Desultory Thoughts in London :: :: University of Virginia Library

Desultory Thoughts in London

Titus and Gisippus, with Other Poems. By Charles Lloyd

Lloyd, Charles (1775-1839)

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DEDICATORY SONNET.

DEDICATORY LINES TO THE “DESULTORY THOUGHTS IN LONDON.”

DESULTORY THOUGHTS IN LONDON

II.

THE SPELL UNRAVELLED.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

SONNET.

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DESULTORY THOUGHTS IN LONDON

A Poem.

FIRST BOOK.

“Heaven me such usage send,
Not to pick bad from bad; but, by bad, mend.
Othello, Act 4, Scene 3.

“Si je veux peindre le printemps, il faut que je sois en hyver; si je veux decrire un beau paysage, il faut que je sois dans les murs; et j'ai dit, cent fois, que, si jamais j'etois mis à la Bastille, j'y ferois le tableaude la liberté.” Les Confessions de Rousseau, tome première, p. 322.

Come reaccende il gusto il mutare esca,
Così mi par, che la mia istoria, quanto
Or quà, or la più variata sia,
Meno a chi l'udirà nojosa fia.
Ariosto. Canto 13, Stanza 80.

A walk in the Park, under the circumstance of a hoar frost; and description of a couple who are there.

1

The night has frosty been; say, shall I wander
Beneath yon trees, and—ere the sun has reach'd
The zenith, and that copper fog from under
Struggled successfully; while their boughs are bleach'd
With hoar-frost; and, with what might seem the plunder
Of fairy scenes, fantastically enriched;—
The snow-white glory's crisp luxuriancy,
Fus'd into softness by the mist, espy?

2

It is a dainty sight! See how the trees,
With tinsel frost-work on each twig, impearl'd,
Enchantment's forms seem more like, mimickries
Of elfish ornament, than of this world!
I know not where the fancy more can please
Herself, through necromantic day-dreams whirl'd,
Than in a woody scene, in mist half lost,
Array'd in all the brilliancy of frost.

3

Oh, had we eyes to see, what spot is there
In all the world, in which we might not find
Something of lovely, and perhaps of rare,
T' amuse the various functions of the mind?
With such profusion of the good, and fair,
We need not say “we've gone” (or, like moles, blind,
We well deserve consignment to a warren)
“From Dan to Beersheba, and found all barren.”

4

See, through you avenue, that mourner stealing!
To him in friendship's tenderest relation
Once did I stand: he's smitten past all healing;
His wife, by him, withou exaggeration,
Of woman-heartedness, and genuine feeling,
And generosity,—of any nation
With proofs most noble and affecting, vies:
At Portia's faith no more I feel surprise.

5

They liv'd surrounded by a beauteous flock
Of children, in conversible retirement;
A competence had they, and not to mock,
But say the truth, if ever the requirement
O'th' Seasons' Poet form'd a household stock,
Love, friendship, leisure's free arbitrement
Of occupation,—they to them seem'd given—
“Progressive virtue, and approving heaven.”

6

But he was blasted by a fell disease:
Behold him:—he who was the life of all,
With whom, in intercourse of social ease,
(And many were there) 'twas his lot to fall,
Speechless is now! bereft of power to please!
To angels, and to men, a spectacle,
Of that, which he, who “rideth on the storm,”
Without aid from externals, can perform.

7

Behold how mute he creepeth on his way!
On either side each listless arm is hung!
As if he were to inward wounds a prey:
As if his nerveless joints on wires were strung!
Hark! nothing now seems he to have to say!
Yet once persuasiveness dwelt on his tongue;
And listening crowds, through labyrinths of sense,
Prais'd the address of his free eloquence!

8

Oh God! might such an one as I presume,
Thee, for a brother man, to supplicate!
How to thy footstool weeping would I come,
And fervently entreat thee, to his state
Of fierce distress, and pangs, though cleaving, dumb,
A little help to bring; to ascend, though late,
Thy mercy-seat, and to his cruel woe
Say, “thus far shalt thou, but no farther, go.”

9

Oh, deign to contemplate the anxious look
Of fond inquiry to her suffering friend,
Which, as it all her resolution shook
To see his pangs, towards him his spouse doth send.
Father! if not for his, oh, in thy book
Of reprobation, for her sake, forefend
Longer his name a station to inherit!
From that worst death, defend him, of the spirit!

10

I can remember, when, to have beheld
Such scene, it had been all delight, to him;
I can remember when no beam could gild
The clouds of evening, which caus'd not to swim
His eyes with living moisture: like a child
Elastic would he bound, and lithe of limb,
While nature's glories in his soul were waking,
Mood self-sufficing, yet with them partaking.

11

Look at these palaces on every side,
That raise ambitiously their heads on high;
How few are there of all the sons of pride,
Their inmates, that could feel a sympathy,
Or have the smallest consciousness, allied
With such accumulated misery?
Well! Let them rest!—Each on his bed of down;
I fear far more their favour than their frown.

12

Oh! pair disconsolate! Could I, methinks,
Beneath the face of Heaven thus canopied
With rolling mists, while through the air slow sinks
Upon the ear, sounds of the bustling tide
Of busy life; could I, in hallow'd links,
While the earth gleams with hoar-frost far and wide,
Espouse your fates in deep participation!
The scene would to the deed lend consecration!

13

I cannot quit you! Yet my backward look
Tarries, with stealing glances, on your paces:
There is a Providence! and, that his crook
And staff may yours be, when, in stony places,
'Tis yours to wander forth, and see no nook
Of shelter for your manifold disgraces:
This is my prayer for you, and 'tis my prayer
That I might soothe your sorrows while I share.

14

And for that woman; may she to his path,
Oh, may she be a lamp, light to his feet!
While she remains with him, still is thy wrath
On him not pour'd with violence complete:
It is a heavy toil, but heart she hath
That maketh light of woe, joying to meet
The storm, when she can turn it from her lord;
In her, thus Virtue is its own reward!

15

Yes, rather had she in distress partake,
Than not contribute to another's good;
Shame on that wretch could cause her heart to ache!
'Tis like a refuge of beatitude
To those who in its secret springs can slake
Their thirst: oh! that her spouse were thus endued!
Still it he sees in all she does and says,
In all her motions, attitudes, and ways.

16

The treasure that he hath he cannot know,
Till, it torn from him, he indeed were poor;
Then, then, in very deed, his weight of woe
Would be too great for mortal to endure!
Be her support, oh God! Thee may she know,
In thy good time to cheer her; him to cure:
Be her support, Thou Ruler of the skies!
Cheer her devotion, and self-sacrifice!

17

What sound is that which strikes upon my ear?
'Tis like the sacred anthem's choral peal;
No minster or collegiate church is near:
It is the burst of evangelic zeal!
Gladly I hail it every where;—most, here.
Where foes upon man's circumspection steal
So manifold, with satisfaction, I
Catch tones e'en of mistaken piety,

18

If towards its God sincere! Oft have I thought
That, as few snares exist in rural life
To lure to unhallow'd pleasures, Conscience, (brought
Oft into perfect being by a strife
'Twixt duty and desire,) there is sought
In vain, as in those busier scenes, more rife
With manifold temptations. The rude swain
There sleeps, wakes, toils, eats, drinks, and sleeps again;

19

And this is his life's diary; save when fair,
Or wake, or merry dance of May invite;
And then the exercise in the clear air,
The purer objects both of sound and sight
Impressing him, than those which towns prepare,
Of lawless bliss, much weaken the delight:
While few alternatives, or none at all,
Betwixt the gin-shop and conventicle,

20

Await the town-bred son of poverty.
To the best interests of man, as friend,
Therefore I hail e'en bigot piety!—
Whatever leads the spirit to ascend,
Draws it from temporal instincts, to espy
Imaginative interests, which befriend
Alike the servant and the master, seem
But modes to me of virtue's golden gleam.

21

Success attend you, and a quiet spirit,
Devoted pioneers, where'er ye be,
Who have not fear'd this world to disinherit
Of all seductions to the sympathy
Of unregenerate man: on human merit,
And its pretensions, so much we agree,
Agree to think, that, if we find true treasure,
“God worketh in us of his own good pleasure,”

22

That I would not disparage you with praise:—
You will have praise from a far better source:
Oh, could the best philosopher but raise
His soul for once above the low discourse
Of his own reason, with what just amaze
Might he discover, that, the noblest force
Of his own will could not conceive, much less
Act up to, lowest motives you profess.

23

Fair queen of Arts, I hail thee. If not here,
Where are Art's triumphs to be best secur'd?
Here are the models to their votaries dear!
Here for those votaries are their tools procur'd!
Imbued with taste here is an atmosphere!
When many men—a consequence ensur'd—
To a common centre with one view converge:
And social, here, the tasteful feelings urge.

24

It must, methinks, much sharpen those of art,
To have the pleasures of society
Join'd with them. Industry has done her part;
Facilities e'en to satiety
Forbid here all impediments to thwart
The votaries of Taste: so that “nimiety”
Of inward impulse, here none need require;
For all is found taste's novice to inspire.

25

To see how each part falls into a clan
Of man's race, is a curious spectacle;
How little people thwart each other's plan;
Though in one city's vast receptacle
They all are huddled! Casts of Indostan,
It makes us think ye quite respectable!
And quite does good to heart of metaphysician,
If heart he have, to see with what precision

26

Class'd as by necromantic agency,
Musician, painter, poet, and prose writer,
Their bristles raise in stout defiancy!
And then, to make the comment seem the brighter,
Visit poor labour in his cage, and see
How small his knowledge of abodes politer!
While with exactest dole of equal measure,
As little know of him the tribes of pleasure.

27

But really it is curious to observe
How persons, tottering on the very brink
Each of his neighbour's track, ye never swerve
Upon that track, its joys and woes, to think:
Then are the rich so exquisite in nerve
'Twould be impossible they should not shrink
From any gross commixture of the classes!
In Hunt's spite, instinct keeps mankind in masses.

28

Instinct, like Falstaff'd, when the prince was near!
However there is in our habitude
Something like what in insects doth appear:
That though with self-same powers we be endued,
Generically speaking, yet 'tis clear
Each specimen has its own solitude

Of incommunicable faculties!
A holy solitude from thence doth rise!

29

Nor would Benevolence annihilate
Our natures; only would enlarge our wishes;
It would not arbitrarily dictate,
But each man leave t' enjoy his favourite dishes.
And much, I think, that it would stipulate
Each man should have of meat, game, fowl, and fish, his
Quantity; and I would assert 'twere able
To sit, though Malthus left the crowded table.

30

Some men think only of themselves, while some—
But 'tis for nothing but to analyze them—
Think most of others: those men with a plum
In coffer, and round paunch, whose treasure buys them,
Are, in my mind, more bearable, and come
With honester pretensions to despise them,
Than those who think of men like worried dog
To galvanize—or like exhausted frog.

31

Some men think too much of themselves; and some
Too much of other men, from the same cause,
Self-love; while envious miseries consume
Their hearts, when others gain the least applause.

Some from imprudence, not benevolence, doom
Themselves to ruin. Thus fail general laws
To be of universal application.
E'en vice sometimes is self-annihilation!

32

Religion is the principle alone
Which can convert man's various appetences
Each to some good, peculiarly its own.
The thoughtless man under her influences
Becomes benevolent. He who was prone
To self-analysis, his own pretences—
He who to that of other men, of others,
The baffled intrigue, ere matur'd—discovers.

33

How many are there whom we're forc'd to excite
To think more of themselves! How many men
So wrapp'd up in self-satisfied delight,
That e'en imprudence were in them a gain!
As opposite men's faults, so opposite
The treatment which from wisdom they obtain:
Here is Religion's triumph. Here we see
The immutable in mutability!

34

But ere I treat it, I should go to school
Dialect to learn fit for satiric theme:
I've not that spirit fine of ridicule,
Which sheds on all things, like a careless gleam

Of sun-shine, brilliancy beyond all rule
Of set prescription; grace and life extreme.
Mine is a mind that might be analytic,
But it too literal is to be satyric.

35

Irony delicate and exquisite,
Delicious raillery's provoking zest;
Half-playful, and a half-malicious wit,
Which, at what stings us most, makes us smile best:—
A subtle, sly, insinuating hit,
Which, in great gravity and reverence drest,
With irresistibly demure abord,
To every adversary gives le tort:—

36

These are not mine! Let me no longer talk
About myself, but of my friends; at least
Of one of them; and this would be no baulk
To the reader, if he knew to what a feast
He is invited: for though you should walk
From Bow to Chelsea, nay from point most west
Of Cornwall's coast, to house of John o' Groat,
That you would find his match I still must doubt.

37

He is a man whom many painful duties
In early life mark'd as the son of grief;
Yet did he never render a pursuit his
With any view of premature relief:

Or, with equivocal resource, pollute his
Most noble soul, by thought that could be thief
E'en of the tender bloom, that lay upon
Its lovely surface, like the ripe fruit's down.

38

He walk'd along his path in steadiness,
In solitude, and in sublimity;
None ever knew his desolate distress,
And none shall ever know it now from me.
But with a love, temper'd with awfulness,
Have I beheld the forc'd serenity,
That, like envelope fine, on it he laid:
Though 'twas transparent none dar'd pierce its shade.

39

It was respected as the sacred veil
That erst conceal'd the Ark of Deity,
When He vouchsaf'd with human-kind to dwell:
A holy presence, envied now by me,
And causing me, those, to whose lot it fell,
With God's regard thus signalized to be,
To envy too: for in our purer law
Truth is scarce definite enough for awe,

40

For those who have not, by a mystic love,
A complete vict'ry o'er their senses won:
What would I not have given, did fate approve,
When great Jehovah to King David's son

Divulg'd his glory, to have gaz'd above,
As o'er th' adoring host his presence shone.
When “all the congregation stood of Israel,”
And God descended with mankind to dwell.

41

When e'en the very heavens bow'd down to earth,
And all the building with God's glory flooded;
Which pure perfumes, each of immortal birth,
And incense, from a thousand censers, clouded.
High anthems also of devoutest mirth
That pierc'd the vap'ry canopy, which shrouded
The place most holy, on its billows roll'd,
And e'en of more than mortal feelings told.

42

Then was that memorable pray'r preferr'd:
Then was that catalogue of sins, sublime:
For, after each, was not this pleading heard,
If man have perpetrated any crime,
Or this or that, and he from guilt incurr'd
Be penitent, and here confess in time,
“Then, hear Thou from thy dwelling place, e'en Heav'n!
And when thou hearest be the sin forgiv'n.”

43

Then stood the priest array'd in robe of white,
Then were the trumpets and the cymbals sounded,
Then all rich perfumes in an exquisite
Ocean of speechless fragrance were confounded,

While all harmonious instruments delight;
One hallelujah to the skies rebounded.
“The Glory of the Lord,” from its abode
On high, came down, and “fill'd the house of God!”

44

Ah, hapless, hapless people! well might ye
By rivers of the mighty Babylon
Sit down and weep: and on each willow tree
Hang up your harps! Well, well, might Zion's son
Exclaim with passionate tears, “oh, how can we
Sing in a strange land the Lord's song?” well moan
“My right hand's cunning let it cease to be,
Ere I, oh Zion, cease to think of thee!”

45

Ah, hapless people! Even to recur
To trophies, so exclusively your own,
As once were yours, seems in my heart to stir
A sense, as if these glorious days had thrown
A shade on later times! yet that “word sure
Of prophecy,” which “in a dark place shone,”
As all sufficing we cannot refuse!
Graceless, in days of grace, were better Jews.

46

Much from my theme and friend have I digress'd,
But poor as I am, poor in stuff for thought,
And poor in thought to make of it the best,
Blame me not, gentles, if I soon am caught

By this or that, when as my themes suggest
Aught of collateral aid which may be wrought
Into its service. Blame me not, I say;
The idly musing often miss their way.

47

And now, my friend, I turn again to thee,
Thou pure receptacle of all that's good!
Thou hast contriv'd an art, I own, by me,
As feasible, so little understood,
That, thou being unknown, with avowal free,
I should have said it ne'er could be pursu'd—
The child of impulse ever to appear,
And yet through duty's path strictly to steer.

48

Nay, more—Thou hast contriv'd to be that child,
And not alone hast held, through duty's path,
In lofty unimpeachableness, and mild,
Thy way, but through strange suffering, and scath
Of worldly comfort, hast been unbeguil'd
Of life's first innocence; God's blessing hath,—
Like “Shadrach, Meshek, and Abednego,”—
Through fiery furnace made thee safely go.

49

Thy God hath said to thee, “When through the wave
Thou passest, servant, I with thee will be!

When through the floods, thou shalt their fury brave;
When through the flames, their hurtful quality
They shall renounce, nor shall thy garments have
A smell of fire, recalling it to thee.
As thou hast done by me, by thee I'll do:—
I am, have been, and will to thee be true.”

50

Oh —, thou art a mystery to me!
Thou art so prudent, and so mad with wildness,
Thou art a source of everlasting glee!
Yet desolation of the very childless
Has been thy lot! Never in one like thee
Did I see worth majestic from its mildness;
So far, in thee, from being an annoyance
E'en to the vicious, 'tis a source of joyance.

51

Like a vast castle that has sieges seen,
Its outer walls shaken, and prostrate laid,
Thou seem'st to me! Each outlet to the scene,
Where thy great wealth, like troops in ambuscade,
Was stor'd, has oft been ransack'd; thou hast been
Of sympathy so frank, so overpaid
Their price to all! Yet much as thou'st been shaken
Thou, like that castle's fortress, ne'er wert taken.

52

Most men from principle their virtues draw—
In thee would principle shew like a failing,
Thy heart sublime frames thy life's safest law;
And 'twould condense the fresh dews thence exhaling
Their rich exuberance by rule to awe;
Others deem self-denial most availing
To rule man's conduct: but so pure thy mind is,
Thou hid'st its talents lest their beams should blind us.

53

No! thou, in many ways, reversest all,
That may to men in general be imputed,
Better in thee the virtues natural,
Than those in other men by culture rooted.
Never thy lips, by word, or great or small,
That other men could injure, were polluted.
Thy censure, if in critic chair thou sit,
Falls but on those too great to shrink from wit.

