ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON, ON THE PUBLICATION OF CHILDE HAROLD. BY GRANVILLE PENN. COLD is the breast, extinct the vital spark, Would joy to press that bless'd etherial ground, Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love abound. I "deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel," Steel'd is the heart that could the thought receive, But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel, Eager in joy, yet not unwont to grieve; And sorely do I view his vessel leaveLike erring bark, of card and chart bereftThe shore to which his soul would love to cleave; Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft, That bearing thus the helm, the land thou seek'st is left. Is Harold "satiate with worldly joy?" "Leaves he his home, his land, without a sigh ?" 'Tis half the way to heaven!-oh! then employ That blessed freedom of thy soul, to fly To Him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh, Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard chain; If early freed, though by satiety, Vast is the privilege that man may gain ;— Who early foils the foe, may well the prize obtain. Thou lovest Nature with a filial zeal, Canst fly mankind to brood with her apart; When swells the soul, and heaves the labouring heart With yearning throes, which nothing can impart ""Tis ecstasy to brood o'er flood and fell," Converse with Nature's God, and see His stores unroll'd." Forget we not the Artist in the art, Nor overlook the Giver in the grace; Say, what is Nature, but that little part Which man's imperfect vision can embrace Of the stupendous whole, which fills all space; The work of Him by whom all space is bound! Shall Raphael's pencil Raphael's self efface? Shall Handel's self be lost in Handel's sound? Or, shall not Nature's God in Nature's works be found? But Harold "through sin's labyrinth has run," And does the memory of that evil done "Tis just; 'tis Harold's due-yet let not this Press heavier on his heart than heaven ordains; What mortal lives, not guilty nor remiss? What breast that has not felt remorse's pains? What human soul so pure, but mark'd by sin's dark stains? And can this helpless thing, pollute, debased, Say, can the sculptured marble, once defaced, So man may sin and wail, but not atone; Yet is atonement made :-Creation's Lord Deserts not thus the work his skill devised; Man, not his creature only, but his ward, Too dearly in his Maker's eye is prized, Than thus to be abandon'd and despised. Atonement is the Almighty's richest dole, And ever in the mystic plan comprised, To mend the foul defacements of the soul, Restore God's likeness lost, and make the image whole. Oh! "if, as holiest men have deem'd there be, A land of souls beyond death's sable shore," How would quick-hearted Harold burn to see The much-loved objects of his life once more, And Nature's new sublimities explore In better worlds!-Ah! Harold, I conjure, Speak not in ifs;-to him whom God hath taught, If aught on earth, that blessed truth is sure; All gracious God, to quiet human thought, Has pledged his sacred word, and demonstration wrought. Did Babylon, in truth, by Cyrus fall? Is't true that Persia stain'd the Grecian land? Did Philip's son the Persian host enthrall? Or Cæsar's legions press the British strand? Fell Palestine by Titus' sword and brand?Can Harold to such facts his faith entrust? Then let him humbly learn, and understand :— "Then Christ is risen from the dead!"—the first Dear pledge of mortal frames yet mouldering in the dust. But Harold "will not look beyond the tomb," And languish for their own celestial clime, Far in the bounds of space,-beyond the bounds of time. There must thou surely live-and of that life But with renew'd existence ever rife, No more in dark uncertainty be toss'd, O let not then this precious hour be lost, Such, such the prospect,-such the glorious boon, Yearning, unconscious, for the light divine; Oh! hear the gracious word to thee address'd By Him, thy Lord, almighty and benign— "Come unto me, all ye by care oppress'd! Come to my open arms, and I will give you rest!” Would thou hadst loved through Judah's courts to stray; Would Sion Hill Parnassus' love might share; What joy to hear thy muse's potent lay The sacred honours of that land declare, And all that holy scene engage her care; Where poets harp'd ere Homer's shell was strung, Where heavenly wisdom pour'd her treasures rare, Long, long ere Athens woke to Solon's song, And truth-inspired seers of after ages sung. But, thanks for what we have; and for the more Thy muse doth bid the listening ear attend, Nor vainly bids those whom she charm'd before; Oh! let not then this humble verse offend, Her skill can judge the speaking of a friend; Not zeal presumptuous prompts the cautious strain, But Christian zeal, that would to all extend The cloudless ray and steady calm that reign, Where evangelic truths their empire due maintain. |