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 (^3652 
 
 THE AGE OF SIN. 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF SIN, 
 
 HINTS FOR CRITICS. 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 P 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 LINDSAY & BLAKISTON. 
 
 Hj^ 1851. 
 
€^' 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, 
 
 BY LINDSAY AND BLAKISTON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 C. SHERMAN, PRINTER. 
 
t IgB ni |in. 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 "Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say! 
 Their word's sufficient ; and to ask a reason, 
 For such a state as theirs, is downright treason." 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 "Vice is my theme, let sermon be my song — 
 Be that my motto and my fate." 
 
 Dean Swift. 
 
 To serve, to be subservient to strife — 
 To factious party, let its emprise be 
 Or good or evil, and the means be right 
 Or wrong so the desired end is gained — 
 To hot-mouthed Faction be servility, 
 
 2 
 
10 THEAaEOFSIN, 
 
 A baser reptile 'midst the grovelling worms — 
 To cull so much from Wisdom's mystic book 
 As dulls Imagination's fancy flights, 
 Drowns common sense (a cloud midway 'twixt 
 
 Earth 
 And Heaven, pendant there and station-fixed ; 
 A dull, dark cloud, immovable to soar 
 Aloft to grander realms of lofty Thought — 
 To mix with worlds immortal, or to bend 
 Low down to sweet, domesticated Earth — 
 And unapproachable, where dire disease, 
 Contagion-winged, burst vital poison from 
 Its caverns darkly deep- — bars near approach 
 To worthier planets of the spacious realm) 
 To live — to die, unknowing and unknown. 
 Shut out from calm enjoyment, sweet, is made 
 The abject lot of meaner men on Earth, 
 The host of blustering pedagogues who sway 
 The mighty multitude with lying puifs. 
 And praise and fat the prey they plan to pluck. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 11 
 
 Grant me, Muse, propitious ! must I mix 
 My tender nature, formed for feeling, and 
 The inner spirit of my salient soul — 
 Contaminate my being, pure as yet, 
 And render in exchange my truthful strains 
 For earth-born streams from unimmortal minds — 
 Gird closer to my breast thy sin-proof shield — 
 Fit on thy gauntlet to my wrist, and 'gage 
 In strife with such small, pigmy foes as these ? 
 
 Howe'er these things may be, I am attacked, 
 And all the freeborn nature of my soul, 
 Unto the inmost recess of my heart, 
 Encompassed with a robe of Justice — Truth — 
 Ferments with boiling wrath to seize the spear. 
 And hurl it headlong 'gainst the hostile foe. 
 High game my spear would wish to battle with. 
 That Earth might list in wonder when we meet, 
 And if I'm struck, unhorsed, unhelmeted, 
 The winds might laugh at my discomfiture : 
 
12 THE AGE OF SIN 
 
 Alas, no noble game the field unfolds ; 
 
 And I must seek the greatest of these small, 
 
 Pursue him on unceasingly till caught, 
 
 Then leave him writhing on the ground with fright, 
 
 Disdain to strike a fallen enemy, 
 
 The meanest of the mean, crouching in fear. 
 
 His conscience sore, will be sufficient vengeance ; 
 
 Yet I will watch him, lest he turn again 
 
 With subtle arts and ravish Beauty's self, 
 
 Then mercy will I none, but surely strike. 
 
 There be occasions oft that Fate provides 
 From out her many leaves of foregone deeds, 
 When Man must act defensive e'en 'gainst dogs : 
 Sometimes with rancour gnawing at their roots, 
 Maddened with pain, by Jealousy set on. 
 They gnash their horrid fangs in envious spite — 
 Mad Frenzy making green their eyes, they 'tack 
 The one who fain would bear them better fate : 
 Sad dogs ! to spurn the hand they once had licked. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. l3 
 
 And turn against the foot where once they 
 
 crouched ; 
 But now 'twill crush them with an iron heel. 
 False friends, base enemies, are but the same, 
 Through life hypocrisv-— to death deceit ! 
 War with them all! 'tis outraged Justice calls — 
 Calls for her own, not suppliant, but demands 
 From base Scurrility to rescue Truth ; 
 And, doomed to black Perdition's chained abode, 
 To banish Falsehood to its nether world 
 Of ever darkness, with its pond'rous gates. 
 Close-barred with rivets forged of adamant. 
 Shut in and closed to all Eternity, 
 There seeking Life — there never finding Death. 
 
 Envy ! — in Heaven by Jealousy first bred. 
 Conceiving Sin and giving birth to Death — 
 The shadow and eternal shade of Sin — 
 And luring to destruction — foul embrace — 
 Weak, earthly soul by vices with thee pregnant — 
 
 2* 
 
14 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 Thou art supreme in princely reign on Earth ! 
 If angels, gods should hug thee to their breasts, 
 And doom themselves thereby to endless Hell — 
 With horrid oaths and groanings load down Night, 
 We may expect these frail, these earth-born souls 
 Will glue their lips to thine, and suck thy breath, 
 Each drop a poison leading to perdition. 
 And revel in a world of hellish deeds. 
 While Desolation whips them on to ruin. 
 
 Others I'll serve as only I've been served. 
 Not wrongfully, but just against unjust : 
 All knowledge is not pleasant in the world, 
 And I will draw a few unpleasant truths. 
 To some though they may be, from out the veil 
 Unmasked and now unhidden to my sight. 
 Praise — blame ; I nothing care : some words are 
 
 hard 
 When spiced and seasoned thick with vile intent, 
 And defamation makes them more impure. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 15 
 
 Truth will be righted, backed by Justice armed, 
 
 And myriad legions burning for the fray : 
 
 What host can stand unmoved their warlike force ! 
 
 I once did write ; but critics made pervert 
 
 Of things they understood not — factured faults 
 
 Where faults were none ; but now (forgive, my 
 
 Muse !) 
 I'll scribble, for it pleases best the age. 
 Years, ages passed and gone, perverted still — 
 When little men,, who bluster big with rant 
 And canting phrases, got by rote and tuned — 
 Who, swaggering, stalk in puffed-up pride, find 
 
 praise 
 Over-consistent with their littleness ; 
 Their jests, low-bred, are gulleted for wit, 
 So they perchance can spout a stolen pun : 
 Alas for freedom in Thought's lofty palace ! 
 These paltry pedants, 'tis their nature, creed, 
 To feed the hungered with their poisonous weeds : 
 Their province, narrow and compact about, 
 
16 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 Is vice, and their subjects, degradation : 
 
 If chance should throw into their evil swaj 
 
 A modest youth, they cram his mouth with malice, 
 
 Outrage his virtue, and then cast him out, 
 
 Oppressed in heart, forlorn of hope, and naked. 
 
 The soaring fire of Genius never yet 
 Has blazoned forth before a raptured world — 
 In wonder and in mute astonishment 
 The critics view, till. Envy creeping in, 
 They flaw it piece by piece — without a stream 
 Of damp'ning irony — a flood of hate. 
 With malice fraught, against its struggling flame 
 In all its youthful ardour, being cast : 
 And, though the flame be quenched, the spark will 
 
 live ; 
 Years, ages, generations, all may pass 
 Unheeded, trampling on the slumbering flame ; 
 And other, weaker fires, may brightly beam 
 With soft refulgence for the hungered souls. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 17 
 
 Yet still that spark will live, though silently, 
 In dark oblivion buried and forgot, 
 Adding fresh fuel and amassing strength, 
 Like to the lion foiled, couchant low down, 
 Gaining fresh vigour for a surer spring — 
 When least expected will its radiant light. 
 Thrusting aside oppression's weighty bars. 
 Burst forth upon the wonder-stricken world, 
 Illumining the heavens wide around ; 
 And men will gaze upon this cynosure 
 Enraptured, and find beauty in its rays 
 Where darkness and deformity had been ; 
 And still that flame will burn and burn for ever, 
 All humble fires eclipsed and dimmed by glory. 
 
 Deceit, Hypocrisy, the brothers twin, 
 Have many arts and guises various. 
 Roaming the wide world over, and, till felt. 
 Invisible, to crush their victim's peace — 
 Blast Innocence, their rightful enemy : 
 
18 THEAGEOFSIN 
 
 Truth has but one form in the path of Life ; 
 Deceit, Hypocrisy, have myriad shapes ! 
 Their honeyed phrases, gliding glibly on, 
 And gilding Falsehood with their fulsome jests, 
 Make blinded men to think that right is wrong, 
 And Purity herself to be impure ! 
 Yet when they chance in arrogance, where Truth 
 Keeps vigils slumberless o'er Innocence, 
 Guarding her sleep, by hallowed dreams made sweet, 
 From foul contamination's breath — their darts 
 Will harmless light upon her mailed breast — 
 E-ebound back whence they were emitted forth. 
 By vengeance sped, hurled on with deadly force ; — 
 Well may they writhe beneath the torturing stroke, 
 And curse and groan in endless misery ; 
 And curse the shaft that quivers in their hearts — 
 The shaft they pruned, and winged swift on its 
 
 flight. 
 Its hardened head in Envy's poison steeped. 
 And hatred girded round its serpent form. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 19 
 
 Some gentle bards, their natures all too much 
 Of Heaven to bear the scorn and taunting jests 
 That dropped like molten lead upon their breasts 
 Of yielding wax — too modest to return 
 A blow for blow, and by the gloomy prospect 
 Of future strife weighed down, and from revenge 
 Despairing turn — have languished, drooped, and 
 
 died, 
 (Though not unwept, forgot, nor unbeloved 
 By nobler, feeling souls, who knew their worth.) 
 Beneath the scathful influence of gibes 
 That flowed unceasingly, and cutting deep 
 From ofi" the heartless critic's poisoned pen. 
 Sweeping lank desolation in its trail, 
 Distraction, broken hearts, and widowed beds ; 
 While others of more hardy temper — souls 
 Alive and bounding at the slightest touch 
 Of quick reproof or prejudiced review — 
 Their heaving bosoms swelling big with rage 
 Of unrequited merit, slighted worth. 
 
20 THE AGE OF SIN", 
 
 And irritated by each stricture vile, 
 
 Have fired the burning shafts, and hurled aback, 
 
 With all the thunderbolts of Satire's force. 
 
 The overwhelming flow of irony 
 
 And criticism, and left it to stagnate 
 
 Within the bosom of the critic's breast ; — 
 
 Then all the torrent of his pasquinades. 
 
 His stinging, smarting gibes unsparingly, 
 
 In fortune change, come bounding on the tide. 
 
 Plunged through the current by the winds of truth. 
 
 Recoil with doubled force, redoubled strong, 
 
 Back whence to life they sprung, the parent fount. 
 
 And, overflowing thick with scurvy scum, 
 
 Breed lasting misery, with no revenge. 
 
 O'er this our native land, the poet's west. 
 In every shaded grove with fragrance filled. 
 O'er every court, and each light, rippling stream, 
 The great reviewers hold a sovereign sway ; 
 They bend the twig to suit them, crush the branch 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 21 
 
 That dare dispute their mighty majesty ; 
 And turn the crystal stream that dare to flow 
 Its limpid waters, though with murmurs soft, 
 Through fields of fancy, and forbidden meads. 
 Where flourish flowers, that to gaze upon 
 Their spirits are forbid and driven out, 
 Whose lustrous light would shrivel up their eyes 
 To sightless sockets — fire their tinder brain, 
 And send them howling to their native Hell : 
 Yet they encompass round these sacred fields 
 Their warlike force, and inch by inch they gain 
 The tempted frontiers to their tyrant sway ; 
 With treacherous tales the towers they besiege ; 
 They dam the founts of purity that flow 
 Into the plains, and bare their crystal beds, 
 xlnd I have, single-handed, girded on 
 The sin-proof shield of Purity and Right, 
 And dare my soul their sovereign sway dispute : 
 I war with critics, and my arm shall wrest 
 
 3 
 
22 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 Their conquered empire in the mind of man — 
 Restore to Truth her province and her realm. 
 
 Up, up the tree of knowledge, nobler souls, 
 Ye men of brain and wisdom lift aloft 
 Your broad, high foreheads, circling up 
 And sloping grandly o'er the mind's domain, 
 Drive back these narrow-minded, little-ejed, 
 And paltry pedants, who have here usurped 
 A forced dominion, and in secret clomb 
 Into the branches of the mighty tree, 
 Wide-spreading out their arms, all thickly clad 
 With venal poison — girded round about 
 With thongs of malice, and their noxious breath 
 Emitting forth a deadly demon mist. 
 That a great human host each hour inhale, 
 Breeding a sickly pallor in their souls. 
 Corroding, blighting all their peace of mind, 
 And, sinking sadly to their hearts, they look 
 On men as enemies, and hate mankind. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 23 
 
 These are the fruits, the bourgeoned evil fruits, 
 Of mistaught morals judged bj minds debased ; 
 Impurity is nurtured in the heart. 
 The seeds of Vice are planted in the soul. 
 And Falsehood springeth upward, and the fruit 
 Is misery, yea, wretchedness through life, 
 Foredoomed to sorrow by the baleful sway 
 Of doctrines taught by bad-intentioned men ; 
 Who serve their own ends, and the gilded gods 
 That lureth them with mammon, though the means 
 Be quenching every spark of virtuous life, 
 And trampling on the souls of myriad men ; 
 Panders to every vicious thought — scoffers 
 At all religion, while they tempt frail man 
 With maxims mortal to the living soul. 
 
 There lives a race of men, nor need we seek 
 Them far, who enter in the happy choir 
 Of tuneful birds with over-nice design ; 
 So merrily the little songsters chirp 
 
24 THEAaEOFSIN, 
 
 Their lover lays of joy — unceasing strains 
 Of melody — entrancing all the soul, 
 Saddened with sorrow, and by care oppressed, 
 With gushing songs of everlasting praise ; 
 And lighting all the latent sparks, that lurk 
 In silence and forgotten in the heart. 
 Into a glowing flame, that thrills the breast 
 With joy, and pleasure, and sensations soft. 
 Long smothered and in dark oblivion hid ; 
 And stilling all wild passions into peace. 
 This race of men, reviewers vile at heart. 
 Are ever roaming through the chirping choir 
 With sad intent ; they find some noble bird. 
 Distinguished from the rest by grander strains 
 Of harmony, with wild magnificence ; 
 Its melody, all ringing clear and sweet, 
 Floats out, and rests upon the ambient air 
 That gently waves beneath the load of song — 
 It knows no care in singing, but must sing. 
 Must warble forth the overflowing stream 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 25 
 
 Of joy, and must give utterance to the tide 
 That gushes fresh from melody's domain, 
 Must ever sing, though death be at the fount ! 
 This noble, happy bird, alas ! is caught, 
 And, 'mid its joy, is banished from the choir, 
 And left to droop and die, starvation fed. 
 Because, perchance, a few dark feathers shade 
 The yellow, golden plumage of its breast. 
 
 This race of men — I hold it true as truth. 
 Are murderers ; it may not be of men. 
 But they destroy that which is greater far 
 Than life — all peace of mind, all hope through life I 
 They plant a rankling thorn within the breast, 
 Which works its way in torment to the heart, 
 And pricks its victim on to early death ; 
 They settle round the guiding star of Hope 
 An undissolving cloud, enshrouding close 
 In dank embrace, and warp around a veil 
 Of blight and desolation, till the star 
 
 3* 
 
26 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 That beamed so brightly, rots and fades away 
 
 Unto the region of despair ; they dash 
 
 Aside and trample on the cup of Fame, 
 
 When — sought by long devotion, and by oft 
 
 And painful struggles ; years of longing days 
 
 Exhausted in pursuit — its brim has reached 
 
 The touching of the dry and parched lips. 
 
 Thus desolation follows in their trail, 
 
 A wide-spread trail of blight, and gloom, and woe I 
 
 But, oh ! how sad, how sorrowful to see 
 The young, gay bird that soared unto the skies 
 So grandly ; that so joyously did leap 
 Aloft into the ether space, and winged 
 Its happy flight away from worldly pain. 
 From woe, from care, and from restraint ; that 
 
 burst 
 The withes of bondage that encircled round 
 Its light and airy pinions — 'and that sprung 
 On high with limbs unfettered — muscles free. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 27 
 
 That, motioning the clear and trackless sky, 
 Sought for a happy home in some bright star 
 From out the globes of glory swung on high ; 
 Now lying lifeless on the humid ground, 
 Its airy pennons folded on its breast, 
 Its yellow, golden plumage ruffled up, 
 And motionless^ — Death's arrow in its heart ! 
 
 When, in the silent solitude of death. 
 My form, enshrouded in a saintly dress. 
 And mouldering 'neath the cold, hard sod, shall be 
 Embraced by long-expectant mother earth, 
 Men will not love me then, nor heed if I 
 Be happy in an angel land, or be 
 Engulfed in torment in a demon world ; 
 They reap the harvest, but bestow no thought 
 By whom the seeds were planted, where took root. 
 Nor who enrobed the glowing golden fields 
 That yield for them the nourishment of soul, 
 And fill the spacious garners of the mind 
 
28 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 With drink to quench their burning hearts athirst; 
 Yet I should love mj fellow-men, and do ; 
 Their good is nij good, and their living souls 
 Are sacred in my sight ; I would unfold 
 My little store of knowledge to their gaze ; 
 And teach them from experience all the good 
 And glowing things on this earth to enjoy. 
 And all the evil things that they should shun ; 
 And, meditating thus within my soul, 
 I bid them of these pedagogues beware. 
 Lest they inculcate doctrines in their hearts, 
 And harbour serpents in their bosoms, that 
 Will turn and sting the breasts that nourished life. 
 
 Power is mighty, and by God is given 
 To temper Man and prove him worthy Heaven ! 
 Ye, holding rental in its high estate. 
 Think not that oft commanding makes you great ; 
 The frequent exercise — sometimes in vain — 
 Of might, its burnished dignity will stain. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 29 
 
 And dim the brightness of the wielded chain ; 
 But use it justly, use it kind and fair ; 
 And, robed in mercy, let your hand forbear 
 From vain assumption of your proper right — 
 Abuse it not, tho' Reason prompts to smite ; 
 Let Nature take her true, her even course ; 
 Let Passion quickly spend its novel force ; 
 Let Justice calmly weigh each nicer deed ; 
 Then Power is sweet and dignity indeed ! 
 
 But there are many, who, should chance present 
 A favoured time, will prostitute the pen 
 To party — cringe to faction, or will wield 
 The mighty engine of the mind so fierce 
 In praise of Vice and sinful acts, that men. 
 The mighty multitude, fearing to doubt. 
 Will drug their senses deep and hug belief. • 
 These many men — these demons high in state — 
 Probation out their souls to Satan, or. 
 Which is the same, they slave for party cliques ; 
 
30 
 
 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 And, 'with the house,' their burnished kettles crj, 
 And doom all other worthier metals base : 
 The simple belt of Mercy circles not 
 Their sin-stained bodies, nor the sceptered rod 
 Of Justice stand by them, upright and firm ; 
 The pure, unblemished conscience, that arrays 
 The blushing form of Virtue in a robe 
 Of splendour and magnificence — that dooms 
 The brazen brow of Guilt to lurk and hide 
 Its blackened face in shade of Man's disdain — 
 That shackles and condemns to bondage. Wrong — 
 That gives the palm, when due, to peaceful Right ; 
 That ever in the wavering, doubting heart 
 Instils the radiance of the beacon, Hope — 
 This noble feeling, this undying sense. 
 Holds not communion with their selfish hearts : 
 Earth-born and selfish is their every thought : 
 With them is found the friendship, windy-mouthed. 
 Smooth-tongued, that dupes believing, trusting man 
 Into a false reliance, then betrays 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 31 
 
 Its victim to the monster-ghoul, Despair : 
 They publish error such as they have learned 
 Through years of falsehood, and proclaim it right ; 
 Experienced adepts in all the arts 
 Of dissilition, as the fickle vane 
 That turns and veers with every changing vrind ; 
 Their life is error ; and their meed is woe 
 Through countless ages in the gloomy grave. 
 Where evil spirits rend their tortured limbs — 
 And anguish in a demoniac world. 
 
 These men may understand the brother, Prose, 
 The working-man who hammers on the drum 
 Of worldly feelings ; and with leaden sense 
 They may digest the tones that echo forth 
 Their weighty notes upon the swollen tide, 
 And bound along the current loud and free. — 
 Their hearts are hollow, and are filled with air ; 
 Their souls are earthy, and they crave for earth ! 
 And they will shape afresh their crooked quills. 
 
32 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 Ho ! for the conflict with a blacker nib I 
 
 But let them shun nor dare to desecrate 
 The garden of the sister, Poesy, 
 The bright, angelic being that belongs 
 Alone to mortals far removed from earth — 
 An angel seraph of another world — 
 The sweet recourse of sad mortality ; 
 The soother and consoler of oppressed 
 And sunken spirits who may need the balm 
 Of consolation poured into their souls ; 
 The door of whose retreat is ever open wide 
 Unto the heart forlorn and filled with woe. 
 Or brimmed with sorrow to the outer verge. 
 Where dark Despair may find a welcome home, 
 A hand to drag him from the yawning grave. 
 The guide of lisping childhood and of youth, 
 The mild instructress, teacher of Mankind ! 
 These men of state will tramp the tender rose, 
 That sweetly blushes from its velvet nest, 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 33 
 
 That wafts its perfume out, and scents the air, 
 Borne down with load of mingled essences, 
 In mixed conformity of fragrant sweets, — 
 With rude,' unwieldy feet ; and at their touch, 
 Each blooming bud will droop its head, and sink 
 In maiden modesty unto the ground. 
 Frosted and blighted, withering unto death : 
 Some few, some lofty dahlias, stand alone. 
 In royal and sublime magnificence. 
 So proud in queen-like dignity arrayed. 
 And seem to dare the ruthless spoiler's touch. 
 Repelling them with Beauty's innate spell ; 
 But they are robbed of foliage that bedecked 
 And beautified their structure — lone and bare ! 
 Thus desolation follows in their trail. 
 
 Unmoved they hearken to her melody ; 
 Sweet Poesy ! sweet arbitress of fate ! 
 Her fairy fingers touch the harp of Life 
 With swelling, lofty numbers, and a gush 
 
 4 
 
34 THEAGEOFSIN 
 
 Of finer feelings flowing from the soul, 
 A stream of dancing harmony, o'erfloods 
 The heaving bosom with a world of thoughts 
 And sweet emotions, passions newly-born, 
 That bid the happy heart rebound with joy. 
 All quivering with the flow of strains divine, 
 And trembling to its core with hidden hope, — 
 A flame that burns in silence in the breast. 
 Amassing fuel from some secret source. 
 While adding vigour to the heart : the light 
 Of inspiration sparkles in her eyes — 
 The glowing fire of frenzy at the fount — 
 And each wild glance, so bright and beautiful, 
 Unfolds a glimpse of heaven to the gaze ; 
 But this destructive, recreant race of men 
 Feel not the crescent beauty of her lays, 
 Like to the miser Jew who rubs the gem, 
 Not for its brilliance, but to find a flaw. 
 They weigh with sordid souls the thrilling strains. 
 Till every trill is made discordant, harsh, 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 35 
 
 And grates and jars upon the fine-tuned ear ; 
 
 Her mien to them is over-nice and proud, 
 
 And wanting in that coarse, familiar style 
 
 To which their souls are held subservient ; 
 
 And they would drag her from her lofty throne 
 
 To bend a lowly suppliant at their feet, 
 
 Where they could trample on her trembling form ; 
 
 They see no light of inspiration in her eyes — 
 
 To them a flame undreamed of and unknown — 
 
 Where beams the love that knows no recompense, 
 
 They but behold a dull, dark, languid smoke, 
 
 With images — that savour of divine, 
 
 Beyond their knowledge — they deem forms of earth, 
 
 By them beheld through glasses framed with clay. 
 
 Oh, how they fume and fret, these men of state ! 
 They wrangle with each other, and revile 
 Their brother men with cavilous demean, 
 Not thinking they condemn themselves thereby : 
 My very soul could laughingly enjoy 
 
36 THEAGEOESIN, 
 
 Their bickerings, did I not pity them ; 
 
 For they are still my fellow-men, removed 
 
 Alone by sin, and vile, debasing acts, 
 
 Unto a state that Virtue must contemn, 
 
 Hugging Hypocrisy unto their breasts 
 
 Till blood, heart, soul, and sense, are changed and 
 
 false : 
 No innate good or right remain in them. 
 Mourning and sorrowed, they have left them long ; 
 Yet I would fain instil into their souls 
 One spark of virtue, that its seed may root 
 And blossom forth with palmy, fulgent buds 
 Into a tree of Truth and Purity, 
 Converting all their hearts to sense of Right 
 And Justice, and reveal their erring ways — 
 Their guilty souls all steeped in slough of Sin, 
 And change them from perverters of mankind 
 To living ornaments of Truth and Right, 
 And rock-ribbed statues of converted Sin. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 37 
 
 "The multitude is always in the wrong," 
 And ever will be, while they meekly list 
 To these perverters of domestic truths, 
 Who find delight in moulding hearts corrupt 
 With thoughts impure, with vile, malignant hate, 
 Imparting Slander, cancerous disease. 
 Through all the veins, and, mingling with the blood 
 That quickly courses onward to the heart. 
 It preys upon the living soul eterne. 
 And casts its ill, offensive odour out. 
 And spreads contagion to each heart contact ; 
 That deals corroding, burning drops of sweat 
 Unto the chaste, fair brow of Purity ; 
 The child of Envy, and of broken hearts, 
 The fountain source, the co-existent mate 
 Of cringing Falsehood and Hypocrisy. 
 
 This dread disease of Slander fills the air 
 With moans and lamentations, that arise 
 From beings pure in heart and chaste in soul : 
 
 4* 
 
38 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 Each word, each act, by Slander is construed 
 To bear a meaning full of guilty guile, 
 And deeds that shade the brow of Purity, 
 And shame the blushing front of Innocence : 
 Contagion-winged, it flies apace o'er Earth, 
 And, spreading as it flies, it gains fresh deeds 
 For vile comment, increasing false report, 
 Exaggerating every fault, until each tongue 
 Is teeming with the false, malicious tale. 
 That harrows up the virtuous victim's heart, 
 And smites amain the trembling chords of Life. 
 
 Give Slander but a peg, whereon to hang 
 The cap of foul conjecture, it will shroud 
 With overhanging gloom its mantle there ; 
 And Peace in fearand trepidation flies 
 From out the shadow of the cloak and dies. 
 It twinkles in the distance but a spark, 
 A small and tinv flame of lesser note, ' 
 
 That must be closely noticed to be seen ; 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 39 
 
 Yet even seen, it but inspires alone 
 
 A passing notice, worthy of no thought, 
 
 Or curls the lips with eloquent contempt ; 
 
 But flaring up with red and glaring flame. 
 
 Increasing, as it comes in near approach. 
 
 In greater magnitude — the murky winds. 
 
 Enhancing fuel, bear with every breath 
 
 New sparks to swell the crackling flame ; — the 
 
 clouds 
 Grow dark and gloomy with expectant woe. 
 And, laden down with black, infectious spleen, 
 They gather round and darkly dim the broad 
 And chaste horizon of the soul ; — still on 
 The flame advances nearer, rending up 
 The fronting lawn of peace and happiness. 
 And blighting, blasting all the growing shrubs 
 Of Joy, that shade the rare domain of Bliss ; 
 Still nearer, and the burning, fiery flame 
 Leaps to the heart with demoniac bound. 
 And melts its golden chords to worthless dross, 
 
40 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 And, 'mid the scum of desolation, leaves 
 The once gaj, happy heart parched, dried, and 
 dumb ! 
 
 Grant me, Muse, propitious ! Be my soul • 
 Encased in ribs of adamant, and thongs 
 Of strong asbestos tightly clasp the shield 
 Of Truth and Purity unto my breast. 
 That I may war with Slander., and contend 
 Unto the death with Vi^e, with every sin — 
 That Envy or malicious Hate may cast 
 Their venomed darts in vain against my breast, 
 Striving to gain an entrance, and to pier<;e 
 The sin-proof coat of adamantine mail. 
 And vainly seek to crush the stubborned ribs, 
 And strike the heart, a pliant prey, with grief 
 And never-ending woe — writhing with pain. 
 Until the silken threads, that wrap around 
 The pome, give one faint, trembling sound, 'and 
 pass. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 41 
 
 All quivering, on to long Eternity ! 
 
 I would hurl back the poisoned, venomed darts, 
 
 And plant them in the bosom whence they sprung : 
 
 While living, I would see the victor. Eight, 
 
 And dying, let triumphant be the Truth ; 
 
 And, clad in robes asbestine, I would quench 
 
 The foul, infectious, lurid flame of Slander, 
 
 Until each spark shall rot to calcined dust, — 
 
 Rid Yirtue of her secret, hostile foe, 
 
 So that no longer lamentations wild, 
 
 Nor wailful moans from agonizing breasts, 
 
 Will chant their woful dirges on the air, 
 
 But Virtue may abide in happy peace. 
 
 And Purity herself be ever pure ; 
 
 No breath of Slander stirring up the clouds 
 
 Of darkness that are banished and entombed. 
 
 Gra^ me, Muse, propitious ! And thy spear 
 Shall carry death into the ranks of Sin : 
 I will unfurl thy banner in the field 
 
42 
 
 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 Of carnage and the deadly battle-ground ; 
 "For God and Truth," emblazoned on its folds 
 In characters all glittering with gold ; 
 And I "will trumpet out "For God and Truth" 
 Unto the battling elements of strife, 
 And ring aloud the pasan until Sin 
 Shall drop his warlike weapons to the ground, 
 And tremble in his mail with ghastly fear. 
 Affrighted at the blast — the mighty words ; 
 And Hate and Envy, quaking on the earth, 
 Borne down with iron shafts, shall hear the cry 
 Of joyous victory — the magic sound 
 Swell out and fill the air ; and then shall die. 
 The watchword, warwhoop of my eager soul 
 Through life, to death, shall be "For God and 
 Truth." 
 
 From Earth to Heaven a continuous waik 
 Of woe and lamentation rises up 
 In murky streams along the pathless space ; 
 
OR HINTS FOR CKITICS. 43 
 
 So sad, heart^retiding are these sighs and moans, 
 
 That angels high in Heaven drop the tear 
 
 Of sorrow for the doomed and damned of Earth : 
 
 Up from the stately palace, steeped in sin, — 
 
 Up from the lowly hut, where grovelling worms 
 
 Load night and day with loud, unceasing plaints, — 
 
 Up from the bosom of the ocean broad, — 
 
 Up from the secret caves, where lank Despair 
 
 Is hidden, groaning deep, to torment chained, — 
 
 Up from the bowels of the Earth, this wail 
 
 Of endless lamentation bears aloft 
 
 Its thrilling peals of wretchedness and pain. 
 
 And pierces through the vaulted gates of Heaven, 
 
 Unto the footsteps of the throne of God. 
 
 Where'er the sense has space to penetrate, 
 When gazing on the world as one above, 
 The inward eye of outraged Truth beholds : — 
 
 A many myriad host of human worms, 
 
44 THE AGE OF SIN 
 
 Each one pursuing its own path, slide down 
 
 The varied avenues of destiny, 
 
 And as so many rivulets and rills 
 
 Flow onward and concentre in the sea. 
 
 These human worms form one vast field of Sin. 
 
 Each one pursuing its own path, they glide 
 Along the slippery tracks, some overtake 
 Or meet with kindred beings where their paths 
 Converge together, or are joined in one : 
 A brief dispute — one dies, the other lives 
 Still sliding to the spacious field of Sin. 
 
 Still downward ; and the paths grow broad and 
 wide : 
 A restless, wavy host are ever gliding down, 
 Some leaping, bounding down with reckless haste, 
 And others jog along with idle trot ; 
 The war from two extends to many worms, 
 All fighting in the fatal field of Sin. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 45 
 
 And here and there are moving little groups 
 Of concentrated forms, leagued in one band ; 
 They trample on the heels of those before, 
 Whose limbs are weak and weary-worn with march : 
 The fresh behind crush down the faint in front, 
 And carnage crimsons o'er the field of Sin. 
 
 No lack of forms : — the ever-flowing tide 
 Brings down the stream fresh applicants for Death: 
 The smooth, hard-trodden roads are ever filled 
 With mortal worms, besmeared with gory mire, • 
 While chuckling demons are for ever near 
 To press them downward to the field of Sin. 
 
 Still sliding down apace, some, lone and few. 
 Have robes of gold clasped closely to their backs, 
 While costly gems, plucked by the way, cast out 
 A brazen light ; they pave their path with gold, 
 With Mammon's dross, with soul-tormenting wealth, 
 
 And swiftly pass into the field of Sin. 
 
