To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds;
Perplexed with currents; of his weakness sick;
Of vain endeavours tired; and by his own,
And by his Nature's, ignorance, dismayed!
Long-wish'd-for sight, the Western World appeared; And, when the Ship was moored, I leapt ashore Indignantly resolved to be a Man,
Who, having o'er the past no power, would live
No longer in subjection to the past,
With abject mind- from a tyrannic Lord
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured.
So, like a Fugitive, whose feet have cleared
Some boundary, which his Followers may not cross
In prosecution of their deadly chase,
Respiring I looked round. How bright the Sun,
How promising the Breeze! Can aught produced
In the old World compare, thought I, for power
And majesty with this gigantic Stream,
Sprung from the Desert? And behold a City
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring! What are these
To me, or I to them? As much at least
As He desires that they should be, whom winds
And waves have wafted to this distant shore,
In the condition of a damaged seed,
Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root.
Here may
I roam at large;—my business is,
Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel;
And, therefore, not to act—convinced that all
Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er
Beginning, ends in servitude - still painful,
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say,
On nearer view, a motley spectacle
Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved
But by the obstreperous voice of higher still;
Big Passions strutting on a petty stage;
Which a detached Spectator may regard
Not unamused. But ridicule demands
Quick change of objects; and, to laugh alone, At a composing distance from the haunts
Of strife and folly, though it be a treat
As choice as musing Leisure can bestow;
Yet, in the very centre of the crowd,
To keep the secret of a poignant scorn,
Howe'er to airy Demons suitable,
Of all unsocial courses, is least fit
For the gross spirit of Mankind, the one
That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns
Into vexation. Let us, then, I said,
Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge
Of her own passions; and to Regions haste,
Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe,
Or soil endured a transfer in the mart
Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides,
Primeval Nature's Child. A Creature weak
In combination (wherefore else driven back
So far, and of his old inheritance
So easily deprived?) but, for that cause,
More dignified, and stronger in himself;
Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy.
True, the Intelligence of social Art
Hath overpowered his Forefathers, and soon
Will sweep the remnant of his line away;
But contemplations, worthier, nobler far
Than her destructive energies, attend
His Independence, when along the side
Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream
That spreads into successive seas, he walks;
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life,
And his innate capacities of soul,
There imaged: or, when having gained the top
Of some commanding Eminence, which yet
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys
Regions of wood and wide Savannah, vast
Expanse of unappropriated earth,
With mind that sheds a light on what he sees; Free as the Sun, and lonely as the Sun, Pouring above his head its radiance down Upon a living, and rejoicing World!
So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated Woods I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide, Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird; And, while the melancholy Muccawiss (The sportive Bird's companion in the Grove) Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, I sympathized at leisure with the sound; But that pure Archetype of human greatness, I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared A Creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; Remorseless, and submissive to no law But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. Enough is told! Here am I What evidence I seek, and vainly seek; What from my Fellow-beings I require, And cannot find; what I myself have lost, Nor can regain; how languidly I look Upon this visible fabric of the World,
May be divined—perhaps it hath been said:
But spare your pity, if there be in me
Aught that deserves respect: for I exist
Within myself—not comfortless.— The tenour
Which my life holds, he readily may conceive
Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook
In some still passage of its course, and seen,
Within the depths of its capacious breast,
Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky;
And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam,
And conglobated bubbles undissolved,
Numerous as stars; that, by their onward lapse,
Betray to sight the motion of the stream,
Else imperceptible; meanwhile, is heard
A softened roar, a murmur; and the sound
Though soothing, and the little floating isles
Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged
With the same pensive office; and make known
Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt
Precipitations, and untoward straits,
The earth-born Wanderer hath passed; and quickly, That respite o'er, like traverses and toils
Must be again encountered. Such a stream
Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares
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