155 It is agreeable to turn from the Cadi-Dervises, or justice-parsons of the present day, held up to loathing and bitter scorn, in the severe, but truthful, not satiric page of Elliott to passages like this. "Oh, for a Saint, like those who sought and found, With truths that tyrants dread, and conscience loves, With zeal they preach'd, with reverence they were heard; Against the "Cadi-Amateur," or fashionable Tory saint, the Ranter "Dost thou, thus early, mighty lord, repair Thou, who with hellish zeal, wast drunk and blind, Made murder pastime ; and the tardy wind Bore fresh glad tidings o'er the groaning main Of hecatombs on Moloch's altar slain! Kneel, Saint of Carnage!-kneel, but not to Baal; On which the wicked lean. But wherefore kneel? Can the worn stone repent, and weep, and feel? Of streets, that crimson'd midnight with their glare, It speaks of death. Perchance, some child of clay, The worms were fed. Will not God smite thee black, thou whited wall? Thy life is lawless, and thy law a lie, Or nature is a dream unnatural." What follows is an original mode of illustrating the principles of Free Trade. "Look on the clouds, the streams, the earth, the sky! Lo, all is interchange and harmony! Where is the gorgeous pomp which, yester morn, Curtain'd yon orb, with amber, fold on fold? Behold it in the blue of Rivelin, borne To feed the all-feeding seas! the molten gold To kindle into beauty tree and flower, And wake to verdant life, hill, vale, and plain. Pursuing the same subject the Ranter breaks out, "Is there no land where useful men are prized Where tyrants, in their mad rapacity, Shake not their clench'd fists in the Almighty's face, While flow his mighty streams, with none to heed, Poor bread-tax'd slaves, have ye no hope on earth? Yes, God from evil still educes good; Sublime events are rushing to their birth; Lo, tyrants by their victims are withstood! And Freedom's seed still grows, though steep'd in blood!" We must give a few lines from the concluding exhortation of the Preacher, and his animated address to Commerce. "Despond not, then, ye plunder'd sons of trade! Their splendour, fall'n their trophies, lost their power, Shall bondage wait; but, as the thoughts of love, "Farewell, my friends! we part, no more to meet Ye be, poor sons of toil! sell not to those Who sold your freedom, sell not for a sneer Your day of rest; but worship God, where glows The flame-tipp'd spire, or blooms the wild-wood rose. So much for the serious and earnest poetry of the Corn-Law Rhymes. A specimen of what is lighter in tone, though probably as effective, remains to be given; and, at a loss what to choose, we select, at random, a few stanzas of a kind of hymn. "Up, widow, up, and swing the fly; Or push the grating file! Our bread is tax'd, and rents are high, Who drink our tears, but never weep, And, soulless, eat our souls. "Child, what hast thou with sleep to do? Awake, and dry thine eyes: Thy tiny hands must labour too; Our bread is tax'd, arise! Arise, and toil long hours twice seven, For pennies two or three; Thy woes make angels weep in Heaven, "Up, weary man, of eighty-five, And toil in hopeless wo! Our bread is tax'd, our rivals thrive, Our gods will have it so. Yet God is undethron'd on high, And undethroned will be! Father of all! hear Thou our cry, And England shall be free! "They smite in vain who smite with swords, The blow it gives, the wound it makes, Life yet unborn shall see, And shake it, like a whip of snakes, At unborn villany." The Death Feast is full of deep, touching pathos; and in the sarcastic vein we have Caged Rats, the Black Hole of Calcutta, and others; though these are the least our favourites. The Splendid Village yet remains. It is a sequel to the Village Patriarch, and the most finished and beautiful of all Mr. Elliott's political poems. It has, however, appeared so recently in a periodical work that we must limit our extracts. The Splendid Village is the modern Auburn, It is re-visited by a lonely wanderer from foreign lands, who had spent his boyhood here, and who bitterly feels, and feelingly describes the changes visible, at his return, on every thing around him; and most of all on the hearts and minds of the degraded and brutalized poor. He enters a hovel : "My brother dwelt within. "Tis true, he took That I shrank from him, though my heart was fuli: I came to meet a man, and found a stone! His wife, in tatters, watch'd the fireless grate; With which, at night, to choke Lord Borough's hares. 'And Ann was sent abroad, and Jane was dead; The mother, who in better days had died.' Such welcome found the wanderer of the deep! I had no words-I sobb'd, but could not weep." Mr. Suckemwell, the keeper of the Modern Academy, which had taken place of the primitive village school; the poor curate and his lame donkey on their Sunday steeple-chase; the miserable usher, "Servant of servants, brow-beat by a knave!" we must hurry past to come to the Attorney, whose mushroom pomp flourishes under the shadow of "Broad Beech! thyself a grove! five hundred years On poor men's fields, which poor men's cattle grazed! Nor glean, at home, the fields of every zone; Charm the blind worm that feeds on poverty !" In drawing to a close, we feel as if, in the account we have given of Elliott's poetry, lengthened as it is, we have rather done justice to his vigour and peculiarities as a powerful thinker, than to the extreme beauty, delicacy, and sensibility of his genius as a poet. The fount of his inspiration is the lacerated and bleeding heart; the "Parnassian dews" in which his Muse steeps her verse, are real human tears. Our remaining space must be devoted to illustrating this, only noting that the Splendid Village is studded full of descriptions that equal Crabbe in their truth, and surpass him in sweetness and heart-wringing tenderness, and in power to move the hidden springs of pity. The wanderer, who had so long "Ploughed the seas to reap the wind," has a secret cause of sorrow, which the lover" of imagination all compact" cannot reveal. He misses, from the changed village, one whom he had injured and deserted, but had not ceased to love. "I dreamed I saw her, heard her; but she fled! In vain I seek her-is she with the dead? No meek blue eye, like hers, hath turned to me, And deigned to know the pilgrim of the sea. I have not named her-no-I dare not name! When I would speak, why burns my cheek with shame ? I joined the schoolboys, where the road is wide, I watched the women to the fountain's side; I read their faces, as the wise read books, And looked for Hannah, in their wondering looks; But in no living aspect could I trace The sweet May morning of my Hannah's face; Oh, Sun, my soul grows weary of thy light!" He learns of her at last, and the manner of her death-too "Oh, welcome once again black ocean's foam ! And fiends possess it! Vampires, quit your prey! Or vainly tremble, when the dead arise, Clarioned to vengeance by shriek-shaken skies And cranch your hearts, and drink your blood for ale! Then, eat each other" horrible for He hurries We shall conclude these long extracts with the Farewell to England, "Again upon the deep I toss and swing! The bounding billow lifts me, like the wing Of the struck eagle; and away I dart, Bearing afar the arrow in my heart. |