Down the Savoy valleys sounding,Echoing round this castle old,'Mid the distant mountain-chaletsHark! what bell for church is toll'd?In the bright October morningSavoy's Duke had left his bride.From the castle, past the drawbridge,Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;Gay, her smiling lord to greet,From her mullion'd chamber-casementSmiles the Duchess Marguerite.From Vienna, by the Danube,Here she came, a bride, in spring.Now the autumn crisps the forest;Hunters gather, bugles ring.Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,Westward, on the side of France.Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!—Down the forest-ridings lone,Furious, single horsemen gallop——Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!
Down the Savoy valleys sounding,Echoing round this castle old,'Mid the distant mountain-chaletsHark! what bell for church is toll'd?
In the bright October morningSavoy's Duke had left his bride.From the castle, past the drawbridge,Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.
Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;Gay, her smiling lord to greet,From her mullion'd chamber-casementSmiles the Duchess Marguerite.
From Vienna, by the Danube,Here she came, a bride, in spring.Now the autumn crisps the forest;Hunters gather, bugles ring.
Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,Westward, on the side of France.
Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!—Down the forest-ridings lone,Furious, single horsemen gallop——Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!
Pale and breathless, came the hunters;On the turf dead lies the boar—God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him,Senseless, weltering in his gore.
Pale and breathless, came the hunters;On the turf dead lies the boar—God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him,Senseless, weltering in his gore.
In the dull October evening,Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,To the castle, past the drawbridge,Came the hunters with their load.In the hall, with sconces blazing,Ladies waiting round her seat,Clothed in smiles, beneath the daïsSate the Duchess Marguerite.Hark! below the gates unbarring!Tramp of men and quick commands!"—'Tis my lord come back from hunting—"And the Duchess claps her hands.Slow and tired, came the hunters—Stopp'd in darkness in the court."—Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!To the hall! What sport? What sport?"—Slow they enter'd with their master;In the hall they laid him down.On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,On his brow an angry frown.Dead her princely youthful husbandLay before his youthful wife,Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces—And the sight froze all her life.
In the dull October evening,Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,To the castle, past the drawbridge,Came the hunters with their load.
In the hall, with sconces blazing,Ladies waiting round her seat,Clothed in smiles, beneath the daïsSate the Duchess Marguerite.
Hark! below the gates unbarring!Tramp of men and quick commands!"—'Tis my lord come back from hunting—"And the Duchess claps her hands.
Slow and tired, came the hunters—Stopp'd in darkness in the court."—Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!To the hall! What sport? What sport?"—
Slow they enter'd with their master;In the hall they laid him down.On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,On his brow an angry frown.
Dead her princely youthful husbandLay before his youthful wife,Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces—And the sight froze all her life.
In Vienna, by the Danube,Kings hold revel, gallants meet.Gay of old amid the gayestWas the Duchess Marguerite.In Vienna, by the Danube,Feast and dance her youth beguiled.Till that hour she never sorrow'd;But from then she never smiled.'Mid the Savoy mountain valleysFar from town or haunt of man,Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd,Which the Duchess Maud began;Old, that Duchess stern began it,In gray age, with palsied hands;But she died while it was building,And the Church unfinish'd stands—Stands as erst the builders left it,When she sank into her grave;Mountain greensward paves the chancel,Harebells flower in the nave"—In my castle all is sorrow,"Said the Duchess Marguerite then;"Guide me, some one, to the mountain!We will build the Church again."—Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward,Austrian knights from Syria came."—Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!Homage to your Austrian dame."—From the gate the warders answer'd:"—Gone, O knights, is she you knew!Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess;Seek her at the Church of Brou!"—Austrian knights and much-worn palmersClimb the winding mountain-way—Reach the valley, where the FabricRises higher day by day.Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;On the work the bright sun shines,In the Savoy mountain-meadows,By the stream, below the pines.On her palfrey white the DuchessSate and watch'd her working train—Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,German masons, smiths from Spain.Clad in black, on her white palfrey,Her old architect beside—There they found her in the mountains,Morn and noon and eventide.There she sate, and watch'd the builders,Till the Church was roof'd and done.Last of all, the builders rear'd herIn the nave a tomb of stone.On the tomb two forms they sculptured,Lifelike in the marble pale—One, the Duke in helm and armour;One, the Duchess in her veil.Round the tomb the carved stone fretworkWas at Easter-tide put on.Then the Duchess closed her labours;And she died at the St. John.
In Vienna, by the Danube,Kings hold revel, gallants meet.Gay of old amid the gayestWas the Duchess Marguerite.
In Vienna, by the Danube,Feast and dance her youth beguiled.Till that hour she never sorrow'd;But from then she never smiled.
'Mid the Savoy mountain valleysFar from town or haunt of man,Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd,Which the Duchess Maud began;
Old, that Duchess stern began it,In gray age, with palsied hands;But she died while it was building,And the Church unfinish'd stands—
Stands as erst the builders left it,When she sank into her grave;Mountain greensward paves the chancel,Harebells flower in the nave
"—In my castle all is sorrow,"Said the Duchess Marguerite then;"Guide me, some one, to the mountain!We will build the Church again."—
Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward,Austrian knights from Syria came."—Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!Homage to your Austrian dame."—
From the gate the warders answer'd:"—Gone, O knights, is she you knew!Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess;Seek her at the Church of Brou!"—
Austrian knights and much-worn palmersClimb the winding mountain-way—Reach the valley, where the FabricRises higher day by day.
Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;On the work the bright sun shines,In the Savoy mountain-meadows,By the stream, below the pines.
On her palfrey white the DuchessSate and watch'd her working train—Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,German masons, smiths from Spain.
Clad in black, on her white palfrey,Her old architect beside—There they found her in the mountains,Morn and noon and eventide.
There she sate, and watch'd the builders,Till the Church was roof'd and done.Last of all, the builders rear'd herIn the nave a tomb of stone.
On the tomb two forms they sculptured,Lifelike in the marble pale—One, the Duke in helm and armour;One, the Duchess in her veil.
Round the tomb the carved stone fretworkWas at Easter-tide put on.Then the Duchess closed her labours;And she died at the St. John.
Upon the glistening leaden roofOf the new Pile, the sunlight shines;The stream goes leaping by.The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,Stands the Church on high.What Church is this, from men aloof?—'Tis the Church of Brou.At sunrise, from their dewy lairCrossing the stream, the kine are seenRound the wall to stray—The churchyard wall that clips the squareOf open hill-sward fresh and greenWhere last year they lay.But all things now are order'd fairRound the Church of Brou.On Sundays, at the matin-chime,The Alpine peasants, two and three,Climb up here to pray;Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,Ride out to church from Chambery,Dight with mantles gay.But else it is a lonely timeRound the Church of Brou.On Sundays, too, a priest doth comeFrom the wall'd town beyond the pass,Down the mountain-way;And then you hear the organ's hum,You hear the white-robed priest say mass,And the people pray.But else the woods and fields are dumbRound the Church of Brou.And after church, when mass is done,The people to the nave repairRound the tomb to stray;And marvel at the Forms of stone,And praise the chisell'd broideries rare—Then they drop away.The princely Pair are left aloneIn the Church of Brou.
Upon the glistening leaden roofOf the new Pile, the sunlight shines;The stream goes leaping by.The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,Stands the Church on high.What Church is this, from men aloof?—'Tis the Church of Brou.
At sunrise, from their dewy lairCrossing the stream, the kine are seenRound the wall to stray—The churchyard wall that clips the squareOf open hill-sward fresh and greenWhere last year they lay.But all things now are order'd fairRound the Church of Brou.
On Sundays, at the matin-chime,The Alpine peasants, two and three,Climb up here to pray;Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,Ride out to church from Chambery,Dight with mantles gay.But else it is a lonely timeRound the Church of Brou.
On Sundays, too, a priest doth comeFrom the wall'd town beyond the pass,Down the mountain-way;And then you hear the organ's hum,You hear the white-robed priest say mass,And the people pray.But else the woods and fields are dumbRound the Church of Brou.
And after church, when mass is done,The people to the nave repairRound the tomb to stray;And marvel at the Forms of stone,And praise the chisell'd broideries rare—Then they drop away.The princely Pair are left aloneIn the Church of Brou.
