AMBITION—A FRAGMENT.
—“I charge thee, fling away Ambition;Love thyself last.”Henry VIII.
—“I charge thee, fling away Ambition;Love thyself last.”Henry VIII.
—“I charge thee, fling away Ambition;Love thyself last.”
—“I charge thee, fling away Ambition;
Love thyself last.”
Henry VIII.
Henry VIII.
What! check the spirit in its earliest flight?The new-fledged eaglet dash to earth again?Wrap the just-rising sun in blackest night?Hurl yon bright star from its empyrean?Curs’d be the mind whence such a thought e’er sprung,Yea, doubly curs’d the vile and slavish tongueWhich spake so mean a thought!No, let that spirit rise,Until the heaven of heavens before it lies,Stretched out in clear perspective; and its home,Ere it was fettered in this earthly form,Be seen and recognized by thought innate;—There let it brood, and “over all debate,”Grasping earth, heaven, the Maker and the made,Man and his fate, and fearlessly invadeThe darkness which begirts Him round—the cloudIn which He hides His majesty.The shroud,Corruption, Reproduction, the stern warOf Life and Death—the whence and what they are—All it shall know—at leastattemptto know,Uninfluenced by the world it scorns below.Yes, let that eaglet rise on tireless wing;Far, far beyond the clouds’ dominion spring,And dwell where all is one eternal hush—No dash of billowy rack, no whirlwind’s rush;But yon bright sun blazes an universeOf pure, essential fire, whose gleams disperseAll shade, and ‘permeate the unsensuous space’—Its atmosphere—the spirit of the place.Ambition, Oh Ambition! fire of hell,Burning and burning, why in me dost dwell,A frail, ungifted one, who soon must die,“Unwept, unhonored,” who with longing eyeBeholds thy heaven-high dome, but whose poor mightSinks, struck and palsied, ere it scale that height?Go, light his eye who loves the storms of life,Go, burn his heart whose pulse unvarying beats,Go, circle him in whom there is no strifeOf Soul and Sense,—of cold, and feverish heats.But no, I would not drive thee from my soul,Black “effluence of bright essence, uncreate.”What trumps the conqueror’s fame from pole to pole?What weaves the poet’s name in the web of fate?—Man! Time and Power—these on thee wait.W. F.
What! check the spirit in its earliest flight?The new-fledged eaglet dash to earth again?Wrap the just-rising sun in blackest night?Hurl yon bright star from its empyrean?Curs’d be the mind whence such a thought e’er sprung,Yea, doubly curs’d the vile and slavish tongueWhich spake so mean a thought!No, let that spirit rise,Until the heaven of heavens before it lies,Stretched out in clear perspective; and its home,Ere it was fettered in this earthly form,Be seen and recognized by thought innate;—There let it brood, and “over all debate,”Grasping earth, heaven, the Maker and the made,Man and his fate, and fearlessly invadeThe darkness which begirts Him round—the cloudIn which He hides His majesty.The shroud,Corruption, Reproduction, the stern warOf Life and Death—the whence and what they are—All it shall know—at leastattemptto know,Uninfluenced by the world it scorns below.Yes, let that eaglet rise on tireless wing;Far, far beyond the clouds’ dominion spring,And dwell where all is one eternal hush—No dash of billowy rack, no whirlwind’s rush;But yon bright sun blazes an universeOf pure, essential fire, whose gleams disperseAll shade, and ‘permeate the unsensuous space’—Its atmosphere—the spirit of the place.Ambition, Oh Ambition! fire of hell,Burning and burning, why in me dost dwell,A frail, ungifted one, who soon must die,“Unwept, unhonored,” who with longing eyeBeholds thy heaven-high dome, but whose poor mightSinks, struck and palsied, ere it scale that height?Go, light his eye who loves the storms of life,Go, burn his heart whose pulse unvarying beats,Go, circle him in whom there is no strifeOf Soul and Sense,—of cold, and feverish heats.But no, I would not drive thee from my soul,Black “effluence of bright essence, uncreate.”What trumps the conqueror’s fame from pole to pole?What weaves the poet’s name in the web of fate?—Man! Time and Power—these on thee wait.W. F.
What! check the spirit in its earliest flight?The new-fledged eaglet dash to earth again?Wrap the just-rising sun in blackest night?Hurl yon bright star from its empyrean?Curs’d be the mind whence such a thought e’er sprung,Yea, doubly curs’d the vile and slavish tongueWhich spake so mean a thought!No, let that spirit rise,Until the heaven of heavens before it lies,Stretched out in clear perspective; and its home,Ere it was fettered in this earthly form,Be seen and recognized by thought innate;—There let it brood, and “over all debate,”Grasping earth, heaven, the Maker and the made,Man and his fate, and fearlessly invadeThe darkness which begirts Him round—the cloudIn which He hides His majesty.The shroud,Corruption, Reproduction, the stern warOf Life and Death—the whence and what they are—All it shall know—at leastattemptto know,Uninfluenced by the world it scorns below.Yes, let that eaglet rise on tireless wing;Far, far beyond the clouds’ dominion spring,And dwell where all is one eternal hush—No dash of billowy rack, no whirlwind’s rush;But yon bright sun blazes an universeOf pure, essential fire, whose gleams disperseAll shade, and ‘permeate the unsensuous space’—Its atmosphere—the spirit of the place.
What! check the spirit in its earliest flight?
The new-fledged eaglet dash to earth again?
Wrap the just-rising sun in blackest night?
Hurl yon bright star from its empyrean?
Curs’d be the mind whence such a thought e’er sprung,
Yea, doubly curs’d the vile and slavish tongue
Which spake so mean a thought!
No, let that spirit rise,
Until the heaven of heavens before it lies,
Stretched out in clear perspective; and its home,
Ere it was fettered in this earthly form,
Be seen and recognized by thought innate;—
There let it brood, and “over all debate,”
Grasping earth, heaven, the Maker and the made,
Man and his fate, and fearlessly invade
The darkness which begirts Him round—the cloud
In which He hides His majesty.
The shroud,
Corruption, Reproduction, the stern war
Of Life and Death—the whence and what they are—
All it shall know—at leastattemptto know,
Uninfluenced by the world it scorns below.
Yes, let that eaglet rise on tireless wing;
Far, far beyond the clouds’ dominion spring,
And dwell where all is one eternal hush—
No dash of billowy rack, no whirlwind’s rush;
But yon bright sun blazes an universe
Of pure, essential fire, whose gleams disperse
All shade, and ‘permeate the unsensuous space’—
Its atmosphere—the spirit of the place.
Ambition, Oh Ambition! fire of hell,Burning and burning, why in me dost dwell,A frail, ungifted one, who soon must die,“Unwept, unhonored,” who with longing eyeBeholds thy heaven-high dome, but whose poor mightSinks, struck and palsied, ere it scale that height?Go, light his eye who loves the storms of life,Go, burn his heart whose pulse unvarying beats,Go, circle him in whom there is no strifeOf Soul and Sense,—of cold, and feverish heats.But no, I would not drive thee from my soul,Black “effluence of bright essence, uncreate.”What trumps the conqueror’s fame from pole to pole?What weaves the poet’s name in the web of fate?—Man! Time and Power—these on thee wait.
Ambition, Oh Ambition! fire of hell,
Burning and burning, why in me dost dwell,
A frail, ungifted one, who soon must die,
“Unwept, unhonored,” who with longing eye
Beholds thy heaven-high dome, but whose poor might
Sinks, struck and palsied, ere it scale that height?
Go, light his eye who loves the storms of life,
Go, burn his heart whose pulse unvarying beats,
Go, circle him in whom there is no strife
Of Soul and Sense,—of cold, and feverish heats.
But no, I would not drive thee from my soul,
Black “effluence of bright essence, uncreate.”
What trumps the conqueror’s fame from pole to pole?
What weaves the poet’s name in the web of fate?—
Man! Time and Power—these on thee wait.
W. F.
W. F.