The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD.
To combat error in each varied form,
Which comes o'er England as a sweeping storm,
Engages now the minds, the time, the breath,
Of those that should be comforters in death.
Of all the various volumes in the land—
In every language—by whomever plann'd—
However great or wise the author be—
However penn'd—Great Book! there's none like thee.
There the sublime, with majesty and awe,
Pours forth the dreadful thunders of the law;
And there the songs the mighty prophets sung,
The masterpiece of either mind or tongue,
Beyond the reach of any other pen,
As furthest stars are lost to human ken.
And are there men in Christian England born,
That laugh the authors of that book to scorn;
Dispute its origin, and vainly say
'Tis preach'd by priests for lucre and for pay?
Reject its history of Adam's fall?
Deny His Godhead who redeem'd us all?
Is Homer like the Bible; or that thing
Call'd Alkoran, and brought on pigeon's wing,
For which Mohammedans may fret and fight,
Groping their way in atheistic night?
The ten commandments you may cast away,
And tell the Christian 'tis in vain to pray;
Then rear the mosque, and Mahomet believe—
Confucius worship, and yourselves deceive;
Adore the stars, or yet the larger lights,
And for the Scriptures read th' “Arabian Nights;”
State—if you dare—that Christ did ne'er ascend
To His high throne—the dying Christian's friend;
In Owen, say—is all our faith and hope,
He is our teacher, patriarch, and pope!
Say that he form'd us, gave us breath and life—
Despises marriage and the name of wife;
Say from the azure he the comets hurl'd—
So great, he nearly can create a world;
Then scoff at priests, and o'er professors boast,
Until pale death demands the trembling ghost.
Ah! then's the time the Socialist to try;
Without a Christian's hope, where can he fly?
Your pity for our priests is but your scorn,
The church lands you would take to grow your corn;
Let Canterbury's wealth to you be giv'n,
The Owenites might try their fancied heav'n.
Could Durham's riches, or old Ebor's fee,
Be giv'n to Chartist demagogues and ye;
Still not content, old Chester you would want,
And great Llandaff's estate, to sow and plant.
The sacred edifices you would let fall,
Or make each choir a Scientific Hall,
Ye then would ape the deeds of deist France,
Make mirth in churches—in cathedrals dance;
Then would some sophist leader lift his voice,
And, as he broke the cross, would shout—“Rejoice;”
While ancient statues that have stood for years,
Would almost blush, and marble melt to tears.
But had you all the wealth and power you want—
Were England yours, to sow, to reap, to plant—
In your new system, would no writs be sent?
Must Owenites live free from tax and rent?
Would every debt be cancell'd in one day,
By those wise chiefs who sing, but never pray?
If so, 'twould not be heav'n—the human mind
Would yet be craving, fretful, and unkind;
Then would be contests for the richest town,
Who must be chiefs, and who must wear the crown;
All social order, and all rule be lost,
And England's greatness into ruin toss'd.
This baseless system never can succeed,
Unless all nations turn to Owen's creed;
For should no troops be kept to guard the strand,
No fleets, how soon the enemy would land;
The foreign foe would ransack hill and vale,
Famine and death would then our ports assail,
England, brave England, would be downwards hurl'd,
And scorn'd would be the mistress of the world.
From days of Adam to the present hour,
Mankind has ever been averse to pow'r;
The wise, the prudent, ever envied were,
For demagogues in every age appear.
Long centuries since, the golden calf was made,
And Moses' priesthood might be called a trade:
Not pleas'd with Joshua in everything,
They slighted judges, and desir'd a king;
A king was granted, but he reign'd not long
Ere king and all his government was wrong.
From man's beginning to the present hour,
Has human nature always envied pow'r;
In every nation of this little world,
What kings, what queens, have to the dust been hurl'd,
Till reason teaches, and great learning's shown,
The serpent nestles nearly in the crown;
And should the Moral World be fairly tried,
So long as mortal bosoms harbour pride,
Thousands to mar the plan would there conspire,
And in this Moral World would each aspire;
To mount ambition's ladder men would try;
The top gain'd, others at the bottom lie.
So 'tis with all of every creed and state,
For wealth and honour, hundreds rush to fate;
But those that take a premium on heav'n,
Which on this earth was never, never giv'n,
To purchase land, to lay it out in farms,
To make new nature, with ten thousand charms,
To lead their dupes into the silken snares,
Gain fifty pounds; to join the common shares
Is beauteous, when in imagination seen,
But see the chasm that years must roll between.
