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. | BOOK III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | The Lake of Geneva |  |
66
BOOK III.
Over thine Eastern head, O Lake, how grand
Lausanne her ancient holy spires erects!
I need not trace her history: but Britons
Ever associate it with Gibbon's name!
—A name now universal!—I can trace it
With selfish fondness from its private source
On the white cliffs, where Dover's frowning towers
O'erlook the ocean of the straits, that separate us
From rival Gaul. There, having climb'd the heights,
That from the town wash'd by the waves ascend,
With panting labour;—leaving on our right
The tower, the draw-bridge, and gigantic walls
Of the stupendous Castle, ever noted
In all the pages of old England's annals,
On a light chalky soil we journey northward,
A little inward from the fearful edge
Of those tremendous cliffs, which Shakespeare's pen
Forever has immortalised;—a scatter'd
Hamlet and humble church,—where from the rim
That overlooks the dashing billows, slopes,
From the cliff westerly, the sheepwalk,—stands:
And close adjoining the obscure remains
Of the old manor-house. How little now
Are these to outward sight! But the creative
Mind beholds in them a most noble spot;
The source, the cradle of a mighty genius;
Nor will it doubt, that when the rural lords
Were wandering o'er these ocean-misted fields,
In days of the Tudorian Princess, or
Under the feeble but tyrannic rod
Of Scotish Stuart's race, to vulgar eyes
Only like rival squires of plough-tail memory,
That in their brains the fruitful seeds were working
Of future European eminence!
Lausanne her ancient holy spires erects!
I need not trace her history: but Britons
Ever associate it with Gibbon's name!
—A name now universal!—I can trace it
With selfish fondness from its private source
On the white cliffs, where Dover's frowning towers
O'erlook the ocean of the straits, that separate us
From rival Gaul. There, having climb'd the heights,
That from the town wash'd by the waves ascend,
With panting labour;—leaving on our right
The tower, the draw-bridge, and gigantic walls
Of the stupendous Castle, ever noted
In all the pages of old England's annals,
On a light chalky soil we journey northward,
A little inward from the fearful edge
Of those tremendous cliffs, which Shakespeare's pen
Forever has immortalised;—a scatter'd
67
That overlooks the dashing billows, slopes,
From the cliff westerly, the sheepwalk,—stands:
And close adjoining the obscure remains
Of the old manor-house. How little now
Are these to outward sight! But the creative
Mind beholds in them a most noble spot;
The source, the cradle of a mighty genius;
Nor will it doubt, that when the rural lords
Were wandering o'er these ocean-misted fields,
In days of the Tudorian Princess, or
Under the feeble but tyrannic rod
Of Scotish Stuart's race, to vulgar eyes
Only like rival squires of plough-tail memory,
That in their brains the fruitful seeds were working
Of future European eminence!
How have I trac'd them in the parish records
With a fond microscopic industry,
Which fools and half-philosophers call dull!
There the great grandsire of the younger stock
Whence sprung th' Historian, planted his young offset
From an old root, as antiquaries tell us,
Of credit in cotemporary days,
(For thus, old Philipot, hast thou recorded!)—
It was a fief bought from th'impoverish'd fortune
Of a most gallant Peer, whom wise Elizabeth
Plac'd on green Erin's barbarous habitants
To rule rebellion by a fearless sword!
The tasteless recklessness of times gone by
May unacquainted be with Borough's name!
But 'twas of primal ancientry, and sprung
From Cantium's Earl in the heroic times
Of the first royalty of proud Plantagenet:
And in its source e'en higher than that name
Of glorious feudal splendor! For the searcher
Of genealogical sagacity
Will trace it as a lineal male descendant
Of the first race of Merovingian kings!
And hence Jerusalem in the first Crusades
Drew its third Monarch.—O thou beautiful,
Illumin'd Spirit—who with piercing eyes
And rapturous gaze the misty veil withdrawest,
With which Time covers Truth! is it then possible
That thou the stigma shouldst incur of dryness,—
Of barren curiosity—of trifling
Research and labour? O most odious envy!
O most mean, vulgar, ignorant conceit!
O most accurs'd mistaker of dull darkness
For light! Thou hast no pleasure but to blast
The seeds of glory, and nip in the bud
The blossoms and the fruit of all that's grand!
With a fond microscopic industry,
Which fools and half-philosophers call dull!
There the great grandsire of the younger stock
Whence sprung th' Historian, planted his young offset
From an old root, as antiquaries tell us,
Of credit in cotemporary days,
(For thus, old Philipot, hast thou recorded!)—
It was a fief bought from th'impoverish'd fortune
Of a most gallant Peer, whom wise Elizabeth
Plac'd on green Erin's barbarous habitants
To rule rebellion by a fearless sword!
The tasteless recklessness of times gone by
May unacquainted be with Borough's name!
68
From Cantium's Earl in the heroic times
Of the first royalty of proud Plantagenet:
And in its source e'en higher than that name
Of glorious feudal splendor! For the searcher
Of genealogical sagacity
Will trace it as a lineal male descendant
Of the first race of Merovingian kings!
And hence Jerusalem in the first Crusades
Drew its third Monarch.—O thou beautiful,
Illumin'd Spirit—who with piercing eyes
And rapturous gaze the misty veil withdrawest,
With which Time covers Truth! is it then possible
That thou the stigma shouldst incur of dryness,—
Of barren curiosity—of trifling
Research and labour? O most odious envy!
O most mean, vulgar, ignorant conceit!
O most accurs'd mistaker of dull darkness
For light! Thou hast no pleasure but to blast
The seeds of glory, and nip in the bud
The blossoms and the fruit of all that's grand!
So thus with thee, old Lord of these high lands,
Wash'd by the Ocean's spray! thy sword was all,
Or nearly all th'inheritance thou hadst
In worldly goods; and therefore was the glory
Of thy most princely origin forgotten!
And now Necessity, that ever gripes
Magnanimous merit, forc'd from thy possession
This humble but belov'd manorial heritage;
And the small purchase fell to Gibbon's lot!
Wash'd by the Ocean's spray! thy sword was all,
Or nearly all th'inheritance thou hadst
In worldly goods; and therefore was the glory
Of thy most princely origin forgotten!
And now Necessity, that ever gripes
Magnanimous merit, forc'd from thy possession
This humble but belov'd manorial heritage;
And the small purchase fell to Gibbon's lot!
69
Now two and forty years have pass'd away,
Since with fond eye I visited the relics
Of this decaying mansion, and its church,
A structure mean, neglected, unadorn'd,
On whose cold pavement were the stones inscribed
With a few names and dates;—all that remain'd
Within these sacred walls of the memorials
Of a once-numerous race. And then again
Thro the old manor-house with searching eye,
And heart that almost beat with curiosity,
I forward forc'd my steps: the little hall,
Earth-floor'd, was now a filthy magazine
For wood and lumber: here and there initials
And dates remain'd in carve-work: and my eye
Glow'd, when the heraldric ensigns round the cornice
Of one apartment, blazon'd in their colours,
Still shone—a lion and three scallop-shells.
A coat not unbecoming nobler stocks!
And underneath the date—One thousand and
Six hundred twenty seven!—'Twas the grandfather
Of him, whose son, a too well known Director
Of the mad South-sea Bubble, made his fortune,
Lost it again by punishment deserv'd,
And then again remade it. But the old man,
His father, from a younger brother's share,—
One of a numerous bed—had carv'd himself
A plentiful endowment in the City,
Whither the younger shoots of gentilitial
Trees were accustom'd to resort for nutriment,—
Matthew, his name baptismal: still it stands
Recorded in the old parochial Register.
The date—let sceptics note it well, and search—
Was, sixteen hundred forty two—precise.
The Historian, of his son, the bubble-monger,
A brief but spirited portraiture has given.
A year or two before the Historian's birth
He died, respected, rich, and of a fame
For talents, and intelligence political,
As well as mercantile. His long removal
From native soils had drop'd his Kentish ties,
And little to his children and his grandson
He left of the remembrance.
Since with fond eye I visited the relics
Of this decaying mansion, and its church,
A structure mean, neglected, unadorn'd,
On whose cold pavement were the stones inscribed
With a few names and dates;—all that remain'd
Within these sacred walls of the memorials
Of a once-numerous race. And then again
Thro the old manor-house with searching eye,
And heart that almost beat with curiosity,
I forward forc'd my steps: the little hall,
Earth-floor'd, was now a filthy magazine
For wood and lumber: here and there initials
And dates remain'd in carve-work: and my eye
Glow'd, when the heraldric ensigns round the cornice
Of one apartment, blazon'd in their colours,
Still shone—a lion and three scallop-shells.
A coat not unbecoming nobler stocks!
And underneath the date—One thousand and
Six hundred twenty seven!—'Twas the grandfather
Of him, whose son, a too well known Director
Of the mad South-sea Bubble, made his fortune,
Lost it again by punishment deserv'd,
And then again remade it. But the old man,
His father, from a younger brother's share,—
One of a numerous bed—had carv'd himself
A plentiful endowment in the City,
Whither the younger shoots of gentilitial
Trees were accustom'd to resort for nutriment,—
Matthew, his name baptismal: still it stands
70
The date—let sceptics note it well, and search—
Was, sixteen hundred forty two—precise.
The Historian, of his son, the bubble-monger,
A brief but spirited portraiture has given.
A year or two before the Historian's birth
He died, respected, rich, and of a fame
For talents, and intelligence political,
As well as mercantile. His long removal
From native soils had drop'd his Kentish ties,
And little to his children and his grandson
He left of the remembrance.
But the Muse
Must wander back again to more remote
æras, when in a narrower sphere the race
Busied themselves. When Puritanic rage
Troubled the land with civil broils, they took,
If I have not mis-spelt, the people's part.
And yet I a tradition have, obscure
And half-forgotten, of the contrary:
Rich they then were assuredly, and bought
Many fair lands: and sons and daughters flourish'd
Spous'd to the worthiest of the neighbouring houses.
There Digges, and Cowper, lyric Sandys, and Hammond,
And Marsham, and Anacreon Stanley, and Wyatt,
Fair Aucher of remote antiquity,
And St.-Leger of Norman lustre,—Finet
And Mennis, courtly wits—and learned Boys,
And travel'd Bargrave, scientific Rooke,
And Harflete, and the truly eminent Twysdens,
Judge and Historian, and the accomplish'd Dering,
Though by wise Clarendon too well remember'd
For an unlucky vanity.
Must wander back again to more remote
æras, when in a narrower sphere the race
Busied themselves. When Puritanic rage
Troubled the land with civil broils, they took,
If I have not mis-spelt, the people's part.
And yet I a tradition have, obscure
And half-forgotten, of the contrary:
Rich they then were assuredly, and bought
Many fair lands: and sons and daughters flourish'd
Spous'd to the worthiest of the neighbouring houses.
There Digges, and Cowper, lyric Sandys, and Hammond,
And Marsham, and Anacreon Stanley, and Wyatt,
Fair Aucher of remote antiquity,
And St.-Leger of Norman lustre,—Finet
And Mennis, courtly wits—and learned Boys,
And travel'd Bargrave, scientific Rooke,
And Harflete, and the truly eminent Twysdens,
71
Though by wise Clarendon too well remember'd
For an unlucky vanity.
Enough
Perchance of barren catalogue I've given:
But who will wonder if here wit and learning
Shone in a province, where for centuries
Sackville and Sydney, names for ever dear,
Presided. Mute, and with shorn beams, and lost,
Are now those growing lamps! and a dull cloud
Of heavy and impenetrable vapour
Sits o'er the province! Not a name but thine,
O Tenterden; and thine, accomplish'd Prelate
Of Peterborough's mitre, now adorns it!
Perchance of barren catalogue I've given:
But who will wonder if here wit and learning
Shone in a province, where for centuries
Sackville and Sydney, names for ever dear,
Presided. Mute, and with shorn beams, and lost,
Are now those growing lamps! and a dull cloud
Of heavy and impenetrable vapour
Sits o'er the province! Not a name but thine,
O Tenterden; and thine, accomplish'd Prelate
Of Peterborough's mitre, now adorns it!
Then, Gibbon, was thy wife by close alliance
From the same mother sprung with her, the wife
Of one who, fam'd in law and politics
From the first Charles's reign to despot-driving
William, was ever on the side of freedom!
Maynard, to whom the patriot monarch gave
The seals of equity in his old age!—
And thus the city draper, in alliance
Nephew to him who held the royal seals,
Kept his head high among the sons of commerce.
From the same mother sprung with her, the wife
Of one who, fam'd in law and politics
From the first Charles's reign to despot-driving
William, was ever on the side of freedom!
Maynard, to whom the patriot monarch gave
The seals of equity in his old age!—
And thus the city draper, in alliance
Nephew to him who held the royal seals,
Kept his head high among the sons of commerce.
Meantime Westcliffe's old Hall receiv'd at intervals
The congregated branches: to the cliffs
They wander'd, and in half-regretful memory
Heard the waves beat beneath them, and beheld
The white cliffs and the glittering towers of Calais
Across the tumbling tides in beautiful
And heart-arousing colours lift themselves!
Then oft they stroll'd to gaze upon the Castle,
Or to the busy town beneath, whose harbour
Crowded with entrances and exits, ever
Supplied a moving, rich variety.
And much they talk'd of their ascending hopes;
And of their rival children; and the fire
That shone already in their eyes, when fame
And wealth and honours, and the distant grandeur,
That far beyond the bounds of provinces
Of petty circuit, stretch'd to grasp the world,
And in dim vision they beheld the glories
That after on their proud posterity
Should fall!
The congregated branches: to the cliffs
They wander'd, and in half-regretful memory
Heard the waves beat beneath them, and beheld
The white cliffs and the glittering towers of Calais
Across the tumbling tides in beautiful
72
Then oft they stroll'd to gaze upon the Castle,
Or to the busy town beneath, whose harbour
Crowded with entrances and exits, ever
Supplied a moving, rich variety.
And much they talk'd of their ascending hopes;
And of their rival children; and the fire
That shone already in their eyes, when fame
And wealth and honours, and the distant grandeur,
That far beyond the bounds of provinces
Of petty circuit, stretch'd to grasp the world,
And in dim vision they beheld the glories
That after on their proud posterity
Should fall!
And here the fortune-teller came,
And taking an unmarried damsel's hand,
And archly looking in her timid eye,
Said “Fair one, there is gloom upon thy countenance
“Mix'd with those streaks of glowing light, which laugh
“Rosily through the clouds!
“I do not say these streaks of light shall conquer,
“And keep off evil from thy future fate:—
“Much shalt thou have to suffer! Yet infus'd
“Into thy cup shall also be much joy!
“E'en here upon thy natal spot shalt thou
“Know some few years of pleasure in a love
“Not unbecoming thee! But yet it shall
“Be mix'd with cares, and terrors, and distractions,
“And much thy thoughtless, but good-nature'd husband
“Shall waste; and shall at last exhaust the patience
“Of friends as well as foes; and then shall Ruin
“Come irrecoverable; and sweep all!
“And then again with weeping and convuls'd
“Embraces shalt thou be withdrawn away,
“With all thy little ones, across th'Atlantic,
“And in American woods among barbarians
“End thy last days!—O weep not, sigh not, tremble not!
“Thou art a young enthusiast, and thou lovest
“Glory; and dost delight to make the future
“Over the present rule! Then let the flame
“Of hope upon that swelling bosom play!
“For of those little ones, who by thy side
“Will weeping hang, and, when the stormy howl
“Of billows o'er thy rolling vessel breaks,
“Will shriek, and clasp thee, and for help from thee
“Uselessly call, shall come a future race,
“Whose sway shall o'er the northern Continent,
“Thy destiny, be mighty! and whose name,
“When future empires, threatning the old world,
“Shall rise among the most renown'd, shall shine;
“And Randolph's race,—and of their female blood
“Intrepid patriot Jefferson,—shall trace
“Their blood to thee!” Thus ended, the proud maid
A golden tribute to the palm applied.
And taking an unmarried damsel's hand,
And archly looking in her timid eye,
Said “Fair one, there is gloom upon thy countenance
“Mix'd with those streaks of glowing light, which laugh
“Rosily through the clouds!
“I do not say these streaks of light shall conquer,
“And keep off evil from thy future fate:—
“Much shalt thou have to suffer! Yet infus'd
“Into thy cup shall also be much joy!
“E'en here upon thy natal spot shalt thou
“Know some few years of pleasure in a love
“Not unbecoming thee! But yet it shall
“Be mix'd with cares, and terrors, and distractions,
“And much thy thoughtless, but good-nature'd husband
“Shall waste; and shall at last exhaust the patience
73
“Come irrecoverable; and sweep all!
“And then again with weeping and convuls'd
“Embraces shalt thou be withdrawn away,
“With all thy little ones, across th'Atlantic,
“And in American woods among barbarians
“End thy last days!—O weep not, sigh not, tremble not!
“Thou art a young enthusiast, and thou lovest
“Glory; and dost delight to make the future
“Over the present rule! Then let the flame
“Of hope upon that swelling bosom play!
“For of those little ones, who by thy side
“Will weeping hang, and, when the stormy howl
“Of billows o'er thy rolling vessel breaks,
“Will shriek, and clasp thee, and for help from thee
“Uselessly call, shall come a future race,
“Whose sway shall o'er the northern Continent,
“Thy destiny, be mighty! and whose name,
“When future empires, threatning the old world,
“Shall rise among the most renown'd, shall shine;
“And Randolph's race,—and of their female blood
“Intrepid patriot Jefferson,—shall trace
“Their blood to thee!” Thus ended, the proud maid
A golden tribute to the palm applied.
Then smiling came a comrade, on the arm
Of the fair damsel leaning; from the stock,
And of the name, who from the town below
The castle, came that day upon a visit.
“And thou too, pretty one, went on the Gypsy,
“Wilt hear thy fortune!—well; it shall be told;
“And thou wilt not repent it! Look not sceptical!
“Seest thou not at a distance, on the edge
“Of the cliff sporting there, a manly form
“Double thy girlish age! Not for a lover
“Thou canst behold him now! He has already
“A faithful wife! and see that little infant
“Hanging in fearful gaiety on his skirts!
“It is his only child! and not thro her
“The name can be preserv'd! But let me whisper
“Soft in thine ear; lest he should hear the secret
“Of fate;—the mother of that little one
“Will but a little while survive: and then—
“Start not! yes, thou shalt be his wedded wife!
“Now pause!—and think upon thy fate!—I have not
“Yet told, what still more deeply may, perchance,
“Affect thee! thou shalt have a son; but he
“Shall die in youth; yet not before his father.
“That father in the bloom of manhood shall
“Sink to the grave; and in a little space
“Thou shalt in other nuptials comfort seek!
Of the fair damsel leaning; from the stock,
And of the name, who from the town below
The castle, came that day upon a visit.
“And thou too, pretty one, went on the Gypsy,
“Wilt hear thy fortune!—well; it shall be told;
74
“Seest thou not at a distance, on the edge
“Of the cliff sporting there, a manly form
“Double thy girlish age! Not for a lover
“Thou canst behold him now! He has already
“A faithful wife! and see that little infant
“Hanging in fearful gaiety on his skirts!
“It is his only child! and not thro her
“The name can be preserv'd! But let me whisper
“Soft in thine ear; lest he should hear the secret
“Of fate;—the mother of that little one
“Will but a little while survive: and then—
“Start not! yes, thou shalt be his wedded wife!
“Now pause!—and think upon thy fate!—I have not
“Yet told, what still more deeply may, perchance,
“Affect thee! thou shalt have a son; but he
“Shall die in youth; yet not before his father.
“That father in the bloom of manhood shall
“Sink to the grave; and in a little space
“Thou shalt in other nuptials comfort seek!
“Then of thee shall be born a child of lustre,
“Who shall on Britain's woolsack sit with fame
“Unrival'd, almost through a glorious reign;
“And wealth and honours shall acquire, and found
“A noble race of potent chiefs, and hold
“Proud Hardwick's Earldom many a generation!
“Who shall on Britain's woolsack sit with fame
“Unrival'd, almost through a glorious reign;
“And wealth and honours shall acquire, and found
“A noble race of potent chiefs, and hold
“Proud Hardwick's Earldom many a generation!
“But dost thou ask what fate the little one,
“To which thou shall be stepmother, may have?
“I cannot tell thee all! I see before me
“The spirit of a future trembling Being,
“Who shall be a devoted morbid creature
“Of all the Muses; and to him will fall
“The lot, to tell the story of this little one:
“For he from her will his corporeal blood
“Draw; and full much of those from whom he springs
“It will be his delight to tell,—defying
“Envy's and folly's ever-ready censures;
“And feeding his wild fancy with the thought,
“That in the group of common blood, of those
“Now met within my sight, there is a spirit
“Of rarer intellect, not oft bestow'd
“Through a whole race; and which shall long endure,
“And not be in successive generations
“Spent! But the world will still believe him wild,
“And give but little credit to his visions!”
“To which thou shall be stepmother, may have?
“I cannot tell thee all! I see before me
“The spirit of a future trembling Being,
75
“Of all the Muses; and to him will fall
“The lot, to tell the story of this little one:
“For he from her will his corporeal blood
“Draw; and full much of those from whom he springs
“It will be his delight to tell,—defying
“Envy's and folly's ever-ready censures;
“And feeding his wild fancy with the thought,
“That in the group of common blood, of those
“Now met within my sight, there is a spirit
“Of rarer intellect, not oft bestow'd
“Through a whole race; and which shall long endure,
“And not be in successive generations
“Spent! But the world will still believe him wild,
“And give but little credit to his visions!”
And now the Gypsy vanish'd, and the mind
Of each who heard her, with the mysteries
Was touch'd; and thought by day, and dreamt at night,
Of all the glimmering future. Of that future
My task goes on th'unfoldings to relate.
I have the birth related of the draper,
Born in the ancient manor-house, abutting
Upon the lofty cliffs oppos'd to Calais.
Edward, the son, enlarg'd his father's dealings;
And was a London merchant, of his class
Among the first. At length ambition led him,
Or most rapacious love of gain, to join
Those windy projects, call'd the Southsea Bubble,
Such as, though reason laughs at, were again
Re-acted in this isle scarce six years past.
Remote at length from natal spots, which went
To strangers, he the evening of his days
Clos'd near that city, where the scene was plac'd
Of his most busy, money-getting life.
Then to another province his rich son
Transplanted, spent his days with country squires.
But for inheritance the paternal temper
Knew not, diminishing the heap his sire
Delighted to accumulate: a man
Of moody humour—speculative, silent,
Keeping lock'd up within his working brain
His unsubstantial projects,—melancholy
When what he hop'd had not succeeded, yet
Not telling why!—and when death came, his fortune
Found to be more than half dissolv'd away.
Of each who heard her, with the mysteries
Was touch'd; and thought by day, and dreamt at night,
Of all the glimmering future. Of that future
My task goes on th'unfoldings to relate.
I have the birth related of the draper,
Born in the ancient manor-house, abutting
Upon the lofty cliffs oppos'd to Calais.
Edward, the son, enlarg'd his father's dealings;
And was a London merchant, of his class
Among the first. At length ambition led him,
Or most rapacious love of gain, to join
Those windy projects, call'd the Southsea Bubble,
Such as, though reason laughs at, were again
Re-acted in this isle scarce six years past.
76
To strangers, he the evening of his days
Clos'd near that city, where the scene was plac'd
Of his most busy, money-getting life.
Then to another province his rich son
Transplanted, spent his days with country squires.
But for inheritance the paternal temper
Knew not, diminishing the heap his sire
Delighted to accumulate: a man
Of moody humour—speculative, silent,
Keeping lock'd up within his working brain
His unsubstantial projects,—melancholy
When what he hop'd had not succeeded, yet
Not telling why!—and when death came, his fortune
Found to be more than half dissolv'd away.
And now we reach the child, to whom this song
Is rigidly appropriate,—the immortal
Historian of Declining Rome.—Lausanne,
How much of that stupendous task didst thou
Each morning shine upon! though not with thee
The mighty project first arose. In Rome
Itself the light of that gigantic scheme
First broke upon the young and fervid author.
Early emancipated from the trammels
Of roofs paternal, he commenc'd to be,
When yet a child, a winged citizen
Of the wide world's exaustless climes and people.
In that ill-form'd and feeble frame of body
A rich, a vigorous, and plastic soul
Resided, and in infancy began
To seek for food out of the common reach.
Is rigidly appropriate,—the immortal
Historian of Declining Rome.—Lausanne,
How much of that stupendous task didst thou
Each morning shine upon! though not with thee
The mighty project first arose. In Rome
Itself the light of that gigantic scheme
First broke upon the young and fervid author.
Early emancipated from the trammels
Of roofs paternal, he commenc'd to be,
When yet a child, a winged citizen
Of the wide world's exaustless climes and people.
In that ill-form'd and feeble frame of body
77
Resided, and in infancy began
To seek for food out of the common reach.
But all was bent upon the tale of man
Acting beneath the chains of social ties,
And form'd by artificial policy.
First the false glare of oriental fable
Attracted him: but by degrees the sober
Investigation of that history,
Now philosophic call'd, absorb'd the keen
Yet patient faculties of his dissecting
And critic mind. The wild imaginations
Of range poetic were to him unknown.
The reigning literature of the French school,
And above others plausible Voltaire,
Too much delighted and misled his taste,
And made him sceptical, ironical,
Piquant, and pointed, far beyond the bounds
A pure and classic taste approves. In truth
A genius of the highest tone and reach
Did not belong to him! Even and formal,
His style and thoughts in one unvarying mould
Were cast. A constant balancing of periods,
An artful application of one mode
Of keen dissection and comparison,
A calm resolve to measure, weigh, adjust;
A stream clear, unperturb'd, and imperturbable,
A patient industry, which, as 'twas calm,
Was ne'er exhausted, erudition varied
Of ancient and of modern lore,—combin'd
To constitute a work unrival'd yet,
And never likely to be fairly rival'd.
Acting beneath the chains of social ties,
And form'd by artificial policy.
First the false glare of oriental fable
Attracted him: but by degrees the sober
Investigation of that history,
Now philosophic call'd, absorb'd the keen
Yet patient faculties of his dissecting
And critic mind. The wild imaginations
Of range poetic were to him unknown.
The reigning literature of the French school,
And above others plausible Voltaire,
Too much delighted and misled his taste,
And made him sceptical, ironical,
Piquant, and pointed, far beyond the bounds
A pure and classic taste approves. In truth
A genius of the highest tone and reach
Did not belong to him! Even and formal,
His style and thoughts in one unvarying mould
Were cast. A constant balancing of periods,
An artful application of one mode
Of keen dissection and comparison,
A calm resolve to measure, weigh, adjust;
A stream clear, unperturb'd, and imperturbable,
A patient industry, which, as 'twas calm,
Was ne'er exhausted, erudition varied
Of ancient and of modern lore,—combin'd
78
And never likely to be fairly rival'd.
In that most admirable edifice
Of symmetry and grace, and rich materials
Drawn from all learning's granaries measureless,
The very Notes, brief, pointed, big with meaning
And critical discussion, are alone
Sufficient to secure immortal fame.
The mind that such a subject could compress
Into so small a space, in luminous
Narration, had a faculty to pierce,
Arrange, and recompose, which minds sagacious
Must contemplate with wonder, and with ceaseless
Praise.
Of symmetry and grace, and rich materials
Drawn from all learning's granaries measureless,
The very Notes, brief, pointed, big with meaning
And critical discussion, are alone
Sufficient to secure immortal fame.
The mind that such a subject could compress
Into so small a space, in luminous
Narration, had a faculty to pierce,
Arrange, and recompose, which minds sagacious
Must contemplate with wonder, and with ceaseless
Praise.
When upon th'Historian's windows shone
The morning sun by Alpine heights reflected,
With what a consciousness of tranquil pleasure
He rose, his daily web to weave in threads
Of golden light, that still engag'd the eye,
Though of one endless pattern. Dear retreat,
Where all the little passions of ambition,
And restless vanity, and odious rivalry,
Of that small world so ignorantly call'd
The great, and fashion's ideotic judgments,
The vile ennui of vile activity
In most debasing trifles,—were forgot!
The morning sun by Alpine heights reflected,
With what a consciousness of tranquil pleasure
He rose, his daily web to weave in threads
Of golden light, that still engag'd the eye,
Though of one endless pattern. Dear retreat,
Where all the little passions of ambition,
And restless vanity, and odious rivalry,
Of that small world so ignorantly call'd
The great, and fashion's ideotic judgments,
The vile ennui of vile activity
In most debasing trifles,—were forgot!
Here the mind free to follow its own native
Excursions, its own native pure emotions
To suffer and to nurse; its own opinions
To rest upon; by no rude blind resistance
To be assaulted and confus'd, could give
Full scope to its own energies. The turmoil
Of agitated, agitating life,
In the curs'd workings of the restless passions,
In crowded walks of the stirr'd social world,
Will not permit the gathering creations
Of plastic minds to work themselves to form,
And visible embodiment. In solitude
Of natural unalloy'd sublimities,
The spirits of th'invisible regions
Come forth, and play the gambols on man's brain.
In solitude a man may yet be wicked:
In the world's crowded bustle, and loud stir
Of imitation, he cannot be good!
But are the fruits of mental genius goodness,
If they be not true likewise, as they're able?
They must as least have partial truth to give them
The character of genuine genius!
It is but feeble and affected talent,
Which cannot truth elicit. If it can,
And does not, then it is pure wickedness!
Excursions, its own native pure emotions
To suffer and to nurse; its own opinions
To rest upon; by no rude blind resistance
79
Full scope to its own energies. The turmoil
Of agitated, agitating life,
In the curs'd workings of the restless passions,
In crowded walks of the stirr'd social world,
Will not permit the gathering creations
Of plastic minds to work themselves to form,
And visible embodiment. In solitude
Of natural unalloy'd sublimities,
The spirits of th'invisible regions
Come forth, and play the gambols on man's brain.
In solitude a man may yet be wicked:
In the world's crowded bustle, and loud stir
Of imitation, he cannot be good!
But are the fruits of mental genius goodness,
If they be not true likewise, as they're able?
They must as least have partial truth to give them
The character of genuine genius!
It is but feeble and affected talent,
Which cannot truth elicit. If it can,
And does not, then it is pure wickedness!
Chang'd are the times: of yore the petit maître
Of fashion was a very frivolous creature:
And if the mighty and o'erwhelming flame,
That overset the ancient dynasty
Of France, was pregnant of predominant evil,
It had some cleansing purgatives, and pour'd
A vigour where naught reign'd but feebleness.
All European manners had decayed
Into effeminate artifice, and vice
Of imitative luxuries, where refinement
Of faint o'erpolish'd pleasures damp'd the soul.
Then affectation run thro all the tastes
And occupations of society,
And literature, corrupted and unnerv'd,
Languish'd in vapid and inane productions.
Of fashion was a very frivolous creature:
And if the mighty and o'erwhelming flame,
That overset the ancient dynasty
Of France, was pregnant of predominant evil,
It had some cleansing purgatives, and pour'd
A vigour where naught reign'd but feebleness.
All European manners had decayed
Into effeminate artifice, and vice
80
Of faint o'erpolish'd pleasures damp'd the soul.
Then affectation run thro all the tastes
And occupations of society,
And literature, corrupted and unnerv'd,
Languish'd in vapid and inane productions.
But O ye breezes of the mountains, freshen'd
By exhalations of the spreading waters,
How bracing ye came o'er the frame relax'd
Of Rome's Historian, when from London's smoke,
Its feverish streets, its government corrupt,
Its petty passions, its revolting forms,
He threw himself in your sublime embrace!
By exhalations of the spreading waters,
How bracing ye came o'er the frame relax'd
Of Rome's Historian, when from London's smoke,
Its feverish streets, its government corrupt,
Its petty passions, its revolting forms,
He threw himself in your sublime embrace!
With what emotion I have visited,
(As every traveller) the plain abode,
The refuge where his daily task he plied:
The little garden arbour, where he wrote,
And the broad glorious prospect, which his pen
With rapture celebrates.
(As every traveller) the plain abode,
The refuge where his daily task he plied:
The little garden arbour, where he wrote,
And the broad glorious prospect, which his pen
With rapture celebrates.
But he return'd!
Affection call'd him to his native land;
Fatigue of body to a frame diseas'd
Gave aggravated injury: he linger'd
But a few months in torture, and then died,
Full short of the allotted age of man.
Affection call'd him to his native land;
Fatigue of body to a frame diseas'd
Gave aggravated injury: he linger'd
But a few months in torture, and then died,
Full short of the allotted age of man.
Then did I lose the honour and delight,
But just begun, of a reviv'd alliance!
How little did I think, when I delay'd
His offered visit from the petty fear
A house unroof'd and full of noisy workmen
Would incommode his delicate nerves, th'excuse
Would close the opportunity for ever,
And that in three short months he would be sleeping
In the unhearing grave! He was a guest
Once at thy table, Wootton, when his fate
Plac'd him on Dover's heights, a soldier's duty
To execute with his provincial corps!
It does not seem as if, when in that castle,
Which for a thousand years has bid defiance
To haughty Gallia, he was well aware
How near he was the sacred spot, whence sprung
The long succession of his ancestors!
But just begun, of a reviv'd alliance!
How little did I think, when I delay'd
His offered visit from the petty fear
A house unroof'd and full of noisy workmen
81
Would close the opportunity for ever,
And that in three short months he would be sleeping
In the unhearing grave! He was a guest
Once at thy table, Wootton, when his fate
Plac'd him on Dover's heights, a soldier's duty
To execute with his provincial corps!
It does not seem as if, when in that castle,
Which for a thousand years has bid defiance
To haughty Gallia, he was well aware
How near he was the sacred spot, whence sprung
The long succession of his ancestors!
Lively and clear was his imagination,
Though somewhat quaint; and he, it seems, delighted
With ancestorial fondness to look back
On days long past. “And,” here when sitting calm
Under the crowded and magnificent oaks
Ofwood-crown'd Wootton, “here” he might have said
“The little one, of which the Gypsy spoke,
“To her fond father clinging, on the edge
“Of those stupendous native cliffs, that hang
“Over the Ocean frowning on the towers
“Of Calais,—O yes, here the little one
“In future days nurs'd up her manly brood
“Sprung from my grandsires; and this gloomy boy,
“Whose lightest auburn locks profusely flow
“Upon his shoulders, and in whose dark eye
“I can discern bright beams of casual flash
“Piercing through darkness, has no vulgar hopes,
“Or aptitudes: that shyness is the nurse
“Of brooding thoughts and high imaginations;
“And he, whate'er be his success, or fame,
“Will give his soul to study and to fiction.
“From him at last the line shall I recover,
“By which the series of my ancestors
“Deep into the ingulphing night of Time
“I may with an unerring clue retrace!
“And he shall honour me and mine, and boast
“With reverential regard my name;
“And when of princely blood, that in his veins
“Flows by a thousand channels, he may talk,
“Still uneclipsed me and mine shall he
“Deem for th'intrinsic qualities of mind,
“Which blaze, as he will argue, far above
“Rank, riches, titles, kingdoms, worldly power!”
Though somewhat quaint; and he, it seems, delighted
With ancestorial fondness to look back
On days long past. “And,” here when sitting calm
Under the crowded and magnificent oaks
Ofwood-crown'd Wootton, “here” he might have said
“The little one, of which the Gypsy spoke,
“To her fond father clinging, on the edge
“Of those stupendous native cliffs, that hang
“Over the Ocean frowning on the towers
“Of Calais,—O yes, here the little one
“In future days nurs'd up her manly brood
“Sprung from my grandsires; and this gloomy boy,
“Whose lightest auburn locks profusely flow
“Upon his shoulders, and in whose dark eye
“I can discern bright beams of casual flash
“Piercing through darkness, has no vulgar hopes,
“Or aptitudes: that shyness is the nurse
82
“And he, whate'er be his success, or fame,
“Will give his soul to study and to fiction.
“From him at last the line shall I recover,
“By which the series of my ancestors
“Deep into the ingulphing night of Time
“I may with an unerring clue retrace!
“And he shall honour me and mine, and boast
“With reverential regard my name;
“And when of princely blood, that in his veins
“Flows by a thousand channels, he may talk,
“Still uneclipsed me and mine shall he
“Deem for th'intrinsic qualities of mind,
“Which blaze, as he will argue, far above
“Rank, riches, titles, kingdoms, worldly power!”
And then he might cry, “Gypsy, come again,
“And tell another tale, so full of pleasure,
“As that which to my grandsires, and their fathers
“And mothers, thou didst tell, ere we departed
“From our paternal heritage, by guess
“(And I would not miscalculate it), nearly
“An hundred years ago! For as thou wert
“A prophetess, I must believe thee spirit,
“And thou perchance mayst still those woodlands haunt
“And tell another tale, so full of pleasure,
“As that which to my grandsires, and their fathers
“And mothers, thou didst tell, ere we departed
“From our paternal heritage, by guess
“(And I would not miscalculate it), nearly
“An hundred years ago! For as thou wert
“A prophetess, I must believe thee spirit,
“And thou perchance mayst still those woodlands haunt
“And oft perhaps from Dover's cliffs, when storms
“Rage, and the billows dash against the clouds,
“And now aloft the groaning vessel rides,
“And now sinks down again into the gulph
“Of whelming waters, inland tak'st thy way,
“And o'er the hills and vallies intervening,
“A little southward to the left inclin'd,
“Frequentest halls of squires, and hearths of cottagers.
“O tell the chronicle of what has past
“In those wild regions, since the name of Gibbon
“Departed from its ancestorial lands!
“But tell me most the future fate of him,
“Who now addresses thee! Who burns with fire
“Of fame, which yet he scarce can firmly dare
“To hope will be fulfill'd to his ambition!”
Thus to the Gypsy he perchance had spoken,
And if he spoke it, were this lively Gypsy
A very prophetess, she would have said
“Thy hopes shall be fulfil'd, and thou shalt ride
“Upon the wings of fame full mightily;
“For many a year thy gorgeous web shall grow
“Upon the Leman Lake; and when 'tis finish'd,
“And to the world unroll'd, all eyes shall gaze
“With admiration on it; but for thee
“It shall thy doom be, to thy native land
“In haste to come, the triumph to enjoy;—
“But then alas! thine earthly days shall close!”
“Rage, and the billows dash against the clouds,
“And now aloft the groaning vessel rides,
“And now sinks down again into the gulph
“Of whelming waters, inland tak'st thy way,
“And o'er the hills and vallies intervening,
83
“Frequentest halls of squires, and hearths of cottagers.
“O tell the chronicle of what has past
“In those wild regions, since the name of Gibbon
“Departed from its ancestorial lands!
“But tell me most the future fate of him,
“Who now addresses thee! Who burns with fire
“Of fame, which yet he scarce can firmly dare
“To hope will be fulfill'd to his ambition!”
Thus to the Gypsy he perchance had spoken,
And if he spoke it, were this lively Gypsy
A very prophetess, she would have said
“Thy hopes shall be fulfil'd, and thou shalt ride
“Upon the wings of fame full mightily;
“For many a year thy gorgeous web shall grow
“Upon the Leman Lake; and when 'tis finish'd,
“And to the world unroll'd, all eyes shall gaze
“With admiration on it; but for thee
“It shall thy doom be, to thy native land
“In haste to come, the triumph to enjoy;—
“But then alas! thine earthly days shall close!”
And now, ye waters, and ye varied banks,
Cloath'd with towns, castles, hamlets, and fair villas,
What object next shall my Muse bring to notice?
I see thy walls upraising from the waves
Their massy towers, O Chillon! but on thee
I hesitate to touch, for he, the Bard
From Diodati's chateau, has already
Blaz'd thee with modern notice: yet the song
Is not amongst his happiest efforts there!
If I may freely speak, the mystic strain
Of modern affectation rules too much;—
A catchy, forc'd, irregular, obscure,
Distorted manner; a false air of swell
And inspiration! The plain truth suffices
To fill an uncorrupted reader's mind.
Cloath'd with towns, castles, hamlets, and fair villas,
What object next shall my Muse bring to notice?
I see thy walls upraising from the waves
Their massy towers, O Chillon! but on thee
I hesitate to touch, for he, the Bard
From Diodati's chateau, has already
Blaz'd thee with modern notice: yet the song
Is not amongst his happiest efforts there!
84
Of modern affectation rules too much;—
A catchy, forc'd, irregular, obscure,
Distorted manner; a false air of swell
And inspiration! The plain truth suffices
To fill an uncorrupted reader's mind.
The tale of Bonnivard the chroniclers
Have told with more precision. It is full
In modern books: the antiquarian searches
Of Grenus and of Galiffe have again
Brought it to light:—the hero of the story,
A man of ardent spirit, and a lover
Of liberty, a bold and firm reformer,
Against the bigoted and tyrannic House
Of Savoy a declar'd and open enemy.
But he was rash, impetuous, and wild,
Irregular in manners and opinions.
He knew that Savoy's sovereign sought revenge
For his resistances; and on his way
Careless he ventur'd forth, trusting to faith
Of those who ne'er had kept their word, when interest
Or passion prompted them to disregard it!
Have told with more precision. It is full
In modern books: the antiquarian searches
Of Grenus and of Galiffe have again
Brought it to light:—the hero of the story,
A man of ardent spirit, and a lover
Of liberty, a bold and firm reformer,
Against the bigoted and tyrannic House
Of Savoy a declar'd and open enemy.
But he was rash, impetuous, and wild,
Irregular in manners and opinions.
He knew that Savoy's sovereign sought revenge
For his resistances; and on his way
Careless he ventur'd forth, trusting to faith
Of those who ne'er had kept their word, when interest
Or passion prompted them to disregard it!
And thus his passport scorn'd, into the hands
Disguis'd of that perfidious Prince he fell,
Under the character of highway robbers,
Who gave him up to the arch enemy.
And then to Chillon's water-circled walls
Was he transported: but at first not deep
Into its dungeons: when at last, for cause
Now unrecorded, he was low consign'd
To those dark, damp, and deathlike prison vaults!
