REMORSE, AND ETERNAL DEATH.
And saw, where'er I look'd upon that mound,
Sad figures traced in fire, not motionless,
But imitating life. One I remark'd
Attentively; but how shall I describe
What nought resembles else my eye hath seen?
Of worm or serpent kind it something look'd,
But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads,
Eyed each with double orbs of glaring wrath;
And with as many tails, that twisted out
In horrid revolution, tipp'd with stings;
And all its mouths, that wide and darkly gaped,
And breathed most poisonous breath, had each a sting,
Forked, and long, and venomous, and sharp;
And in its writhings infinite, it grasp'd
Malignantly what seem'd a heart, swollen, black,
And quivering with torture most intense;
And still the heart, with anguish throbbing high,
Made effort to escape, but could not; for
Howe'er it turn'd, and oft it vainly turn'd,
These complicated foldings held it fast.
And still the monstrous beast with sting of head
Or tail transpierced it, bleeding evermore.
What this could image, much I search'd to know;
And while I stood, and gazed, and wonder'd long,
A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one
I saw, distinctly whisper'd in my ear
These words: This is the worm that never dies.
Fast by the side of this unsightly thing, Another was portray'd, more hideous still; Who sees it once shall wish to see 't no more, For ever undescribed let it remain!
Only this much I may or can unfold.
Far out it thrust a dart that might have made
The knees of terror quake, and on it hung,
Within the triple barbs, a being pierced
Through soul and body both. Of heavenly make
Original the being seem'd, but fallen,
And worn and wasted with enormous woe.
And still around the everlasting lance,
It writhed convulsed, and utter'd mimic groans;
And tried and wish'd, and ever tried and wish'd,
To die; but could not die. Oh, horrid sight!
I trembling gazed, and listen'd, and heard this voice Approach my ear: This is Eternal Death!
So saying, they, link'd hand in hand, spread out
Their golden wings, by living breezes fann'd,
And over heaven's broad champaign sail'd serene.
O'er hill and valley, clothed with verdure green
That never fades; and tree, and herb, and flower,
That never fade; and many a river, rich
With nectar, winding pleasantly, they pass'd;
And mansion of celestial mould, and work
Divine. And oft delicious music, sung
By saint and angel bands that walk'd the vales,
Or mountain tops, and harp'd upon their harps,
Their ear inclined, and held by sweet constraint
Their wing; not long, for strong desire, awaked
Of knowledge that to holy use might turn,
Still press'd them on to leave what rather seem'd
Pleasure, due only when all duty's done.
And now beneath them lay the wish'd-for spot,
The sacred bower of that renowned bard;
That ancient bard, ancient in days and song;
But in immortal vigour young, and young
In rosy health; to pensive solitude
Retiring oft, as was his wont on earth.
Fit was the place, most fit for holy musing.
Upon a little mount, that gently rose,
He sat, clothed in white robes; and o'er his head
A laurel tree, of lustiest, eldest growth,
Stately and tall, and shadowing far and wide-
Not fruitless, as on earth, but bloom'd, and rich
With frequent clusters, ripe to heavenly taste-
Spread its eternal boughs, and in its arms
A myrtle of unfading leaf embraced.
The rose and lily, fresh with fragrant dew,
And every flower of fairest cheek, around
Him, smiling flock'd: beneath his feet, fast by
And round his sacred hill, a streamlet walk'd,
Warbling the holy melodies of heaven.
The hallow'd zephyrs brought him incense sweet;
And out before him open'd, in prospect long,
The river of life, in many a winding maze
Descending from the lofty throne of God,
That with excessive glory closed the scene.
Of Adam's race he was, and lonely sat,
By chance that day, in meditation deep,
Reflecting much of time, and earth, and man.
And now to pensive, now to cheerful notes,
He touch'd a harp of wondrous melody;
A golden harp it was, a precious gift,
Which, at the Day of Judgment, with the crown
Of life, he had received from God's own hand,
Reward due to his service done on earth.
He sees their coming, and with greeting kind, And welcome, not of hollow forged smiles, And ceremonious compliment of phrase, But of the heart sincere, into his bower Invites: like greeting they return'd. Not bent In low obeisancy, from creature most Unfit to creature, but with manly form Upright they enter'd in; though high his rank, His wisdom high, and mighty his renown.
THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
Long disappointed, disappointed still,
The hopeless man, hopeless in his main wish,
As if returning back to nothing, felt;
In strange vacuity of being hung,
And roll'd, and roll'd his eye on emptiness,
That seem'd to grow more empty every hour.
One of this mood I do remember well:
We name him not, what now are earthly names?
In humble dwelling born, retired, remote;
In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw, as he pass'd, a shepherd only, here
And there, watching his little flock, or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes,
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling,
Among the dews and holy mountain airs;
And fancy colour'd them with every hue
But soon his dreams
Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams,
So innocent and fair, that wither'd Age,
Even at the grave, clear'd up his dusty eye,
And passing all between, look'd fondly back
To see them once again, ere he departed:
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wish'd
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possess'd his soul, and held it still awhile.
He listen'd, and heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charm'd; and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renown'd;
And deeper vow'd again to keep his vow.
His parents saw, his parents whom God made
Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope.
The ancient page he turn'd, read much, thought much, And with old bards of honourable name
Measured his soul severely; and look'd up
To fame, ambitious of no second place.
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair.
And out before him, open'd many a path
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved
He stood admiring;
Her branch of endless green.
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized,
The harp he loved, loved better than his life,
The harp which utter'd deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He search'd and meditated much, and whiles,
With rapturous hand, in secret, touch'd the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains; and search'd again
For theme deserving of immortal verse;
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.
Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud, Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud
Of ills we mention not: enough to say,
"Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,
One after one, put out, as nearer still
It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst;
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs,
The bitterest cup that Time could measure out;
And, having done, look up, and ask for more.
He call'd philosophy, and with his heart Reason'd. He call'd religion, too, but call'd Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard. Ashamed to be o'ermatch'd by earthly woes, He sought, and sought, with eye that dimm'd apace, To find some avenue to light, some place On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain. Darker and darker still the darkness grew. At length he sunk, and Disappointment stood His only comforter, and mournfully Told all was past. His interest in life, In being, ceased: and now he seem'd to feel, And shudder'd as he felt, his powers of mind Decaying in the spring-time of his day. The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure; Memory gave up her charge; Decision reel'd; And from her flight, Fancy return'd, return'd Because she found no nourishment abroad. The blue heavens wither'd, and the moon, and sun, And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn And evening, wither'd; and the eyes, and smiles, And faces of all men and women, wither'd, Wither'd to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appear'd, but now Was dead and mouldering fast away.
No more to hope, wish'd to forget his vow,
Wish'd to forget his harp; then ceased to wish.
That was his last: enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear.
Of being sensible, and sensible
Of loss, he as some atom seem'd, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.
Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe!
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanish'd from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there!
It was not so with him. When thus he lay, Forlorn of heart, wither'd and desolate,
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