The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 185

EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

_A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.-- Their Menage.--Its Grossness.--Claude Anet.--Reverence with which the spot is now visited.--Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.--Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its a.s.sociations with Rousseau's History.--Impostures of Men of Genius.--Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc_.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw Round all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

'Tis worse than weak--'tis wrong, 'tis shame, This mean prostration before Fame; This casting down beneath the car Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, Life's purest, holiest decencies, To be careered o'er as they please.

No--give triumphant Genius all For which his loftiest wish can call: If he be worshipt, let it be For attributes, his n.o.blest, first; Not with that base idolatry Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold;--may want that glow Of high romance which bards should know; That holy homage which is felt In treading where the great have dwelt; This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, I fear, I feel, I have it _not_:-- For here at this still hour, to me The charms of this delightful spot, Its calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart would fain forget, This narrow valley and the song Of its small murmuring rivulet, The flitting to and fro of birds, Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden ere the startling words Of man disturbed their orisons, Those little, shadowy paths that wind Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined And lighted only by the breaks The gay wind in the foliage makes, Or vistas here and there that ope Thro' weeping willows, like the s.n.a.t.c.hes Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!-- All this, which--could I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise 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 woe, 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 gross mementoes near; Those sullying 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_, In fullest warmth and radiance) showed What an impostor Genius is; How with that strong, mimetic art Which forms 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 at midnight o'er the sod; What gentle words and thoughts may fall From its false lip, what zeal to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all, Lie waste beneath its selfishness; How with the pencil hardly dry From coloring up such scenes of love And beauty as make young hearts sigh And dream and think thro' heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charms, Nor seek nor know a joy above Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast Of their false tongues they want the most; And while with freedom on their lips, Sounding their timbrels, to set free This bright world, laboring in the 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 his 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 noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all at once that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation!

CORRUPTION,

AND

INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS.

ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.

PREFACE.

The practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of writing very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to me a rather happy invention, as it supplies us with a mode of turning dull poetry to account; and as horses too heavy for the saddle may yet serve well enough to draw lumber, so Poems of this kind make excellent beasts of burden and will bear notes though they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in such cases are so little under the necessity of paying any servile deference to the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic, "_quod supra nos nihil ad nos."_

In the first of the two following Poems, I have ventured to speak of the Revolution of 1688, in language which has sometimes been employed by Tory writers and which is therefore neither very new nor popular. But however an Englishman might be reproached with ingrat.i.tude for depreciating the merits and results of a measure which he is taught to regard as the source of his liberties--however ungrateful it might appear in Alderman Birch to question for a moment the purity of that glorious era to which he is indebted for the seasoning of so many orations--yet an Irishman who has none of these obligations to acknowledge, to whose country the Revolution brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recollects that the book of Molyneux was burned by order of William's Whig Parliament for daring to extend to unfortunate Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was professedly founded--an Irishman _may_ be allowed to criticise freely the measures of that period without exposing himself either to the imputation of ingrat.i.tude or to the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish remains of Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for ever than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James had weakened and degraded the national character. The bold notions of popular right which had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the First and his Parliament were gradually supplanted by those slavish doctrines for which Lord Hawkesbury eulogizes the churchmen of that period, and as the Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the Revolution came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages accordingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By rendering unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative,--that unwieldy power which cannot move a step without alarm,--it diminished the only interference of the Crown, which is singly and independently exposed before the people, and whose abuses therefore are obvious to their senses and capabilities. Like the myrtle over a celebrated statue in Minerva's temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from the public eye the only obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, however, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute, it amply compensated by the subst.i.tution of a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it is more secret in its operations. In the disposal of an immense revenue and the extensive patronage annexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the Crown were laid; the innovation of a standing army at once increased and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act of Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually removed during the Whiggish reigns that succeeded; till at length this spirit of influence has become the vital principle of the state,--an agency, subtle and unseen, which pervades every part of the Const.i.tution, lurks under all its forms and regulates all its movements, and, like the invisible sylph or grace which presides over the motions of beauty,

"_illam, quicquid agit, quoquo westigia flect.i.t, componit furlim subsequiturque."_

The cause of Liberty and the Revolution are so habitually a.s.sociated in the minds of Englishmen that probably in objecting to the latter I may be thought hostile or indifferent to the former. But a.s.suredly nothing could be more unjust than such a suspicion. The very object indeed which my humble animadversions would attain is that in the crisis to which I think England is now hastening, and between which and foreign subjugation she may soon be compelled to choose, the errors and omissions of 1688 should be remedied; and, as it was then her fate to experience a Revolution without Reform, so she may now endeavor to accomplish a Reform without Revolution.

In speaking of the parties which have so long agitated England, it will be observed that I lean as little to the Whigs as to their adversaries. Both factions have been equally cruel to Ireland and perhaps equally insincere in their efforts for the liberties of England. There is one name indeed connected with Whiggism, of which I can never think but with veneration and tenderness. As justly, however, might the light of the sun be claimed by any particular nation as the sanction of that name be monopolized by any party whatsoever. Mr. Fox belonged to mankind and they have lost in him their ablest friend.

With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, which I have subjoined, they are but the imperfect beginning of a long series of Essays with which I here menace my readers upon the same important subject. I shall look to no higher merit in the task than that of giving a new form to claims and remonstrances which have often been much more eloquently urged and which would long ere now have produced their effect, but that the minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light is shed upon them.

CORRUPTION,

AN EPISTLE.

Boast on, my friend--tho' stript of all beside, Thy struggling nation still retains her pride: That pride which once in genuine glory woke When Marlborough fought and brilliant St. John spoke; That pride which still, by time and shame unstung, Outlives even Whitelocke's sword and Hawkesbury's tongue!

Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle[1]

Where Honor mourns and Freedom fears to smile, Where the bright light of England's fame is known But by the shadow o'er our fortunes thrown; Where, doomed ourselves to naught but wrongs and slights,[2]

We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights, As wretched slaves that under hatches lie Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky!

Boast on, while wandering thro' my native haunts, I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts; And feel, tho' close our wedded countries twine, More sorrow for my own than pride from thine.

Yet pause a moment--and if truths severe Can find an inlet to that courtly ear, Which hears no news but Ward's gazetted lies, And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,-- If aught can please thee but the good old saws Of "Church and State," and "William's matchless laws,"

And "Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"-- Things which tho' now a century out of date Still serve to ballast with convenient words, A few crank arguments for speeching lords,-- Turn while I tell how England's freedom found, Where most she lookt for life, her deadliest wound; How brave she struggled while her foe was seen, How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen; How strong o'er James and Popery she prevailed, How weakly fell when Whigs and gold a.s.sailed.

While kings were poor and all those schemes unknown Which drain the people to enrich the throne; Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied, Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep, Frankly avowed his bold enslaving plan And claimed a right from G.o.d to trample man!

But Luther's schism had too much roused mankind For Hampden's truths to linger long behind; Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low, Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.[3]

That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow To the light talisman of influence now), Too gross, too visible to work the spell Which modern power performs, in fragments fell: In fragments lay, till, patched and painted o'er With fleurs-de-lis, it shone and scourged once more.

'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaft Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught Of pa.s.sive, p.r.o.ne obedience--then took flight All sense of man's true dignity and right; And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain That Freedom's watch-voice called almost in vain.

Oh England! England! what a chance was thine, When the last tyrant of that ill-starred line Fled from his sullied crown and left thee free To found thy own eternal liberty!

How n.o.bly high in that propitious hour Might patriot hands have raised the triple tower[4]

Of British freedom on a rock divine Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine!

But no--the luminous, the lofty plan, Like mighty Babel, seemed too bold for man; The curse of jarring tongues again was given To thwart a work which raised men nearer heaven.

While Tories marred what Whigs had scarce begun, While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done.

The hour was lost and William with a smile Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinisht pile!

Hence all the ills you suffer,--hence remain Such galling fragments of that feudal chain[5]

Whose links, around you by the Norman flung, Tho' loosed and broke so often, still have clung.

Hence sly Prerogative like Jove of old Has turned his thunder into showers of gold, Whose silent courtship wins securer joys, Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise.

While parliaments, no more those sacred things Which make and rule the destiny of kings.

Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown, And each new set of sharpers cog their own.

Hence the rich oil that from the Treasury steals Drips smooth o'er all the Const.i.tution's wheels, Giving the old machine such pliant play[6]

That Court and Commons jog one joltless way, While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car, So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far; And the duped people, hourly doomed to pay The sums that bribe their liberties away,[7]-- Like a young eagle who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,-- See their own feathers pluckt, to wing the dart Which rank corruption destines for their heart!

But soft! methinks I hear thee proudly say, "What! shall I listen to the impious lay "That dares with Tory license to profane "The bright bequests of William's glorious reign?

"Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires, "Whom Hawkesbury quotes and savory Birch admires, "Be slandered thus? shall honest Steele agree "With virtuous Rose to call us pure and free, "Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair "Of wise state-poets waste their words in air, "And Pye unheeded breathe his prosperous strain, "And Canning _take the people's sense_ in vain?"

The people!--ah! that Freedom's form should stay Where Freedom's spirit long hath past away!

That a false smile should play around the dead And flush the features when the soul hath fled![8]