CLEON

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?Nephews—sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well—She, men would have to be your mother once,Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!5What's done is done, and she is dead beside,Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,And as she died so must we die ourselves,And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.Life, how and what is it? As here I lie10In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought15With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:—Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner SouthHe graced his carrion with, God curse the same!Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence20One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,And up into the aery dome where liveThe angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk:And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,25And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,With those nine columns round me, two and two,The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripeAs fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.30—Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,Put me where I may look at him! True peach,Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!Draw close: that conflagration of my church—What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!35My sons, ye would not be my death? Go digThe white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,Drop water gently till the surface sink,And if ye find ... Ah God, I know not, I! ...Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,40And corded up in a tight olive-frail,Some lump, ah God, oflapis lazuli,Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ...Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,45That brave Frascati villa with its bath,So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,Like God the Father's globe on both his handsYe worship in the Jesu Church so gay,For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!50Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black—'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How elseShall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?55The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,Those Pan and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchanceSome tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,The Savior at his sermon on the mount,Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan60Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,And Moses with the tables ... but I knowYe mark me not! What do they whisper thee,Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hopeTo revel down my villas while I gasp65Bricked o'er with beggar's moldy travertineWhich Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper, then!'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieveMy bath must needs be left behind, alas!70One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world—And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to prayHorses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?75—That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line—Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!And then how I shall lie through centuries,80And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,And see God made and eaten all day long,And feel the steady candle-flame, and tasteGood strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,85Dying in state and by such slow degrees,I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, dropInto great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:90And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughtsGrow, with a certain humming in my ears,About the life before I lived this life,And this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests,Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,95Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,—Aha,Elucescebatquoth our friend?No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!100Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.Alllapis, all, sons! Else I give the PopeMy villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,They glitter like your mother's for my soul,105Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,Piece out its starved design, and fill my vaseWith grapes, and add a visor and a Term,And to the tripod ye would tie a lynxThat in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,110To comfort me on my entablatureWhereon I am to lie till I must ask,"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!For ye have stabbed me with ingratitudeTo death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone—115Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweatAs if the corpse they keep were oozing through—And no morelapisto delight the world!Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,But in a row: and, going, turn your backs120—Aye, like departing altar-ministrants,And leave me in my church, the church for peace,That I may watch at leisure if he leers—Old Gandolf—at me, from his onion-stone,As still he envied me, so fair she was!125

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles,Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea,And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")—To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!They give thy letter to me, even now;5I read and seem as if I heard thee speak.The master of thy galley still unladesGift after gift; they block my court at lastAnd pile themselves along its porticoRoyal with sunset, like a thought of thee;10And one white she-slave from the group dispersedOf black and white slaves (like the checker-workPavement, at once my nation's work and gift,Now covered with this settle-down of doves),One lyric woman, in her crocus vest15Woven of sea-wools, with her two white handsCommends to me the strainer and the cupThy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.Well-counseled, king, in thy munificence!For so shall men remark, in such an act20Of love for him whose song gives life its joy,Thy recognition of the use of life;Nor call thy spirit barely adequateTo help on life in straight ways, broad enoughFor vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest.25Thou, in the daily building of thy tower—Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil,Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth,Or when the general work 'mid good acclaimClimbed with the eye to cheer the architect—30Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake—Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hopeOf some eventual rest a-top of it,Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed,Thou first of men mightst look out to the East.35The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun.For this, I promise on thy festivalTo pour libation, looking o'er the sea,Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speakThy great words, and describe thy royal face—40Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most,Within the eventual element of calm.Thy letter's first requirement meets me here.It is as thou hast heard: in one short lifeI, Cleon, have effected all those things45Thou wonderingly dost enumerate.That epos on thy hundred plates of goldIs mine—and also mine the little chant,So sure to rise from every fishing-barkWhen, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net.50The image of the sun-god on the phare,Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine;The Pœcile, o'er-storied its whole length,As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too.I know the true proportions of a man55And woman also, not observed before;And I have written three books on the soul,Proving absurd all written hitherto,And putting us to ignorance again.For music—why, I have combined the moods,60Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine;Thus much the people know and recognize,Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not.We of these latter days, with greater mindThan our forerunners, since more composite,65Look not so great, beside their simple way,To a judge who only sees one way at once,One mind-point and no other at a time—Compares the small part of a man of usWith some whole man of the heroic age,70Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours.And ours is greater, had we skill to know:For, what we call this life of men on earth,This sequence of the soul's achievements hereBeing, as I find much reason to conceive,75Intended to be viewed eventuallyAs a great whole, not analyzed to parts,But each part having reference to all—How shall a certain part, pronounced complete,Endure effacement by another part?80Was the thing done?—then, what's to do again?See, in the checkered pavement opposite,Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb,And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid—He did not overlay them, superimpose85The new upon the old and blot it out,But laid them on a level in his work,Making at last a picture; there it lies.So, first the perfect separate forms were made,The portions of mankind; and after, so,90Occurred the combination of the same.For where had been a progress, otherwise?Mankind, made up of all the single men—In such a synthesis the labor ends.Now mark me! those divine men of old time95Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one pointThe outside verge that rounds our faculty;And where they reached, who can do more than reach?It takes but little water just to touchAt some one point the inside of a sphere,100And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the restIn due succession; but the finer airWhich not so palpably nor obviously,Though no less universally, can touchThe whole circumference of that emptied sphere,105Fills it more fully than the water did;Holds thrice the weight of water in itselfResolved into a subtler element.And yet the vulgar call the sphere first fullUp to the visible height—and after, void;110Not knowing air's more hidden properties.And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to ZeusTo vindicate his purpose in our life:Why stay we on the earth unless to grow?Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out,115That he or other god descended hereAnd, once for all, showed simultaneouslyWhat, in its nature, never can be shown,Piecemeal or in succession—showed, I say,The worth both absolute and relative120Of all his children from the birth of time,His instruments for all appointed work.I now go on to image—might we hearThe judgment which should give the due to each,Show where the labor lay and where the ease,125And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere!This is a dream—but no dream, let us hope,That years and days, the summers and the springs,Follow each other with unwaning powers.The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far,130Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock;The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe;The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet;The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers;That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave,135Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds,Refines upon the women of my youth.What, and the soul alone deteriorates?I have not chanted verse like Homer, no—Nor swept string like Terpander, no—nor carved140And painted men like Phidias and his friend:I am not great as they are, point by point.But I have entered into sympathyWith these four, running these into one soul,Who, separate, ignored each other's art.145Say, is it nothing that I know them all?The wild flower was the larger; I have dashedRose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup'sHoney with wine, and driven its seed to fruit,And show a better flower if not so large:150I stand myself. Refer this to the godsWhose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretextThat such a gift by chance lay in my hand,Discourse of lightly or depreciate?155It might have fallen to another's hand: what then?I pass too surely: let at least truth stay!And next, of what thou followest on to ask.This being with me as I declare, O king,My works, in all these varicolored kinds,160So done by me, accepted so by men—Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts)I must not be accounted to attainThe very crown and proper end of life?Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up,165I face death with success in my right hand:Whether I fear death less than dost thyselfThe fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou)"Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught.Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing,170The pictures men shall study; while my life,Complete and whole now in its power and joy,Dies altogether with my brain and arm,Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself?The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave,175Set on the promontory which I named.And that—some supple courtier of my heirShall use its robed and sceptered arm, perhaps,To fix the rope to, which best drags it down.I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!"180Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind.Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to museUpon the scheme of earth and man in chief,That admiration grows as knowledge grows?That imperfection means perfection hid,185Reserved in part, to grace the after-time?If, in the morning of philosophy,Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived,Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have lookedOn all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird,190Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage—Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deducedThe perfectness of others yet unseen.Conceding which—had Zeus then questioned thee,"Shall I go on a step, improve on this,195Do more for visible creatures than is done?"Thou wouldst have answered, "Aye, by making eachGrow conscious in himself—by that alone.All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock,The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims200And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight,Till life's mechanics can no further go—And all this joy in natural life is putLike fire from off thy finger into each,So exquisitely perfect is the same.205But 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are;It has them, not they it: and so I chooseFor man, thy last premeditated work(If I might add a glory to the scheme),That a third thing should stand apart from both,210A quality arise within his soul,Which, introactive, made to superviseAnd feel the force it has, may view itself,And so be happy." Man might live at firstThe animal life: but is there nothing more?215In due time, let him critically learnHow he lives; and, the more he gets to knowOf his own life's adaptabilities,The more joy-giving will his life become.Thus man, who hath this quality, is best.220But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said:"Let progress end at once—man make no stepBeyond the natural man, the better beast,Using his senses, not the sense of sense."In man there's failure, only since he left225The lower and inconscious forms of life.We called it an advance, the rendering plainMan's spirit might grow conscious of man's life,And, by new lore so added to the old,Take each step higher over the brute's head.230This grew the only life, the pleasure-house,Watch-tower, and treasure-fortress of the soul,Which whole surrounding flats of natural lifeSeemed only fit to yield subsistence to;A tower that crowns a country. But alas,235The soul now climbs it just to perish there!For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream—We know this, which we had not else perceived)That there's a world of capabilityFor joy, spread round about us, meant for us,240Inviting us; and still the soul craves all,And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot moreThan ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!Nay, so much less as that fatigue has broughtDeduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge245Our bounded physical recipiency,Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,Repair the waste of age and sickness: no,It skills not! life's inadequate to joy,As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take.250They praise a fountain in my garden hereWherein a Naiad sends the water-bowThin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise.What if I told her, it is just a threadFrom that great river which the hills shut up,255And mock her with my leave to take the same?The artificer has given her one small tubePast power to widen or exchange—what bootsTo know she might spout oceans if she could?She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread:260And so a man can use but a man's joyWhile he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast,"See, man, how happy I live, and despair—That I may be still happier—for thy use!"If this were so, we could not thank our Lord,265As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so—Malice it is not. Is it carelessness?Still, no. If care—where is the sign? I ask,And get no answer, and agree in sum,O king, with thy profound discouragement,270Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.The last point now:—thou dost except a case—Holding joy not impossible to oneWith artist-gifts—to such a man as I275Who leave behind me living works indeed;For, such a poem, such a painting lives.What? Dost thou verily trip upon a word,Confound the accurate view of what joy is(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine)280With feeling joy? confound the knowing howAnd showing how to live (my faculty)With actually living?—OtherwiseWhere is the artist's vantage o'er the king?Because in my great epos I display285How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act—Is this as though I acted? If I paint,Carve the young Phœbus, am I therefore young?Methinks I'm older that I bowed myselfThe many years of pain that taught me art!290Indeed, to know is something, and to proveHow all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more:But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something, too.Yon rower, with the molded muscles there,Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.295I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode.I get to sing of love, when grown too grayFor being beloved: she turns to that young man,The muscles all a-ripple on his back.I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king!300"But," sayest thou—and I marvel, I repeat,To find thee trip on such a mere word—"whatThou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die:Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,And Æschylus, because we read his plays!"305Why, if they live still, let them come and takeThy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive?Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,In this, that every day my sense of joy310Grows more acute, my soul (intensifiedBy power and insight) more enlarged, more keen;While every day my hairs fall more and more,My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—The horror quickening still from year to year,315The consummation coming past escape,When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—When all my works wherein I prove my worth,Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,Alive still, in the praise of such as thou,320I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,The man who loved his life so overmuch,Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible,I dare at times imagine to my needSome future state revealed to us by Zeus,325Unlimited in capabilityFor joy, as this is in desire for joy,—To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us:That, stung by straitness of our life, made straitOn purpose to make prized the life at large—330Freed, by the throbbing impulse we call death,We burst there as the worm into the fly,Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,He must have done so, were it possible!335Live long and happy, and in that thought die:Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest,I cannot tell thy messenger arightWhere to deliver what he bears of thineTo one called Paulus; we have heard his fame340Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—I know not, nor am troubled much to know.Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew,As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,Hath access to a secret shut from us?345Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king,In stooping to inquire of such an one,As if his answer could impose at all!He writeth, doth he? Well, and he may write.Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! Certain slaves350Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ;And (as I gathered from a bystander)Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles,Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea,And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")—To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!