54

No! Let a man, in body, or in mind,
In character, condition, or estate,
Be doom'd, in form, in talents, from mankind,
To bear disadvantageous estimate;
By thee, to him, shall never be assign'd
A word his destiny to aggravate:
In thy praise, as of Heaven, it might be sounded,
None that in thee e'er trusted were confounded.

55

Now shall I not this living portrait wrong—
In it the features are not very common—
By mentioning to whom it doth belong!
The writer trust; its prototype is human!
If thou that read'st it catch the likeness strong,
Respect the secret as thou art a true man.
He that has furnish'd matter for these lays,
Is singular in this—he spurns at praise.

56

There is a being still attends my couch;—
There is a being still, whose voice to hear
Is music to my soul; whose hand to touch
Is life;—to look upon her count'nance clear,
She still seems able to atone for much
Of spite, that destiny 'gainst me doth bear.
Name her I will not! Were she always spar'd
To me thus, I should not think woe so hard.

57

I well remember her years five-and-twenty,
(Ah, now my muse is got into a gallop)
Longer perhaps! But time sufficient, plenty
Of treasur'd offices of love to call up.
She was then, as I recollect, quite dainty,
And delicate, and seem'd a fair envelope
Of virgin sweetness, and angelic goodness!
That fate should treat her with such reckless rudeness!

58

She scarcely seem'd to tread upon the ground,
But was like one of fair Diana's train,
While on her steed her sylphid form would bound,
Which felt the license of the loosen'd rein;
While o'er her brow, with fur or ermine crown'd,
Wav'd the triumphant plume, as proud t' obtain
A station so distinguish'd; such her grace,
Well might you deem her Lady of the Chace!

59

But though in sense and graceful exercise,
In arts which give to wealth a magic power,
Though in accomplishments, and courtesies,
In dance in hall, and converse in the bow'r,
From many a one she bore away the prize;
These were but buds of that “consummate flow'r”
Of excellence, whose root her bosom nourish'd;
Charming each sense with fragrance where it flourish'd.

60

Oh! that the shocks of wintry gales assail'd it!
Or from its honours one small leaf should rend!
Its bloom, that smearing rains should e'er have pal'd it!
Or blasts tow'rds earth its stately head should bend!
But, though it so have been, they ne'er avail'd yet
With its more noble graces to contend:
The more they wasted it to human eyes,
The more its fragrance mounted to the skies.

61

Oh, could the writer of these humble lays,
Renew the hours, best friend, he's had with thee!
When through the glimmer of life's twilight haze—
(Like fairy forms when hoar-frost's witchery
The rose-like bloom of the sun's straggling rays
First catches) the fantastic imagery
Seem'd more inviting from its dubious curtain:—
(Youth trusts too much to shrink from the uncertain.)

62

Could he renew those days! Yet can he call
Charms from those days, so that his heart has leap'd!
Charms, like those flowers, which, in a triumph, fall
From car of conqueror, so profusely heap'd,
That on all sides the ground is like a wall,
Whence, wreath'd in trellis, blooms profusely peep'd.
Their roses, though they long have seem'd to pale,
Commemorative fragrance still exhale.

63

So do the thoughts, dear being! lov'd the best
Of any being that I yet have known!—
So do the thoughts, join'd with those hours so blest,
Which have been most peculiarly thine own!
Yes! of those hours though I am dispossess'd,
The streams nectarious which from them have flown,
Like incense which the shrine of Vesta shaded,
Immortal dwells, where it has once pervaded!

64

One near thee, London, dwells, to whom I fain
Tribute would pay, or ere this lay I close;
Yet how can I—ungifted with a strain
Fit to arrest the ear of him who knows
To build such verse as Seraphim might deign
To listen to, nor break the deep repose
Of those immortal ardours that inspire
Spirit of inextinguishable fire—

65

How shall I fitly speak on such a theme?
He is a treasure by the world neglected,
Because he hath not, with a prescience dim,
Like those whose every aim is self-reflected,
Pil'd up some fastuous trophy, that of him
Might tell, what mighty powers the age rejected,
But taught his lips the office of a pen—
By fools he's deem'd a being lost to men.

66

I grant, by fools alone he is held so—
But then most plentiful this genus is;
And not confin'd (as all good people know)
To exoteric illegitimacies.
Nay, capp'd and gown'd, oft, in life's raree-show,
With senatorial robe, and blazonries
Of maintenance and coronet adorn'd,
Tempted we've been its meanness to have scorn'd!

67

I honour him for that neglect for which,
From vulgar minds, he hath asperison found,
Because that poor he hath become, though rich,
In casting nobly on ungrateful ground,
That whence more selfish souls had sought to pitch
A lasting tabernacle; to confound
By its magnificence, all other men;
While in its depths they lurk'd, as in a den.

68

No! with magnanimous self-sacrifice,
And lofty inadvertency of fame,
He felt there is a bliss in being wise,
Quite independent of the wise man's name.
Who now can say how many a soul may rise
To a nobility of moral aim
It ne'er had known, but for that spirit brave,
Which, being freely gifted, freely gave?

69

Sometimes I think that I'm a blossom blighted;
But this I ken, that should it not prove so,
If I am not inexorably spited
Of all, that dignifies mankind below;
By him I speak of, I was so excited,
While reason's scale was poising to and fro,
“To the better cause;” that him I have to bless
For that which it is comfort to possess.

70

In sickness both of body and of mind,
Was he to me a friend in very deed;
When first I met him, you might likeness find,
To that state from the which my heart he freed,
In fallow meadow, equally inclin'd,
To be possess'd with good or evil seed:
Much toil he lavish'd on uncultur'd ground;
In that, if fruitless, must the fault be found.

71

Why should we deem only that virtue lives
Which to itself a self-erected fane
Hath built? Do we not know that Christ receives
The tribute of immortalizing strain,
From men, on whom, like dew on opening leaves,
Dropp'd the pure truths, they render'd back again.
The more we practise good unconsciously,
More certainly its record is on high.

72

Weak is my strain, yet weak is not my thought,
When on that wealth I muse in lonely hour,
Which flow'd like stream 'neath grass, unseen, whence caught
Its tints (yet none knew 'twas so) many a bower.
Which on no principle doth act, not taught
By absolute predominance of power.

But, bound, by destiny, to path sublime,
Mocks the cold confines of decaying time.

73

As it uncalculating is in good,
Or is without an aim, commensurate
With human reckoning, notably endued
With vast facility to elevate,
So is the soul, in its deep solitude,
The holy organ prescient of Fate.
In human deeds the great we never boast
Till thought of actor in the act is lost.

74

Weak were my muse to paint the various powers
Heaven hath so copiously bestow'd on thee;
The wondrous erudition, fruit of hours
Of deep, though unrecorded, industry.
The metaphysic ken, that proudly towers;
And though pitch'd high, with such keen subtlety
And glance discriminative, all things eyes—
'Tis not for me aptly to eulogize!

75

Less, should a hand which trembles as it creeps,
With touch all unprecise, o'er its light lyre,
Dare to commemorate one who deftly sweeps,
With emulative skill, and Milton's fire,

The awful harp of Zion! His pulse sleeps
In dullest apathy, who could retire
From thy high theme, and, that thy lips have burn'd
With “live-coal from the altar,” not have learn'd.

76

Nor less art thou in bowers of gay romance
The gifted son of genius! None the spell
Of chivalry can weave, nor sorcery's trance,
More with a power the human heart to quell.
The Graces mingle in eternal dance;
And every vision from the holiest cell
Of high imagination, floats along,
And variegates, thy fascinating song.

77

Deep beauty, e'en to awfulness, so rich,
Such plenitude of pomp around her beams,
Causes thy wondrous numbers to bewitch,
Like syrens chaunting by immortal streams.
Thy argument so nobly dost thou pitch,
Thou of worst passions turn'st the worst extremes
(As from deep shades the light intenselier burns)
Till e'en in them the mind a charm discerns.

78

Say where has Mystery touch'd a potent shell,
Or Fear shriek'd audibly in 'wilder'd note,

Where Inspiration reconcil'd so well
To sense, a strain to prodigies devote,
Where wild tones thrill at once, and rich sounds swell,
As in that “Lay” where necromantic boat,
And its fantastic crew, alike recall
The wide sea's wildness, witness of them all?

79

Now, fare thee well! My trembling voice scarce utters
Thoughts that thy image ever hover round:
When thee I fain would celebrate, it mutters
Something inadequate in sense; in sound,
If audible, discordant; my pulse flutters,
And meanings unexpressive, though profound,
Puzzle my sense, and vex my reeling will,
Of something quite surpassing my poor skill.

80

Let a heart-withering breath insinuate not,
That this from my pen is a flattering strain,
More would it seem so, fell it to my lot,
(And far more pretext give my truth to arraign)
Thee, as though nothing I had since forgot,
To paint as once I knew thee, when the train
Of fairy pleasures to my path yet clung:
Thee, had I chaunted, as I found when young.

81

No! Those who most have seen me, since the hour
When thou and I, in former happier days,

Frank converse held, though many an adverse power
Have sought the memory of those times to raze,
Can vouch that more it stirs me (thus a tower,
Sole remnant of vast castle, still betrays
Haply its former splendour) to have prov'd
Thy love, than by fresh friends to have been lov'd.

82

I have had comrades both for weal and woe;
I have had compeers both for good and ill;
But thou 'rt the only one I e'er did know
Who sufferedst such a breeze life's sails to fill,
That all the scath I from the last did know,
Thou metamorphosedst, with wizard's skill,
Into a course more blithe, though not less sure:
And Wisdom's smile, in thee, had folly's lure.

83

Can one for whom twice hath been strung thy harp,
To that be destin'd which is worse than death;
That care with freezing touch his heart should warp,
'Till from his bosom breathe no vital breath?—
Must he be fated to the envious, sharp,
And cutting blast, 'till, like the sterile heath,
From his uprooted, shrivell'd stem there shoot
Nor verdant leaf, nor fragrance, bloom, nor fruit?

84

I will not think it! I will deem these lays
Augur some good! E'en while from me they steal,

Of some compensatory bliss they raise
Inward assurance, since from them I feel
That still thy memory o'er my being sways
With deeper influence, and intenser zeal,
Than it were possible it could have been,
If I were now, as thee I ne'er had seen.

85

Since then, though grafted from another stock,
Some fruit I bear;—deep gratitude at least:—
May not I hope, like seed in cleft or rock,
(Though gorgeous blooms, like blossoms of the east,
From me may never spring) that, from the shock
Of intervening years, have not quite ceas'd
Some straggling buds, whence yet discerning eyes
In me thy fostering care may recognize.
---

86

Once more, or ere I quit th'inspiring theme,—
Utterance to give, to which I need not seek
The muse's aid; nor any fervid dream,
Imagination, from thy sway bespeak;
Rather, Affection, I but need the gleam
Stolen from thy moisten'd eye and glowing cheek;—
Yes, once more must I tax, ere such theme end,
Th' indulgent suffrage of another friend.

87

--- thy friend feels, ere he clasp the page
Destin'd his poor effusions to contain,
As if he robb'd his spirit's heritage
Of one, its chiefest boast, if he refrain
(While somewhat glows still of poetic rage)
From twining, in commemorative strain,
Thy name and his, together. He has lov'd
Himself, oft better, since by thee approv'd.

88

Tell him not, Worldlings! Satirists, tell him not,
That flame of hallow'd friendship, and of love,
Disinterested, free from selfish spot,
Burns not in human bosoms! to disprove
Your theme, by self-experience, 'tis his lot!
In him its mean conclusions pity move!
Though mark'd by much of suff'ring, yet his road
Has led him still where smiles of friendship glow'd.

89

He sees, in thee, in these effeminate times,
Spirit of heroes and of Saints revived;
In thee, a man whom love of truth sublimes;
That self-renouncing energy, which liv'd
In Greece and Rome, ere thy from vanquish'd climes
Had their enervating delights receiv'd.
Their poorest Freedman, if high-hearted, then,
Was consecrated by his countrymen.

90

Were he to speak of pure simplicity,
With that united which is most profound
In intellect, most subtle:—were he free
To say, that past is the last visible bound
Of the imaginative soul by thee;
Were he in words thy faculty to expound,
To track deep thoughts through regions most obscure;
This lay, at least in matter, were not poor!

91

But such the reverence, friend belov'd, for thee
He feels: so deeply he reveres the shrine
In which, as in religious sanctuary,
Thou hidest attributes almost divine;
That his tongue falters, and unwillingly
Traces his pen the encomiastic line,
Till somewhat, by the head unshar'd, upsprings
In his warm heart:—then cheerily he sings.

92

Oft when steals on the meditative hour,
And parlour twilight to repose invites;
Oft when Imagination's stirring power
Keeps watch with hollow blasts of winter nights;
Thy countenance bright upon his heart doth shower,
By Memory trac'd, the exquisite delights,
Which from thy smile, and from thy every tone,
And intercourse ennobling, he has know.

93

Nor can he not indulge in mentioning
Some high peculiar gifts bestow'd on thee;
So rarely found united, that they bring
To common systems of Humanity
Full refutation: thou canst plume thy wing
To all the holiest heights of poesy;
And more than any other art thou fraught
With accuracy of analytic thought!

94

It is a dainty banquet, known to few,
To thy mind's inner shrine to have access;
While choicest stores of intellect endue
That Sanctuary, in marvellous excess.
There lambent glories, ever bright and new,
Those, privileged to be its inmates, bless!
Such as by gods, in tributary rite,
Were hail'd from earth, e'en on their thrones of light!—

95

Yes, there Religion dwells; there, moral worth;
Diffusing round a holy atmosphere;
Cause has that soul to triumph in its birth,
That once is doom'd to be admitted there!
Mere human wisdom is a theme for mirth,
To those who intuitions can revere,
As in transfiguring trance they were espied,
That float round thee, by Heaven o'ercanopied!

96

But stop!—'tis vain!—For none will comprehend
Though line on line dilate upon the theme:
He simply wishes to assure his friend,
How that his image, (like a morning beam,
Dear to the eye, especially if end
It bring to wicked and portentous dream)
In transient intercourse, and seldom given,
Is bless'd to him as visitant from Heaven.

97

Farewell! Forget him not! He does not say
These lines applaud, except that thou canst deem,
(That which he certainly asseverate may)
Beneath them dwells—implicitest esteem.
Known,—or not known,—by men:—go on thy way!
Of admiration th' universal theme,
Or by all men forgot—to him thou'rt one,
Favour'd thine inner mind to look upon!
---

98

Much has that soul to bear which Heav'n has fram'd
Of such capricious, such fantastic stuff,
That all its joys and sorrows still are claim'd—
Its paths are pleasantness, its ways are rough—
From source imaginative. To be blam'd
'Tis not, if he be churlish, that, enough,
He hath not, of joys physical or sensual;
With him, a cold east wind is most potential.

99

He may be very rich, or very poor,—
Yet neither poverty nor wealth the cause be,
Or joy, to him, or misery, to procure.
No! Consequence far more important draws he
From this; that—clear'd each breath which might obscure
Its surface—Fancy's glass might prove from flaws free.
And I uphold, to put this out of question,
Than a deep purse, more needs he good digestion.

100

Yet neither good digestion, western breezes,
Nor whatsoever he his hand could lay on,
Though it may be what, in scholastic thesis,
Is call'd condition, or a sine quâ non,
Of that which I am talking of; though Crœsus
All his “appliances to boot” should rain on
Their fates; (they're so fastidious that I hate 'em)
Give the romantic soul's desideratum.

101

Some as a medium (it was not John Buncle,
Though one, I should suppose, like him endued
With whim; or prone to build, like Shandy's Uncle,
Fort, like as much to fort as fane of Druid,)

Betwixt vibration and vibratiuncle,
Have dream'd, I know not of what subtle fluid,
Where th' nerves, who're very talkative, might pack all
Like ducks in ponds, and one to th' other cackle.

102

Now I suppose that this fine fluid is
Or very apt to freeze, or (quite as bad)
To rarefy: and that the reason is
Why nervous people are so very sad.
People, I mean, who, for their bale or bliss,
Recourse to the nerves' state have always had.
For there are some deign not the nerves to notice—
Not felt, and not to be, the same I wot is.

103

However, dropping theories dialectic,
Of which I never knew to talk with unction,
May I be heard in my lament pathetic,
How very seldom there is a conjunction
Between souls exquisitely sympathetic
(Souls towards whom matter should feel more compunction)
And objects that upon them act? How seldom
That moment felt which holds each wish in thraldom?

104

The immortal moment! 'Tis to be immortal
To have no thought backwards or forwards bended;

Thought, taste, imagination, every portal
Of all the senses, ear, eye, touch, suspended,
Which, as by harmony intense, exhort all
To bliss, that, if it can be comprehended,
Cannot be told! To be all eye, all touch,
All ear, all --- yet not one of these too much!

105

There is a bliss the eye hath never seen!
There is a bliss the ear hath never heard!
Nor hath it ever comprehended been!
And though on man's heart 'tis sometimes conferr'd,
Never except on one that has that keen
Capacity for joy, which is transferr'd
To him, who,—placing all his hopes in thee—
Imagination, is thy votary!

106

No power of volition can work this!
No power of volition can efface it!
Where once thy seal, Imagination, is
Set on the soul, no labour can erase it.
'Tis like a sixth sense which gives emphasis
(Whate'er the cause may be to which we trace it)
To each impression;—character confers:
And all life's objects are its caterers!

107

She can make clouds to seem the abode of spirits
And raise the wailing cry when winds pipe on;

From her each impress physical inherits
Its soul, its life, its consecration.
What, of the grandest prospect, are the merits
On which the sun's great eye hath ever shone,
If its hues, sounds, and forms, be not inspected
Through thy transcendent medium reflected?

108

Yes! Be my guardian still, and I will bear
All ills of body, and all ills of mind;
By thee to be deserted, I should fear
More than from light of day to be confin'd.
I would not have those, who did never wear
Thy livery, to thy service be inclin'd.
As, to their source, streams we cannot recall,
So thou, once felt, must still be all in all.

109

E'en blindness, deafness, loss of ev'ry sense,—
How much more then loss of external things?—
May well be borne beneath thy influence:
And when Religion bears thee on her wings,
And thou becom'st her handmaid, all defence
Against misfortune, whencesoe'er it springs,
We thenceforth may discard: all woes ideal:
He who loves God sees nought but transport real.

