When one among the prime of these rose up!One, of whose name from childhood we had heard Familiarly, a household term, like those,
The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old
Whom the fifth Harry talks of.
This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, No stammerer of a minute, painfully Delivered. No! the Orator hath yoked The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car: Thrice-welcome Presence! how can patience e'er Grow weary of attending on a track
That kindles with such glory! All are charmed, Astonished; like a hero in romance,
He winds away his never-ending horn;
Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense: What memory and what logic! till the strain Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed, Grows tedious even in a young man's ear.
Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seduced By specious wo..ders, and too slow to tell Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered men, Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides, And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught, Rapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue, Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave.
I see him, old, but vigorous in age,
Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe
The younger brethren of the grove. But some
While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth, Against all systems built on abstract rights, Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time; Declares the vital power of social ties Endeared by Custom; and with high disdain, Exploding upstart Theory, insists
Upon the allegiance to which men are born,— Some say at once a froward multitude Murmur (for truth is hated, where not loved) As the winds fret within the Eolian cave, Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were
With ominous change, which, night by night, pro
Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised; But memorable moments intervened,
When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain, Broke forth in armor of resplendent words, Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved Under the weight of classic eloquence,
Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired ?
Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail
To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard The awful truths delivered thence by tongues Endowed with various power to search the soul : Yet ostentation, domineering, oft
Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of place!
There have I seen a comely bachelor,
Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend
His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up, And, in a tone elaborately low
Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze A minuet course; and, winding up his mouth, From time to time, into an orifice Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small,
And only not invisible, again
Open it out, diffusing thence a smile Of rapt irradiation, exquisite.
Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, Moses, and he who penned, the other day, The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the Bard Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, And Ossian (doubt not, 't is the naked truth) Summoned from streamy Morven, each and all Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers To entwine the crook of eloquence that helped This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, To rule and guide his captivated flock.
I glance but at a few conspicuous marks, Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall, Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop, In public room or private, park or street, Each fondly reared on his own pedestal, Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice,
Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress, And all the strife of singularity,
Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense,
Of these, and of the living shapes they wear, There is no end. Such candidates for regard, Although well pleased to be where they were found,
I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize,
Nor made unto myself a secret boast
Of reading them with quick and curious eye; But, as a common produce, things that are To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them Such willing note, as, on some errand bound That asks not speed, a Traveller might bestow On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach, Or daisies swarming through the fields of June.
But foolishness and madness in parade, Though most at home in this their dear domain; Are scattered everywhere, no rarities,
Even to the rudest novice of the Schools. Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep In memory, those individual sights Of courage, or integrity, or truth,
Dr tenderness, which there, set off by foil, Appeared more touching. One will I select ; A Father, for he bore that sacred name, Him saw I, sitting in an open square, Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fenced
A spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, sat This One Man, with a sickly babe outstretched Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air. Of those who passed, and me who looked at him, He took no heed; but in his brawny arms
(The Artificer was to the elbow bare,
And from his work this moment had been stolen) He held the child, and, bending over it, As if he were afraid both of the sun
And of the air, which he had come to seek, Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable.
As the black storm upon the mountain-top Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so That huge fermenting mass of human-kind Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief, To single forms and objects, whence they draw, • For feeling and contemplative regard,
More than inherent liveliness and power.. How oft, amid those overflowing streets, Have I
gone forward with the crowd, and said Unto myself, "The face of every one
That passes by me is a mystery!"
Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed By thoughts of what and whither, when and how, Until the shapes before my eyes became A second-sight procession, such as glides Over still mountains, or appears in dreams ; And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond
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