VI.

And is this all? For this does restless Gain
Urge on its fiery course, spur, gasp and scheme;
Quench ev'ry sense and sympathy of pain,
And blind our very vision, till we deem
Such speculation as the maniac's dream
Is the true wisdom? Till we smiling stand,
And watch fell Av'rice goad his bleeding team;
And man, proud man, poise in his iron hand,
But as each viler tool by which his hopes are spanned.

VII.

Oh! never yet was there intenser need

That, musing on such themes, the bard should give
A warning note; that his alarm should lead

Our fev'rish hearts to question why they live?

Whence came? Where speed we? Of what woof we weave Th' attiring of our spirits? Why the fires

Of heav'n shine on us? The vast waters heave

In sleepless toil? Why beauteous earth conspires

To rouse a flame within, swerve upwards our desires ?

VIII.

Proud queen of the world's waters, our small isle
Has stretched a giant sceptre o'er the deep;
Thro' Indian climes, o'er many a mountain pile,
Her voice is heard. Her dauntless children steep
Strange nations with her spirit; while we keep

One long, bright day of revel on her breast

Midst thronged towns and rural halls, which sleep

In fields and groves o'er whose elysian rest

Beauty has breathed her spell, which kindly arts have blest.

d

IX.

No more a spot obscure,—a waste no more
Where the grim savage chased th' unfenced deer;
Where, from each woody creek and lonely shore,
The sea-kings rushing carried fire and fear
Thro' heaths forlorn, and huts already drear:

Tyre's prosperous commerce; Roman heart unquelled;
Roman dominion; richer, and more dear,

The arts and songs of Greece; whate'er have welled From glory's fount of old, here flow, and are excelled.

X.

But Tyre has fall'n:-in th' Eternal City
Ruin, sloth, superstition, make their den;

Greece, the world's love and wonder, woe and pity,
Starts from her chained trance thus late again;
And patriot jealousy, with sleepless ken,
Sees, in our own blest isle's imperial state,
A kindled spark, which, fanned by greedy men,
May breathe its flame on our full-blossomed fate,
And ashes be our dow'r, where glory would create.

XI.

Therefore, ye blessed and eternal twain, At whose deep founts unebbing joy runs o'er, Sweet Poesy, and Nature's charmed reign, Loved for yourselves, I love ye now the more; For ye can quell the dragon-rage and roar Of Mammon's rabid and tumultuous crew; Can teach our tempted spirits still to soar Above the worldly mind; to still pursue, Proudly, that heav'n-lit path yet bright'ning on our view,

XII.

Art, Science, Knowledge, scatter forth their treasures,
As from th' exhaustless affluence of the skies;
Taste lures the lowliest to the loftiest pleasures;
But, oh! unveil the sweetness of your eyes!
With their Promethean fire inflame, surprise;
Breathe through all life love, beauty, high devotion;
O'er Art's cold forms diffuse your roseate dyes;

And ye shall guide us through Time's perilous ocean,
With barks full fraught with joy, minds healthful, pure emotion.

XIII.

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight, in heav'nly lays*.'
Blessings be with them; in these striving days,
Without their spiriting voice, where had we been?
Without their generous thoughts our souls to raise,
We were not now spectators of a scene

Where Wealth and Luxury walk, yet mar not Freedom's mien.

XIV.

Loud, from the depths of th' unperishing past,
Their voices have come down; like starry streams

Of heav'nly fire on the world's darkness cast,

Their numbers have burned round us; and their beams
Have glowed, and wrought, filling with fame our dreams.
Blessings be with them! for, in virtue strong,

Their spells have overcome the strong world's schemes;
Have led our feet earth's loveliest bow'rs among;
And linked our hearts to God, to Nature, and to song.

Wordsworth.

XV.

Blessings be with them, from the first to last!
Yes, with those antique, venerable seers,
Whose simple lives in simple times were past.
They were, in truth, the wild bird's genuine feres ;
They loved the greenwood's quiet, and their tears
Scorned not to gush at Nature's lonely thrill;

Green leaves, clear waters, ev'ry thing which cheers,
The merle and mavis,' answ’ring from each hill,
Were freshness to their souls, sweet med'cine for all ill.

XVI.

Blessings be on them! and upon their great
And yet more glorious children. Upon him*
Who, hooded with thick darkness, yet elate,
Soared to high heaven, and gazed on Seraphim;
But deemed his native earth nor cold nor dim:
On Shakspeare's sprite, throned 'twixt the wings of Time,
A Protean elf, whose joy is still to skim

Through all things, courts and crowds, and mirth and crime, Then carol, a woodfay, in the green summer's prime..

XVII.

On him who sang the Minstrel's young career;
On him who wept o'er lovely Auburn's waste;
On him whose song lives thro' the total year;
On him whose Task' ne'er ceases; and the last
Who perished not, tho' numbered with the past,—
Byron, whose fiery soul, from fiery shores,

Brought wreaths of amaranth on our hearths to cast;

And Bloomfield, whose meek spirit yet adores

Midst fields, and woods, and skies, where the lark, singing, soars.

XVIII.

On them, and numbers whom I may not name,

For my song soon must cease. On that bright host,
The living sons of a most living fame,

Who need no mention, but deserve it most:
Yet, ere the echoes of this lay are lost,

I would a brief and passing tribute yield

To some who, tho' no minstrel name they boast, Were Nature's genuine priests, and far afield Had, to their privileged eyes, her choicest scenes revealed.

XIX.

Now the storm roars around me-now the bloom Of Earth, her greenery, and her pleasantries, Are shrunk once more into their wintry tomb, And the fire sparkles, and the lamp supplies Its ev❜ning gleam-where is my paradise? With White* my spirit finds beloved employ, A sage who cared not how the world would prize His sylvan toils, so nought might him annoy, Roaming, through Selborne woods, in loneliness and joy.

XX.

With Bewick's comic burin next enchanted,

I

pass thro' groupes grotesque, to lonely places,

And find how there his curious spirit panted

For Nature, even in her minutest traces;
Clasping unto our sympathy's embraces
All creatures of her solitary reign;

Dwellers of sedgy pools, heaths, parks and chases,

The mountain cliff, and desolated fane,

And all the drear, wild charm of northern isle and main.

• Gilbert White, Author of The Natural History of Selborne.