They give thy letter to me, even now;5I read and seem as if I heard thee speak.The master of thy galley still unladesGift after gift; they block my court at lastAnd pile themselves along its porticoRoyal with sunset, like a thought of thee;10And one white she-slave from the group dispersedOf black and white slaves (like the checker-workPavement, at once my nation's work and gift,Now covered with this settle-down of doves),One lyric woman, in her crocus vest15Woven of sea-wools, with her two white handsCommends to me the strainer and the cupThy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.

Well-counseled, king, in thy munificence!For so shall men remark, in such an act20Of love for him whose song gives life its joy,Thy recognition of the use of life;Nor call thy spirit barely adequateTo help on life in straight ways, broad enoughFor vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest.25Thou, in the daily building of thy tower—Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil,Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth,Or when the general work 'mid good acclaimClimbed with the eye to cheer the architect—30Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake—Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hopeOf some eventual rest a-top of it,Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed,Thou first of men mightst look out to the East.35The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun.For this, I promise on thy festivalTo pour libation, looking o'er the sea,Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speakThy great words, and describe thy royal face—40Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most,Within the eventual element of calm.

Thy letter's first requirement meets me here.It is as thou hast heard: in one short lifeI, Cleon, have effected all those things45Thou wonderingly dost enumerate.That epos on thy hundred plates of goldIs mine—and also mine the little chant,So sure to rise from every fishing-barkWhen, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net.50The image of the sun-god on the phare,Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine;The Pœcile, o'er-storied its whole length,As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too.I know the true proportions of a man55And woman also, not observed before;And I have written three books on the soul,Proving absurd all written hitherto,And putting us to ignorance again.For music—why, I have combined the moods,60Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine;Thus much the people know and recognize,Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not.We of these latter days, with greater mindThan our forerunners, since more composite,65Look not so great, beside their simple way,To a judge who only sees one way at once,One mind-point and no other at a time—Compares the small part of a man of usWith some whole man of the heroic age,70Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours.And ours is greater, had we skill to know:For, what we call this life of men on earth,This sequence of the soul's achievements hereBeing, as I find much reason to conceive,75Intended to be viewed eventuallyAs a great whole, not analyzed to parts,But each part having reference to all—How shall a certain part, pronounced complete,Endure effacement by another part?80Was the thing done?—then, what's to do again?See, in the checkered pavement opposite,Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb,And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid—He did not overlay them, superimpose85The new upon the old and blot it out,But laid them on a level in his work,Making at last a picture; there it lies.So, first the perfect separate forms were made,The portions of mankind; and after, so,90Occurred the combination of the same.For where had been a progress, otherwise?Mankind, made up of all the single men—In such a synthesis the labor ends.Now mark me! those divine men of old time95Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one pointThe outside verge that rounds our faculty;And where they reached, who can do more than reach?It takes but little water just to touchAt some one point the inside of a sphere,100And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the restIn due succession; but the finer airWhich not so palpably nor obviously,Though no less universally, can touchThe whole circumference of that emptied sphere,105Fills it more fully than the water did;Holds thrice the weight of water in itselfResolved into a subtler element.And yet the vulgar call the sphere first fullUp to the visible height—and after, void;110Not knowing air's more hidden properties.And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to ZeusTo vindicate his purpose in our life:Why stay we on the earth unless to grow?Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out,115That he or other god descended hereAnd, once for all, showed simultaneouslyWhat, in its nature, never can be shown,Piecemeal or in succession—showed, I say,The worth both absolute and relative120Of all his children from the birth of time,His instruments for all appointed work.I now go on to image—might we hearThe judgment which should give the due to each,Show where the labor lay and where the ease,125And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere!This is a dream—but no dream, let us hope,That years and days, the summers and the springs,Follow each other with unwaning powers.The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far,130Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock;The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe;The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet;The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers;That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave,135Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds,Refines upon the women of my youth.What, and the soul alone deteriorates?I have not chanted verse like Homer, no—Nor swept string like Terpander, no—nor carved140And painted men like Phidias and his friend:I am not great as they are, point by point.But I have entered into sympathyWith these four, running these into one soul,Who, separate, ignored each other's art.145Say, is it nothing that I know them all?The wild flower was the larger; I have dashedRose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup'sHoney with wine, and driven its seed to fruit,And show a better flower if not so large:150I stand myself. Refer this to the godsWhose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretextThat such a gift by chance lay in my hand,Discourse of lightly or depreciate?155It might have fallen to another's hand: what then?I pass too surely: let at least truth stay!

