 | The Poems of Charles Wolfe |  |
31
PATRIOTISM.
Angels of glory! came she not from you?Are there not patriots in the heaven of heavens?
And hath not every seraph some dear spot—
Throughout th'expanse of worlds some favourite home—
On which he fixes with domestic fondness?
Doth not e'en Michael on his seat of fire,
Close to the footstool of the throne of God,
Rest on his harp awhile, and from the face
And burning glories of the Deity
Loosen his riveted and raptured gaze,
To bend one bright, one transient downward glance,
One patriot look upon his native star?
Or do I err?—and is your bliss complete,
Without one spot to claim your warmer smile,
And e'en an angel's partiality?
And is that passion, which we deem divine,
Which makes the timid brave, the brave resistless,—
Makes men seem heroes,—heroes, demigods—
A poor, mere mortal feeling?—No! 'tis false!
The Deity himself proves it divine;
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He was himself a Patriot!—to the earth—
To all mankind a Saviour was he sent,
And all he loved with a Redeemer's love;
Yet still, his warmest love, his tenderest care,
His life, his heart, his blessings, and his mournings,
His smiles, his tears, he gave to thee, Jerusalem—
To thee, his country!—Though, with a prophet's gaze
He saw the future sorrows of the world;
And all the miseries of the human race,
From age to age, rehearsed their parts before him;
Though he beheld the fall of gasping Rome,
Crushed by descending Vandals; though he heard
The shriek of Poland, when the spoilers came;
Though he saw Europe in the conflagration
Which now is burning, and his eye could pierce
The coming woes that we have yet to feel;—
Yet still, o'er Sion's walls alone he hung;
Thought of no trench but that round Sion cast;
Beheld no widows mourn, but Israel's daughters;
Beheld no slaughter but of Judah's sons—
On them alone the tears of Heaven he dropped;
Dwelt on the horrors of their fall—and sighed,
“Hadst thou but known, even now in this thy day,
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Hadst thou, O hadst thou known, Jerusalem!”—
Yet well he knew what anguish should be his
From those he wept for; well did he foresee
The scourge—the thorns—the cross—the agony;
Yet still, how oft upon thy sons he laid
The hands of health; how oft beneath his wing
Thy children would have gathered, O Jerusalem!—
Thou art not mortal—thou didst come from Heaven,
Spirit of patriotism! thou art divine!
Then, seraph! where thy first descent on earth?
Heaven's hallelujahs, for what soul abandoned?—
Close by the side of Adam, ere he woke
Into existence, was thy hallowed stand;
On Eden and on thee his eyes unclosed;
For say,—instead of wisdom's sacred tree,
And its sweet fatal fruit, had Heaven denied
His daily visit to his natal spot,—
Say, could our father boast one day's obedience?—
And wherefore, Eden, when he passed for ever
Thy gates, in slow and silent bitterness,—
Why did he turn that look of bursting anguish
Upon thy fruits, thy groves, thy vales, thy fountains,
And why inhale with agonising fervour
The last—last breeze that blew from thee upon him?—
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Thy groves were music—and thy fountains, health—
Thy breezes, balm—thy valleys, loveliness;
But that they were the first his ear, eye, taste,
Or smell, or feeling had perceived or tasted,
Heard, seen, inhaled;—because thou wert his country!
Yes, frail and sorrowing sire, thy sons forgive thee!
True, thou hast lost us Eden and its joys,
But thou hast suffered doubly by the loss!
We were not born there—it was not our country!
O holy Angel! thou hast given us each
This substitute for Paradise; with thee,
The vale of snow may be our summer walk;
The pointed rock, the bower of our repose;
The cataract, our music; while, for food,
Thy fingers, icy-cold, perhaps may pluck
The mountain-berry; yet, with thee, we'll smile—
Nor shiver when we hear that Father Adam
Once lived in brighter climes, on sweeter food.—
But, ah! at least to this our second Eden
Permit no artful serpent to approach;
Let no foul traitor grasp at fruits which thou
Hast interdicted; and no sword of flame
Flash forth despair, and wave us to our exile.
Yet, rather than that I should rise in shame
Upon my country's downfall, or should draw
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Rather than that I should approach her walls,
Like Caius Marcius, with her foes combined,
Or turn, like Sylla, her own sons upon her,—
Let me sit down in silence by thy side
Upon the banks of Babylon,—and weep,
When we remember all that we have lost.
Nor shall we always on the stranger's willow
Allow our harp in sorrow to repose;
But when thy converse has inspired my soul,
Roused it to frenzy, taught me to forget
Distance, and time, and place, and woe, and exile,
And I no more behold Euphrates' bank,
And hear no more the clanking of my fetters,—
Then in my fervours, shalt thou snatch thy harp,
And strike me one of Sion's loftiest songs,
Until I pour my soul upon the notes—
Deep from my heart—and they shall waft it home.
O Erin! O my mother! I will love thee!
Whether upon thy green, Atlantic throne,
Thou sitt'st august, majestic, and sublime;
Or on thy empire's last remaining fragment,
Bendest forlorn, dejected, and forsaken,—
Thy smiles, thy tears, thy blessings, and thy woes,
Thy glory and thy infamy, be mine!
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With Deborah's notes thy triumphs would I sing—
Would weep thy woes with Jeremiah's tears;
But for a warning voice, which, though thy fall
Had been begun, should check thee in mid-air—
Isaiah's lips of fire should utter, Hold!—
Not e'en thy vices can withdraw me from thee;—
Thy crimes I'd shun—thyself would still embrace!
For e'en to me Omnipotence might grant
To be the “tenth just man,” to save thee, Erin!—
And when I leave thee, should the lowest seat
In Heaven be mine,—should smiling mercy grant
One dim and distant vision of its glories,—
Then if the least of all the blest can mix
With Heaven one thought of earth,—I'll think of thee.
| The Poems of Charles Wolfe | |