Say, what blinds us, that we claim the gloryOf possessing powers not our share?—Since man woke on earth, he knows his story,But, before we woke on earth, we were.Long, long since, undower'd yet, our spiritRoam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God;Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit,Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road.Then, as now, this tremulous, eager beingStrain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift it saw;Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeingStaved us back, and gave our choice the law.Ah, whose hand that day through Heaven guidedMan's new spirit, since it was not we?Ah, who sway'd our choice, and who decidedWhat our gifts, and what our wants should be?For, alas! he left us each retainingShreds of gifts which he refused in full.Still these waste us with their hopeless straining,Still the attempt to use them proves them null.And on earth we wander, groping, reeling;Powers stir in us, stir and disappear.Ah! and he, who placed our master-feeling,Fail'd to place that master-feeling clear.We but dream we have our wish'd-for powers,Ends we seek we never shall attain.Ah!somepower exists there, which is ours?Someend is there, we indeed may gain?
Say, what blinds us, that we claim the gloryOf possessing powers not our share?—Since man woke on earth, he knows his story,But, before we woke on earth, we were.
Long, long since, undower'd yet, our spiritRoam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God;Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit,Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road.
Then, as now, this tremulous, eager beingStrain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift it saw;Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeingStaved us back, and gave our choice the law.
Ah, whose hand that day through Heaven guidedMan's new spirit, since it was not we?Ah, who sway'd our choice, and who decidedWhat our gifts, and what our wants should be?
For, alas! he left us each retainingShreds of gifts which he refused in full.Still these waste us with their hopeless straining,Still the attempt to use them proves them null.
And on earth we wander, groping, reeling;Powers stir in us, stir and disappear.Ah! and he, who placed our master-feeling,Fail'd to place that master-feeling clear.
We but dream we have our wish'd-for powers,Ends we seek we never shall attain.Ah!somepower exists there, which is ours?Someend is there, we indeed may gain?
The sea is calm to-night.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits;—on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, from the long line of sprayWhere the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in.Sophocles long agoHeard it on the Ægæan, and it broughtInto his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; weFind also in the sound a thought,Hearing it by this distant northern sea.The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth's shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.But now I only hearIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world.Ah, love, let us be trueTo one another! for the world, which seemsTo lie before us like a land of dreams,So various, so beautiful, so new,Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;And we are here as on a darkling plainSwept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,Where ignorant armies clash by night.
The sea is calm to-night.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits;—on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, from the long line of sprayWhere the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long agoHeard it on the Ægæan, and it broughtInto his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; weFind also in the sound a thought,Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth's shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.But now I only hearIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be trueTo one another! for the world, which seemsTo lie before us like a land of dreams,So various, so beautiful, so new,Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;And we are here as on a darkling plainSwept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,Where ignorant armies clash by night.
What is it to grow old?Is it to lose the glory of the form,The lustre of the eye?Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?—Yes, but not this alone.Is it to feel our strength—Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?Is it to feel each limbGrow stiffer, every function less exact,Each nerve more loosely strung?Yes, this, and more; but notAh, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be!'Tis not to have our lifeMellow'd and soften'd as with sunset-glow,A golden day's decline.'Tis not to see the worldAs from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,And heart profoundly stirr'd;And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,The years that are no more.It is to spend long daysAnd not once feel that we were ever young;It is to add, immuredIn the hot prison of the present, monthTo month with weary pain.It is to suffer this,And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.Deep in our hidden heartFesters the dull remembrance of a change,But no emotion—none.It is—last stage of all—When we are frozen up within, and quiteThe phantom of ourselves,To hear the world applaud the hollow ghostWhich blamed the living man.
What is it to grow old?Is it to lose the glory of the form,The lustre of the eye?Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?—Yes, but not this alone.
Is it to feel our strength—Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?Is it to feel each limbGrow stiffer, every function less exact,Each nerve more loosely strung?
Yes, this, and more; but notAh, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be!'Tis not to have our lifeMellow'd and soften'd as with sunset-glow,A golden day's decline.
'Tis not to see the worldAs from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,And heart profoundly stirr'd;And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,The years that are no more.
It is to spend long daysAnd not once feel that we were ever young;It is to add, immuredIn the hot prison of the present, monthTo month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.Deep in our hidden heartFesters the dull remembrance of a change,But no emotion—none.
It is—last stage of all—When we are frozen up within, and quiteThe phantom of ourselves,To hear the world applaud the hollow ghostWhich blamed the living man.
Youth rambles on life's arid mount,And strikes the rock, and finds the vein,And brings the water from the fount,The fount which shall not flow again.The man mature with labour chopsFor the bright stream a channel grand,And sees not that the sacred dropsRan off and vanish'd out of hand.And then the old man totters nigh,And feebly rakes among the stones.The mount is mute, the channel dry;And down he lays his weary bones.
Youth rambles on life's arid mount,And strikes the rock, and finds the vein,And brings the water from the fount,The fount which shall not flow again.
The man mature with labour chopsFor the bright stream a channel grand,And sees not that the sacred dropsRan off and vanish'd out of hand.
And then the old man totters nigh,And feebly rakes among the stones.The mount is mute, the channel dry;And down he lays his weary bones.
The armless Vatican CupidHangs down his beautiful head;For the priests have got him in prison,And Psyche long has been dead.But see, his shaven oppressorsBegin to quake and disband!AndThe Times, that bright Apollo,Proclaims salvation at hand."And what," cries Cupid, "will save us?"Says Apollo: "Modernise Rome!What inns! Your streets, too, how narrow!Too much of palace and dome!"O learn of London, whose paupersAre not pushed out by the swells!Wide streets with fine double trottoirs;And then—the London hotels!"The armless Vatican CupidHangs down his head as before.Through centuries past it has hung so,And will through centuries more.
The armless Vatican CupidHangs down his beautiful head;For the priests have got him in prison,And Psyche long has been dead.
But see, his shaven oppressorsBegin to quake and disband!AndThe Times, that bright Apollo,Proclaims salvation at hand.
"And what," cries Cupid, "will save us?"Says Apollo: "Modernise Rome!What inns! Your streets, too, how narrow!Too much of palace and dome!
"O learn of London, whose paupersAre not pushed out by the swells!Wide streets with fine double trottoirs;And then—the London hotels!"
The armless Vatican CupidHangs down his head as before.Through centuries past it has hung so,And will through centuries more.
"Man is blind because of sin,Revelation makes him sure;Without that, who looks within,Looks in vain, for all's obscure."Nay, look closer into man!Tell me, can you find indeedNothing sure, no moral planClear prescribed, without your creed?"No, I nothing can perceive!Without that, all's dark for men.That, or nothing, I believe."—For God's sake, believe it then!
"Man is blind because of sin,Revelation makes him sure;Without that, who looks within,Looks in vain, for all's obscure."
Nay, look closer into man!Tell me, can you find indeedNothing sure, no moral planClear prescribed, without your creed?
"No, I nothing can perceive!Without that, all's dark for men.That, or nothing, I believe."—For God's sake, believe it then!
Creep into thy narrow bed,Creep, and let no more be said!Vain thy onset! all stands fast.Thou thyself must break at last.Let the long contention cease!Geese are swans, and swans are geese.Let them have it how they will!Thou art tired; best be still.They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee?Better men fared thus before thee;Fired their ringing shot and pass'd,Hotly charged—and sank at last.Charge once more, then, and be dumb!Let the victors, when they come,When the forts of folly fall,Find thy body by the wall!
Creep into thy narrow bed,Creep, and let no more be said!Vain thy onset! all stands fast.Thou thyself must break at last.
Let the long contention cease!Geese are swans, and swans are geese.Let them have it how they will!Thou art tired; best be still.
They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee?Better men fared thus before thee;Fired their ringing shot and pass'd,Hotly charged—and sank at last.
Charge once more, then, and be dumb!Let the victors, when they come,When the forts of folly fall,Find thy body by the wall!
Thus saith the Lord to his own:—"See ye the trouble below?Warfare of man from his birth!Too long let we them groan;Haste, arise ye, and go,Carry my peace upon earth!"Gladly they rise at his call,Gladly obey his command,Gladly descend to the plain.—Ah! How few of them all,Those willing servants, shall standIn the Master's presence again!Some in the tumult are lost;Baffled, bewilder'd, they stray.Some, as prisoners, draw breath.Some, unconquer'd, are cross'd(Not yet half through the day)By a pitiless arrow of Death.Hardly, hardly shall oneCome, with countenance bright,At the close of day, from the plain;His Master's errand well done,Safe through the smoke of the fight,Back to his Master again.
Thus saith the Lord to his own:—"See ye the trouble below?Warfare of man from his birth!Too long let we them groan;Haste, arise ye, and go,Carry my peace upon earth!"
Gladly they rise at his call,Gladly obey his command,Gladly descend to the plain.—Ah! How few of them all,Those willing servants, shall standIn the Master's presence again!
Some in the tumult are lost;Baffled, bewilder'd, they stray.Some, as prisoners, draw breath.Some, unconquer'd, are cross'd(Not yet half through the day)By a pitiless arrow of Death.
Hardly, hardly shall oneCome, with countenance bright,At the close of day, from the plain;His Master's errand well done,Safe through the smoke of the fight,Back to his Master again.
Ask not my name, O friend!That Being only, which hath known each manFrom the beginning, canRemember each unto the end.
Ask not my name, O friend!That Being only, which hath known each manFrom the beginning, canRemember each unto the end.
IThe evening comes, the fields are still.The tinkle of the thirsty rill,Unheard all day, ascends again;Deserted is the half-mown plain,Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,All housed within the sleeping farms!The business of the day is done,The last-left haymaker is gone.And from the thyme upon the height,And from the elder-blossom whiteAnd pale dog-roses in the hedge,And from the mint-plant in the sedge,In puffs of balm the night-air blowsThe perfume which the day forgoes.And on the pure horizon far,See, pulsing with the first-born star,The liquid sky above the hill!The evening comes, the fields are still.Loitering and leaping,With saunter, with bounds—Flickering and circlingIn files and in rounds—Gaily their pine-staff greenTossing in air,Loose o'er their shoulders whiteShowering their hair—See! the wild MænadsBreak from the wood,Youth and IacchusMaddening their blood.See! through the quiet landRioting they pass—Fling the fresh heaps about,Trample the grass.Tear from the rifled hedgeGarlands, their prize;Fill with their sports the field,Fill with their cries.Shepherd, what ails thee, then?Shepherd, why mute?Forth with thy joyous song!Forth with thy flute!Tempts not the revel blithe?Lure not their cries?Glow not their shoulders smooth?Melt not their eyes?Is not, on cheeks like those,Lovely the flush?—Ah, so the quiet was!So was the hush!IIThe epoch ends, the world is still,The age has talk'd and work'd its fill—The famous orators have shone,The famous poets sung and gone,The famous men of war have fought,The famous speculators thought,The famous players, sculptors, wrought,The famous painters fill'd their wall,The famous critics judged it all.The combatants are parted now—Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.And in the after-silence sweet,Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet,Ascending pure, the bell-like fameOf this or that down-trodden nameDelicate spirits, push'd awayIn the hot press of the noon-day.And o'er the plain, where the dead ageDid its now silent warfare wage—O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,Where many a splendour finds its tomb,Many spent fames and fallen mights—The one or two immortal lightsRise slowly up into the skyTo shine there everlastingly,Like stars over the bounding hill.The epoch ends, the world is still.Thundering and burstingIn torrents, in waves—Carolling and shoutingOver tombs, amid graves—See! on the cumber'd plainClearing a stage,Scattering the past about,Comes the new age.Bards make new poems,Thinkers new schools,Statesmen new systems,Critics new rules.All things begin again;Life is their prize;Earth with their deeds they fill,Fill with their cries.Poet, what ails thee, then?Say, why so mute?Forth with thy praising voice!Forth with thy flute!Loiterer! why sittest thouSunk in thy dream?Tempts not the bright new age?Shines not its stream?Look, ah, what genius,Art, science, wit!Soldiers like Cæsar,Statesmen like Pitt!Sculptors like Phidias,Raphaels in shoals,Poets like Shakespeare—Beautiful souls!See, on their glowing cheeksHeavenly the flush!—Ah, so the silence was!So was the hush!The world but feels the present's spell,The poet feels the past as well;Whatever men have done, might do,Whatever thought, might think it too.
I
The evening comes, the fields are still.The tinkle of the thirsty rill,Unheard all day, ascends again;Deserted is the half-mown plain,Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,All housed within the sleeping farms!The business of the day is done,The last-left haymaker is gone.And from the thyme upon the height,And from the elder-blossom whiteAnd pale dog-roses in the hedge,And from the mint-plant in the sedge,In puffs of balm the night-air blowsThe perfume which the day forgoes.And on the pure horizon far,See, pulsing with the first-born star,The liquid sky above the hill!The evening comes, the fields are still.Loitering and leaping,With saunter, with bounds—Flickering and circlingIn files and in rounds—Gaily their pine-staff greenTossing in air,Loose o'er their shoulders whiteShowering their hair—See! the wild MænadsBreak from the wood,Youth and IacchusMaddening their blood.See! through the quiet landRioting they pass—Fling the fresh heaps about,Trample the grass.Tear from the rifled hedgeGarlands, their prize;Fill with their sports the field,Fill with their cries.
Shepherd, what ails thee, then?Shepherd, why mute?Forth with thy joyous song!Forth with thy flute!Tempts not the revel blithe?Lure not their cries?Glow not their shoulders smooth?Melt not their eyes?Is not, on cheeks like those,Lovely the flush?—Ah, so the quiet was!So was the hush!
II
The epoch ends, the world is still,The age has talk'd and work'd its fill—The famous orators have shone,The famous poets sung and gone,The famous men of war have fought,The famous speculators thought,The famous players, sculptors, wrought,The famous painters fill'd their wall,The famous critics judged it all.The combatants are parted now—Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.And in the after-silence sweet,Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet,Ascending pure, the bell-like fameOf this or that down-trodden nameDelicate spirits, push'd awayIn the hot press of the noon-day.And o'er the plain, where the dead ageDid its now silent warfare wage—O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,Where many a splendour finds its tomb,Many spent fames and fallen mights—The one or two immortal lightsRise slowly up into the skyTo shine there everlastingly,Like stars over the bounding hill.The epoch ends, the world is still.
Thundering and burstingIn torrents, in waves—Carolling and shoutingOver tombs, amid graves—See! on the cumber'd plainClearing a stage,Scattering the past about,Comes the new age.Bards make new poems,Thinkers new schools,Statesmen new systems,Critics new rules.All things begin again;Life is their prize;Earth with their deeds they fill,Fill with their cries.
Poet, what ails thee, then?Say, why so mute?Forth with thy praising voice!Forth with thy flute!Loiterer! why sittest thouSunk in thy dream?Tempts not the bright new age?Shines not its stream?Look, ah, what genius,Art, science, wit!Soldiers like Cæsar,Statesmen like Pitt!Sculptors like Phidias,Raphaels in shoals,Poets like Shakespeare—Beautiful souls!See, on their glowing cheeksHeavenly the flush!—Ah, so the silence was!So was the hush!
The world but feels the present's spell,The poet feels the past as well;Whatever men have done, might do,Whatever thought, might think it too.
One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd,My friend and I, by chance we talk'dOf Lessing's famed Laocoön;And after we awhile had goneIn Lessing's track, and tried to seeWhat painting is, what poetry—Diverging to another thought,"Ah," cries my friend, "but who hath taughtWhy music and the other artsOftener perform aright their partsThan poetry? why she, than they,Fewer fine successes can display?"For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece,Where best the poet framed his piece,Even in that Phœbus-guarded groundPausanias on his travels foundGood poems, if he look'd, more rare(Though many) than good statues were—For these, in truth, were everywhere.Of bards full many a stroke divineIn Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's line,The land of Ariosto show'd;And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'dWith triumphs, a yet ampler brood,Of Raphael and his brotherhood.And nobly perfect, in our dayOf haste, half-work, and disarray,Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song;Yet even I (and none will bowDeeper to these) must needs allow,They yield us not, to soothe our pains,Such multitude of heavenly strainsAs from the kings of sound are blown,Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn."While thus my friend discoursed, we passOut of the path, and take the grass.The grass had still the green of May,And still the unblacken'd elms were gay;The kine were resting in the shade,The flies a summer-murmur made.Bright was the morn and south the air;The soft-couch'd cattle were as fairAs those which pastured by the sea,That old-world morn, in Sicily,When on the beach the Cyclops lay,And Galatea from the bayMock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay."Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere!The limits of his art appear.The passing group, the summer-morn,The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn—Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise,Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes—These, or much greater things, but caughtLike these, and in one aspect brought!In outward semblance he must giveA moment's life of things that live;Then let him choose his moment well,With power divine its story tell."Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood,And now upon the bridge we stood.Full of sweet breathings was the air,Of sudden stirs and pauses fair.Down o'er the stately bridge the breezeCame rustling from the garden-treesAnd on the sparkling waters play'd;Light-plashing waves an answer made,And mimic boats their haven near'd.Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd,By mist and chimneys unconfined,Free to the sweep of light and wind;While through their earth-moor'd nave belowAnother breath of wind doth blow,Sound as of wandering breeze—but soundIn laws by human artists bound."The world of music!" I exclaim'd:—"This breeze that rustles by, that famedAbbey recall it! what a sphereLarge and profound, hath genius here!The inspired musician what a range,What power of passion, wealth of change!Some source of feeling he must chooseAnd its lock'd fount of beauty use,And through the stream of music tellIts else unutterable spell;To choose it rightly is his part,And press into its inmost heart."Miserere, Domine!The words are utter'd, and they flee.Deep is their penitential moan,Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.They have declared the spirit's soreSore load, and words can do no more.Beethoven takes them then—those twoPoor, bounded words—and makes them new;Infinite makes them, makes them young;Transplants them to another tongue,Where they can now, without constraint,Pour all the soul of their complaint,And roll adown a channel largeThe wealth divine they have in charge.Page after page of music turn,And still they live and still they burn,Eternal, passion-fraught, and free—Miserere, Domine!"Onward we moved, and reach'd the RideWhere gaily flows the human tide.Afar, in rest the cattle lay;We heard, afar, faint music play;But agitated, brisk, and near,Men, with their stream of life, were here.Some hang upon the rails, and someOn foot behind them go and come.This through the Ride upon his steedGoes slowly by, and this at speed.The young, the happy, and the fair,The old, the sad, the worn, were there;Some vacant, and some musing went,And some in talk and merriment.Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!And now and then, perhaps, there swellsA sigh, a tear—but in the throngAll changes fast, and hies along.Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground?And to what goal, what ending, bound?"Behold, at last the poet's sphere!But who," I said, "suffices here?"For, ah! so much he has to do;Be painter and musician too!The aspect of the moment show,The feeling of the moment know!The aspect not, I grant, expressClear as the painter's art can dress;The feeling not, I grant, exploreSo deep as the musician's lore—But clear as words can make revealing,And deep as words can follow feeling.But, ah! then comes his sorest spellOf toil—he must life'smovementtell!The thread which binds it all in one,And not its separate parts alone.Themovementhe must tell of life,Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;His eye must travel down, at full,The long, unpausing spectacle;With faithful unrelaxing forceAttend it from its primal source,From change to change and year to yearAttend it of its mid career,Attend it to the last reposeAnd solemn silence of its close."The cattle rising from the grassHis thought must follow where they pass;The penitent with anguish bow'dHis thought must follow through the crowd.Yes! all this eddying, motley throngThat sparkles in the sun along,Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold,Master and servant, young and old,Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,He follows home, and lives their life."And many, many are the soulsLife's movement fascinates, controls;It draws them on, they cannot saveTheir feet from its alluring wave;They cannot leave it, they must goWith its unconquerable flow.But ah! how few, of all that tryThis mighty march, do aught but die!For ill-endow'd for such a way,Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they.They faint, they stagger to and fro,And wandering from the stream they go;In pain, in terror, in distress,They see, all round, a wilderness.Sometimes a momentary gleamThey catch of the mysterious stream;Sometimes, a second's space, their earThe murmur of its waves doth hear.That transient glimpse in song they say,But not as painter can pourtray—That transient sound in song they tell,But not, as the musician, well.And when at last their snatches cease,And they are silent and at peace,The stream of life's majestic wholeHath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul."Only a few the life-stream's shoreWith safe unwandering feet explore;Untired its movement bright attend,Follow its windings to the end.Then from its brimming waves their eyeDrinks up delighted ecstasy,And its deep-toned, melodious voiceFor ever makes their ear rejoice.They speak! the happiness divineThey feel, runs o'er in every line;Its spell is round them like a shower—It gives them pathos, gives them power.No painter yet hath such a way,Nor no musician made, as they,And gather'd on immortal knollsSuch lovely flowers for cheering souls.Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reachThe charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teachTo these, to these, their thankful raceGives, then, the first, the fairest place;And brightest is their glory's sheen,For greatest hath their labour been."
One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd,My friend and I, by chance we talk'dOf Lessing's famed Laocoön;And after we awhile had goneIn Lessing's track, and tried to seeWhat painting is, what poetry—Diverging to another thought,"Ah," cries my friend, "but who hath taughtWhy music and the other artsOftener perform aright their partsThan poetry? why she, than they,Fewer fine successes can display?
"For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece,Where best the poet framed his piece,Even in that Phœbus-guarded groundPausanias on his travels foundGood poems, if he look'd, more rare(Though many) than good statues were—For these, in truth, were everywhere.Of bards full many a stroke divineIn Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's line,The land of Ariosto show'd;And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'dWith triumphs, a yet ampler brood,Of Raphael and his brotherhood.And nobly perfect, in our dayOf haste, half-work, and disarray,Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song;Yet even I (and none will bowDeeper to these) must needs allow,They yield us not, to soothe our pains,Such multitude of heavenly strainsAs from the kings of sound are blown,Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn."
While thus my friend discoursed, we passOut of the path, and take the grass.The grass had still the green of May,And still the unblacken'd elms were gay;The kine were resting in the shade,The flies a summer-murmur made.Bright was the morn and south the air;The soft-couch'd cattle were as fairAs those which pastured by the sea,That old-world morn, in Sicily,When on the beach the Cyclops lay,And Galatea from the bayMock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay."Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere!The limits of his art appear.The passing group, the summer-morn,The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn—Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise,Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes—These, or much greater things, but caughtLike these, and in one aspect brought!In outward semblance he must giveA moment's life of things that live;Then let him choose his moment well,With power divine its story tell."
Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood,And now upon the bridge we stood.Full of sweet breathings was the air,Of sudden stirs and pauses fair.Down o'er the stately bridge the breezeCame rustling from the garden-treesAnd on the sparkling waters play'd;Light-plashing waves an answer made,And mimic boats their haven near'd.Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd,By mist and chimneys unconfined,Free to the sweep of light and wind;While through their earth-moor'd nave belowAnother breath of wind doth blow,Sound as of wandering breeze—but soundIn laws by human artists bound."The world of music!" I exclaim'd:—"This breeze that rustles by, that famedAbbey recall it! what a sphereLarge and profound, hath genius here!The inspired musician what a range,What power of passion, wealth of change!Some source of feeling he must chooseAnd its lock'd fount of beauty use,And through the stream of music tellIts else unutterable spell;To choose it rightly is his part,And press into its inmost heart.
"Miserere, Domine!The words are utter'd, and they flee.Deep is their penitential moan,Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.They have declared the spirit's soreSore load, and words can do no more.Beethoven takes them then—those twoPoor, bounded words—and makes them new;Infinite makes them, makes them young;Transplants them to another tongue,Where they can now, without constraint,Pour all the soul of their complaint,And roll adown a channel largeThe wealth divine they have in charge.Page after page of music turn,And still they live and still they burn,Eternal, passion-fraught, and free—Miserere, Domine!"
Onward we moved, and reach'd the RideWhere gaily flows the human tide.Afar, in rest the cattle lay;We heard, afar, faint music play;But agitated, brisk, and near,Men, with their stream of life, were here.Some hang upon the rails, and someOn foot behind them go and come.This through the Ride upon his steedGoes slowly by, and this at speed.The young, the happy, and the fair,The old, the sad, the worn, were there;Some vacant, and some musing went,And some in talk and merriment.Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!And now and then, perhaps, there swellsA sigh, a tear—but in the throngAll changes fast, and hies along.Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground?And to what goal, what ending, bound?"Behold, at last the poet's sphere!But who," I said, "suffices here?
"For, ah! so much he has to do;Be painter and musician too!The aspect of the moment show,The feeling of the moment know!The aspect not, I grant, expressClear as the painter's art can dress;The feeling not, I grant, exploreSo deep as the musician's lore—But clear as words can make revealing,And deep as words can follow feeling.But, ah! then comes his sorest spellOf toil—he must life'smovementtell!The thread which binds it all in one,And not its separate parts alone.Themovementhe must tell of life,Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;His eye must travel down, at full,The long, unpausing spectacle;With faithful unrelaxing forceAttend it from its primal source,From change to change and year to yearAttend it of its mid career,Attend it to the last reposeAnd solemn silence of its close.
"The cattle rising from the grassHis thought must follow where they pass;The penitent with anguish bow'dHis thought must follow through the crowd.Yes! all this eddying, motley throngThat sparkles in the sun along,Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold,Master and servant, young and old,Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,He follows home, and lives their life.
"And many, many are the soulsLife's movement fascinates, controls;It draws them on, they cannot saveTheir feet from its alluring wave;They cannot leave it, they must goWith its unconquerable flow.But ah! how few, of all that tryThis mighty march, do aught but die!For ill-endow'd for such a way,Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they.They faint, they stagger to and fro,And wandering from the stream they go;In pain, in terror, in distress,They see, all round, a wilderness.Sometimes a momentary gleamThey catch of the mysterious stream;Sometimes, a second's space, their earThe murmur of its waves doth hear.That transient glimpse in song they say,But not as painter can pourtray—That transient sound in song they tell,But not, as the musician, well.And when at last their snatches cease,And they are silent and at peace,The stream of life's majestic wholeHath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul.
"Only a few the life-stream's shoreWith safe unwandering feet explore;Untired its movement bright attend,Follow its windings to the end.Then from its brimming waves their eyeDrinks up delighted ecstasy,And its deep-toned, melodious voiceFor ever makes their ear rejoice.They speak! the happiness divineThey feel, runs o'er in every line;Its spell is round them like a shower—It gives them pathos, gives them power.No painter yet hath such a way,Nor no musician made, as they,And gather'd on immortal knollsSuch lovely flowers for cheering souls.Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reachThe charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teachTo these, to these, their thankful raceGives, then, the first, the fairest place;And brightest is their glory's sheen,For greatest hath their labour been."
Though the Muse be gone away,Though she move not earth to-day,Souls, erewhile who caught her word,Ah! still harp on what they heard.
Though the Muse be gone away,Though she move not earth to-day,Souls, erewhile who caught her word,Ah! still harp on what they heard.
What poets feel not, when they make,A pleasure in creating,The world, initsturn, will not takePleasure in contemplating.
What poets feel not, when they make,A pleasure in creating,The world, initsturn, will not takePleasure in contemplating.
Raised are the dripping oars,Silent the boat! the lake,Lovely and soft as a dream,Swims in the sheen of the moon.The mountains stand at its headClear in the pure June-night,But the valleys are flooded with haze.Rydal and Fairfield are there;In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead.So it is, so it will be for aye.Nature is fresh as of old,Is lovely; a mortal is dead.The spots which recall him survive,For he lent a new life to these hills.The Pillar still broods o'er the fieldsWhich border Ennerdale Lake,And Egremont sleeps by the sea.The gleam of The Evening StarTwinkles on Grasmere no more,But ruin'd and solemn and greyThe sheepfold of Michael survives;And, far to the south, the heathStill blows in the Quantock coombs,By the favourite waters of Ruth.These survive!—yet not without pain,Pain and dejection to-night,Can I feel that their poet is gone.He grew old in an age he condemn'd.He look'd on the rushing decayOf the times which had shelter'd his youthFelt the dissolving throesOf a social order he loved;Outlived his brethren, his peers;And, like the Theban seer,Died in his enemies' day.Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa,Copais lay bright in the moon,Helicon glass'd in the lakeIts firs, and afar rose the peaksOf Parnassus, snowily clear;Thebes was behind him in flames,And the clang of arms in his ear,When his awe-struck captors ledThe Theban seer to the spring.Tiresias drank and died.Nor did reviving ThebesSee such a prophet again.Well may we mourn, when the headOf a sacred poet lies lowIn an age which can rear them no more!The complaining millions of menDarken in labour and pain;But he was a priest to us allOf the wonder and bloom of the world,Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad.He is dead, and the fruit-bearing dayOf his race is past on the earth;And darkness returns to our eyes.For, oh! is it you, is it you,Moonlight, and shadow, and lake,And mountains, that fill us with joy,Or the poet who sings you so well?Is it you, O beauty, O grace,O charm, O romance, that we feel,Or the voice which reveals what you are?Are ye, like daylight and sun,Shared and rejoiced in by all?Or are ye immersed in the massOf matter, and hard to extract,Or sunk at the core of the worldToo deep for the most to discern?Like stars in the deep of the sky,Which arise on the glass of the sage,But are lost when their watcher is gone."They are here"—I heard, as men heardIn Mysian Ida the voiceOf the Mighty Mother, or Crete,The murmur of Nature reply—"Loveliness, magic, and grace,They are here! they are set in the world,They abide; and the finest of soulsHath not been thrill'd by them all,Nor the dullest been dead to them quite.The poet who sings them may die,But they are immortal and live,For they are the life of the world.Will ye not learn it, and know,When ye mourn that a poet is dead,That the singer was less than his themes,Life, and emotion, and I?"More than the singer are these.Weak is the tremor of painThat thrills in his mournfullest chordTo that which once ran through his soul.Cold the elation of joyIn his gladdest, airiest song,To that which of old in his youthFill'd him and made him divine.Hardly his voice at its bestGives us a sense of the awe,The vastness, the grandeur, the gloomOf the unlit gulph of himself."Ye know not yourselves; and your bards—The clearest, the best, who have readMost in themselves—have beheldLess than they left unreveal'd.Ye express not yourselves;—can you makeWith marble, with colour, with word,What charm'd you in others re-live?Can thy pencil, O artist! restoreThe figure, the bloom of thy love,As she was in her morning of spring?Canst thou paint the ineffable smileOf her eyes as they rested on thine?Can the image of life have the glow,The motion of life itself?"Yourselves and your fellows ye know not; and me,The mateless, the one, will ye know?Will ye scan me, and read me, and tellOf the thoughts that ferment in my breast,My longing, my sadness, my joy?Will ye claim for your great ones the giftTo have render'd the gleam of my skies,To have echoed the moan of my seas,Utter'd the voice of my hills?When your great ones depart, will ye say:All things have suffer'd a loss,Nature is hid in their grave?"Race after race, man after man,Have thought that my secret was theirs,Have dream'd that I lived but for them,That they were my glory and joy.—They are dust, they are changed, they are gone!I remain."
Raised are the dripping oars,Silent the boat! the lake,Lovely and soft as a dream,Swims in the sheen of the moon.The mountains stand at its headClear in the pure June-night,But the valleys are flooded with haze.Rydal and Fairfield are there;In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead.So it is, so it will be for aye.Nature is fresh as of old,Is lovely; a mortal is dead.
The spots which recall him survive,For he lent a new life to these hills.The Pillar still broods o'er the fieldsWhich border Ennerdale Lake,And Egremont sleeps by the sea.The gleam of The Evening StarTwinkles on Grasmere no more,But ruin'd and solemn and greyThe sheepfold of Michael survives;And, far to the south, the heathStill blows in the Quantock coombs,By the favourite waters of Ruth.These survive!—yet not without pain,Pain and dejection to-night,Can I feel that their poet is gone.
He grew old in an age he condemn'd.He look'd on the rushing decayOf the times which had shelter'd his youthFelt the dissolving throesOf a social order he loved;Outlived his brethren, his peers;And, like the Theban seer,Died in his enemies' day.
Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa,Copais lay bright in the moon,Helicon glass'd in the lakeIts firs, and afar rose the peaksOf Parnassus, snowily clear;Thebes was behind him in flames,And the clang of arms in his ear,When his awe-struck captors ledThe Theban seer to the spring.Tiresias drank and died.Nor did reviving ThebesSee such a prophet again.
Well may we mourn, when the headOf a sacred poet lies lowIn an age which can rear them no more!The complaining millions of menDarken in labour and pain;But he was a priest to us allOf the wonder and bloom of the world,Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad.He is dead, and the fruit-bearing dayOf his race is past on the earth;And darkness returns to our eyes.
For, oh! is it you, is it you,Moonlight, and shadow, and lake,And mountains, that fill us with joy,Or the poet who sings you so well?Is it you, O beauty, O grace,O charm, O romance, that we feel,Or the voice which reveals what you are?Are ye, like daylight and sun,Shared and rejoiced in by all?Or are ye immersed in the massOf matter, and hard to extract,Or sunk at the core of the worldToo deep for the most to discern?Like stars in the deep of the sky,Which arise on the glass of the sage,But are lost when their watcher is gone.
"They are here"—I heard, as men heardIn Mysian Ida the voiceOf the Mighty Mother, or Crete,The murmur of Nature reply—"Loveliness, magic, and grace,They are here! they are set in the world,They abide; and the finest of soulsHath not been thrill'd by them all,Nor the dullest been dead to them quite.The poet who sings them may die,But they are immortal and live,For they are the life of the world.Will ye not learn it, and know,When ye mourn that a poet is dead,That the singer was less than his themes,Life, and emotion, and I?
"More than the singer are these.Weak is the tremor of painThat thrills in his mournfullest chordTo that which once ran through his soul.Cold the elation of joyIn his gladdest, airiest song,To that which of old in his youthFill'd him and made him divine.Hardly his voice at its bestGives us a sense of the awe,The vastness, the grandeur, the gloomOf the unlit gulph of himself.
"Ye know not yourselves; and your bards—The clearest, the best, who have readMost in themselves—have beheldLess than they left unreveal'd.Ye express not yourselves;—can you makeWith marble, with colour, with word,What charm'd you in others re-live?Can thy pencil, O artist! restoreThe figure, the bloom of thy love,As she was in her morning of spring?Canst thou paint the ineffable smileOf her eyes as they rested on thine?Can the image of life have the glow,The motion of life itself?
"Yourselves and your fellows ye know not; and me,The mateless, the one, will ye know?Will ye scan me, and read me, and tellOf the thoughts that ferment in my breast,My longing, my sadness, my joy?Will ye claim for your great ones the giftTo have render'd the gleam of my skies,To have echoed the moan of my seas,Utter'd the voice of my hills?When your great ones depart, will ye say:All things have suffer'd a loss,Nature is hid in their grave?
"Race after race, man after man,Have thought that my secret was theirs,Have dream'd that I lived but for them,That they were my glory and joy.—They are dust, they are changed, they are gone!I remain."
We, O Nature, depart,Thou survivest us! this,This, I know, is the law.Yes! but more than this,Thou who seest us dieSeest us change while we live;Seest our dreams, one by one,Seest our errors depart;Watchest us, Nature! throughout,Mild and inscrutably calm.Well for us that we change!Well for us that the powerWhich in our morning-primeSaw the mistakes of our youth,Sweet, and forgiving, and good,Sees the contrition of age!Behold, O Nature, this pair!See them to-night where they stand,Not with the halo of youthCrowning their brows with its light,Not with the sunshine of hope,Not with the rapture of spring,Which they had of old, when they stoodYears ago at my sideIn this self-same garden, and said:"We are young, and the world is ours;Man, man is the king of the world!Fools that these mystics areWho prate of Nature! for sheHath neither beauty, nor warmth,Nor life, nor emotion, nor power.But man has a thousand gifts,And the generous dreamer investsThe senseless world with them all.Nature is nothing; her charmLives in our eyes which can paint,Lives in our hearts which can feel."Thou, O Nature, wast mute,Mute as of old! days flew,Days and years; and TimeWith the ceaseless stroke of his wingsBrush'd off the bloom from their soul.Clouded and dim grew their eye,Languid their heart—for youthQuicken'd its pulses no more.Slowly, within the wallsOf an ever-narrowing world,They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old.Thee and their youth in thee,Nature! they saw no more.Murmur of living,Stir of existence,Soul of the world!Make, oh, make yourselves feltTo the dying spirit of youth!Come, like the breath of the spring!Leave not a human soulTo grow old in darkness and pain!Only the living can feel you,But leave us not while we live!Here they stand to-night—Here, where this grey balustradeCrowns the still valley; behindIs the castled house, with its woods,Which shelter'd their childhood—the sunOn its ivied windows; a scentFrom the grey-wall'd gardens, a breathOf the fragrant stock and the pink,Perfumes the evening air.Their children play on the lawns.They stand and listen; they hearThe children's shouts, and at times,Faintly, the bark of a dogFrom a distant farm in the hills.Nothing besides! in frontThe wide, wide valley outspreadsTo the dim horizon, reposedIn the twilight, and bathed in dew,Corn-field and hamlet and copseDarkening fast; but a light,Far off, a glory of day,Still plays on the city spires;And there in the dusk by the walls,With the grey mist marking its courseThrough the silent, flowery land,On, to the plains, to the sea,Floats the imperial stream.Well I know what they feel!They gaze, and the evening windPlays on their faces; they gaze—Airs from the Eden of youthAwake and stir in their soul;The past returns—they feelWhat they are, alas! what they were.They, not Nature, are changed.Well I know what they feel!Hush, for tearsBegin to steal to their eyes!Hush, for fruitGrows from such sorrow as theirs!And they remember,With piercing, untold anguish,The proud boasting of their youth.And they feel how Nature was fair.And the mists of delusion,And the scales of habit,Fall away from their eyes;And they see, for a moment,Stretching out, like the desertIn its weary, unprofitable length,Their faded, ignoble lives.While the locks are yet brown on thy head,While the soul still looks through thine eyes,While the heart still poursThe mantling blood to thy cheek,Sink, O youth, in thy soul!Yearn to the greatness of Nature;Rally the good in the depths of thyself!
We, O Nature, depart,Thou survivest us! this,This, I know, is the law.Yes! but more than this,Thou who seest us dieSeest us change while we live;Seest our dreams, one by one,Seest our errors depart;Watchest us, Nature! throughout,Mild and inscrutably calm.
Well for us that we change!Well for us that the powerWhich in our morning-primeSaw the mistakes of our youth,Sweet, and forgiving, and good,Sees the contrition of age!
Behold, O Nature, this pair!See them to-night where they stand,Not with the halo of youthCrowning their brows with its light,Not with the sunshine of hope,Not with the rapture of spring,Which they had of old, when they stoodYears ago at my sideIn this self-same garden, and said:"We are young, and the world is ours;Man, man is the king of the world!Fools that these mystics areWho prate of Nature! for sheHath neither beauty, nor warmth,Nor life, nor emotion, nor power.But man has a thousand gifts,And the generous dreamer investsThe senseless world with them all.Nature is nothing; her charmLives in our eyes which can paint,Lives in our hearts which can feel."
Thou, O Nature, wast mute,Mute as of old! days flew,Days and years; and TimeWith the ceaseless stroke of his wingsBrush'd off the bloom from their soul.Clouded and dim grew their eye,Languid their heart—for youthQuicken'd its pulses no more.Slowly, within the wallsOf an ever-narrowing world,They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old.Thee and their youth in thee,Nature! they saw no more.
Murmur of living,Stir of existence,Soul of the world!Make, oh, make yourselves feltTo the dying spirit of youth!Come, like the breath of the spring!Leave not a human soulTo grow old in darkness and pain!Only the living can feel you,But leave us not while we live!
Here they stand to-night—Here, where this grey balustradeCrowns the still valley; behindIs the castled house, with its woods,Which shelter'd their childhood—the sunOn its ivied windows; a scentFrom the grey-wall'd gardens, a breathOf the fragrant stock and the pink,Perfumes the evening air.Their children play on the lawns.They stand and listen; they hearThe children's shouts, and at times,Faintly, the bark of a dogFrom a distant farm in the hills.Nothing besides! in frontThe wide, wide valley outspreadsTo the dim horizon, reposedIn the twilight, and bathed in dew,Corn-field and hamlet and copseDarkening fast; but a light,Far off, a glory of day,Still plays on the city spires;And there in the dusk by the walls,With the grey mist marking its courseThrough the silent, flowery land,On, to the plains, to the sea,Floats the imperial stream.
Well I know what they feel!They gaze, and the evening windPlays on their faces; they gaze—Airs from the Eden of youthAwake and stir in their soul;The past returns—they feelWhat they are, alas! what they were.They, not Nature, are changed.Well I know what they feel!
Hush, for tearsBegin to steal to their eyes!Hush, for fruitGrows from such sorrow as theirs!
And they remember,With piercing, untold anguish,The proud boasting of their youth.And they feel how Nature was fair.And the mists of delusion,And the scales of habit,Fall away from their eyes;And they see, for a moment,Stretching out, like the desertIn its weary, unprofitable length,Their faded, ignoble lives.
While the locks are yet brown on thy head,While the soul still looks through thine eyes,While the heart still poursThe mantling blood to thy cheek,Sink, O youth, in thy soul!Yearn to the greatness of Nature;Rally the good in the depths of thyself!