Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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| SOME EARLY POEMS. |
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
343
SOME EARLY POEMS.
Imagination.
Thou fair enchantress of my willing heart,
Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie,—
Thou Siren, who, with lovelit eyes, and voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea
Or quaking sands of untried theory
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway through the deep,—
Imagination, I am thine own child:
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad,
All silent outwardly, but loud within
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answer'd it,)
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?
And taught by thee, angelic visitant,
Have I not learnt to love the tuneful lyre,
Draining from every chord its musical soul?
Have I not learnt to find in all that is,
Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind,
Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise
Alike in small and great things? and this power,
This clearing of the eye, this path made straight
Even to the heart's own heart, its innermost core,
This keenness to perceive and seek and find
And love and prize all-present harmony,
This, more than choosing words to clothe the thought,
Makes the true poet; this thy glorious gift,
Imagination, rescues me thy son
(Thy son, albeit least worthy,) from the lust
Of mammon, and the cares of animal life,
And the dull thraldom of this work-day world.
Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie,—
Thou Siren, who, with lovelit eyes, and voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea
Or quaking sands of untried theory
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway through the deep,—
Imagination, I am thine own child:
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad,
All silent outwardly, but loud within
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answer'd it,)
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?
And taught by thee, angelic visitant,
344
Draining from every chord its musical soul?
Have I not learnt to find in all that is,
Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind,
Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise
Alike in small and great things? and this power,
This clearing of the eye, this path made straight
Even to the heart's own heart, its innermost core,
This keenness to perceive and seek and find
And love and prize all-present harmony,
This, more than choosing words to clothe the thought,
Makes the true poet; this thy glorious gift,
Imagination, rescues me thy son
(Thy son, albeit least worthy,) from the lust
Of mammon, and the cares of animal life,
And the dull thraldom of this work-day world.
Indulgent lover, I am all thine own;
What art thou not to me?—ah, little know
The worshippers of cold reality,
The grosser minds, who most sincerely think
That sense is the broad avenue to bliss,
Little know they the thrilling ecstasy
The delicate refinement in delight
That cheers the thoughtful spirit, as it soars
Far above all these petty things of life;
And strengthen'd by the flight and cordial joys
Can then come down to earth and common men
Better in motive, stronger in resolve,
Apter to use all means that compass good,
And of more charitable mind to all.
Imagination, art thou not my friend
In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear,
Brother, and sister, mine own other self,
The Hector to my soul's Andromache?
What art thou not to me?—ah, little know
The worshippers of cold reality,
The grosser minds, who most sincerely think
That sense is the broad avenue to bliss,
Little know they the thrilling ecstasy
The delicate refinement in delight
That cheers the thoughtful spirit, as it soars
Far above all these petty things of life;
And strengthen'd by the flight and cordial joys
Can then come down to earth and common men
Better in motive, stronger in resolve,
Apter to use all means that compass good,
And of more charitable mind to all.
345
In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear,
Brother, and sister, mine own other self,
The Hector to my soul's Andromache?
Triumphant beauty, bright intelligence!
The chasten'd fire of ecstasy suppress'd
Beams from thine eye; because thy secret heart,
Like that strange sight burning yet unconsumed,
Is all on flame a censer fill'd with odours;
And to my mind, who feel thy fearful power,
Suggesting passive terrors and delights,
A slumbering volcano: thy dark cheek,
Warm and transparent, by its half-form'd dimple
Reveals an under-world of wondrous things
Ripe in their richness,—as among the bays
Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep
Ruddy and white fantastically branch
The coral groves; thy broad and sunny brow,
Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven,
Shoots up an hundred-fold the glorious crop
Of arabesque ideas; forth from thy curls
Half hidden in their black luxuriance
The twining sister-graces lightly spring,
The muses, and the passions, and young love,
Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx,
Atlas, Briareus, Phaeton, and Cyclops,
Centaurs, and shapes uncouth and wild conceits;
And in the midst blazes the star of mind,
Illumining the classic portico
That leads to the high dome where Learning sits:
On either side of that broad sunny brow
Flame-colour'd pinions, streak'd with gold and blue,
Burst from the teeming brain; while under them
The forkèd lightning, and the cloud-robed thunder,
And fearful shadows, and unhallow'd eyes,
And strange foreboding forms of terrible things
Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks!
The chasten'd fire of ecstasy suppress'd
Beams from thine eye; because thy secret heart,
Like that strange sight burning yet unconsumed,
Is all on flame a censer fill'd with odours;
And to my mind, who feel thy fearful power,
Suggesting passive terrors and delights,
A slumbering volcano: thy dark cheek,
Warm and transparent, by its half-form'd dimple
Reveals an under-world of wondrous things
Ripe in their richness,—as among the bays
Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep
Ruddy and white fantastically branch
The coral groves; thy broad and sunny brow,
Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven,
Shoots up an hundred-fold the glorious crop
Of arabesque ideas; forth from thy curls
Half hidden in their black luxuriance
The twining sister-graces lightly spring,
The muses, and the passions, and young love,
Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx,
Atlas, Briareus, Phaeton, and Cyclops,
Centaurs, and shapes uncouth and wild conceits;
And in the midst blazes the star of mind,
Illumining the classic portico
That leads to the high dome where Learning sits:
346
Flame-colour'd pinions, streak'd with gold and blue,
Burst from the teeming brain; while under them
The forkèd lightning, and the cloud-robed thunder,
And fearful shadows, and unhallow'd eyes,
And strange foreboding forms of terrible things
Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks!
And thou hast been the sunshine to my landscape,
Imagination; thou hast wreathed me smiles,
And hung them on a statue's marble lips;
Hast made earth's dullest pebbles bright like gems;
Hast lent me thine own silken clue, to rove
The ideal labyrinths of a thousand spheres;
Hast lengthen'd out my nights with life-long dreams,
And with glad seeming gilt my darkest day;
Help'd me to scale in thought the walls of heaven,
While journeying wearily this busy world;
Sent me to pierce the palpable clouds with eagles,
And with leviathan the silent deep;
Hast taught my youthful spirit to expand
Beyond himself, and live in other scenes,
And other times, and among other men;
Hast bid me cherish, silent and alone,
First feelings, and young hopes, and better aims,
And sensibilities of delicate sort,
Like timorous mimosas, which the breath
The cold and cautious breath of daily life
Hath not as yet had power to blight and kill
From my heart's garden; for they stand retired,
Screen'd from the north by groves of rooted thought.
Imagination; thou hast wreathed me smiles,
And hung them on a statue's marble lips;
Hast made earth's dullest pebbles bright like gems;
Hast lent me thine own silken clue, to rove
The ideal labyrinths of a thousand spheres;
Hast lengthen'd out my nights with life-long dreams,
And with glad seeming gilt my darkest day;
Help'd me to scale in thought the walls of heaven,
While journeying wearily this busy world;
Sent me to pierce the palpable clouds with eagles,
And with leviathan the silent deep;
Hast taught my youthful spirit to expand
Beyond himself, and live in other scenes,
And other times, and among other men;
Hast bid me cherish, silent and alone,
First feelings, and young hopes, and better aims,
And sensibilities of delicate sort,
Like timorous mimosas, which the breath
The cold and cautious breath of daily life
Hath not as yet had power to blight and kill
From my heart's garden; for they stand retired,
Screen'd from the north by groves of rooted thought.
347
Without thine aid, how cheerless were all time,
But chief the short sweet hours of earliest love;
When the young mind, athirst for happiness,
And all-exulting in that new-found treasure,
The wealth of being loved, as well as loving,
Sees not, and hears not, knows not, thinks not, speaks not,
Except it be of her, his one desire;
And thy rose-colour'd glass on every scene
With more than earthly promise cheats the eye,
While the charm'd ear drinks thy melodious words,
And the heart reels, drunk with ideal beauty.
So too the memory of departed joy,
Walking in black with sprinkled tears of pearl,
Passes before the mind with look less stern
And foot more lighten'd, when thine inward power,
Most gentle friend, upon that clouded face
Sheds the fair light of better joy to come,
And throws round Grief the azure scarf of Hope.
But chief the short sweet hours of earliest love;
When the young mind, athirst for happiness,
And all-exulting in that new-found treasure,
The wealth of being loved, as well as loving,
Sees not, and hears not, knows not, thinks not, speaks not,
Except it be of her, his one desire;
And thy rose-colour'd glass on every scene
With more than earthly promise cheats the eye,
While the charm'd ear drinks thy melodious words,
And the heart reels, drunk with ideal beauty.
So too the memory of departed joy,
Walking in black with sprinkled tears of pearl,
Passes before the mind with look less stern
And foot more lighten'd, when thine inward power,
Most gentle friend, upon that clouded face
Sheds the fair light of better joy to come,
And throws round Grief the azure scarf of Hope.
As the wild chamois bounds from rock to rock,
Oft on the granite steeples nicely poised,
Unconscious that the cliff from which he hangs
Was once a fiery sea of molten stone
Shot up ten thousand feet and crystallized
When earth was labouring with her kraken brood;
So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love,
Imagination, over pathless wilds,
Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful of
The fever of my soul that shot them up
And made a ready footing for my speed,
As in a whirlwind I have flown along
Wing'd with ecstatic mind, and carried away
Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida,
Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores
Of Arctic or Antarctic,—stolen from earth
Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes
That watch her from afar, to the pure seat
Of rarest Matter's last created world,
And brilliant halls of self-existing Light!
Oft on the granite steeples nicely poised,
Unconscious that the cliff from which he hangs
Was once a fiery sea of molten stone
Shot up ten thousand feet and crystallized
When earth was labouring with her kraken brood;
So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love,
Imagination, over pathless wilds,
Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful of
The fever of my soul that shot them up
And made a ready footing for my speed,
As in a whirlwind I have flown along
348
Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida,
Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores
Of Arctic or Antarctic,—stolen from earth
Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes
That watch her from afar, to the pure seat
Of rarest Matter's last created world,
And brilliant halls of self-existing Light!
The Song of an Alpine Elf.
Ha! ha! ha!—My coy JungfraIs tall and robed in snow,—
Yet at a leap to the topmost steep
I bound from the glen below;
On her dizziest peak I sit and shriek
To the winds that around me blow,
And heard from afar is my ha! ha! ha!
The wild laugh echoes so.
In the forests dun round Lauterbrunn
That line each dark ravine,
I hide me away from the garish day
Till the howling winter's e'en;
Then I jump on high through the coal-black sky,
And light on some cliff of snow
That nods to its fall like a tottering wall,
And I rock it to and fro!
My summer home is the cataract's foam
As it floats in a frothing heap,
349
Or deep with the mole I sleep;
Or I ride for a freak on the lightning-streak,
Or climb till I reach in the clouds
The terrible form of the Thunder-storm,
Wrapp'd in his sable shrouds!
Often I launch the huge avalanche,
And make it my milk-white sledge,
When unappall'd to the Grindlewald
I slide from the Shrikehorn's edge;
Silent and soft to the ibex oft
I have stolen, and hurried him o'er
The precipice to the bristling ice
That smokes with his scarlet gore:
But my greatest joy is to lure and decoy
To the snow-drift's slippery brink
The hunter bold, when he's weary and cold,
And there let him suddenly sink,—
A thousand feet—dead! he dropp'd like lead,
Ha, he couldn't leap like me;
With broken back, as a felon on rack,
He hangs in a split pine-tree!
And there mid his bones, that echoed with groans,
I make me a nest of his hair;
The ribs dry and white rattle loud as in spite
When I rock in my cradle there:
Hurrah, hurrah, and ha, ha, ha!
