 | Seatonian Poems |  |
59
MAMMON.
1852.
61
Twilight is on the broad and glorious Rhine!
From dark ravine and dewy valley now
Each stream-voice echoes hoarser: pinegroves sing
Their everlasting strain more solemnly,
Faint in the distance; faint, and yet most sweet,
Like spirit-whisperings, that, when night grows old
And the sick taper glimmers faintlier, call
The righteous Homeward: brighter ev'n than that,
(Bright though that be) wherewith the moon to-night
Decks the Seven Mountains. Each, with base enwrapped
In solitude and mist and shade, exalts
His noble head to a serener world,
And wears a halo-diadem of light.
From dark ravine and dewy valley now
Each stream-voice echoes hoarser: pinegroves sing
Their everlasting strain more solemnly,
Faint in the distance; faint, and yet most sweet,
Like spirit-whisperings, that, when night grows old
And the sick taper glimmers faintlier, call
The righteous Homeward: brighter ev'n than that,
(Bright though that be) wherewith the moon to-night
Decks the Seven Mountains. Each, with base enwrapped
In solitude and mist and shade, exalts
His noble head to a serener world,
And wears a halo-diadem of light.
62
'Twere no unworthy lesson, gazing first
On that celestial splendour, where the star
That bids the shepherd fold, is riding high
'Twixt Lichtenstein and Sternberg, and the clouds
Bright as with bdellium and the onyx-stone
Attend the moon, and some few planets dare
Her fullest blaze of light, and deck the sky
With gems of gold, (that country's gold is good)
Then to look down upon the waves that hide,
Dimpling and eddying in their seaward course,
That old mysterious treasure, swept belike
Down to some river cavern, or concealed
In the fair treacherous arms of green Lurlei.
So heavenly things with earthly scenes contrast:
They—those celestial riches—breathe of peace,
And draw the spirit up, by some sweet charm,
Into the City, whose abiding streets
Are golden, as it were transparent glass,
Whose light has jasper radiance, and whose throngs
Wear the blest diadem before their God,
And sing His endless praise. The earthly hoard,
That dim and yellow clay which men call gold,
O'er which the Rhine-waves chant, from age to age,
Their song of sadness, teaches other lore:
Tells of th' oppressor and th' oppressed; the shriek
Of mortal fear, the thick short sob of death,
The midnight burial, and the ceaseless worm
That gnaws the conscience; tells of fierce despair;
And cries, as with the avenger's voice, for blood.
On that celestial splendour, where the star
That bids the shepherd fold, is riding high
'Twixt Lichtenstein and Sternberg, and the clouds
Bright as with bdellium and the onyx-stone
Attend the moon, and some few planets dare
Her fullest blaze of light, and deck the sky
With gems of gold, (that country's gold is good)
Then to look down upon the waves that hide,
Dimpling and eddying in their seaward course,
That old mysterious treasure, swept belike
Down to some river cavern, or concealed
In the fair treacherous arms of green Lurlei.
So heavenly things with earthly scenes contrast:
They—those celestial riches—breathe of peace,
And draw the spirit up, by some sweet charm,
Into the City, whose abiding streets
Are golden, as it were transparent glass,
Whose light has jasper radiance, and whose throngs
63
And sing His endless praise. The earthly hoard,
That dim and yellow clay which men call gold,
O'er which the Rhine-waves chant, from age to age,
Their song of sadness, teaches other lore:
Tells of th' oppressor and th' oppressed; the shriek
Of mortal fear, the thick short sob of death,
The midnight burial, and the ceaseless worm
That gnaws the conscience; tells of fierce despair;
And cries, as with the avenger's voice, for blood.
O Mammon! thou hast won o'er this fair world
(Fair but for thee, and in thy spite yet fair)
A heritage of woe! On many a moor
From Ural steppes, that greet the dawning day,
To the green prairies of the further west,
Thou rear'st thy trophies. Where each autumn saw
The desert kindle with its blushing heath
In all its purple beauty, there, one morn,
There sank upon its breast a purpler stain.
