the might tremendous of that tread
The bruiséd Serpent fought in flaming war!
And, as at each rebellious coil it bled,
The glorious companies of saints afar
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
A shape—a shadow infinite—which shed
Perpetual happiness where'er it drew;
Crowns of all thrones and worlds moved o'erits head!—
Whilst 'neath the might tremendous of that tread
The bruiséd Serpent fought in flaming war!
And, as at each rebellious coil it bled,
The glorious companies of saints afar
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
100
Eastward gleamed forth a thousand gates divine,
From which their flight myriads of Angels took;
Ranging their hosts in glittering line on line;
Till high in heaven the wings of seraphs shook
A blaze intense of grandeur o'er that “Book”—
God's “Book of Life!” Oh, language may but mar
Each grace celestial,—each adoring look,—
As hosts on hosts of angels, shining far,
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
From which their flight myriads of Angels took;
Ranging their hosts in glittering line on line;
Till high in heaven the wings of seraphs shook
A blaze intense of grandeur o'er that “Book”—
God's “Book of Life!” Oh, language may but mar
Each grace celestial,—each adoring look,—
As hosts on hosts of angels, shining far,
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
Through ranks of cherubim the steep was won:—
Where, led by Faith, the dizzy verge I sought,
And worlds ten thousand down—beheld the Sun,—
The Sun of Mind! with beams omniscient fraught!—
Around the Powers and Ministers of Thought
Battled with Demons;—that, around, a war
Of endless passion, sin, and darkness, fought!
Yet there a Voice, not hosts of hell might jar,
Still breathed Salvation's hope!—still hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Where, led by Faith, the dizzy verge I sought,
And worlds ten thousand down—beheld the Sun,—
The Sun of Mind! with beams omniscient fraught!—
Around the Powers and Ministers of Thought
Battled with Demons;—that, around, a war
Of endless passion, sin, and darkness, fought!
Yet there a Voice, not hosts of hell might jar,
Still breathed Salvation's hope!—still hailed the Bethlehem Star.
101
Beyond the “Book,”—the mystic shrine beyond,—
Beyond the Mercy Seat,—the Seraph-zone,—
Truth, Holiness, and Love,—in triple bond—
Held the Eternal Veil before HIS throne!
A presence everlasting—yet alone!—
Seen in all glories whencesoe'er they are;
Known in all being;—yet unseen!—unknown!—
There, borne on wings as on triumphal car,
One sate August in Might—and hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Beyond the Mercy Seat,—the Seraph-zone,—
Truth, Holiness, and Love,—in triple bond—
Held the Eternal Veil before HIS throne!
A presence everlasting—yet alone!—
Seen in all glories whencesoe'er they are;
Known in all being;—yet unseen!—unknown!—
There, borne on wings as on triumphal car,
One sate August in Might—and hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Then glorified in God appear'd the Seven—
The beautiful, imparadised to sight!
Then burst revealed the mysteries of heaven
The mover, mind, and miracle of light!
That Hand—whose shadow is the throne of night!—
And in the midst the face which never smiled,
For ever sorrowful where all was bright!
Still pleading for the erring feet, beguiled;
Still smileless though in heaven—for man, the guilt-defiled!
The beautiful, imparadised to sight!
Then burst revealed the mysteries of heaven
The mover, mind, and miracle of light!
That Hand—whose shadow is the throne of night!—
And in the midst the face which never smiled,
For ever sorrowful where all was bright!
Still pleading for the erring feet, beguiled;
Still smileless though in heaven—for man, the guilt-defiled!
102
What—weeps the Saviour 'midst the hosts of God—
And can Eternity blanch out the stain!
May Christ forget the path his foes have trod,
Forgive the thorn and thong—the cross and chain?
Oh Nature, blush for Man!—who can remain
Unmoved whilst angels tremble in their spheres!
Still grasping gold while Death confounds his gain—
Still deaf—though universal Pity hears!—
Tearless! though 'midst God's hosts he draws a Saviour's tears?
And can Eternity blanch out the stain!
May Christ forget the path his foes have trod,
Forgive the thorn and thong—the cross and chain?
Oh Nature, blush for Man!—who can remain
Unmoved whilst angels tremble in their spheres!
Still grasping gold while Death confounds his gain—
Still deaf—though universal Pity hears!—
Tearless! though 'midst God's hosts he draws a Saviour's tears?
Without Redemption—Mind were like the night
Which finds no morn!—a sea that seeks no shore!—
If soaring, without Hope to aid its flight;
And to oblivion doomed for evermore!