I'm in a madman's mood,
For I'm all alone in my palace of bone
That's tapestried fair with the old man's hair
And dappled with clots of blood;
350
The storm shouts high to the coalblack sky,
And the icicle sleet falls thick and fleet,
And all that I hear on the mountains drear,
And all I behold on the valleys cold,
Is Death in Solitude!
Dreams.
A dream—mysterious word, a dream!
What joys and sorrows are enshrined
In those dark hours we fondly deem
A playtime for the truant mind:
What joys and sorrows are enshrined
In those dark hours we fondly deem
A playtime for the truant mind:
It is a happy thing to dream,
When rosy thoughts and visions bright
Pour on the soul a golden stream
Of rich luxurious delight;
When rosy thoughts and visions bright
Pour on the soul a golden stream
Of rich luxurious delight;
It is a weary thing to dream,
When from the hot and aching brain
As from a boiling cauldron steam
The myriad forms in fancy's train;
When from the hot and aching brain
As from a boiling cauldron steam
The myriad forms in fancy's train;
It is a curious thing to dream,
When shapes grotesque of all quaint things
Like laughing water-witches seem
To sport in reason's turbid springs;
When shapes grotesque of all quaint things
Like laughing water-witches seem
To sport in reason's turbid springs;
351
It is a glorious thing to dream,
When full of wings and full of eyes
Borne on the whirlwind or sun-beam
We race along the startled skies;
When full of wings and full of eyes
Borne on the whirlwind or sun-beam
We race along the startled skies;
It is a wondrous thing to dream
Of tumbling with a fearful shock
From some tall cliff where eagles scream,
—To light upon a feather rock;
Of tumbling with a fearful shock
From some tall cliff where eagles scream,
—To light upon a feather rock;
It is a terrible thing to dream
Of strangled throats and heart-blood spilt,
And ghosts that in the darkness gleam,
And horrid eyes of midnight guilt:—
Of strangled throats and heart-blood spilt,
And ghosts that in the darkness gleam,
And horrid eyes of midnight guilt:—
Who shall tell me what I dream?
Ages lingering in a night,—
Thronging thoughts of things that teem
With wonder, terror, and delight!
Ages lingering in a night,—
Thronging thoughts of things that teem
With wonder, terror, and delight!
Infant Christ, with Flowers.
Yes,—I can fancy, in the spring
Of childhood's sunny hours,
That Nature's infant Priest and King
Loved to gaze on flowers;
Of childhood's sunny hours,
That Nature's infant Priest and King
Loved to gaze on flowers;
352
For lightly, mid the wreck of all,
When torn from Eden's bowers,
Above the billows of the fall
Floated gentle flowers:
When torn from Eden's bowers,
Above the billows of the fall
Floated gentle flowers:
Unfallen, sinless, undefiled,
Fresh bathed in summer showers,
What wonder that the holy Child
Loved to play with flowers?
Fresh bathed in summer showers,
What wonder that the holy Child
Loved to play with flowers?
In these he saw his Father's face,
All Godhead's varied powers,
And joy'd each attribute to trace
In sweet unconscious flowers:
All Godhead's varied powers,
And joy'd each attribute to trace
In sweet unconscious flowers:
In these he found where Wisdom hides
And modest Beauty cowers,
And where Omnipotence resides,
And Tenderness,—in flowers!
And modest Beauty cowers,
And where Omnipotence resides,
And Tenderness,—in flowers!
Innocent Child, a little while,
Ere yet the tempest lours,
Bask thy young heart in Nature's smile,
Her lovely smile of flowers;
Ere yet the tempest lours,
Bask thy young heart in Nature's smile,
Her lovely smile of flowers;
Thy young heart,—is it not array'd
In feelings such as ours?—
Yes, being now of thorns afraid,
I see thee crown'd with flowers.
In feelings such as ours?—
Yes, being now of thorns afraid,
I see thee crown'd with flowers.
353
Past, Present, and Future.
A sad sweet gladness, full of tears,
And thoughts that never cloy
Of careless childhood's happier years,
Is Memory's tranquil joy;
And thoughts that never cloy
Of careless childhood's happier years,
Is Memory's tranquil joy;
A rapturous and delusive dream
Of pleasures ne'er to be,
That o'er life's troubled waters gleam,
Is Hope's sweet reverie:
Of pleasures ne'er to be,
That o'er life's troubled waters gleam,
Is Hope's sweet reverie:
Yet, before Memory can look back,
When Hope is lost in sight,
Ah! where is Memory's fairy track,
Ah! where is Hope's delight?
When Hope is lost in sight,
Ah! where is Memory's fairy track,
Ah! where is Hope's delight?
The present is a weary scene,
And always wish'd away;
We live on “to be” and “has been,”
But never on “to-day.”
And always wish'd away;
We live on “to be” and “has been,”
But never on “to-day.”
A Short Gospel.
Wisdom framed the wondrous planLove had hoped for fallen man;
Justice bade the blood be spilt
Mercy bore imputed guilt;
Truth rejoiced, and smiled to see
Power had set the captive free.
354
On a Bulbous Root,
WHICH BLOSSOMED, AFTER HAVING LAIN FOR AGES IN THE HAND OF AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY.
What, wide awake, sweet stranger, wide awake?
And laughing coyly at an English sun,
And blessing him with smiles for having thaw'd
Thine icy chain, for having woke thee gently
From thy long slumber of three thousand years?
Methinks I see the eye of wonder peering
From thy tall pistil, looking strangely forth
As from a watch-tow'r at thy fellow-flowers,
Admiring much the rich variety
Of many a gem in nature's jewel-case
Unknown to thee,—the drooping hyacinth,
The prim ranunculus, and gay geranium,
And dahlias rare, and heartsease of all hues,
Mealy auriculas, and spotted lilies,
Gaudy carnations, and the modest face
Of the moss-rose: methinks thy wondering leaves
And curious petals at the long-lost sun
Gaze with a lingering love, bedizen'd o'er
With a small firmament of eyes to catch
The luxury of his smile; as o'er the pool
Hovering midway the gorgeous dragon-fly
Watches his mates with thousand-facet vision;
Or as when underneath the waterfall
Floating in sunny wreaths the fretted foam
Mirrors blue heaven in its million orbs:
Methinks I see thy fair and foreign face
Blush with the glowing ardour of first love,
(Mindful of ancient Nile, and those warm skies,
And tender tales of insect coquetry,)
When some bright butterfly descends to sip
The exotic fragrance of thy nectarous dew:
Even so, Jubal's daughters in old time
Welcomed the sons of God, who sprang from heaven
To gaze with rapture on earth's fairest creatures,
And fan them with their rainbow-colour'd wings.
And laughing coyly at an English sun,
And blessing him with smiles for having thaw'd
Thine icy chain, for having woke thee gently
From thy long slumber of three thousand years?
Methinks I see the eye of wonder peering
From thy tall pistil, looking strangely forth
As from a watch-tow'r at thy fellow-flowers,
Admiring much the rich variety
Of many a gem in nature's jewel-case
Unknown to thee,—the drooping hyacinth,
The prim ranunculus, and gay geranium,
And dahlias rare, and heartsease of all hues,
Mealy auriculas, and spotted lilies,
Gaudy carnations, and the modest face
Of the moss-rose: methinks thy wondering leaves
And curious petals at the long-lost sun
Gaze with a lingering love, bedizen'd o'er
With a small firmament of eyes to catch
The luxury of his smile; as o'er the pool
Hovering midway the gorgeous dragon-fly
Watches his mates with thousand-facet vision;
Or as when underneath the waterfall
Floating in sunny wreaths the fretted foam
355
Methinks I see thy fair and foreign face
Blush with the glowing ardour of first love,
(Mindful of ancient Nile, and those warm skies,
And tender tales of insect coquetry,)
When some bright butterfly descends to sip
The exotic fragrance of thy nectarous dew:
Even so, Jubal's daughters in old time
Welcomed the sons of God, who sprang from heaven
To gaze with rapture on earth's fairest creatures,
And fan them with their rainbow-colour'd wings.
Didst ever dream of such a day as this,
A day of life and sunshine, when entranced
In the cold tomb of yonder shrivell'd hand?
Didst ever try to shoot thy fibres forth
Through thy close prison-bars, those parchment-fingers,
And strive to blossom in a charnel-house?
Didst ever struggle to be free,—to leap
From that forced wedlock with a clammy corpse,—
To burst thy bonds asunder, and spring up
A thing of light to commerce with the skies?
Or didst thou rather, with endurance strong,
(That might have taught a Newton passive power,)
Baffle corruption, and live on unharm'd
Amid the pestilent steams that wrapp'd thee round,
Like Mithridates, when he would not die,
But conquer'd poison by his strong resolve?
A day of life and sunshine, when entranced
In the cold tomb of yonder shrivell'd hand?
Didst ever try to shoot thy fibres forth
Through thy close prison-bars, those parchment-fingers,
And strive to blossom in a charnel-house?
Didst ever struggle to be free,—to leap
From that forced wedlock with a clammy corpse,—
To burst thy bonds asunder, and spring up
A thing of light to commerce with the skies?
Or didst thou rather, with endurance strong,
(That might have taught a Newton passive power,)
Baffle corruption, and live on unharm'd
Amid the pestilent steams that wrapp'd thee round,
Like Mithridates, when he would not die,
But conquer'd poison by his strong resolve?
O Life, thy name is mystery,—that couldst
Thus energize inert, be, yet not be,
Concentrating thy powers in one small point;
Couldst mail a germ, in seeming weakness strong,
And arm it as thy champion against Death;
Couldst give a weed, dug from the common field,
What Egypt hath not, Immortality;
Couldst lull it off to sleep ere Carthage was,
And wake it up when Carthage is no more!
It may be, suns and stars that walk'd the heavens
While thou wert in thy slumber, gentle flower,
Have sprung from chaos, blazed their age, and burst:
It may be, that thou seest the world worn out,
And look'st on meadows of a paler green,
Flow'rs of a duskier hue, and all creation
Down to degenerate man more and more dead,
Than in those golden hours, nearest to Eden,
When mother earth and thou and all were young.
Thus energize inert, be, yet not be,
356
Couldst mail a germ, in seeming weakness strong,
And arm it as thy champion against Death;
Couldst give a weed, dug from the common field,
What Egypt hath not, Immortality;
Couldst lull it off to sleep ere Carthage was,
And wake it up when Carthage is no more!
It may be, suns and stars that walk'd the heavens
While thou wert in thy slumber, gentle flower,
Have sprung from chaos, blazed their age, and burst:
It may be, that thou seest the world worn out,
And look'st on meadows of a paler green,
Flow'rs of a duskier hue, and all creation
Down to degenerate man more and more dead,
Than in those golden hours, nearest to Eden,
When mother earth and thou and all were young.
And he that held thee,—this bituminous shape,
This fossil shell once tenanted by life,
This chrysalis husk of the poor insect man,
This leathern coat, this carcase of a soul,—
What was thy story, O mine elder brother?
I note thee now, swathed like a Milanese babe,
But thine are tinctured grave-clothes, fathoms long;
On thy shrunk breast the mystic beetle lies
Commending thee to Earth, and to the Sun
Regenerating all; a curious scroll
Full of strange written lore rests at thy side;
While a quaint rosary of bestial gods,
Ammon, Bubastes, Thoth, Osiris, Apis,
And Horus with the curl, Typhon and Phthah,
Amulets cipher'd with forgotten tongues,
And charm'd religious beads circle thy throat.
Greatly thy children honour'd thee in death,
And for the light vouchsafed them they did well,—
In that they hoped, and not unwisely hoped,
Again in his own flesh to see their sire;
And their affections spared not, so the form
They loved in life might rest adorn'd in death.
This fossil shell once tenanted by life,
This chrysalis husk of the poor insect man,
This leathern coat, this carcase of a soul,—
What was thy story, O mine elder brother?
I note thee now, swathed like a Milanese babe,
But thine are tinctured grave-clothes, fathoms long;
On thy shrunk breast the mystic beetle lies
Commending thee to Earth, and to the Sun
Regenerating all; a curious scroll
Full of strange written lore rests at thy side;
While a quaint rosary of bestial gods,
Ammon, Bubastes, Thoth, Osiris, Apis,
And Horus with the curl, Typhon and Phthah,
357
And charm'd religious beads circle thy throat.
Greatly thy children honour'd thee in death,
And for the light vouchsafed them they did well,—
In that they hoped, and not unwisely hoped,
Again in his own flesh to see their sire;
And their affections spared not, so the form
They loved in life might rest adorn'd in death.
But this dry hand,—was it once terrible
When among warrior bands thou wentest forth
With Ramses, or Sesostris, yet again
To crush the rebel Æthiop?—wast thou set
A taskmaster to toiling Israël
When Cheops and Cephrenes raised to heaven
Their giant sepulchres?—or did this hand,
That lately held a flow'r, with murderous grasp
Tear from the Hebrew mother her poor babe
To fling it to the crocodile?—Or rather
Wert thou some garden-lover, and this bulb,
Perchance most rare and fine, prized above gold,
(As in the mad world's dotage yesterday
A tulip-root could fetch a prince's ransom,)—
Was to be buried with thee, as thy praise,
Thy Rosicrucian lamp, thine idol weed?—
Perchance, O kinder thought and better hope,
Some priest of Isis shrined this root with thee
As nature's hieroglyphic, her half-guess
Of glimmering faith, that soul will never die:
What emblem liker, or more eloquent
Of immortality,—whether the Sphinx,
Scarab, or circled snake, or wide-wing'd orb,
The azure-colour'd arch, the sleepless eye,
The pyramid four-square, or flowing river,
Or all whatever else were symbols apt
In Egypt's alphabet,—than this dry root,
So full of living promise?—Yes, I see
Nature's “resurgam” sculptured there in words
That all of every clime may run and read:
I see the better hope of better times,
Hope against hope, wrapp'd in the dusky coats
Of a poor leek,—I note glad tidings there
Of happier things; this undecaying corpse
A little longer, yet a little longer
Must slumber on, but shall awake at last;
A little longer, yet a little longer,—
And at the trumpet's voice, shall this dry shape
Start up, instinct with life, the same though changed,
And put on incorruption's glorious garb:
Perchance for second death,—perchance to shine,
If aught of Israel's God he knew and loved,
Brighter than seraphs, and beyond the sun!
When among warrior bands thou wentest forth
With Ramses, or Sesostris, yet again
To crush the rebel Æthiop?—wast thou set
A taskmaster to toiling Israël
When Cheops and Cephrenes raised to heaven
Their giant sepulchres?—or did this hand,
That lately held a flow'r, with murderous grasp
Tear from the Hebrew mother her poor babe
To fling it to the crocodile?—Or rather
Wert thou some garden-lover, and this bulb,
Perchance most rare and fine, prized above gold,
(As in the mad world's dotage yesterday
A tulip-root could fetch a prince's ransom,)—
Was to be buried with thee, as thy praise,
Thy Rosicrucian lamp, thine idol weed?—
Perchance, O kinder thought and better hope,
Some priest of Isis shrined this root with thee
As nature's hieroglyphic, her half-guess
Of glimmering faith, that soul will never die:
What emblem liker, or more eloquent
Of immortality,—whether the Sphinx,
358
The azure-colour'd arch, the sleepless eye,
The pyramid four-square, or flowing river,
Or all whatever else were symbols apt
In Egypt's alphabet,—than this dry root,
So full of living promise?—Yes, I see
Nature's “resurgam” sculptured there in words
That all of every clime may run and read:
I see the better hope of better times,
Hope against hope, wrapp'd in the dusky coats
Of a poor leek,—I note glad tidings there
Of happier things; this undecaying corpse
A little longer, yet a little longer
Must slumber on, but shall awake at last;
A little longer, yet a little longer,—
And at the trumpet's voice, shall this dry shape
Start up, instinct with life, the same though changed,
And put on incorruption's glorious garb:
Perchance for second death,—perchance to shine,
If aught of Israel's God he knew and loved,
Brighter than seraphs, and beyond the sun!
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Cruelty.
Will none befriend that poor dumb brute,
Will no man rescue him?—
With weaker effort, gasping, mute,
He strains in every limb;
Will no man rescue him?—
With weaker effort, gasping, mute,
He strains in every limb;
Spare him, O spare:—he feels,—he feels!
Big tears roll from his eyes;
Another crushing blow!—he reels,
Staggers,—and falls,—and dies.
Big tears roll from his eyes;
Another crushing blow!—he reels,
Staggers,—and falls,—and dies.
Poor jaded horse, my blood runs cold
Thy guiltless wrongs to see;
To heav'n, O starved one, lame and old,
Thy dim eye pleads for thee.
Thy guiltless wrongs to see;
To heav'n, O starved one, lame and old,
Thy dim eye pleads for thee.
Thou too, O dog, whose faithful zeal
Fawns on some ruffian grim,—
He stripes thy skin with many a weal,
And yet,—thou lovest him.
Fawns on some ruffian grim,—
He stripes thy skin with many a weal,
And yet,—thou lovest him.
Shame! that of all the living chain
That links creation's plan,
There is but one delights in pain,
The savage monarch,—man!
That links creation's plan,
There is but one delights in pain,
The savage monarch,—man!
O cruelty,—who could rehearse
Thy million dismal deeds,
Or track the workings of the curse
By which all nature bleeds?
Thy million dismal deeds,
Or track the workings of the curse
By which all nature bleeds?
360
Thou meanest crime,—thou coward sin,—
Thou base flint-hearted vice,—
Scorpion!—to sting thy heart within
Thyself shalt all suffice;
Thou base flint-hearted vice,—
Scorpion!—to sting thy heart within
Thyself shalt all suffice;
The merciless is doubly curst,
As mercy is “twice blest;”
Vengeance, though slow, shall come,—but first
The vengeance of the breast!
As mercy is “twice blest;”
Vengeance, though slow, shall come,—but first
The vengeance of the breast!
Why add another woe to life,
Man,—are there not enough?
Why lay thy weapon to the strife?
Why make the road more rough?
Man,—are there not enough?
Why lay thy weapon to the strife?
Why make the road more rough?
Faint, hunger-sick, old, blind, and ill,
The poor, or man or beast,
Can battle on with life uphill,
And bear its griefs at least;
The poor, or man or beast,
Can battle on with life uphill,
And bear its griefs at least;
Truly, their cup of gall o'erflows!
But, when the spite of men
Adds poison to the draught of woes,
Who, who can drink it then?
But, when the spite of men
Adds poison to the draught of woes,
Who, who can drink it then?
Heard ye that shriek?—O wretch, forbear,
Fling down thy bloody knife:
In fear, if not in pity, spare
A woman, and a wife!
Fling down thy bloody knife:
In fear, if not in pity, spare
A woman, and a wife!
For thee she toils, unchiding, mild,
And for thy children wan,
Beaten, and starved,—with famine wild,
To feast thee, monster-man:
And for thy children wan,
Beaten, and starved,—with famine wild,
To feast thee, monster-man:
361
Husband, and father,—drunkard, fiend!
Thy wife's, thy children's moan
Has won for innocence a Friend,
Has reach'd thy Judge's throne;
Thy wife's, thy children's moan
Has won for innocence a Friend,
Has reach'd thy Judge's throne;
Their lives thou madest sad; but worse
Thy deathless doom shall be,
“No mercy!” is the withering curse
Thy Judge hath pass'd on thee:
Thy deathless doom shall be,
“No mercy!” is the withering curse
Thy Judge hath pass'd on thee:
Heap on,—heap on, fresh torments add,—
New schemes of torture plan,
No mercy! Mercy's self is glad
To damn the cruel man.
New schemes of torture plan,
No mercy! Mercy's self is glad
To damn the cruel man.
God! God! Thy whole creation groans,
Thy fair world writhes in pain;
Shall the dread incense of its moans
Arise to Thee in vain?
Thy fair world writhes in pain;
Shall the dread incense of its moans
Arise to Thee in vain?
The hollow eye of famine pleads,
The face with weeping pale,
The heart that all in secret bleeds,
The grief that tells no tale,
The face with weeping pale,
The heart that all in secret bleeds,
The grief that tells no tale,
Oppression's victim, weak and mild,
Scarce shrinking from the blow,
And the poor wearied factory child,
Join in the dirge of woe.
Scarce shrinking from the blow,
And the poor wearied factory child,
Join in the dirge of woe.
O cruel world! O sickening fear
Of goad, or knife, or thong;
O load of evils ill to bear!
—How long, good God, how long?
Of goad, or knife, or thong;
O load of evils ill to bear!
—How long, good God, how long?
362
Monsieur d'Alueron.
An Incident, founded on Fact.
Poor Monsieur d'Alveron! I well remember
The day I visited his ruinous cot,
And heard the story of his fallen fortunes.
It was a fine May morning, and the flowers
Spread their fair faces to the laughing sun,
And look'd like small terrestrial stars, that beam'd
With life and joy; the merry lark was high
Careering in the heavens, and now and then
A throstle from the neighbouring thicket pour'd
His musical and hearty orisons.
The cot too truly told that poverty
Found it a home with misery and scorn:
No clambering jessamine, no well-train'd roses
There linger'd, like sweet charity, to hide
The rents unseemly of the plaster'd wall;
No tight trimm'd rows of box, or daisy prim,
Mark'd a clean pathway through the miry clay;
But all around was want and cold neglect.
With curious hand, (and heart that beat with warm
Benevolence,)—I knock'd, lifted the latch,
And in the language of his mother-land
Besought a welcome; quick with courteous phrase,
And joy unfeign'd to hear his native tongue,
He bade me enter.—'Twas a ruin'd hovel;
Disease and penury had done their worst
To hunt a wretched exile to despair,
But still with spirit unbroken he lived on,
And with a Frenchman's national levity
Bounded elastic from his weight of woes.
I listed long his fond garrulity,
For sympathy and confidence are aye
Each other's echoes, and I won his heart
By pitying his sorrows; long he told
Of friends, and wife, and darling little ones,
Fortune, and title, and long-cherish'd hopes
By frenzied Revolution marr'd and crush'd:
But oft my patience flicker'd, and my eye
Wander'd inquisitive round the murky room
To see wherein I best might mitigate
The misery my bosom bled to view.
I sat upon his crazy couch, and there
With many sordid rags, a roebuck's skin
Show'd sleek and mottled; swift the clear grey eye
Of the poor sufferer had mark'd my wonder,
And as in simple guise this touching tale
He told me, in the tongue his youth had loved,
Many a tear stole down his wrinkled cheek.
The day I visited his ruinous cot,
And heard the story of his fallen fortunes.
It was a fine May morning, and the flowers
Spread their fair faces to the laughing sun,
And look'd like small terrestrial stars, that beam'd
With life and joy; the merry lark was high
Careering in the heavens, and now and then
A throstle from the neighbouring thicket pour'd
His musical and hearty orisons.
The cot too truly told that poverty
Found it a home with misery and scorn:
No clambering jessamine, no well-train'd roses
There linger'd, like sweet charity, to hide
The rents unseemly of the plaster'd wall;
No tight trimm'd rows of box, or daisy prim,
Mark'd a clean pathway through the miry clay;
But all around was want and cold neglect.
