 | Moses in the Bulrushes |  |
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THE INTRODUCTION.
O for the sacred energy which struck
The harp of Jesse's son! or for a spark
Of that celestial flame which touch'd the lips
Of bless'd Isaiah when the Seraphim
With living fire descended, and his soul
From sin's pollution purg'd! or one faint ray,
(If human things to heavenly I may join)
Of that pure spirit which inflam'd the breast
Of Milton, God's own poet! when, retir'd,
In fair enthusiastic vision rapt,
The nightly visitant deign'd bless his couch
With inspiration, such as never flow'd
From Aganippe's fount, or Acidale:
Then, when the sacred fire within him burnt,
He spake, as man or angel might have spoke,
When man was pure, and Angels were his guests.
The harp of Jesse's son! or for a spark
Of that celestial flame which touch'd the lips
Of bless'd Isaiah when the Seraphim
With living fire descended, and his soul
From sin's pollution purg'd! or one faint ray,
(If human things to heavenly I may join)
Of that pure spirit which inflam'd the breast
Of Milton, God's own poet! when, retir'd,
In fair enthusiastic vision rapt,
The nightly visitant deign'd bless his couch
With inspiration, such as never flow'd
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Then, when the sacred fire within him burnt,
He spake, as man or angel might have spoke,
When man was pure, and Angels were his guests.
It will not be.—Nor prophet's burning zeal;
Nor muse of fire, nor yet to sweep the strings
With sacred energy to me belongs;
Nor with Miltonic hand to touch the chords
That wake to ecstacy. From me, alas!
The secret source of harmony is hid;
The magic powers which catch the ravish'd soul
In melody's sweet maze, and the clear streams
Which to pure Fancy's yet untasted springs
Enchanted lead. Of these I nothing know;
Yet, all unknowing, dare invoke thy aid,
Spirit of Truth! who graciously hast said,
That none who ask in faith should ask in vain.
Nor muse of fire, nor yet to sweep the strings
With sacred energy to me belongs;
Nor with Miltonic hand to touch the chords
That wake to ecstacy. From me, alas!
The secret source of harmony is hid;
The magic powers which catch the ravish'd soul
In melody's sweet maze, and the clear streams
Which to pure Fancy's yet untasted springs
Enchanted lead. Of these I nothing know;
Yet, all unknowing, dare invoke thy aid,
Spirit of Truth! who graciously hast said,
That none who ask in faith should ask in vain.
You I invoke not now, ye fabled nine!
I not invoke you, though you well were sought
In Greece and Latium, by immortal bards,
Whose syren song enchants, and shall enchant,
Thro' Time's wide-circling round, tho' false their faith,
And less than human were the gods they sung.
Tho' false their faith, they taught the best they knew,
And, blush O Christians! liv'd above their faith.
They wou'd have bless'd the beam, and hail'd the day,
Which chas'd the moral darkness from their souls.
Oh! had their minds receiv'd the clearer ray
Of true devotion, they had learn'd to scorn
Their deities impure, their senseless gods,
And wild mythology's fantastic maze.
I not invoke you, though you well were sought
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Whose syren song enchants, and shall enchant,
Thro' Time's wide-circling round, tho' false their faith,
And less than human were the gods they sung.
Tho' false their faith, they taught the best they knew,
And, blush O Christians! liv'd above their faith.
They wou'd have bless'd the beam, and hail'd the day,
Which chas'd the moral darkness from their souls.
Oh! had their minds receiv'd the clearer ray
Of true devotion, they had learn'd to scorn
Their deities impure, their senseless gods,
And wild mythology's fantastic maze.
Pure Plato! how had thy chaste spirit hail'd
A faith so fitted to thy moral sense!
What hadst thou felt to see the fair romance
Of high imagination, the bright dream
Of thy pure fancy more than realiz'd!
O sweet enthusiast! thou hadst blest a scheme
Fair, good, and perfect. How had thy rapt soul,
Caught fire, and burnt with a diviner flame!
For ev'n thy fair idea ne'er conceiv'd
Such plenitude of love, such boundless bliss,
As Deity made visible to sense.
Unhappy Brutus! philosophic mind!
Great 'midst the errors of the Stoic school!
How had his kindling spirit joy'd to find
That his lov'd virtue was no empty name;
Nor had he met the vision at Philippi,
Nor had he sheath'd his bloody dagger's point,
Or in the breast he lov'd, or in his own.
A faith so fitted to thy moral sense!
What hadst thou felt to see the fair romance
Of high imagination, the bright dream
Of thy pure fancy more than realiz'd!
O sweet enthusiast! thou hadst blest a scheme
Fair, good, and perfect. How had thy rapt soul,
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For ev'n thy fair idea ne'er conceiv'd
Such plenitude of love, such boundless bliss,
As Deity made visible to sense.
Unhappy Brutus! philosophic mind!
Great 'midst the errors of the Stoic school!
How had his kindling spirit joy'd to find
That his lov'd virtue was no empty name;
Nor had he met the vision at Philippi,
Nor had he sheath'd his bloody dagger's point,
Or in the breast he lov'd, or in his own.
The Pagan page how far more wise than ours!
They with the gods they worshipp'd grac'd their song;
Our song we grace with gods we disbelieve;
The manners we adopt without the creed.
Shall Fiction only raise poetic flame,
And shall no altars blaze, O Truth! to thee?
Shall falsehood only please, and fable charm?
And shall eternal Truth neglected lie?
Because immortal, slighted or profan'd?
Truth has our rev'rence only, not our love;
Our praise, but not our heart. A deity,
Confess'd, but shunn'd, acknowledg'd, not ador'd:
She comes too near us, and she shines too bright.
Her penetrating beam at once betrays
What we wou'd hide from others and ourselves.
They with the gods they worshipp'd grac'd their song;
Our song we grace with gods we disbelieve;
The manners we adopt without the creed.
Shall Fiction only raise poetic flame,
And shall no altars blaze, O Truth! to thee?
Shall falsehood only please, and fable charm?
And shall eternal Truth neglected lie?
Because immortal, slighted or profan'd?
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Our praise, but not our heart. A deity,
Confess'd, but shunn'd, acknowledg'd, not ador'd:
She comes too near us, and she shines too bright.
Her penetrating beam at once betrays
What we wou'd hide from others and ourselves.
Why shun to make our duty our delight?
Let pleasure be the motive (and allow
That immortality be quite forgot):
Where shall we trace thro' all the page profane,
A livelier pleasure, and a purer source
Of innocent delight, than the fair book
Of holy Truth presents? For ardent youth,
The sprightly narrative; for years mature,
The moral document, in sober robe
Of grave philosophy array'd; which all
Had heard with admiration, had embrac'd
With rapture; had the shades of Academe,
Or the learn'd Porch produc'd it. Then, O then,
How Wisdom's hidden treasures had been couch'd
Beneath fair Allegory's graceful veil!
Let pleasure be the motive (and allow
That immortality be quite forgot):
Where shall we trace thro' all the page profane,
A livelier pleasure, and a purer source
Of innocent delight, than the fair book
Of holy Truth presents? For ardent youth,
The sprightly narrative; for years mature,
The moral document, in sober robe
Of grave philosophy array'd; which all
Had heard with admiration, had embrac'd
With rapture; had the shades of Academe,
Or the learn'd Porch produc'd it. Then, O then,
How Wisdom's hidden treasures had been couch'd
Beneath fair Allegory's graceful veil!
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Do not the pow'rs of soul-enchanting song,
Strong imag'ry, bold figure, every charm
Of eastern flight sublime, apt metaphor,
And all the graces in thy lovely train,
Divine Simplicity! assemble all
In Sion's songs, and bold Isaiah's strain?
Strong imag'ry, bold figure, every charm
Of eastern flight sublime, apt metaphor,
And all the graces in thy lovely train,
Divine Simplicity! assemble all
In Sion's songs, and bold Isaiah's strain?
Why shou'd the classic eye delight to trace
How Pyrrha and the fam'd Thessalian king
Restor'd the ruin'd race of lost mankind;
Yet turn, incurious, from the patriarch sav'd,
The righteous remnant of a delug'd world?
Why are we taught, delighted, to recount
Alcides' labours, yet neglect to learn
How mighty Sampson led a life of toil
Herculean? Pain and peril mark'd them both;
A life eventful, and disastrous death.
Can all the tales which Grecian records yield;
Can all the names the Roman page records,
Renown'd for friendship and surpassing love;
Can gallant Theseus and his brave compeer;
Orestes, and the partner of his toils;
Achates and his friend; Euryalus
And blooming Nisus, pleasant in their lives,
And undivided by the stroke of death;
Can each, can all, a lovelier picture yield
Of virtuous friendship; can they all present
A tenderness more touching than the love
Of Jonathan and David?—Speak, ye young!
You who are undebauch'd by fashion's lore,
And, unsophisticate, from nature judge,
Say, is your quick attention stronger drawn,
By wasted Thebes, than Pharaoh's smitten hosts?
Or do the vagrant Trojans yield a theme
More grateful to the eager appetite
Of young impatience, than the wand'ring tribes,
By Moses thro' the thirsty desert led?
The beauteous Maid (tho' tender is the tale),
Whose guiltless blood on Aulis' altars stream'd,
Smites not the bosom with a softer pang
Than Jephthah's daughter, doom'd like her to die.
How Pyrrha and the fam'd Thessalian king
Restor'd the ruin'd race of lost mankind;
Yet turn, incurious, from the patriarch sav'd,
The righteous remnant of a delug'd world?
Why are we taught, delighted, to recount
Alcides' labours, yet neglect to learn
How mighty Sampson led a life of toil
Herculean? Pain and peril mark'd them both;
A life eventful, and disastrous death.
Can all the tales which Grecian records yield;
Can all the names the Roman page records,
Renown'd for friendship and surpassing love;
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Orestes, and the partner of his toils;
Achates and his friend; Euryalus
And blooming Nisus, pleasant in their lives,
And undivided by the stroke of death;
Can each, can all, a lovelier picture yield
Of virtuous friendship; can they all present
A tenderness more touching than the love
Of Jonathan and David?—Speak, ye young!
You who are undebauch'd by fashion's lore,
And, unsophisticate, from nature judge,
Say, is your quick attention stronger drawn,
By wasted Thebes, than Pharaoh's smitten hosts?
Or do the vagrant Trojans yield a theme
More grateful to the eager appetite
Of young impatience, than the wand'ring tribes,
By Moses thro' the thirsty desert led?
The beauteous Maid (tho' tender is the tale),
Whose guiltless blood on Aulis' altars stream'd,
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Than Jephthah's daughter, doom'd like her to die.
Such are the lovely themes which court the muse!
Scarce yet essay'd in verse. O let me mourn
That heav'n-descended song shou'd e'er forget
Its sacred dignity and high descent;
Shou'd e'er so far its origin debase,
To spread corruption's bane, to lull the bad
With flattery's opiate strain; to taint the heart
Of innocence, and silently infuse
Delicious poison, whose insidious charm
Feeds the sick mind, and fondly ministers
Unwholesome pleasure to the fever'd taste;
While its fell venom, with malignant pow'r,
Strikes at the root of virtue, with'ring all
Her vital energy. Oh! for some balm
Of sov'reign pow'r to raise the drooping muse
To all the health of virtue! to infuse
A gen'rous warmth, to rouse an holy pride,
And give her high conceptions of herself!
Scarce yet essay'd in verse. O let me mourn
That heav'n-descended song shou'd e'er forget
Its sacred dignity and high descent;
Shou'd e'er so far its origin debase,
To spread corruption's bane, to lull the bad
With flattery's opiate strain; to taint the heart
Of innocence, and silently infuse
Delicious poison, whose insidious charm
Feeds the sick mind, and fondly ministers
Unwholesome pleasure to the fever'd taste;
While its fell venom, with malignant pow'r,
Strikes at the root of virtue, with'ring all
Her vital energy. Oh! for some balm
Of sov'reign pow'r to raise the drooping muse
To all the health of virtue! to infuse
A gen'rous warmth, to rouse an holy pride,
And give her high conceptions of herself!
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For me, eternal Spirit! let thy word
My path illume! O thou compassionate God!
Thou know'st our frame, thou know'st we are but dust.
From dust a Seraph's zeal thou wilt not ask,
An Angel's purity. Oh! as I strive,
Tho' with a feeble voice and flagging wing,
A glowing heart, but pow'rless hand, to tell
The faith of favour'd man to heav'n; to trace
The ways inscrutable of heav'n to man;
May I, by thy celestial guidance led,
Fix deeper in my heart the truths I sing!
In my own life transcribe whate'er of good
To others I propose! and by thy rule
Correct th' irregular , reform the wrong,
Exalt the low, and brighten the obscure!
Still may I note how all th' agreeing parts
Of this well-order'd fabric, join to frame
One fair, one finish'd, one harmonious whole!
Trace the close links which form the perfect chain
In beautiful connexion; mark the scale,
Whose nice gradations, with progression true,
For ever rising, end in Deity!
My path illume! O thou compassionate God!
Thou know'st our frame, thou know'st we are but dust.
From dust a Seraph's zeal thou wilt not ask,
An Angel's purity. Oh! as I strive,
Tho' with a feeble voice and flagging wing,
A glowing heart, but pow'rless hand, to tell
The faith of favour'd man to heav'n; to trace
The ways inscrutable of heav'n to man;
May I, by thy celestial guidance led,
Fix deeper in my heart the truths I sing!
In my own life transcribe whate'er of good
To others I propose! and by thy rule
Correct th' irregular , reform the wrong,
Exalt the low, and brighten the obscure!
Still may I note how all th' agreeing parts
Of this well-order'd fabric, join to frame
One fair, one finish'd, one harmonious whole!
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In beautiful connexion; mark the scale,
Whose nice gradations, with progression true,
For ever rising, end in Deity!
| Moses in the Bulrushes | |