Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Read online

Himself the savage of his native woods —

  See him, in air, his smoking torrents wheel,

  While the rocks totter, and the forests reel —

  Then, giddy, turn! lo! Shakespeare’s Avon flows,

  Charm’d, by the green-sward’s kiss, to soft repose;

  With tranquil brow reflects the smile of fame,

  And, ‘midst her sedges, sighs her Poet’s name.

  Thus, in bright sunshine, and alternate storms,

  Is various mind express’d in various forms.

  In equal men, why burns not equal fire?

  Why are not valleys hills, — or mountains higher?

  Her destin’d way, hath destin’d Nature trod;

  While Matter, Spirit rules, and Spirit, God.

  Let outward scenes, for inward sense design’d,

  Call back our wand’rings to the world of Mind!

  Where Reason, o’er her vasty realms, may stand,

  Convene proud thoughts, and stretch her scepter’d hand.

  Here, classic recollections breathe around;

  Here, living Glory consecrates the ground;

  And here, Mortality’s deep waters span

  The shores of Genius, and the paths of Man!

  O’er this imagin’d land, your soul direct —

  Mark Byron, the Mont Blanc of intellect,

  ‘Twixt earth and heav’n exalt his brow sublime,

  O’erlook the nations, and shake hands with Time!

  Stretch’d at his feet do Nature’s beauties throng,

  The flow’rs of love, the gentleness of song;

  Above, the Avalanche’s thunder speaks,

  While Terror’s spirit walks abroad, and shrieks!

  To some Utopian strand, some fairy shore,

  Shall soft-eyed Fancy waft her Campbell o’er!

  Wont, o’er the lyre of Hope, his hand to fling,

  And never waken a discordant string;

  Who ne’er grows awkward by affecting grace,

  Or ‘Common sense confounds with commonplace;’

  To bright conception, adds expression chaste,

  And human feeling joins to classic taste.

  For still, with magic art, he knows, and knew,

  To touch the heart, and win the judgment too!

  Thus, in uncertain radiance, Genius glows,

  And fitful gleams on various mind bestows:

  While Mind, exulting in th’ admitted day,

  On various themes, reflects its kindling ray.

  Unequal forms receive an equal light;

  And Klopstock wrote what Kepler could not write.

  Yet Fame hath welcom’d a less noble few,

  And Glory hail’d whom Genius never knew;

  Art labour’d, Nature’s birthright, to secure,

  And forg’d, with cunning hand, her signature.

  The scale of life is link’d by close degrees;

  Motes float in sunbeams, mites exist in cheese;

  Critics seize half the fame which bards receive, —

  And Shakespeare suffers that his friends may live;

  While Bentley leaves, on stilts, the beaten track,

  And peeps at glory from some ancient’s back.

  But, though to hold a lantern to the sun

  Be not too wise, and were as well undone —

  Though, e’en in this inventive age, alas!

  A moral darkness can’t be cur’d by gas —

  And, though we may not reasonably deem

  How poets’ craniums can be turn’d by steam —

  Yet own we, in our juster reasonings,

  That lanterns, gas, and steam, are useful things —

  And oft, this truth, Reflection ponders o’er —

  Bards would write worse, if critics wrote no more.

  Let Jeffrey’s praise, our willing pen, engage,

  The letter’d critic of a letter’d age!

  Who justly judges, rightfully discerns,

  With wisdom teaches, and with candour learns.

  His name on Scotia’s brightest tablet lives,

  And proudly claims the laurel that it gives.

  Eternal Genius! fashion’d like the sun,

  To make all beautiful thou look’st upon!

  Prometheus of our earth! whose kindling smile

  May warm the things of clay a little while;

  Till, by thy touch inspir’d, thine eyes survey’d,

  Thou stoop’st to love the glory thou hast made;

  And weepest, human-like, the mortal’s fall,

  When, by-and-bye, a breath disperses all.

  Eternal Genius! mystic essence! say,

  How, on “the chosen breast,” descends thy day!

  Breaks it at once in Thought’s celestial dream,

  While Nature trembles at the sudden gleam?

  Or steals it, gently, like the morning’s light,

  Shedding, unmark’d, an influence soft and bright,

  Till all the landscape gather on the sight?

  As different talents, different breasts, inspire,

  So different causes wake the latent fire.

  The gentle Cowley of our native clime,

  Lisp’d his first accents in Aönian rhyme.

  Alfieri’s startling muse tun’d not her strings,

  And dumbly look’d “unutterable things;”

  Till, when six lustrums o’er his head had past,

  Conception found expression’s voice at last;

  Broke the bright light, uprose the smother’d flame, —

  And Mind and Nature own’d their poet’s fame!

  To some the waving woods, the harp of spring,

  A gently-breathing inspiration bring!

  Some hear, from Nature’s haunts, her whisper’d call;

  And Mind hath triumph’d by an apple’s fall.

