THE MARCH OF MIND by MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

Fair Nature smiled in all her bowers,
But man, the master-work of God,
Unconscious of his latent powers,
The tangled forest trod.
Without a hope, without an aim
Beyond the sloth's, the tiger's life,
His only pleasure sleep or strife,
And war his only fame.

Furious alike and causeless beam'd
His lasting hate, his transient love:
And e'en the mother's fondness seem'd
The instinct of the dove.
The mental world was wrapp'd in night
Though some, the diamonds of the mine,
Burst through the shrouding gloom to shine
With self-emitted light.

But see the glorious dawn unfold
The brightest day that lurks behind!
The march of armies may be told,
But not the march of mind.
Instruction! child of Heaven and earth!
As heat expands the vernal flower,
So wisdom, goodness, freedom, power,
From thee derive their birth.

From thee, all mortal bliss we draw;
From thee, Religion's blessed fruit;
From thee, the good of social law,
And man redeem'd from brute.
From thee, all ties to virtue dear,
The father's, brother's, husband's name:
From thee the sweet and holy fame
That never cost a tear.

Oh! breathe thy soul along the gale,
That Britons still, in generous strife,
Knowledge and freedom may inhale, --
The mingled breath of life!
So shall they share what they possess,
And show to distant worlds thy charms:
Wisdom and peace their only arms,
Their only aim to bless.

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