Withered the hand outstretched but to relieve; Sunk reason's simple eloquence, that rolled
But to appal the guilty. Yes! the grave [frost Hath quenched that eye, and death's relentless Withered that arm: but the unfading fame Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb; The deathless memory of that man, whom kings Call to their mind and tremble; the remembrance With which the happy spirit contemplates Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, Shall never pass away.
Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; The subject, not the citizen: for kings And subjects, mutual foes, for ever play A losing game into each other's hands, Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.
High over flaming Rome, with savage joy Lowered like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear The shrieks of agonising death, beheld The frightful desolation spread, and felt A new-created sense within his soul Thrill to the sight, and vibrate to the sound; Thinkest thou his grandeur had not overcome The force of human kindness? and, when Rome, With one stern blow, hurled not the tyrant down, Crushed not the arm, red with her dearest blood, Had not submissive abjectness destroyed Nature's suggestions?
Look on yonder earth: The golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the Arise in due succession; all things speak [trees, Peace, harmony, and love. The universe, In nature's silent eloquence, declares That all fulfil the works of love and joy,- All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates The sword which stabs his peace; he cherisheth The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth up The tyrant, whose delight is in his woe, Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, Lights it the great alone! Yon silver beams, Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch, Than on the dome of kings? Is mother earth A step-dame to her numerous sons, who earn Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil; A mother only to those puling babes Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men The playthings of their babyhood, and mar, In self-important childishness, that peace Which men alone appreciate?
Spirit of Nature! no! The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs Alike in every humar, heart.
Thou, aye, erectest there
Thy throne of power unappealable: Thou art the judge beneath whose nod Man's brief and frail authority Is powerless as the wind That passeth idly by.
Thine the tribunal which surpasseth The show of human justice, As God surpasses man.
Spirit of Nature! thou
Life of interminable multitudes; Soul of those mighty spheres
Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep Soul of that smallest being, [silence lie;
The dwelling of whose life Is one faint April sun-gleam;- Man, like these passive things, Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth: Like theirs, his age of endless peace, Which time is fast maturing,
Will swiftly, surely, come;
And the unbounded frame, which thou pervadest Will be without a flaw
Marring its perfect symmetry.
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh, Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear, Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Studded with stars unutterably bright, [vault, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur Seems like a canopy which love has spread [rolls, To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, Robed in a garment of untrodden snow; Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, So stainless that their white and glittering spires Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep, Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace;-all form a scene Where musing solitude might love to lift Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still.
In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field Sinks sweetly smiling: not the faintest breath Steals o'er the unruffled deep; the clouds of eve Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day; And vesper's image on the western main Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes: Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, Roll o'er the blackened waters; the deep roar Of distant thunder mutters awfully;
Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom That shrouds the boiling surge; the pitiless fiend, With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey; The torn deep yawns,-the vessel finds a grave Beneath its jagged gulf.
Ah! whence yon glare That fires the arch of heaven!-that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow Gleams faintlythrough the gloom that gathers round. Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals In countless echoes through the mountains ring, Startling pale midnight on her starry throne! Now swells the intermingling din; the jar Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb; The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage:-loud, and more loud The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene, And o'er the conqueror and the conquer'd draws His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts That beat with anxious life at sun-set there; How few survive, how few are beating now! All is deep silence, like the fearful calm That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause; Save when the frantic wail of widowed love Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay Wrapt round its struggling powers.
The grey morn Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous Before the icy wind slow rolls away, [smoke And the bright beams of frosty morning dance Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful Of the outsallying victors: far behind, Black ashes note where their proud city stood. Within yon forest is a gloomy glen- Each tree which guards its darkness from the day,
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.
I see thee shrink, Surpassing Spirit!-wert thou human else? I see a shade of doubt and horror fleet Across thy stainless features: yet fear not; This is no unconnected misery,
Nor stands uncaused, and irretrievable. Man's evil nature, that apology
Ere he can lisp his mother's sacred name, Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, and lifts His baby-sword even in a hero's mood. This infant arm becomes the bloodiest scourge Of devastated earth; whilst specious names Learnt in soft childhood's unsuspecting hour, Serve as the sophisms with which manhood dims Bright reason's ray, and sanctifies the sword Upraised to shed a brother's innocent blood. Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaim that man Inherits vice and misery, when force
And falsehood hang even o'er the cradled babe, Stifling with rudest grasp all natural good.
Ah! to the stranger-soul, when first it peeps For happiness and sympathy, how stern From its new tenement, and looks abroad
And desolate a tract is this wide world! How withered all the buds of natural good! No shade, no shelter from the sweeping storms Of pitiless power! On its wretched frame, Heaped on the wretched parent, whence it sprung, Poisoned, perchance, by the disease and woe By morals, law, and custom, the pure winds Of heaven, that renovate the insect tribes, May visit not its longings. It is bound May breathe not. The untainting light of day Ere it has life: yea, all the chains are forged Long ere its being: all liberty and love And peace is torn from its defencelessness; Cursed from its birth, even from its cradle doomed To abjectness and bondage!
Throughout this varied and eternal world Soul is the only element, the block
Which kings who rule, and cowards who crouch, That for uncounted ages has remained.
For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not the blood Which desolates the discord-wasted land
From kings, and priests, and statesmen, war arose, Whose safety is man's deep unbettered woe, Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the axe Strike at the root, the poison-tree will fall; And where its venomed exhalations spread Ruin, and death, and woe, where milhons lay Quenching the serpent's famine, and their bones Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast, A garden shall arise, in loveliness Surpassing fabled Eden.
That formed this world so beautiful, that spread Earth's lap with plenty, and life's smallest chord Strung to unchanging unison, that gave The happy birds their dwelling in the grove, That yielded to the wanderers of the deep The lovely silence of the unfathomed main, And filled the meanest worm that crawls in dust With spirit, thought, and love; on Man alone Partial in causeless malice, wantonly Heaped ruin, vice, and slavery; his soul Blasted with withering curses; placed afar The meteor happiness, that shuns his grasp, But serving on the frightful gulf to glare, Rent wide beneath his footsteps?
Kings, priests, and statesmen blast the human flower, Even in its tender bud; their influence darts Like subtle poison through the bloodless veins Of desolate society. The child,
The moveless pillar of a mountain's weight Is active living spirit. Every grain
Is sentient both in unity and part,
And the minutest atom comprehends
A world of loves and hatreds; these beget Evil and good: hence truth and falsehood spring; Hence will, and thought, and action, all the germs Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate, That variegate the eternal universe. Soul is not more polluted than the beams Of heaven's pure orb, ere round their rapid lines The taint of earth-born atmospheres arise.
Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds Of high resolve; on fancy's boldest wing To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and taste The joys which mingled sense and spirit yield. Or he is formed for abjectness and woe, To grovel on the dunghill of his fears, To shrink at every sound, to quench the flame Of natural love in sensualism, to know That hour as blest when on his worthless days The frozen hand of death shall set its seal, Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. The one is man that shall hereafter be ; The other, man as vice has made him now.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade, And, to those royal murderers, whose mean thrones Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore, The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround
Their palaces, participate the crimes That force defends, and from a nation's rage Secure the crown, which all the curses reach That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe. These are the hired bravoes who defend The tyrant's throne-the bullies of his fear : These are the sinks and channels of worst vice, The refuse of society, the dregs
Of all that is most vile: their cold hearts blend Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride, All that is mean and villanous, with rage Which hopelessness of good, and self-contempt, Alone might kindle; they are decked in wealth, Honour and power, then are sent abroad To do their work. The pestilence that stalks In gloomy triumph through some Eastern land Is less destroying. They cajole with gold, And promises of fame, the thoughtless youth Already crushed with servitude: he knows His wretchedness too late, and cherishes Repentance for his ruin, when his doom Is sealed in gold and blood!
