LET us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us, and to die)
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man:
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot;
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield;
The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore,
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;
But vindicate the ways of God to Man.
Say first, of God above, or Man below,
What can we reason, but from what we know?
Of Man, what see we, but his station here,
From which to reason, or to which refer?
Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace Him only in our own.
He, who through vast immensity can pierce,
See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
Observe how system into system runs,
What other planets circle other suns,
What varied being peoples every star,
May tell why Heaven has made us as we are.
But of this frame, the bearings and the ties,
The strong connexions, nice dependencies,
Gradations just,—has thy pervading soul
Looked through? or, can a part contain the whole?
Is the great chain that draws all to agree,
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,
Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less.
Ask of thy mother Earth, why oaks are made
Taller and stronger than the weeds they shade;
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove?
Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed
That wisdom infinite must form the best;
Where all must fall, or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due degree;
Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man:
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long)
Is only this If God has placed him wrong?
Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, though laboured on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain:
In God's, one single can its end produce;
Yet serves to second too some other use.
So Man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal:
"Tis but a part we see, and not the whole.
When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains;
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god;
Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend
His actions', passions', being's use and end;
Why doing, suffering; checked, impelled; and why
This hour a slave, the next a deity.
Then say not Man's imperfect, Heaven in fault;
Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought;
His knowledge measured to his state and place;
His time a moment, and a point his
XLVI.-WAR.-Robert Montgomery.
SPIRIT of Light and Life! When Battle rears
Her fiery brow and her terrific spears;
When red-mouthed cannon to the clouds uproar,
And gasping thousands make their bed in gore;
While, on the billowy bosom of the air,
Roll the dread notes of anguish and despair;
Unseen, Thou walk'st upon the smoking plain,
And hear'st each groan that gurgles from the slaiL !
List!-war-peals thunder on the battle-field;
And many a hand grasps firm the glittering shield,
As on, with helm and plume, the warriors come,
And the glad hills repeat the stormy drum!
And now are seen the youthful and the gray,
With bosoms firing to partake the fray:
The first, with hearts that consecrate the deed,
All eager rush to vanquish or to bleed;
Like young waves racing in the morning sun,
That rear and leap with reckless fury on!
But mark yon war-worn man, who looks on high
With thought and valour mirrored in his eye.
Not all the gory revels of the day
Can fright the visions of his home away;
The home of love and its associate smiles,
His wife's endearments and his baby's wiles:-
Fights he less brave through recollected bliss,
With step retreating, or with sword remiss?
Ah no! remembered home's the warrior's charm,
Speed to his sword, and vigour to his
arm;
For this he supplicates the Power afar,
Fronts the steeled foe, and mingles in the war!
The cannon's hushed!—nor drums, nor clarion sound;
Helmet and hauberk gleam upon the ground;
Horseman and horse lie weltering in their gore;
Patriots are dead, and heroes dare no more;
While solemnly the moonlight shrouds the plain,
And lights the lurid features of the slain!
And see! on this rent mound, where daisies sprung, A battle-steed beneath his rider flung;
Oh! never more he'll rear with fierce delight,
Roll his red eyes, and rally for the fight!
Pale on his bleeding breast the warrior lies,
While, from his ruffled lids, the white-swelled eyes
Ghastly and grimly stare upon the skies!
Afar, with bosom bared unto the breeze,
White lips, and glaring eyes, and shivering knees,
A widow o'er her martyred soldier moans,
Loading the night-wind with delirious groans;
Her blue-eyed babe, unconscious orphan he,
While sweetly prattling in his cherub glee,
Leers on his lifeless sire with infant-wile,
And plays and plucks him for a parent's smile.
But who, upon the battle-wasted plain,
Shall count the faint, the gasping, and the siain?—
Angel of Mercy! ere the blood-fount chill,
And the brave heart be spiritless and still,
Amid the havoc, Thou art hovering nigh
To calm each groan, and close each dying eye,
And waft the spirit to that halcyon shore,
Where war's loud thunders lash the winds no more.
XLVII. THE PARISH POOR-HOUSE.-Crabbe.
THERE, in yon house, that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell, who know no parent's care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there:
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows, with unheeded tears;
And crippled age with more than childhood's fears:
The lame-the blind-and, far the happiest they,
The moping idiot, and the madman gay!
Here, too, the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve;
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,
Mixed with the clamour of the crowd below:
Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man!
Whose laws, indeed, for ruined age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny!
Say, ye,-oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who, with sad prayers, the weary doctor teaze,
To name the nameless, ever new disease;
Who, with mock patience, dire complaint endure,
Which real pain-and that alone—can cure;—
How would ye bear, in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear, to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room, which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between,-
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day;
There, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head!
For him, no hand the cordial cup supplies,
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends, with soft discourse, his pangs beguile,
Nor promise hope, till sickness wears a smile.
XLVIII. THE MARINER'S HYMN.-Mrs. Southey.
LAUNCH thy bark, Mariner! Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands!-good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily; tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily! Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather-bow, breakers are round thee!
Let fall the plummet now-shallows may ground thee.
Reef-in the fore-sail there! hold the helm fast!
So let the vessel ware! there swept the blast.
What of the night, watchman? What of the night?
"Cloudy-all quiet-no land yet-all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant!-danger may be
At an hour when all seemeth securest to thee.
How! gains the leak so fast? Clean out the hold—
Hoist up thy merchandise-heave out thy gold!
There let the ingots go!-now the ship rights;
Hurrah! the harbour's near-lo, the red lights!
Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer-straight for the high land; Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foamChristian! cast anchor now- -HEAVEN IS THY HOME!
XLIX. TO MARY IN HEAVEN.-Burns.
THOU lingering star with lessening ray
That lov'st to greet the early morn!
Again thou usherest in the day,
My Mary from my soul was torn!
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
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