Poetical essays on the character of Pope as a poet and moralist; and on the language and objects most fit for poetry. By Charles Lloyd |
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DEDICATORY SONNET TO THE AUTHOR'S FATHER,
Of the Essays on the Genius of Pope, as a Poet and Moralist.
Oh thou, who hast, all through thy life's career,
Prov'd that the way of virtue is a way
Of safety; prov'd that those who early fear
Their Maker; who to him in youth do pay
Their vows, their onward path in quiet steer;
Prov'd, that from conscience' dictates ne'er to stray,
Though outward law be of all hindrance clear,
Leads to a peace which nothing can dismay:—
Prov'd that the way of virtue is a way
Of safety; prov'd that those who early fear
Their Maker; who to him in youth do pay
Their vows, their onward path in quiet steer;
Prov'd, that from conscience' dictates ne'er to stray,
Though outward law be of all hindrance clear,
Leads to a peace which nothing can dismay:—
Accept these lays, my father; penn'd to prove,
Self-sacrificing virtue is at last
The only way to win what all would gain,
Internal peace; the universal love
Of man; and confidence erect, and fast,
That, for their soul's, God's true rest doth remain.
Self-sacrificing virtue is at last
The only way to win what all would gain,
Internal peace; the universal love
Of man; and confidence erect, and fast,
That, for their soul's, God's true rest doth remain.
1
ESSAY ON POPE,
AS A POET AND MORALIST.
1. [FIRST PART.]
If, when we would the Poet's gift divine,
In one intelligible phrase, define,
We should affirm, the heart its stores must lend,
And with th' imagination's language blend;
What must become of Bards then, in whose flow
Of verse, though graceful, we ne'er see the glow
Of thoughts instinct with feeling's sacred flame,
Nor power imaginative theme to frame?
We ask, in what sense is a man a bard,
Who doth Imagination's aid discard?
And in whose lays we never can discern,
Or sentiments “which breathe, or words which burn?”
Say, is it, that the skill that verse to build
Whose flow of stately melody is fill'd
With sense acute, may challenge from mankind
The immortal wreath to poet's brow assign'd?
We tremble as the verdict we express;
Yet if a bard we criticise, from stress
Of speaking the whole truth of him, (at least
Of that which seems so,) can we be releas'd?
Although we hope from prejudice we're clear,
Yet unestablish'd in renown, we fear,
And pause, or ere, with unripe, embryo fame,
We dare to adjust a mightier author's claim.
Shall we then say it? Though we see in Pope
Wit the most keen, of sense the amplest scope,
Though he can be, if it so chance he please,
Mighty from energy, and gay from ease;
Though in a dialect perspicuous, terse,
He sense can marry to immortal verse,
And, with consummate elegance, combine
Force intellectual, through each nervous line;
Though in the antithetic he can charm,
With wit perplex us, and with splendour warm;
Though his that playful malice, which, with grace,
Can strip pretension of its grave grimace;
Though he in numbers, tuneful as the spheres,
Can make e'en crabbed themes enchant our ears;
Though he can charm us to a pleasing trance,
With quick meteorous lights, which love to dance
To Fancy's eye;—though, eloquently bland,
For him refinement all her stores expand;
Yes, though thus opulent in many a dower;
In feeling, in imagination's power,
He is deficient; in each glorious gift,
'Bove earth, which doth the ravish'd spirit lift.
One power has Pope. One, eminently his:—
And, of all powers, the one, with emphasis,
Which gives th' ephemeral child of Fancy's birth,
The claim to currency, the stamp of worth.
This power is sense! Oh ye, who pour along
The soft meanders of a mystic song,
Whose conscious nights mild moon-beams ever gild,
Whose tones are sweet as honey thrice distill'd,
Whom keep in constant wildering of the senses,
Unearthly sounds, unreal influences;
Upon the surface of whose minstrelsy
Broods the low murmur, th' inarticulate sigh;
Whose hero's love totters upon the brink
Of wild insanity; whose heroines shrink,
With such susceptibility intense,
From categories rude of common sense,
That sometimes, as we read, profane in doubt,
We to the errata turn to make them out,
And finding no clue there, we read again,
And muse if we've our wits, or they are sane;
And as their lucubrations wild we con,
Like them bewilder'd, we meander on:—
In whose verse,—(as Armida's gardens teem
With fruit and flowers,)—at every moment gleam
Tears, smiles, looks inexpressive, snowy arms,
Redundance of all visionary charms:
Oh ye, who, prodigal of sweets like these,
Hope, by your cloying lusciousness to please,
How would your matter fare, dismissing rhyme,
If we should read it destitute of chime?
How, when bereft of that authority
Deriv'd from measur'd sentences, should we
The worth discern of that, which, when from it
We abstract euphony, is void of wit?
In one intelligible phrase, define,
We should affirm, the heart its stores must lend,
And with th' imagination's language blend;
What must become of Bards then, in whose flow
Of verse, though graceful, we ne'er see the glow
Of thoughts instinct with feeling's sacred flame,
Nor power imaginative theme to frame?
We ask, in what sense is a man a bard,
Who doth Imagination's aid discard?
And in whose lays we never can discern,
Or sentiments “which breathe, or words which burn?”
Say, is it, that the skill that verse to build
Whose flow of stately melody is fill'd
With sense acute, may challenge from mankind
The immortal wreath to poet's brow assign'd?
2
Yet if a bard we criticise, from stress
Of speaking the whole truth of him, (at least
Of that which seems so,) can we be releas'd?
Although we hope from prejudice we're clear,
Yet unestablish'd in renown, we fear,
And pause, or ere, with unripe, embryo fame,
We dare to adjust a mightier author's claim.
Shall we then say it? Though we see in Pope
Wit the most keen, of sense the amplest scope,
Though he can be, if it so chance he please,
Mighty from energy, and gay from ease;
Though in a dialect perspicuous, terse,
He sense can marry to immortal verse,
And, with consummate elegance, combine
Force intellectual, through each nervous line;
Though in the antithetic he can charm,
With wit perplex us, and with splendour warm;
Though his that playful malice, which, with grace,
Can strip pretension of its grave grimace;
Though he in numbers, tuneful as the spheres,
Can make e'en crabbed themes enchant our ears;
Though he can charm us to a pleasing trance,
With quick meteorous lights, which love to dance
To Fancy's eye;—though, eloquently bland,
For him refinement all her stores expand;
Yes, though thus opulent in many a dower;
In feeling, in imagination's power,
He is deficient; in each glorious gift,
'Bove earth, which doth the ravish'd spirit lift.
3
And, of all powers, the one, with emphasis,
Which gives th' ephemeral child of Fancy's birth,
The claim to currency, the stamp of worth.
This power is sense! Oh ye, who pour along
The soft meanders of a mystic song,
Whose conscious nights mild moon-beams ever gild,
Whose tones are sweet as honey thrice distill'd,
Whom keep in constant wildering of the senses,
Unearthly sounds, unreal influences;
Upon the surface of whose minstrelsy
Broods the low murmur, th' inarticulate sigh;
Whose hero's love totters upon the brink
Of wild insanity; whose heroines shrink,
With such susceptibility intense,
From categories rude of common sense,
That sometimes, as we read, profane in doubt,
We to the errata turn to make them out,
And finding no clue there, we read again,
And muse if we've our wits, or they are sane;
And as their lucubrations wild we con,
Like them bewilder'd, we meander on:—
In whose verse,—(as Armida's gardens teem
With fruit and flowers,)—at every moment gleam
Tears, smiles, looks inexpressive, snowy arms,
Redundance of all visionary charms:
Oh ye, who, prodigal of sweets like these,
Hope, by your cloying lusciousness to please,
How would your matter fare, dismissing rhyme,
If we should read it destitute of chime?
4
Deriv'd from measur'd sentences, should we
The worth discern of that, which, when from it
We abstract euphony, is void of wit?
'Tis surely better taste, must we forego,
Or sense, or this redundant overflow
Of unexpressive and mysterious phrases,
To fix on sense, and banish mystic mazes.
Or sense, or this redundant overflow
Of unexpressive and mysterious phrases,
To fix on sense, and banish mystic mazes.
Sense is a sterling quality; and he
Possessing this, who writes harmoniously,
Will, in the judgment of wise spirits, claim
Title to an unquestionable fame:—
On such a pedestal may we erect
The fame of Pope; nor need we thus suspect
That even those, most captious, will deny
To him, such mitigated eulogy.
Possessing this, who writes harmoniously,
Will, in the judgment of wise spirits, claim
Title to an unquestionable fame:—
On such a pedestal may we erect
The fame of Pope; nor need we thus suspect
That even those, most captious, will deny
To him, such mitigated eulogy.
Still, though we do account th' high sounding word,
Instead of compensation for th' absurd,
Rather an aggravation of a fault,
Which scruples not our common sense t' assault;
Though at Pope's irony we'd rather smile,
Than languish with a pair who must beguile
Us of our intellect, or ere their love,
And amorous blandishments, we can approve;
We do affirm, a quality there lives,
In Pope not found, which to the poet gives,
Beyond imagination, power to explore
Its deep recesses, to the inmost core
Of the human heart. It is a power which dwells
With those, whose heritage are all the spells,
Which, with discriminative skill applied,
O'er all the mysteries of the heart preside,
And ope its secret lurking places wide:
It is the power, the occult faculty,
Involv'd in gift of sensibility.
Instead of compensation for th' absurd,
Rather an aggravation of a fault,
Which scruples not our common sense t' assault;
Though at Pope's irony we'd rather smile,
Than languish with a pair who must beguile
Us of our intellect, or ere their love,
And amorous blandishments, we can approve;
We do affirm, a quality there lives,
In Pope not found, which to the poet gives,
5
Its deep recesses, to the inmost core
Of the human heart. It is a power which dwells
With those, whose heritage are all the spells,
Which, with discriminative skill applied,
O'er all the mysteries of the heart preside,
And ope its secret lurking places wide:
It is the power, the occult faculty,
Involv'd in gift of sensibility.
When we say that Pope has not sensibility, we mean in the comprehensive sense of the word, as implying sympathy with others, as well as the capacity for strong feeling ourselves. Sensibility, divested of a power of comprehensive sympathy, should rather be called sensitiveness; or, to make the matter more clear, we would call feeling associated with the disinterested affections, sensibility; feeling associated with self-love, sensitiveness. But do we not gratuitously affirm that Pope has only the latter quality? No. He always rather delights to analyze vice, than to suppose virtue. No man ever had a tact for the perception of passions, which did not primarily exist in himself; and he who could read the Satire on Women, and indeed most of Pope's ethical writings, and not feel that he gained his knowledge of human weaknesses from their prototypes in his own breast, may be a very good man, but certainly is not a very acute one. No man, that was not selfish himself, could have so acutely seen in others, the selfish aspect of even passions ordinarily supposed to be remote from considerations of self.
They who these spells possess, possess the dower,
To clothe e'en daily forms with sacred power.
They can make ordinary things subserve
To touch humanity's most tender nerve;
A tree can they,—a flower,—a common scene,
A common incident,—which, (had not been
With it develop'd their peculiar might)
Possess'd no attribute the heart to smite,—
Illustrate by some exquisite revealing
Of secret sympathies around them stealing;
And give to them, (as vine to blasted elm,)
Graces, which all deformities o'erwhelm;
And cause them so with beauty to have teem'd,
That, as the Gospel says of those redeem'd,
Though outwardly the same, yet they inherit
New graces through this recreative spirit.
These men, with sensibilities most deep,
Combine each object; and although they steep
Them in a radiance which the soul refreshes,
Yet from their fount of thought no sooner gushes
This consecrating medium, through which
Their subject they embalm, and thus enrich;
Than ev'ry breast—though had their pow'r not been,
The object in such light it ne'er had seen,—
Feels, as if, 'neath a sacred revelation,
The form receiv'd a new-born consecration.
To clothe e'en daily forms with sacred power.
They can make ordinary things subserve
To touch humanity's most tender nerve;
A tree can they,—a flower,—a common scene,
A common incident,—which, (had not been
With it develop'd their peculiar might)
Possess'd no attribute the heart to smite,—
Illustrate by some exquisite revealing
Of secret sympathies around them stealing;
And give to them, (as vine to blasted elm,)
Graces, which all deformities o'erwhelm;
And cause them so with beauty to have teem'd,
That, as the Gospel says of those redeem'd,
Though outwardly the same, yet they inherit
New graces through this recreative spirit.
These men, with sensibilities most deep,
Combine each object; and although they steep
Them in a radiance which the soul refreshes,
Yet from their fount of thought no sooner gushes
6
Their subject they embalm, and thus enrich;
Than ev'ry breast—though had their pow'r not been,
The object in such light it ne'er had seen,—
Feels, as if, 'neath a sacred revelation,
The form receiv'd a new-born consecration.
'Tis not so much, these men more forms survey
Than others, but they see them cloth'd with ray
From an indwelling faculty, which sheds
New grace upon them; which the spirit weds
To a communion with their very being;
So that the simple agency of seeing
Is fraught with fresh perceptions of delight;
Various in combination; infinite
In its associating quality;
And cloth'd with all the soul of sympathy.
Than others, but they see them cloth'd with ray
From an indwelling faculty, which sheds
New grace upon them; which the spirit weds
To a communion with their very being;
So that the simple agency of seeing
Is fraught with fresh perceptions of delight;
Various in combination; infinite
In its associating quality;
And cloth'd with all the soul of sympathy.
He who has this, the touchstone sure possesses,
To find, as 'twere, with superhuman guesses,
That which, in every circumstance of life,
Accrues to man in passion's fearful strife:—
His soul is like a microcosm: he,
Largely possessing this high quality,
At once pronounces with a tact precise,
Profound, as it is accurate and nice,
What, in a given post, a given mood;
What, in society, in solitude;
Or what in sorrow, what in joy; in death;
In life; a being breathing human breath
Can feel! He can at once identify
Self with all aspects of humanity.
Talents can not give this. By process deep
This can give talents; for what man can keep,
In his own breast, a little world reflecting
“All objects of all thoughts;” a sense detecting
All qualities, and properties of man;
All feelings which can visit life's brief span,
And not be rich in many a mental prize?
In intellectual process not be wise?
A man, by talents, abstract truth may find;
But to the abstract still will be confin'd
All his acquirements: intuitions none
In him will e'er be found; nor depths which shun
Coyly, his dry and scrutinizing gaze,
Who, when he ought to feel, would theories raise.
The gifted, thus, with intuition's spirit,
At once can tell whether a man inherit
This awful dower, who theoretic test
Of truth exhibits for the human breast.
It is a dower which none can simulate;
A dower, devoid of which, devoid of weight
Will be a poet's lucubrations still,
Howe'er strong talents exercise their skill.
To find, as 'twere, with superhuman guesses,
That which, in every circumstance of life,
Accrues to man in passion's fearful strife:—
His soul is like a microcosm: he,
Largely possessing this high quality,
At once pronounces with a tact precise,
Profound, as it is accurate and nice,
What, in a given post, a given mood;
What, in society, in solitude;
Or what in sorrow, what in joy; in death;
In life; a being breathing human breath
7
Self with all aspects of humanity.
Talents can not give this. By process deep
This can give talents; for what man can keep,
In his own breast, a little world reflecting
“All objects of all thoughts;” a sense detecting
All qualities, and properties of man;
All feelings which can visit life's brief span,
And not be rich in many a mental prize?
In intellectual process not be wise?
A man, by talents, abstract truth may find;
But to the abstract still will be confin'd
All his acquirements: intuitions none
In him will e'er be found; nor depths which shun
Coyly, his dry and scrutinizing gaze,
Who, when he ought to feel, would theories raise.
The gifted, thus, with intuition's spirit,
At once can tell whether a man inherit
This awful dower, who theoretic test
Of truth exhibits for the human breast.
It is a dower which none can simulate;
A dower, devoid of which, devoid of weight
Will be a poet's lucubrations still,
Howe'er strong talents exercise their skill.
If Pope this dower have, chiefly we must think
O'er those dim regions of the heart, where shrink
Man's coward qualities, and oblique aims:
Vice he dissects, but virtue ne'er inflames.
But, let us ask, what power, the sacred nine
Can give their votaries, doth most enshrine
Them in the heart of man? What power does this
With such unquestionable emphasis,
With such authority and consecration,
As thine, oh awfullest Imagination?—
Doth Pope possess it? We deny his claim
To such a holy attribute of fame.
True, he can marshal forms which touch the senses,
And all sensation's daintiest influences
Depict with nicety; though still his main
Distinction is, that,—like electric chain,
Through which, from link to link, in process swift,
The subtle igneous scintillations shift,—
He, all the pigmy follies can controul,
“The small militia” of the immortal soul,
And make them skirmish with obedient strife,
Conjuring up smart fac-similes of life;
And thus, from scene to scene, through time and tide,—
(As in a bark which down a stream doth glide,
At every moment, while it plies its way,
While new forms rise, new scenes themselves display,
If chance a painter be, by his prompt art
Each is on canvas seen again to start;)—
Can Pope our whims fix ere they do explode,
The last religion, or the newest mode;
The latest theory in metaphysics;
Scandal
most tart, or most insipid ethics;
“Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise?”
Evolve the many-shifting faults of man,
“A mighty maze, though not without a plan.”
Can trace to self, the self renouncing aim;
Bereave the baffled zealot of his fame;
Dissect Enthusiasm; to grimace
Reduce Pretension, stripped of soaring grace;
Turn Gravity's exterior, inside out;
And prove that never of himself to doubt,
Form'd all the panoply, the double mail,
Whence, arm'd with courage, Dulness dar'd to rail?
Yes, he subdues the impostor by his wit,
As patient in the stone, when strong the fit,
Doth to the keen dissecting knife submit.
He, when proud Cæsar Cleopatra wooed,
Can prove that Cæsar for ambition sued;
And, he can prove that Charles the field forswore,
And, stead of soldiers' mail, coarse sackcloth wore,
Not for devotion's take, but since he could
No more dominions inundate with blood.—
O'er those dim regions of the heart, where shrink
Man's coward qualities, and oblique aims:
Vice he dissects, but virtue ne'er inflames.
8
Can give their votaries, doth most enshrine
Them in the heart of man? What power does this
With such unquestionable emphasis,
With such authority and consecration,
As thine, oh awfullest Imagination?—
Doth Pope possess it? We deny his claim
To such a holy attribute of fame.
True, he can marshal forms which touch the senses,
And all sensation's daintiest influences
Depict with nicety; though still his main
Distinction is, that,—like electric chain,
Through which, from link to link, in process swift,
The subtle igneous scintillations shift,—
He, all the pigmy follies can controul,
“The small militia” of the immortal soul,
And make them skirmish with obedient strife,
Conjuring up smart fac-similes of life;
And thus, from scene to scene, through time and tide,—
(As in a bark which down a stream doth glide,
At every moment, while it plies its way,
While new forms rise, new scenes themselves display,
If chance a painter be, by his prompt art
Each is on canvas seen again to start;)—
Can Pope our whims fix ere they do explode,
The last religion, or the newest mode;
The latest theory in metaphysics;
Scandal
We may be excused, we hope, in expressing it as our opinion that the merit of Pope, as an Ethical Poet, consists not so much in the depth of his philosophy, as in the vigorous and sharp manner with which he adorns common-places; he shines, in our opinion, much more as a satirist, than as a moral philosopher; much more in the concrete, than in the abstract.
“Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise?”
9
“A mighty maze, though not without a plan.”
Can trace to self, the self renouncing aim;
Bereave the baffled zealot of his fame;
Dissect Enthusiasm; to grimace
Reduce Pretension, stripped of soaring grace;
Turn Gravity's exterior, inside out;
And prove that never of himself to doubt,
Form'd all the panoply, the double mail,
Whence, arm'd with courage, Dulness dar'd to rail?
Yes, he subdues the impostor by his wit,
As patient in the stone, when strong the fit,
Doth to the keen dissecting knife submit.
He, when proud Cæsar Cleopatra wooed,
Can prove that Cæsar for ambition sued;
And, he can prove that Charles the field forswore,
And, stead of soldiers' mail, coarse sackcloth wore,
Not for devotion's take, but since he could
No more dominions inundate with blood.—
He,
too, can prove, how the most great event
Is oft result of smallest accident:
How kings, in fit of gout, have wars begun,
Which, in a love fit, they might wish to shun:
How Europe might to bloodshed be resign'd,
Since, on her Anarch, blew a sharp east wind;
How the same men oft differ from themselves;
As differing passions, like malicious elves,
Or elves beneficent, have visited
Their closet, path, their table, or their bed:
Can prove, perhaps, how an ill-flavour'd dish,
A tasteless ragout, or a tainted fish,
Might cause, from torrid zone, to icy pole,
War's universal thunder-shock to roll.—
But grant that actions best discover man;
Take the most strong, and sort them as you can.
The few that glare, each character must mark,
You balance not the many in the dark.
What will you do with such as disagree?
Suppress them, or miscall them policy?
Must then at once (the character to save)
The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?
Alas! in truth the man but chang'd his mind,
Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not din'd.
Ask why from Britain Cæsar would retreat?
Cæsar himself might whisper, he was beat.
Why risk the world's great empire for a punk?
Cæsar perhaps might answer he was drunk.
But, sage historians! 'tis your task to prove,
One action, conduct; one, heroic love.
Take the most strong, and sort them as you can.
The few that glare, each character must mark,
You balance not the many in the dark.
What will you do with such as disagree?
Suppress them, or miscall them policy?
Must then at once (the character to save)
The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?
Alas! in truth the man but chang'd his mind,
Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not din'd.
Ask why from Britain Cæsar would retreat?
Cæsar himself might whisper, he was beat.
Why risk the world's great empire for a punk?
Cæsar perhaps might answer he was drunk.
But, sage historians! 'tis your task to prove,
One action, conduct; one, heroic love.
Same epistle, l. 119.
Is oft result of smallest accident:
How kings, in fit of gout, have wars begun,
Which, in a love fit, they might wish to shun:
How Europe might to bloodshed be resign'd,
Since, on her Anarch, blew a sharp east wind;
How the same men oft differ from themselves;
As differing passions, like malicious elves,
Or elves beneficent, have visited
Their closet, path, their table, or their bed:
10
A tasteless ragout, or a tainted fish,
Might cause, from torrid zone, to icy pole,
War's universal thunder-shock to roll.—
He too can hint, how ladies, at a pinch,
When their charms fade, or when their lovers flinch,
Take to devotion,—or, perhaps,—to cards;
Patronize theatres, or needy bards;
Soar, in proportion, as they once did grovel;
Write manuals of devotion, or—a novel!—
And prove, by force of penitential woe,
For sins, how manifold, their bright tears flow;
Tears, like the hour-glass sands, which still drop on,
Till all their stock with cruel time is gone;—
From pretext, to which man oft gives a weight,
Can he the lurking purpose extricate,
And mid subordinate passions' ruling claim,
Can see our being's universal aim!—
When their charms fade, or when their lovers flinch,
Take to devotion,—or, perhaps,—to cards;
Patronize theatres, or needy bards;
Soar, in proportion, as they once did grovel;
Write manuals of devotion, or—a novel!—
And prove, by force of penitential woe,
For sins, how manifold, their bright tears flow;
Tears, like the hour-glass sands, which still drop on,
Till all their stock with cruel time is gone;—
Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate,
No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate.
On her, that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because she's honest, and the best of friends.
On her, whose life the church and scandal share,
For ever in a passion, or a prayer;
On her, who laughs at Hell, (but like her grace)
Cries, “ah, how charming, if there's no such place!”
And who, in sweet vicissitude appears,
Of mirth and opium; ratafie and tears;
The daily anodyne; the nightly draught
To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought.
Women and fools are hardest things to hit;
For true no meaning puzzles more than wit.
No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate.
On her, that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because she's honest, and the best of friends.
On her, whose life the church and scandal share,
For ever in a passion, or a prayer;
On her, who laughs at Hell, (but like her grace)
Cries, “ah, how charming, if there's no such place!”
And who, in sweet vicissitude appears,
Of mirth and opium; ratafie and tears;
The daily anodyne; the nightly draught
To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought.
Women and fools are hardest things to hit;
For true no meaning puzzles more than wit.
On the Character of Women, l. 101.
From pretext, to which man oft gives a weight,
Can he the lurking purpose extricate,
And mid subordinate passions' ruling claim,
Can see our being's universal aim!—
But needs it mighty power, to tell a man
That weakness mingles with his noblest plan?
That, oft devotion, on its highest stilt,
Is but our “castle in the air” last built?
That the same zeal whence martyrs brave the fire,
Hath led a Hindoo to her husband's pyre?
That disappointed love alike might fill
The cells of Bedlam, or Conventicle?—
That acquiescence in an humble station,
Is dullness, flattered into resignation?—
That gravity's a fool, would have us guess,
That he is wise, in knowing to suppress;
Or, as la Rochefoucault would it disparage,
The mind's defect, veil'd by the body's carriage?
Morality, a cloak,—like those of duffle,
Because so many blemishes they muffle,—
Which is so universally the fashion,
Because it covers poverty of passion,
Honesty, cowardice; the child of fears,
That we shall pay dishonesty's arrears?
Devotion; but the refuse of those powers,
Whose charmed wand was snapp'd in Pleasure's bowers?
And chastity, a winter premature,
Which hides deficiency 'neath garb demure;
A mere precocity of frozen blood,
Whose very impotency points to good?
That weakness mingles with his noblest plan?
That, oft devotion, on its highest stilt,
Is but our “castle in the air” last built?
That the same zeal whence martyrs brave the fire,
Hath led a Hindoo to her husband's pyre?
That disappointed love alike might fill
The cells of Bedlam, or Conventicle?—
That acquiescence in an humble station,
Is dullness, flattered into resignation?—
11
That he is wise, in knowing to suppress;
Or, as la Rochefoucault would it disparage,
The mind's defect, veil'd by the body's carriage?
Morality, a cloak,—like those of duffle,
Because so many blemishes they muffle,—
Which is so universally the fashion,
Because it covers poverty of passion,
Honesty, cowardice; the child of fears,
That we shall pay dishonesty's arrears?
Devotion; but the refuse of those powers,
Whose charmed wand was snapp'd in Pleasure's bowers?
And chastity, a winter premature,
Which hides deficiency 'neath garb demure;
A mere precocity of frozen blood,
Whose very impotency points to good?
May not subordinate power perform all this?
The highest power is not analysis;—
It is the building up of being's plan;
Not sapping all th' untenable posts of man.
He who can prove, although a virtue's weak,
That virtue hath authority to check
Man's lower impulses; he who can prove,
That we are-not the vassals of self-love;
Though not so witty as the antithetic,
Not half so smart, since not half so splenetic,
He is the writer, to whom,—good, and great,—
The lesser ones should vail their proud estate;
He is the man who medicates the mind;
Like surgeon, t'other is, to whom assign'd
Are fractures, cicatrice, and bruise; whose trade
Would fail, were man invulnerable made.
The highest power is not analysis;—
It is the building up of being's plan;
Not sapping all th' untenable posts of man.
He who can prove, although a virtue's weak,
That virtue hath authority to check
Man's lower impulses; he who can prove,
That we are-not the vassals of self-love;
Though not so witty as the antithetic,
Not half so smart, since not half so splenetic,
He is the writer, to whom,—good, and great,—
The lesser ones should vail their proud estate;
12
Like surgeon, t'other is, to whom assign'd
Are fractures, cicatrice, and bruise; whose trade
Would fail, were man invulnerable made.
Though to the critic there may be imputed
Creative power, in him will be non-suited
Such high pretension; oftentimes there flows
Error from him, who “bookish theoric” knows,
Aiming at composition, faults too great
For failing genius e'er to perpetrate.
Powers of conception, oft mistakingly,
We think creative faculties imply;
Yet exquisite perceptions form a spell
Round those, who, if they do, must do all well;
These oft, fastidious criteria teach,
A standard far transcending human reach,
Which, baffling all their faculties, impede
The powers those same perceptions ought to feed.
Let not the soul then deem, because it can
Detect an error in a complex plan,
That it could gain perfection: oh, there lives,
E'en in minutest process which achieves
The birth of talent's offspring,—though they be
Embryo productions, form'd imperfectly,—
More stuff, than in a thousand pages writ,
To prove our affluence of satiric wit.—
Creative power, in him will be non-suited
Such high pretension; oftentimes there flows
Error from him, who “bookish theoric” knows,
Aiming at composition, faults too great
For failing genius e'er to perpetrate.
Powers of conception, oft mistakingly,
We think creative faculties imply;
Yet exquisite perceptions form a spell
Round those, who, if they do, must do all well;
These oft, fastidious criteria teach,
A standard far transcending human reach,
Which, baffling all their faculties, impede
The powers those same perceptions ought to feed.
Let not the soul then deem, because it can
Detect an error in a complex plan,
That it could gain perfection: oh, there lives,
E'en in minutest process which achieves
The birth of talent's offspring,—though they be
Embryo productions, form'd imperfectly,—
More stuff, than in a thousand pages writ,
To prove our affluence of satiric wit.—
E'en as in intellectual, equally
In moral subjects, this our rule may be.
A man in whom benevolent feeling glows,
Still less, one whom humility endows,
Who oft hath felt how froward is his heart,
How loth to take with soaring virtue, part,
Ne'er is in task delighted, with blind eye
To his particular infirmity,
The failings of his fellow men to spy.
As the defaulter ever is most prone
To please himself, that he sins not alone;
Not satisfied with base accomplices,
Joys in proportion, as he evil spies
In other men, quite satisfied to be
Virtuous in the comparative degree,
So he, who takes much pleasure to betray
Coy human frailties to the eye of day,
We may be sure, is one who stands in need,—
Circuitously thus his cause to plead,—
Of poisonous dose of flattery indirect,
Convey'd when other's failings we detect.
Thus doth he, as the restless invalid,
Who doth, by torments rack'd, narcotics need,
Thus doth he, as the last, by pangs distraught,
Thankfully swallows down the poisonous draught;
“Lay,” to the gnawing consciousness within,
“The flattering unction” of another's sin:
And thus both perilously try to still
Internal suffering, by external ill.—
In moral subjects, this our rule may be.
13
Still less, one whom humility endows,
Who oft hath felt how froward is his heart,
How loth to take with soaring virtue, part,
Ne'er is in task delighted, with blind eye
To his particular infirmity,
The failings of his fellow men to spy.
As the defaulter ever is most prone
To please himself, that he sins not alone;
Not satisfied with base accomplices,
Joys in proportion, as he evil spies
In other men, quite satisfied to be
Virtuous in the comparative degree,
So he, who takes much pleasure to betray
Coy human frailties to the eye of day,
We may be sure, is one who stands in need,—
Circuitously thus his cause to plead,—
Of poisonous dose of flattery indirect,
Convey'd when other's failings we detect.
Thus doth he, as the restless invalid,
Who doth, by torments rack'd, narcotics need,
Thus doth he, as the last, by pangs distraught,
Thankfully swallows down the poisonous draught;
“Lay,” to the gnawing consciousness within,
“The flattering unction” of another's sin:
And thus both perilously try to still
Internal suffering, by external ill.—
Perchance, to that which, earlier in this strain,
We have affirm'd of Pope's poetic vein,
By his admirers it will be objected,
That he, Belinda's graces hath depicted,
With all a poet's fire; that he has rais'd
Around her charms, a picture; where emblaz'd
Is every graceful attribute and form,
To strike the senses, and the fancy warm.
And more, that, in his Eloise, we find
All the deep fervour of th' impassioned mind;
The conflict 'twixt devotion and desire,
The human passions ceasing to aspire,
Religion's new-born zeal, and love's self-smothered fire.
We answer;—in the first, the dainty glance,
There meets with all, in magic elegance,
That captivates the senses;—fancy's spells;—
All to seduction that the taste compells.—
There ease, correctness, symmetry combine;
Playfulness there, perfect refinement shine,
And nicest art adjusts each flowing line.
But is imagination there? The birth
Which consecrates the essences of earth?—
The art, which, by a subtle fusion blends
E'en common forms, transfiguring what each lends,
Till powers, which “the earth owns not,” on them brood?
And combinations, which, as soon as view'd,—
Though all original, in nature's taste
So much produced,—their every aspect grac'd,—
That though we wonder at the subtle touch,
Which could to forms familiar lend so much;
At once we yield ourselves to th' pow'r divine,
Fixing the unholy, in a holy shrine?—
Is there the sacred skill to personate
The abstract entities which govern fate?
To clothe the impalpable with forms of sense,
From worlds unknown, new mysteries dispense?
That power, by which, the mighty “heir of fame,”
“A local habitation and a name,”
“To airy nothing gave;” which call'd to birth
More, both from things in heaven, and things in earth,
Than “is dreamt of, in” his “philosophy,”
Who has no thought for what he cannot see?
We have affirm'd of Pope's poetic vein,
14
That he, Belinda's graces hath depicted,
With all a poet's fire; that he has rais'd
Around her charms, a picture; where emblaz'd
Is every graceful attribute and form,
To strike the senses, and the fancy warm.
And more, that, in his Eloise, we find
All the deep fervour of th' impassioned mind;
The conflict 'twixt devotion and desire,
The human passions ceasing to aspire,
Religion's new-born zeal, and love's self-smothered fire.
We answer;—in the first, the dainty glance,
There meets with all, in magic elegance,
That captivates the senses;—fancy's spells;—
All to seduction that the taste compells.—
There ease, correctness, symmetry combine;
Playfulness there, perfect refinement shine,
And nicest art adjusts each flowing line.
But is imagination there? The birth
Which consecrates the essences of earth?—
The art, which, by a subtle fusion blends
E'en common forms, transfiguring what each lends,
Till powers, which “the earth owns not,” on them brood?
And combinations, which, as soon as view'd,—
Though all original, in nature's taste
So much produced,—their every aspect grac'd,—
That though we wonder at the subtle touch,
Which could to forms familiar lend so much;
At once we yield ourselves to th' pow'r divine,
Fixing the unholy, in a holy shrine?—
15
The abstract entities which govern fate?
To clothe the impalpable with forms of sense,
From worlds unknown, new mysteries dispense?
That power, by which, the mighty “heir of fame,”
“A local habitation and a name,”
“To airy nothing gave;” which call'd to birth
More, both from things in heaven, and things in earth,
Than “is dreamt of, in” his “philosophy,”
Who has no thought for what he cannot see?
This is the triumph of legitimate power,
To give to objects, by creative dower,
A new existence; while at once we cause
The labouring mind to stop in wandering pause:
So to the chaste in nature, still to keep,—
Though in refreshing dews our forms we steep;
And though with renovating influence,
We quite remould them to th' awakened sense;
Yet to do this in such subservience still,—
The passive instruments of nature's will;—
That while we lead the spirit to admire,
Exult,—adore,—in transport to aspire;
It feels it were but usher'd to that goal,
For which its tears in vain did often roll;
It long had thirsted for with panting soul.
For th' Eloise; we must presume to say,
Love's noblest zeal, we do not there survey:
'Tis passion's impotence, and passion's fire;
Burnings of appetite, and wild desire;—
No dainty hues, as bloom on opening roses;
There charm the sense, as love's soft tale discloses;
There is no reticence, which thralls us more
Than words, howe'er redundantly they pour
The tide of eloquence in tuneful theme;
There no soft blush conciliates esteem.
Instead of conflict,—of unhallowed fires;
Instead of penitence,—of wild desires;
Instead of self-renouncement,—we peruse
The shameless rant of an unhallow'd muse.
To give to objects, by creative dower,
A new existence; while at once we cause
The labouring mind to stop in wandering pause:
So to the chaste in nature, still to keep,—
Though in refreshing dews our forms we steep;
And though with renovating influence,
We quite remould them to th' awakened sense;
Yet to do this in such subservience still,—
The passive instruments of nature's will;—
That while we lead the spirit to admire,
Exult,—adore,—in transport to aspire;
It feels it were but usher'd to that goal,
For which its tears in vain did often roll;
It long had thirsted for with panting soul.
For th' Eloise; we must presume to say,
Love's noblest zeal, we do not there survey:
16
Burnings of appetite, and wild desire;—
No dainty hues, as bloom on opening roses;
There charm the sense, as love's soft tale discloses;
There is no reticence, which thralls us more
Than words, howe'er redundantly they pour
The tide of eloquence in tuneful theme;
There no soft blush conciliates esteem.
Instead of conflict,—of unhallowed fires;
Instead of penitence,—of wild desires;
Instead of self-renouncement,—we peruse
The shameless rant of an unhallow'd muse.
Yes, we would say, that fancy rules the first,
And by the second are our passions nurs'd;
Perfectly brilliant as a jeu d' esprit,
The one; the other most flagitiously,—
Only more profligate than eloquent,—
Poisons the mind with passion's condiment.
Love hath been felt, and love hath been obey'd;
But victim love must be, where he hath made
Man first his victim, ere we acquiesce
In sorrow, for defaulters who transgress.
Authors, who thus would do, as Pope has done,—
Pourtray for approbation, what should shun
The eye of day;—flagitiousness of will;—
Do they it well,—but desecrate their skill;—
And only ought to gain, from each good mind,
The Judas-price of traitors to mankind.—
Our impulses are turbulent enough
For all their purposes. We need no stuff
Of heated fantasy to reconcile
Our credulous youth to passions which beguile.
No; we should rather arm the coward breast,
Against voluptuousness; than thus confess'd,—
Subtle abettors of unhallow'd fires,—
Feed with provocatives our brute desires.
And by the second are our passions nurs'd;
Perfectly brilliant as a jeu d' esprit,
The one; the other most flagitiously,—
Only more profligate than eloquent,—
Poisons the mind with passion's condiment.
Love hath been felt, and love hath been obey'd;
But victim love must be, where he hath made
Man first his victim, ere we acquiesce
In sorrow, for defaulters who transgress.
Authors, who thus would do, as Pope has done,—
Pourtray for approbation, what should shun
The eye of day;—flagitiousness of will;—
Do they it well,—but desecrate their skill;—
And only ought to gain, from each good mind,
The Judas-price of traitors to mankind.—
17
For all their purposes. We need no stuff
Of heated fantasy to reconcile
Our credulous youth to passions which beguile.
No; we should rather arm the coward breast,
Against voluptuousness; than thus confess'd,—
Subtle abettors of unhallow'd fires,—
Feed with provocatives our brute desires.
Oh, could we strengthen,—that indeed were praise,—
Those who're irresolute in virtue's ways;—
And this we think is not so wisely done
By painting passion as a snare to shun;
As by allowing to her subtle sway,
Influence, to make the yielding soul obey.
There are, and generous souls there are, who spurn,
To be cajol'd to virtue; who discern
That we avail ourselves of artifice,
When we deny all blandishments to vice;
And with a proselyting cowardice,
Allow alone to virtue, power to bless;
And paint her ways alone, as “ways of pleasantness.”
No; we would willingly concede to youth,
That vice has charms; not even by stern truth
Will be denied, that, could her transports last,
Such cleaving ligaments she knows to cast
Around the human soul; she well might aim
To make us thralls to her seductive claim.
We would be fair, we would enlist their pride;
We would enroll on virtue's awful side,
The love there is in youth of enterprize,
Dangers to brave, and trials to despise
We would not tell them, that those once subdued,
Must evermore submit to servitude,
But fairly stating virtue's sterling worth,
And fairly weighing pleasure's claims;—call forth,—
By honestly refusing all to hide,—
All honest prejudice on virtue's side.—
Those who're irresolute in virtue's ways;—
And this we think is not so wisely done
By painting passion as a snare to shun;
As by allowing to her subtle sway,
Influence, to make the yielding soul obey.
There are, and generous souls there are, who spurn,
To be cajol'd to virtue; who discern
That we avail ourselves of artifice,
When we deny all blandishments to vice;
And with a proselyting cowardice,
Allow alone to virtue, power to bless;
And paint her ways alone, as “ways of pleasantness.”
No; we would willingly concede to youth,
That vice has charms; not even by stern truth
Will be denied, that, could her transports last,
Such cleaving ligaments she knows to cast
Around the human soul; she well might aim
To make us thralls to her seductive claim.