Thence is the place accursed: thence at eve
The lated peasant shuns the spot, and tells
Of shrieks that, in the lull of autumn-gusts,
Mysterious rise, and footsteps not of earth;
And as the shuddering circle gather in
Around the winter hearth, the murderer's tale
One moral ends: This did the lust of gold.
Thine, Spirit of all evil, where the Alps
Look from their southern barriers, hoar with snow,
Down on Italian plains, and all the land
Is young with life and spring, a land of vines
And olives, love and beauty, bloom and hope,—
Thine, midst dark ilex or the lighter shade
Of cork or green acacia, is the Cross,
That, grey with years and battered with the storm,
Tells yet, that God's great vengeance never sleeps.
(Fair but for thee, and in thy spite yet fair)
A heritage of woe! On many a moor
From Ural steppes, that greet the dawning day,
To the green prairies of the further west,
Thou rear'st thy trophies. Where each autumn saw
The desert kindle with its blushing heath
In all its purple beauty, there, one morn,
There sank upon its breast a purpler stain.
Thence is the place accursed: thence at eve
The lated peasant shuns the spot, and tells
64
Mysterious rise, and footsteps not of earth;
And as the shuddering circle gather in
Around the winter hearth, the murderer's tale
One moral ends: This did the lust of gold.
Thine, Spirit of all evil, where the Alps
Look from their southern barriers, hoar with snow,
Down on Italian plains, and all the land
Is young with life and spring, a land of vines
And olives, love and beauty, bloom and hope,—
Thine, midst dark ilex or the lighter shade
Of cork or green acacia, is the Cross,
That, grey with years and battered with the storm,
Tells yet, that God's great vengeance never sleeps.
In the far west, where suns go down in gold,
And fancy loves to linger, building up
Her domelike palaces in gorgeous clouds,
Islands there are of everlasting spring,
Where seas of deep calm blue smile
countlessly
'Twixt woods of emerald: where, in mimic war,
The green banana waves her giant flags,
Her silver trumpets the datura sounds,
And squadron'd forests, marshall'd as for fight,
March o'er the land: where birds of glorious wing,
Bright as some rainbow's fragments, kindle up
The twilight of the groves; and earth and sky,
Redundant with their life, would render back
Their flush of beauty, their excess of song,
In sacrifice to God, who gave them all,—
Thou too hast altars here, thy cursed shrines,
O Mammon, dark with crime, and based on blood:
Thither they came, those wanderers of the wave,
Who owned no nation, who adored no God
Save thee, thou Prince of this world! in whose ears
The orphan's cries were song, whose flag was death,
In whose regard the widow's tears were joy,
And desolate hearths a triumph; in whose hands
The cup that, brimmed with wine, had dregs of blood:
Thither they brought, their decks heaped high with spoil,
Great ingots of rough gold, and priceless stones
That flashed a ruby-blaze, or softlier glowed
With emerald's sheen, or sapphire's, king of gems:
Goblets, embossed with rude barbaric pearl
That shone in Delhi's banquets, delicate shrines
Torn from the ancient church, where lilies hang
In silver droopingness, and oak-leaves wreathe
Their golden chaplets, and acanthus twines
Its cold moist tendrils in metallic life;
They brought the treasures of the tomb,—the ring
That in the festival of bridal troth
Pledged Loveliness to Faith; the ring that saw,
Through many an hour of hope and year of joy,
Bright eyes, and happy faces, and the light
Of tried affection, and the gathering group
Of rosebuds round the mother-rose; the ring
That when this life in better life was lost,
And earthly swallowed up of heavenly love,
Decked the cold finger still, to teach that Faith
O'erleaps the grave, and Hope can mock at Death.
....They furl the sails: the grating anchor drops:
The black flag quivers idly in the breeze:
They choose the spot: a long low tongue of sand,
Barren and bleaching in the tropic sun,
Or rank with twilight-venom, when the dew
From festering jungle, and unknown lagoon,
And foul morass, exhales the mortal plague.
