 | Poem delivered before the Society of United Brothers, at Brown University, on the day preceding Commencement, September 6, 1831 |  |
TO ONE—OF WHOM, IN THIS MOMENT OF DEPARTURE FOR A FOREIGN LAND, I THINK, SADLY AND ONLY—TO MY MOTHER, THIS VOLUME IS, WITH THE DEEPEST AFFECTION OF HER SON, FONDLY AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
POEM DELIVERED BEFORE THE SOCIETY OF UNITED BROTHERS,
AT BROWN UNIVERSITY, On the day preceding Commencement, Sept. 6, 1831.
7
If in the eyes that rest upon me now
I see the light of an immortal fire—
If in the awe of concentrated thought,
The solemn presence of a multitude
Breathing together, the instinctive mind
Acknowledges aright a type of God—
If every soul that from its chambers dim
Answers this summons, be a deathless spark
Lit to outburn the ever constant stars,—
Then is the ruling spirit of this hour
Compell'd from Heaven, and if the soaring minds
Usher'd this day upon an untried flight
Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer
Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way.
I see the light of an immortal fire—
If in the awe of concentrated thought,
The solemn presence of a multitude
Breathing together, the instinctive mind
Acknowledges aright a type of God—
If every soul that from its chambers dim
Answers this summons, be a deathless spark
Lit to outburn the ever constant stars,—
Then is the ruling spirit of this hour
Compell'd from Heaven, and if the soaring minds
Usher'd this day upon an untried flight
Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer
Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way.
8
How strangely certain is the human mind,
Godlike and gifted as it is, to err!
It wakes within a frame of various powers,
A stranger in a new and wondrous world.
It brings an instinct from some other sphere,
For its fine senses are familiar all,
And, with th' unconscious habit of a dream,
It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear
Learns strangely to detect the articulate air
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue
Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest,
And in the midst of an obedient throng
Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth
To search the secrets of a new-found home.
Godlike and gifted as it is, to err!
It wakes within a frame of various powers,
A stranger in a new and wondrous world.
It brings an instinct from some other sphere,
For its fine senses are familiar all,
And, with th' unconscious habit of a dream,
It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear
Learns strangely to detect the articulate air
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue
Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest,
And in the midst of an obedient throng
Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth
To search the secrets of a new-found home.
Its infancy is full of hope and joy.
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse
Gentle and holy; and the light and air,
And all things common, warm it like the sun,
And ripen the eternal seed within.
And so its youth glides on; and still it seems
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes,
But never widely; and if Death might come
And ravish it from earth as it is now,
We could almost believe that it would mount,
Spotless and radiant, from the very grave.
But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits
Another spirit. Stranger as it seems,
It is familiar there, for it has grown
In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen,—
Or if its shadow darkened the bright doors,
'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in;
And as the spider and the honey-bee
Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul
Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong,
Till now, in semblance of the soul itself,
With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice
Sweet as an angel's and as full of power,
It sits, a bold usurper on the throne.
What is its nature? 'Tis a child of clay,
And born of human passions. In its train
Follow all things unholy—Love of Gold,
Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name,
All that we worship for itself alone,
All that we may not carry through the grave.
We have made idols of these perishing things
Till they have grown time-honored on their shrines,
And all men bow to them. Yet what are they?
What is Ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat!
Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly
The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine
Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a god, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien of empery, and smiles
Majestically sweet—but how like him!
It follows not with Fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his wildered eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henceforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye.
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn—till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man!
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse
Gentle and holy; and the light and air,
And all things common, warm it like the sun,
And ripen the eternal seed within.
And so its youth glides on; and still it seems
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes,
But never widely; and if Death might come
And ravish it from earth as it is now,
We could almost believe that it would mount,
9
But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits
Another spirit. Stranger as it seems,
It is familiar there, for it has grown
In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen,—
Or if its shadow darkened the bright doors,
'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in;
And as the spider and the honey-bee
Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul
Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong,
Till now, in semblance of the soul itself,
With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice
Sweet as an angel's and as full of power,
It sits, a bold usurper on the throne.
What is its nature? 'Tis a child of clay,
And born of human passions. In its train
Follow all things unholy—Love of Gold,
Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name,
All that we worship for itself alone,
All that we may not carry through the grave.
We have made idols of these perishing things
Till they have grown time-honored on their shrines,
And all men bow to them. Yet what are they?
What is Ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat!
Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly
The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine
10
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a god, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien of empery, and smiles
Majestically sweet—but how like him!
It follows not with Fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his wildered eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henceforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.
11
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn—till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man!
And what is its reward? At best, a name!
Praise—when the ear has grown too dull to hear;
Gold—when the senses it should please are dead;
Wreaths—when the hair they cover has grown gray;
Fame—when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb;
All things but love—when love is all we want,
And close behind comes Death, and ere we know
That even these unavailing gifts are ours,
He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave!
Praise—when the ear has grown too dull to hear;
Gold—when the senses it should please are dead;
Wreaths—when the hair they cover has grown gray;
Fame—when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb;
All things but love—when love is all we want,
And close behind comes Death, and ere we know
That even these unavailing gifts are ours,
He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave!
Is it its own reward? Reply to it
Every aspiring heart within these walls!
Summon the shadows of those bitter hours
Wasted in brooding on neglect! Recall
The burning tears wrung from a throbbing brain
By a proud effort foil'd; and after all
These agonies are number'd, rack your heart
Back to its own self-nurtur'd wretchedness,
And when the pangs are crowded into one
Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself
Is sent or stayed, as it would bless or curse,
Tell me if self-misgiving torture not
Unutterably more!
Yet this is all!
The world has no such glorious phantom else.
The spirit that could slave itself to Gold
Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well.
And Pleasure, if the senses would expand
And multiply with using, might delude
The flesh-imprisoned fancy—but not long.
And earthly Love—if measured, is too tame—
And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will,
At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud
Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul—
A sadness—a sick-heartedness—a tear!
Every aspiring heart within these walls!
Summon the shadows of those bitter hours
Wasted in brooding on neglect! Recall
The burning tears wrung from a throbbing brain
By a proud effort foil'd; and after all
These agonies are number'd, rack your heart
Back to its own self-nurtur'd wretchedness,
12
Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself
Is sent or stayed, as it would bless or curse,
Tell me if self-misgiving torture not
Unutterably more!
Yet this is all!
The world has no such glorious phantom else.
The spirit that could slave itself to Gold
Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well.
And Pleasure, if the senses would expand
And multiply with using, might delude
The flesh-imprisoned fancy—but not long.
And earthly Love—if measured, is too tame—
And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will,
At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud
Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul—
A sadness—a sick-heartedness—a tear!
And these are the high idols of this world!
Retreating shadows caught but at the grave—
Mocking delusions, changing at the touch—
Of one false spirit the false children all.
And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie
Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul!
The finest workmanship of God is there.
'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind;
'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air;
Fire and wind and water do its will;
Earth has no secret from its delicate eye;
The air no alchymy it solveth not;
The star-writ Heavens are read and understood,
And every sparry mineral hath a name,
And truth is recogniz'd, and beauty felt,
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow.
Retreating shadows caught but at the grave—
Mocking delusions, changing at the touch—
Of one false spirit the false children all.
And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie
Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul!
The finest workmanship of God is there.
'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind;
13
Fire and wind and water do its will;
Earth has no secret from its delicate eye;
The air no alchymy it solveth not;
The star-writ Heavens are read and understood,
And every sparry mineral hath a name,
And truth is recogniz'd, and beauty felt,
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow.
How is it so forgotten? Will it live
When the great firmament is rolled away?
Hath it a voice forever audible,
“I am eternal!” Can it overcome
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here
Live like a seraph upon truth and light?
When the great firmament is rolled away?
Hath it a voice forever audible,
“I am eternal!” Can it overcome
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here
Live like a seraph upon truth and light?
How can we ever be the slaves we are,
With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts!
How can we creep so lowly, when our wings
Tremble and plead for freedom! Look at him
Who reads aright the image on his soul,
And gives it nurture like a child of light.
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace,
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken,
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure,
For the soul's errands are not done with men.
His senses are subdued and serve the soul.
He feels no void, for every faculty
Is used, and the fine balance of desire
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on.
Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed,
And Temperance has driven out unrest.
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more
Of any thing he needs. The air of Heaven
Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow;
He has his portion of each silver star
Sent to his eye as freely, and the light
Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear
As on the golden missal of a king.
The spicy flowers are free to him; the sward,
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves
Are as elastic to his weary feet;
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath
The spreading trees, fine pencilings of light,
Stay while he gazes on them; the bright birds
Know not that he is poor; and as he comes
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven,
And merrily away the little brook
Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice
Almost articulate, of perfect joy.
Air to his forehead, water to his lips,
Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully,
And his own faculties as freely play.
Love fills his voice with music, and the tear
Springs at as light a bidding to his eye;
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight
Flies on its wondrous errands every where.
With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts!
How can we creep so lowly, when our wings
Tremble and plead for freedom! Look at him
Who reads aright the image on his soul,
And gives it nurture like a child of light.
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace,
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken,
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure,
For the soul's errands are not done with men.
14
He feels no void, for every faculty
Is used, and the fine balance of desire
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on.
Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed,
And Temperance has driven out unrest.
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more
Of any thing he needs. The air of Heaven
Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow;
He has his portion of each silver star
Sent to his eye as freely, and the light
Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear
As on the golden missal of a king.
The spicy flowers are free to him; the sward,
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves
Are as elastic to his weary feet;
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath
The spreading trees, fine pencilings of light,
Stay while he gazes on them; the bright birds
Know not that he is poor; and as he comes
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven,
And merrily away the little brook
Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice
Almost articulate, of perfect joy.
Air to his forehead, water to his lips,
15
And his own faculties as freely play.
Love fills his voice with music, and the tear
Springs at as light a bidding to his eye;
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight
Flies on its wondrous errands every where.
What does he need? Next to the works of God
His friends are the rapt sages of old time;
And they impart their wisdom to his soul
In lavish fulness, when and where he will.
He sits in his mean dwelling and communes
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades
Of all great men and holy, and the words
Written in fire by Milton, and the King
Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards,
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky—
And what is it to him, if these come in
And visit him, that at his humble door
There are no pillars with rich capitals
And walls of curious workmanship within?
His friends are the rapt sages of old time;
And they impart their wisdom to his soul
In lavish fulness, when and where he will.
He sits in his mean dwelling and communes
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades
Of all great men and holy, and the words
Written in fire by Milton, and the King
Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards,
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky—
And what is it to him, if these come in
And visit him, that at his humble door
There are no pillars with rich capitals
And walls of curious workmanship within?
I stand not here in Wisdom's sacred stole.
My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire.
An humbler office than a counsellor
Of human duties, and an humbler place
Would better grace my knowledge and my years.
I would not seem presuming. Yet have I
Mingled a little in this earnest world,
And staked upon its chances, and have learned
Truths that I never gather'd from my books.
And though the lessons they have taught me seem
Things of the wayside to the practised man,
It is a wisdom by much wandering learned;
And if but one young spirit bend its wing
More in the eye of Heaven because it knew
The erring courses that bewildered mine,
I have not suffered, nor shall teach in vain.
My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire.
An humbler office than a counsellor
Of human duties, and an humbler place
16
I would not seem presuming. Yet have I
Mingled a little in this earnest world,
And staked upon its chances, and have learned
Truths that I never gather'd from my books.
And though the lessons they have taught me seem
Things of the wayside to the practised man,
It is a wisdom by much wandering learned;
And if but one young spirit bend its wing
More in the eye of Heaven because it knew
The erring courses that bewildered mine,
I have not suffered, nor shall teach in vain.
It is a lesson oftener learned than loved—
All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind
May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst
The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream
Polluted by the lepers of the mind.
The sceptic, with his doubts of all things good
And faith in all things evil, has been there;
And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown
The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye,
And sloped the banks down gently for the feet;
And Genius, like a fallen child of light,
Has filled the place with magic, and compell'd
Most beautiful creations into forms
And images of license, and they come
And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel
And drink of the wild waters; and behind
Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in;
And the approving world looks silent on;
Till the pleased mind conspires against itself,
And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good.
We are deceived, though, even as we drink,
We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone
The lying Tempter whispers in our ear,
“Tho' it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings;”
And in the wild ambition of the soul
We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer
To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven.
All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind
May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst
The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream
Polluted by the lepers of the mind.
The sceptic, with his doubts of all things good
And faith in all things evil, has been there;
And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown
The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye,
And sloped the banks down gently for the feet;
And Genius, like a fallen child of light,
Has filled the place with magic, and compell'd
Most beautiful creations into forms
17
And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel
And drink of the wild waters; and behind
Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in;
And the approving world looks silent on;
Till the pleased mind conspires against itself,
And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good.
We are deceived, though, even as we drink,
We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone
The lying Tempter whispers in our ear,
“Tho' it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings;”
And in the wild ambition of the soul
We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer
To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven.
I need not follow the similitude.
Health is vitality, and if the mind
Is fed on poison, it must lose its power.
The vision that forever strains to err
Soon finds its task a habit; and the taste
That will own nothing true or beautiful
Soon finds the world distorted as itself;
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite
For the enticements of licentious thought,
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast.
The soul must be in health to keep its powers.
It must lie open to the influences
Of all things pure and simple. Like a flower
Within a stifled chamber, it will droop
If hidden from the pleasant sun and air;
And every delicate fibre must have room
To quicken and extend, and more than all,
The stream that gives it moisture must be pure.
Health is vitality, and if the mind
Is fed on poison, it must lose its power.
The vision that forever strains to err
Soon finds its task a habit; and the taste
That will own nothing true or beautiful
Soon finds the world distorted as itself;
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite
For the enticements of licentious thought,
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast.
18
It must lie open to the influences
Of all things pure and simple. Like a flower
Within a stifled chamber, it will droop
If hidden from the pleasant sun and air;
And every delicate fibre must have room
To quicken and extend, and more than all,
The stream that gives it moisture must be pure.
Another lesson with my manhood came.
I have unlearned contempt. It is the sin
That is engender'd earliest in the soul,
And doth beset it like a poison-worm,
Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals
Into the bosom you may see the light
Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim,
And the fine, upright glory of the brow
Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip,
That was as free and changeful as the wind,
Even in sadness redolent of love,
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn.
It eats into the mind till it pollutes
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense
That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd,
And the bright human being, that was made
Full of all warm affections, and with power
To look through all things lovely up to God,
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend,
With but one use for reason—to despise!
I have unlearned contempt. It is the sin
That is engender'd earliest in the soul,
And doth beset it like a poison-worm,
Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals
Into the bosom you may see the light
Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim,
And the fine, upright glory of the brow
Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip,
That was as free and changeful as the wind,
Even in sadness redolent of love,
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn.
It eats into the mind till it pollutes
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense
That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd,
And the bright human being, that was made
19
To look through all things lovely up to God,
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend,
With but one use for reason—to despise!
Oh if there is one law above the rest
Written in wisdom—if there is a word
That I would trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child—
If there is any thing that keeps the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill—'tis human love!
God has made nothing worthy of contempt.
The smallest pebble in the well of truth
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand
When man's best monuments have passed away.
The law of Heaven is love and though its name;
Has been usurp'd by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the eternal principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, we but see
The lavish measure in which love is given,
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above his head,
And every creature feeding on the hills,
And every tree, and flower, and running brook,
We see how every thing was made to love,
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find any thing to hate but human pride!
Written in wisdom—if there is a word
That I would trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child—
If there is any thing that keeps the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill—'tis human love!
God has made nothing worthy of contempt.
The smallest pebble in the well of truth
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand
When man's best monuments have passed away.
The law of Heaven is love and though its name;
Has been usurp'd by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the eternal principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, we but see
The lavish measure in which love is given,
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above his head,
And every creature feeding on the hills,
20
We see how every thing was made to love,
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find any thing to hate but human pride!
Oh, if we are not bitterly deceived—
If this familiar spirit that communes
With yours this hour—that has the power to search
All things but its own compass—is a spark
Struck from the burning essence of its God—
If, as we dream, in every radiant star
We see a shining gate through which the soul,
In its degrees of being, will ascend—
If, when these weary organs drop away,
We shall forget their uses, and commune
With angels and each other, as the stars
Mingle their light, in silence and in love—
What is this fleshly fetter of a day
That we should bind it with immortal flowers!
How do we ever gaze upon the sky,
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost,
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away,
Without one tear for our imprisoned wings!
If this familiar spirit that communes
With yours this hour—that has the power to search
All things but its own compass—is a spark
Struck from the burning essence of its God—
If, as we dream, in every radiant star
We see a shining gate through which the soul,
In its degrees of being, will ascend—
If, when these weary organs drop away,
We shall forget their uses, and commune
With angels and each other, as the stars
Mingle their light, in silence and in love—
What is this fleshly fetter of a day
That we should bind it with immortal flowers!
How do we ever gaze upon the sky,
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost,
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away,
Without one tear for our imprisoned wings!
| Poem delivered before the Society of United Brothers, at Brown University, on the day preceding Commencement, September 6, 1831 | |