110

Where have I wander'd, London, from thy haunts?
Yet still, at times, in this erratic strain

My heart has turn'd to thee, and still it pants
To pay its debt of gratitude for pain,
By thee abated: nor let him who vaunts
Of joys imaginary, where the reign
Of nature's most complete, presume to swear
Imagination's joys are only there.

111

'Tis not the form that is th' essential thing,
It is the soul, the spirit, that is there;
It is a mystery whence th' elastic spring
Of inspiration comes, but it is clear
That, where it is, mere trifles,—any thing,—
The passing bell, some scrannel notes we hear
From vagrant ballad-singer, may invoke
Thoughts that disclaim reality's dull yoke.

112

Yes, I have caught from seeing—as I went
To childhood's bed—through ice-glaz'd lattice shine
The moon's cold gleam; or when the day was spent,
From Christmas-carol, not, in notes like thine,
Oh, Mara, sung; perhaps when the flame, sent
Towards mirror, shone in it, whence it would shine
Back bickering through the room;—if at this hour
So apt to yield us to thy witching power;—

113

From distant fife, upon my ears, there fell
Some notes;—from these—have caught such impulses:

The ice-glaz'd lattice so to me would tell
Of winter's pleasures; of such jocos dulces
The carol speak to me;—with such a spell,
At close of day, would Fancy still my pulses;
In parlour twilight such sweet melancholy
Steal over me, so passionate, so holy,

114

That there has seem'd from all these little sources,
Bliss to arise, which could not be exceeded!
Thus, when the mind is rich in all its forces,
A flower, a scent, which, in some place, I'd heeded,
Still dear to me,—impell'd by these resources,
That feeling strange has risen, as if indeed it
Were true that we elsewhere had had existence:—
And this of past identity were instance.

115

I wist not whether those, who may, by chance,
Cast on these lines their eyes, have ever known it,
But 'tis a strange sensation—this swift glance
At past existence, which, as soon as shewn, it

Vanishes; but the mind feels, while the trance
Doth last, (a sense of past life so doth own it)
As if the self-same forms it saw again,
Which, though it knew not where, it erst had seen.

116

This chiefly happens when, or more or less,
Some curious coincidence occurs;
Or when, the soul, a more than common stress,
To somewhat of fantastic feeling, stirs;
It is in general when an airiness
Of thought, the fortune of the hour confers:
He that has felt it knows it; and to such
As do not know it, each word is too much.

117

I cannot you conduct, my partial friends,
To gaming-house, and every haunt in London,
But for an ignorance I'll not make amends
(By which most guides to places would be undone)
By random chattering, which oft attends
Persons whose words betray that thoughts they had none.
I'll try nathless by th' analytical
T' atone for want of the synthetical.

118

And first—I cannot let this theme pass by,
Without a notice of commiseration,

On those poor outcasts of society,
Who seem the refuse of thick population.
Poor wretches! many times, to pacify
The pain inflicted by your reprobation,
I have retired, to thoughts of Him, who taught,
“Where little's given, little shall be sought.”

119

You have no children to lisp your returning,
When at night, slowly, and with watching weary,
You lift the heavy latch: no hearth is burning,
Seen by whose light, a husband's smile may cheer ye!
No meal domestic, which the gladden'd yearning
Of human souls for comfort, shall endear t'ye.
Yours is all penury, or ribald riot;
The more your home, the less your heart is quiet.

120

I cannot so profane a thinking nature,
As to suppose deliberate rejection
Of virtue's ways, forms the o'er-ruling feature
Of the pale tribes of forfeited protection.
I can't but think their destiny's the creature
Of fortuneless mischance, and that reflection,
Which teaches them that one false step was fate:
Thence efforts of repentance all too late.

121

This is the reason why (from bad to worst,
From profligacy even to defiance,

From too much sensibility, at first,
To passion's bliss, that, with the very science
Of blasphemous remorselessness, they're curs'd)
They seem in nought to place so much reliance,
As in, at last, a formal abjuration
Of that, to which they owe most fascination.

122

Outcasts, most pitiable! to say the best,
A few short hours of fierce intoxication!
A few short hours of passion! while caress'd,
Ye may be, by the sons of dissipation;
And then a timeless death! or else your breast,
By conflict torn, from sudden alternation
To want, from fulness; to disease, from health;
To nakedness, from grace;—death comes by stealth!

123

Who then will come, and for your aching head
And shivering frame, the friendly pillow place?
Who then will come and wipe the tears you shed,
While harrow'd memory former scenes may trace?
Your early home, your innocence,—all fled:
Your parents' darling, once: by your disgrace
Brought, peradventure,—(now too late to save,
Though now first thought on) to a timeless grave.

124

Who now shall whisper in your deafen'd ear,—
Deafen'd by long antipathy to truth,

The comforts of religion? Likelier, far,
Ye try to lethargize the unwelcome ruth,
That now, perforce, will madden you, by mere
Inebriating potions. Should they soothe,
For one short hour, or stupify, your madness,
Your glazed eyes glitter with a gloating gladness.

125

Oh, wretches! this is all that now remains!
E'en to the last, to fever-burning lip,
Trembling, you raise the cup! and, while it drains,
Draw in the liquid fire, with eager sip.
Penury, perhaps, not even this retains!
What is left for you, but that (while the gripe
Of fell disease, and poverty, is yours)
Hell adds her pangs to all the earth endures.

126

Draw we the curtain!—oft I wonder much
That in this age, fruitful of reformation,
Those have not risen, whom the state did touch
Of these poor blighted blossoms of creation;
There have not those been, who, to watch the couch
Of those, which, of superfluous population,
Abortions, we may term, devoted were;
Their ministers of clothing, food, and prayer!

127

How could illustrious female better prove
The faithfulness of her devout pretences,

Than by performing such a task of love?
Could not, of eyes late glazed, relaxing glances,
With tears suffused, as generous transport move,
As fêtes, routs, masquerades, and midnight dances?
Could not the grateful pressure (while the lamp
Of penury dimly burn'd) of fingers damp

128

With sickness' chilling dews; could not the lean,
Transparent hand, folded in gratitude,
Give to the heart a joy, which, from the scene
Of dissipation, would be vainly woo'd?
Think what 'twould be,—oh ye, of feelings keen,
To one, each palliative solicitude,
Whose state required,—while all things round her vex—
The countenance to receive of her own sex.

129

We may give money! we give little then!
Give yourselves too, daughters of affluence!
Give time! give care! keep not your smiles for men
Pursuing you with, or without, pretence!
Ye would seem angels in sick Penury's den!
That sweetest blossom, virgin innocence,
Most tender, sensitive, if near Her bed,
What clouds of hallow'd fragrance would'st thou shed.

130

Talk not to me, that you would thus pollute
The delicate sense of virtue! Insult it is
To common sense, to suffer ye to imbrute,
With every fop, your just unfolding graces,
That chuses to address you; and be mute,
While ye, where histrionic common-place is,
With blushes learn the art, while blush you can,
To hide unblushing cheeks behind your fan.

131

No! where I fain would you exhort to go,
Vice of all fascination is disarm'd:—
While in those scenes where you your mothers shew,
'Tis for a maid perdition to be charm'd.
I care not if her person—yes, or no,—
Be yet defiled. But not to be alarm'd
When the “Fop's Fortune,” or “Confederacy,”
Solicit you, seduced in heart's to be.

132

These things I hold not, of the theatre,
Essential parts, but mere excrescencies;
With pruning knife, as sharp as scimitar,
In spite of paradoxical pretences,
Much do I wish that lopp'd away, they were:
Grant that, to our sex, they be not offences,
Benevolence, breeding, we should be so flush in,
As to resign whate'er sets one cheek blushing.

133

Come! ere I part from you—of this creation,
The noblest object! a pure minded woman!
Let me, once more,—in the lorn situation
Of those, who still are, though unfriended, human,—
Entreat your interest! by your mediation,
(Though at first scoffed at, like all things not common)
'Twixt them and this world; Heaven and them betwixt;
They would in reconciling peace be fix'd.

134

Come, come, my muse, two hours have I sat, waiting,
Like conjuror, for wand to raise the devil:
But oh! ere I can force myself to prating,
(As those, from pump, whose spring's beneath the level
Of this, our earth, whose water they'd be getting,
Must condescend to dally with the handle,—
Ere they obtain their wish,—for a long time)
So long I've stay'd for reason, rhythm, rhyme.

135

But when Dejection's crass ingredients muddle,
And sometimes almost choak the springs of thought,
'Tis quite a chance, if from the slimy puddle,—
Although we surely know 'tis there,—that aught
Of bright (which will like eels or loaches huddle
In any muddy crevice) can be caught.
As lady's wishes, they're as hard to find,
And when they're found, as difficult to bind.

136

And then another simile to use—
Like fish, that is with difficulty caught,
Sometimes, the treasure we've so much abused,
That 'tis not (when the process is achieved) worth aught.
Its lustre gone, mangled with many a bruise,
Such trash it seems; that prize for which we sought,
We scarce can recognize, and wonder how,
Such an abuse of time we could allow.

137

Pardon me, patrons, if I write at random;—
I wish to put off—what I hope you'll ne'er know—
Thoughts,—if by any means I could command 'em,—
Which to the bottomless abyss should go.
Oh God!—if in benevolence thou'st plann'd 'em—
How can thy creatures be tormented so?
Say, is it not for sin? That it is not!
Is it for sins, that trees, grass, blossoms, rot?

138

No man can purchase by his stock of merit
To everlasting happiness a right;
And, in my thoughts, no man deserves t' inherit
A banishment to everlasting night.
What is 't you say? That God's a perfect spirit?
Aught short of his perfection infinite

Is infinite delinquency? Thence just
Punishment's infinite?—And man is dust!

139

We say, in speaking of eternal bliss,
'Tis a free gift; on no man's works dependent;
And yet, on the other hand if that we miss,
We say eternal woe is sin's attendant.
Ye Theologians, tell me how is this?
You grant a man may have woe without end on't,
And all be quite above-board as we say
For Vice;—yet Virtue nothing challenge may?

140

Oh, be consistent! If—that virtue can
Lay claim to a reward—ye will not grant,—
Do not on th' other hand assert that man
Can merit everlasting punishment!—
There is no medium 'twixt the free-will plan,
That gives to man his own arbitrement,
And that of absolute fatality.—
Believe in merit: or in destiny!

141

Some, with inconsequence the most perverse,
Election take, yet spurn at reprobation:
As if to cease to bless, were not to curse,
Where there's omnipotence of domination.
The more you try your argument, the worse
You'll prove 't to be. There is no middle station!
If you affirm grace irresistible,
You must deny all liberty of will.

142

But you reply, grace irresistible
Our creed admits not. I am sorry for't.
Enough, or not enough, to bend the free-will
Grace must be. Not enough? The dose falls short.
This is of cause the prime condition still
That it be operative. Yet divines exhort
Us to deem grace sole source of all salvation,
Yet if we're damned, blame but its application.

143

Are we our own artificers? Are we
To suffer endlessly because we're frail?
But we've free-will? No more than yonder tree!
Which thrives or shrivels as there's sun or hail!

In one the operating cause we see:—
Those unseen which o'er th' other do prevail:
Thus from invisibility to fashion
A theory, we say man has volition.—

144

Thus 'tis—when, in the nature of the subject
That tasks our thoughts, there's something enigmatical,
Just in proportion as there is no object
For sense to work upon, a most pragmatical
Absurdity, inclines us to give verdict
In favour of hypothesis dogmatical.
Just in proportion as that facts are scanted,
Sophistry makes up what in proofs is wanted.

145

If we are happy, or are wretched—so—
In this world, or in that which is to come;
Our own volition caused it not—oh no!
That better care had taken of our doom.

It is, as God hath said, for weal or woe,
He's our sole cause, of gladness or of gloom.
As some trees bloom mature, and some are blighted;
Thus, some men rise, and some by fate are spited.

146

Oh, when will good religionists be consistent?
They seem to like to heap upon poor mortals
Wrongs possible and impossible. This instant
They tell us that the Almighty guards the portals
That lead us to our goal. And yet do they want
To make us think (when thus the last resort falls,
Of human prescience, to elude our fate)
That God all good, and men all ill, create.

147

What? When we're good, tell us all things we owe
To God alone, and nothing to ourselves;
And when we're bad, strive with like might to shew
That all the bad we might escape, like elves
With power fixed laws of nature to o'erthrow?
'Tis most absurd! Oh, take we from our shelves
All our learned volumes, which of 'em does say,
Night is day's absence; yet night might be day.

148

Thus, we are taught when we are good to ascribe
Our good to God; and, when we're bad, to find it—

Not in the absence of that whence imbibe
The rest their goodness, but in our purblind wit.
Poor mortals! worse than ass, or any tribe
Of creatures, does, on us, our load assign'd sit!
When good, we're told we're weak, to make us humble;
When bad, we're told we're strong, to make us tremble.

149

No! we are neither good nor bad in one sense;
We call not the tree bad that bears no fruit;
We do, or we do not, ere we are gone hence,
Fill up our parts: we're teachers or we're mute.
To say in other way—'tis arrant nonsense—
Than we affirm it of the inferior brute,
That we're defaulterers, or benefactors!—
Else why kill wolves and snakes as malefactors?

150

We immolate them 'cause they breed annoyance:—
So do ill men. Rest on that one condition,
The right that thinking creatures have to joyaunce,
And I'll not seek to weaken your position.
But you the argument cannot employ hence,
Except Paul was a scurvy metaphysician.

'Tis thus, in all, our sires we go beyond,
They of dwarf's shapes, we of dwarf's minds, are fond.

151

So far to t'other side I would concede,
That as in man, more than in herb, or brute,
High faculties are planted, we indeed,
When force of those high powers we would compute,
Are more than justified,—nay have a need,
When we would prompt each nobler attribute,
To speak in common language, as if we
Believ'd that man could shape his destiny.

152

I would concede too, man's more various power,
More various predicates may well require;
He is so organized, with such a dower
Of that which is so infinitely higher,

That when we would, in meditative hour,
Speak of him fitly, they may well require,
His infinite relations, mode of phrase,
Though false, yet true, since such mode truth conveys.

153

As in the science of astronomy,
We are constrain'd ideal lines to draw,
And, thus, from that, by aid of phantasy,
Which is not, learn, of that which is, the law;
So towards the mind, which is essentially
Terra-incognita, if done with awe,
We rightly act, if we on truth would gaze,
Asking assistance of symbolic phrase.

154

As in proportion, as we think we can
Controul ourselves, ourselves we shall controul,
'Tis wisely order'd that the free-will plan,
Should prompt our language when we deal the dole
Of praise or blame, (and free is every man
To do whate'er he wills with heart and soul),
Here, as elsewhere, it might be made most clear,
That that which is not true, should true appear.

155

Practical truth, and truth in theory,
Though never clashing, oft do not accord;
And ere I quit the theme, may I be free
Of this hypothesis, to say one word?

In meditative mind they well may be
One and the same, but to the common herd,
By antiphilosophic phrase allur'd,
Are philosophic ends full oft secur'd.

156

As it is useful for the sake of all,
That each the probable should overrate;
As it is useful for the great and small,
That hope in each should end anticipate;
And yet how few, to whose lot it doth fall,
To find his wish the measure of his fate!
As various hues upon the vision play,
Cheering its sense, though all from one white ray.

157

So, by illusive touch, do oft evolve
Appliances, illusive in themselves,
From man's rich heart, a triumph of resolve,
Like magic vision from the wand of elves,
Nobler than that, which, by him, who would solve
All things by science gain'd from dusty shelves,
Could e'er be e'en conceiv'd. He is truth's friend,
Though by illusion gain'd, who gains truth's end.

158

We say the sun doth set, the stars do rise,
Yet 'tis the revolution of this earth
To such a language, offspring of the eyes,
More than of science, that hath given birth;

As he that talks thus may be far more wise,
In that for which day's light is chiefly worth,
Than the philosopher, so in life's span
Oft the unlearn'd we find the wiser man.

159

'Tis tact for practical result, or this
Not found, which men or wise or fools can make;
To say that an abstract hypothesis,—
This, of necessity, for instance, take,—
Can injure, strange infatuation is:—
Who but the speculative ever wake
Their thoughts to such deep theme? and such as he,
With error's antidote, if so it be,

160

Is well prepar'd; from folly, half at least,
Is, and from misappliance enfranchis'd;
Far less by misconception is encreas'd,
Than by misapplication unadvis'd,
Our mental maladies: oft in life's feast
From being misplac'd our blessings are mispriz'd.
The end of all is this—when they're abus'd
Few things are good; few bad discreetly used.

161

One word 'bout faith, or ere I change my theme:
The meaning of that word we quite abuse;
Or so it seems at least, if with a beam
Impartial we the gospel's page peruse.

Of point dogmatical it does not seem
That any writer there the phrase doth use,
But of a trust in something good and great:
Of that presentiment which fixes fate.

162

Read all the catalogue of instances
When Paul faith's triumph fain would certify;
Each one of these relates to expectances
By which the soul itself doth glorify.
Faith's triumph dwelleth in inspiring glances
At something far above mortality;
And its dominion may be broad and spacious,
Though spurned the creed ne'er writ by Athanasius.

163

When Christ did say, “according to thy faith
So unto thee shall it be,” was not this
The meaning that the phrase couched 'neath it hath?
He did refer to that ennobling bliss
Which souls, that trust in goodness, on their path
Feel ever brooding. Their presentiment is
Measure of their salvation. Nought can be
Real to them, like immortality.

164

In this sense 'tis our faith that us doth save;
By its integrity shall we be measured;

And in proportion as from folly's grave
Hours it redeems, proportionably treasured,
Spoils for the future recompense will have;
In this sense we may say Faith hath erazur'd
The law of works; by its transforming might
Pledg'd our inheritance of endless light.

165

He that would write on theme so peripatetic,
At least should have his legs to run a race on;
But though I'm neither gouty nor rheumatic,
La Trappe's recluse would have had more to gaze on
Than I have here. If I must be erratic,
On wings it must be, or like wife of Jason;
The first we know faithless are apt to be,
Witness th' adventure of th' Icarian sea.

166

Had I the art ascrib'd by Gil Blas's author
To Diable Boiteux, in his merry story,
My legs might crippled be like those of Gloster,
And yet I'd sing like Improvisatore.
No Doctor Faustus should I need as master,
Ere I would mount the air in all my glory,
As keeps on May the sweep his “saturnalia,”
And like him penetrate the “penetralia.”

167

Sometimes I think that misery the nurse is
Of many quaint and humourous risibilities;
And when the mind to 'ts state the most averse is,
'Tis forc'd to practise impracticabilities.
It makes one pungent when suppress'd the curse is,
And gives a character to our futilities.
How oft for muse has serv'd a mood splenetic,
And given at least a style quite antithetic.

168

Ye who of sorrow never knew the smart;
Little can ye the feeling comprehend,
Of him who has that deadness of the heart,
That even friendship ceases to befriend.
To soothe those sorrows, which have counterpart,
Those sorrows, which in turn each man attend,
Is like to vesting money, whence we may
Be paid with interest on some future day.

169

But dumb those sorrows are which dry up all
The secret springs of life; and make all toil—
Which from it some fecundity would call—
Useless—to cultivate the parch'd, chapp'd, soil.
All effort vain! Yet it seems hard to fall
On those, who would into our wounds pour oil,
If we sit down in utter hopelessness!
Dumb statues of a “sabbathless” distress!

170

Who, that had heard the voice of infancy?
And seen life's fullness in its merry smile?
Could think the happy being that we see
Had seeds maturing in him all the while
Of fellest passion? Cureless agony?
Moping despair? Ambition? Creeping guile?
Could think that every drop those veins produce,
Were mingled more or less with poisonous juice?

171

When shall that morn arise when sorrow's plaint
No more shall fall upon the human ear?
When shall the heart, with death in ev'ry pant,
Spring at a voice that banishes all fear?
When shall the shriek of pain, the tale of want,
The wrong'd man's groan; the widow's, orphan's, tear;
The sword, the cannon, and the flag unfurl'd,
Cease to proclaim this is a ruined world?

172

Oh London! then—and not till then, the tribes
Of men, no more such vast receptacles
Shall need, as thou art! Safety, that prescribes,
And Commerce, which, as her sure triumph, hails
Such mighty haunts, where human kind imbibes,
As from a common source, one hue, that dwells,
One dominating prejudice—on all:
No more shall eulogize a city-wall.

173

Then, meek-ey'd Saviour! shall thy triumphs bless;
The hungry shall be fill'd, the thirsty quaff
Springs of ineffable immortality!
Love, then, in full fruition, on the staff—
(On which it, weeping, lean'd, when contumely
Was its sole portion from this world's vain chaff,)
Love on that staff shall gaze still, and behold
A lambent sceptre of far-beaming gold!

174

Reign of the Eternal, come! But how can I,
With my unhallow'd voice, thy glories speak?
Few have more cause to wish thy victory!
Cours'd by more scalding tears than mine, what cheek?
Thine Advent, few more cause to dread to see!
To hide how many sins, in vain, I seek?
Come, Saviour, come! to Thee the victory be!
Shame and confusion of the face to me.

175

My heart is dry! if I, at all, can paint
The gladness of thy Advent, 'tis that, driven
By a sad contrast, though in accents faint
From inanition, words to me are given.
A soul forsaken, whom corruptions taint,
Who knows that Hell, cannot but talk of Heaven!
To it but to imagine th' inward peace
That God may give, is his sole happiness.

176

Whate'er the theme with which my will I task,
My will, against my will, directs my pen,
If aught its aid, except religion, ask,
Thither, unconsciously, it turns again.
Or else beneath an ill-adapted mask,
And worn not gracefully, since worn with pain,
To be revenged, at wretched wit it aims,
Whose fraud, its incoherency proclaims.

177

God of all mercy! at this very hour,
This hour to me of permeating fear;
When I feel crushed, and crumbling 'neath thy power
See!—if my speechless throe thou canst not hear.
Is there a soul, whom sorrow doth devour,
As it does mine, beneath this starry sphere?
God!—Father!—it is night, and silence all!
None hear me; and e'en thou but see'st me call.

178

Yes, in these strains, I call to thee, oh God!
They're written in thy presence! they're inscribed
With consciousness intense, as thy abode,
Though dimm'd with clouds and storms, their groans imbib'd.
Oh! shall it be—when—of thy lifted rod—
The time of exhibition circumscrib'd—
Oh, shall it be—that—I may in its place—
The gracious sceptre's exaltation trace?

179

Then with what rapture shall I contemplate
These lines which seem as written with my blood!
Father! oh hear me! tho' the book of fate
Illegible be to me—nor understood!
Oh still, in that, may there be set a date,
When I, of sorrow's worm no more the food,
Shall, as I now suppress it, my voice raise,
To thee, my God, in tones of grateful praise!

Mr. Hunt, of radical memory.

Isaiah chap. 43, verse 2.

See Hartley's hypothesis of vibrations; and his suppositious etherial medium through which the impression is conveyed from objects to his vibratory nerves.

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the fit doth last)
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul
Self-question'd in her sleep: and some have said
We liv'd, ere yet this mortal flesh we wore.

Coleridge's Sybilline Leaves, p. 258.

It certainly only can be beings of the same nature that are amenable to the same laws.—'Till the Almighty form moral agents equal with himself, it is absurd to say that he can expect from them the fruits of an equality which does not exist. When we are told to be “perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect,” it must mean, as men, to desire to be as perfect, as he is as a God: to have the perfection of a sincere-hearted human will, not to be invested with the attributes of Deity.

“En general, les croyans font Dieu comme ils sont eux-mêmes; les bons le font bon, les mechants le font mechant; les dévots, haineux et bilieux, ne voyent que l'enfer, parcequ'ils voudroient damner tout le monde: les âmes aimantes et douces n'y croyent guere; et l'un des etonnemens dont je ne reviens point, est de voir le bon Fénélon en parler dans son Télémaque, comme s'il y croyoit tout de bon: mais j'espère qu'il mentoit alors; car enfin, quelques veridique qu'on soit, il fant bien mentir quelque fois, quand on est evêque. Maman ne mentoit pas avec moi; et cette âme sans fiel, qui ne pouvoit imaginer un Dieu vindicatif, et toujours couroucé, ne voyoit que clemence et misericorde, où les devots ne voient que justice et punition. Elle disoit souvent, qu'il n'y auroit point de justice en Dieu d'être juste envers nous, parceque, ne nous ayant pas donné ce qu'il faut pour l'être, ce seroit redemander plus qu'il n'a donné.”

Les Confessions de J. J. Rousseau, tome 2nd, p. 106.

The reader, it is presumed, will pardon this quotation from the Confessions of Rousseau, a work, though in many respects exceptionable and immoral, in which, perhaps, are to be found more eloquent passages, more depth of imaginative sentiment, more original thought, and more curious development, useful alike for the metaphysician and for the man, of the human heart, than in any one extant in any language.

Perhaps, it may be said that God has promised “his holy spirit to them that ask him,” and, though we cannot be perfect of ourselves, we may be so, by the intervention of such an aid. I wish to be considered, on this topic, as writing, rather as an inquirer than as one already enlightened. I see no objection to the doctrine of eternal punishments, if, by this, be meant, that, to all eternity, a vicious man may feel that he has missed heights of happiness, to which he might have attained with greater vigilance: so far this doctrine is in analogy with what we daily see of the enduring effects, “to the third and fourth generation,” of human indiscretions; but I, certainly, am of opinion, that, by representing religious tenets in a terrific light, as much, nay, more, harm may ensue to the cause of religion, than from representing them under a more conciliatory form:—amiable minds, at least, will, with more probability, be induced to enlist under its banners, by the latter mode of conduct.

Bishop Horsley, in his sermon on liberty and necessity, while he is formally pleading for the former, turns out to be virtually pleading for the latter. His argument, like that of all libertarians, goes only to prove that we can do what we will, not that we can will what we do. He divides the causes that act upon material bodies, and intelligent agents, into efficient and final, but then he supposes that each of these are equally governed by immutable laws, though in the latter case their agency, because of an invisible nature, is more mysterious than in the former.— Why the phenomenon of conscience should coexist with necessity, the greatest philosopher cannot explain; but it must be received as a fact connected with human nature: perhaps it might, even on the score of the doctrine of necessity, be thus accounted for—that it gains new motives to virtue, and diminishes those to vice, by the pleasure that in it is attendant on the one, and the pain on the other.

The author once, in the company of a very excellent religious man, defended, as he here defends, the doctrine of necessity as applied to religion. His companion remarked that this surely was not the language of scripture: the author reminded him of the simile used by Ezekiel and St. Paul, as exemplifying God's power over his creatures, of the potter and his vessel; and he said, does not St. Paul say that God makes “vessels to honour and vessels to dishonour?”—To “dishonour,” I grant, replied the author's friendly disputant, “but not to destruction.” Thus will good men impose on themselves by words.—Reader, peruse the two following verses from St. Paul.

“Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel to honour, another unto dishonour?”

“What, if God, willing to shew his wrath, and to make his power known, endured with much long suffering the vessels of wrath fitted to destruction”!!!

See the letters of William Law, on this subject, and many other of his works.

By our own spirits, are we glorified.—Wordsworth.

This part of the poem was written when the author was confined to his bed by indisposition.

Medea.

SECOND BOOK.

On the Connection between different degrees of Spiritualization, in Religion, and a taste for the Arts in general, and a material or metaphysical taste in Poetry.

1

Seemeth it not to you that speculate
On Man, that in degree as he has gaz'd
On a Religion Spiritual, elevate
Above the senses,—by abstraction rais'd,—
That e'en his tastes in arts participate
In this propensity, and that is prais'd
As lofty, to whose praises would demur
A more material philosopher?

2

Witness the Ancients. Whence may we derive
That which most certainly in them is found,
A sense more exquisitely perceptive
Of beautiful in sight, or touch, or sound,
But from the fact that outward forms receive
An apotheosis from the scant bound
Of their religion, which the soul condenses
In outward forms, not lifts above the senses.

3

Or shall we more gratuitously deem
That this, which we cannot, in fact, disprove,
Is but coincidence? To us 'twould seem
Less easy this hypothesis to prove.
Trace all the links from first to last extreme,
In all societies where ardent love
Of Art has been, in coexistent stress
With a Religion abstract more or less.

4

Begin with times of Greece and Rome most fam'd;—
Can, of arts' triumph, instances more high,
Than these, without the Christian faith, be nam'd;
Go where Catholicism has well nigh
Succeeded, and irrefragably aim'd
To press their rites on Christianity;
From these proceed to countries where the school
Of the reformers is the establish'd rule,

5

From high Episcopacy yet steer on
To the more lively faith, more meagre rule,
Which has in Scotia's land the victory won:
From this proceed to the conventicle:
And last of all, when ye've the gauntlet run
Thro' all these tribes, with Quakerism dwell.
There as an instance, in supreme perfection,
Will ye behold the triumph of abstraction.

6

Now have not all these classes we have nam'd,
Just incorporeal, as their faith has been,
Been stripp'd of art, which, when religion aim'd
To make some compromise with taste, we've seen
Incorporate with her rule, and with unblam'd
Zeal, in her service press'd? this contravene,
Ye who can do it! Has art ever kept
Her state, where faith of ornament was stripp'd!

7

Beauty, to the ancients, was a love, devotion:
Power was their symbol of sublimity!
Attitude, Passion, Symmetry, and Motion,
With them were fix'd in forms of statuary!
Methinks, as all minds are impell'd to a notion
Of power, o'er which man has no agency,
Thence to religion; so, as this directs,
Man's character, in taste, it much affects;

8

Whether it turn to high abstractedness;
Or whether, where'er there is beauty, grace,
Love, with accommodating cheerfulness,
To enshrine itself, as in a holy place.
I fear that some may think that, too much stress
We lay on this; and say “the equal pace
The arts may keep with sensuous zeal, is hence,
That the same minds receive each influence.”

9

“That our religion is sublime or physical,
Imaginative, abstract, or indulgent,
From previous causes, which have nought at all
To do with love of art: and that the bent
Devotion takes, in such a line, will fall,
As from deficiency, or from extent
Of previous culture, squares best with our wit.
Religion makes not us, but we make it.

10

I grant there's action and re-action. “And,”
Continues my opponent, “that the arts,
More than on Christian, on the Heathen land
Flourish'd, is not because the law imparts
Of one, an influence to these arts bland;
And t'other, with contumacy, still thwarts;
But that it happen'd so; perhaps, since civil
Their sun was, Rome, Greece, lov'd the beau ideal.”

11

“'Tis more in climate, and cause physical,
Than their religion's opposite pretensions,
That th' ancients have, in point of taste, (though tall
In other things we are) dwarfed our dimensions.”
—Well! it may be so; oftentimes there's small
(Though it give birth to violent contentions)
Difference between causation and coincidence.
I'll not be stiff. This may, in proof, be instance.

12

But, if it be coincidence, or cause,
The fact we must allow, that, in a region
Where faith towards abstract contemplation draws,
The arts are treated as, of devils, a legion.
Again, if ever faith the arts espouse,
As, by this means, the latter, with religion,
Share all the honours, then new motives press
On those whose fame's involv'd in art's success.

13

'Tis difficult to reach the utmost length
Of exquisite refinement in the senses,
And to retain that venerable strength,
Which turns, to moral ends, their influences.
It must, I fear, be granted us, at length,
To Epicurus's indulgences
The arts owe more than to the stoic's sermons.
The arts ne'er kept the senses on short commons.

14

But since 'tis pleasanter to paint effects
Than flounder in the dark abyss of causes;
And, since he who creates, than who dissects,
'Tis probable will challenge more applauses;
Since 'tis more pleasant to be architects,
Than be employ'd in pulling down old houses;
And other whys and wherefores, the synthetic
I must prefer to the style analytic.

15

Well, then, proceed we on our hobby horse,
And pick up facts as fast as we can find 'em;
But when we're mounted, 'twould be worse than gorse
In king's highway, if systems round us twin'd 'em.
Proceed we then, for better and for worse,
Like men that look before, around, behind 'em;
Not like astrologer, as if to move him
Things indispensably must be above him.

16

'Tis pleasant, no doubt, many of my readers
Can tell, to loiter on a sunny day;
When e'en the fly puts forth its little feelers,
So soft the air, so genial the sun's ray:
To catch the gales, Nature's benignant healers,
Bring their rich fragrance from the tedded hay,
Whose kisses, like a dear friend's welcome home,
Gladden, while telling of more joys to come.

17

'Tis sweet to linger near a little brook,
Which trips so murmuringly 'mid stones, grass, flowers;
Sweet to be stretch'd at length, with favourite book,
In Nature's own self-consecrated bowers.
'Tis sweet on eyes of a dear friend to look,
More, if that friend be female, and be ours.
Sweetest of sweets! a summer day's bewildering
With our own offspring, while, like them, we're children.

18

But neither ramble on a sunny day,
Nor ling'ring near a little brook, more sweet;
Nor with a favourite author stretch'd, to lay
Ourselves at length; nor dear friends' eyes to meet;—
I scarce know what of woman's eyes to say;—
Or when, with children, pleasure is complete!
Those being excepted, no, not one of these
More sweet, than pouring out one's thoughts at ease.

19

Proceed we once more to our theme neglected.—
Whence comes it, that the ancients, when they 'affect
Topics that with man's passions are connected,
Confine themselves to physical effect?
By them, as by us, mind is not dissected;
Speak they of love? The passion they depict:

Its macies, its pallor;—but its throes?
A picture's given! The rest we must suppose.

20

Thus, in the tragic scene, where fell remorse
Distracts the breast of Agamemnon's son;
'Stead of describing it in all its force—
Like Shakspeare, when hell's mysteries, one by one,
Knell out the death of Duncan: from their source,
When his great powers develope thoughts that shun
A grasp less skilful, and when he reveals
Whate'er Guilt's agonizing victim feels;

21

Instead of these, in the more antique scene,
The stern-ey'd Furies rise, and circle round
Orestes' form: in that the felt is seen!
Little recourse is had to the profound,
Mysterious, and impalpable, I ween!
In painter's art, there might as much be found
Of thought, as we find there: I grant, there much is
Oft, of true pathos, which profoundly touches.

22

Now cannot we suppose, that something may
Of this so very marked discrepancy,
Ascribed be, to the very different way
In which religious things we 're apt to see?
Perhaps, that no sense more than this doth sway
The texture of the mind, we shall agree.

Let us decide the question as we will:—
It is a stubborn fact, that all our skill

23

Cannot o'erturn; by matter, they, the mind—
And by material forms, its various powers—
Illustrate. To the latter is assigned
Subserviency by them. The task is ours,
By intellectual processes refined
(As, in some climes, meaning's convey'd by flowers)
All objects of creation to controul,
As vassals to phenomena of soul.

24

It seems to me, so much Religion's power
Sways human souls, and so much is combin'd
With all their faculties, that, when we tower
Beneath its influence with thoughts heaven-enshrin'd,
'Tis likely that a taste will be our dower,
E'en in indifferent objects, more refin'd,
More lofty far, than what can those befal,
In whom it tends to objects physical.

25

Besides, when we Religion thus divest
Of what is definite, those soaring wings

The mind was forc'd to use in her behest
To her will minister in other things:
'Tis thus, the eagle, which hath built her nest
Upon a cloud-capt rock, aspiring springs
Towards the source of light, e'en when with food
She goes to satisfy her callow brood.

26

Surely no blending of material hues,
Though language its prodigious wealth should pour,
Nothing that skill most exquisite could chuse,
(Tho' were of form, tinct, sound, the copious store
Exhausted) could, from the Athenian muse,
Equal thy use of metaphysic lore,
Oh, bard of Avon; in our heart sink deep
As his self-cursings who had “murder'd sleep!”

27

We grant, that much is done when one choice word
Of psychologic meaning, aptly caught,
By subtle application, doth afford
A long excursion to conjectural thought.
Than lavishly the philologic hoard
(While expletive to expletive is brought.)
Unlock, 'tis better to be terse, sententious:
Better to be laconic, than licentious.

28

By him, whose idiosyncratic verve
Never will be, nor yet has rivalled been,
In course of Gallic literature, observe,
With what relentless, though impartial, spleen
Corneille is analyzed! The finest nerve
(Howe'er by nice refinement made more keen)
One little saucy word shall not distress,
Marring its erudite voluptuousness.

29

Like their religion is their art of writing;
The one an exponent of priest's finesse;
Of burnished phrase the other: both uniting
The beau-ideal of fastidiousness!
Could all the brilliant nothings, so inviting,
But masquerade it in an English dress,
Which gave their “petits soupers” such a savour,
They'd make us sick, in spite of all their flavour.

30

Of all the writers that I can recall,
Who were, in Rome, to poetry devoted,
As partial to the metaphysical,
Next to Lucretius, Ovid may be quoted.
An exquisite sense of beauty physical
Is his first attribute; next may be noted
A wond'rous power to paint the human breast,
When by conflicting impulses impressed.

31

As instances of this, Althæa take,
When, in the flames, the brand she would have flung,
On whose safe-guard her son's life was at stake;
Take Byblis, Myrrha! (both by passion wrung,
And loth, at the same instant, to forsake
The path of virtue)—when did human tongue,
Ever pour forth, in words of fiercer fire,
Pangs of remorse, and burnings of desire?

32

On th' other hand, in Virgil, it should seem,
An intuition forces us to think,—
Although his words flow like a stately stream,
And, 'neath its surface plunged, he never sink,
From its abyss to bring, for passion's dream,
Mysteries that in its hidden caves might shrink—
That 'tis a purpos'd abstinence: his draught,
Tho' not charg'd with it, wakes profoundest thought.

33

His words so fitly placed; his subtle art;
Impress us as a face which is so fine,—
(Although it promises whate'er the heart
Conceives, in eloquence, and thought, divine)
That we from injuring its repose should start:
Its sublime silence leads us to decline
(It is so satisfying) further quest!
We fear a dream so heavenly to molest!

34

I've heard it said by one, whose praise is fame,
That 'tis a higher triumph of the bard
To fix the soul by a well-woven frame
Of outward forms, than by indulged regard
Into the secret springs, and inward aim,
Of every character: by hues prepar'd,
Plac'd in nice shades, as thro' transparent medium,
To shew man's attributes, but not explain 'em.

35

This, to do well, he would have said, requir'd
More skill than that of him who brings to light
The hidden mysteries of the mind: attired
They by the former are, and though t' excite
Less fit, have by their drapery acquir'd
A grace, for this compensatory quite.
Thus, well-bred gentleman a feast who gives,
Tells not each guest whence he his cheer receives.

36

The guest must know the power of wealth is there,
By fruits from foreign climes, and by the train
Of viands exquisite as they are rare:
But as his business is to entertain,
And, as he thinks that object tarnished were
By an attempt its causes to explain;
As much as one, less an adept, reveals—
The secret mechanism he conceals.

37

I grant there's much in this. A poet once
Proved, by his characters' consistency,
That he in metaphysics was no dunce:
Now every character we hear, or see,
Or read of, in such haste is to announce
The hidden motives of its agency,
That, from anticipation, ere achieved,
The coup de théâtre, with yawns received.

38

Late novel writers of this fault partake.—
Richardson, Fielding, Smollet, Le Sage, read,
Cervantes—and observe the path they take,
Would they engage our interest. 'Tis indeed
By accurate portrait they know how to make
Of their own species, whence from them proceed
(As face to face in mirror is resembling)
That which hath set the nerve of nature trembling.

39

It is for this we love them; and love too
Their fabled characters, as they were real;
It is for this, when we have travelled through
Their pages, that our own life more ideal
Seems than the one to which we've bade adieu:
Lastly, for this it is that we indeed feel
For them the interest which our friends might claim!
E'en would they rival them, gain'd is their aim.

40

For this superiority have they
O'er real beings of a common nature,
That heart too much disposed to throw away
Its love, in them can never find a traitor.
There is, to most of us, a short-liv'd day
In which we friendship read in every feature.
That day soon fades! Its night how dark it were,
Did not feign'd beings rescue us from care.

41

With scant accommodations that await,
And with ill-grace received at every stage,
How long, how toilsome, and how desolate,
To us the melancholy pilgrimage,
From that bright bower where youth in rapture sate
Conning its visions, while the Archimage
Stern truth divulging, led us from its shade
To pathless wastes, which not a flower displayed.

42

Yet still we have this treasure, though we turn
Slightingly from it, 'till reflection's glance
Has taught us not at palliatives to spurn:
Ours are your pages, authors of romance!
No more can we imagine to sojourn
With beings angelic; but with you perchance
That we again may find which we thought fled!
And live with you, though to the world we're dead.

43

Ah! who can tell what it is, drop by drop,
To feel the warm blood oozing from the heart?
Now on this eminence, now that, to stop,
As lost in haze the outlines quite depart
Of native scenes, to bid adieu to hope?
In early life from a high mount we start,
What, in a future vantage station, more
Can charm us, than its summit to restore?

44

From that most monstrous of all monstrous things,
A tale contrived to serve hypothesis,
Who ever felt the pleasure which that brings
Whose only archetype the natural is?
While authors soar on surreptitious wings,
All facts must wait on theory; and a Miss
Not love, till she has, to our time's perdition,
Proved if love govern, or obey, volition.

45

There cannot be a series of action,
In real life, that has not its own moral;

Keep you to this, nor be your tale's construction
Mechanical as organ with a barrel:
Stuffed with good people, who to the least fraction,
Of newest systems wear the quaint apparel,
And through five volumes live on paradox;
You snug meanwhile like charlatan with shew-box.

46

'Tis you, not they, are speaking all the while.
They live by syllogism; die by theory:
And only prove they have, (after vast toil)
Infallibility, when they would weary.
Carry a system to 't, if you would spoil
A sketch of life,—for it will then miscarry.
'Tis as portentous as a doctor's sign is,
And quite as emblematic of a finis.

47

“'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at such a world.” So sung thy bard,
Religion! But as here, where can we meet
With such exemption from mankind's regard.
Here, he, indulgence to his wish, complete
May give, who social ties would fain discard.

Here one may find (lost in a multitude!)
That crowds create the deepest solitude!

48

Live in the country where you may, you will
(Indeed, you must, for life's accommodation)
One neighbour have: this one,—another still;—
And thence a little world has its creation.
There where few things occur the void to fill;—
To satisfy man's craving for sensation,
Your walks, your meals, visits, and visitors,
Each is the theme of pert inquisitors.

49

Again, the individual temper much
A man's perception of retirement sways;
No man can be in solitude, whose touch
With tremulous conformity obeys
(Like needle at the magnet's near approach)
The voice of censure, or the voice of praise.
Opinion, like a ghost, was never known
To let him, whom she haunted, feel alone.

50

Witness Geneva's prodigy! Though woods
Receiv'd him in their bosom; and though skies
And mountains kiss'd each other; though the floods
Emptied their cataracts of mighty size

Amid vast lakes' profoundest solitudes;
To shroud him from imagined enemies;
Still absent hostile forms around him glared;
Him, with her spells, still vanity ensnared.

51

Some find a solitude where'er they fly;
There are who could not find it if they would;
Victims of grief, where's your society?
And where, joy's votaries, your solitude?
Remorse! Thou art alone, and thousands nigh!
Virtue! in converse high, 'mid desarts rude!
The first may be 'mid millions, and alone!
The last, in bless'd society, though one!

52

Think ye, that He , who, on the mountain's height,
Spent all the night in commune with his God,
Was e'er alone? Or, was his darkness, night?
Can solitude and darkness make abode
With one, on whose heart, ever springing light,
Fresh dews from heaven are ceaselessly bestowed.
No! To the good man, blessed in his thought,
And blessing, loneliness can ne'er be brought!

53

His prayers are blessedness; his thoughts are praise;
His love is fellowship! Performance high,

Communion higher still, the themes that raise
His aspirations 'bove mortality.
The unseen powers that wait upon his ways,
“Millions of spiritual creatures” flitting by,
His eye almost beholds them! From the air
Their song distils! His God is every where!

54

This is the intercourse for which I pine;
The Universal Eye of Heaven can see
With how much truth and force this wish is mine!
Then, welcome, prisons! welcome, chains, to me!
Then since I might the more my thoughts confine,
To thee, my God, the more should I be free;
Since, although fettered, more were I endued
With that which is my soul's solicitude.—

55

My God! Wouldst Thou, e'en from this bed of pain,
Mark this one wish, the only wish I have;
All former sufferings to me were gain!—
I should have nothing left from thee to crave.
Me of all dispossess! Of all the train
Of joys which are on this side of the grave;
Of friends that once were mine, of Hope, Fame, Health,
Gav'st thou thyself, abundant were my wealth.

56

The earth was once a mirror whence, reflected,
God's presence made each object to allure;

I revelled in the bliss, and ah! neglected
The means such bliss in future to secure.
Oh, let my prayer be not at last rejected;
I have lost all! I am desolate and poor!
So am I wean'd from life, I know not how
(E'en if I might) to ask its blessings now.

57

But in this city's vast receptacle
How many are there who are vowed to thee?
How many are there, when it lyeth still
At night, and when the curtained canopy
Its countless eyes, its multitudinous will,
Shrouds from the stars, how many may there be
That hear thee, when the day hath ceased its noise,
To their souls whisper in the “still small voice?”

58

Few, few, alas! To beds of down they go—
From business, pleasure, or from idleness;
And save the numerous progeny of woe,
Who, while, unrested, the hard earth they press,
Feel scalding tears from aching eye-balls flow;
How few are there but sleep, nor rising, bless,

Nor lying down, the bounteous hand that spread
Their draperied couch, and curtain'd close their head.

59

Father! And cannot I, in this resort,
One being find to sympathize with me?
Here came I, hoping to derive support
From one of all the many forms there be
In this vast focus, towards which, as t' a court,
Converge all phantasms of variety;
Here came I, hoping that (amidst them all)
One to my smart might be medicinal!

60

As, in romantic legends, or feign'd tales,
'Tis said that (by some potent wizard bound)
Th' adventurous knight whom Glamourie assails
Shackles defying human power surround:
So 'twill not be! Not all man's power avails
(When from on high come fetters that confound)
Their knots to unloose: yet He each knot who wreathes,
Could burst them, as did “Sampson his green withes.”

61

That Power alone, who arm'd the shepherd's son
'Gainst the proud boast of the Philistine band;

That power, who, to a sling and little stone,
And in an unknown stripling's untaught hand,
Gave potency—miraculously shewn—
Shield, sword, and spear, of giant to withstand:
He only can release th' imprison'd soul,
And billowy passions of the heart controul.

62

What aid can horses, or can chariots, bring?
What aid can palaces, and sumptuous halls?
What aid can theatres, whose ceilings ring
With shouts which shake its decorated walls?
What aid can spires, and cupolas, whence fling
Roseate sun-beams, o'er crowded capitals,
At morn, or eve, their glittering golden light?
Or splendour's triumphs, dazzling to the sight?

63

What aid can busy streets, or peopled marts,
Where, forest-like, the crowd of masts upsoars;
In ports, where Commerce, with her thousand arts,
Collects the nations from a thousand shores?
What aid, though population, from all parts
In one swift channel disembogue her stores,
Could these confer on him, on whom his God
Hath laid the chastisement of his fierce rod?

64

No; in the pathless desart there's a voice,
A voice of gladness, to the soul heaven loves;

“Waste places of the wilderness” rejoice;
And the way-faring man who through them roves:
The thickets—echoing only with the noise
Of hissing reptiles, where the thistle moves,
Or nettle, with the fierce sirocco—sing,
And their lone tenants, 'neath the Almighty's wing.

65

Place me in burning sands of Araby,
Where never zephyr fann'd the thirsty waste;
Place me on ice-cliff, 'mid a frozen sea,
Where ne'er green herb the trackless snow-drifts grac'd;
Tho' atmosphere, with life at enmity,
Condens'd to heavy clouds, the scene defac'd;
Confounding earth with heaven, the heaven with earth,
As Chaos reign'd ere Nature's rose to birth;

66

Pierc'd I the veil, my God! 'twixt Thee and me!
I should be well content, whate'er my lot;
I should appropriate to my destiny,
That which—once gain'd—though other things were not—
Would raise me 'bove life's mutability:
Reasoners, that argue of ye know not what,

Do not, as mystical, my strain deride:
By facts' criterion be its doctrine tried.

67

The blind as well might doubt of sense of sight;
Peruse their lives, who thus have vow'd pursuit
Of heavenly communion: in despite
Of all your arguments, ye can't dispute
Their singleness of heart: except ye fight
'Gainst facts, ye, self-convicted, must be mute.
Will ye deny, that they've a secret found
To baffle fate, and heal each mortal wound?

68

Will ye deny, to them alone 'tis given,
Who its existence, as a faith, embrac'd?
'Tis mainly requisite, to partake of heaven,
That the heart's treasures there should first be plac'd.
According to thy faith shall it be given
To thee, with spiritual glories, to be grac'd.
As well all facts whence man experience hath,
As doubt immunities bound up in faith.

69

'Tis easy thing to say, that men are knaves;
'Tis easy thing to say, that men are fools;
'Tis easy thing to say, an author raves;
Easy, to him who always ridicules
The incomprehensible, to allege—and saves
Trouble of farther thought—that oft there rules

Fanatic feeling in a mad-man's brain:
That half-pretence oft ekes out half-insane.

70

We know all this; but we know also well,
These men we speak of, tried by every test
Admissible, all other men excel
In virtue, and in happiness. Since bless'd
Are they, stern Fate, spite of thy direst spell!
Infection, loathsome maladies, each pest
And plague,—for these have they,—should they assail,
A panacea which will never fail!

71

God is their rock, their fortress of defence,
In time of trouble, a defence most holy;
For them the wrath of man is impotence;
His pride, a bubble; and his wisdom, folly.
That “peace” have they—unspeakable, intense,—
“Which passeth understanding!” Melancholy
Life's gauds to them: the unseen they explore:
Rooted in heaven, to live is—to adore!

72

Ye, that might cavil at these humble lays,
Peruse the page of child-like Fenelon;
Hear what the rapt, transfigur'd Guyon says,
With ills of body such as few have known;—
Tedious imprisonment; in youthful days
To luxuries used, they all aside are thrown;

To poverty devoted, she defies
Its sorest ills, blessing the sacrifice.

73

Was e'er an instance known, that man could taste
True peace of mind, and spurn religion's laws?
In other things were this alliance trac'd;
Constant coincidence; effect, and cause,
We scruple not to call them; or, at least,
Condition indispensable, whence draws
The one, the other. This coincidence
But grant me here;—and grant the consequence.

74

Facts, facts, are stubborn things! We trust the sense
Of sight, because th' experience of each day
Warrants our trust in it. Now, tell me whence
It is, no mortal yet could dare to say,
Man trusted in his God for his defence,
And was confounded? cover'd with dismay?
Loses he friends? Religion dries his tears!
Loses he life? Religion calms his fears!

75

Loses he health? Religion balms his mind,
And pains of flesh seem ministers of grace,
And wait upon a rapture more refin'd,
Than e'en in lustiest health e'er found a place.
Loses he-wealth? the pleasure it can find
He had before renounc'd; thus can he trace

No difference, but that now the heart bestows
What through a hand less affluent scantier flows.

76

He too as much enjoys the spectacle
Of good, when done by others as by him:
Loses he fame? the honour he loves well
Is not of earth, but that which seraphim
Might prize! Loses he liberty? his cell,
And all its vaults, echo his rapturous hymn!
He feels as free as freest bird in air!
His heaven-shrin'd spirit finds heaven every where!

77

'Tis not romance which we are uttering! No;
Thousands of volumes each word's truth attest!
Thousands of souls redeem'd from all below
Can bring a proof, that, e'en while earthly guest,
'Tis possible for man that peace to know,
Which maketh him impassive to the test
Of mortal sufferance! Many and many a martyr
Has found this bound up in religion's charter.

78

Pleasure, or philosophical or sensual,
Is not, ought not to be, man's primary rule;
We often feel bound by a law potential
To do those things which e'en our reasons fool.
God, and he only, sees the consequential;
The mind, well nurtur'd in religion's school
Feels that He only—to whom all's obedient—
Has right to guide itself by the expedient

79

Duty is man's first law, not satisfaction!
That satisfaction comes from this perform'd,
We grant! But should this be the prime attraction
That led us to performance, soon inform'd
By finding that we've miss'd the meed of action,
We shall confess our error. Oft we're warm'd,
By a strong spirit we cannot restrain,
To deeds, which make all calculation vain.

80

Had Regulus reason'd, whether on the scale
Of use, in Rome, his faculties would most,
Or Carthage—patriotism's cause avail,
He never had resum'd his fatal post.
Brutus, Virginius, had they tried by tale
Their country's cause, had never been her boast.
Yet had it not these self-doom'd heroes seen,
Rome, “the eternal city,” ne'er had been!

81

Shall Christ submit upon the cross to bleed,
And man for all he does a reason ask?
Have martyrs died, and confessors, indeed,
That he must seek a why for every task?
If it be so, to prate we've little need
Of this enlighten'd age! Take off the mask!
If it be so, and ye'll find this our proud age,—
Its grand climacterick past, is in its dotage.

82

Thy name, Thermopylæ, had ne'er been heard,
Were not the Greeks wiser than our wise men.
I grant, that heaven alone to man transferr'd,
When he would raise up states for history's pen,
This more than mortal instinct! Yet absurd
It is (because, perhaps, our narrower ken
Their heights cannot descry; yea, and a curse
'Twill bring) to make a theory of the worse.

83

A theory for a declining race!
No, let us keep at least our lips from lies;
If we have forfeited Truth's soaring grace,
Let us not falsify her prodigies.
We well may wear a blush upon our face,
From her past triumphs so t' apostatize
In deeds; but let us not with this invent
An infidelity of argument.

84

Go to Palmyra's ruins; visit Greece,
Behold! The wrecks of her magnificence

Seem left, in spite of man, thus to increase
The sting of satire on his impotence.
As to betray how soon man's glories cease;
Tombs, time defying, of the most pretence
But only make us feel with more surprise,
How mean the things they would immortalize!

85

Man is a riddle! Lofty in his feeling!
But, like an idiot, driveling in what lends
Form to that feeling! Tho' fire from heaven he's stealing,
'Tis on some child's play that that fire he spends—
Dice, women, any thing! Thus, while he's reeling,
And thus in act the despicable blends
With the sublime in impulse, he employs
Powers, that might immortalize, on toys.

86

Our station we perversely abdicate:
Self-disinherited, we tumble down,
Wilfully tumble, from our Godlike state:
Wilfully barter our immortal crown
For gawds and trifles: contradict what fate
Has legibly inscrib'd of high renown
On man's imperial destiny, and die
Suicides of our immortality.

100

87

Once more, oh, London, I thy worth proclaim,
As giving all facilities to those
Who, for their rational enjoyment, aim
T'ensure refin'd society's repose.
Graces and fascinations, without name,
So versatile their lustre, while it glows,
In “numbers without number” here resort;
Invite attention, and acceptance court.

88

Here, loveliest of all lovely things, may we,
In most bewitching aspect, woman find,
With each perfection that kind destiny
Confers, when art and nature are combin'd!
Fashion, and sense, and sensibility,
Each grace of body, and each grace of mind,
While flatteries for each sense around her shine,
We see her plac'd as on a worthy shrine.

89

Nature! with homeliness do not confound her!
Without a paradox, I would affirm
The daintiest daughter of patrician grandeur
Has more that well may lay claim to the term,
Than low-born maid, tho' town or country train'd her.
Flowers spring from Nature, so does woman's charm,
And 'tis an art to those in low degree
Unknown, in best sense natural to be.

101

90

'Tis not the things we do that vulgar are:
Who ever thought those high-born votaries
Of self-denial, who would oft repair
To prisons, hospitals, and monasteries,—
In climes where sways Rome's ritual,—vulgar were?
Go with them! See, in lowest offices,
And most repulsive maladies, their toil!
Not one of these their natural grace doth soil!

91

All that in any way we can connect
With thoughts of property must vulgar be;
How difficult then is it, in effect,
From this alloy entirely to be free,
When every instant is the architect—
And all life's pressures urge necessity—
Contrivances prudential, of your sway!
And guarded interest marks the happy day!

92

'Tis hence the poor are vulgar: now and then,
E'en among them, a soul is found above
The sway of his condition. There are men
Not by impressions ruled, who (made to move
In a particular orbit) o'er them reign.
These cause us (in what rank soe'er) to prove
For them a reverence. Menials there are,
Whom I had blush'd to see behind my chair.

102

93

There is a soul, which never can admit
(Whate'er the pressure of necessity)
A vulgar thought. But it were lack of wit,
In argument like this, since this may be,
Exceptions such as these as rules to admit.
Since then, most spirits have the faculty
To allow such influence, we're forced to prefer
That lot, whence such impressions fewest are.

94

As Virtue sits with easiest grace on those
In whom 'tis deeply rooted, not on such
As wear her mask; so Grace most truly glows
On them who never felt an adverse touch.
Thence, in any given hour, should we suppose
That he so trained (wish it, however much
He might) that vulgar he could never be,
Is less than he polite from mimickry.

95

A word, a look, a gesture, may betray
A volume of disgusting consciousness;
Tho', where that consciousness exists, we may
By extreme thought, and consummate address,
Prevent divulging it. But then the sway
Of circumspection will all ease repress.
Let the glass freely circulate; 'tis rare
The secret's kept, in spite of all our care.

103

96

A laugh, tone of the voice, glance of the eye,
All may betray us: nothing;—any thing;—
An instant's lapse, or inadvertency:—
With these flaws, when we them together bring,
We cannot join those of timidity;
From want of usage, or ill health, may spring
A bashful manner; but no one, e'er grounded
In manners, this with vulgarness confounded.

97

An aukward, is not thence a vulgar, gesture;
A soul the most refined may feel mal-aise,
In mixed society: a man, whose posture
The most constrain'd is, still no smile may raise.
Let our guest have all that the thought doth foster—
Respectful feeling his demeanour sways,
That he by pledges of respect, insists on
Respect again, no one his claims will question.

98

To him, not well versed in the scenes of life,
An exquisite perception of the graces
May often with performance be at strife;
And, of good breeding, banish all the traces.
Yet e'en low souls, (for souls like these are rife
In highest scenes) with all their fade grimaces,
'Twixt one ill-bred, and one too timid—well
To acquit himself—the difference can tell.

104

99

Failure in manners and in manner, are
Two different things: a man may not display—
When he presents himself—an easy air;
Aukward in gesture be, and—what to say—
Know not; and yet preserve, with nicest care,
The art of not offending. Where the sway
Of moral feeling is profoundly wrought,
Instinctively we catch another's thought.

100

On the other hand, a man may be at ease,
And love, with brutal insolence, to wound,
With selfish vanity; and, more than these,
E'en with politeness, will low pride confound.
We have seen those in all the mysteries
Of high-bred circles learnedly profound,
Yet by their egotism so inflam'd,
Manner but sharpened darts their manners aim'd.

101

Manners and manner, be ye both combined,
Who'll not their suffrage give to your pretensions;
Graces of body, graces of the mind,
When joined, increase their several dimensions.
'Tis to be glowing with a sense refined
That man has feelings language never mentions;
'Tis to have full command of all the charm,
By which man's eye, speech, attitude, can warm.

105

102

Yet, as with innocence, to make it pure,
It should be wholly ignorant of ill;
So for man's manners perfectly t'allure,
Supreme of grace should be th' instinctive will.
That innocence no longer doth endure
Than while all avenues are shut, whence skill
Is learn'd, to judge between the wrong and right;
So finished manners know no opposite.

103

We e'en would say a dame with fingers gloved
Will fidget them, like bird new caught in cage,
Had custom not, like second nature, proved
That 'twas her ordinary equipage.
We scarce know why, yet on those who have moved
In rank patrician, is that heritage
Of fascination, whose charm never failed,
Chiefly, if not exclusively, entailed.

104

Talk not to us of honest open faces;—
Talk not to us of manners frank and free;
We like the smothered tones, the stately paces,
Of those whose voice is breathing melody.
Of those whose gait of business has no traces;
There is a calm consummate mystery
In those, whate'er they do, who seem to say,
Manner, not motive, doth the action sway.

106

105

Low tones we love them! and slow steps we love!
We love a manner prodigal of time!
For affectation and pretension, prove
Only less hatred than for actual crime.
We love a stillness that (e'en though they move)
To fashion's daughters give, in act, to chime
With our most earnest breathings, and impart
Motion's sweet music to the melting heart.

106

Yet deem not we would purchase one, the best,
Of all these graces, were a tittle lost
Of moral feeling! No! Though we've confessed
Their charm enthralls us, they can never boast
That charm except 'tis mainly manifest
They spring like gorgeous flowers in climates most
By nature blessed. Howe'er they ask much toil;
To grace—they must be natural to—the soil.

107

Heaven oft asks less of us than we suppose:
To weed out our bad tempers he requires;
But some, not gifted mysteries to disclose,
Because a lot his breast with envy fires
Measures its snares by charms it may propose;
Thus he imagines, if to man's desires
It be congenial, that it must be fatal
To those whose creed commands life's joys to hate all.

107

108

But, perhaps, those, on whom, with mind so froward,
They thus pass sentence, never having dwelt
In scenes more full of incidents untoward,
Self greeting from their fortunes never felt.
Leave them in quiet, then! Nor, like a coward,
Smite Fortune's nurselings! Rather let it melt
Thy heart, that such there be! Though thou'rt a slave,
He that from thee took, to thy brother gave!

109

'Tis vulgar,—'tis ridiculous,—'tis mean;—
Of inward toils to judge by what we see;
There are who 're fenced by luxuries' daintiest skreen,
Whose hearts decay with daily agony.
Yet what is he, to whom it could have been
A palliative to know that such things be?
Who triumphs in the thought—since he is curs'd—
That all mankind in misery is immers'd?

110

There is a cell, where no light e'er did spring;
There is a cave that no feet ever trod;
The eagle hath not found it with his wing,
Nor his keen eye hath marked its dim abode.
Its labyrinthine windings never ring
E'en with the wolf's wild howl: nor on its sod
Does “the swart faëry of the mine” e'er dance;
Or quivering moonlight fling a silvery glance.

108

111

It is the dwelling-place of unrepeal'd
And unrepealable Remorse! I would
Not dare to body forth its unreveal'd,
Peculiar horrors! Nor to freeze the blood
By dismal catalogue (fitlier conceal'd)
Of shapes, and shrieks, and monsters, lapping blood
Of man, that there inhabit: nor prophane
Your ear with clank of its eternal chain.

112

Here, Sisyphus doth ever roll his stone;
Ixion, there lies stretched upon his wheel;
Tantalus, earnestly doth gaze upon—
Stretching his hands that grasp at—waves that steal
Within his reach, apparent; yet doth groan,
Still doomed an everlasting thirst to feel!
There all the furies—all the harpies—dwell!
All forms of Erebus! All forms of hell!

113

Yet could Religion's light e'en on this fall!
Through cranny deep, a cheering ray might bring
Some solace to the shapes (like shades, on wall,
By light's effect, from optic lens we fling)
That ever haunt it. Discords that appal,
Henceforward with more dulcet note might ring
Thro' the ill-mansion; and by slow degrees
Her triumph shew e'en o'er such scenes as these.

109

114

Yet on earth is there many a smaller den
Where woes inferior still unceasing urge
On different classes of devoted men
Their merciless inevitable scourge.
It has been glorious to the glowing ken
Of those, who, o'er woes that to earth converge,
Incessant mourn, to see in time's last date
So many rais'd these woes to mitigate.

115

Have not a Hanway, Woolman, Howard, been?
Clarkson, Bell, Lancaster, now are they not?
Have not the enslav'd and the imprison'd seen
Virtue repeal or mitigate her lot?
They who, in gloomier thraldom, were, I ween,
Of pining ignorance, hark! how it shot
Through air — the voice — 'till each with gladness started!
“To every man be science' truths imparted.”

116

Thus many avenues have late been op'd,
Through which thy light, Benevolence, has cast
On man's calamity, where'er it mop'd,
Healing, not thought of in the ages past.
Beneficence 'till lately idly grop'd,
And, heedless of its tendency, still class'd

110

The instinctive boon among man's deeds divine;
Now care and thought with charity combine.

117

Their character much would we deprecate,
Who (clad in complete panoply of steel;
And, from abetting schemes like these, elate)
Deem they're exempted from the toil to feel.
Co-operation, like to this, should wait—
One of its ministers—on general zeal
For general good: let it not interfere
With Charity's warm impulse, or her tear!

118

For these, the last, we have the highest claim;
For He who pledg'd himself, that those who gave
“Cup of cold water in disciple's name,”
Though late, a certain recompense should have.
We cannot say, that He will those proclaim,
(When his elect he summons from the grave)
As of peculiar worth, who hospitals
Have built, or founded schools, or college halls.

119

When the rich spikenard on Christ's feet was pour'd
By zealous Mary, Judas, as he view'd
The deed reprovingly, urg'd, that a hoard,
Had it so barter'd been, had hence accru'd,

111

Which to the poor might well relief afford.
“No, rather,” said He, “by the magnitude
Of this her offering, she the doctrine proves,
That to whom much forgiven is, much loves.”

120

This lesson read; ye cavillers 'bout use—
And economical expediencies;
It tells ye, that the affections do suffuse
All the sweet scent from whence our sacrifice
To God a goodly savour can produce.
Us, he requires not as auxiliaries,
The mighty God! It is man's heart he asks,
A will intense soars 'bove all merit's tasks.

121

Would not have argued, as Christ's followers did,
The good wise men of our more modern time?
The offering of the Magdalene have chid?
With decent descant on forsaken crime?
After such comment, must we not concede
That it is not the deed the most sublime,—
And winning most from other men renown,—
But a devoted heart,—that gains the crown?

122

Here was full adoration! In one sense
Here, e'en to waste, was prodigality;
That indiscriminate munificence,
Which ventures all upon a single dye!

112

But here were contriteness, and zeal intense;
Here was oblivion of expediency!—
In one word—Here was all that Heaven requires;
A soul absorb'd in self-renounc'd desires.

123

Public munificence, no doubt, in most
Addicted to it, may but aspect be
Of that dispensing spirit, chiefest boast
Of liberal, open-handed charity.
It has (we blush to say, at human cost)
This merit, that it holds the master key,
When truth would heart of vanity unlock;
Cleaving what else were adamantine rock.

124

'Tis an invidious task, praise to bestow
At other men's expense: willingly then
Farther pursuit of this theme we forego.
The ink flows freelier from our humble pen
When we announce the contemplation, (so
Humiliating yet consoling) that good men
See good (since 'tis from Heaven's educing hand)
E'en when our frailties bend to his command.

125

When means are all an humble soul can give;
E'en though the smallest, good men their aid bless;
When ends are to be gain'd, good men forgive,
E'en though man's frailties work God's righteousness.

113

See they a tear—when tears are all we have—
As herald of our truth they it caress!
See they great wealth the pious structure raise,
That God who worketh all in all, they praise!

126

'Tis as impossible for Him to be
Fastidious, his own defects who knows;
As to examine with severity
Motives, where heart with real bounty glows.
There are souls, in the gift of Pharisee,
As in the widow's mite, whose deep repose
Is as much bound. For them a stream there gushes,
By none polluted, yet which all refreshes!

127

My muse would still her lofty theme resume,
And hail the genial dawning of that day,
When mercy penetrates the prison's gloom,
And e'en the captive feels hope's cheering ray.
Can all the triumphs or of Greece or Rome
Commemorate such wonders, or display
So much to cheer man's heart, as thou hast done,
Whom Heaven has sealed as an elected one?

114

128

A timid female, arm'd with gospel faith;—
A timid female, arm'd with gospel love;—
To haunts hath pierc'd, where, ne'er before the path
To virtue dedicate, led one to move;
Not only hath confronted vice; (worst scath
God lays on man) but those whom crimes remove
From human pity (healing Fate's last wound)
She to her heart with ties of love hath bound.

129

Thy “praise is not of men;” I know full well
That human lips' approval is to thee
(E'en though made potent by the daintiest spell
That art could cull from stores of flattery;
E'en though its tones like “blare” of trump should swell)
But “sounding brass,” and solemn mockery.
Yet as a soul is eas'd this boon to bear,
Accept:—the human soul is thy first care.

130

Think what it must to those be, only wont
To hear the ribald song, or oath prophane;
What it must be for those who—vice made gaunt
By misery, in aspect most obscene,—
Were used to see; whom chilling scowls did daunt,
Or laughing madness with her clanking chain;
To hear the truth persuasive made by thee?
In thee religion's real charm to see?

115

131

The gospel promise is fulfill'd in thee,
The prisoner is set free; he that is bound
Hath felt deliverance: for the unity
Of comprehensive love hath now been crown'd
By this last test of gospel verity.
For since from prison walls hath gone a sound
Through all the earth, that they who linger there
Are called in Christ, thy chains are snapp'd, Despair!

132

We know not better liberty than this,
E'en for the veriest freeman upon earth;
Refuse not then the uplifted rod to kiss;—
And if, from it, the blooms of faith bud forth,
The prisoner's manacle no longer is:
There are no barriers which this second birth
May not despise: they do but designate
Another way to an immortal state.

133

And had not heaven's hand been in this, could one,
A gentle female, thus all prejudice;—
All preconceptions;—every hindrance thrown
To bar the way;—each proud hypothesis;—

116

And prouder sneers of those who've never known
The “might of weakness ” in a work like this:
The wisdom of gown'd delegates countervail?
And plant a paradise within a jail?

134

There is a might which the world little heeds,
The irresistible armour of the weak,
Who only dare move onward as God leads!
As God gives utterance only dare to speak!
This faith the martyrs teach; for this faith bleeds
The saint, who (caring not man's praise to seek)
Draws down (though none from whence it comes can tell)
Blessing, like dew from heaven, where'er he fell.

135

This faith a Fox proclaimed; a Penn confirmed;
A Barclay!—For an universal truth
Why from a sect bring evidence? It warmed
A Fenelon, a Guion, in their youth
All to renounce, that most man's heart hath charmed.
A Sales, a Kempis, a Molinos, soothe,
By the same faith, those who devoutly feel
How poor the efforts of unhallow'd zeal!

117

136

Religion is a quiet, inward thing;
It is all hope, all happiness, all love;
But oft it soars not here on seraph wing;
And those especially whom zeal doth move,
For human vice and misery, ere it bring
A sure relief, through their means, oft must prove
The billowy waves to welter o'er their head:
Long trial, ere on others balm it shed.

137

God be your guide, where'er ye go, where'er
Ye be, that seek for fall'n man to repeal—
The dread anathema of vice and care
Entail'd on him,—by your devoted zeal.
God be your guide! That he, who breathes it, were
Worthy—the blessing of this wish—to feel!
Oh! in your mission could I with you share,
Blessed—though last in deed and name—I were!

138

God be your guide! And may a time soon come
When not a vice but human interest hath!
When not a woe, but hath a friend, its doom
To share in, and thus palliate its scath!
When not a misery, pang, or care, or gloom,
But some compensatory friend—whose path
Is less with these afflicted—may allure;
Who heals himself—administering a cure!

118

139

Then would the wintry wand of woe be broken!
E'en Wretchedness would have her pleasant bowers,
Since she infallibly would have a token
Recognizable by fraternal powers!
The language then of tears, e'en were it spoken,
Would steal from hearts (like, from earth, vernal showers
Rich incense raise, while they are fertilizing)
To love responsive, blooms and sweets surprising.

140

Thus in one family would man soon be!
Need then no prate 'bout equal wealth or right;
Each then would equally perceive that he—
In charter from the source of all true light—
Had share: soon more the sacred ministry—
Than minister'd to be to—would excite.
Were equal rights with fellow beings won,
What were their price to heaven's adopted son?

141

Oh, did despair not weigh upon the breast,
With utterance ardent as a seraph's hymn,
I would put up a prayer, that thou would'st haste,—
Thou, high enthron'd above the cherubim,—
This glorious advent! Oh! could I but taste
Of that bless'd fount (to which, while such dreams swim
Before us, we seem t' have made good our claim)
What grateful raptures would my heart inflame!

119

142

Some are there who not prize religion's treasure:
But of all miseries, 'tis a misery most
To be deplor'd, when all our sense of pleasure,
When that of which the world doth chiefly boast,
We deem as dross, and futile beyond measure,
Compar'd with her, yet to her hopes are lost!
When that which (with imagination strong)
We prized 'bove utterance of human tongue,

143

Eludes our search! When we believe in it
Most reverentially; yet can't conceal
The greatest effort of our human wit
Religion's lowest truths cannot reveal.
Oh! As the potter doth his vessel fit
To the evolutions of his shaping wheel,
Or breaks in pieces, that which doth conduce
('Till it once more be plastic) to no use;

144

Do by me!—Do!—Almighty Father! Thou!
I fear not!—hesitate not;—thus to throw
Myself before thee: asking not the how,—
The when,—the wherefore,—with my fate below!
Only so far accept my infirm vow,
As—that—into thy hands—to let me know—
Me,—Thou dost deign to take. Knowing but this,
Blindness my faith is, and my torments bliss!

120

145

Yes, with the Seer of Patmos, could I hear
The voice that, to the thirsty, cries to “come,”
And “freely drink” of Faith's immortal, clear,
And living, waters, human wants were dumb!
'Fore the great “bridegroom” could I so appear,
And feel “the spirit” pointing to his home;
Then voice there needed not—tongue—lip—nor pen—
To the soul's passive, though sublime, amen!

See Lord Byron's poems; in one of which, or in the notes to one of which, as far as the author remembers, he says, that flowers of different descriptions convey, from the lover to his mistress, different meanings connected with the process of passion.

Voltaire. See his remarks on the plays of Corneille.

See Emma Courtenay, a novel, written to prove that love is at the command of a moral agent, if his understanding can once be convinced of the fitness of another, as the object of that passion.

The author must here mean a finis not to the voluminousness, but to the success, of the writers' efforts.

London.

Rousseau.

And Jesus went up to a mountain to pray, and he continued all night in prayer unto God.

The cast of thought in this stanza suggests the recollection of Mr. Wordsworth's glorious sonnet, “composed upon Westminster Bridge, (see his Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 172) which the author commends to the perusal of his readers.

David.

Vide Horatii Carminum, Lib. i. Ode 22.

Though the author here alludes to the doctrine of expediency, methodized into a system by Paley; yet he can never be insensible, how much British Society is indebted to the author of the “Natural Theology.”

See “An Inquiry whether Crime and Misery are produced or prevented by our present System of Prison Discipline.” By Thomas Fowel Buxton, Esq.

See St. Luke, fourth chapter, eighteenth verse; and Isaiah, sixtyfirst chapter, first verse.

“The irresistible might of weakness.”—See Milton's Prose Works.

Ibid.

121

THIRD BOOK.

Address to the Muse

1

Is the muse fled, or am I self-accused
From slighting her low-whisper'd revelations?
For often are her fosterings abused
By absent hearts, and wandering inclinations.
Oft her long-suffering waits to have infused
Her potent influence o'er our meditations.
But our unfaithful minds, and deafen'd ears,
Scorn her, except in triumph she appears.

2

We will not wait on her, but rather hope
That she with our caprices should comply;
To all our alienations give a scope;
And should consent, with deep humility,

122

That we should put her by, or take her up,
For every whim, and opportunity
Of time and place; and thus, though she inspires,
Act as ourselves could regulate her fires.

3

But she is coy to those, as well she may—
Who will not sometimes on her bidding wait:
And if we put her off from day to day,
We may at length so oft procrastinate,
That that which was at first but mere child's play,
Becomes the inexorable doom of fate.
So apt is man with a presumptuous aim
To be a self-conspirer 'gainst his fame.

4

Oh! if in after-life we could but gather
The very refuse of our youthful hours!
Oft—than its dull realities—we'd rather
The very poorest of them should be ours!
Thus 'tis save when our infancy's the father
Of our experience, from youth's blissful bowers

123

Of being's progress:—progress then, alone:
Else retrograde 'till all's oblivion!

5

'Tis nothing but our frailty makes us think
(An universal thought) that infancy
Of subsequent existence, shames each link.
What! When unfolding our vast powers we see,
Why in life's combat from their trial shrink?
It is that, ere they gain maturity,
We have anticipated, by the taste
Of good and evil, that which lays them waste.

6

Howe'er ye may receive it (whether fable,
Or literally true) 'tis still sublime,
The lesson couch'd (for wisdom profitable)
Beneath the history of man's earliest crime,
We know too much to make it equitable
To impute to weakness our neglected time.
We talk of ignorance when our faith is tried
We talk of knowledge to defend our pride!

7

Poison would I as soon administer,
As soil the bloom of any virgin heart,
That hath not (in relation whatsoe'er)
Yet of the fruit of knowledge had a part.

124

Did Innocence yet on man her light confer,
Penance had never been a human art.
He in whose breast no appetence doth start e'er,
Though all possessing, holds from heaven his charter.

8

It is not heaven that aught prohibits us;
The prohibition to ourselves we owe;
Heaven of enjoyment ne'er is envious,
Its springs from thence immeasurably flow.
But human wisdom, vain, fallacious,
With gratitude content not, sought to know
The nature of its blessings! These detected,
Faded like flowers by botanist dissected.

9

Thus self-denial only is inferred,
When through the fogs of foul concupiscence,
We feel our hearts too consciously stirred
By any of the pleasances of sense.
As heaven comes chiefly where no wish averred
Ever propos'd it as a consequence,
So ne'er were sensuous pleasures fairly got,
'Till held unconsciously as though held not.

10

Fruition then is bless'd! And it is evil
To bring down those whom God hath rais'd on high,

125

To pitiful and scrutinizing level!
Rather should we in their immunity
Rejoice, nor imitate the sly arch Devil,
Who, as first fruits of his apostasy,
Those, for their blameless happiness, reviled,
Who had not its perennial springs defiled.

11

'Till we can prove enjoyment is of sin,
We ne'er can prove, because a thing's enjoyed
That, if some cause exist not from within
Corrupting it, its charm should be destroyed.
We know where'er the race of man has been,
Penance has ever been by Saints employed.
But what proves this? Not that the thing is tainted,
But that th' applier is with vice acquainted!

12

We speak not here of that renunciation,
Which all are call'd to, of forbidden things,
But abstinence from lawful recreation
To which stern conscience many good men stings.
Could law be laid down here: th' interpretation
Private should be of scrup'lous shudderings;—
Inexorably barring compromise
With Vice, however specious her disguise.

13

If for itself were self-renouncement good—
As Heaven is a better place than earth,

126

We should replenish it with all the brood
Of penances to which Sin e'er gave birth.
No! we confess that general aptitude
In Man, to recognize this instinct's worth,
Much doth confirm the doctrine of his fall!
Th' intrinsic good of penance not at all!—

14

Thus, when man's heart perceives a prohibition
Growing between it and its wonted pleasure,
Let it not tax the pleasure with perdition,
But that false sense which would deprave its measure.
Pleasures so tasted that their full fruition
Never encroaches on our mental leisure,
But leaves free umpire our unbiass'd reason,
Ne'er can be construed into moral treason.

15

Oh, were the eye of youth a moment ours!
When every flower that gemm'd the various earth
Brought down from Heaven enjoyment's genial showers!
And every bird, of everlasting mirth
Prophecied to us in romantic bowers!
Love was the garniture, whose blameless birth
Caus'd that each filmy web where dew-drops trembled,
The gossamery haunt of elves resembled!

16

We can remember earliest days of spring,
When violets blue and white, and primrose pale,

127

Like callow nestlings 'neath their mother's wing,
Each peep'd from under the broad leaf's green veil.
When streams look'd blue; and thin clouds clustering
O'er the wide empyrean did prevail,
Rising like incense from the breathing world,
Whose gracious aspect was with dew impearl'd.

17

When a soft moisture, steaming every where,
To the earth's countenance mellower hues imparted;
When sylvan choristers self-pois'd in air,
Or perched on boughs, in shrilly quiverings darted
Their little raptures forth; when the warm glare
(While glancing lights backwards and forwards started,
As if with meteors silver-sheath'd 'twere flooded)
Sultry, and silent, on the hill's turf brooded.

18

Oh, in these moments we such joy have felt,
As if the earth were nothing but a shrine;
Where all, or awe inspir'd, or made one melt
Gratefully towards its architect divine!
Father! in future (as I once have dwelt
Within that very sanctuary of thine,
When shapes, and sounds, seem'd as but modes of Thee!)
That with experience gain'd were heaven to me!

19

Oft in the fullness of the joy ye give,
Oh, days of youth! in summer's noon-tide hours,

128

Did I a depth of quietness receive
From insects' drowsy hum, that all my powers
Would baffle to pourtray! Let them that live
In vacant solitude, speak from their bowers
What nameless pleasures letter'd ease may cheer,
Thee, Nature! bless'd to mark with eye and ear!—

20

Who can have watch'd the wild rose' blushing dye,
And seen what treasures its rich cups contain;
Who, of soft shades the fine variety,
From white to deepest flush of vermeil stain?
Who, when impearl'd with dew-drop's radiancy
Its petals breath'd perfume, while he did strain
His very being, lest the sense should fail
T' imbibe each sweet its beauties did exhale?

21

Who amid lanes, on eve of summer days,
Which sheep brouze, could the thicket's wealth behold?
The fragrant honey-suckle's bowery maze?
The furze bush, with its vegetable gold?
In every satin sheath that helps to raise
The fox-glove's cone, the figures manifold
With such a dainty exquisiteness wrought?—
Nor grant that thoughtful love they all have taught?

22

The daisy, cowslip, each have to them given—
The wood anemone, the strawberry wild,

129

Grass of Parnassus, meek as star of even;—
Bright, as the brightening eye of smiling child,
And bathed in blue transparency of heaven,
Veronica; the primrose pale, and mild;—
Of charms (of which to speak no tongue is able)
Intercommunion incommunicable!

23

I had a cottage in a Paradise!
'Twere hard to enumerate the charms combin'd
Within the little space, greeting the eyes,
Its unpretending precincts that confin'd.
Onward, in front, a mountain stream did rise
Up, whose long course the fascinated mind
(So apt the scene to awaken wildest themes)
Might localize the most romantic dreams.

24

When winter torrents, by the rain and snow,
Surlily dashing down the hills, were fed,
Its mighty mass of waters seem'd to flow
With deafening course precipitous: its bed
Rocky, such steep declivities did shew
That towards us with a rapid course it sped,
Broken by frequent falls; thus did it roam
In whirlpools eddying, and convulsed with foam.

25

Flank'd were its banks with perpendicular rocks,
Whose scars enormous, sometimes grey and bare,

130

And sometimes clad with ash and gnarled oaks,
The birch, the hazel, pine, and holly, were.
Their tawny leaves, the sport of winter's shocks,
Oft o'er its channel circled in the air;
While, on their tops, and mid-way up them, seen,
Lower'd cone-like first and yews in gloomiest green.

26

So many voices from this river came
In summer, winter, autumn, or the spring;
So many sounds accordant to each frame
Of Nature's aspect, (whether the storm's wing
Brooded on it, or pantingly, and tame,
The low breeze crisp'd its waters) that, to sing
Half of their tones, impossible! or tell
The listener's feelings from their viewless spell.

27

When fires gleam'd bright, and when the curtain'd room,
Well stock'd with books and music's implements,
When children's faces, dress'd in all the bloom
Of innocent enjoyments, deep content's
Deepest delight inspir'd; when nature's gloom
To the domesticated heart presents
(By consummate tranquility possest)
Contrast, that might have stirr'd the dullest breast;

131

28

Yes,—in such hour as that—thy voice I've known.
Oh, hallow'd stream!—fitly so nam'd—(since tones
Of deepest melancholy swell'd upon
The breeze that bore it)—fearful as the groans
Of fierce night spirits! Yes, when tapers shone
Athwart the room (when, from their skiey thrones
Of ice-pil'd height abrupt, rush'd rudely forth,
Riding the blast, the tempests of the north;)

29

Thy voice I've known to wake a dream of wonder!
For though 'twas loud, and wild with turbulence,
And absolute as is the deep-voic'd thunder,
Such fine gradations mark'd its difference
Of audibility, one scarce could sunder
Its gradual swellings from the influence
Of harp Æolian, when, upon the breeze,
Floats in a stream its plaintive harmonies.

30

One might have thought, that spirits of the air
Warbled amid it in an undersong;
And oft one might have thought, that shrieks were there
Of spirits, driven for chastisement along
The invisible regions that above earth are.
All species seem'd of intonation (strong
To bind the soul, Imagination rouse,)
Conjur'd from preternatural prison-house.

132

31

But when the heavens are blue, and summer skies
Are pictur'd in thy wave's cerulean glances,
Then thy crisp stream its course so gaily plies,
Trips on so merrily in endless dances,
Such low sweet tone, fit for the time, does rise
From thy swift course, methinks, that it enhances
The hue of flowers which decorate thy banks,
While each one's freshness seems to pay thee thanks.

32

Solemn the mountains that the horizon close,
From whose drear verge thou seem'st to issue forth,
Sorcery might fitly dwell, one could suppose,
(Or any wondrous spell of heaven or earth,
Which e'en to name man's utterance not knows,)
Amid the forms that mark thy place of birth.
Thither direct your eye, and you will find
All that excites the imaginative mind!

33

Return we now to that delicious place,
Where contravening banks impede thy course,
After that thou hast rush'd with rapid pace
O'er many a shelving rock, where thou by force
Art check'd, and, settling for a little space
Into a fairy lake, becom'st the source
Of other interest: here thy waves awhile
Linger, as charm'd, around a wood-crown'd isle.

133

34

But see what bold majestic hill, above
This little lake, swells into upper air!
Its undulating top might fitly prove
A test of form most exquisitely fair.
A knot of dwellings, like a nest of love,
Hangs o'er the stream, as placed by nature there.
Beneath this hill, on a rock's beetling brow,
It peeps, 'mid trees, upon the waves below.

35

A wide-arch'd bridge here spans the stream, at last
Tir'd of confinement round that houseless isle:
A barn hangs o'er it. Fern, and ivy cast
(Clinging in part to rock, part to the pile
Of buildings there) in nature's happiest taste
A blending, which the group doth reconcile.
Here, Nature! one, with most devoted heart
To thee, might stretch his love to forms of art.

36

How have my children dallied with that pool!
There launch'd the little bark; and there, in hours
Of ardent summer, sought their blood to cool,
Bathing beneath its rich and leafy bowers!
How oft, in winter, there, when freed from school,
Borne on the winged skait, melted the hours

134

To moments, while its hollow rocks replied,
Echoing their jocund glee from side to side.

37

How oft have I, with book, alone, or oft
While she, with whom society was bliss,
Would lean upon my arm; or whispering soft
To childhood's cherub-challenge for a kiss;
Watch'd th' elder train—from lawn somewhat aloft—
Bounded by every flower that beauteous is—
Exultingly,—while from the river's side
Headlong they plung'd, or clave its yielding tide!

38

Ah, days for ever gone! Ye must no more
Return to me! Yet will not I complain
So long as it is given me to restore,
In dreams poetic, your delights again!
E'en now I see the child I lov'd of yore
Rush to some cherish'd flower, nor ask in vain,
With suppliant eye up-turn'd, where archly play'd
The coy, sly smile,—grasping the well-aim'd spade,—

39

Leave to transplant it to his own small plot!
How oft has coat of mine sustain'd a rent,
From strong solicitation, that this spot,
Of which this blossom was chief ornament

135

I would repair to! The small hand see shot,
With forked fingers, 'thwart the stalk, whence bent
The drooping floweret, that it so might raise
Its modest charms, to challenge all my praise!

40

Ye are for ever gone, delightful days!
I linger round you, like a ghost that pines
Of one, whom Fate did prematurely raze
From being's catalogue, and still so 'twines
All its attachment round some form whose ways
Are mortal still, that, where that dwells, inclines
The constant sever'd one to hover ever!
Fade, of some joys, though frail, the memory never!

41

And ye are such to me, ye, that, from union
Of parent's heart with childhood, once were mine;
There is a blessedness in that communion,
'Tis so profound, so calm, yet so divine,
Try it—'tis perfect—by whate'er criterion:—
With manhood's deeper thoughts doth it combine
The reproduction of those days gone by,
When Heaven about our path and bed did lie.

42

Yet, Heaven, I bend in utter passiveness
To each decree that seemeth best to Thee;
I have no voice to ask for happiness
That's gone, to be restor'd once more to me!

136

Deal with me, Father, as thou wilt! Possess
My heart with resignation! Finally,
Let all things work to me for spiritual good;
Bless thy ways to me, though not understood;

43

And I am satisfied! My prayer is heard!
Then, while I dwell unknowing and unknown,
In this vast city, 'mid a human herd
Who little reck of that whence many a groan,
And many a heaving sigh, my heart has stirr'd;
So might I sometimes make past joy my own,
By thus commemorating what I keep
Lock'd from all eyes—bless'd were the tears I weep!

44

The flowers that deck'd that happy dwelling place,
To me seem'd as such amaranthine flowers,
As fitting are exclusively to grace
The haunt of lovers, or Elysian bowers.
On them, Love's purple light one well might trace,
And Fancy flush'd them with aërial powers,
And all their bloom and all their fragrance seem'd
As if from Paradise alone they teem'd!

45

The lavatera, paly pink and white;
Sweet peas of either hue; the mignionette;
The queen of flowers in all its infinite
Shades of perfection, there together met.—

137

And thence the breeze drew a more exquisite
Fragrance, from tufts of musky violet.—
The modest snow-drop, and the crocus there,
Pledg'd future flowery honours of the year.

46

Liburnams, with the lilac thrice array'd,
There droop'd with tufts of vegetable gold;
With these, Syringa form'd a screen, whose shade
Fenc'd all those flowers of whose charms we have told.
Of branchy woof, with foliage interlaid,
The walls seem'd, of that cottage, which did hold
All my heart lov'd: on which the eye of day
Looking, knew there that all my treasure lay.

47

Plants parasitical train'd there, aspired,
And found a fond protection; there did spread
Virginia's creeper, gorgeously attired
In leaves now brown, now green, yellow and red.
For its profuse umbrageousness desired
The traveller's joy, like curtains round a bed,
Luxuriantly wanton, with rich dower,
Transform'd our cottage to a leafy bower.

138

48

The Pyracanthus with its glossy green,
And scarlet berries; and, as yet unsung,
The jasmine white and yellow, deck'd this scene;
And o'er our little porch tenacious clung,
And round each window, (while beneath them seen
Moss roses peep'd, like birds, in nests, when young,
From beds of leaves,) with red and purple flower
From thread-like stem, the pensile virgin's bower.

49

The scene in front of our sweet dwelling place
So far I've traced.—Another now remains—
Fraught with a different, tho' as bright a grace—
T' excite from me commemorative strains.
As from the west this river ran its race,
And as it seemed with tributary pains
Purposely flowing to adorn our home—
Which, as with human eye, beheld it roam,

50

For western was its front—so to the east
Backward, where stretch'd rich meads capaciously,
Broken by woody knolls, it seemed releas'd
From all that ruffled its tranquility.
Revert your gaze—the mountain waves compress'd,
And chaf'd by rocks, which rolled tumultuously
In eddies and o'er stones, now softly creep
Through cultivated scenes, as charmed to sleep.

139

51

The river now is seen,—and now is lost
Behind a tuft of trees:—and now again
Emerges.—Here, its banks, with shrubs emboss'd,
Shew like a garden,—there, thro' wide champain
The blue sky in its calm blue channel, gloss'd
With Summer's sheen, is render'd back again.
As its lapse silent, on its surface float
The freighted barge, or more trim pleasure boat.

52

At last, as round a wood-crown'd promontory
It slowly creeps, hid from all vulgar eyes,
In silence and in solitude most hoary,
Where rocks abrupt and naked scars arise
From forth its waves,—surrounded with meet glory
For celebrating Nature's mysteries,—
In consecrated scenes for beauty prized—
Its marriage with the lake is solemnized.

53

Beyond these spacious meads of which I spake,
On which its waves a new charm did confer,
A mountain graciously doth seem to take
A semblance, to the stream's new character,
Adapted:—at a distance boldly break
Its outlines to the eye; like Lucifer
It seems to scale the heavens; but stretching wide,
A barrier to the horizon, its bleak pride

140

54

Softens: and southward as it sweeps along,
Each summit, tho' aspiring, still aspires
Less than its brother, 'till at last among
Scenes of high culture, where the eye desires
In all a well-match'd softness, where the long,
Long lake dies into distance, and retires,
And mingles with the heavens, it yields its reign,
To the soft beauties of a smiling plain.—

55

Southward it yields its reign.—Northward, there rise—
Screening the vale at once from each rude wind,
And satisfactory too as boundaries
To such a rich display as here you find
Of all in Nature that most tempts the eyes—
Mountains and rocks; with trees of every kind,
The visiting of keener winds which brook,
Their base is varied, and each shelter'd nook.

56

Amid this vale, by its peculiar tree
Screen'd and half hid, full many a cot doth gleam—
Of snowy whiteness some; while others, see!
Of the rough rock's grey hue; at once, to them,
A parent and a shelter! willingly
To the rude pile, with whose hard blocks did teem
Its fostering bosom, doth it shelter lend:—
—Thus Nature's sternest forms her sons befriend.

141

57

See, at yon mountain's base, all interspers'd
With trees, where peeps a village-chapel tower?
Thence was my young imagination nurs'd,
There hoped I in some future favour'd hour
Of life, that every pressure might be burst
Which cripples man of half his native power.
Yes, tho' that spot unseen, with dreams I panted,
'Till it I saw, abiding-place they wanted.

58

Dreams afterwards I dream'd, and this the place
To which their consummation evermore
I did refer. There is a mountain grace,
A grace peculiar, which I ne'er before,
Or since, beheld, in its romantic face:
In cove of mighty hills, amid the roar
Of unseen cataracts, whose voice you hear,
It stands!—meet haunt for visionary fear!—

59

Can I forget, when,—after having through
The long day, for the first time, travelled
'Mid mountain scenes,—towards this spot I drew
At close of day, as eve on all things shed
A dubious curtain—while, as if with dew
Reeking, all vegetation glistened
From copious rains—since many pelting showers
Had marked the fortune of its varied hours?—

142

60

Can I forget the ravishment I felt,
Winding my way amid the tangled trees,
When first thy own peculiar torrent dealt
Out unexpectedly its melodies,—
While as the last ray from the west did melt—
To me; untutor'd in the mysteries
Of nature—and as much in those ungifted
The spirit's mysteries, by Nature lifted?

61

No, never! Ambleside, my youth's first home—
Home of my fancy! Haven of my heart!
Though o'er the world I be constrain'd to roam,
From thy dear image I shall never part!
Thou hast been much to me! with thee did come
My first domestic bliss! Towards thee did start,
As to a goal, all my deep treasured schemes
Of fairy happiness—youth's morning gleams!

62

Still thou art much to me! I need but say
One word, to prove how much! Of heaven's best gifts
The choicest—eight dear children saw the day
First in thy lovely precincts! and still lifts

143

Its head but one rude chain of hills, the ray
Of morn to meet betwixt thy site, and shifts
The scene to that lone spot, whose turf beneath
I did one darling to the earth bequeath.—

63

Dear Innocent, thou sleepest there! could sense
Be thine within thy narrow earthy bed,
Thou dost repose where spring flowers' redolence
Might on thy powers a balmy influence shed.
The mossy stone from storms thy sole defence!
The thymy turf sole covering for thy head!
Thou moulderest, and the wild flowers on thy tomb,
Which bloom so sweet, once equall'd not thy bloom.

64

Yet, for thy sake, dear child! is consecrate
The region to the which I did commit
Thy mortal relics; and I hope that fate
Will give me yet one little hour, to sit
And muse upon thy bed! Or soon, or late,
He who writes this must fill one like to it!
Though innocent as thee he cannot die,
Yet to thy home may his freed spirit fly!

65

To Heaven, the Infant's home! Of Innocence
The inalienable port, the certain haven!

144

Souls cannot be disherited from thence,
'Till it from them have been asunder riven.
If of a Sinner 'tis the residence,—
Through mercy and free grace to man is given,—
And through the atoning blood of him who died,—
Even to knock, where gates for babes ope wide.

66

There is a time when on all things a glory
Lays a rich colouring tongue can never tell;
When e'en with mountain from snow-tempest hoary,
By fusion fine, and by a passionate spell,
And interminglings as of fairy story,
Love can link forms in beauty which excel.
When gloom voluptuous seems, and there's an union
'Twixt all created things with strange communion.

67

There is a powerful presence then of life!
An impulse, which, though active, consecrates
Scenes where most hopeless blemishes are rife!
We bid defiance then to mortal fates!
With spots most negative we're not at strife,
There most man feels how much himself creates!
While o'er the richest vision of the senses,
The same power sheds exalting influences!

145

68

Oh! when I've seen my little garden bloom!
With snow-drop, crocus, purple, yellow, white,
Though snow-drifts menac'd all their charms t'entomb,
I've felt a permeating full delight!—
Those blossoms seem'd first heralds of the doom
Pronounc'd on winter; and their exquisite,
Yet simple beauty, was to me a token,
That Nature's gladdening bond was yet unbroken.

69

There is for him, to whom imagination
The faculty allows of doubling all
The joy we owe to what excites sensation,
Which never words could worthily extol!
A hue, a scent, a secret combination
Of trifles, that more serious scenes recall,
Each, and all, have, for him, however light
Or trivial, the essential infinite!—

70

To him so gifted from rapidity
Of thought, and impulse still more rapid, rise
Such quick associating faculty,
Such aptitude whatever he espies
In wide-diverging series to apply;
That oft, from what would seem non-entities
To other men, the potent spell he sways,
Into vast structures causes him to raise.—

146

71

Where this rapidity the mind possesses,
And with it perceptivity intense
Of character, in common scenes, whose stress is
On other men devoid of influence,
There is no form however mean its dress is
Where subtle interest has no prevalence.
Bare walls such temperament would fertilize,
It feels most power, where fortune most denies.

72

E'en bleakest scenes assume a character
Amid their unproductive desolation;
Such minds from them would potently infer,
By dim and delicate association,—
While others saw in them death's register,—
By apt and energetical creation,—
Creation, that converts the negative,
By breathing powers which to love, only live,

73

A sway, though saddening, not to paralyze:—
Dark heaths 'twould people with appropriate forms,
And it would give intelligence to sighs
Of Nature, in her desolating storms.—
Exulting in its strength, 'twould recognize
It's power most chiefly, when alone it warms
Benumbing dreariness, and most with awe,
Acts on, though talks not of, love's genial law!

147

74

'Tis curious to observe how different men
Contemplate Nature's works with different feeling;
One walks to botanize; another's ken
Pierces the bowels of the earth, thence stealing
His mineralogic specimens; again,
A third is ever frowardly repealing
Nature's untoward tricks,—in wonder rooted
Just as a scene is to his easel suited.—

75

Give me the man who, for thy sake alone—
Not for his hortus siccus; cabinet
Of fossil, spar, shell, coral, mineral, stone;
Or for his pencil's sake, doth contemplate,
Thee, Nature! Give the man who oft has known
Himself, when he saw thee, self to forget;
And in a depth of ravishment transfused,
On thee, with silent meditation, mused!

76

And let this meditation heightened be,
Religion! by thy flame, to adoration!
And then for things of earth what careth he?
For what distress hath he not consolation?
He who in Solitude his God can see.
'Mid Nature's loftiest scenes, has found salvation
From all the petty miseries of life;
A balm has gain'd for prejudice and strife.—

148

77

Oh, cultivate this sense, and 'twill be found
Exceeding great reward, and manifold,
To bring its votaries! In the earth's vast round
No scene presents itself so poor and cold,
As not for him to be with blessings crown'd:
He has a curious eye, which can behold
Topic for admiration every where!
A charm in scenes fit to inspire despair!

78

A tree, a cottage, or a child at play,
And where the earth is destitute, the sky,
Fantastic clouds, when on them the sun's ray
Confers e'en supernatural imagery!
The speechless lustre of the new-born day!
The solemn pageant when night broods on high!
In these, and thousand more such forms as these,
His moisten'd eye his Maker's goodness sees!

79

Blessings be on my children! We have long
Wander'd in sever'd paths of life apart!
I rather think, this desultory song
Draws towards a close. I cannot please my heart
Better, than its last numbers to prolong,
By twining round them, with poetic art,
Your several recollections:—by divulging
Day-dreams in which 'bout you I'm oft indulging.

149

80

May He who hears the ravens cry, and feeds
The stork and bittern in the wilderness,
May He your portion be! May He who leads
Your sire in labyrinthine tracklessness,
At last unite us all! And may the seeds
Sown early in your souls, from deepest stress
Of his affection, into blossoms shoot;
And may he yet survive to see their fruit.

81

The ways of Heaven are mystery: and oft
Through means, to us, unfathomably dark,
And likely least, in their eyes, who aloft
Ne'er turn them, to obtain the wish'd-for mark,
Us He conducts to it. At once, in soft
And smiling harbour, steals life's shatter'd bark!
Heaven's bitterest visitings, in rugged ways,
Ending in bliss, oft claim our loudest praise.

82

Some of you still, in that delightful land,
(Which in these lays has many a votive line
From me extorted) some still tarry! Wand
Of fairy could not raise a more divine
Assemblage of all charms than there expand!
May you from it, as from oracular shrine,

150

A portion of the consecrated spirit,
So largely dealt to its own Bard, inherit!

83

May you come forth from thence, each baser thing,
Each worldly maxim, every selfish aim,
Despising! Be ye borne on Fancy's wing!
And may Imagination's holiest flame,
Like magic vestment, round your spirits cling!
Be like a wall of fire 'twixt you and shame!
May Nature fix you to her love for ever;
Nor change, your constant yearnings from her sever!

84

I well remember days I've spent with you
In that delicious place. See ye me not
When the pil'd mountain's height attracts your view?
Recall ye ne'er how oft, upon that spot,
Hand grasp'd in hand, we've stray'd where violets grew,
Or primrose pale? How oft ye've forward shot
If seen fine tuft, like diamonds in a casket?
How soon deposited within your basket?

151

85

I feel a yearning towards you, not to be,
By aught, save breathings of the soul, imparted.
God bless you in Himself! And bless He me
In you! And may our hearts be never parted!
Then though, in course of things, we may not see
Each one the other, we can ne'er be thwarted
Of that communion dear, and interchange
Of spirits, which nor time nor place estrange!

86

Oh, Children! when ye gaze upon those mountains,
Think there your father's spirit still might dwell!
Recall, when looking on its sky-born fountains,
The impassion'd and unutterable spell
That bound him to them, as Jove, with his frown, chains
Prometheus to the rock: He lov'd them well,
The forms which ye now see, and from them drew
Full many a dream of preternatural hue.

87

Is it that there's a misery entail'd
On all impassion'd creatures? They may be
Compared to lyre Æolian, which—when fail'd
The breeze to woo it so invitingly—
Wax'd dumb and voiceless. Yes, those beings hail'd
Perpetual influences of harmony,
Keeping themselves in languid passiveness,
And thinking gales would evermore caress.

152

88

They, like the flower dependent on the breeze,
Dependent on the sun, and culture's aid,
Shrink in their sensitiveness when all these—
To them appliances so needful—fade.
They have no self-pois'd power, when ministries
Of Love are gone, to make them not afraid.
They are as insects, basking in the sun;
Unpitied, soon their earthly course is run!

89

The bower of pleasure is composed of bloom,
Shrinking from sun-beams fierce, and pattering rains,
Like to a fair maid, who though, to the tomb,
Her hard fate destine her, nathless retains
Her living beauty; soon with cheerless gloom
Must it be shrouded, while no trace remains
Of its once-glorious aspect. Death, grim chief,
Lowers o'er its tempest toss'd, sere, lonely leaf!

90

And yet 'twas once engarlanded with flowers;—
And all that precious is in earth or heaven,
Seem'd there to fall in renovating showers,
As if the very elements had striven,
And all the essences of fragrant powers,
That in immortal bloom it should have thriven.
The rose blush'd there, the violet in its prime,
And amaranthine plants of Heaven's own clime.

153

90

Rich was the dew that on its blossoms glisten'd!
Its exquisite perfumes seemed to draw thence
A more voluptuous softness; and who listen'd
Might think the very leaves had eloquence.
Such fairy music when the breezes kiss'd, and
Played with their tendrils, drew existence thence.
Armida or Alcina ne'er possessed,
For love's delight, more necromantic nest.

91

There was a rill there, whose transparency
And gurgling freshness, well might make one dream
It was immortal. Gods might wish to hie,
And goddesses, from heaven, in its pure stream
To bathe! And Gods and Goddesses were nigh,
Indeed! For, to its inmates, life did seem,
And all its forms, a shadowing forth of those
Transcendant pageantries, which bards disclose.

92

The Sylvans haunted, and benignant Pan,
Diana and her Nymphs, its precincts wild;
There, with her doves, Venus did often plan
Her snares, and held frank dalliance with her child.
E'en Jove might wish once more to be a swan,
And Leda once more to be unbeguil'd,
That he might float upon a little lake,
To which its stream a mirthful course did take.

154

93

Who has not felt in youth, that youthful hopes
Can realize all that the Bards e'er sung?
And here their dreams all liv'd in airy groupes,
For ever joyful and for ever young,
(Or so they seem'd:) the real needs not tropes,
Nor are there tropes for him, whose full heart, stung
With sense of being e'en to perfect bliss,
Feels that to be, includes all happiness!—

94

Surely, the poets of the elder times—
(I talk not now—my theme permits it not—
How much they lost of rapture that sublimes,
Through heavenly influence, man's terrestrial lot;)
Surely, these poets—to whom Gods sometimes,
And Goddesses, across their vision shot
Like to familiar forms—must in earth see,
To us, an unconceiv'd festivity.—

95

To them each fountain, and to them each grove,
The weltering waters, and the mountains steep,
Teem'd with forms dire or bland, which sure must prove
Of power t'impart a consecration deep
T' earth's haunts so tenanted! What dreams of love
Must have invited Cyprian maids to sleep
Beneath their azure skies, whose glittering sheen
Was but an effluence of their mystic queen?—

155

96

But earth is tenanted as heretofore,
While the young blood runs mantling through the veins,
Howe'er austere the hereditary lore,
Thy fire, Imagination, that restrains.
Yet, in that bower of pleasure as of yore,
And yet to him expell'd not its domains,
Lives the same spirit that, in times of old,
Peopled the earth with beings manifold.—

97

But, at the same time, howe'er much I prize,
And much I prize it, classical tradition,
I still must feel what difference there lies
'Twixt it, and gospel truth's sublimer mission.
From one for fancy many charms may rise;
To the sense grateful is its exhibition!
This its sole boast! how can the heart, most fond
To muse on it, find excellence beyond.—

98

But, in the gospel page, Imagination,
Herself eclips'd e'en in her highest blaze,
May find! while there dejected Tribulation,
On solaces, for every woe, may gaze
Herself, to heights sublime, calm Meditation
Thence, from theme inexhaustible, may raise!
Intelligence may there have perfect scope,
Nurtur'd by Faith, by Charity, and Hope!

156

99

I envy more the most unletter'd hind
Who, from the gospel's page, can see reflected
Truths, that in him responsive feelings find,
Than e'en the man on earth the most respected,
If only from wealth, rank, and sense combin'd
Rise that respect! Sooner had I selected
One contrite feeling as my dearest treasure,
Than all earth gives, though given in triple measure!—

100

Wealth's but a corpse lying in state, if prized
Save from benevolent wish to spend its store
For other's good! Pride, a disease, disguised
In borrow'd trappings; rotten at the core!
And Intellect, by Truth not exercised,
Arms in a madman's hand t' increase the more
His power of evil! Save Faith, all produce
Good, only correspondent to their use!

101

And be this Faith your dower, my children! may,
“The day spring from on High” on you descend!
Oh, may your hearts such feelings ever sway,
That you may have your Maker for your friend!
Then, whether I can help you on your way
Or not, its goal a blessing will attend!
Go on your road, and prosper then! Engage
The God of Jacob for your heritage!

“So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I do grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.”—

Wordsworth.

Loughrigg.

Clappersgate.

Brathay Bridge.

Alluding to the white blossoms, and those of a red and blue purple, of the lilac.

Stock-gill Force.

See Mr. Wordsworth's marvellous and sublime ode, “On the intimations of Immortality,” from recollections of “Early Childhood.”

William Wordsworth, Esq.—To whose name, to add any tribute of praise to his poetical character, were not only superfluous; but the author feels that, as coming from himself, it were presumptuous.