With curious hand, (and heart that beat with warm
Benevolence,)—I knock'd, lifted the latch,
And in the language of his mother-land
Besought a welcome; quick with courteous phrase,
And joy unfeign'd to hear his native tongue,
He bade me enter.—'Twas a ruin'd hovel;
Disease and penury had done their worst
363
But still with spirit unbroken he lived on,
And with a Frenchman's national levity
Bounded elastic from his weight of woes.
I listed long his fond garrulity,
For sympathy and confidence are aye
Each other's echoes, and I won his heart
By pitying his sorrows; long he told
Of friends, and wife, and darling little ones,
Fortune, and title, and long-cherish'd hopes
By frenzied Revolution marr'd and crush'd:
But oft my patience flicker'd, and my eye
Wander'd inquisitive round the murky room
To see wherein I best might mitigate
The misery my bosom bled to view.
I sat upon his crazy couch, and there
With many sordid rags, a roebuck's skin
Show'd sleek and mottled; swift the clear grey eye
Of the poor sufferer had mark'd my wonder,
And as in simple guise this touching tale
He told me, in the tongue his youth had loved,
Many a tear stole down his wrinkled cheek.
“Yon glossy skin is all that now remains
To tell me that the past is not a dream!
Oft up my château's avenue of limes
To be caress'd in mine ancestral hall
Poor ‘Louis’ bounded, (I had call'd him Louis,
Because I loved my King;)—my little ones
Have on his rounded antlers often hung
Their garlands of spring flowers, and fed him with
Sweet heads of clover from their darling hands.
But on a sorrowful day a random-shot
Of some bold thief, or well-skill'd forester,
Struck him to death, and many a tear and sob
Were the unwritten epitaph upon him.
The children would not lose him utterly,
But pray'd to have his mottled beautiful skin
A rug to their new pony-chaise, that they
Might oftener think of their lost favourite:
Ay—there it is!—that precious treasury
Of fond remembrances,—that glossy skin!
O thou chief solace in the wintry nights
That warms my poor old heart, and thaws my breast
With tears of—Mais, Monsieur, asseyez-vous!”—
But I had started up, and turn'd aside
To weep in solitude.—
To tell me that the past is not a dream!
Oft up my château's avenue of limes
To be caress'd in mine ancestral hall
Poor ‘Louis’ bounded, (I had call'd him Louis,
Because I loved my King;)—my little ones
Have on his rounded antlers often hung
Their garlands of spring flowers, and fed him with
364
But on a sorrowful day a random-shot
Of some bold thief, or well-skill'd forester,
Struck him to death, and many a tear and sob
Were the unwritten epitaph upon him.
The children would not lose him utterly,
But pray'd to have his mottled beautiful skin
A rug to their new pony-chaise, that they
Might oftener think of their lost favourite:
Ay—there it is!—that precious treasury
Of fond remembrances,—that glossy skin!
O thou chief solace in the wintry nights
That warms my poor old heart, and thaws my breast
With tears of—Mais, Monsieur, asseyez-vous!”—
But I had started up, and turn'd aside
To weep in solitude.—
Wisdom's Wish.
Ah, might I but escape to some sweet spot,
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
Where rural virtues are not yet forgot,
And good old customs crown the circling year;
Where still contented peasants love their lot,
And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear,
But hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm
To country quiet add their social charm;
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
Where rural virtues are not yet forgot,
And good old customs crown the circling year;
Where still contented peasants love their lot,
And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear,
But hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm
To country quiet add their social charm;
365
Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,
A wooded dingle on a mountain-side,
Within the distant sound of ocean's roar,
And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Nigh to the village church, to please me more
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
And blest with pious pastor, who has trod
Himself the way, and leads his flock to God,—
A wooded dingle on a mountain-side,
Within the distant sound of ocean's roar,
And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Nigh to the village church, to please me more
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
And blest with pious pastor, who has trod
Himself the way, and leads his flock to God,—
“There would I dwell, for I delight therein!”
Far from the evil ways of evil men,
Untainted by the soil of others' sin,
My own repented of, and clean again;
With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within,
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
And mountain-rambles with a welcome friend,
And dear domestic joys, that never end.
Far from the evil ways of evil men,
Untainted by the soil of others' sin,
My own repented of, and clean again;
With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within,
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
And mountain-rambles with a welcome friend,
And dear domestic joys, that never end.
There from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,
To cull the gems that bounteous Nature gave,
From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
And learning nature's Master to adore,
Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives,
And learn to love the meanest thing that lives.
To cull the gems that bounteous Nature gave,
From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
And learning nature's Master to adore,
Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives,
And learn to love the meanest thing that lives.
No envious wish my fellows to excel,
No sordid money-getting cares be mine;
No low ambition in high state to dwell,
Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine:
But, sweet Benevolence, regale me well
With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And meek-eyed Piety, be always near,
With calm Content, and Gratitude sincere.
No sordid money-getting cares be mine;
No low ambition in high state to dwell,
Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine:
366
With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And meek-eyed Piety, be always near,
With calm Content, and Gratitude sincere.
Rescued from cities, and forensic strife,
And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
Oh thus to wear away my useful life,
And, when I'm call'd, in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,
And challenge earth to show a happier man!
And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
Oh thus to wear away my useful life,
And, when I'm call'd, in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,
And challenge earth to show a happier man!
The Mother's Lament.
My own little darling—dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:
No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
No more on my arm
Nestled up warm
Shall my fair darling rest:
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
No more on my arm
Nestled up warm
Shall my fair darling rest:
367
Alas, for that dear glazed eye,
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?
Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,—
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?
Shadows of bygone joys,—
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?
O harrowing sight to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!
Where is each heart-winning way,
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone
To weep for them night and day:
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone
To weep for them night and day:
Yet why should I linger behind?
Kill me too,—death most kind;
Where can I go
To meet thy blow
And my sweet babe to find?
Kill me too,—death most kind;
Where can I go
To meet thy blow
And my sweet babe to find?
368
I know it, I rave half-wild!
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child?
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child?
I know it, I should not speak
So boldly,—I ought to be meek,
But love, it is strong;
And my spirit is wrong,—
Help me, my God! I am weak!
So boldly,—I ought to be meek,
But love, it is strong;
And my spirit is wrong,—
Help me, my God! I am weak!
Trust.
“My times are in thy hand.”
Yet will I trust, in all my fears,
Thy mercy, gracious Lord, appears,
To guide me through this vale of tears,
And be my strength;
Thy mercy, gracious Lord, appears,
To guide me through this vale of tears,
And be my strength;
Thy mercy guides the ebb and flow
Of health and joy, or pain and woe,
To wean my heart from all below
To Thee at length.
Of health and joy, or pain and woe,
To wean my heart from all below
To Thee at length.
Yes,—welcome pain,—which Thou hast sent,—
Yes,—farewell blessings,—Thou hast lent,
With Thee alone I rest content,
For Thou art Heav'n,—
Yes,—farewell blessings,—Thou hast lent,
With Thee alone I rest content,
For Thou art Heav'n,—
369
My trust reposes, safe and still,
On the wise goodness of Thy will,
Grateful for earthly good—or ill,
Which Thou has giv'n.
On the wise goodness of Thy will,
Grateful for earthly good—or ill,
Which Thou has giv'n.
O blessed friend! O blissful thought!
With happiest consolation fraught,—
Trust Thee I may, I will, I ought,—
To doubt were sin;
With happiest consolation fraught,—
Trust Thee I may, I will, I ought,—
To doubt were sin;
Then let whatever storms arise,
Their Ruler sits above the skies,
And lifting unto Him mine eyes,
'Tis calm within.
Their Ruler sits above the skies,
And lifting unto Him mine eyes,
'Tis calm within.
Danger may threaten, foes molest,
Poverty brood, disease infest,
Yea, torn affections wound the breast
For one sad hour,
Poverty brood, disease infest,
Yea, torn affections wound the breast
For one sad hour,
But Faith looks to her home on high,
Hope casts around a cheerful eye,
And Love puts all the terrors by
With gladdening power.
Hope casts around a cheerful eye,
And Love puts all the terrors by
With gladdening power.
The Stammerer's Complaint.
Ah, think it not a light calamity
To be denied free converse with my kind,
To be debarr'd from man's true attribute,
The proper glorious privilege of Speech.
Hast thou beheld an eagle chain'd to earth?
A restless panther in his cage immured?
A swift trout by the wily fisher check'd?
A wild bird hopeless strain its broken wing?
Or ever felt, at the dark dead of night,
Some undefined and horrid incubus
Press down the very soul,—and paralyse
The limbs in their imaginary flight
From shadowy terrors in unhallow'd sleep?
Or ever known the sudden icy chill
Of dreary disappointment, as it dashes
The sweet cup of anticipated bliss
From the parch'd lips of long-enduring hope?
To be denied free converse with my kind,
To be debarr'd from man's true attribute,
The proper glorious privilege of Speech.
Hast thou beheld an eagle chain'd to earth?
A restless panther in his cage immured?
A swift trout by the wily fisher check'd?
370
Or ever felt, at the dark dead of night,
Some undefined and horrid incubus
Press down the very soul,—and paralyse
The limbs in their imaginary flight
From shadowy terrors in unhallow'd sleep?
Or ever known the sudden icy chill
Of dreary disappointment, as it dashes
The sweet cup of anticipated bliss
From the parch'd lips of long-enduring hope?
Then thou canst picture,—aye, in sober truth,
In honest unexaggerated truth,—
The constant, galling, festering chain that binds
Captive my mute interpreter of thought;
The seal of lead enstamp'd upon my lips,
The load of iron on my labouring chest,
The mocking demon that at every step
Haunts me,—and spurs me on—to burst with silence!
Oh! tis a sore affliction, to restrain,
From mere necessity, the glowing thought;
To feel the fluent cataract of speech
Check'd by some wintry spell, and frozen up,
Just as it leapeth from the precipice!
To be the butt of wordy captious fools,
And see the sneering self-complacent smile
Of victory on their lips, when I might prove,
(But for some little word I dare not utter,)
That innate truth is not a specious lie;
To hear foul slander blast an honour'd name,
Yet breathe no fact to drive the fiend away;
To mark neglected virtue in the dust,
Yet have no word to pity or console;
To feel just indignation swell my breast,
Yet know the fountain of my wrath is seal'd;
To see my fellow-mortals hurrying on
Down the steep cliff of crime, down to perdition,
Yet have no voice to warn,—no voice to win!
In honest unexaggerated truth,—
The constant, galling, festering chain that binds
Captive my mute interpreter of thought;
The seal of lead enstamp'd upon my lips,
The load of iron on my labouring chest,
The mocking demon that at every step
Haunts me,—and spurs me on—to burst with silence!
Oh! tis a sore affliction, to restrain,
From mere necessity, the glowing thought;
To feel the fluent cataract of speech
Check'd by some wintry spell, and frozen up,
Just as it leapeth from the precipice!
To be the butt of wordy captious fools,
And see the sneering self-complacent smile
Of victory on their lips, when I might prove,
(But for some little word I dare not utter,)
That innate truth is not a specious lie;
To hear foul slander blast an honour'd name,
Yet breathe no fact to drive the fiend away;
371
Yet have no word to pity or console;
To feel just indignation swell my breast,
Yet know the fountain of my wrath is seal'd;
To see my fellow-mortals hurrying on
Down the steep cliff of crime, down to perdition,
Yet have no voice to warn,—no voice to win!
'Tis to be mortified in every point,
Baffled at every turn of life, for want
Of that most common privilege of man,
The merest drug of gorged society,
Words,—windy words.
Baffled at every turn of life, for want
Of that most common privilege of man,
The merest drug of gorged society,
Words,—windy words.
And is it not in truth
A poison'd sting in every social joy,
A thorn that rankles in the writhing flesh,
A drop of gall in each domestic sweet,
An irritating petty misery,
That I can never look on one I love
And speak the fulness of my burning thoughts?