So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air,Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come.Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,From the rich painted windows of the nave,On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave;Where thou, young Prince! shall never more ariseFrom the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,And ride across the drawbridge with thy houndsTo hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,Coming benighted to the castle-gate.So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!Or if ye wake, let it be then, when fairOn the carved western front a flood of lightStreams from the setting sun, and colours brightProphets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave,In the vast western window of the nave;And on the pavement round the Tomb there glintsA chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,And amethyst, and ruby—then uncloseYour eyelids on the stone where ye repose,And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,And rise upon your cold white marble beds;And, looking down on the warm rosy tints,Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints,Say:What is this? we are in bliss—forgiven—Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!Or let it be on autumn nights, when rainDoth rustlingly above your heads complainOn the smooth leaden roof, and on the wallsShedding her pensive light at intervalsThe moon through the clere-story windows shines,And the wind washes through the mountain-pines.Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high,The foliaged marble forest where ye lie,Hush, ye will say,it is eternity!This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and theseThe columns of the heavenly palaces!And, in the sweeping of the wind, your earThe passage of the Angels' wings will hear,And on the lichen-crusted leads aboveThe rustle of the eternal rain of love.
So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air,Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come.Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,From the rich painted windows of the nave,On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave;Where thou, young Prince! shall never more ariseFrom the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,And ride across the drawbridge with thy houndsTo hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,Coming benighted to the castle-gate.
So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!Or if ye wake, let it be then, when fairOn the carved western front a flood of lightStreams from the setting sun, and colours brightProphets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave,In the vast western window of the nave;And on the pavement round the Tomb there glintsA chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,And amethyst, and ruby—then uncloseYour eyelids on the stone where ye repose,And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,And rise upon your cold white marble beds;And, looking down on the warm rosy tints,Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints,Say:What is this? we are in bliss—forgiven—Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!Or let it be on autumn nights, when rainDoth rustlingly above your heads complainOn the smooth leaden roof, and on the wallsShedding her pensive light at intervalsThe moon through the clere-story windows shines,And the wind washes through the mountain-pines.Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high,The foliaged marble forest where ye lie,Hush, ye will say,it is eternity!This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and theseThe columns of the heavenly palaces!And, in the sweeping of the wind, your earThe passage of the Angels' wings will hear,And on the lichen-crusted leads aboveThe rustle of the eternal rain of love.
They are gone—all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river—Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!Ere he come—ere the boat by the shining-branch'd borderOf dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam.Last night we stood earnestly talking together;She enter'd—that moment his eyes turn'd from me!Fasten'd on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather—As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longerAre rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;I shall weep—but their love will be cooling; and he,As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breakingThe strong band which passion around him hath furl'd,Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,Perceive but a voice as I come to his side—But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.So, to wait!—--But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?'Tis he! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!—Let my turn, if itwillcome, be swift in arriving!Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee?Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O pleasure?—Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me!
They are gone—all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river—Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!
Ere he come—ere the boat by the shining-branch'd borderOf dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam.
Last night we stood earnestly talking together;She enter'd—that moment his eyes turn'd from me!Fasten'd on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather—As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.
Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longerAre rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.
I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;I shall weep—but their love will be cooling; and he,As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!
For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breakingThe strong band which passion around him hath furl'd,Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.
Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,Perceive but a voice as I come to his side—But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.
So, to wait!—--But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?'Tis he! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!—Let my turn, if itwillcome, be swift in arriving!Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.
Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee?Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O pleasure?—Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me!
Strew on her roses, roses,And never a spray of yew!In quiet she reposes;Ah, would that I did too!Her mirth the world required;She bathed it in smiles of glee.But her heart was tired, tired,And now they let her be.Her life was turning, turning,In mazes of heat and sound.But for peace her soul was yearning,And now peace laps her round.Her cabin'd, ample spirit,It flutter'd and fail'd for breath.To-night it doth inheritThe vasty hall of death.
Strew on her roses, roses,And never a spray of yew!In quiet she reposes;Ah, would that I did too!
Her mirth the world required;She bathed it in smiles of glee.But her heart was tired, tired,And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,In mazes of heat and sound.But for peace her soul was yearning,And now peace laps her round.
Her cabin'd, ample spirit,It flutter'd and fail'd for breath.To-night it doth inheritThe vasty hall of death.
'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,And ease from shame, and rest from fearThere's nothing can dismarble nowThe smoothness of that limpid brow.But is a calm like this, in truth,The crowning end of life and youth,And when this boon rewards the dead,Are all debts paid, has all been said?And is the heart of youth so light,Its step so firm, its eyes so bright,Because on its hot brow there blowsA wind of promise and reposeFrom the far grave, to which it goes;Because it hath the hope to come,One day, to harbour in the tomb?Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is oneFor daylight, for the cheerful sun,For feeling nerves and living breath—Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.It dreams a rest, if not more deep,More grateful than this marble sleep;It hears a voice within it tell:Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,But 'tis not what our youth desires.
'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,And ease from shame, and rest from fearThere's nothing can dismarble nowThe smoothness of that limpid brow.But is a calm like this, in truth,The crowning end of life and youth,And when this boon rewards the dead,Are all debts paid, has all been said?And is the heart of youth so light,Its step so firm, its eyes so bright,Because on its hot brow there blowsA wind of promise and reposeFrom the far grave, to which it goes;Because it hath the hope to come,One day, to harbour in the tomb?Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is oneFor daylight, for the cheerful sun,For feeling nerves and living breath—Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.It dreams a rest, if not more deep,More grateful than this marble sleep;It hears a voice within it tell:Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,But 'tis not what our youth desires.
Laugh, my friends, and without blameLightly quit what lightly came;Rich to-morrow as to-day,Spend as madly as you may!I, with little land to stir,Am the exacter labourer.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Once I said: "A face is goneIf too hotly mused upon;And our best impressions areThose that do themselves repair."Many a face I so let flee,Ah! is faded utterly.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Marguerite says: "As last year went,So the coming year'll be spent;Some day next year, I shall be,Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee."Ah, I hope!—yet, once away,What may chain us, who can say?Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Paint that lilac kerchief, boundHer soft face, her hair around;Tied under the archest chinMockery ever ambush'd in.Let the fluttering fringes streakAll her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Paint that figure's pliant graceAs she tow'rd me lean'd her face,Half refused and half resign'd,Murmuring: "Art thou still unkind?"Many a broken promise thenWas new made—to break again.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,Eager tell-tales of her mind;Paint, with their impetuous stressOf inquiring tenderness,Those frank eyes, where deep I seeAn angelic gravity.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!What, my friends, these feeble linesShow, you say, my love declines?To paint ill as I have done,Proves forgetfulness begun?Time's gay minions, pleased you see,Time, your master, governs me;Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry:"Quick, thy tablets, Memory!"Ah, too true! Time's current strongLeaves us fixt to nothing long.Yet, if little stays with man,Ah, retain we all we can!If the clear impression dies,Ah, the dim remembrance prize!Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Laugh, my friends, and without blameLightly quit what lightly came;Rich to-morrow as to-day,Spend as madly as you may!I, with little land to stir,Am the exacter labourer.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Once I said: "A face is goneIf too hotly mused upon;And our best impressions areThose that do themselves repair."Many a face I so let flee,Ah! is faded utterly.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Marguerite says: "As last year went,So the coming year'll be spent;Some day next year, I shall be,Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee."Ah, I hope!—yet, once away,What may chain us, who can say?Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that lilac kerchief, boundHer soft face, her hair around;Tied under the archest chinMockery ever ambush'd in.Let the fluttering fringes streakAll her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that figure's pliant graceAs she tow'rd me lean'd her face,Half refused and half resign'd,Murmuring: "Art thou still unkind?"Many a broken promise thenWas new made—to break again.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,Eager tell-tales of her mind;Paint, with their impetuous stressOf inquiring tenderness,Those frank eyes, where deep I seeAn angelic gravity.Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
What, my friends, these feeble linesShow, you say, my love declines?To paint ill as I have done,Proves forgetfulness begun?Time's gay minions, pleased you see,Time, your master, governs me;Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry:"Quick, thy tablets, Memory!"
