IN HARMONY WITH NATURE.TO A PREACHER.

Becausethou hast believed, the wheels of lifeStand never idle, but go always round;Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground,Moved only; but by genius, in the strifeOf all its chafing torrents after thaw,Urged; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand,The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand;And, in this vision of the general law,Hast labored, but with purpose; hast becomeLaborious, persevering, serious, firm,—For this, thy track across the fretful foamOf vehement actions without scope or term,Called history, keeps a splendor; due to wit,Which saw one clew to life, and followed it.

Becausethou hast believed, the wheels of lifeStand never idle, but go always round;Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground,Moved only; but by genius, in the strife

Of all its chafing torrents after thaw,Urged; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand,The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand;And, in this vision of the general law,

Hast labored, but with purpose; hast becomeLaborious, persevering, serious, firm,—For this, thy track across the fretful foam

Of vehement actions without scope or term,Called history, keeps a splendor; due to wit,Which saw one clew to life, and followed it.

“Inharmony with Nature?” Restless fool,Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee,When true, the last impossibility,—To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool!Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more,And in thatmorelie all his hopes of good.Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood;Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore;Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest;Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave;Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest.Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends;Nature and man can never be fast friends.Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave!

“Inharmony with Nature?” Restless fool,Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee,When true, the last impossibility,—To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool!

Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more,And in thatmorelie all his hopes of good.Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood;Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore;

Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest;Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave;Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest.

Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends;Nature and man can never be fast friends.Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave!

Artist, whose hand, with horror winged, hath tornFrom the rank life of towns this leaf! and flungThe prodigy of full-blown crime amongValleys and men to middle fortune born,Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn,—Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrudeLike comets on the heavenly solitude?Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The soulBreasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says,“Why tremble? True, the nobleness of manMay be by man effaced; man can controlTo pain, to death, the bent of his own days.Know thou the worst! So much, not more, hecan.”

Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The soulBreasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says,“Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man

May be by man effaced; man can controlTo pain, to death, the bent of his own days.Know thou the worst! So much, not more, hecan.”

Godknows it, I am with you. If to prizeThose virtues, prized and practised by too few,But prized, but loved, but eminent in you,Man’s fundamental life; if to despiseThe barren optimistic sophistriesOf comfortable moles, whom what they doTeaches the limit of the just and true(And for such doing they require not eyes);If sadness at the long heart-wasting showWherein earth’s great ones are disquieted;If thoughts, not idle, while before me flowThe armies of the homeless and unfed,—If these are yours, if this is what you are,Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share.

Godknows it, I am with you. If to prizeThose virtues, prized and practised by too few,But prized, but loved, but eminent in you,Man’s fundamental life; if to despise

The barren optimistic sophistriesOf comfortable moles, whom what they doTeaches the limit of the just and true(And for such doing they require not eyes);

If sadness at the long heart-wasting showWherein earth’s great ones are disquieted;If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow

The armies of the homeless and unfed,—If these are yours, if this is what you are,Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share.

Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seemRather to patience prompted, than that proudProspect of hope which France proclaims so loud,—France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme;Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream,Is on all sides o’ershadowed by the highUno’erleaped mountains of necessity,Sparing us narrower margin than we deem.Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,When, bursting through the network superposedBy selfish occupation,—plot and plan,Lust, avarice, envy,—liberated man,All difference with his fellow-mortal closed,Shall be left standing face to face with God.

Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seemRather to patience prompted, than that proudProspect of hope which France proclaims so loud,—France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme;

Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream,Is on all sides o’ershadowed by the highUno’erleaped mountains of necessity,Sparing us narrower margin than we deem.

Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,When, bursting through the network superposedBy selfish occupation,—plot and plan,

Lust, avarice, envy,—liberated man,All difference with his fellow-mortal closed,Shall be left standing face to face with God.

Children(as such forgive them) have I known,Ever in their own eager pastime bentTo make the incurious bystander, intentOn his own swarming thoughts, an interest own,—Too fearful or too fond to play alone.Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul(Not less thy boast) illuminates, controlWishes unworthy of a man full-grown.What though the holy secret, which moulds thee,Moulds not the solid earth? though never windsHave whispered it to the complaining sea,Nature’s great law, and law of all men’s minds?To its own impulse every creature stirs:Live by thy light, and earth will live by hers!

Children(as such forgive them) have I known,Ever in their own eager pastime bentTo make the incurious bystander, intentOn his own swarming thoughts, an interest own,—

Too fearful or too fond to play alone.Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul(Not less thy boast) illuminates, controlWishes unworthy of a man full-grown.

What though the holy secret, which moulds thee,Moulds not the solid earth? though never windsHave whispered it to the complaining sea,

Nature’s great law, and law of all men’s minds?To its own impulse every creature stirs:Live by thy light, and earth will live by hers!

“Notby the justice that my father spurned,Not for the thousands whom my father slew,Altars unfed and temples overturned,Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks are due;Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie,Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny.“I will unfold my sentence and my crime.My crime,—that, rapt in reverential awe,I sate obedient, in the fiery primeOf youth, self-governed, at the feet of Law;Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings,By contemplation of diviner things.“My father loved injustice, and lived long;Crowned with gray hairs he died, and full of sway.I loved the good he scorned, and hated wrong—The gods declare my recompense to-day.I looked for life more lasting, rule more high;And when six years are measured, lo, I die!“Yet surely, O my people, did I deemMan’s justice from the all-just gods was given;A light that from some upper fount did beam,Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven;A light that, shining from the blest abodes,Did shadow somewhat of the life of gods.“Mere phantoms of man’s self-tormenting heart,Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed!Vain dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart,When the duped soul, self-mastered, claims its meed;When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows,Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close!“Seems it so light a thing, then, austere powers,To spurn man’s common lure, life’s pleasant things?Seems there no joy in dances crowned with flowers,Love free to range, and regal banquetings?Bend ye on these indeed an unmoved eye,Not gods, but ghosts, in frozen apathy?“Or is it that some force, too stern, too strong,Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile,Bears earth and heaven and men and gods along,Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile?And the great powers we serve, themselves may beSlaves of a tyrannous necessity?“Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars,Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight,And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars,Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night?Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen,Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene?“Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be,Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream?Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see,Blind divinations of a will supreme;Lost labor! when the circumambient gloomBut hides, if gods, gods careless of our doom?“The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak,My sand runs short; and as yon star-shot ray,Hemmed by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak,Now, as the barrier closes, dies away,—Even so do past and future intertwine,Blotting this six years’ space, which yet is mine.“Six years,—six little years,—six drops of time!Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane,And old men die, and young men pass their prime,And languid pleasure fade and flower again,And the dull gods behold, ere these are flown,Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.“Into the silence of the groves and woodsI will go forth; though something would I say,—Something,—yet what, I know not: for the godsThe doom they pass revoke not nor delay;And prayers and gifts and tears are fruitless all,And the night waxes, and the shadows fall.“Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king!I go, and I return not. But the willOf the great gods is plain; and ye must bringIll deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfilTheir pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise,—The praise of gods, rich boon! and length of days.”—So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn;And one loud cry of grief and of amazeBroke from his sorrowing people; so he spake,And turning, left them there: and with brief pause,Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his wayTo the cool region of the groves he loved.There by the river-banks he wandered on,From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneathBurying their unsunned stems in grass and flowers;Where in one dream the feverish time of youthMight fade in slumber, and the feet of joyMight wander all day long and never tire.Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn,Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down,A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom,From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove,Revealing all the tumult of the feast,—Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine;While the deep-burnished foliage overheadSplintered the silver arrows of the moon.It may be that sometimes his wondering soulFrom the loud joyful laughter of his lipsMight shrink half startled, like a guilty manWho wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape,Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems,Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl,Whispering,A little space, and thou art mine!It may be, on that joyless feast his eyeDwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within,Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength,And by that silent knowledge, day by day,Was calmed, ennobled, comforted, sustained.It may be; but not less his brow was smooth,And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom,And his mirth quailed not at the mild reproofSighed out by winter’s sad tranquillity;Nor, palled with its own fulness, ebbed and diedIn the rich languor of long summer-days;Nor withered when the palm-tree plumes, that roofedWith their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall,Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring;No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds.So six long years he revelled, night and day.And when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull soundSometimes from the grove’s centre echoes came,To tell his wondering people of their king;In the still night, across the steaming flats,Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile.

“I will unfold my sentence and my crime.My crime,—that, rapt in reverential awe,I sate obedient, in the fiery primeOf youth, self-governed, at the feet of Law;Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings,By contemplation of diviner things.

“My father loved injustice, and lived long;Crowned with gray hairs he died, and full of sway.I loved the good he scorned, and hated wrong—The gods declare my recompense to-day.I looked for life more lasting, rule more high;And when six years are measured, lo, I die!

“Yet surely, O my people, did I deemMan’s justice from the all-just gods was given;A light that from some upper fount did beam,Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven;A light that, shining from the blest abodes,Did shadow somewhat of the life of gods.

“Mere phantoms of man’s self-tormenting heart,Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed!Vain dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart,When the duped soul, self-mastered, claims its meed;When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows,Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close!

“Seems it so light a thing, then, austere powers,To spurn man’s common lure, life’s pleasant things?Seems there no joy in dances crowned with flowers,Love free to range, and regal banquetings?Bend ye on these indeed an unmoved eye,Not gods, but ghosts, in frozen apathy?

“Or is it that some force, too stern, too strong,Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile,Bears earth and heaven and men and gods along,Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile?And the great powers we serve, themselves may beSlaves of a tyrannous necessity?

“Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars,Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight,And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars,Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night?Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen,Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene?

“Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be,Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream?Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see,Blind divinations of a will supreme;Lost labor! when the circumambient gloomBut hides, if gods, gods careless of our doom?

“The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak,My sand runs short; and as yon star-shot ray,Hemmed by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak,Now, as the barrier closes, dies away,—Even so do past and future intertwine,Blotting this six years’ space, which yet is mine.

“Six years,—six little years,—six drops of time!Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane,And old men die, and young men pass their prime,And languid pleasure fade and flower again,And the dull gods behold, ere these are flown,Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.

“Into the silence of the groves and woodsI will go forth; though something would I say,—Something,—yet what, I know not: for the godsThe doom they pass revoke not nor delay;And prayers and gifts and tears are fruitless all,And the night waxes, and the shadows fall.

“Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king!I go, and I return not. But the willOf the great gods is plain; and ye must bringIll deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfilTheir pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise,—The praise of gods, rich boon! and length of days.”

—So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn;And one loud cry of grief and of amazeBroke from his sorrowing people; so he spake,And turning, left them there: and with brief pause,Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his wayTo the cool region of the groves he loved.There by the river-banks he wandered on,From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneathBurying their unsunned stems in grass and flowers;Where in one dream the feverish time of youthMight fade in slumber, and the feet of joyMight wander all day long and never tire.Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn,Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down,A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom,From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove,Revealing all the tumult of the feast,—Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine;While the deep-burnished foliage overheadSplintered the silver arrows of the moon.It may be that sometimes his wondering soulFrom the loud joyful laughter of his lipsMight shrink half startled, like a guilty manWho wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape,Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems,Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl,Whispering,A little space, and thou art mine!It may be, on that joyless feast his eyeDwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within,Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength,And by that silent knowledge, day by day,Was calmed, ennobled, comforted, sustained.It may be; but not less his brow was smooth,And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom,And his mirth quailed not at the mild reproofSighed out by winter’s sad tranquillity;Nor, palled with its own fulness, ebbed and diedIn the rich languor of long summer-days;Nor withered when the palm-tree plumes, that roofedWith their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall,Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring;No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds.So six long years he revelled, night and day.And when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull soundSometimes from the grove’s centre echoes came,To tell his wondering people of their king;In the still night, across the steaming flats,Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile.

Downthe Savoy valleys sounding,Echoing round this castle old,’Mid the distant mountain-chaletsHark! what bell for church is tolled?In the bright October morningSavoy’s Duke had left his bride.From the castle, past the drawbridge,Flowed the hunters’ merry tide.Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering.Gay, her smiling lord to greet,From her mullioned chamber-casementSmiles the Duchess Marguerite.From Vienna, by the Danube,Here she came, a bride, in spring.Now the autumn crisps the forest;Hunters gather, bugles ring.Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,Westward on the side of France.Hark! the game’s on foot; they scatter!Down the forest-ridings lone,Furious, single horsemen gallop.Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!Pale and breathless, came the hunters—On the turf dead lies the boar.God! the duke lies stretched beside him,Senseless, weltering in his gore.In the dull October evening,Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,To the castle, past the drawbridge,Came the hunters with their load.In the hall, with sconces blazing,Ladies waiting round her seat,Clothed in smiles, beneath the daisSate the Duchess Marguerite.Hark! below the gates unbarring!Tramp of men, and quick commands!“’Tis my lord come back from hunting;”And the duchess claps her hands.Slow and tired, came the hunters;Stopped in darkness in the court.“Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!To the hall! What sport, what sport?”Slow they entered with their master;In the hall they laid him down.On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,On his brow an angry frown.Dead her princely youthful husbandLay before his youthful wife,Bloody ’neath the flaring sconces—And the sight froze all her life.In Vienna, by the Danube,Kings hold revel, gallants meet.Gay of old amid the gayestWas the Duchess Marguerite.In Vienna, by the Danube,Feast and dance her youth beguiled.Till that hour she never sorrowed;But from then she never smiled.’Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys,Far from town or haunt of man,Stands a lonely church, unfinished,Which the Duchess Maud began.Old, that duchess stern began it,In gray age, with palsied hands;But she died while it was building,And the church unfinished stands,—Stands as erst the builders left it,When she sank into her grave;Mountain greensward paves the chancel,Harebells flower in the nave.“In my castle all is sorrow,”Said the Duchess Marguerite then:“Guide me, some one, to the mountain;We will build the church again.”Sandalled palmers, faring homeward,Austrian knights from Syria came.“Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!Homage to your Austrian dame.”From the gate the warders answered,—“Gone, O knights, is she you knew!Dead our duke, and gone his duchess;Seek her at the church of Brou.”Austrian knights and march-worn palmersClimb the winding mountain-way;Reach the valley, where the fabricRises higher day by day.Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;On the work the bright sun shines;In the Savoy mountain-meadows,By the stream, below the pines.On her palfrey white the duchessSate, and watched her working train,—Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,German masons, smiths from Spain.Clad in black, on her white palfrey,Her old architect beside,—There they found her in the mountains,Morn and noon and eventide.There she sate, and watched the builders,Till the church was roofed and done;Last of all, the builders reared herIn the nave a tomb of stone.On the tomb two forms they sculptured,Lifelike in the marble pale,—One, the duke in helm and armor;One, the duchess in her veil.Round the tomb the carved stone fret-workWas at Easter-tide put on.Then the duchess closed her labors;And she died at the St. John.

Downthe Savoy valleys sounding,Echoing round this castle old,’Mid the distant mountain-chaletsHark! what bell for church is tolled?

In the bright October morningSavoy’s Duke had left his bride.From the castle, past the drawbridge,Flowed the hunters’ merry tide.

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering.Gay, her smiling lord to greet,From her mullioned chamber-casementSmiles the Duchess Marguerite.

From Vienna, by the Danube,Here she came, a bride, in spring.Now the autumn crisps the forest;Hunters gather, bugles ring.

Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,Westward on the side of France.

Hark! the game’s on foot; they scatter!Down the forest-ridings lone,Furious, single horsemen gallop.Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!

Pale and breathless, came the hunters—On the turf dead lies the boar.God! the duke lies stretched beside him,Senseless, weltering in his gore.

In the dull October evening,Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,To the castle, past the drawbridge,Came the hunters with their load.

In the hall, with sconces blazing,Ladies waiting round her seat,Clothed in smiles, beneath the daisSate the Duchess Marguerite.

Hark! below the gates unbarring!Tramp of men, and quick commands!“’Tis my lord come back from hunting;”And the duchess claps her hands.

Slow and tired, came the hunters;Stopped in darkness in the court.“Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!To the hall! What sport, what sport?”

