Desultory Thoughts in London Titus and Gisippus, with Other Poems. By Charles Lloyd |
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| 1. | FIRST BOOK. |
| II. |
 | Desultory Thoughts in London |  |
FIRST BOOK.
“Heaven me such usage send,
Not to pick bad from bad; but, by bad, mend.
Othello, Act 4, Scene 3.
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.
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 wanderBeneath 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?
4
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 thereIn 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
5
They liv'd surrounded by a beauteous flockOf 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!
6
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 lookOf 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 beheldSuch 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.
7
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 lookTarries, 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.
8
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!
9
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 thoughtThat, 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,
10
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.
11
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 clanOf 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
12
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 observeHow 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
13
A holy solitude from thence doth rise!
29
Nor would Benevolence annihilateOur 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 someToo much of other men, from the same cause,
Self-love; while envious miseries consume
Their hearts, when others gain the least applause.
14
Themselves to ruin. Thus fail general laws
To be of universal application.
E'en vice sometimes is self-annihilation!
32
Religion is the principle aloneWhich 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 exciteTo 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 schoolDialect to learn fit for satiric theme:
I've not that spirit fine of ridicule,
Which sheds on all things, like a careless gleam
15
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 talkAbout 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 dutiesIn early life mark'd as the son of grief;
Yet did he never render a pursuit his
With any view of premature relief:
16
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 veilThat 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
17
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,
18
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 yeBy 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 recurTo 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
19
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 waveThou passest, servant, I with thee will be!
20
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.
21
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.
22
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!
23
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.
24
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 callCharms 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 bestOf 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!
25
64
One near thee, London, dwells, to whom I fainTribute 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!
26
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.
27
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 livesWhich 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.
28
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 powersHeaven 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,
29
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 romanceThe 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,
30
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 uttersThoughts 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 hourWhen thou and I, in former happier days,
31
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 laysAugur some good! E'en while from me they steal,
32
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.
33
87
--- thy friend feels, ere he clasp the pageDestin'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.
34
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 theeHe 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.
35
93
Nor can he not indulge in mentioningSome 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!
36
96
But stop!—'tis vain!—For none will comprehendThough 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 sayThese 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'dOf 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.
37
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,)
38
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 isOr 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 immortalTo have no thought backwards or forwards bended;
39
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 spiritsAnd raise the wailing cry when winds pipe on;
40
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 bearAll 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
41
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 wentTo 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 fellSome notes;—from these—have caught such impulses:
42
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
43
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,
44
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,
45
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 headAnd 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,
46
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 muchThat 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 proveThe faithfulness of her devout pretences,
47
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.
48
130
Talk not to me, that you would thus polluteThe 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.
49
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.
50
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 meritTo 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
51
Punishment's infinite?—And man is dust!
52
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 canLay 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!
53
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 irresistibleOur 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 weTo 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!
54
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 subjectThat 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.
55
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 oweTo 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 ascribeOur good to God; and, when we're bad, to find it—
56
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.
57
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,
58
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 canControul 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?
59
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 evolveAppliances, 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;
60
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 thisNot 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.
61
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 instancesWhen 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 faithSo 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;
62
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 authorTo 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.”
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167
Sometimes I think that misery the nurse isOf 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 allThe 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!
64
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 plaintNo 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 tribesOf 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.
65
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 paintThe 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.
66
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?
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179
Then with what rapture shall I contemplateThese 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!
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.
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”!!!
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