Its spiritual essence changed, or cramp’d; and hence
Some hold by words, who cannot hold by sense;
And leave the thought behind, and take th’ attire —
Elijah’s mantle — but without his fire!
Yet spurn not words! ‘tis needful to confess
They give ideas, a body and a dress!
Behold them traverse Learning’s region round,
The vehicles of thought on wheels of sound;
Mind’s winged strength, wherewith the height is won,
Unless she trust their frailty to the sun.
Destroy the body! — will the spirit stay?
Destroy the car! — will Thought pursue her way?
Destroy the wings! — let Mind their aid forego!
Do no Icarian billows yawn below?
Ah! spurn not words with reckless insolence;
But still admit their influence with the sense,
And fear to slight their laws! Perchance we find
No perfect code transmitted to mankind;
And yet mankind, till life’s dark sands are run,
Prefers imperfect government to none.
Thus Thought must bend to words! — Some sphere of bliss,
Ere long, shall free her from th’ alloy of this:
Some kindred home for Mind — some holy place,
Where spirits look on spirits, “face to face,” —
Where souls may see, as they themselves are seen,
And voiceless intercourse may pass between,
All pure — all free! as light, which doth appear
In its own essence, incorrupt and clear!
One service, praise! one age, eternal youth!
One tongue, intelligence! one subject, truth!
Till then, no freedom, Learning’s search affords,
Of soul from body, or of thought from words.
For thought may lose, in struggling to be hence,
The gravitating power of Common-sense;
Through all the depths of space with Phaeton hurl’d,
T’ impair our reason, as he scorch’d our world.
Hence, this preceptive truth, my page affirms —
Respect the technicality of terms!
Yet not in base submission — lest we find
That, aiding clay, we crouch too low for Mind;
Too apt conception’s essence to forget,
And place all wisdom in the alphabet.
Still let appropriate phrase the sense invest;
That what is well conceived be well exprest!
Nor e’er the reader’s wearied brain engage,
In hunting meaning down the mazy page,
With three long periods tortured into one,
The sentence ended, with the sense begun;
Nor in details, which schoolboys know by heart,
Perplex each turning with the terms of art.
To understand, we deem no common good;
And ‘tis less easy to be understood .
But let not clearness be your only praise,
When style may charm a thousand different ways;
In Plato glow, to life and glory wrought,
By high companionship with noblest thought;
In Bacon, warm abstraction with a breath,
Catch Poesy’s bright beams, and smile beneath;
In St. John roll, a generous stream, along,
Correctly free, and regularly strong.
Nor scornful deem the effort out of place,
With taste to reason, and convince with grace;
But ponder wisely, ere you know, too late,
Contempt of trifles will not prove us great!
The Cynics, not their tubs, respect engage;
And dirty tunic never made a sage.
E’en Cato — had he own’d the Senate’s will,
And wash’d his toga — had been Cato still.
Justly we censure — yet are free to own,
That indecision is a crime unknown.
For, never faltering, seldom reasoning long,
And still most positive whene’er most wrong,
No theoretic sage is apt to fare
Like Mah’met’s coffin — hung in middle air!
No! fenc’d by Error’s all-sufficient trust,
These stalk “in nubibus” — those crawl in dust.
From their proud height, the first demand to know,
If spiritual essence should descend more low?
The last, as vainly, from their dunghill, cry,
Can body’s grossness hope t’aspire more high?
And while Reflection’s empire, these disclose,
Sensation’s sovereign right is told by those.
Lo! Berkeley proves an old hypothesis!
‘Out on the senses!’ (he was out of his!)
‘All is idea! and nothing real springs
But God, and Reason’ — (not the right of kings?)
‘Hold!’ says Condillac with profound surprise —
‘Why prate of Reason? we have ears and eyes!’
Condillac! while the dangerous periods fall
Upon thy page, to stamp sensation all ;
While (coldly studious!) thine ingenious scroll
Endows the mimic statue with a soul
Compos’d of sense — behold the generous hound —
His piercing eye, his ear awake to sound,
His scent, most delicate organ! and declare
What triumph hath the “Art of thinking” there!
What Gall, or Spurzheim, on his front hath sought
The mystic bumps indicative of Thought?
Or why, if Thought do there maintain her throne,
Will reasoning curs leave logic for a bone?
Mind is imprison’d in a lonesome tower:
Sensation is its window — hence herb, flower,
Landscapes all sun, the rush of thousand springs,
Waft in sweet scents, fair sights, soft murmurings;
And in her joy, she gazeth — yet ere long,
Reason awaketh in her, bold and strong,
And o’er the scene exerting secret laws,
First seeks th’ efficient, then the final cause,
Abstracts from forms their hidden accidents,
And marks in outward substance, inward sense.
Our first perceptions formed — we search, to find
The operations of the forming mind;
And turn within by Reason’s certain route,
To view the shadows of the things without
Discern’d, retain’d, compar’d, combin’d, and brought
To mere abstraction, by abstracting Thought.
Hence to discern, retain, compare, connect,
We deem the faculties of Intellect;
The which, mus’d on, exert a new controul,
And fresh ideas are open’d on the soul.
Sensation is a stream with dashing spray,
That shoots in idle speed its arrowy way;
When lo! the mill arrests its waters’ course,
Turning to use their unproductive force:
The cunning wheels by foamy currents sped,
Reflection triumphs, — and mankind is fed!
Since Pope hath shewn, and Learning still must shew,
‘We cannot reason but from what we know,’ —
Unfold the scroll of Thought; and turn to find
The undeceiving signature of Mind!
There, judge her nature by her nature’s course,
And trace her actions upwards to their source.
So when the property of Mind we call
An essence, or a substance spiritual,
We name her thus, by marking how she clings
Less to the forms than essences of things;
For body clings to body — objects seen
And substance sensible alone have been
Sensation’s study; while reflective Mind,
Essence unseen in objects
seen may find;
And, tracing whence her known impressions came,
Give single forms an universal name.
So, when particular sounds in concord rise,
Those sounds as melody , we generalize;
When pleasing shapes and colours blend, the soul
Abstracts th’ idea of beauty from the whole,
Deducting thus, by Mind’s enchanting spell,
The intellectual from the sensible.
Hence bold Longinus’ splendid periods grew,
‘Who was himself the great sublime he drew:’
Hence Burke, the poet-reasoner, learn’d to trace
His glowing style of energetic grace:
Hence thoughts, perchance, some favour’d bosoms move,
Which Price might own, and classic Knight approve!
Go! light a rushlight, ere the day is done,
And call its glimm’ring brighter than the sun!
Go! while the stars in midnight glory beam,
Prefer their cold reflection in the stream!
But be not that dull slave, who only looks
On Reason, “through the spectacles of books!”
Rather by Truth determine what is true, —
And reasoning works, through Reason’s medium, view;
For authors can’t monopolize her light:
‘Tis your’s to read, as well as their’s to write.
To judge is your’s! — then why submissive call,
‘The master said so?’— ‘tis no rule at all!
Shall passive sufferance e’en to mind belong,
When right divine in man is human wrong?
Shall a high name a low idea enhance,
When all may fail, as some succeed — by chance?
Shall fix’d chimeras unfix’d reason shock?
And if Locke err, must thousands err with Locke?
Men! claim your charter! spurn th’ unjust controul,
And shake the bondage from the free-born soul!
Go walk the porticoes! and teach your youth
All names are bubbles, but the name of Truth!
If fools, by chance, attend to Wisdom’s rules,
‘Tis no dishonour to be right with fools.
If human faults to Plato’s page belong,
Not ev’n with Plato, willingly go wrong.
But though the judging page declare it well
To love Truth better than the lips which tell;
Yet ‘twere an error, with injustice class’d,
T’ adore the former, and neglect the last.
Oh! beats there, Heav’n! a heart of human frame,
Whose pulses throb not at some kindling name?
Some sound, which brings high musings in its track,
Or calls perchance the days of childhood back,
In its dear echo, — when, without a sigh,
Swift hoop, and bounding ball, were first laid by,
To clasp in joy, from school-room tyrant, free,
The classic volume on the little knee,
And con sweet sounds of dearest minstrelsy,
Or words of sterner lore; the young brow fraught
With a calm brightness which might mimic thought,
Leant on the boyish hand — as, all the while,
A half-heav’d sigh, or aye th’ unconscious smile
Would tell how, o’er that page, the soul was glowing,
In an internal transport, past the knowing!
How feelings, erst unfelt, did then appear,
Give forth a voice, and murmur, “We are here!”
As lute-strings, which a strong hand plays upon;
Or Memnon’s statue singing ‘neath the sun.
Ah me! for such are pleasant memories —
And call the tears of fondness to our eyes
Reposing on this gone-by dream — when thus,
One marbled book was all the world to us;
The gentlest bliss our innocent thoughts could find —
The happiest cradle of our infant mind!
And though such hours be past, we shall not less
Think on their joy with grateful tenderness;
And bless the page which bade our reason wake, —
And love the prophet, for his mission’s sake.
But not alone doth Memory’s smouldering flame
Reflect a radiance on a glorious name;
For there are names of pride; and they who bear
Have walked with Truth, and turn’d their footsteps where
We walk not — their beholdings aye have been
O’er Mind’s far countries which we have not seen —
Our thoughts are not their thoughts! — and oft we dream
That light upon the awful brow doth gleam,
From that high converse; as when Moses trod
Towards the people, from the mount of God,
His lips were silent, but his face was bright,
And prostrate Israel trembled at the sight.
What tongue can syllable our Bacon’s name,
Nor own a heart exulting in his fame?
Where prejudice’ wild blasts were wont to blow,
And waves of ignorance roll’d dark below,
He raised his sail — and left the coast behind, —
Sublime Columbus of the realms of Mind!
Dared folly’s mists, opinion’s treacherous sands,
And walk’d, with godlike step, th’ untrodden lands!
But ah! our Muse of Britain, standing near,
Hath dimm’d my tablet with a pensive tear!
Thrice, the proud theme, her free-born voice essays, —
And thrice that voice is faltering in his praise —
Yea! till her eyes in silent triumph turn
To mark afar her Locke’s sepulchral urn!
Oh urn! where students rapturous vigils keep,
Where sages envy, and where patriots weep!
Oh Name! that bids my glowing spirit wake —
To freemen’s hearts endeared for Freedom’s sake!
Oh soul! too bright in life’s corrupting hour,
To rise by faction, or to crouch to power!
While radiant Genius lifts her heav’nward wing,
And human bosoms own the Mind I sing;
While British writers British thoughts record,
And England’s press is fearless as her sword;
While, ‘mid the seas which gird our favor’d isle,
She clasps her charter’d rights with conscious smile;
So long be thou her glory, and her guide,
Thy page her study, and thy name her pride!
Oh! ever thus, immortal Locke, belong
First to my heart, as noblest in my song;
And since in thee, the muse enraptured find
A moral greatness, and creating mind,
Still may thine influence, which with honor’d light
Beams when I read, illume me as I write!
The page too guiltless, and the soul too free,
To call a frown from Truth, or blush from thee!
But where Philosophy would fear to soar,
Young Poesy’s elastic steps explore!
Her fairy foot, her daring eye pursues
The light of faith — nor trembles as she views!
Wont o’er the Psalmist’s holy harp to hang,
And swell the sacred note when Milton sang;
Mingling reflection’s chords with fancy’s lays,
The tones of music with the voice of praise!
And while Philosophy, in spirit, free,
Reasons, believes, yet cannot plainly see ,
Poetic Rapture, to her dazzled sight,
Pourtrays the shadows of the things of light;
Delighting o’er the unseen worlds to roam,
And waft the pictures of perfection home.
Thus Reason oft the aid of fancy seeks,
And strikes Pierian chords — when Irving speaks!
Oh! silent be the withering tongue of those
Who call each page, bereft of measure, prose;
Who deem the Muse possest of such faint spells,
That like poor fools, she glories in her bells ;
Who hear her voice alone in tinkling chime,
And find a line’s whole magic in its rhyme;
Forgetting, if the gilded shrine be fair,
What purer spirit may inhabit there!
For such, — indignant at her questioned might,
Let Genius cease to charm — and Scott to write!
Ungrateful Plato! o’er thy cradled rest,
The Muse hath hung, and all her love exprest;
Thy first imperfect accents fondly taught,
And warm’d thy visions with poetic thought!
Ungrateful Plato! should her deadliest foe
Be found within the breast she tended so?
Spoil’d of her laurels, should she weep to find
The best belov’d become the most unkind?
And was it well or generous, Brutus like,
To pierce the hand that gave the power to strike?
Sages, by reason, reason’s powers direct;
Bards, through the heart, convince the intellect.
Philosophy majestic brings to view
Mind’s perfect modes, and fair proportions too;
Enchanting Poesy bestows the while,
Upon its sculptured grace, her magic smile,
Bids the cold form, with living radiance glow,
And stamps existence on its marble brow!
For Poesy’s whole essence, when defined,
Is elevation of the reasoning mind,
When inward sense from Fancy’s page is taught,
And moral feeling ministers to Thought.
And hence, the natural passions all agree
In seeking Nature’s language — poetry.
When Hope, in soft perspective, from afar,
Sees lovely scenes more lovely than they are;
To deck the landscape, tiptoe Fancy brings
Her plastic shapes, and bright imaginings.
Or when man’s breast by torturing pangs is stung,
If fearful silence cease t’ enchain his tongue,
In metaphor, the feelings seek relief,
And all the soul grows eloquent with grief.
Poetic fire, like Vesta’s, pure and bright,
Should draw from Nature’s sun, its holy light.
With Nature, should the musing poet roam,
And steal instruction from her classic tome;
When ‘neath her guidance, least inclin’d to err —
The ablest painter when he copies her .
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 9