James Gates Percival
James Gates Percival (15 septiembre 1795 - 2 mayo 1856) fue un poeta y geólogo estadounidense, nacido en Berlín, Connecticut y murió en Hazel Green, Wisconsin.
OBRA:
Poems. 1821
Prometheus part II with other poems. 1822.
Clio. 3 parts, 1822, 1827.
Oration delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society. 1822.
Poem delivered before the Connecticut alpha of the Phi Beta Kappa Society. 1826.
A system of universal geography. 1834.
Elegant extracts ... a new edition [Vicesimus Knox, ed. Percival]. 1842.
Report on the geology of the State of Connecticut. 1842.
The dream of a day, and other poems. 1843.
Report on the iron of Dodge and Washington Counties, State of Wisconsin. 1855.
Annual report of the geological survey of the State of Wisconsin. 1856.
Poetical works, ed. L. W. Fitch. 2 vols, 1859.
Poetical works ... with a biographical sketch. 2 vols, 1865.
Lo inolvidable
Hay momentos tan bellos, tan dulces en la vida,
Que su recuerdo siempre se aviva más y más,
Y á los felices días añade nuevo encanto,
Y en la miseria esparce benigna claridad.
Momentos consagrados por sonrisas y lágrimas,
Las del favor primero, las del adiós final;
Por amor, sol glorioso, que súbito se inflama,
Y en hora de tristeza sepúltase en la mar.
Momentos hay tan bellos, tan dulces en la vida,
Que al alma siempre orean cual brisas del Edén;
Si al pronto los envuelve en turbio torbellino
El tiempo, más brillantes despiértanse después.
¡Momentos bendecidos, gratísimas memorias!
Aquel imán secreto jamás perder podréis
Que hace que fuerzas nuevas el corazón reciba,
Y, aun moribundo y yerto, palpite de placer.
Retrógrado, en vosotros se explaya el pensamiento,
Y torno, torno á verla, como otra vez la vi:
Su cabello suave, que al aire manso ondea,
Sus ojos, que del cielo reflejan el zafir;
Su cuello, como nieve que las cumbres corona,
Sus labios entreabiertos cual fresca flor de Abril;
Y á ella pasar la miro, en leve nube envuelta
Que roba los aromas del nardo y del jazmín.
De aquella azul mirada párte encendido rayo
Que vierte por mis venas inextinguible ardor;
Habla— y oigo de nuevo rodar, cual de arpa alada,
En melodiosas ondas su regalada voz.
Enlazada á mi mano su dulce mano estrecho,
Y electrizado late mi pobre corazón.
Más que de humanas dichas, hora de santos éxtasis
Que vivirá conmigo mientras aliente yo.
Juntos nos encontramos, de cristalina fuente
Bebiendo inspiraciones de gloria y de virtud,
De miradas extáticas, de pensamientos mudos
Viviendo, sin que el labio de amor hablase aún.
¡Adiós! tiembla su mano, y responde á mis lágrimas
Una amorosa lágrima de su mirada azul.
Pasar podrán los años, mi vida marchitarse;
¡Nunca aquellos recuerdos extinguirán su luz!
Nota: Traducción de Miguel Antonio Caro incluída en el libro Traducciones poéticas (1889).
Despondency
I.
It is not mirth, can ease my heavy woes,
Or calm the throbbing of my breast;
O! there is nought that can my eyelids close,
Or rock my spirits to a peaceful rest;
No — life appears in ebon colours drest,
Where'er I turn my woe-worn aching sight;
The morning dawns by every grief opprest,
And sombre twilight fades to cheerless night,
Bereft of every joy and void of each delight.
If pleasure meet my ever-weeping eye,
I see a demon lurking 'neath its flow'rs;
The smile of joy but wakes the heavy sigh,
And seems as sad as when the tempest low'rs:
O! there is nothing in love's rosy bow'rs,
Can charm my heart, or blunt grief's poison'd stings;
Despair each cup of bliss with misery sours,
And o'er the scene a shade of sorrow flings,
While ever in my ear the knell of ruin rings.
II.
O! how I love to ponder o'er the tomb,
And view the clay that wraps my Ellen's form;
Sweet to my soul the yews funereal gloom,
And lovely to my sight the coming storm;
The smiling flow'r would but her grave deform,
Its gayest charms would give me no delight,
No warbling sound my frozen heart could warm;
But O! how dear the owlet's silent flight,
The lonely turtle's wail, the deepest shade of night.
Cease, comforter! to pour thy honey'd strain,
But whisper sorrow's accents in my ear;
O! let me hear the mournful lute complain,
And breath the sound that starts the sudden tear.
Can aught that's gay or cheerful now be dear?
Think you, this world will ever please me more?
No — let me rest upon my Ellen's bier,
O! let me hasten to that peaceful shore,
Where hush'd is every storm, and still the tempest's roar.
O! I could hide me in the darkest cave,
And weep till grief my heavy eyelids close;
My only solace is the gloomy grave,
'Tis there alone my heart can find repose:
Life is a dreary wilderness of woes—
No flow'r of friendship blossoms on the wild,
Despair's dark wave in freezing current flows,
Where mercy ne'er the orphan heart beguil'd,
Where Pity never wept, and friendship never smil'd,
What is a friend? A hollow-hearted thing,
That smiles and smiles, when fortune's look is fair;
But when the knell of ruin 'gins to ring,
Those lying lips no smiles nor simpers wear.
Can I this cruel coldness longer bear?
Ah! shall I bend and scarcely dare complain?
No — for the horrors of the grave I dare,
I long that dreary, still abode, to gain,
Where friends shall ne'er deceive nor flatterer's mock again.
To play upon a soul, that feels like mine,
To raise its hopes, then brush them all away—
To charm it with a transient rainbow's shine;
It is a devil's sport, a demon's play.
Sport with the soul that's never sad nor gay,
But alway plods in life's dull joyless road,
That never smil'd in pleasure's shining ray,
That ne'er was chill'd with grief, with passion glow'd—
But leave the feeling mind to its own thoughts and God.
[pp. 138-40]
Prometheus. A Poem.
They talk of love and pleasure — but 'tis all
A tale of falsehood — life is made of gloom,—
The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall,
The loveliest path-way tends but to the tomb;
Alas! destruction is man's only doom;
We rise, and sigh our little lives away,
A moment blushes beauty's vernal bloom,
A moment brightens manhood's summer ray,
Then all is wrapp'd in cold and comfortless decay.
And yet the busy insects sweat and toil,
And struggle hard to heap the shining ore—
How trifling seems their hustle and turmoil,
And even how trifling seems the sage's tore,
Even he, who, buried in the classic store
Of ancient ages, ponders o'er the page
Of Tully or of Plato, does no more,
Than with his bosom's quiet warfare wage,
And in an endless round of useless thought engage.
Then close thy ponderous folio and retire
To shady coverts, undisturb'd retreats,
And lay thy careless hand upon thy lyre,
And call the muses from their woodland seats;
But ah! the Poet's pulse how vainly beats,
'Tis but vexation to attune his strings,
Ev'n he, who with the Chian bard competes,
Had better close his fancy's soaring wings,
And own, earth's highest bliss no true enjoyment brings.
We find this earth a gloomy, dull abode,
And yet we wish for pleasure — sense is keen,
And so this life is but a toilsome road,
That leads us to a more delightful scene;
Well, if thou find'st a solace there, I ween,
It is the only joy thou e'er canst know,
And yet it is but fancy, never seen
By mortal eye was all that lovely show,
That paradise where we so fondly wish to go.
We have a body — and the wintry wind
Will not respect the Poet — No, the storm
Beats heavy on the case, that holds a mind
Of heavenly mould, as on the vulgar form;
When bleak winds blow, how can the soul be warm?
Can fancy brighten in the cell of care?
Can inspiration's breath the soul inform,
When the limbs shiver in the gusty air,
And in the thin, pale face the fiends of hunger stare?
O! they may tell me of the ethereal frame,
That burns and burns forever — 'tis the dream
Of those high intellects, who well may claim
Relation to the pure, celestial beam:
The life eternal — 'tis a glorious theme,
Whereon bards, sages, have out-pour'd their fire;
But view it narrowly, and it will seem,
But the wild mounting of unquench'd desire,
The long-extended wish to raise our being higher.
