The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 105

III.

O, thou true Iris! sporting on thy bow Of tears and smiles--Jove's herald, Poetry!

Thou reflex image of all joy and woe-- _Both_ fused in light by thy dear phantasy!

Lo! from the clay how Genius lifts its life, And grows one pure Idea--one calm soul!

True, its own clearness must reflect our strife; True, its completeness must comprise our whole: But as the sun trans.m.u.tes the sullen hues Of marsh-grown vapours into vermeil dyes, And melts them later into twilight dews, Shedding on flowers the baptism of the skies; So glows the Ideal in the air we breathe-- So from the fumes of sorrow and of sin, Doth its warm light in rosy colours wreathe Its playful cloudland, storing balms within.

Survey the Poet in his mortal mould Man amongst men, descended from his throne!

The moth that chased the star now frets the fold, Our cares, our faults, our follies are his own.

Pa.s.sions as idle, and desires as vain, Vex the wild heart, and dupe the erring brain.

From Freedom's field the recreant Horace flies To kiss the hand by which his country dies; From Mary's grave the mighty Peasant turns, And hoa.r.s.e with orgies rings the laugh of Burns.

While Rousseau's lips a lackey's vices own,-- Lips that could draw the thunder on a throne!

But when, from Life the Actual, GENIUS springs, When, self-transform'd by its own Magic rod, It snaps the fetters and expands the wings, And drops the fleshly garb that veil'd the G.o.d, How the mists vanish as the form ascends!-- How in its aureole every sunbeam blends!

By the Arch-Brightener of Creation seen, How dim the crowns on perishable brows!

The snows of Atlas melt beneath the sheen, Through Thebaid caves the rushing splendour flows, Cimmerian glooms with Asian beams are bright, And Earth reposes in a belt of light.

Now stern as Vengeance shines the awful form, Arm'd with the bolt and glowing through the storm; Sets the great deeps of human pa.s.sion free, And whelms the bulwarks that would breast the sea.

Roused by its voice the ghastly Wars arise, Mars reddens earth, the Valkyrs pale the skies; Dim Superst.i.tion from her h.e.l.l escapes, With all her shadowy brood of monster shapes; Here Life itself lie scowl of Typhon[Q] takes; There Conscience shudders at Alecto's snakes; From Gothic graves at midnight yawning wide, In gory cerements gibbering spectres glide; And where o'er blasted heaths the lightnings flame, Black secret hags "do deeds without a name!"

Yet through its direst agencies of awe, Light marks its presence and pervades its law, And, like Orion when the storms are loud, It links creation while it gilds a cloud.

By ruthless Thor, free Thought, frank Honour stand, Fame's grand desire, and zeal for Fatherland; The grim Religion of Barbarian Fear, With some Hereafter still connects the Here, Lifts the gross sense to some spiritual source, And thrones some Jove above the t.i.tan Force, Till, love completing what in awe began, From the rude savage dawns the thoughtful man.

Then, O behold the glorious Comforter!

Still bright'ning worlds, but gladd'ning now the hearth, Or like the l.u.s.tre of our nearest star, Fused in the common atmosphere of earth.

It sports like hope upon the captive's chain; Descends in dreams upon the couch of pain; To wonder's realm allures the earnest child; To the chaste love refines the instinct wild; And as in waters the reflected beam, Still where we turn, glides with us up the stream; And while in truth the whole expanse is bright, Yields to each eye its own fond path of light, So over life the rays of Genius fall,-- Give each his track because illuming all.

IV.

Hence is that secret pardon we bestow In the true instinct of the grateful heart, Upon the Sons of Song. The good they do In the clear world of their Uranian art Endures for ever; while the evil done In the poor drama of their mortal scene, Is but a pa.s.sing cloud before the sun; s.p.a.ce hath no record where the mist hath been.

Boots it to us, if Shakspeare err'd like man?

Why idly question that most mystic life?

Eno' the giver in his gifts to scan; To bless the sheaves with which thy fields are rife, Nor, blundering, guess through what obstructive clay The glorious corn-seed struggled up to day.

V.

But not to you alone, O Sons of Song, The wings that float the loftier airs along.

Whoever lifts us from the dust we are, Beyond the sensual to spiritual goals; Who from the MOMENT and the SELF afar By deathless deeds allures reluctant souls, Gives the warm life to what the Limner draws, Plato but thought what G.o.dlike Cato was.[R]

Recall the wars of England's giant-born, Is Elyot's voice--is Hampden's death in vain?

Have all the meteors of the vernal morn But wasted light upon a frozen main?

Where is that child of Carnage, Freedom, flown?

The Sybarite lolls upon the Martyr's throne, Lewd, ribald jests succeed to solemn zeal; And things of silk to Cromwell's men of steel.

Cold are the hosts the tromps of Ireton thrill'd, And hush'd the senates Vane's large presence fill'd.

In what strong heart doth the old manhood dwell?

Where art thou Freedom?--Look--in Sidney's cell!

There still as stately stands the living Truth, Smiling on age as it had smiled on youth.

Her forts dismantled, and her shrines o'erthrown, The headsman's block her last dread altar-stone, No sanction left to Reason's vulgar hope-- Far from the wrecks expands her prophet's scope.

Millennial morns the tombs of Kedron gild, The hands of saints the glorious walls rebuild,-- Till, each foundation garnish'd with its gem, High o'er Gehenna flames Jerusalem!

O thou blood-stain'd Ideal of the free, Whose breath is heard in clarions--Liberty!

Sublimer for thy grand illusions past, Thou spring'st to Heaven--Religion at the last.

Alike below, or commonwealths, or thrones, Where'er men gather some crush'd victim groans; Only in death thy real form we see, All life is bondage--souls alone are free.

Thus through the waste the wandering Hebrews went, Fire on the march, but cloud upon the tent.

At last on Pisgah see the prophet stand, Before his vision spreads the PROMISED LAND; But where reveal'd the Canaan to his eye?-- Upon the mountain he ascends to die.

VI.

Yet whatsoever be our bondage here, All have two portals to the Phantom sphere,-- Who hath not glided through those gates that ope, Beyond the Hour, to MEMORY or to HOPE!

Give Youth the Garden,--still it soars above-- Seeks some far glory--some diviner love.

Place Age amidst the Golgotha--its eyes Still quit the graves, to rest upon the skies; And while the dust, unheeded, moulders there, Track some lost angel through cerulean air.

Lo! where the Austrian binds, with formal chain, The crownless son of earth's last Charlemain-- Him, at whose birth laugh'd all the violet vales (While yet unfallen stood thy sovereign star, O Lucifer of Nations)--hark, the gales Swell with the victor-shout from hosts, whose war Rended the Alps, and crimson'd Memphian Nile-- "Way for the coming of the Conqueror's Son: Woe to the Merchant-Carthage of the Isle!

Woe to the Scythian Ice-world of the Don!

O Thunder Lord, thy Lemnian bolts prepare, The Eagle's eyrie hath its eagle heir!"

Hark, at that shout from north to south, grey Power Quails on its weak, hereditary thrones; And widow'd mothers prophesy the hour Of future carnage to their cradled sons.

What! shall our race to blood be thus consign'd, And Ate claim an heirloom in mankind?

Are these red lots unshaken in the urn?

Years pa.s.s--approach, pale Questioner--and learn Chain'd to his rock, with brows that vainly frown, The fallen t.i.tan sinks in darkness down!

And sadly gazing through his gilded grate, Behold the child whose birth, was as a fate!

Far from the land in which his life began; Wall'd from the healthful air of hardy man; Rear'd by cold hearts, and watch'd by jealous eyes, His guardians jailors, and his comrades spies.

Each trite convention courtly fears inspire To stint experience and to dwarf desire, Narrows the action to a puppet stage, And trains the eaglet to the starling's cage.

On the dejected brow and smileless cheek, What weary thought the languid lines bespeak: Till drop by drop, from jaded day to day, The sickly life-streams ooze themselves away.

Yet oft in HOPE a boundless realm was thine, That vaguest Infinite--the Dream of Fame; Son of the sword that first made kings divine, Heir to man's grandest royalty--a Name!

Then didst thou burst upon the startled world, And keep the glorious promise of thy birth; Then were the wings that bear the bolt unfurl'd, A monarch's voice cried, "Place upon the Earth!"

A new Philippi gain'd a second Rome, And the Son's sword avenged the greater Caesar's doom.

VII.

But turn the eye to Life's sequester'd vale, And lowly roofs remote in hamlets green.

Oft in my boyhood where the moss-grown pale Fenced quiet graves, a female form was seen; Each eve she sought the melancholy ground, And lingering paused, and wistful look'd around; If yet some footstep rustled through the gra.s.s, Timorous she shrunk, and watch'd the shadow pa.s.s.

Then, when the spot lay lone amidst the gloom, Crept to one grave too humble for a tomb, There silent bow'd her face above the dead, For, if in prayer, the prayer was inly said; Still as the moonbeam, paused her quiet shade, Still as the moonbeam, through the yews to fade.

Whose dust thus hallow'd by so fond a care?

What the grave saith not--let the heart declare.

On yonder green two orphan children play'd; By yonder rill two plighted lovers stray'd.

In yonder shrine two lives were blent in one, And joy-bells chimed beneath a summer sun.

Poor was their lot--their bread in labour found; No parent bless'd them, and no kindred own'd; They smiled to hear the wise their choice condemn; They loved--they loved--and love was wealth to them!

Hark--one short week--again the holy bell!

Still shone the sun, but dirge-like boom'd the knell; And when for that sweet world she knew before Look'd forth the bride,--she saw a grave the more.

Full fifty years since then have pa.s.s'd away, Her cheek is furrow'd, and her hair is grey.

Yet when she peaks of _him_ (the times are rare), Hear in her voice how youth still trembles there!

The very name of that young life that died, Still heaves the bosom, and recalls the bride.

Lone o'er the widow's hearth those years have fled, The daily toil still wins the daily bread; No books deck sorrow with fantastic dyes: Her fond romance her woman heart supplies; And, to the sabbath of still moments given, (Day's taskwork done)--to memory, death, and heaven, There may--(let poets answer me!) belong Thoughts of such pathos as had beggar'd song.

VIII.