MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Come, Poet, come!A thousand labourers ply their task,And what it tends to scarcely ask,And trembling thinkers on the brinkShiver, and know not how to think.To tell the purport of their pain,And what our silly joys contain;In lasting lineaments pourtrayThe substance of the shadowy day;Our real and inner deeds rehearse,And make our meaning clear in verse:Come, Poet, come! for but in vainWe do the work or feel the pain,And gather up the seeming gain,Unless before the end thou comeTo take, ere they are lost, their sum.Come, Poet, come!To give an utterance to the dumb,And make vain babblers silent, come;A thousand dupes point here and there,Bewildered by the show and glare;And wise men half have learned to doubtWhether we are not best without.Come, Poet; both but wait to seeTheir error proved to them in thee.Come, Poet, come!In vain I seem to call. And yetThink not the living times forget.Ages of heroes fought and fellThat Homer in the end might tell;O’er grovelling generations pastUpstood the Doric fane at last;And countless hearts on countless yearsHad wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,Rude laughter and unmeaning tears;Ere England Shakespeare saw, or RomeThe pure perfection of her dome.Others, I doubt not, if not we,The issue of our toils shall see;Young children gather as their ownThe harvest that the dead had sown,The dead forgotten and unknown.

Come, Poet, come!

A thousand labourers ply their task,

And what it tends to scarcely ask,

And trembling thinkers on the brink

Shiver, and know not how to think.

To tell the purport of their pain,

And what our silly joys contain;

In lasting lineaments pourtray

The substance of the shadowy day;

Our real and inner deeds rehearse,

And make our meaning clear in verse:

Come, Poet, come! for but in vain

We do the work or feel the pain,

And gather up the seeming gain,

Unless before the end thou come

To take, ere they are lost, their sum.

Come, Poet, come!To give an utterance to the dumb,And make vain babblers silent, come;A thousand dupes point here and there,Bewildered by the show and glare;And wise men half have learned to doubtWhether we are not best without.Come, Poet; both but wait to seeTheir error proved to them in thee.

Come, Poet, come!

To give an utterance to the dumb,

And make vain babblers silent, come;

A thousand dupes point here and there,

Bewildered by the show and glare;

And wise men half have learned to doubt

Whether we are not best without.

Come, Poet; both but wait to see

Their error proved to them in thee.

Come, Poet, come!In vain I seem to call. And yetThink not the living times forget.Ages of heroes fought and fellThat Homer in the end might tell;O’er grovelling generations pastUpstood the Doric fane at last;And countless hearts on countless yearsHad wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,Rude laughter and unmeaning tears;Ere England Shakespeare saw, or RomeThe pure perfection of her dome.Others, I doubt not, if not we,The issue of our toils shall see;Young children gather as their ownThe harvest that the dead had sown,The dead forgotten and unknown.

Come, Poet, come!

In vain I seem to call. And yet

Think not the living times forget.

Ages of heroes fought and fell

That Homer in the end might tell;

O’er grovelling generations past

Upstood the Doric fane at last;

And countless hearts on countless years

Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,

Rude laughter and unmeaning tears;

Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome

The pure perfection of her dome.

Others, I doubt not, if not we,

The issue of our toils shall see;

Young children gather as their own

The harvest that the dead had sown,

The dead forgotten and unknown.

To think that men of former daysIn naked truth deserved the praiseWhich, fain to have in flesh and bloodAn image of imagined good,Poets have sung and men received,And all too glad to be deceived,Most plastic and most inexact,Posterity has told for fact;—To say what was, was not as we,This also is a vanity.

To think that men of former days

In naked truth deserved the praise

Which, fain to have in flesh and blood

An image of imagined good,

Poets have sung and men received,

And all too glad to be deceived,

Most plastic and most inexact,

Posterity has told for fact;—

To say what was, was not as we,

This also is a vanity.

Ere Agamemnon, warriors were,Ere Helen, beauties equalling her,Brave ones and fair, whom no one knows,And brave or fair as these or those.The commonplace whom daily weIn our dull streets and houses see,To think of other mould than theseWere Cato, Solon, Socrates,Or Mahomet or Confutze,This also is a vanity.

Ere Agamemnon, warriors were,

Ere Helen, beauties equalling her,

Brave ones and fair, whom no one knows,

And brave or fair as these or those.

The commonplace whom daily we

In our dull streets and houses see,

To think of other mould than these

Were Cato, Solon, Socrates,

Or Mahomet or Confutze,

This also is a vanity.

Hannibal, Cæsar, Charlemain,And he before, who back on SpainRepelled the fierce inundant Moor;Godfrey, St. Louis, wise and pure,Washington, Cromwell, John, and Paul,Columbus, Luther, one and all,Go mix them up, the false and true,With Sindbad, Crusoe, or St. Preux,And say as he was, so was he,This also is a vanity.

Hannibal, Cæsar, Charlemain,

And he before, who back on Spain

Repelled the fierce inundant Moor;

Godfrey, St. Louis, wise and pure,

Washington, Cromwell, John, and Paul,

Columbus, Luther, one and all,

Go mix them up, the false and true,

With Sindbad, Crusoe, or St. Preux,

And say as he was, so was he,

This also is a vanity.

Say not: Behold it here or there,Or on the earth, or in the air.That better thing than can be seenIs neither now nor e’er has been;It is not in this land or that,But in a place we soon are at,Where all can seek and some can find,Where hope is liberal, fancy kind,And what we wish for we can see,Which also is a vanity.

Say not: Behold it here or there,

Or on the earth, or in the air.

That better thing than can be seen

Is neither now nor e’er has been;

It is not in this land or that,

But in a place we soon are at,

Where all can seek and some can find,

Where hope is liberal, fancy kind,

And what we wish for we can see,

Which also is a vanity.

It is not sweet content, be sure,That moves the nobler Muse to song,Yet when could truth come whole and pureFrom hearts that inly writhe with wrong?’Tis not the calm and peaceful breastThat sees or reads the problem true;They only know on whom ’t has prestToo hard to hope to solve it too.Our ills are worse than at their easeThese blameless happy souls suspect,They only study the disease,Alas, who live not to detect.

It is not sweet content, be sure,That moves the nobler Muse to song,Yet when could truth come whole and pureFrom hearts that inly writhe with wrong?

It is not sweet content, be sure,

That moves the nobler Muse to song,

Yet when could truth come whole and pure

From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?

’Tis not the calm and peaceful breastThat sees or reads the problem true;They only know on whom ’t has prestToo hard to hope to solve it too.

’Tis not the calm and peaceful breast

That sees or reads the problem true;

They only know on whom ’t has prest

Too hard to hope to solve it too.

Our ills are worse than at their easeThese blameless happy souls suspect,They only study the disease,Alas, who live not to detect.

Our ills are worse than at their ease

These blameless happy souls suspect,

They only study the disease,

Alas, who live not to detect.

But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawnNo verity of slowly strengthening lightEarly or late hath issued; that the dayScarce-shown, relapses rather, self-withdrawn,Back to the glooms of ante-natal night,For this, O human beings, mourn we may.

But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn

No verity of slowly strengthening light

Early or late hath issued; that the day

Scarce-shown, relapses rather, self-withdrawn,

Back to the glooms of ante-natal night,

For this, O human beings, mourn we may.

Ah, blame him not because he’s gay!That he should smile, and jest, and playBut shows how lightly he can bear,How well forget that load which, whereThought is, is with it, and howe’erDissembled, or indeed forgot,Still is a load, and ceases not.This aged earth that each new springComes forth so young, so ravishingIn summer robes for all to see,Of flower, and leaf, and bloomy tree,For all her scarlet, gold, and green,Fails not to keep within unseenThat inner purpose and that forceWhich on the untiring orbit’s courseAround the sun, amidst the spheresStill bears her thro’ the eternal years.Ah, blame the flowers and fruits of May,And then blame him because he’s gay.Ah, blame him not, fornotbeing gay,Because an hundred times a dayHe doth not currently repaySweet words with ready words as sweet,And for each smile a smile repeat.To mute submissiveness confined,Blame not, if once or twice the mindIts pent-up indignation wreakIn scowling brow and flushing cheek,And smiles curled back as soon as born,To dire significance of scorn.Nor blame if once, and once againHe wring the hearts of milder men,If slights, the worse if undesigned,Should seem unbrotherly, unkind;For though tree wave, and blossom blowAbove, earth hides a fire below;Her seas the starry laws obey,And she from her own ordered waySwerves not, because it dims the dayOr changes verdure to decay.Ah, blame the great world on its way,And then blame him for not being gay.

Ah, blame him not because he’s gay!

That he should smile, and jest, and play

But shows how lightly he can bear,

How well forget that load which, where

Thought is, is with it, and howe’er

Dissembled, or indeed forgot,

Still is a load, and ceases not.

This aged earth that each new spring

Comes forth so young, so ravishing

In summer robes for all to see,

Of flower, and leaf, and bloomy tree,

For all her scarlet, gold, and green,

Fails not to keep within unseen

That inner purpose and that force

Which on the untiring orbit’s course

Around the sun, amidst the spheres

Still bears her thro’ the eternal years.

Ah, blame the flowers and fruits of May,

And then blame him because he’s gay.

Ah, blame him not, fornotbeing gay,Because an hundred times a dayHe doth not currently repaySweet words with ready words as sweet,And for each smile a smile repeat.To mute submissiveness confined,Blame not, if once or twice the mindIts pent-up indignation wreakIn scowling brow and flushing cheek,And smiles curled back as soon as born,To dire significance of scorn.Nor blame if once, and once againHe wring the hearts of milder men,If slights, the worse if undesigned,Should seem unbrotherly, unkind;For though tree wave, and blossom blowAbove, earth hides a fire below;Her seas the starry laws obey,And she from her own ordered waySwerves not, because it dims the dayOr changes verdure to decay.Ah, blame the great world on its way,And then blame him for not being gay.

Ah, blame him not, fornotbeing gay,

Because an hundred times a day

He doth not currently repay

Sweet words with ready words as sweet,

And for each smile a smile repeat.

To mute submissiveness confined,

Blame not, if once or twice the mind

Its pent-up indignation wreak

In scowling brow and flushing cheek,

And smiles curled back as soon as born,

To dire significance of scorn.

Nor blame if once, and once again

He wring the hearts of milder men,

If slights, the worse if undesigned,

Should seem unbrotherly, unkind;

For though tree wave, and blossom blow

Above, earth hides a fire below;

Her seas the starry laws obey,

And she from her own ordered way

Swerves not, because it dims the day

Or changes verdure to decay.

Ah, blame the great world on its way,

And then blame him for not being gay.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we seeYouth goes, alack, and with it glee,A boy the old man ne’er can be;Maternal thirty scarce can findThe sweet sixteen long left behind;Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain,That boys and girls may once againBe that for them they cannot be,But which it gives them joy to see,Youth goes and glee; but not in vain,Young folks, if only you remain.Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;The dry red leaves on winter’s tree,Can feel the new sap rising free.On, on, young folks; so you survive,The dead themselves are still alive;The blood in dull parental veinsLong numbed, a tingling life regains.Deep down in earth, the tough old rootIs conscious still of flower and fruit.Spring goes and glee but were not vain:In you, young folks, they come again.Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel;Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel,Our senses too with music reel;Nor let your pairs neglect to fillThe old ancestral scorned quadrille.Let hand the hand uplifted seek,And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek;Love too; but gently, nor astray,And yet, deluder, yet in play.Dance on; youth goes: but all’s not vain,Young folks, if only you remain.Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;We once were nimble e’en as ye,And danced to give the oldest glee;O wherefore add, as we, you too,Once gone your prime cannot renew;You too, like us, at last shall standTo watch and not to join the band,Content some day (a far-off day)To your supplanters soft to say,Youth goes, but goes not all in vain,Young folks, so only you remain,Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we see

Youth goes, alack, and with it glee,

A boy the old man ne’er can be;

Maternal thirty scarce can find

The sweet sixteen long left behind;

Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain,

That boys and girls may once again

Be that for them they cannot be,

But which it gives them joy to see,

Youth goes and glee; but not in vain,

Young folks, if only you remain.

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;The dry red leaves on winter’s tree,Can feel the new sap rising free.On, on, young folks; so you survive,The dead themselves are still alive;The blood in dull parental veinsLong numbed, a tingling life regains.Deep down in earth, the tough old rootIs conscious still of flower and fruit.Spring goes and glee but were not vain:In you, young folks, they come again.

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;

The dry red leaves on winter’s tree,

Can feel the new sap rising free.

On, on, young folks; so you survive,

The dead themselves are still alive;

The blood in dull parental veins

Long numbed, a tingling life regains.

Deep down in earth, the tough old root

Is conscious still of flower and fruit.

Spring goes and glee but were not vain:

In you, young folks, they come again.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel;Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel,Our senses too with music reel;Nor let your pairs neglect to fillThe old ancestral scorned quadrille.Let hand the hand uplifted seek,And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek;Love too; but gently, nor astray,And yet, deluder, yet in play.Dance on; youth goes: but all’s not vain,Young folks, if only you remain.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel;

Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel,

Our senses too with music reel;

Nor let your pairs neglect to fill

The old ancestral scorned quadrille.

Let hand the hand uplifted seek,

And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek;

Love too; but gently, nor astray,

And yet, deluder, yet in play.

Dance on; youth goes: but all’s not vain,

Young folks, if only you remain.

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;We once were nimble e’en as ye,And danced to give the oldest glee;O wherefore add, as we, you too,Once gone your prime cannot renew;You too, like us, at last shall standTo watch and not to join the band,Content some day (a far-off day)To your supplanters soft to say,Youth goes, but goes not all in vain,Young folks, so only you remain,Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see.

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see;

We once were nimble e’en as ye,

And danced to give the oldest glee;

O wherefore add, as we, you too,

Once gone your prime cannot renew;

You too, like us, at last shall stand

To watch and not to join the band,

Content some day (a far-off day)

To your supplanters soft to say,

Youth goes, but goes not all in vain,

Young folks, so only you remain,

Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see.

Youth, that went, is come again,Youth, for which we all were fain;With soft pleasure and sweet painIn each nerve and every vein,Circling through the heart and brain,Whence and wherefore come again?Eva, tell me!Dead and buried when we thought him,Who the magic spell hath taught him?Who the strong elixir brought him?Dead and buried as we thought,Lo! unasked for and unsoughtComes he, shall it be for nought?Eva, tell me!Youth that lifeless long had lain,Youth that long we longed in vain for,Used to grumble and complain for,Thought at last to entertainA decorous cool disdain for,On a sudden see againComes, but will not long remain,Comes, with whom too in his train,Comes, and shall it be in vain?Eva, tell me!

Youth, that went, is come again,

Youth, for which we all were fain;

With soft pleasure and sweet pain

In each nerve and every vein,

Circling through the heart and brain,

Whence and wherefore come again?

Eva, tell me!

Dead and buried when we thought him,Who the magic spell hath taught him?Who the strong elixir brought him?Dead and buried as we thought,Lo! unasked for and unsoughtComes he, shall it be for nought?Eva, tell me!

Dead and buried when we thought him,

Who the magic spell hath taught him?

Who the strong elixir brought him?

Dead and buried as we thought,

Lo! unasked for and unsought

Comes he, shall it be for nought?

Eva, tell me!

Youth that lifeless long had lain,Youth that long we longed in vain for,Used to grumble and complain for,Thought at last to entertainA decorous cool disdain for,On a sudden see againComes, but will not long remain,Comes, with whom too in his train,Comes, and shall it be in vain?Eva, tell me!

Youth that lifeless long had lain,

Youth that long we longed in vain for,

Used to grumble and complain for,

Thought at last to entertain

A decorous cool disdain for,

On a sudden see again

Comes, but will not long remain,

Comes, with whom too in his train,

Comes, and shall it be in vain?

Eva, tell me!

If that we thus are guilty doth appear,Ah, guilty tho’ we are, grave judges, hear!Ah, yes; if ever you in your sweet youth’Midst pleasure’s borders missed the track of truth,Made love on benches underneath green trees,Stuffed tender rhymes with old new similes,Whispered soft anythings, and in the bloodFelt all you said not most was understood—Ah, if you have—as which of you has not?—Nor what you were have utterly forgot,Then be not stern to faults yourselves have known,To others harsh, kind to yourselves alone.That we, young sir, beneath our youth’s green treesOnce did, not what should profit, but should please,In foolish longing and in love-sick playForgot the truth and lost the flying day—That we went wrong we say not is not true,But, if we erred, were we not punished too?If not—if no one checked our wandering feet,—Shall we our parents’ negligence repeat?—In future times that ancient loss renew,If none savedus, forbear from saving you?Nor let that justice in your faults be seenWhich in our own or was or should have been?Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then,And, so recalling, listen yet again;If you escaped, ’tis plainly understoodImpunity may leave a culprit good;If you were punished, did you then, as now,The justice of that punishment allow?Did what your age consents to now, appearExpedient then and needfully severe?In youth’s indulgence think there yet might beA truth forgot by grey severity.That strictness and that laxity between,Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean.’Tis possible, young sir, that some excessMars youthful judgment and old men’s no less;Yet we must take our counsel as we mayFor (flying years this lesson still convey),’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise,And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes.

If that we thus are guilty doth appear,

Ah, guilty tho’ we are, grave judges, hear!

Ah, yes; if ever you in your sweet youth

’Midst pleasure’s borders missed the track of truth,

Made love on benches underneath green trees,

Stuffed tender rhymes with old new similes,

Whispered soft anythings, and in the blood

Felt all you said not most was understood—

Ah, if you have—as which of you has not?—

Nor what you were have utterly forgot,

Then be not stern to faults yourselves have known,

To others harsh, kind to yourselves alone.

That we, young sir, beneath our youth’s green treesOnce did, not what should profit, but should please,In foolish longing and in love-sick playForgot the truth and lost the flying day—That we went wrong we say not is not true,But, if we erred, were we not punished too?If not—if no one checked our wandering feet,—Shall we our parents’ negligence repeat?—In future times that ancient loss renew,If none savedus, forbear from saving you?Nor let that justice in your faults be seenWhich in our own or was or should have been?

That we, young sir, beneath our youth’s green trees

Once did, not what should profit, but should please,

In foolish longing and in love-sick play

Forgot the truth and lost the flying day—

That we went wrong we say not is not true,

But, if we erred, were we not punished too?

If not—if no one checked our wandering feet,—

Shall we our parents’ negligence repeat?—

In future times that ancient loss renew,

If none savedus, forbear from saving you?

Nor let that justice in your faults be seen

Which in our own or was or should have been?

Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then,And, so recalling, listen yet again;If you escaped, ’tis plainly understoodImpunity may leave a culprit good;If you were punished, did you then, as now,The justice of that punishment allow?Did what your age consents to now, appearExpedient then and needfully severe?In youth’s indulgence think there yet might beA truth forgot by grey severity.That strictness and that laxity between,Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean.’Tis possible, young sir, that some excessMars youthful judgment and old men’s no less;Yet we must take our counsel as we mayFor (flying years this lesson still convey),’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise,And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes.

Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then,

And, so recalling, listen yet again;

If you escaped, ’tis plainly understood

Impunity may leave a culprit good;

If you were punished, did you then, as now,

The justice of that punishment allow?

Did what your age consents to now, appear

Expedient then and needfully severe?

In youth’s indulgence think there yet might be

A truth forgot by grey severity.

That strictness and that laxity between,

Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean.

’Tis possible, young sir, that some excess

Mars youthful judgment and old men’s no less;

Yet we must take our counsel as we may

For (flying years this lesson still convey),

’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise,

And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes.

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throngOf myriads gone before;To flutter and flap and flit alongThe airy limbo shore.Go, words of sport and words of wit,Sarcastic point and fine,And words of wisdom wholly fit,With folly’s to combine.Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,Which, while the heart belied,The tongue still uttered for pretence,The inner blank to hide.Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,That still were meant expressTo soothe the smart of fancied slightBy fancies of success.Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong;Go, love-dreams vainer still;And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong;And Pride without a Will.Go, foolish thoughts, and find your wayWhere myriads went before,To languish out your lingering dayUpon the limbo shore.November, 1850

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throngOf myriads gone before;To flutter and flap and flit alongThe airy limbo shore.

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng

Of myriads gone before;

To flutter and flap and flit along

The airy limbo shore.

Go, words of sport and words of wit,Sarcastic point and fine,And words of wisdom wholly fit,With folly’s to combine.

Go, words of sport and words of wit,

Sarcastic point and fine,

And words of wisdom wholly fit,

With folly’s to combine.

Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,Which, while the heart belied,The tongue still uttered for pretence,The inner blank to hide.

Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,

Which, while the heart belied,

The tongue still uttered for pretence,

The inner blank to hide.

Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,That still were meant expressTo soothe the smart of fancied slightBy fancies of success.

Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,

That still were meant express

To soothe the smart of fancied slight

By fancies of success.

Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong;Go, love-dreams vainer still;And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong;And Pride without a Will.

Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong;

Go, love-dreams vainer still;

And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong;

And Pride without a Will.

Go, foolish thoughts, and find your wayWhere myriads went before,To languish out your lingering dayUpon the limbo shore.

Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way

Where myriads went before,

To languish out your lingering day

Upon the limbo shore.

November, 1850

How in God’s name did Columbus get overIs a pure wonder to me, I protest,Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover,Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest.Bad enough all the same,For them that after came,But, in great Heaven’s name,Howheshould ever thinkThat on the other brinkOf this wild waste terra firma should be,Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.How a man ever should hope to get thither,E’en if he knew that there was another side;But to suppose he should come any whither,Sailing straight on into chaos untried,In spite of the motionAcross the whole ocean,To stick to the notionThat in some nook or bendOf a sea without endHe should find North and South America,Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me.What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,Judged that the earth like an orange was round,None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,Sail to the West, and the East will be found.Many a day beforeEver they’d come ashore,From the ‘San Salvador,’Sadder and wiser menThey’d have turned back again;And thathedid not, but did cross the sea,Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

How in God’s name did Columbus get over

Is a pure wonder to me, I protest,

Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover,

Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest.

Bad enough all the same,

For them that after came,

But, in great Heaven’s name,

Howheshould ever think

That on the other brink

Of this wild waste terra firma should be,

Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

How a man ever should hope to get thither,E’en if he knew that there was another side;But to suppose he should come any whither,Sailing straight on into chaos untried,In spite of the motionAcross the whole ocean,To stick to the notionThat in some nook or bendOf a sea without endHe should find North and South America,Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me.

How a man ever should hope to get thither,

E’en if he knew that there was another side;

But to suppose he should come any whither,

Sailing straight on into chaos untried,

In spite of the motion

Across the whole ocean,

To stick to the notion

That in some nook or bend

Of a sea without end

He should find North and South America,

Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me.

What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,Judged that the earth like an orange was round,None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,Sail to the West, and the East will be found.Many a day beforeEver they’d come ashore,From the ‘San Salvador,’Sadder and wiser menThey’d have turned back again;And thathedid not, but did cross the sea,Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,

Judged that the earth like an orange was round,

None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,

Sail to the West, and the East will be found.

Many a day before

Ever they’d come ashore,

From the ‘San Salvador,’

Sadder and wiser men

They’d have turned back again;

And thathedid not, but did cross the sea,

Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

Said the Poet, I wouldn’t maintain,As the mystical German has done,That the land, inexistent till then,To reward him then first saw the sun;And yet I could deem it was so,As o’er the new waters he sailed,That his soul made the breezes to blow,With his courage the breezes had failed;His strong quiet purpose had stillThe hurricane’s fury withheld;The resolve of his conquering willThe lingering vessel impelled:For the beings, the powers that rangeIn the air, on the earth, at our sides,Can modify, temper and changeStronger things than the winds and the tides,By forces occult can the laws—As we style them—of nature o’errule;Can cause, so to say, every cause,And our best mathematics befool;Can defeat calculation and plan,Baffle schemes ne’er so wisely designed,But will bow to the genius of man,And acknowledge a sovereign mind.

Said the Poet, I wouldn’t maintain,

As the mystical German has done,

That the land, inexistent till then,

To reward him then first saw the sun;

And yet I could deem it was so,

As o’er the new waters he sailed,

That his soul made the breezes to blow,

With his courage the breezes had failed;

His strong quiet purpose had still

The hurricane’s fury withheld;

The resolve of his conquering will

The lingering vessel impelled:

For the beings, the powers that range

In the air, on the earth, at our sides,

Can modify, temper and change

Stronger things than the winds and the tides,

By forces occult can the laws—

As we style them—of nature o’errule;

Can cause, so to say, every cause,

And our best mathematics befool;

Can defeat calculation and plan,

Baffle schemes ne’er so wisely designed,

But will bow to the genius of man,

And acknowledge a sovereign mind.

O happy mother!—while the man waywornSleeps by his ass and dreams of daily bread,Wakeful and heedful for thy infant care—O happy mother!—while thy husband sleeps,Art privileged, O blessed one, to seeCelestial strangers sharing in thy task,And visible angels waiting on thy child.Take, O young soul, O infant heaven-desired,Take and fear not the cates, although of earth,Which to thy hands celestial hands extend,Take and fear not: such vulgar meats of lifeThy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass;The seeming ill, contaminating joys,Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow;The pleasures as the pains of our strange lifeThou art engaged, self-compromised, to share.Look up, upon thy mother’s face there sitsNo sad suspicion of a lurking ill,No shamed confession of a needful sin;Mistrust her not, although of earth she too:Look up! the bright-eyed cherubs overheadStrew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the justLook! thy own father’s servants these, and thine,Who at his bidding and at thine are here.In thine own word was it not said long sinceButter and honey shall he eat, and learnThe evil to refuse and choose the good?Fear not, O babe divine, fear not, accept;O happy mother, privileged to see,While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery.

O happy mother!—while the man wayworn

Sleeps by his ass and dreams of daily bread,

Wakeful and heedful for thy infant care—

O happy mother!—while thy husband sleeps,

Art privileged, O blessed one, to see

Celestial strangers sharing in thy task,

And visible angels waiting on thy child.

Take, O young soul, O infant heaven-desired,Take and fear not the cates, although of earth,Which to thy hands celestial hands extend,Take and fear not: such vulgar meats of lifeThy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass;The seeming ill, contaminating joys,Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow;The pleasures as the pains of our strange lifeThou art engaged, self-compromised, to share.Look up, upon thy mother’s face there sitsNo sad suspicion of a lurking ill,No shamed confession of a needful sin;Mistrust her not, although of earth she too:Look up! the bright-eyed cherubs overheadStrew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the justLook! thy own father’s servants these, and thine,Who at his bidding and at thine are here.In thine own word was it not said long sinceButter and honey shall he eat, and learnThe evil to refuse and choose the good?Fear not, O babe divine, fear not, accept;O happy mother, privileged to see,While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery.

Take, O young soul, O infant heaven-desired,

Take and fear not the cates, although of earth,

Which to thy hands celestial hands extend,

Take and fear not: such vulgar meats of life

Thy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass;

The seeming ill, contaminating joys,

Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow;

The pleasures as the pains of our strange life

Thou art engaged, self-compromised, to share.

Look up, upon thy mother’s face there sits

No sad suspicion of a lurking ill,

No shamed confession of a needful sin;

Mistrust her not, although of earth she too:

Look up! the bright-eyed cherubs overhead

Strew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the just

Look! thy own father’s servants these, and thine,

Who at his bidding and at thine are here.

In thine own word was it not said long since

Butter and honey shall he eat, and learn

The evil to refuse and choose the good?

Fear not, O babe divine, fear not, accept;

O happy mother, privileged to see,

While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery.

Lips, lips, open!Up comes a little bird that lives inside—Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings,Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings.Little bird, little bird, whither will you go?Round about the world, while nobody can know.Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee?Far away around the world, while nobody can see.Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam?All round the world and around again home;Round the round world, and back through the air,When the morning comes, the little bird is there.Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies,Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird’s away,Little bird will come again, by the peep of day;Sleep, little boy, the little bird must goRound about the world, while nobody can know.Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round,Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.

Lips, lips, open!Up comes a little bird that lives inside—Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.

Lips, lips, open!

Up comes a little bird that lives inside—

Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.

All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings,Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings.

All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings,

Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings.

Little bird, little bird, whither will you go?Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Little bird, little bird, whither will you go?

Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee?Far away around the world, while nobody can see.

Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee?

Far away around the world, while nobody can see.

Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam?All round the world and around again home;

Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam?

All round the world and around again home;

Round the round world, and back through the air,When the morning comes, the little bird is there.

Round the round world, and back through the air,

When the morning comes, the little bird is there.

Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies,Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.

Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies,

Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird’s away,Little bird will come again, by the peep of day;

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird’s away,

Little bird will come again, by the peep of day;

Sleep, little boy, the little bird must goRound about the world, while nobody can know.Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round,Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.

Sleep, little boy, the little bird must go

Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round,

Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.

Over every hillAll is still;In no leaf of any treeCan you seeThe motion of a breath.Every bird has ceased its song,Wait; and thou too, ere long,Shall be quiet in death.

Over every hill

All is still;

In no leaf of any tree

Can you see

The motion of a breath.

Every bird has ceased its song,

Wait; and thou too, ere long,

Shall be quiet in death.

Who ne’er his bread with tears hath ate,Who never through the sad night hoursWeeping upon his bed hath sate,He knows not you, you heavenly powers.Forth into life you bid us go,And into guilt you let us fall,Then leave us to endure the woeIt brings unfailingly to all.

Who ne’er his bread with tears hath ate,Who never through the sad night hoursWeeping upon his bed hath sate,He knows not you, you heavenly powers.

Who ne’er his bread with tears hath ate,

Who never through the sad night hours

Weeping upon his bed hath sate,

He knows not you, you heavenly powers.

Forth into life you bid us go,And into guilt you let us fall,Then leave us to endure the woeIt brings unfailingly to all.

Forth into life you bid us go,

And into guilt you let us fall,

Then leave us to endure the woe

It brings unfailingly to all.

You complain of the woman for roving from one to another:—Where is the constant man whom she is trying to find?

You complain of the woman for roving from one to another:—

Where is the constant man whom she is trying to find?

Slumber and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the immortals,By Prometheus were brought hither to comfort mankind;But what in heaven was light, to human creatures was heavy:—Slumber became our Sleep, Sleep unto mortals was Death.

Slumber and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the immortals,

By Prometheus were brought hither to comfort mankind;

But what in heaven was light, to human creatures was heavy:—

Slumber became our Sleep, Sleep unto mortals was Death.

Oh, the beautiful child! and oh, the most happy mother!She in her infant blessed, and in its mother the babe—What sweet longing within me this picture might not occasion,Were I not, Joseph, like you, calmly condemned to stand by!

Oh, the beautiful child! and oh, the most happy mother!

She in her infant blessed, and in its mother the babe—

What sweet longing within me this picture might not occasion,

Were I not, Joseph, like you, calmly condemned to stand by!

Diogenes by his tub, contenting himself with the sunshine,And Calanus with joy mounting his funeral pyre:—Great examples were these for the eager approving of Philip,But for the Conqueror of Earth were, as the earth was, too small.

Diogenes by his tub, contenting himself with the sunshine,

And Calanus with joy mounting his funeral pyre:—

Great examples were these for the eager approving of Philip,

But for the Conqueror of Earth were, as the earth was, too small.

When on the primal peaceful blank profound,Which in its still unknowing silence holdsAll knowledge, ever by withholding holds—When on that void (like footfalls in far rooms),In faint pulsations from the whitening EastArticulate voices first were felt to stir,And the great child, in dreaming grown to man,Losing his dream to piece it up began;Then Plato in me said,‘’Tis but the figured ceiling overhead,With cunning diagrams bestarred, that shineIn all the three dimensions, are endowedWith motion too by skill mechanical,That thou in height, and depth, and breadth, and power,Schooled unto pure Mathesis, might proceedTo higher entities, whereof in usCopies are seen, existent they themselvesIn the sole kingdom of the Mind and God.Mind not the stars, mind thou thy Mind and God.’By that supremer WordO’ermastered, deafly heardWere hauntings dim of old astrologies;Chaldean mumblings vast, with gossip lightFrom modern ologistic fancyings mixed,Of suns and stars, by hypothetic menOf other frame than ours inhabited,Of lunar seas and lunar craters huge.And was there atmosphere, or was there not?And without oxygen could life subsist?And was the world originally mist?—Talk they as talk they list,I, in that ampler voice,Unheeding, did rejoice.

When on the primal peaceful blank profound,

Which in its still unknowing silence holds

All knowledge, ever by withholding holds—

When on that void (like footfalls in far rooms),

In faint pulsations from the whitening East

Articulate voices first were felt to stir,

And the great child, in dreaming grown to man,

Losing his dream to piece it up began;

Then Plato in me said,

‘’Tis but the figured ceiling overhead,

With cunning diagrams bestarred, that shine

In all the three dimensions, are endowed

With motion too by skill mechanical,

That thou in height, and depth, and breadth, and power,

Schooled unto pure Mathesis, might proceed

To higher entities, whereof in us

Copies are seen, existent they themselves

In the sole kingdom of the Mind and God.

Mind not the stars, mind thou thy Mind and God.’

By that supremer Word

O’ermastered, deafly heard

Were hauntings dim of old astrologies;

Chaldean mumblings vast, with gossip light

From modern ologistic fancyings mixed,

Of suns and stars, by hypothetic men

Of other frame than ours inhabited,

Of lunar seas and lunar craters huge.

And was there atmosphere, or was there not?

And without oxygen could life subsist?

And was the world originally mist?—

Talk they as talk they list,

I, in that ampler voice,

Unheeding, did rejoice.

My beloved, is it nothingThough we meet not, neither can,That I see thee, and thou me,That we see, and see we see,When I see I also feel thee;Is it nothing, my beloved?Thy luminous clear beautyBrightens on me in my night,I withdraw into my darknessTo allure thee into light.About me and upon me I feel them pass and stay,About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray.And thou, thou also feelestWhen thou stealestShamefaced and half afraidTo the chamber of thy shade,Thou in thy turn,Thou too feelestSomething follow, something yearn,A full orb blaze and burn.My full orb upon thine,As thine erst, gently smiling,Softly wooing, sweetly wiling,Gleamed on mine;So mine on thine in turnWhen thou feelest blaze and burn,Is it nothing, my beloved?My beloved, is it nothingWhen I see thee and thou me,When we each other see,Is it nothing, my beloved?Closer, closer come unto me.Shall I see thee and no more?I can see thee, is that all?Let me also,Let me feel thee,Closer, closer, my beloved,Come unto me, come to me, come!O cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not,Lookest onward, look’st before,Yet I follow, evermore.Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way,Scarcely lookest, wilt not stay,From thine alien way.The inevitable motionBears me forth upon the lineWhose course I cannot see.I must move as it conveys meEvermore. It so must be.O cold one, and I round theeRevolve, round only thee,Straining ever to be nearerWhile thou evadest still;Repellest still, O cold one,Nay, but closer, closer, closer,My beloved, come, come, come!The inevitable motionCarries both upon its line,Also you as well as me.What is best, and what is strongest,We obey. It so must be.Cruel, cruel, didst thou onlyFeel as I feel evermore,A force, though in, not of me,Drawing inward, in, in, in.Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endethThou shalt feel me closer, closer,My beloved, close, close to thee,Come to thee, come, come, come!The inevitable motionBears us both upon its lineTogether, you as me,Together and asunder,Evermore. It so must be.

My beloved, is it nothingThough we meet not, neither can,That I see thee, and thou me,That we see, and see we see,When I see I also feel thee;Is it nothing, my beloved?

My beloved, is it nothing

Though we meet not, neither can,

That I see thee, and thou me,

That we see, and see we see,

When I see I also feel thee;

Is it nothing, my beloved?

Thy luminous clear beautyBrightens on me in my night,I withdraw into my darknessTo allure thee into light.About me and upon me I feel them pass and stay,About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray.And thou, thou also feelestWhen thou stealestShamefaced and half afraidTo the chamber of thy shade,Thou in thy turn,Thou too feelestSomething follow, something yearn,A full orb blaze and burn.

Thy luminous clear beauty

Brightens on me in my night,

I withdraw into my darkness

To allure thee into light.

About me and upon me I feel them pass and stay,

About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray.

And thou, thou also feelest

When thou stealest

Shamefaced and half afraid

To the chamber of thy shade,

Thou in thy turn,

Thou too feelest

Something follow, something yearn,

A full orb blaze and burn.

My full orb upon thine,As thine erst, gently smiling,Softly wooing, sweetly wiling,Gleamed on mine;So mine on thine in turnWhen thou feelest blaze and burn,Is it nothing, my beloved?

My full orb upon thine,

As thine erst, gently smiling,

Softly wooing, sweetly wiling,

Gleamed on mine;

So mine on thine in turn

When thou feelest blaze and burn,

Is it nothing, my beloved?

My beloved, is it nothingWhen I see thee and thou me,When we each other see,Is it nothing, my beloved?

My beloved, is it nothing

When I see thee and thou me,

When we each other see,

Is it nothing, my beloved?

Closer, closer come unto me.Shall I see thee and no more?I can see thee, is that all?Let me also,Let me feel thee,Closer, closer, my beloved,Come unto me, come to me, come!O cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not,Lookest onward, look’st before,Yet I follow, evermore.Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way,Scarcely lookest, wilt not stay,From thine alien way.

Closer, closer come unto me.

Shall I see thee and no more?

I can see thee, is that all?

Let me also,

Let me feel thee,

Closer, closer, my beloved,

Come unto me, come to me, come!

O cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not,

Lookest onward, look’st before,

Yet I follow, evermore.

Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way,

Scarcely lookest, wilt not stay,

From thine alien way.

The inevitable motionBears me forth upon the lineWhose course I cannot see.I must move as it conveys meEvermore. It so must be.

The inevitable motion

Bears me forth upon the line

Whose course I cannot see.

I must move as it conveys me

Evermore. It so must be.

O cold one, and I round theeRevolve, round only thee,Straining ever to be nearerWhile thou evadest still;Repellest still, O cold one,Nay, but closer, closer, closer,My beloved, come, come, come!

O cold one, and I round thee

Revolve, round only thee,

Straining ever to be nearer

While thou evadest still;

Repellest still, O cold one,

Nay, but closer, closer, closer,

My beloved, come, come, come!

The inevitable motionCarries both upon its line,Also you as well as me.What is best, and what is strongest,We obey. It so must be.

The inevitable motion

Carries both upon its line,

Also you as well as me.

What is best, and what is strongest,

We obey. It so must be.

Cruel, cruel, didst thou onlyFeel as I feel evermore,A force, though in, not of me,Drawing inward, in, in, in.

Cruel, cruel, didst thou only

Feel as I feel evermore,

A force, though in, not of me,

Drawing inward, in, in, in.

Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endethThou shalt feel me closer, closer,My beloved, close, close to thee,Come to thee, come, come, come!

Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endeth

Thou shalt feel me closer, closer,

My beloved, close, close to thee,

Come to thee, come, come, come!

The inevitable motionBears us both upon its lineTogether, you as me,Together and asunder,Evermore. It so must be.

The inevitable motion

Bears us both upon its line

Together, you as me,

Together and asunder,

Evermore. It so must be.

O richly soiled and richly sunned,Exuberant, fervid, and fecund!Is this the fixed conditionOn which may Northern pilgrim come,To imbibe thine ether-air, and sumThy store of old tradition?Must we be chill, if clean, and standFoot-deep in dirt on classic land?So is it: in all ages so,And in all places man can know,From homely roots unseen belowThe stem in forest, field, and bower,Derives the emanative powerThat crowns it with the ethereal flower,From mixtures fœtid, foul, and sourDraws juices that those petals fill.Ah Nature, if indeed thy willThou own’st it, it shall not be ill!And truly here, in this quick clime,Where, scarcely bound by space or time,The elements in half a dayToss off with exquisitest playWhat our cold seasons toil and grieve,And never quite at last achieve;Where processes, with pain, and fear,Disgust, and horror wrought, appearThe quick mutations of a dance,Wherein retiring but to advance,Life, in brief interpause of death,One moment sitting taking breath,Forth comes again as glad as e’er,In some new figure full as fair,Where what has scarcely ceased to be,Instinct with newer birth we see—What dies, already, look you, lives;In such a clime, who thinks, forgives;Who sees, will understand; who knows,In calm of knowledge find repose,And thoughtful as of glory gone,So too of more to come anon,Of permanent existence sure,Brief intermediate breaks endure.O Nature, if indeed thy will,Thou ownest it, it is not ill!And e’en as oft on heathy hill,On moorland black, and ferny fells,Beside thy brooks and in thy dells,Was welcomed erst the kindly stainOf thy true earth, e’en so againWith resignation fair, and meetThe dirt and refuse of thy street,My philosophic foot shall greet,So leave but perfect to my eyeThy columns, set against thy sky!

O richly soiled and richly sunned,

Exuberant, fervid, and fecund!

Is this the fixed condition

On which may Northern pilgrim come,

To imbibe thine ether-air, and sum

Thy store of old tradition?

Must we be chill, if clean, and stand

Foot-deep in dirt on classic land?

So is it: in all ages so,And in all places man can know,From homely roots unseen belowThe stem in forest, field, and bower,Derives the emanative powerThat crowns it with the ethereal flower,From mixtures fœtid, foul, and sourDraws juices that those petals fill.

So is it: in all ages so,

And in all places man can know,

From homely roots unseen below

The stem in forest, field, and bower,

Derives the emanative power

That crowns it with the ethereal flower,

From mixtures fœtid, foul, and sour

Draws juices that those petals fill.

Ah Nature, if indeed thy willThou own’st it, it shall not be ill!And truly here, in this quick clime,Where, scarcely bound by space or time,The elements in half a dayToss off with exquisitest playWhat our cold seasons toil and grieve,And never quite at last achieve;Where processes, with pain, and fear,Disgust, and horror wrought, appearThe quick mutations of a dance,Wherein retiring but to advance,Life, in brief interpause of death,One moment sitting taking breath,Forth comes again as glad as e’er,In some new figure full as fair,Where what has scarcely ceased to be,Instinct with newer birth we see—What dies, already, look you, lives;In such a clime, who thinks, forgives;Who sees, will understand; who knows,In calm of knowledge find repose,And thoughtful as of glory gone,So too of more to come anon,Of permanent existence sure,Brief intermediate breaks endure.O Nature, if indeed thy will,Thou ownest it, it is not ill!And e’en as oft on heathy hill,On moorland black, and ferny fells,Beside thy brooks and in thy dells,Was welcomed erst the kindly stainOf thy true earth, e’en so againWith resignation fair, and meetThe dirt and refuse of thy street,My philosophic foot shall greet,So leave but perfect to my eyeThy columns, set against thy sky!

Ah Nature, if indeed thy will

Thou own’st it, it shall not be ill!

And truly here, in this quick clime,

Where, scarcely bound by space or time,

The elements in half a day

Toss off with exquisitest play

What our cold seasons toil and grieve,

And never quite at last achieve;

Where processes, with pain, and fear,

Disgust, and horror wrought, appear

The quick mutations of a dance,

Wherein retiring but to advance,

Life, in brief interpause of death,

One moment sitting taking breath,

Forth comes again as glad as e’er,

In some new figure full as fair,

Where what has scarcely ceased to be,

Instinct with newer birth we see—

What dies, already, look you, lives;

In such a clime, who thinks, forgives;

Who sees, will understand; who knows,

In calm of knowledge find repose,

And thoughtful as of glory gone,

So too of more to come anon,

Of permanent existence sure,

Brief intermediate breaks endure.

O Nature, if indeed thy will,

Thou ownest it, it is not ill!

And e’en as oft on heathy hill,

On moorland black, and ferny fells,

Beside thy brooks and in thy dells,

Was welcomed erst the kindly stain

Of thy true earth, e’en so again

With resignation fair, and meet

The dirt and refuse of thy street,

My philosophic foot shall greet,

So leave but perfect to my eye

Thy columns, set against thy sky!

Is it this, then, O world-warrior,That, exulting, through the foldsOf the dark and cloudy barrierThine enfranchised eye beholds?Is, when blessed hands relieve theeFrom the gross and mortal clay,This the heaven that should receive thee?‘Tête d’armée.’Now the final link is breaking,Of the fierce, corroding chain,And the ships, their watch forsaking,Bid the seas no more detain,Whither is it, freed and risen,The pure spirit seeks away,Quits for what the weary prison?‘Tête d’armée.’Doubtless—angels, hovering o’er theeIn thine exile’s sad abode,Marshalled even now before thee,Move upon that chosen road!Thither they, ere friends have laid theeWhere sad willows o’er thee play,Shall already have conveyed thee!‘Tête d’armée.’Shall great captains, foiled and broken,Hear from thee on each great day,At the crisis, a word spoken—Word that battles still obey—‘Cuirassiers here, here those cannon;Quick, those squadrons, up—away!To the charge, on—as one man, on!’‘Tête d’armée.’(Yes, too true, alas! while satedOf the wars so slow to cease,Nations, once that scorned and hated,Would to Wisdom turn, and Peace;Thy dire impulse still obeying,Fevered youths, as in the old day,In their hearts still find thee saying,‘Tête d’armée.’)Oh, poor soul!—Or do I view thee,From earth’s battle-fields withheld,In a dream, assembling to theeTroops that quell not, nor are quelled,Breaking airy lines, defeatingLimbo-kings, and, as to-day,Idly to all time repeating‘Tête d’armée’?

Is it this, then, O world-warrior,

That, exulting, through the folds

Of the dark and cloudy barrier

Thine enfranchised eye beholds?

Is, when blessed hands relieve thee

From the gross and mortal clay,

This the heaven that should receive thee?

‘Tête d’armée.’

Now the final link is breaking,Of the fierce, corroding chain,And the ships, their watch forsaking,Bid the seas no more detain,Whither is it, freed and risen,The pure spirit seeks away,Quits for what the weary prison?‘Tête d’armée.’

Now the final link is breaking,

Of the fierce, corroding chain,

And the ships, their watch forsaking,

Bid the seas no more detain,

Whither is it, freed and risen,

The pure spirit seeks away,

Quits for what the weary prison?

‘Tête d’armée.’

Doubtless—angels, hovering o’er theeIn thine exile’s sad abode,Marshalled even now before thee,Move upon that chosen road!Thither they, ere friends have laid theeWhere sad willows o’er thee play,Shall already have conveyed thee!‘Tête d’armée.’

Doubtless—angels, hovering o’er thee

In thine exile’s sad abode,

Marshalled even now before thee,

Move upon that chosen road!

Thither they, ere friends have laid thee

Where sad willows o’er thee play,

Shall already have conveyed thee!

‘Tête d’armée.’

Shall great captains, foiled and broken,Hear from thee on each great day,At the crisis, a word spoken—Word that battles still obey—‘Cuirassiers here, here those cannon;Quick, those squadrons, up—away!To the charge, on—as one man, on!’‘Tête d’armée.’

Shall great captains, foiled and broken,

Hear from thee on each great day,

At the crisis, a word spoken—

Word that battles still obey—

‘Cuirassiers here, here those cannon;

Quick, those squadrons, up—away!

To the charge, on—as one man, on!’

‘Tête d’armée.’

(Yes, too true, alas! while satedOf the wars so slow to cease,Nations, once that scorned and hated,Would to Wisdom turn, and Peace;Thy dire impulse still obeying,Fevered youths, as in the old day,In their hearts still find thee saying,‘Tête d’armée.’)

(Yes, too true, alas! while sated

Of the wars so slow to cease,

Nations, once that scorned and hated,

Would to Wisdom turn, and Peace;

Thy dire impulse still obeying,

Fevered youths, as in the old day,

In their hearts still find thee saying,

‘Tête d’armée.’)

Oh, poor soul!—Or do I view thee,From earth’s battle-fields withheld,In a dream, assembling to theeTroops that quell not, nor are quelled,Breaking airy lines, defeatingLimbo-kings, and, as to-day,Idly to all time repeating‘Tête d’armée’?

Oh, poor soul!—Or do I view thee,

From earth’s battle-fields withheld,

In a dream, assembling to thee

Troops that quell not, nor are quelled,

Breaking airy lines, defeating

Limbo-kings, and, as to-day,

Idly to all time repeating

‘Tête d’armée’?

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