True — 'tis a mighty stretch, when unconfin'd
The soul expatiates in imagin'd being,
And where the vulgar eye can only find
Dust, by a second sight strange visions seeing,
And still from wonder on to wonder fleeing,
By its enkindled feelings wildly driven,
It leaps the walls of earth, but ill agreeing
With those high-mounting thoughts to genius given,
Nor rests till it has set its eagle-foot in heav'n.
And there it culls the choicest fields of earth,
For all the pure and beautiful and bright,
And gives a gay and odorous Eden birth,
And rains around a flood of golden light,
Where sun, moon, stars, no more awake the sight,
But pouring from the Eternals viewless throne,
It fills us with ineffable delight,
And every stain of earth forever flown,
We bathe and bask in this ethereal fount alone.
And flow'rs of every hue and scent are there,
The laughing fields are one enamell'd bed,
And fill'd with sweetness breathes the fanning air,
And soaring birds are singing overhead,
And bubbling brooks, by living fountains fed,
O'er pebbled gems and pearl sands winding play;
One boundless beauty o'er creation shed,
The storm, the cloud, the mist, have hied away,
And nothing dims the blaze of this immortal day.
And Man, a pure and quenchless beam of light,
All eye, all ear, all feeling, reason, soul,
He takes from good to good his tireless flight,
And ever aiming at perfection's goal,
Sees at one instant-glance the moral whole;
Pow'rs ever kindling, always on the wing,
The disembodied spark Prometheus stole,
To science, Virtue, love, devotion, spring
His fancy, reason, heart — creation's angel king.
The whole machine of worlds before his eye
Unfolded as a map, he glances through
Systems in moments, sees the comet fly
In its clear orbit through the fields of blue,
And every instant gives him something new,
Whereon his ever-quenchless thirst he feeds;
From star to insect, sun to falling dew,
From atom to the immortal mind he speeds,
And in the glow of thought the boundless volume reads.
Truth stands before him in a full, clear blaze,
An intellectual sun-beam, and his eye
Can look upon it with unbending gaze,
And its minutest lineaments descry;
No speck, nor line is pass'd unnotic'd by,
And the bright form perfection's image wears,
And on its forehead sceptred majesty
The calm, but awful port of justice bears,
Who weeps, when she condemns, but smiles not, when she spares.
Mercy! thou dearest attribute of heav'n,
The attractive charm, the smile of Deity,
To whom the keys of Paradise are given—
Thy glance is love, thy brow benignity,
And bending o'er the world with tender eye,
Thy bright tears fall upon our hearts like dew,
And melting at the call of clemency,
We raise to God again our earth fix'd view,
And in our bosom glows the living fire anew.
The perfect sense of beauty — how the heart,
Even in this low estate with transport swells,
When Nature's charms at once upon us start,—
The ocean's roaring waste, where grandeur dwells
The cloud-girt mountain, whose bald summit tells,
Beneath a pure, black sky the faintest star,
The flowery maze of woods and and dells,
The bubbling brook, the cascade sounding far,
Rob'd in a mellow mist as Evening mounts her car,
And with her glowing pencil paints the skies
In hues, transparent, melting, deep and clear,
The richest picture shown to mortal eyes,
And lovelier when a dearer self is near,
And we can whisper in her bending ear,
"How fair are these, and yet how fairer thou,"
And pleas'd the artless flattery to hear,
Her full blue eyes in meek confusion bow,—
That hour, that look, that eye, are living to me now.
But there the cloud of earth-born passion gone,
Taste, quick, correct, exalted, rais'd, refin'd,
Rears o'er the subject intellect her throne,
The pure platonic extacy of mind;
By universal harmony defin'd,
It feels the fitness of each tint and hue,
Of every tone that breathes along the wind,
Of every motion, form, that charm the view,
And lives upon the grand, the beautiful and new.
The feelings of the heart retain their sway,
But are ennobled — not the instinctive tie,
The storge, that so often leads astray
And poisons all the springs of infancy,
So that, thenceforth, to live is but to die,
And linger with a venom at the heart,
To feel the sinking of despondency,
To writhe around the planted dart,
And burn and pant with thirst, that never can depart.
Such are the wounds, indulgent parents give,
Who slay the smiling blossom of their love,
And if the blighted plant should lingering live,
The spirit cannot wing its flight above,
But in its restless agony will rove
Still on and onward in forbidden joy,
Till wildly, as a whirlwind's fury drove,
He rushes to the foes that soon destroy,
And then they weep and curse their lost, deluded boy.
His friendship warm'd to love — all things, that feel,
In all his tenderness of feeling share;
His love bright as devotion's holiest zeal,
For sex, without its ill, has being there;
All pleasure's smile and virtue's beauty wear,
And kindred souls in dear communion blend,
Love, purest love, without its sigh and care,
And hand in hand their mounting way they wend,
With hope that meets no chill, and joys that never end.
Devotion — 'tis an all-absorbing flame—
The omnipotent, all-perfect, endless Being,
The builder of the universal frame,
At one quick glance, past, present, future seeing,
By whom, hot, cold moist, dry, good, ill, agreeing,
At last, the perfect birth of bliss comes forth,
And evil to its native darkness fleeing,
Virtue shines out in her unspotted worth,
And blasts to meanest dust the proudest forms of earth.
Hark — hear the holy choir around the throne,
Their lips are coals, their paeans vocal fire,
They sing the Eternal Lord, who sits alone,
And still their swelling anthem rises higher,
The warbling of the universal lyre,
The harmony of hearts, and souls, and spheres—
O! how my bosom burns with long desire,
How flow my bitter, penitential tears;
O! 'tis a strain too loud and sweet for mortal ears.
But stop, delirious fancy! now awaking
From thy enchanted dream, what meets thy sight?
The charmed spell, that bound thy senses, breaking,
Thy Eden withers in a simoom's blight,
And all its suns have set in endless night,
Love, sanctity and glory, all a gleam,
Thy airy paradise has vanish'd quite,
And falling, fading, flickering, dies life's beam,
Thy vision'd heaven has fled — alas! 'twas but a dream.
———*———*———*———*———*———
O! for these early days, when patriarchs dwelt
In pastoral tents, that rose beneath the palm,
When life was pure, and every bosom felt
Unwarp'd affection's sweetest, holiest balm,
And like the silent scene around them, calm,
Years stole along in one unrufled flow;
Their hearts aye warbled with devotion's psalm,
And as they saw their buds around them blow,
Their keenly glistening eye reveal'd the grateful glow.
They sat at evening, when their gather'd flocks
Bleated and sported by the palm-crown'd well,
The sun was glittering on the pointed rocks,
And lone and wide the deep'ning shadows fell;
They sung their hymn, and in a choral swell
They rais'd their simple voices to the Power,
Who smil'd along the fair sky, they would dwell
Fondly and deeply on his praise, that hour
Was to them, as to flowers that droop and fade, the shower.
He warm'd them in the sunbeams, and they gaz'd
In wonder on that kindling fount of light,
And as, hung in the glowing west, it blaz'd
In brighter glories, with a full delight
They pour'd their pealing anthem, and when night
Lifted her silver forehead, and the moon
Roll'd through the blue serenity, in bright
But softer radiance, they bless'd the boon
That gave those hours the charm without the fire of noon.
Spring of the living world, the dawn of nature,
When Man walk'd forth the lord of all below,
Erect and godlike in his giant stature,
Before the tainted gales of vice 'gan blow,
His conscience spotless as the new-fall'n snow,
Pure as the crystal spouting from the spring,
He aim'd no murderous dagger, drew no bow,
But at the soaring of the eagle's wing,
The gaunt wolf's stealthy step, the lion's ravening spring.
With brutes alone he arm'd himself for war,
Free to the winds his long locks dancing flew,
And at his prowling enemy afar,
He shot his death-shaft from the nervy yew,
In morning's mist his shrill-voic'd bugle blew,
And with the rising sun on tall rocks strode,
And bounding through the gemm'd and sparkling dew,
The rose of health, that in his full cheek glow'd,
Told of the pure, fresh stream, that there enkindling flow'd.
This was the age, when mind was all on fire,
The days of inspiration, when the soul,
Warm'd, heighten'd, lifted, burning with desire
For all the great and lovely, to the goal
Of Man's essential glory rush'd, then stole
The sage his spark from heaven, the prophet spake
His deep-ton'd words of thunder, as when roll
The peals amid the clouds, words, that would break
The spirit's leaden sleep, and all its terrors wake.
