The Lake of Geneva a poem, moral and descriptive, in seven books. With notes historical and biographical. In two volumes. By Sir Egerton Brydges |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | BOOK V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | The Lake of Geneva |  |
128
BOOK V.
It is the nineteenth morning since I first
Begun the strain on thee, beloved Lake!
And yet my daily task has been unbroken!
Thus perseverance has its own reward!
We know not what we can do till we try!
Much of the dead my strains have dwelt upon;
Naught of the living! First of thee, the friend
Of the great lyric bard whom first I lov'd,
And who still holds unchang'd my adoration,
Of moral Gray;—Bonstetten,—in thine age
Who the vivacity of youth retainest!
Scholar, philosopher, “of imagination
Compact” of multifarious knowledge pregnant;—
And thou, in deep political knowledge wise,
And statist admirable, D'Ivernois,
Whose friendship and attention in my days
Of long long sickness ne'er have been relax'd;
And classical Prevost, in philosophic
Lore not less fam'd; and thou, profound Sismondi,
Of European fame; historian, critic,
Liberty's great defender; philosophic
And eloquent narrator of the days
Of Italy's free and resplendent glories,
Who now the tale of France in copious volumes
Unfoldest; and thou, traveller, whose pages
Piquant, sagacious, brief, original,
Just, ever win attention, caustic Simond!
And thou last annalist of thy native land
Of lakes and mountains, Picot! and thou, Fazy,
Fam'd for thy eloquence in senate, wise
In that profound economy, on which
Depends the people's happiness, with heart
Devoted to their good!—and Coindet, thou,
To whose rich stores and generous openness,
Whate'er of curious note I have recorded,
Is due; and Maunoir, thou of mark'd vivacity,
And spiritual genius! and ye, learned jurists,
Rossi and Bellot! and thou last, not least,
In friendship and in hospitality
Warmest,—renown'd upon the private stage,—
The oracle, thro whose lips miraculous Shakespeare
Speaks;—Lullin, whose most ancient name is trac'd
Thro all the annals of Genevan story,
From its first Counts, before the House of Savoy
Oppress'd them, and extinguish'd! Of thy fame,
De Candolle, I am little qualified
To speak, for, I alas! am ignorant
Of that sweet science, of which thou dost shine
Preeminent thro Europe! but thy pen,
Eloquent, searching, and profound in tracing
Resemblances and variations in
The forms and features of humanity,
In various climes and nations, I can follow
With admiration and delight! Ah, some,
Of name renown'd, whom I have known, are gone,
But ripe in honours, to their quiet graves!
Pictet, in philosophic searches vers'd,
And his more various-minded Brother; critic,
Political economist, in agriculture
Practical, and as theorist, renown'd!
And thou too, latest lost, by all lamented,
Piercing and clear Dumont: though I protest
Against thy doctrines of political
Impossibility, more plausible
Than with man's passionate nature practical.
Begun the strain on thee, beloved Lake!
And yet my daily task has been unbroken!
Thus perseverance has its own reward!
We know not what we can do till we try!
Much of the dead my strains have dwelt upon;
Naught of the living! First of thee, the friend
Of the great lyric bard whom first I lov'd,
And who still holds unchang'd my adoration,
Of moral Gray;—Bonstetten,—in thine age
Who the vivacity of youth retainest!
Scholar, philosopher, “of imagination
Compact” of multifarious knowledge pregnant;—
And thou, in deep political knowledge wise,
And statist admirable, D'Ivernois,
Whose friendship and attention in my days
Of long long sickness ne'er have been relax'd;
And classical Prevost, in philosophic
129
Of European fame; historian, critic,
Liberty's great defender; philosophic
And eloquent narrator of the days
Of Italy's free and resplendent glories,
Who now the tale of France in copious volumes
Unfoldest; and thou, traveller, whose pages
Piquant, sagacious, brief, original,
Just, ever win attention, caustic Simond!
And thou last annalist of thy native land
Of lakes and mountains, Picot! and thou, Fazy,
Fam'd for thy eloquence in senate, wise
In that profound economy, on which
Depends the people's happiness, with heart
Devoted to their good!—and Coindet, thou,
To whose rich stores and generous openness,
Whate'er of curious note I have recorded,
Is due; and Maunoir, thou of mark'd vivacity,
And spiritual genius! and ye, learned jurists,
Rossi and Bellot! and thou last, not least,
In friendship and in hospitality
Warmest,—renown'd upon the private stage,—
The oracle, thro whose lips miraculous Shakespeare
Speaks;—Lullin, whose most ancient name is trac'd
Thro all the annals of Genevan story,
From its first Counts, before the House of Savoy
Oppress'd them, and extinguish'd! Of thy fame,
De Candolle, I am little qualified
To speak, for, I alas! am ignorant
Of that sweet science, of which thou dost shine
130
Eloquent, searching, and profound in tracing
Resemblances and variations in
The forms and features of humanity,
In various climes and nations, I can follow
With admiration and delight! Ah, some,
Of name renown'd, whom I have known, are gone,
But ripe in honours, to their quiet graves!
Pictet, in philosophic searches vers'd,
And his more various-minded Brother; critic,
Political economist, in agriculture
Practical, and as theorist, renown'd!
And thou too, latest lost, by all lamented,
Piercing and clear Dumont: though I protest
Against thy doctrines of political
Impossibility, more plausible
Than with man's passionate nature practical.
But here I must repeat the wonder, that
No poets in this ample list are found!
A cause there must be in the history
Of mind for this, although unknown to me!
What scenery more suited to a poet?
Then is it in the climate? It cannot
Rise from hereditary disposition,
Because Genevan families are sprung
From mingled nations! As the poet's power
Lies in the mind, not matter, it would seem
Of climates and of countries independent:
But with the organs of the brain depress'd,
Derang'd, diseas'd, perchance imagination
Can only act imperfectly! alas,
We search in vain in these mysterious shrines;
We have no eye can penetrate them clearly:
There may be sensibility extreme
In th'heart: and yet the fancy, and still more
Th'inventive faculty, may be deficient.
Beings constructed thus can be affected
By strains pathetic; but to the creation
Of imagery, and visions of ideal
Magnificence, be quite unapprehensive,
And moved still less! To them the voice of poetry
Is but an idle sound! Let them pass by
The lyre, and shut their ears, and close their hearts!
I cannot envy them! They may be pitied:
But would do well to moderate their scorn!
It is the scorn of dulness, which affects
Contempt for what it cannot understand!
No poets in this ample list are found!
A cause there must be in the history
Of mind for this, although unknown to me!
What scenery more suited to a poet?
Then is it in the climate? It cannot
Rise from hereditary disposition,
Because Genevan families are sprung
From mingled nations! As the poet's power
Lies in the mind, not matter, it would seem
Of climates and of countries independent:
But with the organs of the brain depress'd,
Derang'd, diseas'd, perchance imagination
131
We search in vain in these mysterious shrines;
We have no eye can penetrate them clearly:
There may be sensibility extreme
In th'heart: and yet the fancy, and still more
Th'inventive faculty, may be deficient.
Beings constructed thus can be affected
By strains pathetic; but to the creation
Of imagery, and visions of ideal
Magnificence, be quite unapprehensive,
And moved still less! To them the voice of poetry
Is but an idle sound! Let them pass by
The lyre, and shut their ears, and close their hearts!
I cannot envy them! They may be pitied:
But would do well to moderate their scorn!
It is the scorn of dulness, which affects
Contempt for what it cannot understand!
We hear there is no wisdom but in logic:
Then Providence has given us no intuitive
Knowledge, and nothing sound we can arrive at,
Except by chains of single steps;—thus slow
Our wisdom must advance; but in a blaze
Imagination her intelligence
Gives; and we see not single points, but all
At once, living and dead, matter and mind,
Coalescing, or conflicting, or in labour
By separate paths and instruments to reach
One end. And thus she sees what passion prompts,
What conscience dictates: the two springs of action;
Which reason vainly struggles to presage.
And thus it is we from the Muse must learn
Our most sagacious lessons of mankind.
Then Providence has given us no intuitive
Knowledge, and nothing sound we can arrive at,
Except by chains of single steps;—thus slow
Our wisdom must advance; but in a blaze
Imagination her intelligence
Gives; and we see not single points, but all
At once, living and dead, matter and mind,
Coalescing, or conflicting, or in labour
By separate paths and instruments to reach
One end. And thus she sees what passion prompts,
What conscience dictates: the two springs of action;
Which reason vainly struggles to presage.
