 | The poetical works of James Montgomery |  |
THOUGHTS ON WHEELS.
“Crooked cannot be made straight.”
Ecclesiastes, i. 15.
Ecclesiastes, i. 15.
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No. I. THE COMBAT.
Of old when fiery warriors met,
On edge of steel their lives were set;
Eye watching eye, shield crossing shield,
Foot wedged to foot, they fought the field,
Dealt and withstood as many strokes
As might have fell'd two forest-oaks,
Till one, between the harness-joint,
Felt the resistless weapon's point
Quick through his heart,—and in a flood
Pour'd his hot spirit with his blood.
On edge of steel their lives were set;
Eye watching eye, shield crossing shield,
Foot wedged to foot, they fought the field,
Dealt and withstood as many strokes
As might have fell'd two forest-oaks,
Till one, between the harness-joint,
Felt the resistless weapon's point
Quick through his heart,—and in a flood
Pour'd his hot spirit with his blood.
The victor, rising from the blow
That laid his brave assailant low,
Then blush'd not from his height to bend,
Foully a gallant deed to end;
But whirl'd in fetters round the plain,
Whirl'd at his chariot-wheels, the slain;
Beneath the silent curse of eyes
That look'd for vengeance to the skies;
While shame, that could not reach the dead,
Pour'd its whole vial on his head.
That laid his brave assailant low,
Then blush'd not from his height to bend,
Foully a gallant deed to end;
But whirl'd in fetters round the plain,
Whirl'd at his chariot-wheels, the slain;
Beneath the silent curse of eyes
That look'd for vengeance to the skies;
While shame, that could not reach the dead,
Pour'd its whole vial on his head.
Who falls in honourable strife,
Surrenders nothing but his life;
Who basely triumphs, casts away
The glory of the well-won day:
—Rather than feel the joy he feels,
Commend me to his chariot-wheels.
Surrenders nothing but his life;
Who basely triumphs, casts away
The glory of the well-won day:
—Rather than feel the joy he feels,
Commend me to his chariot-wheels.
No. II. THE CAR OF JUGGERNAUT.
On plains beneath the morning star,
Lo! Juggernaut's stupendous car;
So high and menacing its size,
The Tower of Babel seems to rise;
Darkening the air, its shadow spreads
O'er thrice a hundred thousand heads;
Darkening the soul, it strikes a gloom,
Dense as the night beyond the tomb.
Full in mid-heaven, when mortal eye
Up this huge fabric climbs the sky,
The Idol scowls, in dragon-pride,
Like Satan's conscience deified:
—Satan himself would scorn to ape
Divinity in such a shape.
Lo! Juggernaut's stupendous car;
So high and menacing its size,
The Tower of Babel seems to rise;
Darkening the air, its shadow spreads
O'er thrice a hundred thousand heads;
Darkening the soul, it strikes a gloom,
Dense as the night beyond the tomb.
Full in mid-heaven, when mortal eye
Up this huge fabric climbs the sky,
The Idol scowls, in dragon-pride,
Like Satan's conscience deified:
—Satan himself would scorn to ape
Divinity in such a shape.
Breaking the billows of the crowd,
As countless, turbulent, and loud
As surges on the windward shore,
That madly foam and idly roar;
The' unwieldy wain compels its course,
Crushing resistance down by force;
It creaks, and groans, and grinds along
'Midst shrieks and prayers,—'midst dance and song;
With orgies in the eye of noon,
Such as would turn to blood the moon;
Impieties so bold, so black,
The stars to shun them would reel back;
And secret horrors, which the Sun
Would put on sackcloth to see done.
Thrice happy they, whose headlong souls,
Where'er the' enormous ruin rolls,
Cast their frail bodies on the stones,
Pave its red track with crashing bones,
And pant and struggle for the fate—
To die beneath the sacred weight.
As countless, turbulent, and loud
As surges on the windward shore,
That madly foam and idly roar;
The' unwieldy wain compels its course,
Crushing resistance down by force;
It creaks, and groans, and grinds along
'Midst shrieks and prayers,—'midst dance and song;
With orgies in the eye of noon,
Such as would turn to blood the moon;
Impieties so bold, so black,
The stars to shun them would reel back;
And secret horrors, which the Sun
Would put on sackcloth to see done.
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Where'er the' enormous ruin rolls,
Cast their frail bodies on the stones,
Pave its red track with crashing bones,
And pant and struggle for the fate—
To die beneath the sacred weight.
“O fools and mad!” your Christians cry:
Yet wise, methinks, are those who die:
For me,—if Juggernaut were God,—
Rather than writhe beneath his rod;
Rather than live his devotee,
And bow to such a brute the knee;
Rather than be his favourite priest,
Wallow in wantonness, and feast
On tears and blood, on groans and cries,
The fume and fat of sacrifice;
Rather than share his love,—or wrath;
I'd fling my carcass in his path,
And almost bless his name to feel
The murdering mercy of his wheel.