Those too the tyrant serve, who skilled to snare The feet of justice in the toils of law, Stand, ready to oppress the weaker still; And, right or wrong, will vindicate for gold, Sneering at public virtue, which beneath
Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled, where Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites, Without a hope, a passion, or a love, Who, through a life of luxury and lies,
crept by flattery to the seats of power, Support the system whence their honours flow- They have three words; well tyrants know their use, Well pay them for the loan, with usury [Heaven. Torn from a bleeding world!-God, Hell and A vengeful, pitiless, and almighty fiend, Whose merey is a nick-name for the rage Of tameless tigers hungering for blood. Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire, Where poisonous and undying worms prolong Eternal misery to those hapless slaves Whose life has been a penance for its crimes. And Heaven, a meed for those who dare belie Their human nature, quake, believe, and cringe Before the mockeries of earthly power.
These tools the tyrant tempers to his work, Wields in his wrath, and as he wills, destroys, Omnipotent in wickedness: the while Youth springs, age moulders, manhood tamely does His bidding, bribed by short-lived joys to lend Force to the weakness of his trembling arm.
They rise, they fall; one generation comes Yielding its harvest to destruction's scythe. It fades, another blossoms: yet behold! Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on its bloom, Withering and cankering deep its passive prime. He has invented lying words and modes, Empty and vain as his own coreless heart; Evasive meanings, nothings of much sound, To lure the heedless victim to the toils Spread round the valley of its paradise.
Look to thyself, priest, conqueror, or prince! Whether thy trade is falsehood, and thy lusts Deep wallow in the earnings of the poor,
With whom thy master was :--or thou delight'st In numbering o'er the myriads of thy slain, All misery weighing nothing in the scale Against thy short-lived fame: or thou dost load With cowardice and crime the groaning land, A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched self! Aye, art thou not the veriest slave that e'er Crawled on the loathing earth? Are not thy days Days of unsatisfying listlessness?
Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack is o'er, When will the morning come? Is not thy youth A vain and feverish dream of sensualism? Thy manhood blighted with unripe disease? Are not thy views of unregretted death Drear, comfortless, and horrible? Thy mind, Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame, Incapable of judgment, hope, or love? And dost thou wish the errors to survive That bar thee from all sympathies of good, After the miserable interest
Thou hold'st in their protraction? When the grave Has swallowed up thy memory and thyself, Dost thou desire the bane that poisons earth To twine its roots around thy coffined clay, Spring from thy bones, and blossom on thy tomb, That of its fruit thy babes may eat and die?
THUS do the generations of the earth
Go to the grave, and issue from the womb, Surviving still the imperishable change That renovates the world; even as the leaves Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year Has scattered on the forest soil, and heaped Loading with loathsome rottenness the land, For many seasons there, though long they choke, All germs of promise. Yet when the tall trees From which they fell, shorn of their lovely shapes, Lie level with the earth to moulder there, They fertilize the land they long deformed, Till from the breathing lawn a forest springs Of youth, integrity, and loveliness, Like that which gave it life, to spring and die. Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights The fairest feelings of the opening heart, Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, And judgment cease to wage unnatural war With passion's unsubduable array. Twin-sister of religion, selfishness ! Rival in crime and falsehood, aping all The wanton horrors of her bloody play ; Yet frozen, unimpassioned, spiritless, Shunning the light, and owning not its name: Compelled, by its deformity, to screen With flimsy veil of justice and of right, Its unattractive lineaments, that scare
All, save the brood of ignorance: at once
The cause and the effect of tyranny; Unblushing, hardened, sensual, and vile; Dead to all love but of its abjectness, With heart impassive by more noble powers Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, or fame; Despising its own miserable being, Which still it longs, yet fears, to disenthrall.
Hence commerce springs, the venal interchange Of all that human art or nature yield;
Which wealth should purchase not, but want And natural kindness hasten to supply [demand, From the full fountain of its boundless love, For ever stifled, drained, and tainted now. Commerce! beneath whose poison-breathing shade No solitary virtue dares to spring; But poverty and wealth with equal hand Scatter their withering curses, and unfold The doors of premature and violent death, To pining famine and full-fed disease, To all that shares the lot of human life, Which poisoned body and soul, scarce drags the That lengthens as it goes and clanks behind.