  Wave Fancy’s picturing wand! recall the scene

  Which Mind hath hallow’d — where her sons have been —

  Where, ‘midst Olympia’s concourse, simply great,

  Th’ historic sage, the son of Lyxes, sate,

  Grasping th’ immortal scroll — he breath’d no sound,

  But, calm in strength, an instant look’d around,

  And rose — the tone of expectation rush’d

  Through th’ eager throng — he spake, and Greece was hush’d!

  See, in that breathless crowd, Olorus stand,

  While one fair boy hangs, list’ning, on his hand —

  The young Thucydides! with upward brow

  Of radiance, and dark eye, that beaming now

  Full on the speaker, drinks th’ inspirëd air —

  Gazing entranc’d, and turn’d to marble there!

  Yet not to marble — for the wild emotion

  Is kindling on his cheek, like light on ocean,

  Coming to vanish; and his pulses throb

  With transport, and the inarticulate sob

  Swells to his lip — internal nature leaps

  To glorious life, and all th’ historian weeps!

  The mighty master mark’d the favor’d child —

  Did Genius linger there? She did, and smil’d!

  Still, on itself, let Mind its eye direct,

  To view the elements of intellect —

  How wild Invention (daring artist!) plies

  Her magic pencil, and creating dies;

  And Judgment, near the living canvass, stands,

  To blend the colours for her airy hands;

  While Memory waits, with twilight mists o’ercast,

  To mete the length’ning shadows of the past:

  And bold Association, not untaught,

  The links of fact, unites, with links of thought;

  Forming th’electric chains, which, mystic, bind

  Scholastic learning, and reflective mind.

  Let reasoning Truth’s unerring glance survey

  The fair creations of the mental ray;

  Her holy lips, with just discernment, teach

/>   The forms, the attributes, the modes of each;

  And tell, in simple words, the narrow span

  That circles intellect, and fetters man;

  Where darkling mists, o’er Time’s last footstep, creep,

  And Genius drops her languid wing — to weep.

  See first Philosophy’s mild spirit, nigh,

  Raise the rapt brow, and lift the thoughtful eye;

  Whether the glimmering lamp, that Hist’ry gave,

  Light her enduring steps to some lone grave;

  The while she dreams on him, asleep beneath,

  And conjures mystic thoughts of life and death —

  Whether, on Science’ rushing wings, she sweep

  From concave heav’n to earth — and search the deep;

  Shewing the pensile globe attraction’s force,

  The tides their mistress, and the stars their course:

  Or whether (task with nobler object fraught)

  She turn the pow’rs of thinking back on thought —

  With mind, delineate mind; and dare define

  The point, where human mingles with divine:

  Majestic still, her solemn form shall stand,

  To shew the beacon on the distant land —

  Of thought, and nature, chronicler sublime!

  The world her lesson, and her teacher Time!

  And when, with half a smile, and half a sigh,

  She lifts old History’s faded tapestry,

  I’ the dwelling of past years — she, aye, is seen

  Point to the shades, where bright’ning tints had been —

  The shapeless forms outworn, and mildew’d o’er —

  And bids us rev’rence what was lov’d before;

  Gives the dank wreath and dusty urn to fame,

  And lends its ashes — all she can — a name.

  Think’st thou, in vain, while pale Time glides away,

  She rakes cold graves, and chronicles their clay?

  Think’st thou, in vain, she counts the boney things,

  Once lov’d as patriots, or obey’d as kings?

  Lifts she, in vain, the past’s mysterious veil?

  Seest thou no moral in her awful tale?

  Can man, the crumbling pile of nations, scan, —

  And is their mystic language mute for man?

  Go! let the tomb its silent lesson give,

  And let the dead instruct thee how to live!

  If Tully’s page hath bade thy spirit burn,

  And lit the raptur’d cheek — behold his urn!

  If Maro’s strains, thy soaring fancy, guide,

  That hail ‘th’ eternal city’ in their pride —

  Then turn to mark, in some reflective hour,

  The immortality of mortal pow’r!

  See the crush’d column, and the ruin’d dome —

  ‘Tis all Eternity has left of Rome!

  While travell’d crowds, with curious gaze, repair,

  To read the littleness of greatness there!

  Alas! alas! so, Albion shall decay,

  And all my country’s glory pass away!

  So shall she perish, as the mighty must,

  And be Italia’s rival — in the dust;

  While her ennobled sons, her cities fair,

  Be dimly thought of ‘midst the things that were!

  Alas! alas! her fields of pleasant green,

  Her woods of beauty, and each well-known scene!

  Soon, o’er her plains, shall grisly Ruin haste,

  And the gay vale become the silent waste!

  Ah! soon perchance, our native tongue forgot —

  The land may hear strange words it knoweth not;

  And the dear accents which our bosoms move,

  With sounds of friendship, or with tones of love,

  May pass away; or, conn’d on mould’ring page,

  Gleam ‘neath the midnight lamp, for unborn sage;

  To tell our dream-like tale to future years,

  And wake th’ historian’s smile, and school-boy’s tears!

  Majestic task! to join, though plac’d afar,

  The things that have been, with the things that are!

  Important trust! the awful dead, to scan,

  And teach mankind to moralize from man!

  Stupendous charge! when, on the record true,

  Depend the dead, and hang the living too!

  And, oh! thrice impious he, who dares abuse

  That solemn charge, and good and ill confuse!

  Thrice guilty he who, false with “words of sooth,”

  Would pay, to Prejudice, his debt to Truth;

  The hallow’d page of fleeting Time prophane,

  And prove to Man that man has liv’d in vain;

  Pass the cold grave, with colder jestings, by;

  And use the truth to illustrate a lie!

  Let Gibbon’s name be trac’d, in sorrow, here, —

  Too great to spurn, too little to revere!

  Who follow’d Reason, yet forgot her laws,

  And found all causes, but the ‘great first Cause:’

  The paths of time, with guideless footsteps, trod;

  Blind to the light of nature and of God;

  Deaf to the voice, amid the past’s dread hour,

  Which sounds His praise, and chronicles His pow’r!

  In vain for him was Truth’s fair tablet spread,

  When Prejudice, with jaundiced organs, read.

  In vain for us the polish’d periods flow,

  The fancy kindles, and the pages glow;

  When one bright hour, and startling transport past,

  The musing soul must turn — to sigh at last.

  Still let the page be luminous and just,

  Nor private feeling war with public trust;

  Still let the pen from narrowing views forbear,

  And modern faction ancient freedom spare.

  But, ah! too oft th’ historian bends his mind

  To flatter party — not to serve mankind;

  To make the dead, in living feuds, engage,

  And give all time, the feelings of his age.

  Great Hume hath stoop’d, the Stuarts’ fame, t’ increase;

  And ultra Mitford soar’d to libel Greece!

  Yet must the candid muse, impartial, learn

  To trace the errors which her eyes discern;

  View ev’ry side, investigate each part,

  And get the holy scroll of Truth by heart;

  No blame misplac’d, and yet no fault forgot —

  Like ink employ’d to write with — not to blot.

  Hence, while historians, just reproof, incur,

  We find some readers, with their authors, err;

  And soon discover, that as few excel

  In reading justly, as in writing well.

  For prejudice, or ignorance, is such,

  That men believe too little, or too much;

  Too apt to cavil, or too glad to trust,

  With confidence misplac’d, or blame unjust.

  Seek out no faction — no peculiar school —

  But lean on Reason, as your safest rule.

  Let doubtful facts, with patient hand, be led,

  To take their place on this Procrustian bed!

  What, plainly, fits not, may be thrown aside,

  Without the censure of pedantic pride:

  For nature still, to just proportion, clings;

  And human reason judges natural things.

  Moreover, in th’ historian’s bosom look,

  And weigh his feelings ere you trust his book;

  His private friendships, private wrongs, descry,

  Where tend his passions, where his int’rests lie —

  And, while his proper faults your mind engage,

  Discern the ruling foibles of his age.

  Hence, when on deep research, the work you find

  A too obtrusive transcript of his mind;

  When you perceive a fact too highly wrou
ght,

  Which kindly seems to prove a fav’rite thought;

  Or some opposing truth trac’d briefly out,

  With hand of careless speed — then turn to doubt!

  For private feeling, like the taper, glows,

  And here a light, and there a shadow, throws.

  If some gay picture, vilely daubed, were seen

  With grass of azure, and a sky of green,

  Th’ impatient laughter we’d suppress in vain,

  And deem the painter jesting, or insane.

  But, when the sun of blinding prejudice

  Glares in our faces, it deceives our eyes;

  Truth appears falsehood to the dazzled sight,

  The comment apes the fact, and black seems white;

  Commingled hues, their separate colours lost,

  Dance wildly on, in bright confusion tost;

  And, midst their drunken whirl, the giddy eye

  Beholds one shapeless blot for earth and sky.

  Of such delusions let the mind take heed,

  And learn to think, or wisely cease to read;

  And, if a style of labour’d grace display

  Perverted feelings, in a pleasing way;

  False tints, on real objects, brightly laid,

  Facts in disguise, and Truth in masquerade —

  If cheating thoughts in beauteous dress appear,

  With magic sound, to captivate the ear —

  Th’ enchanting poison of that page decline,

  Or drink Circean draughts — and turn to swine!

  We hail with British pride, and ready praise,

  Enlightened Miller of our modern days!

  Too firm though temp’rate, liberal though exact,

  To give too much to argument or fact,

  To love details, and draw no moral thence,

  Or seek the comment, and forget the sense,

  He leaves all vulgar aims, and strives alone

  To find the ways of Truth, and make them known!

  Spirit of life! for aye, with heav’nly breath,

  Warm the dull clay, and cold abodes of death!

  Clasp in its urn the consecrated dust,

  And bind a laurel round the broken bust;

  While mid decaying tombs, thy pensive choice,

  Thou bidst the silent utter forth a voice,

  To prompt the actors of our busy scene,

  And tell what is , the tale of what has been!

  Yet turn, Philosophy! with brow sublime,

  Shall Science follow on the steps of Time!

  As, o’er Thought’s measureless depths, we bend to hear