The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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TO ELIZABETH. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
TO ELIZABETH.
“Write me a song for Betsy,” said thy sire:
Lady! it is already written—here,
On the charged brain, in tears, and gloom, and fire:
Read it when I am dust. My waning year
Is shaking down its leaves. I soon shall be
Safe, even from myself, where pain and fear
Disturb not him who sleepeth. Then to thee
The buried dead shall speak, and thou shalt hear
A spirit's voiceless words. He shall appear
To thee when awe is silence in thy soul—
Yea, thou with him shalt go withersoe'er
His feet have been. The lifeless shall control
The living: and, though worlds between us roll,
Dwell with thee in my thoughts, or linger near.
Lady! it is already written—here,
On the charged brain, in tears, and gloom, and fire:
Read it when I am dust. My waning year
Is shaking down its leaves. I soon shall be
Safe, even from myself, where pain and fear
Disturb not him who sleepeth. Then to thee
The buried dead shall speak, and thou shalt hear
A spirit's voiceless words. He shall appear
To thee when awe is silence in thy soul—
Yea, thou with him shalt go withersoe'er
His feet have been. The lifeless shall control
The living: and, though worlds between us roll,
Dwell with thee in my thoughts, or linger near.
Then, lady! gaze with me o'er Wharncliffe lone;
Or stand, in thought, on Kinder's crest sublime;
Or hear a prophet's voice, from Grina stone,
Denounce thy country's tyrants, in my rhyme.
O that Peronnet Thompson's mental might,
Or thy stern lyre, John Milton, were my own;
Or that my voice were mountain thunders, blown,
As from a trumpet, in the dead of night!
Then would I do the poor of Britain right;
Then should my song, like Russia's winter, freeze
Abaddon's host, guilt-petrified in flight;
And the roused spirit of Demosthenes,
Strong as heaven's flame from tempests ranged for fight,
Fulmine o'er darkened lands a storm of light.
Or stand, in thought, on Kinder's crest sublime;
Or hear a prophet's voice, from Grina stone,
Denounce thy country's tyrants, in my rhyme.
O that Peronnet Thompson's mental might,
Or thy stern lyre, John Milton, were my own;
Or that my voice were mountain thunders, blown,
253
Then would I do the poor of Britain right;
Then should my song, like Russia's winter, freeze
Abaddon's host, guilt-petrified in flight;
And the roused spirit of Demosthenes,
Strong as heaven's flame from tempests ranged for fight,
Fulmine o'er darkened lands a storm of light.
“My voice,” men say, “is like a convent bell,
Rung by red light'nings, at the midnight hour,
While, crashing from the tempest-shaken tower,
Its moss-grown fragments mingle with the yell
Of winds that howl o'er graves.” But if I swell
The fire-toned thunder's hymn, I have no power
To shake to-morrow's rain-drop from a flower,
No wish to bring the deluge I foretell.
Yet, while the bell of ages tolls in vain
O'er buried tyrants, may I not be heard
By tyrants living, sinning, hated, fear'd;
And, like the midnight cannon's friendly roar,
Flash'd through the portals of the wind and rain,
Warn haughty navies from a fatal shore?
Rung by red light'nings, at the midnight hour,
While, crashing from the tempest-shaken tower,
Its moss-grown fragments mingle with the yell
Of winds that howl o'er graves.” But if I swell
The fire-toned thunder's hymn, I have no power
To shake to-morrow's rain-drop from a flower,
No wish to bring the deluge I foretell.
Yet, while the bell of ages tolls in vain
O'er buried tyrants, may I not be heard
By tyrants living, sinning, hated, fear'd;
And, like the midnight cannon's friendly roar,
Flash'd through the portals of the wind and rain,
Warn haughty navies from a fatal shore?
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |