Chapter 125

XCIXAnd plumb I pitched into the square—A groundling like the rest. What think you happened there?Precise the contrary of what one would expect!For,—whereas, so much more monstrosities deflectFrom nature and the type, as you the more approachTheir precinct,—here, I found brutality encroachLess on the human, lie the lightlier as I lookedThe nearlier on these faces that seemed but now so crook'dAnd clawed away from God's prime purpose. They divergedA little from the type, but somehow rather urgedTo pity than disgust: the prominent, before,Now dwindled into mere distinctness, nothing more.Still, at first sight, stood forth undoubtedly the factSome deviation was: in no one case there lackedThe certain sign and mark, say hint, say, trick of lipOr twist of nose, that proved a fault in workmanship,Change in the prime design, some hesitancy hereAnd there, which checked the man and let the beast appear;But that was all.CAll; yet enough to bid each tongueLie in abeyance still. They talked, themselves among,Of themselves, to themselves: I saw the mouths at play,The gesture that enforced, the eye that strove to sayThe same thing as the voice, and seldom gained its point—That this was so, I saw; but all seemed out of jointI' the vocal medium 'twixt the world and me. I gainedKnowledge by notice, not by giving ear,—attainedTo truth by what men seemed, not said: to me one glanceWas worth whole histories of noisy utterance,—At least, to me in dream.CIAnd presently I foundThat, just as ugliness had withered, so unwoundItself, and perished off, repugnance to what wrongMight linger yet i' the make of man. My will was strongI' the matter; I could pick and choose, project my weight:(Remember how we saw the boatman trim his freight!)Determine to observe, or manage to escape,Or make divergency assume another shapeBy shift of point of sight in me the observer: thusCorrected, added to, subtracted from,—discussEach variant quality, and brute-beast touch was turnedInto mankind's safeguard! Force, guile, were arms which earnedMy praise, not blame at all: for we must learn to live,Case-hardened at all points, not bare and sensitive,But plated for defence, nay, furnished for attack,With spikes at the due place, that neither front nor backMay suffer in that squeeze with nature, we find—life.Are we not here to learn the good of peace through strife,Of love through hate, and reach knowledge by ignorance?Why, those are helps thereto, which late we eyed askance,And nicknamed unaware! Just so, a sword we callSuperfluous, and cry out against, at festival:Wear it in time of war, its clink and clatter grateO' the ear to purpose then!CIII found, one must abateOne's scorn of the soul's casing, distinct from the soul's self—Which is the centre-drop: whereas the pride in pelf,The lust to seem the thing it cannot be, the greedFor praise, and all the rest seen outside,—these indeedAre the hard polished cold crystal environmentOf those strange orbs unearthed i' the Druid temple, meantFor divination (so the learned please to think)Wherein you may admire one dewdrop roll and wink,All unaffected by—quite alien to—what sealedAnd saved it long ago: though how it got congealedI shall not give a guess, nor how, by power occult,The solid surface-shield was outcome and resultOf simple dew at work to save itself amidThe unwatery force around; protected thus, dew slidSafe through all opposites, impatient to absorbIts spot of life, and last forever in the orbWe, now, from hand to hand pass with impunity.CIIIAnd the delight wherewith I watch this crowd must beAkin to that which crowns the chemist when he windsThread up and up, till clue be fairly clutched, —unbindsThe composite, ties fast the simple to its mate,And, tracing each effect back to its cause, elate,Constructs in fancy, from the fewest primitives,The complex and complete, all diverse life, that livesNot only in beast, bird, fish, reptile, insect, butThe very plants and earths and ores. Just so I glutMy hunger both to be and know the thing I am,By contrast with the thing I am not; so, through shamAnd outside, I arrive at inmost real, probeAnd prove how the nude form obtained the checkered robe.CIV—Experience, I am glad to master soon or late,Here, there, and everywhere i' the world, without debate!Only, in Venice why? What reason for Mark's SquareRather than Timbuctoo?CVAnd I became aware,Scarcely the word escaped my lips, that swift ensuedIn silence and by stealth, and yet with certitude,A formidable change of the amphitheatreWhich held the Carnival; although the human stirContinued just the same amid that shift of scene.CVIFor as on edifice of cloud i' the gray and greenOf evening,—built about some glory of the west,To barricade the sun's departure,—manifest,He plays, pre-eminently gold, gilds vapor, crag and crestWhich bend in rapt suspense above the act and deedThey cluster round and keep their very own, nor heedThe world at watch; while