The Philanthropist and the Misanthrope

THE PHILANTHROPIST.

Yes, thou mayst sneer, but still I own
A love that spreads from zone to zone:
No time the sacred fire can smother!
Where breathes the man, I hail the brother.
Man! how sublime,--from Heaven his birth--
The God's bright Image walks the earth!
And if, at times, his footstep strays,
I pity where I may not praise.

THE MISANTHROPE.

Thou lov'st mankind. Pray tell me, then,
What history best excuses men?
Long wars for slight pretences made,
See murder but a glorious trade;
Each landmark from the savage state,
Doth virtue or a vice create?
Do ships speed plenty o'er the main?--
What swells the sail? The lust of gain!
What makes a law where laws were not?
Strength's wish to keep what Strength has got!
If rise a Few--the true Sublime,
Who lend the light of Heaven to Time,
What the return the Many make?
The poison'd bowl! the fiery stake!
Thou lov'st mankind,--come tell me, then,
Lov'st thou the past career of men?

THE PHILANTHROPIST.

Nay, little should I love mankind,
If their dark PAST my praise could find,
It is because--

THE MISANTHROPE.

A moment hold!
Enough gone times: our own behold!
What lessons doth a past of woe
And crime upon our age bestow?
How few amongst the tribes of earth
Are rescued from the primal wild;
What countless lands the ocean's girth,
By savage rites and gore defil'd!
Afric--a mart of human flesh;
Asia--a satrapy of slaves!
And yonder tracts from Nature fresh,
Worn empires fill with knaves?
Are men at home more good and wise?
My friend, thou read'st the daily papers;
Perchance, thou seest but laughing skies,
Where I but mists and vapours.
But much the same seems each disease.
What most improved? The doctor's fees!
The Law can still oppress the Weak,
The Proud still march before the Meek.
Still crabbed Age and heedless Youth;
Still Power perplex'd, asks "What is Truth?"
To no result our squabbles come:
To some what's best is worst to some.
The few the cake amongst them carve,
And labourers sweat and poets starve;
And Envy still on Genius feeds,
And not one modest man succeeds.
All much the same for prince and peasant--
I've done.--How dost thou love the PRESENT?

THE PHILANTHROPIST.

'Tis not man's Present or man's Past;
Beyond, man's friend his eye must cast.
Must see him break each galling fetter;
To gain the best, desire the better--
From Discontent itself we borrow
The glorious yearnings for the morrow;
Science and Truth like waves advance
Upon the antique Ignorance.

THE MISANTHROPE.

Like waves--the image not amiss!
They gain on that side--lose on this;
Pleased, after fifty ages, if
They gulp at last an inch of cliff.

THE PHILANTHROPIST.

You really cannot think by satire,
To mine the truths you cannot batter;
Man's destinies are brightening slowly,
With them entwined each thought most holy.
What though the PAST my horror moves,
No Eden though the PRESENT seems,
Who loves Mankind, their FUTURE loves,
And trusts, and lives--

THE MISANTHROPE.

In dreams!

WISDOM.

In both extremes there seems convey'd,
A truth to own, and yet deny;
But what between the extremes has made
The master-difference?

HOPE.

I!--
What wert thou, Wisdom, but for me?
Though thou the Past, the Present see,
Through ME alone, the eye can mark
The Future dawning on the dark.
I plant the tree, and till the soil;
I show the fruit,--where thou the toil;
Where thou despondest, I aspire--
Thine sad Content, mine bright Desire.
Under my earthlier name of HOPE,
The love to things unborn is given,
But call me FAITH--behold I ope
The flaming gates of Heaven!
Take ME from Man, and Man is both
The Dastard and the Slave;
And Love is lust, and Peace a sloth,
And all the Earth a Grave!