The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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LINES.
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
LINES.
WRITTEN FOR THE SHEFFIELD MECHANICS' FIRST EXHIBITION.
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter,
Come duly, as of old;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith,
“Ye hills, put on your gold!”
Gray Stanage and his mountain'd sea
Roll, granite-billow'd, ever;
And Loxley, Sheaf, and Ewden, leave
Their dewy valleys never.
Come duly, as of old;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith,
“Ye hills, put on your gold!”
Gray Stanage and his mountain'd sea
Roll, granite-billow'd, ever;
And Loxley, Sheaf, and Ewden, leave
Their dewy valleys never.
157
The song of Homer liveth;
Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread!
If Milton's lay could pass from earth,
Heaven's bards that lay might cherish;
And Watt's great deed hath changed a world,
And will not, cannot perish.
Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread!
If Milton's lay could pass from earth,
Heaven's bards that lay might cherish;
And Watt's great deed hath changed a world,
And will not, cannot perish.
But Babylon and Memphis
Are letters traced in dust:—
Read them, earth's tyrants!—ponder well
The might in which ye trust!
They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded:
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.
Are letters traced in dust:—
Read them, earth's tyrants!—ponder well
The might in which ye trust!
They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded:
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.
Truth, Mercy, Knowledge, Justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
They work with God's right hand;
Their sword is thought! the minds they teach
Grow daily, hourly wiser;
But Memphian Kings found ignorance
Their true and last adviser!
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
They work with God's right hand;
Their sword is thought! the minds they teach
Grow daily, hourly wiser;
But Memphian Kings found ignorance
Their true and last adviser!
158
Then, Trader, Lord, or Yeoman,
If thou a patriot art—
If thou would'st weep to see the light
Of England's name depart,
Her streets blood-flooded, and her plains
In boundless conflagration—
Instruct her poor benighted sons,
And save a sinking nation!
If thou a patriot art—
If thou would'st weep to see the light
Of England's name depart,
Her streets blood-flooded, and her plains
In boundless conflagration—
Instruct her poor benighted sons,
And save a sinking nation!
Shall we not lift the lowly,
Whom law and custom ban?
O help us to exalt and praise
God, in the mind of man!
Art thou a Man? Then, haste to aid,
Perchance, a sireless brother!
And in his parent, worn with want,
“O son! behold thy mother!”
Whom law and custom ban?
O help us to exalt and praise
God, in the mind of man!
Art thou a Man? Then, haste to aid,
Perchance, a sireless brother!
And in his parent, worn with want,
“O son! behold thy mother!”
Friends of the chain'd in spirit!
Set free our soul-bound slaves!
And a redeemed and thankful world
Shall smile upon your graves;
Age after age shall see your deeds
In useful beauty growing—
Still gathering strength to save and bless—
Like streams to ocean flowing.
Set free our soul-bound slaves!
And a redeemed and thankful world
Shall smile upon your graves;
Age after age shall see your deeds
In useful beauty growing—
Still gathering strength to save and bless—
Like streams to ocean flowing.
159
Ye too, whose aims are selfish,
Who plough that ye may reap!
Come hither! here for harvest sow,
And give to get and keep!
Bless and be bless'd, thou sordid son,
And thou more sordid father!
Plant gloom with light—and you and yours
A thousandfold shall gather.
Who plough that ye may reap!
Come hither! here for harvest sow,
And give to get and keep!
Bless and be bless'd, thou sordid son,
And thou more sordid father!
Plant gloom with light—and you and yours
A thousandfold shall gather.
Like sunbeams to the moorland,
Or rest to weary woe,
Or silence to the Sabbath hills,
Your names will come and go!
Your worth, like Ewden, lingering
Around his hawthorn blossoms—
Or Stanage beckoning to his clouds—
Shall live in other bosoms.
Or rest to weary woe,
Or silence to the Sabbath hills,
Your names will come and go!
Your worth, like Ewden, lingering
Around his hawthorn blossoms—
Or Stanage beckoning to his clouds—
Shall live in other bosoms.
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |