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Eric Normand
Forewords by Guy Steele and Jessica Kerr
grokking
Simplicity
taming complex software with
functional thinking

Eric Normand
Foreword by Guy Steele and Jessica Kerr

MANNING
S helter I Sl and
For online information and ordering of this and other Manning books, please visit
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ISBN: 9781617296208
Printed in the United States of America
 contents

foreword xv
preface xix
acknowledgments xxi
about this book xxiii
about the author xxvii

1 Welcome to Grokking Simplicity 1

What is functional programming? 2

The problems with the definition for practical use 3
The definition of FP confuses managers 4
We treat functional programming as a set of skills and concepts 5
Distinguishing actions, calculations, and data 6
Functional programmers distinguish code that matters when you call it 7
Functional programmers distinguish inert data
from code that does work 8
Functional programmers see actions, calculations, and data 9
The three categories of code in FP 10
How does distinguishing actions, calculations, and data help us? 11
Why is this book different from other FP books? 12
What is functional thinking? 13
Ground rules for ideas and skills in this book 14

iii
iv contents

2 Functional thinking in action 17

Welcome to Toni’s Pizza 18

Part 1: Distinguishing actions, calculations, and data 19
Organizing code by “rate of change” 20
Part 2: First-class abstractions 21
Timelines visualize distributed systems 22
Multiple timelines can execute in different orderings 23
Hard-won lessons about distributed systems 24
Cutting the timeline: Making the robots wait for each other 25
Positive lessons learned about timelines 26

Part 1: Actions, calculations, and data 29

3 Distinguishing actions, calculations, and data 31

Actions, calculations, and data 32

Actions, calculations, and data apply to any situation 33
Lessons from our shopping process 36
Applying functional thinking to new code 39
Drawing the coupon email process 42
Implementing the coupon email process 47
Applying functional thinking to existing code 54
Actions spread through code 56
Actions can take many forms 57

4 Extracting calculations from actions 61

Welcome to MegaMart.com! 62
Calculating free shipping 63
Calculating tax 64
We need to make it more testable 65
We need to make it more reusable 66
Distinguishing actions, calculations, and data 67
Functions have inputs and outputs 68
 contents v

Testing and reuse relate to inputs and outputs 69

Extracting a calculation from an action 70
Extracting another calculation from an action 73
Let’s see all of our code in one place 85

5 Improving the design of actions 87

Aligning design with business requirements 88

Aligning the function with business requirements 89
Principle: Minimize implicit inputs and outputs 91
Reducing implicit inputs and outputs 92
Giving the code a once-over 95
Categorizing our calculations 97
Principle: Design is about pulling things apart 98
Improving the design by pulling add_item() apart 99
Extracting a copy-on-write pattern 100
Using add_item() 101
Categorizing our calculations 102
Smaller functions and more calculations 106

6 Staying immutable in a mutable language 109

Can immutability be applied everywhere? 110

Categorizing operations into reads, writes, or both 111
The three steps of the copy-on-write discipline 112
Converting a write to a read with copy-on-write 113
Complete diff from mutating to copy-on-write 117
These copy-on-write operations are generalizable 118
JavaScript arrays at a glance 119
What to do if an operation is a read and a write 122
Splitting a function that does a read and write 123
Returning two values from one function 124
Reads to immutable data structures are calculations 131
Applications have state that changes over time 132
Immutable data structures are fast enough 133
vi contents

Copy-on-write operations on objects 134

JavaScript objects at a glance 135
Converting nested writes to reads 140
What gets copied? 141
Visualizing shallow copies and structural sharing 142

7 Staying immutable with untrusted code 147

Immutability with legacy code 148

Our copy-on-write code has to interact with untrusted code 149
Defensive copying defends the immutable original 150
Implementing defensive copies 151
The rules of defensive copying 152
Wrapping untrusted code 153
Defensive copying you may be familiar with 156
Copy-on-write and defensive copying compared 158
Deep copies are more expensive than shallow copies 159
Implementing deep copy in JavaScript is difficult 160
A dialogue between copy-on-write and defensive copying 162

8 Stratified design: Part 1 167

What is software design? 168

What is stratified design? 169
Developing our design sense 170
Patterns of stratified design 171
Pattern 1: Straightforward implementations 172
Three different zoom levels 186
Extracting the for loop 189
Pattern 1 Review: Straightforward implementation 198
 contents vii

9 Stratified design: Part 2 201

Patterns of stratified design 202

Pattern 2: Abstraction barrier 203
Abstraction barriers hide implementations 204
Ignoring details is symmetrical 205
Swapping the shopping cart’s data structure 206
Re-implementing the shopping cart as an object 208
The abstraction barrier lets us ignore details 209
When to use (and when not to use!) abstraction barriers 210
Pattern 2 Review: Abstraction barrier 211
Our code is more straightforward 212
Pattern 3: Minimal interface 213
Pattern 3 Review: Minimal interface 219
Pattern 4: Comfortable layers 220
Patterns of stratified design 221
What does the graph show us about our code? 222
Code at the top of the graph is easier to change 223
Testing code at the bottom is more important 225
Code at the bottom is more reusable 228
Summary: What the graph shows us about our code 229

Part 2: First-class abstractions 231

10 First-class functions: Part 1 233

Marketing still needs to coordinate with dev 235

Code smell: Implicit argument in function name 236
Refactoring: Express implicit argument 238
Recognize what is and what isn’t first-class 240
Will field names as strings lead to more bugs? 241
Will first-class fields make the API hard to change? 242
We will use a lot of objects and arrays 247
First-class functions can replace any syntax 250
For loop example: Eating and cleaning up 253
Refactoring: Replace body with callback 259
viii contents

What is this syntax? 262

Why are we wrapping the code in a function? 263

11 First-class functions: Part 2 267

One code smell and two refactorings 268

Refactoring copy-on-write 269
Refactoring copy-on-write for arrays 270
Returning functions from functions 279

12 Functional iteration 289

One code smell and two refactorings 290

MegaMart is creating a communications team 291
Deriving map() from examples 294
Functional tool: map() 295
Three ways to pass a function 297
Example: Email addresses of all customers 298
Deriving filter() from examples 301
Functional tool: filter() 302
Example: Customers with zero purchases 303
Deriving reduce() from examples 306
Functional tool: reduce() 307
Example: Concatenating strings 308
Things you can do with reduce() 313
Three functional tools compared 315

13 Chaining functional tools 317

The customer communications team continues 318

Clarifying chains, method 1: Name the steps 324
Clarifying chains, method 2: Naming the callbacks 325
Clarifying chains: Two methods compared 326
Example: Emails of customers who have made one purchase 327
Refactoring existing for loops to functional tools 332
 contents ix

Tip 1: Make data 333

Tip 2: Operate on whole array at once 334
Tip 3: Take many small steps 335
Tip 3: Take many small steps 336
Comparing functional to imperative code 337
Summary of chaining tips 338
Debugging tips for chaining 340
Many other functional tools 341
reduce() for building values 345
Getting creative with data representation 347
Line up those dots 353

14 Functional tools for nested data 355

Higher-order functions for values in objects 356

Making the field name explicit 357
Deriving update() 358
Using update() to modify values 359
Refactoring: replace get, modify, set with update() 361
Functional tool: update() 362
Visualizing values in objects 363
Visualizing nested updates 368
Applying update() to nested data 369
Deriving updateOption() 370
Deriving update2() 371
Visualizing update2() on nested objects 372
Writing incrementSizeByName() four ways 374
Deriving update3() 375
Deriving nestedUpdate() 377
The anatomy of safe recursion 382
Visualizing nestedUpdate() 383
The superpower of recursion 384
Design considerations with deep nesting 386
Abstraction barriers on deeply nested data 387
A summary of our use of higher-order functions 388
x contents

15 Isolating timelines 391

There’s a bug! 392

Now we can try to click twice fast 393
The timeline diagram shows what happens over time 395
The two fundamentals of timeline diagrams 396
Two tricky details about the order of actions 400
Drawing the add-to-cart timeline: Step 1 401
Asynchronous calls require new timelines 402
Different languages, different threading models 403
Building the timeline step-by-step 404
Drawing the add-to-cart timeline: Step 2 406
Timeline diagrams capture the two kinds of sequential code 407
Timeline diagrams capture the uncertain ordering of parallel code 408
Principles of working with timelines 409
JavaScript’s single-thread 410
JavaScript’s asynchronous queue 411
AJAX and the event queue 412
A complete asynchronous example 413
Simplifying the timeline 414
Reading our finished timeline 420
Simplifying the add-to-cart timeline diagram: Step 3 422
Review: Drawing the timeline (Steps 1–3) 424
Summary: Drawing timeline diagrams 426
Timeline diagrams side-by-side can reveal problems 427
Two slow clicks get the right result 428
Two fast clicks can get the wrong result 429
Timelines that share resources can cause problems 430
Converting a global variable to a local one 431
Converting a global variable to an argument 432
Making our code more reusable 435
Principle: In an asynchronous context, we use a final callback
instead of a return value as our explicit output 436
 contents xi

16 Sharing resources between timelines 441

Principles of working with timelines 442

The shopping cart still has a bug 443
We need to guarantee the order of the DOM updates 445
Building a queue in JavaScript 447
Principle: Use real-world sharing as inspiration 455
Making the queue reusable 456
Analyzing the timeline 461
Principle: Analyze the timeline diagram to know
if there will be problems 464
Making the queue skip 465

17 Coordinating timelines 471

Principles of working with timelines 472

There’s a bug! 473
How the code was changed 475
Identify actions: Step 1 476
Draw each action: Step 2 477
Simplify the diagram: Step 3 481
Possible ordering analysis 483
Why this timeline is faster 484
Waiting for both parallel callbacks 486
A concurrency primitive for cutting timelines 487
Using Cut() in our code 489
Uncertain ordering analysis 491
Parallel execution analysis 492
Multiple-click analysis 493
A primitive to call something just once 500
Implicit versus explicit model of time 503
Summary: Manipulating timelines 507
xii contents

18 Reactive and onion architectures 509

Two separate architectural patterns 510

Coupling of causes and effects of changes 511
What is reactive architecture? 512
Tradeoffs of the reactive architecture 513
Cells are first-class state 514
We can make ValueCells reactive 515
We can update shipping icons when the cell changes 516
FormulaCells calculate derived values 517
Mutable state in functional programming 518
How reactive architecture reconfigures systems 519
Decouples effects from their causes 520
Decoupling manages a center of cause and effect 521
Treat series of steps as pipelines 522
Flexibility in your timeline 523
Two separate architectural patterns 526
What is the onion architecture? 527
Review: Actions, calculations, and data 528
Review: Stratified design 529
Traditional layered architecture 530
A functional architecture 531
Facilitating change and reuse 532
Examine the terms used to place the rule in a layer 535
Analyze readability and awkwardness 536

19 The functional journey ahead 541

A plan for the chapter 542

We have learned the skills of professionals 543
Big takeaways 544
The ups and downs of skill acquisition 545
Parallel tracks to mastery 546
Sandbox: Start a side project 547
Sandbox: Practice exercises 548
Production: Eliminate a bug today 549
 contents xiii

Production: Incrementally improve the design 550

Popular functional languages 551
Functional languages with the most jobs 552
Functional languages by platform 552
Functional languages by learning opportunity 553
Get mathy 554
Further reading 555

index 557
 foreword

Guy Steele
I’ve been writing programs for over 52 years now. I still find it exciting, because there are
always new problems to tackle and new things to learn. My programming style has
changed quite a bit over the decades, as I learn new algorithms, new programming lan-
guages, and new techniques for organizing my code.
When I first learned to program, in the 1960s, a well-accepted methodology was to
draw a flowchart for the program before writing actual code. Every computation was
represented by a rectangular box, every decision by a diamond, and every input/output
operation by some other shape. The boxes were connected by arrows representing the
flow of control from one box to another. Then writing the program was just a matter of
writing code for the contents of each box in some order, and whenever an arrow pointed
anywhere but the next box you were about to code, you would write a goto statement to
indicate the necessary transfer of control. The problem was that flowcharts were two-
dimensional but code was one-dimensional, so even if the structure of a flowchart looked
nice and neat on paper, it could be hard to understand when written out as code. If you
drew arrows on your code from each goto statement to its destination, the result often
resembled a mound of spaghetti, and in those days we indeed talked about the difficulties
of understanding and maintaining “spaghetti code.”
The first big influence on my programming style was the “structured programming”
movement of the early 1970s. Looking back, I see two big ideas that came out of that
community-wide discussion. Both of them are techniques for organizing control flow.
The idea, which became famous, was that most control flow could be expressed in terms
of a few simple patterns: sequential execution, multiway decisions such as if-then
else and switch statements, and repetitive execution such as while loops and for
loops. This was sometimes oversimplified into the slogan “No goto statements!”—but
the important thing was the patterns, and if you used the patterns consistently you found

xv
xvi foreword

that you rarely needed to use an actual goto statement. The second idea, less famous but no
less important, was that sequential statements could be grouped into blocks that should be
properly nested, and that a non-local transfer of control may jump to the end of a block or
out of a block (think of break and continue) but should not jump into a block from
outside.
When I first learned the ideas of structured programming, I did not have access to a struc-
tured programming language. But I found myself writing my Fortran code a little more care-
fully, organizing it according to the principles of structured programming. I even found
myself writing low-level assembly language code as if I were a compiler translating from a
structured programming language into machine instructions. I found that this discipline
made my programs easier to write and to maintain. Yes, I was still writing goto statements
or branch instructions, but almost always according to one of the standard patterns, and that
made it much easier to see what was going on.
In the bad old days when I wrote Fortran code, all the variables needed in a program
were declared right up front, all together in one place, followed by the executable code. (The
COBOL language rigidly formalized this specific organization; variables were declared in the
“data division” of a program, which began with the actual words “DATA DIVISION.” This
was then followed by the code, which always began with the actual words “PROCEDURE
DIVISION.”) Every variable could be referred to from any point in the code. That made it
hard to figure out, for any specific variable, exactly how it might be accessed and modified.
The second big influence that changed my programming style was “object-oriented pro-
gramming,” which for me encompasses a combination and culmination of early ideas about
objects, classes, “information hiding,” and “abstract data types.” Again, looking back I see two
big ideas that came out of this grand synthesis, and both have to do with organizing access to
data. The first idea is that variables should be “encapsulated” or “contained” in some way, to
make it easier to see that only certain parts of the code can read or write them. This can be
as simple as declaring local variables within a block rather than at the top of the program, or as
elaborate as declaring variables within a class (or module) so that only methods of that class
(or procedures within the module) can access them. Classes or modules can be used to guar-
antee that sets of variables obey certain consistency properties, because methods or procedures
can be coded to ensure that if one variable is updated, then related variables are also appropri-
ately updated. The second idea is inheritance, meaning that one can define a more complicated
object by extending simpler ones, adding new variables and methods, and perhaps overriding
existing methods. This second idea is made possible because of the first one.
At the time that I learned about objects and abstract data types, I was writing a lot of Lisp
code, and while Lisp itself is not a purely object-oriented language, it is pretty easy to use
Lisp to implement data structures and to access those data structures only through approved
methods (implemented as Lisp functions). If I paid attention to organizing my data, I got
many of the benefits of object-oriented programming, even though I was coding in a lan-
guage that did not enforce that discipline.
 foreword xvii

The third big influence on my programming style was “functional programming,” which
is sometimes oversimplified into the slogan “No side effects!” But this is not realistic.
Understood properly, functional programming provides techniques for organizing side
effects so that they don’t occur just anywhere—and that is the subject of this book.
Once again, there are actually two big ideas that work together. The first big idea is to dis-
tinguish computations, which have no effect on the outside world and produce the same result
even when executed multiple times, from actions, which may produce different results each
time they are executed and may have some side effect on the outside world, such as displaying
text on a screen, or launching a rocket. A program is easier to understand if organized into
standard patterns that make it easier to figure out which parts might have side effects and
which parts are “merely computations.” The standard patterns may be divided into two sub-
categories: those typically used in single-threaded programs (sequential execution) and those
typically used in multi-threaded programs (parallel execution).
The second big idea is a set of techniques for processing collections of data—arrays, lists,
databases—“all at once” rather than item by item. These techniques are most effective when
the items can be processed independently, free of side effects and their influence, so once
again the second idea works better thanks to the first idea.
In 1995 I helped to write the first full specification for the Java programming language; the
next year I helped to write the first standard for JavaScript (the ECMAScript standard). Both
these languages were clearly object-oriented; indeed, in Java there is no such thing as a global
variable—every variable must be declared within some class or method. And both those lan-
guages have no goto statement; the language designers concluded that the structured pro-
gramming movement had succeeded, and goto was no longer needed. Nowadays millions
of programmers get along just fine without goto statements and global variables.
But what about functional programming? There are some purely functional languages
such as Haskell that are widely used. You can use Haskell to display text on a screen, or to
launch a rocket, but the use of side effects within Haskell is subject to a very strict discipline.
One consequence is that you can’t just drop a print statement anywhere you want in the mid-
dle of a Haskell program to see what’s going on.
On the other hand, Java, JavaScript, C++, Python, and so many others are not purely func-
tional languages, but have adopted ideas from functional programming that make them
much easier to use. And this is the punchline: once you understand the key principles for
organizing side effects, these simple ideas can be used in any programming language. This
book, Grokking Simplicity, shows you how to do that. It may seem long, but it’s an easy read,
filled with practical examples and sidebars that explain the technical terms. I was drawn in,
really enjoyed it, and learned a couple of new ideas that I am eager to apply in my own code.
I hope you enjoy it, too!
xviii foreword