132
Our most sagacious lessons of mankind.
O blind and foolish, who affect to scorn
The Muse! Without her what were all, that gladdens
The higher qualities of our existence?
All that delights in nature's scenery comes
From her! All sentiment, all elevation
Of thought; all that enchants in female beauty;
All that inspires the ear in harmony
Of voices, and of instruments, and sounds
Breath'd by the elements; or from the woods;
From herds and flocks in meadows or on plains,
From ocean's billows; or from mountain torrents,
Or gentle murmuring streams. In the first dawn
Awaking, 'tis imagination's light
That beams the hopes of coming day before us.
When we return at eve, fatigued with labour,
Imagination paints the joys of rest!
And when we would look back in meditation
To see life in its brilliant tints reviv'd,
It is alone upon the Muse's volume
We turn to find it duly animated!
There goes the touch of magic to the heart,
And secret springs are mov'd; and to the fancy
Blaze all at once the past, the present, future,
Uniting in one picture to the eye,
With life more brilliant than reality!
Then we forget our mortal ligaments,
And for a moment are all spiritualiz'd.
The Muse! Without her what were all, that gladdens
The higher qualities of our existence?
All that delights in nature's scenery comes
From her! All sentiment, all elevation
Of thought; all that enchants in female beauty;
All that inspires the ear in harmony
Of voices, and of instruments, and sounds
Breath'd by the elements; or from the woods;
From herds and flocks in meadows or on plains,
From ocean's billows; or from mountain torrents,
Or gentle murmuring streams. In the first dawn
Awaking, 'tis imagination's light
That beams the hopes of coming day before us.
When we return at eve, fatigued with labour,
Imagination paints the joys of rest!
And when we would look back in meditation
To see life in its brilliant tints reviv'd,
It is alone upon the Muse's volume
We turn to find it duly animated!
There goes the touch of magic to the heart,
And secret springs are mov'd; and to the fancy
Blaze all at once the past, the present, future,
Uniting in one picture to the eye,
With life more brilliant than reality!
Then we forget our mortal ligaments,
And for a moment are all spiritualiz'd.
Who will not find in Shakespeare wiser axioms,
Lore more adapted to men's hearts and business,
Than in all volumes of philosophers
Collected into one? Who will not find,
In Milton more reveal'd divinity,
Than in the pages of the theologians?
There holy inspiration: there the moral
Severe, profound, and pure, and comprehensive
In the elucidation of Man's nature!
133
Than in all volumes of philosophers
Collected into one? Who will not find,
In Milton more reveal'd divinity,
Than in the pages of the theologians?
There holy inspiration: there the moral
Severe, profound, and pure, and comprehensive
In the elucidation of Man's nature!
There Davenant, of the Epic laurel wreath
Most worthy, ill rewarded, most unjustly
Neglected and forgotten, tells his tale,
Enrich'd at every incident with lore
Moral and intellectual in abundance,
Express'd with nervous brevity and clearness,
Pure, elegant, harmonious, pointed, noble!
There Spenser pours his endless imagery
Of moral allegory, where the chivalrous
Figures, and gorgeous fictions of enchantment,
Almost o'ercome the senses! but beneath
Those veils is couch'd the whole philosophy
Of moral truths; and never can the study
Exhausted be! Thus Bards of ancient date
Most dealt in ethic doctrines. O lov'd Cowley,
Whose bosom was a limpid spring of purity,
Of flowers from woods and meadows, violets
And primroses, of sentiment as virtuous
As the sweet sylvan solitude thou lov'dst!
In thy enchanting language is reflected
The image of an heart by genius warm'd,
By learning strengthen'd, by a virtuous conscience
Directed, beaming with benevolence,
And cheerful rays of natural simplicity!
Most worthy, ill rewarded, most unjustly
Neglected and forgotten, tells his tale,
Enrich'd at every incident with lore
Moral and intellectual in abundance,
Express'd with nervous brevity and clearness,
Pure, elegant, harmonious, pointed, noble!
There Spenser pours his endless imagery
Of moral allegory, where the chivalrous
Figures, and gorgeous fictions of enchantment,
Almost o'ercome the senses! but beneath
Those veils is couch'd the whole philosophy
Of moral truths; and never can the study
Exhausted be! Thus Bards of ancient date
Most dealt in ethic doctrines. O lov'd Cowley,
Whose bosom was a limpid spring of purity,
Of flowers from woods and meadows, violets
And primroses, of sentiment as virtuous
As the sweet sylvan solitude thou lov'dst!
In thy enchanting language is reflected
The image of an heart by genius warm'd,
By learning strengthen'd, by a virtuous conscience
134
And cheerful rays of natural simplicity!
Then comes the comic Hudibras, of wit
And learning mingled into essences;—
Whose golden ore, where'er we search, is found,
And forms a coin to pass throughout the world,
Among the wise:—still the collision sparkles
And strikes a light, wherever it conflicts:
Nor Denham is in thee the moral lore
Wanting: the couplet strong, concise, with thought
Weighty, in strain harmonious pours along!
Thy heart, perchance, was sensitive and morbid,
And thou couldst not the wandring levities
Bear of thy young fair wife amid a court
Luxurious, profligate; of others reckless,
And harden'd to th'effects of the worst injury,
Man to break up the social ties indulges.
Then did that genius, which light minds believ'd
To be a dreamer lost in reveries,
Begin to wander from its bounds, and grief
And jealousy with strange chaotic visitings
Disturb'd thy brain, and thou didst wildly wander
A maniac! And yet did no compunction
Touch the fair bosom of that fallen Beauty,
Whose noble blood, the relic of an House
Of ancient Barons, then by James's tyranny,
And basest thirst of lucre, sunk in ruin,
Had in her more exalted feelings planted!
And learning mingled into essences;—
Whose golden ore, where'er we search, is found,
And forms a coin to pass throughout the world,
Among the wise:—still the collision sparkles
And strikes a light, wherever it conflicts:
Nor Denham is in thee the moral lore
Wanting: the couplet strong, concise, with thought
Weighty, in strain harmonious pours along!
Thy heart, perchance, was sensitive and morbid,
And thou couldst not the wandring levities
Bear of thy young fair wife amid a court
Luxurious, profligate; of others reckless,
And harden'd to th'effects of the worst injury,
Man to break up the social ties indulges.
Then did that genius, which light minds believ'd
To be a dreamer lost in reveries,
Begin to wander from its bounds, and grief
And jealousy with strange chaotic visitings
Disturb'd thy brain, and thou didst wildly wander
A maniac! And yet did no compunction
Touch the fair bosom of that fallen Beauty,
Whose noble blood, the relic of an House
Of ancient Barons, then by James's tyranny,
And basest thirst of lucre, sunk in ruin,
Had in her more exalted feelings planted!
Alas! for beauty in a sensual Court
Poison'd, there is no herb to cleanse the stain!
Poison'd, there is no herb to cleanse the stain!
135
After long interval came Prior's Muse,
Whose Song of Solomon, now little read,
Will be immortal; while on the sweet tale
Of Henry and of Emma every lover
Will hang with ears enraptur'd, in despite
Of Johnson's cold and tasteless criticism.
Whose Song of Solomon, now little read,
Will be immortal; while on the sweet tale
Of Henry and of Emma every lover
Will hang with ears enraptur'd, in despite
Of Johnson's cold and tasteless criticism.
Of Dryden I have sung before, and here
Will not repeat a judgment trite and stale.
Nor aught of thee, of harmony the chief,
Sage Pope! Then came a fashion new, and imagery
Alone was deem'd worthy the Muse's praise.
Thus Thomson won his laurels, well-deserv'd!
But that which teaches how our intellectual
Being to manage, is the wisdom prime!
All imagery is only from material
Existence drawn.
Will not repeat a judgment trite and stale.
Nor aught of thee, of harmony the chief,
Sage Pope! Then came a fashion new, and imagery
Alone was deem'd worthy the Muse's praise.
Thus Thomson won his laurels, well-deserv'd!
But that which teaches how our intellectual
Being to manage, is the wisdom prime!
All imagery is only from material
Existence drawn.
Enough of poets here!
There is a subject, which at the perilous crisis
We live in, rages more. It is the fate
Political of nations: but I'll away with't:
It is too grave for pleasure; and too big
Perchance in its results for human wisdom!
Great poets have in perilous crises liv'd,
Yet have not sung the less. Thus Buckhurst, Milton!
But I, the humblest of the humble, have not
The magnanimity to persevere,
If that dread topic is not kept aloof!