 5 
 
46 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 And in {his mighty plain vast lakes of blood, 
 All curdled up, and stagnant, putrid pools, 
 Cast up a noxious mist, and hang a cloud 
 Of leaden darkness, that shuts out and glooms 
 The genial rays of Virtue bright and warm ; — 
 A home of horrors is the field of Sin. 
 
 Down-wending to this fell, this turbid field, 
 The many myriad paths that lead thereto 
 Are small and narrow, spread from every point. 
 But, intersecting each, they broader grow, 
 Until the spacious Earth extant is made 
 A broad way unto Death — the field of Sin. 
 
 And these are but a few of many fruits 
 That spring to life and blossom from the seeds 
 Implanted in the fertile soil of Life, 
 By reckless, pedant teachers rashly sown. 
 I crave not, neither do I wish for praise 
 Or comment from this recreant race of men ; 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 47 
 
 Their praise would shame arid damn me in the sight 
 Of worthy men with whom my inner soul 
 Would wish to hold communion, converse sweet ; 
 One breath from whom I hold in more esteem 
 Than all the mighty whirlwinds, pedant sped, 
 That could be hurled against my feeble form. 
 Though black with Slander and malicious Hate. 
 
 What need have I to hug the shrine of Sin, 
 Or stain my knee by bending to its idols ; 
 To paint its brow all black and thick with scurf; 
 To glaze its hideous form with Falsehood's gloss ; 
 To shade its withered temples with a wreath, 
 Inwoven on the vines of sly Deceit, 
 Or mask the monster 'neath a gilded veil ? 
 My unstained conscience bids me still rejoice; 
 My breast is filled with hopes and pleasures sweet ; 
 My heart to soft emotions leaps and bounds, 
 And all my soul, by happiness made glad, 
 Still gushes up a swelling stream of joy ; 
 
48 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 But Sin can give no such content as this ; 
 Its prospect but unfolds a wretched life 
 Of dark deformity unto my view. 
 
 My soul would stamp upon this shapeless mass, 
 This spongy world of wickedness and sin. 
 With firm and upright feet ; and, bounding up. 
 My spirit to a brighter land would soar, 
 And from a happier, purer, sinless realm. 
 Would look in pity on the forms below, 
 For ever sinning, warring, starving, dying ! 
 
 Be once unto the mighty multitude , 
 
 For ever lost, and on its skinny neck 
 Plant firm thy foot, its earthly idols spurn. 
 And treat the world's opinion with contempt, — 
 That fickle tyrant, at whose mould'ring shrine 
 So many bow and flourish for a space. 
 And, with the change, give way and die forgot. 
 Like to the dog, 'twill cringe and lick thy foot, 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 49 
 
 And, whining, it will beg thj cast-off crumbs. 
 
 The ignorant world, the mighty multitude, 
 
 Know not the value of their rarest gems. 
 
 Until the waters of oblivion 
 
 Have closed for ever o'er their brilliancy ! 
 
 And there are poets who do haply live — 
 
 Associate with their brain's poetic sphere, 
 
 Untrammelled in their thoughts and unadmired, 
 
 Though free from all the world's unjust attacks — 
 
 In secret life, unto the world unknown ; 
 
 Some at the ploughshare with a rustic gait 
 
 Stretch out their days in tilling Nature's soil, 
 
 And gaze on ' Nature's naked loveliness ' 
 
 With rolling eyes in agony of love ; 
 
 They feel the spell of Beauty and the charm 
 
 Of Poesy deep-centred in their souls ; 
 
 On each green leaf for them a lay is writ ; 
 
 Each new-blown rose, that casts its fragrance forth, 
 
 Instils into their breasts a world of thoughts 
 
 Of pleasure — longings for they know not what ; 
 
 5* 
 
50 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 The ever-gushing day-songs of the birds, 
 With which the new-robed trees seem all alive 
 When brided Spring has greened the lap of Earth, 
 Cause them to rest them on the velvet moss, 
 And think, and think, and yet they know not why : 
 And these are Nature's poets, who enjoy 
 The beauties of Creation and of Art ; 
 Who pass their lives as dreamers in a dream ; 
 Who have a mine of bright, poetic fire 
 Imbedded in their brains, though unexpressed. 
 happy, happy poets ! you can live 
 And revel in the fields of virgin Truth, 
 With no faint fear and no despondent thoughts 
 Of how the world will look upon your works — 
 Yourself your world — the rest all wilderness ; 
 But we, who struggle for the good of Man, 
 To cheer his flagging spirits, soothe his soul, 
 To wrest him from the margin of despair. 
 Must fight our way for entrance to the love 
 Of the ungrateful world that gives reward 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 51 
 
 In shape of pain forever in ferment ; 
 
 We, for the burning sweat of fair-born day 
 
 And eyesores of the night, have not the balm 
 
 Of even human cheer and kindliness 
 
 To bid us strive for benefiting Man ; 
 
 For loving kisses we receive but blows, 
 
 And for the truths that we bring forth to light, 
 
 And tender to the world as priceless gifts. 
 
 To add one wreath the more of earthly lore 
 
 Unto the crown of jewels in the classic realm, 
 
 It takes the gems, but pitilessly pelts 
 
 Our lean, lank bodies with the stones of earth. 
 
 And we are lonely ; they will love us not,* 
 
 Whom we would worship to idolatry 
 
 And madly, with but one remove from God ; 
 
 We are ycleped the dreamers, we who work 
 
 The work above all others, toil of brain. 
 
 Yet gain no earthly profit, starve and die. 
 
 Like to the snow-flakes sink to earth unwept. 
 
 Except the tear-drops shed by us alone : 
 
52 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 Evil the judge ; and by this wanton world 
 
 We are ycleped the dreamers ! Be it so. 
 
 If Sleep be sistered unto Death ; if dreams 
 
 Be angel whispers voicing to the soul, 
 
 While preternatural prophecies convey 
 
 The future, allegoric, to the mind ; 
 
 Then we have that within our brains akin 
 
 To immortality, akin to Heaven : 
 
 We will be dreamers ; we will shape our dreams, 
 
 Our day-dreams, for redemption of the world. 
 
 God's will be done ! each goodly man is made 
 
 A harbinger of Truth, to ray His light 
 
 O'er all the spread of habitable Earth ; 
 
 Let each one's duty be so ministered 
 
 That when the judgment day of reckoning comes. 
 
 As come it will, he may look up to God, 
 
 And show increase of talents many-fold. 
 
 My soul grows sick of Sin, and pants for air. 
 Longs for restraint from such a grievous strain. 
 
OK HINTS FOR CRITICS. 53 
 
 Be thou, stately Clio ! be my muse : 
 Once, when through Nassau's high and classic halls 
 I roamed a boy, a wayward, ranting youth, 
 Thou wert my guide, my first and dearest love ! 
 Assist me : let thy harp be tuned and strung 
 With nobler themes than yet my lyre has sung. 
 Then Clio, with a retrospective gaze : — 
 
 Thou first, immortal Chatterton ! poor boy ! 
 I weep thee living, mourn thee dead; thy wings 
 Were fledged in glory, but were furled in woe ! 
 Thou, who, with genius innate in thy soul, 
 Didst fill the absent ages with the forms 
 Of fancy, once possessed of life, and who 
 Unto the Present didst succumb the Past ; 
 A child in years, but yet a man in lore ; 
 A child of song, a poet born of Heaven ! 
 The fire of genius in thy soul of song. 
 Communing with its burning self alone, 
 Burst forth upon the world — a motley crew,— 
 
54 
 
 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 With meteoric blaze, and lit the pile 
 
 Of long-forgotten deeds into a flame. 
 
 Thou hadst no friend in whom to trust the dark 
 
 And misty shadows that loomed up afar 
 
 From out the world of fancy in thy brain, 
 
 All drear — that preyed upon thy soul ; — no guide 
 
 To teach thy noble nature how to tread 
 
 With safety all the thorny paths through Life, — 
 
 To turn the gloomy current of thy thoughts 
 
 From things of after life, and live for Man ; 
 
 And there was stretched no helping hand to save 
 
 Thee from the horrors of an early grave, 
 
 That opened to thine agonizing view, 
 
 And gaped the sole resource — the only breast 
 
 That offered refuge from the gloomy thoughts 
 
 That lashed their master with tormenting thongs ; 
 
 Dark, sad, and solemn, that did prey upon 
 
 Thy being, and consumed the threads of Life. 
 
