England :: :: University of Virginia Library

“The Poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as Imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the Poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”
—Shakspeare.

“Forasmuch as I have mentioned Maister Spencer, soothly,
I must acknowledge him, a bard of sweetest memorial.”—
Gay's Proeme to Pastorals.

Great Spirit, let me worship on my knees,
With reverent adoration, thy great name;
Through the dim hues of Time my vision sees
Thy lofty state, and owns thy passion's flame—
Thine was a heart inspired, and bent on fame,
With godlike impulses, and feelings high;
Exultant and elate, no might could tame
The purpose of thy soul,—and Poetry
Did give thee rapturous dreams, and thoughts that touch'd the sky.

Surely, thy boyhood was a glorious thing;
Thy youth, in holy places glided o'er,
Borne on Imagination's golden wing,
Pastures and forests, and the sounding shore,
Mountains and deserts, never trod before,
Lone river sides, and mossy caves, were thine;—
And thus, thy spirit, fed with Nature's lore,
Became entranc'd, impassion'd, and divine,
And monuments did rear, that shall for ever shine.

Oh, for one hour at evening, to have gone
Among thy native woods, list'ning to thee,
To mark thy raptures ere they glow'd in song,
To watch thy spirit in its royal glee,
To hear thy bursts of heart-felt ecstacy!
Oh, to have heard thy voice, and seen thine eyes
Lit up seraphic; view'd thy forehead high
And clear and bright; watch'd every feeling rise;
Oh! could such other joy be met beneath the skies.

Pure and contemplative, high-soul'd, serene,
There was no height to which he could not go;
And whether in the fields and woodlands green,
Or, far, amid the cloud-groves, wandering slow,
Glad or majestic did his footsteps flow,
Nought did his fancy fear!—an eagle strong,
Or gentle dove, upon the forest bough.
Through heaven his pinions roll'd uncurb'd along,
Or wak'd the murmur'd plaint of soul-subduing song.

To meditate, with sad and thoughtful eye,
O'er human joys and woes—to be alone
In much society—to ponder high
When others grovell'd low: he bore a tone
Seraphic 'mid rude converse that was none.
Most peaceful was his spirit, calm, and pure:
Yea, like a ship, his spirit journey'd on,
A ship that sports in waters, mild and sure,
Fluttering its snow-white sails to the young breeze's lure.

Or, far aloft, even as the tempest, he
Could make his voice be heard, majestical,
Strong, mighty, calm, commanding as the Sea
When, stirr'd in wrath, its billows swell and roll,
And the beat cliffs beneath its thunders fall;
But most with gentlest shapes he did abide;
A pen of sunbeams ever at his call,
And playful spirits, wanton'd at his side,
That work'd him pleasant thoughts, and dreams of love and pride.

His was, indeed, a harp most musical,
And many-voic'd, as is the changeful main,
Or the strange wind;—now, in the Muse's hall
He carv'd fair sculptures, plac'd in solemn train,
And now fantastic elves that trill'd amain;
Now shone bright fairies, robed in purest green,
And now of mermaids did he weave his strain:
Earth, air, and water, fed his “Fairie Queen,”—
No nook of soul was left untravell'd by his pen.

Blest Fairy Queen, my heart's supreme delight,
My choicest company, my feast, my prayer,
How, when my boyhood was most fresh and bright,
Under the summer trees, thy visage fair
Rejoiced me, and thy hymnings fill'd the air:—
Or, walking lonely by the ocean side,
Thy silver songs breath'd sweetly in mine ear;—
I felt all raptures o'er my spirit glide—
More dear wast thou to me than all the world beside.

And, now, when from her rainbow wing, the Muse
Hath dropt a feather on my waken'd soul,
And scatter'd o'er me some few summer hues,
Still, glad as ever, do thy fancies roll—
Still am I lifted beyond earth's control—
Still do I love the heavenly Una's face,
As, with her milk white lamb, she joys to stroll
Through savage woods, and where rude Satyrs race
Among enchanters grim—most strong in Truth's pure ways.

Still do I love these spells and glamoury,
Wizards and giants, magic charms and wrong,
And the fair shapes, vice wears to cheat the eye—
Of righteous knights, that gaily prick along
In heavenly mail, to keep frail virtue strong;
Of furious battles, all for honour fought;
Of pleasant bowers, those solemn glooms among;
Of gorgeous palaces by magic wrought;
And of most wond'rous forms that dwell in every spot.

Nor yet of these alone, thy shaping soul,
Rear'd on Imagination's sov'ran wing,
High, 'mid the fields of vision, lov'd to stroll,
Clothing with beauty every hidden thing:
To nooks sequester'd thou did'st love to bring
Fair messengers, pure spirits, all divine,
Thou taught'st the rivers sweeter still to sing—
Thou mad'st the flowers and grass more freshly shine,—
Sea, mountains, forests, caves, with thy proud lays combine!

'Tis such as thee that bear us from the clay,
Among empyreal airs, ambrosial flowers;
'Tis such as thee that throw a milder ray
O'er human bitterness, when sorrow lours.
Sweet as the songs of streams and woodland bowers;
Sweet as a lovers's lute at evening;
Sweet as the lark, 'mid morning's golden towers;
Sweet as the moonlight on a sea-bird's wing,
The strains rejoice the heart, that from the Muses spring.

'Tis such as thee, that, holding loftier sphere,
Mellow'st the stars that throng the milky way;
Fashion'st the moon more lustrous, deep, and clear,
And o'er the rainbow softer hues dost lay.
Fierce as the tiger's, was thy rapturous play,
Yet glad as dolphins on a summer sea;
Thy very labour was a holiday;
Thy very dullness, joy and jubilee—
For a new heaven and earth belong to Poetry.

Immortally thy lofty verse shall live;
Each age shall hang new off'rings o'er thy shrine;
In vain with thee the rolling years may strive,
Whose memory Time but maketh more divine:
For ever will thy name in glory shine;
For ever with pure hearts and lofty thought,
So long as passion weaves th' inspired line;
So long as Nature's influences are brought;
So long as the strong rocks and mountains crumble not.

Yea, when thy spirit did exhale away
To the Great God—yet—didst thou not all die:
Far sweeter flowerets blossom'd on thy clay
Than over common dust their fragrance sigh.
On thee the charnel dews might never lie:
And for thy lofty race, thy songs have won
Their noblest coronet!—'twill soar on high—
The Spencer's name, for him, the poet gone;
And England aye be proud that she had such a son.

Thy name shall in all hearts be deified:
Link'd with those galaxies of mortal night—
The white-hair'd Chaucer, first, who won for bride
The Muse of Albion; Milton, that great light,
Who made the flowers of Eden shine more bright—
The blind, inspired, and most sublime of men:
Shakspeare, who as a god, came forth in might,

With dews and sunbeams dripping from his pen—
Far mightier names than e'er shall live with us agen.

For we are weak and faint, and cannot swell
Those trumpet tones that shook the skies of yore:
A link is broke, a hue is lost, the knell
Is rung, the glory gone for evermore!—
When shall the Muse's cup again run o'er
With the rich streams of which th' Immortals fed?
When—when, again, be heard that solemn lore—
Th' inspired visions of the glorious dead?—
When shall the Muse again uprear her radiant head?

The crystal stream of Castaly is dry;
The flowers that round Parnassus bloom'd are gone;
We have another earth, another sky!
Among strange bowers we wander blindly on.
Come down, ye sacred Nine, and make us strong;
And give us wings, and lift us from the mire!
Oh, we have grovell'd in the dust too long!
Teach us on loftier pinions to aspire,
And on your altars heap the incense, fruit, and fire!

How shall we live without old memories?
Thy name, great Spencer, is a tower of light;
A mountain, bath'd with hues from evening skies;
'Tis deeds like thine that make our path-ways bright—
That spread the stars along Oblivion's night—

That bear us up, when other hopes are gone:
Thy name is of our heritage and right,
Of sacred laws, and solemn victories won,
Of England's proudest sons, thyself her proudest one.

To highest glory is the poet wed;
Great as the warrior in his shining mail;
High as the highest doth he rear his head,
Undaunted, dreading nought that may assail;
His soul, a ship of light, that loves to sail
In summer seas, yet fears nor cloud, nor storm—
Strong as a rock, 'gainst which the billows rail,
He bears for glory every hurt and harm—
And such did Spencer brave, 'ere honour cloth'd his form.

Oh, that some portion of the ancient fire
That burned in love, in war, in chivalry—
That touch'd the chords of the enraptur'd lyre,
That spake among the skies of Liberty,
When patriots and martyrs sunk to die—
Would spread again its bright wings on the earth,
And make us kindred with the starred sky—
But colder hearts are round us, and the birth
Of proud hard men hath come, of whom remains no dearth.