Ah, too true! Time's current strongLeaves us fixt to nothing long.Yet, if little stays with man,Ah, retain we all we can!If the clear impression dies,Ah, the dim remembrance prize!Ere the parting hour go by,Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream,Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun,On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,On the red pinings of their forest-floor,Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pinesThe mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan changeOf bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-treesAnd the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,And from some swarded shelf, high up, there cameNotes of wild pastoral music—over allRanged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leavesMuffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roofLay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn.We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two formsCame forth—Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine.Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast;Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue,Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd.They saw us, they conferr'd; their bosoms heaved,And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes.Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly,Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed.One moment, on the rapid's top, our boatHung poised—and then the darting river of Life(Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life,Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd,Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone.Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pinesFaded—the moss—the rocks; us burning plains,Bristled with cities, us the sea received.
Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream,Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun,On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,On the red pinings of their forest-floor,Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pinesThe mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan changeOf bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-treesAnd the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,And from some swarded shelf, high up, there cameNotes of wild pastoral music—over allRanged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leavesMuffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roofLay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn.We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two formsCame forth—Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine.Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast;Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue,Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd.They saw us, they conferr'd; their bosoms heaved,And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes.Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly,Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed.One moment, on the rapid's top, our boatHung poised—and then the darting river of Life(Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life,Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd,Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone.Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pinesFaded—the moss—the rocks; us burning plains,Bristled with cities, us the sea received.
In the cedarn shadow sleeping,Where cool grass and fragrant gloomsForth at noon had lured me, creepingFrom your darken'd palace rooms—I, who in your train at morningStroll'd and sang with joyful mind,Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning;Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind.Who are they, O pensive Graces,—For I dream'd they wore your forms—Who on shores and sea-wash'd placesScoop the shelves and fret the storms?Who, when ships are that way tending,Troop across the flushing sands,To all reefs and narrows wending,With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?Yet I see, the howling levelsOf the deep are not your lair;And your tragic-vaunted revelsAre less lonely than they were.Like those Kings with treasure steeringFrom the jewell'd lands of dawn,Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.And we too, from upland valleys,Where some Muse with half-curved frownLeans her ear to your mad salliesWhich the charm'd winds never drown;By faint music guided, rangingThe scared glens, we wander'd on,Left our awful laurels hanging,And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne.From the dragon-warder'd fountainsWhere the springs of knowledge are,From the watchers on the mountains,And the bright and morning star;We are exiles, we are falling,We have lost them at your call—O ye false ones, at your callingSeeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!Are the accents of your luringMore melodious than of yore?Are those frail forms more enduringThan the charms Ulysses bore?That we sought you with rejoicings,Till at evening we descryAt a pause of Siren voicingsThese vext branches and this howling sky?...
In the cedarn shadow sleeping,Where cool grass and fragrant gloomsForth at noon had lured me, creepingFrom your darken'd palace rooms—I, who in your train at morningStroll'd and sang with joyful mind,Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning;Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind.
Who are they, O pensive Graces,—For I dream'd they wore your forms—Who on shores and sea-wash'd placesScoop the shelves and fret the storms?Who, when ships are that way tending,Troop across the flushing sands,To all reefs and narrows wending,With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?
Yet I see, the howling levelsOf the deep are not your lair;And your tragic-vaunted revelsAre less lonely than they were.Like those Kings with treasure steeringFrom the jewell'd lands of dawn,Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.
And we too, from upland valleys,Where some Muse with half-curved frownLeans her ear to your mad salliesWhich the charm'd winds never drown;By faint music guided, rangingThe scared glens, we wander'd on,Left our awful laurels hanging,And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne.
From the dragon-warder'd fountainsWhere the springs of knowledge are,From the watchers on the mountains,And the bright and morning star;We are exiles, we are falling,We have lost them at your call—O ye false ones, at your callingSeeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!
Are the accents of your luringMore melodious than of yore?Are those frail forms more enduringThan the charms Ulysses bore?That we sought you with rejoicings,Till at evening we descryAt a pause of Siren voicingsThese vext branches and this howling sky?...
Oh, your pardon! The uncouthnessOf that primal age is gone,And the skin of dazzling smoothnessScreens not now a heart of stone.Love has flush'd those cruel faces;And those slacken'd arms forgoThe delight of death-embraces,And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow."Ah," you say; "the large appearanceOf man's labour is but vain,And we plead as staunch adherenceDue to pleasure as to pain."Pointing to earth's careworn creatures,"Come," you murmur with a sigh:"Ah! we own diviner features,Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye."Come," you say, "the hours were dreary;Dull did life in torpor fade;Time is lame, and we grew wearyIn the slumbrous cedarn shade.Round our hearts with long caresses,With low sighings, Silence stole,And her load of steaming tressesFell, like Ossa, on the climbing soul."Come," you say, "the soul is faintingTill she search and learn her own,And the wisdom of man's paintingLeaves her riddle half unknown.Come," you say, "the brain is seeking,While the sovran heart is dead;Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking,Rarer secrets than the toiling head."Come," you say, "opinion trembles,Judgment shifts, convictions go;Life dries up, the heart dissembles—Only, what we feel, we know.Hath your wisdom felt emotions?Will it weep our burning tears?Hath it drunk of our love-potionsCrowning moments with the wealth of years?"—I am dumb. Alas, too soon allMan's grave reasons disappear!Yet, I think, at God's tribunalSome large answer you shall hear.But, for me, my thoughts are strayingWhere at sunrise, through your vines,On these lawns I saw you playing,Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;When your showering locks enwound you,And your heavenly eyes shone through;When the pine-boughs yielded round you,And your brows were starr'd with dew;And immortal forms, to meet you,Down the statued alleys came,And through golden horns, to greet you,Blew such music as a God may frame.Yes, I muse! And if the dawningInto daylight never grew,If the glistering wings of morningOn the dry noon shook their dew,If the fits of joy were longer,Or the day were sooner done,Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,No weak nursling of an earthly sun ...Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk the hall with yew!
Oh, your pardon! The uncouthnessOf that primal age is gone,And the skin of dazzling smoothnessScreens not now a heart of stone.Love has flush'd those cruel faces;And those slacken'd arms forgoThe delight of death-embraces,And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.
"Ah," you say; "the large appearanceOf man's labour is but vain,And we plead as staunch adherenceDue to pleasure as to pain."Pointing to earth's careworn creatures,"Come," you murmur with a sigh:"Ah! we own diviner features,Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.
"Come," you say, "the hours were dreary;Dull did life in torpor fade;Time is lame, and we grew wearyIn the slumbrous cedarn shade.Round our hearts with long caresses,With low sighings, Silence stole,And her load of steaming tressesFell, like Ossa, on the climbing soul.
"Come," you say, "the soul is faintingTill she search and learn her own,And the wisdom of man's paintingLeaves her riddle half unknown.Come," you say, "the brain is seeking,While the sovran heart is dead;Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking,Rarer secrets than the toiling head.
"Come," you say, "opinion trembles,Judgment shifts, convictions go;Life dries up, the heart dissembles—Only, what we feel, we know.Hath your wisdom felt emotions?Will it weep our burning tears?Hath it drunk of our love-potionsCrowning moments with the wealth of years?"
—I am dumb. Alas, too soon allMan's grave reasons disappear!Yet, I think, at God's tribunalSome large answer you shall hear.But, for me, my thoughts are strayingWhere at sunrise, through your vines,On these lawns I saw you playing,Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;When your showering locks enwound you,And your heavenly eyes shone through;When the pine-boughs yielded round you,And your brows were starr'd with dew;And immortal forms, to meet you,Down the statued alleys came,And through golden horns, to greet you,Blew such music as a God may frame.
Yes, I muse! And if the dawningInto daylight never grew,If the glistering wings of morningOn the dry noon shook their dew,If the fits of joy were longer,Or the day were sooner done,Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,No weak nursling of an earthly sun ...Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk the hall with yew!
For a bound was set to meetings,And the sombre day dragg'd on;And the burst of joyful greetings,And the joyful dawn, were gone.For the eye grows fill'd with gazing,And on raptures follow calms;And those warm locks men were praising,Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms.Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys,And made all your cedars frown;Leaves were whirling in the alleysWhich your lovers wander'd down.—Sitting cheerless in your bowers,The hands propping the sunk head,Still they gall you, the long hours,And the hungry thought, that must be fed!Is the pleasure that is tastedPatient of a long review?Will the fire joy hath wasted,Mused on, warm the heart anew?—Or, are those old thoughts returning,Guests the dull sense never knew,Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew?Once, like us, you took your stationWatchers for a purer fire;But you droop'd in expectation,And you wearied in desire.When the first rose flush was steepingAll the frore peak's awful crown,Shepherds say, they found you sleepingIn some windless valley, farther down.Then you wept, and slowly raisingYour dozed eyelids, sought again,Half in doubt, they say, and gazingSadly back, the seats of men;—Snatch'd a turbid inspirationFrom some transient earthly sun,And proclaim'd your vain ovationFor those mimic raptures you had won....
For a bound was set to meetings,And the sombre day dragg'd on;And the burst of joyful greetings,And the joyful dawn, were gone.For the eye grows fill'd with gazing,And on raptures follow calms;And those warm locks men were praising,Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms.
Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys,And made all your cedars frown;Leaves were whirling in the alleysWhich your lovers wander'd down.—Sitting cheerless in your bowers,The hands propping the sunk head,Still they gall you, the long hours,And the hungry thought, that must be fed!
Is the pleasure that is tastedPatient of a long review?Will the fire joy hath wasted,Mused on, warm the heart anew?—Or, are those old thoughts returning,Guests the dull sense never knew,Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew?
Once, like us, you took your stationWatchers for a purer fire;But you droop'd in expectation,And you wearied in desire.When the first rose flush was steepingAll the frore peak's awful crown,Shepherds say, they found you sleepingIn some windless valley, farther down.
Then you wept, and slowly raisingYour dozed eyelids, sought again,Half in doubt, they say, and gazingSadly back, the seats of men;—Snatch'd a turbid inspirationFrom some transient earthly sun,And proclaim'd your vain ovationFor those mimic raptures you had won....
With a sad, majestic motion,With a stately, slow surprise,From their earthward-bound devotionLifting up your languid eyes—Would you freeze my too loud boldness,Dumbly smiling as you go,One faint frown of distant coldnessFlitting fast across each marble brow?Do I brighten at your sorrow,O sweet Pleaders?—doth my lotFind assurance in to-morrowOf one joy, which you have not?O, speak once, and shame my sadness!Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain,Mock'd and baffled by your gladness,Mar the music of your feasts in vain!
With a sad, majestic motion,With a stately, slow surprise,From their earthward-bound devotionLifting up your languid eyes—Would you freeze my too loud boldness,Dumbly smiling as you go,One faint frown of distant coldnessFlitting fast across each marble brow?
Do I brighten at your sorrow,O sweet Pleaders?—doth my lotFind assurance in to-morrowOf one joy, which you have not?O, speak once, and shame my sadness!Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain,Mock'd and baffled by your gladness,Mar the music of your feasts in vain!
Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow—Come, bind up those ringlet showers!Roses for that dreaming brow!Come, once more that ancient lightness,Glancing feet, and eager eyes!Let your broad lamps flash the brightnessWhich the sorrow-stricken day denies!Through black depths of serried shadows,Up cold aisles of buried glade;In the midst of river-meadowsWhere the looming kine are laid;From your dazzled windows streaming,From your humming festal room,Deep and far, a broken gleamingReels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.Where I stand, the grass is glowing;Doubtless you are passing fair!But I hear the north wind blowing,And I feel the cold night-air.Can I look on your sweet faces,And your proud heads backward thrown,From this dusk of leaf-strewn placesWith the dumb woods and the night alone?Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses—Mad delight, and frozen calms—Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses,And to-morrow—folded palms;Is this all? this balanced measure?Could life run no happier way?Joyous, at the height of pleasure,Passive at the nadir of dismay?But, indeed, this proud possession,This far-reaching, magic chain,Linking in a mad successionFits of joy and fits of pain—Have you seen it at the closing?Have you track'd its clouded ways?Can your eyes, while fools are dozing,Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days?When a dreary dawn is wadingThrough this waste of sunless greens,When the flushing hues are fadingOn the peerless cheek of queens;When the mean shall no more sorrow,And the proudest no more smile;As old age, youth's fatal morrow,Spreads its cold light wider all that while?Then, when change itself is over,When the slow tide sets one way,Shall you find the radiant lover,Even by moments, of to-day?The eye wanders, faith is failing—O, loose hands, and let it be!Proudly, like a king bewailing,O, let fall one tear, and set us free!All true speech and large avowalWhich the jealous soul concedes;All man's heart which brooks bestowal,All frank faith which passion breeds—These we had, and we gave truly;Doubt not, what we had, we gave!False we were not, nor unruly;Lodgers in the forest and the cave.Long we wander'd with you, feedingOur rapt souls on your replies,In a wistful silence readingAll the meaning of your eyes.By moss-border'd statues sitting,By well-heads, in summer days.But we turn, our eyes are flitting—See, the white east, and the morning rays!And you too, O worshipp'd Graces,Sylvan Gods of this fair shade!Is there doubt on divine faces?Are the blessed Gods dismay'd?Can men worship the wan features,The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,Of unsphered, discrowned creatures,Souls as little godlike as their own?Come, loose hands! The winged fleetnessOf immortal feet is gone;And your scents have shed their sweetness,And your flowers are overblown.And your jewell'd gauds surrenderHalf their glories to the day;Freely did they flash their splendour,Freely gave it—but it dies away.In the pines the thrush is waking—Lo, yon orient hill in flames!Scores of true love knots are breakingAt divorce which it proclaims.When the lamps are paled at morning,Heart quits heart and hand quits hand.Cold in that unlovely dawning,Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand!Pluck no more red roses, maidens,Leave the lilies in their dew—Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!—Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,Her I loved at eventide?Shall I ask, what faded mournerStands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!Dusk the hall with yew!
Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow—Come, bind up those ringlet showers!Roses for that dreaming brow!Come, once more that ancient lightness,Glancing feet, and eager eyes!Let your broad lamps flash the brightnessWhich the sorrow-stricken day denies!
Through black depths of serried shadows,Up cold aisles of buried glade;In the midst of river-meadowsWhere the looming kine are laid;From your dazzled windows streaming,From your humming festal room,Deep and far, a broken gleamingReels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.
Where I stand, the grass is glowing;Doubtless you are passing fair!But I hear the north wind blowing,And I feel the cold night-air.Can I look on your sweet faces,And your proud heads backward thrown,From this dusk of leaf-strewn placesWith the dumb woods and the night alone?
Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses—Mad delight, and frozen calms—Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses,And to-morrow—folded palms;Is this all? this balanced measure?Could life run no happier way?Joyous, at the height of pleasure,Passive at the nadir of dismay?
But, indeed, this proud possession,This far-reaching, magic chain,Linking in a mad successionFits of joy and fits of pain—Have you seen it at the closing?Have you track'd its clouded ways?Can your eyes, while fools are dozing,Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days?
When a dreary dawn is wadingThrough this waste of sunless greens,When the flushing hues are fadingOn the peerless cheek of queens;When the mean shall no more sorrow,And the proudest no more smile;As old age, youth's fatal morrow,Spreads its cold light wider all that while?
Then, when change itself is over,When the slow tide sets one way,Shall you find the radiant lover,Even by moments, of to-day?The eye wanders, faith is failing—O, loose hands, and let it be!Proudly, like a king bewailing,O, let fall one tear, and set us free!
All true speech and large avowalWhich the jealous soul concedes;All man's heart which brooks bestowal,All frank faith which passion breeds—These we had, and we gave truly;Doubt not, what we had, we gave!False we were not, nor unruly;Lodgers in the forest and the cave.
Long we wander'd with you, feedingOur rapt souls on your replies,In a wistful silence readingAll the meaning of your eyes.By moss-border'd statues sitting,By well-heads, in summer days.But we turn, our eyes are flitting—See, the white east, and the morning rays!
And you too, O worshipp'd Graces,Sylvan Gods of this fair shade!Is there doubt on divine faces?Are the blessed Gods dismay'd?Can men worship the wan features,The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,Of unsphered, discrowned creatures,Souls as little godlike as their own?
Come, loose hands! The winged fleetnessOf immortal feet is gone;And your scents have shed their sweetness,And your flowers are overblown.And your jewell'd gauds surrenderHalf their glories to the day;Freely did they flash their splendour,Freely gave it—but it dies away.
In the pines the thrush is waking—Lo, yon orient hill in flames!Scores of true love knots are breakingAt divorce which it proclaims.When the lamps are paled at morning,Heart quits heart and hand quits hand.Cold in that unlovely dawning,Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand!
Pluck no more red roses, maidens,Leave the lilies in their dew—Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!—Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,Her I loved at eventide?Shall I ask, what faded mournerStands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!Dusk the hall with yew!