Poems, 1799 | Page 5

unfolds?Its sacred mysteries. A trine within?A quadrate placed, both these encompast in?A perfect circle was its form; but what?Its matter was, for us to wonder at,?Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands?At every angle, where Time's fatal hands?The impartial PARC? dwell; i' the first she sees?CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies,?From immaterial essences to cull?The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool?For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie?Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie?Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows?That power by which man ripe for misery grows.
Her next of objects was that glorious tower?Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour?From mortals' service, draws the various threads?Of life in several lengths; to weary beds?Of age extending some, whilst others in?Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin,?Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence?Their origin, candid with innocence;?Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed?In sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride?Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear?Rags of deformity, but knots of care?No thread was wholly free from. Next to this?Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss?Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat?Of death and horrour, in each room repleat?With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight?Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.?To this, the last stage that the winding clew?Of Life can lead mortality unto,?FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in?All guests sent thither by destructive sin.
It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.]
THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
THE SECOND BOOK.
She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd?Amid the air, such odors wafting now?As erst came blended with the evening gale,?From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form?Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white,?Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun,?Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd?Her THEODORE.
Amazed she saw: the Fiend?Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice?Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet?Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul,?When eloquent Affection fondly told?The day-dreams of delight.
"Beloved Maid!?Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore!?Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd,?Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine!?A little while and thou shalt dwell with me?In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily?Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave,?Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave?Is but the threshold of Eternity.
Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view?These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss?Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are?Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased?Must have their remedy; and where disease?Is rooted deep, the remedy is long?Perforce, and painful."
Thus the Spirit spake,?And led the Maid along a narrow path,?Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames,?More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound?Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath?Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach?A wide expanded den where all around?Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze,?Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood?The meagre form of Care, and as he blew?To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd?His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus?He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end?But endless toil and never-ending woe.
An aged man went round the infernal vault,?Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task:?White were his locks, as is the wintry snow?On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff?His steps supported; powerful talisman,?Which whoso feels shall never feel again?The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love.?Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way,?The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall,?Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst?Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee?To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few,?Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind?Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye?Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man?Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve?Your God, and worship Mammon."
"Missioned Maid!"?So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands?Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil,?Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare?To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite,?They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see?Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these,?Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere?In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires,?And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore:?Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst?Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold?They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed,?Pain to destroy."
So saying, her he led?Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell,?Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls?Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore?A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle?There its strong lustre like the flamy sun?Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath,?And from the roof