Pleasure. A poem, in seven books

Preface

To trace the various sources whence, in the present life, we derive pleasure, is a task, it will readily be admitted, replete with interest.

No virtuous man lives entirely for enjoyment, and yet no wise one would be altogether debarred from it.

The Stoic and the Epicurean, by hurrying to the extremes of rigour and of laxity, have mutually committed errors. To thwart the instincts of Nature on the one hand, and, on the other, to give a loose rein to the wild steeds of our passions, are acts that evince an equal degree of folly.

11 PKEFACE.

What is pleasure ? The question is by no means easily answered, for the objects and pursuits producing pleasurable sensations, in respective individuals, vary with their education, temperament, and tastes. Thus, one man will experience exquisite delight in the survey of works of art: another, indifferent to painting and sculpture, receives high gratification from music : the mind of a third, embracing the study of astronomy, history, or philosophy, finds pleasure in profound thought : while a fourth, from some strange perversion of the finer intellectual powers, turns coldly away from all these sources of exalted enjoyment, and seeks delight in aimless and frivolous pastimes, and frequently in intoxication and debauchery.

It is evident, therefore, that every individual, to a certain extent, will entertain his own peculiar opinion, when called oh to give a definition of pleasure.

In the following poem, it is proposed less to

PEEFACE. Ill

examine the reasons why certain objects cause sensations of delight, than to consider at once the Pleasures themselves. Pictures are presented illustrative of their character, and of their debasing or ennobling effects on the mind. The pleasure which a Napoleon derived from his victories, and a Lord Chesterfield from the fashionable frivolities of life : the pleasure which filled the hearts of a Raphael, a Milton, and a Haydn, during the composition of some immortal work of genius ; and the sweet sense of happiness overflowing the bosom of the lover, or the devotee worshipping at the shrine of Nature, may seem, comparatively, very different emotions : nevertheless they are to be regarded in the light of pleasures, and, as such, are referred to in the ensuing pages.

Commencing with the delight we experience from a contemplation of beautiful and sublime scenes in Nature, the Poem treats of the pleasures indulged in by various races, at different periods of history ; the pleasures in relation to the fine arts —

PREFACE.

to our actions in life — our pursuits, and, more than all, our passions ; closing with the graver consideration of the pleasure that fills the exalted mind anticipating immortality, and a nearer commune with that universe, whose magnificence and glory are now but dimly comprehended.

PLEASURE.

Book I Pleasure Derived From The Survey Of Natural

OBJECTS, AND THE CONTEMPLATION OF THE

MATERIAL UNIVERSE.

BOOK I.

Proud heir of Heaven ! poor insect of an hour ! Mortal, immortal — weak, endued with power, Behold the' enigma man ! his strange career Sweeps on in darkness and in sunshine here. Dull in great thoughts, in little how acute ! He soars a god — now grovels with the brute. He toils, but idly toils ; Oblivion's hand Blots out his works — slight figures stamp' d on sand. Vain his hopes burn, his glory-bubbles rise, He greatly schemes, but as he schemes he dies ; One moment seen, then gone ; so, darkly pass Quick flying cloud-shades o'er the summer grass. As this small globe to all the mighty spheres, Such his brief life-point to eternal years. What can he boast, fast chained by fate below, Gnawed, like Prometheus, by a vulture — Woe ?

8 PLEASUKE. [BOOK I.

"What can lie boast, plumed Wisdom's highest flight Pursued through mists of doubt, and error's night ; The melancholy truth made clear alone, That light is veiled, truth's glories half unknown % Oh ! weep for man, but most lament his pride ; This Heaven condemns — this, this the fiends deride !

Yet, spite of ills that hedge his being round, For suffering man, love, mercy, still are found. His spirit, buoyant, springs beneath the load, Some flowers make gay his sterile, rocky road ; And Pleasure's wells, when hottest beams oppress, • Gushing and cool, rejoice life's wilderness. Aye, man, whate'er his lot, will pleasure crave, The' instinctive longing haunts him to the grave.