we, breathlessly at the baseO' the castellated bulk, note momently the maceOf night fall here, fall there, bring change with every blow,Alike to sharpened shaft and broadened porticoI' the structure: heights and depths, beneath the leaden stress,Crumble and melt and mix together, coalesce,Re-form, but sadder still, subdued yet more and moreBy every fresh defeat, till wearied eyes need poreNo longer on the dull impoverished decadenceOf all that pomp of pile in towering evidenceSo lately:—CVIIEven thus nor otherwise, meseemedThat if I fixed my gaze awhile on what I dreamedWas Venice' Square, Mark's Church, the scheme was straight unschemed,A subtle something had its way within the heartOf each and every house I watched, with counterpartOf tremor through the front and outward face, untilMutation was at end; impassive and stock-stillStood now the ancient house, grown—new, is scarce the phrase,Since older, in a sense,—altered to ... what i' the ways,Ourselves are wont to see, coerced by city, town,Or village, anywhere i' the world, pace up or downEurope! In all the maze, no single tenementI saw, but I could claim acquaintance with.CVIIIThere wentConviction to my soul, that what I took of lateFor Venice was the world; its Carnival—the stateOf mankind, masquerade in life-long permanenceFor all time, and no one particular feast-day. Whence'T was easy to infer what meant my late disgustAt the brute-pageant, each grotesque of greed and lustAnd idle hate, and love as impotent for good—When from my pride of place I passed the interludeIn critical review; and what, the wonder that ensuedWhen, from such pinnacled pre-eminence, I foundSomehow the proper goal for wisdom was the groundAnd not the sky,—so, slid sagaciously betimesDown heaven's baluster-rope, to reach the mob of mimesAnd mummers; whereby came discovery there was justEnough and not too much of hate, love, greed and lust,Could one discerningly but hold the balance, shiftThe weight from scale to scale, do justice to the driftOf nature, and explain the glories by the shamesMixed up in man, one stuff miscalled by different namesAccording to what stage i' the process turned his rough,Even as I gazed, to smooth—only get close enough!—What was all this except the lesson of a life?CIXAnd—consequent upon the learning how from strifeGrew peace—from evil, good—came knowledge that, to getAcquaintance with the way o' the world, we must nor fretNor fume, on altitudes of self-sufficiency,But bid a frank farewell to what—we think—should be,And, with as good a grace, welcome what is—we find.CXIs—for the hour, observe! Since something to my mindSuggested soon the fancy, nay, certitude that change,Never suspending touch, continued to derangeWhat architecture, we, walled up within the cirqueO' the world, consider fixed as fate, not fairy-work.For those were temples, sure, which tremblingly grew blankFrom bright, then broke afresh in triumph,—ah, but sankAs soon, for liquid change through artery and veinO' the very marble wound its way! And first a stainWould startle and offend amid the glory; next,Spot swift succeeded spot, but found me less perplexedBy portents; then, as 't were, a sleepiness soft stoleOver the stately fane, and shadow sucked the wholeFaçade into itself, made uniformly earthWhat was a piece of heaven; till, lo, a second birth,And the veil broke away because of something newInside, that pushed to gain an outlet, paused in viewAt last, and proved a growth of stone or brick or woodWhich, alien to the aim o' the Builder, somehow stoodThe test, could satisfy, if not the early raceFor whom he built, at least our present populace,Who must not bear the blame for what, blamed, proves mishapOf the Artist: his work gone, another fills the gap,Serves the prime purpose so. Undoubtedly there spreadsBuilding around, above, which makes men lift their headsTo look at, or look through, or look—for aught I care—Over: if only up, it is, not down, they stare."Commercing with the skies," and not the pavement in the Square.CXIBut are they only temples that subdivide, collapse,And tower again, transformed? Academies, perhaps!Domes where dwells Learning, seats of Science, bower and hallWhich house Philosophy—do these, too, rise and fall,Based though foundations be on steadfast mother-earth,With no chimeric claim to supermundane birth,No boast that, dropped from cloud, they did not grow from ground?Why, these fare worst of all! these vanish and are foundNowhere, by who tasks eye some twice within his termOf threescore years and ten, for tidings what each germHas burgeoned out into, whereof the promise stunnedHis ear with such acclaim,—praise-payment to refundThe praisers, never doubt, some twice before they dieWhose days are long i' the land.CXIIAlack, Philosophy!Despite the chop and change, diminished or increased,Patched-up and plastered-o'er, Religion stands at leastI' the temple-type. But thou? Here gape I, all agogThese thirty