MEDITATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

MEMORIAL POEMS.

WHY IS THERE WAR ON EARTH?

WRITTEN ON A CALM AND BEAUTIFUL DAY IN MAY, 1848.

WHY is there war on earth? Earth is most sweet
When all things are at peace, or only strive
How to make up the largest sum of joy.

'Tis now sweet Spring. Methinks 'twere wise to deem
Our longest life but a protracted Spring-
Hope's blossom swelling in the pregnant bud
Of mother Faith, that fosters by concealing,
And owes its strength and beauty to a root
Unseen below, like dark antiquity.

But there is war, because man craves the fruit
Of Autumn in the aye-beginning Spring.
We would have perfect freedom upon earth ;-
Ah, fools! to think that freedom can consist
In selfish singleness of myriad wills,
Worse than the old Epicurean fancy
Of warring atoms hook'd into a world!
But madder yet to think that million wills,

Each crushing other, can compose one will,

Constituent of universal truth.

We would be the sons of Nature-would be free

As Nature is. But can we then forget
That Nature is an everlasting law,
And free because she cannot disobey?

She hath no self to sacrifice: but man,
By sinning, made out of himself a self
Alien from God, that must be self-destroy'd
Ere man can know what freedom is, or feel
His spirit enfranchised,-general as the light
Diffused through ether in its purity,

And by the various sympathies of earth,
Blent and dissected into various hues

That all are light, as a good man's good works,
All, all are love.

Thank God, the times are pass'd

When fear and blindly-working ignorance

Could govern man. "Tis Faith and duteous love

Out of a multitude must form a state.

We have escaped from Egypt; but we walk
Wall'd by the waters of a blood-red sea,
Parted perforce, impatient to o'erwhelm us,
Soon as we not believe the awful word,
That bids the tide of ruin now to flow.

Yet we are spared; but shall we long be spared

In sleep fool-hardy, or ingrate repining,

When all around, as from the serpent's tooth
By Cadmus sown, in the wild Theban fable,
Spring armed hosts, all mad for liberty,
And yet permitting nothing to be free,

Save naked power, unclad with reverend form,
Unsanctified by faith, by love unbalm'd.

LINES

WRITTEN BY H. C. IN THE FLY-LEAF OF A COPY OF LUCKETIUS
PRESENTED BY HIM TO MR. WORDSWORTH.

IN the far north, for many a month unseen,
The blessed sun scarce lifts his worshipp'd head;
No hardy herb records where he hath been;
But pale cold snows, with dim abortive sheen,
Show like the winding-sheet of Nature dead.

Yet ofttimes there the boreal morning gleams,
Flickering and rustling through the long, long night;
So hid from truth, and its all-cheering beams,
The mind, benighted, dawns with gorgeous dreams,
Cold, restless, false, unprofitably bright.