Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, Once simple, are initiated in arts, Which some may practise with politer grace, But none with readier skill!—'t is here they learn The road that leads from competence and peace To indigence and rapine; till at last Society, grown weary of the load,
Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out.
WHY THE DRAM-SHOP CANNOT BE SUPPRESSED; IT HELPS THE PUBLIC REVENUE. BESOTTED PATRIOTISM.
But censure profits little vain the attempt To advertise in verse a public pest,
That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. The excise is fattened with the rich result Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents, Touched by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.
Drink, and be mad, then; 't is your country bids! Gloriously drunk obey the important call! Her cause demands the assistance of your throats; - Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.
ARCADIAN INNOCENCE AND HAPPINESS.
Would I had fallen upon those happier days, That poets celebrate; those golden times, And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose! Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts That felt their virtues innocence, it seems, From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves; The footsteps of simplicity, impressed Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing), Then were not all effaced: then speech profane, And manners profligate, were rarely found, Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed.
THE GOLDEN AGE INCREDIBLE NOW.
Vain wish! those days were never airy dreams Sat for the picture: and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it I still must envy them an age, That favored such a dream; in days like these Impossible, when virtue is so scarce, That to suppose a scene where she presides Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.
THE RURAL LASS NO MORE. THE MODERN COUNTRY GIRL IN HER STEAD.
For more than half the tresses it sustains; Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed (But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) of a rank Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs. Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care!
THE TOWN HAS STAINED THE COUNTRY.-FASHION HAS USURPED RURAL MANNERS. SAFETY.
The town has tinged the country; and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe,
The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural; but, alas! Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now! Time was when in the pastoral retreat The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch To invade another's right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.
THE SECURITY OF THE COUNTRY HAS CEASED.
CAUSES OF DEGENERACY.-WEALTH. — LUXURY.
Lamented change! to which full many a cause Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. The course of human things from good to ill, From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. Increase of power begets increase of wealth; Wealth luxury, and luxury excess ; Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague, That seizes first the opulent, descends To the next rank contagious, and in time Taints downward all the graduated scale Of order, from the chariot to the plough.
THE RICH DESERT THEIR DUTY FOR PLEASURE.
The rich, and they that have an arm to check The license of the lowest in degree, Desert their office; and themselves, intent On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus To all the violence of lawless hands Resign the scenes their presence might protect. Authority herself not seldom sleeps, Though resident, and witness of the wrong.
SLOTH OF SOME OF THE CLERGY. — CORRUPTION.
The plump convivial parson often bears
The magisterial sword in vain, and lays His reverence and his worship both to rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;
When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, Himself enslaved by terror of the band, The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind. Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well His milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! 't was a bribe that left it: he has touched Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wild fowl or venison; and his errand speeds,
THE MILITARY SPIRIT A CURSE. THE RUSTIC RECRUIT.
But faster far, and more than all the rest, A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark Of public virtue, ever wished removed, Works the deplored and mischievous effect. 'Tis universal soldiership has stabbed The heart of merit in the meaner class. Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, Seem most at variance with all moral good, And incompatible with serious thought. The clown, the child of nature, without guile, Blessed with an infant's ignorance of all But his own simple pleasures; now and then A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair; Is ballotted, and trembles at the news: Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please, To do he knows not what. The task performed, That instant he becomes the sergeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. His awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse.
THE CLOWN TURNED SOLDIER.
By slow degrees, Unapt to learn, and formed of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; He steps right onward, martial in his air, His form and movement; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him; wears His hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace; And, his three years of heroship expired, Returns indignant to the slighted plough. He hates the field in which no fife or drum Attends him; drives his cattle to a march; And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 'T were well if his exterior change were all But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost His ignorance and harmless manners too.
To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home, By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach,
The great proficiency he made abroad; To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends; To break some maiden's and his mother's heart; To be a pest where he was useful once; Are his sole aim, and all his glory, now.
MAN IN THE FAMILY AND IN THE ARMY.- A SIMILE.
Man in society is like a flower
Blown in its native bed: 't is there alone His faculties, expanded in full bloom, Shine out; there only reach their proper use. But man, associated and leagued with man By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond For interest's sake, or swarming into clans Beneath one head, for purposes of war, Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, Fades rapidly, and, by compression marred, Contracts defilement not to be endured.
CORPORATIONS NOT SO CONSCIENTIOUS AS INDIVIDUALS. —
Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps In all their private functions, once combined, Become a loathsome body, only fit For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin Against the charities of domestic life, Incorporated seem at once to lose Their nature; and, disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, Build factories with blood, conducting trade At the sword's point, and dying the white robe Of innocent commercial justice red.
THE FIELD OF GLORY A SCHOOL.
Hence too the field of glory, as the world Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, With all its majesty of thundering pomp, Enchanting music, and immortal wreaths, Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for every vice.
THE COUNTRY, WITH ALL ITS DRAWBACKS, STILL ATTRACTIVE.
But slighted as it is, and by the great Abandoned, and, which I still more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. never framed a wish, or formed a plan, That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, But there I laid the scene. There early strayed My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
Had found me, or the hope of being free.
CHARMS OF RURAL POETRY.—VIRGIL'S ECLOGUES. — MILTON. My very dreams were rural; rural too The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus,1 assembling, as he sang,
The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms : New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first Engaged my wonder; and admiring still, And still admiring, with regret supposed The joy half lost, because not sooner found.
COWLEY. CHERTSEY PLACE.
There too, enamored of the life I loved, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determined, and possessing it at last With transports such as favored lovers feel,
I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaimed By modern lights from an erroneous taste, I cannot but lament thy splendid wit Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.
I still revere thee, courtly though retired! Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, Not unemployed; and finding rich amends For a lost world in solitude and verse.
THE LOVE OF NATURE A UNIVERSAL ENDOWMENT.
"T is born with all the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infused at the creation of the kind.
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of His hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points - yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in His works,
And all can taste them: minds that have been formed And tutored with a relish more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmoved.
It is a flame that dies not even there, Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life, Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate.
LOVE OF NATURE AS DISPLAYED IN CITIES. — VILLAS. CITY CONSERVATORIES, FLOWER-POTS.
The villas, with which London stands begirt, Like a swarth Indian, with his belt of beads, Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
1 A character of the Bucolics of Virgil, see p. 15.
Even in the stifling bosom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wall He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green Is still the livery she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling?1 are they not all proofs That man, immured in cities, still retains His inborn, inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts, the best he may?
THE POOREST CIT TRIES TO CULTIVATE SOME PLANT OR FLOWER. THE CRAZY BOX AND BROKEN PITCHER, WITH THEIR PLANTS.
The most unfurnished with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds, To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over head Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And watered duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardor he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more.
APOSTROPHE TO RURAL LIFE.
Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys, And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode Of multitudes unknown; hail, Rural Life! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honors, or emolument, or fame ;
I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.
EACH HUMAN BEING HAS HIS SPECIAL PLACE AND USE. — THE AUTHOR'S.
Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs: To monarchs, dignity; to judges, sense; To artists, ingenuity and skill;
To me, an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wished.
HAMILTON'S "BRAES OF YARROW."
A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow? A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her lover lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude, What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! "Tis he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.
Wash, O, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around, in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye his useless useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee, warn thee not to lue,
And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld, a stronger arm
Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, [the grass,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple from the rock as mellow. Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love, In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and well-beloved again, Than me he never lued thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow? How lue him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow? O, Yarrow fields! may never never rain Nor dew thy tender blossom cover, For there was basely slain my love,
My love, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 't was my ain sewing, Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.
The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,
But e'er the to-fall of the night,
He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. Much rejoiced that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang e'er night the spear was flown
That slew my love, and left me mourning. What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then, woo me? My happy sisters may be, may be proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffin,
May bid me seek in Yarrow Braes
My lover nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move
My lover's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou ever bid me love thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband-lover.
But who the expected husband, husband is ! His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah, me! what ghastly spectre's yon,
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after? Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, O, lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my care-full head with willow. Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, O, could my warmth to life restore thee!
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts, No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts,
No youth shall ever lie there after.
A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
Hymn of Praise for January.
COLERIDGE'S "MONT BLANC."
A HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, I worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, Voice of sweet song! awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink! Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast- Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou, That as I raise my head, a while bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base, Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me- - Rise, O, ever rise; Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
« НазадПродовжити » |