years, to learn how tadpole turns to frog;And thrice at least have gazed with mild astonishment,As, skyward up and up, some fire-new fabric sentIts challenge to mankind, that, clustered underneathTo hear the word, they straight believe, ay, in the teethO' the Past, clap hands, and hail triumphant Truth's outbreak—Tadpole-frog-theory propounded past mistake!In vain! A something ails the edifice, it bends,It bows, it buries ... Haste! cry "Heads below" to friends—But have no fear they find, when smother shall subside,Some substitution perk with unabated prideI' the predecessor's place!CXIIINo,—the one voice which failedNever, the preachment's coign of vantage nothing ailed,—That had the luck to lodge i' the house not made with hands!And all it preached was this: "Truth builds upon the sands,Though stationed on a rock: and so her work decays,And so she builds afresh, with like result. Naught staysBut just the fact that Truth not only is, but fainWould have men know she needs must be, by each so plainAttempt to visibly inhabit where they dwell."Her works are work, while she is she; that work does wellWhich lasts mankind their lifetime through, and lets believeOne generation more, that, though sand run through sieve,Yet earth now reached is rock, and what we moderns findErected here is Truth, who, 'stablished to her mindI' the fulness of the days, will never change in showMore than in substance erst: men thought they knew; we know!CXIVDo you, my generation? Well, let the blocks prove mistI' the main enclosure,—church and college, if they list,Be something for a time, and everything anon,And anything awhile, as fit is off or on,Till they grow nothing, soon to reappear no lessAs something,—shape reshaped, till out of shapelessnessCome shape again as sure! no doubt, or round or squareOr polygon its front, some building will be there,Do duty in that nook o' the wall o' the world where onceThe Architect saw fit precisely to ensconceCollege or church, and bid such bulwark guard the lineO' the barrier round about, humanity's confine.CXVLeave watching change at work i' the greater scale, on theseThe main supports, and turn to their intersticesFilled up by fabrics too, less costly and less rare,Yet of importance, yet essential to the FairThey help to circumscribe, instruct, and regulate!See, where each booth-front boasts, in letters small or great,Its speciality, proclaims its privilege to stopA breach, beside the best!CXVIHere History keeps shop,Tells how past deeds were done, so and not otherwise:"Man! hold truth evermore! forget the early lies!"There sits Morality, demure behind her stall,Dealing out life and death: "This is the thing to callRight, and this other, wrong; thus think, thus do, thus say,Thus joy, thus suffer!—not to-day as yesterday—Yesterday's doctrine dead, this only shall endure!Obey its voice and live!"—enjoins the dame demure.While Art gives flag to breeze, bids drum beat, trumpet blow,Inviting eye and ear to yonder raree-show.Up goes the canvas, hauled to height of pole. I think,We know the way—long lost, late learned—to paint! A winkOf eye, and lo, the pose! the statue on its plinth!How could we moderns miss the heart o' the labyrinthPerversely all these years, permit the Greek secludeHis secret till to-day? And here 's another feudNow happily composed: inspect this quartet-score!Got long past melody, no word has Music moreTo say to mortal man! But is the bard to beBehindhand? Here 's his book, and now perhaps you seeAt length what poetry can do!CXVIIWhy, that 's stabilityItself, that change on change we sorrowfully sawCreep o'er the prouder piles! We acquiesced in lawWhen the fine gold grew dim i' the temple, when the brassWhich pillared that so brave abode where Knowledge was,Bowed and resigned the trust; but, bear all this caprice,Harlequinade where swift to birth succeeds deceaseOf hue at every turn o' the tinsel-flag which flamesWhile Art holds booth in Fair? Such glories chased by shamesLike these, distract beyond the solemn and augustProcedure to decay, evanishment in dust,Of those marmoreal domes,—above vicissitude,We used to hope!CXVIII"So, all is change, in fine," pursuedThe preachment to a pause. When—"All is permanence!"Returned a voice. Within? without? No matter whenceThe explanation came: for, understand, I oughtTo simply say—"I saw," each thing I say "I thought."Since ever, as, unrolled, the strange scene-picture grewBefore me, sight flashed first, though mental comment tooWould follow in a trice, come hobblingly to halt.CXIXSo, what did I see next but,—much as when the vaultI' the west,—wherein we watch the vapory, manifoldTransfiguration,—tired turns blaze to black,—behold,Peak reconciled to base, dark ending feud with bright,The multiform subsides, becomes the definite.Contrasting life and strife, where battle they i' the blankSeverity of peace in death, for which we thankOne wind that conies to quell the concourse, drive at lastThings to a shape which suits the close of things, and castPalpably o'er vexed earth heaven's mantle of repose?CXXJust so, in Venice' Square, that things were at the closeWas signalled to my sense; for I perceived arrestO' the change all round about. As if some impulse pressedEach gently into each, what was distinctness, late,Grew vague, and, line from line no longer separate,No matter what its style, edifice ... shall I say,Died into edifice? I find no simpler wayOf saying how, without or dash or shock or traceOf violence, I found unity in the placeOf temple, tower,—nay, hall and house and hut,—one blankSeverity of peace in death; to which they sankResigned enough, till ... ah, conjecture, I beseech,What special blank did they agree to, all and each?What common shape was that wherein they mutely mergedLikes and dislikes of form, so plain before?CXXII urgedYour step this way, prolonged our path of enterpriseTo where we stand at last, in order that your eyesMight see the very thing, and save my tongue describeThe Druid monument which fronts you. Could I bribeNature to come in aid, illustrate what I mean,What wants there she should lend to solemnize the scene?CXXIIHow does it strike you, this construction gaunt and gray—Sole object, these piled stones, that gleam unground-awayBy twilight's hungry jaw, which champs fine all besideI' the solitary waste we grope through? Oh, no guideNeed we to grope our way and reach the monstrous doorOf granite! Take my word, the deeper you exploreThat caverned passage, filled with fancies to the brim,The less will you approve the adventure! such a grimBar-sinister soon blocks abrupt your path, and endsAll with a cold dread shape,—shape whereon Learning spendsLabor, and leaves the test obscurer for the gloss,While Ignorance reads right—recoiling from that Cross!Whence came the mass and mass, strange quality of stoneUnquarried anywhere i' the region round? Unknown!Just as unknown, how such enormity could beConveyed by land, or else transported over sea,And laid in order, so, precisely each on each,As you and I would build a grotto where the beachSheds shell—to last an hour: this building lasts from ageTo age the same. But why?CXXIIIAsk Learning! I engageYou get a prosy wherefore, shall help you to advanceIn knowledge just as much as helps you IgnoranceSurmising, in the mouth of peasant-lad or lass,"I heard my father say he understood it wasA building, people built as soon as earth was madeAlmost, because they might forget (they were afraid)Earth did not make itself, but came of Somebody.They labored that their work might last, and show therebyHe stays, while we and earth, and all things come and go.Come whence? Go whither? That, when come and gone, we knowPerhaps, but not while earth and all things need our bestAttention: we must wait and die to know the rest.Ask, if that 's true, what use in setting up the pile?To make one fear and hope: remind us, all the whileWe come and go, outside there 's Somebody that stays;A circumstance which ought to make us mind our ways,Because,—whatever end we answer by this life,—Next time, best chance must be for who, with toil and strife,Manages now to live most like what he was meantBecome: since who succeeds so far, 't is evident,Stands foremost on the file; who fails, has less to hopeFrom new promotion. That 's the rule—with even a ropeOf mushrooms, like this rope I dangle! those that grewGreatest and roundest, all in life they had to do,Gain a reward, a grace they never dreamed, I think;Since, outside white as milk and inside black as ink,They go to the Great House to make a dainty dishFor Don and Donna; while this basket-load, I wishWell off my arm, it breaks,—no starveling of the heapBut had his share of dew, his proper length of sleepI' the sunshine: yet, of all, the outcome is—this queerCribbed quantity of dwarfs which burden basket hereTill I reach home; 't is there that, having run their rigs,They end their earthly race, are flung as food for pigs.Any more use I see? Well, you must know, there liesSomething, the Curé says, that points to mysteriesAbove our grasp: a huge stone pillar, once upright,Now laid at length, half-lost—discreetly shunning sightI' the bush and brier, because of stories in the air—Hints what it signified, and why was stationed there,Once on a time. In vain the Curé tasked his lungs—Showed, in a preachment, how, at bottom of the rungsO' the ladder, Jacob saw, where heavenly angels steptUp and down, lay a stone which served him, while he slept,For pillow; when he woke, he set the same uprightAs pillar, and a-top poured oil: things requisiteTo instruct posterity, there mounts from floor to roof,A staircase, earth to heaven; and also put in proof,When we have sealed the sky, we well may let aloneWhat raised us from the ground, and—paying to the stoneProper respect, of course—take staff and go our way,Leaving the Pagan night for Christian break of day.'For,' preached he, 'what they dreamed, these Pagans, wide-awakeWe Christians may behold. How strange, then, were mistakeDid anybody style the stone,—because of dropRemaining there from oil which Jacob poured a-top,—Itself the Gate of Heaven, itself the end, and notThe means thereto!' Thus preached the Curé and no jotThe more persuaded people but that, what once a thingMeant and had right to mean, it still must mean. So clingFolk somehow to the prime authoritative speech,And so distrust report, it seems as they could reachFar better the arch-word, whereon their fate depends.Through rude charactery, than all the grace it lends,That lettering of your scribes! who flourish pen apaceAnd ornament the text, they say—we say, efface.Hence, when the earth began its life afresh in May,And fruit-trees bloomed, and waves would wanton, and the bayRuffle its wealth of weed, and stranger-birds arrive,And beasts take each a mate,—folk, too, found sensitive,Surmised the old gray stone upright there, through such tractsOf solitariness and silence, kept the factsEntrusted it, could deal out doctrine, did it please:No fresh and frothy draught, but liquor on the lees,Strong, savage, and sincere: first bleedings from a vineWhereof the product now do Curés so refineTo insipidity, that, when heart sinks, we striveAnd strike from the old stone the old restorative.'Which is?'—why, go and ask our grandames how they usedTo dance around it, till the Curé disabusedTheir ignorance, and bade the parish in a bandLay flat the obtrusive thing that cumbered so the land!And there, accordingly, in bush and brier it—'bidesIts time to rise again!' (so somebody derides,That 's pert from Paris,) 'since, yon spire, you keep erectYonder, and pray beneath, is nothing, I suspect,But just the symbol's self, expressed in slate for rock,Art's smooth for Nature's rough, new chip from the old block!'There, sir, my say is said! Thanks, and Saint Gille increaseThe wealth bestowed so well!"—wherewith he pockets piece,Doffs cap, and takes the road. I leave in Learning's clutchMore money for his book, but scarcely gain as much.CXXIVTo this it was, this same primeval monument,That, in my dream, I saw building with building blentFall: each on each they fast and founderingly wentConfusion-ward; but thence again subsided fast,Became the mound you see. Magnificently massedIndeed, those mammoth-stones, piled by the ProtoplastTemple-wise in my dream! beyond compare with fanesWhich, solid-looking late, had left no least remainsI' the bald and blank, now sole usurper of the plainsOf heaven, diversified and beautiful before.And yet simplicity appeared to speak no moreNor less to me than spoke the compound. At the core,One and no other word, as in the crust of late,Whispered, which, audible through the transition-state,Was no loud utterance in even the ultimateDisposure. For as some imperial chord subsists,Steadily underlies the accidental mistsOf music springing thence, that run their mazy raceAround, and sink, absorbed, back to the triad base,—So, out of that one word, each variant rose and fellAnd left the same "All 's change, but permanence as well."—Grave note whence—list aloft!—harmonics sound, that mean:"Truth inside, and outside, truth also; and betweenEach, falsehood that is change, as truth is permanence.The individual soul works through the shows of sense(Which, ever proving false, still promise to be true)Up to an outer soul as individual too;And, through the fleeting, lives to die into the fixed,And reach at length 'God, man, or both together mixed,'Transparent through the flesh, by parts which prove a whole,By hints which make the soul discernible by soul—Let only soul look up, not down, not hate but love,As truth successively takes shape, one grade aboveIts last presentment, tempts as it were truth indeedRevealed this time; so tempts, till we attain to readThe signs aright, and learn, by failure, truth is forcedTo manifest itself through falsehood; whence divorcedBy the excepted eye, at the rare season, forThe happy moment, truth instructs us to abhorThe false, and prize the true, obtainable thereby.Then do we understand the value of a lie;Its purpose served, its truth once safe deposited,Each lie, superfluous now, leaves, in the singer's stead,The indubitable song; the historic personagePut by, leaves prominent the impulse of his age;Truth sets aside speech, act, time, place, indeed, but bringsNakedly forward now the principle of thingsHighest and least."CXXVWherewith change ends. What change to dreadWhen, disengaged at last from every veil, insteadOf type remains the truth? once—falsehood: but anonTheosuton e broteion eper kekramenon,Something as true as soul is true, though veils betweenProve false and fleet away. As I mean, did he mean,The poet whose bird-phrase sits, singing in my earA mystery not unlike? What through the dark and drearBrought comfort to the Titan? Emerging from the lymph,"God, man, or mixture" proved only