Enthusiasm.

Oh for the spirit which inspired of old     The seer's prophetic song--the voice that spake     Through Israel's warrior king. The strains that burst     In thrilling tones from Zion's heaven-strung harp,     Float down the tide of ages, shedding light     On pagan shores and nations far remote:     Eternal as the God they celebrate,     Their fame shall last when Time's long race is run,     And you refulgent eye of this fair world,--     Its light and centre,--into darkness shrinks,     Eclipsed for ever by the glance of Him     Whose rising sheds abroad eternal day.     Almighty, uncreated Source of life!     To Thee I dedicate my soul and song;     In humble adoration bending low     Before thy footstool. Thou alone canst stamp     A lasting glory on the works of man,     Tuning the shepherd's reed, or monarch's harp,     To sounds harmonious. Immortality     Exists alone in Thee. The proudest strain     That ever fired the poet's soul, or drew     Melodious breathings from his gifted lyre,     Unsanctioned by thy smile, shall die away     Like the faint sound which the soft summer breeze     Wins from the stately lily's silver bells;     A passing murmur, a half-whispered sigh,     Heard for a moment in the deep repose     Of Nature's midnight rest--then hushed for ever!         Parent of genius, bright Enthusiasm!     Bold nurse of high resolve and generous thought,     'Tis to thy soul-awakening power we owe     The preacher's eloquence, the painter's skill,     The poet's lay, the patriot's noble zeal,     The warrior's courage, and the sage's lore.     Oh! till the soul is quickened by thy breath,     Wit, wisdom, eloquence, and beauty, fail     To make a just impression on the heart;     The tide of life creeps lazily along,     Soiled with the stains of earth, and man debased     Sinks far below the level of the stream.     Alas! that thy bright flame should be confined     To passion's maddening vortex; and the soul     Waste all its glorious energies on earth!--     The world allows its votaries to feel     A glowing ardour, an intense delight,     On every subject but the one that lifts     The soul above its sensual, vain pursuits,     And elevates the mind and thoughts to God!     Zeal in a sacred cause alone is deemed     An aberration of our mental powers.     The sons of pleasure cannot bear that light     Of heavenly birth which penetrates the souls     Of men, who, deeply conscious of their guilt,     Mourn o'er their lost, degraded state, and seek,     Through faith in Christ's atonement, to regain     The glorious liberty of sons of God!     Who, as redeemed, account it their chief joy     To praise and celebrate the wondrous love     That called them out of darkness into light,--     Severed the chain which bound them to the dust,     Unclosed the silent portals of the grave,     And gave Hope wings to soar again to heaven!--         Oh, thou bright spirit, of whose power I sing,     Electric, deathless energy of mind,     Harp of the soul, by genius swept, awake!     Inspire my strains, and aid me to portray     The base and joyless vanities which man     Madly prefers to everlasting bliss!--     Come! let us mount gay Fancy's rapid car,     And trace through forest and o'er mountain rude     The bounding footsteps of the youthful bard,     Yet new to life--a stranger to the woes     His harp is doomed to mourn in plaintive tones.     His ardent unsophisticated mind,     On all things beautiful, delighted, dwells.     Earth is to him a paradise. No cloud     Floats o'er the golden promise of the morn.     Hope daily weaves fresh roses for his brow,     Shrouding the grim and ghastly phantom, Death,     Beneath her soft and rainbow-tinted wings.     Ere Care has tainted with her poisonous breath     Life's opening buds, all objects wear to him     A lovely aspect, and he peoples space     With creatures of his own. The glorious forms     Which haunt his solitude, and brightly fill     Imagination's airy hall, atone     For all the faults and follies of his kind.     Nor marvel that he cannot comprehend     The speculative aims of worldly men:     Dearer to him a leaf, or bursting bud,     Culled fresh from Nature's treasury, than all     The golden dreams that cheat the care-worn crowd.     His world is all within. He mingles not     In their society; he cannot drudge     To win the wealth they toil to realize.     A different spirit animates his breast.     Their eager calculations, hopes, and fears,     Still flit before him, like dim shadows thrown     By April's passing clouds upon the stream,     A moment mirrored in its azure depths,     Till the next sunbeam turns them into light!--         Rashly confiding, still to be deceived,     Our youthful poet overleaps the bounds     Of probability. He walks this earth     Like an enfranchised spirit; and the storms,     That darken and convulse a guilty world,     Come like faint peals of thunder on his ear,     Or hoarser murmurs of the mighty deep,     Which heard in some dark forest's leafy shade     But add a solemn grandeur to the scene.--     The genial tide of thought still swiftly flows     Rejoicing onward, ere the icy breath     Of sorrow falls upon the sunny fount,     And chains the music of its dancing waves.--     What is the end of all his lovely dreams--     The bright fulfilment of his earthly hopes?     Too often penury and dire disease,     Neglect, a broken heart, an early grave!--     Oh, had he tuned his harp to truths divine,     With saints and martyrs sought a heavenly crown,     How had his theme immortalized his song!--         Behold the man, who to the poet's fire     Unites the painter's fascinating art;     His touch embodies all that fancy brings     To charm the mental vision, and he dives     Into the rich and shadowy world of thought,     Soars up to heaven, or plunges down to hell,     In search of forms to mortal eyes unknown,     To animate the canvass. His bold eye     Confronts the king of terrors. Through the gates     Of that dark prison-house of woe and dread     Hails the infernal monarch on his throne,     Crowned with ambition's diadem of fire.--     Unsatisfied with all that Nature gives     To charm the wandering heart and roving eye,     He would portray Omnipotence.--Rash man!     Reason revolting shudders at the act.--     God is a Spirit without form or parts;     And canst thou, from a human model, trace     The awful grandeur of Creation's King?     Nature supplies thee with no perfect draught     Of human beauty in its sinless state.     Man bears upon his brow the curse of guilt,     The shadow of mortality, that marks,     E'en in the sunny season of his youth,     The melancholy sentence of decay.--     Is it from such the painter would depict     The vision of Jehovah?--and from eyes,     Dimmed with the tears of passion, woe, and pain,     Seek to portray the dread all-seeing eye,     Which at a momentary glance can read     The inmost secrets of all hearts, and pierce     The dark and fathomless abyss of night?     Oh, drop the pencil!--Angels cannot gaze     On Him who sits upon the jasper throne,     Robed in the splendour of immortal light;     But cast their crowns before him whilst they veil     The brow in rapt devotion and adore!--         Nature will furnish subjects far beyond     The grasp of human genius. Didst thou e'er,     On mossy bank or grassy plot reclined,     Watch the effect of sunlight on the boughs     Of some tall graceful ash, or maple tree?     Each leaf illumin'd by the noon-tide beam     Transparent shines.--Anon a heavy cloud     Floats for a moment o'er the car of day,     And gloom descends upon the forest bowers;     A ray steals forth--and on the topmost twig     Falls, like a silver star. From leaf to leaf     The glory spreads, shoots down the rugged trunk     And gilds each spray, till the whole tree stands forth     Arrayed in light.--This is beyond thy art.     All thy enthusiasm, all thy boasted skill,     But poorly imitates a forest tree.         But let us leave the painter. Let us turn     To those, who never swept the sounding lyre     Or grasped the pencil,--ardent minds that hold     A deep communion with the winds and waves,     The youthful worshippers at Nature's shrine:     What says the soft voice of the plaintive breeze,     Mournfully sweeping through the forest boughs,     In airy play moved gently by its breath?     To such it hath a language, and it wins     A tender echo from the youthful heart.--         With throbbing bosom Nature's student treads     The sylvan haunts, exultingly leaps forth     To hail the coming of the genial spring,     Shedding around from her green lap the buds,     In winter's rugged casket long enshrined,     To form the chaplet of the infant year.--     Young pensive moralist!--'tis sweet to muse     On beauties which escape the vulgar eye,     To talk with Nature 'mid her woodland paths,     And hear an answering voice in every breeze.--     You court her beauties with a lover's zeal;     You hear her voice, nor understand the sound     Which speaks to you--to all. The volume spread     Before your dazzled eyes, so rich with life,     Is a closed book--a fair illumined scroll,     Traced in strange characters, unknown to you.     Would you unfold the mystery, and read     The record the eternal hand of God     Has, of himself, on Nature's tablets graved?     You must explore another wondrous book,     Of deeper interest far--the book of life--     The glorious volume of unsullied truth!--     Time's rapid and undeviating march     Tramples down empires, blots out names that once     Bid fair for perpetuity of fame.     Truth is alone eternal as the God     Who on this everlasting basis placed     His own immutable and moveless throne.     Time to these writings daily adds new force,     Deepening the traces of Jehovah's love,     His fathomless, unbounded love to man.--     Peruse this volume, and then walk abroad     And meditate in silence on the scenes     Which lately charmed your unassisted sense,     Till your soul burns within you, and breaks forth     In holy hymns of gratitude and praise.--         Faith gives a grandeur to created things,     Beyond the poet's lay or painter's art,     Or upward flight of Fancy's eagle wing;--     Earth is the vista through which heaven is seen     By him who, journeying through life's narrow vale,     Seeks in the objects which around him rise     To hold communion with his God! to trace     The wisdom, goodness, majesty, and love,     That clothed the lilies of the field, and twined     The simple diadem of buds and leaves,     So rich in their diversity of shade,     Round Nature's brow,--and o'er the rugged hills     Cast the light floating veil of purple haze,     Which harmonizes to its own soft hue     The broken precipice and barren heath.     Here admiration may have ample scope:     The spirit soaring upward drinks in light     From other worlds, and in the choral song     Of happy birds among the forest bowers,     Hears the seraphic and harmonious strains     That angels chant around the eternal throne!--     To him there is an anthem in the breeze,     A burst of triumph in the thunder's peal,     Which, slowly rolling through the troubled air,     Strikes man with terror, and yet praises God!--         O'er Fancy's glass another shadow flits,     Which shows a bolder aspect than the gay     Impassioned votaries of Nature wear.     Mark his majestic port, his eagle eye,     The stern erection of his haughty brow,     Partially shaded by the snowy plumes     That lightly wave and wanton in the breeze.--     Is this a pensioner of hope?--Is this     A dreamer of wild dreams?--All eyes are turned     To gaze upon him, as with measured step     The weaponed warrior slowly passes by.--     Oh, this is one of War's tremendous sons,     Glory's intrepid champion: his stout heart     Leaps, as the war-horse, to the trumpet's sound,     And hails the storm of battle from afar.     He loves the press, the tumult, and the strife,     Where horror holds the gory steeds of death,     And slaughter hews a passage for the brave!--     He too is an enthusiast!--his zeal     Impels him onward with resistless force,     Severs his heart from nature's kindred ties,     And feeds the wild ambition which consumes     All that is good and lovely in his path.     He flashes, like a meteor, on the sight,     Seen 'mid the angry thunder-clouds of war,     Seeking a living name in fields where Death     Holds his imperial banquet, and the blood     Of thousands flows to furnish forth the feast.         There was a time when softer feelings held     Their mild dominion o'er that haughty breast;     When at his mother's feet, a rosy boy,     He wove bright garlands for his artless brow,     And sought, with playful dalliance, to detain     The busy hand that could not pause to bind     His cumbrous wreath, or answer the caress     Of him who climbed her knees to steal the kiss.     But even at those tender years, his braid     Of April blossoms was his crown; the twig     Of golden willow, with white daisies bound,     His jewelled sceptre; and the mossy bank,     Where he reclined in floral state, his throne;     The lambs that sported in the yellow meads     His lawful subjects; while his azure eye     Looked up to heaven with all a child's delight,     And thought that earth was only made for him.--     How often has he wept for that fair moon,     That shed her trembling glory o'er his path;     Wearied his slender limbs to reach the spot     On which the rainbow based its splendid arch,     And felt his heart with disappointment beat     When the fair pageant faded from his view.--         Ah, simple boy!--well had it been for thee     Had thy ambitious longings been confined     To objects wisely placed beyond thy grasp.     But years stole on--thy ardent spirit broke     Its childish trammels, and with eager joy     Explored the warlike annals of the past,     And called up spirits of the mighty dead,     To set their hostile armies in array,     And fight for thee their sanguine battles o'er.     Oh, while such visions burst upon thy sight,     Whilst shouts of victory and dying groans     Rang on thine ear--time backward rolled his tide,     Rome in her ancient splendour proudly rose,     And murdered Csar lived again in thee!         Young fiery soldier!--let us track thy steps     Through danger's stormy paths, to win the goal     Of all thy lofty and ambitious hopes.     Wedded to glory, thy brave heart springs forth     To win thy bride from valour's armed hand,     And pluck the laurel from the brow of death.     A novice in the camp and new to arms,     The bugle lulls thee to repose, the trumpet     Thrills on thy sleeping ear, and bids thee dream     Of deathless fields in fancy fought and won.     At length the day of trial comes--the day     Which puts thy boasted courage to the proof--     Thy first in battle, and perchance thy last.     The camp is broken up, the air is rent     With strains of martial music, the loud neigh     Of prancing steeds, impatient for the strife,     With clang of arms, and oft-repeated shouts     Of warriors, who impatiently leap forth     With reckless hardihood to meet their doom.         With beating heart, firm step, and flashing eye,     The young recruit of glory proudly grasps     The standard he must only yield with life.     The march commences--deep excitement grows     To fiery expectation--he forgets,     Amidst the hurried interest of the scene,     The crown he fights for only can be won     Through seas of slaughter and the waste of life.     Alas! how few devoted hearts like his     Survive their first engagement with the foe.     Death strikes the hero to the dust. He falls     In honour's mantle, the triumphant cry     Of victory on his pallid lip expires!     But what are conquests of the bow and spear,     And Alexander's victories, compared     With the stern warfare which the soul maintains     Against the subtle tempter of mankind--     The base corruptions of a sinful world--     An evil conscience and a callous heart?     Oh, vanquish these!--and through the gates of death     Triumphant pass and win a heavenly crown!--         Oh, that my soul could find a voice to speak;     That human language could express the thoughts     Which fill the secret chambers of the brain.     In vain the lips pour forth harmonious sounds;     In vain the eager eye is raised to heaven,     Swimming in tears, and bright with ecstasy,--     The senses still are debtors to the heart,     Which, trembling, throbs for utterance in vain.     Does the salvation of a deathless soul     Kindle no hope in the possessor's breast?     Awaken no desire to be restored     To that most pure and perfect state of bliss     Man by transgression lost?--the noble thought     Of claiming kindred with the skies, give birth     To no anticipations of delight--     Joys such as angels share, and saints, who dwell     Within the circle of Jehovah's throne?     A light is breaking on my mental eye;     Visions of glory in succession rise     And fill the airy palace of the soul.     I see afar the promised land. An arch     Of golden radiance canopies the gates     Of that celestial city--Beautiful!     Unbuilt by hands--the New Jerusalem--     And holy to the Lord; the happy home     Of pilgrims, who to reach that heavenly shrine     Sojourned as strangers on this goodly earth,     Counting all things but loss--yea, life itself--     To win an entrance through those gates of pearl,     And dwell within the temple of their God!     Alas! earth's dusky shadow lies between     My ardent spirit and that blissful shore:     Eye hath not seen, nor mortal ear hath heard,     How then can mortal pen portray, the joys     Prepared for those who live and die in Christ!         Before me flows the rapid stream of time,     Dark, fathomless, encumbered with the wrecks     Of twice three thousand years. They too shall sink     Beneath those turbid waters, swallowed up     In the vast ocean of eternity;     Leaving few fragments on the boundless waste     To tell to coming years that such have been.     How shall the naked spirit cross the flood,     And land in safety on the happy shore?     'Tis not an earthly pilot that can steer     So frail a bark through such a stormy tide.     Cannot the eye of faith look up and see     The clouds of sorrow part--the day-star rise     Above life's trackless ocean, shedding light     Upon the darkened nations? From its beams     The mist of error flies, the angry waves     Of passion, which so long have vexed the world,     Are hushed to rest; controlled by Him who rose     From tranquil sleep, and to the roaring waste     Of midnight waters, mustering all their wrath,     Said, "Peace, be still." The howling winds obeyed,     And silence sank upon the storm-tossed main!--         Oh look to Him! and to his glorious word.     His universal sovereignty demands     That deep devotion of the heart which men     Miscall enthusiasm!--Zeal alone deserves     The name of madness in a worldly cause.     Light misdirected ever leads astray;     But hope inspired by faith will guide to heaven!     To win the laurel wreath the soldier fights;     To free his native land the patriot bleeds;     And to secure his crown the martyr dies!     For beauteous Rachel Isaac's son endured     Seven years of bitter servitude, and deemed     The weary months but moments to obtain     From crafty Laban's hand his promised bride.     To prove his friendship for the man he loved,     The generous Jonathan forgot his claims     To royalty, intent to save the life     Of him whom God had called to fill his throne.     And wilt thou feel less zealous to regain     The love and favour of thy heavenly King,     And shrink because the path to glory lies     Up the steep hill of duty? He who saved,     Amidst the tempest on Gennesaret,     Peter, when sinking in the waves, will aid     Thy feeble steps, and guide thee to the rock     Of everlasting strength!--                     Spirit divine!     Whose name I erst invoked, whose influence fills     The narrow confines of this human breast,--     If I have dared to sing of truths sublime,     Oh, shed a glory round my rugged lyre--     Hallow the feeble strains that would reveal     The dazzling light, which streaming from thy wings,     Gilds all the dark and troubled tide of thought.     Lifted by thee above the gulf of time     My eye explores the regions of the blessed,     And hopes long chained to earth are raised to heaven.     Never, while reason holds her steady rein,     To curb imagination's fiery steeds,     May I to joyless apathy resign     The high and holy thoughts inspired by thee!