For unknown ages, mid his wild abode,
Speechless *nd rude the human savage trode;
By slow degrees expressive sounds acquired,
And simple thoughts in words uncouth attired.
As growing wants and varying climes arise,
Excite desire and animate surprise,
Gradual his mind a wider circuit ranged,
His manners softened, and his language changed;
And grey experience, wiser than of yore,
Bequeathed its strange traditionary lore.
Again long ages mark the flight of time,
And lingering toil evolves the Art divine.
Coarse drawings first the imperfect thought revealed;
Next, barbarous forms the mystic sense concealed;
Capricious signs the meaning then disclose;
And last, the infant alphabet arose;
From Nilus’ banks adventurous Cadmus errs,
And on his Thebes the peerless boon confers.
Slow spread the sacred art, its use was slow:
Whate’er the improvements later times bestow,
Still how restrained, how circumscribed its power!
Years raise the fruit an instant may devour.
Fond Science wept; the uncertain toil she viewed,
And in the evil, half forgot the good.
What though the sage, and though the bard inspired,
By truth illumined, and by genius fired,
In high discourse the theme divine prolong,
And pour the glowing tide of lofty song;
To princes limited, to Plutos’ sons,
Tyrants of mines and heritors of thrones,
The theme, the song, scarce touched the general mind,
Lost or secluded from oppressed mankind.
Fond Science wept; how vain her cares she saw,
Subject to Fortune’s ever-varying law.
Month after month a single transcript claimed,
The style perchance, perchance the story maimed:
The guides to truth corrupted or destroyed,
A passage foisted, or a painful void,
The work of ignorance, or of fraud more bold,
To blast a rival, or a scheme uphold;
Or in the progress of the long review,
Th’ original perished as the copy grew;
Or, perfect both, while pilgrim bands admire,
The instant prey of accidental fire.
Fond Science wept; whate’er of costliest use,
The gift and glory of each favoring Muse;
From every land what genius might select;
What wealth might purchase, and what power protect;
The guides of youth, the comforters of age;
Swept by the besom of barbaric rage,-
Scarce a few fragments scattered o’er the field
Frantic in one sad moment she beheld.
“Nor shall such toil my generous sons subdue;
Nor waste like this again distress the view!”
She cries:-where Harlem’s classic groves
Embowering rise, with silent flight she moves;
She marks Laurentius carve the becchen rind,
And darts a new creation on his mind:
A sudden rapture thrills the conscious shades;
The gift remains, the bounteous vision fades.
Homeward, entranced, the Belgic sire returns;
New hope inspires him and new ardor burns;
Secret he meditates his art by day:
By night fair phantoms o’er his fancy stray;
With opening morn they rush upon his soul,
Nor cares nor duties banish nor control;
Haunt his sequestered path, his social scene,
And in his prayers seductive intervene.
(Elihu Hubbard Smith)
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Based on Topics: Mind Poems, Time Poems, Soul Poems, Youth Poems, Cry Poems, Fire Poems, Art Poems, Sons Poems, Power Poems, Work & Career Poems, Anger PoemsBased on Keywords: meditates, trode, harlem, errs, comforters, besom, ever-varying, cadmus, costliest, drawings, embowering