For ne"er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimm"d thy light or damp"d thy holy flame; But bless"d the paeans of deliver"d France, And hung my head and wept at Britain"s name.
III.
"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy"s loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
Though all the fierce and drunken pa.s.sions wove A dance more wild than e"er was maniac"s dream!
Ye Storms, that round the dawning east a.s.sembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!"
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceas"d, and all seem"d calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarr"d and gory Conceal"d with cl.u.s.tering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior"s tramp, While, timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crush"d beneath her fatal stamp, Writh"d like a wounded dragon in his gore: Then I reproach"d my fears that would not flee; "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan!
And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own."
IV.
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, From bleak Helvetia"s icy cavern sent,-- I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain"d streams!
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish"d, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish"d One thought that ever bless"d your cruel foes!
To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear, And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer,-- O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind?
To mix with kings in the low l.u.s.t of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?
V.
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
O Liberty! with profitless endeavor Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell"st the victor"s strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe"er they praise thee (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee), Alike from Priestcraft"s harpy minions, And factious Blasphemy"s obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!
And there I felt thee!--on that sea-cliff"s verge, Whose pines, scarce travell"d by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gaz"d, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
x.x.xIII. COMPLAINT AND REPROOF.
COLERIDGE.
I.
How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.
II.
For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain!
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Place--t.i.tles--salary--a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?-- Greatness and goodness are not means but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man?--three treasures,--love, and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant"s breath;-- And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
x.x.xIV. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.--1774-1843.
A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh; For from c.o.c.k-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard by, At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.
"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he; "For, an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?
For, an if she have, I"ll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here,"
The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why."
"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well; And, before the angel summon"d her, She laid on the water a spell,--
"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life;
"But if the wife should drink of it first, G.o.d help the husband then!"
The stranger stoop"d to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"
He to the Cornish-man said; But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head:--
"I hasten"d, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i" faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."
x.x.xV. THE ISLES OF GREECE.
LORD BYRON.--1788-1824.
The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho lov"d and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.