Where, then, is Truth?—the venerable maid
Spoke in the Porch and Academic shade.
Has Bliss a home?—Athenian sages tell—
“Where order reigns, and social virtues dwell.”
Fitness and order rule th’ eternal plan,
Sublime in heav’n, but most express’d in Man:
Order, true name for Beauty’s finest part,
Claims, with mysterious pow’r, his subject heart.
Thus rapture triumphs in the kindling eye,
When the proud temple rears its columns high,
Each part proportion’d to its equal trust,
The means harmonious and the purpose just—
Thus with cold joy the heedless hand explores
Pearls strew’d in heaps on Persia’s fragrant shores;
But when soft art their polish’d order lends,
To Beauty’s breast the graceful prize ascends.
What mystic charm the waken’d heart assails
When the fair face its silent pow’r unveils;
Is it the glossy curl?—the lip’s perfume?
The eye’s mild light?—the cheek’s unbidden bloom?
All these are vulgar gifts—yon peach’s side
Mocks the smooth cheek, and shames its vermil pride;
The ripe lip vies not with the breath of morn,
As balmy dews the scarlet weed adorn:
But in the mirror of the beauteous whole,
Shines the bright reflex of a spotless soul;
Health, the bland order of the earthly frame,
And Peace, celestial Order’s best-lov’d name.
As the rich root and balmy stem extends
From social order, social joy ascends.
Self can to self no taste of heav’n dispense;
A joy unsocial is a blot on sense.
Stagnant and dull, the torpid pool recedes
Low in its hated bed, obscure with weeds;
But, if broad channels lead the gentle tide,
Serene it flows, and spreads its bounty wide;
To grateful Earth a glorious tribute pays,
And heav’n’s best image in its breast displays.
Sensation’s laws the sacred truth explain,
Stamp’d on the heart, and woven with the brain:
Call from yon weary team the whistling hind,
Hard as his soil, and rude as Winter’s wind—
Why glows his cheek when buskin’d mimics plead
For orphans wrong’d, and shew a tyrant’s deed?
Ask why his warm heart chides the doubtful strife
When the stern Hebrew whets his murd’rous knife?
Why, if that heart no soft compulsion knows
To hate the wretch who feasts on human woes?
Whence flows the tear on Caesar’s mould’ring grave?
Why blends that holy tear with Tiber’s wave?
Not for our weal imperial Caesar rose,
Not o’er our ruins weeping Tiber flows;
Man sees his glory writ in Caesar’s pow’r,
And mourns, in fallen Rome, its little hour!
The dimpled nursling lisps its joy to hear
How pious robins deck’d the wand’rers’ bier;
Youth’s bright eyes linger ere they close in sleep,
O’er Una’s woes or Juliet’s grave to weep;
While midnight tapers light the hoary sage
Thro’ the long tales of many a far-fled age.—
Whence spring their charms?—those potent charms proclaim,
Love, truth, and pity, woven with our frame—
The soul its tender charities requites,
Courts their soft touch, and in their throng delights:
As the fond mother boasts her infant train,
Smiles on their birth, and glories in her pain.
Then Virtue triumphs:—form’d for deeds sublime.
Man hails their relics midst the wrecks of time:
Else why more proudly dwells his sparkling eye
On Phocion’s cell than Caesar’s canopy?
Why swells his heart when Afric’s hostage spurns
Love’s precious bribe, and back to death returns,
With truer rapture than when Asia yields
To one bold hand the riches of her fields?
Benignant Sympathy!—in Virtue’s cause
From heart to heart her silver link she draws;
Crowns Nature’s work; and on the moving clod
Asserts the stamp and semblance of a God.
Ah! why assert that glorious stamp in vain
Why this frail link in Nature’s golden chain?
Stern stepdame Nature! did thy hate bestow
This rich capacity of bliss and woe?
This mighty grasp, this boundless thirst of pow’r,
To crowd with anguish Death’s unpitying hour?
Needs the poor pilgrim of one wintry day
Such wond’rous structure, such sublime array?
Thoughts swift as light, and infinite as space,
His narrow passage to the grave to trace?
Vain dreams of glory!—social raptures, fly
Man’s humble business is to wake and die.
Why, Nature! why in mimic pomp provide
This giant Reason for an insect’s guide?
Illustrious phantom!—dust in splendor drest!
Creation’s monarch, less than reptiles blest!
The worm, content, its silken toil pursues,
Sleeps in the rose, and feasts on honied dews:
But Man, poor Man! on Reason’s baseless throne
Seeks distant joys and sorrows not his own;
Thro’ Nature’s stores directs his dazzled eyes,
While scarce her worlds his craving heart supplies,
Then sinks forgotten in eternal gloom,
His guest, the worm; his home, the silent tomb!
Wake, hapless Man! Religion’s seraph hand
Lifts the dark pall, and bursts the leaden band!
She comes—Creation’s noontide darkness flies,
Her temple’s veil is rent—the dead arise
As rocks gave balm, and yelling tempests slept
When Israel’s God his hallow’d vigil kept,
Faith bids the desert smile, the tempest cease,
And pours from blasted rocks the balm of peace.
Wake, slumb’ring Man!—thy radiant guide behold!
View thy rich realm—the boundless map unfold!
Religion aids thee—hers the golden key
Of Life’s resplendent stage, Eternity!
Stupendous gift!—unaided Reason sighs,
Scarce lifts the veil, and feebly grasps the prize.
Stagira’s sage the pomp of heav’n survey’d,
Then paus’d aghast, and sought a God for aid:
Felt in his breast a deathless spirit barr’d,
And hoped Eternity, but not reward.
Guide of illumin’d Greece!—thy glance sublime
Pierc’d not the dark abyss of space and time!
Thy wisdom rais’d her meteor-torch to shew
Man’s science “Nothing,” and his pride untrue
Yet thy free soul its mighty author own’d,
Renounc’d blind Chance, and Deity enthron’d;
Half guess’d its glorious aim, and gave to Man
His noblest precept—”Aid thy Maker’s plan!
Seek truth, love peace; thy whole of bliss attends
When noble means combine with virtuous ends.”
But few the dizzy height of Science trod
Whence startled Reason half beholds her God
Remote and dim the priests of Nature saw
Love’s lambent light, and Charity’s meek law.
Of joys self-rais’d the stubborn cynic rav’d,
Spurn’d Nature’s grace, and half her work enslav’d;
Dull Epicurus kiss’d his flow’ry chain,
And Plato dreamt of social bliss in vain.
Religion spoke!—her ample treas’ry gave
What attic sages hop’d, but dar’d not crave:
All Reason’s banquet, all the joys of sense,
Truth, social love, content, beneficence!
All Pagan wisdom’s broad and boasted store,
Alas! how vain if Heav’n had lent no more!
The cynic saw his sullen strength defied,
And found in faith a firmer shield than pride:
The patient stoic claim’d a nobler prize,
Cloth’d in eternal light beyond the skies:
Eternal!—Reason hails the glorious word,
Souls claim eternity, or heav’n has err’d!
But angel tongues the glorious pledge reveal’d,
Their Chief, their God, Creation’s promise seal’d!
Hide, reptile Sorrow! hide thy baffled sting,
Weak as the thistle to the whirlwind’s wing!
Eternity’s broad scale no record bears,—
There light as summer’s dust are mortal cares.
Who heeds the narrow porch or thorny way
When countless gems his slender toil repay?
Who fears the scatter’d darts of flying foes,
If praise immortal waits the battle’s close?—
But few the foes which Virtue’s path invade
When Meekness walks with Truth in Wisdom’s shade!
Pointless and frail the envious dart recoils,
Or adds a trophy to their well-won spoils.
As scorpions shun the silver-cinctur’d isle,
No serpent-cares the placid breast defile;
And Charity, mild guest! with healing wings,
To Virtue’s storm-tost ark the olive brings;
There, like the dove to mercy’s herald given,
Proclaims on earth the best-belov’d of Heav’n.
From Pow’r’s stupendous seat her herald came,
To blend her light with Truth’s refulgent flame:
Not his the glories of a conqu’ror’s form,
His torch a meteor, or his voice a storm;
Meek as the dying babe his whisper woke,
With Mercy’s tongue the Prince of Wisdom spoke:
On infant brows his parent-signet prest,
Rais’d the sunk eye, and warm’d the wither’d breast,
Gave Love his sceptre, and on Friendship’s bier
Pour’d heav’n’s own incense with a mortal’s tear.
The sire, of Childhood’s precious bud bereav’d,
Ask’d but His smile, and second life receiv’d:
Warm through his nerveless hands and blasted side,
The palsied trembler felt the vital tide;
And ere his wan lips form’d their feeble pray’r,
Found Health’s rich crimson glow and triumph there!
