They grossly err this thrifty race who call
A youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!
What though some trace of the barbarian state
Betrays at times the newness of their date;
What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?
The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.
Old Europe holds not in its oldest nook
A race less juvenile in thought and look;
There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;
Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:
For all the children in their aspect wear
The lines of sorrow and corrosive care;
Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,
Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.
Oh my dear England! merry land! God bless you!
Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,
Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,
Still once a year at least allowed a smile;
When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,
And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.
Nor quite extinct is that robust old race
(Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)
Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,
At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.
Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,
Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;
Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,
Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.
But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,
Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!
Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!
Vain was your hope to build an empire here:
Not ev'n your slaves will freemen deign to be—
Fly to some region where the soul is free.
Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,
With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,
Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,
And his own laws and his own blunders makes;
Leaving his people only to obey,
And sleep the noon and sing the night away.
Or waste in tawdry theatres the hours
Which here the service of the State devours.
Here nobler cares enlightened man engage
Than the poor fictions of a trifling stage.
Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic calls
To solemn caucus in her council halls,
Wherein her trembling destiny awaits
The awful issue of their high debates.
What time have they the ravings to endure
Of any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,
When Duty calls them to contrive a way
To pay the nation's debt—or not to pay?
Or when perchance upon a single voice
Depends an alderman's defeat or choice?
Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,
With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,
When they, by far more naturally, play
Shylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?
Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spare
The flaming patriot from his country's care,
Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brain
From the long thraldom of her golden chain,
Why then his tireless energies demand
A dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:
With indefatigable ears and eyes
To look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,
And picks Philosophy's delightful scraps
From fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.
For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,
Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;
And much there is to wonder at and know
In all the 'ologies, from aer to zo.
What power against such rivalry could stand?
Farewell, poor Drama! seek another land.
Fancy ev'n now anticipates the day
When your last pageant shall have passed away:
I see, I see the auctioneer profane
Each inmost recess of your hallowed reign;
While crowds of clergymen and deacons pour
Your violated horrors to explore.
Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,
Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.
Bragaldis's brush, poor Queen! is dry for you,
Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.
Yes; the same art which whilom could transport
The lost beholder to king Duncan's court,
Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'
Where the weird women, low'ring, hailed Macbeth,
Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,
With some small aid from carver and from gilder:
What masons cannot build, the painter paints
In water-colors, to delight the saints.
'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayer
Shows that had made a pious Pagan stare;
A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,
Where true believers come to worship Truth!
Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exalt
Arch above arch, and vault supporting vault;
Around the chancel, marble to the eye,
Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,
While far beyond a seeming choir extends
Whose awful depth a mimic window ends.
Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)
For ever streams a never-setting sun,
And all appears the work of hands divine,
Another Westminster—of varnished pine!
Nor only so; the very violins
Are now atoning for their ancient sins,
By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,
And winning souls as Orpheus did of yore.
Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skill
May with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,
And many a heart an orchestra may move,
Past all the power of preaching to improve.
Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,
And all things are precisely what they were;
For all the changes of our history seem
Infinite eddies in the sweeping stream,
Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,
Our course eternally is round and round;
Or why life's progress may I not compare
To a long passage up a winding stair;
We turn and turn again, as we ascend,
For ever climbing toward the unknown end,
Where one impenetrable veil of clouds
The aim and summit of our being shrouds;
And on our state bestowing but a glance,
We seem to move, but never to advance;
Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rolls
Poised on the balanced spindle of her poles,
Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,
Circling the central orb with every year,
Thus we our double journey still pursue,
Revolving still, yet ever onward too.
Think how the stage in piety began,
When early players played the 'fall of man;'
Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the Ark
Eyeing the clouds, about to disembark.
Now the Church borrows what it lent before,
And the just actors all her own restore:
Again Devotion asks the help of Art,
And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.
The self same vein which bade old bards rehearse
The book of Exodus in tragic verse,
Reveals itself in operas that mingle
Religious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.
'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,
Night after night the galleries can fill,
While crowds of Sunday amateurs admire
The tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.
Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,
When concert-rooms our worship will supply,
And sacred oratorios combine
(To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.
But soft—the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;
Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.
T. W. P.