to be a nymph:"From whom the clink on clink of metal" (money, judgedAbundant in my purse) "struck" (bumped at, till it budged)"The modesty, her soul's habitual resident"(Where late the sisterhood were lively in their tent)"As out of wingèd car" (that caravan on wheels)"Impulsively she rushed, no slippers to her heels,"And "Fear not, friends we flock!" soft smiled the sea-Fifine—Primitive of the veils (if he meant what I mean)The poet's Titan learned to lift, ere "Three-formed Fate,Moirai Trimorphoi" stood unmasked the Ultimate.CXXVIEnough o' the dream! You see how poetry turns prose.Announcing wonder-work, I dwindle at the closeDown to mere commonplace old facts which everybody knows.So dreaming disappoints! The fresh and strange at first,Soon wears to trite and tame, nor warrants the outburstOf heart with which we hail those heights, at very brinkOf heaven, whereto one least of lifts would lead, we think,But wherefrom quick decline conducts our step, we find,To homely earth, old facts familiar left behind.Did not this monument, for instance, long agoSay all it had to say, show all it had to show,Nor promise to do duty more in dream?CXXVIIAwaking so,What if we, homeward-bound, all peace and some fatigue,Trudge, soberly complete our tramp of near a league,Last little mile which makes the circuit just, Elvire?We end where we began: that consequence is clear.All peace and some fatigue, wherever we were nursedTo life, we bosom us on death, find last is firstAnd thenceforth final too.CXXVIII"Why final? Why the moreWorth credence now than when such truth proved false before?"Because a novel point impresses now: each lieRedounded to the praise of man, was victoryMan's nature had both right to get, and might to gain,And by no means implied submission to the reignOf other quite as real a nature, that saw fitTo have its way with man, not man his way with it.This time, acknowledgment and acquiescence quellTheir contrary in man; promotion proves as wellDefeat: and Truth, unlike the False with Truth's outside,Neither plumes up his will nor puffs him out with pride.I fancy, there must lurk some cogency i' the claim,Man, such abatement made, submits to, all the same.Soul finds no triumph, here, to register like SenseWith whom 't is ask and have,—the want, the evidenceThat the thing wanted, soon or late, will be supplied.This indeed plumes up will; this, sure, puffs out with pride,When, reading records right, man's instincts still attestPromotion comes to Sense because Sense likes it best;For bodies sprouted legs, through a desire to run:While hands, when fain to filch, got fingers one by one,And nature, that 's ourself, accommodative bringsTo bear that, tired of legs which walk, we now bud wingsSince of a mind to fly. Such savor in the noseOf Sense would stimulate Soul sweetly, I suppose,Soul with its proper itch of instinct, prompting clearTo recognize soul's self soul's only master hereAlike from first to last. But if time's pressure, light'sOr rather dark's approach, wrest thoroughly the rightsOf rule away, and bid the soul submissive bearAnother soul than it play master everywhereIn great and small,—this time, I fancy, none disputesThere 's something in the fact that such conclusion suitsNowise the pride of man, nor yet chimes in with attributesConspicuous in the lord of nature. He receivesAnd not demands—not first likes faith and then believes.CXXIXAnd as with the last essence, so with its first faint type.Inconstancy means raw, 't is faith alone means ripeI' the soul which runs its round: no matter how it rangeFrom Helen to Fifine, Elvire bids back the changeTo permanence. Here, too, love ends where love began.Such ending looks like law, because the natural manInclines the other way, feels lordlier free than bound.Poor pabulum for pride when the first love is foundLast also! and, so far from realizing gain,Each step aside just proves divergency in vain.The wanderer brings home no profit from his questBeyond the sad surmise that keeping house were bestCould life begin anew. His problem posed arightWas—"From the given point evolve the infinite!"Not—"Spend thyself in space, endeavoring to jointTogether, and so make infinite, point and point:Fix into one Elvire a Fair-ful of Fifines!"Fifine, the foam-flake, she: Elvire, the sea's self, meansCapacity at need to shower how many such!And yet we left her calm profundity, to clutchFoam-flutter, bell on bell, that, bursting at a touch,Blistered us for our pains. But wise, we want no moreO' the fickle element. Enough of foam and roar!Land-locked, we live and die henceforth: for here 's the villa door.CXXXHow pallidly you pause o' the threshold! Hardly night,Which drapes you, ought to make real flesh and blood so white!Touch me, and so appear alive to all intents!Will the saint vanish from the sinner that repents?Suppose you are a ghost! A memory, a hope,A fear, a conscience! Quick! Give back the hand I gropeI' the dusk for!

XCIX

And plumb I pitched into the square—A groundling like the rest. What think you happened there?Precise the contrary of what one would expect!For,—whereas, so much more monstrosities deflectFrom nature and the type, as you the more approachTheir precinct,—here, I found brutality encroachLess on the human, lie the lightlier as I lookedThe nearlier on these faces that seemed but now so crook'dAnd clawed away from God's prime purpose. They divergedA little from the type, but somehow rather urgedTo pity than disgust: the prominent, before,Now dwindled into mere distinctness, nothing more.Still, at first sight, stood forth undoubtedly the factSome deviation was: in no one case there lackedThe certain sign and mark, say hint, say, trick of lipOr twist of nose, that proved a fault in workmanship,Change in the prime design, some hesitancy hereAnd there, which checked the man and let the beast appear;But that was all.

And plumb I pitched into the square—

A groundling like the rest. What think you happened there?

Precise the contrary of what one would expect!

For,—whereas, so much more monstrosities deflect

From nature and the type, as you the more approach

Their precinct,—here, I found brutality encroach

Less on the human, lie the lightlier as I looked

The nearlier on these faces that seemed but now so crook'd

And clawed away from God's prime purpose. They diverged

A little from the type, but somehow rather urged

To pity than disgust: the prominent, before,

Now dwindled into mere distinctness, nothing more.

Still, at first sight, stood forth undoubtedly the fact

Some deviation was: in no one case there lacked

The certain sign and mark, say hint, say, trick of lip

Or twist of nose, that proved a fault in workmanship,

Change in the prime design, some hesitancy here

And there, which checked the man and let the beast appear;

But that was all.

All; yet enough to bid each tongueLie in abeyance still. They talked, themselves among,Of themselves, to themselves: I saw the mouths at play,The gesture that enforced, the eye that strove to sayThe same thing as the voice, and seldom gained its point—That this was so, I saw; but all seemed out of jointI' the vocal medium 'twixt the world and me. I gainedKnowledge by notice, not by giving ear,—attainedTo truth by what men seemed, not said: to me one glanceWas worth whole histories of noisy utterance,—At least, to me in dream.

All; yet enough to bid each tongue

Lie in abeyance still. They talked, themselves among,

Of themselves, to themselves: I saw the mouths at play,

The gesture that enforced, the eye that strove to say

The same thing as the voice, and seldom gained its point

—That this was so, I saw; but all seemed out of joint

I' the vocal medium 'twixt the world and me. I gained

Knowledge by notice, not by giving ear,—attained

To truth by what men seemed, not said: to me one glance

Was worth whole histories of noisy utterance,

—At least, to me in dream.

