"Steel were the heart / That could this passing spectacle survey, / Nor feel the touch of sympathy within."
— Hurdis, James (1763-1801)
Author
Work Title
Date
1800
Metaphor
"Steel were the heart / That could this passing spectacle survey, / Nor feel the touch of sympathy within."
Metaphor in Context
Lo the procession! Let me pause intent,
And first drink pleasure at the peasant's grave.
Humane and christian is the muse, and fond
Of ev'ry object, cheerful or sedate,
Which rural scenes afford. She nor contemns
The nuptial holiday, nor views untouch'd
The sad solemnity of rustic woe,
What time the white-frock'd mourner slowly moves,
And brings with mute reluctance to the grave
The dear remains of some departed friend.
The decent sheet that overspreads the bier!
How well becomes it sorrow neat as their's,
Pure, and unsullied by the shameless tear
Of wrung hypocrisy! Steel were the heart
That could this passing spectacle survey,
Nor feel the touch of sympathy within.
Me it well pleases to the holy sward
To follow pitying, nor disowns my muse
The feminine sensations of a heart
That often vibrates at another's woe.
The tear that trickles down the manly cheek,
The burst of grief that braves control, the sigh
Which baffles interception, and escapes
Soon as the solemn pause bids lift the pall,
And ease the dead into his kindred earth,
Send many a tingling arrow through this breast,
Though the reluctant eye no grief betray,
And tearless silence in her deepest gloom
The decent pleasurable secret hide.
But often as my sated soul surveys
The sable funeral of city pomp,
Methinks life human is a play indeed,
And the poor player man, exhausted, spent,
Has made his exit, and now comes the farce.
'Tis pantomimic shew--the nodding plume,
The proud escutcheon'd hearse, and long parade
Of dry-eyed mourners clad in inky cloaks,
The streaming crape, and dismal aisle behung
With sable manufacture ill-applied.
To see such idle waste, and childish shew,
I smile, and nothing grieve. Not so, when death
Calls for the hind, and undissembled grief
Of father, widow, offspring, to the grave
His decent corpse attends. Then through my soul
Exquisite sympathy's vibration thrills;
It sorrows freely, breathes the grateful sigh,
Nor scorns to utter from a heart subdued
The mourner's luxury, the deep "alas!"
And first drink pleasure at the peasant's grave.
Humane and christian is the muse, and fond
Of ev'ry object, cheerful or sedate,
Which rural scenes afford. She nor contemns
The nuptial holiday, nor views untouch'd
The sad solemnity of rustic woe,
What time the white-frock'd mourner slowly moves,
And brings with mute reluctance to the grave
The dear remains of some departed friend.
The decent sheet that overspreads the bier!
How well becomes it sorrow neat as their's,
Pure, and unsullied by the shameless tear
Of wrung hypocrisy! Steel were the heart
That could this passing spectacle survey,
Nor feel the touch of sympathy within.
Me it well pleases to the holy sward
To follow pitying, nor disowns my muse
The feminine sensations of a heart
That often vibrates at another's woe.
The tear that trickles down the manly cheek,
The burst of grief that braves control, the sigh
Which baffles interception, and escapes
Soon as the solemn pause bids lift the pall,
And ease the dead into his kindred earth,
Send many a tingling arrow through this breast,
Though the reluctant eye no grief betray,
And tearless silence in her deepest gloom
The decent pleasurable secret hide.
But often as my sated soul surveys
The sable funeral of city pomp,
Methinks life human is a play indeed,
And the poor player man, exhausted, spent,
Has made his exit, and now comes the farce.
'Tis pantomimic shew--the nodding plume,
The proud escutcheon'd hearse, and long parade
Of dry-eyed mourners clad in inky cloaks,
The streaming crape, and dismal aisle behung
With sable manufacture ill-applied.
To see such idle waste, and childish shew,
I smile, and nothing grieve. Not so, when death
Calls for the hind, and undissembled grief
Of father, widow, offspring, to the grave
His decent corpse attends. Then through my soul
Exquisite sympathy's vibration thrills;
It sorrows freely, breathes the grateful sigh,
Nor scorns to utter from a heart subdued
The mourner's luxury, the deep "alas!"
Categories
Provenance
Searching "heart" and "steel" in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry
06/10/2005