That I can never with unmingled joy
Meet a long-loved and long-expected friend,
Because I feel, but cannot vent my feelings,—
Because I know I ought,—but must not speak,
Because I mark his quick impatient eye
Striving in kindness to anticipate
The word of welcome, strangled in its birth!
Is it not sorrow, while I truly love
Sweet social converse, to be forced to shun
The happy circle, from a nervous sense,
An agonizing poignant consciousness
That I must stand aloof, nor mingle with
The wise and good, in rational argument,
The young in brilliant quickness of reply,
Friendship's ingenuous interchange of mind,
Affection's open-hearted sympathies,
But feel myself an isolated being,
A very wilderness of widow'd thought!
A poison'd sting in every social joy,
A thorn that rankles in the writhing flesh,
A drop of gall in each domestic sweet,
An irritating petty misery,
That I can never look on one I love
And speak the fulness of my burning thoughts?
That I can never with unmingled joy
Meet a long-loved and long-expected friend,
Because I feel, but cannot vent my feelings,—
Because I know I ought,—but must not speak,
Because I mark his quick impatient eye
Striving in kindness to anticipate
The word of welcome, strangled in its birth!
Is it not sorrow, while I truly love
Sweet social converse, to be forced to shun
The happy circle, from a nervous sense,
372
That I must stand aloof, nor mingle with
The wise and good, in rational argument,
The young in brilliant quickness of reply,
Friendship's ingenuous interchange of mind,
Affection's open-hearted sympathies,
But feel myself an isolated being,
A very wilderness of widow'd thought!
Aye, this is very bitter,—not less bitter
Because it is not reckon'd in the ills,
“The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to;”
Yet the full ocean is but countless drops,
And misery is an aggregate of tears,
And life replete with small annoyances
Is but one long protracted scene of sorrow.
Because it is not reckon'd in the ills,
“The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to;”
Yet the full ocean is but countless drops,
And misery is an aggregate of tears,
And life replete with small annoyances
Is but one long protracted scene of sorrow.
I scarce would wonder, if a godless man,
(I name not him whose hope is heavenward,)
A man, whom lying vanities have scathed
And harden'd from all fear,—if such an one
By this tyrannical Argus goaded on,
Were to be wearied of his very life,
And daily, hourly foil'd in social converse,
By the slow simmering of disappointment
Become a sour'd and apathetic being,
Were to be glad to fling away his life,
And long for death to free him from his chain.
(I name not him whose hope is heavenward,)
A man, whom lying vanities have scathed
And harden'd from all fear,—if such an one
By this tyrannical Argus goaded on,
Were to be wearied of his very life,
And daily, hourly foil'd in social converse,
By the slow simmering of disappointment
Become a sour'd and apathetic being,
Were to be glad to fling away his life,
And long for death to free him from his chain.
1830.
373
Benevolence.
There is indeed one crowning joy,
A pleasure that can never cloy,
The bliss of doing good;
And to it a reward is given
Most precious in the sight of heaven,
The tear of gratitude.
A pleasure that can never cloy,
The bliss of doing good;
And to it a reward is given
Most precious in the sight of heaven,
The tear of gratitude.
To raise the fallen from the dust,
To right the poor by judgment just,
The broken heart to heal,
Pour on the soul a stream as bright
Of satisfying deep delight
As happy spirits feel:
To right the poor by judgment just,
The broken heart to heal,
Pour on the soul a stream as bright
Of satisfying deep delight
As happy spirits feel:
Yes, high archangels wing their way
Far from the golden founts of day
To scenes of earthly sadness,
That they may comfort the distress'd,—
And feel in blessing, deeply blest,
In gladd'ning, full of gladness.
Far from the golden founts of day
To scenes of earthly sadness,
That they may comfort the distress'd,—
And feel in blessing, deeply blest,
In gladd'ning, full of gladness.
The choicest happiness there is,
The glorious Godhead's perfect bliss,
Is born of doing good;
He looks around, and sees the eye
Of all creation spangled by
The tear of gratitude!
The glorious Godhead's perfect bliss,
Is born of doing good;
He looks around, and sees the eye
Of all creation spangled by
The tear of gratitude!
374
All hail, my country's noble sons,
Ye Heaven-Sent unselfish ones,
Who every realm have trod
Smit with the love of doing good,—
O that my portion with you stood!
For ye are like your God!
Ye Heaven-Sent unselfish ones,
Who every realm have trod
Smit with the love of doing good,—
O that my portion with you stood!
For ye are like your God!
And lives there one, who never felt
His heart with zeal or kindness melt,
Nor ever dropt a tear
Of sympathy for other's woe?
If such a man exist below
A fiend in flesh is here.
His heart with zeal or kindness melt,
Nor ever dropt a tear
Of sympathy for other's woe?
If such a man exist below
A fiend in flesh is here.
Brethren, unsatisfied with earth,
Who feel how heartless is its mirth
How transient is its joy,
Ye may,—there only wants the will,—
Your dearest hope of bliss fulfil,
Of bliss without alloy:
Who feel how heartless is its mirth
How transient is its joy,
Ye may,—there only wants the will,—
Your dearest hope of bliss fulfil,
Of bliss without alloy:
Most glad a thing it is and sweet,
To sit and learn at Wisdom's feet,
And hear her blessed voice;
First in her comforts to be glad,
And then, to comfort other sad,
And teach them to rejoice.
To sit and learn at Wisdom's feet,
And hear her blessed voice;
First in her comforts to be glad,
And then, to comfort other sad,
And teach them to rejoice.
How sweet it is to link again
Estranged affection's broken chain,
And soothe the sorrowing breast;
To be the favour'd one that may
Recall to love hearts torn away,
And thus by both be blest.
Estranged affection's broken chain,
And soothe the sorrowing breast;
To be the favour'd one that may
Recall to love hearts torn away,
And thus by both be blest.
375
Rich men and proud, who fain would find
Some new indulgence for the mind,
Some scheme to gladden self,
If ye will feed the famish'd poor,
Happiness shall ye buy, far more
Than with a mint of pelf:
Some new indulgence for the mind,
Some scheme to gladden self,
If ye will feed the famish'd poor,
Happiness shall ye buy, far more
Than with a mint of pelf:
Ye cannot see the tearful eye,
Ye cannot hear the grateful sigh,
Nor feel yourselves beloved
By the pale children of distress
Whom ye have been the gods to bless,—
With hearts unthrill'd, unmoved.
Ye cannot hear the grateful sigh,
Nor feel yourselves beloved
By the pale children of distress
Whom ye have been the gods to bless,—
With hearts unthrill'd, unmoved.
And you, who love your fellow-men,
And feel a sacred transport, when
Ye can that love fulfil,—
Go, rescue yonder tortured brute,
Its gratitude indeed is mute,
But, oh! it loves you still.
And feel a sacred transport, when
Ye can that love fulfil,—
Go, rescue yonder tortured brute,
Its gratitude indeed is mute,
But, oh! it loves you still.
Children of science, who delight
To track out wisdom's beauty bright
In earth, or sea, or sky,—
While nature's lovely face you scan,
Go, seek and save some erring man,
And set his hope on high!
To track out wisdom's beauty bright
In earth, or sea, or sky,—
While nature's lovely face you scan,
Go, seek and save some erring man,
And set his hope on high!
But still reflect that all the good
Ye do, demands your gratitude,
For 'tis a heav'nly boon,
That should for its own sake be sought,
Though to itself is kindly brought
A blessing sweet and soon:
Ye do, demands your gratitude,
For 'tis a heav'nly boon,
That should for its own sake be sought,
Though to itself is kindly brought
A blessing sweet and soon:
376
It is reward to imitate,
In comforting the desolate,
That gracious One who stood
A ransom for a ruin'd world,
And still, Himself to ruin hurl'd,
Found evil for His good:
In comforting the desolate,
That gracious One who stood
A ransom for a ruin'd world,
And still, Himself to ruin hurl'd,
Found evil for His good:
And what an argument for pray'r
Hath yearning Mercy written there,
For if indeed “to give
Is blessed rather than the gift”—
Go ye, to heaven the voice uplift,
And then ye must receive.
Hath yearning Mercy written there,
For if indeed “to give
Is blessed rather than the gift”—
Go ye, to heaven the voice uplift,
And then ye must receive.
A Cabinet of Fossils.
Come, and behold with curious eye
These records of a world gone by,
These tell-tales of the youth of time,—
When changes, sudden, vast, sublime,
(From Chaos, and fair Order's birth,
To the last flood that drown'd the earth,—)
Shatter'd the crust of this young world,
Into the seas its mountains hurl'd,
And upon boisterous surges strong
Bore the broad ruins far along
To pave old ocean's shingly bed,
While bursting upwards in their stead
The lowest granites towering rose
To pierce the clouds with crested snows,
Where future Apennine or Alp
Bared to high heav'n its icy scalp.
These records of a world gone by,
These tell-tales of the youth of time,—
When changes, sudden, vast, sublime,
(From Chaos, and fair Order's birth,
To the last flood that drown'd the earth,—)
Shatter'd the crust of this young world,
Into the seas its mountains hurl'd,
And upon boisterous surges strong
Bore the broad ruins far along
To pave old ocean's shingly bed,
While bursting upwards in their stead
377
To pierce the clouds with crested snows,
Where future Apennine or Alp
Bared to high heav'n its icy scalp.
Look on these coins of kingdoms old,
These medals of a broken mould:
These corals in the green hill-side,
These fruits and flowers beneath the tide,
These struggling flies in amber found,
These huge pine-forests underground,
These flint sea-eggs, with curious bosses,
These fibred ferns, and fruited mosses
Lying as in water spread,
And stone-struck by some Gorgon's head!
The chambers of this graceful shell,
So delicately form'd,—so well,
None can declare what years have past
Since life hath tenanted it last,
What countless centuries have flown
Since age hath made the shell a stone:
Gaze with me on those jointed stems,
A living plant of starry gems,
And on that sea-flower, light and fair,
Which shoots its leaves in agate there:
Behold these giant ribs in stone
Of mighty monsters, long unknown,
That in some antemundane flood
Wallow'd on continents of mud,
A lizard race, but well for man,
Dead long before his day began,
Monsters, through Providence extinct,
That crocodiles to fishes link'd;
And shreds of other forms beside
That sported in the yeasty tide,
Or, flapping far with dragon-wing,
On the slow tortoise wont to spring,
Or, ambush'd in the rushes rank,
Watch'd the dull mammoth on the bank,
Or loved the green and silent deep,
Or on the coral-reef to sleep,
Where many a rood, in passive strength,
The scaly reptiles lay at length.
These medals of a broken mould:
These corals in the green hill-side,
These fruits and flowers beneath the tide,
These struggling flies in amber found,
These huge pine-forests underground,
These flint sea-eggs, with curious bosses,
These fibred ferns, and fruited mosses
Lying as in water spread,
And stone-struck by some Gorgon's head!
The chambers of this graceful shell,
So delicately form'd,—so well,
None can declare what years have past
Since life hath tenanted it last,
What countless centuries have flown
Since age hath made the shell a stone:
Gaze with me on those jointed stems,
A living plant of starry gems,
And on that sea-flower, light and fair,
Which shoots its leaves in agate there:
Behold these giant ribs in stone
Of mighty monsters, long unknown,
That in some antemundane flood
Wallow'd on continents of mud,
A lizard race, but well for man,
Dead long before his day began,
378
That crocodiles to fishes link'd;
And shreds of other forms beside
That sported in the yeasty tide,
Or, flapping far with dragon-wing,
On the slow tortoise wont to spring,
Or, ambush'd in the rushes rank,
Watch'd the dull mammoth on the bank,
Or loved the green and silent deep,
Or on the coral-reef to sleep,
Where many a rood, in passive strength,
The scaly reptiles lay at length.
For there are wonders, wondrous strange,
To those who will through nature range,
And use the mind, and clear the eye,
And let instruction not pass by:
There are deep thoughts of tranquil joy
For those who thus their hearts employ,
And trace the wise design that lurks
In holy nature's meanest works,
And by the torch of truth discern
The happy lessons good men learn:
O there are pleasures, sweet and new,
To those who thus creation view,
And, as on this wide world they look,
Regard it as one mighty book,
Inscribed within, before, behind,
With workings of the Master-mind;
Ray'd with that Wisdom, which excels
In framing worlds,—or fretting shells,—
Fill'd with that Mercy, which delights
In blessing mammoths, men, or mites,—
With silent deep Benevolence,
With hidden mild Omnipotence,
With order's everlasting laws,
With seen effect, and secret cause,
Justice and truth in all things rife,
Filling the world with love and life,
And teaching from creation round
How good the God of all is found,
His handiwork how vast, how kind,
How prearranged by clearest mind,
How glorious in His own estate,
And in His smallest works how great!
To those who will through nature range,
And use the mind, and clear the eye,
And let instruction not pass by:
There are deep thoughts of tranquil joy
For those who thus their hearts employ,
And trace the wise design that lurks
In holy nature's meanest works,
And by the torch of truth discern
The happy lessons good men learn:
O there are pleasures, sweet and new,
To those who thus creation view,
And, as on this wide world they look,
Regard it as one mighty book,
Inscribed within, before, behind,
With workings of the Master-mind;
Ray'd with that Wisdom, which excels
In framing worlds,—or fretting shells,—
379
In blessing mammoths, men, or mites,—
With silent deep Benevolence,
With hidden mild Omnipotence,
With order's everlasting laws,
With seen effect, and secret cause,
Justice and truth in all things rife,
Filling the world with love and life,
And teaching from creation round
How good the God of all is found,
His handiwork how vast, how kind,
How prearranged by clearest mind,
How glorious in His own estate,
And in His smallest works how great!
Five Psalms.
I.— PSALM I.
Blest is the man who walketh not
In sinners' evil ways;
Nor with the wicked joins his lot,
Nor gives the scorner praise:
In sinners' evil ways;
Nor with the wicked joins his lot,
Nor gives the scorner praise:
But all his solace and delight
Is in his Father's word,—
His meditation day and night,
The doctrine of the Lord.
Is in his Father's word,—
His meditation day and night,
The doctrine of the Lord.
380
As some green tree near flowing streams
That yields its timely fruit,
Unblighted still his foliage seems,—
He prospers, branch and root.
That yields its timely fruit,
Unblighted still his foliage seems,—
He prospers, branch and root.
Not so the ungodly; they are all
Like chaff before the blast;
In the dread judgment they shall fall,
And perish at the last:
Like chaff before the blast;
In the dread judgment they shall fall,
And perish at the last:
For the Lord loveth, and doth keep
The good man day by day;
But as for sinners, He shall sweep
And scatter them away!
The good man day by day;
But as for sinners, He shall sweep
And scatter them away!
II.— PSALM XIX.
Heaven declares its Maker's glory,
And the firmanent His might;
Day to day the wondrous story
Echoes on, and night to night;
All is silence, yet Creation
Knows and hears that voiceless speech
Which to every tribe and nation
Doth their Maker's glory teach.
And the firmanent His might;
Day to day the wondrous story
Echoes on, and night to night;
All is silence, yet Creation
Knows and hears that voiceless speech
Which to every tribe and nation
Doth their Maker's glory teach.
381
From his chamber bright in heaven
Lo, the bridegroom of the earth
Gladness by his smile hath given,
And awakes the morn to mirth:
Not less full of life and pleasure
Is God's truth nor less complete;
'Tis more precious than all treasure,
Than the honeycomb more sweet.
Lo, the bridegroom of the earth
Gladness by his smile hath given,
And awakes the morn to mirth:
Not less full of life and pleasure
Is God's truth nor less complete;
'Tis more precious than all treasure,
Than the honeycomb more sweet.
It rejoices, heals, and teaches,
Ever holy, just, and good;
To the inmost feeling reaches,
And leads up the heart to God:
Warn'd by that, thy servant turneth
To the path that tends to bliss;
Yet, who all his faults discerneth?
Cleanse me, if I err in this.
Ever holy, just, and good;
To the inmost feeling reaches,
And leads up the heart to God:
Warn'd by that, thy servant turneth
To the path that tends to bliss;
Yet, who all his faults discerneth?
Cleanse me, if I err in this.
Let not pride be ruler in me,
But deliver, guide, forgive:
Thus, corruption quench'd within me,
I shall be upright and live.
Let my words and meditation,
Ever pleasing in Thy sight,
Meet with gracious acceptation,
My Redeemer and my Might!
But deliver, guide, forgive:
Thus, corruption quench'd within me,
I shall be upright and live.
Let my words and meditation,
Ever pleasing in Thy sight,
Meet with gracious acceptation,
My Redeemer and my Might!
382
III.— PSALM XX.
God in time of trouble hear thee,
And the name of Jacob's Lord
From His sanctuary near thee,
Out of Zion help afford;
Crown thy sacrifice with fire,
All thy gifts remember still,
Grant thee all thy heart's desire,
And thy choicest wish fulfil!
And the name of Jacob's Lord
From His sanctuary near thee,
Out of Zion help afford;
Crown thy sacrifice with fire,
All thy gifts remember still,
Grant thee all thy heart's desire,
And thy choicest wish fulfil!
We will joy in Thy salvation,
And will set our banners high
In our God!—Thy supplication
Be accomplish'd at thy cry.
Now I know the Lord from heaven
Saveth still His Christ from harm;
Now to Him will strength be given
By the might of His right-arm.
And will set our banners high
In our God!—Thy supplication
Be accomplish'd at thy cry.
Now I know the Lord from heaven
Saveth still His Christ from harm;
Now to Him will strength be given
By the might of His right-arm.
Some in chariots, some in horses,—
We in God Jehovah trust;
And while He our sure Resource is,
They are fallen in the dust:
Save, Jehovah, save and hear us,
King of glory, King of might!
When we call be ever near us,—
Ever for Thy servants fight!
We in God Jehovah trust;
And while He our sure Resource is,
They are fallen in the dust:
Save, Jehovah, save and hear us,
King of glory, King of might!
When we call be ever near us,—
Ever for Thy servants fight!
383
IV.— PSALM LXXXV.
Lord, Thou hast shower'd on Thy land
Thy favourable grace;
Thou hast brought home again the band
Of Jacob's captive race:
Thou hast forgiven Thy people's crimes
And wash'd away their sin,
From Thy fierce anger turn'd betimes,
And rein'd Thy vengeance in!
Thy favourable grace;
Thou hast brought home again the band
Of Jacob's captive race:
Thou hast forgiven Thy people's crimes
And wash'd away their sin,
From Thy fierce anger turn'd betimes,
And rein'd Thy vengeance in!
Turn us, O God that saveth us,—
And bid Thine anger cease:
Wilt Thou in wrath be ever thus,
Nor smile on us in peace?
O wilt Thou not Thy work revive,
That we may joy in Thee?
Yea, Lord, Thy constant mercy give,
And Thy salvation free!
And bid Thine anger cease:
Wilt Thou in wrath be ever thus,
Nor smile on us in peace?
O wilt Thou not Thy work revive,
That we may joy in Thee?
Yea, Lord, Thy constant mercy give,
And Thy salvation free!
V.— PSALM CXLIV.
Blessed be the Lord my might,
Who hath taught my soul to fight,
Castle, Saviour, hope, and friend,
Whom I trust all help to send.
Who hath taught my soul to fight,
Castle, Saviour, hope, and friend,
Whom I trust all help to send.
384
Lord, what is man, or what his son
That thou regardest such an one?
A thing of nought: his little day
Passeth shadow-like away.
That thou regardest such an one?
A thing of nought: his little day
Passeth shadow-like away.
Bow Thy heavens, Lord! return,
Touch the mountains that they burn,
Forth Thy scathing lightnings cast,
With Thy shafts consume them fast!
Touch the mountains that they burn,
Forth Thy scathing lightnings cast,
With Thy shafts consume them fast!
Send Thy power from on high,
Rescue me, for ever nigh,
Save me from the drowning wave,
From these wicked children save!
Rescue me, for ever nigh,
Save me from the drowning wave,
From these wicked children save!
God, to Thee new songs I sing,
On my lute new praise I bring,—
To kings Thou givest victory, Lord,
And savest David from the sword.
On my lute new praise I bring,—
To kings Thou givest victory, Lord,
And savest David from the sword.
Help, and save me from the hand
Of children, strangers in the land;
For their mouths are lies within,
And their right hands red with sin.
Of children, strangers in the land;
For their mouths are lies within,
And their right hands red with sin.
That our sons may grow in good
Like young saplings of the wood,
And our daughters may be seen
As Thy temple pure and clean.
Like young saplings of the wood,
And our daughters may be seen
As Thy temple pure and clean.
385
That our garners more and more
May be full with various store,
That our teeming sheep may yield
Thousand-fold in street and field:
May be full with various store,
That our teeming sheep may yield
Thousand-fold in street and field:
That our oxen's sturdy toil
Drain the treasures of the soil;
None in bonds be led away,
No complaining, no decay.
Drain the treasures of the soil;
None in bonds be led away,
No complaining, no decay.
Happy people! prosper'd so,
Blest beyond all bliss below;
Blest who have, all gods above,
For their God the Lord of love!
Blest beyond all bliss below;
Blest who have, all gods above,
For their God the Lord of love!
The Mourner comforted.—1833.
Brother, dear brother, weep no more for me!
My lot is blessedness,—an heritage
Of Praise, and Peace, and Immortality,
And Joy unspeakable! above me smiles
The Eye of tenderest love, and underneath
Sustain me safe the Everlasting Arms!
I am not dead,—my spirit is not dead,
But rests in Jesus, the dear hiding-place
Of ransom'd happy souls,—for I am His;—
My God hath wiped all sorrow from mine eye,
All sin from my fair soul; Eternal Love
For pain hath given me Peace,—for fear, fixt hope,
For Life's deceitful cup of bitterness,
Rivers of pleasantness and seas of joy.
Ah, who can speak it, who can think it, there,—
Where the frail prison of Mortality
Holds pent the slumbering soul? Earth hath no words,
And earthborn no ideas of infinite,
Unutterable, overwhelming bliss.
O blest exchange! O gain beyond compare!
O Glory, brighter for the foil of Time,
O deepest happiness, more exquisite
For a short Life's remember'd tale of sorrow!
Weep not, dear brother,—weep no more for me.
My lot is blessedness,—an heritage
Of Praise, and Peace, and Immortality,
And Joy unspeakable! above me smiles
The Eye of tenderest love, and underneath
Sustain me safe the Everlasting Arms!
I am not dead,—my spirit is not dead,
But rests in Jesus, the dear hiding-place
Of ransom'd happy souls,—for I am His;—
My God hath wiped all sorrow from mine eye,
386
For pain hath given me Peace,—for fear, fixt hope,
For Life's deceitful cup of bitterness,
Rivers of pleasantness and seas of joy.
Ah, who can speak it, who can think it, there,—
Where the frail prison of Mortality
Holds pent the slumbering soul? Earth hath no words,
And earthborn no ideas of infinite,
Unutterable, overwhelming bliss.
O blest exchange! O gain beyond compare!
O Glory, brighter for the foil of Time,
O deepest happiness, more exquisite
For a short Life's remember'd tale of sorrow!
