Coldly, sadly descendsThe autumn-evening. The fieldStrewn with its dank yellow driftsOf wither'd leaves, and the elms,Fade into dimness apace,Silent;—hardly a shoutFrom a few boys late at their play!The lights come out in the street,In the school-room windows;—but cold,Solemn, unlighted, austere,Through the gathering darkness, ariseThe chapel-walls, in whose boundThou, my father! art laid.There thou dost lie, in the gloomOf the autumn evening. But ah!That word,gloom, to my mindBrings thee back, in the lightOf thy radiant vigour, again;In the gloom of November we pass'dDays not dark at thy side;Seasons impair'd not the rayOf thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.Such thou wast! and I standIn the autumn evening, and thinkOf bygone autumns with thee.Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread,In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen,Sudden. For fifteen years,We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, have enduredSunshine and rain as we might,Bare, unshaded, alone,Lacking the shelter of thee.O strong soul, by what shoreTarriest thou now? For that force,Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar,In the sounding labour-house vastOf being, is practised that strength,Zealous, beneficent, firm!Yes, in some far-shining sphere,Conscious or not of the past,Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live—Prompt, unwearied, as here!Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground,Sternly repressest the bad!Still, like a trumpet, dost rouseThose who with half-open eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,Succourest!—this was thy work,This was thy life upon earth.What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth?—Most men eddy aboutHere and there—eat and drink,Chatter and love and hate,Gather and squander, are raisedAloft, are hurl'd in the dust,Striving blindly, achievingNothing; and then they die—Perish;—and no one asksWho or what they have been,More than he asks what waves,In the moonlit solitudes mildOf the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,Foam'd for a moment, and gone.And there are some, whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires,Not with the crowd to be spent,Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dust,Effort unmeaning and vain.Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to dieFruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave!We, we have chosen our path—Path to a clear-purposed goal,Path of advance!—but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow.Cheerful, with friends, we set forth—Then, on the height, comes the storm.Thunder crashes from rockTo rock, the cataracts reply,Lightnings dazzle our eyes.Roaring torrents have breach'dThe track, the stream-bed descendsIn the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footstep—the sprayBoils o'er its borders! aloftThe unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin; alas,Havoc is made in our train!Friends, who set forth at our side,Falter, are lost in the storm.We, we only are left!With frowning foreheads, with lipsSternly compress'd, we strain on,On—and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way,To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn hostStands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs—Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks:Whom in our party we bring?Whom we have left in the snow?Sadly we answer: We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm.Hardly ourselves we fought through,Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.Friends, companions, and train,The avalanche swept from our side.But thou would'st notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing—to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honour'd and blestBy former ages, who else—Such, so soulless, so poor,Is the race of men whom I see—Seem'd but a dream of the heart,Seem'd but a cry of desire.Yes! I believe that there livedOthers like thee in the past,Not like the men of the crowdWho all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous, and arid, and vile;But souls temper'd with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good,Helpers and friends of mankind.Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His, who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died!See! In the rocks of the worldMarches the host of mankind,A feeble, wavering line.Where are they tending?—A GodMarshall'd them, gave them their goal.Ah, but the way is so long!Years they have been in the wild!Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks,Rising all round, overawe;Factions divide them, their hostThreatens to break, to dissolve.—Ah, keep, keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray; in the rocksStagger for ever in vain,Die one by one in the waste.Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye, like angels, appear,Radiant with ardour divine!Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, re-inspire the brave!Order, courage, return.Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as ye go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.
Coldly, sadly descendsThe autumn-evening. The fieldStrewn with its dank yellow driftsOf wither'd leaves, and the elms,Fade into dimness apace,Silent;—hardly a shoutFrom a few boys late at their play!The lights come out in the street,In the school-room windows;—but cold,Solemn, unlighted, austere,Through the gathering darkness, ariseThe chapel-walls, in whose boundThou, my father! art laid.
There thou dost lie, in the gloomOf the autumn evening. But ah!That word,gloom, to my mindBrings thee back, in the lightOf thy radiant vigour, again;In the gloom of November we pass'dDays not dark at thy side;Seasons impair'd not the rayOf thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.Such thou wast! and I standIn the autumn evening, and thinkOf bygone autumns with thee.
Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread,In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen,Sudden. For fifteen years,We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, have enduredSunshine and rain as we might,Bare, unshaded, alone,Lacking the shelter of thee.
O strong soul, by what shoreTarriest thou now? For that force,Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar,In the sounding labour-house vastOf being, is practised that strength,Zealous, beneficent, firm!
Yes, in some far-shining sphere,Conscious or not of the past,Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live—Prompt, unwearied, as here!Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground,Sternly repressest the bad!Still, like a trumpet, dost rouseThose who with half-open eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,Succourest!—this was thy work,This was thy life upon earth.
What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth?—Most men eddy aboutHere and there—eat and drink,Chatter and love and hate,Gather and squander, are raisedAloft, are hurl'd in the dust,Striving blindly, achievingNothing; and then they die—Perish;—and no one asksWho or what they have been,More than he asks what waves,In the moonlit solitudes mildOf the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,Foam'd for a moment, and gone.
And there are some, whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires,Not with the crowd to be spent,Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dust,Effort unmeaning and vain.Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to dieFruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave!We, we have chosen our path—Path to a clear-purposed goal,Path of advance!—but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow.Cheerful, with friends, we set forth—Then, on the height, comes the storm.Thunder crashes from rockTo rock, the cataracts reply,Lightnings dazzle our eyes.Roaring torrents have breach'dThe track, the stream-bed descendsIn the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footstep—the sprayBoils o'er its borders! aloftThe unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin; alas,Havoc is made in our train!Friends, who set forth at our side,Falter, are lost in the storm.We, we only are left!With frowning foreheads, with lipsSternly compress'd, we strain on,On—and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way,To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn hostStands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs—Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks:Whom in our party we bring?Whom we have left in the snow?
Sadly we answer: We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm.Hardly ourselves we fought through,Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.Friends, companions, and train,The avalanche swept from our side.
But thou would'st notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.
If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing—to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.
And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honour'd and blestBy former ages, who else—Such, so soulless, so poor,Is the race of men whom I see—Seem'd but a dream of the heart,Seem'd but a cry of desire.Yes! I believe that there livedOthers like thee in the past,Not like the men of the crowdWho all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous, and arid, and vile;But souls temper'd with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good,Helpers and friends of mankind.
Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His, who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died!
See! In the rocks of the worldMarches the host of mankind,A feeble, wavering line.Where are they tending?—A GodMarshall'd them, gave them their goal.Ah, but the way is so long!Years they have been in the wild!Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks,Rising all round, overawe;Factions divide them, their hostThreatens to break, to dissolve.—Ah, keep, keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray; in the rocksStagger for ever in vain,Die one by one in the waste.
Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye, like angels, appear,Radiant with ardour divine!Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, re-inspire the brave!Order, courage, return.Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as ye go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.
"Henri Heine"—— 'tis here!That black tombstone, the nameCarved there—no more! and the smooth,Swarded alleys, the limesTouch'd with yellow by hotSummer, but under them still,In September's bright afternoon,Shadow, and verdure, and cool.Trim Montmartre! the faintMurmur of Paris outside;Crisp everlasting-flowers,Yellow and black, on the graves.Half blind, palsied, in pain,Hither to come, from the streets'Uproar, surely not loathWast thou, Heine!—to lieQuiet, to ask for closedShutters, and darken'd room,And cool drinks, and an easedPosture, and opium, no more;Hither to come, and to sleepUnder the wings of Renown.Ah! not little, when painIs most quelling, and manEasily quell'd, and the fineTemper of genius so soonThrills at each smart, is the praise,Not to have yielded to pain!No small boast, for a weakSon of mankind, to the earthPinn'd by the thunder, to rearHis bolt-scathed front to the stars;And, undaunted, retort'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,Tyrannous tempests of bale,Arrowy lightnings of soul.Hark! through the alley resoundsMocking laughter! A filmCreeps o'er the sunshine; a breezeRuffles the warm afternoon,Saddens my soul with its chill.Gibing of spirits in scornShakes every leaf of the grove,Mars the benignant reposeOf this amiable home of the dead.Bitter spirits, ye claimHeine?—Alas, he is yours!Only a moment I long'dHere in the quiet to snatchFrom such mates the outwornPoet, and steep him in calm.Only a moment! I knewWhose he was who is hereBuried—I knew he was yours!Ah, I knew that I sawHere no sepulchre builtIn the laurell'd rock, o'er the blueNaples bay, for a sweetTender Virgil! no tombOn Ravenna sands, in the shadeOf Ravenna pines, for a highAustere Dante! no graveBy the Avon side, in the brightStratford meadows, for thee,Shakespeare! loveliest of souls,Peerless in radiance, in joy.What, then, so harsh and malign,Heine! distils from thy life?Poisons the peace of the grave?I chide with thee not, that thy sharpUpbraidings often assail'dEngland, my country—for we,Heavy and sad, for her sons,Long since, deep in our hearts,Echo the blame of her foes.We, too, sigh that she flags;We, too, say that she now—Scarce comprehending the voiceOf her greatest, golden-mouth'd sonsOf a former age any more—Stupidly travels her roundOf mechanic business, and letsSlow die out of her lifeGlory, and genius, and joy.So thou arraign'st her, her foe;So we arraign her, her sons.Yes, we arraign her! but she,The weary Titan, with deafEars, and labour-dimm'd eyes,Regarding neither to rightNor left, goes passively by,Staggering on to her goal;Bearing on shoulders immense,Atlanteän, the load,Wellnigh not to be borne,Of the too vast orb of her fate.But was it thou—I thinkSurely it was!—that bardUnnamed, who, Goethe said,Had every other gift, but wanted love;Love, without which the tongueEven of angels sounds amiss?Charm is the glory which makesSong of the poet divine,Love is the fountain of charm.How without charm wilt thou draw,Poet! the world to thy way?Not by the lightnings of wit—Not by the thunder of scorn!These to the world, too, are given;Wit it possesses, and scorn—Charm is the poet's alone.Hollow and dull are the great,And artists envious, and the mob profane.We know all this, we know!Cam'st thou from heaven, O childOf light! but this to declare?Alas, to help us forgetSuch barren knowledge awhile,God gave the poet his song!Therefore a secret unrestTortured thee, brilliant and bold!Therefore triumph itselfTasted amiss to thy soul.Therefore, with blood of thy foes,Trickled in silence thine own.Therefore the victor's heartBroke on the field of his fame.Ah! as of old, from the pompOf Italian Milan, the fairFlower of marble of whiteSouthern palaces—stepsBorder'd by statues, and walksTerraced, and orange-bowersHeavy with fragrance—the blondGerman Kaiser full oftLong'd himself back to the fields,Rivers, and high-roof'd townsOf his native Germany; so,So, how often! from hotParis drawing-rooms, and lampsBlazing, and brilliant crowds,Starr'd and jewell'd, of menFamous, of women the queensOf dazzling converse—from fumesOf praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brainThat mount, that madden—how oftHeine's spirit outwornLong'd itself out of the din,Back to the tranquil, the coolFar German home of his youth!See! in the May-afternoon,O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz,A youth, with the foot of youth,Heine! thou climbest again!Up, through the tall dark firsWarming their heads in the sun,Chequering the grass with their shade—Up, by the stream, with its hugeMoss-hung boulders, and thinMusical water half-hid—Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope,With the sinking sun, and the airChill, and the shadows nowLong on the grey hill-side—To the stone-roof'd hut at the top!Or, yet later, in watchOn the roof of the Brocken-towerThou standest, gazing!—to seeThe broad red sun, over field,Forest, and city, and spire,And mist-track'd stream of the wide,Wide German land, going downIn a bank of vapours——againStandest, at nightfall, alone!Or, next morning, with limbsRested by slumber, and heartFreshen'd and light with the May,O'er the gracious spurs coming downOf the Lower Hartz, among oaks,And beechen coverts, and copseOf hazels green in whose depthIlse, the fairy transform'd,In a thousand water-breaks lightPours her petulant youth—Climbing the rock which jutsO'er the valley, the dizzily perch'dRock—to its iron crossOnce more thou cling'st; to the CrossClingest! with smiles, with a sigh!Goethe, too, had been there.[24]In the long-past winter he cameTo the frozen Hartz, with his soulPassionate, eager—his youthAll in ferment!—but heDestined to work and to liveLeft it, and thou, alas!Only to laugh and to die.But something prompts me: Not thusTake leave of Heine! not thusSpeak the last word at his grave!Not in pity, and notWith half censure—with aweHail, as it passes from earthScattering lightnings, that soul!The Spirit of the world,Beholding the absurdity of men—Their vaunts, their feats—let a sardonic smile,For one short moment, wander o'er his lips.That smile was Heine!—for its earthly hourThe strange guest sparkled; now 'tis pass'd away.That was Heine! and we,Myriads who live, who have lived,What are we all, but a mood,A single mood, of the lifeOf the Spirit in whom we exist,Who alone is all things in one?Spirit, who fillest us all!Spirit, who utterest in eachNew-coming son of mankindSuch of thy thoughts as thou wilt!O thou, one of whose moods,Bitter and strange, was the lifeOf Heine—his strange, alas,His bitter life!—may a lifeOther and milder be mine!May'st thou a mood more serene,Happier, have utter'd in mine!May'st thou the rapture of peaceDeep have embreathed at its core;Made it a ray of thy thought,Made it a beat of thy joy!
"Henri Heine"—— 'tis here!That black tombstone, the nameCarved there—no more! and the smooth,Swarded alleys, the limesTouch'd with yellow by hotSummer, but under them still,In September's bright afternoon,Shadow, and verdure, and cool.Trim Montmartre! the faintMurmur of Paris outside;Crisp everlasting-flowers,Yellow and black, on the graves.
Half blind, palsied, in pain,Hither to come, from the streets'Uproar, surely not loathWast thou, Heine!—to lieQuiet, to ask for closedShutters, and darken'd room,And cool drinks, and an easedPosture, and opium, no more;Hither to come, and to sleepUnder the wings of Renown.
Ah! not little, when painIs most quelling, and manEasily quell'd, and the fineTemper of genius so soonThrills at each smart, is the praise,Not to have yielded to pain!No small boast, for a weakSon of mankind, to the earthPinn'd by the thunder, to rearHis bolt-scathed front to the stars;And, undaunted, retort'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,Tyrannous tempests of bale,Arrowy lightnings of soul.
Hark! through the alley resoundsMocking laughter! A filmCreeps o'er the sunshine; a breezeRuffles the warm afternoon,Saddens my soul with its chill.Gibing of spirits in scornShakes every leaf of the grove,Mars the benignant reposeOf this amiable home of the dead.
Bitter spirits, ye claimHeine?—Alas, he is yours!Only a moment I long'dHere in the quiet to snatchFrom such mates the outwornPoet, and steep him in calm.Only a moment! I knewWhose he was who is hereBuried—I knew he was yours!Ah, I knew that I sawHere no sepulchre builtIn the laurell'd rock, o'er the blueNaples bay, for a sweetTender Virgil! no tombOn Ravenna sands, in the shadeOf Ravenna pines, for a highAustere Dante! no graveBy the Avon side, in the brightStratford meadows, for thee,Shakespeare! loveliest of souls,Peerless in radiance, in joy.
What, then, so harsh and malign,Heine! distils from thy life?Poisons the peace of the grave?
I chide with thee not, that thy sharpUpbraidings often assail'dEngland, my country—for we,Heavy and sad, for her sons,Long since, deep in our hearts,Echo the blame of her foes.We, too, sigh that she flags;We, too, say that she now—Scarce comprehending the voiceOf her greatest, golden-mouth'd sonsOf a former age any more—Stupidly travels her roundOf mechanic business, and letsSlow die out of her lifeGlory, and genius, and joy.
So thou arraign'st her, her foe;So we arraign her, her sons.
Yes, we arraign her! but she,The weary Titan, with deafEars, and labour-dimm'd eyes,Regarding neither to rightNor left, goes passively by,Staggering on to her goal;Bearing on shoulders immense,Atlanteän, the load,Wellnigh not to be borne,Of the too vast orb of her fate.
But was it thou—I thinkSurely it was!—that bardUnnamed, who, Goethe said,Had every other gift, but wanted love;Love, without which the tongueEven of angels sounds amiss?
Charm is the glory which makesSong of the poet divine,Love is the fountain of charm.How without charm wilt thou draw,Poet! the world to thy way?Not by the lightnings of wit—Not by the thunder of scorn!These to the world, too, are given;Wit it possesses, and scorn—Charm is the poet's alone.Hollow and dull are the great,And artists envious, and the mob profane.We know all this, we know!Cam'st thou from heaven, O childOf light! but this to declare?Alas, to help us forgetSuch barren knowledge awhile,God gave the poet his song!
Therefore a secret unrestTortured thee, brilliant and bold!Therefore triumph itselfTasted amiss to thy soul.Therefore, with blood of thy foes,Trickled in silence thine own.Therefore the victor's heartBroke on the field of his fame.
Ah! as of old, from the pompOf Italian Milan, the fairFlower of marble of whiteSouthern palaces—stepsBorder'd by statues, and walksTerraced, and orange-bowersHeavy with fragrance—the blondGerman Kaiser full oftLong'd himself back to the fields,Rivers, and high-roof'd townsOf his native Germany; so,So, how often! from hotParis drawing-rooms, and lampsBlazing, and brilliant crowds,Starr'd and jewell'd, of menFamous, of women the queensOf dazzling converse—from fumesOf praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brainThat mount, that madden—how oftHeine's spirit outwornLong'd itself out of the din,Back to the tranquil, the coolFar German home of his youth!
See! in the May-afternoon,O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz,A youth, with the foot of youth,Heine! thou climbest again!Up, through the tall dark firsWarming their heads in the sun,Chequering the grass with their shade—Up, by the stream, with its hugeMoss-hung boulders, and thinMusical water half-hid—Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope,With the sinking sun, and the airChill, and the shadows nowLong on the grey hill-side—To the stone-roof'd hut at the top!
Or, yet later, in watchOn the roof of the Brocken-towerThou standest, gazing!—to seeThe broad red sun, over field,Forest, and city, and spire,And mist-track'd stream of the wide,Wide German land, going downIn a bank of vapours——againStandest, at nightfall, alone!
Or, next morning, with limbsRested by slumber, and heartFreshen'd and light with the May,O'er the gracious spurs coming downOf the Lower Hartz, among oaks,And beechen coverts, and copseOf hazels green in whose depthIlse, the fairy transform'd,In a thousand water-breaks lightPours her petulant youth—Climbing the rock which jutsO'er the valley, the dizzily perch'dRock—to its iron crossOnce more thou cling'st; to the CrossClingest! with smiles, with a sigh!
Goethe, too, had been there.[24]In the long-past winter he cameTo the frozen Hartz, with his soulPassionate, eager—his youthAll in ferment!—but heDestined to work and to liveLeft it, and thou, alas!Only to laugh and to die.
But something prompts me: Not thusTake leave of Heine! not thusSpeak the last word at his grave!Not in pity, and notWith half censure—with aweHail, as it passes from earthScattering lightnings, that soul!
The Spirit of the world,Beholding the absurdity of men—Their vaunts, their feats—let a sardonic smile,For one short moment, wander o'er his lips.That smile was Heine!—for its earthly hourThe strange guest sparkled; now 'tis pass'd away.
That was Heine! and we,Myriads who live, who have lived,What are we all, but a mood,A single mood, of the lifeOf the Spirit in whom we exist,Who alone is all things in one?
Spirit, who fillest us all!Spirit, who utterest in eachNew-coming son of mankindSuch of thy thoughts as thou wilt!O thou, one of whose moods,Bitter and strange, was the lifeOf Heine—his strange, alas,His bitter life!—may a lifeOther and milder be mine!May'st thou a mood more serene,Happier, have utter'd in mine!May'st thou the rapture of peaceDeep have embreathed at its core;Made it a ray of thy thought,Made it a beat of thy joy!
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffusedWith rain, where thick the crocus blows,Past the dark forges long disused,The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,Through forest, up the mountain-side.The autumnal evening darkens round,The wind is up, and drives the rain;While, hark! far down, with strangled soundDoth the Dead Guier's stream complain,Where that wet smoke, among the woods,Over his boiling cauldron broods.Swift rush the spectral vapours whitePast limestone scars with ragged pines,Showing—then blotting from our sight!—Halt—through the cloud-drift something shines!High in the valley, wet and drear,The huts of Courrerie appear.Strike leftward!cries our guide; and higherMounts up the stony forest-way.At last the encircling trees retire;Look! through the showery twilight greyWhat pointed roofs are these advance?—A palace of the Kings of France?Approach, for what we seek is here!Alight, and sparely sup, and waitFor rest in this outbuilding near;Then cross the sward and reach that gate.Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art comeTo the Carthusians' world-famed home.The silent courts, where night and dayInto their stone-carved basins coldThe splashing icy fountains play—The humid corridors behold!Where, ghostlike in the deepening night,Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white.The chapel, where no organ's pealInvests the stern and naked prayer—With penitential cries they kneelAnd wrestle; rising then, with bareAnd white uplifted faces stand,Passing the Host from hand to hand;Each takes, and then his visage wanIs buried in his cowl once more.The cells!—the suffering Son of ManUpon the wall—the knee-worn floor—And where they sleep, that wooden bed,Which shall their coffin be, when dead!The library, where tract and tomeNot to feed priestly pride are there,To hymn the conquering march of Rome,Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!They paint of souls the inner strife,Their drops of blood, their death in life.The garden, overgrown—yet mild,See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!Strong children of the Alpine wildWhose culture is the brethren's care;Of human tasks their only one,And cheerful works beneath the sun.Those halls, too, destined to containEach its own pilgrim-host of old,From England, Germany, or Spain—All are before me! I beholdThe House, the Brotherhood austere!—And what am I, that I am here?For rigorous teachers seized my youth,And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire,Show'd me the high, white star of Truth,There bade me gaze, and there aspire.Even now their whispers pierce the gloom:What dost thou in this living tomb?Forgive me, masters of the mind!At whose behest I long agoSo much unlearnt, so much resign'd—I come not here to be your foe!I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,To curse and to deny your truth;Not as their friend, or child, I speak!But as, on some far northern strand,Thinking of his own Gods, a GreekIn pity and mournful awe might standBefore some fallen Runic stone—For both were faiths, and both are gone.Wandering between two worlds, one dead,The other powerless to be born,With nowhere yet to rest my head,Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.Their faith, my tears, the world deride—I come to shed them at their side.Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,Ye solemn seats of holy pain!Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round,Till I possess my soul again;Till free my thoughts before me roll,Not chafed by hourly false control!For the world cries your faith is nowBut a dead time's exploded dream;My melancholy, sciolists say,Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme—As if the world had ever hadA faith, or sciolists been sad!Ah, if itbepass'd, take away,At least, the restlessness, the pain;Be man henceforth no more a preyTo these out-dated stings again!The nobleness of grief is gone—Ah, leave us not the fret alone!But—if you cannot give us ease—Last of the race of them who grieveHere leave us to die out with theseLast of the people who believe!Silent, while years engrave the brow;Silent—the best are silent now.Achilles ponders in his tent,The kings of modern thought are dumb;Silent they are, though not content,And wait to see the future come.They have the grief men had of yore,But they contend and cry no more.Our fathers water'd with their tearsThis sea of time whereon we sail,Their voices were in all men's earsWho pass'd within their puissant hail.Still the same ocean round us raves,But we stand mute, and watch the waves.For what avail'd it, all the noiseAnd outcry of the former men?—Say, have their sons achieved more joys,Say, is life lighter now than then?The sufferers died, they left their pain—The pangs which tortured them remain.What helps it now, that Byron bore,With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart,Through Europe to the Ætolian shoreThe pageant of his bleeding heart?That thousands counted every groan,And Europe made his woe her own?What boots it, Shelley! that the breezeCarried thy lovely wail away,Musical through Italian treesWhich fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?Inheritors of thy distressHave restless hearts one throb the less?Or are we easier, to have read,O Obermann! the sad, stern page,Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy headFrom the fierce tempest of thine ageIn the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,Or chalets near the Alpine snow?Ye slumber in your silent grave!—The world, which for an idle dayGrace to your mood of sadness gave,Long since hath flung her weeds away.The eternal trifler breaks your spell;But we—we learnt your lore too well!Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age,More fortunate, alas! than we,Which without hardness will be sage,And gay without frivolity.Sons of the world, oh, speed those years;But, while we wait, allow our tears!Allow them! We admire with aweThe exulting thunder of your race;You give the universe your law,You triumph over time and space!Your pride of life, your tireless powers,We laud them, but they are not ours.We are like children rear'd in shadeBeneath some old-world abbey wall,Forgotten in a forest-glade,And secret from the eyes of all.Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves,Their abbey, and its close of graves!But, where the road runs near the stream,Oft through the trees they catch a glanceOf passing troops in the sun's beam—Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance!Forth to the world those soldiers fare,To life, to cities, and to war!And through the wood, another way,Faint bugle-notes from far are borne,Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,Round some fair forest-lodge at morn.Gay dames are there, in sylvan green;Laughter and cries—those notes between!The banners flashing through the treesMake their blood dance and chain their eyesThat bugle-music on the breezeArrests them with a charm'd surprise.Banner by turns and bugle woo:Ye shy recluses, follow too!O children, what do ye reply?—"Action and pleasure, will ye roamThrough these secluded dells to cryAnd call us?—but too late ye come!Too late for us your call ye blow,Whose bent was taken long ago."Long since we pace this shadow'd nave;We watch those yellow tapers shine,Emblems of hope over the grave,In the high altar's depth divine;The organ carries to our earIts accents of another sphere."Fenced early in this cloistral roundOf reverie, of shade, of prayer,How should we grow in other ground?How can we flower in foreign air?—Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease;And leave our desert to its peace!"
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffusedWith rain, where thick the crocus blows,Past the dark forges long disused,The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,Through forest, up the mountain-side.
The autumnal evening darkens round,The wind is up, and drives the rain;While, hark! far down, with strangled soundDoth the Dead Guier's stream complain,Where that wet smoke, among the woods,Over his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapours whitePast limestone scars with ragged pines,Showing—then blotting from our sight!—Halt—through the cloud-drift something shines!High in the valley, wet and drear,The huts of Courrerie appear.