And next, of what thou followest on to ask.This being with me as I declare, O king,My works, in all these varicolored kinds,160So done by me, accepted so by men—Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts)I must not be accounted to attainThe very crown and proper end of life?Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up,165I face death with success in my right hand:Whether I fear death less than dost thyselfThe fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou)"Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught.Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing,170The pictures men shall study; while my life,Complete and whole now in its power and joy,Dies altogether with my brain and arm,Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself?The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave,175Set on the promontory which I named.And that—some supple courtier of my heirShall use its robed and sceptered arm, perhaps,To fix the rope to, which best drags it down.I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!"180

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind.Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to museUpon the scheme of earth and man in chief,That admiration grows as knowledge grows?That imperfection means perfection hid,185Reserved in part, to grace the after-time?If, in the morning of philosophy,Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived,Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have lookedOn all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird,190Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage—Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deducedThe perfectness of others yet unseen.Conceding which—had Zeus then questioned thee,"Shall I go on a step, improve on this,195Do more for visible creatures than is done?"Thou wouldst have answered, "Aye, by making eachGrow conscious in himself—by that alone.All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock,The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims200And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight,Till life's mechanics can no further go—And all this joy in natural life is putLike fire from off thy finger into each,So exquisitely perfect is the same.205But 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are;It has them, not they it: and so I chooseFor man, thy last premeditated work(If I might add a glory to the scheme),That a third thing should stand apart from both,210A quality arise within his soul,Which, introactive, made to superviseAnd feel the force it has, may view itself,And so be happy." Man might live at firstThe animal life: but is there nothing more?215In due time, let him critically learnHow he lives; and, the more he gets to knowOf his own life's adaptabilities,The more joy-giving will his life become.Thus man, who hath this quality, is best.220

But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said:"Let progress end at once—man make no stepBeyond the natural man, the better beast,Using his senses, not the sense of sense."In man there's failure, only since he left225The lower and inconscious forms of life.We called it an advance, the rendering plainMan's spirit might grow conscious of man's life,And, by new lore so added to the old,Take each step higher over the brute's head.230This grew the only life, the pleasure-house,Watch-tower, and treasure-fortress of the soul,Which whole surrounding flats of natural lifeSeemed only fit to yield subsistence to;A tower that crowns a country. But alas,235The soul now climbs it just to perish there!For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream—We know this, which we had not else perceived)That there's a world of capabilityFor joy, spread round about us, meant for us,240Inviting us; and still the soul craves all,And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot moreThan ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!Nay, so much less as that fatigue has broughtDeduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge245Our bounded physical recipiency,Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,Repair the waste of age and sickness: no,It skills not! life's inadequate to joy,As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take.250They praise a fountain in my garden hereWherein a Naiad sends the water-bowThin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise.What if I told her, it is just a threadFrom that great river which the hills shut up,255And mock her with my leave to take the same?The artificer has given her one small tubePast power to widen or exchange—what bootsTo know she might spout oceans if she could?She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread:260And so a man can use but a man's joyWhile he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast,"See, man, how happy I live, and despair—That I may be still happier—for thy use!"If this were so, we could not thank our Lord,265As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so—Malice it is not. Is it carelessness?Still, no. If care—where is the sign? I ask,And get no answer, and agree in sum,O king, with thy profound discouragement,270Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.

The last point now:—thou dost except a case—Holding joy not impossible to oneWith artist-gifts—to such a man as I275Who leave behind me living works indeed;For, such a poem, such a painting lives.What? Dost thou verily trip upon a word,Confound the accurate view of what joy is(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine)280With feeling joy? confound the knowing howAnd showing how to live (my faculty)With actually living?—OtherwiseWhere is the artist's vantage o'er the king?Because in my great epos I display285How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act—Is this as though I acted? If I paint,Carve the young Phœbus, am I therefore young?Methinks I'm older that I bowed myselfThe many years of pain that taught me art!290Indeed, to know is something, and to proveHow all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more:But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something, too.Yon rower, with the molded muscles there,Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.295I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode.I get to sing of love, when grown too grayFor being beloved: she turns to that young man,The muscles all a-ripple on his back.I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king!300

"But," sayest thou—and I marvel, I repeat,To find thee trip on such a mere word—"whatThou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die:Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,And Æschylus, because we read his plays!"305Why, if they live still, let them come and takeThy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive?Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,In this, that every day my sense of joy310Grows more acute, my soul (intensifiedBy power and insight) more enlarged, more keen;While every day my hairs fall more and more,My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—The horror quickening still from year to year,315The consummation coming past escape,When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—When all my works wherein I prove my worth,Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,Alive still, in the praise of such as thou,320I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,The man who loved his life so overmuch,Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible,I dare at times imagine to my needSome future state revealed to us by Zeus,325Unlimited in capabilityFor joy, as this is in desire for joy,—To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us:That, stung by straitness of our life, made straitOn purpose to make prized the life at large—330Freed, by the throbbing impulse we call death,We burst there as the worm into the fly,Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,He must have done so, were it possible!335

Live long and happy, and in that thought die:Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest,I cannot tell thy messenger arightWhere to deliver what he bears of thineTo one called Paulus; we have heard his fame340Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—I know not, nor am troubled much to know.Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew,As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,Hath access to a secret shut from us?345Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king,In stooping to inquire of such an one,As if his answer could impose at all!He writeth, doth he? Well, and he may write.Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! Certain slaves350Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ;And (as I gathered from a bystander)Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

There they are, my fifty men and womenNaming me the fifty poems finished!Take them, Love, the book and me together:Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

Rafael made a century of sonnets,5Made and wrote them in a certain volumeDinted with the silver-pointed pencilElse he only used to draw Madonnas:These, the world might view—but one, the volume.Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.10Did she live and love it all her lifetime?Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets,Die, and let it drop beside her pillowWhere it lay in place of Rafael's glory,Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving—15Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's,Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

You and I would rather read that volume(Taken to his beating bosom by it),Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael,20Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas—Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno,Her, that visits Florence in a vision,Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre—Seen by us and all the world in circle.25

You and I will never read that volume.Guido Reni, like his own eye's appleGuarded long the treasure-book and loved it.Guido Reni dying, all BolognaCried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!"30Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

Dante once prepared to paint an angel:Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice."While he mused and traced it and retraced it(Peradventure with a pen corroded35Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for,When, his left hand i' the hair o' the wicked,Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma,Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment,Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle,40Let the wretch go festering through Florence)—Dante, who loved well because he hated,Hated wickedness that hinders loving,Dante standing, studying his angel—In there broke the folk of his Inferno.45Says he—"Certain people of importance"(Such he gave his daily, dreadful line to)"Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet."Says the poet—"Then I stopped my painting."

You and I would rather see that angel,50Painted by the tenderness of Dante—Would we not?—than read a fresh Inferno.

You and I will never see that picture.While he mused on love and Beatrice,While he softened o'er his outlined angel,55In they broke, those "people of importance":We and Bice bear the loss forever.

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture?This: no artist lives and loves, that longs notOnce, and only once, and for one only60(Ah, the prize!), to find his love a languageFit and fair and simple and sufficient—Using nature that's an art to others,Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature.Aye, of all the artists living, loving,65None but would forego his proper dowry—Does he paint? He fain would write a poem—Does he write? He fain would paint a picture,Put to proof art alien to the artist's,Once, and only once, and for one only,70So to be the man and leave the artist,Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.

Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement!He who smites the rock and spreads the water,Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him,75Even he, the minute makes immortal,Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute,Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing.While he smites, how can he but remember,So he smote before, in such a peril,80When they stood and mocked—"Shall smiting help us?"When they drank and sneered—"A stroke is easy!"When they wiped their mouths and went their journey,Throwing him for thanks—"But drought was pleasant."Thus old memories mar the actual triumph;85Thus the doing savors of disrelish;Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat;O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate,Carelessness or consciousness—the gesture.For he bears an ancient wrong about him,90Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces,Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude—"How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?"Guesses what is like to prove the sequel—"Egypt's flesh-pots—nay, the drought was better."95

Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrantTheirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance,Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat.Never dares the man put off the prophet.

Did he love one face from out the thousands100(Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely,Were she but the Ethiopian bondslave),He would envy yon dumb patient camel,Keeping a reserve of scanty waterMeant to save his own life in the desert;105Ready in the desert to deliver(Kneeling down to let his breast be opened)Hoard and life together for his mistress.

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