Jessica Kerr
Jessitron, LLC
When I first learned programming, I loved it for its predictability. Each of my programs was
simple: it was small, it ran on one machine, and it was easy for one person (me) to use. Loving
software development is something different. Software is not small. It is not written by one
person. It runs on many machines, in many processes. It accommodates different people,
including people who don’t care how the software works.
Useful software doesn’t get to be simple.
What’s a programmer to do?
For sixty years, the techniques of functional programming have grown in the minds of
computer scientists. Researchers like to make positive statements about what can never
happen.
This last decade or two, developers have been adopting these techniques in business soft-
ware. This is good timing, because it corresponds with the dominance of web applications:
every app is a distributed system, downloaded to unknown computers, clicked on by unknown
people. Functional programming is well suited. Whole categories of hard-to-find bugs can
never happen.
But functional programming does not transfer peacefully from academia to business soft-
ware. We are not using Haskell. We aren’t starting from scratch. We depend on runtimes and
libraries outside our control. Our software interacts with many other systems; it is not enough
to output an answer. It is a long way from FP-land to legacy business software.
Eric has undertaken this journey for us. He delved into functional programming, found its
most helpful essences, and brought them to us where we are.
Gone are the strict typing, the “pure” languages, the category theory. Here instead we
notice the code that interacts with the world, choose to leave data unchanged, and break code
apart for better clarity. Instead of high-minded abstractions, here are degrees and levels of
abstraction. Instead of eschewing state, here are ways to safely keep state.
Eric offers new ways to perceive our existing code. New diagrams, new smells, new heuris-
tics. Yes, this came out of a journey into functional programming—yet, when he makes his
ways of thinking explicit so that we can use them too, he creates something new. Something
that will help all of us with our creations.
My simple programs were not useful to the world. Our useful software will never be sim-
ple. But we can make more of our code simpler than it was. And we can manage those crucial
bits that interact with the world. Eric unwinds these contradictions for us.
This book will make you better at programming—and more, at software development.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!—Thou whose ways,
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze,
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand,
Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand,
And countless ages, trampling into clay
Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day;
Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!—Thou,
With whom all time is one eternal now,
Who know’st no past nor future—Thou whose breath
Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death!
Look on us! guide us!—wanderers of a sea
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee?
A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight,
A star may set—and we are lost in night;
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink,
A treacherous song allure us—and we sink!

Oh! by His love, who, veiling Godhead’s light,

To moments circumscribed the Infinite,
And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally
By that dread union—Man with Deity;
Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed,
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead;
Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control
The earthquakes of that universe—the soul;
Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore,
“Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain,
The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain.
Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure
In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure;
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just
Look upward still, in high and holy trust,
And by affliction guided to Thy shrine,
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine.
 And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power,
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour:
When on the edge of that unknown abyss
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss,
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave,
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave,
Must drink the cup of trembling[141]—when we see
Nought in the universe but Death and Thee,
Forsake us not! If still, when life was young,
Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung,
If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past,
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast,
Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge—
When from thy justice to thy love we fly,
On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye;
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease,
Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper—Peace![142]

For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld

The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d,
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain,
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain;
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe
Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe,
Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried,
We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet
In glory’s arms exultingly to meet—
A closing triumph, a majestic scene,
Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien,
As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all,
He folds his mantle, regally to fall!
—Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone,
Yet not less terrible because unknown,
Is the last hour of thousands: they retire
From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire.
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect’s little world of cares,
Descends in silence—while around waves on
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone!
Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown,
—Start not, thou trifler!—such may be thine own.

But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near

The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear,
A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before,
We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more!
There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng
That join the masque of revelry and song:
Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored,
Frowns midst the roses of the festal board;
And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood,
And the heart owns the might of solitude,
Is its low whisper heard?—a note profound,
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose
Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!

Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove

That life had nought to claim such lingering love,
And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d,
Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d.
In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride,
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide,
Call up the countless armies of the dead,
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread,
And say—“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree,
Made for creation, be reversed for thee?”
Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why—
It is enough that nature shrinks to die.
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid,
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid!
Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined
And mystic questions of the parting mind,
Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst,
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first,
When freed from mortal films—what viewless world
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d—
What awful and unbodied beings guide
Her timid flight through regions yet untried;
Say if at once, her final doom to hear,
Before her God the trembler must appear,
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee?

Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more

The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore
The unknown, the unseen, the future—though the heart,
As at unearthly sounds, before them start;
Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh,
They have their source in immortality!
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies,
An equal to the mortal conflict rise?
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace,
Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race,
The mighty rider comes—oh whence shall aid
Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d?
Whence, but from thee, Messiah!—thou hast drain’d
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d;
To thee the struggle and the pangs were known,
The mystic horror—all became thine own!

But did no hand celestial succour bring,

Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting?
Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour,
To arm thee with invulnerable power?
No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed,
From man averted—and thy path on high
Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony:
For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes,
Received the last, the almighty sacrifice!

But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb

Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom!
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod.
Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God;
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar,
And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star.

He rose! the everlasting gates of day

Received the King of Glory on his way!
The hope, the comforter of those who wept,
And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept,
He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain.
Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame,
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice!
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend,
He whom the busy world shall miss no more
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store,
Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,
Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart!

And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft

Of that high hope, to misery what were left?
But for the vision of the days to be,
But for the comforter despised by thee,
Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look,
Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke,
When o’er our heads the desolating blast,
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d,
And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey
Hath call’d our fairest and our best away?
Should we not madden when our eyes behold
All that we loved in marble stillness cold,
No more responsive to our smile or sigh,
Fix’d—frozen—silent—all mortality?
But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,”
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel
Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land;
And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless,
Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness,
With all a nation’s blessings on thy head,
O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead?
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart
Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart!
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled,
When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child
Yearn’d with vain longing—still thy patient eye
To its last light beam’d holy constancy!
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast,
Amidst those agonies—thy first and last,
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes,
Breathed not a plaint—and settled in repose;
While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour,
Who from the brightest vision of a throne,
Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own,
And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast,
As blasted Israel when her ark was lost!

“It is the will of God!”—yet, yet we hear

The words which closed thy beautiful career;
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode,
But for that thought—“It is the will of God!”
Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree
If not one murmur then escaped from thee?
Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace,
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race,
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among,
Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song!
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well,
E’en as an angel, with presiding care,
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.

For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies

Call on the watchers of the land to rise,
To set the sign of fire on every height,[144]
And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might,
Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die,
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory!
By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood
Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood,
When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown,
In high and holy singleness, alone,
But mighty in her God—and shall she now
Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow?
From the bright fountain of her glory turn,
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn?
No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude,
Throned in thy majesty of solitude,
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest,
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers,
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!

Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle!

In the soft beauty of their verdure smile,
Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes
That guard the peasant’s records and remains,
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell,
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades,
When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades,
Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise,
And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies.
There may the mother, as with anxious joy
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy,
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays
Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days,
When angels, whispering through the cedar shade,
Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d;
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes,
She bids the prayer of infancy arise,
Tell of His name who left his throne on high,
Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify,
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried,
And fondly say—“My child, for thee He died!”
[136] “The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one in
which her revered friend[137] took a peculiar interest. It had been
her original wish to dedicate it to him, but he declined the tribute,
thinking it might be more advantageous to her to pay this
compliment to Mr Gifford, with whom she was at that time in
frequent correspondence, and who entered very warmly into her
literary undertakings, discussing them with the kindness of an old
friend, and desiring her to command frankly whatever assistance
his advice or experience could afford. Mrs Hemans, in the first
instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the altered
dedication; but was afterwards deterred from putting it into
execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a manœuvre
to propitiate the good graces of the Quarterly Review; and from
the slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her
sensitive nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy.”—
Memoir, p. 31.
“One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the Edinburgh
Monthly Magazine; and there is something in its tone so far more
valuable than ordinary praise, and at the same time so prophetic
of the happy influence her writings were one day to exercise, that
the introduction of the concluding paragraph may not be
unwelcome to the readers of this little memorial. After quoting
from the poem, the reviewer thus proceeds,—‘These extracts
must, we think, convey to every reader a favourable impression
of the talents of their author, and of the admirable purposes to
which her high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we
imagine, of some of the most popular writers of the day, that they
are not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of their
performances; it is the deep, and will be the lasting reproach of
others, that in this point of view they have wantonly sought and
realised the most profound literary abasement. With the promise
of talents not inferior to any, and far superior to most of them,
the author before us is not only free from every stain, but
breathes all moral beauty and loveliness; and it will be a
memorable coincidence if the era of a woman’s sway in literature
shall become coeval with the return of its moral purity and
elevation.’ From suffrages such as these, Mrs Hemans derived not
merely present gratification, but encouragement and cheer for
her onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the
assurances, with which it often fell to her lot to be blessed, of
having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her,
administered balm to the feelings of the sorrowful, or taught the
desponding where to look for comfort. In a letter written at this
time to a valued friend, recently visited by one of the heaviest of
human calamities—the loss of an exemplary mother—she thus
describes her own appreciation of such heart-tributes:—‘It is
inexpressibly gratifying to me to know, that you should find any
thing I have written at all adapted to your present feelings, and
that The Sceptic should have been one of the last books upon
which the eyes, now opened upon brighter scenes, were cast.
Perhaps, when your mind is sufficiently composed, you will inform
me which were the passages distinguished by the approbation of
that pure and pious mind: they will be far more highly valued by
me than any thing I have ever written.’—Ibid. pp. 334-4.
“It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs Hannah
More, in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copy of The
Sceptic. ‘I cannot refuse myself the gratification of saying, that I
entertain a very high opinion of Mrs Hemans’s superior genius
 and refined taste. I rank her, as a poet, very high, and I have
seen no work on the subject of her Modern Greece which evinces
more just views, or more delicate perceptions of the fine and the
beautiful. I am glad she has employed her powerful pen, in this
new instance, on a subject so worthy of it; and, anticipating the
future by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the
perusal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, but benefit.’”—
Ibid.
[137] Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph.
[138] “He is patient, because He is eternal.”—St Augustine.
[139] “Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge for
you; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any person at
unawares.—And they shall be unto you cities of refuge from the
avenger.”—Numbers, chap. xxxv.
[140] “Every man in the chambers of his imagery.”—Ezekiel, chap.
viii.
[141] “Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and
wrung them out.”—Isaiah, chap. li.
[142] “And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong
wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the
Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an
earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after
the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after
the fire a still small voice.”—Kings, book i. chap. 19.
[143] The Princess Charlotte.
[144] “And set up a sign of fire.”—Jeremiah, chap. vi.

[What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thirteen years after the
publication of the Sceptic, and when the author, towards the termination of her
earthly career, was residing with her family in Dublin, a circumstance occurred by
which Mrs Hemans was greatly affected and impressed. A stranger one day called
at her house, and begged earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from
one of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits of all but her
immediate friends. The applicant was therefore told that she was unable to receive
him; but he persisted in entreating for a few minutes’ audience, with such urgent
importunity that at last the point was conceded. The moment he was admitted,
the gentleman (for such his manner and appearance declared him to be)
explained, in words and tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit
was to acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest satisfied without
avowing—that to her he owed, in the first instance, that faith and those hopes
which were now more precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading
her poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the miserable delusions
of infidelity, and induced to “search the Scriptures.” Having poured forth his thanks
and benedictions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but interesting
visitant took his departure, leaving her overwhelmed with a mingled sense of
joyful gratitude and wondering humility.—Memoir, p. 255-6.]

CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS.

North American Review.—“In 1820 Mrs Hemans published The Sceptic, a poem of
great merit for its style and its sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch.
She considers the influence of unbelief on the affections and gentler part of our
nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the misery consequent on doubt, shows
the relief that may be found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality.
Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, she turns to the sterner
tasks of life:—

‘E’en youth’s brief hours

Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man.’

But then the sceptic has no relief in memory; for memory recalls no joys but such
as were transitory, and known to be such; and as for hope—

‘She, who like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all,

Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume,
That might have raised thee far above the tomb,
And hush’d the only voice whose angel-tone
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.’

“The poet then asks, if an infidel dare love; and, having no home for his thoughts
in a better world, nurse such feelings as delight to enshrine themselves in the
breast of a parent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attachment to a vain
idol, from which death may at any time divide him ‘for ever.’... For relief the infidel
is referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites the fervour of devotion
with poetic sensibility.... The poem proceeds to depict, in a forcible manner, the
unfortunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of knowledge but that
which gives salvation; and, having gained possession of the secrets of all ages,
and communed with the majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time,
neglects nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, finds relief in
suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal rest. The thought of death recurs to
the mind of the poet, and calls forth a fervent prayer for the divine presence and
support in the hour of dissolution; for the hour, when the soul is brought to the
mysterious verge of another life, is an ‘awful one.’... This is followed by an allusion
to the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and the instinctive
apprehension with which the parting mind muses on its future condition, and asks
of itself mystic questions, that it cannot solve. But through the influence of religion
—

‘He whom the busy world shall miss no more

Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store,
Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,
Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart.’

“After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriotism, in a manner with
which foreigners can only be pleased, the poem closes with the picture of a
mother teaching her child the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine
example of the Saviour.
“We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for it illustrates the character
of Mrs Hemans’s manner. We perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness
of thought, sometimes made more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, a depth of
religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, gratifications, and sorrows of
social life.”—Professor Norton.
Edinburgh Monthly Review.—“We have on more than one occasion expressed the
very high opinion which we entertain of the talents of this lady; and it is gratifying
to find that she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree the applause
already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibition of her powers enhances and
confirms her claims upon our admiration. Mrs Hemans is indeed but in the infancy
of her poetical career; but it is an infancy of unrivalled beauty, and of very high
promise. Not but that she has already performed more than has often been
sufficient to win for other candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but
because what she has already done shrinks, when compared with what we
consider to be her own great capacity, to mere incipient excellence—the intimation
rather than the fulfilment of the high destiny of her genius.
... “The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spontaneous offspring of intense and
noble feeling, governed by a clear understanding, and fashioned into elegance by
an exquisite delicacy and precision of taste. With more than the force of many of
her masculine competitors, she never ceases to be strictly feminine in the whole
current of her thought and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of
that free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness is more
conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some of the most remarkable among
the female literati of our times have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the
poem before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have been very
difficult to have reconciled the treatment, in the hands of some female authors, to
the delicacy which belongs to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which
form its finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the exploded fancies
of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by the hand of a woman, would have been
doubly disgusting, by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and by
the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its attractions, and wrapt in
darkness and defiance. But Mrs Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler
cause, and, while she has left in the poem before us every trace of vigorous
intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far transcended in energy of
thought the prosing pioneers of unbelief, she has sustained throughout a tone of
 warm and confiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility of hope and of
faith has in it none of the weakness with which it has been charged by the
arrogance of impiety, but owns a divine and mysterious vigour residing under the
very aspect of gentleness and devotion.”
Quarterly Review.—“Her last two publications are works of a higher stamp; works,
indeed, of which no living poet need to be ashamed. The first of them is entitled
The Sceptic, and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticipate, to advocating the
cause of religion. Undoubtedly the poem must have owed its being to the
circumstances of the times—to a laudable indignation at the course which
literature in many departments seemed lately to be taking in this country, and at
the doctrines disseminated with industry, principally (but by no means exclusively,
as has been falsely supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs Hemans, however,
does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse; few poems,
ostensibly philosophical or didactic, have ever been of use, except to display the
ingenuity and talent of the writers. People are not often taught a science or an art
in poetry, and much less will an infidel be converted by a theological treatise in
verse. But the argument of The Sceptic is one of irresistible force to confirm a
wavering mind; it is simply resting the truth of religion on the necessity of it—on
the utter misery and helplessness of man without it. This argument is in itself
available for all the purposes of poetry: it appeals to the imagination and passions
of man; it is capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and charities, of
acting upon all our natural fears. Mrs Hemans has gone through this range with
great feeling and ability; and when she comes to the mind which has clothed itself
in its own strength, and relying proudly on that alone in the hour of affliction, has
sunk into distraction in the contest, she rises into a strain of moral poetry not
often surpassed:—

‘Oh, what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye,

By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,’ etc.”]
 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION,
AN UNFINISHED POEM.

I.

Beings of brighter worlds! that rise at times

As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught,
In those brief visions of celestial climes
Which pass like sunbeams o’er the realms of thought,
Dwell ye around us?—are ye hovering nigh,
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air?
And in deep solitudes, where human eye
Can trace no step, Immortals! are ye there?
Oh! who can tell?—what power, but Death alone,
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world unknown?

II.

But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers
Of Eden wither’d, when reveal’d ye shone
In all your brightness midst those holy bowers—
Holy, but not unfading, as your own!
While He, the child of that primeval soil,
With you its paths in high communion trode,
His glory yet undimm’d by guilt or toil,
And beaming in the image of his God,
And his pure spirit glowing from the sky,
Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity.

III.

Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays,

Mingling their tones, from nature’s temple rose,
When nought but that majestic song of praise
Broke on the sanctity of night’s repose,
With music since unheard: and man might trace
By stream and vale, in deep embow’ring shade,
Devotion’s first and loveliest dwelling-place,
The footsteps of th’ Omnipotent, who made
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast
Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass’d.

IV.

Short were those days, and soon, O sons of Heaven!

Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour,
When from his paradise the alien driven
Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower,
Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell
With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame,
And his first cry of misery was—“Farewell!”
His heart’s first anguish, exile: he became
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children’s lot
Is still for happier lands to pine—and reach them not.

V.

Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld

Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep?
From all its founts the world of waters swell’d,
And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep!
For He, to whom the elements are slaves,
In wrath unchain’d the oceans of the cloud,
And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves
Folded creation in their mighty shroud;
Then left the earth a solitude, o’erspread
With its own awful weeks—a desert of the dead.
 VI.