Vain as the Southern Bubble it will be—
As soon expect a bridge across the sea.
The mind of man, the learned sophists say,
Is like the cotton, which unstain'd to-day,
To-morrow circumstances twist it round,
And in another shape the bulk is found.
Perhaps it runs in each disciple's head,
The spinning of New Lanark, and the thread
Which broke in forming, spun with so much haste,
That its material snapp'd, and went to waste.
But let us see the process further yet,
The warp and woof, the finest we can get,
Is formed in calico; a conscience made,
And dyed, in colours just to suit its trade.
If 'tis a lawyer's, it must dark appear;
If for a nun, unspotted, white, and clear;
Or should it deck the Turkish heart or head,
A turban it must form, of white and red.
As unstain'd snow upon the frosty morn,
Glitt'ring with gems, when by a princess worn;
But coarsest waste, its colours dim and grave,
Is that which suits the bosom of the slave.
Thus Socialists the various creeds would make
To suit all states, and every colour take;
Stain it with dyes of every varied hue;
Print it with doctrines, either false or true;
Stretch it from north to south, from east to west,
Then call it conscience—place it in the breast,
Say the human mind is like cotton dyed,
And show that atheist doctrine is their pride;
So spiders weave the net to catch the fly—
Entangled once, they flutter, tire, and die;
When 'tis too late they feel the fatal snare,
And e'en in death to others cry—“Beware!”
Which comes o'er England as a sweeping storm,
Engages now the minds, the time, the breath,
Of those that should be comforters in death.
Of all the various volumes in the land—
In every language—by whomever plann'd—
However great or wise the author be—
However penn'd—Great Book! there's none like thee.
There the sublime, with majesty and awe,
Pours forth the dreadful thunders of the law;
And there the songs the mighty prophets sung,
The masterpiece of either mind or tongue,
Beyond the reach of any other pen,
As furthest stars are lost to human ken.
328
That laugh the authors of that book to scorn;
Dispute its origin, and vainly say
'Tis preach'd by priests for lucre and for pay?
Reject its history of Adam's fall?
Deny His Godhead who redeem'd us all?
Is Homer like the Bible; or that thing
Call'd Alkoran, and brought on pigeon's wing,
For which Mohammedans may fret and fight,
Groping their way in atheistic night?
The ten commandments you may cast away,
And tell the Christian 'tis in vain to pray;
Then rear the mosque, and Mahomet believe—
Confucius worship, and yourselves deceive;
Adore the stars, or yet the larger lights,
And for the Scriptures read th' “Arabian Nights;”
State—if you dare—that Christ did ne'er ascend
To His high throne—the dying Christian's friend;
In Owen, say—is all our faith and hope,
He is our teacher, patriarch, and pope!
Say that he form'd us, gave us breath and life—
Despises marriage and the name of wife;
Say from the azure he the comets hurl'd—
So great, he nearly can create a world;
Then scoff at priests, and o'er professors boast,
Until pale death demands the trembling ghost.
329
Without a Christian's hope, where can he fly?
Your pity for our priests is but your scorn,
The church lands you would take to grow your corn;
Let Canterbury's wealth to you be giv'n,
The Owenites might try their fancied heav'n.
Could Durham's riches, or old Ebor's fee,
Be giv'n to Chartist demagogues and ye;
Still not content, old Chester you would want,
And great Llandaff's estate, to sow and plant.
The sacred edifices you would let fall,
Or make each choir a Scientific Hall,
Ye then would ape the deeds of deist France,
Make mirth in churches—in cathedrals dance;
Then would some sophist leader lift his voice,
And, as he broke the cross, would shout—“Rejoice;”
While ancient statues that have stood for years,
Would almost blush, and marble melt to tears.
But had you all the wealth and power you want—
Were England yours, to sow, to reap, to plant—
In your new system, would no writs be sent?
Must Owenites live free from tax and rent?
Would every debt be cancell'd in one day,
By those wise chiefs who sing, but never pray?
If so, 'twould not be heav'n—the human mind
Would yet be craving, fretful, and unkind;
Then would be contests for the richest town,
Who must be chiefs, and who must wear the crown;
330
And England's greatness into ruin toss'd.
This baseless system never can succeed,
Unless all nations turn to Owen's creed;
For should no troops be kept to guard the strand,
No fleets, how soon the enemy would land;
The foreign foe would ransack hill and vale,
Famine and death would then our ports assail,
England, brave England, would be downwards hurl'd,
And scorn'd would be the mistress of the world.
From days of Adam to the present hour,
Mankind has ever been averse to pow'r;
The wise, the prudent, ever envied were,
For demagogues in every age appear.
Long centuries since, the golden calf was made,
And Moses' priesthood might be called a trade:
Not pleas'd with Joshua in everything,
They slighted judges, and desir'd a king;
A king was granted, but he reign'd not long
Ere king and all his government was wrong.
From man's beginning to the present hour,
Has human nature always envied pow'r;
In every nation of this little world,
What kings, what queens, have to the dust been hurl'd,
Till reason teaches, and great learning's shown,
The serpent nestles nearly in the crown;
And should the Moral World be fairly tried,
So long as mortal bosoms harbour pride,
331
And in this Moral World would each aspire;
To mount ambition's ladder men would try;
The top gain'd, others at the bottom lie.
So 'tis with all of every creed and state,
For wealth and honour, hundreds rush to fate;
But those that take a premium on heav'n,
Which on this earth was never, never giv'n,
To purchase land, to lay it out in farms,
To make new nature, with ten thousand charms,
To lead their dupes into the silken snares,
Gain fifty pounds; to join the common shares
Is beauteous, when in imagination seen,
But see the chasm that years must roll between.
Vain as the Southern Bubble it will be—
As soon expect a bridge across the sea.
The mind of man, the learned sophists say,
Is like the cotton, which unstain'd to-day,
To-morrow circumstances twist it round,
And in another shape the bulk is found.
Perhaps it runs in each disciple's head,
The spinning of New Lanark, and the thread
Which broke in forming, spun with so much haste,
That its material snapp'd, and went to waste.
But let us see the process further yet,
The warp and woof, the finest we can get,
Is formed in calico; a conscience made,
And dyed, in colours just to suit its trade.
332
If for a nun, unspotted, white, and clear;
Or should it deck the Turkish heart or head,
A turban it must form, of white and red.
As unstain'd snow upon the frosty morn,
Glitt'ring with gems, when by a princess worn;
But coarsest waste, its colours dim and grave,
Is that which suits the bosom of the slave.
Thus Socialists the various creeds would make
To suit all states, and every colour take;
Stain it with dyes of every varied hue;
Print it with doctrines, either false or true;
Stretch it from north to south, from east to west,
Then call it conscience—place it in the breast,
Say the human mind is like cotton dyed,
And show that atheist doctrine is their pride;
So spiders weave the net to catch the fly—
Entangled once, they flutter, tire, and die;
When 'tis too late they feel the fatal snare,
And e'en in death to others cry—“Beware!”
Go on, great Brindley, and expose their wiles,
Attack their system, gain eternal smiles;
Join with the phalanx of the Christian band,
To drive this specious doctrine from the land.
Why all their eloquence, their shallow praise?
'Tis but to set the nation in a blaze.
Among the aged, first O'Connor tries,
Then Owen makes our youth his sacrifice.
The demagogues have talked till they are hoarse,
And led their dupes to arms and bloody force.
With milder tones, but yet as base and low
As depths of schism and discontent can go,
These say that paradise on earth would be,
Were their New World but spread from sea to sea;
Then palaces would rise on every hand,
The poor be rich, and rulers of the land:
The Gospel ministers, their silks might weave;
The bishops of the state, their mitres leave;
All things in common, then the rich, the brave,
Might stoop to elevate the vagrant slave;
The gen'rous lord, that bounteous gives his store,
Must have his carriage and his halls no more;
The first-born sons must be no longer heirs,
And equal all in such a creed as theirs;
The links of social ties, for ages join'd,
Must be drawn out to suit an Owen's mind;
The marriage rite be called no more divine,
Nor He that chang'd the water into wine.
What dire confusion in the land would be,
Should Owen's doctrine make the married free;
If stronger ties than caprice did not bind
The evil passions of the human mind,
Faults would be found with every virtuous wife,
Her dowry vanish'd in a six months' strife;
What innocence would on the wilds be thrown,
That to the Moral World would ne'er be known;
No guard nor guide, no home, no help or stay,
When palling passions cast the wife away.
The thought's prepost'rous, that the good, the fair,
Should not through life an equal burden share;
With every joy be more encircled round,
With every sorrow yet more closely bound,
With every smile of daughter or of son
Consider nuptial life but just begun.
And are there those would marriage set at nought,
And let creation's fairest gems be bought?
