Thatson of Italy who tried to blow,[8]Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,In his light youth amid a festal throngSate with his bride to see a public show.Fair was the bride, and on her front did glowYouth like a star; and what to youth belong,—Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong.A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and foundA robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden groundOf thought and of austerity within.
Thatson of Italy who tried to blow,[8]Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,In his light youth amid a festal throngSate with his bride to see a public show.Fair was the bride, and on her front did glowYouth like a star; and what to youth belong,—Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong.A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and foundA robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden groundOf thought and of austerity within.
Thatson of Italy who tried to blow,[8]Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,In his light youth amid a festal throngSate with his bride to see a public show.
Fair was the bride, and on her front did glowYouth like a star; and what to youth belong,—Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong.A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,
Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and foundA robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden groundOf thought and of austerity within.
Whatmade my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?—’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cryStormily sweet, his Titan-agony;It was the sight of that Lord ArundelWho struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,And his child’s reason flickered, and did die.Painted (he willed it) in the galleryThey hang; the picture doth the story tell.Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand!The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze,Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!Methinks the woe, which made that father standBaring his dumb remorse to future days,Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.
Whatmade my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?—’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cryStormily sweet, his Titan-agony;It was the sight of that Lord ArundelWho struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,And his child’s reason flickered, and did die.Painted (he willed it) in the galleryThey hang; the picture doth the story tell.Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand!The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze,Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!Methinks the woe, which made that father standBaring his dumb remorse to future days,Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.
Whatmade my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?—’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cryStormily sweet, his Titan-agony;It was the sight of that Lord ArundelWho struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,And his child’s reason flickered, and did die.Painted (he willed it) in the galleryThey hang; the picture doth the story tell.
Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand!The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze,Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!
Methinks the woe, which made that father standBaring his dumb remorse to future days,Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.
InParis all looked hot and like to fade;Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, a brougham rolled through the streets, and madeHalt at the white and silent colonnadeOf the French Theatre. Worn with disease,Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed.She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fledTo Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear?Ah! where the spirit its highest life hath led,All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine;And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!
InParis all looked hot and like to fade;Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, a brougham rolled through the streets, and madeHalt at the white and silent colonnadeOf the French Theatre. Worn with disease,Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed.She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fledTo Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear?Ah! where the spirit its highest life hath led,All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine;And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!
InParis all looked hot and like to fade;Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, a brougham rolled through the streets, and made
Halt at the white and silent colonnadeOf the French Theatre. Worn with disease,Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed.
She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fledTo Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear?
Ah! where the spirit its highest life hath led,All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine;And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!
Untoa lonely villa, in a dellAbove the fragrant warm Provençal shore,The dying Rachel in a chair they boreUp the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,And laid her in a stately room, where fellThe shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,Polymnia,—full on her death-bed. ’Twas well!The fret and misery of our northern towns,In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain,Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns,Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease:Sole object of her dying eyes remainThe beauty and the glorious art of Greece.
Untoa lonely villa, in a dellAbove the fragrant warm Provençal shore,The dying Rachel in a chair they boreUp the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,And laid her in a stately room, where fellThe shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,Polymnia,—full on her death-bed. ’Twas well!The fret and misery of our northern towns,In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain,Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns,Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease:Sole object of her dying eyes remainThe beauty and the glorious art of Greece.
Untoa lonely villa, in a dellAbove the fragrant warm Provençal shore,The dying Rachel in a chair they boreUp the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,
And laid her in a stately room, where fellThe shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,Polymnia,—full on her death-bed. ’Twas well!
The fret and misery of our northern towns,In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain,Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns,
Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease:Sole object of her dying eyes remainThe beauty and the glorious art of Greece.
Sprungfrom the blood of Israel’s scattered race,At a mean inn in German Aarau born,To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face,Imparting life renewed, old classic grace;Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn,A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn,While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,—Ah! not the radiant spirit of Greece aloneShe had—one power, which made her breast its home.In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers,Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome.The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours;Her genius and her glory are her own.
Sprungfrom the blood of Israel’s scattered race,At a mean inn in German Aarau born,To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face,Imparting life renewed, old classic grace;Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn,A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn,While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,—Ah! not the radiant spirit of Greece aloneShe had—one power, which made her breast its home.In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers,Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome.The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours;Her genius and her glory are her own.
Sprungfrom the blood of Israel’s scattered race,At a mean inn in German Aarau born,To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face,
Imparting life renewed, old classic grace;Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn,A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn,While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,—
Ah! not the radiant spirit of Greece aloneShe had—one power, which made her breast its home.In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers,
Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome.The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours;Her genius and her glory are her own.
Even in a palace, life may be led well!So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling denOf common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,Our freedom for a little bread we sell,And drudge under some foolish master’s kenWho rates us if we peer outside our pen,—Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?Even in a palace!On his truth sincere,Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflameSome nobler, ampler stage of life to win,I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here!The aids to noble life are all within.”
Even in a palace, life may be led well!So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling denOf common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,Our freedom for a little bread we sell,And drudge under some foolish master’s kenWho rates us if we peer outside our pen,—Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?Even in a palace!On his truth sincere,Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflameSome nobler, ampler stage of life to win,I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here!The aids to noble life are all within.”
Even in a palace, life may be led well!So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling denOf common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
Our freedom for a little bread we sell,And drudge under some foolish master’s kenWho rates us if we peer outside our pen,—Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?
Even in a palace!On his truth sincere,Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here!The aids to noble life are all within.”
’Twas August, and the fierce sun overheadSmote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,And the pale weaver, through his windows seenIn Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.I met a preacher there I knew, and said,—“Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?”“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have beenMuch cheered with thoughts of Christ,the living bread.”O human soul! as long as thou canst soSet up a mark of everlasting light,Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow,To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,—Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home.
’Twas August, and the fierce sun overheadSmote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,And the pale weaver, through his windows seenIn Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.I met a preacher there I knew, and said,—“Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?”“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have beenMuch cheered with thoughts of Christ,the living bread.”O human soul! as long as thou canst soSet up a mark of everlasting light,Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow,To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,—Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home.
’Twas August, and the fierce sun overheadSmote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,And the pale weaver, through his windows seenIn Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said,—“Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?”“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have beenMuch cheered with thoughts of Christ,the living bread.”
O human soul! as long as thou canst soSet up a mark of everlasting light,Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow,
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,—Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home.
Crouchedon the pavement, close by Belgrave Square,A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;A babe was in her arms, and at her sideA girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.Some laboring-men, whose work lay somewhere there,Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hiedAcross, and begged, and came back satisfied.The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.Thought I, “Above her state this spirit towers;She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,Of sharers in a common human fate.She turns from that cold succor, which attendsThe unknown little from the unknowing great,And points us to a better time than ours.”
Crouchedon the pavement, close by Belgrave Square,A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;A babe was in her arms, and at her sideA girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.Some laboring-men, whose work lay somewhere there,Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hiedAcross, and begged, and came back satisfied.The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.Thought I, “Above her state this spirit towers;She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,Of sharers in a common human fate.She turns from that cold succor, which attendsThe unknown little from the unknowing great,And points us to a better time than ours.”
Crouchedon the pavement, close by Belgrave Square,A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;A babe was in her arms, and at her sideA girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.
Some laboring-men, whose work lay somewhere there,Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hiedAcross, and begged, and came back satisfied.The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.
Thought I, “Above her state this spirit towers;She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,Of sharers in a common human fate.
She turns from that cold succor, which attendsThe unknown little from the unknowing great,And points us to a better time than ours.”
Inthe bare midst of Anglesey they showTwo springs which close by one another play;And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,“Two saints met often where those waters flow.One came from Penmon westward, and a glowWhitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray;Eastward the other, from the dying day,And he with unsunned face did always go.”Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark!men said.The seer from the East was then in light,The seer from the West was then in shade.Ah! now ’tis changed. In conquering sunshine brightThe man of the bold West now comes arrayed:He of the mystic East is touched with night.
Inthe bare midst of Anglesey they showTwo springs which close by one another play;And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,“Two saints met often where those waters flow.One came from Penmon westward, and a glowWhitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray;Eastward the other, from the dying day,And he with unsunned face did always go.”Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark!men said.The seer from the East was then in light,The seer from the West was then in shade.Ah! now ’tis changed. In conquering sunshine brightThe man of the bold West now comes arrayed:He of the mystic East is touched with night.
Inthe bare midst of Anglesey they showTwo springs which close by one another play;And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,“Two saints met often where those waters flow.
One came from Penmon westward, and a glowWhitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray;Eastward the other, from the dying day,And he with unsunned face did always go.”
Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark!men said.The seer from the East was then in light,The seer from the West was then in shade.Ah! now ’tis changed. In conquering sunshine brightThe man of the bold West now comes arrayed:He of the mystic East is touched with night.
Longfed on boundless hopes, O race of man,How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;We live no more, when we have done our span.”“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear?Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”So answerest thou; but why not rather say,—“Hath man no second life?Pitch this one high!Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!Was Christ a man like us?Ah! let us tryIf we then, too, can be such men as he!”
Longfed on boundless hopes, O race of man,How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;We live no more, when we have done our span.”“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear?Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”So answerest thou; but why not rather say,—“Hath man no second life?Pitch this one high!Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!Was Christ a man like us?Ah! let us tryIf we then, too, can be such men as he!”
Longfed on boundless hopes, O race of man,How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;
We live no more, when we have done our span.”“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear?Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”
So answerest thou; but why not rather say,—“Hath man no second life?Pitch this one high!Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?
More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!Was Christ a man like us?Ah! let us tryIf we then, too, can be such men as he!”
“Yes, write it in the rock,” Saint Bernard said,“Grave it on brass with adamantine pen!’Tis God himself becomes apparent, whenGod’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed;For God of these his attributes is made.”—Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of menThe suffrage captive: now not one in tenRecalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9]God’s wisdom and God’s goodness!Ay, but foolsMis-define these till God knows them no more.Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schoolsHave yet so much as heard this simpler lore?This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules;’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.
“Yes, write it in the rock,” Saint Bernard said,“Grave it on brass with adamantine pen!’Tis God himself becomes apparent, whenGod’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed;For God of these his attributes is made.”—Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of menThe suffrage captive: now not one in tenRecalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9]God’s wisdom and God’s goodness!Ay, but foolsMis-define these till God knows them no more.Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schoolsHave yet so much as heard this simpler lore?This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules;’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.
“Yes, write it in the rock,” Saint Bernard said,“Grave it on brass with adamantine pen!’Tis God himself becomes apparent, whenGod’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed;
For God of these his attributes is made.”—Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of menThe suffrage captive: now not one in tenRecalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9]
God’s wisdom and God’s goodness!Ay, but foolsMis-define these till God knows them no more.Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schools
Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore?This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules;’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.
Foiledby our fellow-men, depressed, outworn,We leave the brutal world to take its way,And,Patience! in another life, we say,The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne.And will not, then, the immortal armies scornThe world’s poor, routed leavings? or will theyWho failed under the heat of this life’s daySupport the fervors of the heavenly morn?No, no! the energy of life may beKept on after the grave, but not begun;And he who flagged not in the earthly strife,From strength to strength advancing,—only he,His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
Foiledby our fellow-men, depressed, outworn,We leave the brutal world to take its way,And,Patience! in another life, we say,The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne.And will not, then, the immortal armies scornThe world’s poor, routed leavings? or will theyWho failed under the heat of this life’s daySupport the fervors of the heavenly morn?No, no! the energy of life may beKept on after the grave, but not begun;And he who flagged not in the earthly strife,From strength to strength advancing,—only he,His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
Foiledby our fellow-men, depressed, outworn,We leave the brutal world to take its way,And,Patience! in another life, we say,The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scornThe world’s poor, routed leavings? or will theyWho failed under the heat of this life’s daySupport the fervors of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may beKept on after the grave, but not begun;And he who flagged not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing,—only he,His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save.So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the sideOf that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10]“Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,The infant Church! of love she felt the tideStream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,With eye suffused but heart inspired true,On those walls subterranean, where she hidHer head ’mid ignominy, death, and tombs,She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save.So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the sideOf that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10]“Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,The infant Church! of love she felt the tideStream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,With eye suffused but heart inspired true,On those walls subterranean, where she hidHer head ’mid ignominy, death, and tombs,She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save.So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the sideOf that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10]“Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,The infant Church! of love she felt the tideStream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.
And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,With eye suffused but heart inspired true,On those walls subterranean, where she hid
Her head ’mid ignominy, death, and tombs,She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
“Ah! could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.Thus Monica, and died in Italy.Yet fervent had her longing been, through allHer course, for home at last, and burialWith her own husband, by the Libyan sea.Had been! but at the end, to her pure soulAll tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap,And union before God the only care.Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole.Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep,Keep by this:Life in God, and union there!
“Ah! could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.Thus Monica, and died in Italy.Yet fervent had her longing been, through allHer course, for home at last, and burialWith her own husband, by the Libyan sea.Had been! but at the end, to her pure soulAll tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap,And union before God the only care.Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole.Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep,Keep by this:Life in God, and union there!
“Ah! could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.
Thus Monica, and died in Italy.Yet fervent had her longing been, through allHer course, for home at last, and burialWith her own husband, by the Libyan sea.
Had been! but at the end, to her pure soulAll tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap,And union before God the only care.
Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole.Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep,Keep by this:Life in God, and union there!
AgainI see my bliss at hand,The town, the lake, are here;My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12]Unaltered with the year.I know that graceful figure fair,That cheek of languid hue;I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,And those sweet eyes of blue.Again I spring to make my choice;Again in tones of ireI hear a God’s tremendous voice,—“Be counselled, and retire.”Ye guiding Powers who join and part,What would ye have with me?Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,And let the peaceful be!
AgainI see my bliss at hand,The town, the lake, are here;My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12]Unaltered with the year.I know that graceful figure fair,That cheek of languid hue;I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,And those sweet eyes of blue.Again I spring to make my choice;Again in tones of ireI hear a God’s tremendous voice,—“Be counselled, and retire.”Ye guiding Powers who join and part,What would ye have with me?Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,And let the peaceful be!
AgainI see my bliss at hand,The town, the lake, are here;My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12]Unaltered with the year.
I know that graceful figure fair,That cheek of languid hue;I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,And those sweet eyes of blue.
Again I spring to make my choice;Again in tones of ireI hear a God’s tremendous voice,—“Be counselled, and retire.”
Ye guiding Powers who join and part,What would ye have with me?Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,And let the peaceful be!
Ye storm-winds of autumn!Who rush by, who shakeThe window, and ruffleThe gleam-lighted lake;Who cross to the hillsideThin-sprinkled with farms,Where the high woods strip sadlyTheir yellowing arms,—Ye are bound for the mountains!Ah! with you let me goWhere your cold, distant barrier,The vast range of snow,Through the loose clouds lifts dimlyIts white peaks in air.How deep is their stillness!Ah! would I were there!But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawnLent it the music of its trees at dawn?Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brookThat the sweet voice its upland clearness took?Ah! it comes nearer—Sweet notes, this way!Hark! fast by the windowThe rushing winds go,To the ice-cumbered gorges,The vast seas of snow!There the torrents drive upwardTheir rock-strangled hum;There the avalanche thundersThe hoarse torrent dumb.—I come, O ye mountains!Ye torrents, I come!But who is this, by the half-opened door,Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tellsThe unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—Ah! they bend nearer—Sweet lips, this way!Hark! the wind rushes past us!Ah! with that let me goTo the clear, waning hill-side,Unspotted by snow,There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,The frore mountain wall,Where the niched snow-bed sprays downIts powdery fall.There its dusky blue clustersThe aconite spreads;There the pines slope, the cloud-stripsHung soft in their heads.No life but, at moments,The mountain bee’s hum.—I come, O ye mountains!Ye pine-woods, I come!Forgive me! forgive me!Ah, Marguerite, fainWould these arms reach to clasp thee!But see! ’tis in vain.In the void air, towards thee,My stretched arms are cast;But a sea rolls between us,—Our different past!To the lips, ah! of othersThose lips have been prest,And others, ere I was,Were strained to that breast.Far, far from each otherOur spirits have grown.And what heart knows another?Ah! who knows his own?Blow, ye winds! lift me with you!I come to the wild.Fold closely, O Nature!Thine arms round thy child.To thee only God grantedA heart ever new,—To all always open,To all always true.Ah! calm me, restore me;And dry up my tearsOn thy high mountain platforms,Where morn first appears;Where the white mists, forever,Are spread and upfurled,—In the stir of the forcesWhence issued the world.
Ye storm-winds of autumn!Who rush by, who shakeThe window, and ruffleThe gleam-lighted lake;Who cross to the hillsideThin-sprinkled with farms,Where the high woods strip sadlyTheir yellowing arms,—Ye are bound for the mountains!Ah! with you let me goWhere your cold, distant barrier,The vast range of snow,Through the loose clouds lifts dimlyIts white peaks in air.How deep is their stillness!Ah! would I were there!But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawnLent it the music of its trees at dawn?Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brookThat the sweet voice its upland clearness took?Ah! it comes nearer—Sweet notes, this way!Hark! fast by the windowThe rushing winds go,To the ice-cumbered gorges,The vast seas of snow!There the torrents drive upwardTheir rock-strangled hum;There the avalanche thundersThe hoarse torrent dumb.—I come, O ye mountains!Ye torrents, I come!But who is this, by the half-opened door,Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tellsThe unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—Ah! they bend nearer—Sweet lips, this way!Hark! the wind rushes past us!Ah! with that let me goTo the clear, waning hill-side,Unspotted by snow,There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,The frore mountain wall,Where the niched snow-bed sprays downIts powdery fall.There its dusky blue clustersThe aconite spreads;There the pines slope, the cloud-stripsHung soft in their heads.No life but, at moments,The mountain bee’s hum.—I come, O ye mountains!Ye pine-woods, I come!Forgive me! forgive me!Ah, Marguerite, fainWould these arms reach to clasp thee!But see! ’tis in vain.In the void air, towards thee,My stretched arms are cast;But a sea rolls between us,—Our different past!To the lips, ah! of othersThose lips have been prest,And others, ere I was,Were strained to that breast.Far, far from each otherOur spirits have grown.And what heart knows another?Ah! who knows his own?Blow, ye winds! lift me with you!I come to the wild.Fold closely, O Nature!Thine arms round thy child.To thee only God grantedA heart ever new,—To all always open,To all always true.Ah! calm me, restore me;And dry up my tearsOn thy high mountain platforms,Where morn first appears;Where the white mists, forever,Are spread and upfurled,—In the stir of the forcesWhence issued the world.
Ye storm-winds of autumn!Who rush by, who shakeThe window, and ruffleThe gleam-lighted lake;Who cross to the hillsideThin-sprinkled with farms,Where the high woods strip sadlyTheir yellowing arms,—Ye are bound for the mountains!Ah! with you let me goWhere your cold, distant barrier,The vast range of snow,Through the loose clouds lifts dimlyIts white peaks in air.How deep is their stillness!Ah! would I were there!
But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawnLent it the music of its trees at dawn?Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brookThat the sweet voice its upland clearness took?Ah! it comes nearer—Sweet notes, this way!
Hark! fast by the windowThe rushing winds go,To the ice-cumbered gorges,The vast seas of snow!There the torrents drive upwardTheir rock-strangled hum;There the avalanche thundersThe hoarse torrent dumb.—I come, O ye mountains!Ye torrents, I come!
But who is this, by the half-opened door,Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tellsThe unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—Ah! they bend nearer—Sweet lips, this way!
Hark! the wind rushes past us!Ah! with that let me goTo the clear, waning hill-side,Unspotted by snow,There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,The frore mountain wall,Where the niched snow-bed sprays downIts powdery fall.There its dusky blue clustersThe aconite spreads;There the pines slope, the cloud-stripsHung soft in their heads.No life but, at moments,The mountain bee’s hum.—I come, O ye mountains!Ye pine-woods, I come!
Forgive me! forgive me!Ah, Marguerite, fainWould these arms reach to clasp thee!But see! ’tis in vain.
In the void air, towards thee,My stretched arms are cast;But a sea rolls between us,—Our different past!
To the lips, ah! of othersThose lips have been prest,And others, ere I was,Were strained to that breast.
Far, far from each otherOur spirits have grown.And what heart knows another?Ah! who knows his own?
Blow, ye winds! lift me with you!I come to the wild.Fold closely, O Nature!Thine arms round thy child.
To thee only God grantedA heart ever new,—To all always open,To all always true.
Ah! calm me, restore me;And dry up my tearsOn thy high mountain platforms,Where morn first appears;
Where the white mists, forever,Are spread and upfurled,—In the stir of the forcesWhence issued the world.
Myhorse’s feet beside the lake,Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,Sent echoes through the night to wakeEach glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.The poplar avenue was passed,And the roofed bridge that spans the stream;Up the steep street I hurried fast,Led by thy taper’s starlike beam.I came! I saw thee rise! the bloodPoured flushing to thy languid cheek.Locked in each other’s arms we stood,In tears, with hearts too full to speak.Days flew; ah, soon I could discernA trouble in thine altered air!Thy hand lay languidly in mine,Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.I blame thee not! This heart, I know,To be long loved was never framed;For something in its depths doth glowToo strange, too restless, too untamed.And women,—things that live and moveMined by the fever of the soul,—They seek to find in those they loveStern strength, and promise of control.They ask not kindness, gentle ways;These they themselves have tried and known:They ask a soul which never swaysWith the blind gusts that shake their own.I too have felt the load I boreIn a too strong emotion’s sway;I too have wished, no woman more,This starting, feverish heart away.I too have longed for trenchant force,And will like a dividing spear;Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.But in the world I learnt, what thereThou too wilt surely one day prove,—That will, that energy, though rare,Are yet far, far less rare than love.Go, then! till time and fate impressThis truth on thee, be mine no more!They will! for thou, I feel, not lessThan I, wast destined to this lore.We school our manners, act our parts;But He, who sees us through and through,Knows that the bent of both our heartsWas to be gentle, tranquil, true.And though we wear out life, alas!Distracted as a homeless wind,In beating where we must not pass,In seeking what we shall not find;Yet we shall one day gain, life past,Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole;Shall see ourselves, and learn at lastOur true affinities of soul.We shall not then deny a courseTo every thought the mass ignore;We shall not then call hardness force,Nor lightness wisdom any more.Then, in the eternal Father’s smile,Our soothed, encouraged souls will dareTo seem as free from pride and guile,As good, as generous, as they are.Then we shall know our friends! Though muchWill have been lost,—the help in strife,The thousand sweet, still joys of suchAs hand in hand face earthly life,—Though these be lost, there will be yetA sympathy august and pure;Ennobled by a vast regret,And by contrition sealed thrice sure.And we, whose ways were unlike here,May then more neighboring courses ply;May to each other be brought near,And greet across infinity.How sweet, unreached by earthly jars,My sister! to maintain with theeThe hush among the shining stars,The calm upon the moonlit sea!How sweet to feel, on the boon air,All our unquiet pulses cease!To feel that nothing can impairThe gentleness, the thirst for peace,—The gentleness too rudely hurledOn this wild earth of hate and fear;The thirst for peace, a raving worldWould never let us satiate here.
Myhorse’s feet beside the lake,Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,Sent echoes through the night to wakeEach glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.The poplar avenue was passed,And the roofed bridge that spans the stream;Up the steep street I hurried fast,Led by thy taper’s starlike beam.I came! I saw thee rise! the bloodPoured flushing to thy languid cheek.Locked in each other’s arms we stood,In tears, with hearts too full to speak.Days flew; ah, soon I could discernA trouble in thine altered air!Thy hand lay languidly in mine,Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.I blame thee not! This heart, I know,To be long loved was never framed;For something in its depths doth glowToo strange, too restless, too untamed.And women,—things that live and moveMined by the fever of the soul,—They seek to find in those they loveStern strength, and promise of control.They ask not kindness, gentle ways;These they themselves have tried and known:They ask a soul which never swaysWith the blind gusts that shake their own.I too have felt the load I boreIn a too strong emotion’s sway;I too have wished, no woman more,This starting, feverish heart away.I too have longed for trenchant force,And will like a dividing spear;Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.But in the world I learnt, what thereThou too wilt surely one day prove,—That will, that energy, though rare,Are yet far, far less rare than love.Go, then! till time and fate impressThis truth on thee, be mine no more!They will! for thou, I feel, not lessThan I, wast destined to this lore.We school our manners, act our parts;But He, who sees us through and through,Knows that the bent of both our heartsWas to be gentle, tranquil, true.And though we wear out life, alas!Distracted as a homeless wind,In beating where we must not pass,In seeking what we shall not find;Yet we shall one day gain, life past,Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole;Shall see ourselves, and learn at lastOur true affinities of soul.We shall not then deny a courseTo every thought the mass ignore;We shall not then call hardness force,Nor lightness wisdom any more.Then, in the eternal Father’s smile,Our soothed, encouraged souls will dareTo seem as free from pride and guile,As good, as generous, as they are.Then we shall know our friends! Though muchWill have been lost,—the help in strife,The thousand sweet, still joys of suchAs hand in hand face earthly life,—Though these be lost, there will be yetA sympathy august and pure;Ennobled by a vast regret,And by contrition sealed thrice sure.And we, whose ways were unlike here,May then more neighboring courses ply;May to each other be brought near,And greet across infinity.How sweet, unreached by earthly jars,My sister! to maintain with theeThe hush among the shining stars,The calm upon the moonlit sea!How sweet to feel, on the boon air,All our unquiet pulses cease!To feel that nothing can impairThe gentleness, the thirst for peace,—The gentleness too rudely hurledOn this wild earth of hate and fear;The thirst for peace, a raving worldWould never let us satiate here.
Myhorse’s feet beside the lake,Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,Sent echoes through the night to wakeEach glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.
The poplar avenue was passed,And the roofed bridge that spans the stream;Up the steep street I hurried fast,Led by thy taper’s starlike beam.
I came! I saw thee rise! the bloodPoured flushing to thy languid cheek.Locked in each other’s arms we stood,In tears, with hearts too full to speak.
Days flew; ah, soon I could discernA trouble in thine altered air!Thy hand lay languidly in mine,Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.
I blame thee not! This heart, I know,To be long loved was never framed;For something in its depths doth glowToo strange, too restless, too untamed.
And women,—things that live and moveMined by the fever of the soul,—They seek to find in those they loveStern strength, and promise of control.
They ask not kindness, gentle ways;These they themselves have tried and known:They ask a soul which never swaysWith the blind gusts that shake their own.
I too have felt the load I boreIn a too strong emotion’s sway;I too have wished, no woman more,This starting, feverish heart away.
I too have longed for trenchant force,And will like a dividing spear;Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.
But in the world I learnt, what thereThou too wilt surely one day prove,—That will, that energy, though rare,Are yet far, far less rare than love.
Go, then! till time and fate impressThis truth on thee, be mine no more!They will! for thou, I feel, not lessThan I, wast destined to this lore.
We school our manners, act our parts;But He, who sees us through and through,Knows that the bent of both our heartsWas to be gentle, tranquil, true.
And though we wear out life, alas!Distracted as a homeless wind,In beating where we must not pass,In seeking what we shall not find;
Yet we shall one day gain, life past,Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole;Shall see ourselves, and learn at lastOur true affinities of soul.
We shall not then deny a courseTo every thought the mass ignore;We shall not then call hardness force,Nor lightness wisdom any more.
Then, in the eternal Father’s smile,Our soothed, encouraged souls will dareTo seem as free from pride and guile,As good, as generous, as they are.
Then we shall know our friends! Though muchWill have been lost,—the help in strife,The thousand sweet, still joys of suchAs hand in hand face earthly life,—
Though these be lost, there will be yetA sympathy august and pure;Ennobled by a vast regret,And by contrition sealed thrice sure.
And we, whose ways were unlike here,May then more neighboring courses ply;May to each other be brought near,And greet across infinity.
How sweet, unreached by earthly jars,My sister! to maintain with theeThe hush among the shining stars,The calm upon the moonlit sea!
How sweet to feel, on the boon air,All our unquiet pulses cease!To feel that nothing can impairThe gentleness, the thirst for peace,—
The gentleness too rudely hurledOn this wild earth of hate and fear;The thirst for peace, a raving worldWould never let us satiate here.
Wewere apart: yet, day by day,I bade my heart more constant be.I bade it keep the world away,And grow a home for only thee;Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.The fault was grave! I might have known,What far too soon, alas! I learned,—The heart can bind itself alone,And faith may oft be unreturned.Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell!Farewell!—And thou, thou lonely heart,Which never yet without remorseEven for a moment didst departFrom thy remote and spherèd courseTo haunt the place where passions reign,—Back to thy solitude again!Back! with the conscious thrill of shameWhich Luna felt, that summer-night,Flash through her pure immortal frame,When she forsook the starry heightTo hang o’er Endymion’s sleepUpon the pine-grown Latmian steep.Yet she, chaste queen, had never provedHow vain a thing is mortal love,Wandering in heaven, far removed;But thou hast long had place to proveThis truth,—to prove, and make thine own:“Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”Or, if not quite alone, yet theyWhich touch thee are unmating things,—Ocean and clouds and night and day;Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;And life, and others’ joy and pain,And love, if love, of happier men.Of happier men; for they, at least,Havedreamedtwo human hearts might blendIn one, and were through faith releasedFrom isolation without endProlonged; nor knew, although not lessAlone than thou, their loneliness.
Wewere apart: yet, day by day,I bade my heart more constant be.I bade it keep the world away,And grow a home for only thee;Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.The fault was grave! I might have known,What far too soon, alas! I learned,—The heart can bind itself alone,And faith may oft be unreturned.Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell!Farewell!—And thou, thou lonely heart,Which never yet without remorseEven for a moment didst departFrom thy remote and spherèd courseTo haunt the place where passions reign,—Back to thy solitude again!Back! with the conscious thrill of shameWhich Luna felt, that summer-night,Flash through her pure immortal frame,When she forsook the starry heightTo hang o’er Endymion’s sleepUpon the pine-grown Latmian steep.Yet she, chaste queen, had never provedHow vain a thing is mortal love,Wandering in heaven, far removed;But thou hast long had place to proveThis truth,—to prove, and make thine own:“Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”Or, if not quite alone, yet theyWhich touch thee are unmating things,—Ocean and clouds and night and day;Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;And life, and others’ joy and pain,And love, if love, of happier men.Of happier men; for they, at least,Havedreamedtwo human hearts might blendIn one, and were through faith releasedFrom isolation without endProlonged; nor knew, although not lessAlone than thou, their loneliness.
Wewere apart: yet, day by day,I bade my heart more constant be.I bade it keep the world away,And grow a home for only thee;Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.
The fault was grave! I might have known,What far too soon, alas! I learned,—The heart can bind itself alone,And faith may oft be unreturned.Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!—And thou, thou lonely heart,Which never yet without remorseEven for a moment didst departFrom thy remote and spherèd courseTo haunt the place where passions reign,—Back to thy solitude again!
Back! with the conscious thrill of shameWhich Luna felt, that summer-night,Flash through her pure immortal frame,When she forsook the starry heightTo hang o’er Endymion’s sleepUpon the pine-grown Latmian steep.
Yet she, chaste queen, had never provedHow vain a thing is mortal love,Wandering in heaven, far removed;But thou hast long had place to proveThis truth,—to prove, and make thine own:“Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”
Or, if not quite alone, yet theyWhich touch thee are unmating things,—Ocean and clouds and night and day;Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;And life, and others’ joy and pain,And love, if love, of happier men.
Of happier men; for they, at least,Havedreamedtwo human hearts might blendIn one, and were through faith releasedFrom isolation without endProlonged; nor knew, although not lessAlone than thou, their loneliness.
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,With echoing straits between us thrown,Dotting the shoreless watery wild,We mortal millions livealone.The islands feel the enclasping flow,And then their endless bounds they know.But when the moon their hollows lights,And they are swept by balms of spring,And in their glens, on starry nights,The nightingales divinely sing;And lovely notes, from shore to shore,Across the sounds and channels pour,—Oh! then a longing like despairIs to their farthest caverns sent;For surely once, they feel, we wereParts of a single continent!Now round us spreads the watery plain:Oh, might our marges meet again!Who ordered that their longing’s fireShould be, as soon as kindled, cooled?Who renders vain their deep desire?—A God, a God their severance ruled!And bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,With echoing straits between us thrown,Dotting the shoreless watery wild,We mortal millions livealone.The islands feel the enclasping flow,And then their endless bounds they know.But when the moon their hollows lights,And they are swept by balms of spring,And in their glens, on starry nights,The nightingales divinely sing;And lovely notes, from shore to shore,Across the sounds and channels pour,—Oh! then a longing like despairIs to their farthest caverns sent;For surely once, they feel, we wereParts of a single continent!Now round us spreads the watery plain:Oh, might our marges meet again!Who ordered that their longing’s fireShould be, as soon as kindled, cooled?Who renders vain their deep desire?—A God, a God their severance ruled!And bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,With echoing straits between us thrown,Dotting the shoreless watery wild,We mortal millions livealone.The islands feel the enclasping flow,And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights,And they are swept by balms of spring,And in their glens, on starry nights,The nightingales divinely sing;And lovely notes, from shore to shore,Across the sounds and channels pour,—
Oh! then a longing like despairIs to their farthest caverns sent;For surely once, they feel, we wereParts of a single continent!Now round us spreads the watery plain:Oh, might our marges meet again!
Who ordered that their longing’s fireShould be, as soon as kindled, cooled?Who renders vain their deep desire?—A God, a God their severance ruled!And bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Inthis fair stranger’s eyes of gray,Thine eyes, my love! I see.I shiver; for the passing dayHad borne me far from thee.This is the curse of life! that notA nobler, calmer trainOf wiser thoughts and feelings blotOur passions from our brain;But each day brings its petty dust,Our soon-choked souls to fill;And we forget because we must,And not because we will.I struggle towards the light; and ye,Once-longed-for storms of love!If with the light ye cannot be,I bear that ye remove.I struggle towards the light; but oh,While yet the night is chill,Upon time’s barren, stormy flow,Stay with me, Marguerite, still!
Inthis fair stranger’s eyes of gray,Thine eyes, my love! I see.I shiver; for the passing dayHad borne me far from thee.This is the curse of life! that notA nobler, calmer trainOf wiser thoughts and feelings blotOur passions from our brain;But each day brings its petty dust,Our soon-choked souls to fill;And we forget because we must,And not because we will.I struggle towards the light; and ye,Once-longed-for storms of love!If with the light ye cannot be,I bear that ye remove.I struggle towards the light; but oh,While yet the night is chill,Upon time’s barren, stormy flow,Stay with me, Marguerite, still!
Inthis fair stranger’s eyes of gray,Thine eyes, my love! I see.I shiver; for the passing dayHad borne me far from thee.
This is the curse of life! that notA nobler, calmer trainOf wiser thoughts and feelings blotOur passions from our brain;
But each day brings its petty dust,Our soon-choked souls to fill;And we forget because we must,And not because we will.
I struggle towards the light; and ye,Once-longed-for storms of love!If with the light ye cannot be,I bear that ye remove.
I struggle towards the light; but oh,While yet the night is chill,Upon time’s barren, stormy flow,Stay with me, Marguerite, still!
(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)
Tenyears! and to my waking eyeOnce more the roofs of Berne appear;The rocky banks, the terrace high,The stream! and do I linger here?The clouds are on the Oberland,The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;But bright are those green fields at hand,And through those fields comes down the Aar,And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;And ’neath the garden-walk it hums,The house! and is my Marguerite thereAh! shall I see thee, while a flushOf startled pleasure floods thy brow,Quick through the oleanders brush,And clap thy hands, and cry,’Tis thou!Or hast thou long since wandered back,Daughter of France! to France, thy home;And flitted down the flowery trackWhere feet like thine too lightly come?Doth riotous laughter now replaceThy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering laceThe kerchief that inwound thy hair?Or is it over? art thou dead?—Dead!—and no warning shiver ranAcross my heart, to say thy threadOf life was cut, and closed thy span!Could from earth’s ways that figure slightBe lost, and I not feel ’twas so?Of that fresh voice the gay delightFail from earth’s air, and I not know?Or shall I find thee still, but changed,But not the Marguerite of thy prime?With all thy being re-arranged,—Passed through the crucible of time;With spirit vanished, beauty waned,And hardly yet a glance, a tone,A gesture—any thing—retainedOf all that was my Marguerite’s own?I will not know! For wherefore try,To things by mortal course that live,A shadowy durability,For which they were not meant, to give?Like driftwood spars, which meet and passUpon the boundless ocean-plain,So on the sea of life, alas!Man meets man,—meets, and quits again.I knew it when my life was young;I feel it still now youth is o’er.—The mists are on the mountain hung,And Marguerite I shall see no more.
Tenyears! and to my waking eyeOnce more the roofs of Berne appear;The rocky banks, the terrace high,The stream! and do I linger here?The clouds are on the Oberland,The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;But bright are those green fields at hand,And through those fields comes down the Aar,And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;And ’neath the garden-walk it hums,The house! and is my Marguerite thereAh! shall I see thee, while a flushOf startled pleasure floods thy brow,Quick through the oleanders brush,And clap thy hands, and cry,’Tis thou!Or hast thou long since wandered back,Daughter of France! to France, thy home;And flitted down the flowery trackWhere feet like thine too lightly come?Doth riotous laughter now replaceThy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering laceThe kerchief that inwound thy hair?Or is it over? art thou dead?—Dead!—and no warning shiver ranAcross my heart, to say thy threadOf life was cut, and closed thy span!Could from earth’s ways that figure slightBe lost, and I not feel ’twas so?Of that fresh voice the gay delightFail from earth’s air, and I not know?Or shall I find thee still, but changed,But not the Marguerite of thy prime?With all thy being re-arranged,—Passed through the crucible of time;With spirit vanished, beauty waned,And hardly yet a glance, a tone,A gesture—any thing—retainedOf all that was my Marguerite’s own?I will not know! For wherefore try,To things by mortal course that live,A shadowy durability,For which they were not meant, to give?Like driftwood spars, which meet and passUpon the boundless ocean-plain,So on the sea of life, alas!Man meets man,—meets, and quits again.I knew it when my life was young;I feel it still now youth is o’er.—The mists are on the mountain hung,And Marguerite I shall see no more.
Tenyears! and to my waking eyeOnce more the roofs of Berne appear;The rocky banks, the terrace high,The stream! and do I linger here?
The clouds are on the Oberland,The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;But bright are those green fields at hand,And through those fields comes down the Aar,
And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;And ’neath the garden-walk it hums,The house! and is my Marguerite there
Ah! shall I see thee, while a flushOf startled pleasure floods thy brow,Quick through the oleanders brush,And clap thy hands, and cry,’Tis thou!
Or hast thou long since wandered back,Daughter of France! to France, thy home;And flitted down the flowery trackWhere feet like thine too lightly come?
Doth riotous laughter now replaceThy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering laceThe kerchief that inwound thy hair?
Or is it over? art thou dead?—Dead!—and no warning shiver ranAcross my heart, to say thy threadOf life was cut, and closed thy span!
Could from earth’s ways that figure slightBe lost, and I not feel ’twas so?Of that fresh voice the gay delightFail from earth’s air, and I not know?
Or shall I find thee still, but changed,But not the Marguerite of thy prime?With all thy being re-arranged,—Passed through the crucible of time;
With spirit vanished, beauty waned,And hardly yet a glance, a tone,A gesture—any thing—retainedOf all that was my Marguerite’s own?
I will not know! For wherefore try,To things by mortal course that live,A shadowy durability,For which they were not meant, to give?
Like driftwood spars, which meet and passUpon the boundless ocean-plain,So on the sea of life, alas!Man meets man,—meets, and quits again.
I knew it when my life was young;I feel it still now youth is o’er.—The mists are on the mountain hung,And Marguerite I shall see no more.
THE PORTICO OF CIRCE’S PALACE. EVENING.A Youth.Circe.
THEYOUTH.Faster, faster,O Circe, goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm,Leaned up against the column there,Props thy soft cheek;Thy left holds, hanging loosely,The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,I held but now.Is it then eveningSo soon? I see, the night-dews,Clustered in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too,Blows through the portico,Stirs thy hair, goddess,Waves thy white robe!CIRCE.Whence art thou, sleeper?THE YOUTH.When the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planksOf my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, goddess!I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin;Passing out, from the wet turf,Where they lay, by the hut door,I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,All drenched in dew,—Came swift down to joinThe rout early gatheredIn the town, round the temple,Iacchus’ white faneOn yonder hill.Quick I passed, followingThe woodcutters’ cart-trackDown the dark valley. I sawOn my left, through the beeches,Thy palace, goddess,Smokeless, empty!Trembling, I entered; beheldThe court all silent,The lions sleeping,On the altar this bowl.I drank, goddess!And sank down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.CIRCE.Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See how glows,Through the delicate, flushed marble,The red creaming liquor,Strewn with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,Deny thee not my bowl.Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!Drink—drink again!THE YOUTH.Thanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me!More subtle-winding,Than Pan’s flute-music!Faint—faint! Ah me,Again the sweet sleep!CIRCE.Hist! Thou—within there!Come forth, Ulysses!Art tired with hunting?While we range the woodland,See what the day brings.ULYSSES.Ever new magic!Hast thou then lured hither,Wonderful goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,Iacchus’ darling,Or some youth beloved of Pan,Of Pan and the nymphs;That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed margeOf thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavesThat crown his hair,Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants;His fawn-skin, half untied,Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he,That he sits, overweighedBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, goddess,—what guestOf gods or mortals?CIRCE.Hist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!THE YOUTH.Who speaks? Ah! who comes forthTo thy side, goddess, from within?How shall I name him,—This spare, dark-featured,Quick-eyed stranger?Ah! and I see tooHis sailor’s bonnet,His short coat, travel-tarnished,With one arm bare!—Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumorsThe favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves?Art thou he, stranger,—The wise Ulysses,Laertes’ son?ULYSSES.I am Ulysses.And thou too, sleeper?Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast followedThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,—Age, and the Muses;And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learned his songs,Of gods and heroes,Of war and arts,And peopled cities,Inland, or builtBy the gray sea. If so, then hail!I honor and welcome thee.THE YOUTH.The gods are happy.They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes,And see below themThe earth and men.They see TiresiasSitting, staff in hand,On the warm, grassyAsopus bank,His robe drawn overHis old sightless head,Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes.They see the centaursIn the upper glensOf Pelion, in the streamsWhere red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools,With streaming flanks, and headsReared proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind.They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moored toA floating isle thick-mattedWith large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,And the dark cucumber.He reaps and stows them,Drifting—drifting; round him,Round his green harvest-plot,Flow the cool lake-waves,The mountains ring them.They see the ScythianOn the wide steppe, unharnessingHis wheeled house at noon.He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,—Mares’ milk, and breadBaked on the embers. All around,The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starredWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leaved iris-flowers.Sitting in his cartHe makes his meal; before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard-fowl,The track, a straight black line,Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopped with rough-hewn,Gray, rain-bleared statues, overpeerThe sunny waste.They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-ladenLone Chorasmian stream; thereon,With snort and strain,Two horses, strongly swimming, towThe ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm-harnessed by the mane; a chief,With shout and shaken spear,Stands at the prow, and guides them; but asternThe cowering merchants in long robesSit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,Of turquoise-earth, and amethyst,Jasper and chalcedony,And milk-barred onyx-stones.The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;The gods behold them.They see the heroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heaving,Violet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.These things, Ulysses,The wise bards alsoBehold, and sing.But oh, what labor!O prince, what pain!They too can seeTiresias; but the gods,Who gave them vision,Added this law:That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorned white hairs;Bear Hera’s angerThrough a life lengthenedTo seven ages.They see the centaursOn Pelion: then they feel,They too, the maddening wineSwell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,Drive crashing through their bones; they feel,High on a jutting rock in the red stream,Alcmena’s dreadful sonPly his bow. Such a priceThe gods exact for song:To become what we sing.They see the IndianOn his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart. They seeThe Scythian; but long frostsParch them in winter-time on the bare steppe,Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.They see the merchantsOn the Oxus-stream; but careMust visit first them too, and make them pale:Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,In the walled cities the way passes through,Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs,On some great river’s marge,Mown them down, far from home.They see the heroesNear harbor; but they shareTheir lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,—Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo firstStartled the unknown sea.The old SilenusCame, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest-coverts,This way, at noon.Sitting by me, while his faunsDown at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland,He told me these things.But I, Ulysses,Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labor,Sometimes a wild-haired mænad,Sometimes a faun with torches,And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved,The desired, the divine,Beloved Iacchus.Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water,Fitful earth-murmur,Dreaming woods!Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess,And thou, proved, much-enduring,Wave-tossed wanderer!Who can stand still?Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—The cup again!Faster, faster,O Circe, goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
THEYOUTH.Faster, faster,O Circe, goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm,Leaned up against the column there,Props thy soft cheek;Thy left holds, hanging loosely,The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,I held but now.Is it then eveningSo soon? I see, the night-dews,Clustered in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too,Blows through the portico,Stirs thy hair, goddess,Waves thy white robe!CIRCE.Whence art thou, sleeper?THE YOUTH.When the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planksOf my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, goddess!I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin;Passing out, from the wet turf,Where they lay, by the hut door,I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,All drenched in dew,—Came swift down to joinThe rout early gatheredIn the town, round the temple,Iacchus’ white faneOn yonder hill.Quick I passed, followingThe woodcutters’ cart-trackDown the dark valley. I sawOn my left, through the beeches,Thy palace, goddess,Smokeless, empty!Trembling, I entered; beheldThe court all silent,The lions sleeping,On the altar this bowl.I drank, goddess!And sank down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.CIRCE.Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See how glows,Through the delicate, flushed marble,The red creaming liquor,Strewn with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,Deny thee not my bowl.Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!Drink—drink again!THE YOUTH.Thanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me!More subtle-winding,Than Pan’s flute-music!Faint—faint! Ah me,Again the sweet sleep!CIRCE.Hist! Thou—within there!Come forth, Ulysses!Art tired with hunting?While we range the woodland,See what the day brings.ULYSSES.Ever new magic!Hast thou then lured hither,Wonderful goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,Iacchus’ darling,Or some youth beloved of Pan,Of Pan and the nymphs;That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed margeOf thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavesThat crown his hair,Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants;His fawn-skin, half untied,Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he,That he sits, overweighedBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, goddess,—what guestOf gods or mortals?CIRCE.Hist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!THE YOUTH.Who speaks? Ah! who comes forthTo thy side, goddess, from within?How shall I name him,—This spare, dark-featured,Quick-eyed stranger?Ah! and I see tooHis sailor’s bonnet,His short coat, travel-tarnished,With one arm bare!—Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumorsThe favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves?Art thou he, stranger,—The wise Ulysses,Laertes’ son?ULYSSES.I am Ulysses.And thou too, sleeper?Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast followedThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,—Age, and the Muses;And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learned his songs,Of gods and heroes,Of war and arts,And peopled cities,Inland, or builtBy the gray sea. If so, then hail!I honor and welcome thee.THE YOUTH.The gods are happy.They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes,And see below themThe earth and men.They see TiresiasSitting, staff in hand,On the warm, grassyAsopus bank,His robe drawn overHis old sightless head,Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes.They see the centaursIn the upper glensOf Pelion, in the streamsWhere red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools,With streaming flanks, and headsReared proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind.They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moored toA floating isle thick-mattedWith large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,And the dark cucumber.He reaps and stows them,Drifting—drifting; round him,Round his green harvest-plot,Flow the cool lake-waves,The mountains ring them.They see the ScythianOn the wide steppe, unharnessingHis wheeled house at noon.He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,—Mares’ milk, and breadBaked on the embers. All around,The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starredWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leaved iris-flowers.Sitting in his cartHe makes his meal; before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard-fowl,The track, a straight black line,Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopped with rough-hewn,Gray, rain-bleared statues, overpeerThe sunny waste.They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-ladenLone Chorasmian stream; thereon,With snort and strain,Two horses, strongly swimming, towThe ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm-harnessed by the mane; a chief,With shout and shaken spear,Stands at the prow, and guides them; but asternThe cowering merchants in long robesSit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,Of turquoise-earth, and amethyst,Jasper and chalcedony,And milk-barred onyx-stones.The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;The gods behold them.They see the heroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heaving,Violet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.These things, Ulysses,The wise bards alsoBehold, and sing.But oh, what labor!O prince, what pain!They too can seeTiresias; but the gods,Who gave them vision,Added this law:That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorned white hairs;Bear Hera’s angerThrough a life lengthenedTo seven ages.They see the centaursOn Pelion: then they feel,They too, the maddening wineSwell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,Drive crashing through their bones; they feel,High on a jutting rock in the red stream,Alcmena’s dreadful sonPly his bow. Such a priceThe gods exact for song:To become what we sing.They see the IndianOn his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart. They seeThe Scythian; but long frostsParch them in winter-time on the bare steppe,Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.They see the merchantsOn the Oxus-stream; but careMust visit first them too, and make them pale:Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,In the walled cities the way passes through,Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs,On some great river’s marge,Mown them down, far from home.They see the heroesNear harbor; but they shareTheir lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,—Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo firstStartled the unknown sea.The old SilenusCame, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest-coverts,This way, at noon.Sitting by me, while his faunsDown at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland,He told me these things.But I, Ulysses,Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labor,Sometimes a wild-haired mænad,Sometimes a faun with torches,And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved,The desired, the divine,Beloved Iacchus.Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water,Fitful earth-murmur,Dreaming woods!Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess,And thou, proved, much-enduring,Wave-tossed wanderer!Who can stand still?Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—The cup again!Faster, faster,O Circe, goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
THEYOUTH.
Faster, faster,O Circe, goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm,Leaned up against the column there,Props thy soft cheek;Thy left holds, hanging loosely,The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,I held but now.
Is it then eveningSo soon? I see, the night-dews,Clustered in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too,Blows through the portico,Stirs thy hair, goddess,Waves thy white robe!
CIRCE.
Whence art thou, sleeper?
THE YOUTH.
When the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planksOf my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, goddess!I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin;Passing out, from the wet turf,Where they lay, by the hut door,I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,All drenched in dew,—Came swift down to joinThe rout early gatheredIn the town, round the temple,Iacchus’ white faneOn yonder hill.
Quick I passed, followingThe woodcutters’ cart-trackDown the dark valley. I sawOn my left, through the beeches,Thy palace, goddess,Smokeless, empty!Trembling, I entered; beheldThe court all silent,The lions sleeping,On the altar this bowl.I drank, goddess!And sank down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.
CIRCE.
Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See how glows,Through the delicate, flushed marble,The red creaming liquor,Strewn with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,Deny thee not my bowl.Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!Drink—drink again!
THE YOUTH.
Thanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me!More subtle-winding,Than Pan’s flute-music!Faint—faint! Ah me,Again the sweet sleep!
CIRCE.
Hist! Thou—within there!Come forth, Ulysses!Art tired with hunting?While we range the woodland,See what the day brings.
ULYSSES.
Ever new magic!Hast thou then lured hither,Wonderful goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,Iacchus’ darling,Or some youth beloved of Pan,Of Pan and the nymphs;That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed margeOf thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavesThat crown his hair,Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants;His fawn-skin, half untied,Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he,That he sits, overweighedBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, goddess,—what guestOf gods or mortals?
CIRCE.
Hist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!
THE YOUTH.
Who speaks? Ah! who comes forthTo thy side, goddess, from within?How shall I name him,—This spare, dark-featured,Quick-eyed stranger?Ah! and I see tooHis sailor’s bonnet,His short coat, travel-tarnished,With one arm bare!—Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumorsThe favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves?Art thou he, stranger,—The wise Ulysses,Laertes’ son?
ULYSSES.
I am Ulysses.And thou too, sleeper?Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast followedThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,—Age, and the Muses;And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learned his songs,Of gods and heroes,Of war and arts,And peopled cities,Inland, or builtBy the gray sea. If so, then hail!I honor and welcome thee.
THE YOUTH.
The gods are happy.They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes,And see below themThe earth and men.
They see TiresiasSitting, staff in hand,On the warm, grassyAsopus bank,His robe drawn overHis old sightless head,Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes.
They see the centaursIn the upper glensOf Pelion, in the streamsWhere red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools,With streaming flanks, and headsReared proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind.
They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moored toA floating isle thick-mattedWith large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,And the dark cucumber.He reaps and stows them,Drifting—drifting; round him,Round his green harvest-plot,Flow the cool lake-waves,The mountains ring them.
They see the ScythianOn the wide steppe, unharnessingHis wheeled house at noon.He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,—Mares’ milk, and breadBaked on the embers. All around,The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starredWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leaved iris-flowers.Sitting in his cartHe makes his meal; before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard-fowl,The track, a straight black line,Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopped with rough-hewn,Gray, rain-bleared statues, overpeerThe sunny waste.
They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-ladenLone Chorasmian stream; thereon,With snort and strain,Two horses, strongly swimming, towThe ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm-harnessed by the mane; a chief,With shout and shaken spear,Stands at the prow, and guides them; but asternThe cowering merchants in long robesSit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,Of turquoise-earth, and amethyst,Jasper and chalcedony,And milk-barred onyx-stones.The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;The gods behold them.
They see the heroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heaving,Violet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.
These things, Ulysses,The wise bards alsoBehold, and sing.But oh, what labor!O prince, what pain!
They too can seeTiresias; but the gods,Who gave them vision,Added this law:That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorned white hairs;Bear Hera’s angerThrough a life lengthenedTo seven ages.
They see the centaursOn Pelion: then they feel,They too, the maddening wineSwell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,Drive crashing through their bones; they feel,High on a jutting rock in the red stream,Alcmena’s dreadful sonPly his bow. Such a priceThe gods exact for song:To become what we sing.
They see the IndianOn his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart. They seeThe Scythian; but long frostsParch them in winter-time on the bare steppe,Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.
They see the merchantsOn the Oxus-stream; but careMust visit first them too, and make them pale:Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,In the walled cities the way passes through,Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs,On some great river’s marge,Mown them down, far from home.
They see the heroesNear harbor; but they shareTheir lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,—Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo firstStartled the unknown sea.
The old SilenusCame, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest-coverts,This way, at noon.Sitting by me, while his faunsDown at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland,He told me these things.
But I, Ulysses,Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labor,Sometimes a wild-haired mænad,Sometimes a faun with torches,And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved,The desired, the divine,Beloved Iacchus.
Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water,Fitful earth-murmur,Dreaming woods!Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess,And thou, proved, much-enduring,Wave-tossed wanderer!Who can stand still?Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—The cup again!
Faster, faster,O Circe, goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
THECHORUS.