The sun is slowly sinking in the West;The plough lies idle, and the weary team,Cool'd with the freshness of the shallow stream,Over the meadows hasten to their rest;The breeze is hush'd, and no more turns the mill,With its light sails upon yon rising crest;Its busy music now awhile is still,And not a sound heaves up from Nature's breast;The barks upon the river smoothly ride,With sails all furl'd, and flags that listless fall,Unrock'd, unshaken by the flowing tide;The cattle lazy lie within the stall;And thus the Time-stream on doth sweetly glide,Bearing repose and slumber unto all.
Ever restless, ever toiling,Fretting fiercely on its narrow bounds,Still filling heaven and earth with mournful sounds,Old ocean, sullen from its rocks recoiling,Rearing wild waves foam-crested to the sky,Lashes again the beaches angrily:
Slowly victor-like advancing,Marching roughly o'er the conquer'd land,Clean sweeping olden limits from the strand,In proud derision o'er the spoil'd Earth glancing,Where 'neath its ruthless tide on hill or plain,No flower or shady leaf shall bud again.
Slowly thus the ocean creeping,Creeping coldly o'er the world of old,Stole many an Eden from the Age of Gold,And gazing now we see blank billows sweeping,Long cheerless wavings of the sullen seas,Were once the sun shone bright on flowery leas.
Over Earth, and over Being,Over many glories of the Past,Remorseless floods are flowing fierce and fast,Snatching sun-lighted Tempes from our seeing,Rolling their dreary surges o'er the shore,Where Love had hoped to dwell for evermore.
Sadly on Time's heaving ocean,Waving darkly o'er Youth's Paradise,Back gaze we ever with dim tearful eyes,Seeking old joys beyond its rude commotion,Seeking the old world glories pass'd away,Seeking the golden shores of Life's Cathay.
Love took me softly by the hand,Love led me all the country o'er,And show'd me beauty in the land,That I had never dreamt before,Never before, Oh! Love! sweet Love!
There was a glory in the morn,There was a calmness in the night,A mildness by the south wind borne,That I had never felt aright,Never aright, Oh! Love! sweet Love!
But now it cannot pass away,I see it wheresoe'er I go,And in my heart by night and day,Its gladness waveth to and fro,By night and day, Oh! Love! sweet Love!
Through the calm and silent airFloats the tolling funeral bell,Swooning over hill and dell,Heavy laden with despair;Mute between each muffled stroke,Sad as though a dead voice spoke,Out of the dim Past time spoke,Stands my heart all mute with care.
The Bell is tolling on, and deep,Deep and drear into my heartAll its bitter accents dart.Peace! sad chime, I will not weep—What is there within thy tone,That should wring my heart alone,Rive it with this endless moan?Peace! and let past sorrows sleep!
Fling your music on the breeze,Mock the sighing of the willows,Mock the lapping of the billows,Mock not human sympathies;Slow chime, sad chime, mock me not,With that loved voice ne'er forgot,Flooding me with tears blood-hot;Mock not soul-deep memories!
Come not from the unseen Past,Flying up the silent gale,With that deep and muffled wail,Slaying me with lying tale,Base chime, false chime from the Past!Not in sighs of mortal pain,Pain and anguish rise again,Voices from the far Death-plain—Not thus speaks she from the Past.
Peace! yet—for though she speaks notFrom her Paradise in thee,Whispers nevermore to meIn my lonely misery,Oh! that loved voice ne'er forgot,Thou dost wake my brooding soul,Smit'st it till the bitter doleBreaks aloud beyond controul,While the briny tear-drops roll,Drowning, cries which she hears not.
Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on,I shall turn my heart to stone,Flinging back thy mocking tone,Callous of thy deepest moanLying Bell! thy power is gone!Spake she from her golden cloud,Spake she to my heart aloud,Every murmur of her voice,Would bid my lone heart rejoice;Every murmur of her voice,Ah! would make my heart rejoice,Lying Bell! thy power is gone.
I.—In the Porch.
MORGANand aMONK.
The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise—Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too,With all her maidens, early sallied forth,A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales,Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home;And so the child lay sleeping in his crib,With Gelert—you remember the old hound?He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well—With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.
The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!
Strange! Not a whit, for fifty times beforeThe hound hath kept him like his own bred whelp,And ne'er a one could touch him; but the childPlay'd with his shaggy ears and great rough coat,As no grown man had dared.