He stood on Sinai, wrapp'd in storm-clouds, wild
His loose locks stream'd around him, and his eye
Flash'd indignation on a world defil'd
With sense and slavery, who lost the high
Prerogative of power and spirit, by
Their longings for their flesh-pots — O! 'tis lust,
Which robs us of our freedom, makes us lie
Wallowing in willing wretchedness, nor burst
That thraldom, of our woes, most foul, most hard, most curst.
He saw those Samsons by a harlot shorn,
He saw them take the distaff, and assume
The soft and tawdry tunics, which adorn
The leering syren; all their flush and bloom,
And might and vigour, all that can illume
And blazon manhood, by the magic rod
Of pleasure chang'd to weakness, squalor, gloom,
And they, who erst with port majestic trod,
Then drunk, and gorg'd, and numb'd, in sleep lethargic nod.
He stood and rais'd his mighty voice in wrath
And sent it, like a whirlwind, o'er those ears,
And thrill'd them, like a simoom on its path
Of havoc. — See, the slumbering giant hears,
And wak'd, and rous'd, and kindled by his fears,
Starts into new life with an instant spring;
This is no time for soft repentant tears,
At once away their wine-drench'd spoils they fling,
Their energy is up, their souls are on the wing.
They did not lie, and wish, and long to break
The manacles which clasp'd them, they did tear
Cables as we would silk-threads, and did take
An upward journey, where the world shines fair,
The temple of true virtue glory, where
Man lives and glows in sunshine, where the prize,
More rich than laurel wreaths, for all, who dare
To reason's perfect, fearless freedom rise,
Sends forth bright beams that dim and blind all meaner eyes.
Go o'er the fields of Greece and see her tow'rs
Fallen and torn and crumbled — see her fanes
Prostrate and weed-encircled, dimly lours
Brute ignorance around them, slavery reigns
And lords it o'er their sacred cities, chains
Are rivetted upon them, and they gall
Their cramp'd limbs to the bone, the lash'd wretch strains
To rend the gnawing iron — but his fall
Is in himself — sleep on — ye well deserve your thrall.
This is the old age of our fallen race,
We mince in steps correct, but feeble, creep
By rule unwavering in a tortoise pace,
We do not, like the new-horn ancient, leap
At once o'er mind's old barriers, but we keep
Drilling and shaving down the wall, we play
With stones and shells and flow'rs, and as we peep
In nature's outward folds, like infants, say,
How bright and clear and pure our intellectual day.
We let gorg'd despots rise and plant their foot
Upon our prostrate necks, if they but give
Their golden counters — Tyranny takes root
In a rich soil of sloth and self — we live
Like oysters in their clos'd shells — can we strive
For freedom, when this cobweb circle draws
Its tangling coils around us — let us give
Our hearts to Nature and her sacred laws,
And we can fight unharm'd, uncheck'd in freedom's cause.
There are a few grand spirits, who can feel
The beauty of simplicity, and pour
Their ardent wishes forth, and sternly deal
Their crumbling blows around them, they would soar,
Where man unfetter'd rises, proudly o'er
The common herd of slaves to pow'r and rule:
Go, search the world, you cannot find a more
Weak, drivelling subject for a despot's tool,
Than him, who dares not leave the lessons of his school.
Cast back your sicken'd eye upon the dawn
Of Greek and Roman freedom — See their sons
Before the bulwark of their dear rights drawn,
Proud in their simple dignity, as runs
The courser to the fair stream — on their thrones
They sat, all kings, all people — they were free,
For they were strong and temperate, and in tones
Deep and canorous, nature's melody,
They sung in one full voice the hymn of liberty.
In Dorian mood they march'd to meet their foes,
With measur'd step their awful front they bore,
As when a mountain billow slowly flows;
Rising and heaving onward to the shore,
It rolls its mingled waters with a roar,
That echoes through the mountains, wide they dash,
Blue as the heav'ns they kiss, and tumbling o'er
They burst upon the coast, and foaming lash
The rocks and splinter'd cliffs, Earth groans beneath the crash.
Then liberty and law were brightest — men
Were not themselves — the city was their soul;
They did not keep their treasures in a den,
And brood them, as a owl her eggs — the pole
To which their hearts were pointed, and the goal
Of all their strivings was the public good;
The sage, with naked brow and flowing stole,
And snowy beard and eye majestic, stood,
And gave to willing minds their high but simple food.
It was not cates, which pleas'd then — but they drew,
And fill'd their brimming goblet from the stream,
And pluck'd the fruits that overhung it; few
But noble were their works — the living beam
Of sun-light stamp'd their pages — We may dream
Of monsters, till the brain is mad, the pure,
Bright images, wherewith their volumes teem,
The taste of nature always will allure,
And while man reads and thinks and feels and loves, endure.
Then wisdom crown'd her head with stars, and smil'd
In Socrates, and glow'd in Plato, shone
Like Day's God in the Stagyrite, who pil'd
A pyramid of high thoughts; as a throne,
It lorded o'er the world for ages; grown
Weak in a second childhood they did count
And nicely measure each minutest stone,
And crawl'd around the base, but could not mount
And taste, upon the top, the pure ethereal fount.
Then Eloquence was pow'r — it was the burst
Of feeling, cloth'd in wards o'erwhelming, pour'd
From mind's long cherish'd treasury, and nurst
By virtue into majesty it soar'd
And thunder'd in Pericles, and was stor'd
With fire that flash'd and kindled, in that soul,
Who call'd, when Philip, with barbarian horde,
Hung over Athens, and prepar'd to roll
His deluge on her tow'rs, and drown her freedom's whole.
Then Poetry was inspiration — loud
And sweet and rich in speaking tones, it rung,
As if a choir of muses from a cloud,
Sun-kindled, on the bright horizon hung,
Their voices harmoniz'd, their lyres full-strung,
Roll'd a deep descant o'er a listening world—
There was a force, a majesty, when sung
The bard of Troy — his living thoughts were hurl'd,
Like lightnings, when the folds of tempest are unfurl'd.
Was it the tumult of contending pow'rs,
The clash of swords and shields, the, rush of cars,
Or when aloft in night's serenest hours
The moon, encircled by her train of stars,
Pour'd her soft light around, and dewy airs
Breath'd through the camp and cool'd the warrior's brow;
Was it the mellow slumber, which repairs
The languid limbs or keen-edg'd words, that bow
The soul in wondering awe; or was it, round the prow,
The purple wave disparting, and in foam
Roaring behind the vessel, as she flew,
A white-wing'd falcon, from her lessening home,
Ploughing the sea's broad, back, as loudly blew
The winds among the cordage — Nature threw
Her energy athwart his page, and shed
Her blaze upon his mind, and there we view,
If, chance, by taste, unwarp'd, unfetter'd, led,
A new-made world all life and light, around us spread.
The times are alter'd — man is, now no more
The being of his capabilities,
The days of all his energy are o'er,
And will those fallen demi-gods arise
In all their panoply, and hear the cries
Of king-crush'd myriads, who wear the chain
Of bondage, will light dawn upon their eyes,
And wake them from their iron sleep, again
To bare their breast in strife on freedom's holy plain?
A trumpet echoes o'er their tombs — awake!
The long full peal is "vengeance — sleep no more;"
The marble walls, as by an earthquake, break:
And, lo! an armed legion onward pour
Bright casques and nodding plumes, and thirsting gore,
The blood of awe-struck tyrants, flash their swords;
Their march is as a torrent river's roar,
And with a wak'd slave's desperation, tow'rds
Their homes of icy gloom, they drive Sarmatia's hordes.
There is a flood of light roll'd round the hill
Of Jove, and from its cloudy brightness spring
Spectres of long-departed greatness, still
Their heart-felt homage to that shrine they bring,
Which time has made all-sacred, where the king
Of thunder sat upon his ivory throne,
And by him stood his bird, with ready wing
To pounce upon his foes — The days are flown,
When darkness rul'd as God — Valour will claim his own,
And Rome again is free, and from thy shore,
Italia! Gaul and Goth and Hun shall fly,
Thy sons shall wash away their shame in gore,
And once again the year of liberty,
The mighty months or glory, they shall see,
Along thy radiant Zodiac, on the path
Of ages, warn the nations, "we are free"—
O! who can tell the madness and the wrath,
The drunkenness of soul, a new-wak'd people hath?
They stand for hearth and altar, wife and sire,
Their lisping infants call them to the fight
And as they call, their eye-balls flashing fire,
And shouting with a courser's wild delight,
When loos'd he bounds and prances in the might
Of young life — there is in the sound of home
A magic, and the patriot, in his right
Strong-founded, meets the prowling foes, that come
To waste his land — no threats his valour can benumb.
The torch that fights him in his high career,
Was kindled at the purest, holiest flame;
He fights for all his bosom holds most dear?
And O! no voice so conquering as the claim
Of filial tenderness and love, no name
So melting as sire, wife and children — all
Are in those sweet words blended — what is fame,
Though pealing with her trumpet, to the call
Of kindred, bound and toiling in a tyrant's thrall?
He sees the noble and the learned stoop,
And kiss the feet, that crush them, and the crowd,
In hopeless, cureless, willing bondage, droop;
And yet he does not shrink beneath that cloud,
But muttering execrations deep, not loud,
He whets his sword upon his heap'd-up wrong,
And starting, like a spectre from his shroud,
Stung by the lash of slavery a knotted thong,
In all the might of wrath, he hurls his strength along.
Even as a tigress, when her secret lair
The hunter hath invaded — how she draws
Her limbs to all their tenseness, points her hair,
Gnashes her grinding teeth, and bares her claws,
And breathes a stifled growl, and in a pause
Of burning fury hangs upon the spring,
And nerv'd and heated in a parent's cause,
Bounds roaring on the robber, like the wing
Of pouncing hawk, or stone hurl'd whizzing from the sling.
They meet at Tivoli — and night has spread
Her curtain o'er those legions, who would quench
The flame, that Brutus, Tully, Cato fed,
And from its lofty column madly wrench
The new-rais'd statue — Freemen will not blench,
When they have broke their fetters, but will arm
Their nervy hands with vengeance, and will clench
And grapple with their masters, for the charm
Of liberty's sweet voice the coldest heart will warm.
They meet and they are victors — but the soul,
Like his own mountains lava glowing, dies,
And falls with hand firm-grasp'd upon the goal
Of all his longings — as he mounts the skies,
He drops his mantle on the youth, who rise
To give their lives, like him, to liberty;
Devoted to the noblest sacrifice,
Like stars of purest brightness, they shall be
The rallying point, where all the bruis'd and crush'd shall flee.
A dream — a cruel dream — fair rose the sun
Of freedom on that sky without a cloud,
Sweet was the dawn, when liberty was won
By hands unweapon'd, and they hasted proud
Of bloodless conquest, in their paeans loud
To those, who Samson-like had rent their chain;
Then heavenward shone the foreheads, which had bow'd
To foreign rule for ages, and again
The people's majesty tow'rd over hill and plain.
And we did hopes the Roman had awak'd,
And ancient valour had reviv'd anew,
And that the Eagle's thirst of light unslak'd,
As when above the capitol she flew,
Still sought her eyry in the boundless blue;
And we did hope, a spirit had gone forth,
Which tyrants and their paracites would rue,
And like a torrent rolling to the north,
Would with it blend all hearts, that kept man's native worth.
It seem'd the renovation of the world,
The knell of despots, and the day, when thrones
Were tottering and crowns falling, when Kings, hurl'd,
From their base height of lust, should leave their bones
To moulder in their feudal filth; the stones,
Which bound the arch of empire, lost their hold,
And in the sudden crush were heard the groans
Of gorg'd and pamper'd spoilers, who had roll'd
Like havoc on the dumb, weak tremblers of their fold.
And we did see a nation on their way
To stop the invading torrent, ere it came
And delug'd their fair fields — It was a day
Of breathless expectation, when the flame
Of freedom burn'd the highest, for the game
Of Man's emancipation was at stake,
The heart that would not throb then, had no claim
And place in Honour's column — 'twould not wake,
Even if a bolt from heav'n should by its pillow break.
They hung upon the mountains like a storm
Crowning the Appenine with deep, dun shade,
And o'er them tower'd the bold and ardent form,
Who seem'd in panoply of fire array'd,
And from their pikes and bayonets there play'd
A stream of lightnings on the advancing host,
Which train'd and nurtur'd in the murdering trade,
Like tempest-billows rolling to the coast
March'd slow and still and sure to storm that rocky post.
In all the discipline of war they came,
Their strong squar'd columns mov'd with heavy tread,
Their step, their bearing, even their breath the same,
And not a murmur whisper'd through the dead
And boding silence; by a master led,
Even as a rock, that fronts the infuriate wave,
They saw them hanging on their mountain's head,
With cold, proud sneer they mark'd the untutor'd brave,
And knew, here lay, wide-yawn'd Italian freedom's grave.
Secure and calm, they pitch'd their camp, and pil'd
Their arms, and furl'd their banners; all was still,
When like the bursting of a hail-cloud, wild
Those sun-fir'd legions hurried down the hill,
And dash'd against their robbers, with a will
To do all deeds of daring, and a might
Nerv'd into madness by those wrongs, that fill
The heart to overflowing; from that height,
In one wild rush, they pour'd their souls into the fight.
Awhile the Austrian waver'd, for the blows
Fell with a giant's vigour, but the clear,
Quick-sighted leader bade their stretch'd wings close,
And circle in the headlong swarms; then fear
Usurp'd the seat of courage, far and near
The plain was cover'd with the flying bands;
In vain the patriot's effort, word and tear,
His life's blood only drench'd his country's sands,
Or stain'd with fruitless drops the brute invader's hands.
The invading wave rolls on — no arm is rais'd
To stem its ceaseless progress, in its flood
It swallows all the hopes, on which men gaz'd
With such deep yearnings, as when linnets brood
Their callow nestlings — they are now the food
Of scepter'd ribaldry and regal sneers:
Well let them laugh and revel in light mood—
A voice of wrath, erelong, will thrill their ears,
And give them doubly full their cup of blood and tears.
Fosterers of nations! whose parental hand
Scourges the unwilling subject to obey,
To you, ye self-misnomer'd "holy band,"
The goaded slaves their stripes and wounds shall pay;
Though now their heads in child-like fear they lay,
They keenly feel the smart of all their wrong
They now may stoop and crawl, there is a day,
When they will rise and to their vengeance throng,
Even now ye trembling dread what will not ye linger long.
Aceldema of nations! thou hast bled
From countless gashes — thou must still bleed on;
Thy children's gore that harvest-field has fed,
Where thou thy chains and manacles hast won;
Thy struggle for true liberty is done,
France, Italy, have rous'd and burst their thrall
And started in that glorious race to run—
Where have their high words ended? See their fall—
The despots crush them now, and say, "So perish all,
"Who will not sleep contented, while we rule,
And fleece and flay them;" you may writhe and turn,
And curse them, as you crouch, their earth-press'd stool,
Yes, you way start a moment, spring and spurn
The foot that treads you, ye may glow and burn
With wrath to be so scoff 'd at, but a weight
Like mountains bows you down, dust is your urn,
The spirit is besotted — this your fate,
To rise and stumble, kneel and kiss the hand you hate.
One storm has come and gone — the film is torn
From off your eyes — you look, and Power is there,
Around his throne unnumber'd shields are borne
Serried in close array; you cannot tear
The monster from his pinnacle; his lair
Is fill'd with bones of freemen, he has slain
As a crouch'd lion, when his fangs are bare,
He casts around his keen eye; Hope in vain
Lifts up her gaze, his glance bends it to earth again.
Freedom can have no dwelling on that shore,
She must away and cross the Atlantic flood:
Why play the rude game over? you may pour
In waves, like torrent rivers, your best blood,
But it will end in "we have dar'd and stood
In battle for our rights, we sink again
Before an overwhelming weight, the food
Of tyrants and their parasites, who drain
Our tears like wine, and bind with doubled links our chain."
———*———*———*———*———*———
Severe and simple, walk'd the Cyprian sage
In Athens' pictur'd porch; he show'd and taught
Unbending virtue in a downward age,
And reckon'd all the joys of sense as nought,
And master'd down the tide of swelling thought.
And bound on passion an unyielding rein;
With slow, sure step, the highest good he sought,
And shunning, as a viper's tooth, the stain
Of weakness, march'd erect to truth's majestic fane,
Which stood aloft in Doric plainness, bright
The sun-beams play'd upon its marble pride,
And from it flash'd a stream of purest light
Down its ascending path — as rolls the tide
Of snow-fed torrents, in a deep, a wide,
Resistless rush of waters, till the plain
Is satiate with its richness, then they glide
In summer's scanty wave, so pure, no stain
Darkens its liquid light, when rolling to the main.