Commerce has set the mark of selfishness, The signet of its all-enslaving power, Upon a shining ore, and called it gold: Before whose image bow the vulgar great, The vainly rich, the miserable proud,
The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings, And with blind feelings reverence the power That grinds them to the dust of misery. But in the temple of their hireling hearts Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn All earthly things but virtue.
Since tyrants, by the sale of human life, Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and fame To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride, Success has sanctioned to a credulous world The ruin, the disgrace, the woe of war. His hosts of blind and unresisting dupes The despot numbers; from his cabinet These puppets of his schemes he moves at will, Even as the slaves by force or famine driven Beneath a vulgar master, to perform A task of cold and brutal drudgery;- Hardened to hope, insensible to fear, Searce living pulleys of a dead machine, Mere wheels of work and articles of trade, That grace the proud and noisy pomp of wealth!
The harmony and happiness of man
Yield to the wealth of nations; that which lifts His nature to the heaven of its pride, Is bartered for the poison of his soul;
And bare fulfilment of the common laws Of decency and prejudice, confines The struzzing nature of his human heart, Is duped by their coid sophistry; he sheds A passing tear perchance upon the wreck Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling's door The frightful waves are driven,-when his son Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion Drives his wife raving mad. But the poor man, Whose life is misery, and fear, and care; Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless toil; Who ever hears his famished offspring's scream, Whom their pale mother's uncomplaining gaze For ever meets, and the proud rich man's eye Flashing command, and the heart-breaking scene Of thousands like himself; he little heeds The rhetoric of tyranny, his hate
Is quenchless as his wrongs, he laughs to scorn The vain and bitter mockery of words, Feeling the horror of the tyrant's deeds, And unrestrained but by the arm of power, That knows and dreads his enmity.
The iron rod of penury still compels
Her wretched slave to bow the knee to wealth, And poison, with unprofitable toil,
A life too void of solace to confirm The very chains that bind him to his doom. Nature, impartial in munificence, Has gifted man with all-subduing will: Matter, with all its transitory shapes, Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, That, weak from bondage, tremble as they tread. How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies, no longer tameless then, To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail! How many a Newton, to whose passive ken Those mighty spheres that gem infinity Were only specks of tinsel, fixed in heaven To light the midnights of his native town!
Yet every heart contains perfection's germ: The wisest of the sages of the earth,
The weight that drags to earth his towering hopes, That ever from the stores of reason drew
Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain, Withering all passion but of slavish fear, Extinguishing all free and generous love Of enterprise and daring, even the pulse That fancy kindles in the beating heart To mingle with sensation, it destroys,Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of self, The grovelling hope of interest and gold, Unqualified, unmingled, unredeemed Evon by hypocrisy.
Of wealth! The wordy eloquence that lives After the ruin of their hearts, can gild The bitter poison of a nation's woe, Fan turn the worship of the servile mob To their o rupt and glaring idol, Fame, From Virtue, frampled by its iron trend, Although its das ling pedestal be raised And the horns of a limb strewn field, With dendated dwellings smoking round. The mom of ear, who, by his warm fire-side, To devida of charitable intercourse
Science and truth, and virtue's dreadless tone, Were but a weak and inexperienced boy, Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued With pure desire and universal love, Compared to that high being, of cloudless brain, Untainted passion, elevated will, Which death (who even would linger long in awe Within his noble presence, and beneath His changeless eye-beam), might alone subdue. Him, every slave now dragging through the filth Of some corrupted city his sad life, Pining with famine, swoln with luxury, Blunting the keenness of his spiritual sense With narrow schemings and unworthy cares, Or madly rushing through all violent crime, To move the deep stagnation of his soul,— Might imitate and equal.
But mean lust Has bound its chains so tight about the earth, That all within it but the virtuous man Is venal: gold or fame will surely reach The price prefixed by selfishness, to all
But him of resolute an f unchanging will; Whom, nor the plaudit of a servile crowd, Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, Can bribe to yield his elevated soul To tyranny or falsehood, though they wield With blood-red hand the sceptre of the world.
