As the kindling glances,Queen-like and clear,Which the bright moon lancesFrom her tranquil sphereAt the sleepless watersOf a lonely mere,On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,Shiver and die.As the tears of sorrowMothers have shed—Prayers that to-morrowShall in vain be spedWhen the flower they flow forLies frozen and dead—Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,Bringing no rest.Like bright waves that fallWith a lifelike motionOn the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall—A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall—Strains of glad music at a funeral—So sad, and with so wild a startTo this deep-sober'd heart,So anxiously and painfully,So drearily and doubtfully,And oh, with such intolerable changeOf thought, such contrast strange,O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,Like wanderers from the world's extremity,Unto their ancient home!In vain, all, all in vain,They beat upon mine ear again,Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.Those lute-like tones which in the bygone yearDid steal into mine ear—Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,Yet could not shake it;Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,Yet could not break it.
As the kindling glances,Queen-like and clear,Which the bright moon lancesFrom her tranquil sphereAt the sleepless watersOf a lonely mere,On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,Shiver and die.
As the tears of sorrowMothers have shed—Prayers that to-morrowShall in vain be spedWhen the flower they flow forLies frozen and dead—Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,Bringing no rest.
Like bright waves that fallWith a lifelike motionOn the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall—A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall—Strains of glad music at a funeral—So sad, and with so wild a startTo this deep-sober'd heart,So anxiously and painfully,So drearily and doubtfully,And oh, with such intolerable changeOf thought, such contrast strange,O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,Like wanderers from the world's extremity,Unto their ancient home!
In vain, all, all in vain,They beat upon mine ear again,Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.Those lute-like tones which in the bygone yearDid steal into mine ear—Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,Yet could not shake it;Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,Yet could not break it.
When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,From this poor present self which I am now;When youth has done its tedious vain expenseOf passions that for ever ebb and flow;Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind,And breathe more happy in an even clime?—Ah no, for then I shall begin to findA thousand virtues in this hated time!Then I shall wish its agitations back,And all its thwarting currents of desire;Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,And call this hurrying fever, generous fire;And sigh that one thing only has been lentTo youth and age in common—discontent.
When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,From this poor present self which I am now;When youth has done its tedious vain expenseOf passions that for ever ebb and flow;
Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind,And breathe more happy in an even clime?—Ah no, for then I shall begin to findA thousand virtues in this hated time!
Then I shall wish its agitations back,And all its thwarting currents of desire;Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,And call this hurrying fever, generous fire;
And sigh that one thing only has been lentTo youth and age in common—discontent.
So far as I conceive the world's rebukeTo him address'd who would recast her new,Not from herself her fame of strength she took,But from their weakness who would work her rue."Behold," she cries, "so many rages lull'd,So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down;Look how so many valours, long undull'd,After short commerce with me, fear my frown!"Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!"—The world speaks well; yet might her foe reply:"Are wills so weak?—then let not mine wait long!"Hast thou so rare a poison?—let me beKeener to slay thee, lest thou poison me!"
So far as I conceive the world's rebukeTo him address'd who would recast her new,Not from herself her fame of strength she took,But from their weakness who would work her rue.
"Behold," she cries, "so many rages lull'd,So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down;Look how so many valours, long undull'd,After short commerce with me, fear my frown!
"Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!"—The world speaks well; yet might her foe reply:"Are wills so weak?—then let not mine wait long!
"Hast thou so rare a poison?—let me beKeener to slay thee, lest thou poison me!"
Thou, who dost dwell alone—Thou, who dost know thine own—Thou, to whom all are knownFrom the cradle to the grave—Save, oh! save.From the world's temptations,From tribulations,From that fierce anguishWherein we languish,From that torpor deepWherein we lie asleep,Heavy as death, cold as the grave,Save, oh! save.When the soul, growing clearer,Sees God no nearer;When the soul, mounting higher,To God comes no nigher;But the arch-fiend PrideMounts at her side,Foiling her high emprise,Sealing her eagle eyes,And, when she fain would soar,Makes idols to adore,Changing the pure emotionOf her high devotion,To a skin-deep senseOf her own eloquence;Strong to deceive, strong to enslave—Save, oh! save.From the ingrain'd fashionOf this earthly natureThat mars thy creature;From grief that is but passion,From mirth that is but feigning,From tears that bring no healing,From wild and weak complaining,Thine old strength revealing,Save, oh! save.From doubt, where all is double;Where wise men are not strong,Where comfort turns to trouble,Where just men suffer wrong;Where sorrow treads on joy,Where sweet things soonest cloy,Where faiths are built on dust,Where love is half mistrust,Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea—Oh! set us free.O let the false dream fly,Where our sick souls do lieTossing continually!O where thy voice doth comeLet all doubts be dumb,Let all words be mild,All strifes be reconciled,All pains beguiled!Light bring no blindness,Love no unkindness,Knowledge no ruin,Fear no undoing!From the cradle to the grave,Save, oh! save.
Thou, who dost dwell alone—Thou, who dost know thine own—Thou, to whom all are knownFrom the cradle to the grave—Save, oh! save.From the world's temptations,From tribulations,From that fierce anguishWherein we languish,From that torpor deepWherein we lie asleep,Heavy as death, cold as the grave,Save, oh! save.
When the soul, growing clearer,Sees God no nearer;When the soul, mounting higher,To God comes no nigher;But the arch-fiend PrideMounts at her side,Foiling her high emprise,Sealing her eagle eyes,And, when she fain would soar,Makes idols to adore,Changing the pure emotionOf her high devotion,To a skin-deep senseOf her own eloquence;Strong to deceive, strong to enslave—Save, oh! save.
From the ingrain'd fashionOf this earthly natureThat mars thy creature;From grief that is but passion,From mirth that is but feigning,From tears that bring no healing,From wild and weak complaining,Thine old strength revealing,Save, oh! save.From doubt, where all is double;Where wise men are not strong,Where comfort turns to trouble,Where just men suffer wrong;Where sorrow treads on joy,Where sweet things soonest cloy,Where faiths are built on dust,Where love is half mistrust,Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea—Oh! set us free.O let the false dream fly,Where our sick souls do lieTossing continually!O where thy voice doth comeLet all doubts be dumb,Let all words be mild,All strifes be reconciled,All pains beguiled!Light bring no blindness,Love no unkindness,Knowledge no ruin,Fear no undoing!From the cradle to the grave,Save, oh! save.
What mortal, when he saw,Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend,Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly:"I have kept uninfringed my nature's law;The inly-written chart thou gavest me,To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"?Ah! let us make no claim,On life's incognisable sea,To too exact a steering of our way;Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim,If some fair coast have lured us to make stay,Or some friend hail'd us to keep company.Ay! we would each fain driveAt random, and not steer by rule.Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vainWinds from our side the unsuiting consort rive,We rush by coasts where we had lief remain;Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool.No! as the foaming swathOf torn-up water, on the main,Falls heavily away with long-drawn roarOn either side the black deep-furrow'd pathCut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore,And never touches the ship-side again;Even so we leave behind,As, charter'd by some unknown Powers,We stem across the sea of life by night,The joys which were not for our use design'd;—The friends to whom we had no natural right,The homes that were not destined to be ours.
What mortal, when he saw,Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend,Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly:"I have kept uninfringed my nature's law;The inly-written chart thou gavest me,To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"?
Ah! let us make no claim,On life's incognisable sea,To too exact a steering of our way;Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim,If some fair coast have lured us to make stay,Or some friend hail'd us to keep company.
Ay! we would each fain driveAt random, and not steer by rule.Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vainWinds from our side the unsuiting consort rive,We rush by coasts where we had lief remain;Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool.
No! as the foaming swathOf torn-up water, on the main,Falls heavily away with long-drawn roarOn either side the black deep-furrow'd pathCut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore,And never touches the ship-side again;
Even so we leave behind,As, charter'd by some unknown Powers,We stem across the sea of life by night,The joys which were not for our use design'd;—The friends to whom we had no natural right,The homes that were not destined to be ours.
Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?Who hid such import in an infant's gloom?Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?Lo! sails that gleam a moment and are gone;The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier.Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on,Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near.But thou, whom superfluity of joyWafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain,Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy—Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain;Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averseFrom thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee;With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst converse,And that soul-searching vision fell on me.Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known:Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own:Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad?Some angel's, in an alien planet born?—No exile's dream was ever half so sad,Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn.Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weighLife well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;But in disdainful silence turn away,Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?Or do I wait, to hear some gray-hair'd kingUnravel all his many-colour'd lore;Whose mind hath known all arts of governing,Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more?Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope,Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give.—Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,Foreseen thy harvest—yet proceed'st to live.O meek anticipant of that sure painWhose sureness gray-hair'd scholars hardly learn!What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain?What heavens, what earth, what sun shalt thou discern?Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star,Match that funereal aspect with her pall,I think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far,Have known too much——or else forgotten all.The Guide of our dark steps a triple veilBetwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;Hath sown with cloudless passages the taleOf grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,Not daily labour's dull, Lethæan spring,Oblivion in lost angels can infuseOf the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing.And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may,In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife;And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life;Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the cloudThat sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone;Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proudTo halve a lodging that was all her own—Once, ere the day decline, thou shalt discern,Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain!Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return,And wear this majesty of grief again.
Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes?Who hid such import in an infant's gloom?Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise?Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom?
Lo! sails that gleam a moment and are gone;The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier.Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on,Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near.
But thou, whom superfluity of joyWafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain,Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy—Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain;
Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averseFrom thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee;With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst converse,And that soul-searching vision fell on me.
Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known:Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own:Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.
What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.
Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad?Some angel's, in an alien planet born?—No exile's dream was ever half so sad,Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn.
Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weighLife well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;But in disdainful silence turn away,Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?
Or do I wait, to hear some gray-hair'd kingUnravel all his many-colour'd lore;Whose mind hath known all arts of governing,Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more?
Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope,Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give.—Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,Foreseen thy harvest—yet proceed'st to live.
O meek anticipant of that sure painWhose sureness gray-hair'd scholars hardly learn!What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain?What heavens, what earth, what sun shalt thou discern?
Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star,Match that funereal aspect with her pall,I think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far,Have known too much——or else forgotten all.
The Guide of our dark steps a triple veilBetwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;Hath sown with cloudless passages the taleOf grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.
Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,Not daily labour's dull, Lethæan spring,Oblivion in lost angels can infuseOf the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing.
And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may,In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife;And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life;Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the cloudThat sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone;Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proudTo halve a lodging that was all her own—
Once, ere the day decline, thou shalt discern,Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain!Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return,And wear this majesty of grief again.
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flowsLike the wave;Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.Love lends life a little grace,A few sad smiles; and then,Both are laid in one cold place,In the grave.Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and dieLike spring flowers;Our vaunted life is one long funeral.Men dig graves with bitter tearsFor their dead hopes; and all,Mazed with doubts and sick with fears,Count the hours.We count the hours! These dreams of ours,False and hollow,Do we go hence and find they are not dead?Joys we dimly apprehend,Faces that smiled and fled,Hopes born here, and born to end,Shall we follow?
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flowsLike the wave;Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.Love lends life a little grace,A few sad smiles; and then,Both are laid in one cold place,In the grave.
Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and dieLike spring flowers;Our vaunted life is one long funeral.Men dig graves with bitter tearsFor their dead hopes; and all,Mazed with doubts and sick with fears,Count the hours.
We count the hours! These dreams of ours,False and hollow,Do we go hence and find they are not dead?Joys we dimly apprehend,Faces that smiled and fled,Hopes born here, and born to end,Shall we follow?
If, in the silent mind of One all-pure,At first imagined layThe sacred world; and by procession sureFrom those still deeps, in form and colour drest,Seasons alternating, and night and day,The long-mused thought to north, south, east, and west,Took then its all-seen way;O waking on a world which thus-wise springs!Whether it needs thee countBetwixt thy waking and the birth of thingsAges or hours—O waking on life's stream!By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount(Only by this thou canst) the colour'd dreamOf life remount!Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow,And faint the city gleams;Rare the lone pastoral huts—marvel not thou!The solemn peaks but to the stars are known,But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams;Alone the sun arises, and aloneSpring the great streams.But, if the wild unfather'd mass no birthIn divine seats hath known;In the blank, echoing solitude if Earth,Rocking her obscure body to and fro,Ceases not from all time to heave and groan,Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throeForms, what she forms, alone;O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed headPiercing the solemn cloudRound thy still dreaming brother-world outspread!O man, whom Earth, thy long-vext mother, bareNot without joy—so radiant, so endow'd(Such happy issue crown'd her painful care)—Be not too proud!Oh when most self-exalted most alone,Chief dreamer, own thy dream!Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown,Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part;Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem.—Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart!"I, too, but seem."
If, in the silent mind of One all-pure,At first imagined layThe sacred world; and by procession sureFrom those still deeps, in form and colour drest,Seasons alternating, and night and day,The long-mused thought to north, south, east, and west,Took then its all-seen way;
O waking on a world which thus-wise springs!Whether it needs thee countBetwixt thy waking and the birth of thingsAges or hours—O waking on life's stream!By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount(Only by this thou canst) the colour'd dreamOf life remount!
Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow,And faint the city gleams;Rare the lone pastoral huts—marvel not thou!The solemn peaks but to the stars are known,But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams;Alone the sun arises, and aloneSpring the great streams.
But, if the wild unfather'd mass no birthIn divine seats hath known;In the blank, echoing solitude if Earth,Rocking her obscure body to and fro,Ceases not from all time to heave and groan,Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throeForms, what she forms, alone;
O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed headPiercing the solemn cloudRound thy still dreaming brother-world outspread!O man, whom Earth, thy long-vext mother, bareNot without joy—so radiant, so endow'd(Such happy issue crown'd her painful care)—Be not too proud!
Oh when most self-exalted most alone,Chief dreamer, own thy dream!Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown,Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part;Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem.—Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart!"I, too, but seem."
"Why, when the world's great mindHath finally inclined,Why," you say, Critias, "be debating still?Why, with these mournful rhymesLearn'd in more languid climes,Blame our activityWho, with such passionate will,Are what we mean to be?"Critias, long since, I know(For Fate decreed it so),Long since the world hath set its heart to live;Long since, with credulous zealIt turns life's mighty wheel,Still doth for labourers sendWho still their labour give,And still expects an end.Yet, as the wheel flies round,With no ungrateful soundDo adverse voices fall on the world's ear.Deafen'd by his own stirThe rugged labourerCaught not till then a senseSo glowing and so nearOf his omnipotence.So, when the feast grew loudIn Susa's palace proud,A white-robed slave stole to the Great King's side.He spake—the Great King heard;Felt the slow-rolling wordSwell his attentive soul;Breathed deeply as it died,And drain'd his mighty bowl.
"Why, when the world's great mindHath finally inclined,Why," you say, Critias, "be debating still?Why, with these mournful rhymesLearn'd in more languid climes,Blame our activityWho, with such passionate will,Are what we mean to be?"
Critias, long since, I know(For Fate decreed it so),Long since the world hath set its heart to live;Long since, with credulous zealIt turns life's mighty wheel,Still doth for labourers sendWho still their labour give,And still expects an end.
Yet, as the wheel flies round,With no ungrateful soundDo adverse voices fall on the world's ear.Deafen'd by his own stirThe rugged labourerCaught not till then a senseSo glowing and so nearOf his omnipotence.
So, when the feast grew loudIn Susa's palace proud,A white-robed slave stole to the Great King's side.He spake—the Great King heard;Felt the slow-rolling wordSwell his attentive soul;Breathed deeply as it died,And drain'd his mighty bowl.
Omit, omit, my simple friend,Still to enquire how parties tend,Or what we fix with foreign powers.If France and we are really friends,And what the Russian Czar intends,Is no concern of ours.Us not the daily quickening raceOf the invading populaceShall draw to swell that shouldering herd.Mourn will we not your closing hour,Ye imbeciles in present power,Doom'd, pompous, and absurd!And let us bear, that they debateOf all the engine-work of state,Of commerce, laws, and policy,The secrets of the world's machine,And what the rights of man may mean,With readier tongue than we.Only, that with no finer artThey cloak the troubles of the heartWith pleasant smile, let us take care;Nor with a lighter hand disposeFresh garlands of this dewy rose,To crown Eugenia's hair.Of little threads our life is spun,And he spins ill, who misses one.But is thy fair Eugenia cold?Yet Helen had an equal grace,And Juliet's was as fair a face,And now their years are told.The day approaches, when we mustBe crumbling bones and windy dust;And scorn us as our mistress may,Her beauty will no better beThan the poor face she slights in thee,When dawns that day, that day.
Omit, omit, my simple friend,Still to enquire how parties tend,Or what we fix with foreign powers.If France and we are really friends,And what the Russian Czar intends,Is no concern of ours.
Us not the daily quickening raceOf the invading populaceShall draw to swell that shouldering herd.Mourn will we not your closing hour,Ye imbeciles in present power,Doom'd, pompous, and absurd!
And let us bear, that they debateOf all the engine-work of state,Of commerce, laws, and policy,The secrets of the world's machine,And what the rights of man may mean,With readier tongue than we.
Only, that with no finer artThey cloak the troubles of the heartWith pleasant smile, let us take care;Nor with a lighter hand disposeFresh garlands of this dewy rose,To crown Eugenia's hair.
Of little threads our life is spun,And he spins ill, who misses one.But is thy fair Eugenia cold?Yet Helen had an equal grace,And Juliet's was as fair a face,And now their years are told.
The day approaches, when we mustBe crumbling bones and windy dust;And scorn us as our mistress may,Her beauty will no better beThan the poor face she slights in thee,When dawns that day, that day.
Moderate tasks and moderate leisure,Quiet living, strict-kept measureBoth in suffering and in pleasure—'Tis for this thy nature yearns.But so many books thou readest,But so many schemes thou breedest,But so many wishes feedest,That thy poor head almost turns.And (the world's so madly jangled,Human things so fast entangled)Nature's wish must now be strangledFor that best which she discerns.So itmustbe! yet, while leadingA strain'd life, while overfeeding,Like the rest, his wit with reading,No small profit that man earns,Who through all he meets can steer him,Can reject what cannot clear him,Cling to what can truly cheer him;Who each day more surely learnsThat an impulse, from the distanceOf his deepest, best existence,To the words, "Hope, Light, Persistence,"Strongly sets and truly burns.
Moderate tasks and moderate leisure,Quiet living, strict-kept measureBoth in suffering and in pleasure—'Tis for this thy nature yearns.
But so many books thou readest,But so many schemes thou breedest,But so many wishes feedest,That thy poor head almost turns.
And (the world's so madly jangled,Human things so fast entangled)Nature's wish must now be strangledFor that best which she discerns.
So itmustbe! yet, while leadingA strain'd life, while overfeeding,Like the rest, his wit with reading,No small profit that man earns,
Who through all he meets can steer him,Can reject what cannot clear him,Cling to what can truly cheer him;Who each day more surely learns
That an impulse, from the distanceOf his deepest, best existence,To the words, "Hope, Light, Persistence,"Strongly sets and truly burns.
Mist clogs the sunshine.Smoky dwarf housesHem me round everywhere;A vague dejectionWeighs down my soul.Yet, while I languish,Everywhere countlessProspects unroll themselves,And countless beingsPass countless moods.Far hence, in Asia,On the smooth convent-roofs,On the gilt terraces,Of holy Lassa,Bright shines the sun.Grey time-worn marblesHold the pure Muses;In their cool gallery,By yellow Tiber,They still look fair.Strange unloved uproar[A]Shrills round their portal;Yet not on HeliconKept they more cloudlessTheir noble calm.Through sun-proof alleysIn a lone, sand-hemm'dCity of Africa,A blind, led beggar,Age-bow'd, asks alms.No bolder robberErst abode ambush'dDeep in the sandy waste;No clearer eyesightSpied prey afar.Saharan sand-windsSear'd his keen eyeballs;Spent is the spoil he won.For him the presentHolds only pain.Two young, fair lovers,Where the warm June-wind,Fresh from the summer fieldsPlays fondly round them,Stand, tranced in joy.With sweet, join'd voices,And with eyes brimming:"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,Prolong the present!Time, stand still here!"The prompt stern GoddessShakes her head, frowning;Time gives his hour-glassIts due reversal;Their hour is gone.With weak indulgenceDid the just GoddessLengthen their happiness,She lengthen'd alsoDistress elsewhere.The hour, whose happyUnalloy'd momentsI would eternalise,Ten thousand mournersWell pleased see end.The bleak, stern hour,Whose severe momentsI would annihilate,Is pass'd by othersIn warmth, light, joy.Time, so complain'd of,Who to no one manShows partiality,Brings round to all menSome undimm'd hours.
Mist clogs the sunshine.Smoky dwarf housesHem me round everywhere;A vague dejectionWeighs down my soul.
Yet, while I languish,Everywhere countlessProspects unroll themselves,And countless beingsPass countless moods.
Far hence, in Asia,On the smooth convent-roofs,On the gilt terraces,Of holy Lassa,Bright shines the sun.
Grey time-worn marblesHold the pure Muses;In their cool gallery,By yellow Tiber,They still look fair.
Strange unloved uproar[A]Shrills round their portal;Yet not on HeliconKept they more cloudlessTheir noble calm.
Through sun-proof alleysIn a lone, sand-hemm'dCity of Africa,A blind, led beggar,Age-bow'd, asks alms.
No bolder robberErst abode ambush'dDeep in the sandy waste;No clearer eyesightSpied prey afar.
Saharan sand-windsSear'd his keen eyeballs;Spent is the spoil he won.For him the presentHolds only pain.
Two young, fair lovers,Where the warm June-wind,Fresh from the summer fieldsPlays fondly round them,Stand, tranced in joy.
With sweet, join'd voices,And with eyes brimming:"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,Prolong the present!Time, stand still here!"
The prompt stern GoddessShakes her head, frowning;Time gives his hour-glassIts due reversal;Their hour is gone.
With weak indulgenceDid the just GoddessLengthen their happiness,She lengthen'd alsoDistress elsewhere.
The hour, whose happyUnalloy'd momentsI would eternalise,Ten thousand mournersWell pleased see end.
The bleak, stern hour,Whose severe momentsI would annihilate,Is pass'd by othersIn warmth, light, joy.
Time, so complain'd of,Who to no one manShows partiality,Brings round to all menSome undimm'd hours.
FOOTNOTE:[A]Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.
[A]Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.
[A]Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.
To die be given us, or attain!Fierce work it were, to do again.So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'dAt burning noon; so warriors said,Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the milesOf dust which wreathed their struggling filesDown Lydian mountains; so, when snowsRound Alpine summits, eddying, rose,The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun,Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sunWent lurid down o'er flooded plainsThrough which the groaning Danube strainsTo the drear Euxine;—so pray all,Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall;Because they to themselves proposeOn this side the all-common closeA goal which, gain'd, may give repose.So pray they; and to stand againWhere they stood once, to them were pain;Pain to thread back and to renewPast straits, and currents long steer'd through.But milder natures, and more free—Whom an unblamed serenityHath freed from passions, and the stateOf struggle these necessitate;Whom schooling of the stubborn mindHath made, or birth hath found, resign'd—These mourn not, that their goings payObedience to the passing day.These claim not every laughing HourFor handmaid to their striding power;Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd,To await their march; and when appear'd,Through the cold gloom, with measured race,To usher for a destined space(Her own sweet errands all forgone)The too imperious traveller on.These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou,Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now!We left, just ten years since, you say,That wayside inn we left to-day.[5]Our jovial host, as forth we fare,Shouts greeting from his easy chair.High on a bank our leader stands,Reviews and ranks his motley bands,Makes clear our goal to every eye—The valley's western boundary.A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'dAlready from the silent road.The valley-pastures, one by one,Are threaded, quiet in the sun;And now beyond the rude stone bridgeSlopes gracious up the western ridge.Its woody border, and the lastOf its dark upland farms is past—Cool farms, with open-lying stores,Under their burnish'd sycamores;All past! and through the trees we glide,Emerging on the green hill-side.There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign,Our wavering, many-colour'd line;There winds, upstreaming slowly stillOver the summit of the hill.And now, in front, behold outspreadThose upper regions we must tread!Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells,The cheerful silence of the fells.Some two hours' march with serious air,Through the deep noontide heats we fare;The red-grouse, springing at our sound,Skims, now and then, the shining ground;No life, save his and ours, intrudesUpon these breathless solitudes.O joy! again the farms appear.Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer;There springs the brook will guide us down,Bright comrade, to the noisy town.Lingering, we follow down; we gainThe town, the highway, and the plain.And many a mile of dusty way,Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day;But, Fausta, I remember well,That as the balmy darkness fellWe bathed our hands with speechless glee,That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.Once more we tread this self-same road,Fausta, which ten years since we trod;Alone we tread it, you and I,Ghosts of that boisterous company.Here, where the brook shines, near its head,In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed;Here, whence the eye first sees, far down,Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town;Here sit we, and again unroll,Though slowly, the familiar whole.The solemn wastes of heathy hillSleep in the July sunshine still;The self-same shadows now, as then,Play through this grassy upland glen;The loose dark stones on the green wayLie strewn, it seems, where then they lay;On this mild bank above the stream,(You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam.Still this wild brook, the rushes cool,The sailing foam, the shining pool!These are not changed; and we, you say,Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they.The gipsies, whom we met below,They, too, have long roam'd to and fro;They ramble, leaving, where they pass,Their fragments on the cumber'd grass.And often to some kindly placeChance guides the migratory race,Where, though long wanderings intervene,They recognise a former scene.The dingy tents are pitch'd; the firesGive to the wind their wavering spires;In dark knots crouch round the wild flameTheir children, as when first they came;They see their shackled beasts againMove, browsing, up the gray-wall'd lane.Signs are not wanting, which might raiseThe ghost in them of former days—Signs are not wanting, if they would;Suggestions to disquietude.For them, for all, time's busy touch,While it mends little, troubles much.Their joints grow stiffer—but the yearRuns his old round of dubious cheer;Chilly they grow—yet winds in March,Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch;They must live still—and yet, God knows,Crowded and keen the country grows;It seems as if, in their decay,The law grew stronger every day.So might they reason, so compare,Fausta, times past with times that are.But no!—they rubb'd through yesterdayIn their hereditary way,And they will rub through, if they can,To-morrow on the self-same plan,Till death arrive to supersede,For them, vicissitude and need.The poet, to whose mighty heartHeaven doth a quicker pulse impart,Subdues that energy to scanNot his own course, but that of man.Though he move mountains, though his dayBe pass'd on the proud heights of sway,Though he hath loosed a thousand chains,Though he hath borne immortal pains,Action and suffering though he know—He hath not lived, if he lives so.He sees, in some great-historied land,A ruler of the people stand,Sees his strong thought in fiery floodRoll through the heaving multitudeExults—yet for no moment's spaceEnvies the all-regarded place.Beautiful eyes meet his—and heBears to admire uncravingly;They pass—he, mingled with the crowd,Is in their far-off triumphs proud.From some high station he looks down,At sunset, on a populous town;Surveys each happy group, which fleets,Toil ended, through the shining streets,Each with some errand of its own—And does not say:I am alone.He sees the gentle stir of birthWhen morning purifies the earth;He leans upon a gate and seesThe pastures, and the quiet trees.Low, woody hill, with gracious bound,Folds the still valley almost round;The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn,Is answer'd from the depth of dawn;In the hedge straggling to the stream,Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam;But, where the farther side slopes down,He sees the drowsy new-waked clownIn his white quaint-embroider'd frockMake, whistling, tow'rd his mist-wreathed flock—Slowly, behind his heavy tread,The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head.Lean'd on his gate, he gazes—tearsAre in his eyes, and in his earsThe murmur of a thousand years.Before him he sees life unroll,A placid and continuous whole—That general life, which does not cease,Whose secret is not joy, but peace;That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'dIf birth proceeds, if things subsist;The life of plants, and stones, and rain,The life he craves—if not in vainFate gave, what chance shall not control,His sad lucidity of soul.You listen—but that wandering smile,Fausta, betrays you cold the while!Your eyes pursue the bells of foamWash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home.Those gipsies, so your thoughts I scan,Are less, the poet more, than man.They feel not, though they move and see;Deeper the poet feels; but heBreathes, when he will, immortal air,Where Orpheus and where Homer are.In the day's life, whose iron roundHems us all in, he is not bound;He leaves his kind, o'erleaps their pen,And flees the common life of men.He escapes thence, but we abide—Not deep the poet sees, but wide.
To die be given us, or attain!Fierce work it were, to do again.So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'dAt burning noon; so warriors said,Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the milesOf dust which wreathed their struggling filesDown Lydian mountains; so, when snowsRound Alpine summits, eddying, rose,The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun,Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sunWent lurid down o'er flooded plainsThrough which the groaning Danube strainsTo the drear Euxine;—so pray all,Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall;Because they to themselves proposeOn this side the all-common closeA goal which, gain'd, may give repose.So pray they; and to stand againWhere they stood once, to them were pain;Pain to thread back and to renewPast straits, and currents long steer'd through.
But milder natures, and more free—Whom an unblamed serenityHath freed from passions, and the stateOf struggle these necessitate;Whom schooling of the stubborn mindHath made, or birth hath found, resign'd—These mourn not, that their goings payObedience to the passing day.These claim not every laughing HourFor handmaid to their striding power;Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd,To await their march; and when appear'd,Through the cold gloom, with measured race,To usher for a destined space(Her own sweet errands all forgone)The too imperious traveller on.These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou,Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now!
We left, just ten years since, you say,That wayside inn we left to-day.[5]Our jovial host, as forth we fare,Shouts greeting from his easy chair.High on a bank our leader stands,Reviews and ranks his motley bands,Makes clear our goal to every eye—The valley's western boundary.A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'dAlready from the silent road.The valley-pastures, one by one,Are threaded, quiet in the sun;And now beyond the rude stone bridgeSlopes gracious up the western ridge.Its woody border, and the lastOf its dark upland farms is past—Cool farms, with open-lying stores,Under their burnish'd sycamores;All past! and through the trees we glide,Emerging on the green hill-side.There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign,Our wavering, many-colour'd line;There winds, upstreaming slowly stillOver the summit of the hill.And now, in front, behold outspreadThose upper regions we must tread!Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells,The cheerful silence of the fells.Some two hours' march with serious air,Through the deep noontide heats we fare;The red-grouse, springing at our sound,Skims, now and then, the shining ground;No life, save his and ours, intrudesUpon these breathless solitudes.O joy! again the farms appear.Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer;There springs the brook will guide us down,Bright comrade, to the noisy town.Lingering, we follow down; we gainThe town, the highway, and the plain.And many a mile of dusty way,Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day;But, Fausta, I remember well,That as the balmy darkness fellWe bathed our hands with speechless glee,That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.
Once more we tread this self-same road,Fausta, which ten years since we trod;Alone we tread it, you and I,Ghosts of that boisterous company.Here, where the brook shines, near its head,In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed;Here, whence the eye first sees, far down,Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town;Here sit we, and again unroll,Though slowly, the familiar whole.The solemn wastes of heathy hillSleep in the July sunshine still;The self-same shadows now, as then,Play through this grassy upland glen;The loose dark stones on the green wayLie strewn, it seems, where then they lay;On this mild bank above the stream,(You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam.Still this wild brook, the rushes cool,The sailing foam, the shining pool!These are not changed; and we, you say,Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they.
The gipsies, whom we met below,They, too, have long roam'd to and fro;They ramble, leaving, where they pass,Their fragments on the cumber'd grass.And often to some kindly placeChance guides the migratory race,Where, though long wanderings intervene,They recognise a former scene.The dingy tents are pitch'd; the firesGive to the wind their wavering spires;In dark knots crouch round the wild flameTheir children, as when first they came;They see their shackled beasts againMove, browsing, up the gray-wall'd lane.Signs are not wanting, which might raiseThe ghost in them of former days—Signs are not wanting, if they would;Suggestions to disquietude.For them, for all, time's busy touch,While it mends little, troubles much.Their joints grow stiffer—but the yearRuns his old round of dubious cheer;Chilly they grow—yet winds in March,Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch;They must live still—and yet, God knows,Crowded and keen the country grows;It seems as if, in their decay,The law grew stronger every day.So might they reason, so compare,Fausta, times past with times that are.But no!—they rubb'd through yesterdayIn their hereditary way,And they will rub through, if they can,To-morrow on the self-same plan,Till death arrive to supersede,For them, vicissitude and need.
The poet, to whose mighty heartHeaven doth a quicker pulse impart,Subdues that energy to scanNot his own course, but that of man.Though he move mountains, though his dayBe pass'd on the proud heights of sway,Though he hath loosed a thousand chains,Though he hath borne immortal pains,Action and suffering though he know—He hath not lived, if he lives so.He sees, in some great-historied land,A ruler of the people stand,Sees his strong thought in fiery floodRoll through the heaving multitudeExults—yet for no moment's spaceEnvies the all-regarded place.Beautiful eyes meet his—and heBears to admire uncravingly;They pass—he, mingled with the crowd,Is in their far-off triumphs proud.From some high station he looks down,At sunset, on a populous town;Surveys each happy group, which fleets,Toil ended, through the shining streets,Each with some errand of its own—And does not say:I am alone.He sees the gentle stir of birthWhen morning purifies the earth;He leans upon a gate and seesThe pastures, and the quiet trees.Low, woody hill, with gracious bound,Folds the still valley almost round;The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn,Is answer'd from the depth of dawn;In the hedge straggling to the stream,Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam;But, where the farther side slopes down,He sees the drowsy new-waked clownIn his white quaint-embroider'd frockMake, whistling, tow'rd his mist-wreathed flock—Slowly, behind his heavy tread,The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head.Lean'd on his gate, he gazes—tearsAre in his eyes, and in his earsThe murmur of a thousand years.Before him he sees life unroll,A placid and continuous whole—That general life, which does not cease,Whose secret is not joy, but peace;That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'dIf birth proceeds, if things subsist;The life of plants, and stones, and rain,The life he craves—if not in vainFate gave, what chance shall not control,His sad lucidity of soul.
You listen—but that wandering smile,Fausta, betrays you cold the while!Your eyes pursue the bells of foamWash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home.Those gipsies, so your thoughts I scan,Are less, the poet more, than man.They feel not, though they move and see;Deeper the poet feels; but heBreathes, when he will, immortal air,Where Orpheus and where Homer are.In the day's life, whose iron roundHems us all in, he is not bound;He leaves his kind, o'erleaps their pen,And flees the common life of men.He escapes thence, but we abide—Not deep the poet sees, but wide.