SECOND SPEAKER.
And Hell to Heaven.
Eight years are gone, And they seem hours, since in this populous street I trod on grass made green by summer's rain, For the red plague kept state within that palace Where now reigns vanity-in nine years more The roots will be refreshed with civil blood; And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven That sin and wrongs wound as an orphan's cry, The patience of the great Avenger's ear.
THIRD SPEAKER (a youth).
Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see, Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden
By God or man ;-'tis like the bright procession Of skiey visions in a solemn dream
From which men wake as from a paradise, And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. If God be good, wherefore should this be evil? And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw Unseasonable poison from the flowers Which bloom so rarely in this barren world? Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make the
And open-eyed conspiracy, lie sleeping As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts Waken to worship him who giveth joys With his own gift.
How young art thou in this old age of time! How green in this grey world! Canst thou not think Of change in that low scene, in which thou art Not a spectator but an actor?
The day that dawns in fire will die in storms, Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done; Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found My inn of lasting rest, but thou must still Be journeying on in this inclement air.
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows. Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan, Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, Who toil not, neither do they spin,-unless It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. Here is the surfeit which to them who earn The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves The tithe that will support them till they crawl Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health Followed by grim disease, glory by shame, Waste by lank famine, wealth by squalid want, And England's sin by England's punishment. And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, Lo, giving substance to my words, behold
And, gentlemen, Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your quaint
Rose on me like the figures of past years, Treading their still path back to infancy, More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept To think I was in Paris, where these shows Are well devised-such as I was ere yet My young heart shared with [ the task, The careful weight of this great monarchy. There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure And that which it regards, no clamour lifts Its proud interposition.
I crave permission of your Majesty To order that this insolent fellow be Chastised he mocks the sacred character, Scoffs at the stake, and—
What, my Archy! He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears, Yet with a quaint and graceful licence-Prithes For this once do not as Prynne would, were he Primate of England.
He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot, Hung in his gilded prison from the window
Do thou persist: for, faint but in resolve, And it were better thou hadst still remained The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like curs The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer ; And Opportunity, that empty wolf,
Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions, Even to the disposition of thy purpose, And be that tempered as the Ebro's steel; And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace, And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, As when she keeps the company of rebels, Who think that she is fear. This do, lest we Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle
In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream Out of our worshipped state.
And if this suffice not, Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst They may lick that scum of schismatics. up I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring What we possess, still prate of christian peace, As if those dreadful messengers of wrath, Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, Should be let loose against innocent sleep Of templed cities and the smiling fields, For some poor argument of policy Which touches our own profit or our pride, Where indeed it were christian charity
To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand : And when our great Redeemer, when our God Is scorned in his immediate ministers, They talk of peace!
Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now.
Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts.
Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy, and you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamped on the heart by never-erring love; Liker than any Vandyke ever made,
A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow.
This glorious clime, this firmament, whose lights Dart mitigated influence through the veil Of pale-blue atmosphere; whose tears keep green The pavement of this moist all-feeding earth; This vaporous horizon, whose dim round Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea, Repelling invasion from the sacred towers; Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, A low dark roof, a damp and narrow vault: The mighty universe becomes a cell Too narrow for the soul that owns no master. While the loathliest spot
Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradled peace built on the mountain tops, To which the eagle-spirits of the free, Which range through heaven and earth, and scor
SWIFT as a spirit hastening to his task Of glory and of good, the Sun sprang forth Rejoicing in his splendour, and the mask
Of darkness fell from the awakened EarthThe smokeless altars of the mountain snows Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth
Of light, the Ocean's orison arose,
To which the birds tempered their matin lay. All flowers in field or forest which unclose
Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day, Swinging their censers in the element, With orient incense lit by the new ray
Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air; And, in succession due, did continent,
Isle, ocean, and all things that in them wear The form and character of mortal mould, Rise as the sun their father rose, to bear
Their portion of the toil, which he of old Took as his own and then imposed on them: But I, whom thoughts which must remain untold
Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem The cone of night, now they were laid asleep Stretched my faint limbs beneath the hoary stem
Which an old chesnut flung athwart the steep Of a green Apennine: before me fled The night; behind me rose the day; the deep
Was at my feet, and Heaven above my head, When a strange trance over my fancy grew Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread Was so transparent that the scene came through As clear as, when a veil of light is drawn O'er evening hills, they glimmer; and I knew That I had felt the freshness of that dawn Bathe in the same cold dew my brow and hair, And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn
Under the self-same bough, and heard as there The birds, the fountains, and the ocean hold Sweet talk in music through the enamoured air, And then a vision on my brain was rolled.
As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay, This was the tenour of my waking dream:- Methought I sate beside a public way
Thick strewn with summer dust, and a great stream Of people there was hurrying to and fro, Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam,
All hastening onward, yet none seemed to know Whither he went, or whence he came, or why He made one of the multitude, and so
Was borne amid the crowd, as through the sky One of the million leaves of summer's bier; Old age and youth, manhood and infancy,
Mixed in one mighty torrent did appear : Some flying from the thing they feared, and some Seeking the object of another's fear;
And others as with steps towards the tomb, Pored on the trodden worms that crawled beneath, And others mournfully within the gloom
Of their own shadow walked and called it death; And some fled from it as it were a ghost, Half fainting in the affliction of vain breath:
But more, with motions which each other crost, Pursued or spurned the shadows the clouds threw, Or birds within the noon-day ether lost,
Upon that path where flowers never grew,— And weary with vain toil and faint for thirst, Heard not the fountains, whose melodious dew
Out of their mossy cells for ever burst; Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told Of grassy paths and wood, lawn-interspersed, With over-arching elms and caverns cold, And violet banks where sweet dreams brood, but they Pursued their serious folly as of old.
And as I gazed, methought that in the way The throng grew wilder, as the woods of June When the south wind shakes the extinguished day,
And a cold glare intenser than the noon, But icy cold, obscured with blinding light The sun, as he the stars. Like the young moon
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