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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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | BOOK VII. |
 | The Lake of Geneva |  |
192
BOOK VII.
It is a charge against me, that I cherish
The love of praise too much: they mean the love
Of flattery. Now I deny the charge:
I love to gain th'attention of the wise
And good:—for who would labour day and night,
Yet gain no notice? who does so, must have
A most egregious confidence in self!—
Who has a powerful apprehensiveness,
Knows his own faults, and weaknesses, and failures;
And ever to the test of others' judgments
Is driven with a just anxiety!
He hails approval therefore with delight;
But this is not a love flattery!
'Tis ever thus, where to a vase two handles
Exist to hold it by, they take the wrong:
And where there is a candid and uncandid
Comment, to which a quality is subject,
The harsh censorious world th'uncandid take,
A rectitude of thought and sentiment
Is the grand praise, to which the noble-minded
Aspire: but of that rectitude what proof
Other than commendation can be had?
And who is he who can presume to say;
“I to myself am all; and 'tis sufficient
“Of my own mighty mind to have th'approval!”—
Each one may have perverse associations,
And some delusive sentiments, which meet not
The sympathy of others. Then to learn
By praise, one's writings from these ills are free,
Is a just satisfaction. A mind enlighten'd
By clear, pure, accurate, and kindly views;—
A bosom of benevolent, and generous,
And glowing feelings; a fine faculty
Of lucid language, easily educ'd,
Are worthy of “the fostering dew of praise!”
The love of praise too much: they mean the love
Of flattery. Now I deny the charge:
I love to gain th'attention of the wise
And good:—for who would labour day and night,
Yet gain no notice? who does so, must have
A most egregious confidence in self!—
Who has a powerful apprehensiveness,
Knows his own faults, and weaknesses, and failures;
And ever to the test of others' judgments
Is driven with a just anxiety!
He hails approval therefore with delight;
But this is not a love flattery!
'Tis ever thus, where to a vase two handles
Exist to hold it by, they take the wrong:
And where there is a candid and uncandid
Comment, to which a quality is subject,
The harsh censorious world th'uncandid take,
193
Is the grand praise, to which the noble-minded
Aspire: but of that rectitude what proof
Other than commendation can be had?
And who is he who can presume to say;
“I to myself am all; and 'tis sufficient
“Of my own mighty mind to have th'approval!”—
Each one may have perverse associations,
And some delusive sentiments, which meet not
The sympathy of others. Then to learn
By praise, one's writings from these ills are free,
Is a just satisfaction. A mind enlighten'd
By clear, pure, accurate, and kindly views;—
A bosom of benevolent, and generous,
And glowing feelings; a fine faculty
Of lucid language, easily educ'd,
Are worthy of “the fostering dew of praise!”
But it is true, that we must guard our passion
For this approval, and for lofty fame!
It may too fiercely grow upon our hearts,
And burn us up, or lead us wide astray:
It must not breed conceit, or insolence,
Scornful neglect, or puff'd up vanity.—
Without the spur of this sublime aspiring,
How could the checks and fogs of life be conquer'd?
The melancholy Young has in his satires
Shewn that the love of fame is universal!
Distinction, good or bad!—for to be notic'd;
And 'tis sufficient—e'en for folly' or crime.
But if the passion be for virtuous fame—
Of intellectual loftiness, 'tis judg'd
With all severity and mean distortion!
Fame is capricious; often she is long
In coming, but with labour due, and prayer,
And perseverance, she will come at last;
Yet not perchance until the grave has clos'd
The human ear, and back again to earth
Consign'd the mortal part. The Spirit in the air
No doubt will hear the tributes consecrated
To the cold tomb! O what delight it is
To think our memories will still survive,
After the spark of mortal life is out!
It will be pleasant to have left a record
Of our opinions and imaginations;
Of that which rais'd the tremblings of the heart,
And fill'd the eye with rapture, and awaken'd
The hand to strike the lyre's resounding strings.
For this approval, and for lofty fame!
It may too fiercely grow upon our hearts,
And burn us up, or lead us wide astray:
It must not breed conceit, or insolence,
Scornful neglect, or puff'd up vanity.—
Without the spur of this sublime aspiring,
How could the checks and fogs of life be conquer'd?
The melancholy Young has in his satires
Shewn that the love of fame is universal!
Distinction, good or bad!—for to be notic'd;
And 'tis sufficient—e'en for folly' or crime.
But if the passion be for virtuous fame—
194
With all severity and mean distortion!
Fame is capricious; often she is long
In coming, but with labour due, and prayer,
And perseverance, she will come at last;
Yet not perchance until the grave has clos'd
The human ear, and back again to earth
Consign'd the mortal part. The Spirit in the air
No doubt will hear the tributes consecrated
To the cold tomb! O what delight it is
To think our memories will still survive,
After the spark of mortal life is out!
It will be pleasant to have left a record
Of our opinions and imaginations;
Of that which rais'd the tremblings of the heart,
And fill'd the eye with rapture, and awaken'd
The hand to strike the lyre's resounding strings.
To let life glide away in barren silence,
Nothing done, plann'd, or hop'd, or even dream'd,
Is an existence of true wretchedness!
I would have every day throughout the year
By some increase to wisdom's treasures mark'd:
The page of learning, and intelligence,
And reason high, must not be slumber'd over;
Attention deep, and ever exercis'd,
And recollection most severely task'd,
And nice discrimination; and the movements
Of bosom, always in strong excitation,
Watch'd with an hand that shadows can embrace,
Are necessary to supply the appetite
Of virtuous and long-enduring glory.
No certain bliss is in a sensual being:
The pleasures pall; and then become disgusting:
The meanest being has a conscience, which
Reproaches him for falling from the state
Of intellectual desires and hopes.
Each day steals from him some material part
Of an existence, which is wearisome;
Yet for the hope of better gives the fear
Of something worse:—a dark perplexing road,
All clouds, and cares, and heaviness to tread!
Nothing done, plann'd, or hop'd, or even dream'd,
Is an existence of true wretchedness!
I would have every day throughout the year
By some increase to wisdom's treasures mark'd:
The page of learning, and intelligence,
And reason high, must not be slumber'd over;
Attention deep, and ever exercis'd,
And recollection most severely task'd,
And nice discrimination; and the movements
Of bosom, always in strong excitation,
Watch'd with an hand that shadows can embrace,
Are necessary to supply the appetite
195
No certain bliss is in a sensual being:
The pleasures pall; and then become disgusting:
The meanest being has a conscience, which
Reproaches him for falling from the state
Of intellectual desires and hopes.
Each day steals from him some material part
Of an existence, which is wearisome;
Yet for the hope of better gives the fear
Of something worse:—a dark perplexing road,
All clouds, and cares, and heaviness to tread!
Ever to intellect there is a novelty,
Which each successive day brings forth; the eye
Grows stronger, and sees further, and more clearly;
And every day the old materials, turning
To some new use, gain some new interest.
The faculties by practice grow more vigorous,
Subtle, and sharp.
Which each successive day brings forth; the eye
Grows stronger, and sees further, and more clearly;
And every day the old materials, turning
To some new use, gain some new interest.
The faculties by practice grow more vigorous,
Subtle, and sharp.
In a false path, surrounded by false lights,
And in the heat of a factitious air,
Sometimes the mind adds toil intense to toil,
By necromancer's wand to raise delusions.
Thus Calvin, in the fervor of his zeal
Religious, strangely blind and harsh became;
And what he claim'd himself from bigot Rome,—
The liberty of thought,—gave not to others;
But persecuted it, when contrary
To his own dogmas, not alone with punishment;
But death, e'en at the stake in burning flames!
Had he his doctrines preach'd, where Rome's religion
Prevail'd, he would assuredly have deem'd it
Impious and merciless, the same infliction
Of mortal vengeance to have given to him!
Yet did Rome deem his doctrines as repugnant
To the true faith! Let us then take the worst
Of Servet that his enemies pronounce;
'Tis said that he was restless, turbulent,
Free-thinking, of an evil genius,
Dealing in dangerous speculations,
And blasphemously upon holy secrets
Prying, a sceptic in the mysteries
Of necessary faith! 'Tis thus that Rome
Deem'd of the liberal Protestant! But then,
O Calvin, boasting that thou fledst away
From impious and idolatrous persecution,
And that thou wast thyself the blest apostle
Of freedom and pure worship,—didst become
Relentless persecutor of whoever
With thee agreed not; and 'tis said that treachery
Thy vengeance aggravated! From thy secret
Intrigues and accusations in a foreign
State he was sued, and driven by fear to exile;
And when to the abodes, where thou preach'dst liberty
As to a land of refuge and protection,
He came, a prison met him at thy urgency,
And thou becam'st his most blood-thirsty accuser!
And in the heat of a factitious air,
Sometimes the mind adds toil intense to toil,
By necromancer's wand to raise delusions.
Thus Calvin, in the fervor of his zeal
Religious, strangely blind and harsh became;
And what he claim'd himself from bigot Rome,—
The liberty of thought,—gave not to others;
But persecuted it, when contrary
To his own dogmas, not alone with punishment;
But death, e'en at the stake in burning flames!
Had he his doctrines preach'd, where Rome's religion
196
Impious and merciless, the same infliction
Of mortal vengeance to have given to him!
Yet did Rome deem his doctrines as repugnant
To the true faith! Let us then take the worst
Of Servet that his enemies pronounce;
'Tis said that he was restless, turbulent,
Free-thinking, of an evil genius,
Dealing in dangerous speculations,
And blasphemously upon holy secrets
Prying, a sceptic in the mysteries
Of necessary faith! 'Tis thus that Rome
Deem'd of the liberal Protestant! But then,
O Calvin, boasting that thou fledst away
From impious and idolatrous persecution,
And that thou wast thyself the blest apostle
Of freedom and pure worship,—didst become
Relentless persecutor of whoever
With thee agreed not; and 'tis said that treachery
Thy vengeance aggravated! From thy secret
Intrigues and accusations in a foreign
State he was sued, and driven by fear to exile;
And when to the abodes, where thou preach'dst liberty
As to a land of refuge and protection,
He came, a prison met him at thy urgency,
And thou becam'st his most blood-thirsty accuser!
Then nothing but the stake would satisfy
Thy craving appetite of cruel death!
And thus he was condemn'd for free opinion
Upon a point of subtle speculation;
Last to the stake was brought;—the faggots round him
Pil'd,—and the fire applied to burn his body,
And loose his soul from mortal frame in torment!
But the wind blew the flames away, and slowly
His body was consum'd to death; as if
The elements combin'd his pain to lengthen;
And he in his excruciating dolour
Cried out: “O quicker burn, thou fire! O quicker!
“And end my agonies, and Calvin's triumph!
“See with what gloating joy he turns upon me
“His furious eyes! and blesses the rude blasts,
“That draw aside the fire, that it may slower
“Perform its work, and thus augment my sufferings!
“Is this the man of mercy;—the apostle
“Of mild religion? the fam'd instrument,
“The mind of man from slavery to deliver?
“Peace, and benevolence, and charity,
“To preach to all? More vehemently Rome
“In her ferocious despotism never
“Raged! ah me! from wolf to still more ravenous,
“Blood-sucking, and heart-tearing tyger, I
“Have fall'n a victim! Rome, resume your prey;
“And, as he deals with me, so deal with him!”
Thy craving appetite of cruel death!
And thus he was condemn'd for free opinion
Upon a point of subtle speculation;
197
Pil'd,—and the fire applied to burn his body,
And loose his soul from mortal frame in torment!
But the wind blew the flames away, and slowly
His body was consum'd to death; as if
The elements combin'd his pain to lengthen;
And he in his excruciating dolour
Cried out: “O quicker burn, thou fire! O quicker!
“And end my agonies, and Calvin's triumph!
“See with what gloating joy he turns upon me
“His furious eyes! and blesses the rude blasts,
“That draw aside the fire, that it may slower
“Perform its work, and thus augment my sufferings!
“Is this the man of mercy;—the apostle
“Of mild religion? the fam'd instrument,
“The mind of man from slavery to deliver?
“Peace, and benevolence, and charity,
“To preach to all? More vehemently Rome
“In her ferocious despotism never
“Raged! ah me! from wolf to still more ravenous,
“Blood-sucking, and heart-tearing tyger, I
“Have fall'n a victim! Rome, resume your prey;
“And, as he deals with me, so deal with him!”
Then the wind blew the smoke away; the flames
Ascended bright; and then a mighty cloud
Came o'er the sky, and thunder roll'd, and lightning
Darted; and Servet then gave up the ghost;—
And Calvin trembled, and went home to gloom,
Half sullenly delighted, half afraid.
Now worn with cares, ambition, pride, revenge,
Mingled with holy zeal, he pin'd away,
And died exhausted at a middle age.
Ascended bright; and then a mighty cloud
Came o'er the sky, and thunder roll'd, and lightning
Darted; and Servet then gave up the ghost;—
And Calvin trembled, and went home to gloom,
Half sullenly delighted, half afraid.
Now worn with cares, ambition, pride, revenge,
198
And died exhausted at a middle age.
It would not be unmeet, if the bold Muse
Should enter into this Man's mystic heart;
This stiff-neck'd puritan; this bold corrector
Of moral sinfulness; this harsh usurper
Of freedom for himself, of tyranny
Over the minds and hearts and acts of others!
I am not willing to dethrone a name
From exaltation by long ages sanction'd:
But who can reconcile the death of Servet
With a good heart, or holy principles?
It was th'undoubted principle of Calvin
To pull down all above him;—all below,
Under his feet to tread. The subtle poison
Of his insidious doctrines shot contagion
Thro all old governments, and like some chymical
Element, could dissolve and separate
Ties and alliances of time and reason.
Should enter into this Man's mystic heart;
This stiff-neck'd puritan; this bold corrector
Of moral sinfulness; this harsh usurper
Of freedom for himself, of tyranny
Over the minds and hearts and acts of others!
I am not willing to dethrone a name
From exaltation by long ages sanction'd:
But who can reconcile the death of Servet
With a good heart, or holy principles?
It was th'undoubted principle of Calvin
To pull down all above him;—all below,
Under his feet to tread. The subtle poison
Of his insidious doctrines shot contagion
Thro all old governments, and like some chymical
Element, could dissolve and separate
Ties and alliances of time and reason.
If there be mysteries in papal doctrines,
Not less are those of Calvin! They 're pretences,
Under a spiritual cloak to gratify
A temporal ambition; and to cover
Sensual indulgence of all wordly vices
By odious, cunning, mean hypocrisy.
Treachery, breach of faith, and robbery,
And reckless selfishness, are thus encourag'd;
And yet not thus exactly did the Founder
Of this puissant sect conduct himself.
Many of the sterner virtues he himself
Rigidly practis'd; toilsome, abstinent,
Direct, unhypocritical, forbearing
In self indulgence, but in pride and anger
And bitter vengeance,—those three most imposing
And irreligious passions;—a believer
In his own doctrines; zealous and devout
In the Creator's service,—day and night,
Working to the great end he undertook!
Not less are those of Calvin! They 're pretences,
Under a spiritual cloak to gratify
A temporal ambition; and to cover
Sensual indulgence of all wordly vices
By odious, cunning, mean hypocrisy.
Treachery, breach of faith, and robbery,
And reckless selfishness, are thus encourag'd;
And yet not thus exactly did the Founder
Of this puissant sect conduct himself.
Many of the sterner virtues he himself
199
Direct, unhypocritical, forbearing
In self indulgence, but in pride and anger
And bitter vengeance,—those three most imposing
And irreligious passions;—a believer
In his own doctrines; zealous and devout
In the Creator's service,—day and night,
Working to the great end he undertook!
And such is man's immingled being; such
His imperfections and his woeful frailties!
High virtues and high vices;—pride satanic,
With adoration of the Deity;
And with a daily prayer that love and kindness
Might in the heart grow up, relentless cruelty,
Chains, rods, the sword, the stake, the flames, the halter,
With reason sound and most severe, delusion
And blindness where a favourite doctrine rose;
A love of freedom, yet a bigot faith;
Irrational belief on Heaven's Election,
And favouritism, which would be impeachment
Of the Divinity's unbending justice;—
Faith separated from action, the most dangerous
Doctrine for human virtue.
His imperfections and his woeful frailties!
High virtues and high vices;—pride satanic,
With adoration of the Deity;
And with a daily prayer that love and kindness
Might in the heart grow up, relentless cruelty,
Chains, rods, the sword, the stake, the flames, the halter,
With reason sound and most severe, delusion
And blindness where a favourite doctrine rose;
A love of freedom, yet a bigot faith;
Irrational belief on Heaven's Election,
And favouritism, which would be impeachment
Of the Divinity's unbending justice;—
Faith separated from action, the most dangerous
Doctrine for human virtue.
In days of old the punishment of death
Distains the pages of all history:—
As if for slight offences man might take
Away the existence of a brother being!
And above all, for wrongs against the State,
Where doubtful policy may justify
Various opinion. Governments, that boasted
Of liberty, were scarce more merciful,
Or sparing of the sword of final punishment.
Alas, all power is wanton, if not cruel!
It matters not its form—or king, or oligarchy,
Or constitution, or e'en pure republic!
A war against authority, 'tis said,
Must be suppress'd, or that authority
Can for a moment only hold its sway!
Distains the pages of all history:—
As if for slight offences man might take
Away the existence of a brother being!
And above all, for wrongs against the State,
Where doubtful policy may justify
Various opinion. Governments, that boasted
200
Or sparing of the sword of final punishment.
Alas, all power is wanton, if not cruel!
It matters not its form—or king, or oligarchy,
Or constitution, or e'en pure republic!
A war against authority, 'tis said,
Must be suppress'd, or that authority
Can for a moment only hold its sway!
Check, and a retribution may be necessary;
But not by death,—except for such rebellion
As aims at life of others! Thus we read
With pity, or with horror, the strange tale
Of Spiffame's execution in the Molard!
He was a man of high accomplishments,
Of learning, intellect, and genius,
A statesman, and a courtier, hospitable,
Splendid, and witty, and of blandest manners:
And for religion's sake had refuge taken
Within this Reformation's capital!
But he was call'd capricious and inconstant,
And sigh'd again for wider scenes of action;
And sought within the bosom of Rome's church
To be receiv'd once more, and for reward
To get a bishopric: he was betray'd
Back to his puritanic domicile!—
There was the lock of private muniments
Broken, and a false document of marriage,
To gain his heritage for a bastard issue,
Brought forth, and made a capital accusation
Before the high tribunal of the State!
He was found guilty, sentenc'd, e'en to death;
And in three fleeting days dragg'd out, and executed.
But not by death,—except for such rebellion
As aims at life of others! Thus we read
With pity, or with horror, the strange tale
Of Spiffame's execution in the Molard!
He was a man of high accomplishments,
Of learning, intellect, and genius,
A statesman, and a courtier, hospitable,
Splendid, and witty, and of blandest manners:
And for religion's sake had refuge taken
Within this Reformation's capital!
But he was call'd capricious and inconstant,
And sigh'd again for wider scenes of action;
And sought within the bosom of Rome's church
To be receiv'd once more, and for reward
To get a bishopric: he was betray'd
Back to his puritanic domicile!—
There was the lock of private muniments
Broken, and a false document of marriage,
To gain his heritage for a bastard issue,
Brought forth, and made a capital accusation
Before the high tribunal of the State!
