Book II

AND now again 'tis morn, the orient sun
Prepares once more his radiant course to run;
O'er you tall trees I see his glories rise,
Tinge their green tops, and gain upon the skies;
The SOCIAL PRINCIPLE resumes the shade,
Basks on the banks, or glides along the glade:
See how it pants, my friend, in yonder throng,
Where half a village bear thy sheaves along;
Low stoops the swain to dress his native soil,
And here the housewife comes to soothe his toil;
While heav'n's warm beams upon her bosom dart,
She strains her wedded husband to her heart;
Or from his brow the labour'd drop removes,
And dares to shew with what a force she loves;
Where'er the mother moves her race attend,
And often cull the corn, and often bend;
Or bear the scrip, or tug the rake along,
Or catch the burthen of the reaper's song;
Or shrinking from the sickle's crescent blade,
Cling to the gown, half pleas'd, and half afraid;
While he who gave them life looks on the while,
And views his little houshold with a smile;
Imprints the kiss, then blessing ev'ry birth,
Carols his joy, and cultivates the earth.

But not to scenes of peasantry confin'd,
Though haply those more free, and unconfin'd;
Not to this spot, the object of thy care,
Nor to the neighb'ring greens that checquer fair,
The views which stretch beyond the western main,
And mark the district of a diff'rent plain;
Not circumscrib'd to these the social plan,
Which more extends, as more pursu'd by man.
Just as you path-way, winding through the mead,
Grows broad and broader by perpetual tread,
The social passion turns the foot aside,
And prompts the swains to travel side by side;
Both edge, by turns, upon the bord'ring sod,
And the path widens as the grass is trod.

In cities thus, though trade's tumultuous train
Spurn at the homely maxims of the plain,
Not all the toss of rank, the trick of art,
Can chase the social passion from the heart:
Nay more, a larger circle it must take,
Where men embodying, larger int'rests make,
And each perforce round each more closely twine,
Where thousands lean their weight upon the line.

As slow to yonder eminence I bend,
Gradual the views of social life extend,
Where benches soften the ascent I stray,
And stop at each to take a just survey;
At ev'ry step, as sinks the vale behind,
A wider prospect opens on mankind.

Far to the lest where those blue hills arise,
And bathe their swelling bosoms in the skies;
The barks of commerce set the flapping sail,
And the dark sea-boy sues the busy gale;
There the deep warehouse shews its native store,
And there flame riches of a foreign shore;
Thick swarm the sons of trade on every hand,
And either India breathes along the strand:
Gold, give me gold, each bustler cries aloud,
As hope or fear alternate seize the croud;
To careless eyes the love of pelf alone,
Seems to drain off the golden tide for one;
But closer view'd a various course it takes,
And wide meanderings in its passage makes;
Through many a social channel see it run,
And carry plenty down from sire to son;
From thence in many a mazy stream it flows,
And feels no ebb, nor dull stagnation knows;
Gain, pleasure, passion, property, induce
Each single man to study general use.
Thus nature and necessity agree
The social chain to stretch from land to sea.
Thus e'en the miser opes his sordid soul,
Loves but himself, and yet befriends the whole.
Ask you a stronger proof? Place wealth alone;
With some hard niggard lock up all his own;
Pile bills, and bags, and bonds, upon his shelf,
And a close prisoner chain him to his pelf.
Unhappy man! from family and friends,
From all which heav'n in soft compassion sends,
From touch of kindred, tune of tender speech,
And exil'd from the social passion's reach;
How would he sigh his station to regain,
And buy a glance at man with half his gain!
How, at some chink or crevice would he ply,
And envy each poor beggar limping by!
Far happier he, who breasting ev'ry wind,
Lives on the common mercy of his kind,
Who roams the world to tell his piteous case,
And dies at last amidst the human race.

Ye friends to self, ye worshippers of gold,
Who deem a passion lavish'd if unsold;
Who farm the principles with statesman's art,
And like a us'rer traffick with the heart:
Who to that idol in its nich confine
The holy incense due at nature's shrine;
Say, can your sordid merchandize deny
The sacred force of heav'n-born Sympathy?
Ah, no! the gen'rous spirit takes a part,
As goodness, glory, pity, move the heart.
Else, why at ev'ry virtue do we glow?
Else, why at sorrow do the eyes o'erflow?
Why with the fabled hero do we bleed,
And scorn the base, and love the gen'rous deed?
Why ev'ry turn of fortune do we share,
As with old Homer's chiefs we rush to war?
Why with the wife of Hector do we mourn,
Weep with poor Priam, with Achilles burn?
Attentive hear Apollo's priest complain,
Or join our griefs for good Patroclus slain?
Spite of your arts the sympathies arise,
And aid the cause of all the brave and wise;
Spite of your little selves, when virtue charms,
To nature true, the social passion warms;
Vain to resist, imperial nature still
Asserts her claim, and bends us to her will.

Hence the great principle to all expands,
Thaws Lapland's ice, and glows on India's sands;
Above, below, its genial splendours play,
Where'er an human footstep marks the way.
"Oh, for one trace of man upon the snow,
"The track of sweet society to shew;
"Oh, for one print on swarthy Afric's shore!"
Thus prays the wanderer scap'd from ocean's roar;
In every clime is felt the throb divine,
By land, by water, here, and at the Line.

Nor Climates only, for each Age imparts
The kindly bias to our social hearts;
See the swath'd infant cling to the embrance,
And feel instinctive fondness for its race;
See it, ascending, strengthen as it grows,
Till ripe and riper the affection glows,
Then view the child, its toys and trinkets share,
With some lov'd partner of its little care:
Behold the man a firmer bond requires,
For him the passion kindles all its fires;
Next, see his numerous offspring twining near,
Now move the smile, and now excite the tear;
Terror and transport in his bosom reign,
Succession sweet of pleasure and of pain.

As Age advances, some sensations cease,
Some, lingering, leave the heart, while some increase:
Thus, when life's vigorous passions are no more,
Self-love creeps closest to the social power;
The stooping veteran of the silver hair
Crawls to the blazing hearth and wicker chair,
There huddled close, he fondly hopes to spy
His goodly sons and daughters standing by,
To the lisp'd tale he bends the greedy ear,
And o'er his children's children drops a tear;
Or, every friend surviv'd, himself half dead,
Frail nature still demands her board, her bed;
And these some kindred spirit shall bestow,
His wants supply, or mitigate his woe;
Still Symphathy shall watch his fleeting breath,
And gently lead him to the gates of death.

Yet more; e'en WAR, the scourge of human kind,
But serves more close the social links to bind;
Confederate courage forms the embattled line,
Firm on each side connecting passions join;
'Tis social danger either troop inspires,
'Tis social honour either army fires,
'Tis social glory burnishes the van,
'Tis social faith spreads on from man to man:
These, all combining, agitate the breath,
Stake life on life, and hazard death for death.
As front to front the warring parties meet,
For social ends they dare the martial feat;
As breast to breast, and eye to eye they fix,
For social ends they separate or mix.
King, country, parents, children, prompt the fight,
For these alone they bleed, resist, unite;
And, haply, first hostilities arose
From nice distinctions made of friends and foes;
Some scornful slight where nature most can smart,
Some stinging insult sorest to the heart,
Some wrong detected, forfeited some trust,
A treaty broken, or a barrier burst,
Bade Sympathy call Justice to her aid
Till laws were fashion'd, and till wars were made:
Affection sought from Power the wish'd relief
To smite the assassin, and to hang the thief,
And over those who faith's fair league invade
To wield the battle-axe, or lift the blade;
Or from the spoiler's hand to fence the flowers
That sweetly blossom round life's private bowers:
'Tis thus, the steady eye of Reason finds
What seems to snap the chain more closely binds;
And thus each peril like each pleasure try'd
Unites the rosy bonds on either side.

But less do arms than ARTS assist the plan,
If those defend, 'tis these embellish man;
These softly draw him nearer to his kind,
And mark distinct his seraph form of mind.

Lo, in firm compact, hand, and head, and heart,
To aid the system take a helping part,
Their various powers by various modes they lend,
And serve in union as one common friend;
Hence, by consent, men clear the unthrifty wood,
New model earth, and navigate the flood;
And hamlets grow into the city's pride,
While the soul opens like the talents wide.

By social pleasure, profit, passion, sway'd,
Some soar to learning, and some stoop to trade.
Studious to gain the love of human kind,
The social sage at midnight stores his mind,
Robs weary nature of her just repose,
Nor drinks the dew that bathes the morning rose,
Nor when the sun to Cynthia gives the night,
Eyes the soft blessing of her tender light,
But o'er the taper leans his pensive head,
And for the Living communes with the Dead.
The dusky artizan, his effort made,
Asserts his rights, and leaves the sickly shade;
At eve he quits the spot where glooms annoy,
And seeks the bosom of domestic joy;
The social faggot, and the light repast,
Await to chear him when his toils are past.

Hence too, each class of Elegant and Great,
Art decks the dome, and commerce crouds the street;
The heav'n-born Muse impetuous wings her way,
When her lov'd Seward seeks the realms of day;
The painter hence his magic pencil plies,
And Reynolds bids a new creation rise;
Fair Kauffman sketches life's lov'd forms anew,
And holds the mirror of past times to view,
Restores each grace that mark'd the Grecian age,
And draws her lovely comment on the page;
And still to chear the solitary hour,
For this has Beach display'd his happiest power;
When far from thee, I hail his generous art,
And bless the hand which thus relieves my heart;
I see my friend upon the canvas glow,
And feel the smile that lightens every woe.

All, SYMPATHY, is thine; th' Immortal strung
For thee, that more than golden harp the Tongue,
The spheres' best music taught it to impart,
And bade each soft vibration strike the heart.
Thine too, the varied fruitage of the fields,
The clustering crops which yonder valley yields,
The mossy down which feeds a thousand sheep,
The bowers umbrageous, and the cultur'd steep;
The still smooth joys that bloom o'er life's serene,
And all the bustle of the public scene.
These several efforts slow or rapid rise,
As men are good, or bad, or weak, or wise;
Here quick, there slow the impulse; but the whole
Points to this centre, Sympathy of Soul.

Nor think the dull, cold reasoner can disprove
These varied powers of sympathetic love;
Nor hope, ye cynics, sedulous to find
From partial spots a flaw in human kind;
As well the panther might you charge with sin,
And call each streak a blemish on his skin;
Allow to self the broadest scope you can,
Still breathes the social principle in man.
Oft when pride whispers that he stands alone,
His strength proceeds from other than his own;
Oft when he seems to walk the world apart,
Another's interest twines about his heart;
And call his project rash, his effort vain,
Still social pleasure is the END to gain;
Or say, this builds for pomp, that digs for bread,
This shews you pictures, that a pompous bed,
This toils a niggard at his lonely trade,
That rears the bower, but asks not to its shade;
Say, for himself this bids the arches bend,
Or that directs the column to ascend;
This through his grot commands the streams to glide,
As that for Avarice braves the tossing tide;
That this for Vanity his wealth displays,
As that for Pride unravels learning's maze;
Trace but their PURPOSE to one general end,
You see it work the good of wife, or friend,
Parent, or child, their privilege still claim,
And social comfort springs from what we blame:
Frailty itself our sympathy may spare,
A graceful weakness when no vice is there.
Who hopes perfection breaks down nature's fence,
And spurns the modest bounds of sober sense.
When straw-like errours lean to virtue's side,
Ah, check, ye bigots, check your furious pride;
Some venial faults, like clouds at peep of day,
Blush as they pass, and but a moment stay;
Those venial faults from sordid bosoms start,
And spring up only in the generous heart,
As florid weeds elude the labourer's toil,
From too much warmth or richness of the soil;
While meaner souls, like Zembla's hills of snow,
Too barren prove for weeds or flowers to grow.

This then is clear, while human kind exist,
The social principle must still subsist,
In strict dependency of one on all,
As run the binding links from great to small.
Man born for Man some friendly aid requires,
The contract strengthening till the soul retires;
Nor then, ev'n then it breaks, for still we pay
A brother's homage to the breathless clay,
Jealous of destiny the heart would save
Its favour'd object from the closing grave,
Its favour'd object chosen from the rest,
In grief, in joy, the monarch of the breast;
To earth we trust what fondness would retain,
And leave the corpse to visit it again;
Or unconsin'd by partial ties of blood,
Brave sternest peril for a stranger's good.

Once, and no second stroke of fancy this,
A truth too tender for the heart to miss,
Once, and not far from these lov'd feats serene,
Just where you white huts peep the copse between,
A damsel languish'd, all her kin were gone,
For God who lent, resum'd them one by one;
Disease and penury in cruel strife,
Had ravish'd all the decent means of life,
E'en the mark'd crown, her lover's gift she gave
In filial duty for a father's grave,
That so the honour'd clay which caus'd her birth
Might slumber peaceful in the sacred earth,
Chim'd to its grass-green home with pious peal,
While hallow'd dirges hymn the last farewell;
At length, these searching woes her sense invade,
And lone and long the hapless wanderer stray'd
O'er the bleak heath, around th' unmeasur'd wood,
Up the huge precipice, or near the flood,
Or mount the rock at midnight's awful hour,
Enjoy the gloom, and idly mock the shower;
Now scorn her fate, now patient bend the knee,
And call on every star to set her free,
Then, starting wilder, think those stars her foes,
Now smite her breast, now laugh amidst her woes;
Or child-like, chace the bee, or braid the grass,
Or crop the hedge-flower, or disorder'd pass;
Else, would she loiter in the mid-way mead,
Sing to the birds at roost, the lambs at feed;
Or if a nest she found the brakes among,
No hand of her's destroy'd the promis'd young;
And when kind nature brought the balmy sleep,
Too soon she woke to wander and to weep;
Across her breast the tangled tresses flew,
And frenzied glances all around she threw;
Th' unsettled soul those frenzied glances speak,
And tears of terror hurry down her cheek;
Yet still that eye was bright, that cheek was fair,
Though pale the rose, the lilly blossom'd there.
A pilgrim swain, the beauteous Maniac found,
Her woes wild warbling to the rocks around;
A river roll'd beside, aghast she ran,
Her vain fears starting at the sight of man;
And, save me God! my father's ghost! she cry'd,
Then head-long plung'd into the sparkling tide.
The pilgrim follows, strikes each eager limb,
But these, alas! his first essays to swim;
Attempt, how vain! full wild the waters rose,
And o'er their heads in circling surges close,
He grasps the damsel struggling with the wave,
Till both untimely find a wat'ry grave.