This warm desire for joys that Earth bestows, The earliest plant in Passion's garden grows. Like a coy violet purpling Spring's young bower, Its blooms unfold in childhood's hopeful hour ; A tulip's gaudier form, in youth it wears, A loftier flower the plant in manhood bears, Distilling from its petals dangerous dew — A precious balm, a deadly poison too ; And in gray age, when soberer beams fall round, Like modest mountain-heath, it decks the ground.

BOOK I.] NATURE. 9

Nature ! thou source of pleasure pure and free, The heart, with filial throb, first turns to thee ; For thou art our loved parent ; from thy breast We sprang to light, and there at last must rest, Though God-breathed soul, whose ardours nought shall

chill, May range thy charms, and drink thy glories still.

When Power divine threw Beauty's varied robe,

Woven by angels, 'round our new-made globe,

Gave plant and herb to deck the naked plain,

The palm-green isle to cheer the lonely main \

Told where the stream its silvery line should lead

Through snow-lipped lilies, and the whispering reed;

Poured down romantic rocks the water's glass,

And edged with spiky firs the mountain-pass ;

Reared the high pillar-hills, on which, serene,

Heaven's mighty palace-roof, outstretched should lean,

Its blue magnificence by day so bright,

And hung with golden lamps, each solemn night —

Were all for use alone ? that favoured man

Might ran with easier course life's destined span ?

Drink the pure stream, and sow his bounteous field,

Luxuriate in the fruits the seasons yield ?

Bask in the sun, or saunter in the shade,

No loftier feeling to his soul conveyed,

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10 PLEASURE. [BOOK 1.

His grovelling pleasures, like his petty pains, Bound to dull sense by adamantine chains ?

Oh ! no j Heaven bade Creation's glories shine, To touch, delight, to raise, and to refine : For want's poor cravings, plann'd a God alone, Why around all things beauty's magic thrown 1 Why paint the flower, or shape to grace the tree, Give green to earth, and azure to the sea ; With gold and roses roof Morn's freshening skies, And flush for Eve a purple paradise ? More dull, more plain, Creation's face had spread, From flowerless vale to sombre mountain-head ; Our needs supplied, kind Heaven had done its part, Nor charmed the' aspiring soul, nor warmed the heart..

But God, through Nature, speaking from above, Hath stamp' d on yielding earth, grace, beauty, love ; And these, to soul appealing, fan the blaze Of Taste's rich fire, and purest rapture raise. The heart responds to each fair form around, Dwells on a hue, and lingers on a sound ; For types of qualities — the sweet, serene, The bold, the tender — live in every scene. The valley pictures modesty ; the stream Sets forth the glitter of life's restless dream ;

BOOK I.] LAKES OF KILLARNEY. 11

The virgin flower of innocence doth speak,

Ambition's image, the dark mountain-peak ;

The lucid dews that bathe Day's opening eye

Seem Sorrow's tears, Eve's breath Love's balmy sigh.

Above, below, there burns a life intense,

And all we win from soul, or feel through sense,

Comes echoed back as warm, as bright, as fair,

From sympathetic earth, and peopled air.

Yet varied scenes move varied trains of thought, Each with its own deep feeling, pleasure, fraught. If placid beauty thou thy study make, Go, trace Killarney's mountain-girded lake. When heaven is calm, and not a filmy cloud Hangs dense enough to weave a fairy's shroud, And Glena lifts his brow, with forests dun, And streamy vales laugh coyly in the sun ; That fair, enchanted scene shall bless the eye, And wake exalted rapture's tenderest sigh. Blue as blue heaven, the liquid plain lies still, And spreads its living glass from hill to hill ; Each isle its double sees, each insect flings A quivering picture of its rainbow- wings ; Each wavelet, while we look, gives back impressed The sun's round glory from its burnished breast.

