"THE Quaker Poet!"—is such name A simple designation; Or one expressive of my shame; And thy vituperation?— If but the former—I, for one, Have no objection to it; A name, as such, can startle none Who rationally view it. But if such title would convey Contempt, or reprobation, Allow me, briefly as I may, To state my vindication. It is not splendour of costume That prompts harmonious numbers;— The nightingale, of sober plume, Sings, while the peacock slumbers. The shallow brooks, in spring so gay, In summer soonest fail us; Their sparkling pride has pass'd away, Their sounds no more regale us. While the more deep, but quiet streams, By alders overshaded, Flow on, in spite of scorching beams, Their beauties uninvaded. And on their peaceful verge we see Green grass, fresh flowers, and round them Hover the butterfly and bee,— Rejoicing to have found them. Is it the gayest of the gay, The votaries of fashion, Who feel most sensibly the sway Of pure and genuine passion? No!—hearts there be, the world deems cold, As warm, as true, as tender As those which gayer robes enfold, However proud their splendour. Of mine I speak not:—HE, alone, Who form'd, can truly know it; Nor of my verse; I frankly own Myself no lofty poet. But I contend the Quaker creed, By fair interpretation, Has nothing in it to impede Poetic aspiration: All that fair nature's charms display Of grandeur or of beauty; All that the human heart can sway, Joy, grief, desire, or duty;— All these are ours—the copious source Of true poetic feeling:— And wouldst thou check their blameless course, Our lips in silence sealing? Nature, to @3all@1 her ample page Impartially unfolding, Prohibits neither saint, nor sage, Its beauties from beholding. And thus the muse her gifts bestows With no sectarian spirit, Her laurel wreaths invest the brows Which such distinctions merit. Through every age, in every clime, Her favour'd sons have flourish'd; Have felt her energy sublime, Her pure delights have nourish'd. From Lapland's snows, from Persia's bowers, Their songs are still ascending, Then, Quaker Poets, try your powers! Why should you fear offending? Still true to nature be your aim, Abhorring affectation; You, with peculiar grace may claim Each simpler decoration. And, with such, you may blend no less, Spite of imputed weakness, The godlike strength of gentleness, The majesty of meekness! The blameless pride of purity, Chast'ning each soft emotion; And, from fanaticism free, The fervour of devotion! Be such your powers;—and in the range Of themes which they assign you, Win wreaths you need not wish to change For aught that fame could twine you. For never can a poet's lays Obtain more genuine honour, Than whilst his GIFT promotes the praise Of HIM, who is its Donor! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMRADE JESUS by SARAH NORCLIFFE CLEGHORN THE WATCH OF A SWAN by SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT THE TOKEN by FRANK TEMPLETON PRINCE THE FIFTEEN ACRES by JAMES STEPHENS COWBOY VERSUS BRONCHO by JAMES BARTON ADAMS THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): THE MOVING ROCKS by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS |