Oh! why do we wake from the alchymist’s dream
To relapse to the visions of Doctor Spurzheim?
And why from the heights of philosophy fall,
For the profitless plans of Phrenology Gall?
To what do they tend?
What interest befriend?
By disclosing all vices, we burn away shame,
And virtuous endeavour
Is fruitless for ever,
If it lose the reward that self-teaching may claim.
On their skulls let the cold-blooded theorists seek
Indications of soul, which we read on the cheek;
In the glance—in the smile—in the bend of the brow
We dare not tell when, and we cannot tell how.
More pleasing our task,
No precepts we ask;
’Tis the tact, ’tis the instinct, kind Nature has lent,
For the guide and direction of sympathy meant.
And altho’ in our cause no learn’d lecturer proses,
We reach the same end, thro’ a path strew’d with roses.
’Twixt the head and the hand, be the contact allow’d,
Of the road thro’ the eye to the heart we are proud.
When we feel like the brutes, like the brutes we may show it,
But no lumps on the head mark the artist or poet.
The gradations of genius you never can find,
Since no matter can mark the refinements of mind.
’Tis the coarser perceptions alone that you trace,
But what swells in the heart must be read in the face.
That index of feeling, that key to the soul,
No art can disguise, no reserve can control.
’Tis the Pharos of love, tost on oceans of doubt,
’Tis the Beal-fire of rage—when good sense puts about.
As the passions may paint it—a heaven or a hell.
And ’tis always a study—not model as well.
TO THE RHONE
For the Table Book.
Thou art like our existence, and thy waves,
Illustrious river! seem the very type
Of those events which drive us to our graves,
Or rudely place us in misfortune’s gripe!
Thou art an emblem of our changeful state,
Smooth when the summer magnifies thy charms.
But rough and cheerless when the winds create
Rebellion, and remorseless winter arms
The elements with ruin! In thy course
The ups and downs of fortune we may trace—
One wave submitting to another’s force,
The boldest always foremost in the race:
And thus it is with life—sometimes its calm
Is pregnant with enjoyment’s sweetest balm;
At other times, its tempests drive us down
The steep of desolation, while the frown
Of malice haunts us, till the friendlier tomb
Protects the victim she would fain consume!
B. W. R.
Upper Park Terrace.