Touches on The Harp of Nature :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO W. C. TREVELYAN, ESQ., ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS AND FULFILS THE NOBLE MISSION OF THE ENGLISH GENTLEMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, AND IN WHOM THE GIFTS OF FORTUNE AND ANCIENT BIRTH RECEIVE THEIR TRUE LUSTRE FROM THE MOST ENLIGHTENED PHILANTHROPY, THESE TRIFLES ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE RESPECT AND ESTEEM.

HUMAN NATURE.

Esteem it godlike to be “man:” to bear
All the conditions of humanity;
Think nought can disennoble thee, save thy
Own thinking so! for that indeed, that were
To do so thoroughly—not the low care
E'en for the bread that perishes, for by
That “man” must live: the sweat, th' obscurity,
The hodden gray which Poverty must wear!
Deem these all godlike, and such they will grow!
Thou canst not think too grandly, no! of man,
Nor of thyself, as one! and sure we owe
Respect to our ownselves, and, all we can,
Should strive t' exalt that nature, which (to make
It holy and respectworth in our eyes)

E'en God himself did not disdain to take
Upon him, aye, and with more miseries
Than ever fell to man, thereby to show
How high he thought of it! And if he so
Respect us, shall we then respect our own-
Selves less? Shall that which he himself has shown
Worthy of all exertion, and which he
Assumed to prove so, seem mean unto thee,
Oh man, for whom he did it, whom alone
He thought of? God forbid! Then be but thou
A man, like him: for has he not taught thee how?
And being so, thou canst not fail to see
How godlike 'tis to be a “man:” to be,
Yea, e'en a beggar! for upon his brow
God's finger has engraved “Humanity!”

The reader may compare with this the passage in an address to England, in the Author's larger work, “Man and Nature,” Vol. i. p. 445, and vol. ii. p. 475.

ON HEARING A MUSIC-CLOCK PLAY OUT THE HOUR.

Sweetly the closing chime comes on my ear!
The hour is flown: breathed soft away, like to
The perfume from a flower! and his new-
Born brother wakes, delightedly, to hear
The call, like some far angel's, to his sphere
Returning. This is truest wisdom, thro'
Pleasure to mark the step of Time, and strew
His path with flowers; and, when we draw near
Our end, how wise were we, yea! wiser than

The wisest mortal, could we do but as
That senseless clock! could we enlarge the span
Of Joy and Hope, and from this sad earth pass,
With inward music of sweet thoughts, away;
Forgetful of the grief, which is, or was,
Our heritage; just as those hours play
Their closing chimes! could the last note be so,
So sweetly held, as scarce to let us know
How this life ended, or the next began!
As, when the flute is dropp'd, the music still
Floats on the air, as tho' 'twere sounding still!

LONDON, AFTER MIDNIGHT.

Silence broods o'er the mighty Babylon,
And Darkness, his twin brother, with him keeps
His solemn watch; the wearied city sleeps,
And Solitude, strange contrast! muses on
The fate of man, there, whence the crowd anon
Will scare her with life's tumult! the great deeps
Of human thought are stirless, yet there creeps,
As 'twere, a far-off hum, scarce heard, then gone,
On the still air; it is the beating of
The mighty heart, which, shortly, from its sleep
Shall start refreshed. Oh Thou, who rul'st above,
Be with it in its dreams, and let it keep,
Awake, the spirit of pure peace and love,
Which thou breath'st thro' it now, so still and deep!

GOD'S TEMPLE, AT EVENING-SERVICE-TIME.

The lamps are kindled: the High Priest is there!
With characters of light the “text” is writ,
And by the stars the wondrous page is lit,
Whose letters sparkle 'round the dome so fair,
And stilly tell, themselves, what sense they bear,
Needing no preacher to interpret it!
Love's grand text! with which, for man's benefit,
God headed Nature's gospel, as it were
The “response” of her sublime Litany,
The burthen of creation's hymn! Lo! on
The temple all the lamps, so silently,
Are burning: kindled so, so noiselessly,
That not a sound thereof is heard upon
The prayer-hushed Earth! and, by their light, that one
Eternal “text,” on which the Deity
Preaches, not with vain words, but works alone,
Is rendered clear, thro' Nature's commentary,
(So grand, yet practical,) to every eye!

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE, ON A STORMY DAY, 1832.

Roll on, ye everlasting waves, roll on!
The music of your voices only, now
Can charm me! fling your spray upon my brow,
Baptize me thus to Nature; with your tone
Of thunder bid me be free as your own

Wild motions; hear, ye elements, my vow,
Witness, ye winds and lightnings, how I bow
In adoration, as before the throne
Of Him whose viewless Spirit o'er your face,
Ye deeps! now passes; wash from me all trace
Of earth: from head to foot burst over me,
With your sublime ablution! hear, thou sea!
Baptize me “man,” restore me to my place
'Mongst these eternal elements! and ye,
Fit witnesses, with holy jubilee,
Record how Nature gives me back her grace,
The sublime birthright of Humanity!

TO BUONAPARTE.

Napoleon! thy triumphs and thy pride
Have passed away: the fearful wounds, which thou
Inflictedst upon Earth, are closed; her brow
Is calm, the Heart within her mighty side
Broods on its sublime task: her hopes abide
Unshaken; nay, the ground, which thou didst plough
With fire and sword, is pushing forth e'en now
The divine seed! Thy deeds no more divide
Men's agitated thoughts—mankind is still,
For it has higher tasks than to fulfil
Thy mandates: it thinks no more upon thee!
The tide of passion, brief slave of thy will,
Has sunk once more into the mighty sea
Of human thought, calm in its primal majesty!

See the work before referred to, vol. i.p.311. stanza 34, et seq.

ON DOING NO INJURY.

Wrong thou no living being, tho' but by
The least ill thought; for tho' sure that it ne'er
Can be discovered, yet there is, I fear,
Still one to whom it must unfailingly
Be known: thyself! and thus the injury
Is done to thee! and this will become clear,
Wilt thou but think what man should hold most dear,
His soul, and all else for it! now if thy
Own self-respect be lessened by a thought

Or act of thine, hast thou not thereby done
Thyself a lasting injury, which naught
Can make good to thee? thou hast in thine own
Eyes lessened thyself; the worst ill! and one
Which none, but thou thyself, could e'er have wrought!

See “Man and Nature,” vol.i. p.277.

THOUGHTS ON ROADSIDE SEATS, AND THEIR MORAL.

1.

I love to feel the firm earth 'neath my feet,
The solid ground of life's reality!
I like to live too by the daily eye
And heart, and e'en the meanest thing I meet
With kindly recognition still to greet;
'Tis not so if my heart but feels thereby
Its Best—then has it its sublimity!
I love not dreams, save such as, on this seat,
With quickened pulse of heart, and waking sight,
I now indulge—such as God himself might
Dream, could he ever dream!—which steadily
By God's broad day bear looking into! yea!
Such as ne'er hover 'round the brows of Sleep!
Well may heaven's blessed light, transfiguring, steep
This rude, yet sublime symbol, by the way
Of human love! which stirs the heart more deep
Than pompous eulogy, or poet's lay!