Slow they entered with their master;In the hall they laid him down.On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,On his brow an angry frown.

Dead her princely youthful husbandLay before his youthful wife,Bloody ’neath the flaring sconces—And the sight froze all her life.

In Vienna, by the Danube,Kings hold revel, gallants meet.Gay of old amid the gayestWas the Duchess Marguerite.

In Vienna, by the Danube,Feast and dance her youth beguiled.Till that hour she never sorrowed;But from then she never smiled.

’Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys,Far from town or haunt of man,Stands a lonely church, unfinished,Which the Duchess Maud began.

Old, that duchess stern began it,In gray age, with palsied hands;But she died while it was building,And the church unfinished stands,—

Stands as erst the builders left it,When she sank into her grave;Mountain greensward paves the chancel,Harebells flower in the nave.

“In my castle all is sorrow,”Said the Duchess Marguerite then:“Guide me, some one, to the mountain;We will build the church again.”

Sandalled palmers, faring homeward,Austrian knights from Syria came.“Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!Homage to your Austrian dame.”

From the gate the warders answered,—“Gone, O knights, is she you knew!Dead our duke, and gone his duchess;Seek her at the church of Brou.”

Austrian knights and march-worn palmersClimb the winding mountain-way;Reach the valley, where the fabricRises higher day by day.

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;On the work the bright sun shines;In the Savoy mountain-meadows,By the stream, below the pines.

On her palfrey white the duchessSate, and watched her working train,—Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,German masons, smiths from Spain.

Clad in black, on her white palfrey,Her old architect beside,—There they found her in the mountains,Morn and noon and eventide.

There she sate, and watched the builders,Till the church was roofed and done;Last of all, the builders reared herIn the nave a tomb of stone.

On the tomb two forms they sculptured,Lifelike in the marble pale,—One, the duke in helm and armor;One, the duchess in her veil.

Round the tomb the carved stone fret-workWas at Easter-tide put on.Then the duchess closed her labors;And she died at the St. John.

Uponthe glistening leaden roofOf the new pile, the sunlight shines;The stream goes leaping by.The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;’Mid bright green fields, below the pines,Stands the church on high.What church is this, from men aloof?’Tis the Church of Brou.At sunrise, from their dewy lairCrossing the stream, the kine are seenRound the wall to stray,—The churchyard wall that clips the squareOf open hill-sward fresh and greenWhere last year they lay.But all things now are ordered fairRound the Church of Brou.On Sundays, at the matin-chime,The Alpine peasants, two and three,Climb up here to pray;Burghers and dames, at summer’s prime,Ride out to church from Chambery,Dight with mantles gay.But else it is a lonely timeRound the Church of Brou.On Sundays, too, a priest doth comeFrom the walled town beyond the pass,Down the mountain-way;And then you hear the organ’s hum,You hear the white-robed priest say mass,And the people pray.But else the woods and fields are dumbRound the Church of Brou.And after church, when mass is done,The people to the nave repairRound the tomb to stray;And marvel at the forms of stone,And praise the chiselled broideries rare—Then they drop away.The princely pair are left aloneIn the Church of Brou.

At sunrise, from their dewy lairCrossing the stream, the kine are seenRound the wall to stray,—The churchyard wall that clips the squareOf open hill-sward fresh and greenWhere last year they lay.But all things now are ordered fairRound the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, at the matin-chime,The Alpine peasants, two and three,Climb up here to pray;Burghers and dames, at summer’s prime,Ride out to church from Chambery,Dight with mantles gay.But else it is a lonely timeRound the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, too, a priest doth comeFrom the walled town beyond the pass,Down the mountain-way;And then you hear the organ’s hum,You hear the white-robed priest say mass,And the people pray.But else the woods and fields are dumbRound the Church of Brou.

And after church, when mass is done,The people to the nave repairRound the tomb to stray;And marvel at the forms of stone,And praise the chiselled broideries rare—Then they drop away.The princely pair are left aloneIn the Church of Brou.

Sorest, forever rest, O princely pair!In your high church, ’mid the still mountain-air,Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come.Only the blessed saints are smiling dumbFrom the rich painted windows of the naveOn aisle, and transept, and your marble grave;Where thou, young prince, shalt never more ariseFrom the fringed mattress where thy duchess lies,On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,And ride across the drawbridge with thy houndsTo hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;And thou, O princess, shalt no more receive,Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,Coming benighted to the castle-gate.So sleep, forever sleep, O marble pair!Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fairOn the carved western front a flood of lightStreams from the setting sun, and colors brightProphets, transfigured saints, and martyrs brave,In the vast western window of the nave;And on the pavement round the tomb there glintsA checker-work of glowing sapphire-tints,And amethyst, and ruby,—then uncloseYour eyelids on the stone where ye repose,And from your broidered pillows lift your heads,And rise upon your cold white marble beds;And looking down on the warm rosy tintsWhich checker, at your feet, the illumined flints,Say,What is this? we are in bliss—forgiven—Behold the pavement of the courts of heaven!Or let it be on autumn-nights, when rainDoth rustlingly above your heads complainOn the smooth leaden roof, and on the wallsShedding her pensive light at intervalsThe moon through the clere-story windows shines,And the wind washes through the mountain-pines,—Then, gazing up ’mid the dim pillars high,The foliaged marble forest where ye lie,Hush, ye will say,it is eternity!This is the glimmering verge of heaven, and theseThe columns of the heavenly palaces.And in the sweeping of the wind your earThe passage of the angels’ wings will hear,And on the lichen-crusted leads aboveThe rustle of the eternal rain of love.

Theyare gone—all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river:Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!Ere he come,—ere the boat by the shining-branched borderOf dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,—Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broidered flags gleam.Last night we stood earnestly talking together:She entered—that moment his eyes turned from me!Fastened on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather.As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longerAre rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;I shall weep—but their love will be cooling; and he,As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breakingThe strong band which passion around him hath furled,Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;—But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.So, to wait! But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?’Tis he! ’tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!—Let my turn, if itwillcome, be swift in arriving!Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?World, have thy children yet bowed at his knee?Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure?—Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.

Theyare gone—all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.

Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river:Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!

Ere he come,—ere the boat by the shining-branched borderOf dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,—Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broidered flags gleam.

Last night we stood earnestly talking together:She entered—that moment his eyes turned from me!Fastened on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather.As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.

Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longerAre rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.

I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;I shall weep—but their love will be cooling; and he,As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!

For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breakingThe strong band which passion around him hath furled,Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.

Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;—But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.

So, to wait! But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?’Tis he! ’tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!—Let my turn, if itwillcome, be swift in arriving!Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.

Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?World, have thy children yet bowed at his knee?Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure?—Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.

Strewon her roses, roses,And never a spray of yew:In quiet she reposes;Ah! would that I did too!Her mirth the world required;She bathed it in smiles of glee.But her heart was tired, tired,And now they let her be.Her life was turning, turning,In mazes of heat and sound;But for peace her soul was yearning,And now peace laps her round.Her cabined, ample spirit,It fluttered and failed for breath;To-night it doth inheritThe vasty hall of death.

Strewon her roses, roses,And never a spray of yew:In quiet she reposes;Ah! would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required;She bathed it in smiles of glee.But her heart was tired, tired,And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,In mazes of heat and sound;But for peace her soul was yearning,And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample spirit,It fluttered and failed for breath;To-night it doth inheritThe vasty hall of death.

’Tis death! and peace indeed is here,And ease from shame, and rest from fear.There’s nothing can dismarble nowThe smoothness of that limpid brow.But is a calm like this, in truth,The crowning end of life and youth?And when this boon rewards the dead,Are all debts paid, has all been said?And is the heart of youth so light,Its step so firm, its eye so bright,Because on its hot brow there blowsA wind of promise and reposeFrom the far grave, to which it goes;Because it has the hope to come,One day, to harbor in the tomb?Ah, no! the bliss youth dreams is oneFor daylight, for the cheerful sun,For feeling nerves and living breath;Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.It dreams a rest, if not more deep,More grateful than this marble sleep;It hears a voice within it tell,—Calm’s not life’s crown, though calm is well.’Tis all, perhaps, which man acquires,But ’tis not what our youth desires.

Laugh, my friends, and without blameLightly quit what lightly came;Rich to-morrow as to-day,Spend as madly as you may!I, with little land to stir,Am the exacter laborer.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Once I said, “A face is goneIf too hotly mused upon;And our best impressions areThose that do themselves repair.”Many a face I so let flee—Ah!-is faded utterly.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Marguerite says, “As last year went,So the coming year’ll be spent;Some day next year, I shall be,Entering heedless, kissed by thee.”Ah, I hope! yet, once away,What may chain us, who can say?Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Paint that lilac kerchief, boundHer soft face, her hair around;Tied under the archest chinMockery ever ambushed in.Let the fluttering fringes streakAll her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Paint that figure’s pliant graceAs she toward me leaned her face,Half refused and half resigned,Murmuring, “Art thou still unkind?”Many a broken promise thenWas new made—to break again.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,Eager tell-tales of her mind;Paint, with their impetuous stressOf inquiring tenderness,Those frank eyes, where deep doth beAn angelic gravity.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!What! my friends, these feeble linesShow, you say, my love declines?To paint ill as I have done,Proves forgetfulness begun?Time’s gay minions, pleased you see,Time, your master, governs me;Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry,—“Quick, thy tablets, Memory!”Ah, too true! Time’s current strongLeaves us true to nothing long.Yet, if little stays with man,Ah, retain we all we can!If the clear impression dies,Ah, the dim remembrance prize!Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Once I said, “A face is goneIf too hotly mused upon;And our best impressions areThose that do themselves repair.”Many a face I so let flee—Ah!-is faded utterly.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Marguerite says, “As last year went,So the coming year’ll be spent;Some day next year, I shall be,Entering heedless, kissed by thee.”Ah, I hope! yet, once away,What may chain us, who can say?Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint that lilac kerchief, boundHer soft face, her hair around;Tied under the archest chinMockery ever ambushed in.Let the fluttering fringes streakAll her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint that figure’s pliant graceAs she toward me leaned her face,Half refused and half resigned,Murmuring, “Art thou still unkind?”Many a broken promise thenWas new made—to break again.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,Eager tell-tales of her mind;Paint, with their impetuous stressOf inquiring tenderness,Those frank eyes, where deep doth beAn angelic gravity.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

What! my friends, these feeble linesShow, you say, my love declines?To paint ill as I have done,Proves forgetfulness begun?Time’s gay minions, pleased you see,Time, your master, governs me;Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry,—“Quick, thy tablets, Memory!”

Ah, too true! Time’s current strongLeaves us true to nothing long.Yet, if little stays with man,Ah, retain we all we can!If the clear impression dies,Ah, the dim remembrance prize!Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

In the cedar-shadow sleeping,Where cool grass and fragrant gloomsLate at eve had lured me, creepingFrom your darkened palace rooms,—I, who in your train at morningStrolled and sang with joyful mind,Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning;Saw the hoarse boughs labor in the wind.Who are they, O pensive Graces,(For I dreamed they wore your forms)Who on shores and sea-washed placesScoop the shelves and fret the storms?Who, when ships are that way tending,Troop across the flushing sands,To all reefs and narrows wending,With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?Yet I see, the howling levelsOf the deep are not your lair;And your tragic-vaunted revelsAre less lonely than they were.Like those kings with treasure steeringFrom the jewelled lands of dawn,Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.And we too, from upland valleys,Where some Muse with half-curved frownLeans her ear to your mad salliesWhich the charmed winds never drown;By faint music guided, rangingThe scared glens, we wandered on,Left our awful laurels hanging,And came heaped with myrtles to your throne.From the dragon-wardered fountainsWhere the springs of knowledge are,From the watchers on the mountains,And the bright and morning star;We are exiles, we are falling,We have lost them at your call—O ye false ones, at your callingSeeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!Are the accents of your luringMore melodious than of yore?Are those frail forms more enduringThan the charms Ulysses bore?That we sought you with rejoicings,Till at evening we descryAt a pause of Siren voicingsThese vexed branches and this howling sky?.... . . . . . . . . .Oh, your pardon! The uncouthnessOf that primal age is gone,And the skin of dazzling smoothnessScreens not now a heart of stone.Love has flushed those cruel faces;And those slackened arms foregoThe delight of death-embraces,And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.“Ah!” you say; “the large appearanceOf man’s labor is but vain,And we plead as stanch adherenceDue to pleasure as to pain.”Pointing to earth’s careworn creatures,“Come,” you murmur with a sigh:“Ah! we own diviner features,Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.“Come,” you say, “the hours were dreary;Life without love does not fade;Vain it wastes, and we grew wearyIn the slumbrous cedarn shade.Round our hearts with long caresses,With low sighings, Silence stole,And her load of steaming tressesWeighed, like Ossa, on the aery soul.“Come,” you say, “the soul is faintingTill she search and learn her own,And the wisdom of man’s paintingLeaves her riddle half unknown.Come,” you say, “the brain is seeking,While the princely heart is dead;Yet this gleaned, when gods were speaking,Rarer secrets than the toiling head.“Come,” you say, “opinion trembles,Judgment shifts, convictions go;Life dries up, the heart dissembles:Only, what we feel, we know.Hath your wisdom known emotions?Will it weep our burning tears?Hath it drunk of our love-potionsCrowning moments with the weight of years?”I am dumb. Alas! too soon allMan’s grave reasons disappear!Yet, I think, at God’s tribunalSome large answer you shall hear.But for me, my thoughts are strayingWhere at sunrise, through your vines,On these lawns I saw you playing,Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;When your showering locks inwound you,And your heavenly eyes shone through;When the pine-boughs yielded round you,And your brows were starred with dew;And immortal forms, to meet you,Down the statued alleys came,And through golden horns, to greet you,Blew such music as a god may frame.Yes, I muse! And if the dawningInto daylight never grew,If the glistering wings of morningOn the dry noon shook their dew,If the fits of joy were longer,Or the day were sooner done,Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,No weak nursling of an earthly sun ...Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk the hall with yew!. . . . . . . . . .For a bound was set to meetings,And the sombre day dragged on;And the burst of joyful greetings,And the joyful dawn, were gone.For the eye grows filled with gazing,And on raptures follow calms;And those warm locks men were praisingDrooped, unbraided, on your listless arms.Storms unsmoothed your folded valleys,And made all your cedars frown;Leaves were whirling in the alleysWhich your lovers wandered down.—Sitting cheerless in your bowers,The hands propping the sunk head,Do they gall you, the long hours,And the hungry thought that must be fed?Is the pleasure that is tastedPatient of a long review?Will the fire joy hath wasted,Mused on, warm the heart anew?—Or, are those old thoughts returning,Guests the dull sense never knew,Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,Germs, your untrimmed passion overgrew?Once, like us, you took your station,Watchers for a purer fire;But you drooped in expectation,And you wearied in desire.When the first rose flush was steepingAll the frore peak’s awful crown,Shepherds say, they found you sleepingIn some windless valley, farther down.Then you wept, and slowly raisingYour dozed eyelids, sought again,Half in doubt, they say, and gazingSadly back, the seats of men;Snatched a turbid inspirationFrom some transient earthly sun,And proclaimed your vain ovationFor those mimic raptures you had won..... . . . . . . . . .With a sad, majestic motion,With a stately, slow surprise,From their earthward-bound devotionLifting up your languid eyes—Would you freeze my louder boldness,Dumbly smiling as you go,One faint frown of distant coldnessFlitting fast across each marble brow?Do I brighten at your sorrow,O sweet pleaders? doth my lotFind assurance in to-morrowOf one joy which you have not?Oh, speak once, and shame my sadness!Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain,Mocked and baffled by your gladness,Mar the music of your feasts in vain!. . . . . . . . . .Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow—Come, bind up those ringlet showers!Roses for that dreaming brow!Come, once more that ancient lightness,Glancing feet, and eager eyes!Let your broad lamps flash the brightnessWhich the sorrow-stricken day denies.Through black depths of serried shadows,Up cold aisles of buried glade;In the mist of river-meadowsWhere the looming deer are laid;From your dazzled windows streaming,From your humming festal room,Deep and far, a broken gleamingReels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.Where I stand, the grass is glowing:Doubtless you are passing fair!But I hear the north wind blowing,And I feel the cold night-air,Can I look on your sweet faces,And your proud heads backward thrown,From this dusk of leaf-strewn placesWith the dumb woods and the night alone?Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses,—Mad delight, and frozen calms,—Mirth to-day, and vine-bound tresses,And to-morrow—folded palms;Is this all? this balanced measure?Could life run no happier way?Joyous at the height of pleasure,Passive at the nadir of dismay?But, indeed, this proud possession,This far-reaching, magic chain,Linking in a mad successionFits of joy and fits of pain,—Have you seen it at the closing?Have you tracked its clouded ways?Can your eyes, while fools are dozing,Drop, with mine, adown life’s latter days?When a dreary light is wadingThrough this waste of sunless greens,When the flashing lights are fadingOn the peerless cheek of queens,When the mean shall no more sorrow,And the proudest no more smile;While the dawning of the morrowWidens slowly westward all that while?Then, when change itself is over,When the slow tide sets one way,Shall you find the radiant lover,Even by moments, of to-day?The eye wanders, faith is failing:Oh, loose hands, and let it be!Proudly, like a king bewailing,Oh, let fall one tear, and set us free!All true speech and large avowalWhich the jealous soul concedes;All man’s heart which brooks bestowal,All frank faith which passion breeds,—These we had, and we gave truly;Doubt not, what we had, we gave!False we were not, nor unruly;Lodgers in the forest and the cave.Long we wandered with you, feedingOur rapt souls on your replies,In a wistful silence readingAll the meaning of your eyes.By moss-bordered statues sitting,By well-heads, in summer days.But we turn, our eyes are flitting—See, the white east, and the morning-rays!And you too, O worshipped Graces,Sylvan gods of this fair shade!Is there doubt on divine faces?Are the blessed gods dismayed?Can men worship the wan features,The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,Of unsphered, discrownèd creatures,Souls as little godlike as their own?Come, loose hands! The wingèd fleetnessOf immortal feet is gone;And your scents have shed their sweetness,And your flowers are overblown.And your jewelled gauds surrenderHalf their glories to the day;Freely did they flash their splendor,Freely gave it—but it dies away.In the pines, the thrush is waking;Lo, yon orient hill in flames!Scores of true-love-knots are breakingAt divorce which it proclaims.When the lamps are paled at morning,Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.Cold in that unlovely dawning,Loveless, rayless, joyless, you shall stand!Pluck no more red roses, maidens,Leave the lilies in their dew;Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!—Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,Her I loved at eventide?Shall I ask, what faded mournerStands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?...Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!Dusk the hall with yew!

Who are they, O pensive Graces,(For I dreamed they wore your forms)Who on shores and sea-washed placesScoop the shelves and fret the storms?Who, when ships are that way tending,Troop across the flushing sands,To all reefs and narrows wending,With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?

Yet I see, the howling levelsOf the deep are not your lair;And your tragic-vaunted revelsAre less lonely than they were.Like those kings with treasure steeringFrom the jewelled lands of dawn,Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.

And we too, from upland valleys,Where some Muse with half-curved frownLeans her ear to your mad salliesWhich the charmed winds never drown;By faint music guided, rangingThe scared glens, we wandered on,Left our awful laurels hanging,And came heaped with myrtles to your throne.

From the dragon-wardered fountainsWhere the springs of knowledge are,From the watchers on the mountains,And the bright and morning star;We are exiles, we are falling,We have lost them at your call—O ye false ones, at your callingSeeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!

Are the accents of your luringMore melodious than of yore?Are those frail forms more enduringThan the charms Ulysses bore?That we sought you with rejoicings,Till at evening we descryAt a pause of Siren voicingsThese vexed branches and this howling sky?...

. . . . . . . . . .

Oh, your pardon! The uncouthnessOf that primal age is gone,And the skin of dazzling smoothnessScreens not now a heart of stone.Love has flushed those cruel faces;And those slackened arms foregoThe delight of death-embraces,And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.

“Ah!” you say; “the large appearanceOf man’s labor is but vain,And we plead as stanch adherenceDue to pleasure as to pain.”Pointing to earth’s careworn creatures,“Come,” you murmur with a sigh:“Ah! we own diviner features,Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.

“Come,” you say, “the hours were dreary;Life without love does not fade;Vain it wastes, and we grew wearyIn the slumbrous cedarn shade.Round our hearts with long caresses,With low sighings, Silence stole,And her load of steaming tressesWeighed, like Ossa, on the aery soul.

“Come,” you say, “the soul is faintingTill she search and learn her own,And the wisdom of man’s paintingLeaves her riddle half unknown.Come,” you say, “the brain is seeking,While the princely heart is dead;Yet this gleaned, when gods were speaking,Rarer secrets than the toiling head.

“Come,” you say, “opinion trembles,Judgment shifts, convictions go;Life dries up, the heart dissembles:Only, what we feel, we know.Hath your wisdom known emotions?Will it weep our burning tears?Hath it drunk of our love-potionsCrowning moments with the weight of years?”

I am dumb. Alas! too soon allMan’s grave reasons disappear!Yet, I think, at God’s tribunalSome large answer you shall hear.But for me, my thoughts are strayingWhere at sunrise, through your vines,On these lawns I saw you playing,Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;

When your showering locks inwound you,And your heavenly eyes shone through;When the pine-boughs yielded round you,And your brows were starred with dew;And immortal forms, to meet you,Down the statued alleys came,And through golden horns, to greet you,Blew such music as a god may frame.

Yes, I muse! And if the dawningInto daylight never grew,If the glistering wings of morningOn the dry noon shook their dew,If the fits of joy were longer,Or the day were sooner done,Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,No weak nursling of an earthly sun ...Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk the hall with yew!

. . . . . . . . . .

For a bound was set to meetings,And the sombre day dragged on;And the burst of joyful greetings,And the joyful dawn, were gone.For the eye grows filled with gazing,And on raptures follow calms;And those warm locks men were praisingDrooped, unbraided, on your listless arms.

Storms unsmoothed your folded valleys,And made all your cedars frown;Leaves were whirling in the alleysWhich your lovers wandered down.—Sitting cheerless in your bowers,The hands propping the sunk head,Do they gall you, the long hours,And the hungry thought that must be fed?

Is the pleasure that is tastedPatient of a long review?Will the fire joy hath wasted,Mused on, warm the heart anew?—Or, are those old thoughts returning,Guests the dull sense never knew,Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,Germs, your untrimmed passion overgrew?

Once, like us, you took your station,Watchers for a purer fire;But you drooped in expectation,And you wearied in desire.When the first rose flush was steepingAll the frore peak’s awful crown,Shepherds say, they found you sleepingIn some windless valley, farther down.

Then you wept, and slowly raisingYour dozed eyelids, sought again,Half in doubt, they say, and gazingSadly back, the seats of men;Snatched a turbid inspirationFrom some transient earthly sun,And proclaimed your vain ovationFor those mimic raptures you had won....

. . . . . . . . . .

With a sad, majestic motion,With a stately, slow surprise,From their earthward-bound devotionLifting up your languid eyes—Would you freeze my louder boldness,Dumbly smiling as you go,One faint frown of distant coldnessFlitting fast across each marble brow?

Do I brighten at your sorrow,O sweet pleaders? doth my lotFind assurance in to-morrowOf one joy which you have not?Oh, speak once, and shame my sadness!Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain,Mocked and baffled by your gladness,Mar the music of your feasts in vain!

. . . . . . . . . .

Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow—Come, bind up those ringlet showers!Roses for that dreaming brow!Come, once more that ancient lightness,Glancing feet, and eager eyes!Let your broad lamps flash the brightnessWhich the sorrow-stricken day denies.

Through black depths of serried shadows,Up cold aisles of buried glade;In the mist of river-meadowsWhere the looming deer are laid;From your dazzled windows streaming,From your humming festal room,Deep and far, a broken gleamingReels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.

Where I stand, the grass is glowing:Doubtless you are passing fair!But I hear the north wind blowing,And I feel the cold night-air,Can I look on your sweet faces,And your proud heads backward thrown,From this dusk of leaf-strewn placesWith the dumb woods and the night alone?

Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses,—Mad delight, and frozen calms,—Mirth to-day, and vine-bound tresses,And to-morrow—folded palms;Is this all? this balanced measure?Could life run no happier way?Joyous at the height of pleasure,Passive at the nadir of dismay?

But, indeed, this proud possession,This far-reaching, magic chain,Linking in a mad successionFits of joy and fits of pain,—Have you seen it at the closing?Have you tracked its clouded ways?Can your eyes, while fools are dozing,Drop, with mine, adown life’s latter days?

When a dreary light is wadingThrough this waste of sunless greens,When the flashing lights are fadingOn the peerless cheek of queens,When the mean shall no more sorrow,And the proudest no more smile;While the dawning of the morrowWidens slowly westward all that while?

Then, when change itself is over,When the slow tide sets one way,Shall you find the radiant lover,Even by moments, of to-day?The eye wanders, faith is failing:Oh, loose hands, and let it be!Proudly, like a king bewailing,Oh, let fall one tear, and set us free!

All true speech and large avowalWhich the jealous soul concedes;All man’s heart which brooks bestowal,All frank faith which passion breeds,—These we had, and we gave truly;Doubt not, what we had, we gave!False we were not, nor unruly;Lodgers in the forest and the cave.

Long we wandered with you, feedingOur rapt souls on your replies,In a wistful silence readingAll the meaning of your eyes.By moss-bordered statues sitting,By well-heads, in summer days.But we turn, our eyes are flitting—See, the white east, and the morning-rays!

And you too, O worshipped Graces,Sylvan gods of this fair shade!Is there doubt on divine faces?Are the blessed gods dismayed?Can men worship the wan features,The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,Of unsphered, discrownèd creatures,Souls as little godlike as their own?

Come, loose hands! The wingèd fleetnessOf immortal feet is gone;And your scents have shed their sweetness,And your flowers are overblown.And your jewelled gauds surrenderHalf their glories to the day;Freely did they flash their splendor,Freely gave it—but it dies away.

In the pines, the thrush is waking;Lo, yon orient hill in flames!Scores of true-love-knots are breakingAt divorce which it proclaims.When the lamps are paled at morning,Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.Cold in that unlovely dawning,Loveless, rayless, joyless, you shall stand!

Pluck no more red roses, maidens,Leave the lilies in their dew;Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!—Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,Her I loved at eventide?Shall I ask, what faded mournerStands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?...Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!Dusk the hall with yew!

Back to Index Next