But love him. He is one whom many wrongs Have sicken'd of the world. There was a time When he would weep to hear of wickedness, And wonder at the tale; when for the opprest He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor A good man's honest anger. His quick eye Betray'd each rising feeling, every thought Leapt to his tongue. When first among mankind He mingled, by himself he judged of them, And loved and trusted them, to Wisdom deaf, And took them to his bosom. FALSEHOOD met Пler unsuspecting victim, fair of front, And lovely as Apega's sculptured form, Like that false image caught his warm embrace, Aud gored his open breast. The reptile race Clung round his bosom, and with viper folds Encircling, stung the fool who foster'd them. His mother was SIMPLICITY, his sire BENEVOLENCE; in earlier days he bore
His father's name; the world who injured him Call him MISANTHROPY. I may not chuse But love him, HOUSEHOLD Gops! for we were nurst In the same school.
PENATES! Some there are
Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell, Gazing with eye remote on all the ways
Of man, his GUARDIAN GODS; wiselier they deem A dearer interest to the human race Links you, yourselves the SPIRITs of the Dead. No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world, No light of human reason penetrate The depth where Truth lies hid. My heart with instant sympathy assents; And I would judge all systems and all faiths By that best touchstone, from whose test DECEIT Shrinks like the Arch-Fiend at Ithuriel's spear, And SOPHISTRY's gay glittering bubble bursts, As at the spousals of the Nereid's son, When that false Florimel, 2 by her prototype Display'd in rivalry, with all her charms Dissolved away.
Nor can the halls of Heaven Give to the human soul such kindred joy, As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels, When with the breeze it wantons round the brow Of one beloved on earth; or when at night In dreams it comes, and brings with it the DAYS And Joys that are no more. Or when, perchance With power permitted to alleviate ill
And fit the sufferer for the coming woe, Some strange presage the SPIRIT breathes, and fills The breast with ominous fear, and disciplines For sorrow, pours into the afflicted heart
One of the ways and means of the tyrant Nabis. If one of his subjects refused to lend him money, he commanded him to cmbrace his Apega; the statue of a beautiful Woman so formed as to clasp the victim to her breast, in which a pointed dagger was concealed.
2 Then did he set her by that snowy one, Like the true saint beside the image set, Of both their beauties to make paragone And trial whether should the honour get; Streightway so soone as both together met, The enchaunted damsell vanish'd into noubt; Her snowy substance melted as with beat; Ne of that goodly bew remayned ought But the empty girdle which about her wast was wron¡ht.
The balm of resignation, and inspires With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights To visit day by day the favourite plant
His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth, And watch all-anxious for the promised flower; Thus to the blessed spirit in innocence And pure affections like a little child, Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends Beloved; then sweetest, if, as Duty prompts, With earthly care we in their breasts have sown The seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowers, Whose odour reacheth lieaven.
When my sick Heart (Sick with hope long delay'd, than which no care Weighs on the spirit heavier,) from itself Seeks the best comfort, often have I deem'd That thou didst witness every inmost thought, SEWARD! my dear, dead friend! For not iu vain, O early summon'd on thy heavenly course! Was thy brief sojourn here: me didst thou leave With strengthen'd step to foliow the right path. Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe The deep regret of nature, with belief, O EDMUND! that thine eye's celestial ken Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy The movements of the heart that loved thee well!
Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your rites, DOMESTIC Gops! arose. When for his son
With ceaseless grief Syrophanes bewail'd, Mourning his age left childless, and his wealth Heapt for an alien, he with obstinate eye Still on the imaged marble of the dead
Dwelt, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrath, A safe asylum, fled the offending slave, And garlanded the statue, and implored His young lost lord to save: Remembrance then Soften'd the father, and he loved to see
The votive wreath renew'd, and the rich smoke Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet. From Egypt soon the sorrow-soothing rites Divulging spread; before your idol forms 2 By every hearth the blinded Pagan knelt, Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes With human blood your sanctuary defiled: Till the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief, Arose; he first the impious rites put down, He litliest, who for FREEDOM lived and died, The friend of humankind. Then did your feasts Frequent recur and blameless; and when came The solemn festival, 3 whose happiest rites Emblem'd EQUALITY, the holiest truth! Crown'd with gay garlands were your statues seen, To you the fragrant censer smoked, to you The rich libation flow'd: vain sacrifice! For not the poppy wreath nor fruits nor wine Ye ask, PENATES! nor the altar cleansed
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.-Proverbs. Qua non gravior mortalibus addita cura, SPES ubi longa venit.
It is not certainly known under what form the Penates were worshi, ped. Some assert, as wooden or brazen rods shaped like trumpets; others, that they were represented as young men.
With many a mystic form; ye ask the heart Made pure, and by domestic Peace and Love Hallow'd to you. Hearken your hymn of praise, PENATES! to your shrines I come for rest, There only to be found. Often at eve, Amid my wanderings I have seen far off The lonely light that spake of comfort there; It told my heart of many a joy of home, And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazed From some high eminence on goodly vales And cots and villages embower'd below, The thought would rise that all to me was strange Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home. There is a magic in that little word: It is a mystic circle that surrounds Comforts and virtues never known beyond The hallowed limit. Often has my heart Ached for that quiet haven!—haven'd now, I think of those in this world's wilderness Who wander on and find no home of rest Till to the grave they go! them POVERTY, Hollow-eyed fiend, the child of WEALTH and Power, Bad offspring of worse parents, aye afflicts, Cankering with her foul mildews the chill'd heart;- Them WANT with scorpion scourge drives to the den Of GUILT;-them SLAUGHTER for the price of death Throws to her raven brood. Oh, not on them, GOD OF ETERNAL JUSTICE! not on them Let fall thy thunder!
Then only shall be Happiness on earth
When man shall feel sacred your power, Your tranquil joys; then shall the city stand A huge veid sepulchre, and rising fair Amid the ruins of the palace pile
The olive grow, there shall the TREE of PEACE Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state Shall bless the race redeem'd of Man, when WEALTH And POWER and all their hideous progeny Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind. Live in the equal brotherhood of love. Heart-calming hope, and sure! for hitherward Tend all the tumults of the troubled world, Its its wisdom, and its wickedness woes, Alike so He hath will'd, whose will is just.
The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, Sir-ing and Madam-ing as civilly
As if the road between the heart and lips Were such a weary and Laplandish way,
That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen. Trust me, Cousin Margaret, For many a day my Memory hath play'd The creditor with me on your account,
Aud made me shame to think that I should owe So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that albeit
I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race Time leaves me distanced. Loth indeed were I That for a moment you should lay to me Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart
That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some Who know how warm it beats. I am not one Who can play off my smiles and courtesies
To every Lady of her lap-dog tired
Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; Mine are no mushroom feelings, which spring up At once without a seed and take no root, Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere, The little circle of domestic life,
I would be known and loved: the world beyond Is not for me. But, Margaret, sure I think That you should know me well, for you and I Grew up together, and when we look back Upon old times, our recollections paint The same familiar faces. Did I wield The wand of Merlin's magic, I would make Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood Which cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth; The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle Like that where whilom old Appollidon Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid The Sea-Nymphis pile around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar, whose pleasant sound Told us that never mariner should reach Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle We might renew the days of infancy, And Life like a long childhood pass away, Without one care. It may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gather'd to my friends; For I am not of those who live estranged Of choice, till at the last they join their race In the family-vault. If so, if I should lose, Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage. If not, if I should never get beyond This Vanity town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,
What is Peru and those Golcondan mines To thee, Virginia? miserable realms, They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools; But thine are common comforts!--To omit Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise,
Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives, Europe, aud far above Pizarro's name Write Raleigh in thy records of renown! Him let the school-boy bless if he behold His master's box produced, for when he sees The thumb and finger of Authority
Stuft the nostrils, when hat, head, and wig up Shake all; when on the waistcoat black the dust Or drop falls brown; soon shall the brow severe Relax; and from vituperative lips
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.
Along a road whose white intensity Would now make platina uncongealable Like quicksilver.
Were it midnight, I should walk Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sunbeams. Jove! O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven! Give Boreas the wind-cholie, till he roar For cardamum, and drink down peppermint, Making what's left as precious as Tokay. Send Mercury, to salivate the sky Till it dissolve in rain. O gentle Jove! But some such little kindness to a wretch Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat,Who swells with caloric as if a Prester Had leaven'd every limb with poison-yeast ;Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings, And fan me, and I will build temples to thee, And turn true Pagan.
Not a cloud nor breeze,
O you most heathen Deities! if ever
My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them, It hath resolved itself into a dew,)
I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Thou vile Phœbus, Set me a Persian sun-idolater
Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him With no inquisitorial argument
But thy own fires. Now woe be to me wretch, That I was in a heretic country born!
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, And burn away the calx of their offences
In that great Purgatory crucible,
Help me. ( Jupiter! my poor complexion!
I am made a copper-Indian of already;
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me, My very cellular membrane will be changed,- I shall be negrolied.
A brook! a brook! Oh what a sweet cool sound!
'T is very nectar! It runs like life through every strengthen'd limb! Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer.
O SPARE me-spare me, Phoebus! if indeed Thou hast not let another Phaeton
Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car; Mercy! I melt! I melt! No tree, no bush, No shelter! not a breath of stirring air East, West, or North, or South! Dear God of day, Put on thy nightcap! crop thy locks of light, And be in the fashion! turn thy back upon us, And let thy beams flow upward! make it night Instead of noon! one little miracle,
Oh what a joy, to be a seal and flounder On an ice island! or to have a den
With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow! It were a comfort to shake hands with death,— He has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's self In the gift-shirt Deianeira sent, Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep The sun off, or toast cheese for Beelzebub,- That were a cool employment to this journey
Perhaps,-hark Jacob! dost thou hear that horn? Woe to the young posterity of pork! Their enemy is at hand.
Again. Thou say'st The Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those eyes have taught the Lover flattery. His face,-nay, Jacob, Jacob! were it fair To judge a Lady in her dishabille? Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. Behold his tail, my friend, with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse: So crisp in heauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glories of the Peacock's pride; Give him the Swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss,
When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose ;- Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him! All alteration man could think would mar llis Pig-perfection.
The last charge,―he lives
Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents, And show by sanction of authority That 't is a very honourable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defence: The Pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt? If matter,-why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged Epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates is no more. If matter be not, but as Sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep.
And there! that breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile That speaks conviction. O'er yen blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise,
Led by the nose, embruted, and in the eye Of Reason from their Nature's purposes As miserably perverted.
Now could I sonnetize thy piteous plight, And prove how much my sympathetic heart Even for the miseries of a beast can feel, In fourteen lines of sensibility.
But we are told all things were made for man; And I'll be sworn there's not a fellow here Who would not swear 't were hanging blasphemy To doubt that truth. Therefore as thou wert born, Bruin! for man, and man makes nothing of thee In any other way,-most logically
It follows, that thou must be born to dance; That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose To hold a ring; and that thy fat was given thee Ouly to make pomatum!
To demur Were heresy. And politicians say (Wise men who in the scale of reason give No foolish feelings weight), that thou art here Far happier than thy brother bears who roam O'er trackless snow for food; that being born Inferior to thy leader, unto him Rightly belongs dominion; that the compact Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet First fell into the snare, and he gave up
Ilis right to kill, conditioning thy life
Should thenceforth be his property;-besides, 'Tis wholesome for thy morals to be brought From savage climes into a civilized state, Into the decencies of Christendom.- Bear! Bear! it passes in the Parliament For excellent logic this! what if we say How barbarously man abuses power? Talk of thy baiting, it will be replied, Thy welfare is thy owner's interest, But were thou baited it would injure thee, Therefore thou art not baited. For seven years
Hear it, O Heaven, and give car, O Earth! For seven long years this precious Syllogism Hlath baffled justice and humanity!!
NAY, gather not that Filbert, Nicholas, There is a maggot there,--it is his house,— llis castle,ol commit not burglary!
RECOMMENDED TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE SLAVE- Strip him not naked.—'t is his clothes, his shell,
RARE music! I would rather hear cat-courtship Under my bed-room window in the night,
Than this scraped catgut's screak. Rare dancing too! Alas, poor Bruin! How he foots the pole,
And waddles round it with unwieldy steps,
Swaying from side to side'-The dancing-master Hath had as profitless a pupil in him
As when he would have tortured my poor toes
To minuet grace, and made them move like clockwork In musical obedience. Bruin! Bruin! Thou art but a clumsy biped!—and the mob With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace, And laugh to see him led by the nose!-themselves
Ilis bones, the case and armour of his life, And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas! It were an easy thing to crack that nut Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth, So casily may all things be destroy'd! But 't is not in the power of mortal man To mend the fracture of a filbert shell. There were two great men once amused themselves Watching two maggots run their wriggling race, And wagering on their speed; but Nick, to us It were no sport to see the pamper'd worm Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat, Like to some Barber's leathern powder-bag Wherewith he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers Spruce Beau, or Lady fair, or Doctor grave.
Enough of dangers and of enemies
Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordain'd: Increase not thou the number! Him the Mouse Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence May from his native tenement eject; Him may the Nut-hatch piercing with strong bill Unwittingly destroy; or to his hoard
The Squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd. Man also hath his dangers and his foes
As this poor Maggot hath; and when I muse Upon the aches, anxieties, and fears, The Maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks It were a happy metamorphosis
To be enkernell'd thus: never to hear Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots, Kings, Jacobines, and Tax-commissioners; To feel no motion but the wind that shook The Filbert Tree, and rock'd us to our rest; And in the middle of such exquisite food To live luxurious! the perfection this Of snugness! it were to unite at once Hermit retirement, Aldermanic bliss, And Stoic independence of mankind.
From the four corners of the world cries out
For justice upon one accursed head; When Freedom hath her holy banners spread Over all nations, now in one just cause United; when with one sublime accord Europe throws off the yoke abhorr'd, And Loyalty and Faith, and Ancient Laws Follow the avenging sword!
Woe, woe to England! woe and endless shame If this heroic land,
False to her feelings and unspotted fame, Hold out the olive to the Tyrant's hand! Woe to the world if Buonaparte's throue Be suffer'd still to stand!
For by what names shall Right and Wrong be known,
What new and courtly phrases must we feign For Falsehood, Murder, and all monstrous crimes, If that perfidious Corsican maintain Still his detested reign,
And France, who yearns even now to break her chain, Beneath his iron rule be left to groan! No! by the innumerable dead, Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed, Death only can for his foul deeds atone! That peace which Death and judgment can bestow, That peace be Buonaparte's,-that alone!
For sooner shall the Ethiop change his skin, Or from the Leopard shall her spots depart,
Than this man change his old flagitious heart. Have ye not seen him in the balance weigh'd, And there found wanting? On the stage of blood Foremost the resolute adventurer stood;
And when by many a battle won, He placed upon his brow the crown, Curbing delirious France beneath his sway, Then, like Octavius in old time, Fair name might he have hauded down,
Effacing many a stain of former crime. Fool! should he cast away that bright renown! Fool! the redemption proffer'd should he lose! When Heaven such grace vouchsafed him that the way To Good and Evil lay Before him, which to chuse.
But Evil was his Good,
For all too long in blood had he been nurst, And ne'er was earth with fouler tyrant curst Bold man and bad,
Remorseless, godless, full of fraud and lies, And black with murders and with perjuries, Himself in Hell's whole panoply he clad; No law but his own headstrong will he knew, No counsellor but his own wicked heart! From evil thus portentous strength he drew, And trampled under foot all human ties, All holy laws, all natural charities.
O France! beneath this fierce Barbarian's sway Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times! Rapine and blood and fire have mark'd thy way, All loathsome, all unutterable crimes!
A curse is on thee, France! from far and wide It hath gone up to Heaven! All lands have cried For vengeance upon thy detested head! All nations curse thee, France! for wheresoc'er Ja peace or war thy banner hath been spread, All forms of human woe have follow'd there. The Living and the Dead
Cry out alike against thee! They who bear Crouching beneath its weight thine irou yoke, Join in the bitterness of secret prayer The voice of that innumerable throug, Whose slaughter'd spirits day and night invoke The everlasting Judge of right and wrong, How long, O Lord! Holy and just, how long!
A merciless oppressor hast thou been, Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime; Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime, And rivet faster round thyself the chain. O blind to honour, and to interest blind, When thus in abject servitude resign'd To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave God's justice, and the heart of humankind! Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world, Thyself the while a miserable slave! Behold the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd? The dreadful armies of the North advance! While England, Portugal, and Spain combined,
Give their triumphant banners to the wind, And stand victorious in the fields of France! One man hath been for ten long wretched years The cause of all this blood and all these tears!
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