We would be fair, we would enlist their pride;
We would enroll on virtue's awful side,
18
Dangers to brave, and trials to despise
We would not tell them, that those once subdued,
Must evermore submit to servitude,
But fairly stating virtue's sterling worth,
And fairly weighing pleasure's claims;—call forth,—
By honestly refusing all to hide,—
All honest prejudice on virtue's side.—
Oh, could we give at once the holy zeal,
Which hates,—beneath the mean pretence to feel,
To see our weaknesses thus sanctified,
Our talents take, with illegitimate pride,
Part with our guilt, and stand on folly's side;
This would be worthy of the soul, whose flame
Is too intense, to stoop, with worthless aim,
For fuel for those insubordinate elves,—
The senses,—too inflammable themselves.—
Which hates,—beneath the mean pretence to feel,
To see our weaknesses thus sanctified,
Our talents take, with illegitimate pride,
Part with our guilt, and stand on folly's side;
This would be worthy of the soul, whose flame
Is too intense, to stoop, with worthless aim,
For fuel for those insubordinate elves,—
The senses,—too inflammable themselves.—
At the same time, oh let us;—while we fear
To lessen prejudice, where'er 'tis clear
That prejudice an auxiliar is of good,
Encourage charity!—Let vice be view'd,
With all the horror its foul taints deserve;
Yet weakly, let us not think it to swerve
From duty's path, delinquents to deplore;
The more they err, to pity them the more.
Inflexible, when of ourselves we judge;
When others, still extending without grudge,
Whate'er to palliate, or to modify,
May be suggested by warm charity.
We would allow, that often there must be,
Fully to obtain fair virtue's victory,
Struggles which cost the yearning bosom dear;
And sacrifices made with many a tear.
But were it not so, would there not be cause,
Whence, from analogy we well might pause
To admit her value? What besides is gain'd
Worthy attainment, without toil obtain'd?
No; when we thus impartially concede,
That, if we would be virtuous, we indeed,
Willing, at times must be, to sacrifice
That which the aching heart the most doth prize;
We do but thus raise her prerogative,
Her awful claims commend, who will receive
No refuse of a worn exhausted heart:
Who will have all, or will accept no part:
Will have our harvest, or our tythe will spurn,
And from the gleanings of that man will turn,
Whose first fruits on her altar did not burn.
Who,—of Religion, as we have asserted,—
Will sometimes, ere she deem our souls converted,
Ask us, as from our lives, ourselves to sever,
And quits, who pauses ere he yields, for ever.
To lessen prejudice, where'er 'tis clear
That prejudice an auxiliar is of good,
Encourage charity!—Let vice be view'd,
With all the horror its foul taints deserve;
Yet weakly, let us not think it to swerve
From duty's path, delinquents to deplore;
The more they err, to pity them the more.
Inflexible, when of ourselves we judge;
When others, still extending without grudge,
19
May be suggested by warm charity.
We would allow, that often there must be,
Fully to obtain fair virtue's victory,
Struggles which cost the yearning bosom dear;
And sacrifices made with many a tear.
But were it not so, would there not be cause,
Whence, from analogy we well might pause
To admit her value? What besides is gain'd
Worthy attainment, without toil obtain'd?
No; when we thus impartially concede,
That, if we would be virtuous, we indeed,
Willing, at times must be, to sacrifice
That which the aching heart the most doth prize;
We do but thus raise her prerogative,
Her awful claims commend, who will receive
No refuse of a worn exhausted heart:
Who will have all, or will accept no part:
Will have our harvest, or our tythe will spurn,
And from the gleanings of that man will turn,
Whose first fruits on her altar did not burn.
Who,—of Religion, as we have asserted,—
Will sometimes, ere she deem our souls converted,
Ask us, as from our lives, ourselves to sever,
And quits, who pauses ere he yields, for ever.
Now, let us ask, where, throughout all the range
Of Pope's soft numbers, do we find him change
For scenes of art, the country's quiet grace?
Where paints He nature? Whither may we trace
That he has ever, with a raptur'd eye,
Look'd on the forests, or the silent sky?
We've elsewhere said, and we the thought repeat,
Objects of art, for poets theme are meet,
As well as those of nature; but in sense
Subordinate, and meek subservience.
We scarcely can conceive, how man can claim
A poet's power, much less possess the flame
Of pure imagination, nor fond themes
From nature draw, for his poetic dreams.
There is, oh Nature, in thy aspects mild;
There is, oh Nature, in thy aspects wild;
There is, in fervour of a summer day,
There is, in last gleam of the evening ray;
There is, oh! ocean, in thy weltering roar,
There is, in wave which chafes thy pebbly shore;
There is, when sun-beam on thy surface dances,
And, on thy prismy water swiftly glances;
There is, in all the company of clouds,
When in the west the setting sun it shrouds;
When hues of gold and purple richly spread,
Proudly pavilion his declining head;
And when, like threads of light, from it repair
The splendours shaken from his golden hair;
There are in these, and thousand objects more,
Charms which might make the hardest heart adore;
Yet our bard never, one of these doth sing,
Or to praise Nature, imp his soaring wing.
Of Pope's soft numbers, do we find him change
For scenes of art, the country's quiet grace?
Where paints He nature? Whither may we trace
20
Look'd on the forests, or the silent sky?
We've elsewhere said, and we the thought repeat,
Objects of art, for poets theme are meet,
As well as those of nature; but in sense
Subordinate, and meek subservience.
We scarcely can conceive, how man can claim
A poet's power, much less possess the flame
Of pure imagination, nor fond themes
From nature draw, for his poetic dreams.
There is, oh Nature, in thy aspects mild;
There is, oh Nature, in thy aspects wild;
There is, in fervour of a summer day,
There is, in last gleam of the evening ray;
There is, oh! ocean, in thy weltering roar,
There is, in wave which chafes thy pebbly shore;
There is, when sun-beam on thy surface dances,
And, on thy prismy water swiftly glances;
There is, in all the company of clouds,
When in the west the setting sun it shrouds;
When hues of gold and purple richly spread,
Proudly pavilion his declining head;
And when, like threads of light, from it repair
The splendours shaken from his golden hair;
There are in these, and thousand objects more,
Charms which might make the hardest heart adore;
Yet our bard never, one of these doth sing,
Or to praise Nature, imp his soaring wing.
21
2. PART THE SECOND.
Two principles in human nature reign;
Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain;
Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call,
Each works its end, to move or govern all:
And to their proper operation still,
Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill.
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul;
Reason's comparing balance rules the whole.
Essay on Man. Epistle 2nd, l. 53.
Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain;
Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call,
Each works its end, to move or govern all:
And to their proper operation still,
Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill.
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul;
Reason's comparing balance rules the whole.
Essay on Man. Epistle 2nd, l. 53.
Self-love and reason to one end aspire,
Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire.
Ditto 87.
Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire.
Ditto 87.
Modes of self-love, the passions we may call;
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all.
Ditto 93.
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all.
Ditto 93.
Thus Pope would try our every act to prove,
Springs from diversely modified self-love;
That reason is the principle which sways
This active impulse; that where not obeys
Self-love this governor; we may conclude
Men are defaulters; where obeys it, good.
We argue differently, we say there dwell
Within man's little universe, as well
As this self-love; variety of springs
Of action, destin'd each to rule the strings
Of his organic bosom, and which claim
Co-ordinate rule with self-love's innate aim.
Springs from diversely modified self-love;
That reason is the principle which sways
This active impulse; that where not obeys
Self-love this governor; we may conclude
Men are defaulters; where obeys it, good.
We argue differently, we say there dwell
Within man's little universe, as well
22
Of action, destin'd each to rule the strings
Of his organic bosom, and which claim
Co-ordinate rule with self-love's innate aim.
We say, the passions; take, for instance, these,
Ambition, Love, Wrath, Emulation; seize,
Equal with love of self, on every breast,
As much by turns instinctively its guest.
If man his all in dissipation spends,
Of self-love, this is not to gain the ends:
No, for the time, the love of pleasure rules,
And self-love's sober calculation fools.
If, for ambition, man his rest forego;
If he a martyr be, that he may so,
Stand in society's conspicuous ranks,
Losing his ease, self-love witholds her thanks.
If man, to gratify love's fancied bliss,
Would stake his all upon his fair one's kiss,
Self-love disclaims him; that had cool'd his pulses;
She thus had whisper'd; “Love which thus convulses,
And thus thy every instinct sways, her state,
For other passions, soon will abdicate.”
And she would bid him, in his life's career,
Keep for each passion its particular sphere;
Of each, impartial, the pretensions weigh,
To each by turns allow a well-pois'd play;
If man a moment's wrath to gratify,
Entail a challenge, or henceforth must lie
Beneath th' imputed badge of cowardice,
Self-love disowns the stigma; or the price
Of probable forfeiture of being, he
Pays to redeem himself from infamy.
Still more, if man, when high devotion fires,
Renounces all his natural desires
To please his God, must we plain sense forsake,
And say that self-love led him to the stake?
Ambition, Love, Wrath, Emulation; seize,
Equal with love of self, on every breast,
As much by turns instinctively its guest.
If man his all in dissipation spends,
Of self-love, this is not to gain the ends:
No, for the time, the love of pleasure rules,
And self-love's sober calculation fools.
If, for ambition, man his rest forego;
If he a martyr be, that he may so,
Stand in society's conspicuous ranks,
Losing his ease, self-love witholds her thanks.
If man, to gratify love's fancied bliss,
Would stake his all upon his fair one's kiss,
Self-love disclaims him; that had cool'd his pulses;
She thus had whisper'd; “Love which thus convulses,
And thus thy every instinct sways, her state,
For other passions, soon will abdicate.”
And she would bid him, in his life's career,
Keep for each passion its particular sphere;
Of each, impartial, the pretensions weigh,
To each by turns allow a well-pois'd play;
If man a moment's wrath to gratify,
Entail a challenge, or henceforth must lie
23
Self-love disowns the stigma; or the price
Of probable forfeiture of being, he
Pays to redeem himself from infamy.
Still more, if man, when high devotion fires,
Renounces all his natural desires
To please his God, must we plain sense forsake,
And say that self-love led him to the stake?
No, there's a sophism in this argument:
Since to each passion there, by heaven, is lent
Its own peculiar appetence,—or it
No passion could have been,—blind human wit,
Which oft, when it would form a theory,
Blends opposites, from wish to simplify,
Hath quite confounded the particular gust,
Join'd to each passion, and its private lust,
With that perception of our general weal,
To which, i' th' first place, self-love doth appeal.
Whereas proportionably as we bear
The yoke of passion, self-love we forswear;
Not for a purer guide; and thence entail'd,
Hath this confusion of their names been hail'd,
As they are both, when they're inordinate,
The counter-agents to the good and great;
As both to virtue's rule are opposites,—
One epithet their attributes unites.
Passion, hath reference to that passion's good;
Self-love, to happiness, misunderstood,
As if 'twere possible for man to find
This prize, a wretched exile from his kind;
In self-love's votary the fates ordain
Shall be consummated the curse of Cain,
“As thy right hand 'gainst every man shall be,
So every man, his hand shall lift 'gainst thee.”
So far in one are they from being knit,
Passion's the rock on which self-love doth split.
Not since we deem those passions may enhance
Self-love's enjoyments, but because our glance
Is blinded, seeking for no higher guide,
Self-love is thus oft whelm'd in passion's tide;
Because that pole-star, which alone can steer
Us safe, as through life's ocean we career;
The star of truth, is hidden from the sight,
Of those who trust to self-love's phosphor-light.
How oft will men, infatuate by lust,
E'en at the moment they obey its gust,
Wretched predictors of their own undoing,
Grant that their doom, they're fatally pursuing;
Concede to him who checks them, that, they know
Beneath this passion's simulated shew,
They are incurring everlasting woe.
Ignorance of this, e'en forms not their pretence;
Their plea is drawn from their own impotence,
And from their favourite passion's violence.
Passions, nor selfish are, nor the reverse;
Oft they entail upon ourselves a curse,
And oft on others; but that curse ne'er form'd
A motive why our souls that passion warm'd.
E'en more than from self-sacrifice, accrues,
Evil to him who passion's voice pursues,
And oft th' excess of passion, doth produce
Good to another; hence this poor excuse
For many of its pranks, tho' faulty he,
“God bless him, he's his own worst enemy.”
Yet, is this passion? and since hence, ensued
Self-immolation, and another's good,
Disinterested? No! such influence,
Its motive was not, but its consequence.
E'en passion so, engrossing all our powers,
With maw omnivorous that all devours,
May mar the hopes of others, and the claims;
Yet, as this loss no part form'd of our aims,
They are not self-love; yes, of each, the laws,—
Fraught with like consequence,—have not like cause.
What is self-love then? Not the appetence
Which to our passions binds their charm intense;
'Tis love of personal interest; 'tis the love
(Self only thought of) of those schemes which prove,
(Take all vicissitudes of human life,
Take all the appetite's successive strife
Into our calculation) the most sure
Our greatest sum of comfort to procure.
Self-love's self-worship! Is, nor less, nor more,
Than making self the God whom we adore.
Pope, in his theory, seems to confound,
That pleasure which from passions do redound,
When they are gratified, with this self-love;
Thus it is blest if they successful prove.
“Modes of self-love, the passions we may call;
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all.”
Since to each passion there, by heaven, is lent
Its own peculiar appetence,—or it
No passion could have been,—blind human wit,
Which oft, when it would form a theory,
Blends opposites, from wish to simplify,
Hath quite confounded the particular gust,
Join'd to each passion, and its private lust,
With that perception of our general weal,
To which, i' th' first place, self-love doth appeal.
Whereas proportionably as we bear
The yoke of passion, self-love we forswear;
Not for a purer guide; and thence entail'd,
Hath this confusion of their names been hail'd,
As they are both, when they're inordinate,
The counter-agents to the good and great;
As both to virtue's rule are opposites,—
One epithet their attributes unites.
Passion, hath reference to that passion's good;
Self-love, to happiness, misunderstood,
24
This prize, a wretched exile from his kind;
In self-love's votary the fates ordain
Shall be consummated the curse of Cain,
“As thy right hand 'gainst every man shall be,
So every man, his hand shall lift 'gainst thee.”
So far in one are they from being knit,
Passion's the rock on which self-love doth split.
Not since we deem those passions may enhance
Self-love's enjoyments, but because our glance
Is blinded, seeking for no higher guide,
Self-love is thus oft whelm'd in passion's tide;
Because that pole-star, which alone can steer
Us safe, as through life's ocean we career;
The star of truth, is hidden from the sight,
Of those who trust to self-love's phosphor-light.
How oft will men, infatuate by lust,
E'en at the moment they obey its gust,
Wretched predictors of their own undoing,
Grant that their doom, they're fatally pursuing;
Concede to him who checks them, that, they know
Beneath this passion's simulated shew,
They are incurring everlasting woe.
Ignorance of this, e'en forms not their pretence;
Their plea is drawn from their own impotence,
And from their favourite passion's violence.
Passions, nor selfish are, nor the reverse;
Oft they entail upon ourselves a curse,
And oft on others; but that curse ne'er form'd
A motive why our souls that passion warm'd.
25
Evil to him who passion's voice pursues,
And oft th' excess of passion, doth produce
Good to another; hence this poor excuse
For many of its pranks, tho' faulty he,
“God bless him, he's his own worst enemy.”
Yet, is this passion? and since hence, ensued
Self-immolation, and another's good,
Disinterested? No! such influence,
Its motive was not, but its consequence.
E'en passion so, engrossing all our powers,
With maw omnivorous that all devours,
May mar the hopes of others, and the claims;
Yet, as this loss no part form'd of our aims,
They are not self-love; yes, of each, the laws,—
Fraught with like consequence,—have not like cause.
What is self-love then? Not the appetence
Which to our passions binds their charm intense;
'Tis love of personal interest; 'tis the love
(Self only thought of) of those schemes which prove,
(Take all vicissitudes of human life,
Take all the appetite's successive strife
Into our calculation) the most sure
Our greatest sum of comfort to procure.
Self-love's self-worship! Is, nor less, nor more,
Than making self the God whom we adore.
Pope, in his theory, seems to confound,
That pleasure which from passions do redound,
When they are gratified, with this self-love;
Thus it is blest if they successful prove.
26
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all.”
We say not so. We say, that, when 'tis tried,
Our being's elements to subdivide
Beyond variety original
Of innate passions, which our species thrall,
And to reduce them homogeneously
Thus to one source, we act erroneously.
Or real good, or good suppos'd, pursues
Self-love; the passions, though they may abuse
Our sense, yet oft do they leave us, at length,
Without a plea; save that we serve their strength;
And oft, as we've insisted on above,
Have no excuse, save their inordinate love.
We cannot with an argument of weight,
Self-love of any passion predicate:
It is that passion, turn it how we will,
Which causes us its mandate to fulfill.
And if it bless us, 'tis not that self-love
Is blest in it; successful it doth prove.
And if it curse, self-love is not to blame;
The passion did but disappoint our aim.
Or real good, or good suppos'd, pursues
Self-love; yet howsoever may abuse,
Passion our sense of right, we're often blest,
Spite of a monitor within our breast;
Which, though 'tis overpower'd, is not thence dumb;
And prophecies of miseries to come.
'Tis not since conscience speaks not, that we're drown'd
In bliss, but passion's gust is so profound,
With its voluptuous exuberance,
So strong, so stimulating is its trance,
That, with that conscience dallying, we hear
Its very warnings, and its doom of fear,
As but a pungent relish to the mood
Possessing us in perfect plenitude:
Thus, like the alchymist in times of old,
Who thought all metals he could turn to gold,
Doth passion, in her strongest fit, decree
Conscience herself, her purveyor to be.
Passions nor selfish are, nor otherwise:
They in themselves their character comprise.
Wrath is but wrath; love, love;—nor more, nor less:
Nor selfish, nor devoid of selfishness.
No; as he only selfish is, who frames
Such theory for all the different claims
Of different passions, that he thus may crowd
Successively, (to personal interest vow'd,)
Into his span of life, the different stress
Of all their joys; in short, as selfishness
Is but the Epicure's conceit renew'd,
That pleasure is the universal good;
Disinterested so, on t' other hand,
Is he, whose sense of being doth expand
Into all other beings: he whose tears
Depend on others sorrows; and whose fears,—
Not as the needle vibrates to the pole,—
Turn all to self;—but comprehend the whole:
And who, for others' good, can bear to part
With all that charms his senses, or his heart.
Our being's elements to subdivide
Beyond variety original
Of innate passions, which our species thrall,
And to reduce them homogeneously
Thus to one source, we act erroneously.
Or real good, or good suppos'd, pursues
Self-love; the passions, though they may abuse
Our sense, yet oft do they leave us, at length,
Without a plea; save that we serve their strength;
And oft, as we've insisted on above,
Have no excuse, save their inordinate love.
We cannot with an argument of weight,
Self-love of any passion predicate:
It is that passion, turn it how we will,
Which causes us its mandate to fulfill.
And if it bless us, 'tis not that self-love
Is blest in it; successful it doth prove.
And if it curse, self-love is not to blame;
The passion did but disappoint our aim.
Or real good, or good suppos'd, pursues
Self-love; yet howsoever may abuse,
Passion our sense of right, we're often blest,
Spite of a monitor within our breast;
Which, though 'tis overpower'd, is not thence dumb;
And prophecies of miseries to come.
27
In bliss, but passion's gust is so profound,
With its voluptuous exuberance,
So strong, so stimulating is its trance,
That, with that conscience dallying, we hear
Its very warnings, and its doom of fear,
As but a pungent relish to the mood
Possessing us in perfect plenitude:
Thus, like the alchymist in times of old,
Who thought all metals he could turn to gold,
Doth passion, in her strongest fit, decree
Conscience herself, her purveyor to be.
Passions nor selfish are, nor otherwise:
They in themselves their character comprise.
Wrath is but wrath; love, love;—nor more, nor less:
Nor selfish, nor devoid of selfishness.
No; as he only selfish is, who frames
Such theory for all the different claims
Of different passions, that he thus may crowd
Successively, (to personal interest vow'd,)
Into his span of life, the different stress
Of all their joys; in short, as selfishness
Is but the Epicure's conceit renew'd,
That pleasure is the universal good;
Disinterested so, on t' other hand,
Is he, whose sense of being doth expand
Into all other beings: he whose tears
Depend on others sorrows; and whose fears,—
Not as the needle vibrates to the pole,—
Turn all to self;—but comprehend the whole:
28
With all that charms his senses, or his heart.
But some will say, we act so, since we treasure,
From some peculiarity, a measure
Of bliss more ample, by this self repression,
Than by all selfish transport's full possession.
This we deny. We say, 'tis duty's voice,
Which, as it only doth decide our choice,
That choice doth vindicate when it is made:
In its rear, peradventure we're repaid
By unexpected joys; but these would ne'er
Have come, had they been consciously our care.
From some peculiarity, a measure
Of bliss more ample, by this self repression,
Than by all selfish transport's full possession.
This we deny. We say, 'tis duty's voice,
Which, as it only doth decide our choice,
That choice doth vindicate when it is made:
In its rear, peradventure we're repaid
By unexpected joys; but these would ne'er
Have come, had they been consciously our care.
No; like refreshing zephyrs after rain,
On meadows parch'd; though they come in the train
Of fertilizing showers those showers fell not,—
But that they might recover the parch'd spot;—
Those showers fell not, that we might thus inhale
Salubrious freshness from the cooling gale;
These are th' unthought-of benefits which spring
From that which good, doth to creation bring;
So blessings which the good man feels, when he
Does good, were no anticipated fee;
But like the zephyrs playing on the earth,
Of good accomplish'd, but an after birth!—
We say, then, that the maddest son of vice
May from self-love be free. Do not entice
Passions t' obedience; which those who heed
Their laws, if they are question'd, would concede,
Must bring them finally to want,—despair;—
To all the ills of which poor man is heir?
On meadows parch'd; though they come in the train
Of fertilizing showers those showers fell not,—
But that they might recover the parch'd spot;—
Those showers fell not, that we might thus inhale
Salubrious freshness from the cooling gale;
These are th' unthought-of benefits which spring
From that which good, doth to creation bring;
So blessings which the good man feels, when he
Does good, were no anticipated fee;
But like the zephyrs playing on the earth,
Of good accomplish'd, but an after birth!—
We say, then, that the maddest son of vice
May from self-love be free. Do not entice
Passions t' obedience; which those who heed
Their laws, if they are question'd, would concede,
29
To all the ills of which poor man is heir?
“Modes of self-love the passions we may call;
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all.”
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all.”
We say not so. Self-love, 'twere better said,
Is reason's shadow, when her light is fled;—
Is reason habited in masquerade.
'Tis not so much a passion, as, in sooth,
Reason divorc'd from vivifying truth.
'Tis reason, 'stead of taking in a God,
Who, with the might of an avenging rod,
Or with a golden sceptre, gemm'd with grace,
Doth rule the accidents of man's frail race;
'Tis reason, 'stead of thinking of mankind,
Ceasing the fate of every one to bind
With its own fate; with microscopic eye,
Who in the universe doth nothing spy
But its poor wretched self; a darkling pest,
A mole;—a bat;—a grov'ling crawling beast!
Whose circumspective eyes long vigils keep;
Yet turning from the sun doth wilder'd creep
In its own shadow; and while all is light
To other creatures, dwells in endless night!
'Tis worse than passion; Passions e'en the worst;
Since these perchance may feel they are self-curs'd;
But self-love's blindness, impotence of thought,
Unconsciousness of all that is not brought
Into its tiny sphere, ever preclude
Progressiveness from its low habitude.
Is reason's shadow, when her light is fled;—
Is reason habited in masquerade.
'Tis not so much a passion, as, in sooth,
Reason divorc'd from vivifying truth.
'Tis reason, 'stead of taking in a God,
Who, with the might of an avenging rod,
Or with a golden sceptre, gemm'd with grace,
Doth rule the accidents of man's frail race;
'Tis reason, 'stead of thinking of mankind,
Ceasing the fate of every one to bind
With its own fate; with microscopic eye,
Who in the universe doth nothing spy
But its poor wretched self; a darkling pest,
A mole;—a bat;—a grov'ling crawling beast!
Whose circumspective eyes long vigils keep;
Yet turning from the sun doth wilder'd creep
In its own shadow; and while all is light
To other creatures, dwells in endless night!
'Tis worse than passion; Passions e'en the worst;
Since these perchance may feel they are self-curs'd;
But self-love's blindness, impotence of thought,
Unconsciousness of all that is not brought
30
Progressiveness from its low habitude.
Come we then now, since we have thus made plain
We differ from the bard, from whom we've ta'en
Our text for this discourse; come, if we can,
Briefly to state our theory of man.
We differ from the bard, from whom we've ta'en
Our text for this discourse; come, if we can,
Briefly to state our theory of man.
Man is a being, in whom various modes
Of feeling rule. In his breast's dim abodes,
The passions are the elemental source,
Of that which gives its character and force
To action. What these passions are, each learns,
Whose introverted eye one moment turns
Into himself; ambition, love, the glow
Of fame; the filial and parental throe;
Self-preservation; last, and far most high,
Those instincts, which, with heav'n, our souls ally.
To these, is added, reason. As this takes
A large excursiveness, as still it makes
An ampler orbit, as in its wide aims—
While love of all creation, it inflames,
And most, of Him who all creation made,—
It feels an interest, where'er it can aid;
The great doth venerate; protects the small;
With all, it couples self, and self with all;
“Self, that no alien knows,” feels sympathy,
“As far diffus'd as fancy's wing can” fly;
So much as it does this, 'tis healthful, just;
'Tis the pure reason, freed from self's low gust.
Reason is truth, with sympathies thus wide—
Reason is error, with self-love allied.
Benevolence is reason; 'tis supreme,
Even for self-protection! 'tis no dream,
That he, who, in his universal heart,
Feels that he is, of all, the smallest part,
And loves all sentient things, and God above,
With holy, self-annihilating love;
Oh, he is pillow'd, ever, on the breast
Of dove-like peace; he finds a downy nest,
Whether he travel Araby's parch'd sands;
Whether he sail, where shoreless sea expands;
Whether he journey 'mid the arctic snows;
Or whether, where the torrid simoom blows;
While he, whose introverted, puny ken,
Thinks of himself—and thinks—and thinks, again;
Baffled in that, to which he but aspires,
Self-immolated, tediously expires.
The self-adorer is the lowest thing,
That is protected by the Almighty wing;
And he doth, almost, by his want of sense,
Exile himself from bounds of providence.
Next to the self-adorer, comes the man—
The slave of passion, whose supreme divan,
Held in his bosom, doth enslave him more,
Than negro, ravish'd from his native shore.
But he, who lets his highest instinct rule,
The love of God; although he be a fool,
In human estimation, enfranchiz'd
From overt dangers, and from snares disguis'd,
Effectually is! 'Tis folly, then—
'Tis mock-philosophy, thus to maintain,
That passions are but modes of selfishness;
And he, who rules them, for self-happiness,
He is the wise man!—he, the great—the good!
We'd grant so too, did not the phrase include
This paltry thesis, fundamentally,
A paltry and equivocating lie!
Who e'er gain'd happiness, from mere self-rule
Of reason? what man, train'd in Sophist's school,
Could ever lay his hand upon his breast,
And say, that peace had there ta'en up its rest?
A passion, by its present influence,
If it successful be, may p'rhaps dispense
Bliss, for a moment—for an hour,—a day,—
A week,—a month,—perchance a year—but say,
Ye votaries, e'en, of philosophic bliss,
Have ye e'er kept, that, which, when seal'd, the kiss
Of pleasure promis'd? Have ye ever bound
Peace to your bosoms, lasting and profound?
No, no! my God! Thou only canst procure,
To man, Thy creature, pleasure, deep and pure.
No more, than with the power to create
New worlds, hast Thou made man Thy delegate,
Or to himself, or others, to confirm
The gift of happiness, for briefest term.
From instinct of Religion,—thus we call
The impulse by the great original,
In man implanted, to believe we owe
Allegiance to a God,—from this, then flow,
All graces, which our human bosoms bear;
A cure for sorrow, and a balm for fear.
Religion is sole inmate of man's breast,
Which can, in all conjunctures, make him blest.—
Man's aims are infinite. Infinity
His measureless wants, alone, can pacify.
Religious trials have a nobler sense,
Of lofty aim, and of plenipotence,
Than e'en the blessings, which to man can rise,
From yielding to his lower sympathies.
Of feeling rule. In his breast's dim abodes,
The passions are the elemental source,
Of that which gives its character and force
To action. What these passions are, each learns,
Whose introverted eye one moment turns
Into himself; ambition, love, the glow
Of fame; the filial and parental throe;
Self-preservation; last, and far most high,
Those instincts, which, with heav'n, our souls ally.
To these, is added, reason. As this takes
A large excursiveness, as still it makes
An ampler orbit, as in its wide aims—
While love of all creation, it inflames,
And most, of Him who all creation made,—
It feels an interest, where'er it can aid;
The great doth venerate; protects the small;
With all, it couples self, and self with all;
“Self, that no alien knows,” feels sympathy,
“As far diffus'd as fancy's wing can” fly;
So much as it does this, 'tis healthful, just;
'Tis the pure reason, freed from self's low gust.
31
Reason is error, with self-love allied.
Benevolence is reason; 'tis supreme,
Even for self-protection! 'tis no dream,
That he, who, in his universal heart,
Feels that he is, of all, the smallest part,
And loves all sentient things, and God above,
With holy, self-annihilating love;
Oh, he is pillow'd, ever, on the breast
Of dove-like peace; he finds a downy nest,
Whether he travel Araby's parch'd sands;
Whether he sail, where shoreless sea expands;
Whether he journey 'mid the arctic snows;
Or whether, where the torrid simoom blows;
While he, whose introverted, puny ken,
Thinks of himself—and thinks—and thinks, again;
Baffled in that, to which he but aspires,
Self-immolated, tediously expires.
The self-adorer is the lowest thing,
That is protected by the Almighty wing;
And he doth, almost, by his want of sense,
Exile himself from bounds of providence.
Next to the self-adorer, comes the man—
The slave of passion, whose supreme divan,
Held in his bosom, doth enslave him more,
Than negro, ravish'd from his native shore.
But he, who lets his highest instinct rule,
The love of God; although he be a fool,
In human estimation, enfranchiz'd
From overt dangers, and from snares disguis'd,
32
'Tis mock-philosophy, thus to maintain,
That passions are but modes of selfishness;
And he, who rules them, for self-happiness,
He is the wise man!—he, the great—the good!
We'd grant so too, did not the phrase include
This paltry thesis, fundamentally,
A paltry and equivocating lie!
Who e'er gain'd happiness, from mere self-rule
Of reason? what man, train'd in Sophist's school,
Could ever lay his hand upon his breast,
And say, that peace had there ta'en up its rest?
A passion, by its present influence,
If it successful be, may p'rhaps dispense
Bliss, for a moment—for an hour,—a day,—
A week,—a month,—perchance a year—but say,
Ye votaries, e'en, of philosophic bliss,
Have ye e'er kept, that, which, when seal'd, the kiss
Of pleasure promis'd? Have ye ever bound
Peace to your bosoms, lasting and profound?
No, no! my God! Thou only canst procure,
To man, Thy creature, pleasure, deep and pure.
No more, than with the power to create
New worlds, hast Thou made man Thy delegate,
Or to himself, or others, to confirm
The gift of happiness, for briefest term.
From instinct of Religion,—thus we call
The impulse by the great original,
In man implanted, to believe we owe
Allegiance to a God,—from this, then flow,
33
A cure for sorrow, and a balm for fear.
Religion is sole inmate of man's breast,
Which can, in all conjunctures, make him blest.—
Man's aims are infinite. Infinity
His measureless wants, alone, can pacify.
Religious trials have a nobler sense,
Of lofty aim, and of plenipotence,
Than e'en the blessings, which to man can rise,
From yielding to his lower sympathies.
In our opinion, virtue is the same
With true religion; were there none to frame,
And sanction laws, as there could never be
A practical responsibility;
So we affirm, that, setting God aside,
And that obedience, to his rule implied;
As then would cease Religion's wholesome awe;
Gone were the basis of all moral law.
With true religion; were there none to frame,
And sanction laws, as there could never be
A practical responsibility;
So we affirm, that, setting God aside,
And that obedience, to his rule implied;
As then would cease Religion's wholesome awe;
Gone were the basis of all moral law.
If no lawgiver, who can laws enforce,
Cogent can those be, with no vital source,
No author? None to sanction—none to enact
A penalty, if these we counteract?
And none, on t'other hand, if they're obey'd
By whom a recompense can e'er be made?
Oh, tell us not, men are by duty bound,
To that, which, in time's lapses, hath been found
To bring most good to man! Say, who is he
With unappealable authority,
So gifted, that he may interpret, when
Such laws are clearly ascertain'd? and then
When we have first to his decision bow'd,
As to what shall, or shall not, be allow'd,
Who power has, their observance to ordain,
And on delinquents to inflict due pain,
And soon as they're promulgated, procure
To their announcement an obedience sure?—
Cogent can those be, with no vital source,
No author? None to sanction—none to enact
A penalty, if these we counteract?
And none, on t'other hand, if they're obey'd
By whom a recompense can e'er be made?
Oh, tell us not, men are by duty bound,
To that, which, in time's lapses, hath been found
To bring most good to man! Say, who is he
With unappealable authority,
34
Such laws are clearly ascertain'd? and then
When we have first to his decision bow'd,
As to what shall, or shall not, be allow'd,
Who power has, their observance to ordain,
And on delinquents to inflict due pain,
And soon as they're promulgated, procure
To their announcement an obedience sure?—
Suppose another man should chance to rise,
Who, than this sage, should deem himself more wise,
Who, framing other theories of man;—
Admitting other projects in his plan;—
Should say the first nam'd legislator fail'd,
In many instances, to have entail'd,
By his hypothesis, the greatest sum
Of practicable good; who is to come,
'Twixt these philanthropists, and umpire be?—
“Who shall decide, when” sophists “disagree?”
Who, than this sage, should deem himself more wise,
Who, framing other theories of man;—
Admitting other projects in his plan;—
Should say the first nam'd legislator fail'd,
In many instances, to have entail'd,
By his hypothesis, the greatest sum
Of practicable good; who is to come,
'Twixt these philanthropists, and umpire be?—
“Who shall decide, when” sophists “disagree?”
There must be a supreme authority,
Above all human power, enshrin'd on high,
Or who could answer,—only being man,—
That fellow being, who should say, he can
Challenge exemption, and immunity
Entire, from all responsibility?—
Above all human power, enshrin'd on high,
Or who could answer,—only being man,—
That fellow being, who should say, he can
Challenge exemption, and immunity
Entire, from all responsibility?—
Was e'er a government established yet,
Exempt from governors? Was e'er a state,
Where legislative rules were recogniz'd,
Discern'd, where legislators were despis'd?
Or e'er executive decrees rever'd,
Where no supreme authority was fear'd?—
Exempt from governors? Was e'er a state,
Where legislative rules were recogniz'd,
Discern'd, where legislators were despis'd?
35
Where no supreme authority was fear'd?—
He who insists these things could sever'd be,
Were deem'd a fool. Less imbecility
Is there in snatching the avenging rod,
And golden sceptre from the hands of God,
And still proclaiming men responsible?—
To what?—To nought!—For who, to what, can tell?—
Not to each other? No two would agree,
As to most philosophic theory,
Of human jurisprudence.—“But to all,”
Some men will say, “and bound are we to fall
Into that rule of life, whence is assign'd
The greatest sum of good to all mankind.”
Granted.—But where can meet this senate? Where
This universal council? If we dare
To say it cannot be, we cannot grudge
To say, no one can venture to be judge
Of the decision of a court supreme,
Which ne'er existed but in fancy's dream.—
A Synod, which, to be, we must possess
The power, as Milton's demons, to compress
Our shapes unwieldy to a pigmy size;
Or say, what hall were able to comprize
The “numbers without number,” to this court,
Which must, from all terrestrial climes, resort?
Were deem'd a fool. Less imbecility
Is there in snatching the avenging rod,
And golden sceptre from the hands of God,
And still proclaiming men responsible?—
To what?—To nought!—For who, to what, can tell?—
Not to each other? No two would agree,
As to most philosophic theory,
Of human jurisprudence.—“But to all,”
Some men will say, “and bound are we to fall
Into that rule of life, whence is assign'd
The greatest sum of good to all mankind.”
Granted.—But where can meet this senate? Where
This universal council? If we dare
To say it cannot be, we cannot grudge
To say, no one can venture to be judge
Of the decision of a court supreme,
Which ne'er existed but in fancy's dream.—
A Synod, which, to be, we must possess
The power, as Milton's demons, to compress
Our shapes unwieldy to a pigmy size;
Or say, what hall were able to comprize
The “numbers without number,” to this court,
Which must, from all terrestrial climes, resort?
Some men will say, that still the proof must lie
That there is a reveal'd authority,
In human cognizance; assert that still,—
The question let us answer how we will,—
This same authority divinely sent,
Is ratified by man's arbitrement
Of judgment; and thus when, to its source,
The question we have filtrated, perforce,
We learn, this voice of God to humankind,
Through various strainers, is man's voice refin'd.
That there is a reveal'd authority,
36
The question let us answer how we will,—
This same authority divinely sent,
Is ratified by man's arbitrement
Of judgment; and thus when, to its source,
The question we have filtrated, perforce,
We learn, this voice of God to humankind,
Through various strainers, is man's voice refin'd.
Here we're at issue. On its evidence
External, and internal, common sense
Tells us that its reception must depend.
We think it boasts such proof: and here we end;
Only asserting, if too proud our wit
The light of revelation to admit,
We can refer to no authority,
To rescue wretched man from anarchy.
External, and internal, common sense
Tells us that its reception must depend.
We think it boasts such proof: and here we end;
Only asserting, if too proud our wit
The light of revelation to admit,
We can refer to no authority,
To rescue wretched man from anarchy.
We venerate the man, though critics curse,
Though cynics snarl, and satirists asperse,
Who can trace virtue in her course on high,
Although her wing be oft unfit to fly;
Although like bird struggling against the wind,
“Fluttering its pennons vain,” or if it find
“The strong rebuff of some tempestuous cloud,”
Is often fain, stooping from height too proud,
In some retreat its ruffled plumes to shroud;
We venerate him who spurns the sophistry,
Which would to self renouncement praise deny;
Which would pretend, when Regulus departs
Rich in the incense of true patriot hearts,
From Rome to Carthage, that his holy zeal
Was but peculiar taste in private weal;—
It is a falsehood! We may be so fram'd,
That evil to ourselves is rather claim'd,
Than good, if we can purchase to our kind
Those blessings, by ourselves with joy resign'd.
But oh! 'Tis profanation to call this
But singularity in taste for bliss!—
We grant such men,—so absolute the law,
And so authoritative is the awe,
Which leads them to perfection,—should they try
To elude the measure of their destiny,
Would feel such stings of conscience in the rear
Of this concession, that, (like Cranmer) fear,
And shame, and penitence, might make them seek,
Upon themselves some vengeance dire to wreak;
As, smitten with remorse, he burn'd his hand,
Stain'd by compliance with his King's command;
But why is this? Not since that they have miss'd
The greater happiness, but since insist
Within their souls, some strong authority,
Some voice authentic of divinity,
That, with impunity, they cannot fly
That post,—their station;—or their call—to die!—
That oracle, that sanctuary, where
Duty alone will listen to their prayer;
Which, if they quit, though plausible the sum
Of pretexts for it, her response is dumb,
Or tells them, since her post they will not guard,
“Verily, ye shall reap your just reward!”
Though cynics snarl, and satirists asperse,
Who can trace virtue in her course on high,
Although her wing be oft unfit to fly;
Although like bird struggling against the wind,
“Fluttering its pennons vain,” or if it find
“The strong rebuff of some tempestuous cloud,”
Is often fain, stooping from height too proud,
In some retreat its ruffled plumes to shroud;
We venerate him who spurns the sophistry,
Which would to self renouncement praise deny;
37
Rich in the incense of true patriot hearts,
From Rome to Carthage, that his holy zeal
Was but peculiar taste in private weal;—
It is a falsehood! We may be so fram'd,
That evil to ourselves is rather claim'd,
Than good, if we can purchase to our kind
Those blessings, by ourselves with joy resign'd.
But oh! 'Tis profanation to call this
But singularity in taste for bliss!—
We grant such men,—so absolute the law,
And so authoritative is the awe,
Which leads them to perfection,—should they try
To elude the measure of their destiny,
Would feel such stings of conscience in the rear
Of this concession, that, (like Cranmer) fear,
And shame, and penitence, might make them seek,
Upon themselves some vengeance dire to wreak;
As, smitten with remorse, he burn'd his hand,
Stain'd by compliance with his King's command;
But why is this? Not since that they have miss'd
The greater happiness, but since insist
Within their souls, some strong authority,
Some voice authentic of divinity,
That, with impunity, they cannot fly
That post,—their station;—or their call—to die!—
That oracle, that sanctuary, where
Duty alone will listen to their prayer;
Which, if they quit, though plausible the sum
Of pretexts for it, her response is dumb,
38
“Verily, ye shall reap your just reward!”