One gazes on that scene, whose gaze no more
Shall earthly landscape fix: the murdered slave
Must in the treasure's sepulchre be laid,
By prayer unblest, by Christian men unknown,
That so his spirit, restless in the earth
Until its consummation, evermore
Might guard the lone deposit. So at eve
Should plunderers fly the spot, and tell of forms
Glimmering amidst the shade, and low sad wails,
Nor dare to tempt the treasure's spirit-watch.
And fancy loves to linger, building up
Her domelike palaces in gorgeous clouds,
Islands there are of everlasting spring,
65
'Twixt woods of emerald: where, in mimic war,
The green banana waves her giant flags,
Her silver trumpets the datura sounds,
And squadron'd forests, marshall'd as for fight,
March o'er the land: where birds of glorious wing,
Bright as some rainbow's fragments, kindle up
The twilight of the groves; and earth and sky,
Redundant with their life, would render back
Their flush of beauty, their excess of song,
In sacrifice to God, who gave them all,—
Thou too hast altars here, thy cursed shrines,
O Mammon, dark with crime, and based on blood:
Thither they came, those wanderers of the wave,
Who owned no nation, who adored no God
Save thee, thou Prince of this world! in whose ears
The orphan's cries were song, whose flag was death,
In whose regard the widow's tears were joy,
66
The cup that, brimmed with wine, had dregs of blood:
Thither they brought, their decks heaped high with spoil,
Great ingots of rough gold, and priceless stones
That flashed a ruby-blaze, or softlier glowed
With emerald's sheen, or sapphire's, king of gems:
Goblets, embossed with rude barbaric pearl
That shone in Delhi's banquets, delicate shrines
Torn from the ancient church, where lilies hang
In silver droopingness, and oak-leaves wreathe
Their golden chaplets, and acanthus twines
Its cold moist tendrils in metallic life;
They brought the treasures of the tomb,—the ring
That in the festival of bridal troth
Pledged Loveliness to Faith; the ring that saw,
Through many an hour of hope and year of joy,
Bright eyes, and happy faces, and the light
Of tried affection, and the gathering group
Of rosebuds round the mother-rose; the ring
That when this life in better life was lost,
And earthly swallowed up of heavenly love,
67
O'erleaps the grave, and Hope can mock at Death.
....They furl the sails: the grating anchor drops:
The black flag quivers idly in the breeze:
They choose the spot: a long low tongue of sand,
Barren and bleaching in the tropic sun,
Or rank with twilight-venom, when the dew
From festering jungle, and unknown lagoon,
And foul morass, exhales the mortal plague.
One gazes on that scene, whose gaze no more
Shall earthly landscape fix: the murdered slave
Must in the treasure's sepulchre be laid,
By prayer unblest, by Christian men unknown,
That so his spirit, restless in the earth
Until its consummation, evermore
Might guard the lone deposit. So at eve
Should plunderers fly the spot, and tell of forms
Glimmering amidst the shade, and low sad wails,
Nor dare to tempt the treasure's spirit-watch.
Yet would that these lone places of the earth
Were all that owned thy lordship, O thou great
And tyrant monarch! Thou, in Christian lands,
Exalt'st thy throne above the Throne of God:
Thou on His servants weld'st thy heavy chains,
And lead'st them willing captives. No expanse
Of eastern waters is before us now,
No gallant vessel, laden with the spoils
Of nations: this is Mammon's truer shrine:
High noon on breezy fields and heathy hills,
The song of birds, the toying of the gale
With trees and flowers: but no sweet sounds of noon,
Or sight of summer gladness, which God made,
To cheer the heart, to smoothe the brow of him
Who sits and toils, a ready slave, for gold.
Duskness and dreariness around, and age
That brings decay, not reverence: all the air
Peopled with motes, that dance like restless thoughts
Of riches: tomes inscribed with mystic signs,
Huge chests of well-wrought iron, in whose jaws
Moulder the parchments, by extremest art
Contrived, and hours of patient toil, to give
Immortal heritage to mortal man
And make the future sure. So days go by
Heaping his treasure higher, where he sits
The lord of all, intent upon his world
Of growing schemes,—and what a world it is!
His is the bark that on the southern breeze
Spreads her white sails o'er Biscay's stormy gulf:
His are the camels that midst turban'd troops
Of Islam, and the loud muezzin's cry,
('Tis sunset there) are entering Bagdad's gate:
For him the Epirot peasant tills the vine
Aulona yields, and Parga's summery height:
For him, where cold antarctic suns go down,
Midst giant icebergs towering to the sky
In grim blue desolation, sturdy hands
Press the hard chase of ocean-shouldering whales!
For him, in southern groves, where lordly Rhone
Gives bridal troth to Arar, spins the worm
Her silken vest: for him, in eastern isles,
They tear the coral from the sea-nymph's halls,
And the pierced fish exudes transparent pearl.
He the meanwhile, force, heart, and soul of all,
Spans deserts in his schemes, and bridges deeps:
Knits east and west in one: nor severed tongues
Nor robber-hordes, nor pathless wastes, impede.
Yet, lord of others, bowing at his will
Nature's hard powers, and man's yet harder heart,
Enjoining sea and flame to make a league
And do his bidding, borrowing, for the wings
To speed his thoughts, the lightning's viewless might;
Whom courtly heads are bowed to, whom great kings
Delight to honour,—he is Mammon's slave:
He to the god of this world offers all,
All he has here, and all he hopes beyond:
The widow's eye is dim with nightly woe,
—He never wipes her tears: the prisoner's heart
Is sick with hope,—he never breaks his chains:
Therefore no treasures is he laying up
Where moth may not corrupt, nor thief destroy:
He hath his portion here, for this world's gems
Bartering the one true Pearl: for earthly gold
Surrendering up the golden streets of Heav'n,
And thus, with all his hoards, not rich toward God.
Were all that owned thy lordship, O thou great
68
Exalt'st thy throne above the Throne of God:
Thou on His servants weld'st thy heavy chains,
And lead'st them willing captives. No expanse
Of eastern waters is before us now,
No gallant vessel, laden with the spoils
Of nations: this is Mammon's truer shrine:
High noon on breezy fields and heathy hills,
The song of birds, the toying of the gale
With trees and flowers: but no sweet sounds of noon,
Or sight of summer gladness, which God made,
To cheer the heart, to smoothe the brow of him
Who sits and toils, a ready slave, for gold.
Duskness and dreariness around, and age
That brings decay, not reverence: all the air
Peopled with motes, that dance like restless thoughts
Of riches: tomes inscribed with mystic signs,
Huge chests of well-wrought iron, in whose jaws
Moulder the parchments, by extremest art
Contrived, and hours of patient toil, to give
Immortal heritage to mortal man
And make the future sure. So days go by
69
The lord of all, intent upon his world
Of growing schemes,—and what a world it is!
His is the bark that on the southern breeze
Spreads her white sails o'er Biscay's stormy gulf:
His are the camels that midst turban'd troops
Of Islam, and the loud muezzin's cry,
('Tis sunset there) are entering Bagdad's gate:
For him the Epirot peasant tills the vine
Aulona yields, and Parga's summery height:
For him, where cold antarctic suns go down,
Midst giant icebergs towering to the sky
In grim blue desolation, sturdy hands
Press the hard chase of ocean-shouldering whales!
For him, in southern groves, where lordly Rhone
Gives bridal troth to Arar, spins the worm
Her silken vest: for him, in eastern isles,
They tear the coral from the sea-nymph's halls,
And the pierced fish exudes transparent pearl.
