Paul should himself direct me. I would trace
His master-strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain
And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture; much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly, that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty man;
Behold the picture! - Is it like? — Like whom?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text;
Cryhem; and reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.
What! will a man play tricks, will he indulge
A silly fond conceit of his fair form,
And just proportion, fashionable mien,
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily hand,
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames
His noble office, and, instead of truth,
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock!
I seek divine simplicity in him
Who handles things divine; and all besides,
Though learn'd with labor, and though much admired
By curious eyes and judgments ill inform’d, ́
To me is odious as the nasal twang
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men,
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes
Through the press'd nostril, spectacle bestrid.
Some, decent in demeanour, while they preach,
That task performed, relapse into themselves;
And, having spoken wisely, at the close
Grow wanton, giving proof to every eye-
Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not!
Forth comes the pocket mirror. — First we stroke
An eye-brow; next compose a straggling lock;
Then with an air, most gracefully perform'd,
Fall back into our seat, extend an arm,
With handkerchief in hand, depending low :
The better hand, more busy, gives the nose
Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye
With opera-glass, to watch the moving scene,
And recognise the slow retiring fair.
Now this is fulsome; and offends me more
Than in a churchman slovenly neglect
And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind
May be indifferent to her house of clay,
And slight the hovel as beneath her care;
But how a body so fantastic, trim,
And quaint, in its deportment and attire,
Can lodge a heavenly mind-demands a doubt.
O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile.
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars,
Her whisker'd pandoors, and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet-horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland - and to man!
Warsaw's last champion, from her heights survey'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, "O heaven; he cried, " my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our COUNTRY yet remains! By that dread name we wave the sword on high! And swear for her to live! with her to die!"
He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd : Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm! Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge or DEATH! — the watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew ;
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime !
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo!
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there :
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.
The storm prevails! the rampart yields away -
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook!-red meteors flash'd along the sky!
And conscious nature shudder'd at the cry!
Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man:
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
The PATRIOT TELL- the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN!
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven !
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven !
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery!
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly!
"Tis morn - but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
The combat deepens - On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!
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