Poems Consisting Of Essays, Lyric, Elegiac, &c. By Thomas Dermody. Written between the 13th and 16th Year of his Age |
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PIETY. |
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23
PIETY.
Majestic Nature, 'mid her wildest haunts,
Retains a savage grace; the limpid vein
Of wandering water, the cærulean hill,
The furze-clad eminence with golden glow,
The sparkling valley where coy Zephyr bathes
His purple plume, the rev'rend oak sublime,
Flinging deep horror on the wither'd gloom,
The swelling mountain canopied with shade,
All, all, irregularly pompous, nobly grand,
Fill the expanding breast with chasten'd awe!
There might Religion best erect her shrine,
There, where the dread scene, gem'd with seats of bliss,
Lends a true thought of the Creative Power.
God made the woodlands, churches, smell of man,
Proud man! who 'mid the organ's mighty peal,
The warbling choir, and the affected eye
Of lowly Penance, thinks upon himself,
And from the altar steals some tribute, too.
Glorious Cathedral! for a chosen band,
Not monkishly pretended, but whose hearts
Can taste the balmy breeze that wafts their prayers,
And bless the old trees nodding to their vows.
Trees! whose vast foilage, whilom, deign'd to fold,
Their patriarchal arms, of verdurous sweep,
Round our forefathers. Groves! whose sainted arch,
Retired from eye prophane, our Bacon lov'd.
Streams! whose swift slide our youthful Shakespeare trac'd,
In tranced rapture, pouring his sweet strain,
Smooth as their course, as their deep current strong,
And artless as their waves. Cells! whose carv'd rocks
Of ivy'd etching, all the Sister Arts
Prefer'd, when Genius, their sage tutor, strip'd
Each lurking leaf, and moraliz'd each flower.
Such were the palaces our Alfred sought,
Pleas'd with primeval purity to join,
And o'er the poor man's cottage, genial, shed
A kingly lustre, a celestial love.
Come then, my Owenson, and you, I like,
For here, immortal Friendship, ever, sways,
Among those solemn wastes, those caves among,
Philanthropy, and Peace, and Heaven retire.
Retains a savage grace; the limpid vein
Of wandering water, the cærulean hill,
The furze-clad eminence with golden glow,
The sparkling valley where coy Zephyr bathes
His purple plume, the rev'rend oak sublime,
Flinging deep horror on the wither'd gloom,
The swelling mountain canopied with shade,
All, all, irregularly pompous, nobly grand,
Fill the expanding breast with chasten'd awe!
There might Religion best erect her shrine,
There, where the dread scene, gem'd with seats of bliss,
Lends a true thought of the Creative Power.
God made the woodlands, churches, smell of man,
Proud man! who 'mid the organ's mighty peal,
The warbling choir, and the affected eye
Of lowly Penance, thinks upon himself,
And from the altar steals some tribute, too.
24
Not monkishly pretended, but whose hearts
Can taste the balmy breeze that wafts their prayers,
And bless the old trees nodding to their vows.
Trees! whose vast foilage, whilom, deign'd to fold,
Their patriarchal arms, of verdurous sweep,
Round our forefathers. Groves! whose sainted arch,
Retired from eye prophane, our Bacon lov'd.
Streams! whose swift slide our youthful Shakespeare trac'd,
In tranced rapture, pouring his sweet strain,
Smooth as their course, as their deep current strong,
And artless as their waves. Cells! whose carv'd rocks
Of ivy'd etching, all the Sister Arts
Prefer'd, when Genius, their sage tutor, strip'd
Each lurking leaf, and moraliz'd each flower.
Such were the palaces our Alfred sought,
Pleas'd with primeval purity to join,
And o'er the poor man's cottage, genial, shed
A kingly lustre, a celestial love.
Come then, my Owenson, and you, I like,
For here, immortal Friendship, ever, sways,
Among those solemn wastes, those caves among,
Philanthropy, and Peace, and Heaven retire.
25
ATHEIST!—
Say whose fine eye could hang the steady poles
In just libration—whose unerring hand,
Launch the bright sun amid the waves of night,
But his who is immortal? Could vain Chance
Stud the blue firmament with brilliant worlds,
And, like a diamond, implant the moon?
Could Chance command the gurgitating main
To ebb and flow;—clothe with gay green the earth,
And tint the forest with purpureal blooms?
'Twas He, who made thee, made them; He, who plac'd
In golden poise, his radiant tribunal
Amid the circling elements; 'twas He,
Who quell'd the fierce Arch-angel, erst belov'd,
Now lost.—Think, and forbear his fate!
In just libration—whose unerring hand,
Launch the bright sun amid the waves of night,
But his who is immortal? Could vain Chance
Stud the blue firmament with brilliant worlds,
And, like a diamond, implant the moon?
Could Chance command the gurgitating main
To ebb and flow;—clothe with gay green the earth,
And tint the forest with purpureal blooms?
'Twas He, who made thee, made them; He, who plac'd
In golden poise, his radiant tribunal
Amid the circling elements; 'twas He,
Who quell'd the fierce Arch-angel, erst belov'd,
Now lost.—Think, and forbear his fate!
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