2.

Blessings be on his head who placed it here!
Who, of poor human nature's destiny

Still mindful, sought to sweeten, tho' but by
A moment's rest, its hard path towards the bier!
It bears no name, inscription—yet in clear
And sublime characters its meaning high
Is graven—“sacred to Humanity!”
And from what altar would God sooner hear
A prayer addressed to Him? then kneel, oh man!
And pray for godlike modesty like this
To work the Godlike likewise under His,
And not thy, name! and this the poorest can!
To serve man, man's best glory, none need miss!
And he who can't do so none has, nor—is!

ON SELF-DENIAL.

Deny thyself, and that which thou deni-
Est thyself will be godlike gain—will be
As measurelessly more than all that the
Fulfilment of thy wish, yea, in its high-
Est sense could bring, as the Godlike, which thy
Heart thro' it feels, than all else unto thee:
For, if felt, all else but as nought thou'lt see
Compared therewith; make thou ungrudgingly
The will of others, and their pleasure, thine;
Thus wilt thou have the enjoyment, not of one,
But many hearts, yet all still as thine own!
In doing good give thou thereof no sign;
Be viewless as the wind: pass on unknown,
Merged, like thy Maker, in thy work divine!

ALWAYS IN GOD'S SIGHT; OR, THE EVENING STAR.

Behold yon star, that gleams and sparkles thro'
The firmament, like some unwearied eye
Of Love, bent on thee ever silently,
As mindful of the least thing thou can'st do!
Believe it such; believe that it can tru-
Ly see thy thoughts: then will thy heart be by
Its pure light filled, as thine eye outwardly;
Then wilt thou look up at it as unto
His father's eye the little child, and bend
Thy head in awe, as fearful to offend;
And then 'twill be the eye of God! yea, his
Own loving eye, to guide thee and defend;
And all thy dear one's eyes gaze down in this
One star of love, (in which all heaven's bliss
Is summed for thee,) still with thee to the end!

THE MORALITY OF CHARITY.

1.

Look never upon woman, even tho'
Sinning, as fallen,—for that were to make
One sin inherit all, and from her take
The last, sole step Hope's foot rests on, and throw
Despair 'twixt her and heaven; thou dost owe
Awe to all women, for thy mother's sake!
And thou insultest her, when thou dost break
A jest on woman's virtue; do not show,
But cast the godlike veil of charity

Around, her failings: bring not thou unto
Her cheek the blush of shame, but let thine eye
Be like God's in its sublime modesty!
Which, seeming not to see, tho' it looks thro'
The inmost heart, spares to the sinner's view
His sore offence! Go, do likewise; thus by
Thee treated still as holy, she will try
To seem what she is thought, and grow so too!

2.

Be thou like one of Jacob's angels on
The ladder: one of those beneficent
Good spirits, to poor erring mortals sent;
Tho' thou wert virtue itself, without one
Least speck, yet angels themselves bear upon
Their shoulders wings of light, as if God meant
To emblem thus, how swift on good intent
The act should tread: that virtue is alone
Unwearied readiness to good! Then be
Not proud of virtue, for pride makes it vice!
Bare no one's failings, that the world may see
Thy greater purity; God, too, has eyes;
But He in secret sees, corrects likewise
In secret! He points not, vain fool! like thee,
Scorn's slow, insulting finger, neither cries,
Tho' He is God, ‘how different from me!’

3.

Then handle woman's name more gently than
Thou would'st the budding rose: scarce breathe upon
It with Respect's hushed breath; touch not, not one
Of her least failings which in love began:

Their source should make them holy! For, O man,
'Twas love to thee which prompted them alone.
And wilt thou visit on her head thine own
Offences? because thy love had not span
Enough t' embrace all that it held most dear,
And yield it all for her sake, wilt thou be
A brute to her for doing so to thee?
For doing what thou could'st not, with thy fear
Of consequences, thy cold head, which aye
Makes thy love but fine talk! but she is near,
Far nearer, unto God, yea, by her ve-
Ry faults, than thou by all thy virtue! yea,
Better it is with love to go astray,
Than, without love, from error to be free!

4.

How godlike must not love then be, which so
Can sanctify transgression, yea, e'en to
The eye of God himself, who sees all thro'
Love, as seen truest thus? And would'st thou blow
With sullying breath on it, O man! and throw
Away this rose of Paradise, which grew
For thee, earth's one, sole thornless flower, to strew
The bier of all that's great and good below?
O woman! ministering angel, be
Thy name then holy; let none think of thee,
But as the sister, mother, wife; let e'en
The frail be thought of, not as what they've been,
But what they may become! yea, let us see
The good alone, and, labouring in love,
By love work miracles, like Him above!

5.

Do we not of the rose itself require
That it be quite a rose, and give forth scent,
Knowing that God the means thereto hath lent?
And shall we less of woman? No! the higher
We deem of her, the more will she aspire;
Ask the Godlike of her, she'll yield it too,
Sure as the rose its divine scent can do.
But there be some, who laugh at chivalry,
Love, faith, and all high feeling; these are they
Who from God's altar snatch the fire away,
Who break each charm of life, and now would try
To trouble the springhead of poesy,
Of godlike thought and godlike act, and make
Its once pure waters no more fit to slake
Man's divine thirst! Yea, these men now would prove
Woman no more divine, not e'en by love,
Which is her being, as God's too! but let
Her love on still, and man will not forget
In her the angel sent him from the sky!

ON LOVING.

Have something still to love, e'en tho' it be
Naught but a flower: yea, the worm below
Thy feet itself—for Love and Hope are so
Twinn'd with each other, closely join'd as the
Two rosebuds on one stalk, that still where we
First love, there, too, we hope; and these, you know,
Are the springheads of being, whence must flow

Its relish and its charm; an eye to see
All things with love, that is the highest good:
Yea, all in one! it is the microscope,
With which new worlds of beauty we may ope,
E'en in the smallest thing that round us lies;
And yet the telescope, with which to show
Glories beyond the stars, and open throw
The gates of heaven! for where love is, what should
There not be also? Love can grasp the skies!
And he who simply loves has all he could
Of bliss, in each of its varieties;
Lo! in how small a space, all Paradise!

WHO ARE ASLEEP REALLY?

1.

Reader, my verse may sometimes seem to thee
A dream, but matter of mere fact it is;
I'm broad awake, as God, I stamp, and this
So solid earth stands moveless under me.
I look up, and th' eternal blue I see!
And could I there without its spirit miss,
Yet what I feel within me, that is His
Own Self, and where could He then nearer be?
Naught, naught has passed away! all, all is there!
The Daisy, as when first I plucked it, and
The bird's old primal song, the balmy air,
And yon just opening rosebud by it fann'd!
Yea! I am broad awake—I stretch my hand
And pluck it: 'tis a rose, godlike and fair!

2.

All is not dream that seems so unto thee;
Some things, called dreams, are more real than aught eye
Or ear attest, or crucible can try:
The feeling of this world is unto me
More real than e'en the world itself can be
To many: it has no reality
To them—for they do not live in and by
Its inward sentiment; to merely see
Is to see naught: unto the very sight
Th' Apollo exists not, until felt too.
I said this was a rose, and I was right,
For I felt all the Godlike and the True,
Which make up e'en that rose, as certainly
As colour and perfume: for more goes to
A rose than merely these; by God's own light
I saw it—must have been awake to do
So: for that light falls on no sleep-dulled eye,
And who sees by it, sees naught dreamingly!

ODE, ON ANNIBAL CARRACCI'S PICTURE OF THE NYMPH PLAYING TO THE FAUN.

1

O, happy Nymph! what song play'st thou unto
The antique trees, and yonder listening Faun?
On whom are bent thine eyes, of laughing blue,
That know no more, than doth the star of morn,
Of grief, or the twin-coloured violet?
And happy Faun! to bask thus in the ray
Of those glad eyes, and list that music clear,
Which charms yon sun, so that he ne'er can set;
And happier gazer! who can'st bear away
Deep at thy heart the quiet pictured here!

2

Play on, fair Nymph, while not a leaf is stirred,
And fill the ear of night with harmony;
Pipe of so wondrous stop was never heard,
Methinks, by any hill in Arcady!
Oh, Fancy! thy, thy divine breathings wake
That instrument to life, for thou hast sway

O'er lifeless things, and quickenest at will;
Thine was Amphion's lyre, which had skill
To build the Theban walls: for thou can'st make
Men's spirits musical, great leadings to obey!

3

Oh Time, thou art the greatest poet still,
And man's conceptions ill with thine keep pace;
Thou into fiction can'st deep truth instil,
Thou liftest up her mask, and show'st the face
Of truth eterne beneath it, calm and fair!
So deals he here by thee, fair nymph; he lifts,
By my weak hand, weak to obey his will,
The mask which as a symbol covers thee,
And shows the light, the truth beneath it, there
Undimm'd; that those who profit by his gifts,
Like thee, make life a constant harmony!

4

Play on, then, happy Nymph! altho' unheard
Thy melody may seem; yet that which we
Believe we hear, by fancy inly stirred,
Far sweeter is than any that could be
By breath or finger realized! Thy flute
Is manifold of stops, oh Phantasie,
And every hearer's changing mood doth suit:
Yet little skill it takes thereon to play;
The stops, these are thy thoughts, and it is thy
Own fault if they thy touch will not obey!

OVERLOOK NOT TRIFLES.

There are no trifles: no, not one in all
This wide and lovely world; if trifles were
Not so, so oft neglected by us, there
Would be few grievous ills: no, nor yet small;
Then first there would be trifles, could we call
Them so, taught to deem none beneath our care.
To God naught, naught is trifling, he can spare
Time even for the least: e'en for the fall,
Yea, of a leaf! The bee's small girdle is
Look'd to, as Saturn's vast belt, which extends
A hundred thousand miles! He who great ends
Sees not, nor works, in trifles, still must miss
Life's greatest end, real living, and with this
All others too,—the least chip comprehends,
As the whole block, the law of gravity;
So life's least duties its sublimity!

ON SELF-LOWLINESS.

1.

Be modest: dwell not on thyself, on thy
Poor works; thy being is but, as it were,
A passing breath, lost in the boundless air,
The life of all things! is not modesty
God's attribute? and wilt thou not be by
So sublime an example taught to bear

Man's silence, yea! unthankfulness? the fair-
Est of his works He points not out: his eye
Seems not to see them! from the heavens fade
The sunset's gorgeous pageantries, as tho'
Not worth a thought: and, the next day array'd
In lovelier hues, return, as if to show
How little store he set by them, that no
Least thought of self e'er dwelt in aught He made!

2.

He takes no praise unto himself, nor is
Offended, even when his creatures make
Light of Him, and his name in mockery take!
And what are thy works when compared with His,
Oh man! that thou should'st be so proud of this
Thy nothingness? no sudden thunders break
The heaven's stillness, no winds, blustering, wake
To trumpet forth his praises, lest he miss
Due notice! e'en his fairest works do show
His glory forth, so stilly, modestly,
As if they too were conscious what they owe
Unto Him! and when they do most, 'tis by
That very stillness, whence alone can flow
Th' Unutterable wrought unutterably!
Then feel thou this, oh man! for if thou dost,
Thou wilt not try to utter it, thou must
Be silent! yea, as God! and that which He
Can't utter, shall that speak, oh fool! by thee?

THE BLIND MAN.

1.

The poor blind man sits in the magic light
Of the full moon: but it cheers not his eye!
The moving panorama of the sky,
The stream steep'd in its radiance, the bright
And flashing waters, burning, as it might
Be deem'd, 'round yon dark outline, from the high
Old tower, shadowed on them massively,
The full, broad orb, above yon woody height,
Emerging, 'till the grove, like fire, glows,
And in the bush the Lord appears once more!
All, all is lost to him and yet, who knows?
The soul may see more than eye saw before!
Can God, who in the beauty of this night
Reveals his Spirit, not find means to pour
On the sad heart, tho' haply not through sight,
Some portion of this blessed, deep repose,
Which seems as Nature's pulse had given o'er
To beat, and earth remembered not her throes;
Can he not cause the little ear to be
The organ of new harmonies: thereto
The strings of Nature's harp attach, and through
It pour the music of earth, heaven, and sea?

2.

Now draw I nearer, silent as a beam
Of that calm light! there is no eye to view,
No ear to hear, that which I now would do,
Save that pure light, which is the holy gleam

Of God's own watchful eye; which, tho' it seem
To see nought, sees all things, and shows them tru-
Ly as they are! softly I drop into
His hand my mite, and vanish like a dream,
Or breath among the leaves, that whispering dies!
Lo! the calm moonlight bathes his drooping head;
That halo, with which Nature sanctifies
In him Humanity! he sees me not—his eyes
Are closed; but, for that reason, in their stead
God's are wide open! 'twas God's hand which gave
The mite: for mine he saw not, felt not, save
Therein; therefore he thanks the Deity's
Own hand, and rightly; yea! for had he seen
Mine giving it, 'twould not the less have been
His Father's hand stretched to him from the skies!
And if with sight he could not recognise
God's hand, far better were it for him to
Be blind, thus with the Spirit's eyes to view
That hand alone in life's least agencies!

VENICE.

1.

Venice! how long has Ocean spread before
Thy greatness his eternal mirror? how,
How oft upon thy pomp and pride hast thou
Gazed in it, and, behold! these are no more!
Thou'rt passing from it, like a shadow o'er
The deep, blue sea, th' eternal, which is now
As ever! but alas! thou'st broke thy vow,
Thy bridal vow, and thy strong womb, which bore
Titians and Doges, is now barren, and
Yields nought, nought more! Lo! 'neath yon sinking sun,

The eternal waves are gleaming on the strand,
Thy fortune's framers! oft have they helped on
Thy fleeting aims, like proud steeds by thy hand
Yoked to the car of Triumph, thine alone!

