And show the fervent, of capacious souls,
Who watch the ball of Progress as it rolls,
That all as yet completed, or begun,
Is but the dawning that precedes the sun.
THE FERMENTATION.
LONELY sitting, deeply musing,
On a still and starry night,
Full of fancies, when my glances
Turn'd upon those far romances
Scatter'd o'er the Infinite;
On a sudden, broke upon me
Murmurs, rumours, quick and loud,
And, half-waking, I discover'd
An innumerable crowd.
'Mid the uproar of their voices
Scarcely could I hear a word;
There was rushing, there was crushing,
And a sound like music gushing,
And a roar like forests stirr'd
By a fierce wind passing o'er them:
And a voice came now and then,
Louder than them all, exclaiming,
'Give us Justice! we are men!'
And the longer that I listen'd,
More distinctly could I hear,
'Mid the poising of the voicing,
Sounds of sorrow and rejoicing,
Utterance of Hope and Fear;
And a clash of disputation,
And of words at random cast-
Truths and Errors intermingling,
Of the present and the past.
Some were shouting that Oppression
Held their consciences in thrall;
Some were crying, 'Men are dying,
Hunger-smit, and none supplying
Bread, the birthright of us all.'"
Some exclaim'd that Wealth
haughty,
Harsh, and callous to the poor;-
Others cried, the poor were vicious,
Idle, thankless, insecure.
Some, with voice of indignation,
Told the story of their wrongs,
Full of dolour-life-controller-
That for difference of colour
They were sold like cattle-throngs
Others, pallid, weak, and shivering,
Said that laws were surely bad,
When the willing hand was idle,
And the cheeks of Toil were sad.
'Give us freedom for the conscience!'
'Equal rights!'-' Unfetter'd Mind!'
'Education!'-' Compensation!
'Justice for a mighty nation!'
'Progress!'-'Peace with all man-
kind!'
'Let us labour!'-'Give us churches!'
'Give us Corn where'er it grow!'
These, and other cries, around me
Surged incessant, loud or low.
Old opinions jarr'd with new ones;
New ones jostled with the old;
In such Babel, few were able
To distinguish truth from fable,
In the tale their neighbours told.
But one voice above all others
Sounded like the voice of ten, Clear, sonorous, and persuasive:'Give us Justice! we are men!'
And I said, 'O Sovereign Reason,
Sire of Peace and Liberty!
Aid for ever their endeavour :-
Boldly let them still assever
All the rights they claim in thee.
Aid the mighty Fermentation
Till it purifies at last,
And the Future of the people
Is made brighter than the Past.'
THE POOR MAN'S SUNDAY
WALK.
THE morning of our rest has come,
The sun is shining clear;
I see it on the steeple-top;
Put on your shawl, my dear, And let us leave the smoky town, The dense and stagnant lane,
And take our children by the hand
To see the fields again.
I've pined for air the live-long week;
For the smell of new-mown hay;
For a pleasant, quiet, country walk,
On a sunny Sabbath-day.
Our parish church is cold and damp;
I need the air and sun;
We'll sit together on the grass,
And see the children run.
We'll watch them gathering buttercups,
Or cowlips in the dell,
Or listen to the cheerful sounds
Of the far-off village bell;
And thank our God with grateful hearts,
Though in the fields we pray;
And bless the healthful breeze of heaven,
On a sunny Sabbath-day.
I'm weary of the stifling room
Where all the week we're pent,Of the alley fill'd with wretched life And odours pestilent;
And long once more to see the fields, And the grazing sheep and beeves; To hear the lark amid the clouds, And the wind among the leaves; And all the sounds that glad the air On green hills far away
The sounds that breathe of Peace and Love,
On a sunny Sabbath-day.
For somehow, though they call it wrong,
In church I cannot kneel
With half the natural thankfulness
And piety I feel,
When out, on such a day as this,
I lie upon the sod,
And think that every leaf and flower
Is grateful to its God:
That I, who feel the blessing more,
Should thank Him more than they
That I can elevate my soul
On a sunny Sabbath-day.
Put on your shawl, and let us go ;—
For one day let us think
Of something else than daily care,
Of toil, and meat, and drink:
For one day let the children sport
And feel their limbs their own;
For one day let us quite forget
The grief that we have known:-
Let us forget that we are poor;
And, basking in the ray,
Thank God that we can still enjoy,
A sunny Sabbath-day.
THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER.
AROUND the board the guests were met, the lights above them beaming,
And in their cups, replenish'd oft, the ruddy wine was streaming;
Their cheeks were flush'd, their eyes were bright, their hearts with pleasure bounded,
The song was sung, the toast was given, and loud the revel sounded
I drain'd a goblet with the rest, and cried, 'Away with sorrow!
Let us be happy for to-day; what care we for to-morrow?'
But as I spoke, my sight grew dim, and slumber deep came o'er me,
And, 'mid the whirl of mingling tongues, this vision pass'd before me.
Methought I saw a Demon rise: he held a mighty bicker,
Whose burnish'd sides ran brimming o'er with floods of burning liquor,
Around him press'd a clamorous crowd, to taste this liquor, greedy,
But chiefly came the poor and sad, the suffering and the needy;
All those oppress'd by grief or debt, the dissolute, the lazy,
Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths, and palsied women crazy;
'Give, give!' they cried, "Give, give us drink, to drown all thought of sorrow; If we are happy for to-day, what care we for to-morrow?'
The first drop warm'd their shivering skins, and drove away their sadness;
The second lit their sunken eyes, and fill'd their souls with gladness;
The third drop made them shout and roar, and play each furious antic;
The fourth drop boil'd their very blood; and the fifth drop drove them frantic.----
'Drink!' said the Demon, Drink your fill! drink of these waters mellow ;-
They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull, and turn your white skins yellow;-
They'll fill your homes with care and grief, and clothe your backs with tatters;
They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts; but never mind!—what matters ?
"Though virtue sink, and reason fail, and social ties dissever,
I'll be your friend in hour of need, and find you homes for ever!
For I have built three mansions high, three strong and goodly houses,
To lodge at last each jolly soul who all his life carouses.-
The first, it is a spacious house, to all but sots appalling,
Where, by the parish bounty fed, vile, in the sunshine crawling,
The worn-out drunkard ends his days, and eats the dole of others,
A plague and burthen to himself, an eyesore to his brothers.
'The second is a lazarhouse, rank, fetid, and unholy;
Where smitten by diseases foul and hopeless melancholy,
The victims of potations deep pine on the couch of sadness,
Some calling Death to end their pain, and some imploring Madness.
The third and last is black and high, the abode of guilt and anguish,
And full of dungeons deep and fast, where death-doom'd felons languish ;
So drain the cup, and drain again! One of my goodly houses
Shall lodge at last each jolly soul who to the dregs carouses!'
But well he knew-that Demon old-how vain was all his preaching,
The ragged crew that round him flock'd were heedless of his teaching;
Even as they heard his fearful words, they cried, with shouts of laughter,-
Out on the fool who mars to-day with thoughts of an hereafter!
We care not for thy houses three; we live but for the present;
And merry will we make it yet, and quaff our bumpers pleasant.'
Loud laugh'd the fiend to hear them speak, and, lifting high his bicker,
'Body and soul are mine!' said he; 'I'll have them both for liquor.'
THE POET AND THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST.
THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST.
PRITHEE, Poet, why this spinning,
Spinning verses all the day?
Vain and idle thy vocation,-
Thy art useless to the nation,
In thy labour and thy play.
Little doth the world esteem thee,
And it takes thee at thy worth;
Loftiest rhyme that e'er was fashion'd,
Sounding, gorgeous, or impassion'd,
Is a drug upon the earth.
Go-and be a cotton-spinner;
Put thy hand upon the spade
Weave a basket out of willow;
Dig the mine, or sail the billow-
Anything but such a trade.
Why thy scorn, O man of logic?
Speak of that within thy ken:
I despise thee not;-thy labours,
If they make us better neighbours,
Are not valueless to men.
Highly all the world esteems thee,
And a poet may declare,
That the wise should place reliance
On the efforts of thy science
To diminish human care.
Bring thy hidden truths to daylight,
And I'll ne'er complain of thee.
Dull thou'rt call'd-and dulness cumbers;
Yet there's wisdom in thy numbers;
Leave my numbers unto me.
Each of us fulfils a duty,
And, though scorn'd, I'll cling to mine,
With a passion ever growing,
In my heart, to overflowing;-
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Cling thou with as much to thine.
Thou'rt a preacher; I'm a prophet.
Thou discoursest to thy time;
I discourse to generations,
And the thoughts of unborn nations
Shall be fashion'd by my rhyme.
Thou, to dubious politicians,
Staid and passionless and slow,
Givest pros and cons with candour,
Bland and patient, ever blander
As thy trim deductions flow.
I send forth electric flashes
To the bosom of the crowd;
Rule its pulses, cheer its sadness,
Make it throb and pant with gladness,
Till it answers me aloud.
Not for me to linger idly,
Gathering garlands by the way;
Singing but of flowers and sunsets,
Lovers' vows, or nightly onsets,
Or of ladies fair as May.
No; the poet loves his calling;
Nature's lyre is all his own;
He can sweep its strings prophetic,
Till the nations, sympathetic,
Gather breathless to its tone.
For he knows the PEOPLE listen
When a mighty spirit speaks,
And that none can stir them duly
But the man who loves them truly,
And from them his impulse seeks
What they feel, but cannot utter;
What they hope for, day and night;These the words by which he fires them, Prompts them, leads them, and inspires them
To do battle for the right.
These the words by which the many
Cope for justice with the few ;~~~ These their watch words, when Oppression Would resist the small concession,
But a fraction of their due. These the poet, music-hearted, Blazons to the listening land, And for these all lands shall prize him, Though the foolish may despise him, Or the wise misunderstand.
Go thy way, then, man of logic,
In thy fashion, speak thy truth;—
Thou hast fix'd, and I have chosen ;-
Thou shalt speak to blood that's frozen,
I to vigour and to youth.
Haply we shall both be useful,
And, perchance, more useful thou,
If their full degree of merit
To all other moods of spirit
Thou wilt cheerfully allow.
As for me, I fear no scorning,
And shall speak with earnest mind
What is in me;-self-rewarded
If I aid, though unregarded,
The advancement of my kind.
TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS.
AFRAID of critics! an unworthy fear:
Great minds must learn their greatness and be bold.
Walk on thy way; bring forth thine own true thought;
Love thy high calling only for itself,
And find in working recompense for work,
And Envy's shaft shall whizz at thee in vain.
Despise not censure;-weigh if it be just;
And if it be amend, whate'er the thought
Of him who cast it. Take the wise man's praise,
And love thyself the more that thou couldst earn
Meed so exalted; but the blame of fools,
Let it blow over like an idle whiff
Of poisonous tobacco in the streets,
Invasive of thy unoffending nose:—
Their praise no better, only more perfumed.
The Critics-let me paint them as they are.
Some few I know, and love them from my soul;
Polish'd, acute, deep read; of inborn taste
Cultured into a virtue; full of pith
And kindly vigour, having won their spurs
In the great rivalry of friendly mind,
And generous to others, though unknown,
Who would, having a thought, let all men know
The new discovery. But these are rare;
And if thou find one, take him to thy heart,
And think his unbought praise both palm and crown,
A thing worth living for, were nought beside.
Fear thou no critic, if thou'rt true thyself;-
And look for fame now if the wise approve,
Or from a wiser jury yet unborn.
The Poetaster may be harm'd enough,
But Criticasters cannot crush a Bard.
If to be famous be thy sole intent,
And greatness be a mark beyond thy reach,
Manage the critics, and thou'lt win the game;
Invite them to thy board, and give them feasts,
And foster them with unrelaxing care;
And they will praise thee in their partial sheets,
And quite ignore the worth of better men.
But if thou wilt not court them, let them go,
And scorn the praise that sells itself for wine,
Or tacks itself upon success alone,
Hanging like spittle on a rich man's beard.
One, if thou'rt great, will cite from thy new book The tamest passage,-something that thy soul Revolts at, now the inspiration's o'er,
And would give all thou hast to blot from print
And sink into oblivion;-and will vaunt
The thing as beautiful, transcendent, rare-
The best thing thou hast done! Another friend,
With finer sense, will praise thy greatest thought,
Yet cavil at it; putting in his buts'
And yets,' and little obvious hints,
That though 'tis good, the critic could have made
A work superior in its every part.
Another, in a pert and savage mood,
Without a reason, will condemn thee quite,
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