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正文 Book 6. The Winter Walk at Noon.

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    There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,

    And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased

    With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;

    Some chord in unison with what we hear

    Is touched within us, and the heart replies.

    How soft the music of those village bells

    Falling at intervals upon the ear

    In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

    Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

    Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on.

    With easy force it opens all the cells

    Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard

    A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

    And with it all its pleasures and its pains.

    Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,

    That in a few short moments I retrace

    (As in a map the voyager his course)

    The windings of my way through many years.

    Short as in retrospect the journey seems,

    It seemed not always short; the rugged path,

    And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,

    Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.

    Yet feeling present evils, while the past

    Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,

    How readily we wish time spent revoked,

    That we might try the ground again, where once

    (Through inexperience as we now perceive)

    We missed that happiness we might have found.

    Some friend is gone, perhaps his son’s best friend

    A father, whose authority, in show

    When most severe, and mustering all its force,

    Was but the graver countenance of love;

    Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,

    And utter now and then an awful voice,

    But had a blessing in its darkest frown,

    Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.

    We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand

    That reared us. At a thoughtless age allured

    By every gilded folly, we renounced

    His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent

    That converse which we now in vain regret.

    How gladly would the man recall to life

    The boy’s neglected sire! a mother too,

    That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,

    Might he demand them at the gates of death.

    Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed

    The playful humour; he could now endure

    (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)

    And feel a parent’s presence no restraint.

    But not to understand a treasure’s worth

    Till time has stolen away the slighted good,

    Is cause of half the poverty we feel,

    And makes the world the wilderness it is.

    The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss,

    And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,

    Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.

    The night was winter in his roughest mood,

    The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon

    Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

    And where the woods fence off the northern blast,

    The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

    And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue

    Without a cloud, and white without a speck

    The dazzling splendour of the scene below.

    Again the harmony comes o’er the vale,

    And through the trees I view the embattled tower

    Whence all the music. I again perceive

    The soothing influence of the wafted strains,

    And settle in soft musings, as I tread

    The walk still verdant under oaks and elms,

    Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.

    The roof, though movable through all its length,

    As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,

    And, intercepting in their silent fall

    The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.

    No noise is here, or none that hinders thought:

    The redbreast warbles still, but is content

    With slender notes and more than half suppressed.

    Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light

    From spray to spray, where’er he rests he shakes

    From many a twig the pendant drops of ice,

    That tinkle in the withered leaves below.

    Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,

    Charms more than silence. Meditation here

    May think down hours to moments. Here the heart

    May give an useful lesson to the head,

    And learning wiser grow without his books.

    Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,

    Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells

    In heads replete with thoughts of other men;

    Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

    Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,

    The mere materials with which wisdom builds,

    Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,

    Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.

    Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,

    Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

    Books are not seldom talismans and spells

    By which the magic art of shrewder wits

    Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled.

    Some to the fascination of a name

    Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style

    Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds

    Of error, leads them by a tune entranced.

    While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear

    The insupportable fatigue of thought,

    And swallowing therefore without pause or choice

    The total grist unsifted, husks and all.

    But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course

    Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,

    And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,

    And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time

    Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,

    Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,

    Not shy as in the world, and to be won

    By slow solicitation, seize at once

    The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

    What prodigies can power divine perform

    More grand than it produces year by year,

    And all in sight of inattentive man?

    Familiar with the effect we slight the cause,

    And in the constancy of Nature’s course,

    The regular return of genial months,

    And renovation of a faded world,

    See nought to wonder at. Should God again,

    As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race

    Of the undeviating and punctual sun,

    How would the world admire! but speaks it less

    An agency divine, to make him know

    His moment when to sink and when to rise

    Age after age, than to arrest his course?

    All we behold is miracle: but, seen

    So duly, all is miracle in vain.

    Where now the vital energy that moved,

    While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph

    Through the imperceptible meandering veins

    Of leaf and flower? It sleeps: and the icy touch

    Of unprolific winter has impressed

    A cold stagnation on the intestine tide.

    But let the months go round, a few short months,

    And all shall be restored. These naked shoots,

    Barren as lances, among which the wind

    Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,

    Shall put their graceful foliage on again,

    And more aspiring and with ampler spread

    Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.

    Then, each in its peculiar honours clad,

    Shall publish even to the distant eye

    Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich

    In streaming gold; syringa ivory pure;

    The scented and the scentless rose; this red

    And of a humbler growth, the other tall,

    And throwing up into the darkest gloom

    Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,

    Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf

    That the wind severs from the broken wave;

    The lilac various in array, now white,

    Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set

    With purple spikes pyramidal, as if

    Studious of ornament, yet unresolved

    Which hue she most approved, she chose them all;

    Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan,

    But well compensating their sickly looks

    With never-cloying odours, early and late;

    Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm

    Of flowers like flies, clothing her slender rods,

    That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too,

    Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset

    With blushing wreaths investing every spray;

    Alth?a with the purple eye; the broom,

    Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed

    Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all

    The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,

    The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf

    Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more

    The bright profusion of her scattered stars.—

    These have been, and these shall be in their day,

    And all this uniform uncoloured scene

    Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,

    And flush into variety again.

    From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,

    Is Nature’s progress when she lectures man

    In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes

    The grand transition, that there lives and works

    A soul in all things, and that soul is God.

    The beauties of the wilderness are His,

    That make so gay the solitary place

    Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms

    That cultivation glories in, are His.

    He sets the bright procession on its way,

    And marshals all the order of the year.

    He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass,

    And blunts his pointed fury. In its case,

    Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ

    Uninjured, with inimitable art,

    And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,

    Designs the blooming wonders of the next.

    Some say that in the origin of things,

    When all creation started into birth,

    The infant elements received a law

    From which they swerve not since; that under force

    Of that controlling ordinance they move,

    And need not His immediate hand, who first

    Prescribed their course, to regulate it now.

    Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God

    The encumbrance of His own concerns, and spare

    The great Artificer of all that moves

    The stress of a continual act, the pain

    Of unremitted vigilance and care,

    As too laborious and severe a task.

    So man the moth is not afraid, it seems,

    To span Omnipotence, and measure might

    That knows no measure, by the scanty rule

    And standard of his own, that is to-day,

    And is not ere to-morrow’s sun go down.

    But how should matter occupy a charge

    Dull as it is, and satisfy a law

    So vast in its demands, unless impelled

    To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,

    And under pressure of some conscious cause?

    The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused

    Sustains and is the life of all that lives.

    Nature is but a name for an effect

    Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire

    By which the mighty process is maintained,

    Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight

    Slow-circling ages are as transient days;

    Whose work is without labour, whose designs

    No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts,

    And whose beneficence no charge exhausts.

    Him blind antiquity profaned, not served,

    With self-taught rites and under various names

    Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,

    And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth

    With tutelary goddesses and gods

    That were not, and commending as they would

    To each some province, garden, field, or grove.

    But all are under One. One spirit—His

    Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows—

    Rules universal nature. Not a flower

    But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain,

    Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires

    Their balmy odours and imparts their hues,

    And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,

    In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,

    The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth.

    Happy who walks with Him! whom, what he finds

    Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,

    Or what he views of beautiful or grand

    In nature, from the broad majestic oak

    To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,

    Prompts with remembrance of a present God.

    His presence, who made all so fair, perceived,

    Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene

    Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please.

    Though winter had been none had man been true,

    And earth be punished for its tenant’s sake,

    Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky,

    So soon succeeding such an angry night,

    And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream,

    Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.

    Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned

    To contemplation, and within his reach

    A scene so friendly to his favourite task,

    Would waste attention at the chequered board,

    His host of wooden warriors to and fro

    Marching and counter-marching, with an eye

    As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged

    And furrowed into storms, and with a hand

    Trembling, as if eternity were hung

    In balance on his conduct of a pin?

    Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,

    Who pant with application misapplied

    To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls

    Across the velvet level, feel a joy

    Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds

    Its destined goal of difficult access.

    Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon

    To Miss, the Mercer’s plague, from shop to shop

    Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks

    The polished counter, and approving none,

    Or promising with smiles to call again.

    Nor him, who, by his vanity seduced,

    And soothed into a dream that he discerns

    The difference of a Guido from a daub,

    Frequents the crowded auction. Stationed there

    As duly as the Langford of the show,

    With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,

    And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant

    And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease,

    Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls

    He notes it in his book, then raps his box,

    Swears ’tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate

    That he has let it pass—but never bids.

    Here unmolested, through whatever sign

    The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist,

    Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me,

    Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.

    Even in the spring and play-time of the year

    That calls the unwonted villager abroad

    With all her little ones, a sportive train,

    To gather king-cups in the yellow mead,

    And prank their hair with daisies, or to pick

    A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,

    These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,

    Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,

    Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarmed

    Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends

    His long love-ditty for my near approach.

    Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm

    That age or injury has hollowed deep,

    Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves

    He has outslept the winter, ventures forth

    To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,

    The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.

    He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,

    Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,

    And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,

    With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,

    And anger insignificantly fierce.

    The heart is hard in nature, and unfit

    For human fellowship, as being void

    Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike

    To love and friendship both, that is not pleased

    With sight of animals enjoying life,

    Nor feels their happiness augment his own.

    The bounding fawn that darts across the glade

    When none pursues, through mere delight of heart,

    And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;

    The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet,

    That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,

    Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels

    Starts to the voluntary race again;

    The very kine that gambol at high noon,

    The total herd receiving first from one,

    That leads the dance, a summons to be gay,

    Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth

    Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent

    To give such act and utterance as they may

    To ecstasy too big to be suppressed—

    These, and a thousand images of bliss,

    With which kind nature graces every scene

    Where cruel man defeats not her design,

    Impart to the benevolent, who wish

    All that are capable of pleasure pleased,

    A far superior happiness to theirs,

    The comfort of a reasonable joy.

    Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call

    Who formed him from the dust, his future grave,

    When he was crowned as never king was since.

    God set His diadem upon his head,

    And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood

    The new-made monarch, while before him passed,

    All happy and all perfect in their kind,

    The creatures, summoned from their various haunts

    To see their sovereign, and confess his sway.

    Vast was his empire, absolute his power,

    Or bounded only by a law whose force

    ’Twas his sublimest privilege to feel

    And own, the law of universal love.

    He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy.

    No cruel purpose lurked within his heart,

    And no distrust of his intent in theirs.

    So Eden was a scene of harmless sport,

    Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole

    Begat a tranquil confidence in all,

    And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear.

    But sin marred all; and the revolt of man,

    That source of evils not exhausted yet,

    Was punished with revolt of his from him.

    Garden of God, how terrible the change

    Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! every heart,

    Each animal of every name, conceived

    A jealousy and an instinctive fear,

    And, conscious of some danger, either fled

    Precipitate the loathed abode of man,

    Or growled defiance in such angry sort,

    As taught him too to tremble in his turn.

    Thus harmony and family accord

    Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour

    The seeds of cruelty, that since have swelled

    To such gigantic and enormous growth,

    Were sown in human nature’s fruitful soil.

    Hence date the persecution and the pain

    That man inflicts on all inferior kinds,

    Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport,

    To gratify the frenzy of his wrath,

    Or his base gluttony, are causes good

    And just in his account, why bird and beast

    Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed

    With blood of their inhabitants impaled.

    Earth groans beneath the burden of a war

    Waged with defenceless innocence, while he,

    Not satisfied to prey on all around,

    Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs

    Needless, and first torments ere he devours.

    Now happiest they that occupy the scenes

    The most remote from his abhorred resort,

    Whom once as delegate of God on earth

    They feared, and as His perfect image loved.

    The wilderness is theirs with all its caves,

    Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains

    Unvisited by man. There they are free,

    And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrolled,

    Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play.

    Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude

    Within the confines of their wild domain;

    The lion tells him, “I am monarch here;”

    And if he spares him, spares him on the terms

    Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn

    To rend a victim trembling at his foot.

    In measure, as by force of instinct drawn,

    Or by necessity constrained, they live

    Dependent upon man, those in his fields,

    These at his crib, and some beneath his roof;

    They prove too often at how dear a rate

    He sells protection. Witness, at his foot

    The spaniel dying for some venial fault,

    Under dissection of the knotted scourge;

    Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells

    Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs

    To madness, while the savage at his heels

    Laughs at the frantic sufferer’s fury spent

    Upon the guiltless passenger o’erthrown.

    He too is witness, noblest of the train

    That wait on man, the flight-performing horse:

    With unsuspecting readiness he takes

    His murderer on his back, and, pushed all day,

    With bleeding sides, and flanks that heave for life,

    To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies.

    So little mercy shows who needs so much!

    Does law, so jealous in the cause of man,

    Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None.

    He lives, and o’er his brimming beaker boasts

    (As if barbarity were high desert)

    The inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise

    Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose

    The honours of his matchless horse his own.

    But many a crime, deemed innocent on earth,

    Is registered in heaven, and these, no doubt,

    Have each their record, with a curse annexed.

    Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,

    But God will never. When He charged the Jew

    To assist his foe’s down-fallen beast to rise,

    And when the bush-exploring boy that seized

    The young, to let the parent bird go free,

    Proved He not plainly that His meaner works

    Are yet His care, and have an interest all,

    All, in the universal Father’s love?

    On Noah, and in him on all mankind,

    The charter was conferred by which we hold

    The flesh of animals in fee, and claim,

    O’er all we feed on, power of life and death.

    But read the instrument, and mark it well;

    The oppression of a tyrannous control

    Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield

    Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin,

    Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute.

    The Governor of all, Himself to all

    So bountiful, in whose attentive ear

    The unfledged raven and the lion’s whelp

    Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs

    Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed,

    Not seldom, His avenging arm, to smite

    The injurious trampler upon nature’s law,

    That claims forbearance even for a brute.

    He hates the hardness of a Balaam’s heart,

    And, prophet as he was, he might not strike

    The blameless animal, without rebuke,

    On which he rode. Her opportune offence

    Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died.

    He sees that human equity is slack

    To interfere, though in so just a cause,

    And makes the task His own; inspiring dumb

    And helpless victims with a sense so keen

    Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength,

    And such sagacity to take revenge,

    That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man.

    An ancient, not a legendary tale,

    By one of sound intelligence rehearsed,

    (If such, who plead for Providence may seem

    In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear.

    Where England, stretched towards the setting sun,

    Narrow and long, o’erlooks the western wave,

    Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he

    Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent,

    Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce.

    He journeyed, and his chance was, as he went,

    To join a traveller of far different note—

    Evander, famed for piety, for years

    Deserving honour, but for wisdom more.

    Fame had not left the venerable man

    A stranger to the manners of the youth,

    Whose face, too, was familiar to his view.

    Their way was on the margin of the land,

    O’er the green summit of the rocks whose base

    Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high.

    The charity that warmed his heart was moved

    At sight of the man-monster. With a smile

    Gentle and affable, and full of grace,

    As fearful of offending whom he wished

    Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths

    Not harshly thundered forth or rudely pressed,

    But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet.

    “And dost thou dream,” the impenetrable man

    Exclaimed, “that me the lullabies of age,

    And fantasies of dotards such as thou,

    Can cheat, or move a moment’s fear in me?

    Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave

    Need no such aids as superstition lends

    To steel their hearts against the dread of death.”

    He spoke, and to the precipice at hand

    Pushed with a madman’s fury. Fancy shrinks,

    And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought

    Of such a gulf as he designed his grave.

    But though the felon on his back could dare

    The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed

    Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round,

    Or ere his hoof had pressed the crumbling verge,

    Baffled his rider, saved against his will.

    The frenzy of the brain may be redressed

    By medicine well applied, but without grace

    The heart’s insanity admits no cure.

    Enraged the more by what might have reformed

    His horrible intent, again he sought

    Destruction, with a zeal to be destroyed,

    With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood.

    But still in vain. The Providence that meant

    A longer date to the far nobler beast,

    Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake.

    And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere,

    Incurable obduracy evinced,

    His rage grew cool; and, pleased perhaps to have earned

    So cheaply the renown of that attempt,

    With looks of some complacence he resumed

    His road, deriding much the blank amaze

    Of good Evander, still where he was left

    Fixed motionless, and petrified with dread.

    So on they fared; discourse on other themes

    Ensuing, seemed to obliterate the past,

    And tamer far for so much fury shown

    (As is the course of rash and fiery men)

    The rude companion smiled as if transformed.

    But ’twas a transient calm. A storm was near,

    An unsuspected storm. His hour was come.

    The impious challenger of power divine

    Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath,

    Is never with impunity defied.

    His horse, as he had caught his master’s mood,

    Snorting, and starting into sudden rage,

    Unbidden, and not now to be controlled,

    Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood.

    At once the shock unseated him; he flew

    Sheer o’er the craggy barrier, and, immersed

    Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,

    The death he had deserved, and died alone.

    So God wrought double justice; made the fool

    The victim of his own tremendous choice,

    And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.

    I would not enter on my list of friends

    (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,

    Yet wanting sensibility) the man

    Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.

    An inadvertent step may crush the snail

    That crawls at evening in the public path;

    But he that has humanity, forewarned,

    Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.

    The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,

    And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes

    A visitor unwelcome into scenes

    Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,

    The chamber, or refectory, may die.

    A necessary act incurs no blame.

    Not so when, held within their proper bounds

    And guiltless of offence, they range the air,

    Or take their pastime in the spacious field.

    There they are privileged; and he that hunts

    Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,

    Disturbs the economy of Nature’s realm,

    Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.

    The sum is this: if man’s convenience, health,

    Or safety interfere, his rights and claims

    Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.

    Else they are all—the meanest things that are—

    As free to live and to enjoy that life,

    As God was free to form them at the first,

    Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all.

    Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons

    To love it too. The spring-time of our years

    Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most

    By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand

    To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots,

    If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth,

    Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.

    Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule

    And righteous limitation of its act,

    By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man;

    And he that shows none, being ripe in years,

    And conscious of the outrage he commits,

    Shall seek it and not find it in his turn.

    Distinguished much by reason, and still more

    By our capacity of grace divine,

    From creatures that exist but for our sake,

    Which having served us, perish, we are held

    Accountable, and God, some future day,

    Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse

    Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust.

    Superior as we are, they yet depend

    Not more on human help, than we on theirs.

    Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given

    In aid of our defects. In some are found

    Such teachable and apprehensive parts,

    That man’s attainments in his own concerns,

    Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs,

    Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind.

    Some show that nice sagacity of smell,

    And read with such discernment, in the port

    And figure of the man, his secret aim,

    That oft we owe our safety to a skill

    We could not teach, and must despair to learn.

    But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop

    To quadruped instructors, many a good

    And useful quality, and virtue too,

    Rarely exemplified among ourselves;

    Attachment never to be weaned, or changed

    By any change of fortune, proof alike

    Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;

    Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat

    Can move or warp; and gratitude for small

    And trivial favours, lasting as the life,

    And glistening even in the dying eye.

    Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms

    Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit

    Patiently present at a sacred song,

    Orgmemoration-mad; content to hear

    (Oh wonderful effect of music’s power!)

    Messiah’s eulogy, for Handel’s sake.

    But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve—

    (For was it less? What heathen would have dared

    To strip Jove’s statue of his oaken wreath

    And hang it up in honour of a man?)

    Much less might serve, when all that we design

    Is but to gratify an itching ear,

    And give the day to a musician’s praise.

    Remember Handel! who, that was not born

    Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,

    Or can, the more than Homer of his age?

    Yes—we remember him; and, while we praise

    A talent so divine, remember too

    That His most holy Book from whom it came

    Was never meant, was never used before

    To buckram out the memory of a man.

    But hush!—the muse perhaps is too severe,

    And with a gravity beyond the size

    And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed

    Less impious than absurd, and owing more

    To want of judgment than to wrong design.

    So in the chapel of old Ely House,

    When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third,

    Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,

    The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,

    And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,

    Sung to the praise and glory of King George.

    —Man praises man; and Garrick’s memory next,

    When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made

    The idol of our worship while he lived

    The god of our idolatry once more,

    Shall have its altar; and the world shall go

    In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.

    The theatre, too small, shall suffocate

    Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits

    Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return

    Ungratified. For there some noble lord

    Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard’s bunch,

    Or wrap himself in Hamlet’s inky cloak,

    And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,

    To show the world how Garrick did not act,

    For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

    He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites

    And solemn ceremonial of the day,

    And called the world to worship on the banks

    Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof

    That piety has still in human hearts

    Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct.

    The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths,

    The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance,

    The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs,

    And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree

    Supplied such relics as devotion holds

    Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.

    So ’twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned,

    And mirth without offence. No few returned

    Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed.

    —Man praises man. The rabble all alive,

    From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,

    Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,

    A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes;

    Some shout him, and some hang upon his car

    To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave

    Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy

    While others not so satisfied unhorse

    The gilded equipage, and, turning loose

    His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

    Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state?

    No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.

    Enchanting novelty, that moon at full

    That finds out every crevice of the head

    That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs

    Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,

    And his own cattle must suffice him soon.

    Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,

    And dedicate a tribute, in its use

    And just direction sacred, to a thing

    Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there.

    Encomium in old time was poet’s work;

    But, poets having lavishly long since

    Exhausted all materials of the art,

    The task now falls into the public hand;

    And I, contented with a humble theme,

    Have poured my stream of panegyric down

    The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds

    Among her lovely works, with a secure

    And unambitious course, reflecting clear

    If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes.

    And I am recompensed, and deem the toil

    Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine

    May stand between an animal and woe,

    And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

    The groans of Nature in this nether world,

    Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end.

    Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,

    Whose fire was kindled at the prophets’ lamp,

    The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes.

    Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh

    Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course

    Over a sinful world; and what remains

    Of this tempestuous state of human things,

    Is merely as the working of a sea

    Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest.

    For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds

    The dust that waits upon His sultry march,

    When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot,

    Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend

    Propitious, in His chariot paved with love,

    And what His storms have blasted and defaced

    For man’s revolt, shall with a smile repair.

    Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet

    Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch;

    Nor can the wonders it records be sung

    To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

    But when a poet, or when one like me,

    Happy to rove among poetic flowers,

    Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last

    On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,

    Such is the impulse and the spur he feels

    To give it praise proportioned to its worth,

    That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems

    The labour, were a task more arduous still.

    Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,

    Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,

    Though but in distant prospect, and not feel

    His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?

    Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

    And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach

    Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field

    Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean,

    Or fertile only in its own disgrace,

    Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.

    The various seasons woven into one,

    And that one season an eternal spring,

    The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,

    For there is none to covet, all are full.

    The lion and the libbard and the bear

    Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon

    Together, or all gambol in the shade

    Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.

    Antipathies are none. No foe to man

    Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees,

    And smiles to see, her infant’s playful hand

    Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm,

    To stroke his azure neck, or to receive

    The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.

    All creatures worship man, and all mankind

    One Lord, one Father. Error has no place;

    That creeping pestilence is driven away,

    The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart

    No passion touches a discordant string,

    But all is harmony and love. Disease

    Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood

    Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.

    One song employs all nations; and all cry,

    “Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!”

    The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks

    Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops

    From distant mountains catch the flying joy,

    Till nation after nation taught the strain,

    Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.

    Behold the measure of the promise filled,

    See Salem built, the labour of a God!

    Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;

    All kingdoms and all princes of the earth

    Flock to that light; the glory of all lands

    Flows into her, unbounded is her joy

    And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,

    Nebaioth, * and the flocks of Kedar there;

    The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,

    And Saba’s spicy groves pay tribute there.

    Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls,

    And in her streets, and in her spacious courts

    Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there

    Kneels with the native of the farthest West,

    And ?thiopia spreads abroad the hand,

    And worships. Her report has travelled forth

    Into all lands. From every clime they come

    To see thy beauty and to share thy joy,

    O Sion! an assembly such as earth

    Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see.

    Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once

    Perfect, and all must be at length restored.

    So God has greatly purposed; who would else

    In His dishonoured works Himself endure

    Dishonour, and be wronged without redress.

    Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world,

    Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see

    (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)

    A world that does not dread and hate His laws,

    And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair

    The creature is that God pronounces good,

    How pleasant in itself what pleases Him.

    Here every drop of honey hides a sting;

    Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers,

    And even the joy, that haply some poor heart

    Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,

    Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint

    From touch of human lips, at best impure.

    Oh for a world in principle as chaste

    As this is gross and selfish! over which

    Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,

    That govern all things here, shouldering aside

    The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her

    To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife

    In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men,

    Where violence shall never lift the sword,

    Nor cunning justify the proud man’s wrong,

    Leaving the poor no remedy but tears;

    Where he that fills an office, shall esteem

    The occasion it presents of doing good

    More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak

    Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts,

    And equity, not jealous more to guard

    A worthless form, than to decide aright;

    Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,

    Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace)

    With lean performance ape the work of love.

    Orge then, and added to Thy many crowns

    Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,

    Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine

    By ancient covenant, ere nature’s birth,

    And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since,

    And overpaid its value with Thy blood.

    Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts

    Thy title is engraven with a pen

    Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.

    Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay

    Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see

    The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired,

    Would creep into the bowels of the hills,

    And flee for safety to the falling rocks.

    The very spirit of the world is tired

    Of its own taunting question, asked so long,

    “Where is the promise of your Lord’s approach?”

    The infidel has shot his bolts away,

    Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,

    He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled,

    And aims them at the shield of truth again.

    The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,

    That hides divinity from mortal eyes;

    And all the mysteries to faith proposed,

    Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,

    As useless, to the moles and to the bats.

    They now are deemed the faithful and are praised,

    Who, constant only in rejecting Thee,

    Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr’s zeal,

    And quit their office for their error’s sake.

    Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these

    Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel,

    Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man!

    So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare,

    The world takes little thought; who will may preach,

    And what they will. All pastors are alike

    To wandering sheep resolved to follow none.

    Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain;

    For these they live, they sacrifice to these,

    And in their service wage perpetual war

    With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts,

    And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth

    To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce,

    High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.

    Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down

    The features of the last degenerate times,

    Exhibit every lineament of these.

    Orge then, and added to Thy many crowns

    Receive yet one as radiant as the rest,

    Due to Thy last and most effectual work,

    Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world.

    He is the happy man, whose life even now

    Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;

    Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state,

    Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,

    Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit

    Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,

    Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one

    Content indeed to sojourn while he must

    Below the skies, but having there his home.

    The world o’erlooks him in her busy search

    Of objects more illustrious in her view;

    And occupied as earnestly as she,

    Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world.

    She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;

    He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.

    He cannot skim the ground like summer birds

    Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems

    Her honours, her emoluments, her joys;

    Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,

    Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth

    She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,

    And shows him glories yet to be revealed.

    Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,

    And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams

    Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird

    That flutters least is longest on the wing.

    Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,

    Or what achievements of immortal fame

    He purposes, and he shall answer—None.

    His warfare is within. There unfatigued

    His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,

    And there obtains fresh triumphs o’er himself,

    And never-withering wreaths, compared with which

    The laurels that a C?sar reaps are weeds.

    Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,

    That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks,

    Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see,

    Deems him a cipher in the works of God,

    Receives advantage from his noiseless hours

    Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes

    Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring

    And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes

    When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint

    Walks forth to meditate at eventide,

    And think on her who thinks not for herself.

    Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns

    Of little worth, and idler in the best,

    If, author of no mischief and some good,

    He seeks his proper happiness by means

    That may advance, but cannot hinder thine.

    Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,

    Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,

    Account him an encumbrance on the state,

    Receiving benefits, and rendering none.

    His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere

    Shine with his fair example, and though small

    His influence, if that influence all be spent

    In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,

    In aiding helpless indigence, in works

    From which at least a grateful few derive

    Some taste of comfort in a world of woe,

    Then let the supercilious great confess

    He serves his country; recompenses well

    The state beneath the shadow of whose vine

    He sits secure, and in the scale of life

    Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place.

    The man whose virtues are more felt than seen,

    Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise;

    But he may boast, what few that win it can,

    That if his country stand not by his skill,

    At least his follies have not wrought her fall.

    Polite refinement offers him in vain

    Her golden tube, through which a sensual world

    Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,

    The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.

    Not that he peevishly rejects a mode

    Because that world adopts it. If it bear

    The stamp and clear impression of good sense,

    And be not costly more than of true worth,

    He puts it on, and for decorum sake

    Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she.

    She judges of refinement by the eye,

    He by the test of conscience, and a heart

    Not soon deceived; aware that what is base

    No polish can make sterling, and that vice,

    Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed,

    Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers,

    Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far

    For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.

    So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,

    More golden than that age of fabled gold

    Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care,

    Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved

    Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.

    So glide my life away! and so at last,

    My share of duties decently fulfilled,

    May some disease, not tardy to perform

    Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke,

    Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat

    Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

    It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called

    To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,

    I played awhile, obedient to the fair,

    With that light task, but soon to please her more,

    Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,

    Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;

    Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, ’tis true,

    Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,

    But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some

    To palates that can taste immortal truth;

    Insipid else, and sure to be despised.

    But all is in His hand whose praise I seek,

    In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,

    If He regard not, though divine the theme.

    ’Tis not in artful measures, in the chime

    And idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre,

    To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;

    Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,

    Whose approbation—prosper even mine.

    The End
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