But onward flow’d life’s busy course again,

And rolling ages with them bore away—
As to be lost amidst the boundless main,
Rich orient streams their golden sands convey—
The hallow’d lore of old—the guiding light
Left by tradition to the sons of earth,
And the blest memory of each sacred rite
Known in the region of their father’s birth,
When in each breeze around his fair abode
Whisper’d a seraph’s voice, or lived the breath of God.

VII.

Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day,

Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast,
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray,
Catching brief splendour from the purple west?
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile
With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone;
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile,
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own,
Blending her rites with thine—while yet afar
Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star.

VIII.

Yet still one stream was pure—one sever’d shrine

Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands;
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine,
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands.
There still the father to his child bequeath’d
The sacred torch of never-dying flame;
There still Devotion’s suppliant accents breathed
The One adored and everlasting Name;
And angel guests would linger and repose
Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees rose.

IX.

But far o’er earth the apostate wanderers bore

Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade,
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore,
In thrilling whispers to the soul convey’d
High inspiration: yet in every clime,
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought
With beings, in their essence more sublime,
To hold communion of mysterious thought;
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean,
And hear in every wind the accents of th’ Unseen.

X.

Yes! we have need to bid our hopes repose

On some protecting influence: here confined,
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes,
Earth is too narrow for th’ immortal mind.
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day,
As exiles panting for their native coast,
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way,
And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross’d.
Death hovers round us: in the zephyr’s sigh,
As in the storm, he comes—and lo! Eternity!

XI.

As one left lonely on the desert sands

Of burning Afric, where, without a guide,
He gazes as the pathless waste expands—
Around, beyond, interminably wide;
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom,
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky,
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume
The glistening Serab[145] which illudes his eye:
Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown,
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown.

XII.

His thoughts explored the past—and where were they,

The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by?
He turn’d—a boundless void before him lay,
Wrapp’d in the shadows of futurity.
How knew the child of Nature that the flame
He felt within him struggling to ascend,
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame
Doom’d with the earth on which it moved, to blend?
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed,
If ’twere a Father’s love or Tyrant’s wrath decreed?

XIII.

Oh! marvel not if then he sought to trace

In all sublimities of sight and sound,
In rushing winds that wander through all space,
Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom embrown’d,
The oracles of Fate! or if the train
Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep,
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer’s brain,
When mortal voices rest in stillness deep,
Were deem’d mysterious revelations, sent
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element.

XIV.
Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time,
Clothed with a deeper power?—earth’s wandering race,
Exploring realms of solitude sublime,
Not as we see, beheld her awful face!
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met
Their searching eyes; unpeopled kingdoms lay
In savage pomp before them—all was yet
Silent and vast, but not as in decay;
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne,
Look’d o’er a thousand shores, untrodden, voiceless, lone.

XV.

The forests in their dark luxuriance waved,

With all their swell of strange Æolian sound;
The fearful deep, sole region ne’er enslaved,
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round.
Then, brooding o’er the images, imprest
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye,
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast,
Midst dim remembrances of infancy,
Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams,
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and
streams.

XVI.

Then bled the victim—then in every shade

Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine;
Fear bow’d before the phantoms she portray’d,
And Nature teem’d with many a mystic sign.
Meteors, and storms, and thunders! ye whose course
E’en yet is awful to th’ enlighten’d eye,
As, wildly rushing from your secret source,
Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high,
Then o’er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast,
And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass’d.

XVII.

But you, ye stars! in distant glory burning,

Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky!
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning,
Would pierce the secrets of infinity—
To you the heart, bereft of other light,
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains,
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night,
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns,
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race
Of some unnumber’d orbs, that light the depths of space.

XVIII.

Shine on! and brightly plead for erring thought,

Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored
The wide creation, and beholding nought
Like your eternal beauty, then adored
Its living splendours; deeming them inform’d
By natures temper’d with a holier fire—
Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm’d,
Who to the source of spirit might aspire,
And mortal prayers benignantly convey
To some presiding Power, more awful far than they.

XIX.

Guides o’er the desert and the deep! to you

The seaman turn’d, rejoicing at the helm,
When from the regions of empyreal blue
Ye pour’d soft radiance o’er the ocean-realm;
To you the dweller of the plains address’d
Vain prayers, that call’d the clouds and dews your own;
To you the shepherd, on the mountain’s crest,
Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone,
As earth would light up all her hills, to vie
With your immortal host, and image back the sky.

XX.

Hail to the queen of heaven! her silvery crown

Serenely wearing, o’er her high domain
She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down,
As if to smile on her terrestrial reign.
Earth should be hush’d in slumber—but the night
Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread,
On hoary Lebanon’s umbrageous height
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed
To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades
Faintly as Nature’s light the ’wilder’d soul pervades.

XXI.

But when thine orb, all earth’s rich hues restoring,

Came forth, O sun! in majesty supreme,
Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring
Beauty and life in each triumphant beam,
Through thine own East what joyous rites prevail’d!
What choral songs re-echo’d! while thy fire
Shone o’er its thousand altars, and exhaled
The precious incense of each odorous pyre,
Heap’d with the richest balms of spicy vales,
And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales.

XXII.
Yet not with Saba’s fragrant wealth alone,
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew’d;
For the dark children of the burning zone
Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew’d
With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild scene,
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view’d,
And though with glory mantled, and severe
In his own fulness of beatitude,
Yet mourn’d for those whose spirits from thy ray
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day.

XXIII.

But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers!

Benignant seraphs! wont to leave the skies,
And hold high converse, midst his native bowers,
With the once glorious son of Paradise,
Look’d ye from heaven in sadness! were your strains
Of choral praise suspended in dismay,
When the polluted shrine of Syria’s plains
With clouds of incense dimm’d the blaze of day?
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes.
While demons hail’d the pomp of human sacrifice?

XXIV.

And well the powers of evil might rejoice,

When rose from Tophet’s vale the exulting cry,
And, deaf to Nature’s supplicating voice,
The frantic mother bore her child to die!
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands
With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway,
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands,
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey.
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale!
Well may the drum’s loud peal o’erpower an infant’s wail?

XXV.

A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose;

’Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids,
Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows,
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades.
With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound,
Each rock’s deep echo for Adonis mourns:
Weep for the dead! Away! the lost is found—
To life and love the buried god returns!
Then wakes the timbrel—then the forests ring,
And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze’s wing!

XXVI.

But fill’d with holier joy the Persian stood,

In silent reverence, on the mountain’s brow,
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood
Of radiance burst around, above, below—
Bright, boundless as eternity: he gazed
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o’erflow’d
In worship of th’ Invisible, and praised
In thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode
Of life, and power, and excellence—the throne
Where dwelt the Unapproach’d, resplendently alone.[146]

XXVII.

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave

Mysterious sanctity to things which wear
Th’ Eternal’s impress?—if the living wave,
The circling heavens, the free and boundless air—
If the pure founts of everlasting flame,
Deep in his country’s hallow’d vales enshrined,
And the bright stars maintain’d a silent claim
To love and homage from his awe-struck mind?
Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream
Of uncreated Power, far, far o’er these supreme.

XXVIII.

And with that faith was conquest. He whose name

To Judah’s harp of prophecy had rung—
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung,
He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass’d,
Thrones to his footstep rock’d, and monarchs lay
Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast
Their ancient idols down before his way,
Who in majestic march, from shore to shore,
The quenchless flame revered by Persia’s children bore.

[145] Serab, mirage.

[146] At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the
following stanza was here inserted:—

“Nor rose the Magian’s hymn, sublimely swelling

In full-toned homage to the source of flame,
From fabric rear’d by man, the gorgeous dwelling
Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame.
Be rear’d no temple, bade no walls contain
The breath of incense or the voice of prayer;
But made the boundless universe his fane,
The rocks his altar-stone—adoring there
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades
All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.”

[In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the acquaintance of one who
became afterwards a zealous and valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely
mourned in death—Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at
Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from
whom also, during an intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received
much kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent literary
character with whom she had ever familiarly associated; and she therefore entered
with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational
powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the
characteristic of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this
occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment:—“I am more delighted with Mr Heber
than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is quite rich with anecdote, and every
subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study of his
life. In short, his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind
that the first perusal of Ivanhoe did; and was something so perfectly new to me,
that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long conversation with him on
the subject of the poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he
proceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at
ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the
subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own.”
The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Superstition and Revelation, which
Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and which was intended to
embrace a very extensive range of subject. Her original design will be best given
in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park:—“I have been thinking a
good deal of the plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions.
‘Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,’ and in the course of my
lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you will not
think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a poem of some extent
and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced,
from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity? It
would contain, of course, much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive
fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbarous
climes, might be introduced to prove how little consolation they could convey in
the hour of affliction—or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from history might
be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of
the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects
for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are still
strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, India,
&c., might contain much that is poetical; but the subject is almost boundless, and
I think of it till I am startled by its magnitude.”
Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her every
encouragement to proceed in it; supplying her with many admirable suggestions,
both as to the illustrations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and
the sources from whence the requisite information would best be derived. But the
great labour and research necessary to the development of a plan which included
the superstitions of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries—the
adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded to in the book of Job—to
the still existing rites of the Hindoos—would have demanded a course of study too
engrossing to be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and
literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author’s time. The work
was, therefore, laid aside; and the fragment now first published is all that remains
of it, though the project was never distinctly abandoned.]
 ITALIAN LITERATURE.[147]
THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.
FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.”
[147] “About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional
contributor to the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, then conducted
by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the
discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable
recollections with the period of this literary intercourse. Several of
her poems appeared in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a
series of papers on foreign literature, which, with very few
exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to
the world; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive
appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing
may be considered subordinate to the poetical translations, which
it is used to introduce.”—Memoir, p. 41.
Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the
unanimous consent of the Italians, as the greatest of their living
poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always
actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt
with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his
thoughts—they are present, and clothed with life—before him, and a
flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint
them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only
another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in
rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his
imagination for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him
which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of
Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those
severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its
birth; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur
and dignity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with
something so lofty in his manner and style of writing, the heart of so
impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of
greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass
unobserved: but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon
the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works
which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the
midst of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen
political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively
celebrated opposite parties in proportion to their success. Let us
suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore,
and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme,
he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may
be to his individual sentiments.[148] In these political poems—the
object and purport of which are so different—the invention and
manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The Basvigliana, or poem on
the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since its
appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated
Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself.
Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome
by the people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to
excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was
then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic,
supposes that, at the moment of Basville’s death, he is saved by a
sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical
principles had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a
substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine
Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have
received their due chastisement, and doomed to contemplate the
misfortunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to
extend the progress of the Revolution.
An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that
he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys
him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of
Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to
burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem
concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into
four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in terza rima,
like the poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and
lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself
is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world;
and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the spectator-
hero of the poem, acts precisely the same part which is performed
by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly
as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of
his revolutionary character—he describes him as feeling more pity
than remorse—and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself
with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps
without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The
Basvigliana is, perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for
the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the
richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus
takes leave of the body:—

“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes,

Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose;
Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed,
Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.

“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower,

And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour;
Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.

“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre,

There live no flames of vengeance or of ire;
And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore
Where mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.”

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried,

Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide;
 But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh,
A lingering step, and oft reverted eye—
As when a child’s reluctant feet obey
Its mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play.

Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast,

When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d,
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome,
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome,
Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d,
But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’d
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’d
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’d
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven,
Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions given
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire
Seem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire;
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood,
A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood.
He waved his sword—its red, terrific light
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night;
While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast,
Far o’er the Vatican beneath was cast
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom
O’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar;
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar,
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest,
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast,
They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high
Breaks not their calm and proud security.
In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at
the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI.

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies