In Eden, ere the startling words
Of Man disturbed their orisons!-
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit-trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope
Through weeping willows, like the snatches
Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope
Even through the shade of sadness catches!
All this, which would I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues
Of Genius can no more diguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play,-
This scene, which would have filled my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is-
Of Love, where self hath only part,
As echoing back another's bliss-
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath, whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills
Our sympathies with human wo,
But keeps them, like sequestered rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams
'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ-
Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,
The moonlight of the morning's joy!-
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those hateful memories near,
Those sordid truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,
And vanities of that man's life,
Who, more than all that e'er have glowed
With Fancy's flame (and it was his,
If ever given to mortal) showed
What an impostor Genius is-
How, with that strong mimetic art,
Which is its life and soul, it takes
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,
Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes:-
How like a gem its light may smile
O'er the dark path, by mortals trod,
Itself as mean a worm, the while,
As crawls along the sullying sod;
What sensibility may fall
From its false lip, what plans to bless,
While home, friends, kindred country, all,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness.
How, with the pencil hardly dry
From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh, And dream, and think through heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charms, Nor seek, nor ask a heaven, above
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!
How all, in short, that make the boast
Of their false tongues, they want the most;
And, while with Freedom on their lips,
Sounding her timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in th' eclipse
Of priestcraft and of slavery,
They may themselves, be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made,
To blossom in his smile, or grow,
Like stunted brushwood in the shade!
Out on the craft, -I'd rather be
One of those hinds, that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see
The noon-day sun that's o'er my head, Than thus, with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest-worstSublimest-meanest in creation!
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low-
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch
He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holidayAll this rushed with his blood-Shall he expire And unrevenged?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily, and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in ance more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is it is the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it neas,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone would quell.
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
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