Take our Jesuits, if you will,
England's heart rejects their ill,
And her mouth is thundering still,
Down with foreign priestcraft!
Hark! in ancient warmth and worth,
East and west and south and north,
Flies the loyal spirit forth,
Loathing foreign priestcraft;
Evermore with Rome to cope,
We will bate nor heart nor hope,
But our shout shall stun the Pope,
Down with foreign priestcraft!
A WORD FOR "THE ANGLICAN MISSION AT ROME." Back in the face of the foe
Fling him his word and his blow!
And by the blaze of the Protestant lamp
Dazzle and stagger the Romanist camp.
Build them a temple to Paul,
Where Peter was never at all!
Planting instead of old Mahomet's chair
A primitive Anglican bishopric there.
Lighten with Luther's own torch
Their dark and idolatrous church,—
And with the Bible in every home
Scatter the monks and the friars of Rome!
Onward! and seize on the chance
The banners of Truth to advance,-
Widely set open the floodgates of light
To startle the Pope in his kingdom of Night!
Onward!-to drive the foe back
By a stern and a steady attack!
Frighten false Italy's hooded array,
And drown those night-owls in the brightness of day.
Break the Soul's slavery-links,
Cleanse the confessional sinks,
And, for this Romanist treason at home,
Shout a loud answer in-Protestant Rome!
Tear, scatter, burn, destroy,-but keep them not;
I hate, I dread those living witnesses
Of varying self, of good or ill forgot,
Of alter'd hopes, and wither'd kindnesses.
Oh, call not up those shadows of the dead,
Those visions of the past, that idly blot
The present with regret for blessings fled:
This hand that wrote, this ever-teeming head,
This flickering heart is full of chance and change;
I would not have you watch my weaknesses,
Nor how my foolish likings roam and range,
Nor how the mushroom friendships of a day
Hasten'd in hotbed ripeness to decay,
Nor how to mine own self I grow so strange.
My fond first love, sweet mistress of my mind,
Thy beautiful sublimity hath long
Charm'd mine affections, and entranced my song,
Thou Spirit-Queen, that sitst enthroned, enshrined
Within this suppliant heart; by day and night
My brain is full of thee: ages of dreams,—
Thoughts of a thousand worlds in visions bright,—
Fear's dim terrific train,-Guilt's midnight schemes,—
Strange peeping eyes,-soft smiling fairy faces,-
Dark consciousness of fallen angels nigh,—
Sad converse with the dead, or headlong races
Down the straight cliffs,-or clinging on a shelf,
Of brittle shale, or hunted through the sky!—
O GOD of mind, I shudder at myself!
The same, personified.
Dread Monarch-maid, I see thee now before me,
Searching my soul with those mysterious eyes,
Spell-bound I stand, thy presence stealing o'er me,
While all unnerved my trembling spirit dies :
Oh, what a world of untold wonder lies
Within thy silent lips; how rare a light
Of conquer'd joys and ecstasies represt
Beneath thy dimpled cheek shines half-confest;
In what luxuriant masses, glossy-bright,
Those raven locks fall shadowing thy fair breast!
And lo, that bursting brow, with gorgeous wings,
And vague young forms of beauty coyly hiding
In thy crisp curls, like cherubs there abiding,--
Charmer, to thee my heart enamour'd springs.
Therefore delight thy soul in Solitude,
Feeding on peace; if solitude it be
To feel that million creatures, fair and good,
With gracious influences circle thee,-
To hear the mind's own music,-and to see
GOD's glorious world with eyes of gratitude,
Unwatch'd by vain intruders. Let me shrink
From crowds, and prying faces, and the noise
Of men and merchandise; far nobler joys
Than chill Society's false hand hath given
Attend me when I'm left alone to think :
To think-alone ?-ah no, not quite alone;
Save me from that,-cast out from Earth and Heaven, A friendless, Godless, isolated ONE!
Scholar of Reason, Grace, and Providence,
Restrain thy bursting and indignant tears;
With tenderest might unerring Wisdom steers
Through those mad seas the bark of Innocence.
Doth thy heart burn for vengeance on the deed-
Some barbarous deed, wrought out by cruelty
On woman, or on famish'd childhood's need,
Yea, or these fond dumb dogs,-doth thy heart bleed
For pity, child of sensibility?
Those tears are gracious, and thy wrath most right:
Yet patience, patience; there is comfort still;
The Judge is just; a world of love and light
Remains to counterpoise the load of ill,
And the poor victim's cup with angel's food to fill.
Warm Summer! yes, the very
The hum of bees is in it, and the sight Of sunny fountains glancing silver light, And the rejoicing world, and every charm Of happy nature in her hour of love,
Fruits, flowers, and flies, in rainbow-glory bright: The smile of GOD glows graciously above, And genial earth is grateful; day by day Old faces come again, with blossoms gay, Gemming in gladness meadow, garden, grove: Haste with thy harvest then, my soften'd heart, Awake thy better hopes of better days,
Bring in thy fruits and flowers of thanks and praise, And in creation's pæan take thy part
As some fair statue, white and hard and cold,
Smiling in marble, rigid yet at rest,
Or like some gentle child of beauteous mould
Whose placid face and softly swelling breast
Are fix'd in death, and on them bear imprest
His magic seal of peace,―so, frozen lies
The loveliness of Nature: every tree
Stands hung with lace against the clear blue skies;
The hills are giant waves of glistering snow;
Rare northern fowl, now strangely tame to see,
With ruffling plumage cluster on the bough,
And tempt the murderous gun; mouse-like the wren Hides in the new-cut hedge, and all things now Fear starving Winter more than cruel men.
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