EARLIER  POEMS
OF
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING








THE  EARLIER  POEMS OF
ELIZABETH  BARRETT
BROWNING
1826-I833
LONDON
Bartholomew Robson Craibozur;-street
M.DCCC.LXXVIII.








INTRODUCTION.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT, afterwards Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, the foremost of English poetesses,
and with the single exception of Sappho, of whom
only some noble fragments remain to us, the foremost
poetess of all time, was born in the year 1809, and
was consequently in her seventeenth year when her
earliest Poems were published-" verse," as an accomplished critic has lately remarked, "upon which was
the stamp of true genius-poems eminently worthy of
preservation."+
"It appears," says the writer of an article in the
Edinburgh Heview, " that her father encouraged her
love for rhyme, since she has not only inscribed her
collected poems to him in a dedication, written with
great delicacy and tenderness of feeling, but in her
* Mr. G. Barnett Smith in an article on "Elizabeth Barrett
Browning," in the new (ninth) edition of the Encyclopcedia
Britannica, vol. iv. (1877), p. 391.




vi                  INTRODUCTION.
earliest published volume there is also a poem addressed to him containing the lines:-'For'neath thy gentleness of praise,
My Father! rose my early lays!
And when the lyre was scarce awake,
I loved its strings for thy loved sake:
Woo'd the kind Muses-but the while
Thought only how to win thy smile.'
The small volume from which the above lines are
taken, was published anonymously in 1826, and entitled' An Essay on Mind, and other Poems,' with the
modest motto from Tasso,' Brama assai, poco spera, e
nulla chiede,' and is remarkable principally for the
ambition of the young authoress; who after citing the
authority of' that immortal writer we have just lost,'
(Byron), to prove that' ethical poetry is the highest
of all poetry, as the highest of all objects is moral
truth,' proceeds at once to grapple with an ethical
subject as wide as the universe itself. The poem is
written in heroic verse, and extends over eighty-eight
pages.  The quality of the verse is not much above
the level of Itayley or Miss Seward; but is remarkable
for the precocious audacity with which she deals with
the greatest names in the whole range of literature
and  science.  Gibbon, Berkeley, Condillac, Plato,




INTRODUCTION.                 vii
Bacon, Bolingbroke, all come in for treatment in the
scope  of the young girl's argument.  The  minor
poems, however, which conclude the volume, show
much greater promise of originality."'
A lapse of seven years occurred before the publication of Elizabeth Barrett's next volume, which appeared in 1833, in her twenty-fourth year. The translation of the Prometheus Bound of _Eschylus, which
opened it, was replaced by the authoress in later
years by an entirely new version. We have therefore
not thought it wise or desirable to re-produce the
earlier crude attempt or the girlish preface that accompanied it. But the original poems which followed
-far in advance, as might be expected, of those in
her first volume-are, for the most part, in no sense
immature, or unworthy of the genius of the writer,notably the Vision of Life and Death, the lines entitled, Earth,' comparatively free from the stiffness of
most of her blank verse, and surely a  powerful
composition;'t the lines To a Poet's Child,full of terrible
* Edinburgh Review, Oct. 1861, p. 516.
t  Quarterly  Review, Sept. 1840, ~ MODERN  ENGLISH
POETESSES-Miss Barrett.




viii              INTRODUCTION.
irony and suppressed bitterness, The Image of God, The
Appeal, Idols, Weariness, and several others.
The " exquisite touch" that " bides in the birth of
things" is peculiarly apparent in the first bursting into
bud and leaf of a new poetic genius. The summer of
its manifestation may have greater fervour, and richer
pomp and majesty of foliage, but about its early spring
there must always be a nameless and peculiar charm.
And therefore all that is best and worthiest in this
book is to such a poem as Aurora Leigh, as an exquisite day of April is to a fervid day in August. Both
have their own glory and sweetness; but the perfect
summer flowers, be it remembered, were always reared
from seeds of April's sowing."
The cycle of Elizabeth Barrett's earlier work is completed by her third volume, entitled The Seraphim and
other Poems, published in 1838, in her twenty-ninth
year.  Some of the minor poems in this book had appeared during the two previous years in the Athenceum
and the New Monthly Magazine.  Such of these pieces
as have not been included in her Collected Writings
may be added to a future edition of the present volume,
should it prove acceptable to poetical students.




AN
ESSAY ON MIND,
WITH
OTHER  POEMS.
" BRAMA ASSAI, POCO SPERA, E NULLA CHIEDE."'Tasso.
LONDON:
JAMES DUNCAN, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
MDCCCXXVI.








PREFACE.
IN  offering this little Volume to the world, it is
not my intention to trespass long on its indulgence,
"with  prefaces, and  passages, and  excusations."
As, however, preface-writing  strangely reminds one
of Bottom's  prologuizing  device, which  so  ingeniously  sheweth  the'disfiguration of moonshine,'
and  how  lion  was no  lion  after all, but plain
"Snug the joiner," I will treat the subject according
to my great prototype;  declaring to those readers
who "cannot abide lions," that their "parlous fear" is
here unnecessary, and assuring the public that' moonshine' shall be introduced as seldom  as is consistent
with modern composition.
A2




iv                   PREFACE.
But something  more  is necessary;  and since
writers commonly make use of their prefaces as
opportunities for auricular confession to the absolving
reader, I am  prepared  to acknowledge, with unfeigned humility, that the imputation of presumption
is likely to be attached  to me, on account of the
form  and title  of this production.  And yet, to
imagine that a confidence in our powers is undeviatingly shewn by our selection of an extensive
field for their exertion, is an error; for the subject
supports the writer, as much as it is supported by
him.  It is not difficult to draw  a succession of
affecting images from  objects intrinsically affecting;
and ideas arising from an elevated subject are naturally elevated. As Tacitus hath it, "materia aluntur."
Thought catches the light reflected from the object
of her contemplation, and, "expanded by the genius




PREFACE.                    V
of the spot," loses much of her material grossness;
unless indeed, like Thales, she fall into the water
while looking at the stars.
"Ethical poetry," says that immortal writer we
have lost, "is the highest of all poetry, as the
highest of all earthly objects must be moral truth."
I am  nevertheless aware  how  often  it has been
asserted that poetry is not a proper vehicle for abstract ideas-how far the assertion may be correct, is
with me a matter of doubt.  We do not deem the
imaginative incompatible with the philosophic, for the
name of Bacon is on our lips; then why should we
expel the argumentative from   the  limits of the
poetic? If indeed we consider Poetry as Plato considered her, when he banished her from his republic;
or as Newton, when he termed her " a kind of inge



Vi                  PREFACE.
nious nonsense;" or as Locke, when he pronounced
that "gaming and poetry went usually together;"
or as Boileau, when he boasted of being acquainted
with two arts equally useful to mankind-" writing
verses, and playing at skittles,"-we shall find no
difficulty in assenting to this opinion. But while we
behold in poetry, the inspiritings to political feeling,
the " monumentum aere perennius" of buried nations,
we are loth to believe her unequal to the higher
walks of intellect: when we behold the works of the
great though erring Lucretius, the sublime Dante,
the reasoning Pope-when we hear Quintillian acknowledge the submission due from Philosophers to
Poets, and Gibbon declare Homer to be "the lawgiver, the theologian, the historian, and the philosopher of the ancients," we are unable to believe it.
Poetry is the enthusiasm of the understanding; and,




PREFACE.                     Vii
as Milton finely expresses it, there is "a high reason
in her fancies."
As, according to the plan of my work, I have
dwelt less on the operations of the mind than on
their effects, so I have not touched on that point difficult to argue, and impossible to determine-the
nature  of  her  substance.  The  investigation  is
curious, and the subject a glorious one; but, after
all, our closest reasonings thereupon are acquired
from analogy, and our most extensive views must be
content to take their places among other ingenious
speculations.  The  columns  of  Hercules  are  yet
unpassed.   Metaphysicians have cavilled and confuted; but they have failed in their endeavour to
establish any permanent theoretical edifice on that
windy site.  The effort was vainly made even by




viii                  PREFACE.
our enlightened  Locke;  and,  as in the days of
Socratic disputation, it is still given to the learned
to ask, though not to answer,' 7 85e 71'VX.' Perhaps, however, the following  sensible acknowledgment would better become their human lips, than
the most artfully constructed hypothesis-The things
we understand are so excellent, that we believe what
we do not understand to be likewise excellent.*
The effects of mental operation, or productions
of the mind, I have divided  into two classes-the
philosophical, and the poetical; the former of which
I have  subdivided  into  three  divisions-History,
Physics, and Metaphysics: History, or the doctrine
* I here adopt, with some little variation, an expression
which fell from  Socrates, on the subject of a work by
Heraclitus the obscure.




PREFACE.                    ix
of man, as an active and social being; Physics, or
the doctrine of efficient causes; Metaphysics, or
the doctrine of abstractions, and final causes. Lord
Bacon's comprehensive discernment of the  whole,
and Locke's acute  penetration  into  parts, have
assisted me in my trembling endeavour to trace the
outline of these branches of knowledge.  To  have
considered them methodically, and in detail, would
have greatly exceeded both the limits of my volume,
and, what is more material, the extent of my information: but if I may be allowed to hope that
" The lines, though touch'd thus faintly, are drawn right,"
I shall have nothing left to wish.
Poetry is treated in as cursory a manner as Philosophy, though not precisely for the same reasons.
I have been deterred from  a  further developement




X                    PREFACE.
of her nature and principles, by observing that no
single subject has employed the didactic pen with
such  frequent success, and  by a consequent unwillingness to incur a charge of tediousness, when
repeating what is well known, or one of presumption, when intruding  new-fangled maxims in the
place of those deservedly established. The act of
white-washing an ancient Gothic edifice would be
less indicative of bad taste than the latter attempt.
Since the time of Horace, many excellent didactic
writers have formed poetic systems from  detached
passages of that unsystematic  work, his'Ars
Poetica.'  Pope, and Boileau, in their Essays on
Poetry and Criticism  have with superior method
traced  his footsteps. And  yet, "haud  passibus
sequis"-it is only justice to observe, that though
the poem has been excelled, the Poet remains un



PREFACE.                      xi
equalled.  For  the  merits  of  his  imitators  are,
except in arrangement, Horace's merits, while the
merits of Horace are his own.*
I  wish  that  the  sublime  circuit  of intellect,
embraced by the plan  of my  Poem, had fallen to
the lot of a spirit more powerful than mine.  I wish
it had  fallen  to the  lot of one familiar with the
dwelling-place of Mind, who could search her secret
chambers, and call forth those that sleep; or of one
who could enter into her temples, and cast out the
iniquitous who buy and sell, profaning the sanctuary
of God; or of one who could try  the golden links
of that chain which  hangs from  Heaven  to  earth,
* He is indebted to Aristotle, which however cannot be
said to affect his poetical originality.




Xii                   PREFACE.
and shew  that it is not placed there for man to
covet for lucre's sake, or for him  to weigh his puny
strength at one end  against Omnipotence at the
other; but that it is placed there to join, in mysterious
union, the natural and the spiritual, the mortal and
the eternal, the creature and the Creator.  I wish
the subject of my Poem  had fallen into such hands,
that the powers of the execution might have equalled
the vastness of the design -and the Public will wish
so too.  But as it is-though I desire this field to
be more meritoriously occupied by others-I would
mitigate the voice of censure for myself. I would
endeavour to shew, that while I may have often erred,
I have not clung willingly to error; and that while
I may have failed  in  representing, I have never
ceased to love Truth. If there be much to condemn
in the following pages, let my narrow  capacity, as




PREFACE.                    xiii
opposed to the infinite object it would embrace, be
generously considered;  if there be any thing to
approve, I am ready to acknowledge the assistance
which  my  illustrations have  received  from  the
exalting nature  of their subject-as the waters of
Halys acquire a peculiar taste from  the soil over
which they flow.








CONTENTS.
ESSAY  ON  MIND.   BOOK  I.  1.........................     1
BOOK  II............................   48
NOTES  TO  BOOK  I........................................   93
NOTES TO  BOOK  II.....................................   97
TO  MY  FATHER  ON  HIS BIRTH-DAY..................  109
SPENSERIAN  STANZAS....................................  112
VERSES TO  MY  BROTHER...................... 114
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LORD  BYRON..................... 117
MEMORY.................................................  120
TO...................................... 123
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY A PASSAGE IN MR. EMERSON'S  JOURNAL.................................... 126
THE  PAST.......................................                   129
THE  PRAYER....................................   132
ON  A  PICTURE  OF  RIEGO S WIDOW..................... 134
SONG......................................................  137
THE  DREAM.1.......................................... 139
RIGA'S LAST  SONG................................... 143
THE  VISION  OF  FAME.............................  146








AN
ESSAY ON MIND.
BOOK I.' "My narrow leaves cannot in them contayne
The large discourse." -SPENSER.
B








Analysis of the First Book.
THE poem commences by remarking the desire, natural to
the mind, of investigating its own qualities-qualities the
more exalted, as their developement has seldom been impeded by external circumstances-The various dispositions
of different minds are next considered, and are compared
to the varieties of scenic nature: inequalities in the spiritual not being more wonderful than inequalities in the
natural-Byron and Campbell contrasted-The varieties of
genius having been thus treated, the art of criticism  is
briefly alluded to, as generally independent of genius, but
always  useful to  its  productions-Jeffrey-The  various
stages of life in which genius appears, and the different
causes  by  which  its  influence  is  discovered-Cowley,
Alfieri-Allusion to the story of the emotion of Thucydides
on hearing Herodotus recite his History at the Olympic
Games-The elements of Mind are thus arranged, Invention, Judgment, Memory, and  Association-The creations
of mind are next noticed, among which we first behold
Philosophy-History,  Science, and  Metaphysics, are included in the studies of Philosophy.
Of History, it is observed, that though on a cursory view
her task of recalling the past may appear of little avail, it
is in reality one of the highest importance —The living are
sent for a lesson to the grave-The present state of Rome
alluded to; and the future state of England anticipated -
Condemnation of those who deprive historical facts of their
moral inference, and only make use of their basis to render
B2




ANALYSIS OF BOOK I.
falsehood  more  secure-Gibbon-Condemnation of those
who would colour the political conduct of past ages with
their own political feelings-Hume,  Mitford-From  the
writers, we turn to the readers of history-Their extreme
scepticism, or credulity-They  are  recommended to be
guided by no faction; but to measure facts by their consistency with reason-to study the personal character and
circumstances of an historian, before they give entire credit
to his representations-The influence of private feeling and
prejudice-Miller-Science  is  introduced —Apostrophe  to
man-Episode  of Archimedes-Parallel between  history
and science - The pride of the latter considered most excessive-The risk attending knowledge-Buffon, LeibnitzThe advantageous experience to be derived from  the errors
of others, illustrated  by an allusion to Southey's Hexameters-Utility the object of science -An exclusive attention to parts deprecated, since it is impossible even to have
a just idea of PARTS, without acquiring a knowledge of
their relative situation in the whole -The extreme difficulty
of enlarging the contemplations of a mind long accustomed to contracted views-The scale of knowledge-every
science being linked  with  the one preceding  and succeeding —giving  and  receiving  reciprocal support —Why
this system  is not calculated, as might be conjectured,
either to render scientific men superficial, or to intrude on
the operations of genius —That the danger of knowledge
originates in PARTIAL knowledge-Apostrophe to Newton.




ESSAY ON MIND.
BOOK 1.
SINCE Spirit first inspir'd, pervaded all,
And Mind met Matter, at th' Eternal callSince dust weigh'd Genius down, or Genius gave
Th' immortal halo to the mortal's grave;
Th' ambitious soul her essence hath defin'd,
And Mind hath eulogiz'd the pow'rs of Mind.
Ere Revelation's holy light began
To strengthen Nature, and illumine ManWhen Genius, on Icarian pinions, flew,
And Nature's pencil, Nature's portrait, drew 




6                ESSAY ON MIND.
When Reason shudder'd at her own wan beam,
And Hope turn'd pale beneath the sickly gleamEv'n then hath Mind's triumphant influence spoke,
Dust own'd the spell, and Plato's spirit wokeSpread her eternal wings, and rose sublime
Beyond th' expanse of circumstance and time ~
Blinded, but free, with faith instinctive, soar'd,
And found her home, where prostrate saints ador'd!
Thou thing of light! that warm'st the breasts of man,
Breath'st from the lips, and tremblest from the pen!
Thou, form'd at once t' astonish, fire, beguile,With Bacon reason, and with Shakespeare smile!
The subtle cause, ethereal essence! say,
Why dust rules dust, and clay surpasses clay;
Why a like mass of atoms should combine
To form a Tully, and a Catiline I




ESSAY ON MIND.                7
Or why, with flesh perchance of equal weight,
One cheers a prize-fight, and one frees a state.
Why do not I the muse of Homer call,
Or why, indeed, did Homer sing at all?
Why wrote not Blackstone upon love's delusion,
Or Moore, a libel on the Constitution'
Why must the faithful page refuse to tell
That Dante, Laura sang, and Petrarch, HellThat Tom Paine argued in the throne's defenceThat Byron nonsense wrote, and Thurlow senseThat Southey sigh'd with all a patriot's cares,
While Locke gave utterance to Hexameters l
Thou thing of light! instruct my pen to find
Th' unequal pow'rs, the various forms of Mind!
O'er Nature's changeful face direct your sight;
View light meet shade, and shade dissolve in light!




8                 ESSAY ON MIND.
Mark, from the plain, the cloud-capp'd mountain soar-;
The sullen ocean spurn the desert shore!
Behold, afar, the playmate of the storm,
Wild Niagara lifts his awful formSpits his black foam above the madd'ning floods,
Himself the savage of his native woodsSee him, in air, his smoking torrents wheel,
While the rocks totter, and the forests reelThen, giddy, turn! lo! Shakespeare's Avon flows,
Charm'd, by the green-sward's kiss, to soft repose;
With tranquil brow reflects the smile of fame,
And,'midst her sedges, sighs her Poet's name.
Thus, in bright sunshine, and alternate storms,
Is various mind express'd in various forms.
In equal men, why burns not equal fire X
Why are not valleys hills,-or mountains higher?




ESSAY ON MIND. 
Her destin'd way, hath destin'd Nature trod;
While Matter, Spirit rules, and Spirit, God.
Let outward scenes, for inward sense design'd,
Call back our wand'rings to the world of Mind!
Where Reason, o'er her vasty realms, may stanld
Convene proud thoughts, and stretch her scepter'd
hand.
Here, classic recollections breathe around;
Here, living Glory consecrates the ground;
And here, Mortality's deep waters span
The shores of Genius, and the paths of Man!
O'er this imagin'd land, your soul direct —
Mark Byron, the Mont Blanc of intellect,'Twixt earth and heav'n exalt his brow sublime,
O'erlook the nations, and shake hands with Time!
B3




10                ESSAY ON MIND.
Stretch'd at his feet do Nature's beauties throng,
The flow'rs of love, the gentleness of song;
Above, the Avalanche's thunder speaks,
While Terror's spirit walks abroad, and shrieks!
To some Utopian strand, some fairy shore,
Shall soft-eyed Fancy waft her Campbell o'er!
Wont, o'er the lyre of Hope, his hand to fling,
And never waken a discordant string;
Who ne'er grows awkward by affecting grace,
Or'Common sense confounds with common-place;'
To bright conception, adds expression chaste,
And human feeling joins to classic taste.
For still, with magic art, he knows, and knew,
To touch the heart, and win the judgment too!
Thus, in uncertain radiance, Genius glows,
And fitful gleams on various mind bestows:




ESSAY ON MIND.                  11
While Mind, exulting in th' admitted day,
On various themes, reflects its kindling ray.
Unequal forms receive an equal light;
And Klopstock wrote what Kepler could not write.
Yet Fame hath welcom'd a less noble few,
And Glory hail'd whom Genius never knew;
Art labour'd, Nature's birthright, to secure,
And forg'd, with cunning hand, her signature.
The scale of life is link'd by close degrees;
Motes float in sunbeams, mites exist in cheese;
Critics seize half the fame which bards receive,And Shakespeare suffers that his friends may live;
While Bentley leaves, on stilts, the beaten track,
And peeps at glory from some ancient's back. (a)
But, though to hold a lantern to the sun
Be not too wise, and were as well undone



12                ESSAY ON MIND.
Though, e'en in this inventive age, alas!
A moral darkness can't be cur'd by gasAnd, though we may not reasonably deem
How poets' craniums can be turn'd by steamYet own we, in our juster reasonings,
That lanterns, gas, and steam, are useful thingsAnd oft, this truth, Reflection ponders o'erBards would write worse, if critics wrote no more.
Let Jeffrey's praise, our willing pen, engage,
The letter'd critic of a letter'd age!
Who justly judges, rightfully discerns,
With wisdom teaches, and with candour learns.
His name on Scotia's brightest tablet lives,
And proudly claims the laurel that it gives.
Eternal Genius! fashion'd like the sun,
To make all beautiful thou look'st upon!




ESSAY ON MIND.                   13
Prometheus of our earth! whose kindling smile
May warm the things of clay a little while;
Till, by thy touch inspir'd, thine eyes survey'd,
Thou stoop'st to love the glory thou hast made;
And weepest, human-like, the mortal's fall,
When, by-and-bye, a breath disperses all.
Eternal Genius! mystic essence! say,
How, on "the chosen breast," descends thy day!
Breaks it at once in Thought's celestial dream,
While Nature trembles at the sudden gleam.
Or steals it, gently, like the morning's light,
Shedding, unmark'd, an influence soft and bright,
Till all the landscape gather on the sight?
As different talents, different breasts, inspire,
So different causes wake the latent fire.
The gentle Cowley of our native clime, (b)
Lisp'd his first accents in A6nian rhyme.




14                 ESSAY ON MIND.
Alfieri's startling muse tun'd not her strings, (c)
And dumbly look'd "unutterable things;"
Till, when six lustrums o'er his head had past,
Conception found expression's voice at last;
Broke the bright light, uprose the smother'd flame,And Mind and Nature own'd their poet's fame!
To some the waving woods, the harp of spring,
A gently-breathing inspiration bring!
Some hear, from Nature's haunts, her whisper'd call;
And Mind hath triumph'd by an apple's fall.
Wave Fancy's picturing wand! recall the scene
Which Mind hath hallow'd-where her sons have
beenWhere,'midst Olympia's concourse, simply great,
Th' historic sage, the son of Lyxes, sate,
Grasping th' immortal scroll-he breath'd no sound,
But, calm in strength, an instant look'd around,




ESSAY ON MIND.                 15
And rose-the tone of expectation rush'd
Through th' eager throng-he spake, and Greece was
hush'd!
See, in that breathless crowd, Olorus stand, (d)
While one fair boy hangs, list'ning, on his handThe young Thucydides! with upward brow
Of radiance, and dark eye, that beaming now
Full on the speaker, drinks th' inspired airGazing entranc'd, and turn'd to marble there!
Yet not to marble-for the wild emotion
Is kindling on his cheek, like light on ocean,
Coming to vanish; and his pulses throb
With transport, and the inarticulate sob
Swells to his lip-internal nature leaps
To glorious life, and all th' historian weeps!
The mighty master mark'd the favor'd childDid Genius linger there? She did, and smil'd!




16                 ESSAY ON MIND.
Still, on itself, let Mind its eye direct,
To view the elements of intellectHow wild Invention (daring artist!) plies
Her magic pencil, and creating dies;
And Judgment, near the living canvass, stands,
To blend the colours for her airy hands;
While Memory waits, with twilight mists o'ercast,
To mete the length'ning shadows of the past:
And bold Association, not untaught,
The links of fact, unites, with links of thought;
Forming th' electric chains, which, mystic, bind
Scholastic learning, and reflective mind.
Let reasoning Truth's unerring glance survey
The fair creations of the mental ray;
Her holy lips, with just discernment, teach
The forms, the attributes, the modes of each;




ESSAY ON MIND.                  17
And tell, in simple words, the narrow span
That circles intellect, and fetters man;
Where darkling mists, o'er Time's last footstep, creep,
And Genius drops her languid wing-to weep.
See first Philosophy's mild spirit, nigh,
Raise the rapt brow, and lift the thoughtful eye;
Whether the glimmering lamp, that Hist'ry gave,
Light her enduring steps to some lone grave;
The while she dreams on him, asleep beneath,
And conjures mystic thoughts of life and deathWhether, on Science' rushing wings, she sweep
From concave heav'n to earth-and search the deep;
Shewing the pensile globe attraction's force,
The tides their mistress, and the stars their course:
Or whether (task with nobler object fraught)
She turn the pow'rs of thinking back on thought



18               ESSAY ON MIND.
With mind, delineate mind; and dare define
The point, where human mingles with divine:
Majestic still, her solemn form shall stand,
To shew the beacon on the distant landOf thought, and nature, chronicler sublime!
The world her lesson, and her teacher Time!
And when, with half a smile, and half a sigh,
She lifts old History's faded tapestry,
I' the dwelling of past years-she, aye, is seen
Point to the shades, where bright'ning tints had beenThe shapeless forms outworn, and mildew'd o'er —
And bids us rev'rence what was lov'd before;
Gives the dank wreath and dusty urn to fame,
And lends its ashes-all she can-a name.
Think'st thou, in vain, while pale Time glides away,
She rakes cold graves, and chronicles their clay 1




ESSAY ON MIND.                  19
Think'st thou, in vain, she counts the boney things,
Once lov'd as patriots, or obey'd as kings'
Lifts she, in vain, the past's mysterious veil?
Seest thou no moral in her awful tale?
Can man, the crumbling pile of nations, scan,And is their mystic language mute for man.
Go! let the tomb its silent lesson give,
And let the dead instruct thee how to live!
If Tully's page hath bade thy spirit burn,
And lit the raptur'd cheek —behold his urn!
If Maro's strains, thy soaring fancy, guide,
That hail' th' eternal city' in their pride-(e)
Then turn to mark, in some reflective hour,
The immortality of mortal pow'r!
See the crush'd column, and the ruin'd dome-'Tis all Eternity has left of Rome!




20                 ESSAY ON MIND.
While travell'd crowds, with curious gaze, repair,
To read the littleness of greatness there!
Alas! alas! so, Albion shall decay,
And all my country's glory pass away!
So shall she perish, as the mighty must,
And be Italia's rival-in the dust;
While her ennobled sons, her cities fair,
Be dimly thought of'midst the things that were!
Alas! alas! her fields of pleasant green,
Her woods of beauty, and each well-known scene!
Soon, o'er her plains, shall grisly Ruin haste,
And the gay vale become the silent waste!
Ah! soon perchance, our native tongue forgotThe land may hear strange words it knoweth not;
And the dear accents which our bosoms move,
With sounds of friendship, or with tones of love,




ESSAY ON MIND.                21
May pass away; or, conn'd on mould'ring page,
Gleam'neath the midnight lamp, for unborn sage;
To tell our dream-like tale to future years,
And wake th' historian's smile, and schoolboy's tears!
Majestic task! to join, though plac'd afar,
The things that have been, with the things that are!
Important trust! the awful dead, to scan,
And teach mankind to moralize from man!
Stupendous charge! when, on the record true,
Depend the dead, and hang the living too!
And, oh I thrice impious he, who dares abuse
That solemn charge, and good and ill confuse!
Thrice guilty he who, false with " words of sooth,"
Would pay, to Prejudice, his debt to Truth;
The hallow'd page of fleeting Time prophane,
And prove to Man that man has liv'd in vain;




22                ESSAY ON MIND.
Pass the cold grave, with colder jestings, by;
And use the truth to illustrate a lie!
Let Gibbon's name be trac'd, in sorrow, here,Too great to spurn, too little to revere!
Who follow'd Reason, yet forgot her laws,
And found all causes, but the' great first Cause:'
The paths of time, with guideless footsteps, trod;
Blind to the light of nature and of God;
Deaf to the voice, amid the past's dread hour,
Which sounds His praise, and chronicles His pow'r!
In vain for him was Truth's fair tablet spread,
When Prejudice, with jaundiced organs, read.
In vain for us the polish'd periods flow,
The fancy kindles, and the pages glow;
When one bright hour, and startling transport past,
The musing soul must turn-to sigh at last.




ESSAY ON MIND.                  23
Still let the page be luminous and just,
Nor private feeling war with public trust;
Still let the pen from narrowing views forbear,
And modern faction ancient freedom spare.
But, ah! too oft th' historian bends his mind
To flatter party-not to serve mankind;
To make the dead, in living feuds, engage,
And give all time, the feelings of his age.
Great Hume hath stoop'd, the Stuarts' fame, t' increase;
And ultra Mitford soar'd to libel Greece! (J)
Yet must the candid muse, impartial, learn
To trace the errors which her eyes discern;
View ev'ry side, investigate each part,
And get the holy scroll of Truth by heart;
No blame misplac'd, and yet no fault forgotLike-ink employ'd to write with-not to blot.




2 4                ESSAY ON MIND.
Hence, while historians, just reproof, incur,
We find some readers, with their authors, err;
And soon discover, that as few excel
In reading justly, as in writing well.
For prejudice, or ignorance, is such,
That men believe too little, or too much;
Too apt to cavil, or too glad to trust,
With confidence misplac'd, or blame unjust.
Seek out no faction-no peculiar schoolBut lean on Reason, as your safest rule. (g)
Let doubtful facts, with patient hand, be led,
To take their place on this Procrustian bed!
What, plainly, fits not, may be thrown aside,
Without the censure of pedantic pride:
For nature still, to just proportion, clings;
And human reason judges natural things.




ESSAY ON MIND.                   25
Moreover, in th' historian's bosom look,
And weigh his feelings ere you trust his book;
His private friendships, private wrongs, descry,
Where tend his passions, where his int'rests lieAnd, while his proper faults your mind engage,
Discern the ruling foibles of his age.
Hence, when on deep research, the work you find
A too obtrusive transcript of his mind;
When you perceive a fact too highly wrought,
Which kindly seems to prove a fav'rite thought;
Or some opposing truth trac'd briefly out,
With hand of careless speed-then turn to doubt 
For private feeling, like the taper, glows,
And here a light, and there a shadow, throws.
If some gay picture, vilely daubed, were seen
With grass of azure, and a sky of green,
d




26                 ESSAY ON M1ND.
Th' impatient laughter we'd suppress in vain,
And deem the painter jesting, or insane.
But, when the sun of blinding prejudice
Glares in our faces, it deceives our eyes;
Truth appears falsehood to the dazzled sight,
The comment apes the fact, and black seems white;
Commingled hues, their separate colours lost,
Dance wildly on, in bright confusion tost;
And, midst their drunken whirl, the giddy eye
Beholds one shapeless blot for earth and sky.
Of such delusions let the mind take heed,
And learn to think, or wisely cease to read;
And, if a style of labour'd grace display
Perverted feelings, in a pleasing way;
False tints, on real objects, brightly laid,
Facts in disguise, and Truth in masquerade



ESSAY ON MIND.                 27
If cheating thoughts in beauteous dress appear,
With magic sound, to captivate the earTh' enchanting poison of that page decline,
Or drink Circean draughts-and turn to swine!
We hail with British pride, and ready praise,
Enlightened Miller of our modern days! (h)
Too firm though temp'rate, liberal though exact,
To give too much to argument or fact,
To love details, and draw no moral thence,
Or seek the comment, and forget the sense,
He leaves all vulgar aims, and strives alone
To find the ways of Truth, and make them known!
Spirit of life! for aye, with heav'nly breath,
Warm the dull clay, and cold abodes of death!
Clasp in its urn the consecrated dust,
And bind a laurel round the broken bust;
c 2




28                 ESSAY ON MIND.
While mid decaying tombs, thy pensive choice,
Thou bidst the silent utter forth a voice,
-To prompt the actors of our busy scene,
And tell what is, the tale of what has been!
Yet turn, Philosophy! with brow sublime,
Shall Science follow on the steps of Time!
As, o'er Thought's measureless depths, we bend to heal
The whispered sound, which stole on Descartes' ear, (i)
Hallowing the sunny visions of his youth
With that eternal mandate, "Search for Truth!"
Yes! search for Truth —the glorious path is free;
Mind shews her dwelling-Nature holds the keyYes! search for Truth-her tongue shall bid thee sctm
The book of knowledge, for the use of Man!
Man! Man! thou poor antithesis of power!
Child of all time! yet creature of an hour!




ESSAY ON MIND.                 29
By turns, camelion of a thousand forms,
The lord of empires, and the food of worms!
The little conqueror of a petty space,
The more than mighty, or the worse than base!
Thou ruin'd landmark, in the desert way,
Betwixt the all of glory, and decay!
Fair beams the torch of Science in thine hand,
And sheds its brightness o'er the glimmering land;
While, in thy native grandeur, bold, and free,
Thou bid'st the wilds of nature smile for thee,
And treadest Ocean's paths full royally!
Earth yields her treasures up —celestial air
Receives thy globe of life-when, journeying there,
It bounds from dust, and bends its course on high,
And walks, in beauty, through the wondering sky.
And yet, proud clay! thine empire is a span,
Nor all thy greatness makes thee more than man!




30                ESSAY ON MIND.
While Knowledge, Science, only serve t' impart
The god thou would'st be, and the thing thou art!
Where stands the Syracusan-while the roar
Of men, and engines, echoes through the shore?
Where stands the Syracusan? haggard Fate,
With ghastly smile, is sitting at the gate;
And Death forgets his silence'midst the crash
Of rushing ruins-and the torches' flash
Waves redly on the straggling forms that die;
And masterless steeds, beneath that gleam, dart by,
Scared into madness, by the battle cryAnd sounds are hurtling in the angry air,
Of hate, and pain, and vengeance, and despairThe smothered voice of babes-the long wild shriek
Of mothers-and the curse the dying speak I




ESSAY ON MIND.                  31
Where stands the Syracusan 7 tranquil sage,
He bends, sublime, o'er Science' splendid page;
Walks the high circuit of extended mind,
Surpasses man, and dreams not of mankind;
While, on his listless ear, the battle shout
Falls senseless-as if echo breath'd about
The hum of many words, the laughing glee,
Which linger'd there, when Syracuse was free.
Away! away! for louder accents fallBut not the sounds of joy from marble hall!
Quick steps approach-but not of sylphic feet,
Whose echo heralded a smile more sweet,
Coming, all sport, th' indulgent sage, t' upbraid
For lonely hours, to studious musing, paidBe hushed! Destruction bares the flickering blade!
He asked to live, th' unfinished lines to fill,
And died-to solve a problem deeper still.




32                 ESSAY ON MIND.
He died, the glorious! who, with soaring sight, (j)
Sought some new world, to plant his foot of might;
Thereon, in solitary pride, to stand,
And lift our planet, with a master's hand!
He sank in death-Creation only gave
That thorn-encumbered space which forms his graveAn unknown grave, till Tully chanced to stray,
And named the spot where Archimedes lay!
Genius! behold the limit of thy power!
Thou fir'st the soul-but, when life's dream is o'er,
Giv'st not the silent pulse one throb the more:
And mighty beings come, and pass away,
Like other comets, and like other-clay.
Though analyzing Truth must still divide
Historic state, and scientific pride;
Yet one stale fact, our judging thoughts inferSince each is human, each is prone to err!




ESSAY ON MIND*                   33
Oft, in the night of Time, doth History stray,
And lift her lantern, and proclaim it day!
And oft, when day's eternal glories shine,
Doth Science, boasting, cry-" The light is mine 1"
So hard to bear, with unobstructed sight, (k)
Th' excess of darkness, or th' extreme of light.
Yet, to be just, though faults belong to each,
The themes of one, an humbler moral, teach:
And,'midst th' historian's eloquence, and skill,
The human chronicler is human still.
If on past power, his eager thoughts be cast,
It brings an awful antidote-'tis past I
If, deathless fame, his ravish'd organs scan,
The deathless fame exists for buried man:
Power, and decay, at once he turns to view;
And, with the strength, beholds the weakness too.
c3




34                 ESSAY ON MIND.
Not so, doth Science' musing son aspire;
And pierce creation, with his eye of fire.
Yon mystic pilgrims of the starry way,
No humbling lesson, to his soul, convey;
No tale of change, their changeless course hath taught;
And works divine excite no earthward thought.
And still, he, reckless, builds the splendid dream;
And still, his pride increases with his theme;
And still, the cause is slighted in th' effect;
And still, self-worship follows self-respect.
Too apt to watch the engines of the scene,
And lose the hand, which moves the vast machine;
View Matter's form, and not its moving soul;
Interpret parts, and misconceive the whole:
While, darkly musing'twixt the earth, and sky,
His heart grows narrow, as his hopes grow high;
And quits, for aye, with unavailing loss,
The sympathies of earth, but not the dross;




ESSAY ON MIND.                  35
Till Time sweeps down the fabric of his trust;
And life, and riches, turn to death, and dust.
And such is Man!'neath Error's foul assaults,
His noblest moods beget his grossest faults!
When Knowledge lifts her hues of varied grace,
The fair exotic of a brighter place,
To keep her stem, from mundane blasts, enshrin'd,
He makes a fatal hot-bed of his mind;
Too oft adapted, in their growth, to spoil
The natural beauties of a generous soil.
Ah! such is Man! thus strong, and weak withal,
His rise oft renders him too prone to fall!
The loftiest hills' fresh tints, the soonest, fade;
And highest buildings cast the deepest shade!
So Buffon err'd; amidst his chilling dream, (1)
The judgment grew material as the theme:




36                ESSAY ON MIND.
Musing on Matter, till he called away
The modes of Mind, to form the modes of clay;
And made, confusing each, with judgment blind,
Mind stoop to dust, and dust ascend to Mind.
So Leibnitz err'd; when, in the starry hour,
He read no weakness, where was written,' Power;'
Beheld the verdant earth, the circling sea;
Nor dreamt so fair a world could cease to be!
Yea! but he heard the Briton's awful name,
As, scattering darkness, in his might, he came,
Girded with Truth, and earnest to confute
What gave to Matter, Mind's best attribute.
Sternly they strove-th' unequal race was run! (?m)
The owlet met the eagle at the sun!
While such defects, their various forms, unfold;
And rust, so foul, obscures the brightest gold



ESSAY ON MIND.                  37
Let Science' soaring sons, the ballast, cast,
But judge their present errors, by their past.
As some poor wanderer, in the darkness, goes,
When fitful wind, in hollow murmur, blows;
Hailing, with trembling joy, the lightning's ray,
Which threats his safety, but illumes his way.
Gross faults buy deep experience. Sages tell
That Truth, like zEsop's fox, is in a well;
And, like the goat, his fable prates about,
Fools must stay in, that wise men may get out.
What thousand scribblers, of our age, would choose
To throw a toga round the English muse;
Rending her garb of ease, which graceful grew
From Dryden's loom, beprankt with varied hue!
In that dull aim, by Mind unsanctified,
What thousand Wits would have their wits belied,
Devoted Southey! if thou had'st not tried! (n)




38                FSSAY ON MIND.
Use is the aim of Science; this the end
The wise appreciate, and the good commend.
For not, like babes, the flaming torch, we prize,
That sparkling lustre may attract our eyes;
But that, when evening shades impede the sight,
It casts, on objects round, a useful light.
Use is the aim of Science! give again
A golden sentence to the faithful penDwell not on parts! for parts contract the mind; (o)
And knowledge still is useless, when confined.
The yearning soul, inclosed in narrow bound,
May be ingenious, but is ne'er profound:
Spoil'd of its strength, the fettered thought grows
tame;
And want of air extinguishes the flame!
And as the sun, beheld in mid-day blaze,
Seems turned to darkness, as we strive to gaze;




ESSAY ON MIND.                    39
So mental vigour, on one object, cast,
That object's self becomes obscured at last.'Tis easy, as Experience may aver,
To pass from general to particular.
But most laborious to direct the soul
From studying parts, to reason on the whole:
Thoughts, train'd on narrow subjects, to let fall;
And learn the unison of each with all.
In Nature's reign, a scale of life, we find:
A scale of knowledge, we behold, in mind;
With each progressive link, our steps ascend,
And traverse all, before they reach the end;
Searching, while Reason's powers may farther go,
The things we know not, by the things we know.




40                 ESSAY ON MIND.
But hold! methinks some sons of Thought demand,
" Why strive to form the Trajan's vase in sand?
Are Reason's paths so few, that Mind may call
Her finite energies, to tread them all.
Lo! Learning's waves, in bounded channel, sweep;
When they flow wider, shall they run as deep 
Shall that broad surface, no dull shallow, hide,
Growing dank weeds of superficial pride?
Then Heaven may leave our giant powers alone;
Nor give each soul a focus of its own!
Genius bestows, in vain, the chosen page,
If all the tome, the minds of all, engage!"
Nay! I reply-with free congenial breast,
Let each peruse the part, which suits him best!
But, lest contracting prejudice mislead,
Regard the context, as he turns to read!




ESSAY ON MIND.                  41
Hence, liberal feeling gives th' enlighten'd soul,
The spirit, with the letter of the scroll.
With what triumphant joy, what glad surprise,
The dull behold the dulness of the wise!
What insect tribes of brainless impudence
Buzz round the carcase of perverted sense!
What railing ideots hunt, from classic school,
Each flimsy sage, and scientific fool,
Crying, "'Tis well! we see the blest effect
Of watchful night, and toiling intellect!"
Yet let them pause, and tremble-vainly glad;
For too much learning maketh no man mad! (p)
Too little dims the sight, and leads us o'er
The twilight path, where fools have been before;
With not enough of Reason's radiance seen,
To track the footsteps, where those fools have been.




42               ESSAY ON MIND.
Divinest Newton! if my pen may shew
A name so mighty, in a verse so low,Still let the sons of Science, joyful, claim
The bright example of that splendid name!
Still let their lips repeat, my page bespeak,
The sage how learned! and the man how meek! (q)
Too wise, to think his human folly less;
Too great, to doubt his proper littleness;
Too strong, to deem his weakness past away;
Too high in soul, to glory in his clay:
Rich in all nature, but her erring side:
Endow'd with all of Science-but its pride.




AN
ESSAY ON MIND.
BOOK II.








Analysis of the Second Book.
METAPHYSICs-Addresss to  Metaphysicians-The  most
considerable portion of their errors conceived to arise from
difficulties attending the use of words-That on one hand,
thoughts become obscure without the assistance of language, while on the other, language from  its material
analogy  deteriorates  from  spiritual  meaning - Allusion
to a  probable  mode of communication  between spirits
after death-That a limited respect, though not a servile  submission, is  due  to  verbal  distinctions- Clearness of style peculiarly necessary to Metaphysical subjects-The graces of Composition not inconsistent with
them-Plato, Bacon, Bolingbroke-The extremes into which
Philosophers have fallen  with regard to sensation, and
reflection-Berkeley, Condillac-That subject briefly considered- Abstractions - Longings, Burke, Price, Payne
Knight-Blind  submission to  authorities deprecated-The
Pythagorean saying opposed, and Cicero's unphilosophical
assertion alluded to-That, however, it partakes of injustice to love Truth, and yet refuse our homage to the
advocates  of Truth-How  the  names of great writers
become endeared to us by early recollections-Description
of the School-boy's first intellectual gratifications- That
even without reference to the past, some immortal names
are entitled to our veneration, since they are connected
with Truth -Bacon-Apostrophe to Locke.
Poetry is introduced-More daring than Philosophy, she
personifies abstractions, and brings the things unseen before




46               ANALYSIS OF BOOK II.
the eye of the Mind-How  often reason is indebted to
poetic imagery-Irving-The poetry of prose - Plato's ingratitude-Philosophers and Poets contrasted-An attempt
to define Poetry-That the passions make use of her
language-Nature  the  poet's study-Shakspeare-Human
nature as seen in cities-Scenic nature, and how the mind
is affected thereby-That Poetry exists not in the object
contemplated, but is created by the contemplating mindThe ideal-Observations on the structure of verse, as
adapted to the subject treated-Milton, Horace, Pope-The
French Drama-Corneille, Racine-Harmony and chasteness
of versification-The poem proceeds to argue, that the muse
will refuse her inspiration to a soul unattuned to generous
sympathy, unkindled by the deeds of Virtue, or the voice
of Freedom-Contemptuous notice of those prompted only
by interest to aspire to poetic eminence-What should be
the Poet's best guerdon-From  the contemplation of motives connected with Freedom, we are led by no unnatural
transition to Greece-Her present glorious struggle-Anticipation of her ultimate independence, and the restoration
of the Muses to their ancient seats-Allusion to the death
of Byron-Reflections on Mortality-The terrors of death
as beheld by the light of Nature-The consolations of death
as beheld with, reference io a future state-Contemplation
of the immortality of Mind, and her perfected powersConclusion.




ESSAY ON MIND.
BOOK  II.
BUT now to higher themes! no more confin'd
To copy Nature, Mind returns to Mind.
We leave the throng, so nobly, and so well,
Tracing, in Wisdom's book, things visible,And turn to things unseen; where, greatly wrought,
Soul questions soul, and thought revolves on thought.
My spirit loves, my voice shall hail ye, now,
Sons of the patient eye, and passionless brow!
Students sublime! Earth, man, unmov'd, ye view,
Time, circumstance; for what are they to you?




48                 ESSAY ON MIND.
What is the crash of worlds,-the fall of kings, —
When worlds and monarchs are such brittle things!
What the tost, shatter'd bark, that blindly dares
A sea of storm? Ye sketch the wave which bears!
The cause, and not th' effect, your thoughts exact;
The principle of action, not the act,The soul! the soul! and,'midst so grand a task,
Ye call her rushing passions, and ye ask
Whence are ye? and each mystic thing responds!
I would be all ye are-except those bonds!
Except those bonds! ev'n here is oft descried
The love to parts, the poverty of pride!
Ev'n here, while Mind, in Mind's horizon, springs,
Her " native mud" is weighing on her wings!
Ev'n here, while Truth invites the ardent crowd,
Ixion-like, they rush t' embrace a cloud!




ESSAY ON MIND.                 49
Ev'n here, oh! foul reproach to human wit!
A Hobbes hath reasoned, and Spinosa writ!
Rank pride does much! and yet we justly cry,
Our greatest errors in our weakness lie.
For thoughts uncloth'd by language are, at best,
Obscure; while grossness injures those exprestThrough words,-in whose analysis, we find
Th' analogies of Matter, not of Mind:
Hence, when the use of words is graceful brought,
As physical dress to metaphysic thought,
The thought, howe'er sublime its pristine state,
Is by th' expression made degenerate;
Its spiritual essence changed, or cramp'd; and hence
Some hold by words, who cannot hold by sense;
And leave the thought behind, and take th' attireElijah's mantle-but without his fire!
D




50                 ESS Y ON MIND.
Yet spurn not words I'tis needful to confess
They give ideas, a body and a dress!
Behold them traverse Learning's region round,
The vehicles of thought on wheels of sound;
Mind's winged strength, wherewith the height is won,
Unless she trust their frailty to the sun.
Destroy the body!-will the spirit stay?
Destroy the car!-will Thought pursue her way ~
Destroy the wings!-let Mind their aid forego!
Do no Icarian billows yawn below?
Ah! spurn not words with reckless insolence;
But still admit their influence with the sense,
And fear to slight their laws! Perchance we find
No perfect code transmitted to mankind;
And yet mankind, till life's dark sands are run,
Prefers imperfect government to none.




ESSAY ON MIND.                  51
Thus Thought must bend to words! —Some sphere
of bliss,
Ere long, shall free her from th' alloy of this:
Some kindred home for Mind-some holy place,
Where spirits look on spirits, " face to face,"-^
Where souls may see, as they themselves are seen,
And voiceless intercourse may pass between,
All pure-all free! as light, which doth appear
In its own essence, incorrupt and clear!
One service, praise! one age, eternal youth I
One tongue, intelligence! one subject, truth!
Till then, no freedom, Learning's search affords,
Of soul from body, or of thought from words.
For thought may lose, in struggling to be hence,
The gravitating power of Common-sense;
Through all the depths of space with Phaeton hurl'd,
T' impair our reason, as he scorch'd our world.
D2




52                ESSAY ON MIND.
Hence, this preceptive truth, my page affirmsRespect the technicality of terms!
Yet not in base submission-lest we find
That, aiding clay, we crouch too low for Mind;
Too apt conception's essence to forget,
And place all wisdom in the alphabet.
Still let appropriate phrase the sense invest;
That what is well conceived be well exprest!
Nor e'er the reader's wearied brain engage,
Tn hunting meaning down the mazy page,
With three long periods tortured into one,
The sentence ended, with the sense begun;
Nor in details, which schoolboys know by heart,
Perplex each turning with the terms of art.
To understand, we deem no common good;
And'tis less easy to be understood.




ESSAY ON MIND.                 53
But let not clearness be your only praise,
When style may charm a thousand different ways;
In Plato glow, to life and glory wrought,
By high companionship with noblest thought;
In Bacon, warm abstraction with a breath,
Catch Poesy's bright beams, and smile beneath 
In St. John roll, a generous stream, along,
Correctly free, and regularly strong.
Nor scornful deem the effort out of place,
With taste to reason, and convince with grace;
But ponder wisely, ere you know, too late,
Contempt of trifles will not prove us great 
The Cynics, not their tubs, respect engage;
And dirty tunic never made a sage.
E'en Cato-had he own'd the Senate's will,
And wash'd his toga-had been Cato still. (a)




054                EESSAY ON MIIND.
Justly we censure-yet are free to own,
That indecision is a crime unknown.
For, never faltering, seldom reasoning long,
And still most positive whene'er most wrong,
No theoretic sage is apt to fare
Like Mah'met's coffin-hung in middle air!
No! fenc'd by Error's all-sufficient trust,
These stalk " in nubibus"-those crawl in dust.
From their proud height, the first demand to know,
If spiritual essence should descend more low?
The last, as vainly, from their dunghill, cry,
Can body's grossness hope t' aspire more high?
And while Reflection's empire, these disclose,
Sensation's sovereign right is told by those.
Lo! Berkeley proves an old hypothesis!'Out on the senses!' (he was out of his!)'All is idea! and nothing real springs
But God, and Reason'-(not the right of kings 2) (b)




ESSAY ON MIND.                 55' Hold!' says Condillac with profound surprise-' Why prate of Reason? we have ears and eyes!'
Condillac! while the dangerous periods fall
Upon thy page, to stamp sensation all;
While (coldly studious!) thine ingenious scroll (c)
Endows the mimic statue with a soul
Compos'd of sense-behold the generous houndHis piercing eye, his ear awake to sound,
His scent, most delicate organ! and declare
What triumph hath the " Art of thinking" there! (d)
What Gall, or Spurzheim, on his front hath sought,
The mystic bumps indicative of Thought?
Or why, if Thought do there maintain her throne,
Will reasoning curs leave logic for a bone?
Mind is imprison'd in a lonesome tower:
Sensation is its window-hence herb, flower,




586                ESSAY ON MIND.
Landscapes all sun, the rush of thousand springs,
Waft in sweet scents, fair sights, soft murmurings;
And in her joy, she gazeth-yet ere long,
Reason awaketh in her, bold and strong,
And o'er the scene exerting secret laws,
First seeks th' efficient, then the final cause,
Abstracts from forms their hidden accidents,
And marks in outward substance, inward sense.
Our first perceptions formed-we search, to find
The operations of the forming mind;
And turn within by Reason's certain route,
To view the shadows of the things without
Discern'd, retain'd, compar'd, combin'd, and brought
To mere abstraction, by abstracting Thought.
Hence to discern, retain, compare, connect,
We deem the faculties of Intellect;




ESSAY ON MIND.                 57
The which, mus'd on, exert a new controul,
And fresh ideas are open'd on the soul.
Sensation is a stream with dashing spray,
That shoots in idle speed its arrowy way;
When lo I the miill arrests its waters' course,
Turning to use their unproductive force:
The cunning wheels by foamy currents sped,
Reflection triamphs,-and mankind is fed!
Since Pope hath shewn, and Learning still must shew,
I We cannot reason but from what we know,'Unfold the scroll of Thought; and turn to find
The undeceiving signature of Mind!
There, judge her nature by her nature's course,
And trace her actions upwards to their source.
D 3.




58                  ESSAY ON MIND.
So when the property of Mind we call
An essence, or a substance spiritual,
We name her thus, by marking how she clings
Less to the forms than essences of things,
For body clings to body-objects seen
And substance sensible alone have been
Sensation's study; while reflective Mind,
Essence unseen in objects seen may find;
And, tracing whence her known impressions cameGive single forms an universal name.
So, when particular sounds in concord rime,
Those sounds as melody, we generalize;
When pleasing shapes and colours blend, the soul
Abstracts th' idea of beauty from the whole,
Deducting thus, by Mind's enchanting spell,
The intellectual from the sensible.




ESSAY ON MIND.                   59
Hence bold Longinus' splendid periods grew,'Who was himself the great sublime he drew:'
Hence Burke, the pmet-reasoner, learn'd to trace
His glowing style of energetic grace:
Hence thoughts, perchance, some favour'd  bosoms
move,
Which Price might own, and classic Knight approve!
Go! light a rushlight, ere the day is done,
And call its glimm'ring brighter than the sun!
Go! while the stars in midnight glory beam,
Prefer their cold reflection in the stream I
But be not that dull slave, who only looks
On Reason, "through the spectacles of books i'
Rather by Truth determine what is true,And  reasoning  works, through  Reason's  medium,
view;




60                 ESSAY ON MIND.
For authors can't monopolize her light:'Tis your's to read, as well as their's to write.
To judge is your's!-then why submissive call, (e)' The master said so?'-'tis no rule at all I
Shall passive sufferance e'en to mind belong,.
When right divine in mall is human wrong 
Shall a high name a low idea enhance,
When all may fail, as some succeed-by chance?
Shall fix'd chimeras unfix'd reason shock 3
And if Locke err, must thousands err with Locke,
Men! claim your charter! spurn th' unjust controul,
And shake the bondage from the free-born soul!
Go walk the porticoes! and teach your youth
All names are bubbles, but the name of Truth!
If fools, by chance, attend to Wisdom's rules,'Tis no dishonour to be right with fools.
If human faults to Plato's page belong, (f)
Not ev'n with Plato, willingly go wrong.




ESSAY ON MIND.                   61
But though the judging page declare it well
To love Truth better than the lips which tell;
Yet'twere an error, with injustice class'd,
T' adore the former, and neglect the last.
Oh! beats there, Heav'n! a heart of human frame,
Whose pulses throb not at some kindling name e
Some sound, which brings high musings in its track,
Or calls perchance the days of childhood back,
In its dear echo,-when, without a sigh,
Swift hoop, and bounding ball, were first laid by,
To clasp in joy, from school-room tyrant, free,
The classic volume on the little knee,
And con sweet sounds of dearest minstrelsy,
Or words of sterner lore; the young brow fraught
With a calm brightness which might mimic thought,
Leant on the boyish hand-as, all the while,
A half-heav'd sigh, or aye th' unconscious smile




62                ESSAY ON MIND.
Would tell how, o'er that page, the soul was glowing,
In an internal transport, past the knowing I
How feelings, erst unfelt, did then appear,
Give forth a voice, and murmur, "We are here I"
As lute-strings, which a strong hand plays upon 
Or Memnon's statue singing'neath the sun. (g)
Ah me! for such are pleasant memoriesAnd call the tears of fondness to our eyes
Reposing on this gone-by dream-when thus,
One marbled book was all the world to us;
The gentlest bliss our innocent thoughts could find —
The happiest cradle of our infant mind 
And though such hours be past, we shall not less
Think on their joy with grateful tenderness;
And bless the page which bade our reason wake, —
And love the prophet, for his mission's sake.




ESSAY ON MIND.               63
But not alone doth Memory's smouldering flame
Reflect a radiance on a glorious name;
For there are names of pride; and they who bear
Have walked with Truth, and turn'd their footstep
where
We walk not-their beholdings aye have been
O'er Mind's far countries which we have not seenOur thoughts are not their thoughts!-and oft we
dream
That light upon the awful brow doth gleam,
From that high converse; as when Moses trod
Towards the people, from the mount of God,
His lips were silent, but his face was bright,
And prostrate Israel trembled at the sight.
What tongue can syllable our Bacon's name,
Nor own a heart exulting in his fame 




64               ES'AY ON MfND.
Where prejudice' wild blasts were wont to blow,
And waves of ignorance roll'd dark below,
He raised his sail-and left the coast behind,Sublime Columbus of the realms of Mind!
Dared folly's mists, opinion's treacherous sands,
And  walk'd, with  godlike  step, th' untrodden
lands!
But ah! our Muse of Britain, standing near, (4)
Hath dimm'd my tablet with a pensive tear l
Thrice, the proud theme, her free-born voice essays,And thrice that voice is faltering in his praiseYea! till her eyes in silent triumph turn
To mark afar her Locke's sepulchral urn!
Oh urn! where students rapturous vigils keep,
Where sages envy, and where patriots weep!
Oh Name I that bids my glowing spirit wakeTo freemen's hearts endeared for Freedom's sake 




ESSAY ON MIND.                  65
Oh soul! too bright in life's corrupting hour,
To rise by faction, or to crouch to power!
While radiant Genius lifts her heav'nward wing,
And human bosoms own the Mind I sing;
While British writers British thoughts record,
And England's press is fearless as her sword;
While,'mid the seas which gird our favor'd isle,
She clasps her charter'd rights with conscious smile;
So long be thou her glory, and her guide,
Thy page her study, and thy name her pride!
Oh! ever thus, immortal Locke, belong
First to my heart, as noblest in my song;
And since in thee, the muse enraptured find
A moral greatness, and creating mind,
Still may thine influence, which with honor'd light
Beams when I read, illume me as I write 




66                 ESSAY ON MIND.
The page too guiltless, and the soul too free,
To call a frown from Truth, or blush from thee!
But where Philosophy would fear to soar,
Young Poesy's elastic steps explore I
Her fairy foot, her daring eye pursues
The light of faith-nor trembles as she views!
Wont o'er the Psalmist's holy harp to hang,
And swell the sacred note when Milton sang;
Mingling reflection's chords with fancy's lays,
The tones of music with the voice of praise!
And while Philosophy, in spirit, free,
Reasons, believes, yet cannot plainly see,
Poetic Rapture, to her dazzled sight,
Pourtrays the shadows of the things of light;
Delighting o'er the unseen worlds to roam,
And waft the pictures of perfection home.




ESSAY ON MIND.                   67
Thus Reason oft the aid of fancy seeks,
And strikes Pierian chords-when Irving speaks! (i)
Oh! silent be the withering tongue of those
Who call each page, bereft of measure, prose;
Who deem the Muse possest of such faint spells,
That like poor fools, she glories in her bells;
Who hear her voice alone in tinkling chime,
And find a line's whole magic in its rhyme;
Forgetting, if the gilded shrine be fair,
What purer spirit may inhabit there I
For such, —indignant at her questioned might,
Let Genius cease to charm-and Scott to write 
Ungrateful Plato! o'er thy cradled rest, (j)
The Muse hath hung, and all her love exprest;




68                 ESSAY ON MIND.
Thy first imperfect accents fondly taught,
And warm'd thy visions with poetic thought!
Ungrateful Plato! should her deadliest foe
Be found within the breast she tended so?
Spoil'd of her laurels, should she weep to find
The best belov'd become the most unkind?
And was it well or generous, Brutus like,
To pierce the hand that gave the power to strike?
Sages, by reason, reason's powers direct;
Bards, through the heart, convince the intellect.
Philosophy majestic brings to view
Mind's perfect modes, and fair proportions too;
Enchanting Poesy bestows the while,
Upon its sculptured grace, her magic smile,
Bids the cold form, with living radiance glow,
And stamps existence on its marble brow!




ESSAY ON MIND.                   69
For Poesy's whole essence, when defined,
Is elevation of the reasoning mind,
When inward sense from Fancy's page is taught,
And moral feeling ministers to Thought.
And hence, the natural passions all agree
In seeking Nature's language-poetry.
When Hope, in soft perspective, from afar,
Sees lovely scenes more lovely than they are;
To deck the landscape, tiptoe Fancy brings
Her plastic shapes, and bright imaginings.
Or when man's breast by torturing pangs is stung,
If fearful silence cease t' enchain his tongue,
In metaphor, the feelings seek relief,
And all the soul grows eloquent with grief.
Poetic fire, like Vesta's, pure and bright,
Should draw from Nature's sun, its holy light.




70                ESSAY ON MIND.
With Nature, should the musing poet roam,
And steal instruction from her classic tome;
When'neath her guidance, least inclin'd to errThe ablest painter when he copies her.
Beloved Shakespeare! England's dearest fame I
Dead is the breast that swells not at thy name I
Whether thine Ariel skim the seas along,
Floating on wings etherial as his songLear rave amid the tempest-or Macbeth
Question the hags of hell on midnight heathImmortal Shakespeare! still, thy lips impart
The noblest comment on the human heart.
And as fair Eve, in Eden newly placed, (k)
Gazed on her form, in limpid waters traced,
And stretch'd her gentle arms, with pleased surprise,
To meet the image of her own bright eyes



ESSAY ON MIND.                   1
So Nature, on thy magic page, surveys
Her sportive graces, and untutored ways!
Wondering, the soft reflection doth she see,
Then laughing owns she loves herself in thee!
Shun not the haunts of crowded cities then;
Nor e'er, as man, forget to study men!
What though the tumult of the town intrude
On the deep silence, and the lofty mood;'Twill make thy human sympathies rejoice,
To hear the music of a human voiceTo watch strange brows by various reason wrought,
To claim the interchange of thought with thought;
T' associate mind with mind, for Mind's own weal,
As steel is ever sharpen'd best by steel.
T' impassion'd bards, the scenic world is dear,But Nature's glorious masterpiece is here!




72                 ESSAY ON MIND.
All poetry is beauty, but exprest
In inward essence, not in outward vest.
Hence lovely scenes, reflective poets find,
Awake their lovelier images in Mind 
Nor doth the pictur'd earth, the bard invite,
The lake of azure, or the heav'n of light,
But that his swelling breast arouses there,
Something less visible, and much more fair!
There is a music in the landscape round,A silent voice, that speaks without a soundA witching spirit, that reposing near,
Breathes to the heart, but comes not to the ear!
These softly steal, his kindling soul t' embrace,
And natural beauty, gild with moral grace.
Think not, when summer breezes tell their tale,
The poet's thoughts are with the summer gale;
Think not his Fancy builds her elfin dream
On painted floweret, or on sighing stream:




ESSAY ON MIND.                     73
No single objects cause his rapturecl starts,
For Mind is narrow'd, not inspir'd by parts;
But o'er the scene the poet's spirit broods,
To warm the thoughts that form his noblest moods;
Peopling his solitude with fairy play,
And beckoning shapes that whisper him away,-'AWhile lilied fields, and hedge-row blossoms white,
And hills, and glittering streams, are full in sightThe forests wave, the joyous sun beguiles,
And all the poetry of Nature smiles!
Such poetry is formed by Mind, and not
By scenic grace of one peculiar spot.
The artist lingers in the moon-lit glade, (1)
And light and shade, with him, are-light and shade.
The philosophic chymist wandering there,
Dreams of the soil, and nature of the air.
F2




74                 ESSAY ON MIND.
The rustic marks the young herbs' fresh'ning hue,
And only thinks-his scythe may soon pass through I
None "muse on nature with a Poet's eye,"
None read, but Poets, Nature's poetry!
Its characters are trac'd in mystic hand,
And all may gaze, but few can understand,
Nor here alone the Poet's dwelling rear,
Though Beauty's voice perchance is sweetest here 
Bind not his footsteps to the sylvan scene,
To heathy banks, fair woods, and valleys green,
When Mind is all his own i her dear impress
Shall throw a magic o'er the wilderness,
As o'er the blossoming vale, and aye recall
Its shadowy plane, and silver waterfall,
Or sleepy crystal pool, reposing by,
To give the earth a picture of the sky 




ESSAY ON MIND.                 7
Such, gazed on by the spirit, are I ween,
Lovelier than ever prototype was seen;
For Fancy teacheth Memory's hand to trace (On)
Nature's ideal form in Nature's place.
In every theme by lofty Poet sung,
The thought should seem to speak, and not the tongue.
When godlike Milton lifts th' exalted song,
The subject bears the burning words alongResounds the march of Thought, th' o'erflowing line,
Full cadence, solemn pause, and strength divine!
When Horace chats his neighbour's faults away,
The sportive measures, like his muse, are gay;
For once Good-humour Satire's by-way took,
And all his soul is laughing in his book!
On moral Pope's didactic page is found,
Sound rul'd by sense, and sense made clear by sound;
E 2




76                 ESSAY ON MIND.
The power to reason, and the taste to please,
While, as the subject varies in degrees,
He stoops with dignity, and soars with ease.
Hence let our Poets, with discerning glance,
Forbear to imitate the stage of France.
TWhat though Corneille arouse the thrilling chords,
And walk with Genius o'er th' inspired boards;
What though his rival bring, with calmer grace,
The classic unities of time and place,All polish, and all eloquence-'twere mean
To leave the path of Nature for RPacine;
WIhen Nero's parent,'midst her woe, defines
The wrong that tortures-in two hundred lines 
Or when Orestes, madden'd by hlis crime,
Forgets life, joy, and every thing-but rhyme.




ESSAY ON MIIND.                77
While thus to character and nature, true,
Still keep the harmony of verse in view;
Yet not in changeless concord,-it should be
Though graceful, nervous,-musical, though free;
Not clogg'd by useless drapery, not beset
By the superfluous word, or epithet,
Wherein Conception only dies in state, (.n)
As Draco, smother'd by the garments' weighltBut join, Amphion-like, (whose magic fire
Won the deep music of the Maian lyre,
To call Boeotia's city from  the ground,)
The just in structure, with the sweet in sound.
Nor this the whole-the poet's classic strain
May flow in smoothest numbers, yet in vain;
And Taste may please, and Fancy sport awhile,
And yet Aonia's muse refuse to smile!




78                 ESSAY ON MIND.
For lo! her heavenly lips these words reveal-'The sage may coldly think, the bard must feel!
And if his writings, to his heart untrue,
Would ape the fervent throb it never knew;
If generous deeds, and Virtue's noblest part,
And Freedom's voice, could never warm that heart;
If Interest tax'd the produce of the brain,
And fetter'd Genius follow'd in her train,
Weeping as each unwilling word she spoke,Then hush the lute-its master string is broke
In vain, the skilful hand may linger o'erConcord is dead, and music speaks no more'
There are, and have been such-they were forgot
If shame could veil their page, if tears could blot!
There are, and have been, whose dishonour'd lay
Aspired t' enrapture that the world might —pay!




ESSAY ON MIND.                 79
Whose life was one long bribe, oft counted o'er,Brib'd to think on, and brib'd to think no more;
Brib'd to laugh, weep, nor ask the reason why;
Brib'd to tell truth, and brib'd to gild a lie!
Oh Man! for this, the sensual left behind,
We boast our empire o'er the vast of Mind.
Oh Mind! reported valueless, till sold,
Thought dross till metamorphos'd into gold
By Midas' touch-breath'st thou immortal verse
To throw a ducat in an empty purseTo walk the market at a belman's cry,
For knaves to sell, and wondering fools to buy.
Can Heav'n-born bards, undone by lucre's lust,
Crouch thus, like Heav'n-born ministers, to dust?
Alas! to dust indeed-yet wherefore blame?
They keep their profits, though they lose their fame.




80                 ESSAY ON MlND.
Leave to the dross they seek, the grovelling throng,'
And swell with nobler aim th' Aonian song 
Enough for thee uninfluenc'd and unhir'd,
If Truth reward the strain herself inspir'd I
Enough for thee, if grateful Man commend,
If Genius love, and Virtue call thee friend!
Enough for thee, to wake th' exalted mood,
Reprove the erring, and confirm the good;
Excite the tender smile, the generous tear,
Or rouse the thought to loftiest Nature dear,
Which rapturous greets amidst the fervent line)
Thy name, 0 Freedom! glorious Hellas, thine!
I love my own dear land-it doth rejoice
The soul, to stretch my arms, and lift my voicec
To tell her of my love!  I love her green,
And bowery woods, her hills in mossy sheen,




ESSAY ON MIND. 
Her silver running waters-there's no spot
In all her dwelling, which my breast loves notNo place not heart-enchanted I Sunnier skies,
And calmer waves, may meet another's eyes;
I love the sullen mist, the stormy sea,
The winds of rushing strength which, like the landl
are free I
Such is my love-yet turning thus to thee,
Oh Greeia! I must hail with hardly less
Of joy, and. pride, and deepening tenderness,.And feelings wild, I know not to controul,
My other country —country of my soul!
For so, to me, thou art! my lips have sung
Of thee with childhood's lisp, and harp unstrung I
In thee, my Fancy's pleasant walks have been,
Telling her tales, while Memory wept between 
And now for thee I joy, with heart beguiled,
As if a dying friend looked up, and smiled.
E3




82                 ESSAY ON MIND.
Lo! o'er XEg'ea's waves, the shout hath ris'n!
Lo! Hope hath burst the fetters of her prison!
And Glory sounds the trump along the shore,
And Freedom  walks where Freedom  walk'd before 
Ipsara glimmers with heroic light,
Redd'ning the waves that lash her flaming height;
And Aigypt hurries from that dark blue sea 
Lo! o'er the cliffs of fam'd Thermopylx,
And voiceful Marathon, the wild winds sweep,
Bearing this message to the brave who sleep-'They come! they come! with their embattled shock,
From Pelion's steep, and Paros' foam-dash'd rock!
They come from Tempe's vale, and Helicon's spring,
And proud Eurotas' banks, the river king!
They come from Leuctra, from the waves that kiss
Athena-from the shores of Salamis;
From Sparta, Thebes, Euboea's hills of blueTo live with Hellas-or to sleep with you!'




ESSAY ON MIND.                   83
Smile-smile, beloved land! and though no lay
From Doric pipe, may charm thy glades to day —
Though dear Ionic music murmur not
Adown the vale —its echo all forgot 
Yet smile, beloved land! for soon, around,
Thy silent earth shall utter forth a sound,
As whilom- and, its pleasant groves among,
The Grecian voice shall breathe the Grecian song,
While the exiled muse shall'habit still
The happy haunts of her Parnassian hill.
Till then, behold the cold dumb sepulchreThe ruin'd column-ocean, earth, and air,
Man, and his wrongs-thou hast Tyrteus there! (o)
And pardon, if across the heaving main,
Sound the far melody of minstrel strain,
In wild and fitful gust from England's shore,
For his immortal sake, who never more




S ~~4              E rESSAY ON  IIND.
Shall tread with living foot, and spirit fiee,
Her fields, or breathe her passionate poetryThe pilgrim bard, who lived, and died for thee,
Oh land of Memory! loving thee no less
Than parent-with the filial tenderness,
And holy ardour of the Argive son,
Straining each nerve to bear thy chariot onTill when its wheels the place of glory swept,
He laid him down before the shrine-and slept.(p)
So be it! at his cold unconscious bier,
We fondly sate, and dropp'd the natural tearYet wept not wisely, for he sank to rest
On the dear earth his waking thoughts loved best,
And gently life's last pulses stole away!
No Moschus sang a requiem o'er his clay, (q)
But Greece was sad! and breathed above, below,
The warrior's sigh, the silence, and the woe!




ESSAY ON MIND.                   85
And is this all? Is this the little sum
For which we toil-to which our glories come?
Doth History bend her mouldering pages o'er,
And Science stretch her bulwark from the shore,
And Sages search the mystic paths of Thought,
And Poets charm with lays that Genius taughtFor this? to labour through their little day,
To weep an hour, then want the tear they payTo ask the urn, their death and life to tell,
When the dull dust would give that tale as well I
Man! hast thou seen the gallant vessel sweep,
Borrowing her moonlight from the jealous deep,
And gliding with mute foot, and silver wing,
Over the waters like a soul-mov'd thing?
Man, hast thou gazed. on this-then look'd again,
And seen no speck on all that desolate main,




86                  ESSAY ON MIND.
And heard no sound,-except the gurgling cry,
The winds half stifled in their mockery?
Woe unto thee! for, thus, thy course is run,
And, in the fulness of thy noon-day sun,
The darkness cometh —yea! thou walk'st abroad
In glory, Child of Mind, Creation's LordAnd wisdom's music from thy lips hath gush'd!
Then comes the Selah I and the voice is hush'd, (r)
And the light past! we seek where thou hast been
In beauty-but thy beauty is not seen!
We breathe the air thou breath'dst, we tread the spot
Thy feet were wont to tread, but find thee not!
Beyond, sits Darkness with her haggard face,
Brooding fiend-like above thy burying-placeBeneath, let wildest Fancy take her fill!
Shall we seek on 1 we shudder, and are still!




ESSAY ON MIND.                  87
Yet woe not unto thee, thou child of Earth!
Though moonlight sleep on thy deserted hearth,
We will not cry' Alas!' above thy clay 1
It was, perchance, thy joyous pride to stray
On Mind's lone shore, and linger by the way:
But now thy pilgrim's staff is laid aside,
And on thou journeyest o'er the sullen tide,
To bless thy wearied sight, and glad thine heart
With all that Mind's serener skies impart;
Where Wisdom suns the day no shades destroy,
And Learning ends in Truth, as hope in joy:
While we stand mournful on the desert beach,
And wait, and wish, thy distant bark, to reach,
And weep to watch it passing from our sight,
And sound the gun's salute, and sigh our last'good
night!'




88                  ESSAY ON mIINmD
And oh! while thus the spirit glides away,Give to the world its memory with its clay!
Some page our country's grateful eyes may scan;
Some useful truth to bless surviving mlan;
Some name to honest bosoms justly Cder;
Some grave t' exalt the tholght, and claim the tear;
So when the pilgrim Sun is travelling o'er
The last blue hill, to gild a distant shore,
He leaves a freshness in the evening scene,
That tells Creation where his steps have been I




NOTES TO BOOK T.
NOTE (a).
Or peeps at glory from some ancient's baclk.
"The  reason  which  the  learned  Bentley  gave  his
daughter for not himself becoming an original writer, instead of wasting his talents on the works of others, is probably  the cause  of many not attempting  original composition.   Bentley  seemed  embarrassed  at  her  honest
question, and remained for a considerable time thoughtful.
At length he observed-Child, I am  sensible I have not
always turned my talents to the proper use for which they
were given me; yet I have done something: but the wit
and genius of the old authors beguiled me, and as I despaired of raising myself up to their standard  upon fair
ground, I thought the only chance I had of looking over
their heads was to get upon their shoulders."-Curiosities
of Literature Vol, oI.




90                   NOTES ON BOOK I.
NOTE (b).
The gentle Cowley of our native cline
Lisp'd his first accents in A onian rhyme.
A  volume of Cowley's poems  was  published in  his fifteenth  year;  and  contains  "The  Tragical History  of
Pyramus and Thispe," written in his tenth.
NOTE (C).
Alfleri's startling muse tuned not her strings,
And dumbly look'd' unutterable things,'
Till when five lustrums o'er his head had pastThis Poet's great mind  exhibited  no  precocity.   His'Cleopatra,' written at the age of twenty-five years, first
discovered its author's dramatic genius to himself, and to
the world.
NOTE (d).
See in that breathless crowd Olorus stand,
While one fair boy hangs listening on his handThe yozung Thucydides.
It is said that Thucydides, in early youth, was present
at the Olympic gaines when Herodotus recited his History;
and that a burst of tears spoke his admiration.  "Take




NOTES TO BOOK 1.                       91
care of that boy!" observed the sage turning to Olorus,
"he will one day miake a great man "
NOTE (e).
That hail' th' eternal city' in their pride.
"Imperium   sine  fine  decli,"  says  Virgil's  Jupiter.
How little did the writer of those four words dream  of
their surviving the Glory, whose eternity they were intended
to predict! Horace too, in the most exulting of his odes,
boldly proclaims that his fame will live as long as
"Capitolium
Scandet cum tacita virgine Pontifex."
Yes! his fame will live!-but where now  is the Pontifex
and the silent vestal? lwhere now  is the Capitol?  Such
passages are, to  my  mind, pre-eminently  more affecting
than all the ruins in the world!
NOTE (f).
And ultra, Mlitford soar'dt to libel Greece.
Mr. Mitford's  acknowledged learning, and accuracy  in
detail, have a claim  on our consideration, which we admnit
with readiness and pleasure; but prejudices, arising probably from  early habits  and  associations, have deformed




92                   NOTES' TO BOOK I.
his work.   ie is evidently so afraid of taking the mob for
the people, that he constantly takes the people for the mob
-a perversion much  in vogue among despots of Europe,
in  the nineteenth  century.  He  considers the Athenian
Democracy  as he would  a classical kind of Radicalism;
and generously endows Philip  of Macedon  with a' right
divine,' not only over his own possessions, but over those
of his neighbours.   Mr. Mitford lets his readers look at
facts:  but, whether shortsighted as himself or not, he will
not allow  them  to enjoy that privilege unless they make
use of his political glasses; which, by the way, are No. 20,
-" ne plus ultra!"
NOTE (g).
But lean on Reason, as your safest roule!
Let doubtfzulfacts, with patient hand be led
To take their place on this Procrustian bed.
We shall find  some clever and  animated  observations
on this subject, in Voltaire's preface to his Charles X  L.
I should. extract them, but the book is too well known for
me to doubt their having come to the knowledge of most
readers: and a new  publication is perhaps the only place,
in lwhich we are not glad to meet an old acquaintance.




NOT:ES TO BOOK  I.                       93
NOTE (h).
Enalighften'd Miller of our modern days I
Those who may think this praise excessive are referred
to the Philosophy of Modern History, given to the world
by Dr. Miller; and thence are requested to judge of the
reality of the merit.
NOTE (i).
The whispeer'd sound which stole on Descartes' ear,
1fallowing the sunny visions of his.youth,
With that eternal mandate, "Search for Truth!"
"Descartes, when yo-ung, and  in  a country  seclusion,
his brain  exhausted  by  meditation, and his imaginatinl
heated to excess, heard a voice in the air which called him
to pursue the search of Truth: he never doubted the vision,
and tlis dream, in the delirium  of Genius, charlmed him
even in his after studies. "-D'Israeli's Literary Chacracter.
NOTE (j).
le died the gloriols! who, with soaring sight,
Sought some new world to ptlnt his foot of might.
Archimedes wrote  to  Hiero, thaet, if he had another




94                   NOTES TO BOOK I.
world to stand on, he could move this by the power of
his machinery. When Cicero stumbled on his grave, he
found it, "Septum  undique et vestitum  vepribus et dumetis."  What a homily!
NOTE (k).
So hard to bear with unobstructed sight,'Th' excess of darkness, or th' extreme of light.
Gray ingeniously asks, " Must I plunge  into  metaphysics?"  (he might in some cases have said history)"Alas! I cannot see in the dark; Nature has not furnished
me with the optics of a cat. Must I pore upon mathematics? Alas! I cannot see in too much light; I am no
eagle."
NOTE (1),
So Buffoir  erred-amidst his chilling dream
The judgment grew material as the theme.
Buffon was a materialist upon principle, though a Catholic by observance.  Upon reading a poem  on the immortality of the soul, he exclaimed-"  Religion would be
a noble present if this were true."




NOTES TO BOOK I.                     95
NOTE (m).
Sternly they strove-th' unequal race was runLeibnitz  attacked  with  violence  Sir Isaac  Newton's
opinion, that the seeds of mortality would be developed in
the  fabric of the universe if unrenewed  by  its divine
Maker.   Such an opinion he considered'impious;' and,
in opposition to it, maintained, that as Creation proceeded
from the hand of Perfection, it is perfect-and as perfect,
immutable.
NOTE (n).
Devoted Southey! if thou hacd'st not tried.
Few are ready to bear a more respectful tribute to Dr.
Southey's poetical talents than the writer of this Work,
who  however begs to be allowed to admire his genius,
without extending that admiration either to his politics or
Hexameters.
NOTE (o).
Dwell not on parts, for parts contract the mind.
Lord Bacon  thus expresses  himself-" Sciences  distinguished have a dependance upon universal knowledge, to
be augmented, and rectified by the superior light thereof;
as well as the parts and members of a science have upon




96                    NOTES TO BOOK  I.
the maxims of the same science, and the mutual light and
consent  which  one  part  receiveth  of  another."'-  nterpretatio iVaturce.
NOTE (p).
For too much learning maketh no?man  mad.
Perhaps, after all, the great danger of knowing is in not
knowing  enough;  and certainly "il pie  ferno"  is  not
"il pin basso."   "It is true,"  says Lord Bacon, "that a
little philosophy  inclineth  men's minds  to  atheism, but
depth in philosophy bringeth their minds about to religion."
This is an  acute observation, and  if generalized  will be
found  equally  so.  The errors attending  Intellectual Elevation I have alluded to and  allowed; but that elevation
is only comparative.'"Alps on  Alps arise!" and the ars
lona vita brevis prevents our attaining the topmost height.
In our progress towards it then is our risk —lest We rejoice
to have gone a yard, without remembering we have a mile
to go. Like the princess, in the pretty Arabian tale, who
w-as ascending the mountain in search of her talking  bird
and golden  water, if during  the ascent we turn back to
gaze, we  are  transformed into  black  stones-capable  of
impeding others, though not of advancing ourselves.




NOTES TO BOOK I.                      97
NOTE (q).
The sage how learned, and the man how meek!
The character of  Sir Isaac Newton  forms a sublime
comment on  the  foregoing note.  "I don't know," said
that greatest and humblest of men, "what I may seem to
the world; but as to myself, I seem  to have been only like
a boy playing on the sea-shore, and  diverting myself in
now and then finding a smoother pebble, or a prettier shell
than ordinary, whilst the  great iocean of Truth lay  all
undiscovered  before  me." - We  find  thle  anecdote  in
Spence.
F




NOTES TO BOOK IT.
NOTE (a).
Ev'n Cato, had he owe'd tihe senate's will,
And wash'd his toga —had been Cato still!
Plutarch relates that Cato Uticensis was thought to disgrace the Prietorship by the mneanless of his dress.  To
couple'disgrace' with the name of Cato revolts the soul;
and yet who would call his "exigua toga" a proof of the
loftiness of his virtue, or think him less a patriot if he had
kept on his shoes?
NOTE (b).
"All is idea, and nothing real springs
But God and Reason /" (not the'right of kings?)
An  obvious  question.  Pyrrho  the  Elean,  founder of
the Ideal Philosophy, on  the near approach of carts and




NOTES TO  BOOK  II.                      99
carriages, did not think  it worth while to  turn aside, or
change his posture.  Dr. Berkeley, with  less consistency,
buti, more prudence, found time  (and conscience) to write
three sermons in vindication of passive obedience.
NOTE (c).
While.(coldly studious ) thine ingenious scroll
Endows the mimiic statue with a soul,
Coonpos'd of sense."
It is the object of Condillac's work,' Sur la Sensation,'
to prove'que la reflexion n'est dans son principe que 1h,
sensation meme,' and that our  ideas  are  only  sensation
transformed.  His statue is very cleverly put together, but
is a statue after all.
NOTE (d).
WThat tri7umph hath the'Art of Think7ing' there?' L'Art de penser"-title to one of Condillac's works,
NOTE (e).
To judge i9 your's-then why submissive call,' The master said so?'
An'argumentum  ad verecundiam' used by the Pytlha- 2




100                  NOTES TO BOOK  II.
goreans.  I so much admire a passage in Plato's Phledo,
illustrative of these lines, that the reader must forgive my
referring to it.  Cebes supports with animation an opinion
in opposition to Socrates, who, turning  a gratified countenance ("' OrO(rdvatL E /IOL e Eoe," says the narrator) to his
other  disciples,  benignly  observes-' Cebes always looks
into principles; neither will he admit, without examination,
the sentiments of any man.'
We find in Dr. Reid the  following  striking precept"Let us, as becomes philosophers, lay aside authority."
NOTE (f).
If human faults to Plato's page belong,
Not ev'n with Plato willingly go wrong.
Cicero's assertion, " errare mehercule malo cum  Platone
quam  cum  istis vera sentire," is more boldly said than singularly thought. How  many are there, among the canaille
of readers, prepared to praise an inferior volume, with the
Waverley magic on its title-page; to commend a commonplace by Rogers, or a far-fetched allusion by Moore.  Even
among the more critical of us, have the names of Scott,
mand Moore, and Rogers, no secret influence?   Do  we not
so devoutly admire the noisy slippered Venus, that at length
we begin to  reverence, abstractedly, the noisy  slippers 
This is so, and I will not quarrel with it; since to forget




NOTES TO BOOK II.                       101
the trifling faults of a great writer, is the gratitude we owe
to his perfections.  But what, in subjects of taste and sentiment, may be tolerated as pardonable enthusiasm, must
in grave discussion, be condemned as unpardonable weakness.  If therefore we judge Cicero only by  the abovecited passage, we shall pronounce him  to be a good PlatoIlist, tin one sense of the word) but a very bad philosopher.
It is not with him,' Amicus Plato sed magis amica veritas:'
he loves truth less than he luves Plato.
NOTE (g).
Or Mlemnoais statue sin.gizg'neath the sun.
The statue of Memnon, the Ethiopian king, -was said to
itter musical sounds at the rising of the sun.  Strabo witnessed this singular phenomenon, but could  only explain
it by conjecture.
NOTE (h).
But, ah! our iMuse of Britain standing near,
Heath cdtimm'd my tablet with a pensive tear!
It is a practice too common, but manifestly unjust, to
visit on the memory of distinguished authors their individual failings.  I wish therefore to state expressly, that the
Mluse of Britain is not here supposed to  animadvert on




102                  NOTES TO BOOK II.
Lord Bacon's character as a statesman, with which she has
nothing to do in this place.  It is with regard to his writings that I cannot avoid expressing a regret, and I do so
reverentially, that pages so glorious should be polluted by
passages so servile.   " As men, we share his fame"-as
Englishmen, we feel his degradation.  If indeed the'Novum  organum,' and' Advancement of Learning,' kindled
our souls into a less proud consciousness of intellectual
dignity, we might better brook hearing a king called'a
mortal god upon earth,' and James the First compared to
Solomon.  But Lord Bacon first teaches us how high Philosophy can soar, and  then how  low  a philosopher can
stoop.
NOTE (i).
And strikes Pierian chords -when Irving speaks 
There is a pleasure in being benefitted by the labours
of Genius:  there is a pride in possessing powers capable
of benefitting.  The pride  Mr. Irving  may  justly feel;
and which of his readers, or hearers, cannot boast the
pleasure?  It gratifies me to  be  enabled to  express in
this place my admiration of his talents, and my respect
for their direction.




NOTES TO BOBK II.                     10)3
NOTE (j).
Ungrateful Plato / o'er thy cradled rest
The Muse hath hung, and all her love exprest.
Plato wrote poetry in his youth; and when indeed did
not Plato write poetry?   Longinus numbers him  among
the imitators of Homer-ITldvTrov  Se rorVTwv JuXtcro ra 
HIXa-rv a7ro  O'OfrtptKOV e'Kevov valaTog eig at'Tl
O/frl~PeKOV  ~I(6~FOV  V      ad/, S'OS   U1TOI,'
[ivptaS  ocra  7rrapaTTp7ras d7roEXrcraTEvoTLvo3.
NOTE (k).
And asfair Eve, in Eden newly placed,
Gaz'd on her form, in limtpid waters tracedThe reader will here perceive an allusion to  that beautiful passage in Paradise Lost, book the fourth, where Eve
describes to Adam  her emotions on first beholding her own
reflection in " the clear smooth lake""A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me-I started backIt started back," &c.
NOTE (1).
The artist lingers in the moon-lit glade,
And light and shade, with him, are-light and shade.
"Quam  multa vident Pictores in umbris et eminentia




104                NOTES TO BOOK II.
qum nos non videmuns," is the motto to Mr. Price's admirable essay on the Picturesque.  Dugald Stewart proposes
its reversion-"Quam  multa  videmus nos  que IPictores
non vident," which if it be as true as ingenious, will go a
great way in assisting my position.
NOTE (m).
to trace
Nature's ideal form in Nature's place.
Lord Bacon says of Poetry, that "it was ever thought
to have some participation of divineness, because it doth
raise and erect the mind, by  submitting  the  shews of
things to the desires of the mind;  whereas Reason doth
buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of things,"~
A dvancement of Learning, Book 2.
NOTE (n).
Wherein Conception only dies in state,
As Draco smother'cd by the garments' weight.
The Athenian People being accustomed to testify their
approbation by the casting of their garments on the approved  individual,  Draco   was  honourably  smothered
through excess of popularity.




NOTES TO BOOK II.                    105
NOTE (O).
-behold the cold, dumb sepulchre,
The ruined column-ocean, ear/th and air,
M/1an and his wrongs — thou hast Tyrtceus there I
The inspiriting effect of the productions of this Greek
Poet, during the  war between  the Lacedenmonians and
Messenians, is well known.
NOTE (p).
Wle laid hi7m down before the shrine-and slept!
Herodotus relates of Cleobis and Bito, Argive brothers,
that on a festival of Juno they themselves, in default of
oxen, drew the chariot of the priestess, their mother, fortyfive stadia to the temple. Amidst the shouts of an admiring
multitude, their grateful parent asked of the gods the best
boon mortals could receive, wherewith to reward the piety
of her sons. The young men fell asleep within the temple,
and woke no more.
NOTE (q).
Vo iLMoschus sang a requiem o'er his clay!
That exquisite effusion of Moschus over the grave of
Bion, his "vatis amici"-his brother in poetry and lovewill occur to the reader's recollection.
F 3




106                 NOTES TO BOOK II.
NOTE (r).
Then comes the SELAH —and the voice is, hush'd!
Respecting this Hebrew word, which is found "seventy
times in the Psalms, and three times in Habakkuk," Calnlet
observes-"One conjecture is, that it means the end or a
pause, and that the ancient musicians put it occasionally
in the margin of their psalters, to shew where a musical
pause was to be made, and where the tune ended."




AIISCELLANEOUS POEMS.








TO MY FATHER ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.
"Causa fuit Pater his."'-HoR.
AMIDST the days of pleasant mirth,
That throw their halo round our earth;
Amidst the tender thoughts that rise
To call bright tears to happy eyes;
Amidst the silken words that move
To syllable the names we love;
There glides no day of gentle bliss,
More soothing to the heart than this!
No thoughts of fondness e'er appear
Miore fond, than those I write of here 
No name can e'er on tablet shine,
My father  more belov'd than thine!




110               TO MY FATHER.'Tis sweet, adown the shady past,
A lingering look of love to castBack th' enchanted world to call,
That beamed around us first of all;
And walk with Memory fondly o'er
The paths, where Hope had been beforeSweet to receive the sylphic sound
That breathes in tenderness around,
Repeating to the listening ear
The names that made our childhood dearFor parted Joy, like Echo, kind,
Will leave her dulcet voice behind,
To tell, amidst the magic air,
How oft she smiled and lingered there.
Oh! let the deep Aonian shell
Breathe tuneful numbers, clear and well,
While the glad Hours, in fair array,
Lead on this buxom Holiday;




TO MY FATHER.                 I
And Time, as on his way he springs,
Hates the last bard who gave him wings;
For'neath thy gentleness of praise,
My Father! rose my early lays!
And when the lyre was scarce awake,
I lov'd its strings for thy lov'd sake;
Woo'd the kind Muses-but the while
Thought only how to win thy smileMy proudest fame-my dearest prideMore dear than all the world beside!
And now, perchance, I seek the tone
For magic that is more its own;
But still my Father's looks remain
The best Maecenas of my strain;
My gentlest joy, upon his brow
To read the smile, that meets me nowTo hear him, in his kindness, say
The words,-perchance he'll speak to-day!




SPENSERIAN  STANZAS
ON  A  BOY  OF THREE  YEARS  OLD.
CHILD of the sunny lockes and beautifull brow!
In thoughtfull tendernesse I gaze on theeUpon thy daintie cheek Expression's glow
Daunceth in tyme to thine heart's melodie;
Ne mortall wight mote lovelier urchin see I
Nathlesse it teens this pensive brest of mine
To think-belive the innocent revelrie
Shall be eclipsed in those soft blue eyneWhenso the howre of youth no more for tlee shall
shine.
Ah me! eftsoons thy childhood's pleasauit dais
Shall fly away, and be a whilome thing!




SPENSERIAN STANZAS.               113
And sweetest mearimake, and birthday lais
Be reck'd not of, except when memories bring
Feres to their embers with awaking wing,
To make past love rejoyce thy tender sprite,
Albeit the toyles of daunger thee enring!
Child of the wavy lockes, and brow of light-'Then be thy conscience pure, as now thy face is bright.




VERSES TO MY BROTHER.
"For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill."-LYCIDAS.
I WILL write down thy name, and when'tis writ,
Will turn me from the hum that mortals keep
In the wide world without, and gaze on it 
It telleth of the past-calling from sleep
Such dear, yet mournful thoughts, as make us smile,
and weep.
Belov'd and best! what thousand feelings start,
As o'er the paper's course my fingers moveMy Brother I dearest, kindest as thou art!
How can these lips my heart's affection prove?
I could not speak the words, if words could speak
my love.




TO MY BROTHER.                  1 5
Together have we past our infant hours,
Together sported Childhood's spring away,
Together cull'd young Hope's fast budding flowers,
To wreathe the forehead of each coming day!
Yes! for the present's sun makes e'en the future gay.
And when the laughing mood was nearly o'er,
Together, many a minute did we wile
On Horace' page, or Maro's sweeter lore;
While one young critic, on the classic style,
Would sagely try to frown, and make the other smile.
But now alone thou con'st the ancient tomneAnd sometimes thy dear studies, it may be,
Are cross'd by dearer dreams of me and home!
Alone I muse on Homer-thoughts are freeAnd if mine often stray, they go in search of thee 




116              TO MY BROTHER.
I may not praise thee here-I will not bless!
Yet all thy goodness doth my memory bear,
Cherish'd by more than Friendship's tendernessAnd, in the silence of my evening prayer,
Thou shalt not be forgot-thy dear name shall be
there 




STANZAS ON THE DEATH  OF LORD BYRON.
b --      XeIye rac rLV a7rwvXETO."-BION.
"     I am not now
That which I have been. "-CHILDE HAROLD.
HE was, and is not! Grecia's trembling shore,
Sighing through all her palmy groves, shall tell
That Harold's pilgrimage at last is o'erMute the impassioned tongue, and tuneful shell,
That erst was wont in noblest strains to swellHush'd the proud shouts that rode zEgea's wave!
For lo! the great Deliv'rer breathes farewell!
Gives to the world his mem'ry and a graveExpiring in the land he only lived to save!




118                 DEATH OF BYRON.
Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and  o'er thy  widow'd
brow,
For aye, the cypress wreath of sorrow twine;
And in thy new-form'd beauty, desolate, throw
The fresh-cull'd flowers on his sepulchral shrine.
Yes! let that heart whose fervour was all thine,
In consecrated urn lamented be!
That generous heart where genius thrill'd divine,
Hath spent its last most glorious throb for theeThen sank amid the storm  that made thy children
free 
Britannia's Poet! Grecia's hero, sleeps!
And Freedom, bending o'er the breathless clay,
Lifts up her voice, and in her anguish weeps!
For us, a night hath clouded o'er our day,
And hush'd the lips that breath'd our fairest lay.




DEATH OF BYRON.                  1 19
Alas 1 and must the British lyre resound
A requiein, while the spirit wings away
Of him who on its strings such music found,
And taught its startling chords to give so sweet a
sound I
The theme grows sadder-but my soul shall find
A language in these tears! No more-no more!
Soon,'midst the shriekings of the tossing wind,
The'dark blue depths' he sang of, shall have bore
Our all of Byron to his native shore!
His grave is thick with voices -to the ear
Murm'ring an awful tale of greatness o'er;
But Memory strives with Death, and lingering near,
Shall consecrate the dust of Harold's lonely bier!




MEMO R Y.
MY Fancy's steps have often strayed
To some fair vale the hills have made;
Where sparkling waters travel o'er,
And hold a mirror to the shore;
Winding with murmurings in and out,
To find the flowers which grow about.
And there, perchance, in childhood bold,
Some little elf, four summers old,
Adown the vales may chance to run,
To hunt his shadow in the sun!
But when the waters meet his eyes,
He starts and stops with glad surprise,




MEMORY.                 121
And shouts, with merry voice, to view
The banks of green, the skies of blue,
Th' inverted flocks that bleating go,
Lilies, and trees of apple blow,
Seeming so beautiful below!
He peeps above-he glances round,
And then looks down, and thinks he's found
Reposing in the stream, to woo one,
A world ev'n lovelier than the true one.
Thus, with visions gay and light,
Hath Fancy lov'd my page to dight;
Yet Thought hath, through a vista, seen
Something less frivolous I ween:
Then, while my chatting pen runs on,
I'll tell you what she dreamt upon.
G




12 2                   MEMORY.
Memory's the streamlet of the scene,
Which sweeps the hills of life between;
And, when our walking hour is past,
Upon its shore we rest at last;
And love to view the waters fair,
And see lost joys depictured there.
My —, when thy feet are led
To press those banks we all must treadMay Virtue's smile, and Learning's praise,
Adorn the waters to thy gaze;
And, o'er their lucid course, be lent
The sunshine of a life well spent!
Then, if a thought should glad thy breast
Of those who loved thee first and best,
My name, perchance, may haunt the spot,
Not quite unprized-nor all forgot.




TO 
MINE is a wayward lay;
And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string,
Proveth a truant thing,
Whenso some names I love, send it away I
For then, eyes swimming o'er,
And clasped hands, and smiles in fondness meant,
Are much more eloquentSo it had fain begone, and speak no more 
Yet shall it come again,
Ah, friend belov'd! if so thy wishes be,
And, with wild melody,
I will, upon thine ear, cadence my strainG2




124                TO.
Cadence my simple line,
Unfashion'd by the cunning hand of Art,
But coming from my heart,
To tell the message of its love to thine I
As ocean shells, when taken
From Ocean's bed, will faithfully repeat
Her ancient music sweet
Ev'n so these words, true to my heart, shall waken I
Oh I while our bark is seen,
Our little bark of kindly, social love,.
Down life's clear stream to move
Toward the summer shores, where all is green -
So long thy name shall bring,
Echoes of joy unto the grateful gales,
And thousand tender tales,
To freshen the fond hearts that round thee cling!




TO.               125
Hast thou not look'd upon
The flowerets of the field in lowly dress?
Blame not my simplenessThink only of my love! —my song is gone.




STANZAS
Occasioned by a passage in Mr. Emerson's Journal,  which
states, that on the mention of Lord Byron's name, Cap,
tain Demetrius, an old Roumeliot, burst into tears.
NAME not his name, or look afarFor when my spirit hears
That name, its strength is turned to woeMy voice is turned to tears.
Name me the host and battle-storm,
Mine own good sword shall stem;
Name me the foeman and the block,
I have a smile for them!
But name him not, or cease to mark
This brow where passions sweepBehold, a warrior is a man,
And as a man may weep!




STANZAS.                    127
I could not scorn my Country's foes,
Did not these tears descendI could not love my Country's fame,
And not my Country's Friend.
Deem not his memory e'er can be
Upon our spirits dim —
Name us the generous and the free,
And we must think of him!
For his voice resounded through our land
Like the voice of liberty,
As when the war-trump of the wind,
Upstirs our dark blue sea.
His arm was in the foremost rank,
Where embattled thousands rollHis name was in the love of Greece,
And his spell was on her soul!




128                   STANZAS.
But the arm that wielded her good sword,
The brow that wore the wreath,
The lips that breathed the deathless thoughtsThey went asleep in death.
Ye left his HEART, when ye took away
The dust in funeral state;
And we dumbly placed in a little urn,
That home of all things great.
The banner streamed-the war-shout roseOur heroes played their part;
But not a pulse would throb or burnOh! could it be his heart!
I will not think-'tis worse than vain
Upon such thoughts to keep;
Then, Briton, name me not his nameI cannot choose but weep!




THE PAST.
THERE is a silence upon the Ocean,
Albeit it swells with a feverish motion;
Like to the battle-camp's fearful calm,
While the banners are spread, and the warriors arm.
The winds beat not their drum to the waves,
But sullenly moan in the distant caves;
Talking over, before they rise,
Some of their dark conspiracies.
And so it is in this life of ours,
A calm may be on the present hours,
But the calmest hour of festive glee
May turn the mother of woe to thee.
G 3




130                  THE PAST.
I will betake me to the Past,
And she shall make my love at last;
I will find my home in her tarrying-place —
I will gaze all day on her deathly face!
Her form, though awful, is fair to view;
The clasp of her hand, though cold, is true;
Her shadowy brow hath no changefulness,
And her numbered smiiiles can grow no less 
Her voice is like a pleasant song,
Which we have not heard for very long,
And which a joy on our souls will cast,
Though we know not where we heard it last.
She shall walk with me, away, away,
Where'er the mighty have left their clay;
She shall speak to me in places lone,
With a low and holy tone.




THE PAST.                   131
Ay! when I have lit my lamp at night,
She will be present with my sprite;
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!




THE PRAYER.
METHOUGHT that I did stand upon a tombAnd all was silent as the dust beneath,
While feverish thoughts upon my soul would corme,
Losing my words in tears: I thought of death;
And prayed that when my lips gave out the breath,
The friends I loved like life might stay behind 
So, for a little while, my name might eath
Be something dear,-spoken with voices kind,
Heard with remembering looks, from  eyes which
tears would blind 1
I prayed that I might sink unto my rest,
(0 foolish, selfish prayer!) before them all;
So I might look my last on those loved best —




THE PRAYER.                     133
So never would my voice repining call,
And never would my tears impassioned fall
On one familiar face turning to clay!
So would my tune of life be musical,
Albeit abrupt-like airs the Spaniards play,
Which in the sweetest part, break off, and die away.
Methought I looked around! the scene was rife
With little vales, green banks, and waters heaving,
And every living thing did joy in life,
And every thing of beauty did seem livingOh, then, life's pulse was at my heart reviving;
And then I knew that it was good to bear
Dispensed woe, that by the spirit's grieving,
It might be weaned from a world so fair!
Thus with submissive words mine heart did close its
prayer.




ON A PICTURE OF RIEGO'S WIDOW,
PLACED IN THE EXHIBITION.
DAUGHTER of Spain I a passer by
May mark the cheek serenely paleThe dark eyes which dream silently,
And the calm lip which gives no wail 
Calm! it bears not a deeper trace
Of feelings it disdained to show;
We look upon the Widow's face,
And only read the Patriot's woe!
No word, no look, no sigh of thine,
Would make his glory seem more dim;
Thou would'st not give to vulgar eyne
The sacred tear which fell for HIM.




ON A PICTURE OF RIEGO'S WIDOW.        135
Thou would'st not hold to the world's view
Thy ruined joys/thy broken heartThe jeering world-it only knew
Of all thine anguish-that thou WERT!
While o'er his grave thy steps would go
With a firm tread,-stilling thy love,As if the dust would blush below
To feel one faltering foot above.
For Spain, he dared the noble strifeFor Spain, he gave his latest breath;
And he who lived the Patriot's life,
Was dragged to die the traitor's death!
And the shout of thousands swept around,
As he stood the traitor's block beside;
But his dying lips gave a free soundLet the foe weep — THY brow had pride i




136       ON A PICTURE OF RIEGO S WIDOW.
Yet haply in the midnight air,
When none might part thy God and thee,
The lengthened sob, the passionate prayer,
Have spoken thy soul's agony!
But silent else, thou past awayThe plaint unbreath'd, the anguish hidMore voiceless than the echoing clay
Which idly knocked thy coffin's lid.
Peace be to thee! while Britons seek
This place, if British souls they bear,'Twill start the crimson in the cheek
To see Riego's widow THERE!




SONG.
WEEP, as if you thought of laughter!
Smile, as tears were coming after!
Marry your pleasures to your woes;
And think life's green well worth its rose 1
No sorrow will your heart betide,
Without a comfort by its side;
The sun may sleep in his sea-bed,
But you have starlight overhead.
Trust not to Joy! the rose of June,
When opened wide, will wither soon;
Italian days without twilight,
Will turn them suddenly to night.




138                    SONG.
Joy, most changeful of all things,
Flits away on rainbow wings;
And when they look the gayest, know,.It is that they are spread to go!




THE  DREAM.
A FRAGMENT.
I HAD a dream! —my spirit was unbound
From the dark iron of its dungeon, clay,
And rode the steeds of Time;-my thoughts had
sound,
And spoke without a word, -I went away
Among the buried ages, and did lay
The pulses of my heart beneath the touch
Of the rude minstrel Time, that he should play
Thereon, a melody which might seem such
As musing spirits love-mournful, but not too much!
I had a dream-and there mine eyes did see
The shadows of past deeds like present things —
The sepulchres of Greece and Hespery,




140                 THE DREAM.
AEgyptus, and old landes, gave up their kings,
Their prophets, saints, and minstrels, whose lutestrings
Keep a long echo-yea, the dead, white bones,
Did stand up by the house whereto Death clings,
And dressed themselves in life, speaking of thrones,
And fame, and power, and beauty, in familiar tones!
I went back further still, for I beheld
What time the earth was one fair ParadiseAnd over such bright meads the waters welled,
I wot the rainbow was content to rise
Upon the earth, when absent from the skies!
And there were tall trees that I never knew,
Whereon sate nameless birds in merry guise,
Folding their radiant wings, as the flowers do,
When summer nights send sleep down with the dew.
-                       * ^  ^  ^




THE DREAM.                  141
Anon there came a change-a terrible motion,
That made all living things grow pale and shake!
The dark  Heavens bowed  themselves unto the
ocean,
Like a strong man in strife-Ocean did take
His flight across the mountains; and the lake
Was lashed into a sea where the winds rideEarth was no more, for in her merrymake
She had forgot her God-Sin claimed his bride,
And with his vampire breath sucked out her life's
fair tide!
Life went back to her nostrils, and she raised
Her spirit from the waters once again.The lovely sights, on which I erst had gazed,
Were not-though she was beautiful as when
The Grecian called her " Beauty "-sinful men




142                THE DREAM.
Walked i' the track of the waters, and felt boldYea, they looked up to Heaven in calm disdain,
As if no eye had seen its vault unfold
Darkness, and fear, and death!-as if a tale were
told!
And ages fled away within my dream;
And still Sin made the heart his dwelling-place,
Eclipsing Heaven from men; but it would seem
That two or three dared commune face to face,
And speak of the soul's life, of hope, and graceAnon there rose such sounds as angels breatheFor a God came to die, bringing down peace" Pan was not;" and the darkness that did wreathe
The earth, past from the soul-Life came by death!
Ile          f     *   - 




RIGA'S LAST  SONG.
I HAVE looked my last on my native land,
And over these strings I throw my hand,
To say in the death-hour's minstrelsy,
Hellas, my country! farewell to thee!
I have looked my last on my native shore;
I shall tread my country's plains no more 
But my last thought is of her fame;
But my last breath speaketh her name!
And though these lips shall soon be still,
They may now obey the spirit's will;
Though the dust be fettered, the spirit is free —
Hellas, my country! farewell to thee 




144                RIGA'S LAST SONG.
I go to death-but I leave behind
The stirrings of Freedom's mighty mind;
Her voice shall arise from plain to sky,
Her steps shall tread where my ashes lie!
I looked on the mountains of proud Souli,
And the mountains they seemed to look on me;
I spoke my thought on Marathon's plain,
And Marathon seemed to speak again!
And as I journeyed on my way,
I saw an infant group at play;
One shouted aloud in his childish glee,
And showed me the heights of Thermopyle!
I gazed on peasants hurrying by,The dark Greek pride crouched in their eye;
So I swear in my death-hour's minstrelsy,
Hellas, my country! thou shalt be free!




RIGA S LAST SONG.              145
No more!-I dash my lyre on the ground —
I tear its strings from their home of soundFor the music of slaves shall never keep
Where the hand of a freeman was wont to sweep!
And I bend my brows above the block,
Silently waiting the swift death shock;
For these lips shall speak what becomes the freeOr-Hellas, my country! farewell to thee I
He bowed his head with a Patriot's pride,
And his dead trunk fell the mute lyre beside i
The soul of each had past awaySoundless the strings-breathless the clay!
H




THE VISION OF FAME.
DID ye ever sit on summer noon,
Half musing and half asleep,
When ye smile in such a dreamy way,
Ye know not if ye weepWhen the little flowers are thick beneath,
And the welkin blue above 
When there is not a sound but the cattle's low,
And the voice of the woodland dove?
A while ago and I dreamed thusI mused on ancient story,For the heart like a minstrel of old doth seemn
It delighteth to sing of glory.




THE VISION OF FAME.               147
What time I saw before me stand,
A bright and lofty One;
A golden lute was in her hand,
And her brow drooped thereon.
But the brow that drooped was raised soon,
Shewing its royal sheenIt was, I guessed, no human brow,
Though pleasant to human een.
And this brow of peerless majesty,
With its whiteness did enshroud
Two eyes, that, darkly mystical,
Gan look up at a cloud.
Like to the hair of Berenice,
Fetch'd from its house of light,
Was the hair which wreathed her shadowless forEmAnd Fame the ladye hight I
H 2




148           THE VISION OF FAME.
But as she wended on to me,
My heart's deep fear was chidden;
For she called up the sprite of Melody,
Which in her lute lay hidden.
When ye speak to well-beloved ones,
Your voice is tender and low:
The wires methought did love her touchFor they did answer so.
And her lips in such a quiet way
Gave the chant soft and long,You might have thought she only breathed,
And that her breath was song:" When Death shrouds thy memory,
Love is no shrineThe dear eyes that weep for thee,
Soon sleep like thine I




THE VISION OF FAME.            149
The wail murmured over thee,
Fainteth away;
And the heart which kept love for thee,
Turns into clay!
"But would'st thou remembered be,
Make me thy vow;
This verse that flows gushingly,
Telleth thee how-.Linking thy hand in mine,
Listen to me,
So not a thought of thine
Dieth with thee" Rifle thy pulsing heart
Of the gift, love made 
Bid thine eye's light depart;
Let thy cheek fade!




150            THE VISION OF FAME.
Give me the slumber deep,
Which night-long seems;
Give me the joys that creep
Into thy dreams!
"Give me thy youthful years,
Merriest that flySo the word, spoke in tears,
Liveth for aye!
So thy sepulchral stone,
Nations may raiseWhat time thy soul hath known
The worth of praise /"
She did not sing this chant to me,
Though I was sitting by;
But I listened to it with chained breath,
That had no power to sigh.




TI-E VISION OF FAME.            1
And ever as the chant went on,
Its measure changed to wail;
And ever as the lips sang on,
Her face did grow more pale.
Paler and paler-till anon
A fear came o'er my soul;
For the flesh curled up from her bones,
Like to a blasted scroll!
Ay! silently it dropped away,
Before my wondering sightThere was only a bleached skeleton,
Where erst was ladye bright!
But still the vacant sockets gleamed
With supernatural firesBut still the boney hands did ring
Against the shuddering wires'




152             THE VISION  OF FAME.
Alas, alas! I wended home,
With a sorrow and a shameIs Fame the rest of our poor hearts.
Woe's me  for THIS is FAME!




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS,
[Published 1833.]




IThe following pieces were published at the end of
a volume entitledPrometheuvs Bound.  2'ranslated from the Greek of
sE-schylus, and liscellaneous Poems, by the T'ranslator,  Author of " An Essay on Mind," with others Poems.
TO rrp v!Ev KIaX crXosM2imgner'mus.'Eyyv'6Ov avckYrfpoos caGloolma.LTheognis.
London, Printed and Published by A. J. Valpy, M.A.
Red Lion-court, Fleet-street.  1833.]




CONTENTS.
THE  TEMPEST.o...........               0...  o................      157
A  SEA-SIDE  MEDITATION..............................    169
A  VISION  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH....................                    178
EARTH.............................................   c.                185
THE  PICTURE  GALLERY  AT  PENSHURST............   189
TO  A  POET'S  CHILD.............................    193
MINSTRELSY..................................       198
TO TIE MEMORY OF SIR UVEDALE PRICE, BART....  202
THE  AUTUMN........................................                    207
THE  DEATH-BED  OF  TERESA  DEL  RIEGO............    210
TO  VICTOIRE, ON   HER  MARRIAGE..................                     213
TO  A  BOYr..........................................   216
REMONSTRANCE  AND  REPLY..........................   220
i 2




CONTENTS.
AN    EPITAPH........................................                                          223
THE   IMAGA   OF   GOD.................................                                       224
THE APPEAL....................................    227
IDOLS.............................................  232'
HYMN...................................................                                       235)
tWEA.1RINESS............                                                       23............~,... o^.....,..~  238




THE TEMPEST.
A FRAGMENT.'Mors erat ante oculos."
LUCAN, lib. ix.
The forest made my home-the voiceful streams
My minstrel throng: the everlasting hills,Which marry with the firmament, and cry
Unto the brazen thunder,' Come away,
Come from thy secret place, and try our strengthl,-'
Enwrapp'd me with their solemn arms.  Here, ligllt
Grew pale as darkness, scared by the shade
0' the forest Titans. Here, in piny state,
Reign'd Night, the -Ethiopian queen, and crowun'd




158                 THE TEMPEST,
The charmed brow of Solitude, her spouse.
%     -%    %     ~     ~     -% *-. *
A sign was on creation.  You beheld
All things encolour'd in a sulph'rous hue,
As day were sick with fear.  The haggard clouds
O'erhung the utter lifelessness of air;
The top boughs of the forest all aghast,
Stared in the face of Heav'n; the deep-mouth'd wind,
That hath a voice to bay the armed sea,
Fled with a low cry like a beaten hound;
And only that askance the shadows, flew
Some open-beaked birds in wilderment,
Naught stirr'd abroad.  All dumb did Nature seem,
In expectation of the coming storm.
It came in power.  You soon might hear afar
The footsteps of the martial thunder sound




THE TEMIPEST.                1 5 9
Over the mountain battlements; the sky
Being deep-stain'd with hues fantastical,
Red like to blood, and yellow like to fire,
And black like plumes at funerals; overhead
You might behold the lightning faintly gleam
Amid the clouds which thrill and gape aside,
And straight again shut up their solemn jaws,
As if to interpose between Heaven's wrath
And Earth's despair. Interposition brief!
Darkness is gathering out her mighty pall
Above us, and the pent-up rain is loosed,
Down trampling in its fierce delirium.
Was not my spirit gladden'd, as with wine,,
To hear the iron rain, and view the mark
Of battle on the banner of the clouds?
Did I not hearken for the battle-cry,
And rush along the bowing woods to meet




160                  THE TEMPEST.
The riding Tempest-skyey cataracts
Hissing around him with rebellion vain.
Yea! and I lifted up my glorying voice
In an' All hail;' when, wildly resonant,
As brazen chariots rushing from the war,
As passion'd waters gushing from the rock,
As thousand crashed woods, the thunder cried:
And at his cry the forest tops were shook
As by the woodman's axe; and far and near
Stagger'd the mountains with a mutter'd dread.
All hail unto the lightning! hurriedly
His lurid arms are glaring through the air,
Making the face of heav'n to show like hell!
Let him go breathe his sulphur stench about,
And, pale with death's own mission, lord the storm!
Again the gleam-the glare: I turn'd to hail
Death's mission: at my feet there lay the dead i




THE TEMPEST.                  1 6 
The dead-the dead lay there  I could not view
(For Night espoused the storm, and made all dark)
Its features, but the lightning in his course
Shiver'd above a white and corpse-like heap,
Stretch'd in the path, as if to show his prey,
And have a triumph ere he pass'd.  Then I
Crouch'd down upon the ground, and groped about
Until I touch'd that thing of flesh, rain-drench'd,
And chill, and soft. Nathless, I did refrain
My soul from natural horror! I did lift
The heavy head, half-bedded in the clay,
Unto my knee; and pass'd my fingers o'er
The wet face, touching every lineament,
Until I found the brow; and chafed its chill,
To know if life yet linger'd in its pulse.
And while I was so busied, there did leap
From out the entrails of the firmament,
The lightning, who his white unblenching breath
Blew in the dead man's face, discov'ring it
I 3




162                 THE TEMPEST.
As by a staring day-  I knew that faceHis, who did hate me-his, whom I did hate I
I shrunk not  spake not —sprang not from the ground.
But felt my lips shake without cry or breath,
And mine heart wrestle in my breast to still
The tossing of its pulses; and a cold,
Instead of living blood, o'ercreep my brow.
Albeit such darkness brooded all around,
I had dread knowledge that the open eyes
Of that dead man were glaring up to mine,
With their unwinking, unexpressive stare;
And mine I could not shut nor turn away.
The man was my familiar.  I had borne
Those eyes to scowl on me their living hate,
Better than I could bear their deadliness 
I had endured the curses of those lips,
Far better than their silence.  Oh constrain'd
And awful silence!-awful peace of death!




THE TEMPEST.                    63
There is an answer to all questioning,
That one word-death.  Our bitterness can throw
No look upon the face of death, and live.
The burning thoughts that erst my soul illumed,
Were quench'd at once; as tapers in a pit
Wherein the vapour-witches weirdly reign
In charge of darkness.  Farewell all the past 
It was out-blotted from my memory's eyes,
When clay's cold silence pleaded for its sin.
Farewell the elemental war! farewell
The clashing of the shielded clouds-the cry
Of scathed echoes! I no longer knew
Silence from sound, but wander'd far away
Into the deep Eleusis of mine heart,
To learn its secret things.  When armed foes
Meet on one deck with impulse violent,
The vessel quakes thro' all her oaken ribs,
And shivers in the sea; so with mine heart:




164                 THE TEMPEST.
For there had battled in her solitudes,
Contrary spirits; sympathy with power,
And stooping unto power;-the energy
And passiveness,-the thunder and the death t
Within me was a nameless thought: it closed
The Janus of my soul on echoing hinge,
And said'Peace!' with a voice like War's. I bow'd,
And trembled at its voice: it gave a key,
Empower'd to open out all mysteries
Of soul and flesh; of man, who doth begin,
But endeth not; of life, and after life.
Day came at last: her light show'd gray and sad,
As hatch'd by tempest, and could scarce prevail
Over the shaggy forest to imprint
Its outline on the sky — expressionless,
Almost sans shadow as sans radiance:
An idiocy of light. I wakened from




THE TEMPEST.                165
My deep unslumb'ring dream, but utter'd naught.
My living I uncoupled from the dead,
And look'd out,'mid the swart and sluggish air,
For place to make a grave. A mighty tree
Above me, his gigantic arms outstretch'd,
Poising the clouds. A thousand mutter'd spells
Of every ancient wind and thun'drous storm,
Had been off-shaken from his scathless bark.
He had heard distant years sweet concord yield,
And go to silence; having firmly kept
Majestical companionship with Time.
Anon his strength wax'd proud: his tusky roots
Forced for themselves a path on every side,
Riving the earth; and, in their savage scorn,
Casting it from them like a thing unclean,
Which might impede his naked clambering
Unto the heavens.  Now blasted, peel'd, he stood,
By the gone night, whose lightning had come in
And rent him, even as it rent the man




166                THE TEMPEST.
Beneath his shade: and there the strong and weak
Communion join'd in deathly agony.
There, underneath, I lent my feverish strength,
To scoop a lodgment for the traveller's corse.
I gave it to the silence and the pit,
And strew'd the heavy earth on all: and thenI-I, whose hands had form'd that silent house,I could not look thereon, but turn'd and wept 
*    i                3 ~~  -~ -       3 X
%  X           X          X *       i  * 
Oh Death —oh crowned Death-pale-steeded Death 
Whose name doth make our respiration brief,
Muffling the spirit's drum! Thou, whom men know
Alone by charnel-houses, and the dark
Sweeping of funeral feathers, and the scath
Of happy days,-love deem'd inviolate 
Thou of the shrouded face, which to have seen
Is to be very awful, like thyself!




THE TEMPEST.                 167
Thou, whom all flesh shall see!-thou, who dost call,
And there is none to answer!-thou, whose call
Changeth all beauty into what we fear,
Changeth all glory into what we tread,
Genius to silence, wrath to nothingness,
And love —not love! —thou hast no change for love I
Thou, who art Life's betroth'd, and bear'st her forth
To scare her with sad sights,-who hast thy joy
Where'er the peopled towns are dumb with plague,Where'er the battle and the vulture meet,Where'er the deep sea writhes like Laocoon
Beneath the serpent winds, and vessels split
On secret rocks, and men go gurgling down,
Down, down, to lose their shriekings in the depth
Oh universal thou! who comest aye
Among the minstrels, and their tongue is tied;Among the sophists, and their brain is still;Among the mourners, and their wail is done;Among the dancers, and their tinkling feet
No more make echoes on the tombing earth;



168                THE TEMIPEST.
Among the wassail rout, and all the lamps
Are quench'd; and wither'd the wine-pouring hands!
Mine heart is armed not in panoply
Of the old Roman iron, nor assumes
The Stoic valour.'Tis a human heart
And so confesses, with a human fear;That only for the hope the cross inspires,
That only for the MAN who died and lives,'Twould crouch beneath thy sceptre's royalty,
With faintness of the pulse, and backward cling
To life. But knowing what I soothly know,
High-seeming Death, I dare thee! and have hope,
In God's good time, of showing to thy face
An unsuccumbing spirit, which sublime
May cast away the low anxieties
That wait upon the flesh-the reptile moods;
And enter that eternity to come,
Where live the dead, and only Death shall die.




A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.
" Ut per aquas que nune rerum simulacra videnms.
LUCRETIUS, lib. 
Go, travel'mid the hills! The summer's hand
Hath shaken pleasant freshness o'er them all.
Go, travel'mid the hills  There, tuneful streams
Are touching myriad stops, invisible;
And winds, and leaves, and  birds, and  your  own
thoughts,
(Not the least glad) in wordless chorus, crowd
Around the thymele5 of Nature.
* The central point of the choral movements in the Greek
theatre.




170            A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.
Go,
And travel onward.  Soon shall leaf and bird,
Wind, stream, no longer sound.  Thou shalt behold
Only the pathless sky, and houseless sward;
O'er which anon are spied innumerous sails
Of fisher vessels like the wings o' the hill,
And white as gulls above them, and as fast.But sink they-sink they out of sight.  And now
The wind is springing upward in your face;
And, with its fresh-toned gushings, you may hear
Continuous sound which is not of the wind,
Nor of the thunder, nor o' the cataract's
Deep passion, nor o' the earthquake's wilder pulse;
But which rolls on in stern tranquillity,
As memories of evil o'er the soul;Boweth the bare broad Heav'n.-What view you 
sea-and sea!
The sea —the glorious sea! from side to side,




A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.           171
Swnging the grandeur of his foamy strength,
And undersweeping the horizon,-onOn-with his life and voice inscrutable.
Pause: sit you down in silence! I have read
Of that Athenian, who, when ocean raged,
Unchain'd the prison'd music of his lips,
By shouting to the billows, sound for sound.
I marvel how his mind would let his tongue
Affront thereby the ocean's solemness.
Are we not mute, or speak restrainedly,
When overhead the trampling tempests go,
Dashing their lightning from their hoofs? and when
We stand beside the bier  and when we see
The strong bow down to weep-and stray among
Places which dust or mind hath sanctified?
Yea I for such sights and acts do tear apart
The close and subtle clasping of a chain,
Form'd not of gold, but of corroded brass,
Whose links are furnish'd from the common mine




172            A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.
Of every day's event, and want, and wish;
From work-times, diet-times, and sleeping-times:
And thence constructed, mean and heavy links
Within the pandemonic walls of sense,
Enchain our deathless part, constrain our strength,
And waste the goodly stature of our soul.
Howbeit, we love this bondage; we do cleave
Unto the sordid and unholy thing,
Fearing the sudden wrench required to break
Those clasped links.  Behold! all sights and sounds
In air, and sea, and earth, and under earth,
All flesh, all life, all ends, are mysteries;
And all that is mysterious dreadful seems,
And all we cannot understand we fear.
Ourselves do scare ourselves: we hide our sight
In artificial nature from the true,
And throw sensation's veil associative
On God's creation, man's intelligence;




A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.             173
Bowing our high imaginings to eat
Dust, like the serpent, once erect as they;
Binding conspicuous on our reason's brow
Phylacteries of shame; learning to feel
By rote, and act by rule, (man's rule, not God's!)
Until our words grow echoes, and our thoughts
A mechanism of spirit.
Can this last?
No! not for aye.  We cannot subject aye
The heav'n-born spirit to the earth-born flesh.
Tame lions will scent blood, and appetite
Carnivorous glare from out their restless eyes.
Passions, emotions, sudden changes, throw
Our nature back upon us, till we burn.
What warm'd Cyrene's fount?  As poets sing,
The change from light to dark, from dark to light.
All that doth force this nature back on us,
All that doth force the mind to view the mind,




174            A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.
Engend'reth what is named by men, sublime.
Thus when, our wonted valley left, we gain
The mountain's horrent brow, and mark from thence
The sweep of lands extending with the sky;
Or view the spanless plain; or turn our sight
Upon yon deep's immensity; —we breathe
As if our breath were marble: to and fro
Do reel our pulses, and our words are mute.
We cannot mete by parts, but grapple all:
We cannot measure with our eye, but soul;
And fear is on us.  The extent unused,
Our spirit, sends, to spirit's element,
To seize upon abstractions: first on space,
The which eternity in place, I deem;
And then upon eternity; till thought
Hath form'd a mirror from their secret sense,
Wherein we view ourselves, and back recoil
At our own awful likeness; ne'ertheless,
Cling to that likeness with a wonder wild,




A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.           175
And while we tremble, glory-proud in fear.
So ends the prose of life: and so shall be
Unlock'd her poetry's magnific store.
And so, thou pathless and perpetual sea,
So, o'er thy deeps, I brooded and must brood,
Whether I view thee in thy dreadful peace,
Like a spent warrior hanging in the sun
His glittering arms, and meditating death;
Or whether thy wild visage gath'reth shades,
What time thou marshall'st forth thy waves who hold
A covenant of storms, then roar and wind
Under the rocking rocks; as martyrs lie
Wheel-bound; and, dying, utter lofty words!
Whether the strength of day is young and high,
Or whether, weary of the watch, he sits
Pale on thy wave, and weeps himself to death;In storm and calm, at morn and eventide,
Still have I stood beside thee, and out-thrown




176           A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.
My spirit onward on thine element,
Beyond thine element,- to tremble low
Before those feet which trod thee as they trod
Earth,-to the holy, happy, peopled place,
Where there is no more sea. Yea, and my soul,
Having put on thy vast similitude,
Hath wildly moaned at her proper depth,
Echoed her proper musings, veil'd in shade
Her secrets of decay, and exercised
An elemental strength, in casting up
Rare gems and things of death on fancy's shore,
Till Nature said,' Enough.'
Who longest dreams,
Dreams not for ever; seeing day and night
And corporal feebleness divide his dreams,
And, on his elevate creations weigh
With hunger, cold, heat, darkness, weariness 
Else should we be like gods; else would the course
Of thought's free wheels, increased in speed and might,




A SEA-SIDE MEDITATION.             177
By an eterne volution, oversweep
The heights of wisdom, and invade her depths:
So, knowing all things, should we have all power;
For is not Knowledge power. But mighty spells
Our operation sear; the Babel must,
Or ere it touch the sky, fall down to earth:
The web, half form'd, must tumble from our hands,
And, ere they can resume it, lie decay'd.
Mind struggles vainly from the flesh.  E'en so,
Hell's angel (saith a scroll apocryphal)
Shall, when the latter days of earth have shrunk
Before the blast of God, affect his heav'n;
Lift his scarr'd brow, confirm his rebel heart,
Shoot his strong wings, and darken pole and pole,Till day be blotted into night; and shake
The fever'd clouds, as if a thousand storms
Throbb'd-into life! Vain hope-vain strength-vain
flight!
God's arm shall meet God's foe, and hurl him back!
K




A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH.
MINE ears were deaf to melody,
My lips were dumb to sound:
Where didst thou wander, oh my soul,
When ear and tongue were bound' I wander'd by the stream of time,
Made dark by human tears:
I threw my voice upon the waves,
And they did throw me theirs.'
And how did sound the waves, my soul?
And how did sound the waves 1
Hoarse, hoarse, and wild!-they ever dash'd'Gainst ruin'd thrones and graves.'




A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH.          1 79
And what sight on the shore, my soul 
And what sight on the shore' Twain beings sate there silently,
And sit there evermore.'
Now tell me fast and true, my soul;
Now tell me of those twain.'One was yclothed in mourning vest,
And one, in trappings vain.
She, in the trappings vain, was fair,
And eke fantastical:
A thousand colours dyed her garb;
A blackness bound them all.'In part her hair was gaily wreath'd,
In part was wildly spread:
Her face did change its hue too fast,
To say'twas pale or red.
K2




I80        A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATIH.
And when she look'd on earth, I thought
She smiled for very glee:
But when she look'd to heav'n, I knew
That tears stood in her ee.
She held a mirror, there to gaze:
It could no cheer bestow;
For while her beauty cast the shade,
Her breath did make it go.'A harper's harp did lie by her,
Without the harper's host;
A monarch's crown did lie by her,
Wherein an owl had nest:
A warrior's sword did lie by her,
Grown rusty since the fight;
A poet's lamp did lie by her:
Ah me — where was its light.'




A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH.           181
And what didst thou say, 0, my soul,
Unto that mystic dame 3
I ask'd her of her tears, and eke
I ask'd her of her name.
She said, she built a prince's throne 
She said, he ruled the grave;
And that the levelling worm ask'd not
If he were king or slave.
She said, she form'd a godlike tongue,
Which lofty thoughts unsheathed;
Which roll'd its thunder round, and purged
The air the nations breathed.
She said, that tongue, all eloquent,
With silent dust did mate;
Whereon false friends betray'd long faith,
And foes outspat their hate.




182        A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH.
She said, she warm'd a student's heart,
But heart and brow'gan fade:
Alas, alas! those Delphic trees
Do cast an upas shade!' She said, she lighted happy hearths,
Whose mirth was all forgot:
She said, she tuned marriage bells,
Which rang when love was not.'She said, her name was Life; and then
Out laugh'd and wept aloud, —
What time the other being strange
Lifted the veiling shroud.'Yea! lifted she the veiling shroud,
And breathed the icy breath;
Whereat, with inward shLudcer;ng,
I knew her name was Death.




A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH.           18 3
Yea  lifted she her calm, calm brow,
Her clear cold-smile on me:
Whereat within my deepness, leap'd
Mine immortality.
She told me, it did move her smile,
To witness how I sigh'd,
Because that what was fragile brake,
And what was mortal died:
As if that kings could grasp the earth,
Who from  its dust began;
As if that suns could shine at night,
Or glory dwell with man.'She told me, she had freed his soul,
Who aye did freedom love;
Who now reck'd not, were worms below,
Or ranker worms above!




184        A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH,' She said, the stident's heart had beat
Against its prison dim;
Until she crush'd the bars of flesh,
And pour'd truth's light on him.
She said, that they who left the he arth
For aye in sunshine dwell 
She said, the funeral tolling brought
More joy than marriage bell I
And as she spake, she spake less loud 
The stream resounded more:
Anon I nothing heard but waves
That wail'd along the shore.'
And what didst thou say, oh my souil,
Upon that mystic strife?'I said, that Life was only Death,
That only Death was Life.'




EARTH.
How beautiful is earth! my starry thoughts
Look down on it from their unearthly sphere,
And sing symphonious-Beautiful is earth!
The lights and shadows of her myriad hills;
The branching greenness of her myriad woods;
Her sky-affecting rocks; her zoning sea;
Her rushing, gleaming cataracts; her streams
That race below, the winged clouds on high;
Her pleasantness of vale and meadow!Hush
Meseemeth through the leafy trees to ring
A chime of bells to falling waters tuned;




186                  EARTH.
Whereat comes heathen Zephyrus, out of breath
With running up the hills, and shakes his hair
From off his gleesome forehead, bold and glad
With keeping blythe Dan Phoebus company;And throws him on the grass, though half afraid,
First glancing round, lest tempests should be nigh'
And lays close to the ground his ruddy lips,
And shapes their beauty into sound, and calls
On all the petall'd flowers that sit beneath
In hiding-places from the rain and snow,
To loosen the hard soil, and leave their cold
Sad idlesse, and betake them up to him.
They straightway hear his voiceA thought did come,
And press from out my soul the heathen dream.
Mine eyes were purged.  Straightway did I bind
Round me the garment of my strength, and heard
Nature's death-shrieking-the hereafter cry,




EARTH.                  18 
When he o' the lion voice, the rainbow-crown'dl,
Shall stand upon the mountains and the sea,
And swear by earth, by heaven's throne, and Him
Who sitteth on the throne, there shall be time
No more, no more I Then, veil'd Eternity
Shall straight unveil her awful countenance
Unto the reeling worlds, and take the place
Of seasons, years, and ages. Aye and aye
Shall be the time of day.  The wrinkled heav'n
Shall yield her silent sun, made blind and white
With an exterminating light: the wind,
Unchained from the poles, nor having charge
Of cloud or ocean, with a sobbing wail
Shall rush among the stars, and swoon to death.
Yea, the shrunk earth, appearing livid pale
Beneath the red-tongued flame, shall shudder by
From out her ancient place, and leave-a void.
Yet haply by that void the saints redeem'd
May sometimes stray; when memory of sin




188                      EARTH.
Ghost-like shall rise upon'their holy souls 
And on their lips shall lie the name of earth
In paleness and in silentness; until
Each looking on his brother, face to face,
And bursting into sudden happy tears,
('he only tears undried) shall murmur-' Christ'




THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST1
THEY spoke unto me from the silent ground,
They look'd unto me from the pictured wall:
The echo of my footstep was a sound
Like to the echo of their own footfall,
What time their living feet were in the hall.
I breathed where they had breathed —and where
they brought
Their souls to moralize on glory's pall,
I walk'd with silence in a cloud of thought:
So, what they erst had learn'd, I mine own spirit
taught.




190     THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.
Ay! with mine eyes of flesh, I did behold
The likeness of their flesh 1 They, the great dead,
Stood still upon the canvass, while I told
The glorious memories to their ashes wed.
There, I beheld the Sidneys:-he, who bled
Freely for freedom's sake, bore gallantly
His soul upon his brow;-he, whose lute said
Sweet music to the land, meseem'd to be
Dreaming with that pale face, of love and Arcadie.
Mine heart had shrined these.  And therefore past
Where these, and such as these, in mine heart's pride,
Which deem'd death, glory's other name. At last
I stay'd my pilgrim feet, and paused beside
A picture,` which the shadows half did hide.
The form was a fair woman's form; the brow
Brightly between the clustering curls espied 
The cheek a little pale, yet seeming so
As, if the lips could speak, the paleness soon would go.
* Vancyke's portrait of Waller's Sacharissa.




THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.           191
And rested there the lips, so warm and loving,
That, they could speak, one might be fain to guess:
Only they had been much too bright, if moving,
To stay by their own will, all motionless.
One outstretch'd hand its marble seal'gan press
On roses which look'd fading; while the eyes,
Uplifted in a calm, proud loveliness,
Seem'd busy with, their flow'ry destinies,
Drawing, for ladye's heart, some moral quaint and wise.
She perish'd like her roses. I did look
On her, as she did look on them-to sigh!
Alas, alas! that the fair-written book
Of her sweet face, should be in death laid by,
As any blotted scroll! Its cruelty
Poison'd a heart most gentle-pulsed of all,
And turn'd it unto song, therein to die:
For griefs stern tension maketh musical,
Unless the strain'd string break or ere the music fall.




192    THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.
Worship of Waller's heart! no dream of thine
Reveal'd unto thee, that the lowly one,
Who sate enshadow'd near thy beauty's shine,
Should, when the light was out, the life was done,
Record thy name with those by Memory won
From Time's eternal burial.  I am woo'd
By wholesome thoughts this sad thought hath
begun,
For mind is strengthen'd when awhile subdued,
As he who touch'd the earth, and rose with power
renew'd.




TO A POET'S CHILD.
A far harp swept the sea above;
A far voice said thy name in love:
Then silence on the harp was cast;
The voice was chain'd-the love went last!
And as I heard the melodie,
Sweet-voiced Fancy spake of thee 
And as the silence o'er it came,
Mine heart, in silence, sigh'd thy name.
I thought there was one only place,
Where thou couldst lift thine orphan'd face
A little home for prayer and woe;A stone above-a shroud below;



194             TO A POET'S CHILD.
That evermore, that stone beside,
Thy wither'd joys would form thy pride 
As palm trees, on their south sea bed,
Make islands with the flowers they shed.
Child of the Dead! my dream of thee
Was sad to tell, and dark to see;
And vain as many a brighter dream;
Since thou canst sing by Babel's stream!
For here, amid the worldly crowd,'Mid common brows, and laughter loud,
And hollow words, and feelings sere,
Child of the Dead! I meet thee here!
And is thy step so fast and light $
And is thy smile so gay and bright 
And canst thou smile, with cheek undim,
Upon a world that frown'd on him?




TO A POET'S CHILD.              195
The minstrel's harp is on his bier 
What doth the minstrel's orphan here 
The loving moulders in the clay;
The loved,-she keepeth holyday!'Tis well! I would not doom thy years
Of golden prime, to only tears.
Fair girl!'twere better that thine eyes
Should find a joy in summer skies,
As if their sun were on thy fate.
Be happy; strive not to be great;
And go not, from thy kind apart,
With lofty soul and stricken heart.
Think not too deeply: shallow thought,
Like open rills, is ever sought
By light and flowers; while fountains deep
Amid the rocks and shadows sleep.




196               TO A POET'S CHILD.
Feel not too warmly: lest thou be
Too like Cyrene's waters free,
Which burn at night, when all around
In darkness and in chill is found.
Touch not the harp to win the wreath:
Its tone is fame, its echo death I
Th3 wreath may like the laurel grow,
Yet turns to cypress on the brow!
And, as a flame springs clear and bright,
Yet leaveth ashes'stead of light;
So genius (fatal gift)! is doom'd
To leave the heart it fired, consumed.
For thee, for thee, thou orphan'd one,
I make an humble orison!
Love all the world; and ever dream
That all are true who truly seem.




TO A POET'S CHILD.                 197
Forget! for, so,'twill move thee not,
Or lightly move; to be forgot!
Be streams thy music; hills, thy mirth;
Thy chiefest light, the household hearth.
So, when grief plays her natural part,
And visiteth thy quiet heart;
Shall all the clouds of grief be seen
To show a sky of hope between.
So, when thy beauty senseless lies,
No sculptured urn shall o'er thee rise;
But gentle eyes shall weep at will,
Such tears as hearts like thine distil.




MI INS T R E LS Y.
One asked her once the resun why,
She hadde delyte in minstrelsie,
She answered on this inan6re.
Robert de Brunneo
For ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature's pictured books;
For ever, since my childish tongue
Could name the themes our bards have sung;
So long, the sweetness of their singing
Hath been to me a rapture bringing!
Yet ask me not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.




MINSTRELSY.                 1 99
I know that much whereof I sing,
Is shapen but for vanishing;
I know that summer's flower and leaf
And shine and shade are very brief,
And that the heart they brighten, may,
Before them all, be sheathed in clay!I do not know the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
A few there are, whose smile and praise
My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:
But, of those few-Death may impress
The lips of some with silentness;
While some may friendship's faith resign,
And heed no more a song of mine.Ask not, ask not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.




200                MINSTRELSY.
The sweetest song that minstrels sing,
Will charm not Joy to tarrying;
The greenest bay that earth can grow,
Will shelter not in burning woe;
A thousand voices will not cheer,
When one is mute that aye is dear!
Is there, alas! no reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy?
I do not know! The turf is green
Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen,
Yet asks not why that deeper hue
Doth all its tender leaves renew; —
And I, like-minded, am content,
While music to my soul is sent,
To question not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.




MINSTRELSY.                  201
Years pass-my life with them shall pass:
And soon, the cricket in the grass
And summer bird, shall louder sing
Than she who owns a minstrel's string.
Oh then may some, the dear and few,
Recall her love, whose truth they knev;
When all forget to question why
She had delight in minstrelsy!




TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR UVEDALE PRICE, BART.
FAREWELL! —a word that human lips bestow
On all that human hearts delight to know:
On summer skies, and scenes that change as fast 
On ocean calms, and faith as fit to last;
On Life, from Love's own arms, that breaks away;
On hopes that blind, and glories that decay 
And ever thus,' farewell, farewell,' is said,
As round the hills of lengthening time, we tread,
As at each step, the winding ways unfold
Some untried prospect which obscures the old;



TO THE MEMORY OF SIR U. PRICE.         203
Perhaps a prospect brightly color'd o'er,
Yet not with brightness that we loved before;
And dull and dark the brightest hue appears
To eyes like ours, surcharged and dim with tears.
Oft, oft we wish the winding road were past,
And yon supernal summit gain'd at last;
Where all that gradual change removed, is found
At once, for ever, as you look around;
Where every scene by tender eyes survey'd,
And lost and wept for, to their gaze is spreadNo tear to dim the sight, no shade to fall,
But Heaven's own sunshine lighting, charming all.
Farewell!-a common word-and yet how drear
And strange it soundeth as I write it here!
How strange that tthou a place of death shouldst fill,
Thy brain unlighted, and thine heart grown chill!
And dark the eye, whose plausive glance to draw,
Incited Nature brake her tyrant's law!
L 2




204       TO THE MEMORY OF SIR U. PRICE.
And deaf the ear, to charm whose organ true,
Mceonian music tuned her harp anew!
And mute the lips where Plato's bee hath roved;
And motionless the hand that genius moved -
Ah friend! thou speakest not!-but still to me
Do Genius, Music, Nature, speak of thee!Still golden fancy, still the sounding line,
And waving wood, recall some word of thine:
Some word, some look, whose living light is o'erAnd Memory sees what Hope can see no more.
Twice, twice, thy voice hath spoken. Twice there came
To us, a change, a joy-to thee, a fame I
Thou spakest once,Y and every pleasant sight,
Woods waving wild, and fountains gushing bright,
Cool copses, grassy banks, and all the dyes
Of shade and sunshine gleam'd before our eyes.
*Essay on the Picturesque.




TO THE MEMORY OF SIR U. PRICE.          205
Thou spakest twice;% and every pleasant sound
Its ancient silken harmony unwound,
From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay
Enclasp'd in hands whose cunning is decay.
And now no more thou speakest I Death hath met
And won thee to him I  Oh remember'd yet t
We cannot see, and hearken, and forget I
My thoughts are far.  I think upon the time,
When Foxley's purple hills and woods sublime
Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw
Thy burning spirit on the vale below,
To bathe its sense in beauty.  Lovely ground!
There, never more shall step of thine resound!
There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not,
And deck with humid eyes her favorite spot;
Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes,
And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.
* Essay on the Pronunciation of the Ancient Languages.




206       TO THE MEMORY OF SIR U. PRICE.
For me, all sorrowful, unused to raise
A minstrel song and dream not of thy praise,
Upon thy grave, my tuneless harp I lay,
Nor try to sing what only tears can say.
So warm and fast the ready waters swellSo weak the faltering voice thou knewest well 
Thy words of kindness calm'd that voice before;
gNow, thoughts of them but make it tremble more 
And leave its theme to others, and depart
To dwell within the silence where thou art.




THE AUTUMN.
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them --
The summer flowers departSit still-as all transform'd to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.




208                 THE AUTUMN.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow  is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep 
The dearest hands that clasp our hands,T/leir presence may be o'er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more 1




THE AUTUIMN.                209
Yoluth fades; andc then, the joys of youth,
Which once refreshed our mind,
Shall come-as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind,
Hear not the wind-view not the woods 
Look out o'er vale and hill:
In spring, the sky encircled themThe sky is round them still.
Come autumn's scathe-come winter's coldCome change-and human fate I
Whatever prospect HEAVEN doth bound,
Can ne'er be desolate.
L3




THE DEATH-BED OF TERESA DEL RIECO,
-- Si fia muta ogni altra cosa, al fine
Parlera il imo morire,
E ti dira la morte il mio mnartire.
GUARINI.
The roonm  was darkien'd; but a wan lamp shed
Its light upon a half-uncurtain'cd bed,
Whereon the widow'd sate.  Blackly as death
Her veiling hair hll ng round her, and no breath
Came from  her lips to motion ito   Between
Its parted  uclnds, thu calm  fair face was seen
In a snow paleness and snow silentness,
With eyes unquenchllable, whereon did press
A little, their white lids, so taught to lie,
By weights of frequent tears we-pt secretly.




THE DEATH-BED OF TERESX DEL r    iECO.           2 1 i
Her hands were clasp'd and ra.ised —the lamp did diig'
A glory on her brow's meek suffering.
Beautiful form  of womanl! seeming made
Alone to shine in mirrors, there to braid
The hair and zone the waist-to garland flowers-'To walk like sunshine through the or)an oe >wcTo strike her land's guitar-and often see
In other eyes how lovely hers must be.
Grew she acquaint with anguish     Did she sesver
For ever from  the one she loved for ever,
To dwell;mong the strangers    Ay! and she,
Whho shone most brightly m1  that festive glee,
Sate down in this despair most patiietl-y.
Some heart':s are Tliobes I In griefs downn-s\vce)iCng,
Thiey tuin to very stone from over-weei)in',
And after, feel no more.  Hers did remaiail
In life, which is the power of feeling pain,




.2 12   THE DEATH-BED OF TERESA DEL RIEGO,
Till pain consumed the life so call'd below.
She heard that he was dead!-she ask'd not how —
For he was dead! She wail'd not o'er his urn,
For he was dead-and in her hands, should burn
His vestal flame of honor radiantly,
Sighing would dim its light-she did not sigh.
She only died.  They laid her in the ground,
Whereon th' unloving tread, and accents. sound
Which are not of her Spain.  She left behind,
For those among the strangers who were kind
Unto the poor heart-broken, her dark hair.
It once was gauded out with jewels rare;
It swept her dying pillow-it doth lie
Beside me, (thank the giver) droopingly,
And very long and bright  Its tale doth go
Half to the dumb grave, half to life-time woe
Making the heart of man, if manly, ring
like Dodonsean brass, with echoing,




TO VICTOIRE, ON HER MARRIAGE.
VICTOIRE! I knew thee in thy land,
Where I was strange to all:
I heard thee; and were strange to me
The words thy lips let fall.
I loved thee-for the Babel curse
Was meant not for the heart:
I parted from thee, in such way
As those who love may part.
And now a change hath come to uS,
A sea doth rush between!
I do not know if we can be
Again as we have been.




214        TO VICTOIRE, ON HER AIARIRIACGE.
I sit clown ill mine English land,
Mine English hieatrth beside;
And thou, to one I never knew,
Art plighted for a bride.
It will not wromg thy present joy,
With by-gone dl(-ys to wend;
N or wronget1 it mine English hearth,
To love my Gallic friend.
Bind, bind the wreath! the slender rilg
Thy wedded fingers press!
iM ay he who calls thy love his owVn,
Call so thine haplpiness 
Be he Terpander to thine heart,
And string fresh strings of gold,
Whichl  may out-give new melodies,
But never mar the old 




TO VICTOIRE, ON HER M[ARRIAGE.            215
And though I clasp no more thy hand
Il my hand, and rejoiceAnd. though I see thy face no more,
And hear no more thy voiceFarewell, farewell!-let thoulght of me
Visit thine heart!  There is
In mine the very selfish prayer
Thait prayeth for thy bliss $




TO A BOY.
WHEN my last song was said for thee,
Thy golden hair swept, long and free,
Around thee; and a dove-like tone
Was on thy voice-or Nature's own:
And every phrase and word of thine
Went out in lispings infantine 
Thy small steps faltering round our hearthThine een out-peering in their mirthBlue een! that, like thine heart, seem'd given
To be, for ever, full of heaven!
Wert thou, in sooth, made up of glee,'When my last song was said for thee 




TO A BOY.                  217
And now more years are finished,For thee another song is said,
Thy voice hath lost its cooing tone;
The lisping of thy words is gone:
Thy step treads firm-lthine hair not flings
Round thee its length of golden ringsDeparted, like all lovely things!
Yet art thou still made up of glee,
When my now song is said for thee.
Wisely and well responded they,
Who cut thy golden hair away,
What time I made the bootless prayer,
That they should pause awhile, and spare.
They said,' its sheen did less agree
With boyhood than with infancy.'
And thus I know it aye must be.
Before the revel noise is done,
The revel lamps pale one by one.




21 8                 TO A BOY.
Ay! Nature loveth not to bring
Crown'd victims to life's labouring.
The mirth-effulgent eye appears
Less sparkling-to make room for tears:
After the heart's quick throbs depart,
We lose the gladness of the heart:
And, after we have lost awhile
The rose o' the lip, we lose its smile;
As Beauty could not bear to press
Near the death-pyre of Happiness.
This seemeth but a sombre dream.
It hath more pleasant thoughts than seem.
The older a young tree doth grow,
The deeper shade it sheds below;
But makes the grass-more green-the air
Mlore fresh, than had the sun been there.
And thus our human life is found,
Albeit a darkness gather round:




TO A BOY.                 219
For patient virtues, that their light
May shine to all men, want the night 
And holy Peace, unused to cope,
Sits meekly at the tomb of Hope,
Saying that' she is risen!'
Then I
Will sorrow not at destiny,Though from thine eyes, and from thine heart,
The glory of their light depart;
Though on thy voice, and on thy brow,
Should come a fiercer change than now;
Though thou no more be made of glee,
When my next song is said for theem




REMONSTRANCE.
Oh say not it is vain to weep
That deafen'd bier above;
Where genius has made room for death,
And life is past from love;
That tears can never his bright looks
And tender words restore:
I know it is most vain to weepAnd therefore, weep the more!
Oh say not I shall cease to weep
When years have wither'd by;
That ever I shall speak of joy,
As if he could reply;




REIEMOSTRBNCE.                 221
That ever mine unquivering lips
Shall name the name he bore:
I know that I may cease to weep,
And therefore weep the more!
Say, Time, who slew mine happiness,
Will leave to me my woe;
And woe's own stony strength shall chain
These tears' impassion'd flow:
Or say, that these, my ceaseless tears,
May life to death restore;
For then my soul were wept away,
And I should weep no more!
REPLY.
To weep awhile beside the bier,
Whereon his ashes lie,
Is well!-I know that rains must fall
When clouds are in the sky:




222                REMONSTRANCE.
I know, to die-to part, will cloud
The brightest spirit o'er;
And yet, wouldst thou for ever weep,
When he can weep no more?
Fix not thy sight, so long and fast,
Upon the shroud's despair,
Look upward unto Zion's hill,
For death was also there 
And think,' The death, the scourge,. the scorn,
My sinless Saviour boreThe curse-the pang, too deep for tearsThat I should weep no more!'




EP I T APH.
BEAUTY, who softly walkest all thy days,
In silken garment to the tunes of praise;Lover, whose dreamings by the green-bank'd river,
Where once she wander'd, fain would last for ever;King, whom the nations scan, adoring scan,
And shout'a god,' when sin hath mark'd thee man;Bard, on whose brow the Hyblan dew remains,
Albeit the fever burneth in the veins;Hero, whose sword in tyrant's blood is hot;Sceptic, who doubting, wouldst be doubted not;Man, whosoe'er thou art, whate'er thy trust;Respect thyself in lue;-thou treadest dust.




THE IMAGE OF GOD.
"I am God, and there is none like me.'
ISAIAR xlvi. 9.
"Christ, who is the image of God.'
2 CoR. iv. 4.
Thou! art thou like to God?
(I ask'd this question of the glorious sun)
Thou high unwearied one,
Whose course in heat, and light, and life is run z
Eagles may view thy  face -clouds can assuage
Thy fiery wrath-the sage
Can mete thy stature -thou shalt fade with age,
Thou art not like to God,




THE IMAGE OF GOD.                22 5
Thou! art thou like to God 
(I ask'd this question of the bounteous earth)
Oh thou, who givest birth
To forms of beauty and to sounds of mirth.
In all thy glory works the worm decayThy golden harvests stay
For seed and toil-thy power shall pass away.
Thou art not like to God.
Thou! art thou like to God 3
(I ask'd this question of my deathless soul)
Oh thou, whose musings roll
Above the thunder, o'er creation's wholes
Thou art not.  Sin, and shame, and agony
Within thy deepness lie
They utter forth their voice in thee, and cry' TAho art not like to God.'
M




226            THE IMAGE OF GOD.
Then art THou like to God;
Thou, who didst bear the sin, and shame, and woeO Thou, whose sweat did flowWhose tears did gush- whose brow was dead and low?
No grief is like thy grief; no heart can prove
Love like unto thy love;
And none, save only Thou, —below, above, —
Oh God, is like to God 




THE APPEAL.
CHILDREN of our England! stand
On the shores that girt our land;
The wegis of whose cloud-white rock
Braveth Time's own battle shock.
Look above the wide, wide world;
Where the northern blasts have furl'd
Their numbed wings amid the snows,
Mutt'ring in a forced reposeOr where the madden'd sun on high
Shakes his torch athwart the sky,
Till within their prison sere,
Chained earthquakes groan for fear?
iI 2




228                THE APPEAL.
Look above the wide, wide world,
Where a gauntlet Sin hath hurl'd
To astonied Life; and where
Death's gladiatorial smile doth glare,
On making the arena bare.
Shout aloud the words that show
Jesus in the sands and snow;Shout aloud the words that free,
Over the perpetual sea.
Speak ye. As a breath will sweep
Avalanche from Alpine steep,
So the spoken word shall roll
Fear and darkness from the soul.
Are ye men, and love not man.
Love ye, and permit his ban.
Can ye, dare ye, rend the chain
Wrought of common joy and pain,




THE APPEAL.                     229
Clasping with its links of gold,
pMan to man in one strong hold 1
Lo I if the golden links ye sever,
Ye shall make your heart's flesh quiver;
And wheresoe'er the links are reft,
There, shall be a blood-stain left.
To earth's remotest rock repair,
Ye shall find a vulture there:
Though for others sorrowing not,
Your own tears shall still be hot 
Though ye play a lonely part;
Though ye bear an iron heart;Woe, like Echetus, still must
Grind your iron into dust,
But children of our Britain, ye
Rend not man's ehain of sympathy;
To those who sit in woe and night,
Denying tears and hiding light.




230                 THE APPEAL.
Ye have stretch'd your hands abroad
With the Spirit's sheathless sword:
Ye have spoken-and the tone
To earth's extremest verge hath gone:
East and west sublime it rolls,
Echoed by a million souls!
The wheels of rapid circling years,
Erst hot with crime, are quench'd in tears.
Rocky hearts wild waters pour,
That were chain'd in stone before:
Bloody hands, that only bare
Hilted sword, are clasp'd in prayer:
Savage tongues, that wont to fling
Shout of war in deathly ring,
Speak the name which angels sing.
Dying lips are lit the while
With a most undying smile,
Which reposing there, instead
Of language, when the lips are dead,




THE APPEAL.                  231
Saith,-' No sound of grief or pain,
Shall haunt us when we move again.'
Children of our country 1 brothers
To the children of all others!
Shout aloud the words that show
Jesus in the sands and snow; —
Shout aloud the words that free,
Over the perpetual sea I




IDOLS.
How weak the gods of this world are —
And weaker yet their worship made me!
I have been an idolater
Of three-and three times they betray'd me.
Mine oldest worshipping was given
To natural Beauty, aye residing
In bowery earth and starry heav'n,
In ebbing sea, and river gliding.
But natural Beauty shuts her bosom
To what the natural feelings tell I
Albeit I sigh'd, the trees would blossomAlbeit I smiled, the blossoms fell.




IDOLS.                   233
Then left I earthly sights, to wander
Amid a grove of name divine,
Where bay-reflecting streams meander,
And Moloch Fame hath rear'd a shrine.
Not green, but black, is that reflection;
On rocky beds those waters lie;
That grove hath chilness and dejectionHow could I sing. I had to sigh.
Last, human Love, thy Lares greeting,
To rest and warmth I vow'd my years.
To rest? how wild my pulse is beating 
To warmth? ah me I my burning tears,
Ay! they may burn-though thou be frozen
By death, and changes wint'ring on!
Fame-Beauty!-idols madly chosenWere yet of gold; but thou art STONE!




234                    IDOLS.
Crumble like stone! my voice no longer
Shall wail their names, who silent be:
There is a voice that soundeth stronger-'My daughter, give thine heart to me.'
Lord! take mine heart I Oh first and fairest,
Whom all creation's ends shall hear;
Who deathless love in death declarest!
None else is beauteous-famous —dear I




HYMN.' Lord, I cry unto thee, make haste unto me."
PSALM cxli.
"The Lord is nigh unto them that call upon him.
PSALM cxlv.
SINCE without Thee we do no good,
And with Thee do no ill,
Abide with us in weal and woe,In action and in will.
In weal,-that while our lips confess
The Lord who'gives,' we may
Remember, with an humble thought,
The Lord who' takes away.'




236                   HYMIN.
In woe,-that, while to drowning tears
Our hearts their joys resign,
We may remember who can turn
Such water into wine.
By hours of day, —that when our feet
O'er hill and valley run,
We still may think the light of truth
More welcome than the sun.
By hours of night,-that when the air
Its dew and shadow yields,
We still may hear the voice of God
In silence of the fields.
Oh! then sleep comes on us like death,
All soundless, deaf and deep:
Lord! teach us so to watch and pray,
That death may come like sleep.




tHYMN.                 237
Abide with u.s, abide with us,
While flesh and soul agree;
And when our flesh is only dust,
Abide our souls with Thee.




WEARINESS,
MINE eyes are weary of surveying
The fairest things, too soon decaying;
Mine ears are weary of receiving
The kindest words-ah, past believing 
Weary my hope, of ebb and flow;
Weary my pulse, of tunes of woe 
My trusting heart is weariest!
I would-I would, I were at rest!
For me, can earth refuse to fade?
For me, can words be faithful made?
Will my embitter'd hope be sweet?
My pulse forego the human beat 3




WEARINESS.                 239
No! Darkness must consume mine eye —
Silence, mine ear-hope cease-pulse dieAnd o'er mine heart a stone be press'dOr vain this,-' Would I were at rest!'
There is a land of rest deferr'd:
Nor eye hath seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor Hope hath trod the precinct o'er;
For hope beheld is hope no more 
There, human pulse forgets its toneThere, hearts may know as they are known!
Oh, for dove's wings, thou dwelling blest,
To fly to thee, and be at rest I
THE  END.