There is a subject, which at the perilous crisis
We live in, rages more. It is the fate
Political of nations: but I'll away with't:
It is too grave for pleasure; and too big
Perchance in its results for human wisdom!
Great poets have in perilous crises liv'd,
Yet have not sung the less. Thus Buckhurst, Milton!
But I, the humblest of the humble, have not
The magnanimity to persevere,
If that dread topic is not kept aloof!
Does fame add to our happiness?—The preacher
Tells us that all is vanity. Cool thought
Agrees not with him:—but it is a fame
Stedfast which is not empty: when it fluctuates,
The ebb gives more of pain, than the flow, pleasure.
Tells us that all is vanity. Cool thought
Agrees not with him:—but it is a fame
136
The ebb gives more of pain, than the flow, pleasure.
Thus Mason felt, when he grew out of fashion:
Humour and spleen o'erwhelm'd him. Hayley, by fate
Not less depressive follow'd, kept his cheerfulness,
And warm benevolence of heart. To him
Not of the poet's faculties inventive
Nature had been profuse; but of a mind
Gentle, and elegant, of taste chastised,
Rich in accomplishments in literature,
And full of tender moral sentiment:
Yet not profound; and too inclin'd to trust
To borrow'd stores: a fault less oft occurring
Perchance to Britain, than to other nations.
Humour and spleen o'erwhelm'd him. Hayley, by fate
Not less depressive follow'd, kept his cheerfulness,
And warm benevolence of heart. To him
Not of the poet's faculties inventive
Nature had been profuse; but of a mind
Gentle, and elegant, of taste chastised,
Rich in accomplishments in literature,
And full of tender moral sentiment:
Yet not profound; and too inclin'd to trust
To borrow'd stores: a fault less oft occurring
Perchance to Britain, than to other nations.
The searching air of Leman's lake should well
Stir the original spirits of the mind;
But yet it is not here;—it is not here,—
That the fresh fountains of unaided thought,
And powers divine of bright imagination
Have been bestow'd, or have themselves unfolded,
With that one grand exception, eloquent
Intense Rousseau! for not to thee, De Stael
The fate was given to be born or bred
Upon the Lake: nor hadst thou powers inventive
In high degree; but rather force, acuteness,
Sagacity, and fine discrimination.
Stir the original spirits of the mind;
But yet it is not here;—it is not here,—
That the fresh fountains of unaided thought,
And powers divine of bright imagination
Have been bestow'd, or have themselves unfolded,
With that one grand exception, eloquent
Intense Rousseau! for not to thee, De Stael
The fate was given to be born or bred
Upon the Lake: nor hadst thou powers inventive
In high degree; but rather force, acuteness,
Sagacity, and fine discrimination.
To theologic lore Geneva once
Her mental toils applied, voluminous
And cumbersome:—tomes now upon the shelf
Sleeping in dust: the Diodatis, Pictets,
Turrettini's, Lullin's, thus! But Godefroy, jurist,
Lives to this day in memory of the learned!
Philosophy and Science, O Geneva,
Were ever thy prime favourites! De Saussure,
Geologist thro' Europe known, and Bonnet,
And thou still living ornament, De Candolle!
Then Casaubon, in classic lore profound;—
Greek, above all! Nor ought I thee to pass,
In natural history vers'd, biographer
Of thy fam'd city's literary toils,
And critic most industrious, Senebier!
Her mental toils applied, voluminous
And cumbersome:—tomes now upon the shelf
Sleeping in dust: the Diodatis, Pictets,
137
Lives to this day in memory of the learned!
Philosophy and Science, O Geneva,
Were ever thy prime favourites! De Saussure,
Geologist thro' Europe known, and Bonnet,
And thou still living ornament, De Candolle!
Then Casaubon, in classic lore profound;—
Greek, above all! Nor ought I thee to pass,
In natural history vers'd, biographer
Of thy fam'd city's literary toils,
And critic most industrious, Senebier!
Withdraw the veil from Time; trace back the ways
That he has pass'd; and read upon these tracks
The marks, the cyphers, and the mysteries
Inscribed in a thousand characters!
It is an edifying lesson,—mix'd
Too oft with crimes, and causes of regret,
And seeds of future evil.—On, the world,
With all the faults of governments, has gone
Hitherto! But it seems as if a crisis
Approaches near, when it will go no longer!
Then anarchy will come; and dogs of Ruin
Will be let loose to prey upon the world!
Where'er assembled mobs will rule, there can be
Nothing but devastation, famine, death!
All civil policy may be abus'd;
But without government men are wild beasts.
I would have power and authority
Forever watch'd with lynx-ey'd force and courage!
But not destroy'd!—Reform; but not destruction;—
Is the wise freeman's object! Laws abus'd
Are a most terrible pestilence: but lawless
Savages are yet worse! Let Ruin come,
As on the fall of the great Roman Empire,
And those dark ages which ensued, as nothing
Compar'd with those which now the world will cover,
Hereafter will appear! a poison bitterer,
And far more virulent, has been infus'd!
O! one false step of one weak man sometimes
Leads to the world's deep woe for generations!
Who caus'd America's rebellion, nearly
Seventy conflicting years of anger past?
Who by a word scarce thirty months ago
Stirr'd up the tempest brooding now o'er England?
Who by mad ordinances madly plann'd,
And weakly executed, at a blow
Level'd a dynasty of a thousand years;
And made a flourishing nation, with new being
Just mounting to unheard prosperity,
To tremble on a mine of utter ruin?
Herds of barbarians from the north will come;
And utter devastation prostrate all!
Where codes of law are fighting for, there soon
Will be no law at all! tho law itself,
When it is bad, is worse perchance than none!
That he has pass'd; and read upon these tracks
The marks, the cyphers, and the mysteries
Inscribed in a thousand characters!
It is an edifying lesson,—mix'd
Too oft with crimes, and causes of regret,
And seeds of future evil.—On, the world,
With all the faults of governments, has gone
Hitherto! But it seems as if a crisis
Approaches near, when it will go no longer!
Then anarchy will come; and dogs of Ruin
Will be let loose to prey upon the world!
Where'er assembled mobs will rule, there can be
Nothing but devastation, famine, death!
All civil policy may be abus'd;
But without government men are wild beasts.
I would have power and authority
Forever watch'd with lynx-ey'd force and courage!
But not destroy'd!—Reform; but not destruction;—
138
Are a most terrible pestilence: but lawless
Savages are yet worse! Let Ruin come,
As on the fall of the great Roman Empire,
And those dark ages which ensued, as nothing
Compar'd with those which now the world will cover,
Hereafter will appear! a poison bitterer,
And far more virulent, has been infus'd!
O! one false step of one weak man sometimes
Leads to the world's deep woe for generations!
Who caus'd America's rebellion, nearly
Seventy conflicting years of anger past?
Who by a word scarce thirty months ago
Stirr'd up the tempest brooding now o'er England?
Who by mad ordinances madly plann'd,
And weakly executed, at a blow
Level'd a dynasty of a thousand years;
And made a flourishing nation, with new being
Just mounting to unheard prosperity,
To tremble on a mine of utter ruin?
Herds of barbarians from the north will come;
And utter devastation prostrate all!
Where codes of law are fighting for, there soon
Will be no law at all! tho law itself,
When it is bad, is worse perchance than none!
If Providence permits this globe of habitants,
Condemn'd to sin from Adam, to go on,
From the tremendous downfall, which the threat,
Of civil policy o'erthrown must bring.
Brute force will lord it o'er the world again,
And tyrants new will power despotic win
By the blood-thirsty sword! then by degrees
Arts, learning, laws, and wisdom's institutions,
Will recommence! but centuries will pass,
Ere they will reach again the happy point,
From which they will have fallen! There is a time,
When rage, and something like insanity,
Infects mankind! and such, perhaps, the day
We live in! while th'aspiring men, who love
Power with a bigoted idolatry,
Outrage the true defenders of the bonds,
Of absolute necessity to hold
Society together. Let not monarchs,
If they do not promote the general happiness,
Rule for a day!—But, under due restraint,
I do believe a monarchy the best
For the general welfare! power will be corrupt
Always,—whatever be its form—or kingly,
Or oligarcic, or republican!
And ever ought by counterbalancing
Poises to be controul'd! th'elite among
The people, rais'd by education, wealth,
Talent, and character, should have a strong
Opposing weight on every government,
Sufficient to restrain it in its course,
But not to check and paralyse its motions!
