The patriotism of that people, traces of whose victories are observable in many of our customs, has been well discriminated. “In the most virtuous times of the Roman republic their country was the idol, at whose shrine her greatest patriots were at all times prepared to offer whole hecatombs of human victims: the interests of other nations were no further regarded, than as they could be rendered subservient to the gratification of her ambition; and mankind at large were considered as possessing no rights, but such as might with the utmost propriety be merged in that devouring vortex. With all their talents and their grandeur, they were unprincipled oppressors, leagued in a determined conspiracy against the liberty and independence of mankind.”[304] Every English patriot disclaims, on behalf of his country, the exclusive selfishness of Roman policy; and Millhouse is a patriot in the true sense of the word. His “Song of the Patriot” is a series of energetic stanzas, that would illustrate the remark. At the hazard of exceeding prescribed limits, two more are added to the specimens already quoted.
A beacon, lighted on a giant hill;
A sea-girt watch-tower to each neighbouring state;
A barrier, to control the despot’s will;
An instrument of all-directing fate
Is Britain; for whate’er in man is great,
Full to that greatness have her sons attain’d;
Dreadful in war to hurl the battle’s weight;
Supreme in arts, in commerce unrestrain’d;
Peerless in magic song, to hold the soul enchain’d.
In wealth and power stupendous is our isle!
Obtain’d by Labour’s persevering hand:
And heaven-born Liberty extends her smile
To the remotest corners of our land:
The meanest subject feels her potent wand;
Peasant and peer are by one law controll’d;
And this it is, that keeps us great and grand:
This is the impulse makes our warriors bold,
And knits more close the bond our fathers seal’d of old.
The prevailing feature in Robert Millhouse’s effusions is of a domestic nature. He loves his country, and deems his birthplace and the hearth of his family its brightest spots. One of his sonnets combines these feelings:—
Home.
Scenes of my birth, and careless childhood hours.
Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales!
Where oft I wander’d, plucking vernal flowers,
And revell’d in the odour-breathing gales;
Should fickle Fate, with talismanic wand,
Bear me afar where either India glows,
Or fix my dwelling on the Polar land,
Where Nature wears her ever-during snows;
Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn,
When placid evening paints the western sky,
And when Hyperion wakes the blushing Morn,
To rear his gorgeous sapphire throne on high.
For, to the guileless heart, where’er we roam,
No scenes delight us like our much-lov’d Home.
A man so humble, with such acquirements as have been here exemplified, and so unfortunate as to have derived little from their exercise but pain and disappointment, may be imagined to have penned the following address in distress and despondency:—
To Genius.
O born of heaven, thou Child of magic Song!
What pangs, what cutting hardships wait on thee,
When thou art doom’d to cramping Poverty;
The pois’nous shafts from Defamation’s tongue,—
The jeers and tauntings of the blockhead throng,
Who joy to see thy bold exertions fail;
While Hunger, pinching as December’s gale,
Brings moody dark Despondency along.
And, should’st thou strive Fame’s lofty mount to scale,
The steps of its ascent are cut in sand;
And half-way up,—a snake-scourge in her hand,
Lurks pallid Envy, ready to assail:
And last, if thou the top, expiring, gain,
When Fame applauds, thou hearest not the strain.
In this sheet there is not room to further make known, or plead at greater length, the claims of Robert Millhouse to notice and protection. I should blush for any reader of poetical taste, with four shillings to spare, who, after perusing the preceding extracts, would hesitate to purchase the poet’s last little volume. I should more than blush for the more wealthy, who are reputed patrons of talent, if they decline to seek out and effectually succour him. I am, and am likely to remain, wholly unacquainted with him: my only wish is to induce attention to a talented and estimable individual, who is obscure and neglected, because he is unobtrusive and modest.