No careless Childhood laugh'd disportingly,44
But dwarf'd, pale mandrakes with a century's gloom
On infant brows, beneath a poison-tree
With skeleton fingers plied a ghastly loom,
Mocking in cynic jests life's gravest things,
They wove gay King-robes, muttering "What are Kings?"
And through that dreary Hades to and fro,45
Stalk'd all unheeded the Tartarean Guests;
Grim Discontent that loathes the Gods, and Woe
Clasping dead infants to her milkless breasts;
And madding Hate, and Force with iron heel,
And voiceless Vengeance sharp'ning secret steel.
And, hand in hand, a Gorgon-visaged Pair,46
Envy and Famine, halt with livid smile,
Listening the demon-orator Despair,
That, with a glozing and malignant guile,
Seems sent the gates of Paradise to ope,
And lures to Hell by simulating Hope.
"Can such things be below and God above?"47
Falter'd the King;—Replied the Genius—"Nay,
This is the state that sages most approve;
This is Man civilized!—the perfect sway
Of Merchant Kings;—the ripeness of the Art
Which cheapens men—the Elysium of the Mart.
"Twixt want and wealth is placed the Reign of Gold;48
The reign for which each race advancing sighs,
And none so clamour to be bought or sold
As those gaunt shadows—Trade's grim merchandize.
Dread not their curse—for their delirious sight
Hails in the yellow pest 'The march of Light.'"
"Better for nations," cried the wrathful King.49
"The antique chief, whose palace was the glen,
Whose crown the plumage of the eagle's wing,
Whose throne the hill-top, and whose subjects—men,
Than that last thraldom which precedes decay,
For Avarice reigns not till the hairs are grey.
"Is it in marts that manhood finds its worth?50
When merchants reign'd—what left they to admire?
Which hath bequeath'd the nobler wealth to earth,
The steel of Sparta, or the gold of Tyre?
Beneath the night-shade let the mandrakes grow—
Hide from my sight that Lazar-house of woe."
So, turn'd with generous tears in manly eyes51
The hardy Lord of heaven-taught Chivalry;
Lo the third arch and last!—In moonlight, rise
The Cymrian rocks dark-shining from the sea,
And all those rocks, some patriot war, far gone,
Hallows with grassy mound and starlit stone.
And where the softest falls the loving light,52
He sees himself, stretch'd lifeless on the sward,
And by the corpse, with sacred robes of white
Leans on his ivory harp a lonely Bard;
Yea, to the Dead the sole still watchers given
Are the Fame-Singer and the Hosts of Heaven.
But on the kingly front the kingly crown53
Rests;—the pale right hand grasps the diamond glaive;
The brow, on which ev'n strife hath left no frown,
Calm in the halo Glory gives the Brave.
"Mortal, is this thy choice?" the Genius cried.
"Here Death; there Pleasure; and there Pomp!—decide!"