201
And in three fleeting days dragg'd out, and executed.
There are, who of some secret acts of treason
With Savoy's Prince suspect him; but for acts
Not tried or charg'd, no principles of justice
Allow a man to suffer! It is said
He died repentant of his heinous sins,
In the pure temperament of sanctity;
Acknowledging the justice of his sentence;
And the sad close of his deceitful life!
O hypocrites, who aggravate the dreadful
Infliction of a death of violence,
And shame, by adding to it false confessions!
Who would admit the rectitude of judgment,
That was about to take away his being,
For such a crime committed years before,
In dissolute days, and never acted on?
With Savoy's Prince suspect him; but for acts
Not tried or charg'd, no principles of justice
Allow a man to suffer! It is said
He died repentant of his heinous sins,
In the pure temperament of sanctity;
Acknowledging the justice of his sentence;
And the sad close of his deceitful life!
O hypocrites, who aggravate the dreadful
Infliction of a death of violence,
And shame, by adding to it false confessions!
Who would admit the rectitude of judgment,
That was about to take away his being,
For such a crime committed years before,
In dissolute days, and never acted on?
Here Calvin's fierce and unforgiving spirit
Rul'd o'er the minds of magistrates and statesmen!
It was a fearful time that I would not
Have liv'd in, notwithstanding all the boast
Of golden ages of our ancestors!
But Calvin and his advocates contended,
Fierceness alone could counteract the licence
Of times so dissolute!—and what of evil,
The change of false religion had brought with it,
Must be corrected by a pure religion!
But that cannot be pure, which deals in death,
And blood, the scaffold, hatchet, and the torture!
Not home with them did Whittingham, and Knox,
A pure religion bring;—but sow'd the seeds
Of discord, and of war, and rank distrust,
And hatred, and of future rapine, cruelty,
And fields and rivers cover'd with the slain.
Then the arts ceas'd before the cries of war
And canting hypocrites rul'd o'er the land!
Rul'd o'er the minds of magistrates and statesmen!
It was a fearful time that I would not
Have liv'd in, notwithstanding all the boast
Of golden ages of our ancestors!
But Calvin and his advocates contended,
Fierceness alone could counteract the licence
Of times so dissolute!—and what of evil,
The change of false religion had brought with it,
Must be corrected by a pure religion!
But that cannot be pure, which deals in death,
And blood, the scaffold, hatchet, and the torture!
Not home with them did Whittingham, and Knox,
202
Of discord, and of war, and rank distrust,
And hatred, and of future rapine, cruelty,
And fields and rivers cover'd with the slain.
Then the arts ceas'd before the cries of war
And canting hypocrites rul'd o'er the land!
Thus Caledonia's beautiful and suffering
Queen was by Knox's rudeness with foul language
Ever insulted; and the eloquent
Buchanan upon kings his venom cast!
Kings may abuse their power; and thus will power
In all hands be at moments ill administer'd:—
But power there must be still! in anarchy
Will be alone the power of strength and wickedness!
The puritan loves power, and is relentless
Against all other power, except his own!
Queen was by Knox's rudeness with foul language
Ever insulted; and the eloquent
Buchanan upon kings his venom cast!
Kings may abuse their power; and thus will power
In all hands be at moments ill administer'd:—
But power there must be still! in anarchy
Will be alone the power of strength and wickedness!
The puritan loves power, and is relentless
Against all other power, except his own!
In England a great noble, of high quality,
The puritanic party's cause espous'd;—
The favourite of his Queen, the prince luxurious,
Who liv'd in all the pride of feudal splendor,—
Dudley, of Leicester Earl; a man by crimes,
Adulteries and murders, stigmatis'd,
As Cumnor's shrieks, and ghostly stain, will witness.
He for the church's spoil design'd it well
Such patronage to offer; and old Burleigh,
Though wise, yet cunning also, held with him.
And thus the heroic princess between puritans,
And plots of jesuits, had an anxious life.
Sagacious wisdom much it ask'd to meet
Counter-ferocity, and counter-cunning!—
Quickness and courage and magnanimous
Decision were her gifts, and lifted her
Above the pits and tempests that beset her!
By opposite defects her successor
Fell into pitiable feebleness:
And then the puritanic faction grew,
Till in its hour of pride it fell to arms.
The puritanic party's cause espous'd;—
The favourite of his Queen, the prince luxurious,
Who liv'd in all the pride of feudal splendor,—
Dudley, of Leicester Earl; a man by crimes,
Adulteries and murders, stigmatis'd,
As Cumnor's shrieks, and ghostly stain, will witness.
He for the church's spoil design'd it well
Such patronage to offer; and old Burleigh,
Though wise, yet cunning also, held with him.
And thus the heroic princess between puritans,
And plots of jesuits, had an anxious life.
Sagacious wisdom much it ask'd to meet
Counter-ferocity, and counter-cunning!—
203
Decision were her gifts, and lifted her
Above the pits and tempests that beset her!
By opposite defects her successor
Fell into pitiable feebleness:
And then the puritanic faction grew,
Till in its hour of pride it fell to arms.
But we must to the fountain-head return,
And talk of him, the chronicler of Genevan
Events and manners. Modern annalists
Have told strange stories of his latter fate:
The tale of Chillon did not end his sufferings.
O Bonivard, when from that vault, those chains,
And that dark domicile beneath the waves,
Thou didst escape to daylight and to freedom,
Didst thou not think thy wretchedness and wrongs
Had clos'd, and that the future would be days
Of peace, and sun-beams, and of social pleasure?
But thou hadst fiery blood, that would not rest
Contented with exemption from sharp misery:
And thou the puritanic whip didst suffer
For thy irregularity of manners!
The nuptial ceremony in the church
Twice celebrated, not enough for thee,
Thou didst a third companion at the altar
Choose, in the bloom of youth and gaiety,
At thy bold fancy's call; but she, of temper
Too spritely for thy faded age, with power
Tyrannic, and ferocious blows o'er-rul'd thee!
Then came the accusation that she took
A younger lover to her arms, a crime
Puritan cruelty adjudg'd to death.
And now, without the husband's charge or will,
The wretched woman, and her paramour
Alledg'd, were brought before the state-tribunal,
Solemnly each protesting innocence;—
Then to the torture they were put, to force
Confession; and in agony extreme,
Beyond th'endurance of their human strength,
Each own'd the crime; yet still it is believ'd
They were not guilty. But to mercy's sway
There then was no concession. Unavailingly
They heard the dreadful sentence, and by hand
Of public executioner they died!
And talk of him, the chronicler of Genevan
Events and manners. Modern annalists
Have told strange stories of his latter fate:
The tale of Chillon did not end his sufferings.
O Bonivard, when from that vault, those chains,
And that dark domicile beneath the waves,
Thou didst escape to daylight and to freedom,
Didst thou not think thy wretchedness and wrongs
Had clos'd, and that the future would be days
Of peace, and sun-beams, and of social pleasure?
But thou hadst fiery blood, that would not rest
Contented with exemption from sharp misery:
And thou the puritanic whip didst suffer
For thy irregularity of manners!
The nuptial ceremony in the church
Twice celebrated, not enough for thee,
Thou didst a third companion at the altar
Choose, in the bloom of youth and gaiety,
At thy bold fancy's call; but she, of temper
Too spritely for thy faded age, with power
Tyrannic, and ferocious blows o'er-rul'd thee!
Then came the accusation that she took
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Puritan cruelty adjudg'd to death.
And now, without the husband's charge or will,
The wretched woman, and her paramour
Alledg'd, were brought before the state-tribunal,
Solemnly each protesting innocence;—
Then to the torture they were put, to force
Confession; and in agony extreme,
Beyond th'endurance of their human strength,
Each own'd the crime; yet still it is believ'd
They were not guilty. But to mercy's sway
There then was no concession. Unavailingly
They heard the dreadful sentence, and by hand
Of public executioner they died!
Now, Bonivard, were all thy natural movements
Of tenderness by long misfortunes harden'd;
And wast thou grown to human misery callous?
For thou didst still survive, and still pursuedst
Thy wonted occupations! If to stone
Thy breast had not been turn'd, thou must have died!
The story of thy life proclaims, how far
E'en to old age man can retain existence,
Under a long intense unbroke succession
Of inexpressive sorrows, pangs, and horrors.
Of tenderness by long misfortunes harden'd;
And wast thou grown to human misery callous?
For thou didst still survive, and still pursuedst
Thy wonted occupations! If to stone
Thy breast had not been turn'd, thou must have died!
The story of thy life proclaims, how far
E'en to old age man can retain existence,
Under a long intense unbroke succession
Of inexpressive sorrows, pangs, and horrors.
Up to a certain point, disease, and wrong,
And sorrow, soften and ameliorate
The human heart:—beyond that point they harden it,
And utterly extinguish sympathy.
And sorrow, soften and ameliorate
The human heart:—beyond that point they harden it,
And utterly extinguish sympathy.
Thus in a battle a great general,
Used all his life to warfare, with calm eye
Sees fields all strewn with slain of friends and foes,
Which not distract his thoughts, or rob his rest!
Used all his life to warfare, with calm eye
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Which not distract his thoughts, or rob his rest!
But death upon the scaffold is a trial,
Which human courage would beforehand seem
Not equal to!—But female innocence
And loveliness has stood the test, and risen
Glorious above it! seen the block, the axe
With its sharp edge, before her, and yet stood
Unmov'd, with eyes of glowing light, and scarce
A tear of sorrow mingled with their rays!
And thus when that sad axe would in a moment
End a career which offer'd love and rank
And wealth and fame, and all that this fair scene
Of worldly pleasures has to offer mortals,
O lady Jane! O noblest of the Greys,
Proud Suffolk's pure and most celestial daughter,
Fair, virtuous, learned, blest with love and hope,
And admiration of fair nature's scenes,
And joy e'en in the luxury of innocent
Existence, yet thy mighty soul could raise
Its courage to behold the instrument
Serenely, that would separate thee from all;
And in a moment bathe thy frame in blood!
Which human courage would beforehand seem
Not equal to!—But female innocence
And loveliness has stood the test, and risen
Glorious above it! seen the block, the axe
With its sharp edge, before her, and yet stood
Unmov'd, with eyes of glowing light, and scarce
A tear of sorrow mingled with their rays!
And thus when that sad axe would in a moment
End a career which offer'd love and rank
And wealth and fame, and all that this fair scene
Of worldly pleasures has to offer mortals,
O lady Jane! O noblest of the Greys,
Proud Suffolk's pure and most celestial daughter,
Fair, virtuous, learned, blest with love and hope,
And admiration of fair nature's scenes,
And joy e'en in the luxury of innocent
Existence, yet thy mighty soul could raise
Its courage to behold the instrument
Serenely, that would separate thee from all;
And in a moment bathe thy frame in blood!
He, who with narrow ken would view the mind
Of man, and have no candour for its frailties,
Ever miscalculates, and deludes himself:
He knows not what man can do, in defiance
Of specks and weaknesses, or faults enormous:
By some base narrow measure would the world
Chain man's expanding spirit; and his fires
Extinguish,—with cold freezing waters trying
To prove to him his utter inability.
Of man, and have no candour for its frailties,
Ever miscalculates, and deludes himself:
He knows not what man can do, in defiance
Of specks and weaknesses, or faults enormous:
By some base narrow measure would the world
Chain man's expanding spirit; and his fires
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To prove to him his utter inability.
Public opinion always is capricious:
He, who has not a firm self-confidence,
Can nothing do; for he will meet with checks
Ever in places wrong.—On merit fame
Sometimes attends;—but, I suspect, too often
Not for the worth, but some factitious quality!
He, who would work for immortality,
Must throw away the thought of temporary
Applause, and never bend to popular taste.
Of the works, which for a short moment please
The public appetite, how few survive!
He, who has not a firm self-confidence,
Can nothing do; for he will meet with checks
Ever in places wrong.—On merit fame
Sometimes attends;—but, I suspect, too often
Not for the worth, but some factitious quality!
He, who would work for immortality,
Must throw away the thought of temporary
Applause, and never bend to popular taste.
Of the works, which for a short moment please
The public appetite, how few survive!
And how should it be other? Taste and judgment
Spring from high gifts, by culture and comparison
Improv'd! He has a mercenary soul,
Who to the public test himself debases!
But he who does not this, will many a taunt,
And many a reprobation harsh encounter,
As if it were his duty to conform
To what the multitude adjudge the best!—
Thus in his lonely labours he has not
Even the cheer of friends, when if they soften
Hours of anxiety, they are a balm
Friends ought to bless! but they would have him work,
E'en as a slave, for money! Who would take
The author's, as a mercenary calling?
For money-getting work the task is better,
E'en to break stones upon the public road!
For then at least the thoughts are free and open,
And the reward is sure and uncapricious;—
With no illusive measure of the toil!
Spring from high gifts, by culture and comparison
Improv'd! He has a mercenary soul,
Who to the public test himself debases!
But he who does not this, will many a taunt,
And many a reprobation harsh encounter,
As if it were his duty to conform
To what the multitude adjudge the best!—
Thus in his lonely labours he has not
Even the cheer of friends, when if they soften
Hours of anxiety, they are a balm
Friends ought to bless! but they would have him work,
E'en as a slave, for money! Who would take
The author's, as a mercenary calling?
For money-getting work the task is better,
E'en to break stones upon the public road!
For then at least the thoughts are free and open,
207
With no illusive measure of the toil!
There is no inward comfort in the labour,
When the mind works for aught but truth alone!
To mix a potion for the public draught
With sweets, and stimulants, and drugs, and poisons,
Is loathsome travel to a noble heart!
The price the deleterious draught may sell for,
Cannot keep down compunctious pains of conscience:
And when the sin is past, and yet the pay
Miss'd, and no plaudit follows,—then how sharp
The pang!—the baseness e'en for nothing done!
When the mind works for aught but truth alone!
To mix a potion for the public draught
With sweets, and stimulants, and drugs, and poisons,
Is loathsome travel to a noble heart!
The price the deleterious draught may sell for,
Cannot keep down compunctious pains of conscience:
And when the sin is past, and yet the pay
Miss'd, and no plaudit follows,—then how sharp
The pang!—the baseness e'en for nothing done!
A conscious force of genius its reward
Has in its work, and its own approbation.
But still the cheer of brother-men is grateful,
And sometimes will the spirit fail without it,
And lose that consciousness and self reliance!
We may despise the people's windy clamour,
And yet not trust “the still small voice” within!
We are beset with blights, and clouds, and frosts,
So thickly and so fiercely, that the fire
Must be almost too pure, and too enduring
For mortal frailty, if it ne'er abates
Its warmth, and hope, and heavenly aspiration.
Has in its work, and its own approbation.
But still the cheer of brother-men is grateful,
And sometimes will the spirit fail without it,
And lose that consciousness and self reliance!
We may despise the people's windy clamour,
And yet not trust “the still small voice” within!
We are beset with blights, and clouds, and frosts,
So thickly and so fiercely, that the fire
Must be almost too pure, and too enduring
For mortal frailty, if it ne'er abates
Its warmth, and hope, and heavenly aspiration.
When the soul is most visionary, and
The flame most intellectual, comes some earthly
Damp, and destroys the spell; for in a morbid
Mould is the magic airiness of genius
Inclos'd, and when it pleads its sensibility,
It is but mock'd, and taunted, and insulted.
The flame most intellectual, comes some earthly
Damp, and destroys the spell; for in a morbid
Mould is the magic airiness of genius
Inclos'd, and when it pleads its sensibility,
It is but mock'd, and taunted, and insulted.
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If the nerves were not sensitive to movements
Quick and intense, then there could be no genius.
O cruel and irrational to call
The mind, whose praise is, to the balmy breeze
That it is tremulous, and utters music,
To shew resistance firm to the rude blast!
A sensibility to good alone;—
A rocklike, flintlike bosom to the bad,—
Where is it to be found? O do not call us
To excellence impossible! It breeds
Hypocrisy alone, the worst of sins!
Quick and intense, then there could be no genius.
O cruel and irrational to call
The mind, whose praise is, to the balmy breeze
That it is tremulous, and utters music,
To shew resistance firm to the rude blast!
A sensibility to good alone;—
A rocklike, flintlike bosom to the bad,—
Where is it to be found? O do not call us
To excellence impossible! It breeds
Hypocrisy alone, the worst of sins!
There are, who think that in the Muse's song
Nor wisdom's store, nor good is to be found!
They are strange, ignorant, and worthless beings,
Who thus can deem! whose misinstructed brains
Mistake the trifles of false poetry
For streams from Helicon! The Muse disdains
But with high truths to deal, which draw the veil
From the bad movements of man's heart and head,
And teach what man it most behoves to know.
The flowers of poetry are the petty ornaments,
Which stern and lofty censors scorn to value:
It is the force and majesty of thought,
Which the Muse most acknowledges for hers.
Nor wisdom's store, nor good is to be found!
They are strange, ignorant, and worthless beings,
Who thus can deem! whose misinstructed brains
Mistake the trifles of false poetry
For streams from Helicon! The Muse disdains
But with high truths to deal, which draw the veil
From the bad movements of man's heart and head,
And teach what man it most behoves to know.
The flowers of poetry are the petty ornaments,
Which stern and lofty censors scorn to value:
It is the force and majesty of thought,
Which the Muse most acknowledges for hers.
Thus in the ancient records of her art
We look for sterling matter; for the stream
Of ore, that over golden channels passes.
There not the little flowers, that from the banks
Upon its surface are reflected, shine.
Deep lie its treasures, yet transparent, in
Their gem-like beds, which give their stores to mingle
With the rich-laden current! Genuine beauty,
Or majesty, disdains factitious dresses!
We live but to direct, by issuing rays
From the mind's lamp, and throw around the brightness
That in the shrine of intellect is nurs'd.
All is a mystery without, unless
The inward mind the secret clues develop.
The face of matter barren is, and dull,
Without the mind's associations.
But only to a few is the boon given
To light the fire, and throw the rays abroad;
And e'en that fire must much be fann'd and blown,
Ere its due lustre it will reach, and clear
Itself from smoke and glimmerings:—then the damps
It must defy, and burn with constancy.
We look for sterling matter; for the stream
Of ore, that over golden channels passes.
There not the little flowers, that from the banks
Upon its surface are reflected, shine.
Deep lie its treasures, yet transparent, in
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With the rich-laden current! Genuine beauty,
Or majesty, disdains factitious dresses!
We live but to direct, by issuing rays
From the mind's lamp, and throw around the brightness
That in the shrine of intellect is nurs'd.
All is a mystery without, unless
The inward mind the secret clues develop.
The face of matter barren is, and dull,
Without the mind's associations.
But only to a few is the boon given
To light the fire, and throw the rays abroad;
And e'en that fire must much be fann'd and blown,
Ere its due lustre it will reach, and clear
Itself from smoke and glimmerings:—then the damps
It must defy, and burn with constancy.
Not to the present—only to the future—
Forever must the flame's ascent be rais'd!
The rays it gives, can only fix their station
Over the tomb: the present race will shun
The guide, and rather wil-o'-wisps run after!
Truth is not pleasant to the sensual,
Vicious, and profligate;—and literature
Of artifice is easier as a labour
Of gain and dirty lucre, than the flow
Which issues from the fount of nature's power.
By their own rules and instruments, by which
They work themselves, will critics others judge:
And while mechanically they instruct
The multitude, mechanical will be
The multitude in censure or applause.
Forever must the flame's ascent be rais'd!
The rays it gives, can only fix their station
Over the tomb: the present race will shun
The guide, and rather wil-o'-wisps run after!
Truth is not pleasant to the sensual,
Vicious, and profligate;—and literature
Of artifice is easier as a labour
Of gain and dirty lucre, than the flow
Which issues from the fount of nature's power.
By their own rules and instruments, by which
They work themselves, will critics others judge:
And while mechanically they instruct
The multitude, mechanical will be
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But artifice forever will be variant
In motion and in form:—it is its essence;—
The only mode by which it whets the appetite.
Thus all that it into distinction lifts,
Must fall again, as wave upswallows wave!
In motion and in form:—it is its essence;—
The only mode by which it whets the appetite.
Thus all that it into distinction lifts,
Must fall again, as wave upswallows wave!
The gift of genius may be rare, but oftenest
It in the bud is blighted; or from clouds
Cannot emerge, thro' human opposition;
Thro' sorrow, or mischance, or want of nourriture
Of the seeds sow'd by nature,—sometimes copiously;—
Or thro' defect of cheers, or want of courage;
Or envy, jealousy, and cunning malice:
Nor more infrequent, and less pardonable,
Thro' vile submission to enjoyments sensual.
It in the bud is blighted; or from clouds
Cannot emerge, thro' human opposition;
Thro' sorrow, or mischance, or want of nourriture
Of the seeds sow'd by nature,—sometimes copiously;—
Or thro' defect of cheers, or want of courage;
Or envy, jealousy, and cunning malice:
Nor more infrequent, and less pardonable,
Thro' vile submission to enjoyments sensual.
Far have I wander'd,—now here, and now there,
Glancing: but this was e'er allow'd to be
The Muse's clear prerogative, and 'twere well
If poetry were always as informal!
Rapidity of movement, and of distant
Objects the prompt association, makes
One of the bard's most magic faculties.
The flimsy trick of poetry to the ear
And eye, and little to the intellect,
May pass with fools and children—not the wise.
Glancing: but this was e'er allow'd to be
The Muse's clear prerogative, and 'twere well
If poetry were always as informal!
Rapidity of movement, and of distant
Objects the prompt association, makes
One of the bard's most magic faculties.
The flimsy trick of poetry to the ear
And eye, and little to the intellect,
May pass with fools and children—not the wise.
Who loses all his days in seeking knowledge,
Vain, empty, fill'd with windy vapour only,
Might do as well in picking straws and pebbles.
It puffs him up with self-sufficiency
For what is worthless, and misleads the mind.
It is the imagination and the reason,
Which wanders over mind and matter, makes
The majesty, and power, and use of genius:
Not excellence in some one narrow class
Of learning, or of art!—Thus Shakespeare's book,
Above all others, is the universal
Favourite of those who can the language read!
Not ornate language, as the Laureat ever
Well preaches to the world, can long delight,—
More than we always can on sweetmeats feed.
It is the thought,—the ore, and not the workmanship,
Which gives the sterling value. Glittering words
Soon tire and nauseate: they are baby's play!
We cannot long read what is artificial:
It is a natural eloquence, which bears us
Onward without fatigue, or loss of interest.
Vain, empty, fill'd with windy vapour only,
Might do as well in picking straws and pebbles.
It puffs him up with self-sufficiency
For what is worthless, and misleads the mind.
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Which wanders over mind and matter, makes
The majesty, and power, and use of genius:
Not excellence in some one narrow class
Of learning, or of art!—Thus Shakespeare's book,
Above all others, is the universal
Favourite of those who can the language read!
Not ornate language, as the Laureat ever
Well preaches to the world, can long delight,—
More than we always can on sweetmeats feed.
It is the thought,—the ore, and not the workmanship,
Which gives the sterling value. Glittering words
Soon tire and nauseate: they are baby's play!
We cannot long read what is artificial:
It is a natural eloquence, which bears us
Onward without fatigue, or loss of interest.
He, who is rich in mind intuitive,
And well has cultur'd it, can never speak,
But out he pours a stream of golden ore:—
Some metal which may turn to useful coin.
But ornamental trickery of poetry
Is but a glittering shadow, for a moment
That flashes, then deserts one, and expires.
Thoughts multiply on thoughts, and words on words,
When we retain the natural associations
Of mental movements: if we interrupt them,
To reassume them one by one is slow:—
The tardiness of motion still augments,
Till all is toil and artificiality.
And well has cultur'd it, can never speak,
But out he pours a stream of golden ore:—
Some metal which may turn to useful coin.
But ornamental trickery of poetry
Is but a glittering shadow, for a moment
That flashes, then deserts one, and expires.
Thoughts multiply on thoughts, and words on words,
When we retain the natural associations
Of mental movements: if we interrupt them,
To reassume them one by one is slow:—
The tardiness of motion still augments,
Till all is toil and artificiality.
Not much will he advance upon his task,
To whom it is a painful and dull labour.
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But after all that I, and all that men
More eloquent and wise, have said, the Muse
Will seem a trifler to a large proportion
Of man's ungrateful race:—her fruits are thankless,
And gain not favour, or respect, or smiles:
But if her lessons be not sound and rational,
And teach not as much wisdom as philosophers,
Then let her be rejected and despised!
More eloquent and wise, have said, the Muse
Will seem a trifler to a large proportion
Of man's ungrateful race:—her fruits are thankless,
And gain not favour, or respect, or smiles:
But if her lessons be not sound and rational,
And teach not as much wisdom as philosophers,
Then let her be rejected and despised!
Much have I travel'd on the grateful theme
Of this strange land of waters and of mountains,
Where the seventh part of my o'erclouded life
I have taken my abode in age and sickness.
No varnish'd story have I told; no sentiment
Factitious utter'd: if exaggeration
Is found in aught, let it be blotted out!
But to be fervid, is not to exaggerate!
Of this strange land of waters and of mountains,
Where the seventh part of my o'erclouded life
I have taken my abode in age and sickness.
No varnish'd story have I told; no sentiment
Factitious utter'd: if exaggeration
Is found in aught, let it be blotted out!
But to be fervid, is not to exaggerate!
Full many a mighty task, and many a care
Have I impos'd upon myself, at peril
Of mockery of a laughing thoughtless world;—
Tasks which a long life would require to execute,
When I am at its very termination!
But innocent and wise are these delusions,
That from us hide the day of our departure!
Have I impos'd upon myself, at peril
Of mockery of a laughing thoughtless world;—
Tasks which a long life would require to execute,
When I am at its very termination!
But innocent and wise are these delusions,
That from us hide the day of our departure!
Great questions in all States are moving now:—
In Albion, above all! my stirring brain
Cannot be tranquil on them. Parliament
Well-constituted is the fount of right,
Liberty, and security of person:
And utterly the nation's wealth, and utterly
The welfare of the Poor, on sapient laws
Depends! and heartlessly and stupidly
Have both by blind enactments been destroy'd.
But will they wisdom in their new condition
Hear? Ministers are rarely great in talent;—
Still less in genius! Canning was rhetorical;
But I am far from sure that he was wise!—
The living I by name will not describe!
In Albion, above all! my stirring brain
Cannot be tranquil on them. Parliament
Well-constituted is the fount of right,
Liberty, and security of person:
And utterly the nation's wealth, and utterly
213
Depends! and heartlessly and stupidly
Have both by blind enactments been destroy'd.
But will they wisdom in their new condition
Hear? Ministers are rarely great in talent;—
Still less in genius! Canning was rhetorical;
But I am far from sure that he was wise!—
The living I by name will not describe!
O who are they that blow up the machinery
Of produce, and then wonder it supplies not
The nation's wants? who leave without employment
The labourer to starve, while lands lie barren?
Who plot the means to make him live in idleness
At others' cost, while he might make returns
For all that he consumes, and give a profit!
Who can find stores to feed him improductively,
Yet want the stores that he could well replace!
Who can find means to send him cross th'Atlantic,
In barbarous lands the native to expell,
Far from his country, friends, and fond affections,
At a most wasteful cost; yet want the store
In toil productive to support his strength?
Of produce, and then wonder it supplies not
The nation's wants? who leave without employment
The labourer to starve, while lands lie barren?
Who plot the means to make him live in idleness
At others' cost, while he might make returns
For all that he consumes, and give a profit!
Who can find stores to feed him improductively,
Yet want the stores that he could well replace!
Who can find means to send him cross th'Atlantic,
In barbarous lands the native to expell,
Far from his country, friends, and fond affections,
At a most wasteful cost; yet want the store
In toil productive to support his strength?
O vile infatuation! when the barren
Rock will repay due labour! when the fruit
Is in proportion to the cost and art!
This paper-money so misdeem'd as empty—
Does it give food and task-work to the Poor,
Whose fate it is by sweat of brow to live?
Then how can it be empty, immaterial,
And valueless? The food must co-exist,
Or paper would have naught to act upon!
But does it then to channels left untilled,
And less conducive to the nation's welfare;
Draw it? O no! the very obvious contrary:—
It draws from none, because it reproduces:—
Or even if it draw, it would from luxury
And idleness to the deserving draw it!
Delusions strange, because so clear and palpable!
Rock will repay due labour! when the fruit
Is in proportion to the cost and art!
This paper-money so misdeem'd as empty—
Does it give food and task-work to the Poor,
Whose fate it is by sweat of brow to live?
Then how can it be empty, immaterial,
And valueless? The food must co-exist,
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But does it then to channels left untilled,
And less conducive to the nation's welfare;
Draw it? O no! the very obvious contrary:—
It draws from none, because it reproduces:—
Or even if it draw, it would from luxury
And idleness to the deserving draw it!
Delusions strange, because so clear and palpable!
Ah! pruriency of law-making has been
Among the sins or follies of the age!
Each self-sufficient booby thinks himself
A legislator wise and heaven-born.
And thus we put chains on the things, whose essence
Is freedom; and set free what should be bound.
We force the labourer to be paid as charity
The sustenance, which is the due return
For what he has produc'd:—and then by strange
Perversity of contradiction we
Tell him he has a right to sustenance,
And pay, without the recompense of labour.
Among the sins or follies of the age!
Each self-sufficient booby thinks himself
A legislator wise and heaven-born.
And thus we put chains on the things, whose essence
Is freedom; and set free what should be bound.
We force the labourer to be paid as charity
The sustenance, which is the due return
For what he has produc'd:—and then by strange
Perversity of contradiction we
Tell him he has a right to sustenance,
And pay, without the recompense of labour.
The poor laws, as they stand, are a device
To rouse all parishes into fierce conflict,
Each with the other, and to make the poor
Footballs to be backward and forward kick'd
From one place to the other, and to feed
The law's most ravenous and blood-sucking minions.
To rouse all parishes into fierce conflict,
Each with the other, and to make the poor
Footballs to be backward and forward kick'd
From one place to the other, and to feed
The law's most ravenous and blood-sucking minions.
We take away the means for the employment
Of those who live by labour, by the forceful
Enactments of the Senate's interference:
And then when they are madden'd to rebellion,
And fire and blood, we punish them with death!
We take away the means of the employers,
Yet tell them that they must support the poor
Without return of produce! We remove
The check to population nature gives;
And in its place an impulse false contrive:
We force the augmentation, and extinguish,
At the same moment, all the means to feed it:
We multiply the taxes, and suppress
In the same breath the instruments to pay them:
We drive the people, under all the oppression
Of artificial incumbrances,
Back to the barbarous device of barter!
Of those who live by labour, by the forceful
Enactments of the Senate's interference:
And then when they are madden'd to rebellion,
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We take away the means of the employers,
Yet tell them that they must support the poor
Without return of produce! We remove
The check to population nature gives;
And in its place an impulse false contrive:
We force the augmentation, and extinguish,
At the same moment, all the means to feed it:
We multiply the taxes, and suppress
In the same breath the instruments to pay them:
We drive the people, under all the oppression
Of artificial incumbrances,
Back to the barbarous device of barter!
And this the wisdom of a British Parliament!
Of statesmen proud, and insolent, and high-bearing
Of their own intellects the vain pretensions!
But wisdom does not always with advancement
Go in the thorny pathway of political
Ambition, where by ruses and manœuvres
The post is often won; where flowery words
And smooth unmeaning voices,—miscall'd eloquence,—
Enchant the air and ears, and win the race.
Talent and virtue in the eyes of Government
Avail but little: for the power of State
Lies in the regions of Intrigue and Favour!
He who is cloath'd in office, is deem'd wise,
Tho ignorant, and tho by nature feeble.
Thus boobies have the function to prepare,
And pass, the rules that guide a nation's welfare.
Of statesmen proud, and insolent, and high-bearing
Of their own intellects the vain pretensions!
But wisdom does not always with advancement
Go in the thorny pathway of political
Ambition, where by ruses and manœuvres
The post is often won; where flowery words
And smooth unmeaning voices,—miscall'd eloquence,—
Enchant the air and ears, and win the race.
Talent and virtue in the eyes of Government
Avail but little: for the power of State
Lies in the regions of Intrigue and Favour!
He who is cloath'd in office, is deem'd wise,
Tho ignorant, and tho by nature feeble.
Thus boobies have the function to prepare,
And pass, the rules that guide a nation's welfare.
Hence these enormous wrongs in policy,
Errors incredible, which plunge a people
In misery, and gloom, and hate, and famine!
Hence wealth, that is the sword, by which a kingdom
Alone in modern days can warfare wage,
Becomes exhausted, or its riches rather
Buried in earth, and lost by suffocation:
Our taxes to increase, and yet diminish
Our riches, is insanity most hopeless.
Not to augment our debt, but to augment
Our means of payment, is the only chance
To ease a nation from the load that stifles it.
All payment from the same amount of income
Is a delusion which but aggravates
The evil;—drawing from the industrious
And most productive, to enrich the drones.
216
In misery, and gloom, and hate, and famine!
Hence wealth, that is the sword, by which a kingdom
Alone in modern days can warfare wage,
Becomes exhausted, or its riches rather
Buried in earth, and lost by suffocation:
Our taxes to increase, and yet diminish
Our riches, is insanity most hopeless.
Not to augment our debt, but to augment
Our means of payment, is the only chance
To ease a nation from the load that stifles it.
All payment from the same amount of income
Is a delusion which but aggravates
The evil;—drawing from the industrious
And most productive, to enrich the drones.
But statesmen ever busy in intrigues,
And pressure of the troubles of the day,
Cannot spare time to think, research, invent.
Let but the day be struggled through,—enough
Is done! and that which raises least discussion,
And passes easiest with the multitude,
Because it is most trite and most familiar,
Is best with them, if least of toil it costs!
And thus, as on Committees on Elections,
“Knock out the brains, and then knock out the brains,”
And all is well! and who are emptiest,
And dread the beaten road, are favour'd most!
And pressure of the troubles of the day,
Cannot spare time to think, research, invent.
Let but the day be struggled through,—enough
Is done! and that which raises least discussion,
And passes easiest with the multitude,
Because it is most trite and most familiar,
Is best with them, if least of toil it costs!
And thus, as on Committees on Elections,
“Knock out the brains, and then knock out the brains,”
And all is well! and who are emptiest,
And dread the beaten road, are favour'd most!
To make a statesman and a legislator,
Demands the mental faculties all high
In their degree, and all in union, all
Well cultivated, and in constant exercise,
The dull incessant plodder will work blindly;
And as he nothing of his way before him
Sees, he will crush his head against a wall,
Or sink into unfathomable pits;
Or from the path direct go wide astray.
Laws must be regulated well to suit
Men's passions, habits, customs, and caprices.
Imagination only can look inward,
And see the movements of the human heart:
The toils mechanical of office cannot
Give it, nor arithmetical profoundness;—
But it must be the lamp of genius, opening
A prospect wide in a broad blaze of light.
Demands the mental faculties all high
In their degree, and all in union, all
217
The dull incessant plodder will work blindly;
And as he nothing of his way before him
Sees, he will crush his head against a wall,
Or sink into unfathomable pits;
Or from the path direct go wide astray.
Laws must be regulated well to suit
Men's passions, habits, customs, and caprices.
Imagination only can look inward,
And see the movements of the human heart:
The toils mechanical of office cannot
Give it, nor arithmetical profoundness;—
But it must be the lamp of genius, opening
A prospect wide in a broad blaze of light.
Thus am I ever ranging o'er the world,
Taking my flight, O Leman, from thy banks!
But once again,—(I cannot tell how often
I have been straying,)—I return to thee!
And here in quiet I my meditations
Nurse; and with novel food my mind repair.
I think upon the troubles, at a distance,
Of policy which agitate my country:
And though I sometimes wish to join the brawls,
Yet cool reflection ever makes me bless
The calmer scenes, more fitted to my age.
I have not nerve for the turmoil and bustle
Of rude, contentious, cavilling assemblies!
But rather choose to ponder in the solitude,
That opens nature's grandeur to my view.
Here where I see Aurora drive away
The billowy mists of vapour from the summits
Of Alpine majesty, and spiral mountains
Aspire to heaven, and in the solar rays
Blazon their rude shapes,—from their craggy points
Reflecting beams of tints innumerable,—
Here from precipitous heights the deep blue wave
Of Rhone I see into one common flood
Fall with the Arve; then down through southern France
Far to the sea its gather'd exit seek!
Here to the East Helvetia's numerous craggs
Gigantic, with variety of outline,
That draw the clouds with every golden hue
Fring'd, or transparent, raise the sight to rapture!
Far from the stage, on which is play'd the drama
Of busy life, should man, who has the means,
The tranquil tenor of existence pass!
Frail and deceitful are the glittering objects
Of the world's passion: they cost dear, and win not
The boon expected: not esteem, but calumny
Too oft is the result: and if base lucre
Because of choosing paths of proud ambition,
It is the road of loss, and not of gain.
Taking my flight, O Leman, from thy banks!
But once again,—(I cannot tell how often
I have been straying,)—I return to thee!
And here in quiet I my meditations
Nurse; and with novel food my mind repair.
I think upon the troubles, at a distance,
Of policy which agitate my country:
And though I sometimes wish to join the brawls,
Yet cool reflection ever makes me bless
The calmer scenes, more fitted to my age.
I have not nerve for the turmoil and bustle
Of rude, contentious, cavilling assemblies!
But rather choose to ponder in the solitude,
That opens nature's grandeur to my view.
Here where I see Aurora drive away
218
Of Alpine majesty, and spiral mountains
Aspire to heaven, and in the solar rays
Blazon their rude shapes,—from their craggy points
Reflecting beams of tints innumerable,—
Here from precipitous heights the deep blue wave
Of Rhone I see into one common flood
Fall with the Arve; then down through southern France
Far to the sea its gather'd exit seek!