Yet wise, methinks, are those who die:
For me,—if Juggernaut were God,—
Rather than writhe beneath his rod;
Rather than live his devotee,
And bow to such a brute the knee;
Rather than be his favourite priest,
Wallow in wantonness, and feast
On tears and blood, on groans and cries,
The fume and fat of sacrifice;
Rather than share his love,—or wrath;
I'd fling my carcass in his path,
And almost bless his name to feel
The murdering mercy of his wheel.
No III. THE INQUISITION.
There was in Christendom, of yore,
—And would to heaven it were no more!—
There was an Inquisition-Court,
Where priestcraft made the demons sport:
Priestcraft,—in form a giant monk,
With wine of Rome's pollutions drunk,
Like captive Samson, bound and blind,
In chains and darkness of the mind,—
There show'd such feats of strength and skill
As made it charity to kill,
And well the blow of death might pass
For what he call'd it—coup de grace;
While, in his little hell on earth,
The foul fiends quaked amidst their mirth:
But not like him, who to the skies
Turn'd the dark embers of his eyes,
(Where lately burn'd a fire divine,
Where still it burn'd, but could not shine,)
And won by violence of prayer
(Hope's dying accents in despair),
Power to demolish, from its base,
Dagon's proud fane, on Dagon's race;
Not thus like Samson;—false of heart,
The tonsured juggler play'd his part,
God's law in God's own name made void,
Men for their Saviour's sake destroy'd,
Made pure religion his pretence
To rid the earth of innocence;
While spirits from the' infernal flood
Cool'd their parch'd tongues in martyrs' blood,
And half forgot their stings and flames
In conning, at those hideous games,
Lessons,—which he who taught should know
How well they had been learn'd below.
—And would to heaven it were no more!—
There was an Inquisition-Court,
Where priestcraft made the demons sport:
Priestcraft,—in form a giant monk,
With wine of Rome's pollutions drunk,
Like captive Samson, bound and blind,
In chains and darkness of the mind,—
There show'd such feats of strength and skill
As made it charity to kill,
And well the blow of death might pass
For what he call'd it—coup de grace;
While, in his little hell on earth,
The foul fiends quaked amidst their mirth:
But not like him, who to the skies
Turn'd the dark embers of his eyes,
(Where lately burn'd a fire divine,
Where still it burn'd, but could not shine,)
And won by violence of prayer
(Hope's dying accents in despair),
Power to demolish, from its base,
Dagon's proud fane, on Dagon's race;
Not thus like Samson;—false of heart,
The tonsured juggler play'd his part,
God's law in God's own name made void,
Men for their Saviour's sake destroy'd,
Made pure religion his pretence
To rid the earth of innocence;
While spirits from the' infernal flood
Cool'd their parch'd tongues in martyrs' blood,
And half forgot their stings and flames
In conning, at those hideous games,
Lessons,—which he who taught should know
How well they had been learn'd below.
Among the engines of his power
Most dreaded in the trying hour,
When impotent were fire and steel,
All but almighty was the Wheel,
Whose harrowing revolution wrung
Confession from the slowest tongue;
From joints unlock'd made secrets start,
Twined with the cordage of the heart;
From muscles in convulsion drew
Knowledge the sufferer never knew;
From failing flesh, in Nature's spite,
Brought deeds that ne'er were done to light;
From snapping sinews wrench'd the lie,
That gain'd the victim leave to die;
When self-accused,—condemn'd at length,
His only crime was want of strength;
From holy hands with joy he turn'd,
And kiss'd the stake at which he burn'd.
But from the man, of soul sublime,
Who lived above the world of time,
Fervent in faith, in conscience clear,
Who knew to love,—but not to fear;
When every artifice of pain
Was wasted on his limbs in vain,
And baffled cruelty could find
No hidden passage to his mind,
The Wheel extorted nought in death,
Except—forgiveness, and his breath.
Most dreaded in the trying hour,
When impotent were fire and steel,
All but almighty was the Wheel,
Whose harrowing revolution wrung
Confession from the slowest tongue;
From joints unlock'd made secrets start,
Twined with the cordage of the heart;
From muscles in convulsion drew
Knowledge the sufferer never knew;
From failing flesh, in Nature's spite,
Brought deeds that ne'er were done to light;
From snapping sinews wrench'd the lie,
That gain'd the victim leave to die;
When self-accused,—condemn'd at length,
His only crime was want of strength;
From holy hands with joy he turn'd,
And kiss'd the stake at which he burn'd.
But from the man, of soul sublime,
Who lived above the world of time,
Fervent in faith, in conscience clear,
Who knew to love,—but not to fear;
When every artifice of pain
Was wasted on his limbs in vain,
And baffled cruelty could find
No hidden passage to his mind,
The Wheel extorted nought in death,
Except—forgiveness, and his breath.
Such a victorious death to die
Were prompt translation to the sky:
—Yet, with the weakest, I would meet
Racks, scourges, flames, and count them sweet;
Nay, might I choose, I would not 'scape
“The question,” put in any shape,
Rather than sit in judgment there,
Where the stern bigot fills the chair:
—Rather than turn his torturing Wheel.
Give me its utmost stretch to feel.
Were prompt translation to the sky:
—Yet, with the weakest, I would meet
Racks, scourges, flames, and count them sweet;
Nay, might I choose, I would not 'scape
“The question,” put in any shape,
Rather than sit in judgment there,
Where the stern bigot fills the chair:
—Rather than turn his torturing Wheel.
Give me its utmost stretch to feel.
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No. IV. THE STATE LOTTERY.
Escaped from ancient battle-field,
Though neither with nor on my shield:
Escaped—how terrible the thought
Even of escape!—from Juggernaut;
Escaped from ten-fold worse perdition
In dungeons of the Inquisition;
O with what ecstasy I stand
Once more on Albion's refuge-land!
O with what gratitude I bare
My bosom to that island-air,
Which tyrants gulp and cease to be,
Which slaves inhale and slaves are free!
For though the wheels, behind my back,
Still seem to rumble in my track,
Their sound is music on the breeze;
I dare them all to cross the seas:
—Nay, should they reach our guarded coast,
Like Pharaoh's chariots and his host,
Monks, Bramins, warriors, swoln and dead,
Axles and orbs, in wrecks were spread.
Though neither with nor on my shield:
Escaped—how terrible the thought
Even of escape!—from Juggernaut;
Escaped from ten-fold worse perdition
In dungeons of the Inquisition;
O with what ecstasy I stand
Once more on Albion's refuge-land!
O with what gratitude I bare
My bosom to that island-air,
Which tyrants gulp and cease to be,
Which slaves inhale and slaves are free!
For though the wheels, behind my back,
Still seem to rumble in my track,
Their sound is music on the breeze;
I dare them all to cross the seas:
—Nay, should they reach our guarded coast,
Like Pharaoh's chariots and his host,
Monks, Bramins, warriors, swoln and dead,
Axles and orbs, in wrecks were spread.
And are there on this holy ground
No wheels to trail the vanquish'd found?
None framed the living bones to break,
Or rend the nerves for conscience-sake?
No:—Britons scorn the' unhallow'd touch;
They will not use, nor suffer, such:
Alike they shun, with fearless heart,
The victim's and tormentor's part.
No wheels to trail the vanquish'd found?
None framed the living bones to break,
Or rend the nerves for conscience-sake?
No:—Britons scorn the' unhallow'd touch;
They will not use, nor suffer, such:
Alike they shun, with fearless heart,
The victim's and tormentor's part.
Yet here are wheels of feller kind,
To drag in chains the captive mind;
To crush, beneath their horrid load,
Hearts panting prostrate on the road;
To wind desire from spoke to spoke,
And break the spirit stroke by stroke.
To drag in chains the captive mind;
To crush, beneath their horrid load,
Hearts panting prostrate on the road;
To wind desire from spoke to spoke,
And break the spirit stroke by stroke.
Where Gog and Magog, London's pride,
O'er city bankruptcies preside;
Stone-blind at nisi prius sit,
Hearken stone-deaf to lawyers' wit;
Or scowl on men, that play the beasts
At Common Halls and Lord Mayors' feasts,
When venison or the public cause,
Taxes or turtle, stretch their jaws;
There,—in a whisper be it said,
Lest honest Beckford shake his head;
Lest Chatham, with indignant cheek,
Start from his pedestal and speak;
Lest Chatham's son in marble groan,
As if restored to skin and bone;
There,—speak! speak out! abandon fear!
Let both the dead and living hear;
—The dead, that they may blush for shame
Amidst their monumental fame;
—The living, that, forewarn'd of fate,
Conscience may force them, ere too late,
Those Wheels of infamy to shun,
Which thousands touch, and are undone:
O'er city bankruptcies preside;
Stone-blind at nisi prius sit,
Hearken stone-deaf to lawyers' wit;
Or scowl on men, that play the beasts
At Common Halls and Lord Mayors' feasts,
When venison or the public cause,
Taxes or turtle, stretch their jaws;
There,—in a whisper be it said,
Lest honest Beckford shake his head;
Lest Chatham, with indignant cheek,
Start from his pedestal and speak;
Lest Chatham's son in marble groan,
As if restored to skin and bone;
There,—speak! speak out! abandon fear!
Let both the dead and living hear;
—The dead, that they may blush for shame
Amidst their monumental fame;
—The living, that, forewarn'd of fate,
Conscience may force them, ere too late,
Those Wheels of infamy to shun,
Which thousands touch, and are undone:
There,—built by legislative hands,
On Christian ground, an altar stands.
—“Stands? gentle Poet, tell me where?”
Go to Guildhall:—“It stands not there!”
True;—'tis my brain that raves and reels
Whene'er it turns on Lottery Wheels:
Such things in youth can I recall
Nor think of thee,—of thee, Guildhall?
Where erst I play'd with glittering schemes,
And lay entranced in golden dreams;
Bright round my head those bubbles broke,
Poorer from every dream I 'woke;
Wealth came,—but not the wealth I sought;
Wisdom was wealth to me; and taught
My feet to miss thy gates,—that lay,
Like toll-bars on the old “broad way,”
Where pilgrims paid,—O grief to tell!—
Tribute for going down to hell.
On Christian ground, an altar stands.
—“Stands? gentle Poet, tell me where?”
Go to Guildhall:—“It stands not there!”
True;—'tis my brain that raves and reels
Whene'er it turns on Lottery Wheels:
Such things in youth can I recall
Nor think of thee,—of thee, Guildhall?
Where erst I play'd with glittering schemes,
And lay entranced in golden dreams;
Bright round my head those bubbles broke,
Poorer from every dream I 'woke;
Wealth came,—but not the wealth I sought;
Wisdom was wealth to me; and taught
My feet to miss thy gates,—that lay,
Like toll-bars on the old “broad way,”
Where pilgrims paid,—O grief to tell!—
Tribute for going down to hell.
Long on thy floor an altar stood,
To human view unstain'd with blood,
But red and foul in Heaven's pure eyes,
Groaning with infant sacrifice,
From year to year;—till sense or shame,
Or some strange cause without a name,
—'Twas not the cry of innocence,—
Drove such abomination thence:
Thence drove it,—but destroy'd it not;
It blackens some obscurer spot;
Obscurer,—yet so well defined,
Thither the blind may lead the blind,
While heralds shout in every ear,
“This is the temple,—worship here.”
Thither the deaf may read their way;
'Tis plain;—to find it, go astray!
Thither the lame, on wings of paper,
May come to nothing, like a vapour;
Thither may all the world repair;
A word, a wish, will waft you there;
And, O so smooth and steep the track,
'Tis worth your life to venture back;
Easy the step to Coopers' Hall,
As headlong from a cliff to fall;
Hard to recover from the shock,
As broken-limb'd to climb a rock.
To human view unstain'd with blood,
But red and foul in Heaven's pure eyes,
Groaning with infant sacrifice,
From year to year;—till sense or shame,
Or some strange cause without a name,
—'Twas not the cry of innocence,—
Drove such abomination thence:
Thence drove it,—but destroy'd it not;
It blackens some obscurer spot;
Obscurer,—yet so well defined,
Thither the blind may lead the blind,
While heralds shout in every ear,
“This is the temple,—worship here.”
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'Tis plain;—to find it, go astray!
Thither the lame, on wings of paper,
May come to nothing, like a vapour;
Thither may all the world repair;
A word, a wish, will waft you there;
And, O so smooth and steep the track,
'Tis worth your life to venture back;
Easy the step to Coopers' Hall,
As headlong from a cliff to fall;
Hard to recover from the shock,
As broken-limb'd to climb a rock.
There, built by legislative hands,
Our country's shame, an altar stands:
Not votive brass, nor hallow'd stone,
Humbly inscribed—“To God unknown;”
Though sure, if earth afford a space
For such an altar, here's the place:
—Not breathing incense in a shrine,
Where human art appears divine,
And man by his own skill hath wrought
So bright an image of his thought,
That nations, barbarous or refined,
Might worship there the' immortal mind,
That gave their ravish'd eyes to see
A meteor glimpse of Deity;
A ray of Nature's purest light
Shot through the gulf of Pagan night,
Dazzling,—but leaving darkness more
Profoundly blinding than before.
—Ah! no such power of genius calls
Sublime devotion to these walls;
No pomp of art, surpassing praise,
Britannia's altar here displays;
A money-changer's table,—spread
With hieroglyphics, black and red,
Exhibits, on deceitful scrolls,
“The price of Tickets,”—and of Souls;
For thus are Souls to market brought,
Barter'd for vanity,—for nought;
Till the poor venders find the cost,—
Time to eternal ages lost!
Our country's shame, an altar stands:
Not votive brass, nor hallow'd stone,
Humbly inscribed—“To God unknown;”
Though sure, if earth afford a space
For such an altar, here's the place:
—Not breathing incense in a shrine,
Where human art appears divine,
And man by his own skill hath wrought
So bright an image of his thought,
That nations, barbarous or refined,
Might worship there the' immortal mind,
That gave their ravish'd eyes to see
A meteor glimpse of Deity;
A ray of Nature's purest light
Shot through the gulf of Pagan night,
Dazzling,—but leaving darkness more
Profoundly blinding than before.
