We cannot kindle when we willThe fire which in the heart resides,The spirit bloweth and is still,In mystery our soul abides.5But tasks in hours of insight will'dCan be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.With aching hands and bleeding feetWe dig and heap, lay stone on stone;We bear the burden and the heat10Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.Not till the hours of light return,All we have built do we discern.Then, when the clouds are off the soul,When thou dost bask in Nature's eye,[p.88]15Ask, howsheview'd thy self-control,Thy struggling, task'd morality—Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air.Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair.And she, whose censure thou dost dread,20Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek,See, on her face a glow is spread,A strong emotion on her cheek!"Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine,Whence was it, for it is not mine?25"There is no effort onmybrow—I do not strive, I do not weep;I rush with the swift spheres and glowIn joy, and when I will, I sleep.Yet that severe, that earnest air,30I saw, I felt it once—but where?"I knew not yet the gauge of time,Nor wore the manacles of space;I felt it in some other clime,I saw it in some other place.35'Twas when the heavenly house I trod,And lay upon the breast of God."
The sea is calm to-night.The tide is full, the moon lies fair[p.89]Upon the straits;—on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,5Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, from the long line of sprayWhere the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,Listen! you hear the grating roar10Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in.°15Sophocles° long ago°16Heard it on the Ægæan,° and it broughtInto his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; weFind also in the sound a thought,20Hearing it by this distant northern sea.The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth's shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.But now I only hear25Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world.Ah, love, let us be true30To one another! for the world, which seemsTo lie before us like a land of dreams,So various, so beautiful, so new,Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,[p.90]Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;35And we are here as on a darkling plainSwept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Hark! ah, the nightingale—The tawny-throated!Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!°4What triumph! hark!—what pain°!°5O wanderer from a Grecian shore,°Still, after many years, in distant lands,Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain°8That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain°—Say, will it never heal?10And can this fragrant lawnWith its cool trees, and night,And the sweet, tranquil Thames,And moonshine, and the dew,To thy rack'd heart and brain15Afford no balm?Dost thou to-night behold,Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,°18The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild°?Dost thou again peruse20With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes°21The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame°?Dost thou once more assay[p.91]Thy flight, and feel come over thee,Poor fugitive, the feathery change25Once more, and once more seem to make resoundWith love and hate, triumph and agony,°27Lone Daulis,° and the high Cephissian vale°?Listen, Eugenia—°29How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves°!30Again—thou hearest?Eternal passion!°32Eternal pain°!
What mortal, when he saw,Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend,Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly:°4"I have kept uninfringed my nature's law°;°5The inly-written chart° thou gavest me,To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"?Ah! let us make no claim,°8On life's incognisable° sea,To too exact a steering of our way;10Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim,If some fair coast have lured us to make stay,Or some friend hail'd us to keep company.Ay! we would each fain driveAt random, and not steer by rule.15Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vainWinds from our side the unsuiting consort rive,We rush by coasts where we had lief remain;Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool.[p.92]No! as the foaming swath20Of torn-up water, on the main,Falls heavily away with long-drawn roarOn either side the black deep-furrow'd path°23Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore,°And never touches the ship-side again;25Even so we leave behind,As, charter'd by some unknown Powers°27We stem° across the sea of life by night,The joys which were not for our use design'd;—The friends to whom we had no natural right,30The homes that were not destined to be ours.
°1Yes°! in the sea of life enisled,With echoing straits between us thrown,Dotting the shoreless watery wild,We mortal millions livealone.5The islands feel the enclasping flow,And then their endless bounds they know.°7But when the moon° their hollows lights,And they are swept by balms of spring,And in their glens, on starry nights,10The nightingales divinely sing;And lovely notes, from shore to shore,Across the sounds and channels pour—[p.93]Oh! then a longing like despairIs to their farthest caverns sent;15For surely once, they feel, we wereParts of a single continent!Now round us spreads the watery plain—Oh might our marges meet again!Who order'd, that their longing's fire20Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?Who renders vain their deep desire?—A God, a God their severance ruled!And bade betwixt their shores to be°24The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.°
What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news°2Post-haste to Cobham° calls the Muse,°3From where in Farringford° she brewsThe ode sublime,°5Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard° pursuesA rival rhyme.Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet,Were known to all the village-street."What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet;10"A loss indeed!"O for the croon pathetic, sweet,°12Of Robin's reed°![p.94]Six years ago I brought him down,A baby dog, from London town;15Round his small throat of black and brownA ribbon blue,And vouch'd by glorious renownA dachshound true.His mother, most majestic dame,°20Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam° came;And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same—No lineage higher.And so he bore the imperial name.But ah, his sire!25Soon, soon the days conviction bring.The collie hair, the collie swing,The tail's indomitable ring,The eye's unrest—The case was clear; a mongrel thing30Kai stood confest.But all those virtues, which commendThe humbler sort who serve and tend,Were thine in store, thou faithful friend.What sense, what cheer!35To us, declining tow'rds our end,A mate how dear!For Max, thy brother-dog, beganTo flag, and feel his narrowing span.And cold, besides, his blue blood ran,40Since, 'gainst the classes,°41He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man°Incite the masses.[p.95]Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad;But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad,45Teeming with plans, alert, and gladIn work or play,Like sunshine went and came, and badeLive out the day!Still, still I see the figure smart—°50Trophy in mouth, agog° to start,Then, home return'd, once more depart;Or prest togetherAgainst thy mistress, loving heart,In winter weather.55I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd,In moments of disgrace uncurl'd,Then at a pardoning word re-furl'd,A conquering sign;Crying, "Come on, and range the world,60And never pine."Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone;Thou hast thine errands, off and on;In joy thy last morn flew; anon,A fit! All's over;°65And thou art gone where Geist° hath gone,And Toss, and Rover.Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head,Regards his brother's form outspread;Full well Max knows the friend is dead70Whose cordial talk,And jokes in doggish language said,Beguiled his walk.[p.96]And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate,Thy passing by doth vainly wait;75And jealous Jock, thy only hate,°76The chiel° from Skye,°Lets from his shaggy Highland pateThy memory die.Well, fetch his graven collar fine,80And rub the steel, and make it shine,And leave it round thy neck to twine,Kai, in thy grave.There of thy master keep that sign,And this plain stave.
Creep into thy narrow bed,Creep, and let no more be said!Vain thy onset! all stands fast.Thou thyself must break at last.5Let the long contention cease!Geese are swans, and swans are geese.Let them have it how they will!Thou art tired; best be still.They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee?10Better men fared thus before thee;Fired their ringing shot and pass'd,Hotly charged—and sank at last.[p.97]Charge once more, then, and be dumb!Let the victors, when they come,15When the forts of folly fall,Find thy body by the wall!
°1Set where the upper streams of Simois° flowWas the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood;°3And Hector° was in Ilium° far below,And fought, and saw it not—but there it stood!5It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their lightOn the pure columns of its glen-built hall.Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fightRound Troy—but while this stood, Troy could not fall.So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.10Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air;Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll;We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!We shall renew the battle in the plain°14To-morrow;—red with blood will Xanthus° be;°15Hector and Ajax° will be there again,°16Helen° will come upon the wall to see.Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife,And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs,And fancy that we put forth all our life,20And never know how with the soul it fares.[p.98]Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high,Upon our life a ruling effluence send.And when it fails, fight as we will, we die;And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.
Before man parted for this earthly strand,While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood,God put a heap of letters in his hand,And bade him make with them what word he could.5And man has turn'd them many times; made Greece,Rome, England, France;—yes, nor in vain essay'dWay after way, changes that never cease!The letters have combined, something was made.But ah! an inextinguishable sense10Haunts him that he has not made what he should;That he has still, though old, to recommence,Since he has not yet found the word God would.And empire after empire, at their heightOf sway, have felt this boding sense come on;15Have felt their huge frames not constructed right,And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne.One day, thou say'st, there will at last appearThe word, the order, which God meant should be.Ah! we shall knowthatwell when it comes near;20The band will quit man's heart, he will breathe free.
[p.99]
Weary of myself, and sick of askingWhat I am, and what I ought to be,At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears meForwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.5And a look of passionate desireO'er the sea and to the stars I send:"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me,Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,10On my heart your mighty charm renew;Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,Over the lit sea's unquiet way,15In the rustling night-air came the answer:"Wouldst thoubeas these are?Liveas they."Unaffrighted by the silence round them,Undistracted by the sights they see,These demand not that the things without them20Yield them love, amusement, sympathy."And with joy the stars perform their shining,And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;For self-poised they live, nor pine with notingAll the fever of some differing soul.[p.100]25"Bounded by themselves, and unregardfulIn what state God's other works may be,In their own tasks all their powers pouring,These attain the mighty life you see."O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,30A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,Who finds himself, loses his misery!"
In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street,How lonely rings the echo of my feet!Those windows, which I gaze at, frown,Silent and white, unopening down,5Repellent as the world;—but see,A break between the housetops showsThe moon! and, lost behind her, fading dimInto the dewy dark obscurityDown at the far horizon's rim,10Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose!And to my mind the thoughtIs on a sudden broughtOf a past night, and a far different scene.Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep15As clearly as at noon;The spring-tide's brimming flowHeaved dazzlingly between;Houses, with long white sweep,[p.101]Girdled the glistening bay;20Behind, through the soft air,The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away,The night was far more fair—But the same restless pacings to and fro,And the same vainly throbbing heart was there,25And the same bright, calm moon.And the calm moonlight seems to say:Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast,Which neither deadens into rest,Nor ever feels the fiery glow30That whirls the spirit from itself away,But fluctuates to and fro,Never by passion quite possess'dAnd never quite benumb'd by the world's sway?—And I, I know not if to pray35Still to be what I am, or yield and beLike all the other men I see.For most men in a brazen prison live,Where, in the sun's hot eye,With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly40Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give,Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall.And as, year after year,Fresh products of their barren labour fallFrom their tired hands, and rest45Never yet comes more near,Gloom settles slowly down over their breast;A while they try to stemThe waves of mournful thought by which they are prest,[p.102]And the rest, a few,50Escape their prison andOn the wide ocean of life anew.There the freed prisoner, where'er his heartListeth, will sail;Nor doth he know how these prevail,55Despotic on that sea,Trade-winds which cross it from eternity.Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'dBy thwarting signs, and bravesThe freshening wind and blackening waves60And then the tempest strikes him; and betweenThe lightning-bursts is seenOnly a driving wreck.And the pale master on his spar-strewn deckWith anguished face and flying hair,65Grasping the rudder hard,Still bent to make some port he knows not where,Still standing for some false, impossible shore.And sterner comes the roarOf sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom70Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loomAnd he, too, disappears and comes no more.Is there no life, but there alone?Madman or slave, must man be one?Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!75Clearness divine.Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no signOf languor, though so calm, and though so greatAre yet untroubled and unpassionate;Who though so noble, share in the world's toil.80And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil![p.103]I will not say that your mild deeps retainA tinge, it may be, of their silent painWho have longed deeply once, and longed in vain—But I will rather say that you remain85A world above man's head, to let him seeHow boundless might his soul's horizon be,How vast, yet of which clear transparency!How it were good to live there, and breathe free!How fair a lot to fill90Is left to each man still!
Four years!—and didst thou stay aboveThe ground, which hides thee now, but four?And all that life, and all that love,Were crowded, Geist! into no more?5Only four years those winning ways,Which make me for thy presence yearn,Call'd us to pet thee or to praise,Dear little friend! at every turn?That loving heart, that patient soul,10Had they indeed no longer span,To run their course, and reach their goal,°12And read their homily° to man?That liquid, melancholy eye,From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs[p.104]°15Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,°The sense of tears in mortal things—That steadfast, mournful strain, consoledBy spirits gloriously gay,And temper of heroic mould—20What, was four years their whole short day?Yes, only four!—and not the courseOf all the centuries yet to come,And not the infinite resourceOf Nature, with her countless sum25Of figures, with her fulness vastOf new creation evermore,Can ever quite repeat the past,Or just thy little self restore.Stern law of every mortal lot!30Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,And builds himself I know not whatOf second life I know not where.But thou, when struck thine hour to go,On us, who stood despondent by,35A meek last glance of love didst throw,And humbly lay thee down to die.Yet would we keep thee in our heart—Would fix our favourite on the scene,Nor let thee utterly depart40And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.[p.105]And so there rise these lines of verse°42On lips that rarely form them now°;While to each other we rehearse:Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!45We stroke thy broad brown paws again,We bid thee to thy vacant chair,We greet thee by the window-pane,We hear thy scuffle on the stair.We see the flaps of thy large ears50Quick raised to ask which way we go;Crossing the frozen lake, appearsThy small black figure on the snow!Nor to us only art thou dearWho mourn thee in thine English home;°55Thou hast thine absent master's° tear,Dropt by the far Australian foam.Thy memory lasts both here and there,And thou shalt live as long as we.And after that—thou dost not care!60In us was all the world to thee.Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame,Even to a date beyond our ownWe strive to carry down thy name,By mounded turf, and graven stone.65We lay thee, close within our reach,Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,Between the holly and the beech,Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,[p.106]Asleep, yet lending half an ear70To travellers on the Portsmouth road;—There build we thee, O guardian dear,Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode!Then some, who through this garden pass,When we too, like thyself, are clay,75Shall see thy grave upon the grass,And stop before the stone, and say:People who lived here long agoDid by this stone, it seems, intendTo name for future times to know80The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.
°1One morn as through Hyde Park° we walk'd,My friend and I, by chance we talk'dOf Lessing's famed LAOCOON;And after we awhile had gone5In Lessing's track, and tried to seeWhat painting is, what poetry—Diverging to another thought,"Ah," cries my friend, "but who hath taughtWhy music and the other arts10Oftener perform aright their partsThan poetry? why she, than they,Fewer fine successes can display?[p.107]"For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece,Where best the poet framed his piece,°15Even in that Phœbus-guarded ground°°16Pausanias° on his travels foundGood poems, if he look'd, more rare(Though many) than good statues were—For these, in truth, were everywhere.20Of bards full many a stroke divine°21In Dante's,° Petrarch's,° Tasso's° line,°22The land of Ariosto° show'd;And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'dWith triumphs, a yet ampler brood,°25Of Raphael° and his brotherhood.And nobly perfect, in our dayOf haste, half-work, and disarray,Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,°29Hath risen Goethe's,° Wordsworth's° song;30Yet even I (and none will bowDeeper to these) must needs allow,They yield us not, to soothe our pains,Such multitude of heavenly strainsAs from the kings of sound are blown,°35Mozart,° Beethoven,° Mendelssohn.°"While thus my friend discoursed, we passOut of the path, and take the grass.The grass had still the green of May,And still the unblackan'd elms were gay;40The kine were resting in the shade,The flies a summer-murmur made.°42Bright was the morn and south° the air;The soft-couch'd cattle were as fairAs those which pastured by the sea,[p.108]45That old-world morn, in Sicily,When on the beach the Cyclops lay,And Galatea from the bay°48Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay.°"Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere!50The limits of his art appear.The passing group, the summer-morn,The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn—Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise,Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes—55These, or much greater things, but caughtLike these, and in one aspect brought!In outward semblance he must giveA moment's life of things that live;Then let him choose his moment well,60With power divine its story tell."Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood,And now upon the bridge we stood.Full of sweet breathings was the air,Of sudden stirs and pauses fair.65Down o'er the stately bridge the breezeCame rustling from the garden-treesAnd on the sparkling waters play'd;Light-plashing waves an answer made,And mimic boats their haven near'd.°70Beyond, the Abbey-towers° appear'd,By mist and chimneys unconfined,Free to the sweep of light and wind;While through their earth-moor'd nave belowAnother breath of wind doth blow,75Sound as of wandering breeze—but soundIn laws by human artists bound.[p.109]°77"The world of music°!" I exclaimed:—"This breeze that rustles by, that famedAbbey recall it! what a sphere80Large and profound, hath genius here!The inspired musician what a range,What power of passion, wealth of changeSome source of feeling he must chooseAnd its lock'd fount of beauty use,85And through the stream of music tellIts else unutterable spell;To choose it rightly is his part,And press into its inmost heart.°89"Miserere Domine°!90The words are utter'd, and they flee.Deep is their penitential moan,Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.They have declared the spirit's soreSore load, and words can do no more.95Beethoven takes them then—those twoPoor, bounded words—and makes them new;Infinite makes them, makes them young;Transplants them to another tongue,Where they can now, without constraint,100Pour all the soul of their complaint,And roll adown a channel largeThe wealth divine they have in charge.Page after page of music turn,And still they live and still they burn,105Eternal, passion-fraught, and free—°106Miserere Domine°!"°107Onward we moved, and reach'd the Ride°Where gaily flows the human tide.[p.110]Afar, in rest the cattle lay;110We heard, afar, faint music play;But agitated, brisk, and near,Men, with their stream of life, were here.Some hang upon the rails, and someOn foot behind them go and come.115This through the Ride upon his steedGoes slowly by, and this at speed.The young, the happy, and the fair,The old, the sad, the worn, were there;°119Some vacant,° and some musing went,120And some in talk and merriment.Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!And now and then, perhaps, there swellsA sigh, a tear—but in the throng°124All changes fast, and hies° along.125Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground?And to what goal, what ending, bound?"Behold, at last the poet's sphere!But who," I said, "suffices here?"For, ah! so much he has to do;°130Be painter and musician too°!The aspect of the moment show,The feeling of the moment know!The aspect not, I grant, expressClear as the painter's art can dress;135The feeling not, I grant, exploreSo deep as the musician's lore—But clear as words can make revealing,And deep as words can follow feeling.But, ah! then comes his sorest spell°140Of toil—he must life'smovement° tell![p.111]The thread which binds it all in one,And not its separate parts alone.Themovementhe must tell of life,Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;145His eye must travel down, at full,The long, unpausing spectacle;With faithful unrelaxing forceAttend it from its primal source,From change to change and year to year150Attend it of its mid career,Attend it to the last reposeAnd solemn silence of its close."The cattle rising from the grassHis thought must follow where they pass;155The penitent with anguish bow'dHis thought must follow through the crowd.Yes! all this eddying, motley throngThat sparkles in the sun along,Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold,160Master and servant, young and old,Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,He follows home, and lives their life.And many, many are the soulsLife's movement fascinates, controls;165It draws them on, they cannot saveTheir feet from its alluring wave;They cannot leave it, they must goWith its unconquerable flow.But ah! how few, of all that try170This mighty march, do aught but die![p.112]For ill-endow'd for such a way,Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they.They faint, they stagger to and fro,And wandering from the stream they go;175In pain, in terror, in distress,They see, all round, a wilderness.Sometimes a momentary gleamThey catch of the mysterious stream;Sometimes, a second's space, their ear180The murmur of its waves doth hear.That transient glimpse in song they say,But not of painter can pourtray—That transient sound in song they tell,But not, as the musician, well.185And when at last their snatches cease,And they are silent and at peace,The stream of life's majestic wholeHath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul."Only a few the life-stream's shore190With safe unwandering feet explore;Untired its movement bright attend,Follow its windings to the end.Then from its brimming waves their eyeDrinks up delighted ecstasy,195And its deep-toned, melodious voiceFor ever makes their ear rejoice.They speak! the happiness divineThey feel, runs o'er in every line;Its spell is round them like a shower—200It gives them pathos, gives them power.No painter yet hath such a way,Nor no musician made, as they,[p.113]And gather'd on immortal knollsSuch lovely flowers for cheering souls.205Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reachThe charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach.To these, to these, their thankful raceGives, then, the first, the fairest place;And brightest is their glory's sheen,°210For greatest hath their labour been.°"
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°1One lesson,° Nature, let me learn of thee,One lesson which in every wind is blown,One lesson of two duties kept at one°4Though the loud° world proclaim their enmity—5Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity!Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows°7Far noisier° schemes, accomplish'd in repose,Too great for haste, too high for rivalry!Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,10Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil,Still do thy sleepless ministers move on,Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone.