The Lake of Geneva a poem, moral and descriptive, in seven books. With notes historical and biographical. In two volumes. By Sir Egerton Brydges |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | BOOK IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | The Lake of Geneva |  |
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BOOK IV.
When the world sleeps, then best my task I ply;—
Then from the world's obtrusions I repose
Secure; and as a breath, a frown, a word,
Can discompose me, the security
Nurses the workings of my morbid spirit!
Then from the world's obtrusions I repose
Secure; and as a breath, a frown, a word,
Can discompose me, the security
Nurses the workings of my morbid spirit!
There are who censure such infirmities,
As but the fancies of vile whim and humour:
But they are men, who draw their judgments from
The hardness of their own froze hearts and heads.
He, to whom fate the labour has assign'd
The mental loom to work, must necessarily
Have nerves and feelings finer than the vulgar;
And be more quickly sensible to wrong,
Insult, and taunt, or e'en the laugh of eye,
The scorn disguis'd, the hidden disapproval,
The treachery that lurks within the heart
Of rivalry or envy. But the outward
Evils of life, that by the glare of day
Assault us, when contending man is busy
Upon the stage, in mischief ever rife,
These interrupt incessantly our progress
Under the broad sun's beams: then thee, O Night,
I hail, and in thy silence and repose
My web goes on in regular advance.
To see the task grow under us, and, night
By night, its palpable increase exhibit,
Sustains our energies, and nurses hope.
As but the fancies of vile whim and humour:
But they are men, who draw their judgments from
The hardness of their own froze hearts and heads.
He, to whom fate the labour has assign'd
The mental loom to work, must necessarily
Have nerves and feelings finer than the vulgar;
And be more quickly sensible to wrong,
Insult, and taunt, or e'en the laugh of eye,
The scorn disguis'd, the hidden disapproval,
The treachery that lurks within the heart
Of rivalry or envy. But the outward
Evils of life, that by the glare of day
98
Upon the stage, in mischief ever rife,
These interrupt incessantly our progress
Under the broad sun's beams: then thee, O Night,
I hail, and in thy silence and repose
My web goes on in regular advance.
To see the task grow under us, and, night
By night, its palpable increase exhibit,
Sustains our energies, and nurses hope.
It is gradation, which in life supports
The waste of labour. He, who finds the days
Of his strait-bound existence waste away,
Yet nothing done, and no progression made,
Sickens, and loses all the moving force
That carries on the fruitful labourer.
With nothing done, and nothing we can do,
Ennui consumes us; and when of to-morrow
Our prospect only is the self-same thing,
Th'internal organs almost cease to work;
There is no breath of hope to drive them on!
The waste of labour. He, who finds the days
Of his strait-bound existence waste away,
Yet nothing done, and no progression made,
Sickens, and loses all the moving force
That carries on the fruitful labourer.
With nothing done, and nothing we can do,
Ennui consumes us; and when of to-morrow
Our prospect only is the self-same thing,
Th'internal organs almost cease to work;
There is no breath of hope to drive them on!
The idle are of men the most unhappy:
Peril, and toil extreme, and injury,
And ceaseless crosses; insult, treachery,
Disease, and all the agonies of mind
And body, more enjoyment know by fitful
Contrasts, than vapoury stagnant idleness:
And he, who has not tried his powers, can never
Guess the extent of their capacity.
Step after step, year after year, they often
Expand, and see the thickest clouds before them
Dissolve, and distant objects, which it seem'd
Impossible to reach, come nearer, nearer,
Till they are touch'd. Short lives have numerous days
And nights, of which if not e'en one is lost,
Much may be done by them: but when the thread
Is far spun out, to what a wonderful
Amount may human labour raise the heap!
Peril, and toil extreme, and injury,
And ceaseless crosses; insult, treachery,
Disease, and all the agonies of mind
And body, more enjoyment know by fitful
Contrasts, than vapoury stagnant idleness:
And he, who has not tried his powers, can never
Guess the extent of their capacity.
Step after step, year after year, they often
Expand, and see the thickest clouds before them
99
Impossible to reach, come nearer, nearer,
Till they are touch'd. Short lives have numerous days
And nights, of which if not e'en one is lost,
Much may be done by them: but when the thread
Is far spun out, to what a wonderful
Amount may human labour raise the heap!
By constant exercise the powers, within
The little circle of the human skull,
Contain a world of more sublimity,
And beauty, and of brilliance, than the outward
Globe, and the fair creations on its surface,
Shew even to the clearest, most intelligent,
And most enquiring and most sensitive eye.
But yet sometimes the fury of the flame,
And dazzle of the blaze, is too consuming
For man's weak body, and he dies, or falls
Into irrevocable disarrangement.
The little circle of the human skull,
Contain a world of more sublimity,
And beauty, and of brilliance, than the outward
Globe, and the fair creations on its surface,
Shew even to the clearest, most intelligent,
And most enquiring and most sensitive eye.
But yet sometimes the fury of the flame,
And dazzle of the blaze, is too consuming
For man's weak body, and he dies, or falls
Into irrevocable disarrangement.
The faculties may flame till they burn up!
It is the conscience, that perchance may calm
And methodise them; an o'erruling care
To give a due direction to their energies!
There are around us spirits, who will aid
Our virtuous efforts; but who yet will leave us
To our own wickedness, if vice prevails
In our first thoughts, and we make no endeavour
T'aspire to good. It is a mystery,
Whence come our earliest aspirations!
If they come from external interference,
Then wherefore are we made responsible?
If they spring up within us, ere our reason
Can operate, then also does it seem
Hard to condemn us! Yet it may be said,
When reason comes, it ought to moderate,
Repress, and new-direct.—Alas, in vain
Into these mystic works of mind we dive!
We cannot tell why faculties of mind,
Of heart, of temper, so extremely variant,
Are given at our birth;—and why the chance
Of happiness, both earthly and hereafter,
Is so diversified, and different,
In quality and in degree! We know not,
If in a preexistent state our conduct
May not have brought this seeming distribution
Of inequality upon our doom!
But we must ever keep our faith in darkness,
That Providence is just! The noblest beings
Humanity produces, are yet frail;
And close, familiar, nice inspection will
Shew a few spots;—a few sad weaknesses
Of heart; a few defaults of mind unsound;
Of temper a few strange perversities!
It is the conscience, that perchance may calm
And methodise them; an o'erruling care
To give a due direction to their energies!
There are around us spirits, who will aid
Our virtuous efforts; but who yet will leave us
To our own wickedness, if vice prevails
In our first thoughts, and we make no endeavour
T'aspire to good. It is a mystery,
Whence come our earliest aspirations!
If they come from external interference,
Then wherefore are we made responsible?
100
Can operate, then also does it seem
Hard to condemn us! Yet it may be said,
When reason comes, it ought to moderate,
Repress, and new-direct.—Alas, in vain
Into these mystic works of mind we dive!
We cannot tell why faculties of mind,
Of heart, of temper, so extremely variant,
Are given at our birth;—and why the chance
Of happiness, both earthly and hereafter,
Is so diversified, and different,
In quality and in degree! We know not,
If in a preexistent state our conduct
May not have brought this seeming distribution
Of inequality upon our doom!
But we must ever keep our faith in darkness,
That Providence is just! The noblest beings
Humanity produces, are yet frail;
And close, familiar, nice inspection will
Shew a few spots;—a few sad weaknesses
Of heart; a few defaults of mind unsound;
Of temper a few strange perversities!
And all may be forgiven but disguise;
But curst hypocrisy, of sins the worst,
The mother of all other sins; of falsehood
The dire and inextinguishable brooder!
Where once it enters, there the energies
Are turn'd to poison, and the streams of life
Corrupted; and the voice is from a blessing
Turn'd into ill; and bears the breath of wrong,
Delusion, treachery, extortion, ruin!
The hypocrite no single quality,
Good, generous, or e'en neutral, can possess;
And in hell flames for ever he will burn!
The devil there has hold of him entire,
And he will treat him for his lawful prey.
But curst hypocrisy, of sins the worst,
The mother of all other sins; of falsehood
The dire and inextinguishable brooder!
Where once it enters, there the energies
Are turn'd to poison, and the streams of life
Corrupted; and the voice is from a blessing
Turn'd into ill; and bears the breath of wrong,
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The hypocrite no single quality,
Good, generous, or e'en neutral, can possess;
And in hell flames for ever he will burn!
The devil there has hold of him entire,
And he will treat him for his lawful prey.
My flight is as the disobedient hawk's,
Who, by the falconer let loose to chase
His prey, darts off beyond his destined objects,
And takes his airy circuits out of sight,
And tarries ere he hears his master's call.
But close again, O Lake, upon thy banks,
Burgundian and Alpine, I will fix
My meditations.—Lofty-mounted villa,
La Boissière! thou dost turn thy noble front
Upon a glorious prospect! Genthod, thou
More humble in thy site, and somewhat dank
The vapours of the Lake appear around thee;
But by a curious Sage, of mind aspiring,
And ardent industry, once consecrated!
All Europe rings of Bonnet's name! La Boissière,
By Tronchin honour'd, name in the Republic
Held dear for ages, yet to him who venerates
Rousseau's unrival'd genius and hard fate,
Somewhat obscur'd by a dark stain of bigotry,
And persecution sharp and little merited!
Who, by the falconer let loose to chase
His prey, darts off beyond his destined objects,
And takes his airy circuits out of sight,
And tarries ere he hears his master's call.
But close again, O Lake, upon thy banks,
Burgundian and Alpine, I will fix
My meditations.—Lofty-mounted villa,
La Boissière! thou dost turn thy noble front
Upon a glorious prospect! Genthod, thou
More humble in thy site, and somewhat dank
The vapours of the Lake appear around thee;
But by a curious Sage, of mind aspiring,
And ardent industry, once consecrated!
All Europe rings of Bonnet's name! La Boissière,
By Tronchin honour'd, name in the Republic
Held dear for ages, yet to him who venerates
Rousseau's unrival'd genius and hard fate,
Somewhat obscur'd by a dark stain of bigotry,
And persecution sharp and little merited!
But ye, dear villas, both of you the haunts
Of genius, which my song has hitherto
Left unregarded! if I love the lore
Of eloquent and most enlighten'd history,—
As in my heart I do,—why have I thee,
Illustrious Müller, with neglect so long
Treated? Thou art a shining star, to chase
The gather'd clouds from tales of ancient days!
In erudition rich, in genius strong,
By ardent passions borne upon thy way,
Copious in sentiment, in moral wisdom
Flowing and ever varied; seeing deep
Into the heart of man, in language vigorous
And clear; laborious and exact as those
Who have no fountains of their own; concise
And comprehensive, although overflowing!
Of genius, which my song has hitherto
Left unregarded! if I love the lore
Of eloquent and most enlighten'd history,—
102
Illustrious Müller, with neglect so long
Treated? Thou art a shining star, to chase
The gather'd clouds from tales of ancient days!
In erudition rich, in genius strong,
By ardent passions borne upon thy way,
Copious in sentiment, in moral wisdom
Flowing and ever varied; seeing deep
Into the heart of man, in language vigorous
And clear; laborious and exact as those
Who have no fountains of their own; concise
And comprehensive, although overflowing!
It may be doubtful if the Muse should ever
Mix with the world. In actual life is aways
A coarseness, which deranges her creations.
Is it then ask'd, how she should know mankind,
Their manner, and their passions? By the light
Of her imagination, which will give
A true view; ever deep,—not on the surface!
Mix with the world. In actual life is aways
A coarseness, which deranges her creations.
Is it then ask'd, how she should know mankind,
Their manner, and their passions? By the light
Of her imagination, which will give
A true view; ever deep,—not on the surface!
O sad reality! There is in Man
Of base and selfish passions a predominance!
And he who mingles with society
In daily conflict, comes at last to bend
His mind to all its tricks and artifices;
For in the world by manners delicate,
And course of action pure, we cannot long
Proceed! without a spot and stain incurable
There is no wordling! Fair at first full many
May seem; but there is poison in the heart!
Of base and selfish passions a predominance!
And he who mingles with society
In daily conflict, comes at last to bend
His mind to all its tricks and artifices;
For in the world by manners delicate,
And course of action pure, we cannot long
Proceed! without a spot and stain incurable
There is no wordling! Fair at first full many
May seem; but there is poison in the heart!
Then I will close my doors again, and live
Only within myself. O books! O study!
Ye never can fatigue, or be exhausted!
As the mind labours, it still stronger grows,
And every day the mist recedes, and opens
New prospects, and perplexities untie
Themselves, and clues sharpen and multiply.
103
Ye never can fatigue, or be exhausted!
As the mind labours, it still stronger grows,
And every day the mist recedes, and opens
New prospects, and perplexities untie
Themselves, and clues sharpen and multiply.
The clock strikes Five; and yet my morning task
Is scarce begun! Of stupifying sleep
I have too much enjoy'd! But I must farther
Into broad day extend my' allotted toils!
What though with many a cold look, many a sneer,
The web goes on, it has not yet relax'd,
Nor shall relax,—though every intermixture
With the world's bustle much endangers it.
Is scarce begun! Of stupifying sleep
I have too much enjoy'd! But I must farther
Into broad day extend my' allotted toils!
What though with many a cold look, many a sneer,
The web goes on, it has not yet relax'd,
Nor shall relax,—though every intermixture
With the world's bustle much endangers it.
On Solitude and on Society
Philosophers have written and disputed.
Thus eloquent and most pure-hearted Cowley;—
Thus learned Evelyn;—but as poets ever
Write the best prose, so did the bard excell
The natural philosopher, though he
Had written of woods and trees with love and science.
He, to whom nature has not given the boon,
Labours in vain, and learning is but weight
Injurious to the head, which has not springs
To bear it, and throw off the groaning pressure.
Let e'en the most ingenious well beware,
How far they give an idle trust to memory's
Obtruded stores;—for what is ready made,
Is tempting, but still valueless. The borrow'd
Is empty in the utterance of the borrower.
That which a man repeats, unless he thinks it,
Is vapoury wind. The head is all delusions
Without the testimony of the heart!
“O what prosaic common-place!” exclaims
The would-be critic: “not a flower of poetry!
“No image;—no invention: not an art,
“Or spell, we call for in the Muse! but truth,
“Plain truth, or that which so affects to be!
“Why, I had always held that poetry
“Consists in fiction! We can have plain truth
“In prose abundantly: and from the bard
“A world unlike ourselves we hope to see,
“Dress'd up with all the ornaments, the finery
“Of labouring art can give it:—golden words,
“And sounding metre by harmonious rule!
“Of our old poets this is not the fashion,
“We know too well: but if we speak with frankness,
“We must admit, that praise of these old strains
“Is but a prejudice; and from boasted Milton,
“Left to ourselves, we nothing draw but slumbers!
“It is a task to read him;—not a pleasure,
“As pedants strive with most affected praise
“To make us think! In our own days the Muse
“The notes of genuine merit first has reach'd!
“Look at the splendor of her imagery!
“Look at the rich creation of her scenes,
“And characters and language! at the magic,
“In which she deals! the mystic passionateness;
“The wonders;—the inhabitants of air;
“Goblins and ghosts, and monsters of the fancy,
“Which seize the soul with wonder; bear it off,
“And lap it in Elysium! Here the Muse
“Shines in her proper sphere; and should be worship'd.”
Philosophers have written and disputed.
Thus eloquent and most pure-hearted Cowley;—
Thus learned Evelyn;—but as poets ever
Write the best prose, so did the bard excell
The natural philosopher, though he
Had written of woods and trees with love and science.
He, to whom nature has not given the boon,
Labours in vain, and learning is but weight
Injurious to the head, which has not springs
To bear it, and throw off the groaning pressure.
Let e'en the most ingenious well beware,
How far they give an idle trust to memory's
Obtruded stores;—for what is ready made,
Is tempting, but still valueless. The borrow'd
Is empty in the utterance of the borrower.
104
Is vapoury wind. The head is all delusions
Without the testimony of the heart!
“O what prosaic common-place!” exclaims
The would-be critic: “not a flower of poetry!
“No image;—no invention: not an art,
“Or spell, we call for in the Muse! but truth,
“Plain truth, or that which so affects to be!
“Why, I had always held that poetry
“Consists in fiction! We can have plain truth
“In prose abundantly: and from the bard
“A world unlike ourselves we hope to see,
“Dress'd up with all the ornaments, the finery
“Of labouring art can give it:—golden words,
“And sounding metre by harmonious rule!
“Of our old poets this is not the fashion,
“We know too well: but if we speak with frankness,
“We must admit, that praise of these old strains
“Is but a prejudice; and from boasted Milton,
“Left to ourselves, we nothing draw but slumbers!
“It is a task to read him;—not a pleasure,
“As pedants strive with most affected praise
“To make us think! In our own days the Muse
“The notes of genuine merit first has reach'd!
“Look at the splendor of her imagery!
“Look at the rich creation of her scenes,
“And characters and language! at the magic,
“In which she deals! the mystic passionateness;
“The wonders;—the inhabitants of air;
“Goblins and ghosts, and monsters of the fancy,
105
“And lap it in Elysium! Here the Muse
“Shines in her proper sphere; and should be worship'd.”
Thus he, who in the school of art has learn'd
His lessons cold and technical. Not I
In that misleading school was taught! And now
Fearless my own opinions I pronounce;
And fearless act upon them! In my age
My literary destiny is fix'd;
And I no longer tremble at the will
Of the capricious multitude. To speak
With frankness is a high delight, that satisfies
The conscience, and is never persecuted
By cloud-chasing ennui, or the keen dart
Of irresistible regret! The heart,
When unoppos'd, unforc'd, is ever right.
His lessons cold and technical. Not I
In that misleading school was taught! And now
Fearless my own opinions I pronounce;
And fearless act upon them! In my age
My literary destiny is fix'd;
And I no longer tremble at the will
Of the capricious multitude. To speak
With frankness is a high delight, that satisfies
The conscience, and is never persecuted
By cloud-chasing ennui, or the keen dart
Of irresistible regret! The heart,
When unoppos'd, unforc'd, is ever right.
'Tis Sunday! The church bells all ring around,
And float upon the Lake; and on the breeze
Mount to my windows! yet not far they reach,
By Jura and by Alps to be reechoed:
But in the lightsome atmosphere, which streams
Of current airs do purify, the sounds
Are to the ear and bosom stirring music.
To live among the grandeurs, and the beauties
Of nature, varied in their forms and tints,
Awakens, deepens, fortifies, and fires
The energies of mind. The changing hues
Of the blue vault of Heaven create delight:
But where the surface of the earth is flat,
Those changes are less frequent and more faint.
Not joys material these: upon the brain
And bosom they depend; and only move,
As they associate with the shadowy tribes
Of mental essence. Yet it must be own'd,
Imagination does not here prevail;
But logic cold; and hard experiment:
And what are call'd the natural sciences,
Though somewhat strangely call'd! The mind is nature,
And of the highest order: mind to study,
Is man's most elevated toil and duty!
What science so essential? what requires
Faculties so refin'd, and so sagacious?
If brother-men alone by their external
Semblance we know, how trivial is that knowledge;
How by false surfaces it is misleading!
And float upon the Lake; and on the breeze
Mount to my windows! yet not far they reach,
By Jura and by Alps to be reechoed:
But in the lightsome atmosphere, which streams
Of current airs do purify, the sounds
Are to the ear and bosom stirring music.
To live among the grandeurs, and the beauties
Of nature, varied in their forms and tints,
Awakens, deepens, fortifies, and fires
The energies of mind. The changing hues
Of the blue vault of Heaven create delight:
But where the surface of the earth is flat,
Those changes are less frequent and more faint.
106
And bosom they depend; and only move,
As they associate with the shadowy tribes
Of mental essence. Yet it must be own'd,
Imagination does not here prevail;
But logic cold; and hard experiment:
And what are call'd the natural sciences,
Though somewhat strangely call'd! The mind is nature,
And of the highest order: mind to study,
Is man's most elevated toil and duty!
What science so essential? what requires
Faculties so refin'd, and so sagacious?
If brother-men alone by their external
Semblance we know, how trivial is that knowledge;
How by false surfaces it is misleading!
Into the heart Imagination only
Can look; and have access unto the shrine,
Where all the passions play! Who does not view
Daily these operations, is unknowing
Of the great science of humanity.
O search not what is strange! O do not think,
Because it no one's head or heart before
Enter'd, 'tis therefore excellent! It is
When others give responses, and acknowledge
The thought and feelings are exactly such,
As are familiar to the secret movements
Of their own minds, that the due test is reach'd
Of genuine genius. And whoever leads
His listeners into error on the character
Of man; his modes of thought; his sensibilities;
His estimates of life; and of the objects
Of nature; is an oracle of falsehood;
A wicked conjurer! Eternal truth
Is the sole object man should have in search.
It is of these false oracles the most
Of censurers speak, when they condemn the Muses,
As filling minds with mischievous delusions,
And irritating them to evil passions!
Extravagance, exaggeration, monstrous
Union of incompatible elements,
Is but the joinery of a vile artist!
Can look; and have access unto the shrine,
Where all the passions play! Who does not view
Daily these operations, is unknowing
Of the great science of humanity.
O search not what is strange! O do not think,
Because it no one's head or heart before
Enter'd, 'tis therefore excellent! It is
When others give responses, and acknowledge
The thought and feelings are exactly such,
As are familiar to the secret movements
Of their own minds, that the due test is reach'd
Of genuine genius. And whoever leads
His listeners into error on the character
Of man; his modes of thought; his sensibilities;
107
Of nature; is an oracle of falsehood;
A wicked conjurer! Eternal truth
Is the sole object man should have in search.
It is of these false oracles the most
Of censurers speak, when they condemn the Muses,
As filling minds with mischievous delusions,
And irritating them to evil passions!
Extravagance, exaggeration, monstrous
Union of incompatible elements,
Is but the joinery of a vile artist!
Trite are these protests; said a thousand times:—
But they cannot too often be repeated!
It is upon extravagance the candidates
For th' laurel now their chief pretensions place!
It is extravagance the public calls for,
And deems it proof of most decisive merit!
Thus æras new of poetry have risen;
Thus Milton, Dryden, Pope, are tame; thus readers,
As writers, swell like the balloon inflated
With gas! Into the heavens they travel high;
But there learn nought; and down they fall again,
Oft by a perilous descent; and sometimes
To death itself. It is but the insanity
Of inspiration false,—of false contortions,
And Phaetonic flights! and the cure lies
In studying Milton's most severe and plain
Passages;—his most unadorned lore
Of moral and divine philosophy.
But they cannot too often be repeated!
It is upon extravagance the candidates
For th' laurel now their chief pretensions place!
It is extravagance the public calls for,
And deems it proof of most decisive merit!
Thus æras new of poetry have risen;
Thus Milton, Dryden, Pope, are tame; thus readers,
As writers, swell like the balloon inflated
With gas! Into the heavens they travel high;
But there learn nought; and down they fall again,
Oft by a perilous descent; and sometimes
To death itself. It is but the insanity
Of inspiration false,—of false contortions,
And Phaetonic flights! and the cure lies
In studying Milton's most severe and plain
Passages;—his most unadorned lore
Of moral and divine philosophy.
Beautiful is description of the scenes
Of Nature as she is: but beautiful,
And sublime also, is the exhibition
Of mystic mind; its workings; and th'opinions
Thence drawn; the axioms, rules, directions
Of life's most intricate and thorny ways!
Then when the heart, and not the intellect,
Ought to decide, comes elevation, majesty,
And fortitude, to make the right resolve!
108
And sublime also, is the exhibition
Of mystic mind; its workings; and th'opinions
Thence drawn; the axioms, rules, directions
Of life's most intricate and thorny ways!
Then when the heart, and not the intellect,
Ought to decide, comes elevation, majesty,
And fortitude, to make the right resolve!
Why do we call for imagery? forever
Imagery!—as if all were materialists;
And nothing better?—If the mind distinguishes
Man above other creatures, 'tis the nature
Of the mind is the most exalted subject
Poets can deal with.—Nothing in the strain
Of poets reaches excellence, that is not
Mingled of all the faculties of mind,
Fancy, imagination, passion, reason,
Judgment, and memory;—and above all
Sagacity—a power of mind distinct,
Yet little notic'd separately: it is
A gift intuitive; a light, that comes
From heaven; and flashes its intelligence
Unlabour'd and unsought:—thus comes the strain
The voice of wisdom's self; and not a tale
Of th' nursery, which ignorance, and dulness
Affecting gravity, dare to pronounce it!
Imagery!—as if all were materialists;
And nothing better?—If the mind distinguishes
Man above other creatures, 'tis the nature
Of the mind is the most exalted subject
Poets can deal with.—Nothing in the strain
Of poets reaches excellence, that is not
Mingled of all the faculties of mind,
Fancy, imagination, passion, reason,
Judgment, and memory;—and above all
Sagacity—a power of mind distinct,
Yet little notic'd separately: it is
A gift intuitive; a light, that comes
From heaven; and flashes its intelligence
Unlabour'd and unsought:—thus comes the strain
The voice of wisdom's self; and not a tale
Of th' nursery, which ignorance, and dulness
Affecting gravity, dare to pronounce it!
But least of all the play of words, the tinsel
Of gorgeous and unmeaning emptiness,
Is pardonable, though it gain the cheer
Of foolish fashion! It is a gold leaf,
As valueless as that which makes a glitter
On the child's gingerbread:—a group of wonders,
As silly as the rude magician's
At country fairs: no real secret taught;
No solid knowledge given! The true Muse
Speaks, what in gravest questions we may cite;
The judgment of the most intelligent,
And most profound;—the consciencious edict
Of holy and inspir'd determination!
Of gorgeous and unmeaning emptiness,
Is pardonable, though it gain the cheer
Of foolish fashion! It is a gold leaf,
109
On the child's gingerbread:—a group of wonders,
As silly as the rude magician's
At country fairs: no real secret taught;
No solid knowledge given! The true Muse
Speaks, what in gravest questions we may cite;
The judgment of the most intelligent,
And most profound;—the consciencious edict
Of holy and inspir'd determination!
O glittering expanse of waves cærulean,
What have I learn'd from thee? Full many a year
I've dwelt upon thy banks, and much I've thought,
And read, and learn'd, and dream'd, and seen in vision
By day, and have by mental toil created:
And I have suffer'd much in mind and body;
But yet I trust I have advanc'd in wisdom,
And also in both elevation,
And purity of heart. There is a rectitude,
To which the whole ambition of our minds
Ought to be bent: the plausible, the cunning,
The selfish,—ah, how base it is! The world
It may advance us in; but not one moment
Can it give satisfaction to the conscience:
It is in solitude, and in our own
Internal feelings, we must truly live.
There is a monitor within, which always
Tells us when we have struck upon the right.
What have I learn'd from thee? Full many a year
I've dwelt upon thy banks, and much I've thought,
And read, and learn'd, and dream'd, and seen in vision
By day, and have by mental toil created:
And I have suffer'd much in mind and body;
But yet I trust I have advanc'd in wisdom,
And also in both elevation,
And purity of heart. There is a rectitude,
To which the whole ambition of our minds
Ought to be bent: the plausible, the cunning,
The selfish,—ah, how base it is! The world
It may advance us in; but not one moment
Can it give satisfaction to the conscience:
It is in solitude, and in our own
Internal feelings, we must truly live.
There is a monitor within, which always
Tells us when we have struck upon the right.
Long in a mist we travel;—all around,
Is seen by glimpses; and e'en as our eyes
Are eager, and our apprehension pants
To grasp at all, confusion multiplies,
And long we see less clearly than the dull.
But the clouds move away with time, and labour,
And patience; while the added mist of passion
Subsides; and strength, and brightness, and tranquillity,
And fortitude, and sentiment exalted,
Combine, and give that self-dependence, which
Constitutes power, and strict ascendancy
Of character! But in the scornful estimate
Of the mole-eyed practitioner in cavils,
Much have I trifled;—wanting method, unity
Of purpose and of labour; pleas'd with fictions,
And baubles; searching curiosities
Not worth the cost of time, or waste of intellect;
And scribbling in profusion what the pruning knife,
Or polish of the file, has ne'er receiv'd.
O, how uncandid, and how ignorant,
And dull, to call on all to rule themselves
By one unvaried method! Let the candidates
For fame, pursue a thousand different paths;
Yet equally at the same end arrive!
Is seen by glimpses; and e'en as our eyes
Are eager, and our apprehension pants
110
And long we see less clearly than the dull.
But the clouds move away with time, and labour,
And patience; while the added mist of passion
Subsides; and strength, and brightness, and tranquillity,
And fortitude, and sentiment exalted,
Combine, and give that self-dependence, which
Constitutes power, and strict ascendancy
Of character! But in the scornful estimate
Of the mole-eyed practitioner in cavils,
Much have I trifled;—wanting method, unity
Of purpose and of labour; pleas'd with fictions,
And baubles; searching curiosities
Not worth the cost of time, or waste of intellect;
And scribbling in profusion what the pruning knife,
Or polish of the file, has ne'er receiv'd.
O, how uncandid, and how ignorant,
And dull, to call on all to rule themselves
By one unvaried method! Let the candidates
For fame, pursue a thousand different paths;
Yet equally at the same end arrive!
The pruning knife, the file, may be to some
Instruments necessary; but to others
They may be death; they may let out the sap,
And wither up the pores; and clear away
The tints and features, strength, and character!
With some all is in the first burst of thought,
And language that comes with it; and cold labour
Not mends, but at each anxious touch destroys it.
All that is grand or tender, is the dart
Of inspiration. Who will doubt that Shakespeare,
Without premeditation or correction,
Pour'd forth the torrents of his magic strains?
Fast as the swift uninterrupted stream,
Hasten'd his mind his lips and pen, and stop'd not
To mend what was sufficient for his purpose.
From labour comes obscurity, confusion
Of metaphors, abruptness, and the break
Of natural associations,
Of thought, and imagery, and sentiment.
There may be sound; and outwardly a fair
Array of rich poetical ideas;
But it is only to the ear and eye,—
Not to the head or heart. They are but sounds
Tinkling, and shadows of factitious spirits!
The bard cannot rehearse but what he sees,
Hears, and believes, the moment of his utterance.
The genuine poet cannot be affected;
The ferment of his bosom would at once
Throw off all veil, all labour'd artifice;
And render the whole process of disguise,
And shape unnatural, impossible!
Instruments necessary; but to others
They may be death; they may let out the sap,
And wither up the pores; and clear away
The tints and features, strength, and character!
With some all is in the first burst of thought,
And language that comes with it; and cold labour
Not mends, but at each anxious touch destroys it.
All that is grand or tender, is the dart
111
Without premeditation or correction,
Pour'd forth the torrents of his magic strains?
Fast as the swift uninterrupted stream,
Hasten'd his mind his lips and pen, and stop'd not
To mend what was sufficient for his purpose.
From labour comes obscurity, confusion
Of metaphors, abruptness, and the break
Of natural associations,
Of thought, and imagery, and sentiment.
There may be sound; and outwardly a fair
Array of rich poetical ideas;
But it is only to the ear and eye,—
Not to the head or heart. They are but sounds
Tinkling, and shadows of factitious spirits!
The bard cannot rehearse but what he sees,
Hears, and believes, the moment of his utterance.
The genuine poet cannot be affected;
The ferment of his bosom would at once
Throw off all veil, all labour'd artifice;
And render the whole process of disguise,
And shape unnatural, impossible!
Who ever reads the mighty bard of Avon,
And for a moment has to seek his meaning?
Who ever in his airiest, loftiest flights,
Of visions even most imaginative,
Did not in his own fancy find a mirror
And echo? Wherefore this, but that he wrote
Only what Nature prompted and believed?
And for a moment has to seek his meaning?
Who ever in his airiest, loftiest flights,
Of visions even most imaginative,
Did not in his own fancy find a mirror
And echo? Wherefore this, but that he wrote
Only what Nature prompted and believed?
O do not give the name of art to poetry!
It is not art! It is a true infusion
Of portions of the great Creator's power!
The poet is not gifted with the faculty
Creative over matter: but the spiritual
He can create, and with a living force,
Which is reality, and operates
On matter like the tribes of mind, sent forth
E'en by the omnipotent Deity himself!
112
Of portions of the great Creator's power!
The poet is not gifted with the faculty
Creative over matter: but the spiritual
He can create, and with a living force,
Which is reality, and operates
On matter like the tribes of mind, sent forth
E'en by the omnipotent Deity himself!
Upon thy banks, O Lake, much have I mused,
And sometimes in new tracks pursued my searches.
In lands far distant from our natives homes
Our minds expatiate with more liberty:
All local prejudices, which 'tis difficult
To clear by th' root, there by degrees give way,
Nor leave a trace behind. Then we become
True citizens of a capacious world.
Around our infancy too oft have grown
Some early fears, affections, hatreds, envies,
Which cloud the mind and heart; and are rank spots
To be wip'd cleanly out. Man cannot judge
Of man, till those impressions deep, we took
In childhood, are effac'd; where accident
Works upon weakness. Thro' the globe the same
Minds, passions, virtues act; and we may seek
Genius and learning spread in every clime;
And best perchance, we seek it far from home,
Because we there judge with more equal candour,
And are not sensible of petty vapours,
Bred in the morbid sensibility
Of some diseased part, in youth contracted.
Fresh airs, moreover, give a novelty
Of strength to parts, where the mind has been worn,
And its due figures somewhat clouded over,
Or twisted and deform'd. New objects give
An impulse to the current of the blood,
And chasing the invigorated stream
Thro the sick bosom, rise in brilliancy
Of their gold-tinted sprays up to the brain,
And fortify the frame and soul together!
And sometimes in new tracks pursued my searches.
In lands far distant from our natives homes
Our minds expatiate with more liberty:
All local prejudices, which 'tis difficult
To clear by th' root, there by degrees give way,
Nor leave a trace behind. Then we become
True citizens of a capacious world.
Around our infancy too oft have grown
Some early fears, affections, hatreds, envies,
Which cloud the mind and heart; and are rank spots
To be wip'd cleanly out. Man cannot judge
Of man, till those impressions deep, we took
In childhood, are effac'd; where accident
Works upon weakness. Thro' the globe the same
Minds, passions, virtues act; and we may seek
Genius and learning spread in every clime;
And best perchance, we seek it far from home,
Because we there judge with more equal candour,
And are not sensible of petty vapours,
Bred in the morbid sensibility
Of some diseased part, in youth contracted.
113
Of strength to parts, where the mind has been worn,
And its due figures somewhat clouded over,
Or twisted and deform'd. New objects give
An impulse to the current of the blood,
And chasing the invigorated stream
Thro the sick bosom, rise in brilliancy
Of their gold-tinted sprays up to the brain,
And fortify the frame and soul together!
Such aid, O Mountain Lake, I owe to thee!
To keep the mind in vigour there perchance
Something of time and place and opportunity
Requires. To live to future ages, asks
A spirit and a mellowness of fruit
Of intellectual faculties, not fashion'd
Merely to the caprices of the moment.
Fashions with every generation change:
But the attraction which depends on fashion,
Becomes disgusting to its successor:
And he, who has no other, dies forever,
And is forgotten. Truth, and style, and genius
Are the same always. Passion, as she's frank,
And unaffected, speaks with little difference
After the lapse of centuries: the characters
Of Shakespeare in their moments of excitement
Vary not from the modern day, while authors
Of note inferior speak another language,
Which even in their own time was most quaint,
Most artificial, and affected. Thus
Would want of inspiration ever try
To fill the place of genius. E'en in Chaucer
After four centuries, the style, and colour,
Accent, and collocation of the words,
Is still the same, wherever there is freedom,
And fire and vigour rising above art
And labour. Mere affected scholars write
The language of the day; but genuine bards,
And busy statesmen of original
And powerful minds, in one enduring tone
Pour forth the workings of their mighty bosoms,
And intellectual effervescences.
Thus when the language is found obsolete,
Labour'd, distorted, overdress'd, the thought
Is not worth seeking: either 'tis not genuine,
Or it is triteness hid in ornament.
To keep the mind in vigour there perchance
Something of time and place and opportunity
Requires. To live to future ages, asks
A spirit and a mellowness of fruit
Of intellectual faculties, not fashion'd
Merely to the caprices of the moment.
Fashions with every generation change:
But the attraction which depends on fashion,
Becomes disgusting to its successor:
And he, who has no other, dies forever,
And is forgotten. Truth, and style, and genius
Are the same always. Passion, as she's frank,
And unaffected, speaks with little difference
After the lapse of centuries: the characters
Of Shakespeare in their moments of excitement
Vary not from the modern day, while authors
Of note inferior speak another language,
Which even in their own time was most quaint,
Most artificial, and affected. Thus
Would want of inspiration ever try
114
After four centuries, the style, and colour,
Accent, and collocation of the words,
Is still the same, wherever there is freedom,
And fire and vigour rising above art
And labour. Mere affected scholars write
The language of the day; but genuine bards,
And busy statesmen of original
And powerful minds, in one enduring tone
Pour forth the workings of their mighty bosoms,
And intellectual effervescences.
Thus when the language is found obsolete,
Labour'd, distorted, overdress'd, the thought
Is not worth seeking: either 'tis not genuine,
Or it is triteness hid in ornament.
Discoverers in science may be useful;
But all their merits are transmissible:
They are, like money, things of circulation,
And equally available to all.
But the fine essence of imaginative
Genius eludes transmission, and thus lives
And breathes alone in the identical words
Of its creator. Therefore poets live
Forever in the presence of posterity.
But all their merits are transmissible:
They are, like money, things of circulation,
And equally available to all.
But the fine essence of imaginative
Genius eludes transmission, and thus lives
And breathes alone in the identical words
Of its creator. Therefore poets live
Forever in the presence of posterity.
Rousseau, most eloquent, and most seducing
Creator, who thy magic language can
Transfer to his own pages? It escapes
In the vain trial, and expires in air!
Intensity was thine of most ideal
Happiness:—in the world thou wert not good!
The world excited all thy evil passions;
And solitude thy virtuous! Foolish censurer,
Who deems thee not sincere, because thine actions
Do not to th'effusions of thy mind accord!
Thou couldst not write that, which thou didst not feel!
Thy lakes, and rocks, and mountains;—of thy childhood
The haunted scenes! how couldst thou fly from them,
And seek for shelter among unknown strangers?
Thou foundst it in a kind but wanton dame,
To whom perchance much of corrupt in thee
Was owing! O how strange and mingled was
The tissue of thy life! The mixed threads
Of wild insanity were ever there:
And thy predominant fancy ever rul'd thee,
As if th'ideal objects were material!
Perhaps thou couldst not overcome the visits,
Unsought by thee, of spiritual presences!
And if they would inebriate thy soul
With hopes delusive, and mislead thy faith
In beauties, which existed not on earth,
Not to thy conscience would the crime belong!
Creator, who thy magic language can
Transfer to his own pages? It escapes
In the vain trial, and expires in air!
Intensity was thine of most ideal
Happiness:—in the world thou wert not good!
115
And solitude thy virtuous! Foolish censurer,
Who deems thee not sincere, because thine actions
Do not to th'effusions of thy mind accord!
Thou couldst not write that, which thou didst not feel!
Thy lakes, and rocks, and mountains;—of thy childhood
The haunted scenes! how couldst thou fly from them,
And seek for shelter among unknown strangers?
Thou foundst it in a kind but wanton dame,
To whom perchance much of corrupt in thee
Was owing! O how strange and mingled was
The tissue of thy life! The mixed threads
Of wild insanity were ever there:
And thy predominant fancy ever rul'd thee,
As if th'ideal objects were material!
Perhaps thou couldst not overcome the visits,
Unsought by thee, of spiritual presences!
And if they would inebriate thy soul
With hopes delusive, and mislead thy faith
In beauties, which existed not on earth,
Not to thy conscience would the crime belong!
How different from Voltaire! to him each fault
Of envy, hatred, artifice, was deep
Premeditation, laid to bring about
Some wicked end! When in that habitation,
Which now I see before me, he survey'd
The rolling lake, and saw the evening sun
Reflected from Mont-Blanc, and heard in nights
Of wintry darkness cross his windows come
The howling storm, that rode upon the waters,
By mountain torrents fed, he no sublimity
Of soul experienc'd; but alone he mus'd
Upon the world, its wit, its fashions, follies;
On artificial man;—on imagery,
Merely as secondary instruments
To dress his studied and factitious thoughts!
Better were he mix'd in the levity
Of gay Parisian streets, than circled by
Cragg'd rocks of everlasting snow, and lonely
Expanses of cloud-tinted waters, sounding
Only with nature's echoes from the torrents
Of ice-bound wintry rains, dissolv'd by spring;—
Or the scarce audible halloo of bargemen
Descending with their loaded freights. To him,
Whose converse is with human wit and cunning,
All nature's grandeur is but ennui!
Of envy, hatred, artifice, was deep
Premeditation, laid to bring about
Some wicked end! When in that habitation,
Which now I see before me, he survey'd
The rolling lake, and saw the evening sun
Reflected from Mont-Blanc, and heard in nights
Of wintry darkness cross his windows come
The howling storm, that rode upon the waters,
116
Of soul experienc'd; but alone he mus'd
Upon the world, its wit, its fashions, follies;
On artificial man;—on imagery,
Merely as secondary instruments
To dress his studied and factitious thoughts!
Better were he mix'd in the levity
Of gay Parisian streets, than circled by
Cragg'd rocks of everlasting snow, and lonely
Expanses of cloud-tinted waters, sounding
Only with nature's echoes from the torrents
Of ice-bound wintry rains, dissolv'd by spring;—
Or the scarce audible halloo of bargemen
Descending with their loaded freights. To him,
Whose converse is with human wit and cunning,
All nature's grandeur is but ennui!
In wit abundant, in mere spriteliness
Of intellect ingenious, clear, judicious,
Where is the sentiment, th'imaginary,
The fair, the tender, the sublime, in him
The Lord of Ferney, still gay France's idol!
Why should we wonder, that a nation cherishes
A bard, the very mirror of itself?
It will be argued that to know mankind,
Not as they ought to be, but as they are,
Is the most useful knowledge. The position
Is plausible;—but yet it is delusive.
By lonely study we may also know
Man as he is; but not as he amid
The conflict of the crowded city is,
But in the purity of solitude,
Nurs'd in the loftiness of nature's charms,
And only conversant with nature's voice.
Of intellect ingenious, clear, judicious,
Where is the sentiment, th'imaginary,
The fair, the tender, the sublime, in him
The Lord of Ferney, still gay France's idol!
Why should we wonder, that a nation cherishes
A bard, the very mirror of itself?
It will be argued that to know mankind,
Not as they ought to be, but as they are,
Is the most useful knowledge. The position
Is plausible;—but yet it is delusive.
By lonely study we may also know
Man as he is; but not as he amid
The conflict of the crowded city is,
117
Nurs'd in the loftiness of nature's charms,
And only conversant with nature's voice.
There is a baseness in the constant force,
With which men's faults and weaknesses are spied,
Where all excites a jest, or witticism,
Or sharp rebuke. More specious than profound,
The multifarious writer thus proceeds:
All follow him, and all delight in him;
For all most easily can apprehend him.
With which men's faults and weaknesses are spied,
Where all excites a jest, or witticism,
Or sharp rebuke. More specious than profound,
The multifarious writer thus proceeds:
All follow him, and all delight in him;
For all most easily can apprehend him.
Rousseau demands a passionate heart, and visionary
Fancy. Of him the lyric Gray has spoken,
With adoration of his eloquence
And beauties. But there is another Sage,
Of name imposing, and whose luminous judgment
Most rarely errs; and he with bitterness
Of critical aspersion has condemn'd
This fam'd Genevan citizen to ignominy.
Of revolutionary anarchy
The advocate of ancient institutions
Deem'd him the fire-brand: for the supposition
Of this black crime th'enthusiastic Burke
Could find no mercy. It is true the mobs
Of radical destruction on their lips
Had ever Rousseau's name: but he perchance
Was far too subtle and too tender for them:
And much it may be doubted, if he added
To the long-laid and wide spread elements
Of blood-thirsty explosion. His own native
City shut also its barr'd gates to him;
And burnt his eloquent disquisitions
On man's political rights with too much bigotry,
And harsh injustice;—not to say servility
To other states,—unheard, unsummon'd, and
Absent in distant lands,—and though the crime,—
If crime it was,—was not with them committed.
Fancy. Of him the lyric Gray has spoken,
With adoration of his eloquence
And beauties. But there is another Sage,
Of name imposing, and whose luminous judgment
Most rarely errs; and he with bitterness
Of critical aspersion has condemn'd
This fam'd Genevan citizen to ignominy.
Of revolutionary anarchy
The advocate of ancient institutions
Deem'd him the fire-brand: for the supposition
Of this black crime th'enthusiastic Burke
Could find no mercy. It is true the mobs
Of radical destruction on their lips
Had ever Rousseau's name: but he perchance
Was far too subtle and too tender for them:
And much it may be doubted, if he added
To the long-laid and wide spread elements
Of blood-thirsty explosion. His own native
City shut also its barr'd gates to him;
118
On man's political rights with too much bigotry,
And harsh injustice;—not to say servility
To other states,—unheard, unsummon'd, and
Absent in distant lands,—and though the crime,—
If crime it was,—was not with them committed.
Look at the candour, and the charity,
And simple grief, with which on that occasion
Th'eloquent citizen bemoan'd his fate.
His country was a stepmother to him,
And yet the high of its inhabitants
Cherish'd the ceaseless hatreds of their sires
Against him, still insensible to all
The glory, on their ancient walls he brought!
Hatred political but rarely wars
With the illustrious dead! And who, like Rousseau,
In splendid genius 'mong Genevan annals
Shines! That the native of a small republic
Should war with kings, and courts, and luxuries,—
Is this surprising? Liberty he lov'd:
It was of th'very essence of his mind
And heart: and yet he found that liberty
Not always in republics flourishes.
And simple grief, with which on that occasion
Th'eloquent citizen bemoan'd his fate.
His country was a stepmother to him,
And yet the high of its inhabitants
Cherish'd the ceaseless hatreds of their sires
Against him, still insensible to all
The glory, on their ancient walls he brought!
Hatred political but rarely wars
With the illustrious dead! And who, like Rousseau,
In splendid genius 'mong Genevan annals
Shines! That the native of a small republic
Should war with kings, and courts, and luxuries,—
Is this surprising? Liberty he lov'd:
It was of th'very essence of his mind
And heart: and yet he found that liberty
Not always in republics flourishes.
There oligarchies rule too frequently;
And factions rage, and acts of cruel tyranny
Are practis'd by the wantonness of powers
New-got. In France the charg'd conspiracy
Of philosophic politicians
May be suspected to have credit for
More active mischief than it did: the seeds
Were laid far more remotely; the destruction
Of the last remnant of the constitution
By Medicean tyranny and intrigue,
After the death of the heroic Henry,
And the Grand Louis' despot power, and wasteful
Ambition, form'd a mine, whose sure explosion,
In its due hour all statesmen wise foresaw.
Thus the sagacious, veil-withdrawing chief
Of French memorialists, the wise Saint-Simon,
Foretold, long ere the club'd Encyclopedists
Their poison hid in flowers, thro' every page
Spread: for the unendurable corruption
Of the grand monarch's court must have at last
Rous'd the most servile and neck-broken people!
And factions rage, and acts of cruel tyranny
Are practis'd by the wantonness of powers
New-got. In France the charg'd conspiracy
Of philosophic politicians
May be suspected to have credit for
More active mischief than it did: the seeds
119
Of the last remnant of the constitution
By Medicean tyranny and intrigue,
After the death of the heroic Henry,
And the Grand Louis' despot power, and wasteful
Ambition, form'd a mine, whose sure explosion,
In its due hour all statesmen wise foresaw.
Thus the sagacious, veil-withdrawing chief
Of French memorialists, the wise Saint-Simon,
Foretold, long ere the club'd Encyclopedists
Their poison hid in flowers, thro' every page
Spread: for the unendurable corruption
Of the grand monarch's court must have at last
Rous'd the most servile and neck-broken people!
And thou, magician, exil'd from thy country,
Wide o'er the earth in care and sorrow wandred'st;
Then didst thou pass the ocean straits 'twixt Calais
And Dover; and beneath the white cliffs landed,
Didst see the fields of liberty, so call'd,
And Cantium's meadows green, and gentle hills,
And winding vallies; and its peasantry,
Ruddy and neatly clad; and its bluff manners,
And scorn of strangers, and provincial pride;
The haughty castle frowning o'er the waves,
The Conqueror took from Harold, slain at Hastings;
And yet a few leagues inland o'er the downs,
Where Cæsar once encamp'd, the rising tower
Lofty, and beautiful in gothic symmetry,
Of that far-fam'd Cathedral, where St.-Austin
Preach'd, and where Becket of his blood incurr'd
The forfeit for his pride prelatical!
But thy capricious humour could not brook
The coldness of a melancholy people,
And thy Theresa, to whose wicked temper,
And devilish arts, thou didst commit thy happiness,
Hourly gave all her poison to afflict thee
With discontent, and foul suspicion
Of thy best friends. Then Hume, the calm historian,
Somewhat, perhaps, ironical and heartless,
Rous'd thy mad jealousy and deep revenge;
Then Walpole's poignant wit thy vanity
And self-esteem too cruelly assaulted.
Wide o'er the earth in care and sorrow wandred'st;
Then didst thou pass the ocean straits 'twixt Calais
And Dover; and beneath the white cliffs landed,
Didst see the fields of liberty, so call'd,
And Cantium's meadows green, and gentle hills,
And winding vallies; and its peasantry,
Ruddy and neatly clad; and its bluff manners,
And scorn of strangers, and provincial pride;
The haughty castle frowning o'er the waves,
The Conqueror took from Harold, slain at Hastings;
And yet a few leagues inland o'er the downs,
Where Cæsar once encamp'd, the rising tower
Lofty, and beautiful in gothic symmetry,
Of that far-fam'd Cathedral, where St.-Austin
Preach'd, and where Becket of his blood incurr'd
120
But thy capricious humour could not brook
The coldness of a melancholy people,
And thy Theresa, to whose wicked temper,
And devilish arts, thou didst commit thy happiness,
Hourly gave all her poison to afflict thee
With discontent, and foul suspicion
Of thy best friends. Then Hume, the calm historian,
Somewhat, perhaps, ironical and heartless,
Rous'd thy mad jealousy and deep revenge;
Then Walpole's poignant wit thy vanity
And self-esteem too cruelly assaulted.
In the delightful solitude of Stafford's
Peace-breathing woodlands, with thy flowers and garden,
A guest, with all thy wants provided for,
Thou might'st have been serenely happy, had
The friend attendant on thee pour'd the balm
Of comfort on thy troubled nerves and heart!
But ever did she fan thy brooding cares,
And jaundic'd disbelief; and thou returnedst
Insanely tortur'd from a kind asylum.
But never on thy natal spot, belov'd
With intermingled passions of resentment
And indignation, to take up thy residence!
For as we love, we hate; and as no other
Scenes the same keen delight can give us, none
Can the same pains and agonies inflict!
Peace-breathing woodlands, with thy flowers and garden,
A guest, with all thy wants provided for,
Thou might'st have been serenely happy, had
The friend attendant on thee pour'd the balm
Of comfort on thy troubled nerves and heart!
But ever did she fan thy brooding cares,
And jaundic'd disbelief; and thou returnedst
Insanely tortur'd from a kind asylum.
But never on thy natal spot, belov'd
With intermingled passions of resentment
And indignation, to take up thy residence!
For as we love, we hate; and as no other
Scenes the same keen delight can give us, none
Can the same pains and agonies inflict!
Few were the years that after thy return
Thou lingerd'st out thy melancholy life;
And, as 'tis said, at last by thine own hand
Clos'd it.—It is a strange mysterious tale;
But horror at the base and faithless conduct
Of her, who was the scourge of thy existence,
Rumour assigns the cause: and I have heard
From those who've seen the model of thy skull,
The bullet mark is there. Thy fame was high,
But never could it satisfy the craving
Of thy vain appetite: or morbid humour
Made thee insensible to its extent.
Thou lingerd'st out thy melancholy life;
And, as 'tis said, at last by thine own hand
121
But horror at the base and faithless conduct
Of her, who was the scourge of thy existence,
Rumour assigns the cause: and I have heard
From those who've seen the model of thy skull,
The bullet mark is there. Thy fame was high,
But never could it satisfy the craving
Of thy vain appetite: or morbid humour
Made thee insensible to its extent.
'Tis strange, that Nature should endow a few
With such superiority of genius,
That they should overcome the rivalry
Of ages; and contending still against
Novelty, fashion, labour, art, and aid
Of the light of high minds preceding them,
Should still hold onward their eclipsing course.
How can it be that those high-gifted beings
Can so much life upon their pages throw?
Well has De Staël, in her most early effort
At literary fame, evolv'd thy character!
With such superiority of genius,
That they should overcome the rivalry
Of ages; and contending still against
Novelty, fashion, labour, art, and aid
Of the light of high minds preceding them,
Should still hold onward their eclipsing course.
How can it be that those high-gifted beings
Can so much life upon their pages throw?
Well has De Staël, in her most early effort
At literary fame, evolv'd thy character!
High-mounted, in Lausanne's vicinity,
Stands Aubonne! There Tavernier from his travels
Rested,—a chosen spot, adapted well
T' his Oriental taste, where fortune's favour
Crown'd him with wealth: but Riches, it is said,
Have wings and fly away; and so with him!
And after all his luxuries, necessity
Drove him to his old occupations.
Stands Aubonne! There Tavernier from his travels
Rested,—a chosen spot, adapted well
T' his Oriental taste, where fortune's favour
Crown'd him with wealth: but Riches, it is said,
Have wings and fly away; and so with him!
And after all his luxuries, necessity
Drove him to his old occupations.
Hast thou not heard of Vevay? Every Briton
Has heard of Vevay, where in the dust the relics
Slumber of England's stern republican,
Ludlow! In this delightful spot he spent
His latter lonely days, when Charles return'd!
Not idle, but still weaving well his daily
Task, the yet valued tale of history!
There the Lake winds, and cross its waves are seen
At distance the precipitous heights wood-crownd
Of fam'd La Meillerai! of which when lovers
Read, they all tremble, as at Rimini
Dante the tale of the unhappy Pair
Relates, where fatal was the book to both!
Has heard of Vevay, where in the dust the relics
122
Ludlow! In this delightful spot he spent
His latter lonely days, when Charles return'd!
Not idle, but still weaving well his daily
Task, the yet valued tale of history!
There the Lake winds, and cross its waves are seen
At distance the precipitous heights wood-crownd
Of fam'd La Meillerai! of which when lovers
Read, they all tremble, as at Rimini
Dante the tale of the unhappy Pair
Relates, where fatal was the book to both!
At the Lake's head we cross'd the marshy grounds
By Villeneuve: and then enter'd on the route
From Italy by Vallais! where we fell
On Savoy's ancient territories,—Savoy
Ever from its first origin despotic,
Ambitious, self-aggrandising, and reckless
Of right; ferocious to Genevan freedom;
And still its ancient claims by ruse and arms
Not utterly abandoning; but worn
At last with age, and sinking into feebleness,
And now its chiefs expir'd; but its crown fallen
Into the hands of a more vigorous scion.
By Villeneuve: and then enter'd on the route
From Italy by Vallais! where we fell
On Savoy's ancient territories,—Savoy
Ever from its first origin despotic,
Ambitious, self-aggrandising, and reckless
Of right; ferocious to Genevan freedom;
And still its ancient claims by ruse and arms
Not utterly abandoning; but worn
At last with age, and sinking into feebleness,
And now its chiefs expir'd; but its crown fallen
Into the hands of a more vigorous scion.
Then come we to Ripaille, in history noted
For the Count-Pope and his retirement thither,
When Rome's proud mitre was surrender'd by him:
But on the tale my Muse refrains to enter,
Touch'd by Voltaire, the world's great favourite.
For the Count-Pope and his retirement thither,
When Rome's proud mitre was surrender'd by him:
But on the tale my Muse refrains to enter,
Touch'd by Voltaire, the world's great favourite.
Here agriculture flourishes in Chablais;
But hardly live the peasantry, and hard
Their wrinkled visages, and spare tall figures;
And by the iron rod of bigot power,
Priest-ridden, are they cruelly oppress'd!
But hardly live the peasantry, and hard
123
And by the iron rod of bigot power,
Priest-ridden, are they cruelly oppress'd!
And now thro Cologny we pass again,
And once more Byron's residence salute.
Was he more happy in these scenes of grandeur,
With lakes and mountains, such as in his childhood
Fed his romantic fancy, than in scenes
Of Italy; Venice, Ravenna, Pisa
Perchance less stirring to imagination?
O no! the struggles of a firey heart,
Yet tender;—of high hopes of love, ambition,
Friendship, respect, esteem, at once destroy'd,
Were here in their first agonies: the tempest
Allow'd but briefest intervals of peace.
But as the sorrow and the indignation
Were strong, so was the brilliance of the mind:
The Bard perhaps did never more intensely
Feel, and more powerfully describe, than now.
And once more Byron's residence salute.
Was he more happy in these scenes of grandeur,
With lakes and mountains, such as in his childhood
Fed his romantic fancy, than in scenes
Of Italy; Venice, Ravenna, Pisa
Perchance less stirring to imagination?
O no! the struggles of a firey heart,
Yet tender;—of high hopes of love, ambition,
Friendship, respect, esteem, at once destroy'd,
Were here in their first agonies: the tempest
Allow'd but briefest intervals of peace.
But as the sorrow and the indignation
Were strong, so was the brilliance of the mind:
The Bard perhaps did never more intensely
Feel, and more powerfully describe, than now.
Here Manfred he conceiv'd amid the rocks
And crags of Chamouni; and sure than Manfred
His Muse a nobler poem ne'er produc'd!
New images, new sentiments, a tone
Of sad mysterious rhythmical melody,
Softness, sublimity, and altogether
A magic inspiration; to himself
Peculiar;—which in every word is Byron,—
Byron;—and no one else—to every one's
Perception, only Byron! when from the height,
The giddy height seductive of destruction
Manfred descends, we shudder at each step,
And follow him with breathless agitation.
There are who call the mighty bard a borrower!
Let the dull censurer ponder on those strains!
But not for ever on a favourite poet
Must I prolong my verse monotonous!
And crags of Chamouni; and sure than Manfred
His Muse a nobler poem ne'er produc'd!
New images, new sentiments, a tone
Of sad mysterious rhythmical melody,
Softness, sublimity, and altogether
A magic inspiration; to himself
Peculiar;—which in every word is Byron,—
Byron;—and no one else—to every one's
Perception, only Byron! when from the height,
The giddy height seductive of destruction
124
And follow him with breathless agitation.
There are who call the mighty bard a borrower!
Let the dull censurer ponder on those strains!
But not for ever on a favourite poet
Must I prolong my verse monotonous!
Eaux-Vives! I now return to you! To see
The white sail of the barge in glimmering distance
O'er the blue waters gaining on the eye!
And watch the tide dashing against thy walls,
And listen to its melancholy murmurs.
But now my boiling blood, by solar heats
Reflected from the glassy surface, when
At the oar labouring;—while the treacherous blast
Bred in the mountains, like a thief in th' night,
Cross the luxurious moment of suspence,—
Arrests my intellectual purposes.
But still Romance, and theories abstruse
Of dry hard arithmetical researches
Into the causes by which nations flourish
In wealth material, by alternate mixture
Relieve each other, and by resolution
Two tasks I close;—thus, Coningsby, to thee
I give th'approaching crisis; and thus end
A weightier labour, on the Population
Of Kingdoms, and how far increase contributes
To happiness, and strength! Now twelve long years
Want but a month or two to be completed,
Since thus I felt, and spoke, and acted. Time
Has since gone fertile in events and thoughts;
But ever on myself I must not dwell.
The white sail of the barge in glimmering distance
O'er the blue waters gaining on the eye!
And watch the tide dashing against thy walls,
And listen to its melancholy murmurs.
But now my boiling blood, by solar heats
Reflected from the glassy surface, when
At the oar labouring;—while the treacherous blast
Bred in the mountains, like a thief in th' night,
Cross the luxurious moment of suspence,—
Arrests my intellectual purposes.
But still Romance, and theories abstruse
Of dry hard arithmetical researches
Into the causes by which nations flourish
In wealth material, by alternate mixture
Relieve each other, and by resolution
Two tasks I close;—thus, Coningsby, to thee
I give th'approaching crisis; and thus end
A weightier labour, on the Population
Of Kingdoms, and how far increase contributes
To happiness, and strength! Now twelve long years
Want but a month or two to be completed,
Since thus I felt, and spoke, and acted. Time
Has since gone fertile in events and thoughts;
125
Geneva! though thine idol has been liberty,
Too often hast thou felt the hand of Power,
And long and various have thy troubles been
Between obedience and command. Thy people
Have ever rife and stirring at resistance
Been; discontented, giving little faith
To those who ruled them, and suspicious ever
Of usurpation of unnecessary
Force, and a wanton exercise of proud
Authority! and many a harrowing tale
Of punishment and death in the resistance
Fills your impressive annals! does there live
The heart that will not weep at Fatio's death?
There was a fierce relentless cruelty
In it, which never yet distain'd the power
Of monarchs! He, condemn'd to death for acts
Of politic resistance, doubtfully
Construed as crimes of treason to the state,
Remanded back to prison, the next morning
Was call'd into the court, and coolly shot
In presence of the Syndics. At the notice
He stood undaunted, calmly from his cell
Came forth, and with heroic firmness met
His cruel fate! Thus faction was repress'd,
If it was faction: but a small Republic,
With powers that from their origin were never
Defin'd precisely, might admit in candour
The difference of opinion in strong minds,
Well educated, and of probity
Unquestion'd; and if punishment was necessary
To keep the bonds over a restless people;
Not death! But death the despot bigot Calvin
Had taught, a century and half before,
Was due to those who differ'd from their rulers
E'en in the theory of points abstruse.
Too often hast thou felt the hand of Power,
And long and various have thy troubles been
Between obedience and command. Thy people
Have ever rife and stirring at resistance
Been; discontented, giving little faith
To those who ruled them, and suspicious ever
Of usurpation of unnecessary
Force, and a wanton exercise of proud
Authority! and many a harrowing tale
Of punishment and death in the resistance
Fills your impressive annals! does there live
The heart that will not weep at Fatio's death?
There was a fierce relentless cruelty
In it, which never yet distain'd the power
Of monarchs! He, condemn'd to death for acts
Of politic resistance, doubtfully
Construed as crimes of treason to the state,
Remanded back to prison, the next morning
Was call'd into the court, and coolly shot
In presence of the Syndics. At the notice
He stood undaunted, calmly from his cell
Came forth, and with heroic firmness met
His cruel fate! Thus faction was repress'd,
If it was faction: but a small Republic,
With powers that from their origin were never
Defin'd precisely, might admit in candour
The difference of opinion in strong minds,
Well educated, and of probity
126
To keep the bonds over a restless people;
Not death! But death the despot bigot Calvin
Had taught, a century and half before,
Was due to those who differ'd from their rulers
E'en in the theory of points abstruse.
O Servet! thy recording spirit tells
A bosom-rending story, which the fame
Of Calvin never can wipe out! Thyself,
Didst thou not, as a leader of the Church
Reform'd, claim freedom from Rome's dogmatism?
And why was difference from thee to draw
The forfeiture of life? Burnt at the stake!
O horrible beyond all other cruelties!
“Blood only may be spilt for blood!” says Burke:
And I would willingly thou shouldst have died,
As thou hadst made thine enemy to die!
Thou wast a bigoted enthusiast,
And if a stern corrector of foul manners
Thou wast, I much suspect it was a mode
To feed thy love of power and vanity;—
Not from pure virtue! How could virtue prompt,
Nay how could it consent to such a deed,
As Servet's death? Was it to be found
In dictates of that Gospel, which thou boastedst
Thine only guide to be? What charity,
If in the heart it is not, can in essence
Belong to him who most pretends to piety?
And without charity what true religion?
A bosom-rending story, which the fame
Of Calvin never can wipe out! Thyself,
Didst thou not, as a leader of the Church
Reform'd, claim freedom from Rome's dogmatism?
And why was difference from thee to draw
The forfeiture of life? Burnt at the stake!
O horrible beyond all other cruelties!
“Blood only may be spilt for blood!” says Burke:
And I would willingly thou shouldst have died,
As thou hadst made thine enemy to die!
Thou wast a bigoted enthusiast,
And if a stern corrector of foul manners
Thou wast, I much suspect it was a mode
To feed thy love of power and vanity;—
Not from pure virtue! How could virtue prompt,
Nay how could it consent to such a deed,
As Servet's death? Was it to be found
In dictates of that Gospel, which thou boastedst
Thine only guide to be? What charity,
If in the heart it is not, can in essence
Belong to him who most pretends to piety?
And without charity what true religion?
O Calvin, in the strange dominion given
Thro' Europe to thy doctrines, mingled evil
Disturb'd all ancient policies and powers.
Thence came the surly hypocritic Puritan,
Fierce as Rome's faction, and not less intriguing.
Thus Tudor's wise and most magnanimous princess
Spent her last days 'tween two devouring fires!
Then vulgar insolence and most nonsensical
Rejection of all ornament,—the spoiler
Of all that wak'd devotion thro' the fancy,
Of imagery grand, or fair, or passionate,
Went forth, and with the texts of scripture ever
Distorted, misapplied, and ignorantly
Construed, upon his lips, but to his heart
Never in due streams reaching, overturn'd
Sincerity, and natural impulses,
And probity of conscience, and good faith
In conduct, labouring like moles
At mischief under ground; and sowing seeds,
That in explosion of all civil policy
Might one day end.
127
Disturb'd all ancient policies and powers.
Thence came the surly hypocritic Puritan,
Fierce as Rome's faction, and not less intriguing.
Thus Tudor's wise and most magnanimous princess
Spent her last days 'tween two devouring fires!
Then vulgar insolence and most nonsensical
Rejection of all ornament,—the spoiler
Of all that wak'd devotion thro' the fancy,
Of imagery grand, or fair, or passionate,
Went forth, and with the texts of scripture ever
Distorted, misapplied, and ignorantly
Construed, upon his lips, but to his heart
Never in due streams reaching, overturn'd
Sincerity, and natural impulses,
And probity of conscience, and good faith
In conduct, labouring like moles
At mischief under ground; and sowing seeds,
That in explosion of all civil policy
Might one day end.
But, eloquent Hooker, thou
Wert the firm prop to the true church: thy labours
In wisdom, argument, and powerful language,
Yet flourish green! From very childhood I
With reverence pass'd thy simple parsonage
In the sweet vale where Barham's Roman way
Ever attracts th'historic traveller.
And thy remaining monument inscrib'd
By the time-honour'd name of Cowper's sires!
Wert the firm prop to the true church: thy labours
In wisdom, argument, and powerful language,
Yet flourish green! From very childhood I
With reverence pass'd thy simple parsonage
In the sweet vale where Barham's Roman way
Ever attracts th'historic traveller.
And thy remaining monument inscrib'd
By the time-honour'd name of Cowper's sires!
But I have reach'd the close of the division,
That order to my tedious song prescribes.
That order to my tedious song prescribes.
| The Lake of Geneva | |