Verses written in the portico of the temple of liberty at Woburn Abbey ::

Verses written in the portico of the temple of liberty at Woburn Abbey

on placing before it the statues of Locke and Erskine, in the summer of 1835 [by J. H. Wiffen]

Wiffen, Jeremiah Holmes (1792-1836)

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VERSES WRITTEN IN THE PORTICO OF THE TEMPLE OF LIBERTY.

“For, worthy of the Wise
Nothing can seem, but Virtue; nor earth yield
Their fame an equal field,
Save where impartial Freedom gives the prize.”
Akenside.

I

Urged by what law, shall poet say
The fateful tide of Empire veers,
As the winged moments haste to pay
Their tribute to the rushing years?
For, soon or late, though Glory rears
His trophies to recording Time,
Or rust the medal's face devours,
Or, green alike o'er shrines and towers,
The conquering ivies climb.

II

In the magnificence of Might
It rests not; else had Babylon
Been to this hour, in time's despite,
As erst, the darling of the sun:
Colossal was the height she won,—
On less than stars she scorned to tread;
Till through her wave-deserted gate
Swept the stern minister of fate,
And bowed her golden head.

III

In the luxurious pomp of Pride
It stands not fixed; or Persia ne'er
Had seen her Xerxes' swarms defied,
Or Susa's hall the leopard's lair.
Tyre was her merchant; every air
That stirred, blew silver to that shore,
Where now, at ocean's slightest shock,
To spread his nets upon the rock,
The fisher plies his oar.

IV

On the rich eloquence of Art,
The words of Wisdom, charms of Taste,
And all that Wit and Song impart,
To cheer the spirit's tractless waste,
It is not built—it is not based,—
Or the mute world had worshipped still
Each tone from tripod, vault, and cave,
Struck out by priestess, wind, or wave,
On Delphi's laurelled hill.

V

Yes! these, loved Greece, were all thine own!
The sophist's style, the painter's fire;
The inspiration stamped on stone,
The warbled wonders of the lyre;
Thine, dreams that bade the soul aspire
With Plato to the' Elysian sphere,—
Thunders that stirred thy states to strife,
And vows breathed to the Spartan fife,
Thy tyrants quaked to hear!

VI

But what availed these varied stores,
When Discord, with her tuneless key,
Oped wide her temple's brazen doors
To thine uncurbed democracy?
Bending to earth the bacchic knee,
Thy torch the Macedonian hurled,
Till, spent with toils, his plume was driven
On the four warrior-winds of heaven,
And tumult rocked the world.

VII

On the lorn ruins of thy frame,
From wrestling with ten thousand foes,
Dazzling the fancy with her fame,
Last, Rome, the' august, the' “Eternal,” rose.
Or east or west, mid sands or snows,
On cloud-crowned height or isle-gemmed main,
City nor fortress towered, but there
Flew her grim Eagles forth, to bear
The fasces of her reign.

VIII

Victims on victims, spoils on spoils
Her altars vexed, her temples cumbered,—
Till, lapt in sloth's voluptuous coils,
The spirit of her Cæsars slumbered;
And, to the storm of hordes unnumbered,
Groaned her vast fabric—rocked her wall:
Hark yet, how through the Gothic tongues
Of her ten kingdoms, Heaven prolongs
The echo of her fall!

IX

Slow from the penance and the pain
Of that Cimmerian trance, awoke
The' imperial Titaness; and when
Her conquering trumpet freshly spoke,
No Warrior did its voice evoke,—
The Lictor's—Legion's pomp had passed;
But One before whose priestly crown
Earth's myriad intellects bowed down,
Blew the remorseless blast.

X

Armed with “the keys of heaven and hell,”
All state, all power in him combined,
With more than a magician's spell
He ruled the' unbounded realms of Mind.
Reason his vassal—Thought grew blind,
And dumb to his behest; his whim
Was law, outwhispering holier things
To Fancy, than the' ecstatic wings
Of the' harping Cherubim.

XI

He smiled—'t was peace o'er earth; he frowned—
And Life, with all its tender ties,
Was hunted by the grim blood-hound
Of Terror, in Love's vizored guise:
By hymns meanwhile and lullabies
Of strong enchantment laid to rest,
Guilt changed to innocency—right
To wrong,—and in her cloisters, Night
Reigned—Ladye of the West!

XII

O, warned by some prophetic power,
'Twas then, divorced from bigot dread,
To Britain, in auspicious hour,
Truth—Science—Virtue—Freedom fled:
And sages toiled, and patriots bled,
Their sacred bowers unstained to keep,
When the frenetic Spaniard hung
Upon their steps, and howling flung
His navies o'er the deep.

XIII

On meek Religion's stable base
Their temperate rule they sought to build,—
Not reckless of Athenian grace,
Nor yet in Roman strength unskilled;
And though their scope not all fulfilled
The structure of the social shrine,
What British eye unmoved could view
What Cranmer wrought, or Burleigh drew,
To' achieve the great design!

XIV

Hence, when again despotic pride
Revived upon the regal stage,
And, bidding Conscience be defied,
Threw down Prescription's angry gage,
Ah me! with how sublime a rage
Her champions to the challenge thronged,—
The learn'd—the brave—the great—the good—
And by the baptism of their blood,
The' impressive strife prolonged!

XV

With a calm front, unblenched by fear,
Her Hampden's fall she not bewailed;
With a stern smile her Russell's bier,
In mingled pride and transport hailed:
For, long as Power her hearths assailed,
She knew his lineage would aspire—
The lessons which he taught, to teach,
And from her cherished altars reach
The' imperishable fire.

XVI

For this, in later years—when, broke
Beneath Misrule's ascendant star,
Their Snakes the Furies sought to yoke,
O Freedom! to thy peaceful car,—
When tumult, tyranny, and war,
Urged on the' insulting charioteer,
Thou saw'st another Russell rise,
At exiled Pity's prostrate cries,
And fix thy temple here.

XVII

Here, prompt to soothe thine injured pride,
With pious hands the fane he reared;
And from Ilissus' whispering tide,
To Genius and to Taste endeared,
Drew the fair model that insphered
Thy glory in those festal hours,
When his keen sword Harmodius sheathed
In myrtle, and Alcæus breathed
Life through thine olive bowers.

XVIII

The Passions that pollute thy reign,
Far from thy vestal courts he chased;
Nor chiselled trumpet, sword, nor chain,
The pure Pierian walls debased;
But at thy side, by Peace embraced,
The Lion with the Lamb reclines;
And at thy feet young Plenty pours
The wealth of all his threshing-floors,
The pomp of all his vines.

XIX

True to thine altars, and the cause
Wherein his brave Forefather bled,
He stemmed mad Folly's wanton wars,
Long as Hope's guiding watch-star led,—
Then from the venal senate fled,
To tend thee on thy woodland throne;
With Peace to dwell in pastoral state,
And in the barren wilds create
An Eden all his own.

XX

Now hush the syrinx—seal the scroll—
Pass the dark wilderness of years!—
I would not stir thy secret soul,
Nor wake again thy streaming tears!—
But see how kindred zeal reveres
The landmarks of thy former power!
Stationed before thy sacred cells,
These are thy guardian Sentinels!
The Warders of thy tower!

XXI

In simplest Art's decorous stole,
See Locke—Truth's favourite pupil stand,—
Simple in faith, sincere of soul,
The Style and tablets in his hand,
Which, at thine own inspired command,
Philosophy consigned, to gauge
The darkness of the Stagyrite,
And, loosing Reason, put to flight
The phantoms of the age!

XXII

How pure the' expression! how benign
The beauty of that studious face!
Composure lives in every line,
Persuasive truth in every trace;
Urged with a smile whose charm might grace
An angel's cheek,—as though 'twere given,
When Strife from Tolerance took its birth,
To blend with the disputes of earth,
The charities of Heaven!

XXIII

When 'gainst thy realms the Stuart fought,
What mightier aid could champion bring,
Than he who scaled the towers of Thought,
And gave Opinion boundless wing,
Unclipped by statesman, priest, or king,—
Obsequious but to the rebuke
Of Conscience on her judgment throne,
Or edict to the mind made known
From Inspiration's book!

XXIV

His visions for his country's weal
Thou bad'st thy Somers swift enrol,
And fixed a sovereign's patriot seal
On the freed nation's chartered scroll;
Whence the strong check, the wise control,
The monarch's safety—subject's shield,—
And Tolerance, by the heavens adored,
Of force to blunt the sharpest sword
Which mad polemics wield.

XXV

Safe in this equal sanctuary,
Peace saw her ordered work expand,
And all her sons, in due degree
Of sacred state, harmonious stand:
The meanest hind that walked the land
In his rough shoon, from rapine's frown
Was fenced by as divine a cest,
As he whose highborn brows were pressed
By coronet or crown.

XXVI

Thus fared it till Ambition gained
Unguarded access to thy tower,
And, like Pisistratus, attained
The summit of imperial power.
His hand annulled, in evil hour,
The rescripts of the wise Nassau;
And, menacing the march of mind,
Sought at his chariot-wheels to bind
Peace, Liberty, and Law.

XXVII

'Twas then that, to thy quarrel vowed,
And gifted for the' avenging fight
With thunders from thy lowering cloud,
And lightnings of electric might,
Burning with jealousy, and bright
With the keen wrath that scorned repose,—
As thine old wrestlers stern, and strong
In the seized gauntlets of thy wrong,
Thine equal Genius rose.

XXVIII

As oft in Feeling's full recoil,
So stands the' intrepid Erskine now,
Gathering his soul up for the toil
That knits his fixed and thoughtful brow,—
Ere yet the pregnant lips avow
The' impassive arguments that swell
In the vast ocean of his mind,
Where Reason sits to loose, or bind
The Passions in their cell.

XXIX

Or were it Mirth, or tragic Woe
He summoned to the proud debate,
Or Honour for the patriot's throe
That throbbed to save a sinking state,
Scorn, Wrath, or Sympathy, or Hate,
His magic voice could none resist;
To chill—to rouse—to melt—to burn—
Each strong Emotion came in turn,
In turn to be dismissed.

XXX

Whilst as the glowing woof he wrought,
Her flushing lights rich Fancy shed;
And all the gathering tribes of Thought
Their ranks in rapid order spread,—
Warriors, in whose heroic tread
Were heard harmonious sounds—the cheer
Of Faith—Hope's charging trumpet-tones,
And baffled Power's bewildered groans,
And Triumph in the rear!

XXXI

As radiant shines, on Scilly's isle,
The lonely Column of the sea,
Breasting, 'twixt crag and cloud, the while,
The' Atlantic's mighty swell, a-lee,—
So on thy rock, stern Liberty!
When like a flood the foe came on,
Betwixt the' enslaver and enslaved,
As dauntlessly the storm he braved,
His burning watch-fires shone!

XXXII

Refluent from his unwearied frame,
Proscription's warring surges fell;
Thy bleeding form had else—O shame!
Been bound in thine own citadel!
Else, ermined hands thy funeral knell
Perchance had duly rung! for when
Thy Press, thy Juries, daunted lie
In ruin and repose, what eye
Shall trace thy steps again?

XXXIII

Still may Philosophy and Law
Thy balanced fabric well sustain,—
Still with keen eye and reverent awe
Keep watch before thy hallowed fane,
Lest aught unholy or profane
With Vandal foot the threshold win,
To quench or dim thy vestal flame,
Or from their pedestals of fame
Smite down thy guests within!

XXXIV

Within—what blest benignant band
On thine inspiring words attend,
Powerful the Senate to command,
The wise to charm, the brave to bend!
Souls—taught by Conscience to contend
For Truth! for Right! for Heaven! for Thee!
Though thunder roar, though whirlwind blow,
Thy seed beside all streams to sow,
Till Heaven the fruit decree!

XXXV

With beating heart and ravished sight,
Each pure Intelligence behold!
Yon master mind's ethereal height—
Clear as the sunshine, gay like gold!
With Wisdom's mantle round him rolled,
Saturnian brows—ambrosial locks—
And thoughts sagacious, warm, profound,
Still Eloquence seems hovering round
The sculptured form of Fox.

XXXVI

Thee, Justice, too, in vision clear,
I see, yon faithful group among,
Bent to record, with smiles sincere,
The truths that flowed from Holland's tongue;
Whilst, with a zeal for ever young,
He stormed, in many a bold debate,
Those penal Institutes, the fort
That curbed within thine Outer Court,
The Gentiles of the State!

XXXVII

Come, virgin Faith! come, fair Renown!
Come, Honour, true to every trust!
And with your mingled garlands crown,
Some festal hour, Grey's patriot bust;
The incorruptible—the' august—
Who earliest glowed, and latest toiled
The liberties he loved, to rear,
Till, back from his Ithuriel spear,
Gigantic Guilt recoiled!

XXXVIII

O, spared by Heaven's indulgent breath
Throughout that long and wintry night,
When to the cold, calm shores of death
Your kindred friends had winged their flight,—
To steer—albeit in shattered plight—
O'er treacherous sands and billows dark,
Through wrath, thro' dread, through hate, thro' scorn,
Safe to the rosy peaks of Morn,
Your country's sacred ark!—

XXXIX

Illustrious Patriarchs! from you
What happier age its date begins!
Hope's progeny have ye raised anew,
Purged from old Slavery's venal sins.
Like to those famed and fabled Twins
Who, scaped the roaring Deluge, viewed
The stony seed they strewed behind,
Earth's living army, unconfined,
In radiant might renewed.

XL

Ere, late, around your laurelled urns,
By Love, Faith, Honour, Freedom, blessed,
The requiem peals—the flambeau burns—
And the sky claims each cherished guest,—
O, let your hallowed mantles rest
On girded loins and sandals shod
With holiest messages of peace,
To bear o'er isles, and sounds, and seas,
The olive-branch of God!

XLI

On One who in a triple band
Britain's regenerate sons may bind,
And close, at Mercy's strict command,
The gates of Janus on mankind;—
All feuds—all factions to the wind
Casting, like Sampson's withes,—no more
Truth's sinewy members to restrain,
Clime, creed, or colour, to enchain,
Or purple earth with gore.

XLII

One—who, with vast ambition fired,
Yet mild as evening's vernal gale,
As Power's true priest may be inspired,
On Morn's new seas of light to sail,
Bidding green Erin's headlands hail,
And pouring o'er her ravaged plains,
Oil—for the wounds by ages given,
Wine—for her countless woes, unshriven,
Nepenthe for all pains!

XLIII

Grant him your faith in gloomier hours,
Your temperate trust in sunnier days;
So may his axe the groves and bowers,
High shrines and lurid altars raze,
Whereon the fires of Mammon blaze;
With all Josiah's zeal and care
Intent, though bigots round him brawl,
From each defilement, breach, and thrall,
The Temple to repair.

XLIV

His too, be his the rare renown,
Aloof from prejudice and pride,
Of breaking those partitions down,
Which still the Good from Good divide;
Ranging all hearts on Virtue's side—
Counting the light of Science loss,
Compared with the eternal Star
Of Righteousness, whose pandects are
The Gospels and the Cross!

XLV

Hence taught that Empire stands no more
On the brute Legion's charging shock,
Nor Persian gold, Chaldean lore,
Nor Porch where graceful cynics flock,—
May he on Righteousness, the rock,
Fix Freedom's ark and Britain's fame!
For blessings to far times bequeathed,
With amaranth be his forehead wreathed,
And Russell be his name!

XLVI

For me, whose truant steps too long
Had wandered from thy blissful sphere,
O Divine Truth! if Doric song
To Thee and Freedom still be dear,
Grant me thy chastened spirit, clear
From every cloud, from every stain,—
And that meek trust, of patience born,
Which best befits the peaceful morn
Of thy perpetual reign!

XLVII

So may I oft entranced behold
The glories of thy perfect day;
When Error's empire shall be rolled,
Like some nocturnal mist, away.
With basilisks then the babe shall play,—
The sword the ploughshare's toil fulfil,—
And Man rest in his viny shade,
With none to hurt, or make afraid,
In all thy holy hill!

FINIS

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