Five years he linger'd there; nor is it easy
To give belief that he could life and mind
So long preserve in that terrific depth
Of misery, since free again in limbs
And buoyant spirits he came forth, and liv'd
Yet a few years. But fitter for the Chronicler
Than for the Muse is this minute discussion:
Nor dare I dwell upon a tale, which Byron
With firey and o'erwhelming pen has touch'd.
Disguis'd of that perfidious Prince he fell,
Under the character of highway robbers,
Who gave him up to the arch enemy.
And then to Chillon's water-circled walls
Was he transported: but at first not deep
Into its dungeons: when at last, for cause
Now unrecorded, he was low consign'd
85
Five years he linger'd there; nor is it easy
To give belief that he could life and mind
So long preserve in that terrific depth
Of misery, since free again in limbs
And buoyant spirits he came forth, and liv'd
Yet a few years. But fitter for the Chronicler
Than for the Muse is this minute discussion:
Nor dare I dwell upon a tale, which Byron
With firey and o'erwhelming pen has touch'd.
What the great mind, with native powers endow'd,
By resolution and by industry,
Can do, no sage perchance has yet expounded.
It cannot utterly o'ercome the pangs
And faults of body; but it nearly can
Effect this mighty conquest, and to spirit
Raise the clay-mould. Perchance the firey mind
In damp and cold may make the current flow
Of earthly blood; and may o'erpower the darkness
Of death itself: but 'tis the loss of hope
And self-reliance that destroys the spell.
Then the blood chills, and at the mercy falls
Of all external and material things.
“What we believe that we can do, we can do;”
And want of confidence destroys all power.
Thus genial beams of fame, and the gay cheers
Of others, can alone bring forth the fruits
Of many a rich but timid spirit, which
Knows not its own puissance, till the warmth
Of praise acts on it: without sun what fruit
Can ripen? and then who will toil, and toil,
Hopeless of recompence, and unassur'd
That these fatiguing toils give use or pleasure?
We cease to sing to those who will not hear;
We waste not voices on the passing breeze;
We frame not long creations that may lie
Folded and hid within our own scrutoires.
The love of fame, if it but be a love
That follows worthy labours, is a passion
Virtuous, in degree as it is warm.
He who is dull to it, is selfish, sensual,
And impotent of aught sublime or fair.
By resolution and by industry,
Can do, no sage perchance has yet expounded.
It cannot utterly o'ercome the pangs
And faults of body; but it nearly can
Effect this mighty conquest, and to spirit
Raise the clay-mould. Perchance the firey mind
In damp and cold may make the current flow
Of earthly blood; and may o'erpower the darkness
Of death itself: but 'tis the loss of hope
And self-reliance that destroys the spell.
Then the blood chills, and at the mercy falls
Of all external and material things.
“What we believe that we can do, we can do;”
And want of confidence destroys all power.
Thus genial beams of fame, and the gay cheers
Of others, can alone bring forth the fruits
Of many a rich but timid spirit, which
86
Of praise acts on it: without sun what fruit
Can ripen? and then who will toil, and toil,
Hopeless of recompence, and unassur'd
That these fatiguing toils give use or pleasure?
We cease to sing to those who will not hear;
We waste not voices on the passing breeze;
We frame not long creations that may lie
Folded and hid within our own scrutoires.
The love of fame, if it but be a love
That follows worthy labours, is a passion
Virtuous, in degree as it is warm.
He who is dull to it, is selfish, sensual,
And impotent of aught sublime or fair.
What traveller thro Europe's bounds has left
The sight of thee, Geneva, unregarded?
Where mighty bards have trod, I ever look,
And see their visions hang upon the spot!
And you, ye idols of my childhood, manhood,
And latest age, O Milton, and O Gray,
Hither, when bending to sublime Italia
Your breathless footsteps, with delight ye came,
And tarried on the noble heights of Jura,
To gaze upon the bursting lake before you,
And snow-clad, craggy, numberless, in height
And shape forever varied, Alpine summits,
Crown'd by Mont Blanc, his head among the clouds,
Gainst which the sun's resisted beams of gold
In vain their flames impell'd! a fate congenial
Guided your purposes! Your taste, your feelings,
Your erudition, your commanding strength
Of reason, your deep love of meditation
And solitude, your eye to nature's charms
Open, enraptur'd, curious; glowing words,
Exalted, picturesque; the holy flame
Of most profound devotion, simple fare,
And simple garb, and hate of worldly races,
And worldly tracks of base ambition, and
Of craving appetite of worldly lucre!
The sight of thee, Geneva, unregarded?
Where mighty bards have trod, I ever look,
And see their visions hang upon the spot!
And you, ye idols of my childhood, manhood,
And latest age, O Milton, and O Gray,
Hither, when bending to sublime Italia
Your breathless footsteps, with delight ye came,
And tarried on the noble heights of Jura,
To gaze upon the bursting lake before you,
And snow-clad, craggy, numberless, in height
And shape forever varied, Alpine summits,
Crown'd by Mont Blanc, his head among the clouds,
Gainst which the sun's resisted beams of gold
In vain their flames impell'd! a fate congenial
Guided your purposes! Your taste, your feelings,
87
Of reason, your deep love of meditation
And solitude, your eye to nature's charms
Open, enraptur'd, curious; glowing words,
Exalted, picturesque; the holy flame
Of most profound devotion, simple fare,
And simple garb, and hate of worldly races,
And worldly tracks of base ambition, and
Of craving appetite of worldly lucre!
There are perchance who will condemn this union
Of men unequal in the quantity
Of fruits which they behind them left, if not
In quality and essence! 'Twill be said,
The latter Bard has no creative powers
Display'd; and that without creation none
Dare to the fame aspire of mighty poets.
The grand invention of the Epic, Gray
Never, 'tis true, attempted: but his lyrics
Are with invention rich of ornament
At least, if not design. It was the fault
Of morbidness, that wither'd in the bud
All the magnificent fruits, that in the fountains
Of his resplendent genius glanc'd, and died!
Ample and bright creation lay within
The compass of those vigorous burning powers;
But sorrow from his cradle, the keen sufferings
Of a fond mother, the base moodiness
Of a sour, selfish, rash, and spenthrift father,
Fix'd an incurable gloom upon his heart.
Of men unequal in the quantity
Of fruits which they behind them left, if not
In quality and essence! 'Twill be said,
The latter Bard has no creative powers
Display'd; and that without creation none
Dare to the fame aspire of mighty poets.
The grand invention of the Epic, Gray
Never, 'tis true, attempted: but his lyrics
Are with invention rich of ornament
At least, if not design. It was the fault
Of morbidness, that wither'd in the bud
All the magnificent fruits, that in the fountains
Of his resplendent genius glanc'd, and died!
Ample and bright creation lay within
The compass of those vigorous burning powers;
But sorrow from his cradle, the keen sufferings
Of a fond mother, the base moodiness
Of a sour, selfish, rash, and spenthrift father,
Fix'd an incurable gloom upon his heart.
Not so heroic-minded Milton: he,
Tho not th'advancement worthy of his merit
He found, and tho his Muse found few
If audience fit, yet bated not a jot
Of hope; nay, rather gave full effluence
To a mind overflowing with grand thoughts
And gorgeous imagery. But the times of trouble,
When civil discord stain'd the fields with blood,
Came, and the Bard to liberty's defence
Gave all the studies of his days and nights.
And when his eyes, “in this sublime defence
O'erplied,” their vision lost, his spirit sunk not,
But rising in gigantic energy
Of inward light, as outward objects, shut
From his perception, were as if they were not,
His faculties miraculous, of high
Creation, glow'd with more abundant brightness.
88
He found, and tho his Muse found few
If audience fit, yet bated not a jot
Of hope; nay, rather gave full effluence
To a mind overflowing with grand thoughts
And gorgeous imagery. But the times of trouble,
When civil discord stain'd the fields with blood,
Came, and the Bard to liberty's defence
Gave all the studies of his days and nights.
And when his eyes, “in this sublime defence
O'erplied,” their vision lost, his spirit sunk not,
But rising in gigantic energy
Of inward light, as outward objects, shut
From his perception, were as if they were not,
His faculties miraculous, of high
Creation, glow'd with more abundant brightness.
Ah! with what exquisite intensity
Of mental pleasure did his moments pass,
Thus occupied, while Gray in sad ennui
Linger'd away a life, where in the bosom
The fire pent up, smoulder'd in smoke away.
Then came the sickness of the heart; the blood
Poison'd with vapours; and the limbs convuls'd;
And death, a kind releaser. Ere the course
Of nature, duly exercised, had brought
This earthly being to an end, had seeds
Of glowing genius, congregated in
The narrow limits of a feeble frame,
Consum'd the boundaries of their abode.
Of mental pleasure did his moments pass,
Thus occupied, while Gray in sad ennui
Linger'd away a life, where in the bosom
The fire pent up, smoulder'd in smoke away.
Then came the sickness of the heart; the blood
Poison'd with vapours; and the limbs convuls'd;
And death, a kind releaser. Ere the course
Of nature, duly exercised, had brought
This earthly being to an end, had seeds
Of glowing genius, congregated in
The narrow limits of a feeble frame,
Consum'd the boundaries of their abode.
Short was the sojourn that the lyric Bard
Made on the beautiful expanse, Geneva,
Of thy sweet rainbow-painted waves, embosom'd
In mountains of a thousand shapes and colours,
Nor yet had met his heart, or caught his ear
The music of thy magic words, Rousseau!
O with what rapture, when they reach'd him, did
His bosom and his fancy drink them in!
89
Of thy sweet rainbow-painted waves, embosom'd
In mountains of a thousand shapes and colours,
Nor yet had met his heart, or caught his ear
The music of thy magic words, Rousseau!
O with what rapture, when they reach'd him, did
His bosom and his fancy drink them in!
In vain we search the processes of mind,
And causes of the different characters
Of human genius. Rocks, and mountains, lakes,
And all the wonders of sublimity
In nature's forms, had seem'd to be the proper
Food of poetic and creative faculties.
Not so experience of the happier spirits
Born on the borders of the Leman waters:
Studies of graver cast are theirs; to sciences
Exact are bent their labours; and of fancy
They deem the lights are but delusive vapour.
Strange thought! but judging from the common cup
Of drink, produc'd as nectar, which assumes
The name of poetry, less far removed
From truth, than critics may at first suppose.
The draught, which the corrupted multitude
Joys in, with every nauseous stimulant
Is mingled in predominant excess.
It is a false exhilaration, pregnant
With every poison.
And causes of the different characters
Of human genius. Rocks, and mountains, lakes,
And all the wonders of sublimity
In nature's forms, had seem'd to be the proper
Food of poetic and creative faculties.
Not so experience of the happier spirits
Born on the borders of the Leman waters:
Studies of graver cast are theirs; to sciences
Exact are bent their labours; and of fancy
They deem the lights are but delusive vapour.
Strange thought! but judging from the common cup
Of drink, produc'd as nectar, which assumes
The name of poetry, less far removed
From truth, than critics may at first suppose.
The draught, which the corrupted multitude
Joys in, with every nauseous stimulant
Is mingled in predominant excess.
It is a false exhilaration, pregnant
With every poison.
But what is real poetry? Not folly;—
But highest truths told in the highest manner!
To them all sciences are merely naught;—
They teach the movements of the soul;—the actions
Of the most susceptible heart; the thoughts,
Which not cold reason, but the holy fire
Of inspiration, dictates. Not to dress
In childish ornaments most common objects,
And make them pass for wonderful with vulgar
And ideotic minds: not with vain toil
The fillagree of costly gold and silver
Into fantastic forms to work, that eyes,
Of curious trifles passionate, may gaze on;
But to throw lights into those depths, where only
Imagination's flame can pierce;—the secrets,
Which most it man behoves to know: for what
Comparatively is the boasted science
Of vegetation, animal, material
Life, and its laws? But that which represents
The spirit in fantastic and untrue
Manner discharging its fine operations,
Is not the lesson of the genuine Muse.
But highest truths told in the highest manner!
To them all sciences are merely naught;—
90
Of the most susceptible heart; the thoughts,
Which not cold reason, but the holy fire
Of inspiration, dictates. Not to dress
In childish ornaments most common objects,
And make them pass for wonderful with vulgar
And ideotic minds: not with vain toil
The fillagree of costly gold and silver
Into fantastic forms to work, that eyes,
Of curious trifles passionate, may gaze on;
But to throw lights into those depths, where only
Imagination's flame can pierce;—the secrets,
Which most it man behoves to know: for what
Comparatively is the boasted science
Of vegetation, animal, material
Life, and its laws? But that which represents
The spirit in fantastic and untrue
Manner discharging its fine operations,
Is not the lesson of the genuine Muse.
Truth is a beauty, which rejects in scorn
All empty ornament; and most rejects it,
When it would cover faults: the tricky glare
O' the painter, who essays to draw attention
By tints unchaste, graceless, extravagant,
The universal scorn incurs. Not so
The labouring, turgid, falsely-swelling poet.
Oft for a time he captivates the multitude,
And e'en the critic, who aspires to know
A lesson far above the multitude's
Pretensions. He who takes a composition,
Which aims at praise poetic, and when read,
Has learn'd no lesson of sound wisdom from it,
Has spent his moments on a fruit not genuine.
In our old poets who enjoy'd a name,
There is not ought but wisdom: there we seek
For lore profound of moral science, vers'd
In all the nice perplexities, which fate
Ordains that man by study should evolve!
Thus Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Cowley, Davenant;
Thus Davies, Waller, Butler, Denham, Dryden,
And Pope and Prior, and neglected Harte:
Thus old George Sandys, and even Wither's Muse,
Once vulgar deem'd.—To fountains such as these
Of living waters, he who seeks for knowledge
Of life must go; and day and night must linger
Over their springs; and in their memories,
And in their hearts, retain the bright impression
Of their exhilaration and their incense.
All empty ornament; and most rejects it,
When it would cover faults: the tricky glare
O' the painter, who essays to draw attention
By tints unchaste, graceless, extravagant,
The universal scorn incurs. Not so
The labouring, turgid, falsely-swelling poet.
Oft for a time he captivates the multitude,
And e'en the critic, who aspires to know
A lesson far above the multitude's
Pretensions. He who takes a composition,
91
Has learn'd no lesson of sound wisdom from it,
Has spent his moments on a fruit not genuine.
In our old poets who enjoy'd a name,
There is not ought but wisdom: there we seek
For lore profound of moral science, vers'd
In all the nice perplexities, which fate
Ordains that man by study should evolve!
Thus Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Cowley, Davenant;
Thus Davies, Waller, Butler, Denham, Dryden,
And Pope and Prior, and neglected Harte:
Thus old George Sandys, and even Wither's Muse,
Once vulgar deem'd.—To fountains such as these
Of living waters, he who seeks for knowledge
Of life must go; and day and night must linger
Over their springs; and in their memories,
And in their hearts, retain the bright impression
Of their exhilaration and their incense.
But from the Muse I see a frown, and hear
Her angry voice! “Hast thou forgot,” she cries
“One of my favorite and most gifted votaries?”
Oblivion not to be forgiv'n! O thou,
Of whom though not in metre, every word
Was poetry, O mellow, wise, enchanting,
O moralist, with fiction's magic rich,
O graceful, eloquent, affecting Addison;
O glory of most chaste and beautiful language,
Of pure, illumin'd, accurate, and deep
Thought, and in all the nicer shades of ethics
An oracle of never-erring judgment!
How could I for a moment thee forget?
But darkness soon came on;—and darkness long
Has been with light profusely intermingled.
Genius has flash'd; but lightning false, and thunder,
By th'artificial workmen of the stage,
Have caught the public eye and ear, and fascinated
With most corrupt and foolish admiration!
Hobgoblins as deform'd and forc'd, as play
Their part upon a country stage to ignorant,
Open-month'd, hair-upstanding, rustic gazers,
Have won the laurel for most empty heads!
And thus the mob will hug th'absurd, before
The graceful and the just. But far away
Have I again departed from my theme!
Her angry voice! “Hast thou forgot,” she cries
“One of my favorite and most gifted votaries?”
Oblivion not to be forgiv'n! O thou,
Of whom though not in metre, every word
Was poetry, O mellow, wise, enchanting,
O moralist, with fiction's magic rich,
O graceful, eloquent, affecting Addison;
O glory of most chaste and beautiful language,
Of pure, illumin'd, accurate, and deep
Thought, and in all the nicer shades of ethics
An oracle of never-erring judgment!
92
But darkness soon came on;—and darkness long
Has been with light profusely intermingled.
Genius has flash'd; but lightning false, and thunder,
By th'artificial workmen of the stage,
Have caught the public eye and ear, and fascinated
With most corrupt and foolish admiration!
Hobgoblins as deform'd and forc'd, as play
Their part upon a country stage to ignorant,
Open-month'd, hair-upstanding, rustic gazers,
Have won the laurel for most empty heads!
And thus the mob will hug th'absurd, before
The graceful and the just. But far away
Have I again departed from my theme!
Coppet, of thee my Muse has early spoken:
And something of the brilliant emanations
Of deeply-meditating, somewhat dark,
And labour'd priestess of wise oracles,
The passionate De Staël, has she essay'd!
But Coppet's chateau other sages knew,
A century before. There critic Bayle
A portion of his controversial life
Pass'd. The incessant labours of a mind
Acute, investigating, fervid, sceptical,
Delighting in dissection, yet preserve
An undiminish'd interest. But ill
Conflicts with good in measuring the value
Of those sharp mental fruits. A mind that seeks
For faults and for objections, is too apt
To contemplate but parts,—and not the whole.
And something of the brilliant emanations
Of deeply-meditating, somewhat dark,
And labour'd priestess of wise oracles,
The passionate De Staël, has she essay'd!
But Coppet's chateau other sages knew,
A century before. There critic Bayle
A portion of his controversial life
Pass'd. The incessant labours of a mind
Acute, investigating, fervid, sceptical,
Delighting in dissection, yet preserve
An undiminish'd interest. But ill
Conflicts with good in measuring the value
Of those sharp mental fruits. A mind that seeks
For faults and for objections, is too apt
To contemplate but parts,—and not the whole.
93
Thus Bayle: for grand and general views he never
With comprehensive pencil could dash out.
With microscopic eye he search'd and found
The petty contradiction and defect.
To take for granted nothing; to doubt ever,
Is not the part of wisdom! But another,—
A minister of State, on whose ability
And wisdom, not full half a century
Gone by, the destiny of mighty France,
And thence of civil rule and kingly power
Throughout the world, depended, was the lord
Of this domain, and here in age and grief,
And disappointment, anxious cares, and danger,
Spent his last clouded days. Insane conceit,
Self-estimate delusive, vanity,
And unchastised ambition, led astray
A mind and heart for an inferior station
Well fitted, and in humbler labours wise
And virtuous! Necker was a charlatan
In politics, and did not see how little
The hocus-pocus of the desk can change
The wealth of nations, and financial trick,
And gamblings on th'exchange, can operate
Upon a nation's want of means to meet
The exigences of its actual costs.
With comprehensive pencil could dash out.
With microscopic eye he search'd and found
The petty contradiction and defect.
To take for granted nothing; to doubt ever,
Is not the part of wisdom! But another,—
A minister of State, on whose ability
And wisdom, not full half a century
Gone by, the destiny of mighty France,
And thence of civil rule and kingly power
Throughout the world, depended, was the lord
Of this domain, and here in age and grief,
And disappointment, anxious cares, and danger,
Spent his last clouded days. Insane conceit,
Self-estimate delusive, vanity,
And unchastised ambition, led astray
A mind and heart for an inferior station
Well fitted, and in humbler labours wise
And virtuous! Necker was a charlatan
In politics, and did not see how little
The hocus-pocus of the desk can change
The wealth of nations, and financial trick,
And gamblings on th'exchange, can operate
Upon a nation's want of means to meet
The exigences of its actual costs.
O strange delusion in a numerous people,
Ingenious, fertile in resources, clear,
To lore both moral and political
Happily fram'd, but turbulent, and changeable,
And light, and vain. It was a fatal blindness
Which made the rich financier trust his powers
For such a function in such frightful times,
When all the waves were roaring, and o'erleaping
Their bounds. Full little of the history
Of th'human heart knew he; or of the wheels
By which the politics of states are mov'd;—
A man of abstract notions, full of saws,
And figures to direct the counting house
By rule and measure, and methodical
Arrangement. O 'twas always “the account—
Th'account deliver'd!” and the task was done
In his conception, and the storm must cease,
And waters must subside, and the fond dove
Come forth in safety, and the olive pluck!
That such a simple creature should suppose
He held the wand of wisdom, would be strange,
Did we not see that folly rules the world!
Ingenious, fertile in resources, clear,
To lore both moral and political
Happily fram'd, but turbulent, and changeable,
And light, and vain. It was a fatal blindness
94
For such a function in such frightful times,
When all the waves were roaring, and o'erleaping
Their bounds. Full little of the history
Of th'human heart knew he; or of the wheels
By which the politics of states are mov'd;—
A man of abstract notions, full of saws,
And figures to direct the counting house
By rule and measure, and methodical
Arrangement. O 'twas always “the account—
Th'account deliver'd!” and the task was done
In his conception, and the storm must cease,
And waters must subside, and the fond dove
Come forth in safety, and the olive pluck!
That such a simple creature should suppose
He held the wand of wisdom, would be strange,
Did we not see that folly rules the world!
But O how bitter must have been the workings
Of disappointed hope and foil'd ambition,
When in this solitude, which lonely breezes
Moaning along the lake made lonelier,
Or where the tempest, nurs'd among the gorges
Of the gigantic snow-clad ridgy mountains,
Made to the heart diseas'd and vex'd more gloomy,
The vain proud ostentatious fallen man
Reflected on the issues of his toils,
His speculations, his miscarriages!
“O do not hold” as on the banks he roam'd,
Or from his window saw the morning dawn
Glance on Mont-Blanc's cloud-cover'd top, “O do not
“Hold such a melancholy tone! I am not
“Nerv'd for the voices of the elements!—
“The voice of man in social life, the music
“Of streets, saloons, conclaves, and palaces,
“Befits my sicken'd soul, to give it comfort;
“Poets may talk of mountains, lakes, and torrents,
“And woods and hills and vallies! I believe,
“It is but affectation! Man for man
“In social life was form'd:—there is no other
“Delight in our existence. Nature torn
“By storms, or billows, or the threatening burst
“Of fire destructive darting thro the skies,
“Why should it be delightful to refinement
“In human habits? Rather let the savage
“Rejoice in that which not the polish'd arts
“Of social man have into being brought!
“If my ambition's projects had succeeded,
“The music of saloons, the bending knee,
“The reverential tone of deep applause,
“Had met me morn and night; and had shut out
“The roar of elements, and the depressing
“Shadows of savage nature! I am now
“A poor deserted store-diminish'd man,
“Whom none regard; on whom a tribe ferocious
“Full often thirst to dip their hands in blood:
“But still I doubt not, 'tis a foolish world,
“Not I, have been in error!—I will write!
“My pen is still my pleasure—and will shew
“By figures, and by mathematical
“Proof, that I ever was myself in the right,
“And all the world was wrong! For who is ignorant,
“There is no certainty except in figures!
“All else is vague conjecture, and vile, shadowy
“Fancy, of vapours and inanity
“Bred, and in useless smoke mounts and expires.”
Of disappointed hope and foil'd ambition,
When in this solitude, which lonely breezes
Moaning along the lake made lonelier,
Or where the tempest, nurs'd among the gorges
Of the gigantic snow-clad ridgy mountains,
Made to the heart diseas'd and vex'd more gloomy,
The vain proud ostentatious fallen man
Reflected on the issues of his toils,
His speculations, his miscarriages!
“O do not hold” as on the banks he roam'd,
Or from his window saw the morning dawn
Glance on Mont-Blanc's cloud-cover'd top, “O do not
95
“Nerv'd for the voices of the elements!—
“The voice of man in social life, the music
“Of streets, saloons, conclaves, and palaces,
“Befits my sicken'd soul, to give it comfort;
“Poets may talk of mountains, lakes, and torrents,
“And woods and hills and vallies! I believe,
“It is but affectation! Man for man
“In social life was form'd:—there is no other
“Delight in our existence. Nature torn
“By storms, or billows, or the threatening burst
“Of fire destructive darting thro the skies,
“Why should it be delightful to refinement
“In human habits? Rather let the savage
“Rejoice in that which not the polish'd arts
“Of social man have into being brought!
“If my ambition's projects had succeeded,
“The music of saloons, the bending knee,
“The reverential tone of deep applause,
“Had met me morn and night; and had shut out
“The roar of elements, and the depressing
“Shadows of savage nature! I am now
“A poor deserted store-diminish'd man,
“Whom none regard; on whom a tribe ferocious
“Full often thirst to dip their hands in blood:
“But still I doubt not, 'tis a foolish world,
“Not I, have been in error!—I will write!
“My pen is still my pleasure—and will shew
“By figures, and by mathematical
“Proof, that I ever was myself in the right,
96
“There is no certainty except in figures!
“All else is vague conjecture, and vile, shadowy
“Fancy, of vapours and inanity
“Bred, and in useless smoke mounts and expires.”
END OF BOOK III.
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