And their affection spared not, so the form
They loved in life might rest adorned in death.
But this dry hand: Was it once terrible
When among warrior bands thou wentest forth
With Ramses, or Sesostris, yet again
To crush the rebel Ethiop? Wast thou set
A taskmaster to toiling Israël
When Cheops or Cephrenes raised to heaven
Their giant sepulchres? Or did this hand,
That lately held a flow'r, with murderous grasp
Tear from the Hebrew mother her poor babe,
To fling it to the crocodile? Or, rather,
Wert thou some garden-lover, and this bulb
Perchance most rare and fine, prized above gold,
(As in the mad world's dotage yesterday
A tulip-root could fetch a prince's ransom,)
Was to be buried with thee, as thy praise,
Thy Rosicrucian lamp, thine idol weed?
Perchance-O, kinder thought and better hope!—
Some priest of Isis shrined this root with thee
As Nature's hieroglyphic, her half-guess
Of glimmering faith, that soul will never die:
What emblem liker, or more eloquent
Of immortality, whether the Sphinx,
Scarab, or circled snake, or wide-winged orb,
The azure-coloured arch, the sleepless eye,
The pyramid four-square, or flowing river,
Or all whatever else were symbols apt
In Egypt's alphabet, as thou, dry root,
So full of living promise? Yes, I see
Nature's "resurgam" sculptured there in words
That all of every clime may run and read:
I see the better hope of better times,
Hope against hope, wrapped in the dusky coats.
Of a poor leek; I note glad tidings there
Of happier things: this undecaying corpse
A little longer, yet a little longer,
Must slumber on, but shall awake at last;
A little longer, yet a little longer,
And at the trumpet's voice shall this dry shape Start up, instinct with life, the same, tho' changed, And put on incorruption's glorious garb: Perchance for second death; perchance to shine, If aught of Israel's God he knew and loved, Brighter than seraphs, and beyond the sun.
WILL none befriend that poor dumb brute,
Will no man rescue him?
With weaker effort, gasping, mute,
He strains in every limb;
Spare him, O spare! He feels, he feels!
Big tears roll from his eyes;
Another crushing blow!-He reels,
Staggers and falls and dies.
Poor jaded horse, the blood runs cold
Thy guiltless wrongs to see;
To Heav'n, O starved one! lame and old,
Thy dim eye pleads for thee.
Thou too, O dog, whose faithful zeal
Fawns on some ruffian grim,
He stripes thy skin with many a weal,
And yet-thou lovest him.
Shame! that of all the living chain
That links creation's plan,
There is but one delights in pain,
The savage monarch-man!
O, Cruelty! who could rehearse
Thy million dismal deeds,
Or track the workings of the curse
By which all nature bleeds?
Thou meanest crime, thou coward sin,
Thou base, flint-hearted vice-
Scorpion! to sting thy heart within
Thyself shall all suffice;
The merciless is doubly curst,
As mercy is "twice blest;"
Vengeance, tho' slow, shall come; but first
The vengeance of the breast.
Why add another wo to life,
Man?-are there not enough?
Why lay thy weapon to the strife?
Why make the road more rough?
Faint, hunger-sick, old, blind, and ill,
The poor, or man or beast,
Can battle on with life uphill,
And bear its griefs at least;
Truly, their cup of gall o'erflows!
But, when the spite of men
Adds poison to the draught of woes,
Who, who can drink it then?
Heard ye that shriek?-O wretch, forbear! Fling down thy bloody knife:
In fear, if not in pity, spare
A woman, and a wife!
For thee she toils, unchiding, mild,
And for thy children wan,
Beaten, and starved-with famine wild,
To feast thee, selfish man:
Husband, and father-drunkard, fiend!
Thy wife's, thy children's moan Has won for innocence a friend
Has reach'd thy Judge's throne;
Their lives thou madest sad; but worse
Thy deathless doom shall be:
"NO MERCY" is the withering curse
Thy Judge has passed on thee:
Heap on, heap on! fresh torments add :
New schemes of torture plan;
NO MERCY! Mercy's self is glad
To damn the cruel man.
God! God! thy whole creation groans,
Thy fair world writhes in pain;
Shall the dread incense of its moans
Arise to Thee in vain?
The hollow eye of famine pleads,
The face with weeping pale,
The heart that all in secret bleeds,
The grief that tells no tale,
Oppression's victim, weak and mild,
Scarce shrinking from the blow,
And the poor wearied factory child,
Join in the dirge of wo.
O, cruel world! O, sickening fear
Of goad, or knife, or thong!
O, load of evils ill to bear!
-How long, good God, how long?
HARMLESS, happy little treasures,
Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Richest wealth, and purest pleasures,
In this mean and guilty earth,
How I love you, pretty creatures,
Lamb-like flock of little things,
Where the love that lights your features
From the heart in beauty springs:
On these laughing rosy faces
There are no deep lines of sin;
None of passion's dreary traces,
That betray the wounds within;
But yours is the sunny dimple
Radiant with untutor❜d smiles,
Yours the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles;
Yours the natural curling tresses,
Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
Tottering steps, and kind caresses,
Pure with health, and warm with joy.
The dull slaves of gain, or passion,
Cannot love you as they should,
The poor worldly fools of fashion
Would not love you if they could:
Write them childless, those cold-hearted,
Who can scorn Thy generous boon,
And whose souls with fear have smarted,
Lest-Thy blessings come too soon.
While he hath a child to love him,
No man can be poor indeed;
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need.
But for thee, whose hearth is lonely,
And unwarm'd by children's mirth, Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth:
All unkiss'd by innocent beauty,
All unloved by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Childless man, how poor thou art!
|