 Unguided, friendless, cheerless ; wretched boy ! 
 
 Thy mind didst master time : thy spacious soul, 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 55 
 
 Crammed with the things of Earth, yet craving 
 
 more, 
 Didst brood in secret on Eternity, 
 Which was revealed unto thy longing gaze 
 Beyond the grave, in mystery of Death. 
 Sigh for humanity, ye gentle bards ! 
 The spring-trap that lies lurking in the grass. 
 The gilded bait that blinded men gulp down. 
 And find the hook is rooting up the heart — 
 Moan, ye winds ! and let the zephyrs chant 
 A dirge of sorrow for the starving bard ! 
 Toll, bells ! and let your leaden numbers ring 
 With mournful music ; let a wailful sound 
 Be wafted through the air, encased with grief. 
 Unto this favoured child of Poesy 1 
 Weep, weep and mourn, ye tender maidens all ! 
 Weep that while living he was unbeloved, 
 And, ere the tide of friendship reached him, passed 
 From Time to sleep with "muses and romance !" 
 In life he could not turn to mortal man 
 
56 
 
 THE AGE OF SIN 
 
 And call him friend ; in death lie wished for none ; 
 But, now that he has fled from worldly woes, 
 From pain, starvation, and the racking thoughts 
 That hunted him down to the gaping grave, 
 Uncalled by Death, and rashly ere his time, 
 Where breathes the living soul that calls not friend 
 This noble bard of immortality, 
 The young, undying poet of the heart. 
 Whose wings were fledged in glory, but were furled 
 In woe ? Alas ! for human sympathy, — 
 The catch-word, that the hungered, starving soul 
 May hope for, yet will perish in despair ; 
 When needed most it basely clings to self, 
 Upon some pinnacle above the herd, 
 And lets the tide of dying souls sweep by, 
 Their hot breath crisping up its winning locks— 
 The flow of friendly feeling came too late. 
 Came when the clammy, clayey couch of Death 
 Had closed its portals o'er his lifeless form. 
 A shout triumphant filled the lofty domes 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 57 
 
 Within the realm of Song, and echoed through 
 The wide and sweet domain of Melody, 
 And trembled in the secret vaults of Joy, 
 When the stray soul of this their wandered child 
 Came wildly chanting through the golden gates. 
 And sought the bosom of its mother Muse. 
 
 Thou Keats, the most poetical of bards ! 
 TJae finest, warmest brain that ever touched 
 The glowing harp of Life, or swept the stroke 
 Of magic music o'er its golden strings ! 
 The mellow sound arising from thy harp 
 Reverberates for ever, never still. 
 When touched by feeling natures such as thine ; 
 Is soothing in its melody, sweet, soft 
 In music, and is cheering in its tone 
 As ever warmed the sunshine of the soul. 
 Or sought the vaulted chambers of the breast, 
 To thrill with harmony the heart of man. 
 All bright and brilliant as the frescoed light, 
 
 6 
 
58 
 
 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 That filled the misty shadows on the floor, 
 
 With rich and soft magnificence, 
 
 From out the lofty casement in thy " Eve ;" — 
 
 Entrancing as the low, melodious lute 
 
 That young, brave Porphyro did lightly touch. 
 
 With lover lays beside the downy couch 
 
 Of sleeping Madeline, who woke to find 
 
 Her one sweet dream was true, for ever true ; — 
 
 As lofty as thy high Hyperion halls, • 
 
 With- caves unfathomable in their depths. 
 
 And towers spiring to the vaulted skies ; — 
 
 Are all thy visions of magnificence ! 
 
 A forest of romance grew^ in thy mind ; 
 
 Each fancy was a wild-rose sw^eet perfumed. 
 
 Vermilion-dyed and dimmed with diamond dew ; 
 
 And from thy fertile brain the bright green leaves 
 
 Of happy thoughts spread o'er the lofty trees ; 
 
 Time-proof, sublime, and century-bodied oaks. 
 
 The gorgeous mantle of imagination ; 
 
 Here, there, and everywhere, clear, rippling rills 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 59 
 
 Of sweet, pellucid ideas, fancj-born, 
 Coursed through the grand dominion of thy brain. 
 And thou art dead ! Oh no ! the lesser part 
 May be, but not the soul ; thy children bear 
 Thine every image and thine every grace 
 Engraven on each lineament, and hail 
 Thee father, thee alone ; they bid me weep 
 In sorrow for their parent, noble Keats ! 
 And thou art dead ! the critic's barbed shaft 
 Went howling on in anguish through thy breast. 
 And quivered in thy heart, struck mute and dumb. 
 Long didst thou wrestle with the burning pain, 
 Long didst thou wrestle, but to live for love, 
 And Beauty, and the fond delight of Man — 
 Li vain ; it rankled deeper to thy core, 
 Instilled disease within thy mortal frame. 
 And sharp, quick pains of agony sped through 
 Thy stricken breast, and tore it up with woe ; 
 It left thee never until friendly Death 
 Relieved thy aching bosom of its woe. 
 
60 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 And spread the robe of daisies o'er thy form. 
 Sleep thou the sleep of death in happy peace : 
 There Mercy will extend her pardoning hand, 
 And tread with thee the paradise of Heaven ; 
 There Friendship, pure and unalloyed of earth, 
 Will fold thy form in close and warm embrace, 
 And rest thy head, faint by contact with woe. 
 Upon the bosom of her swelling breast ; 
 There Joy will chant with thee the hymns of 
 
 praise. 
 And Happiness be ever with tlij soul, 
 By critics hunted down and chased from Earth — 
 Like to the hart that, driven to the cliiF, 
 Gazed back in fear upon the mouthing pack, 
 Then, bleating sadly, leaped the dizzy height, 
 And mangled, rolled into Eternity ! 
 The wolf-hounds of the pen paused on the brink. 
 And howling, gazed into the deep, dark gulf 
 With flashing eyes, made fierce by baflied rage, 
 Then bounded back within the forest shades 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 61 
 
 To start and trail some other noble prey, 
 
 And goad their victim down the gulf of Death. 
 
 x\.las for Keats ! his was a mournful fate ! 
 
 The realm of rare romances was his home ; 
 
 The love of Beauty, lofty and sublime, 
 
 Did spread a robe of splendour o'er each thought 
 
 That flowed like inspiration from his pen, 
 
 And trickled through the spangled mead of mind, 
 
 Meandering, winding down the fairy field, 
 
 Until it leaped into the sea of Thought. 
 
 Alas for Keats ! I dip the pen in tears. 
 
 And write his name, — an honoured, mournful name. 
 
 Beloved by poets and by men, — in water, 
 
 That it may live when others, are forgot. 
 
 Thou, outcast Shelley ! who, for love of Truth, 
 And for the love of doing good to Man, 
 Redeeming mortals from the sway of Vice, 
 That smiled on evils, chuckled at each sin, 
 Wast driven from the bosom of thy friends ; 
 
 6* 
 
62 THE AGE OF SIN 
 
 And even kindred, in whose throbbing veins 
 The same blood flowed, did spurn thy gifted mind- 
 Deserted, tortured to the quick with grief, 
 Thy genius left to be its own sole guide. 
 From boyhood's home and native land wast cast 
 A wanderer on the barren shore of Life, 
 To struggle in the quicksands of the world, 
 Beat back the breakers, and the pitfalls shun 
 T^hat gaped on every side to gulf thy soul 
 Deep in the slough of wretchedness and woe. 
 How dark and dreary seemed to him the book 
 Of vague Futurity ! it gloomed in darkness : 
 Amid the crowded, populated world 
 He stood alone, debarred from every joy. 
 Except the thoughts that centred in his breast. 
 In close communion with the star of Hope, 
 And urged him on to glory and to fame : 
 No friend, — he looked on all as enemies ! 
 He bade his soul walk forth unto the fray, ' 
 And carry war to Vice and all the world; 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 63 
 
 He waged the war successful, fought it well ; 
 
 Himself his only stay, his sole support, 
 
 And mighty in the sense of wrong and shame, 
 
 That had been heaped in overwhelming mass 
 
 Upon his youthful head, and strong in might 
 
 And pure design of benefiting Man — 
 
 He conquered ; and the ordeal fire passed through 
 
 Unscathed, though chastened and made brighter, 
 
 purer. 
 He too was reft of life in bloom of pride. 
 And found a sad, untimely, watery grave, 
 Ere yet the woes of Life, and they were hard, 
 Had wrinkled o'er his manly, noble brow. 
 
 Thus find we here another son of song- 
 Cast by the world, — the noble, patron world ! — 
 From station, friends, and all that made life dear. 
 All lonely and deserted, to pursue 
 The phantoms of his mind, his erring ways. 
 Misguided who can marvel he should be I 
 
64 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 Yet still he lived to reach the fane of Glory, 
 And carve his name high in the house of Fame : 
 He made the abject world ring out the blast 
 Of praise and favour on the trumpet loud, 
 The same that drove him from his native land 
 To mix "with strangers and to die unwept. 
 His fond delusion was his love for men, 
 Who, when he showed his love and sought to turn 
 Them from their vices, basely turned their backs 
 And cast him from their doors, friendless, cheer- 
 less ! 
 A dog would show more gratitude than this, 
 And leap in rapture when it was beloved ; 
 And it would die, still faithful to the last, 
 For him who showed his love, though clad in rags. 
 And poverty be gnawing at his heart ! 
 But ever with the world, to folly chained, 
 It spurns the costly gem that offers up 
 Its worth in homage as Affection's pledge ; 
 And when in after years the world seeks out 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 65 
 
 The gem, thej find its brilliance rusted, dimmed ; 
 
 Incessant and for ever on the wing 
 
 To find some trinket or some gilded toy 
 
 To please its wanton fancy for a time, 
 
 But, soon grown wearied with its fiimsy worth, 
 
 It, childlike, casts the glittering bauble by. 
 
 Thou, soul-burnt Byron ! drenched in lofty lore ; 
 The deep-imbedded mines, unto their depths, 
 Of earthly knowledge were by thee explored : 
 Thy nature once was tender, formed of love. 
 Ere yet the world misused thee and did clip 
 The up-turned pinions of thy soaring Muse ; 
 Then slighted merit gave thee double strength. 
 Thy blood did course thy swollen veins on fire, 
 And deeply in thy wounded, stricken heart 
 The standard of Revenge was planted firm. 
 And spread its banner out with mighty folds, 
 And in its deadly clasp did crush to death 
 The puffed-up pedants, milk-and-water bards, 
 
66 THE AGE OF SIN 
 
 Who dared to censure though with but a breath ; 
 The shafts of Satire were bj thee rained out 
 In torrents of contempt and just disdain 
 Against the abject world, until in fear 
 It came, all whining, fawning at thy feet, 
 And fed upon the food it once had spurned, 
 Now changed to wormwood and the bitter gall. 
 
 But turn we to our own dear native land ; 
 We too have bards who suffer from the shafts 
 Of unjust criticism, hurled by Hate. 
 
 Unhappy PoE ! thou gifted son of song ! 
 Oppressed in spirit by the chills of Life ; 
 Thy soul, to poverty and torment chained. 
 In secret brooded on the gloomy side 
 Of nature, and the horrors of Despair ; 
 At times thy thoughts, to gloomy fancy wed. 
 Are as the plumage of thy " Kaven's" wing, 
 Dark, sombre, solemn as midnight black : 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 67 
 
 Thy being fed on Beauty ; it was food 
 
 That nourished all the fancies of thy brain, 
 
 A beacon-light that glowed thy painful path 
 
 With visions of sublime and luster bright : 
 
 Thine idol Beauty ! and Avhate'er in Art 
 
 Or Nature bore the type of loveliness, 
 
 Warmed up the inner chambers of thy breast, 
 
 And fired the mass of genius in thy soul. 
 
 Intoxicated, frenzied with delight 
 
 By forms of fancy and romantic thoughts : 
 
 A fond, devoted husband, and a friend 
 
 To struggling genius, while a foe to Vice ; 
 
 Untrammelled, biassed by no sickly fear 
 
 Thy thoughts were spoken out ; though poor, yet 
 
 proud. 
 For this, while living, thou didst suifer much, 
 Was tossed about by every rolling wave 
 That brought the surge from off the worldly sea. 
 Where battling Strife and Discord reign supreme ; 
 There on the raging billows, never lulled, 
 
68 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 Thy bark was launched, and made the sea its 
 
 home. 
 But thou art dead! and mighty (!) Q-h^*****]) j^^^^ 
 The prince of critics and the chief of men 
 AVhose deeds and sins and vices I have sung, 
 Converts each weakness and each fault to crime, 
 Those faults and weaknesses to which each man 
 Is more or less a slave, to which the eye 
 Of Pity should be turned compassionate. 
 And Mercy's hand should be extended out 
 In sympathy for frailties born with man ; 
 These minor frailties of the private man 
 Are by this critic changed to shame and crime, 
 That slur and stain the glory of thy name, 
 Thy high renown, and blast thy public fame. 
 While thou wast living, Poe, this braying ass 
 Dared not to whisper but the faintest breath 
 Of cavil in default of thee and thine. 
 But now, the lion prostrate on the ground, ' 
 Oh, how he kicks thee with malicious heel I 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 69 
 
 The voice of outraged Justice cries aloud 
 Against his evil course — a trust betrayed, 
 Wormed out in guise of friendship — base deceit ! 
 And swelling up in anger cries, ''No more !" 
 Humanities, the heir of PoE, condemns 
 His treason, and cries out, "Lay on no more !" 
 A hollow sound of anguish from the grave, 
 Where the ''unhappy master" lies, looms up. 
 And thunders to his conscience, in a tone 
 Sepulchral and unearthly, "Never more !" 
 An angered poet bids him, " Cease, no more." 
 Rest thou "within the distant Aiden," PoE, 
 Rest thou upon the breast of thy " Lenore," 
 Long-lost, but found in Heaven, glory-clad. 
 Thine earthly bonds are sundered, cleft in twain, 
 And long Eternity is now thy home ; 
 We will avenge thee, we, thy brother bards. 
 Though others falsify the sacred trust 
 Of Death, yet we will trumpet out thy fame, 
 
 7 
 
70 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 And prove thee worthy of a nation's pride, 
 A true, a gifted, lofty son of song I 
 
 And there are living some who merit praise 
 And favour in the literati crowd ; 
 Kind Justice bids me honour with their names 
 This medley, stinging, lauding sermon mine : — 
 Now Clio from her retrospect, unto 
 Aspiring Genius, worthy of the bays ! 
 
 Let self-made Taylor still enchant the soul 
 With songs of pleasure, and the welcome sound, 
 Reverberating from his golden lyre ; 
 And, chanting as he steps the rounds of Fame, 
 Let native genius bear him upward high. 
 To raise the standard of his natal soil. 
 And find a home in every patriot heart. 
 
 And still let Stoddard strike the happy harp 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 71 
 
 Of poesy with sweet, harmonious notes, 
 And chase the echoes through the golden skies, 
 And chase them to the " Castle in the Air ;" 
 And from the rare domain look down to see 
 The laurels that shall be his proud reward. 
 
 Let Doric Read, — a worthy trio here, — 
 Pursue the pleasant path of meek simplicity, 
 And revel sportive in "the realm of dreams," 
 And cull sweet dreams from fancy's fairy field 
 To lull the throbbings of the care-worn soul, 
 And thrill the finer tendons of the heart ; 
 And let his strains of true sincerity — 
 The noblest attribute by man possessed — 
 And gravity be whispered unto men, 
 And wend their way direct unto the heart. 
 That waking he may find the Muses' wreath 
 Of living roses circled round his brow. 
 
 The old man Bryant, dignified and grave ! 
 
72 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 Let him possess the poet's fireside seat, 
 
 Be taken to each heart ; and every home 
 
 Extend a welcome to the grave old bard. 
 
 Grown gray in service, while the dews of Time 
 
 Have chilled to ice upon his furrowed brow ; 
 
 And let his strains of sober reasonings. 
 
 That, flowing from a melancholy muse. 
 
 Are pure in morals, chaste in thought, and grand. 
 
 Ennoble and enrich the heart of Man 
 
 With lofty ideas and a serious tone. 
 
 Let Willis still write poetry in prose. 
 And golden grains of genius dazzle bright 
 And sparkle from his softly-flowing verse. 
 With brilliance that enchains the spellbound sense. 
 And leaves sweet echoes tingling in the ear. 
 
 And still let Boker with untrammelled verse, 
 With hand unwavering and a lofty mind. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 73 
 
 Dispensing wide a melancliolj sweet 
 And pleasure — court the grand Dramatic Muse, 
 Once wed to Shakspeare, now a widowed bride, 
 Whose soul embrace of all the virgin Nine 
 Is most ambitious and so rarelj filled, 
 That empires rise and fall in the between ; 
 Her smile is melancholy, and her frown 
 Is all the anger of the gods combined. 
 Mark well her humour; press her by degrees 
 With studied graces, time-embodied thoughts, 
 And she will wed thee, clasp thee to her breast, 
 And grant thee fame and immortality. 
 That live but co-existent with her smile ! 
 Dramatic BoKER with his young, warm heart 
 Gains but a just applause when clapping crowds 
 In rapture bound their "bravos" to the dome, 
 And swell their echoes buoyant on the air, 
 While every worthy hand grants him the palm, 
 For native genius and dramatic verse. 
 
74 THE AGE OF SIN, 
 
 " Men are not won by ears so well as eyes ;" 
 
 And, if to judge by sentient men's applause, 
 
 Young BoKER need not heed the envious groans 
 
 That gurgle forth from Mount Parnassus, dragged — 
 
 By some mordacious fancy, some sick soul — 
 
 Adown to earth and put in pillory : 
 
 Too often we have traitors — bastard bards — 
 
 Who, with ambition greater than success. 
 
 And minds too small to give support and strength 
 
 Unto their aspirations — do desert 
 
 The purer cause, and to the critic clan 
 
 Resort, unto the shame of all our race. 
 
 Let Alexander, Stout and Street 
 Unfurl the Muses' banner to the winds. 
 And be the motto of ' Excelsior,' 
 In golden letters, ever on their view. 
 To press them onward through the march of Time 
 Unto the fronting rank, to high renown ; 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 75 
 
 And each lay tribute on the mystic mount : 
 
 Let Application lead them to the vaults 
 
 Of hidden science and to cells unknown, 
 
 And bear them to the high and loric halls 
 
 Of Wisdom and the chambers unexplored, 
 
 Where lurks the secret and the cloistered lore : 
 
 Let them not grasp at large, but rotten, roots, 
 
 Or they will tumble to the gulf beneath, 
 
 But let them seize the small, green twigs of Life, 
 
 And step by step they safely may ascend 
 
 Unto the dizzy pinnacle of Fame, 
 
 Unmindful of the critics, though they hurl 
 
 The ^ paper bullets ' of an inky brain. 
 
 Made peevish, fretful by splenetic ire. 
 
 And daub your ' hot-pressed ' thick with curdled 
 
 ink — 
 Pursue each one thy fancy, and the light 
 That leads thee onward unto high renown : 
 Be truthful to the Muses, they will guard 
 
76 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 And shield thee from the many venomed darts 
 That darken all the atmosphere of Life. 
 
 We are a happy race: GrRACE Greenwood comes, 
 The queen of female fancy and the gentler sex, 
 The queen of hearts since saintly Osgood's death, 
 To teach the matrons and the maidens bright. 
 Who sit and sigh for lovers and for love 
 In moonlit evenings and in shaded groves — 
 The paths of Virtue through this tempting world, 
 With strains of Beauty and Affection's lays ; — 
 To soothe and cheer the drooping, fainting soul 
 With visions of a future life of Joy, 
 Instilling chaste, pure thoughts, to Man unknown. 
 
 But there is one bard who, I sadly ween, 
 Should spur Pegasus on to higher flights, 
 Lest, floating downward on an idle wing. 
 Ere long the horse will drop to Earth, asleep : 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 77 
 
 Whilom aspiring youth and hope of fame 
 Lent soft enchantment to the distant view, 
 And Mount Parnassus was a golden fane 
 That glittered in the halo of the sun, 
 Pegasus airward soared, sublimely high. 
 His pinions laden down with fragrant sweets ; 
 And with the joyous agony of mind, 
 He strewed the earth as upward still he flew ; 
 But now, the temple gained, he sadly bores 
 His former patrons with an idle song. 
 Go, bard, unto the seaside once again, 
 Convey thy Muse beside its sparkling shore. 
 In place of sand dig up the precious pearls 
 That 4ie embosomed in the briny depths ; 
 Then to the fireside, that the warm, bright rays 
 Of winter's cheer may lend a golden charm 
 Of bright effulgence to each sparkling gem : 
 Let not thy worldly wealth or earthly goods 
 Seduce thy spirit from the Muses' love ; 
 
78 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 But spur Pegasus on, and fan his wings, 
 That now seem jaded, with a glowing breath, 
 That men may once again delight to list 
 Unto the echoes of the lonely eve. 
 
 Here Clio ceases ; and my scribbling pen 
 Has worn the diamond from its pointed nib, 
 Though still enough remains to scrawl the name 
 Of B'*'** H. l{***>K*>ii*5}«jq^ j^Y^Q argus-ejed, 
 
 The last and least of the reviewing clan ; — 
 
 The last — in that his blunt, notorious pen. 
 
 Slaving for party faction, wed to strife. 
 
 Will hammer at another's youthful faults 
 
 And petty weaknesses, long since eschewed, • 
 
 When others cease ; nor then delays to strike. 
 
 But aims a blow, a last, an awful blow ! 
 
 Unto the "end of nothing whittled to 
 
 A point ;" the least — in that none heed, but smile 
 
 To view the fly dash rampant at the horse. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 79 
 
 Immortal mould of limpsy littleness ! 
 
 Great symbol of unlettered arrogance ! 
 
 Oh, that the gods might view him at his work, 
 
 Misplacing semicolons for his means ; 
 
 Perverting all the subject for a flaw ; 
 
 And tugging at his brain for inky balls 
 
 To hurl against his lamblike, peaceful prey ; — 
 
 If mirth unto us mortals, what would be 
 
 The laughter of Apollo and his peers ! 
 
 The troubled streams of faction such as his, 
 
 The mudded creeks of politics, besmeared 
 
 Upon their surface with the scum of strife, 
 
 And crystal flowing waters of divine 
 
 And truthful poetry will ne'er comate ; 
 
 And he, who floats his bark upon the creeks 
 
 Of Faction, is too far removed to cast 
 
 A nice, discriminating gaze, or view 
 
 The sun-lit, jewelled spray of living Joy 
 
 That sparkles from the waters of the Muse. 
 
80 THEAGEOFSIN, 
 
 How many a dunce, how many a noisy calf, 
 Reclining restless in the censor's chair. 
 Gained by presumption and deceptive arts. 
 With quibbling quill can scrawl a foolscap page 
 With ranting trash and low, pedantic lays, 
 And call his trash a true and just review ; 
 And in his walks find praise and great applause 
 From gossiping old maids and birdling bards ! 
 Just Heavens ! are we to meekly bear the lash 
 Of scribbling coxcombs and conceited fools. 
 Of J^********j^^ mere shadow of a man. 
 With lean, lank form, meagre and tall and slim ; 
 With clipping scissors ever ready at his bid ; 
 With high, stupendous monuments of paste. 
 Wherein he glories with a pedant pride ; 
 He seems a very ghoul on poetry. 
 While faction and contention are his gods. 
 But let him pass : I honour him too great 
 With even notice, though it be contempt. 
 
OR HINTS FOR CRITICS. 81 
 
 But Truth and Justice, like the warrior chief 
 Who stands begirt with freemen, strong in might — 
 Have need of none of fashion's plumages, 
 Or tawdry garments of mechanic Art, 
 But, blunt and staid in dress, and huge in form, 
 They carry with them and enforce belief; 
 It is alone Injustice and Untruth 
 That deck their slimy bodies in a dress 
 Of gaudy gilt, and flounce their venomed shafts 
 In robes seducing and the quirks of Art, 
 That men may first admire, and then believe, 
 Their reasons, dazzled by the glossy dress, 
 Made blinded to the sharp, secreted sting 
 Of Falsehood, that lies lurking in the frieze. 
 And carries to the victim pain and Death. 
 And now I bid defiance to the crew 
 Of critics down to petty Ji********jq-^ 
 And hurl my gauntlet to the whole vile herd, 
 
 8 
 
82 THE AGE OF SIN. 
 
 Reminding all, who have begun their life 
 Of state, to pore and ponder on the truth, — 
 That Power is mighty, and by God is given 
 To temper Man and prove him worthy Heaven. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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