The Pilgrims of the Rhine. Эдвард Бульвер-ЛиттонЧитать онлайн книгу.

        Oh, thou true Iris! sporting on thy bow

          Of tears and smiles! Jove’s herald, Poetry,

        Thou reflex image of all joy and woe,

          Both fused in light by thy dear fantasy!

        Lo! from the clay how Genius lifts its life,

          And grows one pure Idea, one calm soul!

        True, its own clearness must reflect our strife;

          True, its completeness must comprise our whole;

        But as the sun transmutes the sullen hues

          Of marsh-grown vapours into vermeil dyes,

        And melts them later into twilight dews,

          Shedding on flowers the baptism of the skies;

        So glows the Ideal in the air we breathe,

          So from the fumes of sorrow and of sin,

        Doth its warm light in rosy colours wreathe

          Its playful cloudland, storing balms within.

        Survey the Poet in his mortal mould,

          Man, amongst men, descended from his throne!

        The moth that chased the star now frets the fold,

          Our cares, our faults, our follies are his own.

        Passions as idle, and desires as vain,

        Vex the wild heart, and dupe the erring brain.

        From Freedom’s field the recreant Horace flies

        To kiss the hand by which his country dies;

        From Mary’s grave the mighty Peasant turns,

        And hoarse with orgies rings the laugh of Burns.

        While Rousseau’s lips a lackey’s vices own,—

        Lips that could draw the thunder on a throne!

        But when from Life the Actual GENIUS springs,

          When, self-transformed by its own magic rod,

        It snaps the fetters and expands the wings,

          And drops the fleshly garb that veiled the god,

        How the mists vanish as the form ascends!

        How in its aureole every sunbeam blends!

        By the Arch-Brightener of Creation seen,

          How dim the crowns on perishable brows!

        The snows of Atlas melt beneath the sheen,

          Through Thebaid caves the rushing splendour flows.

        Cimmerian glooms with Asian beams are bright,

        And Earth reposes in a belt of light.

        Now stern as Vengeance shines the awful form,

        Armed with the bolt and glowing through the storm;

        Sets the great deeps of human passion free,

        And whelms the bulwarks that would breast the sea.

        Roused by its voice the ghastly Wars arise,

        Mars reddens earth, the Valkyrs pale the skies;

        Dim Superstition from her hell escapes,

        With all her shadowy brood of monster shapes;

        Here life itself the scowl of Typhon3 takes;

        There Conscience shudders at Alecto’s snakes;

        From Gothic graves at midnight yawning wide,

        In gory cerements gibbering spectres glide;

        And where o’er blasted heaths the lightnings flame,

        Black secret hags “do deeds without a name!”

         Yet through its direst agencies of awe,

        Light marks its presence and pervades its law,

        And, like Orion when the storms are loud,

        It links creation while it gilds a cloud.

        By ruthless Thor, free Thought, frank Honour stand,

        Fame’s grand desire, and zeal for Fatherland.

        The grim Religion of Barbarian Fear

        With some Hereafter still connects the Here,

        Lifts the gross sense to some spiritual source,

        And thrones some Jove above the Titan Force,

        Till, love completing what in awe began,

        From the rude savage dawns the thoughtful man.

        Then, oh, behold the Glorious comforter!

          Still bright’ning worlds but gladd’ning now the hearth,

        Or like the lustre of our nearest star,