Would fain outshine the splendour of them all,—
A generous and god-like thing appears.
But thou art unredeem'd! a burning mass
Of self-made misery; tortured by the Curse
Roll'd back in vengeance on thy horrid self,
Though breathed for others; in whose nobleness
The quality for detestation breeds;
And yet, by Hate more beautified, it glows
To false perfection.
How it haunts the craven wretch ! By writhing hell-flames o'er his tortured sleep, And building oft the gallows which he dreads! What though he shroud his spirit with a veil Of outward gladness!—artificial smiles Are smiles of agony; and when alone By some rude shore, where sullen waters roll, Like gloomy fancies through a guilty mind; Or, doom'd to hear the sobbing of the wind, The melancholy drip of midnight rain, And death-tales faintly knell'd from far-off towers, The calm is burst, the buried thoughts arise, The spirit storms with anguish, and Despair Feels half the Hell it shudders to foresee!
HERE Southey, in the spring-like morn of youth,-. His feeling, conduct, and his fancy, truth,
Beheld the orb of Liberty arise
To gild the earth with glory from the skies;
What wonder then, if his Chaldean gaze
With glowing worship met her morning rays,
Beheld them bright as freedom's rays should be,
And thought they darted from the Deity?
Who did not feel, when first her shackles fell,
The truth sublime that France inspir'd so well?—
There is a freedom in the soul of man,
No tyrant quenches, and no torture can!
But when each virtue from her throne was hurl'd,
And Gaul became the dungeon of the world,
No mean deserter was the patriot proved,
Whose manhood censur'd what his youth had lov'd.
In bloom of life he sought domestic shade,
Devoting hours a world had not betray'd,
In deep affection to delightful lore,
Which virtue loves, and wisdom may adore.
While others linger'd in the restless town
To wear the thorny wreath of young renown;
Or, spirit-worn, see rivals mount above,
With few to honour, and with none to love;
Afar to Keswick's mountain calm he hied,
And found the haven which a home supplied.
There nature pure to his pure soul appeals,
With her he wanders, and with her he feels,
While earth and sky for poesy unite,
And hills of glory swell the heart's delight!
Thus flowingly the fairy hours depart,
And each day adds a virtue to the heart.
Ah, blissful lot! which few have liv'd to share,
Who haunt the world, and seek to find it there;
Forgetful that one day of life is fraught
With years of meaning for inductive thought,
In baffled hope the mind exhales away,
Their each to-morrow, a renew'd to-day!
Too fiercely kindled by some loud applause,
They burn for glory, but betray her cause.—
True fame is feeling, in its earthless hour
Sent from the soul with world-subduing pow'r,
From heart to heart electrically known,
Till realms admire, and ages are its own!
Oh! blest resolve, that consecrates a life,
To leave for studious calm the noisome strife
Of London's everlasting round of self,
Pursu'd by learning, or career'd for pelf.
In wise seclusion heav'nward thoughts incline
To form in man the elements divine;
From day to day their semblance nearer grows,
Till kindred mind a kindred maker knows;
And then, what beautiful accordance seen
In all that truth has taught, or time hath been!
What once was dark becomes divinely clear,
And earth itself a heav'n-reflecting sphere.
The living principle of Pow'r above
That issued forth in this fair world of love,
The Spirit feels within herself abide,
The will direct, and o'er each thought preside :
In man or nature, whatsoe'er befall,
Her faith can fathom, and interpret all!
SWEET SABBATH morn! from childhood's dimpled
I've lov'd to hail thy calm-renewing time;
Soft steal thy bells upon the tranced mind,
In fairy cadence floating on the wind,
Telling of friends and times long flown away,
And pensive hopes, harmonious with the day.
On thy still dawn, while holy music peals,
And far around the ling'ring echo steals,
What heart communes not with the day's repose,
And, lull'd by angel dreams, forgets its woes;
Who, in His temple, gives to God a prayer,
Nor feels a portrait of bright heaven is there ?—
The sacred stillness of the vaulted pile,
Where gather'd hearts their homage breathe awhile,
The mingled burst of penitential sighs,
The choral anthem pealing to the skies,
Exalt the soul to energies sublime,
And thoughts that reach beyond the realms of time.
THE Conscious elements prepare
For slumber; modulated breezes swell;
The sky, with ocean-mimicry adorn'd,
Grows pale and paler; soon will stars advance
And seem to palpitate, as there they shine,
With living beauty!-Thus will night begin,
And earth lie cradled in a dim repose,
Till the pure heav'n comes down upon the soul,
And all is hush'd within her holy spell!
So ends a sabbath; so may sabbaths end
Devoutly sacred, till the wings of Time
Be folded, and ETERNAL SABBATH reigns!—
For all Thy ministries begin and end
In Love, that glorious synonyme of Thee,
Whose palace fills th' interminable Heav'ns;
From the first tear that roll'd down Adam's cheek,
To the last pang of living bosoms now,
In light and darkness,-still our God is Love!
ADORNER of the human race!
Great Nature's rival, who could trace
Her features with such perfect skill
That time can but remould them still,-
So matchless is that mighty one
Whom Fancy now would gaze upon !—
Go, lend the skies a lovelier blue,
Or sunbeams o'er the sunshine strew;
Bid Horror to the tempest bring
A louder shriek and blacker wing;
Or dare to teach a deeper tone
To Thunder on his midnight throne,—
So powerless seems a poet's line
To render Shakspeare more divine!
All tears and smiles to him belong :
All clouds that round the spirit throng;
All passions, principles, and powers,
Which wring the heart, or rule its hours,
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