Mute in meek faith, the wither’d mourner won
Life from His eye, ere humble hope begun:
Beneath its beam the idiot-caitiff crept,
The contrite sinner heard his God and wept:
While the poor pilgrim, with new-open’d eyes,
Saw Hope’s eternal sun unclouded rise!
Behold him yet!—his mild but mighty voice
Still bids the pilgrim’s humble heart rejoice;
Still to the couch of peace the mourner calls,
While from his eye the film of error falls:
Lifts the frail flow’r by blighting tempests bow’d,
And life triumphant raises from the shroud!
Waked by his voice, immortal Pleasure sprung,
Truth’s seraph sister, ever fair and young:
With her she waits—a far-retiring maid,
Fond of the secret cell and vestal shade.
Not as the priests of frantic Bacchus feign’d,
With Teian grapes, or Thracian orgies stain’d:
Nor bound with flow’r to Cupid’s painted car,
Nor wheel’d by tigers thro’ the pomp of war
But by mild Truth, her white-rob’d sister, led
With upfix’d eyes and light-encircled head,
Where Hope, remote from Passion’s turbid tides,
Her pure perennial stream in silence guides:
While Charity, bright Faith’s celestial child,
Breathes her bland zephyr o’er the wintry wild;
Like Spring, with fingers dipp’d in healing dews,
The roseate robe of frozen Earth renews;
Spreads her soft veil o’er fickle Nature’s frown,
And lends young Pleasure her eternal crown.
Thus Pleasure dwells with Man!—her smiles illume
The Exile’s desert, and the Captive’s gloom:
Sublime she sits, if awful Virtue calls,
When rent earth trembles, and the mountain falls!
She walks with Valour on the loose rock’s verge,
Pares the wide gulf, and tempts the boiling surge.
When Rome’s meek victims smil’d on beds of fire,
Immortal Pleasure quench’d their fun’ral pyre:
With royal Jane the crimson axe she brav’d,
On Cranmer’s stake her shining ensign wav’d;
Her hand the nuptial torch of Russel bore,
When the dark scaffold blush’d with lavish gore;
By dauntless Raleigh’s prison-couch she stood,
And smil’d with Hampden at Ambition’s flood.
In death the martyr sees her angel form,
The patriot hears her in the battle-storm;
But most when Peace her olive garland weaves,
And Pity’s breast her wounded dove receives.
Nor there alone: in Life’s sequester’d dell
Where Meditation seeks his hermit cell,
Or sacred Poverty reclines unseen,
Oft o’er the straw-wove couch she loves to lean.
She lingers, smiling, o’er the victor’s bier,
When all he ask’d of life, in death is near;
But purer still her secret incense glows,
If the brave bosom shares a brother’s woes:
There vestal Pleasure gives her lengthen’d light,
As rays reflected seem more softly bright.
Her nectar fill’d expiring Sidney’s soul,
While the parch’d soldier shar’d his scanty bowl:
Less precious drops her partial hand supplied,
When Brunswick conquer’d, than when Leopold died.
Has Care no solace? on the silent stream
Of dark Affliction steals no summer-beam?
Yes! there are joys to sacred Sorrow known,
Unfelt on Grandeur’s couch or Glory’s throne!
Those joys lie treasur’d in the faithful breast,
Where oft-forgiven Shame returns to rest;
They light the eyes which patient vigils keep
Affection’s embers to behold and weep.
Unfading comforts crown the tender thought,
With duteous Care and social Pity fraught:
A thousand joys that tender thought supplies,
As the soft opal boasts a thousand dyes!
Can the rich grape, Carpathia’s purple pride,
Can those deep mines her frozen mountains hide,
Yield gem or balsam precious as the tear
Dropp’d on the bed of Pain when Love is near?
Is the soft touch of Beauty’s magic hand,
While Mirth and Music lead their shining band,
So dear, so suasive as the kiss bestow’d
When life, reluctant, leaves its lov’d abode?—
When, held by trembling Hope, the midnight lamp
Gleams on the brow with deadly anguish damp;
When the cold hand the last long pressure feels,
And its faint grasp a speechless wish reveals;
While the fond spirit, ling’ring ere it flies,
Looks yet a moment thro’ the closing eyes!
O! that last look, that dumb and brief caress,
Shall the lone eve of late Remembrance bless!
