|
When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, |
|
Has learn'd to dare the splendor of the sky, |
|
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, |
|
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source, |
|
Will his free wing, from that majestic height, |
|
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, |
|
Which far below, with evanescent fire, |
|
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire? |
|
No! still thro' clouds he wins his upward way |
|
And proudly claims his heritage of day! |
|
—And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze, |
|
The day-spring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, |
― 6 ―
|
|
Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam |
|
Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous gleam, |
|
Luring the wanderer, from the star of faith, |
|
To the deep valley of the shades of death? |
|
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, |
|
For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven? |
|
If lost the gem which empires could not buy, |
|
What yet remains?— a dark eternity! |
|
Is earth still Eden?—might a Seraph guest, |
|
Still, midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? |
|
Is all so cloudless and so calm below, |
|
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show?
|
|
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, |
|
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, |
|
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace, |
|
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base? |
|
Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, |
|
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, |
― 7 ―
|
|
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, |
|
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! |
|
'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm'd by time, |
|
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; |
|
Smile then unmov'd at Wisdom's warning voice, |
|
And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice! |
|
But life hath sterner tasks; e'en youth's brief hours, |
|
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; |
|
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, |
|
Are few and distant on the desert soil; |
|
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan, |
|
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling— Man! |
|
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shar'd— |
|
Proud child of reason! how art thou prepar'd?
|
|
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow'd, |
|
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, |
|
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain, |
|
With the bright images of pleasure's train? |
|
Yes! as the sight of some far distant shore, |
|
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, |
|
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave |
|
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave! |
|
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, |
|
She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all? |
|
Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume,
|
|
That might have rais'd thee far above the tomb, |
|
And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone |
|
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown! |
|
But thou! whose thoughts have no blest home above, |
|
Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love?
|
|
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, |
|
Within that hallow'd shrine—a parent's breast, |
|
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, |
|
On one frail idol,—destined but to die, |
|
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, |
|
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, re-unite? |
|
Then tremble! cling to every passing joy, |
|
Twin'd with the life a moment may destroy! |
|
If there be sorrow in a parting tear, |
|
Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear!
|
|
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, |
|
Find more than anguish in the thought—'tis gone! |
|
Go! to a voice such magic influence give, |
|
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; |
|
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, |
|
And let a glance the springs of thought controul; |
|
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, |
|
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; |
|
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, |
|
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust! |
|
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, |
|
Think on that dread "for ever"—and despair!
|
|
Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast
|
|
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, |
|
And vainly hope the tree of life to find |
|
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind? |
|
Is not that earth thy spirit lov'd so well, |
|
It wish'd not in a brighter sphere to dwell, |
|
Become a desert now, a vale of gloom,
|
|
O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb? |
|
Where shalt thou turn?—it is not thine to raise |
|
To yon pure heaven, thy calm confiding gaze, |
― 12 ―
|
|
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest, |
|
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast, |
|
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed |
|
Her glory round the image of the dead; |
|
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is prest, |
|
The form departed be thy spirit's guest, |
|
It bears no light from purer worlds to this; |
|
Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. |
|
But who shall dare the Gate of Life to close, |
|
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows?
