The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 54

Why should I wake thee? why severely chase The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart.

Forgive me, Forbes--and should the song destroy One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,-- Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him.

Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, And feel that man _may_ reach perfection yet.

[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of American patriotism.

[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has related and the doc.u.ments which he has preserved. Opinion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves.

TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WAs.h.i.+NGTON.

'Tis evening now; beneath the western star Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, And fills the ears of some consenting she With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.

The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home; Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms, And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.

In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1]

Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]-- This embryo capital, where Fancy sees Squares in mora.s.ses, obelisks in trees; Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn, Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see, Where streets should run and sages _ought_ to be.

And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave, The dying sun prepares his golden grave.

Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade!

Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, While still, in all the exuberance of prime, She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime, Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care, From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;-- Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Your rich savannas and majestic woods, Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, And woman charm, and man deserve her love,-- Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4]

Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast, Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest?

Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demiG.o.ds should dare to roam?

Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse, Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, In full malignity to rankle here?

But hold,--observe yon little mount of pines, Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly s.h.i.+nes.

There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5]

Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign.

How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?

Thou more than soldier and just less than sage!

Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part, Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, Nature designed thee for a hero's mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold.

While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate, Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great.

Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, Found _thee_ undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All that thou _wert_ reflects less fame on thee, Far less, than all thou didst _forbear to be_.

Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,-- For, thine's a name all nations claim their own; And every sh.o.r.e, where breathed the good and brave, Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave.

Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,-- If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, If thou canst loathe and execrate with me The poisoning drug of French philosophy, That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, If thou has got, within thy free-born breast, One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control, Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, And makes, like Egypt, every beast its G.o.d, There, in those walls--but, burning tongue forbear!

Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there: So here I pause--and now, dear Hume, we part: But oft again, in frank exchange of heart, Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here.

O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, 'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes With me shall wonder, and with me despise.

While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, With thee conversing, through that land I love, Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene; And sovereign man can condescend to see The throne and laws more sovereign still than he.

[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."--_Weld's Travels_, letter iv.

[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- Creek.

[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circ.u.mstance."--_Weld_, letter iv.

The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it.

[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) _belittles_ her productions in the western world.

[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue of General Was.h.i.+ngton.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the l.u.s.tre that plays In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.

Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name; And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something better than fame.

Nor did woman--oh woman! Whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the life of each path we pursue; Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too:--

Nor did she her enamoring magic deny,-- That magic his heart had relinquished so long,-- Like eyes he had loved was _her_ eloquent eye, Like them did it soften and weep at his song.

Oh, blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream; Thrice blest be that eye, and may pa.s.sion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam!

The stranger is gone--but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1]

_Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo Dell' acqua_. DANTE.

From rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; And as I markt the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly s.h.i.+ne, Like tall and gloomy forms that pa.s.s Before the wizard's midnight gla.s.s: And as I viewed the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rus.h.i.+ng, alike untried and wild, Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled, Flying by every green recess That wooed him to its calm caress, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind,-- Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed, How like to thee, thou restless tide, May be the lot, the life of him Who roams along thy water's brim; Through what alternate wastes of woe And flowers of joy my path may go; How many a sheltered, calm retreat May woo the while my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest; But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I feel the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the spent current cease to run.