That precious relic midst the sea of time
Lives, like the torch on Afric’s tow’r sublime,
Unquench’d, while Sorrow sheds her frequent show’r,
A blissful beacon in the darkest hour!
But if to wrap the wearied warrior’s head
Meek Love and Faith their downy curtain spread;
If their soft hands his ev’ning couch prepare,
Or win the barb’d sting from the brow of Care,
Pleasure, with wreaths of deathless am’ranth crown’d,
From her rich censer wafts ambrosia round;
Ambrosia, such as Beauty’s insect train
Seek in the summer buds of Love in vain!
When o’er her hero’s wound Sybilla bent,
Health to her lips its softest balsam lent;
When Dian’s breath expiring virtue fann’d,
Peace gave its sceptre to her gentle hand.
In Mary’s smile sublimer beauty dwelt,
While William’s clouded soul its sunbeam felt,
Than when, ador’d on Gallia’s silken throne,
In bridal pomp a fairer Mary shone.
Thus woman triumphs:—but when Science show’rs
Her nectar’d gifts on Youth’s awak’ning flow’rs;
When Thought ethereal to its God ascends,
As Heav’n exhales the precious dew it lends;
While Wisdom, beaming thro’ the clouds of age,
Illumes the treasures of her sacred page,
And, like the mild moon, gilding earthly night,
Pours from the Sun of Truth reflected light;
Then Man to Pleasure’s fount exulting springs,
While angels smile, and wave their silver wings!
Thro’ Lapland wilds that genial fountain flows,
‘Midst Andes bleak, or Zembla’s mountain snows;
Or where, thro’ sable sands and forests dire,
The fierce equator pours malignant fire,
When the blest Pilgrim, bold in bounteous toil,
Thro’ the dark desert guides another Nile:
From Truth’s pure source reviving nectar pours,
Melts the stern soul, and wins its buried stores;
Bids savage Nature hail the soft’ning stream,
And a new Eden bless Religion’s beam.
Pilgrim! tho’ howling round thy lonely way,
The gaunt hyena seeks her gasping prey;
Tho’ Lybia’s tyrants urge thy patient flight
Thro’ scorch’d savannahs, black with deathful night,
Faith on the desert-path her manna strews,
Guards thy lone pillow, and thy torch renews!
Tho’ not for thee the ripe anana glows,
Nor the rich lime its fragrant balm bestows,
Thy scrip and staff attending angels bear,
Fill thy pure cup, and richer fruits prepare;
As guardian seraphs smooth’d the barren way
Of Him whose empire shall thy toils repay!
O! let not Glory’s fire-ey’d soldier pause,
Nor spurn the laurel reap’d in Virtue’s cause
Fame’s barter’d slaves their scanty hire shall own,
While Mercy’s ministers approach her throne!
Round Howard’s grave auguster trophies rise
Than haughty Trajan’s, mingling with the skies:
On Hanway’s dome auspicious stars shall shine,
When ravens brood, imperial Charles! on thine.
Unfading wreaths the priest of Science crown,
When Grandeur’s columns fall forgotten down!
Newton! thy glory thron’d in light shall live,
While suns reveal’d by thee their radiance give!
As long, blest Locke! thy name shall dwell enshrin’d
In thine own temple, Man’s immortal mind!
And ye, meek heralds of the purer light,
By bland Religion pour’d on mortal sight!
Ye, who the slumb’ring lyre of Israel strung,
And gave to infant lips Devotion’s tongue,
Shall kindred choirs of warbling cherubs hear
Thro’ the long spring of Heav’n’s eternal year!
While the red robber, mad Ambition’s boast,
Falls like the insect-lamp on Brahma’s coast,
The Sage who bade his orient world rejoice,
And lent to Veeshnu’s form a Saviour’s voice;
He who first toil’d in Indus’ glowing mine,
To heap her gems on holy Wisdom’s shrine,
Supreme on Fame’s eternal rock shall stand,
Till the last trophy falls from Conquest’s hand!
But these were sov’reign souls!—can Faith impart
Mild Pleasure’s banquet to the beggar’s heart?
A heart by no resplendent ray inform’d,
Nor smooth’d by Science, nor by Genius warm’d!
Can fruitful Charity’s soft germ unfold
In blighted bosoms, desolate and cold?
When Want, stern Want! arrests her shining course,
Chills her pure stream, and locks its genial source,
Can Faith the iron grasp of Pain endure,
Or strew with flow’rs the hovel of the poor?
Come to this dell where never sun-beam shone,
Where, choak’d with weeds, imprison ‘d waters moan:
Scarce the starv’d goat a lonely flow’r to meet,
Down the grim chasm trusts his faithful feet;
There rocks on rocks by groaning earthquakes rent,
Join their hoar heads in naked ruin bent:
Ere Nature’s Author bless’d his work and smil’d,
Thus bare she look’d, thus desolately wild—
Whence creeps you curling smoke?—where shaggy thatch
O’erhangs the rude door, heedless of a latch—
Is this a dwelling?—’tis a demon’s den,
A demon prowling for the wrecks of men!
The wand’rer shuns the path, tho’ midnight scowls,
His wary wolf-dog looks askance and howls—
But start not, stranger!—at the shatter’d gate
A Brother smiles, and jocund welcomes wait:
Beneath those tatters, rent by many a storm,
Beats a pure heart with social bounty warm.
Revere that sun-burnt brow!—erect and bare,
It fronts the skies and claims a guardian there!
Faith in yon herdsman’s breast her altar rears,
As the bright hearth his clay-built hovel cheers;
He calls thee, stranger! to his friendly door,
And blesses thee as heav’n shall bless his store!
See, the grey matron seeks her oaten hoard,
Smooths her warm hearth, and heaps the milk-white board;
Her rose-lipp’d babes the smoking faggot trim,
While the brown nectar sparkles to the brim:
To thirsty lips ambrosial as the bowl
Fill’d where Livadia’s honied fountains roll;
Sweet as the kid on Hybla’s fragrance fed,
Seems the parch’d crust by smiling Welcome spread.
Sleep, weary wand’rer! tho’ on wood-moss laid,
No midnight felon shall thy rest invade!
Nor hurl thy cold limbs to their unknown grave
Beneath the giant rock or howling wave!
Sleep!—tho’ by Penury’s chill fetters prest,
Peace lights the cot, and guards the slumb’ring guest.
With morning’s dew her vital balm she brings,
And spreads her down on Midnight’s sable wings:—
Blest on his straw the hoary peasant lies,
Nor envies Pomp her gilded canopies:
Taught from the stores of bounteous heav’n to crave
The boon his pity to a brother gave;
Taught to behold above yon azure dome,
Pav’d with ten thousand suns, his promis’d home:
Secure, when Sorrow drops her scorpion-rod,
To stand with monarchs by the throne of God!
O’er distant fields his best-lov’d son is gone,
Where Albion’s glory leads her warriors on:
For wealth and fame to bless his hoary age,
The blooming soldier brav’d the battle’s rage.
Now his fast life-blood warms a thankless shore,
‘Midst storms of fire, and floods of foaming gore!
On him no mother’s melting eye shall gaze,
No father’s proud heart banquet on his praise—
In Sorrow’s lap his orphan babe shall bloom,
While the cold Douro laves his nameless tomb!
Forlorn he lies! the lurid moon alone
Views the drear field, and hears his dying groan.
Hark! o’er the mound of death a footstep steals,
His frozen hand the grasp of anguish feels
A wife’s torn bosom props his sinking head—
Such love might warm, such woe awake the dead!
One, one last glance her palsied lips demand,
Press his damp brow, and print his clay-cold hand—
One glance to treasure in her ruin’d heart,
Till the last pangs of ling’ring life depart!
Alas! those eyes no precious beam supply,
On his pale lip unutter’d blessings die—
O, not unseen!—amidst yon lightning’s glare
A Father sits, and registers his pray’r!
He, whose mild hands the unfledg’d raven feed,
And clothe the field, and prop the fallen reed,
Shall widow’d Love’s unshelter’d relic save,
When wild weeds strew forgotten Valour’s grave!
Faith! thy bright hand the soldier’s hope enshrines,
Thine, only thine, his broken heartstring twines!
He hears thy promise in the whisp’ring breeze,
Thro’ the rent cloud thy herald-torch he sees!
One ling’ring tear his feeble eye bestows,
Then turns to heav’n, and shuts in blest repose!
But from the dust, where stretch’d and dumb he lies,
What hand shall lift Despair, when Beauty dies?
Belov’d Malvina! when the with’ring blast
Of Death o’ertook thee ere thy morn was past,
Did no soft triumph mingle with thy sigh?
No sacred rapture light thy closing eye?
When thy chill lips a hopeless mother prest,
When their last roses faded on her breast,
Did not an angel’s smile, an angel’s tongue,
Sooth her whose anguish round thy relics clung?
“Ere long ye meet again!—the bitter tear,
The feeble record spare; for ever dear
To Him who bids the pride of empires cease,
Is the low grave where, wrapp’d by maiden Peace,
Meek Virtue rests!—and oft at Fancy’s hour,
In the calm shade of Friendship’s evening bow’r,
Her form shall hover, or in dreams display
The promis’d noon of Joy’s eternal day:
That angel form shall guide thy steps, and wave
Her silver wings to waft thee from the grave!”
But thou, sad Exile! whose unshelter’d charms
Apostate Passion lur’d to Ruin’s arms,
Thou, whose drear days and houseless midnights show
The dire varieties of guilty woe,
In Fancy’s bow’r shalt find no roses spring,
No angel-phantom spread its guardian wing!
Yon grey moon-silver’d roof, whence ling’ring smoke
Creeps thro’ the broad shade of the time-worn oak,
Was once thy blissful home! now cold and drear,
The night-wind whistles thro’ thy scatter’d hair:
On the bare heath, while angry meteors gleam,
Thy babes forsaken join the death-bird’s scream:
Or seek their scant crumb from a father’s door,
While Scorn and Vengeance guard his canker’d store!
Lone wand’rer! from the ark of Mercy chas’d
Thro’ Guilt’s dark deluge, o’er a pathless waste!
For thee no olive’s sacred branch shall bloom,
No pity spreads its rainbow thro’ the gloom!
On earth no haven yields thy footsteps rest,
While the rude tempest rends thy tender breast!
Yet lift those tearful eyes!—one bounteous hand
Still guides thy frail feet to a shelt’ring strand;
Not where proud Custom smiles at Honour’s wound,
Or Vice, triumphant, rears her trophies round;
Nor where, o’er meagre Shame arid Hatred pale,
Degraded Hymen spreads his slender veil:
Far, far from these!—to Virtue’s cloister’d seat,
Where meek Repentance sits at Mercy’s feet,
Religion calls thee home—her hand benign
Round the shorn lamb her silver cord shall twine;
Her gentle touch is ransom’d Woe’s release,
Her precept, pardon; her dominion, peace!
As Heav’n’s soft gales th’ Eolian lute inspire,
Her breath shall tune Affliction’s shatter’d lyre:
Thy morning’s cloud shall melt in grateful show’rs,
And one pale gleam adorn thy closing hours!
Rest, humble suppliant! Glory’s laurell’d head
Seeks the soft pillow which enrich’d thy bed!—
While lost Lusatia drops her broken shield,
Her Chief lies friendless on the guilty field:
He whose bold arm her falling throne embrac’d,
Whose glory’s beam the night of ruin grac’d,
Groans in base chains!—triumphant demons smile,
While Pow’r and Treason mock his baffled toil.—
Avails it now how oft that captive hand
Gave Conquest wings to reach a thankless land?
How oft that tongue awak’ning senates fir’d
While palsied Envy in her cell expir’d?
Betray’d by them whose wav’ring flame he fed,
Whose scatter’d hosts his radiant column led,
He hears the wolves of fierce Ambition yell,
Their den his grave; their victims’ groans his knell!
Defeat’s grim spectres chide his ling’ring breath,
And steep in gall the tardy shaft of Death.
Where rests his hope?—On THEE, whose arm unfolds
The veil of Justice, and her sceptre holds!
On Thee, whose glance the dungeon’s gloom explores,
Tho’ tyrants bar their adamantine doors!
Tho’ cold Defeat arrests the Patriot’s hand,
While Discord, raving, lifts her lurid brand,
Thine shall his name in Glory’s volume write,
And pour on crouching Guilt, tremendous light!
Eternal King! not giant souls alone
Claim thy broad shield, or seek thy awful throne!
When choral crowds the pealing anthem swell,
Thine ear turns, pitying, to the silent cell
Where Patience sits, Affliction’s smiling guest,
And bares to ruthless Pain her placid breast.
When scowling Danger rides the midnight storm,
Thy arm sustains yon faint and faded form,
Where, like a brief, yet balmy flow’r, decays
The ling’ring beauty of departed days;
While youth to spotless age its light resigns,
As the pale lamp thro’ polish’d crystal shines.