He the meanwhile, force, heart, and soul of all,
Spans deserts in his schemes, and bridges deeps:
Knits east and west in one: nor severed tongues
70
Yet, lord of others, bowing at his will
Nature's hard powers, and man's yet harder heart,
Enjoining sea and flame to make a league
And do his bidding, borrowing, for the wings
To speed his thoughts, the lightning's viewless might;
Whom courtly heads are bowed to, whom great kings
Delight to honour,—he is Mammon's slave:
He to the god of this world offers all,
All he has here, and all he hopes beyond:
The widow's eye is dim with nightly woe,
—He never wipes her tears: the prisoner's heart
Is sick with hope,—he never breaks his chains:
Therefore no treasures is he laying up
Where moth may not corrupt, nor thief destroy:
He hath his portion here, for this world's gems
Bartering the one true Pearl: for earthly gold
Surrendering up the golden streets of Heav'n,
And thus, with all his hoards, not rich toward God.
And bloodier sacrifice in days of old
Men never gave to Chemosh, or the thirst
Of sateless Moloch, when in Ammon's groves
The shrieks of children filled his dread abode:
Albeit no image Mammon's temple decks,
Yet stand the victims in his house, and all
The instruments of offering: 'tis a feast
Not as of old, where once to taste of death
Was all the agony his rites enjoined,
And though the earthly frame were crushed, the soul
Might part unconquered: this, long day by day,
And year by year, works death in very life,
Dims the bright eye, drives colour from the cheek,
Looses the silver cord, dries up the play
Of life's sweet fount, and breaks the golden bowl.
And as such sacrifice were all too mean,
The very soul, God's likeness upon earth,
They rack and wear and grind, until it lies
Wreck of His work and ruin of itself.
Hence childhood is no childhood: hence the Spring
Hath no dear innocent pleasures, dewy strolls,
And fields with cowslips bright and wreaths of May:
Summer no glorious woods, what time the sun
Deluges heav'n with his excess of light,
But leaves them twilight: Autumn kindles not
His burning tints, nor yields his wildwood spoil:
And Winter, surly monarch, brings no charms
To soothe his frosts and wile his long drear nights,
No Christmas fire, nor tale of goblin lore.
Nor lacks fit temple for such rites: the huge
Misshapen shrine of wealth that, smeared and gaunt,
Stretches its many-windowed hideousness
Athwart the murky street, and belches forth
Its everlasting clouds of smoke and flame:
Nor lacks fit music: the incessant clang
That jars and thrills and quivers through the dome
In fevered hurry, making it instinct
As with a ghastly life that is not life,
Itself meet anthem for the god of gold.
But better spirits now invade thy shrine,
Strong though thou art, O Mammon!—stronger far
Is Love, that never tires in seeking out
The lost and helpless; Hope, that points across
Life's stormy deep to Death's serener shore;
Faith, kindling at His Word who cannot lie,
Her heavenly torch; and Justice, chief of all,
That checks the oppressor in his height of pride,
Lifts the oppressed from earth, and marks the bounds,—
‘Thus far, but no step further!’ These, howe'er
Ill spirits or ill men oppose awhile,—
Living and conquering on for evermore,
Shall flinch not from the strife, until they set
The prisoner free, and speak goodwill to men.
Men never gave to Chemosh, or the thirst
71
The shrieks of children filled his dread abode:
Albeit no image Mammon's temple decks,
Yet stand the victims in his house, and all
The instruments of offering: 'tis a feast
Not as of old, where once to taste of death
Was all the agony his rites enjoined,
And though the earthly frame were crushed, the soul
Might part unconquered: this, long day by day,
And year by year, works death in very life,
Dims the bright eye, drives colour from the cheek,
Looses the silver cord, dries up the play
Of life's sweet fount, and breaks the golden bowl.
And as such sacrifice were all too mean,
The very soul, God's likeness upon earth,
They rack and wear and grind, until it lies
Wreck of His work and ruin of itself.
Hence childhood is no childhood: hence the Spring
Hath no dear innocent pleasures, dewy strolls,
And fields with cowslips bright and wreaths of May:
Summer no glorious woods, what time the sun
Deluges heav'n with his excess of light,
72
His burning tints, nor yields his wildwood spoil:
And Winter, surly monarch, brings no charms
To soothe his frosts and wile his long drear nights,
No Christmas fire, nor tale of goblin lore.
Nor lacks fit temple for such rites: the huge
Misshapen shrine of wealth that, smeared and gaunt,
Stretches its many-windowed hideousness
Athwart the murky street, and belches forth
Its everlasting clouds of smoke and flame:
Nor lacks fit music: the incessant clang
That jars and thrills and quivers through the dome
In fevered hurry, making it instinct
As with a ghastly life that is not life,
Itself meet anthem for the god of gold.
But better spirits now invade thy shrine,
Strong though thou art, O Mammon!—stronger far
Is Love, that never tires in seeking out
The lost and helpless; Hope, that points across
Life's stormy deep to Death's serener shore;
Faith, kindling at His Word who cannot lie,
Her heavenly torch; and Justice, chief of all,
73
Lifts the oppressed from earth, and marks the bounds,—
‘Thus far, but no step further!’ These, howe'er
Ill spirits or ill men oppose awhile,—
Living and conquering on for evermore,
Shall flinch not from the strife, until they set
The prisoner free, and speak goodwill to men.
But fresher lures are thine, and subtler charms
To spread thy worship..... Lo! thou wavest thy wand
Over a parched and barren land, a land
In earth's far limits, desolate and drear,
Whereto no traveller ventures, on whose plains
No taper breaks the horror of the night,
Nor busy hum of men awakes the morn:
But all the summer withers in the fire
Intenser suns shoot forth,—with poisonous fogs
The dim Pacific blights the closing year,—
And night and day its melancholy surge
Makes mournful music. At the enchanter's touch
The rivers roll down gold: gold streaks the sands:
Gold fills the mountain's crystal veins: the rock
Is crushed to gold. And straight as if for life,
Yea rather, struggling as for Eden's Gate,
Men pant and agonise to enter in;
Leave all dear home-joys, children's sports at eve,
And eyes that tell, and lips that breathe, of love,
For dark companionship of them whose heart
Hard as the nether millstone, foul with guile,
Respects no law, regards nor God nor man,
Throws pity to the wind: whose hand is red
With stains, that not unnumbered hoards of gold
Can turn to whiteness. There, when burning suns
Parch life and vigour up, and autumn moons
Look down in deadly radiance, toiling on,
Heart, hand, and eye intent, they bear all woe,
They brave all danger; girding up their loins
For battle with the rock and with the storm,
The pestilence and savage beast. For them
No holy bell awakes the Day of Prayer:
For them, when Nature sinks beneath her load,
No gentle hands compose the couch, no voice
Breathes hope of this world, or the world to come
Into the failing ear: the branch-roofed hut
That moans beneath the gale, or scantly shades
The intolerable glare of noon, is theirs;
The rude unhallowed visitings of them
Who with foul jest or tale of new-found spoil
Would smoothe the dying pillow: last of all,
The soul that parts without a hope or prayer;
The untended corpse, and hurried unblest grave.
To spread thy worship..... Lo! thou wavest thy wand
Over a parched and barren land, a land
In earth's far limits, desolate and drear,
Whereto no traveller ventures, on whose plains
No taper breaks the horror of the night,
Nor busy hum of men awakes the morn:
But all the summer withers in the fire
Intenser suns shoot forth,—with poisonous fogs
The dim Pacific blights the closing year,—
And night and day its melancholy surge
Makes mournful music. At the enchanter's touch
The rivers roll down gold: gold streaks the sands:
74
Is crushed to gold. And straight as if for life,
Yea rather, struggling as for Eden's Gate,
Men pant and agonise to enter in;
Leave all dear home-joys, children's sports at eve,
And eyes that tell, and lips that breathe, of love,
For dark companionship of them whose heart
Hard as the nether millstone, foul with guile,
Respects no law, regards nor God nor man,
Throws pity to the wind: whose hand is red
With stains, that not unnumbered hoards of gold
Can turn to whiteness. There, when burning suns
Parch life and vigour up, and autumn moons
Look down in deadly radiance, toiling on,
Heart, hand, and eye intent, they bear all woe,
They brave all danger; girding up their loins
For battle with the rock and with the storm,
The pestilence and savage beast. For them
No holy bell awakes the Day of Prayer:
For them, when Nature sinks beneath her load,
No gentle hands compose the couch, no voice
Breathes hope of this world, or the world to come
75
That moans beneath the gale, or scantly shades
The intolerable glare of noon, is theirs;
The rude unhallowed visitings of them
Who with foul jest or tale of new-found spoil
Would smoothe the dying pillow: last of all,
The soul that parts without a hope or prayer;
The untended corpse, and hurried unblest grave.
Oh! if they knew what half the earthly toil,
What half the anguish of their yielding up
Children, or bride, or home, or friends, might gain
Of heavenly guerdon! There are those that tempt
The selfsame peril, bear the selfsame toil,
Yea, die, in man's dim sight, the selfsame death.
These do it to obtain a mortal prize;
Those an immortal. These to gather in
A perishable harvest of the dross
That fades with very using; those to gain
An endless meed of labour: souls redeemed
By no vile price of things corruptible,
But with the Blood of that Eternal Lamb,
Who wills that where He is, they too should be.
Servants of God, press onward! In His sight
Your perils and your toils are laying up
Your great reward: His are ye: Him ye serve;
And suffering with Him, with Him too shall reign.
What half the anguish of their yielding up
Children, or bride, or home, or friends, might gain
Of heavenly guerdon! There are those that tempt
The selfsame peril, bear the selfsame toil,
Yea, die, in man's dim sight, the selfsame death.
These do it to obtain a mortal prize;
Those an immortal. These to gather in
A perishable harvest of the dross
That fades with very using; those to gain
An endless meed of labour: souls redeemed
By no vile price of things corruptible,
But with the Blood of that Eternal Lamb,
76
Servants of God, press onward! In His sight
Your perils and your toils are laying up
Your great reward: His are ye: Him ye serve;
And suffering with Him, with Him too shall reign.
It were a glorious scene, if, rolling back
The thick dim mist of ages, we might bid
Those princely merchant cities live and glow
In second life! Thee, Tyre, the mart of earth!
Whose white sails glittered from the prophet-heights
Of Carmel, to the portals of the west,
The twin Atlantic pillars; yea, that dared,
With unknown oceans battling, to upraise
Their Asian flag on Europe's western shores.
Thee, Carthage, that in equal contest long
Strov'st for the world's huge empire: thee not least,
Bride of the Adriatic, building up
On the blue waves thy snowy palaces,
A very dream of beauty, where all day
Dome, spire, and lordly arch, and hallowed shrine
Mirror themselves in that unruffled main,
And all night long the moon, from that deep sky,
Weaves fairy network out of light and shade
Athwart the river streets. By thee they rose,
O Mammon, Prince of this world! They by thee
Attained their height of fame: by deeds of blood
And merciless rapine adding realm to realm,
And heaping hoard on hoard, till like the fire
Kindled from exhalation of some marsh
That shoots across the autumn night, they sank
And left a dark and sudden void behind.
The thick dim mist of ages, we might bid
Those princely merchant cities live and glow
In second life! Thee, Tyre, the mart of earth!
Whose white sails glittered from the prophet-heights
Of Carmel, to the portals of the west,
The twin Atlantic pillars; yea, that dared,
With unknown oceans battling, to upraise
Their Asian flag on Europe's western shores.
Thee, Carthage, that in equal contest long
Strov'st for the world's huge empire: thee not least,
Bride of the Adriatic, building up
On the blue waves thy snowy palaces,
A very dream of beauty, where all day
Dome, spire, and lordly arch, and hallowed shrine
Mirror themselves in that unruffled main,
77
Weaves fairy network out of light and shade
Athwart the river streets. By thee they rose,
O Mammon, Prince of this world! They by thee
Attained their height of fame: by deeds of blood
And merciless rapine adding realm to realm,
And heaping hoard on hoard, till like the fire
Kindled from exhalation of some marsh
That shoots across the autumn night, they sank
And left a dark and sudden void behind.
