THOU hateful mammon, leave my loathing sight!
I view in thee the murderer of those joys
That fill the heart; clenching, with hard lean hand,
The bloody steel, which severs lastingly
Humanity's best ties. Self-centering fiend!
Thou sealest every eye, lest any more
It catch the charms of nature, or perceive
The vivid movements of the human soul
Pourtrayed in fleshy characters; thou numb'st
The nerve that throbbed so finely to the grasp
Of generous friendship, or of witching love
The more intense embrace; quenchest the glow
Of wide benevolence, mock'st her holy schemes
Of amplest bliss, and on her very lip
Freezest the mellow sigh, just risen to soothe
The passing wretched one.
I hate thee Mammon:
I hate thy servants; hate them Heaven, as those
Who counteract thy plans!
"Twere well to humanize the heart, to expand
The active soul, to embrace with one wide wish,
The universe, and move (uncentered here)
As he that travels to a better world!
One infinite, benevolent, and wise,
Works through extended space, and we but live-
Living in Him! Learn then, my soul, to look
With indefatigable gaze to God;
And struggle (aye, annihilating self)
To view the bearings of the complex whole,
From Him and with Him-this is the best aim,
The perfect triumph of Redeemed Man!
I PAST my childhood's home, and lo! 'twas dark!
The night winds whistled mid its leafless trees!
No taper twinkled cheerily to tell
That SHE the friend, had heaped the social fire,
Spread the trim board, and with an anxious heart,
Expected me, her " dearest boy," to pass
With her the evening hour! oh, no! 'twas gone
The friendly taper, and the warm fire's glow,
Trembling athwart the gloom! I listened long,
Nor heard, save the unfeeling blast of night,
That chilled my frame, or the sear ice-glazed twig
That hoarsely rustled! 'twas too much I wept!
Then I bethought me, she was coffined far
Away-laid on the earth's cold lap!
I looked again-such thoughts were too, too true,
For no ray glimmered !-I did pass along,
Shivering, and bowed to earth with heaviness,
WHEN Aurora's blushing ray
Jocund leads the morn of May,
And the pilfering zephyr blows
Odour from the new-born rose;
Or when evening's sky serene
Blazes o'er the woodland scene,
And the crimson-mantled sun
Speaks his daily labour done;
When the village hum is mute,
When in vain the Shepherd's flute
Strives the soft tone to excel
Of the lonely Philomel;
When amongst yon aged trees,
Wandering sighs the languid breeze,
And the owlet, bird of night,
Flitting round the turret's height,
Sad to Superstition's ear,
Shrieks her evening song of fear;
Or when Cynthia pours her beam
Playful on the pebbled stream,
And the deep wood's whispering glade,
Courts us to the scented shade;
Then, from every sorrow free
STELLA let me range with thee.
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in itş sound.—
THE Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn,
The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er visited that day; the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast-meal is soon dispatched
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lour.
From that last evil, oh! preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short-and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,
And Montezuma smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.
But grant the welkin fair, require not thou Who callest thyself perchance the master there, Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, Or usual 'tendance; ask not, indiscreet, Thy stockings mended, tho' the yawning rents Gape wide as Erebus, nor hope to find Some snug recess impervious; should'st thou try The customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight Of coarse checked apron, with impatient hand Twitched off when showers impend: or crossing lines Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim On such a day the hospitable rites. Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy, Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie, Or tart or pudding:-pudding he nor tart That day shall eat; nor, tho' the husband try, Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest In silence dines, and early slinks away.
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