Strike leftward!cries our guide; and higherMounts up the stony forest-way.At last the encircling trees retire;Look! through the showery twilight greyWhat pointed roofs are these advance?—A palace of the Kings of France?
Approach, for what we seek is here!Alight, and sparely sup, and waitFor rest in this outbuilding near;Then cross the sward and reach that gate.Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art comeTo the Carthusians' world-famed home.
The silent courts, where night and dayInto their stone-carved basins coldThe splashing icy fountains play—The humid corridors behold!Where, ghostlike in the deepening night,Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white.
The chapel, where no organ's pealInvests the stern and naked prayer—With penitential cries they kneelAnd wrestle; rising then, with bareAnd white uplifted faces stand,Passing the Host from hand to hand;Each takes, and then his visage wanIs buried in his cowl once more.The cells!—the suffering Son of ManUpon the wall—the knee-worn floor—And where they sleep, that wooden bed,Which shall their coffin be, when dead!
The library, where tract and tomeNot to feed priestly pride are there,To hymn the conquering march of Rome,Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!They paint of souls the inner strife,Their drops of blood, their death in life.
The garden, overgrown—yet mild,See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!Strong children of the Alpine wildWhose culture is the brethren's care;Of human tasks their only one,And cheerful works beneath the sun.
Those halls, too, destined to containEach its own pilgrim-host of old,From England, Germany, or Spain—All are before me! I beholdThe House, the Brotherhood austere!—And what am I, that I am here?
For rigorous teachers seized my youth,And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire,Show'd me the high, white star of Truth,There bade me gaze, and there aspire.Even now their whispers pierce the gloom:What dost thou in this living tomb?
Forgive me, masters of the mind!At whose behest I long agoSo much unlearnt, so much resign'd—I come not here to be your foe!I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,To curse and to deny your truth;
Not as their friend, or child, I speak!But as, on some far northern strand,Thinking of his own Gods, a GreekIn pity and mournful awe might standBefore some fallen Runic stone—For both were faiths, and both are gone.
Wandering between two worlds, one dead,The other powerless to be born,With nowhere yet to rest my head,Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.Their faith, my tears, the world deride—I come to shed them at their side.
Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,Ye solemn seats of holy pain!Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round,Till I possess my soul again;Till free my thoughts before me roll,Not chafed by hourly false control!
For the world cries your faith is nowBut a dead time's exploded dream;My melancholy, sciolists say,Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme—As if the world had ever hadA faith, or sciolists been sad!
Ah, if itbepass'd, take away,At least, the restlessness, the pain;Be man henceforth no more a preyTo these out-dated stings again!The nobleness of grief is gone—Ah, leave us not the fret alone!
But—if you cannot give us ease—Last of the race of them who grieveHere leave us to die out with theseLast of the people who believe!Silent, while years engrave the brow;Silent—the best are silent now.
Achilles ponders in his tent,The kings of modern thought are dumb;Silent they are, though not content,And wait to see the future come.They have the grief men had of yore,But they contend and cry no more.
Our fathers water'd with their tearsThis sea of time whereon we sail,Their voices were in all men's earsWho pass'd within their puissant hail.Still the same ocean round us raves,But we stand mute, and watch the waves.
For what avail'd it, all the noiseAnd outcry of the former men?—Say, have their sons achieved more joys,Say, is life lighter now than then?The sufferers died, they left their pain—The pangs which tortured them remain.
What helps it now, that Byron bore,With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart,Through Europe to the Ætolian shoreThe pageant of his bleeding heart?That thousands counted every groan,And Europe made his woe her own?
What boots it, Shelley! that the breezeCarried thy lovely wail away,Musical through Italian treesWhich fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?Inheritors of thy distressHave restless hearts one throb the less?
Or are we easier, to have read,O Obermann! the sad, stern page,Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy headFrom the fierce tempest of thine ageIn the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,Or chalets near the Alpine snow?
Ye slumber in your silent grave!—The world, which for an idle dayGrace to your mood of sadness gave,Long since hath flung her weeds away.The eternal trifler breaks your spell;But we—we learnt your lore too well!
Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age,More fortunate, alas! than we,Which without hardness will be sage,And gay without frivolity.Sons of the world, oh, speed those years;But, while we wait, allow our tears!
Allow them! We admire with aweThe exulting thunder of your race;You give the universe your law,You triumph over time and space!Your pride of life, your tireless powers,We laud them, but they are not ours.
We are like children rear'd in shadeBeneath some old-world abbey wall,Forgotten in a forest-glade,And secret from the eyes of all.Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves,Their abbey, and its close of graves!
But, where the road runs near the stream,Oft through the trees they catch a glanceOf passing troops in the sun's beam—Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance!Forth to the world those soldiers fare,To life, to cities, and to war!
And through the wood, another way,Faint bugle-notes from far are borne,Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,Round some fair forest-lodge at morn.Gay dames are there, in sylvan green;Laughter and cries—those notes between!
The banners flashing through the treesMake their blood dance and chain their eyesThat bugle-music on the breezeArrests them with a charm'd surprise.Banner by turns and bugle woo:Ye shy recluses, follow too!
O children, what do ye reply?—"Action and pleasure, will ye roamThrough these secluded dells to cryAnd call us?—but too late ye come!Too late for us your call ye blow,Whose bent was taken long ago.
"Long since we pace this shadow'd nave;We watch those yellow tapers shine,Emblems of hope over the grave,In the high altar's depth divine;The organ carries to our earIts accents of another sphere.
"Fenced early in this cloistral roundOf reverie, of shade, of prayer,How should we grow in other ground?How can we flower in foreign air?—Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease;And leave our desert to its peace!"
In front the awful Alpine trackCrawls up its rocky stair;The autumn storm-winds drive the rack,Close o'er it, in the air.Behind are the abandon'd baths[26]Mute in their meadows lone;The leaves are on the valley-paths,The mists are on the Rhone—The white mists rolling like a sea!I hear the torrents roar.—Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee;I feel thee near once more!I turn thy leaves! I feel their breathOnce more upon me roll;That air of languor, cold, and death,Which brooded o'er thy soul.Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art,Condemn'd to cast about,All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,For comfort from without!A fever in these pages burnsBeneath the calm they feign;A wounded human spirit turns,Here, on its bed of pain.Yes, though the virgin mountain-airFresh through these pages blows;Though to these leaves the glaciers spareThe soul of their white snows;Though here a mountain-murmur swellsOf many a dark-bough'd pine;Though, as you read, you hear the bellsOf the high-pasturing kine—Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,And brooding mountain-bee,There sobs I know not what ground-toneOf human agony.Is it for this, because the soundIs fraught too deep with pain,That, Obermann! the world aroundSo little loves thy strain?Some secrets may the poet tell,For the world loves new ways;To tell too deep ones is not well—It knows not what he says.Yet, of the spirits who have reign'dIn this our troubled day,I know but two, who have attain'd,Save thee, to see their way.By England's lakes, in grey old age,His quiet home one keeps;And one, the strong much-toiling sage,In German Weimar sleeps.But Wordsworth's eyes avert their kenFrom half of human fate;And Goethe's course few sons of menMay think to emulate.For he pursued a lonely road,His eyes on Nature's plan;Neither made man too much a God,Nor God too much a man.Strong was he, with a spirit freeFrom mists, and sane, and clear;Clearer, how much! than ours—yet weHave a worse course to steer.For though his manhood bore the blastOf a tremendous time,Yet in a tranquil world was pass'dHis tenderer youthful prime.But we, brought forth and rear'd in hoursOf change, alarm, surprise—What shelter to grow ripe is ours?What leisure to grow wise?Like children bathing on the shore,Buried a wave beneath,The second wave succeeds, beforeWe have had time to breathe.Too fast we live, too much are tried,Too harass'd, to attainWordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wideAnd luminous view to gain.And then we turn, thou sadder sage,To thee! we feel thy spell!—The hopeless tangle of our age,Thou too hast scann'd it well!Immoveable thou sittest, stillAs death, composed to bear!Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,And icy thy despair.Yes, as the son of Thetis said,I hear thee saying now:Greater by far than thou art dead;Strive not! die also thou!Ah! two desires toss aboutThe poet's feverish blood.One drives him to the world without,And one to solitude.The glow, he cries,the thrill of life,Where, where do these abound?—Not in the world, not in the strifeOf men, shall they be found.He who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife,Knows how the day hath gone.He only lives with the world's life,Who hath renounced his own.To thee we come, then! Clouds are roll'dWhere thou, O seer! art set;Thy realm of thought is drear and cold—The world is colder yet!And thou hast pleasures, too, to shareWith those who come to thee—Balms floating on thy mountain-air,And healing sights to see.How often, where the slopes are greenOn Jaman, hast thou sateBy some high chalet-door, and seenThe summer-day grow late;And darkness steal o'er the wet grassWith the pale crocus starr'd,And reach that glimmering sheet of glassBeneath the piny sward,Lake Leman's waters, far below!And watch'd the rosy lightFade from the distant peaks of snow;And on the air of nightHeard accents of the eternal tongueThrough the pine branches play—Listen'd, and felt thyself grow young!Listen'd and wept——Away!Away the dreams that but deceiveAnd thou, sad guide, adieu!I go, fate drives me; but I leaveHalf of my life with you.We, in some unknown Power's employ,Move on a rigorous line;Can neither, when we will, enjoy,Nor, when we will, resign.I in the world must live; but thou,Thou melancholy shade!Wilt not, if thou canst see me now,Condemn me, nor upbraid.For thou art gone away from earth,And place with those dost claim,The Children of the Second Birth,Whom the world could not tame;And with that small, transfigured band,Whom many a different wayConducted to their common land,Thou learn'st to think as they.Christian and pagan, king and slave,Soldier and anchorite,Distinctions we esteem so grave,Are nothing in their sight.They do not ask, who pined unseen,Who was on action hurl'd,Whose one bond is, that all have beenUnspotted by the world.There without anger thou wilt seeHim who obeys thy spellNo more, so he but rest, like thee,Unsoil'd!—and so, farewell.Farewell!—Whether thou now liest nearThat much-loved inland sea,The ripples of whose blue waves cheerVevey and Meillerie:And in that gracious region bland,Where with clear-rustling waveThe scented pines of SwitzerlandStand dark round thy green grave,Between the dusty vineyard-wallsIssuing on that green placeThe early peasant still recallsThe pensive stranger's face,And stoops to clear thy moss-grown dateEre he plods on again;—Or whether, by maligner fate,Among the swarms of men,Where between granite terracesThe blue Seine rolls her wave,The Capital of Pleasure seesThe hardly heard-of grave;—Farewell! Under the sky we part,In the stern Alpine dell.O unstrung will! O broken heart!A last, a last farewell!
In front the awful Alpine trackCrawls up its rocky stair;The autumn storm-winds drive the rack,Close o'er it, in the air.
Behind are the abandon'd baths[26]Mute in their meadows lone;The leaves are on the valley-paths,The mists are on the Rhone—
The white mists rolling like a sea!I hear the torrents roar.—Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee;I feel thee near once more!
I turn thy leaves! I feel their breathOnce more upon me roll;That air of languor, cold, and death,Which brooded o'er thy soul.
Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art,Condemn'd to cast about,All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,For comfort from without!
A fever in these pages burnsBeneath the calm they feign;A wounded human spirit turns,Here, on its bed of pain.
Yes, though the virgin mountain-airFresh through these pages blows;Though to these leaves the glaciers spareThe soul of their white snows;
Though here a mountain-murmur swellsOf many a dark-bough'd pine;Though, as you read, you hear the bellsOf the high-pasturing kine—
Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,And brooding mountain-bee,There sobs I know not what ground-toneOf human agony.
Is it for this, because the soundIs fraught too deep with pain,That, Obermann! the world aroundSo little loves thy strain?
Some secrets may the poet tell,For the world loves new ways;To tell too deep ones is not well—It knows not what he says.
Yet, of the spirits who have reign'dIn this our troubled day,I know but two, who have attain'd,Save thee, to see their way.
By England's lakes, in grey old age,His quiet home one keeps;And one, the strong much-toiling sage,In German Weimar sleeps.
But Wordsworth's eyes avert their kenFrom half of human fate;And Goethe's course few sons of menMay think to emulate.
For he pursued a lonely road,His eyes on Nature's plan;Neither made man too much a God,Nor God too much a man.
Strong was he, with a spirit freeFrom mists, and sane, and clear;Clearer, how much! than ours—yet weHave a worse course to steer.
For though his manhood bore the blastOf a tremendous time,Yet in a tranquil world was pass'dHis tenderer youthful prime.
But we, brought forth and rear'd in hoursOf change, alarm, surprise—What shelter to grow ripe is ours?What leisure to grow wise?
Like children bathing on the shore,Buried a wave beneath,The second wave succeeds, beforeWe have had time to breathe.
Too fast we live, too much are tried,Too harass'd, to attainWordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wideAnd luminous view to gain.
And then we turn, thou sadder sage,To thee! we feel thy spell!—The hopeless tangle of our age,Thou too hast scann'd it well!
Immoveable thou sittest, stillAs death, composed to bear!Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,And icy thy despair.
Yes, as the son of Thetis said,I hear thee saying now:Greater by far than thou art dead;Strive not! die also thou!
Ah! two desires toss aboutThe poet's feverish blood.One drives him to the world without,And one to solitude.
The glow, he cries,the thrill of life,Where, where do these abound?—Not in the world, not in the strifeOf men, shall they be found.
He who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife,Knows how the day hath gone.He only lives with the world's life,Who hath renounced his own.
To thee we come, then! Clouds are roll'dWhere thou, O seer! art set;Thy realm of thought is drear and cold—The world is colder yet!
And thou hast pleasures, too, to shareWith those who come to thee—Balms floating on thy mountain-air,And healing sights to see.
How often, where the slopes are greenOn Jaman, hast thou sateBy some high chalet-door, and seenThe summer-day grow late;And darkness steal o'er the wet grassWith the pale crocus starr'd,And reach that glimmering sheet of glassBeneath the piny sward,
Lake Leman's waters, far below!And watch'd the rosy lightFade from the distant peaks of snow;And on the air of night
Heard accents of the eternal tongueThrough the pine branches play—Listen'd, and felt thyself grow young!Listen'd and wept——Away!
Away the dreams that but deceiveAnd thou, sad guide, adieu!I go, fate drives me; but I leaveHalf of my life with you.
We, in some unknown Power's employ,Move on a rigorous line;Can neither, when we will, enjoy,Nor, when we will, resign.
I in the world must live; but thou,Thou melancholy shade!Wilt not, if thou canst see me now,Condemn me, nor upbraid.
For thou art gone away from earth,And place with those dost claim,The Children of the Second Birth,Whom the world could not tame;And with that small, transfigured band,Whom many a different wayConducted to their common land,Thou learn'st to think as they.
Christian and pagan, king and slave,Soldier and anchorite,Distinctions we esteem so grave,Are nothing in their sight.
They do not ask, who pined unseen,Who was on action hurl'd,Whose one bond is, that all have beenUnspotted by the world.
There without anger thou wilt seeHim who obeys thy spellNo more, so he but rest, like thee,Unsoil'd!—and so, farewell.
Farewell!—Whether thou now liest nearThat much-loved inland sea,The ripples of whose blue waves cheerVevey and Meillerie:
And in that gracious region bland,Where with clear-rustling waveThe scented pines of SwitzerlandStand dark round thy green grave,
Between the dusty vineyard-wallsIssuing on that green placeThe early peasant still recallsThe pensive stranger's face,And stoops to clear thy moss-grown dateEre he plods on again;—Or whether, by maligner fate,Among the swarms of men,
Where between granite terracesThe blue Seine rolls her wave,The Capital of Pleasure seesThe hardly heard-of grave;—
Farewell! Under the sky we part,In the stern Alpine dell.O unstrung will! O broken heart!A last, a last farewell!
Obermann.