Not such as these, my country! though on thee,
Spite of thy boast, hang Mammon's heavy chains,
Yet not as these thou drew'st thy battle sword
When banded Europe, resolute to bow
Thy forehead to the dust, stood girt for war:
Thou, not as they for lucre's cursed sake,
Pour'd'st forth thy chosen warriors at his call,
Who, when the oppressor's rod was snapped in twain,
Lured by no fancied glory, turned aside
By no ambition, sheathed his victor sword,
Spake the glad tidings, and bade earth have peace.
Therefore his name thro' England's thousand homes
Was as a household word: and now his deeds
Are with past ages, England weeps at once
The hero o'er his foes and o'er himself
With tears unknown before: and other years
Shall wreathe a deathless chaplet round the name
Of him whom righteous cause and mighty toils
And victor-end made glorious—Wellington!
Spite of thy boast, hang Mammon's heavy chains,
Yet not as these thou drew'st thy battle sword
When banded Europe, resolute to bow
Thy forehead to the dust, stood girt for war:
Thou, not as they for lucre's cursed sake,
Pour'd'st forth thy chosen warriors at his call,
Who, when the oppressor's rod was snapped in twain,
Lured by no fancied glory, turned aside
By no ambition, sheathed his victor sword,
Spake the glad tidings, and bade earth have peace.
78
Was as a household word: and now his deeds
Are with past ages, England weeps at once
The hero o'er his foes and o'er himself
With tears unknown before: and other years
Shall wreathe a deathless chaplet round the name
Of him whom righteous cause and mighty toils
And victor-end made glorious—Wellington!
Honour to them, and blessing be to Him
Who made them what they are, that dare to laugh
At Mammon's witcheries, building up on high
Their surer treasures! Following in His steps
Who, seeing “all the kingdoms of the world
“And all the glory of them,” stood unmoved,
They turn away from perishable things
And seek their meed in heav'n. They speak the word:
The tall spire glimmers o'er the swelling copse
Of oak or chestnut, hallowing all the scene,
And calls to prayer the hearts that never prayed,
And turns the scoffer's blasphemy to praise.
They in the fœtid caverns of the mine
Shed holiest light: they from the mouths of babes
And sucklings perfect praise: they speed the sail
That flakes the great Atlantic, or that glows
In summer creeks betwixt palmetto groves,
Or hails the midnight sun, where icebergs grind
Against the eternal barriers of the Pole.
The wilderness and solitary place
Pour blessings on them: smile the desert wastes,
And blossom as the rose: they gather in
The harvest of the earth, against the day
When the round world shall be the Lord's again,
And all the fulness of it. Then at last
The kingdom and the riches shall be His,
And He shall reign for ever. Wanes the night,
And day is dawning fast: our part shall be
To hail each brightening streak that heralds now
Its near approach; and till it breaks, to watch!
Who made them what they are, that dare to laugh
At Mammon's witcheries, building up on high
Their surer treasures! Following in His steps
Who, seeing “all the kingdoms of the world
“And all the glory of them,” stood unmoved,
They turn away from perishable things
And seek their meed in heav'n. They speak the word:
The tall spire glimmers o'er the swelling copse
Of oak or chestnut, hallowing all the scene,
And calls to prayer the hearts that never prayed,
And turns the scoffer's blasphemy to praise.
79
Shed holiest light: they from the mouths of babes
And sucklings perfect praise: they speed the sail
That flakes the great Atlantic, or that glows
In summer creeks betwixt palmetto groves,
Or hails the midnight sun, where icebergs grind
Against the eternal barriers of the Pole.
The wilderness and solitary place
Pour blessings on them: smile the desert wastes,
And blossom as the rose: they gather in
The harvest of the earth, against the day
When the round world shall be the Lord's again,
And all the fulness of it. Then at last
The kingdom and the riches shall be His,
And He shall reign for ever. Wanes the night,
And day is dawning fast: our part shall be
To hail each brightening streak that heralds now
Its near approach; and till it breaks, to watch!
| Seatonian Poems | |