Awake, there is no living man
Who may my fixed spirit shake;
But, sleeping, there is one who can,
And oft does he the trial make:
Against his might resolves I take,
And him oppose with high disdain;
But quickly all my powers forsake
My mind, and I resume my chain.
I know not how, but I am brought
Into a large and Gothic hall,
Seated with those I never sought
Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers, silent all;
Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall,
Majestic, frozen, solemn, still;
They wake my fears, my wits appal,
And with both scorn and terror fill.
Now are they seated at a board
In that cold grandeur I am there.
But what can mummied kings afford?
This is their meagre ghostly fare,
And proves what fleshless things they stare!
Yes! I am seated with the dead:
How great, and yet how mean they are!
Yes! I can scorn them while I dread?
They're gone! - and in their room I see
A fairy being, form and dress
Brilliant as light; nor can there be
On earth that heavenly loveliness;
Nor words can that sweet look express,
Or tell what living gems adorn
That wond'rous beauty: who can guess
Where such celestial charms were born?
Yet, as I wonder and admire,
The grace is gone, the glory dead; And now it is but mean attire
Upon a shrivel❜d beldame spread, Laid loathsome on a pauper's bed,
Where wretchedness and woe are found,
And the faint putrid odour shed
By all that's foul and base around!
A garden this? oh! lovely breeze!
Oh! flowers that with such freshness bloom! Flowers shall I call such forms as these,
Or this delicious air perfume?
Oh! this from better worlds must come;
On earth such beauty who can meet?
No! this is not the native home
Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet!
Where? where? -am I reduced to this
Thus sunk in poverty extreme?
Can I not these vile things dismiss ?
No! they are things that more than seem:
This room with that cross-parting beam
Holds yonder squalid tribe and me
But they were ever thus, nor dream
Of being wealthy, favour'd, free! -
Shall I a coat and badge receive,
And sit among these crippled men,
And not go forth without the leave
Of him and ask it humbly thenWho reigns in this infernal den
Where all beside in woe repine?
Yes, yes, I must: nor tongue nor pen
Can paint such misery as mine!
Wretches! if ye were only poor,
You would my sympathy engage;
Or were ye vicious, and no more,
I might be fill'd with manly rage;
Or had ye patience, wise and sage
We might such worthy sufferers call:
But ye are birds that suit your cage—
Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all!
How came I hither? Oh, that Hag! "T is she the enchanting spell prepares; By cruel witchcraft she can drag
My struggling being in her snares: Oh, how triumphantly she glares!
But yet would leave me, could I make Strong effort to subdue my cares.
'TIS MADE!-and I to Freedom wake!
(1) [First published in August, 1812. See antè, Vol. I. p. 201.]
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