In Joy’s warm bosom once that beauty glow’d,
Borne by young Love to Hymen’s blest abode:
An envied sire the tender blossom fed,
Exulting brothers fenc’d its fragrant bed;
But Pain, dire fiend! the rose of Beauty ey’d,
Seiz’d its soft stem, and crush’d its early pride!
The victim smil’d!—thro’ rents by anguish made
Her soul came forth in purer light array’d;
Serenely saw its ruin’d mansion bend,
And Youth’s mild star in midnight gloom descend.
Pain on her couch the veil of Patience wore,
And silent Grief Religion’s incense bore!
Now in the vale, where truth and peace reside,
The matron-saint awaits her angel-guide:
Mild Hymen’s torch extinct and buried lies,
Fraternal love its healing dew denies!
She sees the cold worm prey on Manhood’s bloom,
And her soul’s pride enrich the thankless tomb.
Yet, with encircling love, her fond embrace
Guards the last tendril of a blighted race;
Still, like the wounded pine, her bosom yields
Balm to the orphan branch its bounty shields.
A fruitless branch! whose blossom ill repays
The root which feeds it while itself decays!
As when the plant in Winter’s bosom rear’d
Erects its silver head, in age rever’d,
One feeble flow’r, beneath the fost’ring leaves,
From the rich stem its vital juice receives;
And ere it drops to mix with kindred earth,
Pays its brief tribute where it owes its birth:
But angel hands the parent stem shall bear
To Eden’s bow’rs, and bid it flourish there!
Yes, thou shalt smile, Belov’d! when Fate has bow’d
To kindred earth, the abject, and the proud!
When the chill blast of Fortune’s wintry day
Sweeps Folly’s insect revellers away;
And they whose cold hearts mock’d deluded trust,
Lie with forgotten heaps in nameless dust,
Thou, as the cedar shades its storm-struck foe,
Shalt screen the hand which laid thy branches low!
Pleasure to thee her silver cup shall bring,
Fill’d with the balm from Wisdom’s ample spring:
Her flow’rs thy banquet and thy couch shall dress,
Her vestal lamp shall warm thy soul’s recess,
Unseen, unboasted in her secret shrine,
As the rich topaz lights the silent mine!
Rest, tow’ring Hope! thy eagle pinions bide—
Not here thy triumph, not on earth thy pride!
Could Truth, could Wisdom, eternize their flame,
Could Genius life’s immortal spark reclaim,
Yon mould’ring record had not vainly told
Where Wisdom sleeps, and eloquence lies cold!
Pain had the seat of attic Science spar’d,
And Health and Joy the lucid mansion shar’d;
The Poet’s ray, the Patriot’s beacon fire
Had shone undimm’d, and bade the world admire:
The Priest of Mercy still had grac’d her shrine,
Still from his bosom pour’d her balm divine;
Still attic nectar on his lips had hung,
While bland Religion triumph’d on his tongue.
Pause, mourner! from the grave his precepts reach,
The grave of Goodness claims eternal speech!
Pause! tho’ in fun’ral gloom suspended here,
The radiant lamp of Mercy’s shrine revere!
O mourn no more! to silent dust assign’d
Lies but the clay which holy fire confin’d!
In distant worlds the deathless flame shall burn,
Tho’ kindred earth receives the sculptur’d urn—
O mourn no more!—tho’ low beneath thee laid,
The flow’rs of fame, and wit, and science fade,
All Honour lends, and grateful Love bestows,
Shall deck mild Virtue, wrapp’d in brief repose:
She slumbers here! but when the solar fire
Is lost in night, and crumbling worlds retire,
From the rent earth her glorious spark shall rise,
Spread its pure flame, and mingle with the skies!
Pleasure! in Fancy’s eye serenely clear,
Life’s bright horizon, ever new and near,
Whene’er we gaze, thy canopy ascends;
Where-e’er we tread, thy ample round extends!
But fairest, widest, when the sov’reign ray
Of sun-bright Reason wins its equal way;
When soft and clear, unvex’d by ruffian gales,
The pure cerulean tint of love prevails
Then if a cloud the bright expanse invades,
It teems with blessings for the earth it shades!
Not when gay Childhood’s morning vapour plays,
Or fierce Ambition spreads its noontide blaze;
Or, big with storms and death, the sullen cloud
Of Vice, advancing, rolls its sable shroud
These, these shall pass away!—while pure and bright
Religion triumphs in eternal light,
Till the thin shades of brief existence fall,
And Pleasure’s cloudless heav’n encircles all!