All things are sold: the very light of heaven Is venal; earth's unsparing gifts of love, The smallest and most despicable things That lurk in the abysses of the deep, All objects of our life, even life itself, And the poor pittance which the laws allow Of liberty, the fellowship of man,
Those duties which his heart of human love Should urge him to perform instinctively, Are bought and sold as in a public mart Of undisguising selfishness, that sets
On each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign. Even love is sold; the solace of all woe Is turned to deadliest agony, old age Shivers in selfish beauty's loathing arms, And youth's corrupted impulses prepare A life of horror from the blighting bane Of commerce: whilst the pestilence that springs From unenjoying sensualism, has filled All human life with hydra-headed woes.
Falsehood demands but gold to pay the pangs Of outraged conscience; for the slavish priest Sets no great value on his hireling faith: A little passing pomp, some servile souls, Whom cowardice itself might safely chain, Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe To deck the triumph of their languid zeal, Can make him minister to tyranny. More daring crime requires a loftier meed: Without a shudder the slave-soldier lends
His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart, When the dread eloquence of dying men, Low mingling on the lonely field of fame, Assails that nature whose applause he sells For the gross blessings of the patriot mob, For the vile gratitude of heartless kings, And for a cold world's good word,-viler still! There is a nobler glory which survives Until our being fades, and, solacing All human care, accompanies its change; Deserts not virtue in the dungeon's gloom, And, in the precincts of the palace, guides Its footsteps through that labyrinth of crime; Imbues his lineaments with dauntlessness, Even when, from power's avenging hand, he takes Its sweetest, last and noblest title-death; -The consciousness of good, which neither gold, Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly bliss, Can purchase; but a life of resolute good, Unalterable will, quenchless desire Of universal happiness, the heart That beats with it in unison, the brain, Whose ever-wakeful wisdom toils to change Reason's rich stores for its eternal weal.
This commerce of sincerest virtue needs No mediative signs of selfishness, No jealous intercourse of wretched gain, No balancings of prudence, cold and long; In just and equal measure all is weighed, One scale contains the sum of human weal, And one, the good man's heart.
The selfish for that happiness denied To aught but virtue! Blind and hardened, they Who hope for peace amid the storms of care, Who covet power they know not how to use, And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give :- Madly they frustrate still their own designs; And, where they hope that quiet to enjoy Which virtue pictures, bitterness of soul, Pining regrets, and vain repentances, Disease, disgust, and lassitude, pervade Their valueless and miserable lives.
But hoary-headed selfishness has felt Its death-blow, and is tottering to the grave: A brighter morn awaits the human day, When every transfer of earth's natural gifts Shall be a commerce of good words and works; When poverty and wealth, the thirst of fame, The fear of infamy, disease and woe,
War with its million horrors, and fierce hell, Shall live but in the memory of time, Who, like a penitent libertine shall start, Look back, and shudder at his younger years.
ALL touch, all eye, all ear,
The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech. O'er the thin texture of its frame, The varying periods painted, changing glows; As on a summer even,
When soul-enfolding music floats around, The stainless mirror of the lake Re-images the eastern gloom, Mingling convulsively its purple hues
With sunset's burnished gold.
Then thus the Spirit spoke:
It is a wild and miserable world! Thorny, and full of care, Which every fiend can make his prey at will. O Fairy! in the lapse of years,
Is there no hope in store? Will yon vast suns roll on Interminably, still illuming The night of so many wretched souls, And see no hope for them?
Will not the universal Spirit e'er Revivify this withered limb of Heaven?
The Fairy calmly smiled
In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope
Suffused the Spirit's lineaments.
Oh! rest thee tranquil; chase those fearful doubts, Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul, That sees the chains which bind it to its doom. Yes! crime and misery are in yonder earth, Falsehood, mistake, and lust; But the eternal world Contains at once the evil and the cure. Some eminent in virtue shall start up, Even in perversest time: The truths of their pure lips, that never die, Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a wreath Of ever-living flame, Until the monster sting itself to death.
How sweet a scene will earth become! Of purest spirits, a pure dwelling-place,
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