Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray,
The world's a wilderness and man but clay,
Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose,
Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows!
Take Christians, Mohawks, democrats and all
From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall,
From man the savage, whether slav'd or free,
To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he!
'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life;
Where every ill the ancient world can brew
Is mix'd with every grossness of the new;
Where all corrupts, though little can entice,
And nothing's known of luxury, but vice!
Is this the region, then, is this the clime For golden fancy? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? No, no-the muse of inspiration plays O'er every scene; she walks the forest-maze, And climbs the mountain; every blooming spot Burns with her step, yet man regards it not! She whispers round, her words are in the air, But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there, Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, One ray of heart to thaw them into song!
Yet, yet forgive me, oh you sacred few!
Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew ;
Whom, known and lov'd through many a social eve,
'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave!*
Less dearly welcome were the lines of lore
The exile saw upon the sandy shore,
When his lone heart but faintly hop'd to find
One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind!
Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal,
The strength to reason and the warmth to feel,
The manly polish and the illumin'd taste,
Which, 'mid the melancholy heartless waste
My foot has wander'd, oh you sacred few!
I found by Delaware's green banks with you.
Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs
O'er your fair country and corrupts its sons:
Long love the arts, the glories which adorn
Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born,
* In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed the only agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this elegant little circle that love for good literature and sound politics, which he feels so zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in learning from them what Americans can be, I but sec with the more indignation what Americans are.
Oh! if America can yet be great,
If neither chain'd by choice nor damn'd by fate
To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now,
She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow
Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon freedom's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above !—
If yet, releas'd from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dulness and so pleas'd with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide
Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,
She yet can rise, can wreathe the attic charms
Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,
And see her poets flash the fires of song,
To light her warriors' thunderbolts along!
It is to you, to souls that favouring heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is given-
Oh! but for such, Columbia's days were done;
Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun,
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,
Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er!
Believe me, SPENCER, while I wing'd the hours Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few,
So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew,
That my full soul forgot its wish to roam,
And rested there, as in a dream of home!
And looks I met, like looks I lov'd before,
And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er
The chord of memory, found full many a tone
Of kindness there, in concord with their own!
Oh! we had nights of that communion free,
That flush of heart, which I have known with thee
So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind,
Of whims that taught and follies that refin❜d!
When shall we both renew them? when, restor'd
To the pure feast and intellectual board,
Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine
Those whims that teach, those follies that refine?
Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore,
I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar,
I sigh for England-oh! these weary feet
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet !
Ω ΠΑΤΡΙΣ, ΩΣ ΣΟΥ ΚΑΡΤΑ ΝΥΝ ΜΝΕΙΑΝ ΕΧΩ.
OH! fair as heaven and chaste as light!
Did nature mould thee all so bright,
That thou should'st ever learn to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguish'd, honour fled,
Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead?
No, no! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity!
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So fair a transcript of the skies,
In lines of fire such heavenly lore,
That man should read them and adore!
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose early charms were just array'd
In nature's loveliness like thine,
And wore that clear, celestial sign,
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For destiny's peculiar care!
|