Down the steep mount, the poplar, ash, and beech, Sweejring close-grouped, the mirroring crystal reach ; And as soft airs pulse by, a sound is made, Faint, rustling, deep, as all the forests prayed. See where yon cottage, bird-like, dots the cliff ! While, trailing silver, glides the fisher's skiff; Each dip the light oar makes just raises curls, Now throws against the sun a sheet of pearls. Where alders fill the green retiring dell, In leaf- wove homes the feathered people dwell, And oft, amid the calm, their notes ye hear, * Across the beam-paved waters swelling clear — A meaning language, that sweet voice of theirs, Telling their happy loves, and sylvan cares. Far off, strong castles rear their towers of pride, And moss-robed ruins skirt the shadowed tide — Bare, roofless dwellings, owls their tenants now, And abbeys doomed, like meaner wrecks, to bow ; Pillar and wall close-clasped by ivy-arms, Old yews still watching round their reverend charms.*

The white cascade in stars of silver falls ; Sure o'er that dashing flood some Genius calls,

* The picturesque ruins of Mucross Abbey stand near the village of Cloghreen; and some remains of a once celebrated monastery are still visible in the beautiful Island of Innisfallen.

BOOK I.] LAKES OF KILLARNEY. 13

Winnowing with viewless wings the feathery spray, Or teaching sunbows 'ronnd its foam to play. List ! As the bell strikes deep in yon far tower, Giving the eternal past another hour — The infant of the mighty giant, Time, Just born, but dying in that solemn chime — Slow down the shore the sound of warning swings ; The rock replies, the elfin grotto rings ; But chief it lingers 'round the Eagle's Nest,* Where echo, waked, seems loath again to rest ; Up the tall mount the sound increasing swells, As if not one, there rang a hundred bells ; Then down it drops, in softest music-showers, Like seraph voices breathed from skyey bowers. As faints the note around, the distant hill Takes up the echo — answering, doubling still : More tremulous now, a whisper e'en it grows, Sinks to a thread, like harp-strain's quivering close ; Swells once again, re-issuing from some cave, Moans through the hills, and dies along the wave.t

* The Eagle's Nest is a precipitous rock, midway between the Upper and Lower Lakes, rising to the height of eleven hundred feet.

f The celebrated echo at the Eagle's Nest has the peculiarity of multiplying sounds a hundred — apparently, a thousand — times ; and not only the horn, or a shout, awakens all the echoes of the hills, but the clapping of the hand, almost a spoken word, will be many and many times repeated.

Sucli scene will ever ravish tasteful Mind, And yield a pleasure lofty as refined ; Will lull the passions by its holy calm, And breathe on sorrow's wound assuasive balm. But stronger feelings, richer fancies rise, When great remembrances, whose spell ne'er dies — Flowers of the past, which spirit loves to cull — Throw their enchantment o'er the beautiful. Thus Tempe, with its pines and classic stream, The haunt of gods, the poet's glowing theme ; Alba's brown groves, and Anio's storied shore, Where warriors rested, sages dreamt of yore ; That laurell'd Mount* which world-famed ashes keeps, Where genius o'er a Maro bends and weeps ; The Sabine hills, where Horace plied the spade, And Como's lake, where glides a Pliny's shade, Chain the slow step, and raise within the soul A fervour reason's calm may scarce control. Scenes lovelier far we less admire, revere, For lore and glory weave bright halos here.

This magic, too, a nameless charm bestows On that famed vale, where lilied Sorga flows ; Warm pleasure thrills the enthusiast roaming there, Kocks more romantic look, and flowers more fair,

* Mount Posilipo, near Naples.

BOOK I.] VAUCLUSE. 15

For Love his sorcery blends with all around —

The pensile trees, the fount's grief- voicing sound,

Yields to the fruited bough a deeper bloom,

Glows in the sunshine, sorrows in the gloom.

There, as meek Eve descends o'er still Yaucluse,

And, steeping her soft brush in amber hues,

Paints — heavenly artist ! — all the gorgeous West

With spires of gold and bowers of fairy rest,

With crags of torrid glory, and red isles,

That richer burn, as sunset deeper smiles,

Fancy beholds Petrarca wandering slow,

Murmuring despairing sighs to breezes low ;

While every grot, moss'd bank, and dusky glade,"

Seems haunted by his musing, restless shade ! —

Who sails on Leman's blue, nor turns his eyes

From Alpine pomp, and earth's sweet paradise,

To rest on Chillon's walls all drear and bare,

For martyrs prayed, and, praying, perished there 1

Nor feels a glow that passeth mere delight,

As calm Lausanne's grey villas court his sight,

Where Wisdom's son,* though towering thought

supplied No hopeful creed, his mighty labours plied ; Snatched, from the altar of departed days, A torch down Time's cimmerian walks to blaze, * Gibbon.

Giving Rome light when living light was o'er, And gilding his own name for evermore.

Thus, too, we burn by Avon's poplar' d wave, Where Fame her trumpet blows o'er Shakspeare's

grave, Feel solemn calm in Witham's shady dell, Where Newton seems with Nature's God to dwell, And listen, ravished, Newstead's groves among, To Byron's lofty, spirit-searching song.

A pleasure flashes deep to feeling's seat, Gentle yet heart-o'erpowering, sad yet sweet ; Its spells we own, when turning to survey Scenes loved, admired, in years long rolled away.

Bright river of my boyhood ! wandering still By cavern' d rock, and bosky, haunted hill ; Thrones may down topple, die each noble name, Plague, war, sweep earth, thou bubblest on the same, Morn flushing o'er thee, evening fading dim, Trees, walls of verdure, by thy silver brim ; E'en changeless as the stars, that nightly view Their pearly foreheads in thy glass of blue ; How warms the bosom, when thy calm, green shore, Like some long-parted friend, I hail once more !

BOOK I.] SCENES OF EAKLY YEARS. 17

Romantic Fal ! sweet Arno of our isle ! Where woods, like Vallombrosa's, wave and smile, And villas whiten by thine arrowy tide, And ruined church-towers lift their ivied pride ; Here as I view thy sky-pure, dreamy wave, Climb the shell' d bank, or tread the twilight cave, Or watch the birds that o'er thy crystal dart, What untombed memories crowd the musing heart ! That wood recalls the time when, free and blest, I plucked the glossy nut, or sought the nest ; Those jutting crags which, black with ages, lower, Have seen me bend the long, long, patient hour, Snaring the bright-scaled darter, prouder far, And happier, too, than blood-stained chiefs of war. Oh ! pictures blest, that bring those halcyon days Back to the soul, and dreams elysian raise ! Scenes, whose fresh beauty time shall ne'er destroy ! 'Tis yours to wake a visionary joy, Beyond all bliss for which earth's strugglers live, That gold commands, or honour's meed can give. What are the brightest hours that shine for age, As slow we tread our dusty pilgrimage ? Truth hearses fancy, all the heart's pure green, Faded and seared, just tells where Spring had been ; By lassitude too oft we sink oppressed, And turn from action's whirl, and sigh for rest ;

18 PLEASUEE. [BOOK I.

The soul's elastic bound, gay dreams, are o'er, And Hope, as once she lured, can lure no more : What, then, remains? benignant God, declare ! Hath manhood no high views or joys to share 1 Shall mind, truth's noble prize, aspiring thought, And the starr'd universe, be held as nought ? — No, while this brain can muse on life and man, This eye the glorious page of Nature scan, This soul hope seats beyond time's clouds of woe, Pleasure's warm fountains ne'er shall cease to now.

Prisoner of cities ! wrapp'd in vapours dun, Where gales creep poisoned, sicklied hangs the sun — Who linkest year to year, a rustying chain, No hope but petty power, no joy but gain ; Oh ! quit man's works awhile ; consent to trace The works of God in Nature's unveiled face ; Spurn the dull scene where Mammon's votaries hold Their grovelling court, and sell their souls for gold.

Stand on this breezy hill, where ruddy Health Bares her young brow, and Spring her floral wealth Throws prodigal on Earth's green lap, and laughs, Warmed by the honied dews her red lip quaffs. Front the West's mouth, that breathes so blandly calm, Lips musky sweet, whose every sigh is balm.

BOOK I.] THE CITIZEN IN THE COUNTRY. 19

Drink that pure wine — the cool and odorous gale, Till thy sunk eyes look bright, thy cheek less pale ! Ah ! richest cordial this, to cheer, inspire, Beyond man's art-distilled, foul liquid fire. Gaze in the glen beneath, where flags throw up Their plumy heads, and many a lily's cup Holds nectar for the bee that comes each morn, And sounds, for grateful joy, her small shrill horn. Trace through its sapphire windings yon quick stream, Here dun in shade, there glossy in the beam, The valley's blessing, hymning as it flows, Where fairies steal to bathe at daylight's close. Hark ! from the hill, against the jocund breeze Lifting broad shoulders, mantled o'er with trees, The piping song of countless throats is heard, Fresh from small hearts by gushing rapture stirred ; While sounds between, plunged headlong from some tall And pine-hung rock, the bright-bowed waterfall — The waterfall that shoots and spreads in air, Bursting in foam, a starry glory there.

See, on this plain a myriad flowrets bloom ! Sure it is bliss for sight long pent in gloom, To mark their sky- wove dress of countless dyes, Surpassing all Art paints, or pomp supplies.

The heath-bell, with its small pink globe that rings

Gay peals for elves, when Eve their frolic brings ;

The gorse that looks like flame on earth's green breast,

Or splash of sunset from the blood-red West ;

The wind-flower proud, as breezes o'er it steal,

Its shimmering, bright-starr'd mantle to reveal ;

The cowslip formed Morn's dewy wine to hold ;

The mottled daisy's breast, half snow, half gold ;

Yon wilding rose, so beautiful yet meek,

Pallidly pink, like love-lorn maiden's cheek ;

The early poppy with its crimson crown,

Flaunting in pride, and gazing scornful down :

The violet opening coy her sapphire eye,

Peering so modest at the wooing sky —

Oh ! such the beauteous page thou here mayst scan,

A God- writ lesson to the heart of man.

Now, as yon fan-like cloud to showers gives birth, Cooling all Heaven, and dropping balm on earth, And breezes round the hawthorn livelier toy, And birds trill out a clearer song of joy, Mark in the East, where float the clouds away, That glory fronting slow-declining day ! It spreads its glittering arch from hill to hill, Fantastic, grand, and beautifully still.

BOOK I.] THE RAIXBOW. 21

Hues, gorgeous hues, such canvas never bore —

Hues, meet to tint Heaven's seraph- trodden floor,

Mingle, yet keep apart, like that fine line

Betwixt man's meaner clay and soul divine.

It spans the vales, and deepening, brightening, grows

To one vast bridge, and where the horizon glows,

Stands the refulgent base, but who shall climb

The beam- wove side, and cross the arch sublime ?

Oh ! Deity hath smiled the wonder there,

Token of peace, and covenant of air !

And framed it beauteous for His angels' feet

To glide along, when, joyously and fleet,

They pass to earth with messages of love,

Or lead back happy souls to courts above.

One vision more, and thou, hard child of gain, Thus bursting for an hour thy Mammon-chain, Mayst seek again the scene black vapour shrouds, That solitude to spirit — busy crowds.

Turn thy charmed eye to flame-tipped western steeps, Along whose brim Day's weary chariot sweeps ; His horses' hoofs blaze gold ; their half-shut eyes Shed liquid lustre, mellowing down the skies.

Or Day seems Life upon the hills of fate,

Defending hard his gorgeous castle-gate ;

And Night is Death advancing o'er the scene,

Mournfully stern, and sullenly serene.

Yet Day lifts high his broad and brazen shield,

Defying Night's approach, and scorns to yield ;

And as his armour darts the arrowy rays,

Skies burn above, and hills beneath him blaze :

Clouds, pressing round, the conflict to behold,

Glow on his side, and, glowing, turn to gold.

His fiery splendours, smiles of valour, beam,

Play on the sloping wood, and mazy stream,

Light up wild heaths, and gild the hoary tower,

Quiver on rocks, and warm the orphan flower.

All Nature drinks the farewell, beauteous light,

And basks in joy, ere triumphs strong-armed Night :

He, in his sable robe, with ebon lance,

Fights gravely-firm, with slow but sure advance ;

Pale shines the moon for pity ; one by one,

The stars come forth, to cheer their monarch on.

As Day at length sinks conquered, sure a sigh

Breathes from Earth's heart, and trembles through

the sky ; The last faint purple speaks the struggle o'er, The discrowned king of waking hours no more ;

BOOK I.] AMERICA. 23

And, darkly beautiful, the prince of Night Sits girt by stars — his throne the solemn height.

And such is Nature in her lovelier dress, For ever striving to enchant and bless : Her glories thrall the soul, and feast the eyes, Making more pure the good, more wise the wise. Man by his God was dowered with taste refined, That beauteous forms might charm, exalt his mind : No heart so dead but doth at moments own, Touched by a gorgeous scene, a hue, a tone, That inborn pulsing, and that chaste delight, Telling, though veiled by clouds, starr'd soul is bright ; Telling, though low pursuits debase and chill, The secret fire, Heaven lit, burns warmly still.

But Nature in her grandeur, stern and rude, The mighty cataract, voiceless solitude, The mountain, home of thunder, and the roar, Eternity's wild hymn, on Ocean's shore, Wake loftier pleasure, though the humbled sense Scan with a dread thy works, Omnipotence ! — Why on this life-filled globe, where'er we stray, Do mysteries awe, and wonders track our way ? Why fails the flesh to follow soaring mind, That, too, in Wisdom's race, oft left behind,

Some height beyond, some depth we may not sound, The clue of marvels sought, but rarely found 1 'Tis to dash pride, to prove our finite state, That boastful man is weak, but God is great.

Lands of the West ! Earth's Builder gave to ye The wealth of vastness, charm of majesty; Vales spread to kingdoms, streams to oceans swell. As Heaven meant giants in those wilds should dwell. All is colossal ; sunless woods embrace Green, mighty tracts, no foot may ever trace ; Lakes, wafting fleets, unfold their azure robe, And sky-crowned mountains girdle half the globe. Immensity her sceptre stretches here, And proud Creation claims a wider sphere : Sure Nature thought our planet huger far, And deemed she laboured in a lordlier star. Till race on race the Old World's bounds o'erswept, Heaven, in reserve, this land of wonders kept : Now, the great flood-gates burst, the human tide Rolls on the scene, but still, on every side, The spreading mass is lost, like drops of rain Falling on sands, or melting in the main.

We bend our gaze where Andes' Titan forms Scale heaven anew, and smile at time and storms;

BOOK I.] THE ANDES. 25

Or well they seem, those clouds like flags unfurled,

Nature's grand watch-towers, built to guard the world.

Alps were but hillocks by their awful side,

One group surpassing all Helvetia's pride :*

Vast heaven-high walls ! where spirits, in their flight,

To rest their pinions, wondering might alight ;

A world of rocks ! a continent of steeps !

Heaved from earth's central caves, where Terror keeps

Her myst'ries and dread secrets ; born of fire,

Yet glassed with thick-ribbed ice, each granite spire ;

Fantastic crowded, where strong earthquake's hand,

A myriad ages since, convulsed the land ;

Now lifted cone-shaped, now with rounded crest,

Like surging waves spells spoke to stony rest;

Here clefts that seem hell's openings, black with shade,

Where all of Adam born might low be laid,

Earth's gathered race in one deep vault of gloom,

Yet still 'twould yawn, unfilled that hungry tomb.t

Rivals in grandeur, height doth gaze on height,

Proud in their horror, tranquil in their might ;

* The group of Cuzco alone, it is calculated, has an extent of surface three times as large as the whole of Switzerland.

f "The narrow valleys, or fissures, in some of the Andes," observes Humboldt, "are of an extraordinary depth, and fearful character. These rents are clothed with a vigorous vegetation, and in some of them Vesuvius could easily be placed, without much overtopping the sides. The great valleys, called Choto and Cutaco, are 5,000 feet deep."

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Storms scourge their feet, around them thunders roar, Those mountain-kings but look contempt, and soar, Calm, stern, as conscious of their glory now, God's finger writing on each awful brow — That man may read, and, reading, humbled be — Power, desolation, and eternity !

Oh ! fancy bear me to that unreached peak, Where e'en the eagle never whets his beak, Dread Chimborazo's top ! The shrinking eye Looks at the sun, the snow, and pathless sky ; For nought beside is there. No motion, sound, Betoken life — cold Death the lord around. Aye, Death and Solitude, on thrones of fear, Built for eternal days, sit tyrants here. Behold yon ice-fields ! Glittering floors of glass, No foot may tempt, the rock-goat dares not pass ! And there they shone, when yonder orient world The Pharaohs swayed — his shafts bold Nimrod hurled And still they'll shine, when Time the earth makes

gray, Man's works are dust, and empires melt away ! See other heights in lessened glory rise, Like steps to this — grand temple of the skies ! Sublime elsewhere, and dread, those peaks would be, Lowering terrific on the humbled sea ;

BOOK I.] THE ANDES. 27

L' Altar, disrupted, torn, and pierced appears, By fires and earthquakes of ten thousand years. But when the Summer moon in silver rides O'er its ice-pinnacles and cloven sides, Down looking with a smile of tender grace, Unearthly beauty in her saddened face, Horrors will soften, ghastly ruins glow, Delighting eyes that gaze entranced below ; As if towers, palaces, the gods of air Had raised in pearl and dazzling crystal there.*

Hark! in the pause, that hollow, stifled roar! 'Tis not from distant waves that lash the shore; The hidden flame, the demon of unrest, Fierce burns and chafes in Cotopaxi's breast. Dread mount ! too oft the imprison' d fiends prevail, Burst from the' abyss, and turn earth's dweller pale, When sounds, more loud than Heaven's deep thunders

swell, And fires stream forth, as poured from gulfs of hell ; When ashes dim the air — black hanging shrouds — And birds for terror hide them in the clouds,

* " The volcanic mountain 1' Altar, in Quito, presents a series of sharp pinnacles and ice-peaks, which, when the setting sun or the moon shines on them, have a magnificent appearance." — Travels in South America.

Hills rocking, as the earthquake shivers by, And o'erturned cities crying horror's cry.* That mount now sleeps ; the inward roar ye hear Seems but the giant's breath, and wakes no fear ; While dazzling snows crest high his peaceful cone, Pride and a solemn grandeur round him thrown.

Again, glance on — still other mountains soar, But fancy flags, the spirit asks no more ; Subhmity o'erpowers, and while it thrills, Wonder, that mocketh words, the bosom fills. Away from man, his petty aims and cares, A higher, mightier field, existence shares ; Born of the scene, each thought aspires or glows ; As earth's dread glories widen, soul, too, grows, And mounts on heaven-plumed pinion from the socl, Thus left alone, with Nature and her God. We read, as written with a pen of flame, On the vast globe, and sky, the' Eternal's name ; His presence speaks and burns in all things round — He heaves the hills, and walks the blue profound,

* The volcano of Cotopaxi is the most active and dreaded of all the volcanos in the great chain of the Andes. During the eruption of 1738, the flames rose 3,000 feet above the crater ; and in 1744, the sound of the explosions was heard at the distance of five hundred miles.

BOOK I.] FALLS OF NIAGARA. 29

Throws on the ice-towers near the gorgeous ray, Guides the fierce lightning blazing far away, The moving spirit, the inspiring soul, Designer, framer, monarch of the whole !

'Tis lofty pleasure in this land to view The wide, wide prairie, that ne'er culture knew, But teems with gay, bright flowers — spontaneous birth, As Heaven's rich floor of stars had dropp'd to earth. 'Tis solemn pleasure in those woods to stand — Sublime cathedrals raised by Nature's hand ; Woods that a thousand leagues leaf hill and vale, Where deep- voiced organs sound in every gale. 'Tis thrilling pleasure, thoughtful to behold, O'er earth's ploughed breast, wide-dashing Plata rolled ; Or view, in awful grandeur sweeping on, Smoothed by the moon, exhaustless Amazon, Calm through its mighty depths, a moving sky, A liquid world — bright-faced immensity ; Flood that bows back old Ocean's azure pride, Flood that might whelm half Europe 'neath its tide ! — But 'tis a pleasure mixed with nameless dread, A creeping fear, not all of fancy bred, When first we mark the feathery clouds of foam, Bounding from earth, a vast and snowy dome,