—Ah! no such power of genius calls
Sublime devotion to these walls;
No pomp of art, surpassing praise,
Britannia's altar here displays;
A money-changer's table,—spread
With hieroglyphics, black and red,
Exhibits, on deceitful scrolls,
“The price of Tickets,”—and of Souls;
For thus are Souls to market brought,
Barter'd for vanity,—for nought;
Till the poor venders find the cost,—
Time to eternal ages lost!
No sculptured idol decks the place,
Of such excelling form and face,
That Grecian pride might feign its birth
A statue fallen from heaven to earth:
The goddess here is best design'd,
—A flimsy harlot, bold and blind;
Invisible to standers-by,
And yet in every-body's eye!
Fortune her name;—a gay deceiver,
Cheat as she may, the crowd believe her;
And she, abuse her as they will,
Showers on the crowd her favours still:
For 'tis the bliss of both to be
Themselves unseen, and not to see:
Had she discernment,—pride would scout
The homage of her motley rout;
Were she reveal'd,—the poorest slave
Would blush to be her luckiest knave.
Of such excelling form and face,
That Grecian pride might feign its birth
A statue fallen from heaven to earth:
The goddess here is best design'd,
—A flimsy harlot, bold and blind;
Invisible to standers-by,
And yet in every-body's eye!
Fortune her name;—a gay deceiver,
Cheat as she may, the crowd believe her;
And she, abuse her as they will,
Showers on the crowd her favours still:
For 'tis the bliss of both to be
Themselves unseen, and not to see:
Had she discernment,—pride would scout
The homage of her motley rout;
Were she reveal'd,—the poorest slave
Would blush to be her luckiest knave.
Not good old fortune here we scorn,
In classic fable heavenly born;
She who for nothing deigns to deal
Her blanks and prizes from One Wheel;
And who, like Justice, wisely blind,
Scatters her bounties on mankind
With such a broad impartial aim,
If none will praise her, none should blame;
For were ten thousand fancies tried,
Wealth more discreetly to divide
Among the craving race of man,
Wit could not frame a happier plan.
In classic fable heavenly born;
She who for nothing deigns to deal
Her blanks and prizes from One Wheel;
And who, like Justice, wisely blind,
Scatters her bounties on mankind
With such a broad impartial aim,
If none will praise her, none should blame;
For were ten thousand fancies tried,
Wealth more discreetly to divide
Among the craving race of man,
Wit could not frame a happier plan.
Here 'tis her Counterfeit, who reigns
O'er haunted heads and moon-struck brains;
A Two-wheel'd Jade, admired by sots,
Who flings, for cash in hand, her lots
To those, who, fain “their luck to try,”
Sell Hope, and Disappointment buy.
The wily sorceress here reveals,
With proud parade, her mystic Wheels;
—Those Wheels, on which the nation runs
Over the morals of its Sons;
—Those Wheels, at which the nation draws
Through shouting streets its broken laws!
Engines of plotting Fortune's skill
To lure, entangle, torture, kill.
Behold her, in imperial pride,
King, Lords, and Commons at her side;
Arm'd with authority of state,
The public peace to violate:
More might be told,—but not by me
Must this “eternal blazon” be.
Between her Wheels the Phantom stands,
With Syren voice, and Harpy hands:
She turns the' enchanted axle round;
Forth leaps the “twenty thousand pound!”
That “twenty thousand” one has got;
—But twenty thousand more have not.
These curse her to her face, deplore
Their loss, then—take her word once more;
Once more deceived, they rise like men
Bravely resolved—to try again;
Again they fail;—again trepann'd,
She mocks them with her sleight of hand;
Still fired with rage, with avarice steel'd,
Perish they may, but never yield;
They woo her till their latest breath,
Then snatch their prize—a blank in death.
O'er haunted heads and moon-struck brains;
A Two-wheel'd Jade, admired by sots,
Who flings, for cash in hand, her lots
To those, who, fain “their luck to try,”
Sell Hope, and Disappointment buy.
The wily sorceress here reveals,
With proud parade, her mystic Wheels;
—Those Wheels, on which the nation runs
Over the morals of its Sons;
—Those Wheels, at which the nation draws
Through shouting streets its broken laws!
Engines of plotting Fortune's skill
To lure, entangle, torture, kill.
Behold her, in imperial pride,
King, Lords, and Commons at her side;
Arm'd with authority of state,
The public peace to violate:
More might be told,—but not by me
Must this “eternal blazon” be.
Between her Wheels the Phantom stands,
With Syren voice, and Harpy hands:
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Forth leaps the “twenty thousand pound!”
That “twenty thousand” one has got;
—But twenty thousand more have not.
These curse her to her face, deplore
Their loss, then—take her word once more;
Once more deceived, they rise like men
Bravely resolved—to try again;
Again they fail;—again trepann'd,
She mocks them with her sleight of hand;
Still fired with rage, with avarice steel'd,
Perish they may, but never yield;
They woo her till their latest breath,
Then snatch their prize—a blank in death.
The priests that in her temple wait,
Her minor ministers of fate,
Like Dian's silversmiths of old,
True to the craft that brings them gold,
Lungs, limbs, and pens, unwearied ply
To puff their Goddess to the sky:
O that their puffs could fix Her there,
Who builds such castles in the air,
And in the malice of her mirth
Lets them to simpletons on earth!
—Who steals the rainbow's peaceful form,
But is the demon of the storm;
—Assumes a star's benignant mien,
But wears a comet's tail unseen;
—Who smiles a Juno to the crowd,
But all that win her catch a cloud,
And, doom'd Ixion's fate to feel,
Are whirl'd upon a giddier wheel.
—O that her priests could fix her there,
Whose breath and being are but air!
Yet not for this their spells they try;
They bawl to keep her from the sky,
A harmless meteor in that sphere;
A baleful Ignis fatuus here,
With wandering and bewildering light,
To cheer, and then confound, the sight,
Guide the lorn traveller,—then betray,
Where death in ambush lurks for prey.
Her minor ministers of fate,
Like Dian's silversmiths of old,
True to the craft that brings them gold,
Lungs, limbs, and pens, unwearied ply
To puff their Goddess to the sky:
O that their puffs could fix Her there,
Who builds such castles in the air,
And in the malice of her mirth
Lets them to simpletons on earth!
—Who steals the rainbow's peaceful form,
But is the demon of the storm;
—Assumes a star's benignant mien,
But wears a comet's tail unseen;
—Who smiles a Juno to the crowd,
But all that win her catch a cloud,
And, doom'd Ixion's fate to feel,
Are whirl'd upon a giddier wheel.
—O that her priests could fix her there,
Whose breath and being are but air!
Yet not for this their spells they try;
They bawl to keep her from the sky,
A harmless meteor in that sphere;
A baleful Ignis fatuus here,
With wandering and bewildering light,
To cheer, and then confound, the sight,
Guide the lorn traveller,—then betray,
Where death in ambush lurks for prey.
Fierce, but familiar, at their call,
The veriest fiend of Satan's fall;
—The fiend that tempted him to stake
Heaven's bliss against the burning lake;
—The fiend that tempted him again
To burst the darkness of his den,
And risk whate'er of wrath untried
Eternal justice yet could hide,
For one transcendent chance, by sin,
Man and his new-made world to win;
—That fiend, while Satan play'd his part
At Eve's fond ear, assail'd her heart,
And tempted her to hazard more
Than fallen Angels lost before;
They ruin'd but themselves—her crime
Brought death on all the race of time:
—That fiend comes forth, like Ætna's flame;
The spirit of gambling call his name;
So flush'd and terrible in power,
The priests themselves he would devour;
But straight, by Act of Parliament,
Loose through the land his plagues are sent.
The Polypus himself divides,
A legion issues from his sides;
Ten thousand shapes he wears at will,
In every shape a devil still;
Eager and restless to be known
By any mark except his own;
In airy, earthly, heavenly guise,
No matter,—if it strike the eyes;
Yet ever, at the clink of pelf,
He starts, and shrinks into himself:
—A traitor now, with face of truth,
He dupes the innocence of youth;
A shrewd pretender, smooth and sage,
He tempts the avarice of age;
A wizard, versed in damned arts,
He trammels uncorrupted hearts;
He lulls Suspicion, Sense waylays,
Honour and Honesty betrays,
Finds Virtue sleeping, and by stealth
Beguiles her with a dream of wealth;
Till rich and poor, till fools and wise,
Haste to the headlong sacrifice,
Gaze till they slip into the snare;
—Angels might weep to see them there;
Then to the Lottery Wheels away,
The spirit of gambling drags his prey.
The veriest fiend of Satan's fall;
—The fiend that tempted him to stake
Heaven's bliss against the burning lake;
—The fiend that tempted him again
To burst the darkness of his den,
And risk whate'er of wrath untried
Eternal justice yet could hide,
For one transcendent chance, by sin,
Man and his new-made world to win;
—That fiend, while Satan play'd his part
At Eve's fond ear, assail'd her heart,
And tempted her to hazard more
Than fallen Angels lost before;
They ruin'd but themselves—her crime
Brought death on all the race of time:
—That fiend comes forth, like Ætna's flame;
The spirit of gambling call his name;
So flush'd and terrible in power,
The priests themselves he would devour;
But straight, by Act of Parliament,
Loose through the land his plagues are sent.
The Polypus himself divides,
A legion issues from his sides;
Ten thousand shapes he wears at will,
In every shape a devil still;
Eager and restless to be known
By any mark except his own;
In airy, earthly, heavenly guise,
No matter,—if it strike the eyes;
Yet ever, at the clink of pelf,
He starts, and shrinks into himself:
—A traitor now, with face of truth,
He dupes the innocence of youth;
A shrewd pretender, smooth and sage,
He tempts the avarice of age;
A wizard, versed in damned arts,
He trammels uncorrupted hearts;
He lulls Suspicion, Sense waylays,
Honour and Honesty betrays,
Finds Virtue sleeping, and by stealth
Beguiles her with a dream of wealth;
Till rich and poor, till fools and wise,
Haste to the headlong sacrifice,
Gaze till they slip into the snare;
—Angels might weep to see them there;
Then to the Lottery Wheels away,
The spirit of gambling drags his prey.
Hail to the fiery bigot's rack!
Hail Juggernaut's destructive track!
Hail to the warrior's iron car!
But O, be Lottery Wheels afar!
I'll die by torture, war, disease,
I'll die—by any Wheels but these!
Hail Juggernaut's destructive track!
Hail to the warrior's iron car!
But O, be Lottery Wheels afar!
I'll die by torture, war, disease,
I'll die—by any Wheels but these!
163
No. V. TO BRITAIN.
I love Thee, O my native Isle!
Dear as my mother's earliest smile,
Sweet as my father's voice to me,
Is all I hear, and all I see,
When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
Who watch the dear domestic Host,
The Heart's Affections, pleas'd to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.
Dear as my mother's earliest smile,
Sweet as my father's voice to me,
Is all I hear, and all I see,
When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
Who watch the dear domestic Host,
The Heart's Affections, pleas'd to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.
I love Thee,—when I mark thy soil
Flourish beneath the peasant's toil,
And from its lap of verdure throw
Treasures which neither Indies know.
Flourish beneath the peasant's toil,
And from its lap of verdure throw
Treasures which neither Indies know.
I love Thee,—when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And arts, and industry, and wealth,
Exulting in the joys of health.
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And arts, and industry, and wealth,
Exulting in the joys of health.
I love Thee,—when I trace thy tale
To the dim point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire;
A proud inheritance I claim
In all their sufferings, all their fame:
Nor less delighted, when I stray
Down History's lengthening, widening way,
And hail Thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine, over land and main.
To the dim point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire;
A proud inheritance I claim
In all their sufferings, all their fame:
Nor less delighted, when I stray
Down History's lengthening, widening way,
And hail Thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine, over land and main.
I love Thee,—when I read the lays
Of British bards in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings;
For I, amidst thy living choir,
I, too, can touch the sacred lyre.
Of British bards in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings;
For I, amidst thy living choir,
I, too, can touch the sacred lyre.
I love Thee,—when I contemplate
The full-orb'd grandeur of thy state;
Thy laws and liberties, that rise,
Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
To which the Pyramids are tame,
And Grecian temples bow their fame:
These, thine immortal sages wrought
Out of the deepest mines of thought;
These, on the scaffold, in the field,
Thy warriors won, thy patriots seal'd;
These, at the parricidal pyre,
Thy martyrs sanctified in fire,
And, with the generous blood they spilt,
Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' guilt,
Cancell'd the curse which Vengeance sped,
And left a blessing in its stead.
Can words, can numbers, count the price
Paid for this little paradise?
Never, oh! never be it lost;
The land is worth the price it cost.
The full-orb'd grandeur of thy state;
Thy laws and liberties, that rise,
Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
To which the Pyramids are tame,
And Grecian temples bow their fame:
These, thine immortal sages wrought
Out of the deepest mines of thought;
These, on the scaffold, in the field,
Thy warriors won, thy patriots seal'd;
These, at the parricidal pyre,
Thy martyrs sanctified in fire,
And, with the generous blood they spilt,
Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' guilt,
Cancell'd the curse which Vengeance sped,
And left a blessing in its stead.
Can words, can numbers, count the price
Paid for this little paradise?
Never, oh! never be it lost;
The land is worth the price it cost.
I love Thee,—when thy Sabbath dawns
O'er woods and mountains, dales and lawns,
And streams that sparkle while they run,
As if their fountain were the Sun:
When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair,
Each to their chosen house of prayer,
And all in peace and freedom call
On Him, who is the Lord of all.
O'er woods and mountains, dales and lawns,
And streams that sparkle while they run,
As if their fountain were the Sun:
When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair,
Each to their chosen house of prayer,
And all in peace and freedom call
On Him, who is the Lord of all.
I love Thee,—when my soul can feel
The seraph-ardours of thy zeal:
Thy charities, to none confined,
Bless, like the sun, the rain, the wind;
Thy schools the human brute shall raise,
Guide erring youth in wisdom's ways,
And leave, when we are turn'd to dust,
A generation of the just.
The seraph-ardours of thy zeal:
Thy charities, to none confined,
Bless, like the sun, the rain, the wind;
Thy schools the human brute shall raise,
Guide erring youth in wisdom's ways,
And leave, when we are turn'd to dust,
A generation of the just.
I love Thee,—when I see thee stand
The hope of every other land;
A sea-mark in the tide of time,
Rearing to heaven thy brow sublime;
Whence beams of Gospel-splendour shed
A sacred halo round thine head;
And Gentiles from afar behold
(Not as on Sinai's rocks of old)
God,—from eternity conceal'd,
In His own light, on Thee reveal'd.
The hope of every other land;
A sea-mark in the tide of time,
Rearing to heaven thy brow sublime;
Whence beams of Gospel-splendour shed
A sacred halo round thine head;
And Gentiles from afar behold
(Not as on Sinai's rocks of old)
God,—from eternity conceal'd,
In His own light, on Thee reveal'd.
164
I love Thee,—when I hear thy voice
Bid a despairing world rejoice,
And loud from shore to shore proclaim,
In every tongue, Messiah's name;
That name, at which, from sea to sea.
All nations yet shall bow the knee.
Bid a despairing world rejoice,
And loud from shore to shore proclaim,
In every tongue, Messiah's name;
That name, at which, from sea to sea.
All nations yet shall bow the knee.
I love Thee:—next to heaven above,
Land of my fathers! thee I love;
And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
“With all thy faults I love Thee” still:
For faults thou hast of heinous size;
Repent, renounce them, ere they rise
In judgment; lest thine ocean-wall
With boundless ruin round thee fall,
And that, which was thy mightiest stay,
Sweep all thy rocks like sand away.
Land of my fathers! thee I love;
And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
“With all thy faults I love Thee” still:
For faults thou hast of heinous size;
Repent, renounce them, ere they rise
In judgment; lest thine ocean-wall
With boundless ruin round thee fall,
And that, which was thy mightiest stay,
Sweep all thy rocks like sand away.
Yes, thou hast faults of heinous size,
From which I turn with weeping eyes;
On these let them that hate Thee dwell;
Yet one I spare not—one I tell,
Tell with a whisper in thine ear;
Oh! might it wring thy heart with fear!
Oh! that my weakest word might roll,
Like heaven's own thunder through thy soul!
From which I turn with weeping eyes;
On these let them that hate Thee dwell;
Yet one I spare not—one I tell,
Tell with a whisper in thine ear;
Oh! might it wring thy heart with fear!
Oh! that my weakest word might roll,
Like heaven's own thunder through thy soul!
There is a lie in thy right hand;
A bribe, corrupting all the land;
There is within thy gates a pest,
—Gold and a Babylonish vest;
Not hid in shame-concealing shade,
But broad against the Sun display'd.
These,—tell it not,—it must be told;
These from thy Lottery Wheels are sold;
Sold,—and thy children, train'd to sin,
Hazard both worlds these plagues to win;
Nay, thy deluded statesmen stake
Thyself,—and lose Thee for their sake!
—Lose Thee?—They shall not;—HE, whose will
Is Nature's law, preserves Thee still;
And while the' uplifted bolt impends,
One warning more His mercy sends.
A bribe, corrupting all the land;
There is within thy gates a pest,
—Gold and a Babylonish vest;
Not hid in shame-concealing shade,
But broad against the Sun display'd.
These,—tell it not,—it must be told;
These from thy Lottery Wheels are sold;
Sold,—and thy children, train'd to sin,
Hazard both worlds these plagues to win;
Nay, thy deluded statesmen stake
Thyself,—and lose Thee for their sake!
—Lose Thee?—They shall not;—HE, whose will
Is Nature's law, preserves Thee still;
And while the' uplifted bolt impends,
One warning more His mercy sends.
O Britain! O my country! bring
Forth from thy camp the' accursed thing;
Consign it to remorseless fire;
Watch till the latest spark expire,
Then cast the ashes on the wind,
Nor leave one atom-wreck behind.
Forth from thy camp the' accursed thing;
Consign it to remorseless fire;
Watch till the latest spark expire,
Then cast the ashes on the wind,
Nor leave one atom-wreck behind.
So may thy wealth and power increase;
So may thy people dwell in peace;
On Thee the' Almighty's glory rest,
And all the world in Thee be blest.
So may thy people dwell in peace;
On Thee the' Almighty's glory rest,
And all the world in Thee be blest.
Sheffield, Oct. 10. 1816.
| The poetical works of James Montgomery | |