That not an image of the past Should fear that pencil's touch!
Retirement then might hourly look Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook Contented and serene;
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep Along a channel smooth and deep, To their own far-off murmurs listening
THIS Lawn, a carpet all alive
With shadows flung from leaves, to strive
In dance, amid a press
Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields
Of Worldlings revelling in the fields Of strenuous idleness;
Less quick the stir when tide and breeze Encounter, and to narrow seas
Forbid a moment's rest;
The medley less when Boreal Lights . Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites To feats of arms addrest!
Yet, spite of all this eager strife, This ceaseless play, the genuine life That serves the steadfast hours Is in the grass beneath, that grows Unheeded, and the mute repose Of sweetly-breathing flowers.
[The Rocking-stones, alluded to in the beginning of the following verses, are supposed to have been used, by our British ancestors, both for judicial and religious purposes: Such stones are not uncommonly found, at this day, both in Great Britain and in Ireland.]
WHAT though the Accused, upon his own appeal To righteous Gods when man has ceased to feel, Or at a doubting Judge's stern command,
Before the STONE OF POWER no longer stand, To take his sentence from the balanced Block, As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock; Though, in the depths of sunless groves, no more The Druid-priest the hallowed Oak adore; Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whispering trees Do still perform mysterious offices!
And functions dwell in beast and bird that sway
The reasoning mind, or with the fancy play, Inviting, at all seasons, ears and eyes To watch for undelusive auguries ;—` Not uninspired appear their simplest ways; Their voices mount symbolical of praise, To mix with hymns that Spirits make and hear; And to fallen man their innocence is dear. Enraptured Art draws from those sacred springs. Streams that reflect the poetry of things! Where Christian Martyrs stand in hues por trayed,
That, might a wish avail, would never fade, Borne in their hands the lily and the palm Shed round the altar a celestial calm;
There, too, behold the lamb and guileless dove Pressed in the tenderness of virgin loye To saintly bosoms! - Glorious is the blending Of right affections climbing or descending Along a scale of light and life, with cares Alternate; carrying holy thoughts and prayers Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High; Descending to the worm in charity; Like those good Angels whom a dream of night Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight, All, while he slept, treading the pendent stairs Earthward or heavenward, radiant messengers, That, with a perfect will in one accord
Of strict obedience, serve the Almighty Lord; And with untired humility forbore
To speed their errand by the wings they wore.
What a fair world were ours for verse to paint, If Power could live at ease with self-restraint! Opinion bow before the naked sense
Merciful over all his creatures, just
To the least particle of sentient dust; But, fixing by immutable decrees, Seed-time and harvest for his purposes ! Then would be closed the restless oblique eye That looks for evil like a treacherous spy; Disputes would then relax, like stormy winds That into breezes sink; impetuous minds By discipline endeavor to grow meek
As Truth herself, whom they profess to seek. Then Genius, shunning fellowship with Pride, Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's side Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice; And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, But unoffending creatures find release From qualified oppression, whose defence Rests on a hollow plea of recompense; Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane respect Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. Witness those glances of indignant scorn From some high-minded Slave, impelled to spurn The kindness that would make him less forlorn; Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued,
His look of pitiable gratitude!
Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles,
Whose day departs in pomp, returns with smiles,
To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land, As the sun mounts, by sea-born breezes fanned; A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats For Gods in council, whose green vales, retreats Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there To breathe Elysian peace in upper air.
Though cold as winter, gloomy as the grave, Stone-walls a prisoner make, but not a slave. Shall man assume a property in man? Lay on the moral will a withering ban? Shame that our laws at distance still protect Enormities, which they at home reject! "Slaves cannot breathe in England,” — yet that boast
Is but a mockery! when from coast to coast, Though fettered slave be none, her floors and soil Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil, For the poor Many, measured out by rules Fetched with cupidity from heartless schools, That to an Idol, falsely called "the Wealth Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health, Body and mind and soul; a thirst so keen Is ever urging on the vast machine
Of sleepless Labor, 'mid whose dizzy wheels The Power least prized is that which thinks and feels.
Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age And all the heavy or light vassalage Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit
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