|
|
That fount unseal'd, whose boundless waves embrace |
|
Each distant isle, and visit every race, |
|
Pours from the Throne of God its current free, |
|
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee. |
|
Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, |
|
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceas'd to plead, |
|
While still, suspended by a single hair, |
|
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, |
― 13 ―
|
|
Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break |
|
The bruised reed; e'en yet, awake, awake! |
|
Patient, because Eternal,1 He may hear
|
|
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, |
|
And send his chastening spirit from above, |
|
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. |
|
Call thou on Him—for He, in human form, |
|
Hath walk'd the waves of Life, and still'd the storm. |
|
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, |
|
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last, |
|
Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch pour'd |
|
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplor'd; |
― 14 ―
|
|
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, |
|
Taught from his Cross the lesson—to forgive! |
|
Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, |
|
As the soft Halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued; |
|
Ere yet the dove of Heaven descend, to shed |
|
Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. |
|
—He, who hath pin'd in dungeons, midst the shade |
|
Of such deep night as man for màn hath made, |
|
Thro' lingering years; if call'd at length to be, |
|
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free, |
|
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, |
|
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun! |
|
Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain'd |
|
In its own dread abyss of darkness chain'd, |
|
If the Deliverer, in his might, at last, |
|
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast |
|
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, |
|
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. |
|
But this will pass away—that spark of mind, |
|
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrin'd, |
|
Shall live to triumph in its bright'ning ray, |
|
Born to be foster'd with etherial day. |
|
Then wilt thou bless the hour, when o'er thee pass'd, |
|
On wing of flame, the purifying blast, |
|
And sorrow's voice, thro' paths before untrod, |
|
Like Sinai's trumpet, call'd thee to thy God! |
|
But hop'st thou, in thy panoply of pride, |
|
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride? |
|
In thine own strength unaided to defy, |
|
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky? |
― 16 ―
|
|
Torn by the vulture, fetter'd to the rock, |
|
Still, Demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock? |
|
Alas! the tower that crests the mountain's brow, |
|
A thousand years may awe the vale below, |
|
Yet not the less be shatter'd on its height, |
|
By one dread moment of the earthquake's might! |
|
A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, |
|
In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn, |
|
Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent |
|
To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. |
|
Oh! what is nature's strength? the vacant eye, |
|
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply! |
|
The wild delirious laughter of despair, |
|
The mirth of frenzy—seek an answer there! |
|
Turn not away, tho' pity's cheek grow pale, |
|
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. |
|
They tell thee, reason, wandering from the ray |
|
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, |
― 17 ―
|
|
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave, |
|
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save! |
|
Weep not, sad moralist! o'er desert plains, |
|
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur—mouldering fanes |
|
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, |
|
And regal cities, now the serpent's own: |
|
Earth has more awful ruins—one lost mind, |
|
Whose star is quench'd, hath lessons for mankind, |
|
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, |
|
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. |
|
Lord of th' Ascendant! what avails it now, |
|
Tho' bright the laurels wav'd upon thy brow? |
|
What, tho' thy name, thro' distant empires heard, |
|
Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word? |
|
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye,
|
|
Kept vigil with the watch-fires of the sky, |
|
To make the secrets of all ages thine, |
|
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine |
|
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway?—hath thy mind |
― 20 ―
|
|
Sever'd its lone dominions from mankind, |
|
For this to woo their homage?—Thou hast sought
|
|
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, |
|
Won every wreath—but that which will not die, |
|
Nor aught neglected—save eternity! |
|
—Lift the dread veil no further—hide, oh! hide |
|
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! |
|
The dagger, grasp'd in death—the brow, the eye, |
|
Lifeless, yet stamp'd with rage and agony; |
|
The soul's dark traces left in many a line |
|
Graved on his mien, who died,—"and made no sign!"
|
|
Approach not, gaze not—lest thy fever'd brain, |
|
Too deep that image of despair retain; |
|
Angels of slumber! o'er the midnight hour, |
|
Let not such visions claim unhallow'd power, |
|
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above |
|
See but th' Avenger's arm, forgot th' Atoner's love! |
|
O Thou! th' unseen, th' all-seeing!—Thou whose ways |
|
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, |
|
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, |
|
Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, |
|
And countless ages, trampling into clay |
|
Earth's empires on their march, are but a day; |
― 22 ―
|
|
Father of worlds unknown, unnumber'd!—Thou, |
|
With whom all time is one eternal now,
|
|
Who know'st no past, nor future—Thou whose breath |
|
Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death, |
|
Look on us, guide us!—wanderers of a sea |
|
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee? |
|
A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, |
|
A star may set—and we are lost in night; |
|
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, |
|
A treach'rous song allure us—and we sink! |
|
Oh! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light,
|
|
To moments circumscrib'd the Infinite, |
|
And Heaven and Earth disdain'd not to ally |
|
By that dread union—Man with Deity; |
|
Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, |
|
And, ere he rais'd them, wept above the dead; |
|
Save, or we perish!—let Thy word controul |
|
The earthquakes of that universe—the soul; |
― 23 ―
|
|
Pervade the depths of passion—speak once more |
|
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, |
|
"Here shall thy waves be staid" —in grief, in pain, |
|
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain, |
|
Thou, by whom suns are balanced!—thus secure |
|
In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure; |
|
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just |
|
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, |
|
And, by affliction guided to Thy shrine, |
|
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. |
|
And oh! be near, when, cloth'd with conquering power |
|
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: |
|
When, on the edge of that unknown abyss, |
|
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, |
|
Awe struck alike the timid and the brave, |
|
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, |
|
Must drink the cup of trembling4—when we see
|
|
Nought in the universe but death and Thee, |
― 24 ―
|
|
Forsake us not;—if still, when life was young, |
|
Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, |
|
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, |
|
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, |
|
Father, forsake us not!—when tortures urge |
|
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge, |
|
When from Thy justice to Thy love we fly, |
|
On Nature's conflict look with pitying eye, |
|
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, |
|
Come in the still small voice, and whisper—peace!5
|
|
For oh! 'tis awful—He that hath beheld |
|
The parting spirit, by its fears repell'd, |
|
Cling in weak terror, to its earthly chain, |
|
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; |
|
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe |
|
Dissolve the union form'd and clos'd in woe, |
|
Well knows, that hour is awful.—In the pride |
|
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, |
― 25 ―
|
|
We talk of Death, as something, which 'twere sweet |
|
In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, |
|
A closing triumph, a majestic scene, |
|
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, |
|
As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, |
|
He folds his mantle, regally to fall! |
|
Hush, fond enthusiast!—still, obscure, and lone, |
|
Yet not less terrible because unknown, |
|
Is the last hour of thousands—they retire |
|
From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire, |
|
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears |
|
Some trembling insect's little world of cares, |
|
Descends in silence—while around waves on |
|
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! |
|
Such is man's doom—and, ere an hour be flown, |
|
—Start not, thou trifler!— such may be thine own. |
|
But as life's current in its ebb draws near |
|
The shadowy gulph, there wakes a thought of fear, |
― 26 ―
|
|
A thrilling thought, which, haply mock'd before, |
|
We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more! |
|
There are, who fly its murmurs midst the throng, |
|
That join the masque of revelry and song, |
|
Yet still Death's image, by its power restor'd, |
|
Frowns midst the roses of the festal board, |
|
And, when deep shades o'er earth and ocean brood, |
|
And the heart owns the might of solitude, |
|
Is its low whisper heard:—a note profound, |
|
But wild and startling as the trumpet-sound, |
|
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose |
|
Of some proud city, storm'd by midnight foes! |
|
Oh! vainly reason's scornful voice would prove |
|
That life hath nought to claim such lingering love, |
|
And ask, if e'er the captive, half unchain'd, |
|
Clung to the links which yet his step restrain'd? |
|
In vain philosophy, with tranquil pride, |
|
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, |
― 27 ―
|
|
Call up the countless armies of the dead, |
|
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, |
|
And say—"What wouldst thou? Shall the fix'd decree, |
|
Made for creation, be revers'd for thee?"
|
|
—Poor, feeble aid!—proud Stoic! ask not why, |
|
It is enough, that nature shrinks to die! |
|
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid,
|
|
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid! |
|
—Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defin'd |
|
And mystic questions of the parting mind, |
|
Half check'd, half utter'd—tell her, what shall burst |
|
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, |
|
When freed from mortal films?—what viewless world |
|
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl'd? |
|
What awful and unbodied beings guide |
|
Her timid flight thro' regions yet untried? |
|
Say, if at once, her final doom to hear, |
|
Before her God the trembler must appear, |
|
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea |
|
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee? |
|
Hast thou no answer?—then deride no more |
|
The thoughts that shrink, yet cease not to explore |
|
Th' unknown, th' unseen, the future—tho' the heart, |
|
As at unearthly sounds, before them start, |
|
Tho' the frame shudder, and the spirit sigh, |
|
They have their source in immortality! |
|
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's aid denies, |
|
An equal to the mortal conflict rise? |
|
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, |
|
Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, |
|
The mighty rider comes—oh! whence shall aid |
|
Be drawn, to meet his rushing, undismay'd? |
|
—Whence, but from thee, Messiah!—thou hast drain'd |
|
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain'd, |
|
To thee the struggle and the pang were known, |
|
The mystic horror—all became thine own! |
|
But did no hand celestial succour bring, |
|
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? |
― 29 ―
|
|
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, |
|
To arm thee with invulnerable power? |
|
No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head, |
|
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, |
|
From man averted—and thy path on high, |
|
Pass'd thro' the strait of fiercest agony; |
|
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes, |
|
Receiv'd the last, th' almighty sacrifice! |
|
He rose! the everlasting gates of day, |
|
Receiv'd the King of Glory on his way! |
|
The hope, the comforter of those who wept, |
|
And the first-fruits of them, in Him that slept. |
― 30 ―
|
|
He rose, he triumph'd! he will yet sustain |
|
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. |
|
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame |
|
When fiercely blaz'd a living shroud of flame, |
|
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice |
|
Rais'd the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice! |
|
Aided by Him, tho' none the bed attend, |
|
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, |
|
He, whom the busy world shall miss no more, |
|
Than morn one dew-drop from her countless store, |
|
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, |
|
Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart! |
|
And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft |
|
Of that high hope, to misery what were left? |
|
But for the vision of the days to be, |
|
But for the Comforter, despis'd by thee, |
|
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, |
|
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, |
― 31 ―
|
|
When o'er our heads the desolating blast, |
|
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd, |
|
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey, |
|
Hath call'd our fairest and our best away? |
|
Should we not madden, when our eyes behold |
|
All that we lov'd in marble stillness cold, |
|
No more responsive to our smile or sigh, |
|
Fix'd—frozen—silent—all mortality? |
|
But for the promise, all shall yet be well, |
|
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel, |
|
Beneath such clouds as darken'd when the hand |
|
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land, |
|
And Thou, just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, |
|
Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness, |
|
With all a nation's blessings on thy head, |
|
O England's flower! wert gather'd to the dead? |
|
But Thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart, |
|
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart! |
|
When fled the hope thro' all thy pangs which smil'd, |
|
When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child, |
― 32 ―
|
|
Yearn'd with vain longing—still thy patient eye, |
|
To its last light, beam'd holy constancy! |
|
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, |
|
Amidst those agonies—thy first and last, |
|
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, |
|
Breath'd not a plaint—and settled in repose; |
|
While bow'd thy royal head to Him, whose power |
|
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, |
|
Who from the brightest vision of a throne, |
|
Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own, |
|
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, |
|
As blasted Israel, when her Ark was lost! |
|
Oh! still, tho' vanishing without a trace, |
|
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, |
|
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, |
|
Hallow'd by freedom, and enshrin'd in song! |
|
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell, |
|
Bright on the isles which lov'd thy name so well, |
|
E'en as an angel, with presiding care, |
|
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. |
|
By this hath England conquer'd—field and flood |
|
Have own'd her sovereignty—alone she stood, |
|
When chains o'er all the sceptered earth were thrown, |
|
In high and holy singleness, alone, |
― 34 ―
|
|
But mighty, in her God—and shall she now |
|
Forget before th'Omnipotent to bow? |
|
From the bright fountain of her glory turn, |
|
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? |
|
No! sever'd land midst rocks and billows rude, |
|
Thron'd in thy majesty of solitude |
|
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast, |
|
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, |
|
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, |
|
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers! |
|
Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle! |
|
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, |
|
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes, |
|
That guard the peasant's records and remains, |
|
May the blest echos of the Sabbath-bell, |
|
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, |
|
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, |
|
When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, |
― 35 ―
|
|
Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise, |
|
And bear the Land's warm incense to the skies. |
|
There may the mother, as with anxious joy, |
|
To Heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, |
|
Teach his young accents still th' immortal lays, |
|
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days, |
|
When Angels, whispering thro' the cedar's shade, |
|
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp convey'd; |
|
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, |
|
She bids the prayer of infancy arise, |
|
Tell of His name, who left his Throne on high, |
|
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, |
|
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, |
|
And fondly say—"My child, for thee He died!" |
superscript numeral. 5. And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong
wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after
― 38 ―
the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was
not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.
Kings, book 1. chap. 19.
London: Printed by W. Bulmer and Co.
Cleveland-row, St. James's.