The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius. James Beattie

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      Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles torn,

      The babes, now famished, lay them down to die;

      ’Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn,

      Folded in one another’s arms they lie;

      Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry:

      ‘For from the town the man returns no more.’

      But thou, who Heaven’s just vengeance darest defy,

      This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,

      When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.

      A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy

      Brightened one moment Edwin’s starting tear. —

      ‘But why should gold man’s feeble mind decoy,

      ‘And innocence thus die by doom severe?’

      O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,

      The assaults of discontent and doubt repel:

      Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;

      But let us hope; to doubt, is to rebel;

      Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

      Nor be thy generous indignation checked,

      Nor checked the tender tear to misery given;

      From Guilt’s contagious power shall that protect,

      This soften and refine the soul for heaven.

      But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt hath driven

      To censure Fate, and pious hope forego;

      Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,

      Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,

      But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.

      Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,

      Scarce fill the circle of one summer-day,

      Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,

      Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay,

      If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,

      If but a momentary shower descend!

      Or shall frail man Heaven’s dread decree gainsay,

      Which bade the series of events extend

      Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end!

      One part, one little part, we dimly scan,

      Through the dark medium of life’s feverish dream;

      Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,

      If but that little part incongruous seem.

      Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem;

      Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.

      O then, renounce that impious self-esteem,

      That aims to trace the secrets of the skies:

      For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

      Thus, Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years.

      For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar,

      On Fancy’s wing above this vale of tears;

      Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore

      Through microscope of metaphysic lore:

      And much they grope for truth, but never hit.

      For why? their powers, inadequate before,

      This art preposterous renders more unfit;

      Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.

      Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth.

      Her ballad, jest, and riddle’s quaint device,

      Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth;

      Whom levity or spleen could ne’er entice

      To purchase chat or laughter at the price

      Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed,

      That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.

      Ah! had they been of court or city breed,

      Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

      Oft when the winter-storm had ceased to rave,

      He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view

      The cloud stupendous, from the Atlantic wave

      High-towering, sail along the horizon blue:

      Where, ’midst the changeful scenery ever new,

      Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,

      More wildly great than ever pencil drew;

      Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,

      And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

      Thence, musing, onward to the sounding shore,

      The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,

      Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar

      Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array

      When sulphurous clouds rolled on the vernal day,

      Even then he hastened from the haunt of man,

      Along the darkening wilderness to stray,

      What time the lightning’s fierce career began,

      And o’er heaven’s rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

      Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all

      In sprightly dance the village-youth were joined,

      Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

      From the rude gambol far remote reclined,

      Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind.

      Ah then, all jollity seemed noise and folly.

      To the pure soul, by Fancy’s fire refined,

      Ah, what is mirth, but turbulence unholy,

      When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!

      Is there a heart that music cannot melt?

      Ah me! how is that rugged heart forlorn!

      Is there, who ne’er those mystic transports felt,

      Of solitude and melancholy born?

      He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.

      The sophist’s rope of cobweb he shall twine;

      Mope o’er the schoolman’s peevish page; or mourn,

      And delve for life, in Mammon’s dirty mine;

      Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

      For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had planned;

      Song was his favourite and first pursuit.

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