EARLY POEMS.

It was but some few nights agoI wandered down this quiet lane;I pray that I may never knowThe feelings then I felt, again.The leaves were shining all about,You might almost have seen them springing;I heard the cuckoo’s simple shout,And all the little birds were singing.It was not dull, the air was clear,All lovely sights and sounds to deal,My eyes could see, my ears could hear,Only my heart, it would not feel;And yet that it should not be so,My mind kept telling me within;Though nought was wrong that I did know,I thought I must have done some sin.For I am sure as I can be,That they who have been wont to lookOn all in Nature’s face they see,Even as in the Holy Book;They who with pure and humble eyesHave gazed and read her lessons high,And taught their spirits to be wiseIn love and human sympathy,—That they can soon and surely tellWhen aught has gone amiss within,When the mind is not sound and well,Nor the soul free from taint of sin.For as God’s Spirit from above,So Beauty is to them below,And when they slight that holy love,Their hearts that presence may not know.So I turned home the way I came,With downcast looks and heavy heart,A guilty thing and full of shame,With a dull grief that had no smart.It chanced when I was nearly thereThat all at once I raised my eyes—Was it a dream, or vision rare,That then they saw before them rise?I see it now, before me here,As often, often I have done,As bright as it could then appear,All shining in the setting sun.Elms, with their mantling foliage spread,And tall dark poplars rising out,And blossomed orchards, white and red,Cast, like a long low fence, about;And in the midst the grey church-tower,With one slight turret at its side,Bringing to mind with silent powerThose thousand homes the elm-trees hide.And then there came the thought of oneWho on his bed of sickness lay,Whilst I beneath the setting sunWas dreaming this sweet hour away.I thought of hearts for him that beat,Of aching eyes their watch that kept;The sister’s and the mother’s seat—And oh! I thought I should have wept.And oh! my spirit melted then,The weight fell off me that I bore,And now I felt in truth againThe lovely things that stood before.O blessed, blessed scene, to thee,For that thy sweet and softening power,I could have fallen upon my knee,Thy stately elms, thy grey church-tower.So then I took my homeward way,My heart in sweet and holy frame,With spirit, I may dare to say,More good and soft than when I came.1836

It was but some few nights ago

I wandered down this quiet lane;

I pray that I may never know

The feelings then I felt, again.

The leaves were shining all about,

You might almost have seen them springing;

I heard the cuckoo’s simple shout,

And all the little birds were singing.

It was not dull, the air was clear,

All lovely sights and sounds to deal,

My eyes could see, my ears could hear,

Only my heart, it would not feel;

And yet that it should not be so,

My mind kept telling me within;

Though nought was wrong that I did know,

I thought I must have done some sin.

For I am sure as I can be,

That they who have been wont to look

On all in Nature’s face they see,

Even as in the Holy Book;

They who with pure and humble eyes

Have gazed and read her lessons high,

And taught their spirits to be wise

In love and human sympathy,—

That they can soon and surely tell

When aught has gone amiss within,

When the mind is not sound and well,

Nor the soul free from taint of sin.

For as God’s Spirit from above,

So Beauty is to them below,

And when they slight that holy love,

Their hearts that presence may not know.

So I turned home the way I came,

With downcast looks and heavy heart,

A guilty thing and full of shame,

With a dull grief that had no smart.

It chanced when I was nearly there

That all at once I raised my eyes—

Was it a dream, or vision rare,

That then they saw before them rise?

I see it now, before me here,

As often, often I have done,

As bright as it could then appear,

All shining in the setting sun.

Elms, with their mantling foliage spread,

And tall dark poplars rising out,

And blossomed orchards, white and red,

Cast, like a long low fence, about;

And in the midst the grey church-tower,

With one slight turret at its side,

Bringing to mind with silent power

Those thousand homes the elm-trees hide.

And then there came the thought of one

Who on his bed of sickness lay,

Whilst I beneath the setting sun

Was dreaming this sweet hour away.

I thought of hearts for him that beat,

Of aching eyes their watch that kept;

The sister’s and the mother’s seat—

And oh! I thought I should have wept.

And oh! my spirit melted then,

The weight fell off me that I bore,

And now I felt in truth again

The lovely things that stood before.

O blessed, blessed scene, to thee,

For that thy sweet and softening power,

I could have fallen upon my knee,

Thy stately elms, thy grey church-tower.

So then I took my homeward way,

My heart in sweet and holy frame,

With spirit, I may dare to say,

More good and soft than when I came.

1836

’Twas on a sunny summer dayI trod a mighty city’s street,And when I started on my wayMy heart was full of fancies sweet;But soon, as nothing could be seen,But countenances sharp and keen,Nought heard or seen around but toldOf something bought or something sold,And none that seemed to think or careThat any save himself was there,—Full soon my heart began to sinkWith a strange shame and inward pain,For I was sad within to thinkOf this absorbing love of gain,And various thoughts my bosom tost;When suddenly my path there crossed,Locked hand in hand with one another,A little maiden and her brother—A little maiden, and she woreAround her waist a pinafore.And hand in hand along the streetThis pretty pair did softly go,And as they went, their little feetMoved in short even steps and slow:It was a sight to see and bless,That little sister’s tenderness;One hand a tidy basket boreOf flowers and fruit—a chosen store,Such as kind friends oft send to others—And one was fastened in her brother’s.It was a voice of meaning sweet,And spake amid that scene of strifeOf home and homely duties meet,And charities of daily life;And often, should my spirit fail,And under cold strange glances quail,’Mid busy shops and busier throng,That speed upon their ways alongThe thick and crowded thoroughfare,I’ll call to mind that little pair.1836

’Twas on a sunny summer day

I trod a mighty city’s street,

And when I started on my way

My heart was full of fancies sweet;

But soon, as nothing could be seen,

But countenances sharp and keen,

Nought heard or seen around but told

Of something bought or something sold,

And none that seemed to think or care

That any save himself was there,—

Full soon my heart began to sinkWith a strange shame and inward pain,For I was sad within to thinkOf this absorbing love of gain,And various thoughts my bosom tost;When suddenly my path there crossed,Locked hand in hand with one another,A little maiden and her brother—A little maiden, and she woreAround her waist a pinafore.

Full soon my heart began to sink

With a strange shame and inward pain,

For I was sad within to think

Of this absorbing love of gain,

And various thoughts my bosom tost;

When suddenly my path there crossed,

Locked hand in hand with one another,

A little maiden and her brother—

A little maiden, and she wore

Around her waist a pinafore.

And hand in hand along the streetThis pretty pair did softly go,And as they went, their little feetMoved in short even steps and slow:It was a sight to see and bless,That little sister’s tenderness;One hand a tidy basket boreOf flowers and fruit—a chosen store,Such as kind friends oft send to others—And one was fastened in her brother’s.

And hand in hand along the street

This pretty pair did softly go,

And as they went, their little feet

Moved in short even steps and slow:

It was a sight to see and bless,

That little sister’s tenderness;

One hand a tidy basket bore

Of flowers and fruit—a chosen store,

Such as kind friends oft send to others—

And one was fastened in her brother’s.

It was a voice of meaning sweet,And spake amid that scene of strifeOf home and homely duties meet,And charities of daily life;And often, should my spirit fail,And under cold strange glances quail,’Mid busy shops and busier throng,That speed upon their ways alongThe thick and crowded thoroughfare,I’ll call to mind that little pair.

It was a voice of meaning sweet,

And spake amid that scene of strife

Of home and homely duties meet,

And charities of daily life;

And often, should my spirit fail,

And under cold strange glances quail,

’Mid busy shops and busier throng,

That speed upon their ways along

The thick and crowded thoroughfare,

I’ll call to mind that little pair.

1836

Truth is a golden thread, seen here and thereIn small bright specks upon the visible sideOf our strange being’s party-coloured web.How rich the converse! ’Tis a vein of oreEmerging now and then on Earth’s rude breast,But flowing full below. Like islands setAt distant intervals on Ocean’s face,We see it on our course; but in the depthsThe mystic colonnade unbroken keepsIts faithful way, invisible but sure.Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we menPass by so many marks, so little heeding?1839

Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there

In small bright specks upon the visible side

Of our strange being’s party-coloured web.

How rich the converse! ’Tis a vein of ore

Emerging now and then on Earth’s rude breast,

But flowing full below. Like islands set

At distant intervals on Ocean’s face,

We see it on our course; but in the depths

The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps

Its faithful way, invisible but sure.

Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men

Pass by so many marks, so little heeding?

1839

So I went wrong,Grievously wrong, but folly crushed itself,And vanity o’ertoppling fell, and timeAnd healthy discipline and some neglect,Labour and solitary hours revivedSomewhat, at least, of that original frame.Oh, well do I remember then the daysWhen on some grassy slope (what time the sunWas sinking, and the solemn eve came downWith its blue vapour upon field and woodAnd elm-embosomed spire) once more againI fed on sweet emotion, and my heartWith love o’erflowed, or hushed itself in fearUnearthly, yea celestial. Once againMy heart was hot within me, and, me seemed,I too had in my body breath to windThe magic horn of song; I too possessedUp-welling in my being’s depths a fountOf the true poet-nectar whence to fillThe golden urns of verse.1839

So I went wrong,

Grievously wrong, but folly crushed itself,

And vanity o’ertoppling fell, and time

And healthy discipline and some neglect,

Labour and solitary hours revived

Somewhat, at least, of that original frame.

Oh, well do I remember then the days

When on some grassy slope (what time the sun

Was sinking, and the solemn eve came down

With its blue vapour upon field and wood

And elm-embosomed spire) once more again

I fed on sweet emotion, and my heart

With love o’erflowed, or hushed itself in fear

Unearthly, yea celestial. Once again

My heart was hot within me, and, me seemed,

I too had in my body breath to wind

The magic horn of song; I too possessed

Up-welling in my being’s depths a fount

Of the true poet-nectar whence to fill

The golden urns of verse.

1839

Whence comest thou, shady lane? and why and how?Thou, where with idle heart, ten years ago,I wandered, and with childhood’s paces slowSo long unthought of, and remembered now!Again in vision clear thy pathwayed sideI tread, and view thy orchard plots againWith yellow fruitage hung,—and glimmering grainStanding or shocked through the thick hedge espied.This hot still noon of August brings the sight;This quelling silence as of eve or night,Wherein Earth (feeling as a mother mayAfter her travail’s latest bitterest throes)Looks up, so seemeth it, one half repose,One half in effort, straining, suffering still.1839

Whence comest thou, shady lane? and why and how?

Thou, where with idle heart, ten years ago,

I wandered, and with childhood’s paces slow

So long unthought of, and remembered now!

Again in vision clear thy pathwayed side

I tread, and view thy orchard plots again

With yellow fruitage hung,—and glimmering grain

Standing or shocked through the thick hedge espied.

This hot still noon of August brings the sight;

This quelling silence as of eve or night,

Wherein Earth (feeling as a mother may

After her travail’s latest bitterest throes)

Looks up, so seemeth it, one half repose,

One half in effort, straining, suffering still.

1839

Come back again, my olden heart!—Ah, fickle spirit and untrue,I bade the only guide departWhose faithfulness I surely knew:I said, my heart is all too soft;He who would climb and soar aloftMust needs keep ever at his sideThe tonic of a wholesome pride.Come back again, my olden heart!—Alas, I called not then for thee;I called for Courage, and apartFrom Pride if Courage could not be,Then welcome, Pride! and I shall findIn thee a power to lift the mindThis low and grovelling joy above—’Tis but the proud can truly love.Come back again, my olden heart!—With incrustations of the yearsUncased as yet,—as then thou wert,Full-filled with shame and coward fears:Wherewith amidst a jostling throngOf deeds, that each and all were wrong,The doubting soul, from day to day,Uneasy paralytic lay.Come back again, my olden heart!I said, Perceptions contradict,Convictions come, anon depart,And but themselves as false convict.Assumptions, hasty, crude and vain,Full oft to use will Science deign;The corks the novice plies to-dayThe swimmer soon shall cast away.Come back again, my olden heart!I said, Behold, I perish quite,Unless to give me strength to start,I make myself my rule of right:It must be, if I act at all,To save my shame I have at callThe plea of all men understood,—Because I willed it, it is good.Come back again, my olden heart!I know not if in very deedThis means alone could aid impartTo serve my sickly spirit’s need;But clear alike of wild self-will,And fear that faltered, paltered still,Remorseful thoughts of after daysA way espy betwixt the ways.Come back again, old heart! Ah me!Methinks in those thy coward fearsThere might, perchance, a courage be,That fails in these the manlier years;Courage to let the courage sink,Itself a coward base to think,Rather than not for heavenly lightWait on to show the truly right.1840

Come back again, my olden heart!—

Ah, fickle spirit and untrue,

I bade the only guide depart

Whose faithfulness I surely knew:

I said, my heart is all too soft;

He who would climb and soar aloft

Must needs keep ever at his side

The tonic of a wholesome pride.

Come back again, my olden heart!—Alas, I called not then for thee;I called for Courage, and apartFrom Pride if Courage could not be,Then welcome, Pride! and I shall findIn thee a power to lift the mindThis low and grovelling joy above—’Tis but the proud can truly love.

Come back again, my olden heart!—

Alas, I called not then for thee;

I called for Courage, and apart

From Pride if Courage could not be,

Then welcome, Pride! and I shall find

In thee a power to lift the mind

This low and grovelling joy above—

’Tis but the proud can truly love.

Come back again, my olden heart!—With incrustations of the yearsUncased as yet,—as then thou wert,Full-filled with shame and coward fears:Wherewith amidst a jostling throngOf deeds, that each and all were wrong,The doubting soul, from day to day,Uneasy paralytic lay.

Come back again, my olden heart!—

With incrustations of the years

Uncased as yet,—as then thou wert,

Full-filled with shame and coward fears:

Wherewith amidst a jostling throng

Of deeds, that each and all were wrong,

The doubting soul, from day to day,

Uneasy paralytic lay.

Come back again, my olden heart!I said, Perceptions contradict,Convictions come, anon depart,And but themselves as false convict.Assumptions, hasty, crude and vain,Full oft to use will Science deign;The corks the novice plies to-dayThe swimmer soon shall cast away.

Come back again, my olden heart!

I said, Perceptions contradict,

Convictions come, anon depart,

And but themselves as false convict.

Assumptions, hasty, crude and vain,

Full oft to use will Science deign;

The corks the novice plies to-day

The swimmer soon shall cast away.

Come back again, my olden heart!I said, Behold, I perish quite,Unless to give me strength to start,I make myself my rule of right:It must be, if I act at all,To save my shame I have at callThe plea of all men understood,—Because I willed it, it is good.

Come back again, my olden heart!

I said, Behold, I perish quite,

Unless to give me strength to start,

I make myself my rule of right:

It must be, if I act at all,

To save my shame I have at call

The plea of all men understood,—

Because I willed it, it is good.

Come back again, my olden heart!I know not if in very deedThis means alone could aid impartTo serve my sickly spirit’s need;But clear alike of wild self-will,And fear that faltered, paltered still,Remorseful thoughts of after daysA way espy betwixt the ways.

Come back again, my olden heart!

I know not if in very deed

This means alone could aid impart

To serve my sickly spirit’s need;

But clear alike of wild self-will,

And fear that faltered, paltered still,

Remorseful thoughts of after days

A way espy betwixt the ways.

Come back again, old heart! Ah me!Methinks in those thy coward fearsThere might, perchance, a courage be,That fails in these the manlier years;Courage to let the courage sink,Itself a coward base to think,Rather than not for heavenly lightWait on to show the truly right.

Come back again, old heart! Ah me!

Methinks in those thy coward fears

There might, perchance, a courage be,

That fails in these the manlier years;

Courage to let the courage sink,

Itself a coward base to think,

Rather than not for heavenly light

Wait on to show the truly right.

1840

When soft September brings againTo yonder gorse its golden glow,And Snowdon sends its autumn rainTo bid thy current livelier flow;Amid that ashen foliage lightWhen scarlet beads are glistering bright,While alder boughs unchanged are seenIn summer livery of green;When clouds before the cooler breezeAre flying, white and large; with theseReturning, so may I return,And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern.1840

When soft September brings again

To yonder gorse its golden glow,

And Snowdon sends its autumn rain

To bid thy current livelier flow;

Amid that ashen foliage light

When scarlet beads are glistering bright,

While alder boughs unchanged are seen

In summer livery of green;

When clouds before the cooler breeze

Are flying, white and large; with these

Returning, so may I return,

And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern.

1840

Sweet streamlet bason! at thy sideWeary and faint within me criedMy longing heart,—In such pure deepHow sweet it were to sit and sleep;To feel each passage from withoutClose up,—above me and about,Those circling waters crystal clear,That calm impervious atmosphere!There on thy pearly pavement pure,To lean, and feel myself secure,Or through the dim-lit inter-space,Afar at whiles upgazing traceThe dimpling bubbles dance aroundUpon thy smooth exterior face;Or idly list the dreamy soundOf ripples lightly flung, aboveThat home, of peace, if not of love.1840

Sweet streamlet bason! at thy side

Weary and faint within me cried

My longing heart,—In such pure deep

How sweet it were to sit and sleep;

To feel each passage from without

Close up,—above me and about,

Those circling waters crystal clear,

That calm impervious atmosphere!

There on thy pearly pavement pure,

To lean, and feel myself secure,

Or through the dim-lit inter-space,

Afar at whiles upgazing trace

The dimpling bubbles dance around

Upon thy smooth exterior face;

Or idly list the dreamy sound

Of ripples lightly flung, above

That home, of peace, if not of love.

1840

Away, haunt thou not me,Thou vain Philosophy!Little hast thou bestead,Save to perplex the head,And leave the spirit dead.Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,While from the secret treasure-depths below,Fed by the skiey shower,And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high,Wisdom at once, and Power,Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?Why labour at the dull mechanic oar,When the fresh breeze is blowing,And the strong current flowing,Right onward to the Eternal Shore?1840

Away, haunt thou not me,

Thou vain Philosophy!

Little hast thou bestead,

Save to perplex the head,

And leave the spirit dead.

Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,

While from the secret treasure-depths below,

Fed by the skiey shower,

And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high,

Wisdom at once, and Power,

Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?

Why labour at the dull mechanic oar,

When the fresh breeze is blowing,

And the strong current flowing,

Right onward to the Eternal Shore?

1840

Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent,One-third departed of the mortal span,Carrying on the child into the man,Nothing into reality. Sails rent,And rudder broken,—reason impotent,—Affections all unfixed; so forth I fareOn the mid seas unheedingly, so dareTo do and to be done by, well content.So was it from the first, so is it yet;Yea, the first kiss that by these lips was setOn any human lips, methinks was sin—Sin, cowardice, and falsehood; for the willInto a deed e’en then advanced, whereinGod, unidentified, was thought-of still.

Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent,

One-third departed of the mortal span,

Carrying on the child into the man,

Nothing into reality. Sails rent,

And rudder broken,—reason impotent,—

Affections all unfixed; so forth I fare

On the mid seas unheedingly, so dare

To do and to be done by, well content.

So was it from the first, so is it yet;

Yea, the first kiss that by these lips was set

On any human lips, methinks was sin—

Sin, cowardice, and falsehood; for the will

Into a deed e’en then advanced, wherein

God, unidentified, was thought-of still.

Though to the vilest things beneath the moonFor poor Ease’ sake I give away my heart,And for the moment’s sympathy let partMy sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon,My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon,Almost, as gained; and though aside I start,Belie Thee daily, hourly,—still Thou art,Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon;How much so e’er I sin, whate’er I doOf evil, still the sky above is blue,The stars look down in beauty as before:It is enough to walk as best we may,To walk, and, sighing, dream of that blest dayWhen ill we cannot quell shall be no more.

Though to the vilest things beneath the moon

For poor Ease’ sake I give away my heart,

And for the moment’s sympathy let part

My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon,

My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon,

Almost, as gained; and though aside I start,

Belie Thee daily, hourly,—still Thou art,

Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon;

How much so e’er I sin, whate’er I do

Of evil, still the sky above is blue,

The stars look down in beauty as before:

It is enough to walk as best we may,

To walk, and, sighing, dream of that blest day

When ill we cannot quell shall be no more.

Well, well,—Heaven bless you all from day to day!Forgiveness too, or e’er we part, from each,As I do give it, so must I beseech:I owe all much, much more than I can pay;Therefore it is I go; how could I stayWhere every look commits me to fresh debt,And to pay little I must borrow yet?Enough of this already, now away!With silent woods and hills untenantedLet me go commune; under thy sweet gloom,O kind maternal Darkness, hide my head:The day may come I yet may re-assumeMy place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seekThe task for which I now am all too weak.

Well, well,—Heaven bless you all from day to day!

Forgiveness too, or e’er we part, from each,

As I do give it, so must I beseech:

I owe all much, much more than I can pay;

Therefore it is I go; how could I stay

Where every look commits me to fresh debt,

And to pay little I must borrow yet?

Enough of this already, now away!

With silent woods and hills untenanted

Let me go commune; under thy sweet gloom,

O kind maternal Darkness, hide my head:

The day may come I yet may re-assume

My place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seek

The task for which I now am all too weak.

Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way,Bearing the liar’s curse upon my head;Letting my weak and sickly heart be fedOn food which does the present craving stay,But may be clean-denied me e’en to-day,And tho’ ’twere certain, yet were ought but bread;Letting—for so they say, it seems, I said,And I am all too weak to disobey!Therefore for me sweet Nature’s scenes reveal notTheir charm; sweet Music greets me and I feel notSweet eyes pass off me uninspired; yea, more,The golden tide of opportunityFlows wafting-in friendships and better,—IUnseeing, listless, pace along the shore.

Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way,

Bearing the liar’s curse upon my head;

Letting my weak and sickly heart be fed

On food which does the present craving stay,

But may be clean-denied me e’en to-day,

And tho’ ’twere certain, yet were ought but bread;

Letting—for so they say, it seems, I said,

And I am all too weak to disobey!

Therefore for me sweet Nature’s scenes reveal not

Their charm; sweet Music greets me and I feel not

Sweet eyes pass off me uninspired; yea, more,

The golden tide of opportunity

Flows wafting-in friendships and better,—I

Unseeing, listless, pace along the shore.

How often sit I, poring o’erMy strange distorted youth,Seeking in vain, in all my store,One feeling based on truth;Amid the maze of petty lifeA clue whereby to move,A spot whereon in toil and strifeTo dare to rest and love.So constant as my heart would be,So fickle as it must,’Twere well for others as for me’Twere dry as summer dust.Excitements come, and act and speechFlow freely forth;—but no,Nor they, nor ought beside can reachThe buried world below.1841

How often sit I, poring o’er

My strange distorted youth,

Seeking in vain, in all my store,

One feeling based on truth;

Amid the maze of petty life

A clue whereby to move,

A spot whereon in toil and strife

To dare to rest and love.

So constant as my heart would be,

So fickle as it must,

’Twere well for others as for me

’Twere dry as summer dust.

Excitements come, and act and speech

Flow freely forth;—but no,

Nor they, nor ought beside can reach

The buried world below.

1841

——Like a childIn some strange garden left awhile alone,I pace about the pathways of the world,Plucking light hopes and joys from every stemWith qualms of vague misgiving in my heartThat payment at the last will be required,Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred,And shame to be endured.1841

——Like a child

In some strange garden left awhile alone,

I pace about the pathways of the world,

Plucking light hopes and joys from every stem

With qualms of vague misgiving in my heart

That payment at the last will be required,

Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred,

And shame to be endured.

1841

——Roused by importunate knocksI rose, I turned the key, and let them in,First one, anon another, and at lengthIn troops they came; for how could I, who onceHad let in one, nor looked him in the face,Show scruples e’er again? So in they came,A noisy band of revellers,—vain hopes,Wild fancies, fitful joys; and there they sitIn my heart’s holy place, and through the nightCarouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawnGleams from the East, to tell me that the timeFor watching and for thought bestowed is gone.1841

——Roused by importunate knocks

I rose, I turned the key, and let them in,

First one, anon another, and at length

In troops they came; for how could I, who once

Had let in one, nor looked him in the face,

Show scruples e’er again? So in they came,

A noisy band of revellers,—vain hopes,

Wild fancies, fitful joys; and there they sit

In my heart’s holy place, and through the night

Carouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawn

Gleams from the East, to tell me that the time

For watching and for thought bestowed is gone.

1841

O kind protecting Darkness! as a childFlies back to bury in its mother’s lapHis shame and his confusion, so to thee,O Mother Night, come I! within the foldsOf thy dark robe hide thou me close; for ISo long, so heedless, with external thingsHave played the liar, that whate’er I see,E’en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars,Which to the rest rain comfort down, for meSmiling those smiles, which I may not return,Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice,As angry claimants or expectants sureOf that I promised and may not perform,Look me in the face! O hide me, Mother Night!1841

O kind protecting Darkness! as a child

Flies back to bury in its mother’s lap

His shame and his confusion, so to thee,

O Mother Night, come I! within the folds

Of thy dark robe hide thou me close; for I

So long, so heedless, with external things

Have played the liar, that whate’er I see,

E’en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars,

Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me

Smiling those smiles, which I may not return,

Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice,

As angry claimants or expectants sure

Of that I promised and may not perform,

Look me in the face! O hide me, Mother Night!

1841

Once more the wonted road I tread,Once more dark heavens above me spread,Upon the windy down I stand,My station whence the circling landLies mapped and pictured wide below;—Such as it was, such e’en again,Long dreary bank, and breadth of plainBy hedge or tree unbroken;—lo!A few grey woods can only showHow vain their aid, and in the senseOf one unaltering impotence,Relieving not, meseems enhanceThe sovereign dulness of the expanse.Yet marks where human hand hath been,Bare house, unsheltered village, spaceOf ploughed and fenceless tilth between(Such aspect as methinks may beIn some half-settled colony),From Nature vindicate the scene;A wide, and yet disheartening view,A melancholy world.’Tis true,Most true; and yet, like those strange smilesBy fervent hope or tender thoughtFrom distant happy regions brought,Which upon some sick bed are seenTo glorify a pale worn faceWith sudden beauty,—so at whilesLights have descended, hues have been,To clothe with half-celestial graceThe bareness of the desert place.Since so it is, so be it still!Could only thou, my heart, be taughtTo treasure, and in act fulfilThe lesson which the sight has brought:In thine own dull and dreary stateTo work and patiently to wait:Little thou think’st in thy despairHow soon the o’ershaded sun may shine,And e’en the dulling clouds combineTo bless with lights and hues divineThat region desolate and bare,Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine!Still doth the coward heart complain;The hour may come, and come in vain;The branch that withered lies and deadNo suns can force to lift its head.True!—yet how little thou canst tellHow much in thee is ill or well;Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee,Be sure, was life designed to beA draught of dull complacency.One Power too is it, who doth giveThe food without us, and withinThe strength that makes it nutritive;He bids the dry bones rise and live,And e’en in hearts depraved to sinSome sudden, gracious influence,May give the long-lost good again,And wake within the dormant senseAnd love of good;—for mortal men,So but thou strive, thou soon shalt seeDefeat itself is victory.So be it: yet, O Good and Great,In whom in this bedarkened stateI fain am struggling to believe,Let me not ever cease to grieve,Nor lose the consciousness of illWithin me;—and refusing stillTo recognise in things aroundWhat cannot truly there be found,Let me not feel, nor be it true,That, while each daily task I do,I still am giving day by dayMy precious things within away(Those thou didst give to keep as thine)And casting, do whate’er I may,My heavenly pearls to earthly swine.1841

Once more the wonted road I tread,

Once more dark heavens above me spread,

Upon the windy down I stand,

My station whence the circling land

Lies mapped and pictured wide below;—

Such as it was, such e’en again,

Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain

By hedge or tree unbroken;—lo!

A few grey woods can only show

How vain their aid, and in the sense

Of one unaltering impotence,

Relieving not, meseems enhance

The sovereign dulness of the expanse.

Yet marks where human hand hath been,

Bare house, unsheltered village, space

Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between

(Such aspect as methinks may be

In some half-settled colony),

From Nature vindicate the scene;

A wide, and yet disheartening view,

A melancholy world.

’Tis true,Most true; and yet, like those strange smilesBy fervent hope or tender thoughtFrom distant happy regions brought,Which upon some sick bed are seenTo glorify a pale worn faceWith sudden beauty,—so at whilesLights have descended, hues have been,To clothe with half-celestial graceThe bareness of the desert place.

’Tis true,

Most true; and yet, like those strange smiles

By fervent hope or tender thought

From distant happy regions brought,

Which upon some sick bed are seen

To glorify a pale worn face

With sudden beauty,—so at whiles

Lights have descended, hues have been,

To clothe with half-celestial grace

The bareness of the desert place.

Since so it is, so be it still!Could only thou, my heart, be taughtTo treasure, and in act fulfilThe lesson which the sight has brought:In thine own dull and dreary stateTo work and patiently to wait:Little thou think’st in thy despairHow soon the o’ershaded sun may shine,And e’en the dulling clouds combineTo bless with lights and hues divineThat region desolate and bare,Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine!

Since so it is, so be it still!

Could only thou, my heart, be taught

To treasure, and in act fulfil

The lesson which the sight has brought:

In thine own dull and dreary state

To work and patiently to wait:

Little thou think’st in thy despair

How soon the o’ershaded sun may shine,

And e’en the dulling clouds combine

To bless with lights and hues divine

That region desolate and bare,

Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine!

Still doth the coward heart complain;The hour may come, and come in vain;The branch that withered lies and deadNo suns can force to lift its head.True!—yet how little thou canst tellHow much in thee is ill or well;Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee,Be sure, was life designed to beA draught of dull complacency.One Power too is it, who doth giveThe food without us, and withinThe strength that makes it nutritive;He bids the dry bones rise and live,And e’en in hearts depraved to sinSome sudden, gracious influence,May give the long-lost good again,And wake within the dormant senseAnd love of good;—for mortal men,So but thou strive, thou soon shalt seeDefeat itself is victory.

Still doth the coward heart complain;

The hour may come, and come in vain;

The branch that withered lies and dead

No suns can force to lift its head.

True!—yet how little thou canst tell

How much in thee is ill or well;

Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee,

Be sure, was life designed to be

A draught of dull complacency.

One Power too is it, who doth give

The food without us, and within

The strength that makes it nutritive;

He bids the dry bones rise and live,

And e’en in hearts depraved to sin

Some sudden, gracious influence,

May give the long-lost good again,

And wake within the dormant sense

And love of good;—for mortal men,

So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see

Defeat itself is victory.

So be it: yet, O Good and Great,In whom in this bedarkened stateI fain am struggling to believe,Let me not ever cease to grieve,Nor lose the consciousness of illWithin me;—and refusing stillTo recognise in things aroundWhat cannot truly there be found,Let me not feel, nor be it true,That, while each daily task I do,I still am giving day by dayMy precious things within away(Those thou didst give to keep as thine)And casting, do whate’er I may,My heavenly pearls to earthly swine.

So be it: yet, O Good and Great,

In whom in this bedarkened state

I fain am struggling to believe,

Let me not ever cease to grieve,

Nor lose the consciousness of ill

Within me;—and refusing still

To recognise in things around

What cannot truly there be found,

Let me not feel, nor be it true,

That, while each daily task I do,

I still am giving day by day

My precious things within away

(Those thou didst give to keep as thine)

And casting, do whate’er I may,

My heavenly pearls to earthly swine.

1841

My wind is turned to bitter north,That was so soft a south before;My sky, that shone so sunny bright,With foggy gloom is clouded o’er:My gay green leaves are yellow-black,Upon the dank autumnal floor;For love, departed once, comes backNo more again, no more.A roofless ruin lies my home,For winds to blow and rains to pour;One frosty night befell, and lo!I find my summer days are o’er:The heart bereaved, of why and howUnknowing, knows that yet beforeIt had what e’en to Memory nowReturns no more, no more.

My wind is turned to bitter north,

That was so soft a south before;

My sky, that shone so sunny bright,

With foggy gloom is clouded o’er:

My gay green leaves are yellow-black,

Upon the dank autumnal floor;

For love, departed once, comes back

No more again, no more.

A roofless ruin lies my home,For winds to blow and rains to pour;One frosty night befell, and lo!I find my summer days are o’er:The heart bereaved, of why and howUnknowing, knows that yet beforeIt had what e’en to Memory nowReturns no more, no more.

A roofless ruin lies my home,

For winds to blow and rains to pour;

One frosty night befell, and lo!

I find my summer days are o’er:

The heart bereaved, of why and how

Unknowing, knows that yet before

It had what e’en to Memory now

Returns no more, no more.

I have seen higher, holier things than these,And therefore must to these refuse my heart,Yet am I panting for a little ease;I’ll take, and so depart.Ah, hold! the heart is prone to fall away,Her high and cherished visions to forget,And if thou takest, how wilt thou repaySo vast, so dread a debt?How will the heart, which now thou trustest, thenCorrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet,Turn with sharp stings upon itself! Again,Bethink thee of the debt!—Hast thou seen higher, holier things than these,And therefore must to these thy heart refuse?With the true best, alack, how ill agreesThat best that thou would’st choose!The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;Do thou, as best thou may’st, thy duty do:Amid the things allowed thee live and love;Some day thou shalt it view.1841

I have seen higher, holier things than these,And therefore must to these refuse my heart,Yet am I panting for a little ease;I’ll take, and so depart.

I have seen higher, holier things than these,

And therefore must to these refuse my heart,

Yet am I panting for a little ease;

I’ll take, and so depart.

Ah, hold! the heart is prone to fall away,Her high and cherished visions to forget,And if thou takest, how wilt thou repaySo vast, so dread a debt?

Ah, hold! the heart is prone to fall away,

Her high and cherished visions to forget,

And if thou takest, how wilt thou repay

So vast, so dread a debt?

How will the heart, which now thou trustest, thenCorrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet,Turn with sharp stings upon itself! Again,Bethink thee of the debt!

How will the heart, which now thou trustest, then

Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet,

Turn with sharp stings upon itself! Again,

Bethink thee of the debt!

—Hast thou seen higher, holier things than these,And therefore must to these thy heart refuse?With the true best, alack, how ill agreesThat best that thou would’st choose!

—Hast thou seen higher, holier things than these,

And therefore must to these thy heart refuse?

With the true best, alack, how ill agrees

That best that thou would’st choose!

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;Do thou, as best thou may’st, thy duty do:Amid the things allowed thee live and love;Some day thou shalt it view.

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;

Do thou, as best thou may’st, thy duty do:

Amid the things allowed thee live and love;

Some day thou shalt it view.

1841

If, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold,A sense of human kindliness hath found us,We seem to have around usAn atmosphere all gold,’Midst darkest shades a halo rich of shine,An element, that while the bleak wind bloweth,On the rich heart bestowethImbreathèd draughts of wine;Heaven guide, the cup be not, as chance may be,To some vain mate given up as soon as tasted!No, nor on thee be wasted,Thou trifler, Poesy!Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ereYouth fly, with life’s real tempest would be coping;The fruit of dreamy hopingIs, waking, blank despair.1841

If, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold,

A sense of human kindliness hath found us,

We seem to have around us

An atmosphere all gold,

’Midst darkest shades a halo rich of shine,

An element, that while the bleak wind bloweth,

On the rich heart bestoweth

Imbreathèd draughts of wine;

Heaven guide, the cup be not, as chance may be,

To some vain mate given up as soon as tasted!

No, nor on thee be wasted,

Thou trifler, Poesy!

Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ere

Youth fly, with life’s real tempest would be coping;

The fruit of dreamy hoping

Is, waking, blank despair.

1841

The Silver Wedding! on some pensive earFrom towers remote as sound the silvery bells,To-day from one far unforgotten yearA silvery faint memorial music swells.And silver-pale the dim memorial lightOf musing age on youthful joys is shed,The golden joys of fancy’s dawning bright,The golden bliss of, Woo’d, and won, and wed.Ah, golden then, but silver now! In sooth,The years that pale the cheek, that dim the eyes,And silver o’er the golden hairs of youth,Less prized can make its only priceless prize.Not so; the voice this silver name that gaveTo this, the ripe and unenfeebled date,For steps together tottering to the grave,Hath bid the perfect golden title wait.Rather, if silver this, if that be gold,From good to better changed on age’s track,Must it as baser metal be enrolled,That day of days, a quarter-century back.Yet ah, its hopes, its joys were golden too,But golden of the fairy gold of dreams:To feel is but to dream; until we do,There’s nought that is, and all we see but seems.What was or seemed it needed cares and tears,And deeds together done, and trials past,And all the subtlest alchemy of years,To change to genuine substance here at last.Your fairy gold is silver sure to-day;Your ore by crosses many, many a loss,As in refiners’ fires, hath purged awayWhat erst it had of earthy human dross.Come years as many yet, and as they go,In human life’s great crucible shall theyTransmute, so potent are the spells they know,Into pure gold the silver of to-day.Strange metallurge is human life! ’Tis true;And Use and Wont in many a gorgeous caseFull specious fair for casual outward viewElectrotype the sordid and the base.Nor lack who praise, avowed, the spurious ware,Who bid young hearts the one true love forego,Conceit to feed, or fancy light as air,Or greed of pelf and precedence and show.True, false, as one to casual eyes appear,To read men truly men may hardly learn;Yet doubt it not that wariest glance would hereFaith, Hope and Love, the true Tower-stamp discern.Come years again! as many yet! and purgeLess precious earthier elements away,And gently changed at life’s extremest verge,Bring bright in gold your perfect fiftieth day!That sight may children see and parents show!If not—yet earthly chains of metal true,By love and duty wrought and fixed below,Elsewhere will shine, transformed, celestial-new;Will shine of gold, whose essence, heavenly bright,No doubt-damps tarnish, worldly passions fray;Gold into gold there mirrored, light in light,Shall gleam in glories of a deathless day.1845

The Silver Wedding! on some pensive earFrom towers remote as sound the silvery bells,To-day from one far unforgotten yearA silvery faint memorial music swells.

The Silver Wedding! on some pensive ear

From towers remote as sound the silvery bells,

To-day from one far unforgotten year

A silvery faint memorial music swells.

And silver-pale the dim memorial lightOf musing age on youthful joys is shed,The golden joys of fancy’s dawning bright,The golden bliss of, Woo’d, and won, and wed.

And silver-pale the dim memorial light

Of musing age on youthful joys is shed,

The golden joys of fancy’s dawning bright,

The golden bliss of, Woo’d, and won, and wed.

Ah, golden then, but silver now! In sooth,The years that pale the cheek, that dim the eyes,And silver o’er the golden hairs of youth,Less prized can make its only priceless prize.

Ah, golden then, but silver now! In sooth,

The years that pale the cheek, that dim the eyes,

And silver o’er the golden hairs of youth,

Less prized can make its only priceless prize.

Not so; the voice this silver name that gaveTo this, the ripe and unenfeebled date,For steps together tottering to the grave,Hath bid the perfect golden title wait.

Not so; the voice this silver name that gave

To this, the ripe and unenfeebled date,

For steps together tottering to the grave,

Hath bid the perfect golden title wait.

Rather, if silver this, if that be gold,From good to better changed on age’s track,Must it as baser metal be enrolled,That day of days, a quarter-century back.

Rather, if silver this, if that be gold,

From good to better changed on age’s track,

Must it as baser metal be enrolled,

That day of days, a quarter-century back.

Yet ah, its hopes, its joys were golden too,But golden of the fairy gold of dreams:To feel is but to dream; until we do,There’s nought that is, and all we see but seems.

Yet ah, its hopes, its joys were golden too,

But golden of the fairy gold of dreams:

To feel is but to dream; until we do,

There’s nought that is, and all we see but seems.

What was or seemed it needed cares and tears,And deeds together done, and trials past,And all the subtlest alchemy of years,To change to genuine substance here at last.

What was or seemed it needed cares and tears,

And deeds together done, and trials past,

And all the subtlest alchemy of years,

To change to genuine substance here at last.

Your fairy gold is silver sure to-day;Your ore by crosses many, many a loss,As in refiners’ fires, hath purged awayWhat erst it had of earthy human dross.

Your fairy gold is silver sure to-day;

Your ore by crosses many, many a loss,

As in refiners’ fires, hath purged away

What erst it had of earthy human dross.

Come years as many yet, and as they go,In human life’s great crucible shall theyTransmute, so potent are the spells they know,Into pure gold the silver of to-day.

Come years as many yet, and as they go,

In human life’s great crucible shall they

Transmute, so potent are the spells they know,

Into pure gold the silver of to-day.

Strange metallurge is human life! ’Tis true;And Use and Wont in many a gorgeous caseFull specious fair for casual outward viewElectrotype the sordid and the base.

Strange metallurge is human life! ’Tis true;

And Use and Wont in many a gorgeous case

Full specious fair for casual outward view

Electrotype the sordid and the base.

Nor lack who praise, avowed, the spurious ware,Who bid young hearts the one true love forego,Conceit to feed, or fancy light as air,Or greed of pelf and precedence and show.

Nor lack who praise, avowed, the spurious ware,

Who bid young hearts the one true love forego,

Conceit to feed, or fancy light as air,

Or greed of pelf and precedence and show.

True, false, as one to casual eyes appear,To read men truly men may hardly learn;Yet doubt it not that wariest glance would hereFaith, Hope and Love, the true Tower-stamp discern.

True, false, as one to casual eyes appear,

To read men truly men may hardly learn;

Yet doubt it not that wariest glance would here

Faith, Hope and Love, the true Tower-stamp discern.

Come years again! as many yet! and purgeLess precious earthier elements away,And gently changed at life’s extremest verge,Bring bright in gold your perfect fiftieth day!

Come years again! as many yet! and purge

Less precious earthier elements away,

And gently changed at life’s extremest verge,

Bring bright in gold your perfect fiftieth day!

That sight may children see and parents show!If not—yet earthly chains of metal true,By love and duty wrought and fixed below,Elsewhere will shine, transformed, celestial-new;

That sight may children see and parents show!

If not—yet earthly chains of metal true,

By love and duty wrought and fixed below,

Elsewhere will shine, transformed, celestial-new;

Will shine of gold, whose essence, heavenly bright,No doubt-damps tarnish, worldly passions fray;Gold into gold there mirrored, light in light,Shall gleam in glories of a deathless day.

Will shine of gold, whose essence, heavenly bright,

No doubt-damps tarnish, worldly passions fray;

Gold into gold there mirrored, light in light,

Shall gleam in glories of a deathless day.

1845

Why should I say I see the things I see not?Why be and be not?Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I fear not?And dance about to music that I hear not?Who standeth still i’ the streetShall be hustled and justled about;And he that stops i’ the dance shall be spurned by the dancers’ feet,—Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall meet,And shall raise up an outcry and rout;And the partner, too,—What’s the partner to do?While all the while ’tis but, perchance, an humming in mine ear,That yet anon shall hear,And I anon, the music in my soul,In a moment read the whole;The music in my heart,Joyously take my part,And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these retreat, advance;And borne on wings of wavy sound,Whirl with these around, around,Who here are living in the living dance!Why forfeit that fair chance?Till that arrive, till thou awake,Of these, my soul, thy music make,And keep amid the throng,And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they are bounding,—Alas! alas! alas! and what if all alongThe music is not sounding?

Why should I say I see the things I see not?

Why be and be not?

Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I fear not?

And dance about to music that I hear not?

Who standeth still i’ the street

Shall be hustled and justled about;

And he that stops i’ the dance shall be spurned by the dancers’ feet,—

Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall meet,

And shall raise up an outcry and rout;

And the partner, too,—

What’s the partner to do?

While all the while ’tis but, perchance, an humming in mine ear,

That yet anon shall hear,

And I anon, the music in my soul,

In a moment read the whole;

The music in my heart,

Joyously take my part,

And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these retreat, advance;

And borne on wings of wavy sound,

Whirl with these around, around,

Who here are living in the living dance!

Why forfeit that fair chance?

Till that arrive, till thou awake,

Of these, my soul, thy music make,

And keep amid the throng,

And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they are bounding,—

Alas! alas! alas! and what if all along

The music is not sounding?

Are there not, then, two musics unto men?—One loud and bold and coarse,And overpowering still perforceAll tone and tune beside;Yet in despite its prideOnly of fumes of foolish fancy bred,And sounding solely in the sounding head:The other, soft and low,Stealing whence we not know,Painfully heard, and easily forgot,With pauses oft and many a silence strange(And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not),Revivals too of unexpected change:Haply thou think’st ’twill never be begun,Or that ’t has come, and been, and passed away:Yet turn to other none,—Turn not, oh, turn not thou!But listen, listen, listen,—if haply be heard it may;Listen, listen, listen,—is it not sounding now?

Are there not, then, two musics unto men?—

One loud and bold and coarse,

And overpowering still perforce

All tone and tune beside;

Yet in despite its pride

Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred,

And sounding solely in the sounding head:

The other, soft and low,

Stealing whence we not know,

Painfully heard, and easily forgot,

With pauses oft and many a silence strange

(And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not),

Revivals too of unexpected change:

Haply thou think’st ’twill never be begun,

Or that ’t has come, and been, and passed away:

Yet turn to other none,—

Turn not, oh, turn not thou!

But listen, listen, listen,—if haply be heard it may;

Listen, listen, listen,—is it not sounding now?

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