They see not in the flowers each rainbow hue;
The heavens shower forth no glories on their head;
They know no freshness in the morning dew,
And the great ocean, rolling on his bed,

Awakes not them, that might awake the dead—
We, Bards, may sing, the sharp thorn at our heart,
And weep till eyes and brain are molten lead,
And feel the pangs of Death's sharp poison'd dart,
Whilst they, the cold and proud, hunt each his paltry art.

The poet's strength is gone, that was a sea
Of mighty sound—or—as a gentle lay—
A summer evening's murmur'd melody—
And, though he singeth sweet, as birds in May,
And with the passion of the ancient day,
He sings in vain—and, as a desert stream,
Heard only by the light winds in their play;
Or, like a spirit hymning to a dream,
The music falls in vain, or floats, a passing gleam.

We wring our hearts of the red blood; we pine
In Autumn woods, the leaves our laurel crown;
The burning brow, that beats with thoughts divine—
The fever'd eyes, the worn head leaning down—
The dream and hope in vain, these, are our own—
And hate, and scorn, and contumely and pain,
And poverty, and the cold world's angry frown—
These are the storms, that eat into our brain,
And toss about our bark on life's tempestuous main.

Yet we rejoice, even in our agony,
And, with the thorn of martyrdom, still live:
Our spirits are elate, and touch the sky,

And heavenly shapes wing o'er our heads, and give
The bliss of love and thought, the sweet reprieve
From gross desire and wordly emptiness—
We drink the honey of a heavenly hive:
Our walk is not of earth; and thus I bless
The sacred primal source of all our happiness.

Yea, when the evening seems a sleeping child,
Dwelling in gorgeous towers of golden light;
And when the woods are full of music wild;
And when lone streams flash by in glory bright;
And when the stars bedeck the brow of night,
And at heaven's gate sing their immortal song;
And when the sea doth bellow in his might;
And when the clouds and tempests roll along;
These are the Poet's wealth, his heritage alone.

Fame rings her dirges to his inmost soul,
And gleams before his eyes a burning star!
Shout, white-haired Chaucer, from thy charnel hole;
Shout, Shakspeare, through the barred mails of war;
Shout, all whose souls are near—their clay afar!
Is this an empty idol?—no—'tis borne
To every age, on time's triumphal car:
Eternal wreaths her lofty brows adorn,
And evening never clouds the splendours of her morn.

She shook her wings, and prophecy arose,
And peopled the wild deserts with the array

Of pyramids and pillar'd towers: then rose
The huge old temples, knowing no decay,
And sculptur'd marble, and the poet's lay—
It gave us patriot heroes, and the power
Of thought immortal: she hath won her way
Even through the skies, and made the sea her dower,
And now her sovereign rule o'er all the earth doth tower.

She shook her wings, and mighty cities then
Resounded loud with commerce, arts, and all
That swell the labours of the many men—
She made the sullen towers of Ignorance fall
Uprear'd high acts, and deeds majestical
Cut through huge mountains, made new rivers flow,
Peopled fresh worlds and empires at a call—
Triumphant, mighty in old times as now—
All own her sovereign sway, and at her footstool bow!

She shook her wings—and Spencer's name rose bright;
An eagle of the sun his soul did rise:
Our mountains had no voice, the stars of night
Murmur'd no spheric music to the skies—
Still were the hymns of all our choristries!
In vain the forests shone, in vain the vale
Lay rich in fruits and blooms, in vain the sighs
Of stedfast love breath'd on the evening gale.
In vain the seasons chang'd; 'twas all of no avail.

But Spencer rose, and in the courts of kings
Sung loud of Nature, and earth's hidden sleep;
His Muse soar'd upward to the heavens on wings,
And murmur'd o'er the clouds its passion deep:
Long had she lain in dust, and might not keep
The eagle flight of Homer, and past time:
But now no longer need we mourn and weep;
England still bows to Spencer's strains sublime
And his loud organ-tones still sound in every clime.

Yea, he walk'd forth, and the green earth was clad
With fresher hues, with fresher hues the sky;
The forest depths to hear his voice were glad;
The streams sung sweeter as he warbled by;
And soft winds bore his lofty notes on high.
And he hath his reward! The immortal name,
The impress, and the light that cannot die—
The unfading crown, the Elysian bowers of fame—
The temple that is safe from earth, air, water, flame.