I know there isA strange nobility in dogs, to bearThe utmost sport of children, that would seizeMan by the throat e'en for a finger touch—But to your tale—
Well! suddenly at noon,Llewellyn, baffled of his game, hied back,Striding right grimly in his discontent,And whistling, oft his spear upon the ground,Slaying the visions of his fretful dreams;And presently he thought him of his child:So with its winsome ways to wile the time,He went unto the chamber where it lay,Watch'd o'er by Gelert, as his custom was:But there, alack! or that the child had crostThe savage humour of the beast, or thatSome sudden madness had embolden'd it,He saw the child lie bloody mid the sheets,Slain by the hound, as it would seem, for thereLay Gelert lapping from his chaps the blood,That hung in gouts from every grisly curl.
O Heaven! the woful deed! What did your lord?
You know the hasty humour of the man,That brooks no let betwixt him and his mood—He slew the old hound with his heavy spear,That almost licking of his feet fell dead;For Gelert loved him well, and, crouching, tookWithout a cry the blow that struck his heart.
This is a sorry day for all the house; they sayLlewellyn had his soul set on the child.
His soul! Ay, marry! many a time and oftI've seen the man's great heart stare from his eyes,Just like a girl's, out at the crowing boy:And yesterday it was he perch'd him fairUpon his broad rough shoulder, like a lambLaid on the topmost reaches of a hill,And so he bore him, all his face a-glow,When heralds came with war-notes from the king;At which he turn'd him soft—the startled babeStill set astride, and looking fondly up,Said he, "See! here's the only lord that setsHis foot upon my shoulder." The man's heartScarce beats, I warrant, now the child is dead.
And hath he master'd aught his sorrow now,Or still rides passion curbless through his soul?
Ah! there, good Father, lies the chiefest woe,For in the slaying of the hound his rageQuite spent its force, and now I fear me muchHis mind bath lost its olden empery.
Nay! Death smites passion still upon the mouth,And its grim shade is silence—'Tis no sign.
But in this one act all his fury pass'd;And turning softly from the dead child there,Suffering none to touch it where it lay,He sat him down in awful calmness nigh,And gazed forth blankly like a sculptured face;And when we fain would pass to take the child,A strange wild voice still warns us back again,"Hush! for the boy is sleeping." It would seemHe will not think that Death hath struck the babe,But blinds his willing soul, and deems it sleep.
A longer sleep, whose waking is not here!Poor soul! that, catching at the skirts of Truth.Muffleth his eyes that he may see her not.
Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubtThat lays its stony spell upon his heart,Is sadder far than tears—
It is mine officeStill to bear balm unto the bleeding heart;Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.
[They pass in.
II.—In the Chamber.
LLEWELLYNandMONK.
Benedicite! my son;
Hush! speak low,The child is sleeping.
Ay! we should speak lowWhere Death is, though no sound can ever wakeThose whom he cradles in his bony arms.
Who speaks of Death in presence of a child!
Alas! my son, the bud though ne'er so closeIt fold the fragrant treasure of its youth,Is by the nip of Winter shorn betimes.
Though Death should grimly stalk into the house,And stand beside the slumber of a child,Think you that gazing on its mimic self,Sleep, beautiful and wondrous, in the crib,His owlish thoughts would not wing suddenly,Through cycles of decay, back to the timeWhen he was one with Sleep, and passing fair;Think you he would not sigh, "Sleep, on! sleep on!Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me,And teach the world that I was beautiful."The child is sleeping.
O my son! my son!These are delusions that but wrong the soul,And keep the aching thoughts from peace and Heaven.
Why, Father, if Death woke him as he lay,The lad would look up at him with a smile,And twist his little limbs in childish sport,Until the angel, surfeited with fear,Would love and spare the thing that fear'd him not.No man could see his pretty ways and frown,—And he was full of little childish tricks,That won the very heart out of a manIn spite of him. There's Beowolf the Curst,With ne'er a gentle word for man or child,But cold and crusty as a northern hill—Why this day sen'night did my master there,Crawl up his knees without a Yea or Nay,And toy'd him with his sword-hilt merrily,Till the rough man, caught with his gamesome arts,Swore that he had the making of a man;And, for the maids, there's none but has a word,Or kiss to bandy with the gainsome lad;Ay! when he wakes you'll see how he will crow,And fill the place with laughter—he's no girl,Puking and mewling evermore—not he.
Good lack! my son, your heart is too much setUpon the child, to bow before Heav'n's will,That turns your soul back to itself with stripes;Oh! know you not, Sir, that the child is dead?
You all have conn'd the same wise tale by rote—The child is sleeping; hush! and wake him not.
Nay! doth your mind not stumble on the truth,Here by this old hound lying at your feet,With all his clotted blood in crimson poolsCurdling among the rushes on the floor?
The hound?—the hound—Poor Gelert! well-a-day!It was ill-done of me—a wicked stroke,A wicked stroke—and the boy, too, asleep.And now I mind me how he loved the dog;How many an hour he sported in the sun,Twining his grisly neck with summer buds;And how the dog was patient with the boy,Yielding him gently to his little arms—There was a lion's heart in the old hound!The deed's accursed—accursed—the child will wake,And call for Gelert with his merry voice;And when the dog no more comes stalking nigh,With great mild head to meet the outstretch'd hands,The child will sob his heart out for his friend;For, Sir, his nature is right full of love,And generous affections, never slackTo let his soul have space and mastery—A wicked stroke!
Ah! would his voice could soundEver again among your silent halls;But the sweet treble never more shall ringAcross the chambers to your wistful ear;Then hear it now come floating down from heav'n,Calling your lone and bleeding heart to God.
His voice was very sweet, a silvery streamOf music, rippling softly through my life—And ne'er to hear his little prattling tongue,Stumbling upon the threshold steps of speech,Catching quaint sounds and fragments of discourse,And setting them to childish uses straight—I've sat and heard him by the hour—you'd wonderTo hear his little saws and sentences,And now to think I'll hear him never more—Alack! alack!—but no, it is not true—The child is sleeping—Ay! it must be so.What know you, Father, of an infant's sleep?You, in your stony cell 'mid shaven friars,All crowding down the nether side of life,Hearing no sweeter voice than matin-bells,No speech, but grace in cold refectories;Ay! thence it is—Oh fool! that I should doubt!'Tis so—'tis so—I knew that I should pluckThe cowl from your delusion—Is't not so?
Oh son, your woful faith moves all my heart.'Tis pitiful! but see you not the bloodThat hotly streaks your sleeping lily there?See how it laces all his garments o'er,And signs the grievous sentence of your joy.
Blood?—blood?—nay, how is this?—I—very likeThe sun shines redly on him—I have seenThe sky look ruddy, as with all the bloodOf battle-fields, where no man cried for grace.Blood? look, Sir; look again—I—something cloudsMine eyes to-day—I see more thick than wont.
Nay! lean on me—Come! look upon your child,And Heav'n in ruth will smite your drouthy heart,And send the balm of tears about your soul.
III.—In the heart of the Child.
There is a little dove that sitsBetween the arches all alone,Cut and carved in old grey stone,And a spider o'er it flits:
Round and round his web is spun,With the still bird looking through,From among the beads of dew,Set in glories of the sun.
So the bird looks out at mornAt the larks that mount the sky,And it gazes, still and shy,At the new moon's scanty horn.
And the owls, that fly by night,Mock it from the ivied tower,Hooting at the midnight hourDown upon it from the height.
But the little dove sits on,Calm between the arches there,In the holy morning air,When the owls with night are gone.
Then the bells for matins ring,And the grey friars past it go,Into church in double row,And it hears the chaunts they sing.
And the incense stealing outThrough the chinks, and through the seams,Floats among the dusty beams,And wreathes all the bird about.
All the children as they passTurn to see the bird of stone,'Twixt the arches all alone,Wading to it through the grass.
Is the spider's pretty net,Hung across the arches there,But a frail and foolish snareFor the little stone bird set?
If the place should e'er decay,And the tower be crumbled down,And the arches overthrown,Would the dove then fly away?
So that, seeking it around,All some golden summer day,'Mid the ruins as they lay,It should never more be found?
IV.—In the Chamber.
LLEWELLYNandMONK.
My little one! my joy! my hope! dead—dead—I did not think to see this sorry sight.
Holy St. David! is this death, or sleep?
Nay! Father, that is past—I am a manOnce more, and look at Sorrow in the eyes;Let Truth e'en smite me with her two-edged blade,But smite me, like a warrior, face to face.
I stand all in amaze! or do I dream,Or see I now the motion of a breath,Ruffling the pouting lips that stand ajar?
Oh! Father, mock me not—I know that DeathSits lightly on him as a dreamless sleep;So dear a bud can never lose its sweets;Oh! foolish heart! I thought to see him growIn strength and beauty, like a sapling oak,Spreading his stalwart shoots about the sky,Till, when old age set burdens on my back,In every bough my trembling hands should findA staff to prop me onward to the grave;And now—my heart is shaken somewhat sorely.
Sir! This is wondrous—let me take the child,For sure mine eyes do cheat me, or he lives.
Father, this is not well to mock me so;My heart is sated with the draught of Hope,And, loathing, turns from the delusive cup;Nay! touch him not—'tis well that he should lie,Calm and unquestion'd, on the breast of Heav'n;Yet once again my lips must flutter his,He may not be so distant, but that LoveMay send its greeting flying on his track—The lips are warm—my God! he lives! he lives!
[Takes the child, who awakes in his arms.]
Faith! This is stranger than a gossip's tale!My son! the wonderment o'ermasters you—Nay! look not thus—let Nature have her way—Give words to joy, and be your thanks first paidTo Heav'n, that sends you thus your child again.
The joy was almost more than man might bear!And still my thoughts are lost in wild amaze—The child unhurt—this blood—the hound—in troth,The riddle passes my poor wits.
Let's searchThe chamber well—Heav'n shield us! what is this?
A wolf! and dead!—Ah! now I see it clear—The hound kept worthy watch, and in my hasteI slew the saviour of my house and joy.Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompenseAs man may pay unto the dead—Thy nameHenceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and menFor evermore shall speak thine epitaph.
From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean,Where jagged columns break the billow's beat,Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion,Has this rose-tinted shell steer'd to my feet?
Perchance the wave that bore it has rejoicedAbove Man's founder'd hopes, and shatter'd pride,Whilst fierce Euroclydon swept, trumpet-voiced,Through the frail spars, and hurl'd them in the tide,And the lost seamen floated at its side!
Ah! thus too oft do Woe and Beauty meet,Swept onward by the self-same tide of fate,The bitter following swift upon the sweet,Close, close together, yet how separate!
Frail waif from the sublime storm-shaken sea,Thou seem'st the childhood toy of some old king,Who 'mid the shock of nations lights on thee,And instant backward do his thoughts take wingTo the unclouded days of infancy;Then, sighing, thus away the foolish joy doth fling.
Forth from thine inner chambers come there outLow murmurs of sweet mystic melodies,Old Neptune's couch winding lone caves about,In tones that faintly through the waves arise,And steal to mortal ears in softest sighs.
The poet dreams of olden ages flowingThrough the time-ocean to the listening soul,Ages when from each fountain clear and glowing,Unto the spirit Naiad voices stole.
And still, from earth and sea, there ever pealethA voice far softer than leal lover's lay,Bearing the heart, o'er which its true sense stealeth,Far to diviner dreams of joy away,And to the wisdom of a riper day.
There sat a raven 'mid the pines so dark,The pines so silent and so dark at mornA ragged bird with feathers rough and torn,Whetting his grimy beak upon the bark,And croaking hoarsely to the woods forlorn.
Blood red the sky and misty in the east—Low vapours creeping bleakly o'er the hills—The rain will soon come plashing on the rills—No sound in all the place of bird or beast,Save that hoarse croak that all the woodland fills.
A slimy pool all rank with rotting weeds,Close by the pines there at the highway side;No ripple on its green and stagnant tide,Where only cold and still the horse-leech breeds—Ugh! might not here some bloody murder hide!
Pshaw! … Cold the air slow stealing through the trees,Scarce rustling the moist leaves beneath its tread—A fearful breast thus holds its breath for dread!There is no healthful music in this breeze,It sounds … ha! ha! … like sighs above the dead!
What frights yon raven 'mid the pines so dark,The pines so silent and so dark around,With ne'er accomplish'd circlings to the groundRuffling his wings so ragged and so stark?Some half-dead victim haply hath he found.
Ho! raven, now with thee I'll share the spoil!This way, methinks, the dying game hath trod—Ay! broken twigs, and blood upon the sod—These thorns are sharp! well! soon will end the toil—This bough aside, and then the prize … My God!…
1.
The Land stood still to listen all that day,And 'mid the hush of many a wrangling tongue,Forth from the cannon's mouth the signal rung,That from the earth a man had pass'd away—A mighty Man, that over many a fieldRoll'd back the tide of Battle on the foe,—Thus far, no further, shall thy billows go.Who Freedom's falchion did right nobly wield,Like potter's vessel smiting Tyrants down,And from Earth's strongest snatching Victory's crown;Upon the anvil of each Battle-plain,Still beating swords to ploughshares. All is past,—The glory, and the labour, and the pain—The Conqueror is conquer'd here at last.
2.
Yet other men have wrought, and fought, and won,Cutting with crimson sword Fame's Gordian knot,And, dying, nations wonder'd—and forgot,—But this Man's name shall circle with the sun;And when our children's children feel the glow,That ripens them unconsciously to men,Asking, with upturn'd face, "What did he then?"One answer from each quicken'd heart shall flow—"This Man submerg'd the Doer in the Deed,Toil'd on for Duty, nor of Fame took heed;Hew'd out his name upon the great world's sides.In sure-aim'd strokes of nobleness and worth,And never more Time's devastating tidesShall wear the steadfast record from the Earth."
3.
This Duty, known and done, which all men praise,Is it a thing for heroes utterly?Or claims it aught, O Man! from thee and me,Amid the sweat and grime of working days?Stand forth, thou Conqueror, before God's throne,Thou ruler, thou Earth-leader, great and strong,Behold thy work, thy doing, labour'd long,Before that mighty Presence little grown.Stand forth, thou Man, low toiling 'mid the lees,That measurest Duty out in poor degrees;Are not all deeds, beside the deeds of Heaven,But as the sands upon the ocean shore,Which, softly breath'd on by God's winds, are drivenInto dim deserts, thenceforth seen no more!
4.
Then make thou Life heroic, O! thou Man,Though not in Earth's eyes, still in Heaven's, which seeEach task accomplish'd not in poor degree,But as fain workings out of Duty's plan,—The hewers and the drawers of the land,No whit behind the mighty and the great,Bearing unmoved the burden of the State,—Alike each duty challenged at man's hand.Life is built up of smallest atomics,Pile upon pile the ramparts still increase,And as those, Roman walls, o'er which in scornThe scoffer leapt, soon held the world at bay,So shall thy deeds of duty, lowly born,Be thy strong tower and glory ere the set of day.
Far, far away, over land and sea,When Winter comes with his cold, cold breath,And chills the flowers to the sleep of death,Far, far away over land and sea,Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee.
Round the old grey spire in the evening calm,No more they circle in sportive glee,Hearing the hum of the vesper psalm,And the swell of the organ so far below;But far, far away, over land and sea,In the still mid-air the swift Passage-birds go.
Over the earth that is scarcely seenThrough the curtain of vapour that waves between,O'er city and hamlet, o'er hill and plain,O'er forest green, and o'er mountain hoar,They flit like shadows, and pass the shore,And wing their way o'er the pathless main.
There is no rest for the weary wing,No quivering bough where the feet can cling;To the North, to the South, to the East, to the West,The ocean lies with its heaving breast,Within it, without it there is no rest.
The tempest gathers beneath them far,The Wind-god rides on his battle-car,And the roar of the thunder, the lightning-flash,Break on the waves with a sullen crash;But Silence reigns where the Passage-birds fly,And o'er them stretches the clear blue sky.
The day wears out, and the starry nightHushes the world to sleep, to sleep;The dew-shower falls in the still moonlight,And none wake now, save those who weep;But rustling on through the starry night,Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee,Cleaving the darkness above the sea,Swift and straight as an arrow's flight.Is the wind their guide through the trackless sky?For here there's no landmark to travel by.
The first faint streak of the morning glows,Like the feeble blush on the budding rose;And in long grey lines the clouds divide,And march away with retreating Night,Whilst the bright gleams of victorious Light,Follow them goldenly far and wide:And when the mists have all pass'd away,And left the heavens serene and clear,As an eye that has never shed a tearAnd the universe basks in the smile of Day,Dreamy and still, and the sleepy breeze,Lazily moves o'er the glassy seas,The Passage-birds flit o'er the disc of noon,Like shadows across a mirror's face,For now their journey wanes apace,And the realms of Summer they'll enter soon.
The land looms far through the waters blue,The Land of Promise, the Land of Rest;Through cloud and storm they have travell'd true,And joy thrills now in each throbbing breastDown they sink, with a wheeling flight,Whilst the song of birds comes floating high,And they pass the lark in the sunny sky;But down, without pausing, down they fly;Their travel is over, their Summer shines bright.
Hot blows the wild simoom across the waste,The desert waste, amid the dreary sand,With fiery breath swift burning up the land,O'er the scared pilgrim, speeding on in haste,Hurling fierce death-drifts with broad-scorching hand.
O weary Wilderness! No shady treeTo spread its arms around the fainting soul;No spring to sparkle in the parchèd bowl;No refuge in the drear immensity,Where lies the Past, wreck'd 'neath a sandy sea,Where o'er its glories blighting billows roll.
Ho! Sea, yield up thy buried dead again;Heave back thy waves, and let the Past arise;Restore Time's relics to the startled skies,Till giant shadows tremble on the plain,And awe the heart with old-world mysteries!
Old Menmon! Once again thy Poet-voiceMay sing sweet paeans to the golden Morn,Again may hail the saviour Light sun-born,And bid the wild and desert waste rejoice,—Again with sighs the looming darkness mourn.
Thou Watchman, waiting weary for the dawn,Breathing low longings for its golden light,Through the dim silence of the drowsy night,What wistful sighs with thine are softly drawn,Till day-beams on the darken'd spirit smite!
The dawning light of Knowledge smites thee now,And forth from the dim Past come voices clear,Falling in solemn music on the ear,Which, as the haloes brighten on thy brow,Shall still in richer harmonies draw near.
The Past comes back in music soft and sweet,And lo! the Present like a strung harp standsWaiting the sweeping of prophetic hands,To send its living music, loud and fleet,Careering calmly through unnumber'd lands.
Then swift uprise, thou Sun, thou Music-Maker!Smiting the chords of Life with gladsome rays,Till from each Memnon burst the song of praise,From lips which thou hast freed, O silence-breaker!That over Earth the sound may swell always.
* * * * *
NOTE—It will of course be remembered that the celebrated statue of Memnon was believed to utter lugubrious and mournful sounds at sunset, and during the hours of darkness, which changed to sounds of joy as the first rays of morning fell upon it.
The Grey-beard Winter sat alone and still,Locking his treasures in the flinty earth;And like a miser comfortless and chill,Frown'd upon pleasure and rejected mirth;
But Spring came, gentle Spring, the young, the fair,And with her smiles subdued his frosty heart,So that for very joy to see her there,His soul, relenting, play'd the lover's part;
And nought could bring too lovely or too sweet,To lavish on the bright Evangel's head;No flowers too radiant for her tender feet;No joys too blissful o'er her life to shed.
And thus the land became a Paradise,A new-made Eden, redolent of joy,Where beauty blossom'd under sunny skies,And peaceful pleasure reign'd without alloy.
I stood on the Land's End, alone and still.Man might have been unmade, for no frail traceOf mortal labour startled the wild place,And only sea-mews with their wailing shrill,Circled beneath me over the dark sea,Flashing the waves with pinions snowy white,That glimmer'd faintly in the gloomy lightBetwixt the foaming furrows constantly.It was a mighty cape, that proudly roseAbove the world of waters, high and steep,With many a scar and fissure fathoms deep,Upon whose ledges lodged the endless snows;A noble brow to a firm-founded world,That at the limits of its empire stood,Fronting the ocean in its roughest mood,And all its fury calmly backward hurl'd.The Midnight Sun rose like an angry god,Girt round with clouds, through which a lurid glowFev'rously trembled to the waves below,And smote the waters with a fiery rod;Above, the glory circled up the sky,Fainter and fainter to the sullen grey,Till the black under-drift of clouds awayWent with the gathering wind, and let it die.A moaning sound swept o'er the heaving ocean,Toss'd hoarsely on from angry crest to crest,Like groans from a great soul in its unrest,Stirring the ranks of men to fierce commotion.My longing vision measured the wide waste,"This cannot be the end of things; that manShould see his path lead on so short a span,And then the unstable ocean mock his haste!Better have stay'd where I could still look on,And see a sturdy world to bear my feet,Than thus outstrip the multitude to cheatEarth of its knowledge, and here find it gone."A Shadow rose betwixt me and the sky,Out of the Ocean, as it seem'd, that setA perfect shape before mine eyes, and yetHid not the sky that did behind it lie;But, through its misty substance, all things grewFaint, pale, and ghostly, and the risen sunGleam'd like a fiery globe half quench'd and dun,Through the sere shadow which the spectre threw:It answer'd me, "Man! this is not the end;Progression ceaseth not until the goalOf all perfection stop the running soul,Whither through life its aspirations tend.Spring from thy height, then, for till thou art freeFrom earth, thy course is narrow and restrain'd!"I said, "No! Spirit, nought were thus attain'd;Better pause here than perish in the sea;Man can but do his utmost—there's a lengthHe cannot overleap." The spectre smiled,"Then trust to me; for though the sea be wild,It cannot shake the sinews of my strength,—Within my breast the fearful fall asleep,And wake out of their terrors, calm and still,Having outstripp'd the speed of time and ill,And pass'd unconsciously the stormy deep."Quicker and quicker drew I in my breath,"If there be land beyond, receive me now;I'll trust in thee—but, Spirit, who art thou?"The winds bore on a murmur, "I am Death!"
O! well I mind the olden time,The sweet, sweet olden time;When I did long for eve all day,And watch'd upon the new-mown grassThe shadows slowly eastward pass,And o'er the meadows glide away,Till I could steal, with heart elate,Unto the little cottage-gate,In the sweet, sweet olden time.
O! well I mind the olden time,The sweet, sweet olden time;How all the night I long'd for morn,And bless'd the thrush whose early noteThe silver chords of silence smoteWith greetings to the day new-born;For then again, with heart elate,I hoped to meet her at the gate,In the sweet, sweet olden time.
But now hath pass'd the olden time,That sweet, sweet olden time;And there is neither morn nor nightThat bears a freight of hopes and fears,To bless my soul in coming yearsWith any harvest of delight;For never more, with heart elate,Can I behold her at the gate,As in the sweet, sweet olden time.
For the sake of that dear olden time,That sweet, sweet olden time,I look forth ever sadly still,And hope the time may come again,When Life hath borne its meed of pain,And stoutly struggled up the hill,When I once more, with heart elate,May meet her atanothergate,Beyond the blighting breath of fate,That chill'd the sweet, sweet olden time.
The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand,"Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:
A bold and stalwart nation, dauntless in the fight,Strong as an iron buckler to guard their monarch's right."
Then the trumpets sounded, and his vassals came,Gather'd round his banner, loudly rang his name;
Clash'd their burnish'd targets, waved their flashing steelA goodly gath'ring look'd they, arm'd from head to heel.
"Child! my heart beats proudly, now I feel a king,As I look around me on this martial ring;
There I see the sinews that support a state,There I see the strength that makes a monarch great.
Men whose life is glory—men whose death is fame,Living still in story past the reach of shame."
Many years pass'd over—the old King was dead,And his child, his first-born, reignèd in his stead.
Many years he reignèd, and upon his browNow the frost of age lay like the winter's snow.
So he took his son forth, as his father had,"Come! and see thy people," said he to the lad.
And they rode together through the busy town:Many a peaceful merchant passing up and down;
Loud the workman's hammer sounded through the airPortly look'd the craftsmen, standing 'mid their ware;
And the sounds of labour, blent with cheerful song,Told of peace and plenty as they rode along.
Smith and craftsman pausing, youth and smiling lass,Trader, man and master, stood to see them pass,
With a bonnet lifted, and "God bless him!" saidBy many a gentle bosom, many a reverend head.
So the father turn'd him to his son and cried,"Are not these bold subjects worth a monarch's pride?
In their own free circles, by their quiet hearth,Rearing him a bulwark steady as the Earth:
On their mighty anvils, with a giant's skill,Bending stubborn iron to his lightest will:
Prosperous and happy, free in heart and soul,These send forth my glory to the furthest Pole.
Where is there in story any fame aboveThat King's whose deeds are written in his people's love?"