And hot corruption bred.
Plead with me at this hour,
All wise and upright minds,
All honorable hearts,
For ye abhor the sins
Which o'er the guilty land
Have drawn this gather'd storm!
Plead with me, Souls unborn,

Ye who are doomed upon this fateful spot
To pass your pilgrimage,
Earth's noblest heritors,

Or children of a ruin'd realm, to shame
And degradation born,-

(For this is on the issue of the hour!) Plead with me, unborn Spirits! that the wrath Deserved may pass away!

And thou, America, who owest
The large and inextinguishable debt
Of filial love! - And ye,

Remote Antarctic Isles and Continent, Where the glad tidings of the Gospel truth, Her children are proclaiming faithfully ;Join with me now to wrest

The thunderbolt from that relenting arm!— Plead with me, Earth and Ocean, at this hour, Thou, Ocean, for thy Queen,

And for thy benefactress, thou, O Earth!”

16.

The Angel ceased;
The vision fled;

The wind arose,

The clouds were rent,

They were drifted and scatter'd abroad;
And as I look'd, and saw

Where, through the clear blue sky, the silver Moon
Moved in her light serene,

A healing influence reach'd my heart,
And I felt in my soul

That the voice of the Angel was heard.

Keswick, 1820.

ODE

ON

THE PORTRAIT OF BISHOP HEBER.

1.

YES, such as these were Heber's lineaments;
Such his capacious front,
His comprehensive eye,
His open brow serene.

Such was the gentle countenance which bore
Of generous feeling, and of golden truth,
Sure Nature's sterling impress; never there
Unruly passion left

Its ominous marks infix'd,

Nor the worse die of evil habit set

An inward stain ingrain'd. Such were the lips whose salient playfulness Enliven'd peaceful hours of private life; Whose eloquence

Held congregations open ear'd, As from the heart it flow'd, a living stream Of Christian wisdom, pure and undefiled.

Ten years have held their course

Since last I look'd upon
That living countenance,

When on Llangedwin's terraces we paced
Together, to and fro.

Partaking there its hospitality,
We with its honored master spent,
Well-pleased, the social hours;

His friend and mine, - my earliest friend, whom I
Have ever, through all changes, found the same
From boyhood to gray hairs,

In goodness, and in worth and warmth of heart. Together then we traced The grass-grown site, where armed feet once

trod

The threshold of Glendower's embattled hall;
Together sought Melangel's lonely Church,
Saw the dark yews, majestic in decay,
Which in their flourishing strength

Cyveilioc might have seen;
Letter by letter traced the lines
On Yorwerth's fabled tomb;

And curiously observed what vestiges,
Mouldering and mutilate,

Of Monacella's legend there are left,
A tale humane, itself
Well-nigh forgotten now:
Together visited the ancient house

Which from the hill-slope takes

Its Cymric name euphonious; there to view, Though drawn by some rude limner inexpert, The faded portrait of that lady fair, Beside whose corpse her husband watch'd, And with perverted faith, Preposterously placed,

Thought, obstinate in hopeless hope, to see The beautiful dead, by miracle, revive.

4.

The sunny recollections of those days Full soon were overcast, when Heber went Where half this wide world's circle lay Between us interposed.

A messenger of love he went,
A true Evangelist;

Not for ambition, nor for gain,

Nor of constraint, save such as duty lays

Upon the disciplined heart,
Took he the overseeing on himself

Of that wide flock dispersed,
Which, till these latter times,
Had there been left to stray
Neglected all too long.

For this great end, devotedly he went,
Forsaking friends and kin,

His own loved paths of pleasantness and peace,
Books, leisure, privacy,

Prospects (and not remote) of all wherewith Authority could dignify desert;

And, dearer far to him,

Pursuits that with the learned and the wise Should have assured his name its lasting place.

5.

Large, England, is the debt Thou owest to Heathendom; To India most of all, where Providence, Giving thee thy dominion there in trust, Upholds its baseless strength. All seas have seen thy red-cross flag In war triumphantly display'd; Late only hast thou set that standard up On pagan shores in peace! Yea, at this hour the cry of blood Riseth against thee from beneath the wheels Of that seven-headed Idol's car accursed; Against thee, from the widow's funeral pile, The smoke of human sacrifice Ascends, even now, to Heaven.

6.

The debt shall be discharged; the crying sin Silenced; the foul offence

Forever done away.

Thither our saintly Heber went,

In promise and in pledge

That England, from her guilty torpor roused,
Should zealously and wisely undertake
Her awful task assign'd:

Thither, devoted to the work, he went,
There spent his precious life,
There left his holy dust.

7.

How beautiful are the feet of him
That bringeth good tidings,
That publisheth peace,
That bringeth good tidings of good,
That proclaimeth salvation for men.
Where'er the Christian Patriarch went,
Honor and reverence heralded his way,

And blessings followed him.

The Malabar, the Moor, the Cingalese,
Though unillumed by faith,

Yet not the less admired
The virtue that they saw.
The European soldier, there so long
Of needful and consolatory rites

Injuriously deprived,

Felt, at his presence, the neglected seed
Of early piety

Refresh'd, as with a quickening dew from Heaven.

Native believers wept for thankfulness,

When on their heads he laid his hallowing hands;
And, if the Saints in bliss

Be cognizant of aught that passeth here,
It was a joy for Schwartz

To look from Paradise that hour
Upon his earthly flock.

8.

Ram boweth down,

Creeshna and Seeva stoop;

The Arabian Moon must wane to wax no more;

And Ishmael's seed redeem'd,

And Esau's-to their brotherhood,

And to their better birthright then restored,
Shall within Israel's covenant be brought.
Drop down, ye Heavens, from above!
Ye skies, pour righteousness!

Open, thou Earth, and let
Salvation be brought forth!

And sing ye, O ye Heavens, and shout, O Earth,

With all thy hills and vales,
Thy mountains and thy woods;
Break forth into a song, a jubilant song;
For by Himself the Lord hath sworn
That every tongue to Him shall swear,
To Him that every knee shall bow.

9.

Take comfort, then, my soul!

Thy latter days on earth,

Though few, shall not be evil, by this hope
Supported, and enlighten'd on the way.
O Reginald, one course
Our studies, and our thoughts,
Our aspirations held,

Wherein, but mostly in this blessed hope,
We had a bond of union, closely knit
In spirit, though, in this world's wilderness,
Apart our lots were cast.
Seldom we met; but I knew well
That whatsoe'er this never-idle hand
Sent forth would find with thee
Benign acceptance, to its full desert.

For thou wert of that audience, - fit, though few,
For whom I am content

To live laborious days,

Assured that after-years will ratify Their honorable award.

10.

Hadst thou revisited thy native land,
Mortality, and Time,
And Change, must needs have made
Our meeting mournful. Happy he

Who to his rest is borne,
In sure and certain hope,
Before the hand of age
Hath chill'd his faculties,

Or sorrow reach'd him in his heart of hearts!
Most happy if he leave in his good name
A light for those who follow him,
And in his works a living seed
Of good, prolific still.

11.

Yes, to the Christian, to the Heathen world, Heber, thou art not dead, -thou canst not die! Nor can I think of thee as lost.

A little portion of this little isle
At first divided us; then half the globe;
The same earth held us still; but when,
O Reginald, wert thou so near as now?
'Tis but the falling of a withered leaf,
The breaking of a shell, -

The rending of a veil!

Oh, when that leaf shall fall,

That shell be burst, that veil be rent,

may then

My spirit be with thine!

Keswick, 1820.

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

WELL, Heaven be thank'd! friend Allan, here I am,
Once more to that dear dwelling-place return'd,
Where I have past the whole mid stage of life,
Not idly, certes; not unworthily, —

So let me hope; where Time upon my head
Hath laid his frore and monitory hand;
And when this poor, frail, earthly tabernacle
Shall be dissolved, it matters not how soon
Or late, in God's good time,- where I would fain
Be gathered to my children, earth to earth.

My next-door neighbors, in a street not yet
Macadamized, (me miserable!) at home;
For then had we, from midnight until morn,
House-quakes, street-thunders, and door-batteries.
O Government! in thy wisdom and thy want,
Tax knockers; in compassion to the sick,
And those whose sober habits are not yet
Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day,
Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged
Armorial bearings and bepowder'd pates.
And thou, O Michael, ever to be praised,
Angelic among Taylors! for thy laws
Antifuliginous, extend those laws

Till every chimney its own smoke consume,

And give thenceforth thy dinners unlampoon'd. Escaping from all this, the very whirl

Of mail-coach wheels bound outward from Ladlane,

Was peace and quietness. Three hundred miles
Of homeward way seem'd to the body rest,
And to the mind repose.

*

Donne did not hate More perfectly that city. Not for all Its social, all its intellectual joys,Which having touch'd, I may not condescend To name aught else the Demon of the place Might for his lure hold forth; - not even for these Would I forego gardens and green-field walks, And hedge-row trees, and stiles, and shady lanes, And orchards, were such ordinary scenes Alone to me accessible as those

Wherein I learnt in infancy to love

Of sunshine, are the mornings, when, in talk
With him, and thee, and Bedford, (my true friend
Of forty years,) I saw the work proceed,
Subject the while myself to no restraint,
But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged;
Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride,
To think this countenance, such as it is,
So oft by rascally mislikeness wrong'd,
Should faithfully to those who in his works
Have seen the inner man portray'd, be shown,
And in enduring marble should partake
Of our great sculptor's immortality.

sights,

;

Gladdening the eye that they refresh; and sounds
Which, when from life and happiness they spring,
Bear with them to the yet unharden'd heart
A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy;
Or, when proceeding from insensate things,
Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith
To woo the ear and win the soul attuned; -
Oh, not for all that London might bestow,
Would I renounce the genial influences,
And thoughts, and feelings to be found where'er
We breathe beneath the open sky, and see
Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then by thyself,
Allan, true child of Scotland, -thou who art
So oft in spirit on thy native hills,
And yonder Solway shores,
Judge by thyself how strong the ties which bind
A poet to his home; when making thus
Large recompense for all that haply else
Might seem perversely or unkindly done-
Fortune hath set his happy habitacle

-a poet thou,

Among the ancient hills, near mountain streams
And lakes pellucid, in a land sublime
And lovely as those regions of Romance
Where his young fancy in its day-dreams roam'd,
Expatiating in forests wild and wide,
Loegrian, or of dearest Faery-land.

Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy
No man drinks freelier, nor with heartier thirst,
Nor keener relish, where I see around

Faces which I have known and loved so long,
That, when he prints a dream upon my brain,
Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types.
And therefore, in that loathed metropolis,
Time measured out to me some golden hours.
They were not leaden-footed while the clay
Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand
Grew to the semblance of my lineaments.
Lit up in memory's landscape, like green spots

*This poet begins his second Satire thus: -
"Sir, though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town, yet there's one state
In all ill things so excellently best,

That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest."

Injuries there are which Time redresseth best.
Being more sure in judgment, though perhaps
Slower in process even than the court
Where justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed,
Sleeps undisturb'd, fann'd by the lulling wings
Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down
Evil or good report, if undeserved.

Let then the dogs of Faction bark and bay
Its bloodhounds, savaged by a cross of wolf;
Its full-bred kennel, from the Blatant-beast;
And from my lady's gay veranda, let
Her pamper'd lap-dog, with his fetid breath,
In bold bravado join, and snap and growl,
With petulant consequentialness elate,
There in his imbecility at once

Ridiculous and safe: though all give cry,
Whiggery's sleek spaniels, and its lurchers lean,
Its poodles, by unlucky training marr'd,
Mongrel, and cur, and bob-tail, let them yelp
Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length
Silence the noisy pack: meantime be sure
I will not stoop for stones to cast among them.
The foumarts and the skunks may be secure
In their own scent; and for that viler swarm,
The vermin of the press, both those that skip,
And those that creep and crawl, I do not catch
And pin them for exposure on the page:
Their filth is their defence.

But I appeal
Against the limner's and the graver's wrong;
Their evil works survive them. Bilderdijk,
Whom I am privileged to call my friend,
Suffering by graphic libels in like wise,
Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give
The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch,
As his dear consort hath transfused my strains
Into her native speech, and made them known
On Rhine and Yssel, and rich Amstel's banks;
And wheresoe'er the voice of Vondel still
Is heard, and still Antonides and Hooft
Are living agencies; and Father Cats,
The household poet, teacheth in his songs
The love of all things lovely, all things pure;
Best poet, who delights the cheerful mind

Of childhood, stores with moral strength the

heart

Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid-life rich, And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age.

Hear then in English rhyme how Bilderdijk Describes his wicked portraits, one by one.

"A madman who from Bedlam hath broke loose; An honest fellow of the numskull race; And pappyer-headed still, a very goose

Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face; A Frenchman who would mirthfully display On some poor idiot his malicious wit; And lastly, one who, train'd up in the way Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it, But hath served Mammon with his whole intent, A thing of Nature's worst materials made, Low-minded, stupid, base and insolent.

I-I-a Poet - have been thus portray'd. Can ye believe that my true effigy

Among these vile varieties is found?

What thought, or line, or word, hath fallen from me
In all my numerous works whereon to ground
The opprobrious notion? Safely I may smile
At these, acknowledging no likeness here.
But worse is yet to come; so, soft awhile!

For now in potter's earth must I appear,
And in such workmanship, that, sooth to say,
Humanity disowns the imitation,

And the dolt image is not worth its clay.

Then comes there one who will to admiration
In plastic wax my perfect face present;
And what of his performance comes at last?
Folly itself in every lineament!

Its consequential features overcast
With the coxcomical and shallow laugh
Of one who would, for condescension, hide,
Yet in his best behavior, can but half

Suppress the scornfulness of empty pride."

"And who is Bilderdijk?" methinks thou sayest; A ready question; yet which, trust me, Allan, Would not be ask'd, had not the curse that came From Babel clipt the wings of Poetry. Napoleon ask'd him once, with cold, fix'd look, "Art thou, then, in the world of letters known?" "I have deserved to be," the Hollander Replied, meeting that proud, imperial look With calm and proper confidence, and eye As little wont to turn away abash'd Before a mortal presence. He is one Who hath received upon his constant breast The sharpest arrows of adversity; Whom not the clamors of the multitude, Demanding, in their madness and their might, Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind; Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny From the straight path of duty turn aside; But who, in public troubles, in the wreck Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile, Want, obloquy, ingratitude, neglect, And what severer trials Providence Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves, In all, through all, and over all, hath borne An equal heart, as resolute toward

The world, as humbly and religiously
Beneath his heavenly Father's rod resign'd.
Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man,
True lover of his country and his kind;
In knowledge and in inexhaustive stores
Of native genius rich; philosopher,
Poet, and sage. The language of a State
Inferior in illustrious deeds to none,
But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now
Sinking in irrecoverable decline,

Hath pent within its sphere a name wherewith Europe should else have rung from side to side.

Such, Allan, is the Hollander to whom Esteem and admiration have attach'd My soul, not less than pre-consent of mind, And gratitude for benefits, when, being A stranger, sick, and in a foreign land, He took me like a brother to his house, And ministered to me, and made a time, Which had been wearisome and careful else, So pleasurable, that in my calendar There are no whiter days. Twill be a joy For us to meet in Heaven, though we should look Upon each other's earthly face no more.

- This is this world's complexion! "Cheerful thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind;" and these again
Give place to calm content, and steadfast hope,
And happy faith assured. Return we now,
With such transition as our daily life
Imposes in its wholesome discipline,
To a lighter strain; and from the gallery
Of the Dutch Poet's mis-resemblances
Pass into mine; where I shall show thee, Allan,
Such an array of villanous visages,
That if, among them all, there were but one
Which as a likeness could be proved upon me,
It were enough to make me, in mere shame,
Take up an alias, and forswear myself.

Whom have we first? A dainty gentleman, His sleepy eyes half-closed, and countenance To no expression stronger than might suit A simper, capable of being moved : Sawney and sentimental; with an air So lack-thought and so lackadaysical, You might suppose the volume in his hand Must needs be Zimmermann on Solitude.

Then comes a jovial landlord, who hath made it
Part of his trade to be the shoeing horn
For his commercial customers. God Bacchus
Hath not a thirstier votary. Many a pipe
Of Porto's vintage hath contributed

To give his cheeks that deep carmine ingrain'd,
And many a runlet of right Nantes, I ween,
Hath suffered percolation through that trunk,
Leaving behind it, in the boozey eyes,
A swollen and red suffusion, glazed and dim.

Our next is in the evangelical line, A leaden-visaged specimen; demure, Because he hath put on his Sunday's face;