'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orbAscending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,That crowd away before the driving wind,More ardent as the disk emerges more,Resemble most some city in a blaze,Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting raySlides ineffectual down the snowy vale,And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,From every herb and every spiry bladeStretches a length of shadow o'er the field.Mine, spindling into longitude immense,In spite of gravity, and sage remarkThat I myself am but a fleeting shade,Provokes me to a smile. With eye askanceI view the muscular proportion'd limbTransform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pairAs they design'd to mock me, at my sideTake step for step; and, as I near approachThe cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.The verdure of the plain lies buried deepBeneath the dazzling deluge; and the bentsAnd coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,Of late unsightly and unseen, now shineConspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.The cattle mourn in corners, where the fenceScreens them, and seem half petrified to sleepIn unrecumbent sadness. There they waitTheir wonted fodder; not like hungering man,Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay.He from the stack carves out the accustom'd load,Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,His broad keen knife into the solid mass:Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,With such undeviating and even forceHe severs it away: no needless care,Lest storms should overset the leaning pileDeciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'dThe cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axeAnd drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,From morn to eve his solitary task.Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed earsAnd tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur,His dog attends him. Close behind his heelNow creeps he slow; and now, with many a friskWide scampering, snatches up the driften snowWith ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy.Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churlMoves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught,But now and then with pressure of his thumbTo adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube,That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloudStreams far behind him, scenting all the air.Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale,Where, diligent to catch the first fair gleamOf smiling day, they gossip'd side by side,Come trooping at the housewife's well-known callThe feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing,And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge.The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves,To seize the fair occasion: well they eyeThe scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolvedTo escape the impending famine, often scaredAs oft return, a pert voracious kind.Clean riddance quickly made, one only careRemains to each, the search of sunny nook,Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'dTo sad necessity, the cock foregoesHis wonted strut; and, wading at their headWith well-consider'd steps, seems to resentHis alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd.How find the myriads, that in summer cheerThe hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?Earth yields them nought: the imprison'd worm is safeBeneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbsLie cover'd close; and berry-bearing thorns,That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,)Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.The long protracted rigour of the yearThins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holesTen thousand seek an unmolested end,As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die.The very rooks and daws forsake the fields,Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, nowRepays their labour more; and, perch'd aloftBy the way-side, or stalking in the path,Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track,Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them,Of voided pulse or half-digested grain.The streams are lost amid the splendid blank,O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood,Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weightLies undissolved; while silently beneath,And unperceived, the current steals away.Not so where, scornful of a check, it leapsThe mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel,And wantons in the pebbly gulf below:No frost can bind it there; its utmost forceCan but arrest the light and smoky mistThat in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide.And see where it has hung the embroider'd banksWith forms so various, that no powers of art,The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene!Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high(Fantastic misarrangement!) on the roofLarge growth of what may seem the sparkling treesAnd shrubs of fairy land. The crystal dropsThat trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd,Shoot into pillars of pellucid length,And prop the pile they but adorn'd before.Here grotto within grotto safe defiesThe sunbeam; there, embossed and fretted wild,The growing wonder takes a thousand shapesCapricious, in which fancy seeks in vainThe likeness of some object seen before.Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art,And in defiance of her rival powers;By these fortuitous and random strokesPerforming such inimitable featsAs she with all her rules can never reach.Less worthy of applause, though more admired,Because a novelty, the work of man,Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ!Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,The wonder of the North. No forest fellWhen thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its storesTo enrich thy walls: but thou didst hew the floods,And make thy marble of the glassy wave.In such a palace Aristæus foundCyrene, when he bore the plaintive taleOf his lost bees to her maternal ear:In such a palace Poetry might placeThe armoury of Winter; where his troops,The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet,Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail,And snow, that often blinds the traveller's course,And wraps him in an unexpected tomb.Silently as a dream the fabric rose;No sound of hammer or of saw was there.Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted partsWere soon conjoin'd; nor other cement ask'dThan water interfused to make them one.Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues,Illumined every side; a watery lightGleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'dAnother moon new risen, or meteor fallenFrom heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene.So stood the brittle prodigy; though smoothAnd slippery the materials, yet frost-boundFirm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within,That royal residence might well befit,For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreathsOf flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth,Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed noneWhere all was vitreous; but in order dueConvivial table and commodious seat(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there;Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august.The same lubricity was found in all,And all was moist to the warm touch; a sceneOf evanescent glory, once a stream,And soon to slide into a stream again.Alas! 'twas but a mortifying strokeOf undesign'd severity, that glanced(Made by a monarch) on her own estate,On human grandeur and the courts of kings.'Twas transient in its nature, as in show'Twas durable; as worthless, as it seem'dIntrinsically precious; to the footTreacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold.Great princes have great playthings. Some have play'dAt hewing mountains into men, and someAt building human wonders mountain high.Some have amused the dull sad years of life(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad)With schemes of monumental fame; and soughtBy pyramids and mausolean pomp,Short-lived themselves, to immortalize their bones.Some seek diversion in the tented field,And make the sorrows of mankind their sport.But war's a game which, were their subjects wise,Kings would not play at. Nations would do wellTo extort their truncheons from the puny handsOf heroes, whose infirm and baby mindsAre gratified with mischief, and who spoil,Because men suffer it, their toy, the World.When Babel was confounded, and the greatConfederacy of projectors wild and vainWas split into diversity of tongues,Then, as a shepherd separates his flock,These to the upland, to the valley those,God drave asunder, and assign'd their lotTo all the nations. Ample was the boonHe gave them, in its distribution fairAnd equal; and he bade them dwell in peace.Peace was awhile their care: they plough'd, and sow'd,And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife,But violence can never longer sleepThan human passions please. In every heartAre sown the sparks that kindle fiery war;Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze.Cain had already shed a brother's blood;The deluge wash'd it out; but left unquench'dThe seeds of murder in the breast of man.Soon by a righteous judgment in the lineOf his descending progeny was foundThe first artificer of death; the shrewdContriver, who first sweated at the forge,And forced the blunt and yet unbloodied steelTo a keen edge, and made it bright for war.Him, Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times,The sword and falchion their inventor claim;And the first smith was the first murderer's son.His art survived the waters; and ere long,When man was multiplied and spread abroadIn tribes and clans, and had begun to callThese meadows and that range of hills his own,The tasted sweets of property begatDesire of more; and industry in some,To improve and cultivate their just demesne,Made others covet what they saw so fair.Thus war began on earth; these fought for spoil,And those in self-defence. Savage at firstThe onset, and irregular. At lengthOne eminent above the rest for strength,For stratagem, or courage, or for all,Was chosen leader; him they served in war,And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds,Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare?Or who so worthy to control themselves,As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes?Thus war, affording field for the displayOf virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace,Which have their exigencies too, and callFor skill in government, at length made king.King was a name too proud for man to wearWith modesty and meekness; and the crown,So dazzling in their eyes who set it on,Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound.It is the abject property of most,That, being parcel of the common mass,And destitute of means to raise themselves,They sink, and settle lower than they need.They know not what it is to feel withinA comprehensive faculty, that graspsGreat purposes with ease, that turns and wields,Almost without an effort, plans too vastFor their conception, which they cannot move.Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunkWith gazing, when they see an able manStep forth to notice; and, besotted thus,Build him a pedestal, and say, "Stand there,And be our admiration and our praise."They roll themselves before him in the dust,Then most deserving in their own accountWhen most extravagant in his applause,As if exalting him they raised themselves.Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their soundAnd sober judgment, that he is but man,They demi-deify and fume him so,That in due season he forgets it too.Inflated and astrut with self-conceit,He gulps the windy diet; and, ere long,Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinksThe world was made in vain, if not for him.Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, bornTo bear his burdens, drawing in his gears,And sweating in his service, his capriceBecomes the soul that animates them all.He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives,Spent in the purchase of renown for him,An easy reckoning; and they think the same.Thus kings were first invented, and thus kingsWere burnish'd into heroes, and becameThe arbiters of this terraqueous swamp;Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and died.Strange, that such folly, as lifts bloated manTo eminence, fit only for a god,Should ever drivel out of human lips,E'en in the cradled weakness of the world!Still stranger much, that, when at length mankindHad reach'd the sinewy firmness of their youth,And could discriminate and argue wellOn subjects more mysterious, they were yetBabes in the cause of freedom, and should fearAnd quake before the gods themselves had made.But above measure strange, that neither proofOf sad experience, nor examples setBy some, whose patriot virtue has prevail'd,Can even now, when they are grown matureIn wisdom, and with philosophic deedsFamiliar, serve to emancipate the rest!Such dupes are men to custom, and so proneTo reverence what is ancient, and can pleadA course of long observance for its use,That even servitude, the worst of ills,Because deliver'd down from sire to son,Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing!But is it fit, or can it bear the shockOf rational discussion, that a man,Compounded and made up like other menOf elements tumultuous, in whom lustAnd folly in as ample measure meet,As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules,Should be a despot absolute, and boastHimself the only freeman of his land?Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will,Wage war, with any or with no pretenceOf provocation given, or wrong sustain'd,And force the beggarly last doit, by meansThat his own humour dictates, from the clutchOf poverty, that thus he may procureHis thousands, weary of penurious life,A splendid opportunity to die?Say ye, who (with less prudence than of oldJotham ascribed to his assembled treesIn politic convention) put your trustIn the shadow of a bramble, and, reclinedIn fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch,Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway,Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springsYour self-denying zeal, that holds it goodTo stroke the prickly grievance, and to hangHis thorns with streamers of continual praise?We too are friends to loyalty. We loveThe king who loves the law, respects his bounds,And reigns content within them: him we serveFreely and with delight, who leaves us free:But, recollecting still that he is man,We trust him not too far. King though he be,And king in England too, he may be weak,And vain enough to be ambitious still;May exercise amiss his proper powers,Or covet more than freemen choose to grant:Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours,To administer, to guard, to adorn the state,But not to warp or change it. We are his,To serve him nobly in the common cause,True to the death, but not to be his slaves.Mark now the difference, ye that boast your loveOf kings, between your loyalty and ours.We love the man, the paltry pageant you:We the chief patron of the commonwealth,You the regardless author of its woes:We for the sake of liberty a king,You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake.Our love is principle, and has its rootIn reason, is judicious, manly, free;Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod,And licks the foot that treads it in the dust.Were kingship as true treasure as it seems,Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish,I would not be a king to be belovedCauseless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise,Where love is mere attachment to the throne,Not to the man who fills it as he ought.Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at willOf a superior, he is never free.Who lives, and is not weary of a lifeExposed to manacles, deserves them well.The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd,And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,Deserves at least applause for her attempt,And pity for her loss. But that's a causeNot often unsuccessful: power usurp'dIs weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong,'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight.But slaves that once conceive the glowing thoughtOf freedom, in that hope itself possessAll that the contest calls for; spirit, strength,The scorn of danger, and united hearts;The surest presage of the good they seek.[814]Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious moreTo France than all her losses and defeats,Old or of later date, by sea or land,Her house of bondage, worse than that of oldWhich God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastille.Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts;Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,That monarchs have supplied from age to ageWith music, such as suits their sovereign ears,The sighs and groans of miserable men!There's not an English heart that would not leapTo hear that ye were fallen at last; to knowThat e'en our enemies, so oft employ'dIn forging chains for us, themselves were free.For he who values Liberty confinesHis zeal for her predominance withinNo narrow bounds; her cause engages himWherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried,Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape!There, like the visionary emblem seenBy him of Babylon, life stands a stump,And, filleted about with hoops of brass,Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone,To count the hour-bell, and expect no change;And ever, as the sullen sound is heard,Still to reflect, that, though a joyless noteTo him whose moments all have one dull pace,Ten thousand rovers in the world at largeAccount it music; that it summons someTo theatre, or jocund feast, or ball:The wearied hireling finds it a releaseFrom labour; and the lover, who has chidIts long delay, feels every welcome strokeUpon his heart-strings, trembling with delight—To fly for refuge from distracting thoughtTo such amusements as ingenious woeContrives, hard shifting, and without her tools—To read engraven on the mouldy walls,In staggering types, his predecessor's tale,A sad memorial, and subjoin his own—To turn purveyor to an overgorgedAnd bloated spider, till the pamper'd pestIs made familiar, watches his approach,Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend—To wear out time in numbering to and froThe studs that thick emboss his iron door;Then downward and then upward, then aslant,And then alternate; with a sickly hopeBy dint of change to give his tasteless taskSome relish; till the sum, exactly foundIn all directions, he begins again.—Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd aroundWith woes, which who that suffers would not kneelAnd beg for exile, or the pangs of death?That man should thus encroach on fellow man,Abridge him of his just and native rights,Eradicate him, tear him from his holdUpon the endearments of domestic lifeAnd social, nip his fruitfulness and use,And doom him for perhaps a heedless wordTo barrenness, and solitude, and tears,Moves indignation, makes the name of king(Of king whom such prerogative can please)As dreadful as the Manichean god,Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.'Tis liberty alone that gives the flowerOf fleeting life its lustre and perfume;And we are weeds without it. All constraint,Except what wisdom lays on evil men,Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedesTheir progress in the road of science; blindsThe eyesight of Discovery; and begets,In those that suffer it, a sordid mindBestial, a meagre intellect, unfitTo be the tenant of man's noble form.Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezedBy public exigence, till annual foodFails for the craving hunger of the state,Thee I account still happy, and the chiefAmong the nations, seeing thou art free:My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,Replete with vapours, and disposes muchAll hearts to sadness, and none more than mine:Thine unadulterate manners are less softAnd plausible than social life requires,And thou hast need of discipline and artTo give thee what politer France receives,From nature's bounty—that humane addressAnd sweetness, without which no pleasure isIn converse, either starved by cold reserve,Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl.Yet being free I love thee: for the sakeOf that one feature can be well content,Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,To seek no sublunary rest beside.But once enslaved, farewell! I could endureChains nowhere patiently; and chains at home,Where I am free by birthright, not at all.Then what were left of roughness in the grainOf British natures, wanting its excuseThat it belongs to freemen, would disgustAnd shock me. I should then with double painFeel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,I would at least bewail it under skiesMilder, among a people less austere;In scenes which, having never known me free,Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.Do I forebode impossible events,And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may!But the age of virtuous politics is past,And we are deep in that of cold pretence.Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,And we too wise to trust them. He that takesDeep in his soft credulity the stampDesign'd by loud declaimers on the partOf liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,Incurs derision for his easy faithAnd lack of knowledge, and with cause enough:For when was public virtue to be foundWhere private was not? Can he love the wholeWho loves no part? He be a nation's friendWho is, in truth, the friend of no man there?Can he be strenuous in his country's causeWho slights the charities for whose dear sakeThat country, if at all, must be beloved?'Tis therefore sober and good men are sadFor England's glory, seeing it wax paleAnd sickly, while her champions wear their heartsSo loose to private duty, that no brain,Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes,Can dream them trusty to the general weal.Such were not they of old, whose temper'd bladesDispersed the shackles of usurp'd control,And hew'd them link from link; then Albion's sonsWere sons indeed; they felt a filial heartBeat high within them at a mother's wrongs;And, shining each in his domestic sphere,Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view,'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lotForbids their interference, looking on,Anticipate perforce some dire event;And, seeing the old castle of the state,That promised once more firmness, so assail'dThat all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,Stand motionless expectants of its fall.All has its date below; the fatal hourWas register'd in heaven ere time began.We turn to dust, and all our mightiest worksDie too: the deep foundations that we lay,Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains.We build with what we deem eternal rock:A distant age asks where the fabric stood;And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain,The undiscoverable secret sleeps.But there is yet a liberty, unsungBy poets, and by senators unpraised,Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powersOf earth and hell confederate take away:A liberty which persecution, fraud,Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind:Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more.'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven,Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind,And seal'd with the same token. It is heldBy charter, and that charter sanction'd sureBy the unimpeachable and awful oathAnd promise of a God. His other giftsAll bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,And are august; but this transcends them all.His other works, the visible displayOf all-creating energy and might,Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the wordThat, finding an interminable spaceUnoccupied, has fill'd the void so well,And made so sparkling what was dark before.But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,Might well suppose the Artificer divineMeant it eternal, had he not himselfPronounced it transient, glorious as it is,And, still designing a more glorious far,Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise.These, therefore, are occasional, and pass;Form'd for the confutation of the fool,Whose lying heart disputes against a God;That office served, they must be swept away.Not so the labours of his love: they shineIn other heavens than these that we behold,And fade not. There is paradise that fearsNo forfeiture, and of its fruits he sendsLarge prelibation oft to saints below.Of these the first in order, and the pledgeAnd confident assurance of the rest,Is liberty: a flight into his arms,Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,And full immunity from penal woe.Chains are the portion of revolted man,Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body servesThe triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,Opprobrious residence he finds them all.Propense his heart to idols, he is heldIn silly dotage on created things,Careless of their Creator. And that lowAnd sordid gravitation of his powersTo a vile clod so draws him, with such forceResistless from the centre he should seek,That he at last forgets it. All his hopesTend downward; his ambition is to sink,To reach a depth profounder still, and stillProfounder, in the fathomless abyssOf folly, plunging in pursuit of death.But, ere he gain the comfortless reposeHe seeks, and acquiescence of his soul,In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures—What does he not, from lusts opposed in vain,And self-reproaching conscience? He foreseesThe fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,Fortune and dignity; the loss of allThat can ennoble man, and make frail life,Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,Far worse than all the plagues, with which his sinsInfect his happiest moments, he forebodesAges of hopeless misery. Future death,And death still future. Not a hasty stroke,Like that which sends him to the dusty grave;But unrepealable enduring death.Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:What none can prove a forgery may be true;What none but bad men wish exploded must.That scruple checks him. Riot is not loudNor drunk enough to drown it. In the midstOf laughter his compunctions are sincere;And he abhors the jest by which he shines.Remorse begets reform. His master-lustFalls first before his resolute rebuke,And seems dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace ensues,But spurious and short-lived; the puny childOf self-congratulating pride, begotOn fancied innocence. Again he falls,And fights again; but finds his best essayA presage ominous, portending stillIts own dishonour by a worse relapse.Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'dSo oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,Scoffs at her own performance. Reason nowTakes part with appetite, and pleads the causePerversely, which of late she so condemn'd;With shallow shifts and old devices, wornAnd tatter'd in the service of debauch,Covering his shame from his offended sight."Hath God indeed given appetites to man,And stored the earth so plenteously with meansTo gratify the hunger of his wish;And doth he reprobate, and will he damnThe use of his own bounty? making firstSo frail a kind, and then enacting lawsSo strict, that less than perfect must despair?Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truthDishonours God, and makes a slave of man.Do they themselves, who undertake for hireThe teacher's office, and dispense at largeTheir weekly dole of edifying strains,Attend to their own music? have they faithIn what, with such solemnity of toneAnd gesture, they propound to our belief?Nay—conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voiceIs but an instrument, on which the priestMay play what tune he pleases. In the deed,The unequivocal, authentic deed,We find sound argument, we read the heart."Such reasonings (if that name must needs belongTo excuses in which reason has no part)Serve to compose a spirit well inclinedTo live on terms of amity with vice,And sin without disturbance. Often urged,(As often as libidinous discourseExhausted, he resorts to solemn themesOf theological and grave import)They gain at last his unreserved assent;Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forgeOf lust, and on the anvil of despair,He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing movesOr nothing much, his constancy in ill;Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease;'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death.Haste now, philosopher, and set him free.Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hearOf rectitude and fitness, moral truthHow lovely, and the moral sense how sure,Consulted and obeyed, to guide his stepsDirectly to the first and only fair.Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powersOf rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise:Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,And with poetic trappings grace thy prose,Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.—Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass,Smitten in vain! such music cannot charmThe eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam,And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul.TheSTILL SMALL VOICEis wanted. He must speak,Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect;Who calls for things that are not, and they come.Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a changeThat turns to ridicule the turgid speechAnd stately tone of moralists, who boast,As if, like him of fabulous renown,They had indeed ability to smoothThe shag of savage nature, and were eachAn Orpheus, and omnipotent in song.But transformation of apostate manFrom fool to wise, from earthly to divine,Is work for Him that made him. He alone,And He by means in philosophic eyesTrivial and worthy of disdain, achievesThe wonder; humanizing what is bruteIn the lost kind, extracting from the lipsOf asps their venom, overpowering strengthBy weakness, and hostility by love.Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's causeBled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,Receive proud recompence. We give in chargeTheir names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse,Proud of the treasure, marches with it downTo latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,Gives bond in stone and ever-during brassTo guard them, and to immortalize her trust:But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth,Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood,Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,And for a time ensure to his loved land,The sweets of liberty and equal laws;But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,And win it with more pain. Their blood is shedIn confirmation of the noblest claim—Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,To walk with God, to be divinely free,To soar, and to anticipate the skies.Yet few remember them. They lived unknownTill Persecution dragg'd them into fame,And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew—No marble tells us whither. With their namesNo bard embalms and sanctifies his song:And history, so warm on meaner themes,Is cold on this. She execrates indeedThe tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.[815]He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,And all are slaves beside. There's not a chainThat hellish foes, confederate for his harm,Can wind around him, but he casts it offWith as much ease as Samson his green withes.He looks abroad into the varied fieldOf nature, and, though poor perhaps, comparedWith those whose mansions glitter in his sight,Calls the delightful scenery all his own.His are the mountains, and the valleys his,And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoyWith a propriety that none can feel,But who, with filial confidence inspired,Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,And smiling say—"My Father made them all!"Are they not his by a peculiar right,And by an emphasis of interest his,Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mindWith worthy thoughts of that unwearied loveThat plann'd, and built, and still upholds a worldSo clothed with beauty for rebellious man?Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye that reapThe loaded soil, and ye may waste much goodIn senseless riot; but ye will not find,In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,A liberty like his who, unimpeach'dOf usurpation, and to no man's wrong,Appropriates nature as his Father's work,And has a richer use of yours than you.He is indeed a freeman. Free by birthOf no mean city; plann'd or ere the hillsWere built, the fountains open'd, or the seaWith all his roaring multitude of waves.His freedom is the same in every state;And no condition of this changeful life,So manifold in cares, whose every dayBrings its own evil with it, makes it less:For he has wings that neither sickness, pain,Nor penury, can cripple or confine.No nook so narrow but he spreads them thereWith ease, and is at large. The oppressor holdsHis body bound; but knows not what a rangeHis spirit takes, unconscious of a chain;And that to bind him is a vain attempt,Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst tasteHis works. Admitted once to his embrace,Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before;Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight'Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone,And eyes intent upon the scanty herbIt yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,Ruminate heedless of the scene outspreadBeneath, beyond, and stretching far awayFrom inland regions to the distant main.Man views it, and admires; but rests contentWith what he views. The landscape has his praise,But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'dThe paradise he sees, he finds it such,And, such well pleased to find it, asks no more.Not so the mind that has been touch'd from Heaven,And in the school of sacred wisdom taughtTo read his wonders, in whose thought the world,Fair as it is, existed ere it was.Not for its own sake merely, but for hisMuch more who fashion'd it, he gives it praise;Praise that, from earth resulting, as it ought,To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at onceIts only just proprietor in Him.The soul that sees him or receives sublimedNew faculties, or learns at least to employMore worthily the powers she own'd before,Discerns in all things what, with stupid gazeOf ignorance, till then she overlook'd,A ray of heavenly light, gilding all formsTerrestrial in the vast and the minute;The unambiguous footsteps of the God,Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.Much conversant with Heaven, she often holdsWith those fair ministers of light to man,That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp,Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were theyWith which Heaven rang, when every star, in hasteTo gratulate the new-created earth,Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of GodShouted for joy.—"Tell me, ye shining hosts,That navigate a sea that knows no storms,Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,If from your elevation, whence ye viewDistinctly scenes invisible to man,And systems, of whose birth no tidings yetHave reach'd this nether world, ye spy a raceFavour'd as ours; transgressors from the womb,And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise,And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?As one who long detain'd on foreign shoresPants to return, and when he sees afarHis country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks,From the green wave emerging, darts an eyeRadiant with joy towards the happy land;So I with animated hopes behold,And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,That show like beacons in the blue abyss,Ordain'd to guide the embodied spirit homeFrom toilsome life to never-ending rest.Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desiresThat give assurance of their own success,And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend."So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truthIlluminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word!Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost,With intellects bemazed in endless doubt,But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built,With means that were not till by thee employ'd,Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strengthBeen less, or less benevolent than strong.They are thy witnesses, who speak thy powerAnd goodness infinite, but speak in earsThat hear not, or receive not their report.In vain thy creatures testify of thee,Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeedA teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thineThat whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,And with the boon gives talents for its use.Till thou art heard, imaginations vainPossess the heart, and fables false as hell,Yet, deem'd oracular, lure down to deathThe uninform'd and heedless souls of men.We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind,The glory of thy work; which yet appearsPerfect and unimpeachable of blame,Challenging human scrutiny, and provedThen skilful most when most severely judged.But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st;Thy providence forbids that fickle power(If power she be that works but to confound)To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws.Yet thus we dote, refusing while we canInstruction, and inventing to ourselvesGods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep,Or disregard our follies, or that sitAmused spectators of this bustling stage.Thee we reject, unable to abideThy purity, till pure as thou art pure;Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause,For which we shunn'd and hated thee before.Then we are free. Then liberty, like day,Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heavenFires all the faculties with glorious joy.A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not,Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song,A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works;Which he that hears it with a shout repeats,And adds his rapture to the general praise.In that blest moment Nature, throwing wideHer veil opaque, discloses with a smileThe author of her beauties, who, retiredBehind his own creation, works unseenBy the impure, and hears his power denied.Thou art the source and centre of all minds,Their only point of rest, eternal Word!From thee departing they are lost, and roveAt random without honour, hope, or peace.From thee is all that soothes the life of man,His high endeavour, and his glad success,His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good,Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor;And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orbAscending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,That crowd away before the driving wind,More ardent as the disk emerges more,Resemble most some city in a blaze,Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting raySlides ineffectual down the snowy vale,And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,From every herb and every spiry bladeStretches a length of shadow o'er the field.Mine, spindling into longitude immense,In spite of gravity, and sage remarkThat I myself am but a fleeting shade,Provokes me to a smile. With eye askanceI view the muscular proportion'd limbTransform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pairAs they design'd to mock me, at my sideTake step for step; and, as I near approachThe cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.The verdure of the plain lies buried deepBeneath the dazzling deluge; and the bentsAnd coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,Of late unsightly and unseen, now shineConspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.The cattle mourn in corners, where the fenceScreens them, and seem half petrified to sleepIn unrecumbent sadness. There they waitTheir wonted fodder; not like hungering man,Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay.He from the stack carves out the accustom'd load,Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,His broad keen knife into the solid mass:Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,With such undeviating and even forceHe severs it away: no needless care,Lest storms should overset the leaning pileDeciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'dThe cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axeAnd drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,From morn to eve his solitary task.Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed earsAnd tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur,His dog attends him. Close behind his heelNow creeps he slow; and now, with many a friskWide scampering, snatches up the driften snowWith ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy.Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churlMoves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught,But now and then with pressure of his thumbTo adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube,That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloudStreams far behind him, scenting all the air.Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale,Where, diligent to catch the first fair gleamOf smiling day, they gossip'd side by side,Come trooping at the housewife's well-known callThe feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing,And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge.The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves,To seize the fair occasion: well they eyeThe scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolvedTo escape the impending famine, often scaredAs oft return, a pert voracious kind.Clean riddance quickly made, one only careRemains to each, the search of sunny nook,Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'dTo sad necessity, the cock foregoesHis wonted strut; and, wading at their headWith well-consider'd steps, seems to resentHis alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd.How find the myriads, that in summer cheerThe hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?Earth yields them nought: the imprison'd worm is safeBeneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbsLie cover'd close; and berry-bearing thorns,That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,)Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.The long protracted rigour of the yearThins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holesTen thousand seek an unmolested end,As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die.The very rooks and daws forsake the fields,Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, nowRepays their labour more; and, perch'd aloftBy the way-side, or stalking in the path,Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track,Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them,Of voided pulse or half-digested grain.The streams are lost amid the splendid blank,O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood,Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weightLies undissolved; while silently beneath,And unperceived, the current steals away.Not so where, scornful of a check, it leapsThe mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel,And wantons in the pebbly gulf below:No frost can bind it there; its utmost forceCan but arrest the light and smoky mistThat in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide.And see where it has hung the embroider'd banksWith forms so various, that no powers of art,The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene!Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high(Fantastic misarrangement!) on the roofLarge growth of what may seem the sparkling treesAnd shrubs of fairy land. The crystal dropsThat trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd,Shoot into pillars of pellucid length,And prop the pile they but adorn'd before.Here grotto within grotto safe defiesThe sunbeam; there, embossed and fretted wild,The growing wonder takes a thousand shapesCapricious, in which fancy seeks in vainThe likeness of some object seen before.Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art,And in defiance of her rival powers;By these fortuitous and random strokesPerforming such inimitable featsAs she with all her rules can never reach.Less worthy of applause, though more admired,Because a novelty, the work of man,Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ!Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,The wonder of the North. No forest fellWhen thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its storesTo enrich thy walls: but thou didst hew the floods,And make thy marble of the glassy wave.In such a palace Aristæus foundCyrene, when he bore the plaintive taleOf his lost bees to her maternal ear:In such a palace Poetry might placeThe armoury of Winter; where his troops,The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet,Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail,And snow, that often blinds the traveller's course,And wraps him in an unexpected tomb.Silently as a dream the fabric rose;No sound of hammer or of saw was there.Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted partsWere soon conjoin'd; nor other cement ask'dThan water interfused to make them one.Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues,Illumined every side; a watery lightGleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'dAnother moon new risen, or meteor fallenFrom heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene.So stood the brittle prodigy; though smoothAnd slippery the materials, yet frost-boundFirm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within,That royal residence might well befit,For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreathsOf flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth,Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed noneWhere all was vitreous; but in order dueConvivial table and commodious seat(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there;Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august.The same lubricity was found in all,And all was moist to the warm touch; a sceneOf evanescent glory, once a stream,And soon to slide into a stream again.Alas! 'twas but a mortifying strokeOf undesign'd severity, that glanced(Made by a monarch) on her own estate,On human grandeur and the courts of kings.'Twas transient in its nature, as in show'Twas durable; as worthless, as it seem'dIntrinsically precious; to the footTreacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold.Great princes have great playthings. Some have play'dAt hewing mountains into men, and someAt building human wonders mountain high.Some have amused the dull sad years of life(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad)With schemes of monumental fame; and soughtBy pyramids and mausolean pomp,Short-lived themselves, to immortalize their bones.Some seek diversion in the tented field,And make the sorrows of mankind their sport.But war's a game which, were their subjects wise,Kings would not play at. Nations would do wellTo extort their truncheons from the puny handsOf heroes, whose infirm and baby mindsAre gratified with mischief, and who spoil,Because men suffer it, their toy, the World.When Babel was confounded, and the greatConfederacy of projectors wild and vainWas split into diversity of tongues,Then, as a shepherd separates his flock,These to the upland, to the valley those,God drave asunder, and assign'd their lotTo all the nations. Ample was the boonHe gave them, in its distribution fairAnd equal; and he bade them dwell in peace.Peace was awhile their care: they plough'd, and sow'd,And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife,But violence can never longer sleepThan human passions please. In every heartAre sown the sparks that kindle fiery war;Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze.Cain had already shed a brother's blood;The deluge wash'd it out; but left unquench'dThe seeds of murder in the breast of man.Soon by a righteous judgment in the lineOf his descending progeny was foundThe first artificer of death; the shrewdContriver, who first sweated at the forge,And forced the blunt and yet unbloodied steelTo a keen edge, and made it bright for war.Him, Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times,The sword and falchion their inventor claim;And the first smith was the first murderer's son.His art survived the waters; and ere long,When man was multiplied and spread abroadIn tribes and clans, and had begun to callThese meadows and that range of hills his own,The tasted sweets of property begatDesire of more; and industry in some,To improve and cultivate their just demesne,Made others covet what they saw so fair.Thus war began on earth; these fought for spoil,And those in self-defence. Savage at firstThe onset, and irregular. At lengthOne eminent above the rest for strength,For stratagem, or courage, or for all,Was chosen leader; him they served in war,And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds,Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare?Or who so worthy to control themselves,As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes?Thus war, affording field for the displayOf virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace,Which have their exigencies too, and callFor skill in government, at length made king.King was a name too proud for man to wearWith modesty and meekness; and the crown,So dazzling in their eyes who set it on,Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound.It is the abject property of most,That, being parcel of the common mass,And destitute of means to raise themselves,They sink, and settle lower than they need.They know not what it is to feel withinA comprehensive faculty, that graspsGreat purposes with ease, that turns and wields,Almost without an effort, plans too vastFor their conception, which they cannot move.Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunkWith gazing, when they see an able manStep forth to notice; and, besotted thus,Build him a pedestal, and say, "Stand there,And be our admiration and our praise."They roll themselves before him in the dust,Then most deserving in their own accountWhen most extravagant in his applause,As if exalting him they raised themselves.Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their soundAnd sober judgment, that he is but man,They demi-deify and fume him so,That in due season he forgets it too.Inflated and astrut with self-conceit,He gulps the windy diet; and, ere long,Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinksThe world was made in vain, if not for him.Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, bornTo bear his burdens, drawing in his gears,And sweating in his service, his capriceBecomes the soul that animates them all.He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives,Spent in the purchase of renown for him,An easy reckoning; and they think the same.Thus kings were first invented, and thus kingsWere burnish'd into heroes, and becameThe arbiters of this terraqueous swamp;Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and died.Strange, that such folly, as lifts bloated manTo eminence, fit only for a god,Should ever drivel out of human lips,E'en in the cradled weakness of the world!Still stranger much, that, when at length mankindHad reach'd the sinewy firmness of their youth,And could discriminate and argue wellOn subjects more mysterious, they were yetBabes in the cause of freedom, and should fearAnd quake before the gods themselves had made.But above measure strange, that neither proofOf sad experience, nor examples setBy some, whose patriot virtue has prevail'd,Can even now, when they are grown matureIn wisdom, and with philosophic deedsFamiliar, serve to emancipate the rest!Such dupes are men to custom, and so proneTo reverence what is ancient, and can pleadA course of long observance for its use,That even servitude, the worst of ills,Because deliver'd down from sire to son,Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing!But is it fit, or can it bear the shockOf rational discussion, that a man,Compounded and made up like other menOf elements tumultuous, in whom lustAnd folly in as ample measure meet,As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules,Should be a despot absolute, and boastHimself the only freeman of his land?Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will,Wage war, with any or with no pretenceOf provocation given, or wrong sustain'd,And force the beggarly last doit, by meansThat his own humour dictates, from the clutchOf poverty, that thus he may procureHis thousands, weary of penurious life,A splendid opportunity to die?Say ye, who (with less prudence than of oldJotham ascribed to his assembled treesIn politic convention) put your trustIn the shadow of a bramble, and, reclinedIn fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch,Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway,Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springsYour self-denying zeal, that holds it goodTo stroke the prickly grievance, and to hangHis thorns with streamers of continual praise?We too are friends to loyalty. We loveThe king who loves the law, respects his bounds,And reigns content within them: him we serveFreely and with delight, who leaves us free:But, recollecting still that he is man,We trust him not too far. King though he be,And king in England too, he may be weak,And vain enough to be ambitious still;May exercise amiss his proper powers,Or covet more than freemen choose to grant:Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours,To administer, to guard, to adorn the state,But not to warp or change it. We are his,To serve him nobly in the common cause,True to the death, but not to be his slaves.Mark now the difference, ye that boast your loveOf kings, between your loyalty and ours.We love the man, the paltry pageant you:We the chief patron of the commonwealth,You the regardless author of its woes:We for the sake of liberty a king,You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake.Our love is principle, and has its rootIn reason, is judicious, manly, free;Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod,And licks the foot that treads it in the dust.Were kingship as true treasure as it seems,Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish,I would not be a king to be belovedCauseless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise,Where love is mere attachment to the throne,Not to the man who fills it as he ought.Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at willOf a superior, he is never free.Who lives, and is not weary of a lifeExposed to manacles, deserves them well.The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd,And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,Deserves at least applause for her attempt,And pity for her loss. But that's a causeNot often unsuccessful: power usurp'dIs weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong,'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight.But slaves that once conceive the glowing thoughtOf freedom, in that hope itself possessAll that the contest calls for; spirit, strength,The scorn of danger, and united hearts;The surest presage of the good they seek.[814]Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious moreTo France than all her losses and defeats,Old or of later date, by sea or land,Her house of bondage, worse than that of oldWhich God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastille.Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts;Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,That monarchs have supplied from age to ageWith music, such as suits their sovereign ears,The sighs and groans of miserable men!There's not an English heart that would not leapTo hear that ye were fallen at last; to knowThat e'en our enemies, so oft employ'dIn forging chains for us, themselves were free.For he who values Liberty confinesHis zeal for her predominance withinNo narrow bounds; her cause engages himWherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried,Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape!There, like the visionary emblem seenBy him of Babylon, life stands a stump,And, filleted about with hoops of brass,Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone,To count the hour-bell, and expect no change;And ever, as the sullen sound is heard,Still to reflect, that, though a joyless noteTo him whose moments all have one dull pace,Ten thousand rovers in the world at largeAccount it music; that it summons someTo theatre, or jocund feast, or ball:The wearied hireling finds it a releaseFrom labour; and the lover, who has chidIts long delay, feels every welcome strokeUpon his heart-strings, trembling with delight—To fly for refuge from distracting thoughtTo such amusements as ingenious woeContrives, hard shifting, and without her tools—To read engraven on the mouldy walls,In staggering types, his predecessor's tale,A sad memorial, and subjoin his own—To turn purveyor to an overgorgedAnd bloated spider, till the pamper'd pestIs made familiar, watches his approach,Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend—To wear out time in numbering to and froThe studs that thick emboss his iron door;Then downward and then upward, then aslant,And then alternate; with a sickly hopeBy dint of change to give his tasteless taskSome relish; till the sum, exactly foundIn all directions, he begins again.—Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd aroundWith woes, which who that suffers would not kneelAnd beg for exile, or the pangs of death?That man should thus encroach on fellow man,Abridge him of his just and native rights,Eradicate him, tear him from his holdUpon the endearments of domestic lifeAnd social, nip his fruitfulness and use,And doom him for perhaps a heedless wordTo barrenness, and solitude, and tears,Moves indignation, makes the name of king(Of king whom such prerogative can please)As dreadful as the Manichean god,Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.'Tis liberty alone that gives the flowerOf fleeting life its lustre and perfume;And we are weeds without it. All constraint,Except what wisdom lays on evil men,Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedesTheir progress in the road of science; blindsThe eyesight of Discovery; and begets,In those that suffer it, a sordid mindBestial, a meagre intellect, unfitTo be the tenant of man's noble form.Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezedBy public exigence, till annual foodFails for the craving hunger of the state,Thee I account still happy, and the chiefAmong the nations, seeing thou art free:My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,Replete with vapours, and disposes muchAll hearts to sadness, and none more than mine:Thine unadulterate manners are less softAnd plausible than social life requires,And thou hast need of discipline and artTo give thee what politer France receives,From nature's bounty—that humane addressAnd sweetness, without which no pleasure isIn converse, either starved by cold reserve,Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl.Yet being free I love thee: for the sakeOf that one feature can be well content,Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,To seek no sublunary rest beside.But once enslaved, farewell! I could endureChains nowhere patiently; and chains at home,Where I am free by birthright, not at all.Then what were left of roughness in the grainOf British natures, wanting its excuseThat it belongs to freemen, would disgustAnd shock me. I should then with double painFeel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,I would at least bewail it under skiesMilder, among a people less austere;In scenes which, having never known me free,Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.Do I forebode impossible events,And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may!But the age of virtuous politics is past,And we are deep in that of cold pretence.Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,And we too wise to trust them. He that takesDeep in his soft credulity the stampDesign'd by loud declaimers on the partOf liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,Incurs derision for his easy faithAnd lack of knowledge, and with cause enough:For when was public virtue to be foundWhere private was not? Can he love the wholeWho loves no part? He be a nation's friendWho is, in truth, the friend of no man there?Can he be strenuous in his country's causeWho slights the charities for whose dear sakeThat country, if at all, must be beloved?'Tis therefore sober and good men are sadFor England's glory, seeing it wax paleAnd sickly, while her champions wear their heartsSo loose to private duty, that no brain,Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes,Can dream them trusty to the general weal.Such were not they of old, whose temper'd bladesDispersed the shackles of usurp'd control,And hew'd them link from link; then Albion's sonsWere sons indeed; they felt a filial heartBeat high within them at a mother's wrongs;And, shining each in his domestic sphere,Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view,'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lotForbids their interference, looking on,Anticipate perforce some dire event;And, seeing the old castle of the state,That promised once more firmness, so assail'dThat all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,Stand motionless expectants of its fall.All has its date below; the fatal hourWas register'd in heaven ere time began.We turn to dust, and all our mightiest worksDie too: the deep foundations that we lay,Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains.We build with what we deem eternal rock:A distant age asks where the fabric stood;And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain,The undiscoverable secret sleeps.But there is yet a liberty, unsungBy poets, and by senators unpraised,Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powersOf earth and hell confederate take away:A liberty which persecution, fraud,Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind:Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more.'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven,Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind,And seal'd with the same token. It is heldBy charter, and that charter sanction'd sureBy the unimpeachable and awful oathAnd promise of a God. His other giftsAll bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,And are august; but this transcends them all.His other works, the visible displayOf all-creating energy and might,Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the wordThat, finding an interminable spaceUnoccupied, has fill'd the void so well,And made so sparkling what was dark before.But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,Might well suppose the Artificer divineMeant it eternal, had he not himselfPronounced it transient, glorious as it is,And, still designing a more glorious far,Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise.These, therefore, are occasional, and pass;Form'd for the confutation of the fool,Whose lying heart disputes against a God;That office served, they must be swept away.Not so the labours of his love: they shineIn other heavens than these that we behold,And fade not. There is paradise that fearsNo forfeiture, and of its fruits he sendsLarge prelibation oft to saints below.Of these the first in order, and the pledgeAnd confident assurance of the rest,Is liberty: a flight into his arms,Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,And full immunity from penal woe.Chains are the portion of revolted man,Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body servesThe triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,Opprobrious residence he finds them all.Propense his heart to idols, he is heldIn silly dotage on created things,Careless of their Creator. And that lowAnd sordid gravitation of his powersTo a vile clod so draws him, with such forceResistless from the centre he should seek,That he at last forgets it. All his hopesTend downward; his ambition is to sink,To reach a depth profounder still, and stillProfounder, in the fathomless abyssOf folly, plunging in pursuit of death.But, ere he gain the comfortless reposeHe seeks, and acquiescence of his soul,In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures—What does he not, from lusts opposed in vain,And self-reproaching conscience? He foreseesThe fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,Fortune and dignity; the loss of allThat can ennoble man, and make frail life,Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,Far worse than all the plagues, with which his sinsInfect his happiest moments, he forebodesAges of hopeless misery. Future death,And death still future. Not a hasty stroke,Like that which sends him to the dusty grave;But unrepealable enduring death.Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:What none can prove a forgery may be true;What none but bad men wish exploded must.That scruple checks him. Riot is not loudNor drunk enough to drown it. In the midstOf laughter his compunctions are sincere;And he abhors the jest by which he shines.Remorse begets reform. His master-lustFalls first before his resolute rebuke,And seems dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace ensues,But spurious and short-lived; the puny childOf self-congratulating pride, begotOn fancied innocence. Again he falls,And fights again; but finds his best essayA presage ominous, portending stillIts own dishonour by a worse relapse.Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'dSo oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,Scoffs at her own performance. Reason nowTakes part with appetite, and pleads the causePerversely, which of late she so condemn'd;With shallow shifts and old devices, wornAnd tatter'd in the service of debauch,Covering his shame from his offended sight."Hath God indeed given appetites to man,And stored the earth so plenteously with meansTo gratify the hunger of his wish;And doth he reprobate, and will he damnThe use of his own bounty? making firstSo frail a kind, and then enacting lawsSo strict, that less than perfect must despair?Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truthDishonours God, and makes a slave of man.Do they themselves, who undertake for hireThe teacher's office, and dispense at largeTheir weekly dole of edifying strains,Attend to their own music? have they faithIn what, with such solemnity of toneAnd gesture, they propound to our belief?Nay—conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voiceIs but an instrument, on which the priestMay play what tune he pleases. In the deed,The unequivocal, authentic deed,We find sound argument, we read the heart."Such reasonings (if that name must needs belongTo excuses in which reason has no part)Serve to compose a spirit well inclinedTo live on terms of amity with vice,And sin without disturbance. Often urged,(As often as libidinous discourseExhausted, he resorts to solemn themesOf theological and grave import)They gain at last his unreserved assent;Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forgeOf lust, and on the anvil of despair,He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing movesOr nothing much, his constancy in ill;Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease;'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death.Haste now, philosopher, and set him free.Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hearOf rectitude and fitness, moral truthHow lovely, and the moral sense how sure,Consulted and obeyed, to guide his stepsDirectly to the first and only fair.Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powersOf rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise:Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,And with poetic trappings grace thy prose,Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.—Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass,Smitten in vain! such music cannot charmThe eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam,And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul.TheSTILL SMALL VOICEis wanted. He must speak,Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect;Who calls for things that are not, and they come.Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a changeThat turns to ridicule the turgid speechAnd stately tone of moralists, who boast,As if, like him of fabulous renown,They had indeed ability to smoothThe shag of savage nature, and were eachAn Orpheus, and omnipotent in song.But transformation of apostate manFrom fool to wise, from earthly to divine,Is work for Him that made him. He alone,And He by means in philosophic eyesTrivial and worthy of disdain, achievesThe wonder; humanizing what is bruteIn the lost kind, extracting from the lipsOf asps their venom, overpowering strengthBy weakness, and hostility by love.Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's causeBled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,Receive proud recompence. We give in chargeTheir names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse,Proud of the treasure, marches with it downTo latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,Gives bond in stone and ever-during brassTo guard them, and to immortalize her trust:But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth,Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood,Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,And for a time ensure to his loved land,The sweets of liberty and equal laws;But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,And win it with more pain. Their blood is shedIn confirmation of the noblest claim—Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,To walk with God, to be divinely free,To soar, and to anticipate the skies.Yet few remember them. They lived unknownTill Persecution dragg'd them into fame,And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew—No marble tells us whither. With their namesNo bard embalms and sanctifies his song:And history, so warm on meaner themes,Is cold on this. She execrates indeedThe tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.[815]He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,And all are slaves beside. There's not a chainThat hellish foes, confederate for his harm,Can wind around him, but he casts it offWith as much ease as Samson his green withes.He looks abroad into the varied fieldOf nature, and, though poor perhaps, comparedWith those whose mansions glitter in his sight,Calls the delightful scenery all his own.His are the mountains, and the valleys his,And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoyWith a propriety that none can feel,But who, with filial confidence inspired,Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,And smiling say—"My Father made them all!"Are they not his by a peculiar right,And by an emphasis of interest his,Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mindWith worthy thoughts of that unwearied loveThat plann'd, and built, and still upholds a worldSo clothed with beauty for rebellious man?Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye that reapThe loaded soil, and ye may waste much goodIn senseless riot; but ye will not find,In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,A liberty like his who, unimpeach'dOf usurpation, and to no man's wrong,Appropriates nature as his Father's work,And has a richer use of yours than you.He is indeed a freeman. Free by birthOf no mean city; plann'd or ere the hillsWere built, the fountains open'd, or the seaWith all his roaring multitude of waves.His freedom is the same in every state;And no condition of this changeful life,So manifold in cares, whose every dayBrings its own evil with it, makes it less:For he has wings that neither sickness, pain,Nor penury, can cripple or confine.No nook so narrow but he spreads them thereWith ease, and is at large. The oppressor holdsHis body bound; but knows not what a rangeHis spirit takes, unconscious of a chain;And that to bind him is a vain attempt,Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst tasteHis works. Admitted once to his embrace,Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before;Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight'Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone,And eyes intent upon the scanty herbIt yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,Ruminate heedless of the scene outspreadBeneath, beyond, and stretching far awayFrom inland regions to the distant main.Man views it, and admires; but rests contentWith what he views. The landscape has his praise,But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'dThe paradise he sees, he finds it such,And, such well pleased to find it, asks no more.Not so the mind that has been touch'd from Heaven,And in the school of sacred wisdom taughtTo read his wonders, in whose thought the world,Fair as it is, existed ere it was.Not for its own sake merely, but for hisMuch more who fashion'd it, he gives it praise;Praise that, from earth resulting, as it ought,To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at onceIts only just proprietor in Him.The soul that sees him or receives sublimedNew faculties, or learns at least to employMore worthily the powers she own'd before,Discerns in all things what, with stupid gazeOf ignorance, till then she overlook'd,A ray of heavenly light, gilding all formsTerrestrial in the vast and the minute;The unambiguous footsteps of the God,Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.Much conversant with Heaven, she often holdsWith those fair ministers of light to man,That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp,Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were theyWith which Heaven rang, when every star, in hasteTo gratulate the new-created earth,Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of GodShouted for joy.—"Tell me, ye shining hosts,That navigate a sea that knows no storms,Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,If from your elevation, whence ye viewDistinctly scenes invisible to man,And systems, of whose birth no tidings yetHave reach'd this nether world, ye spy a raceFavour'd as ours; transgressors from the womb,And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise,And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?As one who long detain'd on foreign shoresPants to return, and when he sees afarHis country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks,From the green wave emerging, darts an eyeRadiant with joy towards the happy land;So I with animated hopes behold,And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,That show like beacons in the blue abyss,Ordain'd to guide the embodied spirit homeFrom toilsome life to never-ending rest.Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desiresThat give assurance of their own success,And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend."So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truthIlluminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word!Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost,With intellects bemazed in endless doubt,But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built,With means that were not till by thee employ'd,Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strengthBeen less, or less benevolent than strong.They are thy witnesses, who speak thy powerAnd goodness infinite, but speak in earsThat hear not, or receive not their report.In vain thy creatures testify of thee,Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeedA teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thineThat whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,And with the boon gives talents for its use.Till thou art heard, imaginations vainPossess the heart, and fables false as hell,Yet, deem'd oracular, lure down to deathThe uninform'd and heedless souls of men.We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind,The glory of thy work; which yet appearsPerfect and unimpeachable of blame,Challenging human scrutiny, and provedThen skilful most when most severely judged.But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st;Thy providence forbids that fickle power(If power she be that works but to confound)To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws.Yet thus we dote, refusing while we canInstruction, and inventing to ourselvesGods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep,Or disregard our follies, or that sitAmused spectators of this bustling stage.Thee we reject, unable to abideThy purity, till pure as thou art pure;Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause,For which we shunn'd and hated thee before.Then we are free. Then liberty, like day,Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heavenFires all the faculties with glorious joy.A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not,Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song,A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works;Which he that hears it with a shout repeats,And adds his rapture to the general praise.In that blest moment Nature, throwing wideHer veil opaque, discloses with a smileThe author of her beauties, who, retiredBehind his own creation, works unseenBy the impure, and hears his power denied.Thou art the source and centre of all minds,Their only point of rest, eternal Word!From thee departing they are lost, and roveAt random without honour, hope, or peace.From thee is all that soothes the life of man,His high endeavour, and his glad success,His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good,Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor;And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.