The bird of paradise may be encag'd,
But should the lark the keeper's mind engage,
The beauteous bird, well fed and blessed to-day,
To-morrow's sold, or left to birds of prey:
So would it be with woman good and fair;
Her fortune spent, then lost her partner's care;
Hopeless, in penury, the wife be left,
Of ev'ry hope, of ev'ry stay, bereft;
Then sorrow rests upon the mother's cheeks,
While the base Owenite a richer seeks.
No legal tie, and all the chain is broke,
The marriage rite is priestism, or a joke.
Attack their system, gain eternal smiles;
Join with the phalanx of the Christian band,
To drive this specious doctrine from the land.
Why all their eloquence, their shallow praise?
'Tis but to set the nation in a blaze.
333
Then Owen makes our youth his sacrifice.
The demagogues have talked till they are hoarse,
And led their dupes to arms and bloody force.
With milder tones, but yet as base and low
As depths of schism and discontent can go,
These say that paradise on earth would be,
Were their New World but spread from sea to sea;
Then palaces would rise on every hand,
The poor be rich, and rulers of the land:
The Gospel ministers, their silks might weave;
The bishops of the state, their mitres leave;
All things in common, then the rich, the brave,
Might stoop to elevate the vagrant slave;
The gen'rous lord, that bounteous gives his store,
Must have his carriage and his halls no more;
The first-born sons must be no longer heirs,
And equal all in such a creed as theirs;
The links of social ties, for ages join'd,
Must be drawn out to suit an Owen's mind;
The marriage rite be called no more divine,
Nor He that chang'd the water into wine.
What dire confusion in the land would be,
Should Owen's doctrine make the married free;
If stronger ties than caprice did not bind
The evil passions of the human mind,
Faults would be found with every virtuous wife,
Her dowry vanish'd in a six months' strife;
334
That to the Moral World would ne'er be known;
No guard nor guide, no home, no help or stay,
When palling passions cast the wife away.
The thought's prepost'rous, that the good, the fair,
Should not through life an equal burden share;
With every joy be more encircled round,
With every sorrow yet more closely bound,
With every smile of daughter or of son
Consider nuptial life but just begun.
And are there those would marriage set at nought,
And let creation's fairest gems be bought?
The bird of paradise may be encag'd,
But should the lark the keeper's mind engage,
The beauteous bird, well fed and blessed to-day,
To-morrow's sold, or left to birds of prey:
So would it be with woman good and fair;
Her fortune spent, then lost her partner's care;
Hopeless, in penury, the wife be left,
Of ev'ry hope, of ev'ry stay, bereft;
Then sorrow rests upon the mother's cheeks,
While the base Owenite a richer seeks.
No legal tie, and all the chain is broke,
The marriage rite is priestism, or a joke.
But is our being to this world confin'd?
Then farewell all the wisest of mankind,
All men are equal, both the wise, the good,
And Hindoo priests, with deities of wood;
The great apostles, and the prophets slain,
Had equal hope with Volney or Tom Paine.
Man's a machine, and as a puppet mov'd,
Helvetius, Godwin, Owen, say 'tis prov'd.
If some may ask, why all this great parade?
'Twould seem to say that Christians are afraid;
Else, why should champions of the greatest power
Combat the doctrines fleeting as an hour;
But recollect, the mosquito can bite,
And adders sting, though little is their might;
A fly, the noblest steed can much annoy;
The asp, with death can blast a parent's joy;
And should their doctrine now corrupt the young,
The deadly poison lurks beneath the tongue.
And must our Bible blaze at their command?
Will kings let fall their sceptres from their hand?
Will masters their authority forego,
And let their servants teach them what to do?
Buchanan of his eloquence may boast,
As second leader of the impious host,
That would the Sacred Scriptures supersede,
And pour contempt on every Christian's creed;
Dash down the font, and say that baptism's vain;
Make marriage void—then deluge hill and plain
With doctrines base as infidels can bring,
To ruin virgins, or dethrone a king.
Then farewell all the wisest of mankind,
335
And Hindoo priests, with deities of wood;
The great apostles, and the prophets slain,
Had equal hope with Volney or Tom Paine.
Man's a machine, and as a puppet mov'd,
Helvetius, Godwin, Owen, say 'tis prov'd.
If some may ask, why all this great parade?
'Twould seem to say that Christians are afraid;
Else, why should champions of the greatest power
Combat the doctrines fleeting as an hour;
But recollect, the mosquito can bite,
And adders sting, though little is their might;
A fly, the noblest steed can much annoy;
The asp, with death can blast a parent's joy;
And should their doctrine now corrupt the young,
The deadly poison lurks beneath the tongue.
And must our Bible blaze at their command?
Will kings let fall their sceptres from their hand?
Will masters their authority forego,
And let their servants teach them what to do?
Buchanan of his eloquence may boast,
As second leader of the impious host,
That would the Sacred Scriptures supersede,
And pour contempt on every Christian's creed;
Dash down the font, and say that baptism's vain;
Make marriage void—then deluge hill and plain
With doctrines base as infidels can bring,
To ruin virgins, or dethrone a king.
336
Let Christian ministers of every creed
Conjointly rise, and then will they succeed;
But, when divided, vain is all their power,
The fold is weak, and sophists can devour.
Let party spirit now be laid aside,
Unite in one, without sectarian pride.
O England! where are all thy mighty fled?
Where are thy patriarchs—thy illustrious dead:
Thy Latimers and Cranmers, where are they?
Such noble minds are surely passed away,
Who in the flames firm and exulting stood,
And seal'd the Scriptures with a martyr's blood!
Where is the Socialist so bold, so brave,
That for his creed would triumph o'er the grave?
If Owen be your guide, with him go on
Till life's last quiv'ring, trembling taper's done.
Then ask his aid, when struggling hard for breath,
What consolation he can give in death;
Laugh then at ministers, and wish to stay—
That is the time when mortals learn to pray.
When eloquent and just, great, awful Death
Comes as Heaven's sheriff to demand our breath;
He then persuades, whom none could yet advise;
Serves all alike, the foolish and the wise.
The honour'd great, for whom the flatterers shout,
Thou hast despised, and from the world shut out;
Thou draw'st together all the pomp, the pride,
Cruelty, ambition, and all else beside;
The poor, the rich, the feeble, and the strong;
The sons of sorrow, and the sons of song;
Lay'st them in dust, and shroud'st them with thy pall,
And two short words, “Hic jacet,” cover all.
But without Christ, where would the soul be cast?
How bear the power of Heav'n's o'erwhelming blast?
For conscience is the fuel of the fires
And bears the vengeance, when the dust expires.
At such a scene—when every hope is lost,
And the eternal part to ruin tost—
Could yon bright sun to double darkness turn—
The ocean, in a robe of sackcloth mourn—
Were nature all to howl, lament, and sigh,
And blackness shroud the brilliant orbs on high—
She could not heave a sigh, too vast, too deep,
O'er one that's lost, and must for ever weep.
Conjointly rise, and then will they succeed;
But, when divided, vain is all their power,
The fold is weak, and sophists can devour.
Let party spirit now be laid aside,
Unite in one, without sectarian pride.
O England! where are all thy mighty fled?
Where are thy patriarchs—thy illustrious dead:
Thy Latimers and Cranmers, where are they?
Such noble minds are surely passed away,
Who in the flames firm and exulting stood,
And seal'd the Scriptures with a martyr's blood!
Where is the Socialist so bold, so brave,
That for his creed would triumph o'er the grave?
If Owen be your guide, with him go on
Till life's last quiv'ring, trembling taper's done.
Then ask his aid, when struggling hard for breath,
What consolation he can give in death;
Laugh then at ministers, and wish to stay—
That is the time when mortals learn to pray.
When eloquent and just, great, awful Death
Comes as Heaven's sheriff to demand our breath;
He then persuades, whom none could yet advise;
Serves all alike, the foolish and the wise.
The honour'd great, for whom the flatterers shout,
Thou hast despised, and from the world shut out;
Thou draw'st together all the pomp, the pride,
Cruelty, ambition, and all else beside;
337
The sons of sorrow, and the sons of song;
Lay'st them in dust, and shroud'st them with thy pall,
And two short words, “Hic jacet,” cover all.
But without Christ, where would the soul be cast?
How bear the power of Heav'n's o'erwhelming blast?
For conscience is the fuel of the fires
And bears the vengeance, when the dust expires.
At such a scene—when every hope is lost,
And the eternal part to ruin tost—
Could yon bright sun to double darkness turn—
The ocean, in a robe of sackcloth mourn—
Were nature all to howl, lament, and sigh,
And blackness shroud the brilliant orbs on high—
She could not heave a sigh, too vast, too deep,
O'er one that's lost, and must for ever weep.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |