Which they abhor, confound not with the cause, Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth, With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations-fair, when free- For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee! III.
Glory and Empire! once upon these towers, With Freedom-godlike Triad! how ye sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled-with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes Were of the softer order-born of Love, She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread;
For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles; Yet she but shares with them a common wo,
And call'd the "kingdom ” of a conquering foe, But knows what all-and, most of all, we know- With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
The name of Commonwealth is past and gone, O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down. The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean, Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand, Full of the magic of exploded science- Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood.—Still, still, for
Better, though each man's life blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering :-better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee!
OUR life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past,-they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power- The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not-what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind?-The mind can mak Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream'd Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour.
I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs;-the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing-the one on all that was beneath Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young-yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had look'd Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, nor being, but in hers; She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, Which color'd all his objects:--he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all: upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share : Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother-but no more; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honor'd race.-It was a name
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all: and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!
Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake; he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion-then arose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, The Lady of his love reënter'd there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him beloved,-she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be ?—she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?—she had loved him not Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd; I saw him stand Before an Altar-with a gentle bride; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight of his Boyhood;-as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then- As in that hour-a moment o'er his face, The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been-
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour
And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time? VII.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love;-Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of other's sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its phantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded nim were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains: with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret-be it so.
My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness-both in misery.
Tra. Ink. Nor will be this hour. But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in flower,
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the fashion;
Hold, my good friend, do you know
Tra. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row: " You're an author-a poet
Ink. And think you that I Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry The Muses?
Excuse me; I meant no offence To the Nine; though the number who make some pretence
To their favors is such- -but the subject to drop,
So instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop,
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience
With studying to study your new publications.
(Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, As one finds every author in one of those places,) Where I just had been skimming a charming critique,
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Words- So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with
Where your friend-you know who-has just got such a threshing,
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely "refreshing."
Ink. Very true; 'tis so soft And so cooling-they use it a little too oft; And the papers have got it at last-but no matter. So they've cut up our friend then? Tra.
Not left him a tatterNot a rag of his present or past reputation, Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. Ink. I'm sorry to hear this; for friendship, you
Our poor friend!-but I thought it would terminate
Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. You do'nt happen to have the Review in your pocket?
Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors and others
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. Ink. Let us join them.
Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture? Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd there's not room for a spectre.
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd- Tra. How can you tell that till you hear him? Ink. I heard Quite enough; and to tell you the truth, my retreat Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. Tra. I have had no great loss then! Ink.
Loss!-such a palaver! I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such
If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle, I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. Tra. And is that any cause for not coming together?
Ink. Humph! I can't say I know any happy alliance
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science.
She's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning Herself in all matters connected with le learning, That- Tra. Ink.
I perhaps may as well hold my tongue, But there's five hundred people can tell you you're wrong.
Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue? Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you-some- think of both.
The girl's a fine girl. Ink. And you feel nothing loth To her good lady-mother's reversion; and yet Her life is as good as your own, I will bet.
Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes; I demand
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand.
Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand-that hand on the pen.
Tra. Apropos-Will you write me a song now and then?
That-come-do not make me speak ill of one's For the heart of a fair like a stanza or two; And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few? Ink. In your name? Tra. In my name. I will copy them out, To slip into her hand at the very next rout. Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? Tra. Why,
Yes, you! I said nothing until You compell'd me, by speaking the truthTra.
Is that your deduction? Ink.
When speaking of Scamp ill, Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, I certainly follow, not set an example. So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme
The fellow's a fool, an imposter, a zany. Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool makes many. But we two will be wise. Ink.
Pray, then, let us retire.
What I've told her in prose, at the least as sublime? Ink. As sublime! If it be so, no need of my Muse Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the "Blues."
Ink. As sublime!-Mr. Tracy-I've nothing to say.
There must be attraction much higher Stick to prose-as sublime!!-but I wish you good Than Scamp, or the Jews' harp he nicknames his lyre, To call you to this hot-bed.
And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, Whatever you publish, am ready to buy.
An Apartment in the House of LADY BLUEBOTTLE A Table prepared.
SIR RICHARD BLUEBOTTLE, solus
WAS there ever a man who was married so sorry?
Ink. That's my bookseller's business; I care not Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. for sale;
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail.
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd; My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void,
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd: And my own grand romance- Tra. Had its full share of praise. I myself saw it puff'd in the "Old Girl's Review." Ink. What Review?
'Tis the English "Journal de Trevoux;" A clerical work of our jesuits at home. Have you never yet seen it? Ink.
The twelve do I say?-of the whole twenty-four, Is there one which I dare call my own any more? What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling. and shining,
In science and art, I'll be curst if I know Myself from my wife; for although we are two, That pleasure's to come. Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be
In a style that proclaims us eternally one.
But the thing of all things which distresses me more Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore)
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost -For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host-
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains,
the moon, (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation: 'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise,
And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not unpleasant. Will you go? There's Miss Lilac will also be present. Tra. That "metal's attractive." Ink. No doubt-to the pocket. Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than shock it.
But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum
Ink. Very true; let us go, then, before they can
Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their levy, On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. Hark! Zounds, they'll be on us; I know by the drone
Of oll Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone, Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join Your friends, or he'll pay you back in your own coin. Tro All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture. Ink That's clear. But for God's sake let's go, or the bore will be here. C me, come: nay, I'm off. [Exit INKEL. Tra You are right, and I'll follow; "Tis high time for a "Sic me servavit Apollo." And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, Blu, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes,
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains; A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call
A rabble who know not- But soft, here they come ! Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb
Enter LADY BLUEBOTTLE, MISS LILAC, LADY BLUEMOUNT, MR. BOTHERBY, INKEL, TRACY, MISS MAZARINE, and others, with SCAMP, the Lecturer, &c.
Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good mor..ing; I've brought you some friends.
Sir Rich. (bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, they're the first.
Lady Blueb. But the luncheɩn attends. I pray ye be seated, "sans ceremonie." Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair there, [They all sit.
Sir Rich. (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. Lady Blueb. Mr. TracyLady Bluemount-Miss Lilac-be pleased, pray, to place ye; And you, Mr. Botherby
Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye: You were not at the lecture. Ink. Excuse me, I was; But the heat forced me out in the best part-alas! And when
Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling; but the You have lost such a lecture!
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