2.

And yet, tho' seemingly they served but thee
And thine, oh proud one! they were guided by
A hand far mightier, which viewlessly
Wrought with them far more during ends than the
Scant brain of man conceives, or aught that he
Can sow the seeds of! yea! such too is thy
Lot, Venice; thy sea-cradle momently
Becomes thy grave! the waves, the ever free,
Th' eternal, bear not long the chains of hu-
Man purposes; they are the wings of thought,
And by the freest is the Freest brought
From land to land; eternal themselves, to
Th' Eternal they do homage still, and aught
Less during's like clouds on their changeless blue!

3.

Behold them in the sunset's purple rays,
Like steps of light interminable: on,
For ever on, and end there seemeth none!
Like some bright threshold, on which Hope might place
Her foot to enter Heaven. 'Mid the blaze,
The west appears; the day his task hath done,
And, thro' the rosy twilight, one by one,
The same stars peer! how dreamlike man displays
His pomps in face of Nature! but, as 't were,

The bubble on yon wave this city here
Appears; the firm earth melts away, like air,
Beneath her, and, save for the historian's care,
Her Past were like the track left on that clear,
Deep sea, by her own conquering fleets, which ne'er
Shall glad her dim eye more, fixed, in despair,
Upon those waves, which in man's vain grief have no share!

THOUGHT'S POWER.

Art thou not a magician? can'st thou too
Not draw a circle round thee, o'er which naught
Shall pass? Yea, surely; thou can'st with thy thought
Keep all life's ills at bay;—for how, save thro'
Thy thought, can aught affect thee, reach unto
Thy inner self? all that which Time has brought
He takes again; but if the heart be fraught
Thereby with all high feelings, with the True
And Godlike, what then matters it if he
Resume the mere thing given? It has done
Enough: made us feel godlike! and if we
Feel so through it, all that it e'er could be
It is already; then, do this alone,
Feel all things godlike, and then Time of none
Can rob thee! but to do this rests with thee:
For if thou wilt but learn to feel thine own
Heart godlike, all things thou thro' it must godlike see!

FIRST LOVE.

Blessed be the hour when first I gazed on thee!
Eve's hour of holy rest, and that one star
Which led thy steps to where I stood; what are
Years to such moments? as to the young tree
The breath of spring, so they to us! yea, the
Pure breath of being;—and, oh, how that far
Calm star beamed down, with not one cloud to mar
Its beauty! as God gazed through it to see
The glory of his works! yea, 'twas thine eye,
Oh God! and it looked on approvingly!
The stars they are thine eyes, yea, every one:
Thou lookest forth from all things; and when I
Gazed on thee, Love, and felt but love alone,
God looked on thee thro' my eyes as his own!

UNCHARITABLENESS.

1.

Despise naught, till thou find'st naught to despise
In thine own bosom: could that e'er be so!
Could even earth's least earthly child find no,
No human frailty there, in Wisdom's eyes
'Twere but more reason higher still to rise
'Bove all such paltry feelings, which but show
Our weakness, and most where we deemed no blow
Could reach us, dozing in Security's

Too sluggish lap. He who despises the
Least thing, should there no other reason be
But this, will surely in his own heart find
Some leaven of poor, frail mortality:
Some ground of self-contempt; thus still may he
Find full scope for it there; the true stone blind,
These are the proud, the blind may get sight, see
Their own faults, and a little charity
Covers a multitude of sins! but when
We put her godlike eye out in the mind,
How should her divine light direct us then?

2.

First, when thou hast removed from thine own breast
All ground of self-contempt, then would'st thou have
Some right to despise others; but what gave
Thee that same right, would be the very best
Of reasons why thou should'st not; for to be
Faultless, like Christ, would take away from thee
All power to feel contempt. Then feel none: lest
Thy pride outweigh the faults from which thou'rt free!

THE GREAT MAN.

1.

Look at him: 'tis a great man! mark him well
He shakes your hand just like another, save
With holier pressure: his meek eye doth crave
No idle notice, it has naught to tell
Of its own greatness, save a nameless spell,
A look, like that our blessed Saviour gave,
Of love, prepared all earthly ills to brave;
He speaks like other men: no miracle
Assumes he to perform, and yet works many
The daily papers mention not his name!
No finger points him out as he goes by.
His sublime brow would be suffused with shame,

Could he believe that any but God's eye
Beheld him, or that the loud tongue of Fame
Could drown the whisper of the Deity!

2.

He values all his glory but as naught
Compared with the least act of love from one
Whom he holds dear; nor is he great alone
When buskin'd for life's stage, or when his thought
Energic rouses senates, sternly taught
Their duty; he is greatest by his own
Fireside, when no eye sees him: there best known,
And best loved too; and most the last, as ought
To be, because still most the first! he has
Time for life's smallest duties: time to say
A kind word unto all, to give “good day,”
And ask of this and that; for these things as
Life's business he regards, and would not pass
Them over: no, not pass upon his way
The meanest, and not say, as he goes by,
“God speed thee, Friend!” for mere Humanity!

3.

For mere Humanity! yea, this can make
The sweat of labour holy in his eyes;
And to mock at, or in unseemly wise
Speak of, it, were the same thing as to take
God's name in vain; who bade man, for his sake
And weal alone, by sweat to realize
His bread, its moral leaven; to despise
The mass, its joys and labours, were to break

The links that bind Man to Humanity;
But the great man moves with it, nay, is great
By it, by feeling with it—broad and high,
On nature based, and human sympathy,
Must his foundations be who would create
Works that may, like the stars, early and late
Be shining, in Man's sight and God's eternally!

See “Man and Nature,” vol. i. p. 51, the piece entitled “True Greatness.”

ON NAPOLEON.

1.

And could a truly great mind stoop unto
Such paltriness, as to be moved thus by
The loss of a vain title? then should I
Be led to deem thee neither great nor true!
For, had'st thou been at heart so, thy heart thro'
All change had followed, and, to thine own eye,
Still kept, thee godlike! but since thou could'st by
The loss of a mere name, in thine own view,
Be lessened, therefore, I too think thee so;
For who, save thy ownself, could make thee low?
Had but Napoleon, the man, been great,
He had not missed the Emperor! vain state

Others might rob thee of, but none could bow
Thy soul, save thyself, to its altered fate!

2.

Was solitude a punishment? were thy
Own thoughts such ill companions, in the day
Of need, that they who should exalt and play
The comforters, the only ones who by
The deathbed stand, and in the cell draw nigh,
Served but to lower? What then took away
Thy foes from thee? a name, the vain display
Of illused power, but not the calm eye
Of godlike reminiscence: no, not one
Good deed! of these thou robd'st thyself alone!
The sceptre, which such opportunities
Of good can call forth, which men's hearts and eyes
Can open, was perverted to thine own
Self-ends, and severed from their sympathies!