A prurience of change; a wilful crossing
Of mild authority; a constant cavil
At laws by custom render'd venerable,
And easily and contentedly coercive,
Is folly and vain shallow self-sufficiency,
Not to be pardon'd! Subtle theory
Against experience is the Paradise
Of fools! When practice shews itself by facts
Of ill productive, then to theory
We must resort, new measures to devise;—
And he who reasons best, and can propose
With most sagacity, deserves the wreath!
But custom is a bond less easily broken
Than legislative chains, and far less galling!
The old irregular mansion of our infancy
Is more delightful than a new-built palace!
Security, bought at the cost of guards
Still greater than the worth of what's secur'd,
Is a strange insult upon human intellect:
And legislation, which will interfere
To thwart, not forward, the productive labours
Of man's devises, arts, must be cur'd by force,
If reason will not be attended to!—
Condemn'd to sin from Adam, to go on,
From the tremendous downfall, which the threat,
Of civil policy o'erthrown must bring.
Brute force will lord it o'er the world again,
139
By the blood-thirsty sword! then by degrees
Arts, learning, laws, and wisdom's institutions,
Will recommence! but centuries will pass,
Ere they will reach again the happy point,
From which they will have fallen! There is a time,
When rage, and something like insanity,
Infects mankind! and such, perhaps, the day
We live in! while th'aspiring men, who love
Power with a bigoted idolatry,
Outrage the true defenders of the bonds,
Of absolute necessity to hold
Society together. Let not monarchs,
If they do not promote the general happiness,
Rule for a day!—But, under due restraint,
I do believe a monarchy the best
For the general welfare! power will be corrupt
Always,—whatever be its form—or kingly,
Or oligarcic, or republican!
And ever ought by counterbalancing
Poises to be controul'd! th'elite among
The people, rais'd by education, wealth,
Talent, and character, should have a strong
Opposing weight on every government,
Sufficient to restrain it in its course,
But not to check and paralyse its motions!
A prurience of change; a wilful crossing
Of mild authority; a constant cavil
At laws by custom render'd venerable,
And easily and contentedly coercive,
140
Not to be pardon'd! Subtle theory
Against experience is the Paradise
Of fools! When practice shews itself by facts
Of ill productive, then to theory
We must resort, new measures to devise;—
And he who reasons best, and can propose
With most sagacity, deserves the wreath!
But custom is a bond less easily broken
Than legislative chains, and far less galling!
The old irregular mansion of our infancy
Is more delightful than a new-built palace!
Security, bought at the cost of guards
Still greater than the worth of what's secur'd,
Is a strange insult upon human intellect:
And legislation, which will interfere
To thwart, not forward, the productive labours
Of man's devises, arts, must be cur'd by force,
If reason will not be attended to!—
Foolish, base-hearted, most contemptible,
And odious optimists,—who think that power
Ever must be i'th' right! when power in truth
Forever tends to wrong, if 't be not bound
In chains of iron! Wisdom is the child
Of Genius, and of Virtue, nurs'd by Toil!
And statesmen are not always wise, nor have
Talent, or conscience! They are mainly men
Uplifted by intrigue, or accident,
Or hard, dull, unimpressible audacity!
Unswerving, positive, direct, because
No other light except their own they see!
Palpable truths they miss; and dwell upon
Mysterious errors, since the artifice
Excites what the simplicity of wisdom
Cannot affect! Thus if there be a falsehood
As gross, as it is mischievous, their bigotry
In their heart holds it never to be mov'd,
While all which ought to be for granted taken,
They name it prejudice to save from doubt!
And odious optimists,—who think that power
Ever must be i'th' right! when power in truth
Forever tends to wrong, if 't be not bound
In chains of iron! Wisdom is the child
Of Genius, and of Virtue, nurs'd by Toil!
And statesmen are not always wise, nor have
Talent, or conscience! They are mainly men
Uplifted by intrigue, or accident,
Or hard, dull, unimpressible audacity!
Unswerving, positive, direct, because
141
Palpable truths they miss; and dwell upon
Mysterious errors, since the artifice
Excites what the simplicity of wisdom
Cannot affect! Thus if there be a falsehood
As gross, as it is mischievous, their bigotry
In their heart holds it never to be mov'd,
While all which ought to be for granted taken,
They name it prejudice to save from doubt!
Thus on they go;—and thus the part they play,
For anarchists their projects to pursue!
In Britain's empire thus the fatal quarter
Of an whole century has pass'd away;
Yet almost all has error been, and blindness,
And feebleness of intellect, and worst,
Most mischievous of all, sad, pusillanimous,
And selfish vacillation! Even wrong,
Firmly pursued, may by bold accident
Attain its ends! but vacillation never!—
It is the chasing of a feeble light,
That glimmers now on this side, now on that,
Now in the centre;—and invites annoyance!
For anarchists their projects to pursue!
In Britain's empire thus the fatal quarter
Of an whole century has pass'd away;
Yet almost all has error been, and blindness,
And feebleness of intellect, and worst,
Most mischievous of all, sad, pusillanimous,
And selfish vacillation! Even wrong,
Firmly pursued, may by bold accident
Attain its ends! but vacillation never!—
It is the chasing of a feeble light,
That glimmers now on this side, now on that,
Now in the centre;—and invites annoyance!
It will be ask'd, where then was Canning's splendor
Of intellect, and magnanimity
Of resolution? But his course of rule
Was short, ere Death o'ertook him, and his plans
Not yet develop'd for a proper judgment
Of their effects, or their prospective wisdom;
And when he clos'd his eyes, a mighty darkness
Came o'er the nation! What has since occurr'd,
Has, much of it, fall'n on strange governors,
Full of alternate rashness and concession,
Whence evils are yet in their cradle, which
Shall soon convulse the world, and shake, perhaps,
The constitution of six hundred years
To atoms.—Much it wanted of repair:
But those repairs were far too long defer'd,
And crowds of speculative jobbers force
Their services to pull the building down,
And utterly rebuild it to their own
Wild fancies: and it is most probable,
Rebuilt it will be, to appease the craving
Appetites of their measureless ambition.
Then down will come the ancient towers and spires,
To the clouds reaching; and th'irregular
But not incongruous diversities,
Plann'd by a long succession of wise ages,
As time and fit occasion dictated,
And as experience gave the certain lesson
Of the necessity; but now, if built
After the fashion of the crotchet-mongers,
'Twill be, perhaps, but as a citizen's box,—
Dwarfs, lions, monsters, serpents, wolves, and bears!
Of intellect, and magnanimity
Of resolution? But his course of rule
Was short, ere Death o'ertook him, and his plans
Not yet develop'd for a proper judgment
Of their effects, or their prospective wisdom;
And when he clos'd his eyes, a mighty darkness
Came o'er the nation! What has since occurr'd,
142
Full of alternate rashness and concession,
Whence evils are yet in their cradle, which
Shall soon convulse the world, and shake, perhaps,
The constitution of six hundred years
To atoms.—Much it wanted of repair:
But those repairs were far too long defer'd,
And crowds of speculative jobbers force
Their services to pull the building down,
And utterly rebuild it to their own
Wild fancies: and it is most probable,
Rebuilt it will be, to appease the craving
Appetites of their measureless ambition.
Then down will come the ancient towers and spires,
To the clouds reaching; and th'irregular
But not incongruous diversities,
Plann'd by a long succession of wise ages,
As time and fit occasion dictated,
And as experience gave the certain lesson
Of the necessity; but now, if built
After the fashion of the crotchet-mongers,
'Twill be, perhaps, but as a citizen's box,—
Dwarfs, lions, monsters, serpents, wolves, and bears!
Thus in opinion, not in imagery,
For many a page have I my stores pour'd out;
And there are critics, who with obstinacy
Swear that in imagery alone is poetry
Of the true fountain to be found. Such narrow
Notions, which little of poetic vein
Would leave in greatest poets, merit not
Response. All of high wisdom is for poetry
Matter the most profound and valuable.
We cannot think with power and force and clearness,
Unless imagination the materials
Presents: and thus from lofty, burning, views
Results sublimity of thought and feeling:
Poetry is no gewgaw, or mere plaything!
Let them who read not for the intellect,
To gingling rhymes, or monstrous visions go!
To teach us how to think is the prime lesson,
And how to feel! For whence draw we our honey,
When like the bee we would extract the sweets
From flowers of poetry? The moral axiom,
The sentiment we sieze upon; not images
Glaring, and gorgeous; monsters, mysteries!