Here to the East Helvetia's numerous craggs
Gigantic, with variety of outline,
That draw the clouds with every golden hue
Fring'd, or transparent, raise the sight to rapture!
Far from the stage, on which is play'd the drama
Of busy life, should man, who has the means,
The tranquil tenor of existence pass!
Frail and deceitful are the glittering objects
Of the world's passion: they cost dear, and win not
The boon expected: not esteem, but calumny
Too oft is the result: and if base lucre
Because of choosing paths of proud ambition,
It is the road of loss, and not of gain.
But yet the grandeur and variety
Of nature's scenery the common mind
Leaves unaffected: mountains, roaring streams,
And precipices, and blue spreading waters,
And meads and woods and vallies, might awaken
Genius e'en in the dull: but, ah, they leave
The intellect in its own native state.
The dweller in the mountains has not grander
Thoughts, than the habitant of dirty streets!
Of nature's scenery the common mind
Leaves unaffected: mountains, roaring streams,
And precipices, and blue spreading waters,
And meads and woods and vallies, might awaken
Genius e'en in the dull: but, ah, they leave
The intellect in its own native state.
The dweller in the mountains has not grander
219
Excitement and collision are, perchance,
Requisite to bring forward human faculties;
And thus it is, the troubles of ambition
Produce their own reward. We must not slumber
Away this precious, labour-doom'd existence:
And if we fall to idleness, the vapours
Collect about our brains, and gradually
The strength and fire extinguish. Silence thus,
Or murmurs of the breeze, or lull of streams,
Or song of birds, to tranquil sleep disposes us,
And we are apt in motionless tranquillity
To lose the hours to noble efforts destin'd.
To give to rest its relish we must toil
Hard; but without strong impulse who will rouse
Himself from calm repose? And thus retirement,
However in description it may shine,
Is yet of doubtful preference. Learned Evelyn,
Who wrote of woods and forests, and the nature
Of trees, and gardening, and all sylvan pleasures,
A little treatise against solitude
Penn'd eloquently, while Mackenzie's pen,
Who all his life in busy courts had spent,
Pleaded for deep seclusion, books, and peaceful
Self-entertainment.—So it is with man;—
Never with his own destiny content!
Requisite to bring forward human faculties;
And thus it is, the troubles of ambition
Produce their own reward. We must not slumber
Away this precious, labour-doom'd existence:
And if we fall to idleness, the vapours
Collect about our brains, and gradually
The strength and fire extinguish. Silence thus,
Or murmurs of the breeze, or lull of streams,
Or song of birds, to tranquil sleep disposes us,
And we are apt in motionless tranquillity
To lose the hours to noble efforts destin'd.
To give to rest its relish we must toil
Hard; but without strong impulse who will rouse
Himself from calm repose? And thus retirement,
However in description it may shine,
Is yet of doubtful preference. Learned Evelyn,
Who wrote of woods and forests, and the nature
Of trees, and gardening, and all sylvan pleasures,
A little treatise against solitude
Penn'd eloquently, while Mackenzie's pen,
Who all his life in busy courts had spent,
Pleaded for deep seclusion, books, and peaceful
Self-entertainment.—So it is with man;—
Never with his own destiny content!
'Tis when the mind is full, that Nature's scenery
Works with a tenfold charm; for then it hangs
Associations on each glittering object;
And the redoubled stimulants experiences
In all that round about it lives, and grows;
Or motionless, or in its barren state
Abides. The statesman, and the traveller,
And he, who in the intellectual contests
Of man's rivality, has thought and felt
Much, and his brain has ever kept in movement,
The more of wonder and magnificence
In natural objects shews itself before him,
Is more excited into lively flow
Of the rich streams that circuit thro the mind;
But he, who to corporeal labour bent,
A life but little above animal
Passes, no difference, perchance, may know
Between a mountainous and dull flat country.
And he who may be born amid gigantic
Shapes of creation, by familiarity
May lose the quickness of enraptur'd wonder
At the sublimity display'd before him!
Works with a tenfold charm; for then it hangs
Associations on each glittering object;
And the redoubled stimulants experiences
220
Or motionless, or in its barren state
Abides. The statesman, and the traveller,
And he, who in the intellectual contests
Of man's rivality, has thought and felt
Much, and his brain has ever kept in movement,
The more of wonder and magnificence
In natural objects shews itself before him,
Is more excited into lively flow
Of the rich streams that circuit thro the mind;
But he, who to corporeal labour bent,
A life but little above animal
Passes, no difference, perchance, may know
Between a mountainous and dull flat country.
And he who may be born amid gigantic
Shapes of creation, by familiarity
May lose the quickness of enraptur'd wonder
At the sublimity display'd before him!
Imagination has been represented
A Sylvan Goddess, who in solitude
Mid nature's grandeur holds her still abode:
But she is immaterial, and regards not
Embodied shapes, or the globe's substances.
Yet atmospheres affect the spirit, when
In earthly mould enclos'd, because it acts
By aid of matter. Habitants, O Leman,
Upon thy banks, of beverage celestial
From Helicon's pure fountain ought to drink:
But it would seem that strangers only drink it,
And not thy natives!—Vain the scrutiny
In Nature's secrets!—But Imagination
The lamp of life's most precious knowledge is;—
Of moral wisdom, and religious faith.
All other science, all exact researches
Into material qualities, are trifles
Compar'd to this, which only genius can
Penetrate, view, arrest, define, and paint.
A Sylvan Goddess, who in solitude
Mid nature's grandeur holds her still abode:
But she is immaterial, and regards not
Embodied shapes, or the globe's substances.
Yet atmospheres affect the spirit, when
In earthly mould enclos'd, because it acts
By aid of matter. Habitants, O Leman,
Upon thy banks, of beverage celestial
From Helicon's pure fountain ought to drink:
But it would seem that strangers only drink it,
And not thy natives!—Vain the scrutiny
221
The lamp of life's most precious knowledge is;—
Of moral wisdom, and religious faith.
All other science, all exact researches
Into material qualities, are trifles
Compar'd to this, which only genius can
Penetrate, view, arrest, define, and paint.
But stay my hand; and let my voice retain
Its long-protracted breath,—lest I becoming
Tedious, my lyre should cloy upon the ear!
Naught of recondite has it forward brought;
No novel tones, as censors will contend;
But Memory at least has been awaken'd;
And something of association new
Been offer'd to the mind by sameness satiated.
We know the borrow'd stores, that always travel
In the same route, and in the same strict order
Of method and alliance; words alone
Chang'd for their synonimes as a thin disquise:
But order new has something of the novelty
E'en of a minor quality of invention.
Its long-protracted breath,—lest I becoming
Tedious, my lyre should cloy upon the ear!
Naught of recondite has it forward brought;
No novel tones, as censors will contend;
But Memory at least has been awaken'd;
And something of association new
Been offer'd to the mind by sameness satiated.
We know the borrow'd stores, that always travel
In the same route, and in the same strict order
Of method and alliance; words alone
Chang'd for their synonimes as a thin disquise:
But order new has something of the novelty
E'en of a minor quality of invention.
Should all the thoughts in language here recorded
To all familiar be,—yet of sincere,
And frank, and clear and simple, and withall
Just, they may not be utter'd quite in vain.
For by a sympathy we love to see
Our own emotions in a mirror pass
Shadow'd before us!
To all familiar be,—yet of sincere,
And frank, and clear and simple, and withall
Just, they may not be utter'd quite in vain.
For by a sympathy we love to see
Our own emotions in a mirror pass
Shadow'd before us!
A mantle all of gold begins again
Invest the Eastern sky, and o'er the Alpine
Summits mounts gradually higher and higher,
Driving the billowy vapours all before it,
And piercing them with dazzling rays. My task
I reassume, that verges to its end.
But short though it may be, my own may be
Still shorter;—Simond, by some years my junior,
Is gone before me, e'en with scarce a warning:
Death struck him in a moment; he had sense
No more—scarce breathing thro a darksome night.
Thus I may at this moment hold the pen,
And be the next a lump of lifeless clay.
And yet I meditate a thousand projects,
As if I had a length of days before me!
Invest the Eastern sky, and o'er the Alpine
222
Driving the billowy vapours all before it,
And piercing them with dazzling rays. My task
I reassume, that verges to its end.
But short though it may be, my own may be
Still shorter;—Simond, by some years my junior,
Is gone before me, e'en with scarce a warning:
Death struck him in a moment; he had sense
No more—scarce breathing thro a darksome night.
Thus I may at this moment hold the pen,
And be the next a lump of lifeless clay.
And yet I meditate a thousand projects,
As if I had a length of days before me!
Tombs of the Bards in ten long books have I
With hope insane for future task design'd.
O ye, who mock me for my vain creations
Of airy castles, and impossible wishes,
Who see me with my snow-white locks, and wrinkled
Features, and step infirm, and shaking hand,
And tell me of the grave, to which alone
I ought to turn my eyes, and thoughts, and feelings,
You are as stupid, as you are hard-hearted!
Your voices are but whistling wind to me,—
As empty and as forceless, as discordant!
While I a few choice spirits can engage,
And Wordsworth, Southey, Lockhart disapprove not,
Those sarcasms only on themselves return!
With hope insane for future task design'd.
O ye, who mock me for my vain creations
Of airy castles, and impossible wishes,
Who see me with my snow-white locks, and wrinkled
Features, and step infirm, and shaking hand,
And tell me of the grave, to which alone
I ought to turn my eyes, and thoughts, and feelings,
You are as stupid, as you are hard-hearted!
Your voices are but whistling wind to me,—
As empty and as forceless, as discordant!
While I a few choice spirits can engage,
And Wordsworth, Southey, Lockhart disapprove not,
223
If mid the cares, that like a thousand vultures
Prey on my heart, I can the moments soothe
By occupations innocent, no crime,
Or folly, surely is in the indulgence.
He, who expects too much from human nature,
Does but suppress the little it can do.
Hypocrisy, or stupor, is the consequence
Of the perfidious counsel thus obtruded.
But Gibbon wisely said, that he who could not
Counsel himself, was but a broken reed,
That every wind could blow away to atoms!
Prey on my heart, I can the moments soothe
By occupations innocent, no crime,
Or folly, surely is in the indulgence.
He, who expects too much from human nature,
Does but suppress the little it can do.
Hypocrisy, or stupor, is the consequence
Of the perfidious counsel thus obtruded.
But Gibbon wisely said, that he who could not
Counsel himself, was but a broken reed,
That every wind could blow away to atoms!
Thus for the first six books did I perform
Uninterruptedly my morning task:
For 'twas the morning, tho the task begun
The first hours after midnight's sound was heard:
In seven and twenty days the work was done.
Shall I repent it? Much is there combin'd,
I never else had brought together: much
Of thought and sentiment I never else
Had from my mind evok'd.—The clock strikes one!
Deep and distinctly from the town it comes:
And I must throw the dews of sleep away.
Uninterruptedly my morning task:
For 'twas the morning, tho the task begun
The first hours after midnight's sound was heard:
In seven and twenty days the work was done.
Shall I repent it? Much is there combin'd,
I never else had brought together: much
Of thought and sentiment I never else
Had from my mind evok'd.—The clock strikes one!
Deep and distinctly from the town it comes:
And I must throw the dews of sleep away.
But now
again by some strange new caprice
Of intellect, its paces and its flights
Are slow; and I with labour this the last
Part of my long performance execute.
Who ventures in the public eye to act,
Or meditate, or shew his sensibility,
Must for malignant censure be prepared.
Envy, and jealousy, and consequent
Detraction, are the actuating passions
Of man;—yet strangely oft do we admire
In secret those whom openly we criticise;
And by degrees is approbation won,
Or else extorted from th'unwilling heart!
Of intellect, its paces and its flights
Are slow; and I with labour this the last
Part of my long performance execute.
224
Or meditate, or shew his sensibility,
Must for malignant censure be prepared.
Envy, and jealousy, and consequent
Detraction, are the actuating passions
Of man;—yet strangely oft do we admire
In secret those whom openly we criticise;
And by degrees is approbation won,
Or else extorted from th'unwilling heart!
Shall we in silence and in stupor pass
Our days, for fear of cavil and detraction?
The storms, that buffet us, but stronger make us,
And animate our faculties to actions:
Defiance is sometimes a noble feeling.
Our days, for fear of cavil and detraction?
The storms, that buffet us, but stronger make us,
And animate our faculties to actions:
Defiance is sometimes a noble feeling.
Few are the cheers, that through a troubled life
Have borne me onward:—my reliance then
Has been on the indignant impulses
Rous'd by ungenerous and wrongful blows.
Then it is said, that I am querulous,
And ever of my injuries am prating!
Defiance and complaint have not a tone
Of sympathy: complaint for pity calls,
And breathes not battle. I am more inclin'd
To think that indignation is my tone!
Have borne me onward:—my reliance then
Has been on the indignant impulses
Rous'd by ungenerous and wrongful blows.
Then it is said, that I am querulous,
And ever of my injuries am prating!
Defiance and complaint have not a tone
Of sympathy: complaint for pity calls,
And breathes not battle. I am more inclin'd
To think that indignation is my tone!
But it is said, we must not talk of self,
For good or bad, for pity or for anger.
Yet if the knowledge of internal movement
Be the prime lesson, whence with so much certainty
Can we the picture of another's bosom
Describe as of our own?—It is the cavil
Of that disparagement, which blackens life!
For good or bad, for pity or for anger.
Yet if the knowledge of internal movement
Be the prime lesson, whence with so much certainty
Can we the picture of another's bosom
Describe as of our own?—It is the cavil
225
There are, who will deny there is a difference
In native gifts of mind; but think apparent
Superiority is accidental,
Or flows from labour, or is mere pretence.
And all,—that they may rob it of the honour;
And love, esteem, respect, applause withhold.
In native gifts of mind; but think apparent
Superiority is accidental,
Or flows from labour, or is mere pretence.
And all,—that they may rob it of the honour;
And love, esteem, respect, applause withhold.
But all of real excellence is genius;—
Not art, or labour. From the springs of mind
It comes unborrow'd: but it must be aided,
And warm'd by suns,—by exercise and culture
Unveil'd!—Or “in the deep unfathom'd cave
The gem will buried lie!” For Genius never
The treasure at the bottom knows, till tried.
Johnson profoundly said, “with the necessity
Comes the ability!” 'Tis so with genius!
Necessity cannot create the power;—
But only draw it forth.
Not art, or labour. From the springs of mind
It comes unborrow'd: but it must be aided,
And warm'd by suns,—by exercise and culture
Unveil'd!—Or “in the deep unfathom'd cave
The gem will buried lie!” For Genius never
The treasure at the bottom knows, till tried.
Johnson profoundly said, “with the necessity
Comes the ability!” 'Tis so with genius!
Necessity cannot create the power;—
But only draw it forth.
The genuine strength
Survives the grave, and hovers o'er the tomb!
The fame, that was in life deserv'd, is green,
And flourishing, after the lapse of ages.
The language of true genius ne'er decays,
Nor obsolete becomes; and each one sees
Something peculiar to himself, which others
Have not deliver'd, nor, perchance, e'en thought!
The fruits of genius by repeated reading
Ne'er become stale and common-place: a living
Fire in them dwells; and vigour to the last,
As in a green old age, pervades their veins.
But never must the exercise relax
The constant discipline; the constant effort.
Genius, the more it writes, it writes the better;
But toil and industry, without the gifts
Of nature, fade, grow duller, and exhaust.
Survives the grave, and hovers o'er the tomb!
The fame, that was in life deserv'd, is green,
And flourishing, after the lapse of ages.
The language of true genius ne'er decays,
Nor obsolete becomes; and each one sees
Something peculiar to himself, which others
Have not deliver'd, nor, perchance, e'en thought!
The fruits of genius by repeated reading
Ne'er become stale and common-place: a living
Fire in them dwells; and vigour to the last,
As in a green old age, pervades their veins.
226
The constant discipline; the constant effort.
Genius, the more it writes, it writes the better;
But toil and industry, without the gifts
Of nature, fade, grow duller, and exhaust.
Books multiply beyond the utmost reach
Of man's attention; but unborrow'd thoughts,
And flames by art unlighted, are most rare.
And 'twould be well, were groaning shelves discumber'd
Of artifice, and nauseous repetitions:
Whence precious time is lost in seeking ore,
Where nothing can be found but dross and staleness.
Of man's attention; but unborrow'd thoughts,
And flames by art unlighted, are most rare.
And 'twould be well, were groaning shelves discumber'd
Of artifice, and nauseous repetitions:
Whence precious time is lost in seeking ore,
Where nothing can be found but dross and staleness.
There is no torment greater than a stupor:—
'Tis not tranquillity;—it is despair!
Then every object in horrific tints
Displays itself;—and comfort is in naught.
Then mind and frame are motionless, except
Beneath the writings of disgust and agony.
And thus the mind will be, that, form'd for effort
And unfatigued activity, is idle.
The fogs, that settle on it, breed disease,
That like a demon sits upon the heart!
'Tis not tranquillity;—it is despair!
Then every object in horrific tints
Displays itself;—and comfort is in naught.
Then mind and frame are motionless, except
Beneath the writings of disgust and agony.
And thus the mind will be, that, form'd for effort
And unfatigued activity, is idle.
The fogs, that settle on it, breed disease,
That like a demon sits upon the heart!
Thus ever must I travel, and my faculties
Keep in incessant motion, which the more
They work, are buoyant more, and more elastic.
And thus with deep regret, and sighs and tears,
I backward look on years that I have lost;
Discourag'd with a mean and criminal cowardice,
By censure, or neglect, or cold reception;—
Which ever fortitude, and manliness,
Should breast, and rise against with proud disdain.
The world by pulling others down suppose
That they can raise themselves into their places:
And finding fault they think a proof of talent,
And that themselves the work could better do.
Affected scorn is the prevailing tone
Of visage, that upon the multitude
Of human countenances holds the sway;
Or heartless ridicule, or stern aperity.
Keep in incessant motion, which the more
They work, are buoyant more, and more elastic.
And thus with deep regret, and sighs and tears,
I backward look on years that I have lost;
Discourag'd with a mean and criminal cowardice,
By censure, or neglect, or cold reception;—
Which ever fortitude, and manliness,
227
The world by pulling others down suppose
That they can raise themselves into their places:
And finding fault they think a proof of talent,
And that themselves the work could better do.
Affected scorn is the prevailing tone
Of visage, that upon the multitude
Of human countenances holds the sway;
Or heartless ridicule, or stern aperity.
And now, ye Waters, glittering in the sun
In tints of deepest azure, from the theme
Of your majestic beauties I must part.
Be silent now, my Lyre, till thou beginnest
Another chosen subject. Who will hear thee,
I hail with joy, and tears of gratitude;—
Who will reject thee, with tranquillity,
Now I am old and philosophic grown,
I leave to their own tastes, and harsher judgments!
In tints of deepest azure, from the theme
Of your majestic beauties I must part.
Be silent now, my Lyre, till thou beginnest
Another chosen subject. Who will hear thee,
I hail with joy, and tears of gratitude;—
Who will reject thee, with tranquillity,
Now I am old and philosophic grown,
I leave to their own tastes, and harsher judgments!
END OF BOOK VII, AND LAST.
| The Lake of Geneva | |