When Christ did cry, “oh Father, let I pray,
“Oh, let this bitter cup but pass away;”
Oh, can we speak the word? It must be said;
For poison such as this have Sophists shed
On highest motives! Can we say the word?—
Drank he the cup since self the draught preferr'd?
No, no! Though rais'd to eminence of good,
By us unfathom'd, much less understood,
Still, still, he shrank from menac'd agonies;
Still had been thankful, could, in any wise,
“The cup pass from” his lips, and he still prove
The perseverance of his father's love.
This cannot be!—The hour is come!—He must
Finish the work committed to his trust;
Or man is lost, and at the best but dust.
Could he be bless'd, and seeing man (whom he
Might thus as candidate immortally,
For happiness have rais'd) for ever die;
Lost, since his spirit shrunk from agony?—
But say, did thought of bliss awaiting him,
When all the deed was done; when Seraphim
Should hail him conqueror with their rapturous hymn;
Did this support him in that trying hour?
'Mid agonies like his, have any power,
Thoughts of prospective bliss? Oh no! alone
Duty;—the voice of Him, who, on the throne,
Commanded this;—He, who interpretation
Gives to all duty's laws, and consecration;—
Obedience to that voice;—for these the pang
Was borne;—hence on the cross his form did hang!—
It is a sophism, destitute of sense,
To alledge that, in strong conflicts, influence
From bliss prospective, we appropriate;
Pangs were not pangs, could we thus calculate.
“Oh, let this bitter cup but pass away;”
Oh, can we speak the word? It must be said;
For poison such as this have Sophists shed
On highest motives! Can we say the word?—
Drank he the cup since self the draught preferr'd?
No, no! Though rais'd to eminence of good,
By us unfathom'd, much less understood,
Still, still, he shrank from menac'd agonies;
Still had been thankful, could, in any wise,
“The cup pass from” his lips, and he still prove
The perseverance of his father's love.
This cannot be!—The hour is come!—He must
Finish the work committed to his trust;
Or man is lost, and at the best but dust.
Could he be bless'd, and seeing man (whom he
Might thus as candidate immortally,
For happiness have rais'd) for ever die;
Lost, since his spirit shrunk from agony?—
But say, did thought of bliss awaiting him,
When all the deed was done; when Seraphim
Should hail him conqueror with their rapturous hymn;
Did this support him in that trying hour?
'Mid agonies like his, have any power,
Thoughts of prospective bliss? Oh no! alone
Duty;—the voice of Him, who, on the throne,
39
Gives to all duty's laws, and consecration;—
Obedience to that voice;—for these the pang
Was borne;—hence on the cross his form did hang!—
It is a sophism, destitute of sense,
To alledge that, in strong conflicts, influence
From bliss prospective, we appropriate;
Pangs were not pangs, could we thus calculate.
No! It may mystically sound, yet true
Nathless it is, that when great deed we do,
In spite of threats, torments, and agonies;—
We do them not, since, in the long run, wise;—
But since a law;—an instinct of our souls,
With voice imperative the deed controuls.
Nathless it is, that when great deed we do,
In spite of threats, torments, and agonies;—
We do them not, since, in the long run, wise;—
But since a law;—an instinct of our souls,
With voice imperative the deed controuls.
'Tis, in this sense, that Christ affirms of those
Who follow him, that they must not oppose
Death for his sake; “if man would gain my rest,”
Thus he exclaims, “his life, he must detest.”
That is, he must be school'd,—whene'er the time
Shall come, to prove if he the true sublime,
Know of religion,—willingly to take,—
As Curtius leap'd for his lov'd country's sake,
Into the gulph,—some step, which, while his choice,
Faith alone bids it with her awful voice;
And were he once to pause to calculate,
That moment he had frustrated his fate.—
Who follow him, that they must not oppose
Death for his sake; “if man would gain my rest,”
Thus he exclaims, “his life, he must detest.”
That is, he must be school'd,—whene'er the time
Shall come, to prove if he the true sublime,
Know of religion,—willingly to take,—
As Curtius leap'd for his lov'd country's sake,
Into the gulph,—some step, which, while his choice,
Faith alone bids it with her awful voice;
And were he once to pause to calculate,
That moment he had frustrated his fate.—
Yes, at one time, or other, if we're true
To high religion's cause, we must go through
This ordeal dark. As only for high deed,
A being, lofty recompense can plead;
And as that deed, which, like untimely birth,
A selfish end has, is of spurious worth,
So highest recompense of all comes not,
Save for those deeds which recompense forgot;
There is indeed, i'th' very state of mind,
Engend'ring such, presaging what they find,
But consequence, not motive, is th' event
Which doth accomplish this presentiment;
This Christ meant, when he said, that he should find
His life, who, for his sake, that life resign'd.—
To high religion's cause, we must go through
40
A being, lofty recompense can plead;
And as that deed, which, like untimely birth,
A selfish end has, is of spurious worth,
So highest recompense of all comes not,
Save for those deeds which recompense forgot;
There is indeed, i'th' very state of mind,
Engend'ring such, presaging what they find,
But consequence, not motive, is th' event
Which doth accomplish this presentiment;
This Christ meant, when he said, that he should find
His life, who, for his sake, that life resign'd.—
47
LINES,
Written after reflecting upon the language and objects MOST FIT FOR POETRY.
49
1
“Art is man's nature,” said a soul of fire;Away with vain distinctions then, away!
Man's natural impulses in him inspire
Wish for society: but to array
Him in that order which the peaceful sway
Of social life requires, requires besides
That he should oft repress the natural play
Of his emotions, and should take for guides
Reason, and patient thought, rather than passion's tides.
2
If man be social deem'd, essentially;As things important are i' th' social scale,
He will importance give them: all agree
That none so much with this acclaim we hail
As those who grasp the reins of rule. Their tale
Is seldom thence devoid of interest's zest;
They also well deserve to countervail
Interests of lesser note; since self-rule, guest
Must of that bosom be, whose influence is blest.
50
3
If man must have society, he mustEndure subordination: if we read
The oldest chronicles; e'en those whose just
And super-human estimates proceed
From the Almighty Spirit, there indeed
The natural elements of man we find:—
In them we're told, that he, to whom decreed
Is, rank, wealth, rule, is one, by Heav'n assign'd,
To be the favour'd mark of deference to his kind.
4
The generous loyalty of a liberal spiritIs loftier far than insubordinate pride;—
Those who from heaven rightfully inherit
Life's vantage stations, ought to be espied
With fear and reverence: as power well applied
Is surest source of veneration; so,
To whome'er power is not by Heaven denied,
There is in him, whether for other's woe
Or weal its sway he bear, that whence deep interests flow.
5
It is, methinks, a philosophic rule,A simple one, and one which hath its root
More naturally in man's heart, to mark the tool
Of mighty purposes,—of high pursuit
The splendid votary,—with a reverence mute,
We never pay to one of low degree;—
'Tis surely more instinctive to salute
Heaven's chiefest instruments with bended knee,
Than theories to frame of man's equality.
51
6
As there can be no trust where there's no power,So in proportion as the last is lent,
The first is given too; this is the dower
From the inscrutable arbitrement
Of Heaven deriv'd, by which we mark th' extent
Of valid agency: and we aver
That 'tis more natural, wheresoe'er the bent
Of Fate hath stamp'd power's lofty character,
To feel augmented awe, than homage to demur.
7
We should remember, with augmented sway,That awfullest of awful claims doth grow
Awful, in reference to its least display;
But still more awful when the Heavens bestow
Their mightiest privilege: awful to know
That 'tis of us requir'd in least degree;—
Responsibility! To Him, whose slow
But sure behests are just, the glory be,
T' arraign the guilty soul, and set the guiltless free!
8
'Tis this which sets upon the soul of man,When holily he doth himself acquit
Of such a trust, the seal, which nothing can,—
Nothing of human pride, or human wit,—
Nothing efface! 'Tis hence that he is fit
For the historian's, or the poet's page;
And we aver of power, that, e'en as it,
Other things being the same, doth mark each stage
Of his life's progress, so he interest can engage.
52
9
'Tis thence, and thence alone, in reason's eye,That the ennobled, noble really are;
Not that they fasten Fortune's livery
Around their brows, or that a name they bear,
But since, that in the privilege they wear,
Appeal is made to thoughts which influence man:
Ignoble he may be who boasts a star,
But never he, upon whose front we scan
He hath credentials clear from Heav'n's august divan.
10
'Tis thence, indeed, that e'en the very bard,Philosopher, the hero, statesman, rise
In dignity, since are on them conferr'd
Powers o'er man's everlasting sympathies:
He who such awful boon to man supplies,
Gives to his fellow citizens a sense
That they've an interest in his destinies;
To them he is responsible: intense,
(Or vain were all these gifts,) their varied influence.
11
'Tis hence that men of turbulent mind attractAttention; not because their mental throes
Are theme of wonder; but because exact
In the proportion to the fire that glows
Within the soul, that soul it will dispose
For feats of power; to good or ill inclin'd:—
Thus, since where lofty passions souls disclose,
The germ of greatness seems; of human-kind,
As they chief mysteries were, we pay them homage blind.
53
12
Thus we assert that chiefly power can giveA right to human interest: further still,
That various gifts of men from power receive,
From agency on his miraculous will,
All their pretensions. With a gentle skill,
Authors, we know, have virtuous portraits made
From life's most humble scenes, and thus appeal
To the power of worth alone: but, we're afraid,
Virtue, t' excite effect, must ask extrinsic aid.
13
Again, if attribute divine there be,T' immortalize, to deify the soul,
'Tis that of self-renouncement. How can he
Who hath o'er things external no controul,
Through whose dull breast the tempests never roll
Of ardent passion; tam'd, as he is, down
To a dull lethargy, by the hard dole
Of daily labour; how can he have known
Those conflicts of the heart whence sons of luxury groan?
14
How can he too, like them, a victor be,If they have conquer'd? No, we say, not all
Man's difference is in wealth or poverty:
But this we say, were minds in great, or small,
Always the same, that poesy might call
The great her favourite sons. But since there fare
High minds in ranks obscure, and since befall
Heart-stirring chances oft to Penury's heir;
Exceptions to our rule we must confess there are.
54
15
We say, then, and from those who know us well,We fear not, when we thus speak, to excite
Stigma of abjectness, that those rebel
Against man's natural instincts, who delight
To cast a shade o'er all the exquisite
Of artificial life; who have denied
To all the modes of art, a lawful right
To be the Muse's theme; who, unallied
With adventitious zest, have nature magnified.
16
Imagination, is thy spirit felt?If it be felt, this truth will then be known,
That to those souls, who 'neath thy influence melt,
There is no principle they would disown,
Or pull down from its self-erected throne,
With such an earnestness, as that y'clept
Sectarian! They whom thou wouldst call thine own,
In all things for which man hath smil'd or wept,
That energy can see towards which their hearts have leap'd.
17
Their store of images creation forms,Only subordinate to the natural world;
The world of art their every impulse warms;
And though where mountain is on mountain hurl'd,
The banner they devoutly see unfurl'd
Of power adorable; for this no less
The tide of population, which is whirl'd
Through a vast city's labyrinths,—the stress
Of aspects of all arts,—their rich souls do impress.
55
18
We know a man, a man of genius too,Who says, that he had rather walk the streets
Of London; that from thence there can accrue
To him, more strong emotion, than when greets
His eye a mountain region; when retreats
Day's glare, the lamps shine, and the windows blaze
With cressets bright, when at each step he meets
A tide of population, whose thick maze,
And multitudinous heart, deep human feelings raise.
19
We've heard him say, that, at such hour as this,Stronger emotion, London! he hath known
In thy dim haunts; more felt with emphasis
“His bosom's lord sit” proudly “on his throne,”
Than when his eye, with glories all her own,
Romantic nature greeted. Now attend:—
For this man well we know. Is he thus prone
To give to Art precedence, Virtue's friend?
Say, would he personate her, would he have aught to mend?
20
To us it seems then, an erroneous plan,—Though one from philanthropic feeling sprung,
One sprung from a deep feeling, that, in man,
As man, source of true interest lies: one wrung
From the conviction, that, round old and young,
There is more, howe'er different our estate,
Of sanctity inalienable hung;—
More of resemblance 'twixt the small and great;
More which may universal sympathy create;
56
21
ThanWe believe the remark is true, that the benevolent rather see in man that which belongs to man universally, that which is inalienable from man as man, as by far the more important portion of his being, and chiefly dwell upon this, while those of an opposite cast dwell for ever on man's much less important and adventitious distinctions: and may not hence, in part, have originated the theory that the uneducated classes are the fittest subjects for poetical composition?
An error, though one which we reverence,
To hold up peasants, for poetic themes,
As fit exclusively: and, consequence
Of this, the works of art to banish thence:—
And to this ostracism add beside,
Proscription to all scenes, for eloquence
Of the true bard, save those where are descried
Mountains, and lakes, and rocks, and nature's sterner pride.
22
Methinks, that, in the argument to whichThese lines reply, there is one error clear;
Wherein it says, that natural objects teach
The peasant's soul; that with “their passions” there
“The permanent, the beautiful” appear
“Incorporate;” that they are nature-taught:—
But is't a fact, experience test to bear,
That forms external are in spirits wrought,
Proportion'd to the time they have been near them brought?
23
'Tis in an effervescent state, the mindReceives impressions; oft from contrasts rise
The strongest ones; and oft those most inclin'd
T' adore the country, love it, in its skies,
Since their town's native smoke doth not arise:
It is not opportunity to see;
They are our passions, which, or ope our eyes,
Or close them; who, for “hard-earn'd penny fee”
Doth toil, for scenes the most sublime what careth he?
57
24
We then affirm, let one with leisure blest,From distant region gorgeous scenes explore,
And in the very circumstance, confess'd
A cause will be, why he should love them more,
Since then such scenes first taught his heart to soar:
While the rude natives, who, though they have eyes,
As those who saw not, see; if he his score
Profusely pay, each charm which round them lies
Will sooner far forget, than their propitious prize.
25
Further, it is by knowing that there isSomething, to what we see, dissimilar,
Which makes us feel its worth. Our daily bliss
We oft despise, 'till we have learn'd how far—
By sad experience, which our fate did mar,—
We were from cause of grief: so men contemn
That, 'twixt which, and themselves, no let, or bar,
Did ever intervene; well-known to them,
E'er since, from life's first stage, their progress they did stem.
26
'Tis contrast makes us value, and reflect;Till we have seen, of first distinguish'd forms,
The opposite, we seldom recollect
That e'en the greatest opulence of charms,
Which may, around our dwelling, glow in swarms,
Is more than man's accustom'd privilege;
Till some reverse our consciousness alarms,
Though ours life's first distinctions, we allege,
That seldom for their boon our gratitude we pledge.
58
27
'Tis contrast makes us value; makes us think;A man who ne'er has seen, save forms sublime,
The chance is, that his sightless eyes will blink
Upon his native hills, as, of earth's clime,
The usurpation, were the original crime
Of unprolific tracks, unmeet for food:—
And we aver, that, that till it chance some time,
He quit his mountains, he will, in no mood,
“Incorporate” their “forms,” with “feelings” high, or good.
The author once, on being told by a native of the Westmoreland vales, that he had been in Lincolnshire, said to the informer, “Did you not wish to return to your own more beautiful country?” “More beautiful, sir!” replied the man, “why, see what barren wastes these mountains are, and there every inch of ground produces something.” The author leaves it to the philosopher to determine, whether, in this conversation, the sentiment implied in his apostrophe, or that in the reply of the man, were the most rational: but he thinks that it need not be a philosopher to determine that the sentiment of the Westmoreland peasant was the most natural.
28
We would concede, that the immortal formsOf this most gorgeous world are paramount
To art's creation: but, who guides the storms,
As He too, as from ever-living fount,
Created human instincts, we account
That He too primarily did create,
That which those instincts fashion: hence th' amount
Of their results, and what they propagate,
Seems, to the thoughtful man, stamp'd with the seal of Fate.
29
Hath not a ruin, speech? Hath marble wallOf Grecian temple, or of Roman arch
The bulk colossal, not the power to thrall
Man's glorious faculties? When 'neath some larch,
Which starts from crumbling fanes, we hear the march
Of Byron's lofty strains, and mourn with him,
That desolation's fiery blast should parch
His trophies all to dust, is that light dim,
Which, consecrating art, doth consecrate his hymn?
59
30
Soonest can man philosophize or feel?Will cold deductions, or the strenuous claim
Of mighty energies, the likeliest steal,
With modifying influence, to tame
His eager senses, and his heart of flame?
Answer this question, ye who would postpone
Both splendor, power, and magic of a name,
To equalizing theories, unknown,
Save where the first have been, 'till human
It is certain that theories of equality are not natural to man in an incipient state of society. Wherever they have arisen, it has been where man has been saturate, has become fastidious, from the excess of consequences attendant upon inequality, i. e. upon a state of society super-artificial. They are among the monstrosities, which, when excesses from the opposite arise to a certain pitch, spring up as a re-acting principle: they are indications of disease, and not of a just way of thinking in the body politic.
31
Indirect causes, in this world of means,Of causes more direct, oft take the lead,
In operative agency: to scenes
Where frowns the battlement amid the spread
Of trees time-honour'd, go! While of the dead
Ye ponder, think how many a human breast
Hath swoln with victor's pride, or victim's dread,
'Neath banners, which, when the sun's rays impress'd
This lower world, did stream upon its mural crest.
32
Hadst thou,—had not the instinct which did buildThis edifice, existed; had not been
The pride which rais'd it; the despair which thrill'd
Through its dark dungeons;—found so fit a scene
For human contemplation, where the spleen,
Gender'd by petty ills, may be smooth'd down,
By thoughts of glories which this place hath seen,
While all that is not charter'd for renown
Imperishably bright, is rifled of its crown?
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33
And yet how little did the man design,—Or they who once did in this fortress dwell,—
To form materials for a dream of thine?
Thus, when we see some gothic structure tell
Of ancient superstition, when the swell
Of the deep organ hath our ears engross'd,
When we behold, with curious eye, how well
The sculptor's mimic art hath here emboss'd
'Scutcheons, saints, sceptres, crowns, and heaven's angelic host;
34
Can we refrain from welcoming the lore,—Mistaken though it were,—which wrought such grand
Structures, where meditation loves to soar,
To that great Governor of sea and land,
Who wants not temple built with human hand?
So may a principle of brotherhood,
Towards men whose use we scarce can understand,
Visit the heart; when thus, of things, is view'd
Their ministry to unpremeditated good.
35
Go to some abbey's wall, beneath the shadeOf cluster'd ivy muse, and there reflect,
Were true devotion, or compunctuous dread,
Of this the planner, and the architect?
How little need its origin be deck'd
With motive laudable, to make us prove
(Both while its ancient splendor claim'd respect,
From all who saw, and now, while it doth move
To meditation's trance) a superstitious love?
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36
So feels the poet. Had not rich men been,Who, as it were, have Genius' cradle rock'd,
Whose dwellings now are like a fairy scene,
Within whose classical saloons are lock'd
Its rare creations, with all treasures stock'd
Which art can furnish, or which wealth can gain;
Had not these men existed, ne'er unblock'd
Had been for it the path to that domain,
Where ease, of Genius' sons, doth loose the palsying chain.
37
Leisure with wealth comes, and with leisure allThose vain caprices, that fastidious taste,
Which, while they make man fancy's wretched thrall,
Incline him still, wherever he be plac'd,
To have his earthly habitation grac'd
With all that flatters sickly appetite:
Thus, sons of luxury, with nerves unbrac'd,
Seek with avidity and feel delight
In all which charms the ear, the feeling, and the sight!
38
Now who can see a morbid son of wealth,With much complacency? Yet recollect
That very softness, which unstrung the health,
That very daintiness, so circumspect
In all that tends to self, is architect
Likewise of those desires which make men feel
Wish to augment sensation's bounds. Uncheck'd
This, by necessity, to no appeal
Which talents make to them, can they their bosoms steel.
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39
Say, what so much as contrast does subserveTo means of interest, for the human eye,
And for the human mind? Did nothing swerve
From one all perfect uniformity,
Then, where were terror's thrill, or pity's sigh?
We would affirm, calamities, of those
Conspicuous who have been, better supply
Theme for the tragic muse, than homely woes,
Whose uncontrasted shades no agonies suppose.
40
Besides,Perhaps, in this stanza, it may be thought that the author has weakened his own argument. He quite grants that the poor exhibit, in a greater degree than the rich, a natural expression of passion; but then he does not admit that their passions are so fit for the service of the poet, as those, which, from being the growth of more artificial and more complex life, have been more educated; and from being repressed on small, burst forth, with tenfold strength, on great occasions.
The natural feelings are so much repress'd,
Superinduc'd compliance is at strife
So much,—in those whose characters are dress'd
Daily for exhibition,—with the zest
Of natural impulse, that, or ere the stream
Of passion, in such souls, the bounds transgress'd
Of fit indulgence, in each wild extreme
It must have known the throes of transport's ardent dream.
41
Therefore we say, that, from the ranks of thoseBy talents privileg'd, by title, power,
Moods can be found of passion, to disclose
Fitter for service of that fiery dower
Which consecrates the bard, than all the shower
Of natural charities,—the poor man's lot:—
A philosophic bard may plant the flower
Of fine humanity, near shepherd's cot,
But tears of tragic muse his annals ne'er will blot.
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42
Whom can we most with all the stores investFrom all the arts?—From painting, harmony?—
Him of the cottage, or the palace guest?
Oh, banish theory! Let man still be,—
Of all beneath the heavenly canopy,—
The dearest thing to man! Oh, bring ye forth,
Ye men of Genius, for our eyes to see,
Or Scotland's “Cotter,” from his hallow'd hearth,
Of course, the reader will perceive that Scotland's “Cotter,” and Adam, are mentioned as the opposites to the great and the artificial, of which the author has been expressing his approbation, as subjects for poetical composition. The idea intended to be conveyed, is, that though such be the opinion of the author, yet he is equally disposed to hail whatever is well done in opposition to that opinion. It has always, the author believes, been considered one of the most unequivocal proofs of Milton's genius, that he could make so unpromising a subject, at least for a man of ordinary talents, interesting—a subject, in short, in which man is never introduced as a being, with whom, in our daily passions and habits, we could sympathize; and it may easily be understood, that, in proportion as we can familiarly associate sympathies of frequent recurrence with a given character, to manage the developement of that character becomes a more easy task to the poet.
Or Adam from the dust, and we shall hail your birth!
43
With great men's characters we may combineAll natural beauty; but how can we make
Harmony, sculpture, painting, themselves 'shrine
Upon the tablet pre-ordain'd to take
The impress of a peasant? For their sake,
To make them natural, we must bid farewel,
While in their presence, to deep tones which shake
The seat of sense, to harmony's loud swell,
To passion's mazy wiles, to art's voluptuous spell.
44
Peruse our Shakspeare, read of his remorse,Whom fell ambition did to murder urge;
Say, could a peasant, with so deep a curse,—
With accessories,—heights, from th' extreme verge
O' th' human compass, to its depths, which merge
The soul in passion turbulent and wild,—
Be thus encompass'd? Could the saddest dirge
On rustic woes, even from “nature's child,”
As for this monarch's fate, our tears have so beguil'd?
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45
Besides, in all the drapery of life,—I' th' sister arts, in painting, harmony,—
Are there not mysteries link'd, with passion rife,
With that which most affects in poesy?
Sometimes, in real life, we've chanc'd to see
Men exquisitely sensitive to all
Beauties of nature, who, to all which we
Admire in art, could never be in thrall,
Who painting's charms despise, whom music's banquets pall.
46
Now, if the self-same soul could never loveBeauties of nature, and of art, at once,
We surely most that spirit should approve,
Who, for the first, the latter did renounce:
But since it is not so, we must pronounce
That the most gifted soul whom both have won;
Who, with an eagle grasp can bravely pounce
On things terrestrial, yet who doth not shun
To “play i' th' plighted clouds,” and emulate the sun.
47
We do not mean, in what we here have said,T' imply that pastoral life presents not theme
For loftiest poets. No, we should be led
By error almost great, as that whose scheme
We here invalidate, should we thus deem:—
We say “almost as great,” for we confess
We think patrician annals often teem
With sources of true interest, which no stress
Of genius ever gave shepherd or shepherdess.
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48
No! In each attitude of human life,And in each aspect of the human mind,
In each spot where the passion's fearful strife
May be admitted, deem we bards may find
Theme for their high discourse. We do not bind,—
Like theory we confute, when it would raise
The poor alone as fit to be assign'd
To the bard's lore,—ourselves the rich to praise,
As alone meet to be the theme of tuneful lays.
49
We say that all are fit. But, in a senseSuperior to the rest, those on whom fate
Hath richly lavish'd her dread influence,
Of all which makes us love, and makes us hate;
Of all which makes us low, or makes us great;
Of all which makes us sad, or makes us blest;
As in the art of painting, to create
A simple sketch, doth surely not attest
The genius by th' historic painter manifest;
50
So in the sketch of him, the humble sonOf humble life, we surely must allow
The scope is not requir'd there, as in one
Which would the heights and depths of nature shew.
How can such amplitude of glory glow,
How can such masses of deep shadow lour,
Upon a humble peasant, as we owe
To him, who did inherit, with life's dower,
Th' arbitrement of well, or ill-directed power?
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51
This is the object of our reasoning here,That we may hasten with a march too fast
Towards moral perfectness in the bard's sphere:
A legislator, when he would recast
Social establishments, doth,—of the past,—
And that which is,—rather himself avail:—
On tried foundations, tried, and found to last,
Rather rebuild, than frantically hail
Th' abolishment of all, since parts were weak and frail.
52
So we would say, the poet, he whose aimIs to produce impression, man should take
Rather as he finds man, more strive to frame
A fabric calculated to awake
Establish'd prejudice, than,—for the sake
Of philosophic name,—on theories build—
New theories of man,—his claim to make
Demands upon our sympathy, distill'd
Through ancient channels best, howe'er the bard be skill'd.
53
Yet let us say, for unsaid we might wellDeserve injustice' stigma, that the man,—
Whose theories of verse we here repel,—
How little theoretic errors can
A native glory dim,—how in the van
Of his own errors god-like he doth fare,—
Proves to all honest hearts! Yes, we should scan
Our toil with treble joy, if being heir
Of errors like to his, his glories we might share.
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54
Before he rose, there were, for every theme,Many prescriptive phrases, all inane,
Since all bombastic; and with these did teem,
And with their misplac'd ornaments, and vain,
Whate'er profess'd to be poetic strain:—
These, universal, ere he 'gan his task,
He hath quite banish'd from the bard's domain;
We thank him, poesy, that we may bask
In light of thy clear face, from whence he tore the mask!
55
And let us add, that in the magic pageOf legendary lore, where in “the fate
O' th' Nortons,” he our pity would engage,
A glorious monument he doth create,
Where on his theme all accessories wait,
Pomp, superstition, mystery, pride of name!
There let the scoffer turn; there consecrate
Will he behold, to a legitimate fame,
All that which may confirm the bard's immortal claim.
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THE END.
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