A Youth. Circe
The YouthFaster, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm,Lean'd up against the column there,Props thy soft cheek;Thy left holds, hanging loosely,The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,I held but now.Is it, then, eveningSo soon? I see, the night-dews,Cluster'd in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too,Blows through the portico,Stirs thy hair, Goddess,Waves thy white robe!CirceWhence art thou, sleeper?The YouthWhen the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planksOf my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, Goddess!I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin;Passing out, from the wet turf,Where they lay, by the hut door,I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,All drench'd in dew—Came swift down to joinThe rout early gather'dIn the town, round the temple,Iacchus' white faneOn yonder hill.Quick I pass'd, followingThe wood-cutters' cart-trackDown the dark valley;—I sawOn my left, through the beeches,Thy palace, Goddess,Smokeless, empty!Trembling, I enter'd; beheldThe court all silent,The lions sleeping,On the altar this bowl.I drank, Goddess!And sank down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.CirceFoolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,Through the delicate, flush'd marble,The red, creaming liquor,Strown with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,Deny thee not my bowl.Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!Drink—drink again!The YouthThanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me,More subtle-windingThat Pan's flute-music!Faint—faint! Ah me,Again the sweet sleep!CirceHist! Thou—within there!Come forth, Ulysses!Art tired with hunting?While we range the woodland,See what the day brings.UlyssesEver new magic!Hast thou then lured hither,Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,Iacchus' darling—Or some youth beloved of Pan,Of Pan and the Nymphs?That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed margeOf thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavesThat crown his hair,Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants—His fawn-skin, half untied,Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he,That he sits, overweigh'dBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, Goddess,—what guestOf Gods or mortals?CirceHist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!The YouthWho speaks? Ah, who comes forthTo thy side, Goddess, from within?How shall I name him?This spare, dark-featured,Quick-eyed stranger?Ah, and I see tooHis sailor's bonnet,His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,With one arm bare!—Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumoursThe favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves?Art thou he, stranger?The wise Ulysses,Laertes' son?UlyssesI am Ulysses.And thou, too, sleeper?Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast follow'dThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,Age and the Muses;And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learn'd his songs,Of Gods and Heroes,Of war and arts,And peopled cities,Inland, or builtBy the grey sea.—If so, then hail!I honour and welcome thee.The YouthThe Gods are happy.They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes,And see below themThe earth and men.They see TiresiasSitting, staff in hand,On the warm, grassyAsopus bank,His robe drawn overHis old, sightless head,Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes.They see the CentaursIn the upper glensOf Pelion, in the streams,Where red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools,With streaming flanks, and headsRear'd proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind.They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moor'd toA floating isle thick-mattedWith large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,And the dark cucumber.He reaps, and stows them,Drifting—drifting;—round him,Round his green harvest-plot,Flow the cool lake-waves,The mountains ring them.They see the ScythianOn the wide stepp, unharnessingHis wheel'd house at noon.He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal—Mares' milk, and breadBaked on the embers;—all aroundThe boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'dWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leaved iris-flowers.Sitting in his cartHe makes his meal; before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard-fowl,The track, a straight black line,Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopp'd with rough-hewn,Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeerThe sunny waste.They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-ladenLone Chorasmian stream;—thereon,With snort and strain,Two horses, strongly swimming, towThe ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm harness'd by the mane; a chief,With shout and shaken spear,Stands at the prow, and guides them; but asternThe cowering merchants, in long robes,Sit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,Jasper and chalcedony,And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;The Gods behold them.They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heavingViolet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.These things, Ulysses,The wise bards alsoBehold and sing.But oh, what labour!O prince, what pain!They too can seeTiresias;—but the Gods,Who give them vision,Added this law:That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorn'd white hairs;Bear Hera's angerThrough a life lengthen'dTo seven ages.They see the CentaursOn Pelion;—then they feel,They too, the maddening wineSwell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,Drive crashing through their bones; they feelHigh on a jutting rock in the red streamAlcmena's dreadful sonPly his bow;—such a priceThe Gods exact for song:To become what we sing.They see the IndianOn his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart.—They seeThe Scythian; but long frostsParch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.They see the merchantsOn the Oxus stream;—but careMust visit first them too, and make them pale.Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,In the wall'd cities the way passes through,Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,On some great river's marge,Mown them down, far from home.They see the HeroesNear harbour;—but they shareTheir lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo firstStartled the unknown sea.The old SilenusCame, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest-coverts,This way, at noon.Sitting by me, while his FaunsDown at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland,He told me these things.But I, Ulysses,Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labour,Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad—Sometimes a Faun with torches—And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved,The desired, the divine,Beloved Iacchus.Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water,Fitful earth-murmur,Dreaming woods!Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess,And thou, proved, much enduring,Wave-toss'd Wanderer!Who can stand still?Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—The cup again!Faster, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
The Youth
Faster, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm,Lean'd up against the column there,Props thy soft cheek;Thy left holds, hanging loosely,The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,I held but now.
Is it, then, eveningSo soon? I see, the night-dews,Cluster'd in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too,Blows through the portico,Stirs thy hair, Goddess,Waves thy white robe!
Circe
Whence art thou, sleeper?
The Youth
When the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planksOf my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, Goddess!I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin;Passing out, from the wet turf,Where they lay, by the hut door,I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,All drench'd in dew—Came swift down to joinThe rout early gather'dIn the town, round the temple,Iacchus' white faneOn yonder hill.
Quick I pass'd, followingThe wood-cutters' cart-trackDown the dark valley;—I sawOn my left, through the beeches,Thy palace, Goddess,Smokeless, empty!Trembling, I enter'd; beheldThe court all silent,The lions sleeping,On the altar this bowl.I drank, Goddess!And sank down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.
Circe
Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,Through the delicate, flush'd marble,The red, creaming liquor,Strown with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,Deny thee not my bowl.Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!Drink—drink again!
The Youth
Thanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me,More subtle-windingThat Pan's flute-music!Faint—faint! Ah me,Again the sweet sleep!
Circe
Hist! Thou—within there!Come forth, Ulysses!Art tired with hunting?While we range the woodland,See what the day brings.
Ulysses
Ever new magic!Hast thou then lured hither,Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,Iacchus' darling—Or some youth beloved of Pan,Of Pan and the Nymphs?That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed margeOf thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavesThat crown his hair,Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants—His fawn-skin, half untied,Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he,That he sits, overweigh'dBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, Goddess,—what guestOf Gods or mortals?
Circe
Hist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!
The Youth
Who speaks? Ah, who comes forthTo thy side, Goddess, from within?How shall I name him?This spare, dark-featured,Quick-eyed stranger?Ah, and I see tooHis sailor's bonnet,His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,With one arm bare!—Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumoursThe favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves?Art thou he, stranger?The wise Ulysses,Laertes' son?
Ulysses
I am Ulysses.And thou, too, sleeper?Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast follow'dThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,Age and the Muses;And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learn'd his songs,Of Gods and Heroes,Of war and arts,And peopled cities,Inland, or builtBy the grey sea.—If so, then hail!I honour and welcome thee.
The Youth
The Gods are happy.They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes,And see below themThe earth and men.
They see TiresiasSitting, staff in hand,On the warm, grassyAsopus bank,His robe drawn overHis old, sightless head,Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes.
They see the CentaursIn the upper glensOf Pelion, in the streams,Where red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools,With streaming flanks, and headsRear'd proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind.
They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moor'd toA floating isle thick-mattedWith large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,And the dark cucumber.He reaps, and stows them,Drifting—drifting;—round him,Round his green harvest-plot,Flow the cool lake-waves,The mountains ring them.
They see the ScythianOn the wide stepp, unharnessingHis wheel'd house at noon.He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal—Mares' milk, and breadBaked on the embers;—all aroundThe boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'dWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leaved iris-flowers.Sitting in his cartHe makes his meal; before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard-fowl,The track, a straight black line,Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopp'd with rough-hewn,Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeerThe sunny waste.
They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-ladenLone Chorasmian stream;—thereon,With snort and strain,Two horses, strongly swimming, towThe ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm harness'd by the mane; a chief,With shout and shaken spear,Stands at the prow, and guides them; but asternThe cowering merchants, in long robes,Sit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,Jasper and chalcedony,And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;The Gods behold them.They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heavingViolet sea,At sunset nearingThe Happy Islands.
These things, Ulysses,The wise bards alsoBehold and sing.But oh, what labour!O prince, what pain!
They too can seeTiresias;—but the Gods,Who give them vision,Added this law:That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorn'd white hairs;Bear Hera's angerThrough a life lengthen'dTo seven ages.
They see the CentaursOn Pelion;—then they feel,They too, the maddening wineSwell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,Drive crashing through their bones; they feelHigh on a jutting rock in the red streamAlcmena's dreadful sonPly his bow;—such a priceThe Gods exact for song:To become what we sing.
They see the IndianOn his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart.—They seeThe Scythian; but long frostsParch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.
They see the merchantsOn the Oxus stream;—but careMust visit first them too, and make them pale.Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings,In the wall'd cities the way passes through,Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,On some great river's marge,Mown them down, far from home.
They see the HeroesNear harbour;—but they shareTheir lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo firstStartled the unknown sea.
The old SilenusCame, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest-coverts,This way, at noon.Sitting by me, while his FaunsDown at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland,He told me these things.
But I, Ulysses,Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labour,Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad—Sometimes a Faun with torches—And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved,The desired, the divine,Beloved Iacchus.
Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water,Fitful earth-murmur,Dreaming woods!Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess,And thou, proved, much enduring,Wave-toss'd Wanderer!Who can stand still?Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—The cup again!
Faster, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,Sweep through my soul!
The ChorusWell hath he done who hath seized happiness!For little do the all-containing hours,Though opulent, freely give.Who, weighing that life wellFortune presents unpray'd,Declines her ministry, and carves his own;And, justice not infringed,Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law.He does well too, who keeps that clue the mildBirth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave.For from the day when theseBring him, a weeping child,First to the light, and markA country for him, kinsfolk, and a home,Unguided he remains,Till the Fates come again, this time with death.In little companies,And, our own place once left,Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid,By city and household group'd, we live; and many shocksOur order heaven-ordain'dMust every day endure:Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars.Besides what wastehemakes,The all-hated, order-breaking,Without friend, city, or home,Death, who dissevers all.Him then I praise, who daresTo self-selected goodPrefer obedience to the primal law,Which consecrates the ties of blood; for these, indeed,Are to the Gods a care;That touches but himself.For every day man may be link'd and loosedWith strangers; but the bondOriginal, deep-inwound,Of blood, can he not bind,Nor, if Fate binds, not bear.But hush! Hæmon, whom Antigone,Robbing herself of life in burying,Against Creon's law, Polynices,Robs of a loved bride—pale, imploring,Waiting her passage,Forth from the palace hitherward comes.HæmonNo, no, old men, Creon, I curse not!I weep, Thebans,One than Creon crueller far!For he, he, at least, by slaying her,August laws doth mightily vindicate;But them, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless!Ah me!—honourest more than thy lover,O Antigone!A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse.The ChorusNor was the love untrueWhich the Dawn-Goddess boreTo that fair youth she erst,Leaving the salt sea-bedsAnd coming flush'd over the stormy frithOf loud Euripus, saw—Saw and snatch'd, wild with love,From the pine-dotted spursOf Parnes, where thy waves,Asopus! gleam rock-hemm'd—The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.[14]But him, in his sweet prime,By severance immature,By Artemis' soft shafts,She, though a Goddess born,Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.Such end o'ertook that love.For she desired to makeImmortal mortal man,And blend his happy life,Far from the Gods, with hers;To him postponing an eternal law.HæmonBut like me, she, wroth, complaining,Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods;And, her beautiful arms unclasping,Her fair youth unwillingly gave.The ChorusNor, though enthroned too highTo fear assault of envious Gods,His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retainFrom his appointed endIn this our Thebes; but whenHis flying steeds came nearTo cross the steep Ismenian glen,The broad earth open'd, and whelm'd them and him;And through the void air sangAt large his enemy's spear.And fain would Zeus have saved his tired sonBeholding him where the Two Pillars standO'er the sun-redden'd western straits,[15]Or at his work in that dim lower world.Fain would he have recall'dThe fraudulent oath which boundTo a much feebler wight the heroic man.But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire.Nor did there need less than the burning pileUnder the towering Trachis crags,And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans,And the roused Maliac gulph,And scared Œtæan snows,To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child!
The Chorus
Well hath he done who hath seized happiness!For little do the all-containing hours,Though opulent, freely give.Who, weighing that life wellFortune presents unpray'd,Declines her ministry, and carves his own;And, justice not infringed,Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law.
He does well too, who keeps that clue the mildBirth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave.For from the day when theseBring him, a weeping child,First to the light, and markA country for him, kinsfolk, and a home,Unguided he remains,Till the Fates come again, this time with death.
In little companies,And, our own place once left,Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid,By city and household group'd, we live; and many shocksOur order heaven-ordain'dMust every day endure:Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars.
Besides what wastehemakes,The all-hated, order-breaking,Without friend, city, or home,Death, who dissevers all.
Him then I praise, who daresTo self-selected goodPrefer obedience to the primal law,Which consecrates the ties of blood; for these, indeed,Are to the Gods a care;That touches but himself.For every day man may be link'd and loosedWith strangers; but the bondOriginal, deep-inwound,Of blood, can he not bind,Nor, if Fate binds, not bear.
But hush! Hæmon, whom Antigone,Robbing herself of life in burying,Against Creon's law, Polynices,Robs of a loved bride—pale, imploring,Waiting her passage,Forth from the palace hitherward comes.
Hæmon
No, no, old men, Creon, I curse not!I weep, Thebans,One than Creon crueller far!For he, he, at least, by slaying her,August laws doth mightily vindicate;But them, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless!Ah me!—honourest more than thy lover,O Antigone!A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse.
The Chorus
Nor was the love untrueWhich the Dawn-Goddess boreTo that fair youth she erst,Leaving the salt sea-bedsAnd coming flush'd over the stormy frithOf loud Euripus, saw—Saw and snatch'd, wild with love,From the pine-dotted spursOf Parnes, where thy waves,Asopus! gleam rock-hemm'd—The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.[14]
But him, in his sweet prime,By severance immature,By Artemis' soft shafts,She, though a Goddess born,Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.Such end o'ertook that love.For she desired to makeImmortal mortal man,And blend his happy life,Far from the Gods, with hers;To him postponing an eternal law.
Hæmon
But like me, she, wroth, complaining,Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods;And, her beautiful arms unclasping,Her fair youth unwillingly gave.
The Chorus
Nor, though enthroned too highTo fear assault of envious Gods,His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retainFrom his appointed end
In this our Thebes; but whenHis flying steeds came nearTo cross the steep Ismenian glen,The broad earth open'd, and whelm'd them and him;And through the void air sangAt large his enemy's spear.
And fain would Zeus have saved his tired sonBeholding him where the Two Pillars standO'er the sun-redden'd western straits,[15]Or at his work in that dim lower world.Fain would he have recall'dThe fraudulent oath which boundTo a much feebler wight the heroic man.
But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire.Nor did there need less than the burning pileUnder the towering Trachis crags,And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans,And the roused Maliac gulph,And scared Œtæan snows,To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child!
O frivolous mind of man,Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts!Though man bewails you not,HowIbewail you!Little in your prosperityDo you seek counsel of the Gods.Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone.In profound silence stern,Among their savage gorges and cold springs,Unvisited remainThe great oracular shrines.Thither in your adversityDo you betake yourselves for light,But strangely misinterpret all you hear.For you will not put onNew hearts with the enquirer's holy robe,And purged, considerate minds.And him on whom, at the endOf toil and dolour untold,The Gods have said that reposeAt last shall descend undisturb'd—Him you expect to beholdIn an easy old age, in a happy home;No end but this you praise.But him, on whom, in the primeOf life, with vigour undimm'd,With unspent mind, and a soulUnworn, undebased, undecay'd,Mournfully grating, the gatesOf the city of death have for ever closed—Him, I counthim, well-starr'd.
O frivolous mind of man,Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts!Though man bewails you not,HowIbewail you!
Little in your prosperityDo you seek counsel of the Gods.Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone.In profound silence stern,Among their savage gorges and cold springs,Unvisited remainThe great oracular shrines.
Thither in your adversityDo you betake yourselves for light,But strangely misinterpret all you hear.For you will not put onNew hearts with the enquirer's holy robe,And purged, considerate minds.
And him on whom, at the endOf toil and dolour untold,The Gods have said that reposeAt last shall descend undisturb'd—Him you expect to beholdIn an easy old age, in a happy home;No end but this you praise.
But him, on whom, in the primeOf life, with vigour undimm'd,With unspent mind, and a soulUnworn, undebased, undecay'd,Mournfully grating, the gatesOf the city of death have for ever closed—Him, I counthim, well-starr'd.
For him who must see many years,I praise the life which slips awayOut of the light and mutely; which avoidsFame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife,Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal,Insincere praises; which descendsThe quiet mossy track to age.But, when immature deathBeckons too early the guestFrom the half-tried banquet of life,Young, in the bloom of his days;Leaves no leisure to press,Slow and surely, the sweetsOf a tranquil life in the shade—Fuller for him be the hours!Give him emotion, though pain!Let him live, let him feel:I have lived.Heap up his moments with life!Triple his pulses with fame!
For him who must see many years,I praise the life which slips awayOut of the light and mutely; which avoidsFame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife,Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal,Insincere praises; which descendsThe quiet mossy track to age.
But, when immature deathBeckons too early the guestFrom the half-tried banquet of life,Young, in the bloom of his days;Leaves no leisure to press,Slow and surely, the sweetsOf a tranquil life in the shade—Fuller for him be the hours!Give him emotion, though pain!Let him live, let him feel:I have lived.Heap up his moments with life!Triple his pulses with fame!
Hark! ah, the nightingale—The tawny-throated!Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!What triumph! hark!—what pain!O wanderer from a Grecian shore,Still, after many years, in distant lands,Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brainThat wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—Say, will it never heal?And can this fragrant lawnWith its cool trees, and night,And the sweet, tranquil Thames,And moonshine, and the dew,To thy rack'd heart and brainAfford no balm?Dost thou to-night behold,Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?Dost thou again peruseWith hot cheeks and sear'd eyesThe too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?Dost thou once more assayThy flight, and feel come over thee,Poor fugitive, the feathery changeOnce more, and once more seem to make resoundWith love and hate, triumph and agony,Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?Listen, Eugenia—How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!Again—thou hearest?Eternal passion!Eternal pain!
Hark! ah, the nightingale—The tawny-throated!Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!What triumph! hark!—what pain!
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,Still, after many years, in distant lands,Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brainThat wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—Say, will it never heal?And can this fragrant lawnWith its cool trees, and night,And the sweet, tranquil Thames,And moonshine, and the dew,To thy rack'd heart and brainAfford no balm?
Dost thou to-night behold,Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?Dost thou again peruseWith hot cheeks and sear'd eyesThe too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?Dost thou once more assayThy flight, and feel come over thee,Poor fugitive, the feathery changeOnce more, and once more seem to make resoundWith love and hate, triumph and agony,Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?Listen, Eugenia—How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!Again—thou hearest?Eternal passion!Eternal pain!
I too have suffer'd; yet I knowShe is not cold, though she seems so.She is not cold, she is not light;But our ignoble souls lack might.She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh,While we for hopeless passion die;Yet she could love, those eyes declare,Were but men nobler than they are.Eagerly once her gracious kenWas turn'd upon the sons of men;But light the serious visage grew—She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through.Our petty souls, our strutting wits,Our labour'd, puny passion-fits—Ah, may she scorn them still, till weScorn them as bitterly as she!Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers,One of some worthier race than ours!One for whose sake she once might proveHow deeply she who scorns can love.His eyes be like the starry lights—His voice like sounds of summer nights—In all his lovely mien let pierceThe magic of the universe!And she to him will reach her hand,And gazing in his eyes will stand,And know her friend, and weep for glee,And cry:Long, long I've look'd for thee.Then will she weep; with smiles, till then,Coldly she mocks the sons of men.Till then, her lovely eyes maintainTheir pure, unwavering, deep disdain.
I too have suffer'd; yet I knowShe is not cold, though she seems so.She is not cold, she is not light;But our ignoble souls lack might.
She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh,While we for hopeless passion die;Yet she could love, those eyes declare,Were but men nobler than they are.
Eagerly once her gracious kenWas turn'd upon the sons of men;But light the serious visage grew—She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through.
Our petty souls, our strutting wits,Our labour'd, puny passion-fits—Ah, may she scorn them still, till weScorn them as bitterly as she!
Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers,One of some worthier race than ours!One for whose sake she once might proveHow deeply she who scorns can love.
His eyes be like the starry lights—His voice like sounds of summer nights—In all his lovely mien let pierceThe magic of the universe!
And she to him will reach her hand,And gazing in his eyes will stand,And know her friend, and weep for glee,And cry:Long, long I've look'd for thee.
Then will she weep; with smiles, till then,Coldly she mocks the sons of men.Till then, her lovely eyes maintainTheir pure, unwavering, deep disdain.
I must not say that thou wast true,Yet let me say that thou wast fair;And they, that lovely face who view,Why should they ask if truth be there?Truth—what is truth? Two bleeding hearts,Wounded by men, by fortune tried,Outwearied with their lonely parts,Vow to beat henceforth side by side.The world to them was stern and drearTheir lot was but to weep and moan.Ah, let them keep their faith sincere,For neither could subsist alone!But souls whom some benignant breathHath charm'd at birth from gloom and care,These ask no love, these plight no faith,For they are happy as they are.The world to them may homage make,And garlands for their forehead weave;And what the world can give, they take—But they bring more than they receive.They shine upon the world! Their earsTo one demand alone are coy;They will not give us love and tears,They bring us light and warmth and joy.It was not love which heaved thy breast,Fair child!—it was the bliss within.Adieu! and say that one, at least,Was just to what he did not win.
I must not say that thou wast true,Yet let me say that thou wast fair;And they, that lovely face who view,Why should they ask if truth be there?
Truth—what is truth? Two bleeding hearts,Wounded by men, by fortune tried,Outwearied with their lonely parts,Vow to beat henceforth side by side.
The world to them was stern and drearTheir lot was but to weep and moan.Ah, let them keep their faith sincere,For neither could subsist alone!
But souls whom some benignant breathHath charm'd at birth from gloom and care,These ask no love, these plight no faith,For they are happy as they are.
The world to them may homage make,And garlands for their forehead weave;And what the world can give, they take—But they bring more than they receive.
They shine upon the world! Their earsTo one demand alone are coy;They will not give us love and tears,They bring us light and warmth and joy.
It was not love which heaved thy breast,Fair child!—it was the bliss within.Adieu! and say that one, at least,Was just to what he did not win.
A thousand knights have rein'd their steedsTo watch this line of sand-hills run,Along the never-silent Strait,To Calais glittering in the sun;To look tow'rd Ardres' Golden FieldAcross this wide aërial plain,Which glows as if the Middle AgeWere gorgeous upon earth again.Oh, that to share this famous scene,I saw, upon the open sand,Thy lovely presence at my side,Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!How exquisite thy voice would come,My darling, on this lonely air!How sweetly would the fresh sea-breezeShake loose some band of soft brown hair!Yet now my glance but once hath rovedO'er Calais and its famous plain;To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd,On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.Thou comest! Yes! the vessel's cloudHangs dark upon the rolling sea.Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine,To win one instant's glimpse of thee!I must not spring to grasp thy hand,To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye;But I may stand far off, and gaze,And watch thee pass unconscious by,And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts,Mixt with the idlers on the pier.—Ah, might I always rest unseen,So I might have thee always near!To-morrow hurry through the fieldsOf Flanders to the storied Rhine!To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall closeBeneath one roof, my queen! with mine.
A thousand knights have rein'd their steedsTo watch this line of sand-hills run,Along the never-silent Strait,To Calais glittering in the sun;To look tow'rd Ardres' Golden FieldAcross this wide aërial plain,Which glows as if the Middle AgeWere gorgeous upon earth again.
Oh, that to share this famous scene,I saw, upon the open sand,Thy lovely presence at my side,Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!
How exquisite thy voice would come,My darling, on this lonely air!How sweetly would the fresh sea-breezeShake loose some band of soft brown hair!
Yet now my glance but once hath rovedO'er Calais and its famous plain;To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd,On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.
Thou comest! Yes! the vessel's cloudHangs dark upon the rolling sea.Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine,To win one instant's glimpse of thee!
I must not spring to grasp thy hand,To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye;But I may stand far off, and gaze,And watch thee pass unconscious by,
And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts,Mixt with the idlers on the pier.—Ah, might I always rest unseen,So I might have thee always near!
To-morrow hurry through the fieldsOf Flanders to the storied Rhine!To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall closeBeneath one roof, my queen! with mine.
1. THE RIVERStill glides the stream, slow drops the boatUnder the rustling poplars' shade;Silent the swans beside us float—None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!Let those arch eyes now softly shine,That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland;Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine!On mine let rest that lovely hand!My pent-up tears oppress my brain,My heart is swoln with love unsaid.Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain,And on thy shoulder rest my head!Before I die—before the soul,Which now is mine, must re-attainImmunity from my control,And wander round the world again;Before this teased o'erlabour'd heartFor ever leaves its vain employ,Dead to its deep habitual smart,And dead to hopes of future joy.2. TOO LATEEach on his own strict line we move,And some find death ere they find love;So far apart their lives are thrownFrom the twin soul which halves their own.And sometimes, by still harder fate,The lovers meet, but meet too late.—Thy heart is mine!—True, true! ah, true!—Then, love, thy hand!—Ah no! adieu!3. SEPARATIONStop!—not to me, at this bitter departing,Speak of the sure consolations of time!Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting,So but thy image endure in its prime.But, if the stedfast commandment of NatureWills that remembrance should always decay—If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd featureMust, when unseen, from the soul fade away—Me let no half-effaced memories cumber!Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee!Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber—Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me,Scanning my face and the changes wrought there:Who, let me say,is this stranger regards me,With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?4. ON THE RHINEVain is the effort to forget.Some day I shall be cold, I know,As is the eternal moonlit snowOf the high Alps, to which I go—But ah! not yet, not yet!Vain is the agony of grief.'Tis true, indeed, an iron knotTies straitly up from mine thy lot,And were it snapt—thou lov'st me not!But is despair relief?Awhile let me with thought have done.And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine,And that far purple mountain-line,Lie sweetly in the look divineOf the slow-sinking sun;So let me lie, and, calm as they,Let beam upon my inward viewThose eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue—Eyes too expressive to be blue,Too lovely to be grey.Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm!Those blue hills too, this river's flow,Were restless once, but long ago.Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow;Their joy is in their calm.5. LONGINGCome to me in my dreams, and thenBy day I shall be well again!For then the night will more than payThe hopeless longing of the day.Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,A messenger from radiant climes,And smile on thy new world, and beAs kind to others as to me!Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,Come now, and let me dream it truth;And part my hair, and kiss my brow,And say:My love! why sufferest thou?Come to me in my dreams, and thenBy day I shall be well again!For then the night will more than payThe hopeless longing of the day.
1. THE RIVER
Still glides the stream, slow drops the boatUnder the rustling poplars' shade;Silent the swans beside us float—None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!
Let those arch eyes now softly shine,That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland;Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine!On mine let rest that lovely hand!
My pent-up tears oppress my brain,My heart is swoln with love unsaid.Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain,And on thy shoulder rest my head!
Before I die—before the soul,Which now is mine, must re-attainImmunity from my control,And wander round the world again;
Before this teased o'erlabour'd heartFor ever leaves its vain employ,Dead to its deep habitual smart,And dead to hopes of future joy.
2. TOO LATE
Each on his own strict line we move,And some find death ere they find love;So far apart their lives are thrownFrom the twin soul which halves their own.
And sometimes, by still harder fate,The lovers meet, but meet too late.—Thy heart is mine!—True, true! ah, true!—Then, love, thy hand!—Ah no! adieu!
3. SEPARATION
Stop!—not to me, at this bitter departing,Speak of the sure consolations of time!Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting,So but thy image endure in its prime.
But, if the stedfast commandment of NatureWills that remembrance should always decay—If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd featureMust, when unseen, from the soul fade away—
Me let no half-effaced memories cumber!Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee!Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber—Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!
Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me,Scanning my face and the changes wrought there:Who, let me say,is this stranger regards me,With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?
4. ON THE RHINE
Vain is the effort to forget.Some day I shall be cold, I know,As is the eternal moonlit snowOf the high Alps, to which I go—But ah! not yet, not yet!
Vain is the agony of grief.'Tis true, indeed, an iron knotTies straitly up from mine thy lot,And were it snapt—thou lov'st me not!But is despair relief?
Awhile let me with thought have done.And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine,And that far purple mountain-line,Lie sweetly in the look divineOf the slow-sinking sun;
So let me lie, and, calm as they,Let beam upon my inward viewThose eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue—Eyes too expressive to be blue,Too lovely to be grey.
Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm!Those blue hills too, this river's flow,Were restless once, but long ago.Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow;Their joy is in their calm.
5. LONGING
Come to me in my dreams, and thenBy day I shall be well again!For then the night will more than payThe hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,A messenger from radiant climes,And smile on thy new world, and beAs kind to others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,Come now, and let me dream it truth;And part my hair, and kiss my brow,And say:My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and thenBy day I shall be well again!For then the night will more than payThe hopeless longing of the day.
The thoughts that rain their steady glowLike stars on life's cold sea,Which others know, or say they know—They never shone for me.Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky,But they will not remain.They light me once, they hurry by;And never come again.
The thoughts that rain their steady glowLike stars on life's cold sea,Which others know, or say they know—They never shone for me.
Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky,But they will not remain.They light me once, they hurry by;And never come again.