3.

And of the upright monarch's sublime tread,
Beneath which blessings from the ground should rise,
And founts of song and godlike harmonies,
As at the Pegasean stroke 'twas said,
Thou mad'st the step of Desolation, 'bove
The necks of nations placed, and, as if love
Were not among kings' attributes, with dead
Did'st pave thy way, and whither has it led?

4.

To this lone Isle, this awful solitude,
With thoughts of the much ill done, the more good

Left undone; to thyself and to thy God,
Who for thy sins makes thy own acts the rod;
Far more than empires hast thou lost, for now
Cain's curse, the stain of blood, is on thy brow!
Mankind has cast thee from it, and from thy-
Self thou, and naught is left thee but to die!
Pace out thy grave, the six, poor, scanty feet,
Where nothingness and greatness mocking meet;
Gaze, from that spot, upon the boundless sea,
By Providence thrown 'twixt the Past and thee,
Like an eternity! Gaze on the far
Expanse, and in yon dimly-setting star
Behold thy fortunes typed, yet not, like thine,
To rise no more! with ray undimm'd, divine,
'Twill light far greater spirits to their goal,
Who, like it, work but with and for the Whole!
Go, hear th' eternal waves, they toil not for
The aims of one wild moment, nor the law
Of conquerors obey: they flatter not,
Like those thou'st left unmindful of thy lot!
They'll teach thee that the True and Godlike can
Alone exalt, and dwell for aye with man,
That only o'er their depths Truth's calm, strong voice
Is heard throughout all ages, not the noise
And passing uproar of the battle shout,
That a few words from her can bring about
Far mightier issues than thy troubled dream
Conceived; but that is over! and the stream
Of time and ocean now have brought thee to

Thy journey's end! a grave is all this new
Land offers thee; and all that thou hast brought
With thee, is thyself, all, or worse than naught!
Henceforth this lonely isle shall seem but as
A mighty pedestal, to those who pass,
Where a God's statue should have stood, still by
The eternal mirror glassed unchangingly!
But mankind still must wait, till on that base,
By Nature raised, Truth the true image place!
Thou might'st have occupied it, and the sea
Peal'd an eternal hymn of praise to thee;
But now of this wide earth six feet is all
Thy conquests leave thee: and tho' that be small,
Less in the hearts of men thy share shall be!

Napoleon is said to have been much offended at the title “Emperor” not being used towards him by the Governor Lowe; and these verses are supposed to be addressed to him, pacing, at daybreak, his place of confinement, and watching the morning star fade.

THOUGHTS ON DIFFUSING A TASTE FOR ART AND THE DIGNITY OF DAILY EXISTENCE.

The Daily and the Beautiful, why pray
Should they not in man's works, as in God's, go
Together ever? is the Daily so
Far from his highest yearnings, from all sway
Of godlike fancy, that these never may
Sublime its hopes and pleasures, can have no
Connexion with it? or where should we sow
The seed of all good things save by the way
Where all must pass? the poorest has an eye

A godlike eye and heart: then let him be
Reminded often of it; yea, make thy
Appeal to that alone, to what is high-
Est in him, for by that he easily
Will comprehend the Highest, which else were
A riddle; lay the Godlike fully bare,
Give it him, not in this or that degree,
But, as the sun its whole warmth to each tree,
Give him it full, whole, uncurtailedly,
For has not God to him, as unto thee,
Thus given his own Spirit? yea, to the
Least of his children! and if God thus deem
Each fit to feel Him wholly, shall he seem
Less in our eyes than in his Maker's? no!
Each may be quite godlike, then, treat him so!

2.

And he who can feel God, methinks, might see
And feel the Beautiful, yea! as felt by
A Raphael! then keep it ever nigh
His eyes and heart, thus, worshipping it, he
Will make “the Beautiful” his Deity,
And worship thus the latter too in his
Sublimest form! for he who fashioned this
So lovely world, can he be better known
Than as the Beautiful? is he not shown
Forth in this sense by all things? shown forth too
So that the Beautiful, and Good, and True,
Are all revealed as one! and revealed so
That e'en a rose might teach the child to know
This text by heart, without one comment, save

What its own beauty furnishes; and have
Not all the preacher himself on this text
Heard preach from one year's end unto the next?
Have all not felt him in all things, in grief,
And joy, in budding flower and falling leaf,
In all that's lovely? thus most in man's own
Deep heart, for there the Loveliest dwells alone.
And as but one thing can be loveliest, I
Need scarcely ask what, of necessity,
That one same thing must be! go, ask thy soul:
Feel it but godlike first, and 'twill reply
Unerring as:—the Spirit of the Whole!

3.

Why should the Good not be revealed thro'
The Beautiful, its fittest type? it is
Most beautiful, when simply so, to his
Clear eye who sees in it alone the True;
It needs no charm besides to him, no new
Or fairer form can bear: he sees but this,
Its one, best form, th' essential, with which 't is
Arrayed by God himself, and in which too
It must return to him, outlasting all
Its others. But 't may wisely still and well
With Beauty clothe itself, to make its call,
Its sublime call, more understandable;
Has God not bade the very dayliest, small-
Est things this truth so eloquently tell?

4.

Then let us do likewise—'tis wisdom, yea!
The highest, often to indulge the eye

Of Fancy; let it glance from earth to sky,
And throw a halo even 'round the clay
Of which we're formed! to make of life a play
And pastime, yet to lessen not thereby
Its graver import and reality,
To sport, as childhood, on his holiday,
Amid the flowers of Spring, and yet, at the
Same time too, with an earnest, sober zeal,
Consciously, in the inmost heart, to feel
Its deep responsibility, yet still
Not as a task, a labour to fulfil,
But as a joy to be enjoyed: yea! for
The Godlike to the Godlike must give law,
It has, can have, no other; and if we
Be but godlike, how can the Godlike be
A task? it is ourselves! and to be this
Can be no more a task to us, than his
Own song is to the lark, which is but an
Expression of himself, as is to man
All godlike action! this, this is to me
The highest wisdom; Wisdom, who e'en 'mid
His tears can smile, to think of what is hid
Beneath them, of the during True, which he
Feels thus more in its oneness, which naught can
Take from him, not e'en when the coffin-lid
He closes o'er his dearest; it but grows
More true to him, just thro' the loss of those
He lov'd! 'tis snatched, for one brief moment, from
His eyes, to be henceforth brought clearer home
Unto his Heart! he had beheld it as

In many fractions, but now, in the glass
Of Life, 'tis given back to him as one,
The ground of all things' being and his own!
E'en of the flowers, which spring up hard by
His path, and for which he has still an eye,
Yea! even to the last! still, still an ear
To listen to the lark, a silent tear
For thoughts too deep for language! yea! for he
Has learnt his lore of Nature, and does she,
Ere to the harvest and the fruit she bring
Our steps, not lead us thro' the flowers of Spring?

5.

There is no fruit without the flower, nei-
Ther wisdom without joy! he who counts by
The hourglass his life, will thus deprive
Himself of its best use, nay! fail to live!
This is destroying life, to fix the eye
On a few sandgrains, as if they could give
Even a moment's measure, paltrily
Into vile fractions to split up the high
And godlike sense of being as a Whole,
As One; 'tis as if Ocean should not roll
One sublime, indivisibly-grand mass,
Ocean at every point from pole to pole!
(Like Life betwixt the cradle and the goal,)
But into paltry drops be broken; as
If at each moment of this life the soul
Could not feel it still one, godlike, entire!
Not what it at each moment only is,
But all Time ere could make it; and, with this

True feeling of it, moments have a higher
Value and import, yea! than e'en long years
Without it! for by this alone th tears
And joys, the yearnings and the strivings, of
The human heart, can be sublimed above
Their outward seeming, sanctified, yea! to
The eye of God himself! Life only thro'
This feeling can be Life, without is none;
Life is the consciousness thereof alone!
And he who has felt the whole Godlike, has
Fulfilled his life, for that its chief end was,
Nay, life itself—for life's not time, it is
True feeling, godlike action, and with this
The shortest may be full and complete, yea!
As is the longest; tho' but one, full, clear
Draught, as of ether, of this atmosphere,
Breathed consciously as such! but one sweet day,
Like a brief, sweet tune on a flute, one ra-
Diant morn, with song of bird and opening flower,
And one sweet evening's close, soft stealing o'er
The eye that sinks with Nature into rest,
Sure of the dawn, like her, and, like her, blest
To have fulfill'd its task, then pass away,
Transfigured in the sunset's last, calm ray;
That Halo, which proud conqueror never wore,
By holy Nature, sympathizing, thrown
Around the good man's end, so like her own!
When, at each day's sweet close, her closing eye
Looks back on its great work, so modestly,
So stilly, and the blessedness of the

Past day becomes the dream of that to be;
And o'er her rest, the silent stars alone,
Watching, its wonders to men's eyes make known!

6.

Why should the muse not oftener stoop unto
The poor man's cot? to give him of his own
Existence the deep music, to make known
The poesy which, seldom voiced, runs thro'
His daily life? felt but godlike and true,
Life is itself a Poem such as none
Can equal, yea! it is itself alone
Its own best Poesy! tho' very few
Feel it as such. What Poet's simile
Could, for its beauty and deep meaning, ere
With the rose in the poor man's window be
Compared? 'tis godlike, so full of the clear,
Deep poesy of Nature, for which he
Still yearns amid the city's fretful sphere;
And, with its scent, he seems awhile to hear
The bird's glad song, and breathe the air so free,
Enjoying Nature in epitome!

7.

That flower to him is life's poesy;
It keeps his heart awake, it keeps him true,
'Mid all that's false and artificial, to
The During and the Natural; thereby
He cherishes the primal sympathy,
Exerts Imagination's power, and, thro'
Its exercise, becomes a Poet too,
The highest, truest! for his daily eye

And heart he poetizes, with what lies
Around him: 'till his loom, his hammer, and
The low, coarse implements used by his hand,
Remind him no more of his toil, but rise
To view soft as forms which in dreams are scanned,
Steeped in Imagination's fairy dies!

8.

The Harsh, the Bitter, which they outwardly
Suggest, the Sweat, the Labour, this he no
More sees; the Inward, Godlike, which doth show
Itself, yea! e'en in their coarse forms, his eye
Beholds alone! that is, life's poesy
Alone he feels, its meaning, which below
The surface lies, and which can only flow
From the deep sense of its reality!
Thus, at the loom, he with it not alone
Spins the mere warp and woof, but weaves likewise
Life's web so godlike! weaves it from his own
Most daily thoughts and feelings, and, scarce known
To himself, steeps the threads in Fancy's dies,
Which yet are but Life's best realities!

9.

Thus are his feelings real to him, yea, as
The palpable threads which 'neath his fingers pass!
He spins them not from nothing, from vain dreams,
But from the living heart within him; yea,
'Tis thus he lives his life, and of one day
The godlike consciousness unto him seems
A treasure all Earth's gold could ne'er repay;
For he feels what life is, and what it may
Become: how godlike 'tis to be a “man;”

This feeling is the Highest that man can
Reach, 'tis the consciousness of Self; for he
Whose self is not always unto him the
One highest end, and in the highest, pu-
Rest sense, lives not! he follows not the true
End of all being; nay, he himself is
An instrument to things which should to his
“Self” be mere instruments! The dullest of
All follies is to raise the means above
The end, from which they take their worth alone!
And this we do, when Reason's godlike eye
We keep not fixed, sublimely, steadily,
Upon the “man,” but losing sight of this,
Th' Eternal in the Accidental miss!

10.

Oh, Muse! then keep thou ever in his view
This one, grand object; teach him still to be
An end unto himself: for thereby he
Will estimate life's goods but by the True,
Th' Eternal, and, becoming so, then too
All means which needful thereto be he'll find
Within himself; yea, his own heart and mind
Are still the surest means, the only, thro'
Which man's perfection and his highest weal
Can be wrought out: each thing grows perfect by
And thro' itself alone; then let him feel
Himself his end, thus too, unfailingly,
Man's Highest he'll attain at once, for this
Mere feeling is the Highest of which his
Nature is capable, just as the rose-
'S perfume is the end for which it grows!

Our Highest is not something out of us,
It is ourselves, our thoughts, and feelings—thus
Thro' these we still must seek it, there is no,
No way besides: but if we feel these so,
Then is it ours; man's highest feeling is
His Highest, and that none need ever miss!
Feel grandly, for grand feeling must repay
Itself: 'twere none, were there another way!
E'en to the poorest beggar who denies
Himself, to make him his own miseries
Forget, to recompense him fitliest, naught
Can God himself beyond that simple thought
Itself find out to give! yea, just for this
He is God, to reward us as He is
Himself rewarded for all sacrifice!
And by whom should the Godlike first be taught,
If not by Him thro' whom alone 'tis wrought?

11.

Then teach man still the Highest, yea, e'en thro'
The Lowest, Dayliest, Commonest; thus he
Will comprehend the lesson easily!
Add thou the Beautiful unto the True,
The Noble to the Useful: thus they too
Will seem what Wisdom knows them well to be.
The fairest form costs little more than the
Most vulgar! yea, it costs a lofty view
Of nature, life, and man's capacities;
It costs that by which godlike things are wrought
Alone, pure, godlike feeling, godlike thought,
Of that in which true greatness only lies,
The Last, the Highest, to which nations rise!

Nor deem that great results may not be brought
To pass, when Nature's parables are taught
By Art, familiar grown to all men's eyes!
But far, far other things than these are by
The Malthuses and Benthams thought of, men
Of the long head and narrow heart, whose pen
Would reckon up of poor Humanity
Each pulse, and of the godlike beating heart
Make but life's supplement, not its chief part,
The life of life;—to these Art, Poesy,
Are things without a meaning—Man but a
Machine, which they with springs and countersprings make play!

12.

'Tis not alone in costly galleries
That the true feeling must be fostered; no!
Cast the good seed abroad, and it will grow
Up everywhere; life's trivialtes
Have nothing trivial in Wisdom's eyes;
And he who feels his daily life as low,
The fault is in him, for he feels it so!
And makes it so, for his best energies
Are not bent thereunto! A mere plate, on
Which Christ, in act to break the bread, should be
Depicted, would, methinks, be something won
Unto Humanity! No eye could see
It without faith and love; and, felt thus, he
Would be no more a pictured form alone,
But in each heart a living presence, the
Real Saviour, breaking there for every one,

Who felt him, too his bread, and visibly
Blessing it, by that feeling straightway known!

13.

What can be more ideal, I pray, than this,
Yet more mere fact? How many hearts are by
The poesy, the living poesy,
Of being touched, who know not what verse is!
Yet of its noblest harmonies naught miss!
Does God then voice himself alone by thy
Proud lips, O poet? has Humanity
No music of its own, no melodies,
Beyond the broken snatches of thy lyre?
Art thou sole heir to Being's harmony?
God, God forbid! the poorest heart feels higher,
Far higher inspirations, yea, than the
All-greatest poet's verse could e'er inspire!
Feels God, life's blessedness, and love's pure fire,
Man's whole heart! and what more is felt by thee?
Each seashell gives the music of the whole
Deep sea, and thus too does each human soul,
Each feels the great soul in epitome!

14.

High thinking in life's least things is best known,
And week-day greatness is the hardest, high-
Est still of all! The great heart and clear eye
Find full scope in the hovel as the throne.
Thus Poussin held the light to show his own

Proud guest the door, with godlike modesty;
So the sun lights the meanest from that sky
Where unapproachable he shines alone!
So long godlike, that the Godlike has grown
His simple being—wrought unconsciously!
That lamp's real ray, tho' round the great man's head,
Like, nay, an halo, at that moment shed,
Lost on his guest's dull eye, failed thence to claim
A recognition: for the artist bore
Neither a king's proud look nor idle name,
Tho', but as Poussin, measurelessly more!
For from Art's spiritual throne, (to tread
Whose presence-chamber is the height of fame,)
He had stooped to the menial's office, led
By godlike pride, where most would feel but shame,
In least things, as in greatest, great the same,
Nay, greatest in the smallest, for he rose
Highest, where still the mean mind meanest shows!
He did it without show, as naught, for he
So felt it—as God his divinity!
The great mind feels the least things great alone,
For feeling all things godlike, thus its own
Feelings impart to that sublimity;
'Twixt Least and Greatest difference is none,
Sand-grain, or world, alike suggest infinity!

15.

The Cardinal the Artist pitied, for
He had no servant! and the Artist tru-
Lier pitied him likewise, because he saw
He deemed so slight a want a subject to

Be pitied! which was right? Methinks the man
Who needs no service, is best served: who can
So regulate his thoughts, that these shall do
Him service; these accompany him thro'
All changes, perils, yea, thro' sickness, death
Itself, still faithful, e'en to his last breath!
They ask no hire: none can bribe them, and
The more they serve, the readier at hand
He'll find them ever: servants have but feet,
But they have wings to render him, as meet,
All spiritual service! and who, pray,
Is best served? he who for his body may
Have all that he can think of, or he, whose
Pure soul, contented with the godlike use
Of its high powers, has naught left to require,
And want is none, where is no weak desire!
Or should there be, he does not gratify
The craving, but, subduing it to higher
Ends than its own, a godlike victory
Reaps where the weak sink deeper in earth's mire!
So godlike is man served by his own thought,
That will he but think so, he can want naught!

16.

Think it not for mankind small Good alone,
When thou habituat'st the daily eye
To forms full of pure truth and harmony;
The Beautiful, which to the sense is shown,
Will in the heart its presence soon make known!
Man's daily life should be ennobled by
All means, that he may deem more worthily

Of it and himself! a sublimer tone,
Fit prelude to the coming harmonies,
Upon Time's mighty harp, the spirit of
Humanity has struck: clear notes of love
Fill the wide vault of the rejoicing skies;
God listens! for a sound is sent above;
The mighty Spirit is at work, it plies
Its godlike task, mankind is getting eyes,
The film is passing off which ages wove,
And dreams and hopes sublime, at waking, move,
The great heart, conscious of new destinies!

This noble trait of Poussin was suggested to me by a beautiful sonnet of my highly-gifted friend Mr. Scott, to whom, therefore, I ascribe, as due, the credit of it.

TO A FRIEND, AFTER ABSENCE.

1.

Dear Friend; there still is a vitality
In bygone joys and hours, and they rise,
Like ghosts, yet still life's strong realities,
And with their primal sunshine cheer the eye,
And warm the heart! not only in the sky,
Above him, shines the light by which man plies
Life's task: but what the passing day denies
Of brightness, he from himself can supply.
Suns long since set shine on him: he treads o'er
Life's old, familiar ground, whose forms now pass,
Transfigured, o'er the soul's soft, magic glass!
The music of the days which are no more
Still cheers him, for his inward ear is, as
The seashell, filled with harmonies of yore

2.

The distance has not dull'd, but sweetened: made
The music but still holier, touchinger;
The haste of youth is sobered: the wild stir
And effervescence of the soul allayed!
The divine instrument may now be played
With less breath than a babe breathes on a flute!
Yet yield such bursts of harmony, that mute
Angels themselves would listening stand, afraid
To stir their wings, in speechless ecstasy!
This is the player's test—he who knows well
The stops of his own thoughts, can wake thereby
Music most passing sweet! the Past doth tell
His old tales o'er again, the shadowy,
Dim outlines grow distinct: the heart beats high,
And feelings gush from life's unfathomed well!
The old, old primal feelings, fresh and true,
As on the untouched rosebud morn's first dew.
And these are now awakened in my heart,
At thought of those who gave me their best part,
That love, which is their best source and end too!

NATURE, A REVELATION OF GOD'S RELIGION AND MORAL SCHEME.

1.

And shall a nation's progress be delay'd,
While priests dispute God's Word, for things of naught,
Fit theme for strife! and what edition ought
To be received! as if all that He made
Bore not his superscription, and display'd
Not one same light, one purpose, which, if taught

By these false servants, long ere this had wrought
His kingdom upon earth; but these a trade
Make of His Word, and therefore stickle for
Texts and editions; tho' there be but one,
His own—the living Bible, which his law
So clearly shows; not that of Douay, nor
Elsewhere: for matter of dispute is none
Therein, nor text with text ere found at war!

2.

The living scheme of Nature! yea, this is
His Word, his own Edition, where is no,
No room for quibbling—and does it not show
Forth, not alone his might, as well as His
Own written Word, but far, far more than this,
Does it not too enforce all that we owe
To Man and God, not with vain words, oft so,
So pointless, but with pulses of pure bliss,
With warning pain, and reminiscence dear?
Nor wants the lesson ought that Poesy,
Or fittest illustration can supply,
To make it one of Love, not Force or Fear;
Both, both are there, to bring it home in clear,
Intelligible wise, to ear and eye,
And heart, that Man may comprehend his destiny!

3.

Fling wide the everlasting gates of this
Grand temple then, that all may enter there;
Long has the Preacher waited, and it were
High time that men should listen unto His
Own voice, nor thus, thro' selfish teachers, miss

The living truth, which his own lips declare.
Has He who set in heaven the stars so fair,
Left then his other works in darkness? is
Not every page by one same light made clear,
In his great volume? study there then thy
Real good; for Man and Nature are as near
Allied as child and mother, and 'tis by
Her lips that he will oftenest, clearest hear
The real commandments of the Deity!

ON A SUNSET LANDSCAPE, SEEN OVER WATER.

I looked—the sun was setting rosy red:
I gazed with more and more intense delight,
As, like a halo of ethereal light,
His rays were gathered round the sinking head
Of dying day—along the stream were spread
The last, faint smiles of Nature, calmly bright,
As if on her so holy works her sight,
For the last time, were bent, ere Night should wed
Them to Oblivion! beyond the stream
There lay a happy land, like Paradise;
As fair and still as, but too like, a dream!
Alas! beyond the stream it ever lies,
That happy land, and in the far-off gleam
Of spectral suns, unknown to mortal eyes!
But yet the spirit can attain the prize,
That can pass over, distant tho' it seem!

Reader, hast understood? then go, likewise,
And let thy soul that fair land realize!
For if that dwell there, thou dwell'st in it too,
And calmly thence Life's turmoil here may'st view!

TO THE POOR.

Art thou ashamed of poverty? of thy
Low occupation, as it in thine eyes
Appears? then of Man and his destinies
Thou'st still to learn the end and dignity;
Did not Christ by his birth then glorify
That poverty? that men might not despise
The lowliest state, since it full means supplies
For all that makes Man holy in God's eye!
And what more would'st thou be? be quite a man,
Thine occupation, then, will not seem low;
For if thou wilt but think it not so, can
It be so? Man is boundlessly more than
His occupation, for from him must flow
Its worth: thus, if godlike himself, it must be so!

Then dare not thou, thou rich fool, to look down
On poverty: nor thou, poor man, disown
That which thy Lord, for thy sake, underwent!
But bear it like him, and the thorny crown
Of suffering, by sublime presentiment,
Will then become on thine, as on his brow,
One, not of pain, but glory even now!

HOPE.

One eve I lay, half dreaming, half awake,
In the fair arms of my true mistress, Hope;
Who, seeing me my drowsy eyelids ope,
Asked what I most should like? then, for the sake
Of trying her, to see if she would take
Me at my word, I said, “To enjoy thee:”
Thereat she started, like a fawn, from me!
Then thought I to myself, tho' she thus break
Away, yet will she straight be back again:
She is a virgin chaste as unsunned snow,
And if we seldom reach her, not in vain
We follow; for to the mere chase we owe
All, nay, more than she'd give, could we detain
Her in our arms, for all hope more than they can know!

HOW TO PROFIT BY DETRACTION.

E'en when thy foe doth most to slander thee,
When o'er thy lines of grace he smears the gall
Of Envy, and exaggerates thy small
Defects to grievous faults, do not as he:
That were to give him license to speak free.

Hear him to thy amendment—strictlier call
Thyself to task, and see how much of all
He lays to thee is true—if any be,
Correct it—then, with sublime modesty,
Him may'st thou look full in the face, and say,
“Go, deal thou likewise by thine enemy!”
Exult not, else thy God will turn away
His blessing from thy sacrifice—deal by
Him as thy Lord—praise in him all he may
Of Good possess, thus wil'st thou keep thine eye
Fixed still upon the Good alone—and this
Is Man's supremest weal; yea! for this is
To keep thy Being's Truth entire! reply
Not to him as he does to thee—belie
Him not, nor set down aught in malice, for
That were to break thy Spirit's highest law;
In wronging him thou wrong'st thyself far more,
Thou lessenest thy love of Truth, a sore,
Sore ill, and this naught, naught should make thee do;
For unless true to others, thou art not true
To thine own self: as a glass which reflects
Not things in their truth, its own want of truth detects!

TO THE FULL MOON, JULY, 1832.

Most glorious Orb, with perfect disc of gold!
At length thy brows entire with light are crowned,
And from thy bright goal, in the blue Profound,
Thou look'st on all that has waxed young and old
With and thro' thee, like Seer, who has foretold

The things to be, and seen Time's wheel come round
Full circle! hush! there is not one least sound,
Not e'en a leaf is stirr'd: yet worlds are rolled
Unnumbered o'er my head, thro' boundless space!
Oh God, how still thou work'st thy wonders! no
Least noise thereof in heaven leaves a trace;
Silent, as thoughts, each orb moves in its place!
While o'er them all yon' calm, full Moon doth throw
Her light, which, like thy Love, doth all embrace!

WRITTEN BEFORE THE DUKE OF YORK'S COLUMN, 1832.

Methinks, I like thy bare sublimity
Far better than vain ornament—I love
To see thee proudly towering thus above
The fret and stir which far beneath thee lie,
The paltry fears and passions, heard not by
Thy contemplative summit—here I stand,
And gaze on thee, thou emblem wisely planned,
Pointing with moveless finger to the sky,
To mark the path of Immortality!
Like thee, must his works be, who would survive
His age: upward and upward must he strive,
'Till with the stars he hold communion!
No crown, no glory, must he wear upon
His brows, save that which Heaven alone can give,
Its own pure light, which none have ever won,
Save those who by and in it only live!

TO MY FRIEND, W. C. TREVELYAN.

O Thou, who wearëst Fortune's gifts as thy
Least ornaments, whose hand is ready as
Occasion—thou on thyself in the glass
Of this our common, bare Humanity
Hast wisely look'd betimes, not, like thy class,
In Fashion's mirror, nor in her dull farce
Been found— thus hast thou Man's true dignity
Judged rightly—there hast seen how much more by
What all men have in common Man is rais'd,
(Tho' his the Poet's tongue, or Prophet's eye,)
Than by aught that the few e'er priz'd or prais'd!
Then serve it still, as thou hast worthily
Done hitherto—thus thou the Deity
Best servëst! thus thou'lt leave far more than fame
Or fortune—many grateful hearts, to pray
For thee to God, who, what they can't repay
Thee, will! yea! for Heav'n's treasures are the same
To Rich and Poor: or rather, for delay
Of earthly Goods, these of their “Father” may
Ask more of heavenly! yea! for their claim
Is stronger, as their right to call Him by that name!

I weave no wreath of idle praise, my Friend,
For thee—for, at the best, I can but lend
A rhyme to thy sublimer poesy!
To act, 's to poetize like Deity!

FINIS.