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Avaunt-avaunt—what! yield we to your cold
And curdling grasp ?– Ye fool us with a power
Which, like the Saga's muttered rhyme of old,
Is built not on your potence, but on our
Weakness. We crown you with grim thoughts,—and quake
Before the very tyrants that we make.

Our Reason or whate'er that be—and how
Begotten or inspired—by which we move
Erect upon life's narrow bridge; and know
Our end—our aims-our powers—alone can prove
Our guide. And Faith, the barter of our will,
Contracting Reason is her offspring still.

And if we err, and darkling grope and vain,
'Tis not our Reason's treachery, but our own
Surrender of our Reason, and the chain
By which we bind her to the Titan's stone.
From ignorance spring earth’s errors-raise the powers
Of Reason to their height—and Heaven is ours !

Shadows avaunt !--were all the monsters armed
By hell or monkish madness, round the ring
In which lone Reason sits abstract and charmed ;
Yea, all pale Priestcraft from her caves could bring,
Or northern Fancy nurture; were the earth's
Soft snuile to wither; and unnatural births
Creep from her hollow womb;—were the sweet skies

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To lose all love, and murmur from the stars--
“ TREMBLE”—The Unknown within me should defy
Terror-the arch and real fiend that wars
On God; our God is Love !—and greet the levin
Whose wrath but brighter shows the depths of Heaven!

IF THE POOR MADE LAWS FOR THE RICH.
If the poor made laws for the rich—the rich,

What a change in our jails would be !
Which would be for the best ? and which-oh, which,

Bring the most to the gallows tree?
They would pass a nobleman vagrant bill,

For the fellows who idly roam ;
The Travellers' club would be sent to the Mill,

And Lord E- x be passed to--home.
They'd make game laws for the sporting one,

And refuse a squire to bail;
Old B- ks would be shot with a good spring-gun,

And Sh-y would rot in jail !
6 Most libellous trash,” the books that blind

The eyes of the mass they'd call;
Murray's Review would be damnably fined,

And they'd ruin great Captain H-11.
They'd make it a capital crime to pay

Oneself from the public purse;
Our younger sons would be shipped to “ the Bay,”

And the Bishop of — worse!

371

TO WORDSWORTH.

How glorious and how beautiful a life

Must thine have been among the hills and streams! From the far world, and its eternal strife,

But one grey shadow cast upon thy dreams, Tinging their sacred and nymph-haunted glory

With something of a mournful—mortal hue. Ah! if the Spirits of the olden story

Yet linger-and the Ascræan's verse* be true, If Unseen Habitants, yet earth-bound, rove By the still brook, or the melodious grove, And ever o'er Man's state the while they wander, With a high thought, but tender memory, ponder :If the pure ghosts of the Saturnian Race,

Who o'er the sinless pastures led their herds; Oh! if they yet claim haunt and dwelling-place

Where the air gladdens with the summer birds; Methinks to them familiar thy sublime

And undiurnal melody which breathes
A pastoral sweetness from the golden time;

And, as o'er ruined fanes the ivy wreathes,

* Hesiod, who tells us (Opera et Dies, verse 121, 'Aůrdp éTEL KEV TOÛTO, &c.) that the mortals of the golden age became, after death, good spirits wandering over earth, and regarding the acts of men.

So cling thy fancies in their green embrace

Around a dim and antique holiness; And, with a loving yet a solemn grace,

At once a freshness and an awe express !

“Musing on Man,” amid the mountains lone,

What must have past in thy unfathomed breast !How, on the lyre within, must many a tone,

Solemn and deep, have risen—unconfest, Save to thyself, and the still ear of GOD!

And from the full and silent Heart of Things, As o'er the hills thy unwatched footsteps trod,

Didst thou not draw the patriarchal springs Of love for Man and Nature, which the hues Of thy transparent verse all livingly suffuse ?

Higher thy theme than Cæsars', or the Pomp

Borne o'er the dusty earth in weary gaud; Ambition's mask, and Glory's brazen tromp,

The embattled Murder, and the ermined Fraud ! Sweeter thy theme than aught which thro' the lays

Of the Rose Garden's sons may softly flow! And earthlier fires before the Rhean blaze

Lit on thine altar—sicken from their glow!

Man in his simple grandeur, which can take

From Power but poor increase ; the Truth which lies Upshining in “ the Well of homely Life;"

The Winds, the Waters, and their Mysteries

The Morn and moted Noon, the Stars which make

Their mirror in the heart; the Earth all rife With warnings and with wisdom ; the deep lore

Which floateth air-like over lonely placesThese made thy study and thy theme; and o'er

The Beauty of thy Soul no Paphian Graces, But a religious and a reverent Awe,

Breathed Sanctity and Music—inspiration, Not from the dark Obscure of priestly law,

But that which burns—the Centre of CreationA Love, a Mystery, and a Fear—the unseen Source of all worship since the world hath been !

How must thy lone and lofty soul have gone

Exulting on its way, beyond the loud
Self-taunting mockery of the scoffers, grown

Tethered and dull’d to Nature, in the crowd ! Earth has no nobler, no more moral sight,

Than a Great Poet whom the world disowns, But stills not, neither angers:—from his height,

As from a star, float forth his sphere-like tones : He wits not whether the vex'd herd may hear The music wafted to the reverent ear; . And far Man's wrath, or scorn, or heed, above, Smiles down the calm disdain of his majestic love!

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