The whispered sound, which stole on Descartes’ ear,
Hallowing the sunny visions of his youth
With that eternal mandate, “Search for Truth!”
Yes! search for Truth — the glorious path is free;
Mind shews her dwelling — Nature holds the key —
Yes! search for Truth — her tongue shall bid thee scan
The book of knowledge, for the use of Man!
Man! Man! thou poor antithesis of power!
Child of all time! yet creature of an hour!
By turns, camelion of a thousand forms,
The lord of empires, and the food of worms!
The little conqueror of a petty space,
The more than mighty, or the worse than base!
Thou ruin’d landmark, in the desert way,
Betwixt the all of glory, and decay!
Fair beams the torch of Science in thine hand,
And sheds its brightness o’er the glimmering land;
While, in thy native grandeur, bold, and free,
Thou bid’st the wilds of nature smile for thee,
And treadest Ocean’s paths full royally!
Earth yields her treasures up — celestial air
Receives thy globe of life — when, journeying there,
It bounds from dust, and bends its course on high,
And walks, in beauty, through the wondering sky.
And yet, proud clay! thine empire is a span,
Nor all thy greatness makes thee more than man!
While Knowledge, Science, only serve t’ impart
The god thou would’st be, and the thing thou art !
Where stands the Syracusan — while the roar
Of men, and engines, echoes through the shore?
Where stands the Syracusan? haggard Fate,
With ghastly smile, is sitting at the gate;
And Death forgets his silence ‘midst the crash
Of rushing ruins — and the torches’ flash
Waves redly on the straggling forms that die;
And masterless steeds, beneath that gleam, dart by,
Scared into madness, by the battle cry —
And sounds are hurtling in the angry air,
Of hate, and pain, and vengeance, and despair —
The smothered voice of babes — the long wild shriek
Of mothers — and the curse the dying speak!
Where stands the Syracusan? tranquil sage,
He bends, sublime, o’er Science’ splendid page;
Walks the high circuit of extended mind,
Surpasses man, and dreams not of mankind;
While, on his listless ear, the battle shout
Falls senseless — as if echo breath’d about
The hum of many words, the laughing glee,
Which linger’d there, when Syracuse was free.
Away! away! for louder accents fall —
But not the sounds of joy from marble hall!
Quick steps approach — but not of sylphic feet,
Whose echo heralded a smile more sweet,
Coming, all sport, th’indulgent sage, t’upbraid
For lonely hours, to studious musing, paid —
Be hushed! Destruction bares the flickering blade!
He asked to live, th’ unfinished lines to fill,
And died — to solve a problem deeper still.
He died, the glorious! who, with soaring sight,
Sought some new world, to plant his foot of might;
Thereon, in solitary pride, to stand,
And lift our planet, with a master’s hand!
He sank in death — Creation only gave
That thorn-encumbered space which forms his grave —
An unknown grave, till Tully chanced to stray,
And named the spot where Archimedes lay!
Genius! behold the limit of thy power!
Thou fir’st the soul — but, when life’s dream is o’er,
Giv’st not the silent pulse one throb the more:
And mighty beings come, and pass away,
Like other comets, and like other — clay.
Though analyzing Truth must still divide
Historic state, and scientific pride;
Yet one stale fact, our judging thoughts infer —
Since each is human, each is prone to err!
Oft, in the night of Time, doth History stray,
And lift her lantern, and proclaim it day!
And oft, when day’s eternal glories shine,
Doth Science, boasting, cry— “The light is mine!”
So hard to bear, with unobstructed sight,
Th’ excess of darkness, or th’extreme of light.
Yet, to be just, though faults belong to each,
The themes of one, an humbler moral, teach:
And, ‘midst th’ historian’s eloquence, and skill,
The human chronicler is human still.
If on past power, his eager thoughts be cast,
It brings an awful antidote— ‘tis past!
If, deathless fame, his ravish’d organs scan,
The deathless fame exists for buried man:
Power, and decay, at once he turns to view;
And, with the strength, beholds the weakness too.
Not so, doth Science’ musing son aspire;
And pierce creation, with his eye of fire.
Yon mystic pilgrims of the starry way,
No humbling lesson, to his soul, convey;
No tale of change, their changeless course hath taught;
And works divine excite no earthward thought.
And still, he, reckless, builds the splendid dream;
And still, his pride increases with his theme;
And still, the cause is slighted in th’ effect;
And still, self-worship follows self-respect.
Too apt to watch the engines of the scene,
And lose the hand, which moves the vast machine;
View Matter’s form, and not its moving soul;
Interpret parts, and misconceive the whole:
While, darkly musing ‘twixt the earth, and sky,
His heart grows narrow, as his hopes grow high;
And quits, for aye, with unavailing loss,
The sympathies of earth, but not the dross;
Till Time sweeps down the fabric of his trust;
And life, and riches, turn to death, and dust.
And such is Man! ‘neath Error’s foul assaults,
His noblest moods beget his grossest faults!
When Knowledge lifts her hues of varied grace,
The fair exotic of a brighter place,
To keep her stem, from mundane blasts, enshrin’d,
He makes a fatal hot-bed of his mind;
Too oft adapted, in their growth, to spoil
The natural beauties of a generous soil.
Ah! such is Man! thus strong, and weak withal,
His rise oft renders him too prone to fall!
The loftiest hills’ fresh tints, the soonest, fade;
And highest buildings cast the deepest shade!
So Buffon err’d; amidst his chilling dream,
The judgment grew material as the theme:
Musing on Matter, till he called away
The modes of Mind, to form the modes of clay;
And made, confusing each, with judgment blind,
Mind stoop to dust, and dust ascend to Mind.
So Leibnitz err’d; when, in the starry hour,
He read no weakness, where was written, ‘Power;’
Beheld the verdant earth, the circling sea;
Nor dreamt so fair a world could cease to be!
Yea! but he heard the Briton’s awful name,
As, scattering darkness, in his might, he came,
Girded with Truth, and earnest to confute
What gave to Matter, Mind’s best attribute.
Sternly they strove — th’ unequal race was
run!
The owlet met the eagle at the sun!
While such defects, their various forms, unfold;
And rust, so foul, obscures the brightest gold —
Let Science’ soaring sons, the ballast, cast,
But judge their present errors, by their past.
As some poor wanderer, in the darkness, goes,
When fitful wind, in hollow murmur, blows;
Hailing, with trembling joy, the lightning’s ray,
Which threats his safety, but illumes his way.
Gross faults buy deep experience. Sages tell
That Truth, like Æsop’s fox, is in a well;
And, like the goat, his fable prates about,
Fools must stay in, that wise men may get out.
What thousand scribblers, of our age, would choose
To throw a toga round the English muse;
Rending her garb of ease, which graceful grew
From Dryden’s loom, beprankt with varied hue!
In that dull aim, by Mind unsanctified,
What thousand Wits would have their wits belied,
Devoted Southey! if thou had’st not tried!
Use is the aim of Science; this the end
The wise appreciate, and the good commend.
For not, like babes, the flaming torch, we prize,
That sparkling lustre may attract our eyes;
But that, when evening shades impede the sight,
It casts, on objects round, a useful light.
Use is the aim of Science! give again
A golden sentence to the faithful pen —
Dwell not on parts! for parts contract the mind;
And knowledge still is useless, when confined.
The yearning soul, inclosed in narrow bound,
May be ingenious, but is ne’er profound:
Spoil’d of its strength, the fettered thought grows tame;
And want of air extinguishes the flame!
And as the sun, beheld in mid-day blaze,
Seems turned to darkness, as we strive to gaze;
So mental vigour, on one object, cast,
That object’s self becomes obscured at last.
‘Tis easy, as Experience may aver,
To pass from general to particular.
But most laborious to direct the soul
From studying parts, to reason on the whole:
Thoughts, train’d on narrow subjects, to let fall;
And learn the unison of each with all.
In Nature’s reign, a scale of life, we find:
A scale of knowledge, we behold, in mind;
With each progressive link, our steps ascend,
And traverse all, before they reach the end;
Searching, while Reason’s powers may farther go,
The things we know not, by the things we know.
But hold! methinks some sons of Thought demand,
“Why strive to form the Trajan’s vase in sand?
Are Reason’s paths so few, that Mind may call
Her finite energies, to tread them all?
Lo! Learning’s waves, in bounded channel, sweep;
When they flow wider, shall they run as deep?
Shall that broad surface, no dull shallow, hide,
Growing dank weeds of superficial pride?
Then Heaven may leave our giant powers alone;
Nor give each soul a focus of its own!
Genius bestows, in vain, the chosen page,
If all the tome, the minds of all, engage!”
Nay! I reply — with free congenial breast,
Let each peruse the part, which suits him best!
But, lest contracting prejudice mislead,
Regard the context, as he turns to read!
Hence, liberal feeling gives th’enlighten’d soul,
The spirit, with the letter of the scroll.
With what triumphant joy, what glad surprise,
The dull behold the dulness of the wise!
What insect tribes of brainless impudence
Buzz round the carcase of perverted sense!
What railing ideots hunt, from classic school,
Each flimsy sage, and scientific fool,
Crying, “‘Tis well! we see the blest effect
Of watchful night, and toiling intellect!”
Yet let them pause, and tremble — vainly glad;
For too much learning maketh no man mad!
Too little dims the sight, and leads us o’er
The twilight path, where fools have been before;
With not enough of Reason’s radiance seen,
To track the footsteps, where those fools have been.
Divinest Newton! if my pen may shew
A name so mighty, in a verse so low, —
Still let the sons of Science, joyful, claim
The bright example of that splendid name!
Still let their lips repeat, my page bespeak,
The sage how learned! and the man how meek!
Too wise, to think his human folly less;
Too great, to doubt his proper littleness;
Too strong, to deem his weakness past away;
Too high in soul, to glory in his clay:
Rich in all nature, but her erring side:
Endow’d with all of Science — but its pride.
AN ESSAY ON MIND. BOOK II.
ANALYSIS OF THE SECOND BOOK.
Metaphysics — Address to Metaphysicians — The most considerable portion of their errors conceived to arise from difficulties attending the use of words — That on one hand, thoughts become obscure without the assistance of language, while on the other, language from its material analogy deteriorates from spiritual meaning — Allusion to a probable mode of communication between spirits after death — That a limited respect, though not a servile submission, is due to verbal distinctions — Clearness of style peculiarly necessary to Metaphysical subjects — The graces of Composition not inconsistent with them — Plato, Bacon, Bolingbroke — The extremes into which Philosophers have fallen with regard to sensation, and reflection — Berkeley, Condillac — That subject briefly considered — Abstractions — Longinus, Burke, Price, Payne Knight — Blind submission to authorities deprecated — The Pythagorean saying opposed, and Cicero’s unphilosophical assertion alluded to — That, however, it partakes of injustice to love Truth, and yet refuse our homage to the advocates of Truth — How the names of great writers become endeared to us by early recollections — Description of the School-boy’s first intellectual gratifications — That even without reference to the past, some immortal names are entitled to our veneration, since they are connected with Truth — Bacon — Apostrophe to Locke.
Poetry is introduced — More daring than Philosophy, she personifies abstractions, and brings the things unseen before the eye of the Mind — How often reason is indebted to poetic imagery — Irving — The poetry of prose — Plato’s ingratitude — Philosophers and Poets contrasted — An attempt to define Poetry — That the passions make use of her language — Nature the poet’s study — Shakspeare — Human nature as seen in cities — Scenic nature, and how the mind is affected thereby — That Poetry exists not in the object contemplated, but is created by the contemplating mind — The ideal — Observations on the structure of verse, as adapted to the subject treated — Milton, Horace, Pope — The French Drama — Corneille, Racine — Harmony and chasteness of versification — The poem proceeds to argue, that the muse will refuse her inspiration to a soul unattuned to generous sympathy, unkindled by the deeds of Virtue, or the voice of Freedom — Contemptuous notice of those prompted only by interest to aspire to poetic eminence — What should be the Poet’s best guerdon — From the contemplation of motives connected with Freedom, we are led by no unnatural transition to Greece — Her present glorious struggle — Anticipation of her ultimate independence, and the restoration of the Muses to their ancient seats — Allusion to the death of Byron — Reflections on Mortality —
The terrors of death as beheld by the light of Nature — The consolations of death as beheld with reference to a future state — Contemplation of the immortality of Mind, and her perfected powers — Conclusion.
But now to higher themes! no more confin’d
To copy Nature, Mind returns to Mind.
We leave the throng, so nobly, and so well,
Tracing, in Wisdom’s book, things visible, —
And turn to things unseen; where, greatly wrought,
Soul questions soul, and thought revolves on thought.
My spirit loves, my voice shall hail ye, now,
Sons of the patient eye, and passionless brow!
Students sublime! Earth, man, unmov’d, ye view,
Time, circumstance; for what are they to you?
What is the crash of worlds, — the fall of kings, —
When worlds and monarchs are such brittle things!
What the tost, shatter’d bark, that blindly dares
A sea of storm? Ye sketch the wave which bears!
The cause, and not th’ effect, your thoughts exact;
The principle of action, not the act, —
The soul! the soul! and, ‘midst so grand a task,
Ye call her rushing passions, and ye ask
Whence are ye? and each mystic thing responds!
I would be all ye are — except those bonds!
Except those bonds! ev’n here is oft descried
The love to parts, the poverty of pride!
Ev’n here, while Mind, in Mind’s horizon, springs,
Her “native mud” is weighing on her wings!
Ev’n here, while Truth invites the ardent crowd,
Ixion-like, they rush t’ embrace a cloud!
Ev’n here, oh! foul reproach to human wit!
A Hobbes hath reasoned, and Spinosa writ!
Rank pride does much! and yet we justly cry,
Our greatest errors in our weakness lie.
For thoughts uncloth’d by language are, at best,
Obscure; while grossness injures those exprest —
Through words, — in whose analysis, we find
Th’ analogies of Matter, not of Mind:
Hence, when the use of words is graceful brought,
As physical dress to metaphysic thought,
The thought, howe’er sublime its pristine state,
Is by th’ expression made degenerate;
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 8