OF AUTHORSHIP.
Great is the dignity of Authorship: I magnify mine office;
Albeit in much feebleness I hold it thus unworthily.
For it is to be one of a noble band, the welfare of the world,
Whose haunt is on the lips of men, whose dwelling in their hearts,
Who are precious in the retrospect of Memory, and walk among the visions of Hope,
Who commune with the good for everlasting, and call the wisest, brother,
Whose voice hath burst the Silence, and whose light is flung upon the Darkness,
Who gladden empires with their wisdom, and bless to the farthest generation,
Doers of illimitable good, gainers of inestimable glory!—
We speak but of the Magnates, we heed none humbler than the highest,
We take no count of sorry scribes, nor waste one thought upon the groundlings;
Our eyes are lifted from the multitude, groping in the dark with candles,
To gaze upon that firmament of praise, the constellated lamps of learning.
Ever-during witnesses of Mind, undisputed evidence of Power,
Goodly volumes, living stones, build up their author's temple;
Though of low estate, his rank is above princes,—though needy, he hath worship of the rich,
When Genius unfurleth on the winds his banner as a mighty leader.
Just in purpose, and self-possessed in soul, lord of many talents,
The mental Crœsus goeth forth, rejoicing in his wealth;
Keen and clear perception gloweth on his forehead like a sunbeam,
He readeth men at a glance, and mists roll away before him;
The wise have set him as their captain, the foolish are rebuked at his presence,
The excellent bless him with their prayers, and the wicked praise him by their curses;
His voice, mighty in operation, stirreth up the world as a trumpet,
And kings account it honour to be numbered of his friends.
Rare is the worthiness of authorship: I justify mine office;
Albeit fancies weak as mine credit not the calling.
For it addeth immortality to dying facts, that are ready to vanish away,
Embalming as in amber the poor insects of an hour;
Shedding upon stocks and stones the tender light of interest,
And illumining dark places of the earth, with radiance of classic lustre.
It hath power to make past things present, and availeth for the present in the future,
Delivering thoughts, and words, and deeds, from the outer darkness of oblivion.
Where are the sages and the heroes, giants of old time?—
Where are the mighty kings, that reigned before Agamemnon?—
Alas they lie unwept, unhonoured, hidden in the midnight:
Alas, for they died unchronicled: their memorial perished with them.
Where are the nobles of Nineveh, and mitred rulers of Babylon?
Where are the lords of Edom, and the royal pontiffs of Thebais?
The golden Satrap, and the Tetrarch,—the Hun, and the Druid, and the Celt?
The merchant princes of Phœnicia, and the minds that fashioned Elephanta?
Alas, for the poet hath forgotten them; and lo! they are outcasts of Memory;
Alas, that they are withered leaves, sapless and fallen from the chaplet of fame.
Speak, Etruria, whose bones be these, entombed with costly care,—
Tell out, Herculaneum, the titles that have sounded in those thy palaces,—
Lycian Xanthus, thy citadels are mute, and the honour of their architects hath died;
Copan and Palenque, dreamy ruins in the West, the forest hath swallowed up your sculptures;
Syracuse,—how silent of the past!—Carthage, thou art blotted from remembrance!
Egypt, wondrous shores, ye are buried in the sand-hills of forgetfulness!
Alas,—for in your glorious youth Time himself was young,
And none durst wrestle with that Angel, iron-sinewed bridegroom of Space;
So he flew by, strong upon the wing, nor dropped one failing feather,
Wherewith some hoary scribe might register your honour and renown.
Beyond the broad Atlantic, in the regions of the setting sun,
Ask of the plume-crowned Incas, that ruled in old Peru,—
Ask of grand Caziques, and priests of the pyramids in Mexico,—
Ask of a thousand painted tribes, high nobility of Nature,
Who, once, could roam their own Elysian plains, free, generous, and happy,
Who, now, degraded and in exile, having sold their fatherland for nought,
Sink and are extinguished in the western seas, even as the sun they follow,—
Where is the record of their deeds, their prowess worthy of Achilles,
Nestor's wisdom, the chivalry of Manlius, the native eloquence of Cicero,
The skill of Xenophon, the spirit of Alcibiades, the firmness of a Maccabæan mother,
Brotherly love that Antigone might envy, the honour and the fortitude of Regulus?
Alas, their glory and their praise have vanished like a summer cloud;
Alas! that they are dead indeed; they are not written down in the Book of the living.
High is the privilege of Authorship: I purify mine office;
Albeit earthy stains pollute it in my hands.
For it is to the world a teacher and a guide, Mentor of that gay Telemachus;
Warning, comforting, and helping,—a lover and friend of Man.
Heaven's almoner, Earth's health, patient minister of goodness,
With kind and zealous pen, the wise religious blesseth:
Nature's worshipper, and neophyte of grace, rich in tender sympathies,
With kindled soul and flashing eye, the poet poureth out his heartful:
Priest of truth, champion of innocence, warder of the gates of praise,
Carefully with sifting search laboureth the pale historian:
Error's enemy, and acolyte of science, firm in sober argument,
The calm philosopher marshalleth his facts, noting on his page their principles.
These pour mercies upon men; and others, little less in honour,
By cheerful wit and graphic tale refreshening the harassed spirit.
But, there be other some beside, buyers and sellers in the temple,
Who shame their high vocation, greedy of inglorious gain;
There be, who fabricating books, heed of them meanly as of merchandise;
And seek nor use, nor truth, nor fame, but sell their minds for lucre:
O false brethren! ye wot indeed the labour, but are witless of the love;
O lying prophets, chilled in soul, unquickened by the life of inspiration!—
And there be, who, frivolous and vain, seek to make others foolish,
Snaring youth by loose sweet song, and age by selfish maxim;
Cleverly heartless, and wittily profane, they swell the river of corruption:
Brilliant satellites of sin,—my soul, be not found among their company.
And there be, who, haters of religion, toil to prove it priestcraft,
Owning none other aim nor hope, but to confound the good:
Woe unto them! for their works shall live; yea, to their utter condemnation:
Woe! for their own handwriting shall testify against them for ever.
Pure is the happiness of Authorship: I glorify mine office;
Albeit lightly having sipped the cup of its lower pleasures.
For it is to feel with a father's heart, when he yearneth on the child of his affections;
To rejoice in a man's own miniature world, gladdened by its rare arrangement.
The poem, is it not a fabric of mind? we love what we create:
That choice and musical order,—how pleasant is the toil of composition!
Yea, when the volume of the universe was blazoned out in beauty by its Author,
God was glad, and blessed His work; for it was very good.
And shall not the image of his Maker be happy in his own mind's doing,
Looking on the structure he hath reared, gratefully with sweet complacence?
Shall not the Minerva of his brain, panoplied and perfect in proportions,
Gladden the soul and give light unto the eyes, of him the travailing parent?
Go to the sculptor, and ask him of his dreams,—wherefore are his nights so moonlit?
Angel faces, and beautiful shapes, fascinate the pale Pygmalion:
Go to the painter, and trace his reveries,—wherefore are his days so sunny?
Choice design, and skilful colouring, charm the flitting hours of Parrhasius:
Even so, walking in his buoyancy, intoxicate with fairy fancies,
The young enthusiast of authorship goeth on his way rejoicing:
Behold,—he is gallantly attended; legions of thrilling thoughts
Throng about the standard of his mind, and call his Will their captain;
Behold,—his court is as a monarch's; ideas, and grand imaginations
Swell, with gorgeous cavalcade, the splendour of his Spiritual State;
Behold,—he is delicately served: for oftentimes, in solitary calmness,
Some mental fair Egeria smileth on her Numa's worship;
Behold,—he is happy; there is gladness in his eye, and his heart is a sealed fountain,
Bounding secretly with joys unseen, and keeping down its ecstasy of pleasure!
Yea: how dignified, and worthy, full of privilege and happiness,
Standeth in majestic independence the self-ennobled Author!
For God hath blessed him with a mind, and cherished it in tenderness and purity,
Hath taught it in the whisperings of wisdom, and added all the riches of content:
Therefore, leaning on his God, a pensioner for soul and body,
His spirit is the subject of none other, calling no man Master.
His hopes are mighty and eternal, scorning small ambitions:
He hideth from the pettiness of praise, and pitieth the feebleness of envy.
If he meet honours, well; it may be his humility to take them:
If he be rebuked, better; his veriest enemy shall teach him.
For the master-mind hath a birthright of eminence; his cradle is an eagle's eyrie:
Need but to wait till his wings are grown, and Genius soareth to the sun:
To creeping things upon the mountain leaveth he the gradual ascent,
Resting his swiftness on the summit only for a higher flight.
Glad in clear good-conscience, lightly doth he look for commendation;
What, if the prophet lacketh honour? for he can spare that praise:
The honest giant careth not to be patted on the back by pigmies;
Flatter greatness, he brooketh it good-humouredly: blame him,—thou tiltest at a pyramid:
Yet, just censure of the good never can he hear without contrition;
Neither would he miss one wise man's praise, for scarce is that jewel and costly:
Only for the herd of common minds, and the vulgar trumpetings of fame,
If aught he heedeth in the matter, his honour is sought in their neglect.
Slender is the marvel, and little is the glory, when round his luscious fruits
The worm and the wasp and the multitude of flies are gathered as to banquet;
Fashion's freak, and the critical sting, and the flood of flatteries he scorneth;
Cheerfully asking of the crowd the favour to forget him:
The while his blooming fruits ripen in richer fragrance,
A feast for the few,—and the many yet unborn,—who still shall love their savour.
So then, humbly with his God, and proudly independent of his fellows,
Walketh, in pleasures multitudinous, the man ennobled by his pen:
He hath built up, glorious architect, a monument more durable than brass;
His children's children shall talk of him in love, and teach their sons his honour:
His dignity hath set him among princes, the universe is debtor to his worth,
His privilege is blessing for ever, his happiness shineth now,
For he standeth of that grand Election, each man one among a thousand,
Whose sound is gone out into all lands, and their words to the end of the world!