And lives the man, oh Nature, tell me where,
Whose rebel bosom knows no triumph here;
Whose coward cheek no tinge of honour feels,
Flush'd with no pride at what the Muse reveals?
Lives there, who all unconscious could have stood
To see the victim buffet with the flood?
If such a man, if such a wretch there be,
Thanks to this aching heart, I am not he.

Hail, lovely griefs, in tender mercy giv'n,
And hail, ye tears, like dew-drops fresh from heav'n;
Hail, balmy breath of unaffected sighs,
More sweet than airs that ventilate the skies;
Hail, sacred source of sympathies divine,
Thine ev'ry social pulse, each fibre thine;
Hail, symbols of the God to whom we owe
The nerves that vibrate, and the hearts that glow;
Love's tender tumult, friendship's holy fires,
And all which beauty, all which worth inspires,
The joy that lights the hope-illumin'd eye,
The bliss supreme that melts in pity's sigh,
Affection's bloom quick rushing to the face,
The choice acknowledg'd and the warm embrace:
Oh power of powers, whose magic thus can draw
Earth, air, and ocean, by one central law,
Join bird to bird, to insect insect link,
From those which grovel up to those which think;
Oh, ever blest! whose bounties opening wide
Fill the vast globe, for mortals to divide,
Whose heavenly favours stretch from pole to pole,
Encircle earth, and rivet soul to soul!

Cease then to wonder these lov'd scenes impart
No more the usual transport to my heart;
Though modest Twilight visit Eve again,
At whose soft summons homeward steps the swain;
Though from the breath of oxen in the vale,
I catch the spirit of the balmy gale,
And from the brakes the answering thrushes sing,
While the grey owl sails by on solemn wing;
Nor wonder, if when morning blooms again,
In discontent I quit the flowery plain.

Thus the poor mariner, his traffick o'er,
Crouds ev'ry sail to reach his native shore,
With smiles he marks the pennons stream to port,
And climbs the top-most mast to eye the fort;
Dim through the mist the distant land appears,
And far he slopes to hail it with his tears;
From foreign regions, foreign faces, come,
Anxious he seeks his much-lov'd friends at home,
Warm, and more warm, the social passion glows,
As near and nearer to the place he goes;
Quick beats his heart as pressing on he sees
His own fair cottage canopy'd with trees;
For there, in blessed health, he hopes to find
His wife and cradled infant left behind;
Panting, he plucks the latch that guards the door,
But finds his wife, his cradled babe, no more!
Like some sad ghost he wanders o'er the green,
Droops on the blossom'd waste, and loaths the scene.

Yet haply you, by SYMPATHY, may know
That here a-while I paus'd to paint my woe,
For sure if ever Silph or Silphid bore
One true friend's message to a distant shore;
If ever spirit whisper'd gentle deed,
In such an absence most its aid we need.
Perhaps, for now let fancy take her flight,
My friend, like me, may wander through the night,
Amidst a different scenery may roam,
And many a gentle sigh address to home;
Ev'n now, where moon-beams tremble on the wave,
And circling seagulls their long pinions lave,
Where anchor'd vessels in the harbour ride,
To wait the flux of the returning tide,
Where the salt billow beats against the strand,
My friend may take his solitary stand;
Or on the rock projecting to the main
May sit him down to mark the social strain,
Along the frothing beach may bend his way,
And suit, like me, his sorrows to his lay.

FAREWELL, my hour approaches with the dawn,
And up I spring to leave the flowery lawn;
The pain increases as I stay to trace
Another sunshine rising o'er the place:
Adieu then, balmy shrubs and shades, adieu,
This passing incense o'er your leaves I strew;
Adieu, thou dear and hill-screen'd cottage fair;
Adieu, thou decent dome of Sunday prayer;
To each, to all, adieu; your lonely guest
Retires. The SOCIAL PASSION speaks the rest.