University of Virginia Library

THE Lament of the Bard.

I.

'Tis mockery all! — Who could endure the sneer
That scowls upon my blank captivity?
Albeit no chains, nor prison dank and drear,
Confine my limbs, and bar me from the air,
And stop the circuit of my roving eye —
Such corporal sufferance I might better bear,
Perchance, than this which doth restrain the soul,
Which would beyond the narrow limit fly,
That holds the mass of men in low control,
In commerce with this earth's most gross concerns,
The Sons of Dulness, reckless of the roll
Of rapture, that inspireth him who burns
With thrilling song: — Gain is their care alone;
And poring on the ground, — although above
The heavens in magnificence are spread,
And all around is Beauty, Grace, and Love —
They toil and toil, and ne'er exalt the head
To mark the vast profusion, Nature's own,
That fills the heart with transport, and the mind
With Fancy, — gives Imagination birth —
And makes the wondering gazer, undesigned,
A prompted Poet — wings him from the earth
To regions whence he looks, with high disdain,
Down on the glittering pomp as false and vain,
That worldlings prize — the yellow slaves of Gain!

II.

What mockery? Whereof do I complain?
Of this — that I, who would full-willing roam,
With eagle spirit, land and rolling main,
In quest of Nature and of Knowledge high,
And Wisdom and Observance, and each scene
Which Fancy loves, where Meditation dwells,
And to the Bard give wings wherewith to fly,
Rocks, mountains, forests, solitary cells,
Can scarcely steal one hour from Toil and Home,
To mark Creation's wonders, and to glean
Of that a little, which the Sons of Mind,
In rich abundance, have possessed, and poured
Into their Songs, that nought on earth confined;
Whereof, with much regard, I have explored
Many of soul-deep sweetness; — though to more
A stranger, which I trust have sweets in store
For me, — what time I from my labour strayed,
With some loved book to feed my hungry thought
Albeit oft chid by those who never read
For wandering from the service of my Trade,
Though but a moment — I could snatch no more —
For I've not known the silence of one hour,
To Meditation and the Muse devote!
(Yet I am mute; — none hath a murmur heard;—
Whate'er my thought, 'tis voiceless and interred —
None, save my harp — that answers me again,
And soothes me with a sympathetic strain.)
Nor can long-time my fond ideas dwell
On scenes they mourn to leave, and love so well;
For with the sons of bustle I am pressed,
Bereft of what my soul affects the best —
Perpetual Thought, that in a heavenly mood
Seeks silence, and the pensive solitude,
Whence it can rise as high as angels can,
And prove how near allied to them is man.

III.

This is not all, nor half the mockery
That scowls upon my blank captivity!
I know not why, save to afflict me more,
Fate brought me to the rural scene, where I
Tune, querulous, this Song of mournful lore,
And walk not forth abroad in open sky;
But, cooped beneath a roof of narrow space,
Toil o'er the work that to the town belongs —
Retirement, — not for study, that might raise
Thoughts, worthy of the purpose of my songs,—
But for the aid of business, that my speed
May have no interruption; hence my time
Is filled up closely with the dull routine,
That ever rolls the same, and scarce my reed
Hath space to breathe, or leisure for a rhime;
And scarce one wing my Spirit can put forth,
Galled by the chain that binds her down to earth!
I had hoped reverse of this, and hailed the voice,
Which told me, eve and morn, the rural scene
I should behold, and purely breathe the air,
Franchised from smoke of Cities, and the noise;
And that, perchance, whole days should see me here; —
And then I weened a part of them t' employ,
Pondering on Nature's charms and loveliness,
Harmonious beauty, and melodious grace,
With all the music of her voice of joy;
And breathing fragrant incense of her breath —
Farewell, fond hopes! for I have seen your death —
“But where are Nature's beauties? — they are gone —
“And Winter hath congealed each stream to stone; —
“And Winter blasts the leaves from every tree; —
“Each field is blanched — there is no harmony —
“Neither fair sky — but all is cold and storm
“Which shrink and harrow up the human form.”

IV.

Though now 'tis Winter, yet it hath been spring,
When through the groves the birds were heard to sing,
When Sol was calm, and beautiful, and mild —
And in these shades upon his Poet smiled?
No, not on me — the City held me then, —
Yet since, whole days, hath Summer seen me here,
The Sun's proud, glorious season of the year,
When Splendour glowed above the head of men,
And Bounty blessed around their raptured ken —
But not to me — And Autumn brought her store,
And likewise saw me here — a milder glow
Was hers, and all her waving fields were gold —
I marked her not her rich abundance pour,
I marked her not her calmer day unfold,
I heard not her symphonious music flow —
Or seldom — when I did, I prized the chance,
And treasured every beauty that my gaze
Won from the scene, in soul-extatic trance —
Autumn's calm Sun, or Summer's fiercest blaze.
Hath awful Winter, then, no charms? He hath —
For those whose souls congenial storms delight,
Who love dark Terror's wild, sublimest path: —
And such my soul, that Nature loves when bright,
But loves her best when most she frowns in wrath!

V.

Said I ye, Seasons, have beheld me here
Whole days? — O rather I should say, and true,
Ye strangers are to me, and I to you,
For I, unhoused, meet you abroad but rare,
Blithe bounding o'er the field or up the hill,
Fanned by the breeze, and drinking purest air,
Soothed by the murmuring of a purling rill,
Charmed by the circling objects of delight,
Which Nature loves to press upon the sight,
And through the heart and joyous spirit thrill.—
No! — but the Sun upon my window glows;
I feel his warmth, — I feel the breeze that blows, —
Which, as in scorn, seem to invite me forth,
To gaze upon the enchantments of the earth!
Thus shine the sun-beams through the abhorred grate,
That mars them with its shade, of prison-gate,
Whose hinge shall never turn t' enlarge a limb
Of the sad victim, but where scoffing him,
Bare stands Captivity with laughter grim,
And points the spot, where Freedom's vallies lie,
Where he can enter not, to vex his eye, —
Yet mine is more — his thoughts can revel wide;
And though the dreams of trouble may annoy,
Yet he can gaily image those of joy —
But this stern Trade hath unto me denied!
Mine is the heavy durance of the soul,
Which would in everlasting rapture roll —
Chains that the body and the mind control!
For I am like a lark in cage confined,
Who feels his wings, and thinks to mount the wind;
I spread my plumes, and then attempt to soar, —
But Disappointment makes my sorrows more!

VI.

VII.

Sweet Poesy! whose gentle heart is fraught
With sensibility and tender thought;
Within whose eye is seen soft Pity's tear,
Like water shining in a diamond rare,
Rendering it thence more lovely and more fair;
Whose liquid language is that of the sky,
Such as the stars' angelic symphony,
Which is too pure for the unpurged ear
Of gross unscienced mortals, who thence scorn
The things that are too high for their low-borne,
And thought-estranged souls — and name thee, wild
Enthusiast, and Fancy's maddest child —
Enthusiast! — 'tis the name that I love best —
The very name congenial to my breast! —
And when they term thee so, then most they raise,
In my esteem, her whom they would abase.—
Enthusiast of Nature! Soul enflamed
With fire from her great Altar built by God,
And good by the wise Architect proclaimed!
Thine is the bliss of Angels free from sin!
O kindle all my spirits with thy fire!—
But why? — Trade calls me down to his abode —
Still thou'rt the active principle within!
To him my passive frame alone I give,
For I have never yielded so my soul,
Though subject be my thoughts to his control; —
Albeit he smother them, yet still they live,
And from their darkening shrouds again respire!
Then there I triumph o'er his tyrant power —
Yet when will come the date of Freedom's hour?
And who will lead me up the hill of Fame,
And twine the laurels round my humble name?
How would I bless the hand! my song should crown,
And pay him back those laurels of renown!
Is none to answer? — like an eagle young,
Why leave I not mine eyry then, and dare,
Fearless, the wide and dangerous tract of air,
On the broad banner of my pinions hung?

VIII.

Who would not, for the joys to thee belong,
Endure the sorrows of a Child of Song?
For where's the mortal so completely blest,
That trouble never interrupts his rest?
Why launch I not out on this world's wide sea?
And if storm-taken—well—so let it be —
I reck not! — It were but to grasp at more
Than I could reach, as many have before —
And they have borne it — I could bear the same —
Be mine their sorrows then, if mine their fame!
And have I not, where I the griefs have read
Of many of the learned, and tuneful dead;
— How that the World had brought its tempest forth,
To beat their eagle spirits down to earth,
To its vile level — And, when I have heard
Their sorrows on their magic harps preferred —
Have I not, as each melancholy lay
Dissolved my soul in passion all away,
E'en envied them their woes, and with wild zeal,
To plain like them, e'en wished like them to feel?
Then swell, ye billows! burst above my head!
And I, like them, will wake my harp to life,
That shall reprove you for your uproar dread,
And calm my soul amid external strife!
For it shall have the power of Orpheus' strain,
And charm me from my fate with its sweet tone; —
While its kind voice I listen to alone,
Frustrate the storm shall drive along the plain,
And threatening thunders roar — winds rage in vain!
Then swell, ye billows! high as Jove's arched roof!
I reck ye not — for I am tempest-proof!