Of Shakespeare's strains divine whence do we take
The passages for ever on our lips?
All that relates to simple daily movements
Of human bosoms! of opinion's stores
And of the colours of our common life!
For many a page have I my stores pour'd out;
And there are critics, who with obstinacy
Swear that in imagery alone is poetry
Of the true fountain to be found. Such narrow
Notions, which little of poetic vein
Would leave in greatest poets, merit not
143
Matter the most profound and valuable.
We cannot think with power and force and clearness,
Unless imagination the materials
Presents: and thus from lofty, burning, views
Results sublimity of thought and feeling:
Poetry is no gewgaw, or mere plaything!
Let them who read not for the intellect,
To gingling rhymes, or monstrous visions go!
To teach us how to think is the prime lesson,
And how to feel! For whence draw we our honey,
When like the bee we would extract the sweets
From flowers of poetry? The moral axiom,
The sentiment we sieze upon; not images
Glaring, and gorgeous; monsters, mysteries!
Of Shakespeare's strains divine whence do we take
The passages for ever on our lips?
All that relates to simple daily movements
Of human bosoms! of opinion's stores
And of the colours of our common life!
Who lives among the mountains and the lakes,
Has his heart warm'd, and intellect exalted,
E'en tho' his lips are silent, and in outward
Shape he may rude and barbarous appear.
The eye cannot survey grandeur of matter,
And be unmov'd! And strong variety
Of shadowing tints, changing and beautiful,
Affects the labourer at his daily work,
And fills his breast with cheerful energy!
A flat dull atmosphere, impending over
A flat dull country, undiversified,
Depresses deep the spirit, and of hope
Clouds all the rays: and hope alone can lead us
Along beneath life's ever-pressing burden!
It is variety that freshens us;
And there is no variety but in hope!
All is in mind: we have no real joy
But in the mind! and matter pleases only,
As it is clad and tinted by the mind.
And thus it is, that poets give the energy,
And sole attraction to all human things!
For they with thought and sentiment array them,
And this is the association, which
Makes the creative essence of true poetry.
Has his heart warm'd, and intellect exalted,
E'en tho' his lips are silent, and in outward
Shape he may rude and barbarous appear.
The eye cannot survey grandeur of matter,
And be unmov'd! And strong variety
Of shadowing tints, changing and beautiful,
Affects the labourer at his daily work,
And fills his breast with cheerful energy!
A flat dull atmosphere, impending over
144
Depresses deep the spirit, and of hope
Clouds all the rays: and hope alone can lead us
Along beneath life's ever-pressing burden!
It is variety that freshens us;
And there is no variety but in hope!
All is in mind: we have no real joy
But in the mind! and matter pleases only,
As it is clad and tinted by the mind.
And thus it is, that poets give the energy,
And sole attraction to all human things!
For they with thought and sentiment array them,
And this is the association, which
Makes the creative essence of true poetry.
There is, perhaps, a discipline of brain,
Which tends not to unite but separate,
These thoughts and feelings, miscall'd adventitious;
And this they may deem science;—sound philosophy
Worthy their toils; and forasmuch as fashion
Governs mankind too much; and this the fashion
That has upon the banks of Leman's Lake
Prevail'd for ages; it may be the cause
That poetry has never flourish'd here;
Where nature gave the scenes most fit to nurse it!
Which tends not to unite but separate,
These thoughts and feelings, miscall'd adventitious;
And this they may deem science;—sound philosophy
Worthy their toils; and forasmuch as fashion
Governs mankind too much; and this the fashion
That has upon the banks of Leman's Lake
Prevail'd for ages; it may be the cause
That poetry has never flourish'd here;
Where nature gave the scenes most fit to nurse it!
Old stern ascetic Calvin, to the Muses
Odious, and hating them as wicked Syrens,
His distillations of sour antidotes
Spread far and wide and deep;—from which the blood
May ne'er be purified. Enthusiasm;—
Yet no imagination, and no sentiment:—
Strange contradiction!—Narrowness, and bigotry,
And puritanism in its odious sense!
Delusions! Are the joys of life delusions?—
They are realities:—and innocent,
And virtuous realities: to fright them,
And hue and cry them off is flagrant crime!
Why not deal with them in the scenes, where nature
Has been profuse of her magnificence?
Are they nip'd in the bud? Is every nascent
Idea, and emotion, crush'd at once;—
And then the channels of the heart and brain
Clos'd; and a formal artificial character
Of intellect forc'd rudely in its place?
Odious, and hating them as wicked Syrens,
His distillations of sour antidotes
Spread far and wide and deep;—from which the blood
May ne'er be purified. Enthusiasm;—
Yet no imagination, and no sentiment:—
145
And puritanism in its odious sense!
Delusions! Are the joys of life delusions?—
They are realities:—and innocent,
And virtuous realities: to fright them,
And hue and cry them off is flagrant crime!
Why not deal with them in the scenes, where nature
Has been profuse of her magnificence?
Are they nip'd in the bud? Is every nascent
Idea, and emotion, crush'd at once;—
And then the channels of the heart and brain
Clos'd; and a formal artificial character
Of intellect forc'd rudely in its place?
A poet is a gardener, who sows flowers,
Balm, and herbs medicinal, and lays out
The ground in lawns, and woods, and lakes, and forests,
And murmuring rills, and tumbling roaring torrents!
And is his art, and labour, valueless,
And trifling, and insipid? 'Tis the spell
That makes the blood to flow in kindling tides,
And turns the drink of life into pure nectar!
We are whate'er we think ourselves; and all
Of our existence is imagination:
Tear but the veil; and all beneath is hideous.
There's no such thing as metaphysical:
Matter and mind must always go together,
In the mysterious lot of this strange life!—
But Mind will turn the matter into spiritual,
If duly nurs'd! and all will take the colours
And essences of intellectual
Existence.—By due force of mind, and will,
We can controul and new direct our passions,
And almost overcome their human grossness;
And the mean, selfish passions, which most rule us
At first, may be most perfectly subdued.
First in the infant, jealousy appears
Raging beyond controul: then anger fierce,
And vengeance hot or sullen, wearing off
Quick, or in moody meditation nurs'd:
Then cunning, falsehood, fraud, and selfish arts,
And sensual appetites, and craving avarice,
And mingled most with virtue, love of fame,
Generous often, sometimes noble,—sometimes
Mean, criminal, or childish and absurd.
For some will win distinction at the cost
Of vice outrageous; or by wearing caps
Of bells from folly borrow'd.—Only Genius,
To Virtue wedded, can be great on earth!
And where no wisdom is, there is no genius;
And where no virtue, neither is there wisdom!
What is not virtuous, never can be wise;
For without virtue is no happiness:
And what is wisdom, but to know the way
Happiness to attain? Regret pursues
All evil; and thus counteracts enjoyment,
Which for a moment may from Vice be drawn.
All high exertion of the mental powers,
Not in the cause of Vice, is in itself
Pleasure intense. Thus Dante, Petrarch, Milton,
Tasso, and Spenser, and unrival'd Shakespeare,
Must have enjoy'd at times excess of rapture,
Inferior mortals cannot e'en conceive!
Balm, and herbs medicinal, and lays out
The ground in lawns, and woods, and lakes, and forests,
And murmuring rills, and tumbling roaring torrents!
And is his art, and labour, valueless,
And trifling, and insipid? 'Tis the spell
That makes the blood to flow in kindling tides,
And turns the drink of life into pure nectar!
We are whate'er we think ourselves; and all
Of our existence is imagination:
Tear but the veil; and all beneath is hideous.
There's no such thing as metaphysical:
Matter and mind must always go together,
In the mysterious lot of this strange life!—
But Mind will turn the matter into spiritual,
If duly nurs'd! and all will take the colours
And essences of intellectual
146
We can controul and new direct our passions,
And almost overcome their human grossness;
And the mean, selfish passions, which most rule us
At first, may be most perfectly subdued.
First in the infant, jealousy appears
Raging beyond controul: then anger fierce,
And vengeance hot or sullen, wearing off
Quick, or in moody meditation nurs'd:
Then cunning, falsehood, fraud, and selfish arts,
And sensual appetites, and craving avarice,
And mingled most with virtue, love of fame,
Generous often, sometimes noble,—sometimes
Mean, criminal, or childish and absurd.
For some will win distinction at the cost
Of vice outrageous; or by wearing caps
Of bells from folly borrow'd.—Only Genius,
To Virtue wedded, can be great on earth!
And where no wisdom is, there is no genius;
And where no virtue, neither is there wisdom!
What is not virtuous, never can be wise;
For without virtue is no happiness:
And what is wisdom, but to know the way
Happiness to attain? Regret pursues
All evil; and thus counteracts enjoyment,
Which for a moment may from Vice be drawn.
All high exertion of the mental powers,
Not in the cause of Vice, is in itself
Pleasure intense. Thus Dante, Petrarch, Milton,
Tasso, and Spenser, and unrival'd Shakespeare,
147
Inferior mortals cannot e'en conceive!
The powers of mind, by nature's boon profusely
Bestow'd, expand by exercise and nurture,
To an excess no thought anticipates;
And with the impulse of true inspiration
Out of themselves into another being
Are borne! With them we may converse with awe;
And listen, as to oracles: their lore
Is breath'd from higher regions: in the night
Spirits descend upon their eyelids, or
Come whispering on the breeze; or in the rays
Of the sweet silvery moonlight dance and sing.
Thus are the streams of their own knowledge fed;
And when they ope the fountains of their hearts,
A radiance bursts, as when the sun at once
Darts from some massy cloud; and fragrance rises,
And notes of tender music issue forth.
Then comes a wild delirium o'er the faculties,
And bosom of high-chorded sensibility.
Bestow'd, expand by exercise and nurture,
To an excess no thought anticipates;
And with the impulse of true inspiration
Out of themselves into another being
Are borne! With them we may converse with awe;
And listen, as to oracles: their lore
Is breath'd from higher regions: in the night
Spirits descend upon their eyelids, or
Come whispering on the breeze; or in the rays
Of the sweet silvery moonlight dance and sing.
Thus are the streams of their own knowledge fed;
And when they ope the fountains of their hearts,
A radiance bursts, as when the sun at once
Darts from some massy cloud; and fragrance rises,
And notes of tender music issue forth.
Then comes a wild delirium o'er the faculties,
And bosom of high-chorded sensibility.
But with the earth, as with the floating music
That travels in the air, they have choice converse.
Into the secret temple of men's hearts
They enter; and draw thence upon the glass
Of their own fancies all the tender movements,
Of which the pictures can instruct or please.
Thousands there are of noble bosoms, which
Are agitated by sublime emotions,
Or tenderness most exquisite and pure:
Yet are not gifted with the art to paint them,
And others' sympathy to exercise.
These call the magic accents of the bard,
The glories of their bosoms to communicate.
That travels in the air, they have choice converse.
Into the secret temple of men's hearts
They enter; and draw thence upon the glass
Of their own fancies all the tender movements,
Of which the pictures can instruct or please.
Thousands there are of noble bosoms, which
Are agitated by sublime emotions,
Or tenderness most exquisite and pure:
Yet are not gifted with the art to paint them,
148
These call the magic accents of the bard,
The glories of their bosoms to communicate.
O literature! to thee alone we owe,
That by th'accumulated stores of wisdom,
Time and experience gather, we can profit!
Except for thee, each age for self alone
Had lived! and each successive generation
Had to renew its same experiments.
Now what our grandsires thought and felt in æras,
And manners widely different from our own,
We have before us, for comparison,
In animated colours! Thus we see,
That genius ever thinks and feels the same.
That by th'accumulated stores of wisdom,
Time and experience gather, we can profit!
Except for thee, each age for self alone
Had lived! and each successive generation
Had to renew its same experiments.
Now what our grandsires thought and felt in æras,
And manners widely different from our own,
We have before us, for comparison,
In animated colours! Thus we see,
That genius ever thinks and feels the same.
Hither, the Reformation's capital,
Came many a fugitive from the fire and stake,
When Mary Tudor, the ferocious child
Of the eighth Harry, mounted England's throne,
And the angelic Jane, the victim daughter
Of ducal Suffolk, on the scaffold paid
The forfeit of her life, to feed th'ambition
Of those from whom she drew her hapless being.
O lively, learned, innocent, and pious,
Simple, and wise! the tears forever flow
Of all posterity upon thy fate!
But thy heart-breaking tale is too well known;
And yet too long to be repeated here!
Here daring Knox, intemperate and brutal,
Ferocious foe of Caledonia's beauty,
Mary, of Stuart's race, his anti-popery
Cherish'd and spread; and puritanic hatred
To power monarchic loudly bellow'd out.
Here Whittingham, whom after his return
Rich Durham for its northern deanery own'd,
And whom the Psalms acknowledge for a versifier,
Rested four years from persecution's fangs.
Here lies the book! the archives of the State
Retain it still, which they deliver'd up,
When they took leave in native soils to seek
Their residence: the annals of their birth
Their marriages, and deaths! The future dean
His nuptials here with his French wife contracted.
Came many a fugitive from the fire and stake,
When Mary Tudor, the ferocious child
Of the eighth Harry, mounted England's throne,
And the angelic Jane, the victim daughter
Of ducal Suffolk, on the scaffold paid
The forfeit of her life, to feed th'ambition
Of those from whom she drew her hapless being.
O lively, learned, innocent, and pious,
Simple, and wise! the tears forever flow
Of all posterity upon thy fate!
But thy heart-breaking tale is too well known;
And yet too long to be repeated here!
Here daring Knox, intemperate and brutal,
Ferocious foe of Caledonia's beauty,
Mary, of Stuart's race, his anti-popery
149
To power monarchic loudly bellow'd out.
Here Whittingham, whom after his return
Rich Durham for its northern deanery own'd,
And whom the Psalms acknowledge for a versifier,
Rested four years from persecution's fangs.
Here lies the book! the archives of the State
Retain it still, which they deliver'd up,
When they took leave in native soils to seek
Their residence: the annals of their birth
Their marriages, and deaths! The future dean
His nuptials here with his French wife contracted.
O silent Night, beneath thy mantle lives
Calm Contemplation in her happiest mood!—
Then busy Interruption sleeps; and all
The restless passions of mankind are still.
In the turmoil of human converse never
The Muse her stream with force and frankness gives:
We cannot mingle with the world, and have
Our tempers and our feelings undisturb'd.
And under irritation the weak hand
Can from the lyre no sounds of harmony draw.
Calm Contemplation in her happiest mood!—
Then busy Interruption sleeps; and all
The restless passions of mankind are still.
In the turmoil of human converse never
The Muse her stream with force and frankness gives:
We cannot mingle with the world, and have
Our tempers and our feelings undisturb'd.
And under irritation the weak hand
Can from the lyre no sounds of harmony draw.
There are who think, the products of the mind,
Being unembodied, are but useless shadows:
“Act; do not talk or write,” they cry,—“for words
Are but the hollow whistling of the wind!”
To brutal exhortations, such as these,
There is no answer but indignant scorn:
And when the mind is high, the human station
May be—among the lowest,—not debased.
The mind is acting on the face of things,
And still directs their movements, and their colours;
Tho' unperceiv'd: and wide Opinion spreads
Her influence, when the current glides along
Viewless. It is opinion, sentiment,
Not reason, guides the world. The head alone,
Without the heart's assent, will do but little:
Dry arguments fall dead upon the hearer,
And are forgotten. Bulky folios
Of artificial, temporary, inferences,
In every age are printed, reign a little while,
And then are cast away as worthless waste:
The natural effusions of pure genius
Live, and are green for ever. The mind wanders,
Rich in the blessing of ubiquity;
And casts her piercing gleams throughout all space.
Being unembodied, are but useless shadows:
“Act; do not talk or write,” they cry,—“for words
Are but the hollow whistling of the wind!”
To brutal exhortations, such as these,
There is no answer but indignant scorn:
And when the mind is high, the human station
May be—among the lowest,—not debased.
150
And still directs their movements, and their colours;
Tho' unperceiv'd: and wide Opinion spreads
Her influence, when the current glides along
Viewless. It is opinion, sentiment,
Not reason, guides the world. The head alone,
Without the heart's assent, will do but little:
Dry arguments fall dead upon the hearer,
And are forgotten. Bulky folios
Of artificial, temporary, inferences,
In every age are printed, reign a little while,
And then are cast away as worthless waste:
The natural effusions of pure genius
Live, and are green for ever. The mind wanders,
Rich in the blessing of ubiquity;
And casts her piercing gleams throughout all space.
But in strange days we live, and it may be
Permitted for a time that mere brute force
Should rule;—if mind her just dominion yield
By false assent. In all past ages, mind,
In every nation, civilised or barbarous,
Has heretofore been governor, and will
Again, tho' for a moment bodily
Strength should o'ercome! Mankind cannot be made
Anew, after the lapse of many thousands
Of years: the principle innate of power,
And of obedience, will be still the same:
And the same course will be again to run
From savageness to polish, and the arts.
First will the sword, and cruel tyranny,
Prevail; then civil government, and laws,
And sway, by wisdom and refinement soften'd;
Mingled, perchance, with humour and corruption:
And often needing the opposing hand
Of those submitted to the harsh misrule.
But not to call the people for a lasting
Instrument of controul, if it be true
That man by reason and by conscience cannot
Govern himself, but wants the force of laws,
And power, his passions and desires to bind,
And hold his hands from injuring another.
Permitted for a time that mere brute force
Should rule;—if mind her just dominion yield
By false assent. In all past ages, mind,
In every nation, civilised or barbarous,
Has heretofore been governor, and will
Again, tho' for a moment bodily
Strength should o'ercome! Mankind cannot be made
Anew, after the lapse of many thousands
Of years: the principle innate of power,
And of obedience, will be still the same:
And the same course will be again to run
From savageness to polish, and the arts.
First will the sword, and cruel tyranny,
151
And sway, by wisdom and refinement soften'd;
Mingled, perchance, with humour and corruption:
And often needing the opposing hand
Of those submitted to the harsh misrule.
But not to call the people for a lasting
Instrument of controul, if it be true
That man by reason and by conscience cannot
Govern himself, but wants the force of laws,
And power, his passions and desires to bind,
And hold his hands from injuring another.
No power not strictly necessary is
Endurable in monarchs, oligarchs;—
And surely least of all in strict republics.
Who ever but an ideot dream'd, that monarchs
Had power bestow'd for their own gratification?
Where will the silly optimist be found,
Who gives his faith, that power will not abuse
Its franchises and functions, when it dares?
It is the duty of a citizen,
All necessary puissance to uphold;—
But all beyond, with arm magnanimous,
And voice untrembling firmly to resist;
To put to scorn the insolence of office,
Nor fear the field of battle, nor the scaffold.
Wisdom in council is a quality
Not to be spar'd in those, who would aspire
Duties of state to execute; and weakness
Is a crime worthy of a mighty vengeance,
To those who undertake the perilous labours
They are unfitted to perform with talent.
And is then legislation a light duty?
If it be light, why have such grievous errors
Disgrac'd our statute-books, and brought destruction,
Fire, famine, blood, on a misgovern'd people?
Is it enough to vote, and not to judge,
To think, discriminate, suggest, invent,
With moral principles be well imbued,
To know the heart of man, and all his passions,
And modulate provisions to his nature?
Endurable in monarchs, oligarchs;—
And surely least of all in strict republics.
Who ever but an ideot dream'd, that monarchs
Had power bestow'd for their own gratification?
Where will the silly optimist be found,
Who gives his faith, that power will not abuse
Its franchises and functions, when it dares?
It is the duty of a citizen,
All necessary puissance to uphold;—
But all beyond, with arm magnanimous,
And voice untrembling firmly to resist;
To put to scorn the insolence of office,
Nor fear the field of battle, nor the scaffold.
Wisdom in council is a quality
Not to be spar'd in those, who would aspire
Duties of state to execute; and weakness
Is a crime worthy of a mighty vengeance,
To those who undertake the perilous labours
152
And is then legislation a light duty?
If it be light, why have such grievous errors
Disgrac'd our statute-books, and brought destruction,
Fire, famine, blood, on a misgovern'd people?
Is it enough to vote, and not to judge,
To think, discriminate, suggest, invent,
With moral principles be well imbued,
To know the heart of man, and all his passions,
And modulate provisions to his nature?
In the last stage of a declining State,
When luxury, and rank corruption, spread
Their poisons o'er the land, and to the heart-strings,
When all is deep and complex artifice,
And evil is immix'd indissolubly
With every institution, not a step,
But by profound sagacity, can be taken
Safely. Then minds unexercis'd, unaided
By wisdom's stores, and how much more if weak
In native faculties, must fail to do
The work of difficulty put upon them!
'Tis said, they can but go with leading heads,
And rule by numbers!—but where is the judgment
To fix upon the leader? and is all
To rest upon the shoulders, and the talents,
And probity of one or two alone?
'Tis by the conflict of commanding intellects,
Affairs of state are managed with due wisdom:
And intellect is now almost extinct
In legislators, and in politicians:
In Britain almost of the last was Canning!—
A man of florid rhetoric,—of heart
Bold and decisive;—not of primal genius,
Or most profound and most sagacious judgment;
Versatile, proud, ambitious, vain! “Who bore
No rival brother near the throne!”—but cross'd
By politics perverse, and taunting bigotry;
And when his light was out, no other lamp
To guide us thro the darkness of the world,
Where tempests were in every quarter brooding.
When luxury, and rank corruption, spread
Their poisons o'er the land, and to the heart-strings,
When all is deep and complex artifice,
And evil is immix'd indissolubly
With every institution, not a step,
But by profound sagacity, can be taken
Safely. Then minds unexercis'd, unaided
By wisdom's stores, and how much more if weak
In native faculties, must fail to do
The work of difficulty put upon them!
'Tis said, they can but go with leading heads,
And rule by numbers!—but where is the judgment
To fix upon the leader? and is all
To rest upon the shoulders, and the talents,
And probity of one or two alone?
'Tis by the conflict of commanding intellects,
Affairs of state are managed with due wisdom:
And intellect is now almost extinct
In legislators, and in politicians:
153
A man of florid rhetoric,—of heart
Bold and decisive;—not of primal genius,
Or most profound and most sagacious judgment;
Versatile, proud, ambitious, vain! “Who bore
No rival brother near the throne!”—but cross'd
By politics perverse, and taunting bigotry;
And when his light was out, no other lamp
To guide us thro the darkness of the world,
Where tempests were in every quarter brooding.
Then sunk we all at once a thousand fathom
Deep in all Europe's eyes! The warrior bold
Lost in the cabinet his irresistible
Decision; and in wavering feebleness,
Now arbitrary recklessly, now yielding
When all the policy was in resistance,
The country to the brink of ruin brought,
From which, perchance, it cannot now be sav'd.
It was, when Freedom, e'en to licence, was
A crying rage, most grievously ill-tim'd
By military tactics to endeavour
A liberal people to be ruler over!
And by his fiat to expect to carry
Each measure,—scorning ever to give reasons!
Instructing all his myrmidons to laugh
At eloquence and argument, as wind!
“To act, and not to talk” was the fool's taunt:
And weak, forsooth, and blindfold, was each act!
Yet not the less insulting!—If we now
Are in a dangerous experiment
Engag'd, to him we owe it!—Naught remain'd
But the essay to make: there was no choice,
And the least evil only could be taken!
Peril is clamour'd by the Tory bigot!
In what state-crisis is not peril ever?
But we must balance perils!—Reason here
Had a resistless force:—not mob-like passion;
And senseless cry of discontented labour!
Deep in all Europe's eyes! The warrior bold
Lost in the cabinet his irresistible
Decision; and in wavering feebleness,
Now arbitrary recklessly, now yielding
When all the policy was in resistance,
The country to the brink of ruin brought,
From which, perchance, it cannot now be sav'd.
It was, when Freedom, e'en to licence, was
A crying rage, most grievously ill-tim'd
By military tactics to endeavour
A liberal people to be ruler over!
And by his fiat to expect to carry
Each measure,—scorning ever to give reasons!
Instructing all his myrmidons to laugh
At eloquence and argument, as wind!
“To act, and not to talk” was the fool's taunt:
And weak, forsooth, and blindfold, was each act!
Yet not the less insulting!—If we now
Are in a dangerous experiment
154
But the essay to make: there was no choice,
And the least evil only could be taken!
Peril is clamour'd by the Tory bigot!
In what state-crisis is not peril ever?
But we must balance perils!—Reason here
Had a resistless force:—not mob-like passion;
And senseless cry of discontented labour!
Time generates corruptions, which calm reason
Must not be hard and idle to correct!
Lightly to change an ancient institution,
Is a vile treason against sense and rights.
But 'tis the bigotry of fools to hold
To their abuses: and to never bend
To circumstances, and to change of seasons!
A poise between the people and the crown
Is the best project of a government:
But much that poise is weaken'd, if it holds
Means for monopoly in Honour's market,
And thus the state's high functions can extort.
Then, to the crown and people equally faithless,
A fungus of corruption it becomes;
And irritates revenge, and nurses up
Thoughts of destruction in its adversaries:
And mingles with the body, which should be
Of pure aristocratic elements
Compos'd, the fruits of base dishonest lucre,
And new nobility by riches purchas'd:
And against new nobility the people
By natural impulse turn!
Must not be hard and idle to correct!
Lightly to change an ancient institution,
Is a vile treason against sense and rights.
But 'tis the bigotry of fools to hold
To their abuses: and to never bend
To circumstances, and to change of seasons!
A poise between the people and the crown
Is the best project of a government:
But much that poise is weaken'd, if it holds
Means for monopoly in Honour's market,
And thus the state's high functions can extort.
Then, to the crown and people equally faithless,
A fungus of corruption it becomes;
And irritates revenge, and nurses up
Thoughts of destruction in its adversaries:
And mingles with the body, which should be
Of pure aristocratic elements
Compos'd, the fruits of base dishonest lucre,
And new nobility by riches purchas'd:
And against new nobility the people
By natural impulse turn!
155
Stern Johnson ask'd if ever politics
Disturb'd one's rest? He liv'd in days far other
Than these, in which we ever tread on mines!
Then Governments had only once in centuries
Been to the bottom ras'd! Now all is trembling,—
Shook to its basis! But too long it suits not
To linger on one note! Helvetia's mountains
Avoided not the shock of civil discord:
Nor ever can they safe and tranquil be,
If the flame shall be put in blaze again;
And much the sparks we see, as of Vesuvius,
Before some grand irruption: horrific rumbles
Groan from within; and the dread crater opens!
Disturb'd one's rest? He liv'd in days far other
Than these, in which we ever tread on mines!
Then Governments had only once in centuries
Been to the bottom ras'd! Now all is trembling,—
Shook to its basis! But too long it suits not
To linger on one note! Helvetia's mountains
Avoided not the shock of civil discord:
Nor ever can they safe and tranquil be,
If the flame shall be put in blaze again;
And much the sparks we see, as of Vesuvius,
Before some grand irruption: horrific rumbles
Groan from within; and the dread crater opens!
Nature alone is beautiful, and grand,
And good. Man ever is disturb'd by evil
And death-pursuing passions.—Governments
Too often have been held as individual
Property. Thus too many ages felt
The Pays de Vaud the iron rod of Savoy:
And beautiful Lausanne her fate submitted
To the congenial spirit of the Mitre:
While Chablais never yet has shaken off
The ancient yoke of Savoy and of Maurienne:
A race that by its gradual accretions,
In eight long ever restless centuries,
From a small rill swell'd to a mighty river;
And enter'd deep upon Helvetia's borders,
And France confronted, thus a slice from Burgundy
Dividing, while the walls of the diminutive,
But most magnanimous Geneva, kept
At bold defiance their assaults delusive.
And good. Man ever is disturb'd by evil
And death-pursuing passions.—Governments
Too often have been held as individual
Property. Thus too many ages felt
The Pays de Vaud the iron rod of Savoy:
And beautiful Lausanne her fate submitted
To the congenial spirit of the Mitre:
While Chablais never yet has shaken off
The ancient yoke of Savoy and of Maurienne:
A race that by its gradual accretions,
In eight long ever restless centuries,
From a small rill swell'd to a mighty river;
And enter'd deep upon Helvetia's borders,
And France confronted, thus a slice from Burgundy
Dividing, while the walls of the diminutive,
But most magnanimous Geneva, kept
156
Then Austria in Helvetia's northern districts
Its origin Hapsburgian ne'er forgot,
And ever had its eye, and its ambitions,
Upon its cradle; or at least the cradle
Of 'its extinguish'd dynasty of males;
For tis not true, Lorraine's more ancient house
Sprung from the same male stock: its origin,
Of the imperial line of old Franconia,
Ascends to loftier honours in the night
Of time,—tho hitherto untrac'd by all
Its proper genealogists; and least
By Calmet, whose most erudite and toilsome
Fame was ill merited in this due task.
But still the force puissant of the house
Rules o'er the Tyrol, and, with black outspread
Wings, on the skirts of the free Cantons hangs!
Its origin Hapsburgian ne'er forgot,
And ever had its eye, and its ambitions,
Upon its cradle; or at least the cradle
Of 'its extinguish'd dynasty of males;
For tis not true, Lorraine's more ancient house
Sprung from the same male stock: its origin,
Of the imperial line of old Franconia,
Ascends to loftier honours in the night
Of time,—tho hitherto untrac'd by all
Its proper genealogists; and least
By Calmet, whose most erudite and toilsome
Fame was ill merited in this due task.
But still the force puissant of the house
Rules o'er the Tyrol, and, with black outspread
Wings, on the skirts of the free Cantons hangs!
Once this great empire, the asserted heritage
Of mighty Charlemagne, or rather of
Old Rome's imperial purple, bow'd e'en low
To th'ground beneath Napoleon's conquering sword,
And irresistible ambition:
But it has risen again, and, like a giant,
With strength refresh'd!—and now no symptom gives
Of age, or of decay: while other empires
And kingdoms all are trembling. Is it wisdom,
Or policy, or courage, or heroic
Usage of arms? Or better, readier, skill
In statesmanlike financial economy,
Or in commercial enterprise and wealth?
Or in the laws to make a people happy,
And strong in body and in mental courage?
Ah! surely not the latter! and for artifice,
If it succeeds a little while, it never
Lasts when the habit of deceit is known.
It will be still the rallying point of Europe:
But, like the rest, at length perchance will crumble
To dust. Ere half a century is gone,
The world again may into massy darkness
And utter ruin fall; and institutions
Civil, the growth of countless ages, blow
Into the air at once, and all the arts
Be prostrate, and mankind roam savages,
And howl among the woods, thirsting for blood;
And seeking food amid the beasts of prey!
It must be so, if merely brutal force
Permitted be to level all the laws!
Of mighty Charlemagne, or rather of
Old Rome's imperial purple, bow'd e'en low
To th'ground beneath Napoleon's conquering sword,
And irresistible ambition:
But it has risen again, and, like a giant,
With strength refresh'd!—and now no symptom gives
Of age, or of decay: while other empires
And kingdoms all are trembling. Is it wisdom,
Or policy, or courage, or heroic
Usage of arms? Or better, readier, skill
In statesmanlike financial economy,
Or in commercial enterprise and wealth?
157
And strong in body and in mental courage?
Ah! surely not the latter! and for artifice,
If it succeeds a little while, it never
Lasts when the habit of deceit is known.
It will be still the rallying point of Europe:
But, like the rest, at length perchance will crumble
To dust. Ere half a century is gone,
The world again may into massy darkness
And utter ruin fall; and institutions
Civil, the growth of countless ages, blow
Into the air at once, and all the arts
Be prostrate, and mankind roam savages,
And howl among the woods, thirsting for blood;
And seeking food amid the beasts of prey!
It must be so, if merely brutal force
Permitted be to level all the laws!
They, whom it is the object of the laws
To govern, cannot be the governors:
Nor is it possible, that there can be
The liberty, that may with laws dispense!
From the creation there has always been
Among mankind a government and power
Supreme, tho' very rarely unabus'd.
Yet it must be, with all its bad concomitants,
Which ever the most watchful checks demand.
To govern, cannot be the governors:
Nor is it possible, that there can be
The liberty, that may with laws dispense!
From the creation there has always been
Among mankind a government and power
Supreme, tho' very rarely unabus'd.
Yet it must be, with all its bad concomitants,
Which ever the most watchful checks demand.
There cannot be hereditary right
To injure, or to tyrannise over others:
But an hereditary right to govern
With justice, wisdom, lenity, in modes
Prescrib'd by law, may be, and ever has been!
And nothing but this right can keep a nation
Free from the dangers of the restless stirrings
Of craving and ne'er-satisfied ambition!
To injure, or to tyrannise over others:
But an hereditary right to govern
With justice, wisdom, lenity, in modes
158
And nothing but this right can keep a nation
Free from the dangers of the restless stirrings
Of craving and ne'er-satisfied ambition!
Thus monarchs may be seated in their power
Legally, wisely, of necessity:
But constitutions form the chains to keep them
Within their limits, which they otherwise
Would overflow, producing devastation
In the domains they ought to fertilise.
Legally, wisely, of necessity:
But constitutions form the chains to keep them
Within their limits, which they otherwise
Would overflow, producing devastation
In the domains they ought to fertilise.
END OF BOOK V.
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