England :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mona,—thy druid rites awake the dead,—
Rites, thy brown oaks would never dare
Ever whisper to the idle air:—
Rites, that have chain'd old ocean in his bed.
Roger's Ode to Superstition.

Theirs was religion of the open sky,
And leafy trees, and sounds that never fade;
They had beheld no martyr'd Saviour die,
His holy look fill'd not the forest shade!
Wandering Bard and other Poems.

Fair was the plumage of that ancient creed,
But soil'd, and drooping, and dishevilled;
Even in its desolateness a gorgeous weed;
Proud even its solemn memory, now, when dead.
To loftiest footsteps were its visions wed;
In noblest temples hath it held its way;
It wore a glorious crown upon its head,
And sate in state, and held its slaves at bay,
And o'er the world in chains held undisputed sway!

It had its own high temples—temples fair,
As ever glitter'd to the summer sky.
There stood the idol of the Sun, his hair,

All gold, his burning wheel revolving nigh
The sun—that showers fresh seasons from on high,
Calls the green pastures forth, each scent and hue—
Light, heat,—calm thoughts—the philosophic eye,—
Clothing the earth in vestments ever new—
All things, most bright and fair, that meet our human view.

The Moon, too, sate on golden pedestal,
With flowing robes that rustled to her feet,
And silver glories that o'ershadow'd all,
Brought down to earth from her celestial seat;
The moon—that binds the waves in concourse meet,
And clothes with richest gold the yellow corn;
Wooing the harvests to her winding sheet—
That o'er the sleeping world hangs forth her horn;
A watcher firm and true until the blaze of morn.

There stood Tuisco of the shaggy beard;
The royal sceptre in his kingly hand:
Pride, lust, revenge, of him were much afear'd,
Who sway'd of virtues every shining band,
And rear'd Truth's standard over all the land.
The patriot, hero, lover of his kind,
The teacher, guide, the gentle in command,
Who sway the empire of the heart and mind,
The pure, the great, the good, o'er these his will inclin'd.

There stood the mighty Odin, king and god,
Robed in immortal armour, with a crown

Of shining gold: a nobler shape ne'er trod
Red battle field, or tramp'd the oppressor down:
Odin, whose might and prowess all men own;
The god of burning sword, and flaming spear;
Who slew a thousand warriors—he but one—
In vain War's thunders roar'd when he was near,
Whose arm spread instant death—whose eye spread instant fear.

The god of battle, and Valhalla's hall,
Where the dead heroes from their labour rest.
There do the mighty shapes assemble all,
Quaff the red wine, and former deeds attest,
No more by danger and hard toil opprest!
Celestial virgins tend, their charms array'd
In everlasting youth—and they are blest;
Delicious music warbles overhead,
And heavenly odours float along each flowered glade.

There sat proud Thor upon his golden throne,
In golden armour clad; upon his brow
A crown of pearls, and gems, and diamonds shone,
Sprinkled with stars that made a gorgeous show.
'Tis his to dart heaven's fires, its thunders throw;
To scatter light and heat, and seasons new;
To send fair skies, fresh rains, and breezes low;
The garden's bloom, the harvest's golden hue;
To guide the moon and stars among their pastures true.

Nor Friga, reverend mother of the skies,
Be thou past o'er. Well that majestic hand,
That queenly bosom, and imperial eye,
Prove thy eternal might, thy strong command.
'Twas hers to guide young Pleasure's flowery band,
To plant the rose-leaves on the couch of love,
And touch cold hearts with her enchanted wand;
To shower luxurious raptures from above,
The joys of summer bowers, that youth and beauty prove.

There, on a dolphin's back, of burnish'd gold,
Sat the god Seater; girdle, wheel and pail,
Significantly speak. The girdle told
Of the old British freedom (that high tale
That rose from burning Troy, with Priam's wail).
The wheel shew'd strength, and might, and unity
Of hearts how strong, when knit—when rent, how frail:
The bucket rain'd fresh showers from on high,
And pour'd the mountain brooks, when fields were parch'd and dry.

There, too, stood Ermenseul!—be his the meed,
The rapturous laud of honest poetry.
To him the poor man cried aloud in need:
He bore the weary head; he wip'd the eye;
He calm'd the fears and woes of poverty;
He watch'd the tedded hay; he lit the fire;
He tun'd the cricket's song, when storms were nigh:
Thus was he worshipp'd by each reverend sire;
And youths and maidens gay, in rapturous hymns did quire.

And so, within their emerald halls they stand—
The ancient gods—and hold immortal sway;
O'er the old earth and heavens stretch'd their command:
They mission'd forth their priests to sing and pray.
No marvel! we had not yet seen the day;
Darkness was still on high; the stream of blood
From Abel's heart had not yet pass'd away;
Evil was yet the conqueror o'er Good,
Nor ceas'd, till God himself on blessed Calvary stood.

'Tis over now, and happy children sing
The choral song; in blessed company,
The old idolatries have taken wing,
And for old blood-stain'd altars, towering high,
Our proud cathedrals touch the morning sky;
For living innocents, by red hands slain,
The cheerful off'rings of pure hearts we lie:
Mercy and justice and the martyr's pain,
The pious hymn and prayer, are now our better gain.

Ours is the church of Christ, by God's own blood—
The blood of the Messiah—sanctified;
And thence again, by martyr's, just and good—
Twice cleans'd, who on the Alpine mountains wide,
Perish'd, the torrents swollen with life's tide;
Or, in strange caverns and wild places seen,
And hunted, till like tired lambs they died—
God's own Eternal Church, where he hath been
For ages worshipp'd sole, and shall for ever reign.