War rules the world with strong, relentless, hand, And Vice on every soul has placed its brand.
Now, ask your hearts, is 't sinful to confess,
In such a case, the longings of the breast;-
To ask a dwelling in a wilderness,
Or long to flee away and be at rest?
If solitude doth purify and bless,
'Tis sin to be of Earth's full scenes a guest; 'Tis better far to dwell with God alone,
Then to forget Him bow'd at Earth's high throne. XVIII.
Misanthropy is hatred of mankind :
But oh! 'tis not to hate mankind to say We loathe its wickedness, and seek to find
A home where Vice and Outrage hold no sway; It can't be wrong to seek for peace of mindAlthough, to gain it, from the world we stray: If solitude bring happiness, why, then
A man is justified in fleeing men.
Were Earth still Eden, and were man still pure-
I would not not seek to flee the human face;
No! I should pray that then I might endure
In mortal form for ever: I'd embrace
The Earth as though 'twere Heaven; I'd immure
My thoughts into this planet's little space-
Forbid my fancies up to Heaven to fly,
And look on Earth as all my destiny.
But is Earth Eden? Is man pure and good
As when God breathed in him the living breath?
Answer the question, Sorrow, with thy brood!
Answer the question, Pain-reply, O Death!
If he be pure, what mean the tales of blood-
The mighty deeds of crime that history hath? Hark! Sorrow, Pain, Disease, and Death reply"Man's fallen like a Planet from on high."
So then 'tis not Humanity that they,
Or I, their humble follower, would flee,— "Tis from Humanity as gone astray
From that which is no more Humanity;
It is from Vice and Crime they turn away-
From moral foulness and deformity:
They are not misanthropes; they but detest
The weeds that choke the harvest of the breast.
And in the wish there lab'ring, thus confest,
I see a higher, better, feeling still;-
It is the spirit yearning for its rest,
The throbbing of the soul for heavenly weal:
Of Earth 'tis but a sojourner and guest,
It looks tow'rds home, it feels an ardent thrill.
While gazing on the heaven of its birth-
What wonder then it disregards the Earth,
And seeks to quit it? We should wonder more
If-born in heaven-it sought on Earth to stay:
It is of angel nature, and doth soar
Up to the Angel-Realm. Oh! who would say
It should be chained on Earth's unholy shore-
Be pris'ner ever of its house of clay,
Regard not-turn not to-its home on high,
Nor give a thought to Immortality?
Oh! were it not for the bright thoughts of Heaven,
The thoughts of peace, and purity, and rest
That unto man's cribb'd, cabin'd soul are given,
What would he be? a being never blest;
A creature toss'd, and rack'd, and rent, and riven―
By Grief assaulted, and by Woe opprest;
A prey to Sorrow, Suffering, and Fear-
Without a hope to chequer his career.
We have two lives-the lives of Soul and Sense,
The life of Matter and the life of Mind;
The one the image of Omnipotence,
Strong, deathless, mighty, chainless as the wind ;
The other is a child of Death, and thence
Is mortal, erring, fetter'd and confined;
Weak in its wishes, feeble in its will,
Helpless, unguarded, and a prey to ill.
The Soul lives in the time that's Past, as well
As in the Present; nay, doth even dare
To tempt and try the Future. It doth quell
Such foes as might make Seraphims despair-
Fear, Madness, and the demons hot from hell
Who kindle our vile passions. It doth wear
The aspect of the everlasting God,
And ever turns to His divine abode.
It is the source sublime, the holy spring
From whence Love cometh, come it as it will;
Its life is youth, it cannot feel Death's sting,
Its powers are never wearied-never still;
It mocketh sleep, it laughs to scorn the wing-
The rapid wing-of Time, and smiles at ill;
Unsatisfied with all that Earth can give,
It doth refuse, disdain on Earth to live.
It cannot cease: Time his long course may fly,
And bear Creation on his wings away-
The world may shrink before Eternity,
But still the Spirit never can decay-
It cannot change, it cannot droop, nor die ;
There is no night to its eternal day;
On it will live, and shrink not, though it be
Placed in the gaze of Immortality.
The body too hath life, but what a life
Compared with that which quickeneth the mind! A few short years of sorrow and of strife,
And then 'tis gone, where none shall ever find: Its dim brief days with care and woe are rife, Its strength is weakness, its ambition blindThe present holds it in its tortuous bond, And never dares it think or look beyond.
It hath desires, but narrow are their scope;
It hath affections, but they 're cold and chill;
It hath no thoughts-no enterprize-no hope,
No chainless longings, and no curbless will;
It is content upon the Earth to grope,
And hath no wish for the delights that thrill;
And it must die-be scatter'd to the wind,
And leave no record and no trace behind.
It is the bond that keeps the spirit down,
By a long chain of heavy ties, to earth;
The net that o'er its energies is thrown,
And keeps it from the region of its birth
Until its value to itself is known,
And it is made to feel its strength and worth;
The prison of the longing beating soul
The clod that doth its upward flight control.
Now, the desire for solitude and peace,-
The wish for quiet happiness, and rest,-
The thirst to have from sin and noise release,-
What are they? Ask the spirit in your breast:
They are that spirit's throbbings: shall they cease
Because 'tis fit the body should be blest?
Shall men forsake their Future and their God,
To mix with Vice and wait on Pleasure's nod?
No! Then these ardent longings of the soul
Show that it turns from Earth and looks to Heaven; That it defies the strength of Time's control,
And clasps the mighty hope its God hath given;
They show its eagerness to reach its goal,
Tho' ere 'tis gained with Death it must have striven; And who'll maintain that it is wrong to cherish The Soul, and not the Body that doth perish?
Now turn we for a moment to the song
CHILDE HAROLD breathed so tunefully and well;
The pilgrim seeks to quit the noisy throng,
And in Earth's wilds and wildernesses dwell;
And why? He meets with crime and grief among
His fellow-men and friends, his breast doth swell
With thoughts he cannot utter in the loud
And ceaseless murmur of a busy crowd;
Thoughts that must pass in Solitude's review,
That must be watched and ponder'd o'er alone;
Thoughts that if little weighed are scarce deemed true,
But, nicely scann'd, make wond'rous treasures known.
We need self-questioning;-we need to view
And judge the secrets that have sprung, and grown, And brought forth fruit upon our hearts,-to tell Ourselves the fancies that within us dwell.
But hear CHILDE HAROLD; mark how he doth trace
The thoughts that in his mighty bosom stir ;-
"Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my minister;
That I might all forget the human race,
And hating no one, love but only her."
Now is this wish to quit the human throng,
To be esteem'd as right, or blam'd as wrong?
What is he who thus speaks? Forget not this ;-
It is a tired bacchanal, whose days
And nights have seen his fruitless search for bliss-
Whose cheating hopes have mock'd his eager gaze;
Who's found the poison that's in Pleasure's kiss,
And wandered long in Sin's deceptive maze;
Who hath from fair Delight's rich chalice quaff'd,
And found a stinging serpent in the draught.
It is not strange that such an one should seek
To quit his riot for a desert home,--
Where the pure winds may cool his fever'd cheek,
And peace to his disorder'd spirit come;
Where to the rocks and mountains he may speak,
And forth in solitary places roam;
Where he may ponder well on what he's been,
And turn to Virtue from the arms of Sin.
For such an one society's unfit;
He should retire from man's too busy haunt;
He must shake off the shapes that round him flit
And bid the sharers of his joys-Avaunt!
"Twould call him back to Sin were he to meet
His fellow bacchanals-no! he doth want
Still Solitude, when he may give the rein
To the wild thoughts that gather in his brain.
Then blame not him, the Wanderer of the tale,
Because he asks in woods and wilds to dwell;
"Tis but the sign that conscience doth prevail
Upon the heart that lately was a hell;
'Tis but a proof that Sin's deep whirlpools fail
To gulf his virtue in their surgy swell-
That he doth seek at length his Father God,
And turn his erring steps in Reason's road.
Sleeping, I heard the voice of one who sung
In varied tones of richest melody;
Softly I raised my head that I might see-
Then looked I on a maiden fair and young:
Blithe were her beauteous eyes, and fixed on me
With so sweet tenderness, that instant love
Possessed my soul-yet dared I not to move,
Lest, startled, she should turn away and flee,
Leaving me lonely. Thus I gazed, until
Her witching music through my rapt ear stole
Into my throbbing brain-into my soul-
And bade the pulses of my heart be still.
Thus I grew sad with my exceeding love,
And happiness too great for mortal brain,
So that I, fainting, sunk, and she was fain
Over my breast to bend. With care, to prove-
If yet I lived-upon my lips did press
Kisses like honey, and her tender eyes
Shone on my pallid face as the sun-rise
On drooping flowers. In that most dear caress
I woke, and, standing bright-eyed by my side-
The beam of morning mingling with her smiles
Upon my brow-while her soft words and wiles
Wooed me to rise, I saw my love-my bride.
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