So on the mind enwrapp'd in error's cloak,
Whom bigotry and sense have led astray;
If chance the fetters of his thought are broke,
And all the night, that dimm'd him, swept away,
And on him wisdom pours her fullest ray,
A flood seems roll'd through his exulting soul
And all its fullness hardly can allay
His new-wak'd thirst for knowledge; to the goal
Of truth he springs and spurns indignant all control.
Awhile he grasps at Science, with the strong,
Fierce spirit of ambition, when his car
O'er fortune's field of blood is borne along,
Drawn by the wildly rushing steeds of war,
And hurrying on in quest of Fame's bright star,
That shines through smoke and dust and wounds and gore;
Justice and mercy cannot raise a bar
Across the torrent of his wrath, its roar
Drives virtue, love and peace affrighted from its shore.
So on he rushes in the high pursuit
Of knowledge, till his stor'd and wearied mind
Bows 'neath the weight of its collected fruit,
And casting all its useless load behind,
No more to man's essential being blind,
His thought dwells only on the good supreme;
Then calm in dignity, in taste refin'd,
A spirit pure and lucid, as the beam
Ethereal, virtue's charms are his continual theme.
And what is virtue? — but the just employ
Of all our faculties, so that we live
Longest and soundest and serenest — Joy
Its handmaid, all the sweets, that health can give,
The light heart and the strong frame, which can strive,
Delighted in the war, we must endure,
Thoughts clear, bold, tireless, feelings all alive,
No passion can subdue, no sense allure,
Even as our Sire in heav'n, just, merciful and pure.
The animal is crush'd, the God bears sway,
The immortal essence, the enkindling fire;
What pow'rs, what energy, it can display,
When, freed from life's gross wants, it dare aspire,
And give a free rein to its high desire,
And longing for a mind that cannot sleep,
Even as Apollo with his golden lyre,
And canopied in sunbeams, he would sweep
His chords and pour a hymn, harmonious, full and deep.
A hymn to Nature and the unseen hand,
That guides its living wheels, the moving soul
Of this material universe, who spann'd,
Within his grasp, its circle, where suns roll,
Each in its fix'd orb, and around the whole
Has drawn in viewless light its flaming walls;
This is the limit of our thought, the goal,
Where mind's imaginative pinion falls,
When rapt in solemn thought, no link of earth inthrals.
I walk abroad at midnight and my eye,
Purg'd from its sensual blindness, upward turns,
And wanders o'er the dark and spangled sky,
Where every star, a fount of being, burns,
And pours out life, as Naiads, from their urns,
Drop their refreshing dew on herbs and flow'rs—
I gaze, until my fancy's eye discerns,
As in an azure hall, the assembled pow'rs
Of nature spend in deep consult those solemn hours.
Methinks I hear their language — but it sounds
Too high for my conception, as the roar
Of thunder in the mountains, when it bounds
From peak to peak, or on the echoing shore
The tempest-driven billows bursting pour,
And raise their awful voices, or the groan
Rumbling in Aetna's entrails, ere its store
Of lava spouts its red jets, or the moan
Of winds, that war within their cavern'd walls of stone.
And there is melody among those spheres,
A music sweeter than the vernal train,
Or fay-notes, which the nymph-struck shepherd hears,
Where moon-light dances on the liquid plain,
That curls before the west Wind, and the main
Seems waving like a ruffled sheet of fire—
'Tis Nature's Alleluia, and again
The stars exult, as when the Eternal Sire
Said, "be there light," and light shone forth at his desire.
How my heart trembles on so vast a theme—
The boundless source of energy and pow'r,
The living essence of the good supreme,
The all-seeing eye, that watches every hour,
That marks the opening of each bud and flow'r,
That paints the colours of the ephemeron's wing,
That counts the myriad drops, which form the show'r,
As wondrous in the awakening call of spring,
As worlds, that lie beyond the stretch of Fancy's wing.
With brute unconscious gaze, man marks the earth
Take on its livery of early flow'rs;
He sees no beauty in this annual birth
No cease less working of creative pow'rs;
His soul lethargic wakes not in those hours,
When air is living, and the waters teem
With new-born being, and the mantling bow'rs
Are full of love and melody, and seem
The happy Eden of a poet's raptur'd dream.
The sky is then serenest, and its arch
Of brighter sapphire, and the sportive train
Of life-awakening zephyrs on their march,
Shed renovating influence o'er the plain,
The blue waves, sparkle on the laughing main,
Which renders back to heav'n its placid smile,
The chequer'd sky, now clear, now dropping rain
On flow'rs, that spread their leaves to catch it, while
The full-swoln river rolls a fertilizing Nile.
How lovely is the landscape — Morning peeps
Behind yon leafy mountain, and her eye
Looks o'er a fresh, green world that calmly sleeps
In the sweet cradle of its infancy,
And clustering round the rocky summits fly
Light mists, now painted in the rich array
Of heaven's majestic spectrum, which on high
Spans the dark tempest, as it steals away,
And westward glows in pomp the golden eye of day.
Beneath the cliff that frowns in blackness, lies
The mirror of dark waters, on it rest
Soft wreaths of snowy vapour, such as rise
Spotless in winter on the mountain's breast,
Soft as the downy couch by beauty prest,
And mantled in as gay a canopy
Of overhanging clouds in crimson drest,
All glow, transparency and purity,
Fit curtain to the throne where dwells Eternity.
And now the sun springs upward from his bed,
Insufferably brilliant, and his blaze
Tinges with flowing gold the icy head
Of peaks which rise above the clouds, and gaze
In lonely grandeur on an endless maze
Of budding landscape, hills, woods, meadows, lakes,
Rivers and winding rivulets, where plays
The wave in lines of silver — Day now breaks
In dazzling floods of light, and living nature wakes
Her woodland choristers, and air is breathing
In tones of love-tun'd harmony, the deep,
Heart-kindling, soul-inspiring anthem wreathing,
The burst of native joy, that will not sleep,
But at the summons of the dawn will leap,
And all its full-swoln tides of feeling pour,
And as the light winds from the bright lake sweep
The mantling vapours, it will freely soar,
And with its strong voice drown the waterfall's wide roar.
Let Man come forth, and in the general throng
Of tuneful hearts, his high devotion raise,
And joining in the universal song
Of thankful rapture, centre all the rays
Of that heaven-lighted intellect, whose blaze,
Bright emanation from the ethereal beam,
Forever kindling through eternal days,
A disembodied spark, along life's stream,
Shall always hasten on to excellence supreme.
There is its only resting place — while here
We pine in heart-sick longing — Is the fire
That burns, within our bosoms, for a sphere
Of brighter, purer being, for something higher,
Than all Man ever reach'd to, the desire
Of sinless purity and tireless thought,
But the vibration of a living wire,
The motion of frail flesh more nicely wrought,
That trembles here awhile and then consumes to naught!
Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail,
Our souls immortal though our limbs decay,
Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil
Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play
In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way
To heaven's high capitol our car shall roll,
The temple of the Power whom all obey,
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.
I feel it — though the flesh is weak, I feel,
The spirit has its energies untam'd
By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal
The wounds, which it has suffer'd; folly claim'd
Too large a portion of its youth, asham'd
Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly
And soar on wings of lightning, like the fam'd
Elijah, when the chariot rushing by
Bore him, with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky.
We are as barks afloat upon the sea
Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled,
The spirit whose strong influence can free
The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead,
Cold night of moral darkness from the bed
Of sloth he rouses, at her sacred call,
And kindling in the blaze around him shed,
Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall,
And gives to God, his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.
Our home is not on earth; although we sleep
And sink in seeming death awhile, yet then
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life and energy and light again,
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness, the day will break,
Ere we forever leave the haunts of men,
Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,
Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.
How awful is that hour when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years,
And screaming like a vulture, in his ears
Tells one by one his tho'ts, and deeds of shame;
How wild the fury of his soul careers!
His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,
And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.
Our souls have wings — their flight is like the rush
Of whirlwinds, and they upward point their way,
Like him, who bears the thunder, when the flush
Of his keen eye feeds on the dazzling ray
He claps his pinions in the blaze of day,
And gaining on the loftiest arch his throne,
Darts his quick vision on his fated prey,
And gathering all his vigour, he is gone
And in an instant grasps his victim as his own.