Weep not, dear brother,—weep no more for me.
Yes,—from the dream of Time I woke in peace:
And one fierce struggle over, all was calm.
Awhile I lay entranced,—in that sweet rest
The Sabbath of the Soul, e'er yet it speeds
To choirs of perfect praise, and bliss intense.
And soon two infant cherubs on bright wings
—My sainted little brothers,—flew to me,
Kiss'd me, and wept for joy, as angels weep.
“For it is ours,” they said, “our great reward,
By His dear will preferr'd before all others,
On either hand to lead thee to our God.”
Wing'd with ecstatic hope upsprung my Soul,—
And through the glorious hosts of happy ones,
From bliss to bliss, from heav'n to heav'n, upsprung,
Catching swift echoes of melodious praise,
Till at the rapturous height of highest joy
I stood before the Throne! and there was He,
He, whom a brother's counsel bade me seek,
He, whom at midnight's hour a mother's ear
With tears and prayers had often heard me seek,—
O there was He! my Saviour and my Friend,—
My Sacrifice, my Heav'n, my All, my God!
—Brother, in earthly words and earthly thoughts
I cannot tell thee more: but would speak peace,
Peace to thy troubled soul,—where peace there is.
O climax to my joys,—strength to your hopes,
In the bright book of Life are written fair
The names of those I loved! Blest family,
Children of hope, and Heaven, and God! His love
With tears of chasten'd grief hath gemm'd your crowns,
That, by a Father's wisdom mingling well
Life's cup with sorrows, ye may deeper drink
Of grace on earth, of glory with our God.
Yes, there are crowns and mansions for you all,
Ye loved, and happy ones! a crown for thee,
Dear mother, who so tenderly hast led
Our infant steps to paths of pleasantness;—
Crowns for you both, my sisters;—and for thee,
Whom the dark storm of unbelieving fears
Hath sorely tost,—my brother,—even for thee
From deeper trouble rises higher bliss!
Peace to you all, for Jesus is your peace,
Your peace and mine: be comforted with me,
For we are one, as ever, one in Him.
And one fierce struggle over, all was calm.
Awhile I lay entranced,—in that sweet rest
The Sabbath of the Soul, e'er yet it speeds
To choirs of perfect praise, and bliss intense.
And soon two infant cherubs on bright wings
—My sainted little brothers,—flew to me,
Kiss'd me, and wept for joy, as angels weep.
“For it is ours,” they said, “our great reward,
By His dear will preferr'd before all others,
On either hand to lead thee to our God.”
Wing'd with ecstatic hope upsprung my Soul,—
And through the glorious hosts of happy ones,
From bliss to bliss, from heav'n to heav'n, upsprung,
Catching swift echoes of melodious praise,
Till at the rapturous height of highest joy
387
He, whom a brother's counsel bade me seek,
He, whom at midnight's hour a mother's ear
With tears and prayers had often heard me seek,—
O there was He! my Saviour and my Friend,—
My Sacrifice, my Heav'n, my All, my God!
—Brother, in earthly words and earthly thoughts
I cannot tell thee more: but would speak peace,
Peace to thy troubled soul,—where peace there is.
O climax to my joys,—strength to your hopes,
In the bright book of Life are written fair
The names of those I loved! Blest family,
Children of hope, and Heaven, and God! His love
With tears of chasten'd grief hath gemm'd your crowns,
That, by a Father's wisdom mingling well
Life's cup with sorrows, ye may deeper drink
Of grace on earth, of glory with our God.
Yes, there are crowns and mansions for you all,
Ye loved, and happy ones! a crown for thee,
Dear mother, who so tenderly hast led
Our infant steps to paths of pleasantness;—
Crowns for you both, my sisters;—and for thee,
Whom the dark storm of unbelieving fears
Hath sorely tost,—my brother,—even for thee
From deeper trouble rises higher bliss!
Peace to you all, for Jesus is your peace,
Your peace and mine: be comforted with me,
For we are one, as ever, one in Him.
Though now ye see me not, I can see you;
Though ye hear not my praise, your groans I hear.
I watch'd, unwatch'd, and long'd to wipe away
The bitter tears that fell to weep my gain:
I watch'd, when on my prison-house of lead,
That held the alter'd form ye lately loved,
A mother's fondness wildly prest a kiss;
I watch'd the friend approved, on whom she leant;
And to their mournful homes in cot or hall
I watch'd the dark procession silent creep.
Then was I with you, and am with you still,
A free, unshackled spirit,—loving you,
And ministering grace to you from God!
Think not of what I was, but what I am,—
Gaze not on those “dear lineaments defaced,”
Nor brood on foul corruption's gloomy pit:
Rather look up;—I live!—O speed, blest hour,
When to the spirit made perfect the bright body,
Bursting the bars of Death, shall reunite,
And meet the King of Glory in the skies!
Though ye hear not my praise, your groans I hear.
388
The bitter tears that fell to weep my gain:
I watch'd, when on my prison-house of lead,
That held the alter'd form ye lately loved,
A mother's fondness wildly prest a kiss;
I watch'd the friend approved, on whom she leant;
And to their mournful homes in cot or hall
I watch'd the dark procession silent creep.
Then was I with you, and am with you still,
A free, unshackled spirit,—loving you,
And ministering grace to you from God!
Think not of what I was, but what I am,—
Gaze not on those “dear lineaments defaced,”
Nor brood on foul corruption's gloomy pit:
Rather look up;—I live!—O speed, blest hour,
When to the spirit made perfect the bright body,
Bursting the bars of Death, shall reunite,
And meet the King of Glory in the skies!
The Souls of Brutes.—1832.
“Incertus erro per loca devia.”
—Hor.
—Hor.
Are these then made in vain? is man alone
Of all the marvels of creative love
Blest with a scintillation of His essence,
The heavenly spark of reasonable soul?
And hath not yon sagacious dog, that finds
A meaning in the shepherd's idiot face,
Or the huge elephant, that lends his strength
To drag the stranded galley to the shore,
And strives with emulative pride to excel
The mindless crowd of slaves that toil beside him,
Or the young generous war-horse, when he sniffs
The distant field of blood, and quick and shrill
Neighing for joy, instils a desperate courage
Into the veteran trooper's quailing heart,—
Have they not all an evidence of soul
(Of soul, the proper attribute of man,)
The same in kind, though meaner in degree?
Why should not that which hath been,—be for ever?
And death,—O can it be annihilation?
No,—though the stolid atheist fondly clings
To that last hope, how kindred to despair!
No,—'tis the struggling spirit's hour of joy,
The glad emancipation of the soul,
The moment when the cumbrous fetters drop,
And the bright spirit wings its way to heaven!
To say that God annihilated aught
Were to declare that in an unwise hour
He plann'd and made somewhat superfluous:
Why should not the mysterious life, that dwells
In reptiles as in men, and shows itself
In memory, gratitude, love, hate, and pride,
Still energize, and be, though death may crush
Yon frugal ant, or thoughtless butterfly,
Or with the simoom's pestilential gale
Strike down the patient camel in the desert?
Of all the marvels of creative love
Blest with a scintillation of His essence,
The heavenly spark of reasonable soul?
And hath not yon sagacious dog, that finds
A meaning in the shepherd's idiot face,
Or the huge elephant, that lends his strength
389
And strives with emulative pride to excel
The mindless crowd of slaves that toil beside him,
Or the young generous war-horse, when he sniffs
The distant field of blood, and quick and shrill
Neighing for joy, instils a desperate courage
Into the veteran trooper's quailing heart,—
Have they not all an evidence of soul
(Of soul, the proper attribute of man,)
The same in kind, though meaner in degree?
Why should not that which hath been,—be for ever?
And death,—O can it be annihilation?
No,—though the stolid atheist fondly clings
To that last hope, how kindred to despair!
No,—'tis the struggling spirit's hour of joy,
The glad emancipation of the soul,
The moment when the cumbrous fetters drop,
And the bright spirit wings its way to heaven!
To say that God annihilated aught
Were to declare that in an unwise hour
He plann'd and made somewhat superfluous:
Why should not the mysterious life, that dwells
In reptiles as in men, and shows itself
In memory, gratitude, love, hate, and pride,
Still energize, and be, though death may crush
Yon frugal ant, or thoughtless butterfly,
Or with the simoom's pestilential gale
Strike down the patient camel in the desert?
There is one chain of intellectual soul,
In many links and various grades, throughout
The scale of nature; from the climax bright
The first great Cause of all, Spirit supreme,
Incomprehensible and unconfined,
To high archangels blazing near the throne,
Seraphim, cherubim, virtues, aids, and powers,
All capable of perfection in their kind;—
To man, as holy from his Maker's hand
He stood, in possible excellence complete,
(Man, who is destined now to brighter glories,
As nearer to the present God, in One
His Lord and substitute,—than angels reach;)
Then man as fall'n, with every varied shade
Of character and capability,
From him who reads his title to the skies,
Or grasps with giant mind all nature's wonders,
Down to the monster shaped in human form,
Maniac, slavering fool, or blood-stain'd savage:
Then to the prudent elephant, the dog
Half-humanized, the docile Arab horse,
The social beaver, and contriving fox,
The parrot, quick in pertinent reply,
The kind-affection'd seal, and patriot bee,
The merchant-storing ant, and wintering swallow,
With all those other palpable emanations
And energies of one eternal Mind
Pervading and instructing all that live,
Down to the sentient grass, and shrinking clay.
In truth, I see not why the breath of life,
Thus omnipresent and upholding all,
Should not return to Him, and be immortal,
(I dare not say the same) in some glad state
Originally destined for creation,
As well from brutish bodies, as from man.
The uncertain glimmer of analogy
Suggests the thought, and reason's shrewder guess;
Yet revelation whispers nought but this,
“Our Father careth when a sparrow dies,”
And that “the spirit of a brute descends”
As to some secret and preserving Hadès.
In many links and various grades, throughout
390
The first great Cause of all, Spirit supreme,
Incomprehensible and unconfined,
To high archangels blazing near the throne,
Seraphim, cherubim, virtues, aids, and powers,
All capable of perfection in their kind;—
To man, as holy from his Maker's hand
He stood, in possible excellence complete,
(Man, who is destined now to brighter glories,
As nearer to the present God, in One
His Lord and substitute,—than angels reach;)
Then man as fall'n, with every varied shade
Of character and capability,
From him who reads his title to the skies,
Or grasps with giant mind all nature's wonders,
Down to the monster shaped in human form,
Maniac, slavering fool, or blood-stain'd savage:
Then to the prudent elephant, the dog
Half-humanized, the docile Arab horse,
The social beaver, and contriving fox,
The parrot, quick in pertinent reply,
The kind-affection'd seal, and patriot bee,
The merchant-storing ant, and wintering swallow,
With all those other palpable emanations
And energies of one eternal Mind
Pervading and instructing all that live,
Down to the sentient grass, and shrinking clay.
In truth, I see not why the breath of life,
Thus omnipresent and upholding all,
Should not return to Him, and be immortal,
(I dare not say the same) in some glad state
391
As well from brutish bodies, as from man.
The uncertain glimmer of analogy
Suggests the thought, and reason's shrewder guess;
Yet revelation whispers nought but this,
“Our Father careth when a sparrow dies,”
And that “the spirit of a brute descends”
As to some secret and preserving Hadès.
But for some better life, in what strange sort
Were justice, mix'd with mercy, dealt to these?—
Innocent slaves of sordid guilty man,
Poor unthank'd drudges, toiling at his will,
Pamper'd in youth, and haply starved in age,
Obedient, faithful, gentle,—though the spur
Wantonly cruel, or unsparing thong
Weal your gall'd hides, or your strain'd sinews crack
Beneath the crushing load,—what recompense
Can He, who gave you being, render you
If in the rank full harvest of your griefs
Ye sink annihilated, to the shame
Of government unequal?—In that day
When crime is sentenced, shall the cruel heart
Boast uncondemn'd, because no tortured brute
Stands there accusing? shall the embodied deeds
Of man not follow him, nor the rescued fly
Bear its kind witness to the saving hand?
Shall the mild Brahmin stand in equal sin
Regarding nature's menials, with the wretch
Who flays the moaning Abyssinian ox,
Or roasts the living bird, or flogs to death
The famishing pointer?—and must these again,
These poor unguilty uncomplaining victims
Have no reward for life with its sharp pains?—
They have my suffrage: Nineveh was spared,
Though Jonah prophesied its doom, for sake
Of six-score thousand infants, and “much cattle;”
And space is wide enough, for every grain
Of the broad sands that curb our swelling seas
Each separate in its sphere to stand apart
As far as sun from sun: there lacks not room,
Nor time, nor care, where all is infinite:
And still I doubt: it is a Gordian knot,
A dark deep riddle, rich with curious thoughts;
Yet let me tell a trivial incident,
And draw thine own conclusion from my tale.
Were justice, mix'd with mercy, dealt to these?—
Innocent slaves of sordid guilty man,
Poor unthank'd drudges, toiling at his will,
Pamper'd in youth, and haply starved in age,
Obedient, faithful, gentle,—though the spur
Wantonly cruel, or unsparing thong
Weal your gall'd hides, or your strain'd sinews crack
Beneath the crushing load,—what recompense
Can He, who gave you being, render you
If in the rank full harvest of your griefs
Ye sink annihilated, to the shame
Of government unequal?—In that day
When crime is sentenced, shall the cruel heart
Boast uncondemn'd, because no tortured brute
Stands there accusing? shall the embodied deeds
Of man not follow him, nor the rescued fly
Bear its kind witness to the saving hand?
Shall the mild Brahmin stand in equal sin
Regarding nature's menials, with the wretch
Who flays the moaning Abyssinian ox,
Or roasts the living bird, or flogs to death
392
These poor unguilty uncomplaining victims
Have no reward for life with its sharp pains?—
They have my suffrage: Nineveh was spared,
Though Jonah prophesied its doom, for sake
Of six-score thousand infants, and “much cattle;”
And space is wide enough, for every grain
Of the broad sands that curb our swelling seas
Each separate in its sphere to stand apart
As far as sun from sun: there lacks not room,
Nor time, nor care, where all is infinite:
And still I doubt: it is a Gordian knot,
A dark deep riddle, rich with curious thoughts;
Yet let me tell a trivial incident,
And draw thine own conclusion from my tale.
Paris kept holiday; a merrier sight
The crowded Champs Elysées never saw:
Loud pealing laughter, songs, and flageolets,
And giddy dances round the shadowing elms,
Green vistas thronged with thoughtless multitudes,
Traitorous processions, frivolous pursuits,
And pleasures full of sin,—the loud “hurra!”
And fierce enthusiastic “Vive la nation!”—
Were these thy ways and works, O godlike man,
Monopolist of mind, great patentee
Of truth, and sense, and reasonable soul?—
My heart was sick with gaiety; nor less,
When (sad, sad contrast to the sensual scene)
I mark'd a single hearse through the dense crowd
Move on its noiseless melancholy way:
The blazing sun half quench'd it with his beams,
And show'd it but more sorrowful: I gazed
And gazed with wonder that no feeling heart,
No solitary Man follow'd to note
The spot where poor mortality must sleep:
Alas! it was a friendless child of sorrow,
That stole unheeded to the house of Death!
My heart beat strong with sympathy, and loathed
The noisy follies that were buzzing round me,
And I resolved to watch him to his grave,
And give a man his fellow-sinner's tear:
I left the laughing crowd, and quickly gain'd
That dreary hearse, and found,—he was not friendless!
Yes, there was one, one only, faithful found
To that forgotten wanderer,—his dog!
And there, with measured step, and drooping head,
And tearful eye, paced on the stricken mourner.
Yes, I remember how my bosom ached
To see its sensible face look up to mine
As in confiding sympathy;—and howl:
Yes, I can never forget what grief unfeign'd,
What true love, and unselfish gratitude,
That poor, bereaved, and soulless dog betray'd.
The crowded Champs Elysées never saw:
Loud pealing laughter, songs, and flageolets,
And giddy dances round the shadowing elms,
Green vistas thronged with thoughtless multitudes,
Traitorous processions, frivolous pursuits,
And pleasures full of sin,—the loud “hurra!”
And fierce enthusiastic “Vive la nation!”—
Were these thy ways and works, O godlike man,
Monopolist of mind, great patentee
Of truth, and sense, and reasonable soul?—
My heart was sick with gaiety; nor less,
When (sad, sad contrast to the sensual scene)
I mark'd a single hearse through the dense crowd
Move on its noiseless melancholy way:
393
And show'd it but more sorrowful: I gazed
And gazed with wonder that no feeling heart,
No solitary Man follow'd to note
The spot where poor mortality must sleep:
Alas! it was a friendless child of sorrow,
That stole unheeded to the house of Death!
My heart beat strong with sympathy, and loathed
The noisy follies that were buzzing round me,
And I resolved to watch him to his grave,
And give a man his fellow-sinner's tear:
I left the laughing crowd, and quickly gain'd
That dreary hearse, and found,—he was not friendless!
Yes, there was one, one only, faithful found
To that forgotten wanderer,—his dog!
And there, with measured step, and drooping head,
And tearful eye, paced on the stricken mourner.
Yes, I remember how my bosom ached
To see its sensible face look up to mine
As in confiding sympathy;—and howl:
Yes, I can never forget what grief unfeign'd,
What true love, and unselfish gratitude,
That poor, bereaved, and soulless dog betray'd.
Ah, give me, give me such a friend, I cried;
Yon myriad fools and knaves in human guise
Compared with thee, poor cur, are vain and worthless,
While man, who claims a soul exclusively,
Is shamed by yonder “mere machine,”—a dog!
—“Equidem credo quia sit Divinitus illis
Yon myriad fools and knaves in human guise
Compared with thee, poor cur, are vain and worthless,
While man, who claims a soul exclusively,
Is shamed by yonder “mere machine,”—a dog!
Ingenium.”
—Virg.
394
The Chamois Hunter.—1829.
A LESSON OF LIFE.
The scene was bathed in beauty rare,
For Alpine grandeur toppled there,
With emerald spots between;
A summer-evening's blush of rose
All faintly warm'd the crested snows
And tinged the valleys green;
For Alpine grandeur toppled there,
With emerald spots between;
A summer-evening's blush of rose
All faintly warm'd the crested snows
And tinged the valleys green;
Night gloom'd apace, and dark on high
The thousand banners of the sky
Their awful width unfurl'd,
Veiling Mont Blanc's majestic brow,
That seem'd among its cloud-wrapt snow,
The ghost of some dead world:
The thousand banners of the sky
Their awful width unfurl'd,
Veiling Mont Blanc's majestic brow,
That seem'd among its cloud-wrapt snow,
The ghost of some dead world:
When Pierre the hunter cheerly went
To scale the Catton's battlement
Before the peep of day;
He took his rifle, pole, and rope,
His heart and eyes alight with hope,
He hasted on his way.
To scale the Catton's battlement
Before the peep of day;
He took his rifle, pole, and rope,
His heart and eyes alight with hope,
He hasted on his way.
He cross'd the vale, he hurried on,
He forded the cold Arveron,
The first rough terrace gain'd,
Threaded the fir-wood's gloomy belt,
And trod the snows that never melt,
And to the summit strain'd.
He forded the cold Arveron,
The first rough terrace gain'd,
Threaded the fir-wood's gloomy belt,
And trod the snows that never melt,
And to the summit strain'd.
395
Over the top, as he knew well,
Beyond the glacier in the dell
A herd of chamois slept,
So down the other dreary side,
With cautious tread, or careless slide,
He bounded, or he crept.
Beyond the glacier in the dell
A herd of chamois slept,
So down the other dreary side,
With cautious tread, or careless slide,
He bounded, or he crept.
And now he nears the chasmed ice;
He stoops to leap,—and in a trice,
His foot hath slipp'd,—O heaven!
He hath leapt in, and down he falls
Between those blue tremendous walls,
Standing asunder riven!
He stoops to leap,—and in a trice,
His foot hath slipp'd,—O heaven!
He hath leapt in, and down he falls
Between those blue tremendous walls,
Standing asunder riven!
But quick his clutching nervous grasp
Contrives a jutting crag to clasp,
And thus he hangs in air;—
O moment of exulting bliss!
Yet hope so nearly hopeless is
Twin-brother to despair.
Contrives a jutting crag to clasp,
And thus he hangs in air;—
O moment of exulting bliss!
Yet hope so nearly hopeless is
Twin-brother to despair.
He look'd beneath,—a horrible doom!
Some thousand yards of deepening gloom,
Where he must drop to die!
He look'd above, and many a rood
Upright the frozen ramparts stood
Around a speck of sky.
Some thousand yards of deepening gloom,
Where he must drop to die!
He look'd above, and many a rood
Upright the frozen ramparts stood
Around a speck of sky.
Seven long dreadful hours he hung,
And often by strong breezes swung
His fainting body twists;
Scarce can he cling one moment more,
His half-dead hands are ice, and sore
His burning bursting wrists;
And often by strong breezes swung
His fainting body twists;
Scarce can he cling one moment more,
His half-dead hands are ice, and sore
His burning bursting wrists;
396
His head grows dizzy,—he must drop,
He half resolves,—but stop, O stop,
Hold on to the last spasm,
Never in life give up your hope,—
Behold, behold a friendly rope
Is dropping down the chasm!
He half resolves,—but stop, O stop,
Hold on to the last spasm,
Never in life give up your hope,—
Behold, behold a friendly rope
Is dropping down the chasm!
They call thee, Pierre,—see, see them here,
Thy gather'd neighbours far and near,
Courage! man, hold on fast:—
And so from out that terrible place,
With death's pale paint upon his face
They drew him up at last.
Thy gather'd neighbours far and near,
Courage! man, hold on fast:—
And so from out that terrible place,
With death's pale paint upon his face
They drew him up at last.
And he came home an alter'd man,
For many harrowing terrors ran
Through his poor heart that day;
He thought how all through life, though young,
Upon a thread, a hair, he hung,
Over a gulf midway:
For many harrowing terrors ran
Through his poor heart that day;
He thought how all through life, though young,
Upon a thread, a hair, he hung,
Over a gulf midway:
He thought what fear it were to fall
Into the pit that swallows all,
Unwing'd with hope and love;
And when the succour came at last,
O then he learnt how firm and fast
Was his best Friend above.
Into the pit that swallows all,
Unwing'd with hope and love;
And when the succour came at last,
O then he learnt how firm and fast
Was his best Friend above.
397
Reproof.
Be ashamed for your reserve,
Be ashamed;—
It is not what I deserve,
Be ashamed;—
By my heart, and by my mind
Willing, warm, and well-inclined,
Let your greeting be more kind,—
Be ashamed.
Be ashamed;—
It is not what I deserve,
Be ashamed;—
By my heart, and by my mind
Willing, warm, and well-inclined,
Let your greeting be more kind,—
Be ashamed.
Be assured it's little wise,
Be assured,—
So to chill your hand and eyes,
Be assured;—
My humility can wait,
But your love may come too late,
Pride will soon be out of date,—
Be assured.
Be assured,—
So to chill your hand and eyes,
Be assured;—
My humility can wait,
But your love may come too late,
Pride will soon be out of date,—
Be assured.
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