But as in time each great imperial race Sunk by degrees from glories past, And in the school-men's hands it perished quite at last. And those all barbarous too. It perished, and it vanished there, The life and soul breath'd out became but empty air. The fields which answer'd well the ancients' plough, The poor relief of present poverty. Food and fruit we now must want We break up tombs with sacrilegious hands; To walk in ruins, like vain ghosts, we love, We search among the dead For treasures buried, Whilst still the liberal earth does hold So many virgin mines of undiscovered gold. The Baltic, Euxine, and the Caspian, And slender-limbed Mediterranean, Seem narrow creeks to thee, and only fit For the poor wretched fisher-boats of wit. And nothing sees but seas and skies, Thou great Columbus of the golden lands of new philosophies! Thy task was harder much than his, For thy learn'd America is Not only found out first by thee, And rudely left to future industry, But thy eloquence and thy wit Has planted, peopled, built, and civiliz'd it. I little thought before, (Nor, being my own self so poor, Of bright, of new, and lasting stuff, Too strong to take a mark from any mortal dart, Even to the enemies' sight, Then when they're sure to lose the combat by't. Nor can the snow which now cold age does shed Quench or allay the noble fires within, But all which thou hast been And all that youth can be thou'rt yet, Enjoy the manhood, and the bloom of wit, Here hoary frosts, and by them breaks out fire. A secure peace the faithful neighbours keep, Th' emboldened snow next to the flame does sleep. Nature, and causes, we shall see That thus it needs must be : To things immortal time can do no wrong, And that which never is to die, for ever must be young. BRUTUS. Excellent Brutus, of all human race The best till nature was improved by grace, Virtue was thy life's centre, and from thence The gentle vigorous influence To all the wide and fair circumference: Each had his motion natural and free, And the whole no more moved than the whole world could be. From thy strict rule some think that thou didst swerve (Mistaken honest men) in Caesar's blood; What mercy could the tyrant's life deserve, From him who kill'd himself rather than serve? Th' heroic exaltations of good Are so far from understood, We count them vice: alas, our sight's so ill, That things which swiftest move seem to stand still. We look not upon virtue in her height, On her supreme idea, brave and bright, But as her beams reflected pass And 'tis no wonder so, If with dejected eye In standing pools we seek the sky, That stars so high above should seem to us below. Can we stand by and see Our mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be, Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher? The cancell'd name of friend he bore? Ungrateful Caesar who could Rome enthrall! There's none but Brutus could deserve That all men else should wish to serve, And Caesar's usurped place to him should proffer; None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the offer. Ill fate assumed a body thee t'affright, And wrapped itself i' th' terrors of the night, Goes out when spirits appear in sight. One would have thought 't had heard the morning crow, Or seen her well-appointed star Come marching up the eastern hill afar. Nor durst it in Philippi's field appear, But unseen attacked thee there. Had it presumed in any shape thee to oppose, A conqueror and a monarch mightier far than he. What joy can human things to us afford, Ill men, and wretched accidents, The best cause and best man that ever drew a sword? When we see The false Octavius, and wild Antony, Godlike Brutus, conquer thee? What can we say but thine own tragic word, An idol only, and a name? Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit. Which these great secrets shall unseal, A few years more, so soon hadst thou not died, 6. [From Verses written on Several Occasions.] STANZAS FROM THE 'HYMN TO LIGHT.' Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flow'ry lights thine own nocturnal spring. The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn And with those living spangles gild (0 greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. |