We soar as proudly and as quickly fall,
This moment in the empyrean, then we sink,
And wrapping in the joys of sense our all,
The stream, that flows from heav'n, we cannot drink,
But we will lie along the flow'ry brink
Of pleasure's tempting current, till the wave
Is bitter and its banks bare, then we think
Of what we might have been, and idly brave
We take a short weak flight and drop into the grave.
My heart has felt new vigour, and the glow
Of high hopes and bright fancy, and the spring
Of that unchanging being, whither flow
The breathings of our spirit, when its wing
Is spread to take its last flight, where we cling
In all the storms of life, as to an oar;
There like the shining serpent, we shall fling
Away our earthly shackles, there no more
The wind shall lift the waves and send them to the shore
To make wild music on the surging beach,
And fling the foam aloft in snowy curls,
And pouring headlong through the sea-wall's breach,
Suck, in the raging vortex' giddy whirls,
The sea-bird lighting on the wave that hurls
To swift destruction, but there is a rock,
Built strong, deep-planted — mercy there unfurls
Her white flag, and the bark, that stands the shock,
The tempest-tossing tide, the breaker's burst shall mock.
———*———*———*———*———*———
Much study is a weariness — so said
The sage of sages, and the aching eye,
The pallid cheek, the trembling frame, the head
Throbbing with thought and torn with agony,
Attest his truth, and yet we will obey
The intellectual Numen, and will gaze
In wondering awe upon it, and will pay
Worship to its omnipotence; the blaze
Of mind is as a fount of fire, that upward plays
Aloft on snow-clad mountains, on whose breast
Unspotted purity has ever lain,
The clouds of sense and passion cannot rest
Upon its shadowy summit, nor can stain
The white veil, which enwraps it, nor in vain
Roll the wide flood of liquid heat, they melt
The gather'd stores of ages, to the plain
They pour them down in streams enkindling, felt
By every human heart, in myriad channels dealt.
This is the electric spark sent down from heav'n,
That woke to second life the man of clay;
The torch was lit in ether, light was given,
Which not all passion's storms can sweep away,
There is no closing to this once-ris'n day,
Tempests may darken, but the sun will glow,
Serene, unclouded, dazzling, and its ray
Through some small crevices will always flow,
Nor leave in utter night the world, that gropes below.
And now and then some spirit, from the throng,
With wings daedalean, in his rage will soar,
And spreading wide his pinions, with a strong
And desperate effort, from this servile shore
Mounting like Minder's swans, whose voices pour
Melodious music, like the dying fall
Of zephyrs in a pine grove, or the roar
Heard through the lonely forest, when the pall
Of night o'erhangs us, borne from some far water-fall.
With wing as tireless and with voice as sweet,
His eye the Falcon's, and his heart the dove's,
He lifts his heavenward daring, till the heat
Of that same orb he aim'd to, which he loves
To mark with keen eye, till the cloud removes,
That gave its glow a softness, with its blight
Withers his sinewy strength; so heav'n reproves
The mind, that scan it with audacious sight,
And seek with restless gaze too pure, unmingled light.
Gay was the Paradise of love he drew,
And pictur'd in his fancy; he did dwell
Upon it till it had a life; he threw
A tint of heav'n athwart it — who can tell
The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell,
That bound him to that vision? Cold truth came
And pluck'd aside the veil — he saw a hell,
And o'er it curl'd blue flakes of lurid flame—
He laid him down and clasp'd his damp chill brow in shame.
His fall is as the Titans', who would tear
The thunder from their monarch, and would pile
Their mountain stair-way to Olympus, where
The bolt, they grasp'd at, pierc'd them, with a smile
Of fearless power the thunderer sat the while
And mock'd their fruitless toiling, then he hurl'd
His whitening arrows, and at once their guile
And force were blasted, and their fall unfurl'd
An awful warning flag to a presumptuous world.
They stand, a beacon, chain'd upon the rock;
Heaven o'er them lifts unveil'd her boundless blue,
Ambition's sun still scorches, and the mock
Of all their high desires is full in view,
Affection cools their foreheads with no dew
Of melting hearts, no rain of pitying eyes,
The vulture, conscience, gnaws them, ever new
Their heart's torn fibres into life will rise,
The gorging fury clings, repell'd she never flies
These are the men, who dar'd to rend the veil,
Religion hung around us, they would tear
The film from off our eyes, and break the pale,
That bound the awe-struck spirit, nor would spare
The worship paid by ages in the glare
Of their red torches, Piety grew blind,
And saw no more her comforter, her fair
And fond hopes lost their beauty; can the mind,
When rifled of its faith, so dear a solace find?
They pull down Jove from his Idaean thrones
They quench the Jew's Schechinab, and the cross,
That bore the mangled corse of Heaven's own Son,
They trample in the dust and spurn as dross;
And will they recompense the world its loss?
Have they a fairer light to cheer our gloom?
Oh no! — the grave yawns on us as a fosse,
Where we must steep forever; this our doom—
Body and mind shall rot and moulder in the tomb.
There is a mourner, and her heart is broken—
She is a widow, she is old and poor,
Her only hope is in that sacred token
Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er;
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. — Sceptics! would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head and blight
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her beings night?
She lives in her affections, for the grave
Has clos'd upon her husband, children, all
Her hopes are with the arm, she trusts will save
Her treasur'd jewels, tho' her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her week, tender feelings cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.
Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers — so softly pour
The breathing of her bosom, when she prays
Low-bow'd before her Maker, then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days,
Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.
And Faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her; Death will come
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow, all its gloom
Is scatter'd; what a meeting there will be
To her and all she lov'd here, and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee—
Theirs is the health, which lasts through all eternity.
There is a war within me, and a strife
Between my meaner and my nobler powers;
I would and yet I cannot part with life,
'Tis as a scorpion's sting to view those hours,
Where soul has bow'd to sense, and darkly lours
The future in the distance. — There are men,
Whose strange-blent nature now an angel's tow'rs,
And rides among the loftiest, and then
Seeks, like a snarling dog, the cynic's squalid den.
They nestle in their prison, they can find
No friend to pour their hearts on, they would cling
Closer than ivy to the kindred mind,
They touch — its ice-cold freezes, then they fling
Affection to the winds, and madly spring
To shun their hated fellows in some cave;
A leaden weight confines their spirit's wing,
Life palls them, there is naught beyond the grave,
They turn a sneer on Him, who gives his hand to save.
Theirs is the boundless love of sentient being—
As they have now the will, had they the power,
Were but their longings and their strength agreeing,
Their outspread hand a flood of bliss would shower,
And wake the moral world, as in the hour
Of spring wakes living nature — from his sleep
Of vice and superstition Man should tower;
Thoughts pure, high feelings, purpose strong and deep,
Should lift him on, like wings, up virtue's craggy steep.
And flowers should bloom on his ascending track,
Like roses on their wild thorns, by the way
The hunter scales the mountains, nor should lack
Music of tuneful birds, the flute should play
The soft airs of the shepherdess, when day
Spreads the broad plane tree's noon shade, and when night
Spangles her silent canopy, away
By some dark cavern on the lonely height,
The full-voic'd hymn should tell the hermit's holy flight.
Who sits alone in darkness, wrapp'd in musing,
Communing with the Universe, the Power,
Whose ceaseless mercy, love and life diffusing,
Bids the sun dart his warm rays, sends the shower,
Mantles the turf in green, and decks the bower
With tufted leaves and wreath'd flowers, whose perfume,
Earth's incense, breathes most sweetly at the hour,
When soft-descending night-dews steep the bloom,
And with their star-lit gems the mantling arch illume:
And from this waste of beauty, fills the urn
Of plenty with her fair fruits, spreads the plain
With all the wealth of harvest, the return
Of spring's delightful promise, with a chain
Of love and bounty binding life's domain
To Him, who by his fiat gave it birth;
Else had these flowery fields a desert lain,
And all the riches of the teeming earth
Been wither'd by the touch of endless, hopeless dearth;
Else had one wilderness of rock and sand,
Treeless and herbless, where nor rain nor dew
Pour'd their reviving influence, one land
Of sparkling barrenness appall'd the view,
And o'er it heaven had rais'd its cloudless blue,
Hot as the burning steel's cerulean glow,
And the sun's blasting arrows darted through
The scorch'd brain, till its lava blood would flow
In torrents, and its veins throb with delirious throe;
And man had died of thirst and famine — Death
Comes not with direr aspect; eyes of blood,
Staring and bursting; frequent, fiery breath
Heav'd from the breast, that seems one boiling flood
Or maddening pulses, writhing as a brood
Or serpents rous'd to fury, like their hiss
They rush along the swoln veins, and for food
His parch'd jaws gnaw his flesh, and O! what bliss
To drain his life's warm stream — there is no death like this.
This is the living prototype of hell—
The earth all fire without, all flame within,
And conscience barking like a Hyaen's yell,
And pouring out her vial'd wrath on sin;
She lights her torch unwasting — then begin
Ages of endless torture, for the heart
Whom Circe and the tempting Sirens win,
While listening to their voice, must feel the smart
And pangs of unfed Hope's forever probing dart.
———*———*———*———*———*———
The clouds are gathering on the mountain tops,
And in their dark veil wrap those cliffs and towers
Of wasteless granite, those enduring props,
On which the arch of heaven rests, where the Powers
Of winter hold their rule, even in the hours,
When sultry summer scorches, there they roll
And spread their frowning curtains — Night there lours
With an unusual blackness, and the pole
Rocks with the bolt, as if the knell of nature toll'd.
In hazy gloom the threat'ning tempest broods,
Crowning with ebon wreaths the mountain's cone,
And holding in its magazine the floods,
That soon will hurry headlong from its throne,
From rock to rock impetuous pouring down
Their dark, foam-crested waters, as the mane
Waving amid the rush of war, and drown,
In their wide-wasting waves, the cultur'd plain,
And bear flocks, forests, towns and harvests to the main.
And see — the cloudy billows heave their surges,
In airy tides, along yon western wall,
Now swiftly rolling as the rous'd wind urges,
Now hanging silent as the wild blasts fall,
Drooping in massy folds, as if the pall
Of all these sweet scenes o'er us were outspread;
Even as a spectre rising grim and tall
At night to some scar'd wand'rer, fancy-led,
Sullen and dim and dark towers yonder mountain's head.
A solemn pause — the woods below are still,
No breezes wave their light leaves, and the lake
Lies like a sleeping mirror; on the hill
The white flocks eye the rain-drops, that will slake
Their hot thirst, and the screaming curlews take
Their circling flight along the silent stream;
Save their storm-loving music now awake,
Nature seems slumb'ring in a midnight dream;
She starts — behold aloft that sudden quiv'ring gleam.
The torch is lit among the clouds — the peals
Roar thro' the lonely wilds, and echoing swell
Around the far horizon — earth now feels
And trembles as she listens — who can tell
The spirit's awe? as if it heard its knell,
It bows before the Pow'r, whose hand controls
Lightning and wind and waves, who loves to dwell
In storms, and on its path the tempest rolls,
Whose words are bolts, whose glance electric pierces souls,
And makes the bold blasphemer pale with awe,
And stills the madman's laugh, and strikes with dread
The brow, that bore defiance to the law
Stamp'd on the universe; he hides his head
In darkness like the ostrich, all those, led
By his once fearless mockings, slink away,
And o'er them prostrate, wrathful angels tread,
And draw their fiery arrows, and repay
With fear and death the hearts, that dare to disobey.
———*———*———*———*———*———
'Tis night, and we are on the mountain top—
The air is motionless, and not a breath
Of wind is whisper'd, and the pure dews drop
From heav'n, like tears, upon this lovely death
Of nature, while the landscape underneath,
And the vast arch above, smile in the ray
Of the full moon, who, circled in her wreath
Of glory, walks, a queen, her lofty way,
And pours upon the world a softer, calmer day.
The hills, the plains and meadows far below
Sparkle with wat'ry diamonds, and the stream,
That steals in oft meanders, in its flow
Of peacefulness, is sliver'd with her beam,
And the round basins in the woodlands seen
Like mirrors circled in a pearly row,
And like the colours of the dying bream,
The soft mists hovering round them, bear the bow,
The aerial brede of light, lit with a mellower glow,
Than when it sits majestic on the storm,
What time it hangs along the eastern sky,
The herald of returning calm, its form,
As imag'd erst, a maid of peaceful eye,
Who on her dewy saffron wings, would fly,
And roll away the clouds along the wind,
And laughing, as she saw the car on high
Shine in its full effulgence, as the mind,
Whom sense can never sink, nor passion's fury blind.
So rolls that car along its arch of blue,
And shines with a serener effluence; air,
Waken'd by fanning breezes, charms anew
The flush'd cheek with its coolness; heaven is fair,
A speck dims not its liquid azure, there
The eye can rest with calmness, and the green
And bloom of grass and flow'rs new richness wear,
And sweeter incense rises from the bean
And jessamine and rose, that scent this dewy scene.
As when the twilight of a weary life
Comes on with quietness and purity,
And after vainly struggling in the strife
Of pleasure or ambition, from the eye
The film falls, and the mantling vapours fly,
And Man stands forth in his pure, native worth,
And after tears for lost years hurried by,
The soul awakens to a second birth,
And for a few hours knows there is a heav'n on earth.
Live for the present moment, but live so,
As you might live forever; let the cares
And toils of this poor transient being go,
And pluck the fruit the tree of knowledge bears,
And gaze upon the charms, which virtue wears,
Till her eye's light has fill'd and warm'd your breast—
Be strong and bold and active — he, who dares
Contend in virtue's panoply, is blest
Alone with heaven's unstain'd enduring, noiseless rest.
Give me the evening of a summer's day,
A long bright day of glory, when the sun
Is most effulgent, and the earth most gay,
And after deeds of lofty daring done,
And palms on many a field of combat won,
Where tempests rage, or noontide glows with pow'r,
And when the mind its high career has run
To seek a covert at this silent hour,
Where songs and gales might lull in some secluded bow'r.
'Tis night and winds are hush'd — the leaves are still,
Or scarcely ruffle on the poplar bough,
And where a stream of waving light, the rill
Drips o'er the face of yonder mountain's brow,
The moon-beam shine as on Endymion; now
The forests are unpeopled of those gay
And lovely nymphs and wanton fawns, but how
They gave the fancy of the Poet play,
And threw a rosy hue and perfume o'er his lay.
The Spring came forth, and with her came a train
Of hours and loves and graces, every bow'r
Conceal'd its nymph, and every flow'ry plain
Was full of light-wing'd cupids, for the pow'r
Of love awak'd the Universe, the hour,
When Hymen lit his torch, and Psyche came
Wrapp'd in the embrace of Eros, and a show'r
Of sweets was pour'd around them, and a flame
Shot from the glowing eyes of that enamour'd dame.
She gave her soul to love and on her lip
Her heart stood, and he kiss'd the prize away,
More sweet than when the dews drom roses drip
In spangles on the grass, in early day,
When emerald sylphs on airy pinions play,
And lightly hover, as the leaves unfold
And spread their vermil velvet, in the ray
Pour'd through the leafy canopy, and roll'd
O'er all the bloom below in waving floods of gold:
The lilac purpling with its luscious spires,
Breathing a milky sweetness, like the balm
From Aden's groves of myrrh, where summer fires
The living world to rapture, but the calm,
Cool shade of spreading maples, than the Palm
With all its crimson clusters, charms me more;
The violet, lurking underneath the halm
Of wither'd grass-tufts, has a dearer store
Of sweets, than all the flow'rs that glow on Ceylon's shore.
The heart cannot be cold in such a shade,
It will be melted, as the icy stream,
That steals with limpid current thro' the glade,
And murmurs not in winter, but the beam
Of warmth dissolves it; as a fleeting dream,
The fretted icicles are gone, the wave,
Gliding o'er snowy sands in morning's gleam,
Chimes like the song of sorrow, Cycnus gave,
In tones of dying woe around his brother's grave.
———*———*———*———*———*———
How poor, how weak, how impotent
Cradled in imbecility, the prey
Of those, who love him fondest, who will fan
His passions by indulgence, and will sway
To sense and self and pride and fear, and play
Their apish tricks upon him, till his soul
Has lost its native innocence, the ray
Kindled from heav'n, while feeble yet, is stole
By sirens and then quench'd in Pleasure's mantling bowl.
The foaming goblet sparkles to the brim,
And heedless youth hangs o'er the glowing stream,
And in its amber waters gaily swim
The fairest vision's of enchantment's dream,
And o'er it plays a soft and sunny beam,
That steals in serpent windings to the heart,
And like a viper's hid in roses, gleam
The flashings of its keen eyes, as a dart
With venom tipp'd, they give deep wounds that ne'er depart.
We lie along in gay, voluptuous ease—
The full vine mantles o'er us, and our pillow
Of mingled moss and flow'rs; the hum of bees
Sucking the dew of roses and the willow
Now hum, in downy bloom and cloth'd in yellow,
Comes like a drowsy zephyr on the ear,
And the clear-flowing fountain murmurs mellow,
And airy birds in mazy circles veer,
And all seems fair and bright as some celestial sphere.
We sip the cup of promise, and we drain
With eager lip its nectar, till the fume
Mounts kindling to the wild and heated brain;
And then all things a richer tint assume,
And are enrob'd in splendour, and illum'd
With gay looks and bright eyes and speaking glances,
And laughing frolic waves her spangled plume,
And revelry with light step featly dances,
And on their rainbow wings flit round a crowd of fancies.
And from our couch we spring — we scarce can tread
This poor earth in our extacy, on high
We float through fields of Ether, overhead
Swells with a bluer loftier arch the sky,
And on an Eagle's wings we seem to fly,
And all the kingdoms of the world appear
In dazzling beauty to the fancy's eye,
And like the tuneful spirit of some sphere,
The sweet winds pour full floods of music in our ear.
As breezes from Sabaea o'er the main
Waft fragrance on their pinions from the groves
Of Myrrh and Cassia, and the snowy plain
Of Coffee-blossoms, where the queen of Loves,
Drawn in her pearly car by purple doves,
Would linger with most fondness on her way
A land of passion — under shady coves
Hollow'd in living rock, they spend the day,
To see their Houries dance and hear their citterns play.
———*———*———*———*———*———
The past is gone — it can return no more,
The dew of life exhal'd, its glory set;
It has no other goods for me in store,
It is a dreary wilderness, and yet
I fondly look and linger. In the net
Of pleasure, all the breathings of my soul,
The burning thoughts alone on Learning set
In tender childhood pointed to the goal,
Where bards and sages aim'd, in Youth blind leaders stole,
And vile companions rifled, and they left
My heart dispirited and sunk and poor,
Of all its highest hopes and wants bereft,
A pinnace on the waves with naught to moor
Or bind it to the safe bank; from the shore,
Where my best pow'rs stood weeping, o'er the deep,
Tossing and madly heaving, wild winds bore
My dark, distracted being, where fiends keep
Their orgies and the worm, that gnaws, will never sleep.
There is no hope — ten years the winds have blown,
That bore me to my ruin, and the waves
Roll in my wake like mountains — Joy has flown
And left behind the lonely turfless graves
Of early fond attachments — like the slaves
Round fetter'd to the galley, at the oar
Still I must toil uncheer'd, or in the caves,
Where not a ray of hope comes, I must pour
Tears, bitter tears, that well from the heart's bleeding core.
The soul that had its home with me, was bright,
Its early promise, as the flow'rs of spring,
Profuse in richness as the dawning light,
When the gay rosy-footed Hours take wing,
And from the glowing East the coursers spring,
That bear the car of day along its road,
And o'er a waking world their radiance fling—
So bright the stream of mind within me flow'd,
It had one only wish — to scale the high abode,
Where Truth has rear'd her awful throne, and pure
Platonic beauty sits, a smiling bride,
The Majesty that bows, and to allure
The winning charms of Virtue by his side,
Curs'd be the drawling pedants, who divide
The monarch from his lovely queen, and sink
The soul in stupid awe, too soon to hide
Its coward head in pleasure's lap and drink
Her tempting fiery draughts — Stop! ye are on the brink
Of endless woe and ruin — sleep no more—
The charm will soon be broken — ye will wake,
And find the alluring hours, that woo'd you, o'er,
And rising like a fury, Vice will shake
Her smoky torch, and in your heart's blood slake
Its Hell-lit fires, and you will seek in vain
The young days, that have vanish'd; in the lake,
That Priests have drawn so highly, there remain
But years of hopeless thought, and still returning pain.
The world may scorn me, if they choose — I care
But little for their scoffings — I will think
Freely, while life shall linger on, and there
I find a plank, that bears me — I may sink
For moments, but I rise again, nor shrink
From doing what the love of Man inspires:
I will not flatter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink
At what high-mounted wealth or pow'r desires;
I have a loftier aim to which my soul aspires.
'Tis of no common order, but is founded
On all the capabilities of Man,
Not like Condorcet's waking dreams, 'tis bounded
By what our free, unfetter'd efforts can,
The high career, that Tully, Plato, ran,
Or higher still the ideal they could form—
'Tis ignorance, not nature, puts the ban
On these bright perfect visions, which could warm
Worthies of Old, who liv'd in virtue's darkest storm.
They saw Man sunk around them, grovelling, vile,
A mass of brutal grossness, shivering fear,
Follies, that made the cold Abderite smile
And on his fellows look with bitter sneer,
And squalid woes, that drew the Ephesian's tear,
Which flow'd for miseries, he could not heal,
So wept the man, to how all life was dear,
Whose heart was made most sensitive to feel,
And from a wretched world in hopeless sorrow steal.
He could not cure the malady — too deep
The poison'd dart was planted; but he gave
His witness, and his voice should never sleep,
A warning sound should issue from his grave,
And tell to age's words, which heard might save
From woes like those he suffer'd, woes like mine;
The man, who will speak boldly, and will brave
A thoughtless world's contempt, deserves to shine
Bright in the loftiest niche of Fame's enduring shrine.
To feel a heart within thee, tender, flowing
In tears at others pain, and rack'd with thine,
A soul, that longs for high attainments, glowing
For all that can ennoble, raise, refine,
Whose dearest longings seem almost divine,
The insatiate grasp for knowledge, and the aim
Of tireless, fearless virtue, then to pine,
Unknown, unvalued, and to quench the flame
Of wind in some low slough, and bid farewell to fame.
And why? because no hand was near to check
The wanderings of my childhood, but their care,
If care it could be call'd, which caus'd my wreck,
Made sin's descending path to me seem fair;
They pour'd her tempting fruits and viands there,
And kindled in my heart the lava stream
Of wasting passion — now I wake — and bare
Before me lie the horrors of that dream,
Which poor perverted youth the fairest Eden deem.
The world will never pity woes like mine—
'Tis only justice pouring out her flood—
I ask no pity, nor will I incline,
Weakly before the cross, nor in the blood
Of others wash away my crimes — I stood
Alone, wrapp'd in suspicion and despair,
For they did goad me early to that mood—
I hate not men, but yet I will not share
Again their follies, hopes, their toils and fears, nor wear
The mantle of the Hypocrite, nor bow
Before a fancied pow'r, nor lisp the creed,
Which offers them new life, they know not how,
A blind belief, whose ministers will lead,
Even as a hireling slave the shackled steed,
The many, who to natures laws are blind—
The hearts whom early wrongs have taught to bleed,
When blended with a bright and well-stor'd mind,
In solace, such as this, no hope, no joy can find.
I will not lift my hand against those laws,
Which nature wears instamp'd upon her, nor
Gird me to battle in so weak a cause,
Nor waste my efforts in so fruitless war;
But I will weep the hopes, I panted for,
Which virtue might have made reality,
And know that fortune with malignant star
Lighted my path, and with an evil eye
Left me to those, who crawl'd in Epicurus' stye.
I see the charms of virtue — can I take
Again her narrow path, which leads to heav'n,
Beside it flows a fountain? which can slake
He temperate thirst of nature, there are giv'n
Fruits, which refresh, not kindle — I have striven
Against the long perversions of my frame,
And I will strive — but no, by passion driven,
In evil hour, I do the deed of shame,
And for a time I quench the soul's reviving flame.
I have no hand to cheer me — was there one,
Whom I must ever long for, was that heart
Still mine in all my failings, as the sun
Wakens a slumbering world, she might impart
New being to me, and my soul would start,
As giants from their sleep, to run the race
Of glory, and to hurl the unerring dart
Where victory rears her Palm-branch — No, my chase
Of fame is done, and left behind it scarce a trace.
[pp. 292-345]
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