Blind leaders of the blind, by blindness led,
Men say to God, and his Eternal Year,
“Stop! it is finish'd! let your rushing skies
Rein in their fiery steeds, and be at rest.”
Yet do our altars stand, though built of sod!
Then, scorn not Error. Dateless is the faction
That, if they could, would bridle Mind's career,
And eagerly erase the words of light
O'er Truth's wide portals written to be read:
“All things that are, or were, are thought in action,
The testing of the Thinker's theories;
And they who limit knowledge, do their best

With words for chains, in links of prose or rhyme,
We proudly fix the Homeless in his place;
Naming Eternity, we think of time;
Naming Infinity, we think of space;
Of the worm's path, whose crawling's we can trace
On vast immutabilities of dust;
The deathless monuments of human trust,
Which passing hours, or moments, still efface.
Proud of our foolscap, and its jangled bells;
Blind to the All-Apparent, All-Unknown,
Who tips with suns his spires and pinnacles;
Our ignorance on our vanity we enthrone,
And in a little chapel of our own

All white below, and brightly blue above!
A fitting temple for Eternal Love,
December's World of snow and sky! art thou.
The groinings of his roof no stone require;
The spangles of its dome are worlds of fire;
Its pillars are the Everlasting Now.
Thron'd on his deeds, He reigns—by all beheld,
By all obey'd; soul-felt, and soul-ador'd,
And soul-proclaim'd; of Life and Death the Lord!
I kneel to him in reverence, not in fear;
And on his forehead, easy to be spell'd,
Read his great precept, “Let the soul be free.”
Oh, God of Works! why should I worship here

Hath April wept herself into a dream
Of wond'rous joy? or a reality
Fairer and brighter than all dreaming? Deem
Not lightly, Bard, of her regality
In goodness. Lo, the beautiful are strong!
Lo, gentlest-love is power, whose noiseless stream
Keeps fresh the sea of life, which else would teem
Only with plagues! Oh, gold-bill'd Ouzle's song!
Hath Love's still might wak'd thee? Love's April! coldly
Primrosy airs breathe round thee. Clouds behold thee,
And mix thy music with their blushes. Morn,
Dew-glistening Morn, is silvering rock and tree,

Cold sneerers, dead to pity, lost to shame!
It came, it cometh, “the tremendous gloom,”
That hurl'd the sire-dethroner to his doom;
God whispers—Hark! he names “The dreaded Name
Of Demogorgon!” Still your wolfish laws
Bare chain'd Prometheus to your vulture-claws;
And hope ye to escape the Torturer's fate?
Though long delay'd, it cometh, as it came!
It cometh—and will find you taught too late,
Soul-chaining, chain'd in soul, repentant never,
Darkest, yet darkening! Then, the fated frown
Will cast ye deep beneath all darkness down,

Oh, that the winds of March could wither up
The never-sleeping treachery of Kings!
What, though Commotion hath the whirlwind's wings,
If blind Misrule is still the Unwithstood?
What, though wrong'd men have startled Fraud and Force,
If the leagu'd dynasties of Foot and Horse
Brood o'er a new Niagara of blood.
And drunken Waste still hugs her empty cup?
Hark, how the World's benetted miscreancies
Chaunt their growl'd slang, for altar, jail, and throne,
While in the Bael of sworded villanies
Each paltry despotling protects his own!

How like the clear, bright ether, which brings fire,
Wind, rain, and darkness, is the cruel eye
Of plotting Statecraft! Everywhere conspire
Thrones, and thy despotlings, Feudality,
To crush the hopes of Freedom everywhere.
The spoil of nations is their common fund.
Their first card was the baffled Sonderbund;
They play'd and lost! and still to lose prepare.
But thou art reckless, Orleans! pause awhile.
Thou wilt not? Play, then. Ye again have lost,
Kings of the robb'd! and at your proper cost,
Must risk, henceforth, your stakes and trumps of guile.

Rivers are torrents, vales and plains are lakes,
When February draws her curtains down.
Rain! rain! The universal snow forsakes
Moorland and mountain, forest, farm, and town.
Rain! Rain! it pours, it pours. Red land-floods drown
Blue ocean's baffled tide. With calm cold frown,
The cold grey rock, that saw death's cradle, wakes
From his old dream of drowth, to find his home
In cloud-hung deluge. The old forest shakes
His wrinkled forehead o'er the whirling foam
Of inland sea; and with the haste that takes
Life's sad last blessing, down the revels come

All hail, Westknab! Great Kinder! Blakelowscar!
Standedge! Winhill! Storm's Blackstone! From afar
When ye come forth in ether clear and still,
Sad tidings ye convey to Hargate-rill
Of coming wreck and elemental war.
While broadens the bright sun, or noontide star;
As if, corrupted by their uncurb'd will,
The lofty and the bright rejoic'd in ill.
So, when drew nigh doom'd Britain's baleful hour,
Portents of mightiest Evil Spirits cast
Dire brightness on the face of Evil Power;
And love and labour, heart-struck, stood aghast,

Ralph Leech believes (and he can read and write,)
That Conference-Sunday schools have sav'd the nation.
He would compel the dark to seek his light,
Yet hates, for freedom's sake, state-education.
That corn laws are “Man's wisdom, and God's mercy;”
That Prairie is the Book of Common Prayer;
And that one Shakspeare is a fat old Player;
He doubts no more than that Canton's in Jersey.
Though cold the night, how fast his chapel fills!
Why? Sir De Suckem hath a message sent,
Urging the Suckems of the People's Cause
To prop Saint-Suckem's Navigation laws;