All its exalted visions quenched and o'er,
Its noblest feelings but as fragrance shed;
No Saviour's hand its perfume to restore;
No voice to call the slumberer from his bed,—
But everlasting dust and darkness on the Dead!—
Which finds no morn!—a sea that seeks no shore!—
If soaring, without Hope to aid its flight;
And to oblivion doomed for evermore!
All its exalted visions quenched and o'er,
Its noblest feelings but as fragrance shed;
No Saviour's hand its perfume to restore;
No voice to call the slumberer from his bed,—
But everlasting dust and darkness on the Dead!—
103
Oh, what were Man's majestic faculties—
His genius as of Deity a spark,—
Though, like the sun of morning o'er the seas,
Mind rose supreme, of gazing worlds the mark;
If born to be cast down to endless dark!—
Thought,—Learning,—Genius,—all that loves to climb,
Predestined for the Grave;—no saving Ark
To bear the fallen from the gulph of time;—
Nor show that Angel-step from tombs—to worlds sublime.
His genius as of Deity a spark,—
Though, like the sun of morning o'er the seas,
Mind rose supreme, of gazing worlds the mark;
If born to be cast down to endless dark!—
Thought,—Learning,—Genius,—all that loves to climb,
Predestined for the Grave;—no saving Ark
To bear the fallen from the gulph of time;—
Nor show that Angel-step from tombs—to worlds sublime.
Oh, Mind immortal!—Mind ineffable!—
Infinite Wisdom of the Godhead known;
Soul of all spheres wherever Life may dwell;
Eternal Intellect!—Thought's first, grand throne!—
Thou, who dost stretch thy hand from zone to zone,
And hold'st the fate of empires at thy feet;
We bless thee, God, for boundless mercies shown!
We bless thee that the Grave holds promise sweet
That we, through Death's dread night, thy saving Morn shall meet.
Infinite Wisdom of the Godhead known;
Soul of all spheres wherever Life may dwell;
Eternal Intellect!—Thought's first, grand throne!—
Thou, who dost stretch thy hand from zone to zone,
And hold'st the fate of empires at thy feet;
We bless thee, God, for boundless mercies shown!
We bless thee that the Grave holds promise sweet
That we, through Death's dread night, thy saving Morn shall meet.
104
Salvation!—bid the Earth resume the sound!—
Sing it—ye Forests—lift your boughs in song!
And thou—vast Ocean—to thine utmost bound
Swell the bright tidings of the Cross along!
And you—ye giant mountains—with a tongue
Majestic as the thunder-harp above,
Sound forth Salvation to the World's wide throng?
Again the Ark is saved—by Christ , the Dove!—
And Mind redeemed through God's almighty, endless Love!
Sing it—ye Forests—lift your boughs in song!
And thou—vast Ocean—to thine utmost bound
Swell the bright tidings of the Cross along!
And you—ye giant mountains—with a tongue
Majestic as the thunder-harp above,
Sound forth Salvation to the World's wide throng?
Again the Ark is saved—by Christ , the Dove!—
And Mind redeemed through God's almighty, endless Love!
END OF FOURTH PART.
109
CONCLUSION.
Humbly—sweet Spirit of harmonious Song!—
Soul universal!—Angel born of thought,—
Truth—feeling—love!—whose rapture-breathing tongue,
High inspiration from the Godhead caught!
Humbly thy chosen temple have I sought,
Low at thy feet mine offering to resign:—
And if—as hoped—'t is with right feeling fraught,
With import dear to thee—thou, Muse divine,—
And no degenerate son pays homage at thy shrine,—
Soul universal!—Angel born of thought,—
Truth—feeling—love!—whose rapture-breathing tongue,
High inspiration from the Godhead caught!
Humbly thy chosen temple have I sought,
Low at thy feet mine offering to resign:—
And if—as hoped—'t is with right feeling fraught,
With import dear to thee—thou, Muse divine,—
And no degenerate son pays homage at thy shrine,—
Then grant me audience with the good and wise:
And let this seed of Verse, if deem'd of worth,
Bloom forth to other days—and other eyes—
A flower to grace my grave;—when mute in earth
Let me not leave an unrecorded birth:—
But should this theme of Mind prove worthy thee,
If its immortal visions shadow forth
A power—a presence of divinity—
Then yield me yet a name, that Time may love to see.
And let this seed of Verse, if deem'd of worth,
Bloom forth to other days—and other eyes—
A flower to grace my grave;—when mute in earth
Let me not leave an unrecorded birth:—
But should this theme of Mind prove worthy thee,
If its immortal visions shadow forth
A power—a presence of divinity—
Then yield me yet a name, that Time may love to see.
1832.
| The mind | |