And presently I foundThat, just as ugliness had withered, so unwoundItself, and perished off, repugnance to what wrongMight linger yet i' the make of man. My will was strongI' the matter; I could pick and choose, project my weight:(Remember how we saw the boatman trim his freight!)Determine to observe, or manage to escape,Or make divergency assume another shapeBy shift of point of sight in me the observer: thusCorrected, added to, subtracted from,—discussEach variant quality, and brute-beast touch was turnedInto mankind's safeguard! Force, guile, were arms which earnedMy praise, not blame at all: for we must learn to live,Case-hardened at all points, not bare and sensitive,But plated for defence, nay, furnished for attack,With spikes at the due place, that neither front nor backMay suffer in that squeeze with nature, we find—life.Are we not here to learn the good of peace through strife,Of love through hate, and reach knowledge by ignorance?Why, those are helps thereto, which late we eyed askance,And nicknamed unaware! Just so, a sword we callSuperfluous, and cry out against, at festival:Wear it in time of war, its clink and clatter grateO' the ear to purpose then!

And presently I found

That, just as ugliness had withered, so unwound

Itself, and perished off, repugnance to what wrong

Might linger yet i' the make of man. My will was strong

I' the matter; I could pick and choose, project my weight:

(Remember how we saw the boatman trim his freight!)

Determine to observe, or manage to escape,

Or make divergency assume another shape

By shift of point of sight in me the observer: thus

Corrected, added to, subtracted from,—discuss

Each variant quality, and brute-beast touch was turned

Into mankind's safeguard! Force, guile, were arms which earned

My praise, not blame at all: for we must learn to live,

Case-hardened at all points, not bare and sensitive,

But plated for defence, nay, furnished for attack,

With spikes at the due place, that neither front nor back

May suffer in that squeeze with nature, we find—life.

Are we not here to learn the good of peace through strife,

Of love through hate, and reach knowledge by ignorance?

Why, those are helps thereto, which late we eyed askance,

And nicknamed unaware! Just so, a sword we call

Superfluous, and cry out against, at festival:

Wear it in time of war, its clink and clatter grate

O' the ear to purpose then!

CII

I found, one must abateOne's scorn of the soul's casing, distinct from the soul's self—Which is the centre-drop: whereas the pride in pelf,The lust to seem the thing it cannot be, the greedFor praise, and all the rest seen outside,—these indeedAre the hard polished cold crystal environmentOf those strange orbs unearthed i' the Druid temple, meantFor divination (so the learned please to think)Wherein you may admire one dewdrop roll and wink,All unaffected by—quite alien to—what sealedAnd saved it long ago: though how it got congealedI shall not give a guess, nor how, by power occult,The solid surface-shield was outcome and resultOf simple dew at work to save itself amidThe unwatery force around; protected thus, dew slidSafe through all opposites, impatient to absorbIts spot of life, and last forever in the orbWe, now, from hand to hand pass with impunity.

I found, one must abate

One's scorn of the soul's casing, distinct from the soul's self—

Which is the centre-drop: whereas the pride in pelf,

The lust to seem the thing it cannot be, the greed

For praise, and all the rest seen outside,—these indeed

Are the hard polished cold crystal environment

Of those strange orbs unearthed i' the Druid temple, meant

For divination (so the learned please to think)

Wherein you may admire one dewdrop roll and wink,

All unaffected by—quite alien to—what sealed

And saved it long ago: though how it got congealed

I shall not give a guess, nor how, by power occult,

The solid surface-shield was outcome and result

Of simple dew at work to save itself amid

The unwatery force around; protected thus, dew slid

Safe through all opposites, impatient to absorb

Its spot of life, and last forever in the orb

We, now, from hand to hand pass with impunity.

CIII

And the delight wherewith I watch this crowd must beAkin to that which crowns the chemist when he windsThread up and up, till clue be fairly clutched, —unbindsThe composite, ties fast the simple to its mate,And, tracing each effect back to its cause, elate,Constructs in fancy, from the fewest primitives,The complex and complete, all diverse life, that livesNot only in beast, bird, fish, reptile, insect, butThe very plants and earths and ores. Just so I glutMy hunger both to be and know the thing I am,By contrast with the thing I am not; so, through shamAnd outside, I arrive at inmost real, probeAnd prove how the nude form obtained the checkered robe.

And the delight wherewith I watch this crowd must be

Akin to that which crowns the chemist when he winds

Thread up and up, till clue be fairly clutched, —unbinds

The composite, ties fast the simple to its mate,

And, tracing each effect back to its cause, elate,

Constructs in fancy, from the fewest primitives,

The complex and complete, all diverse life, that lives

Not only in beast, bird, fish, reptile, insect, but

The very plants and earths and ores. Just so I glut

My hunger both to be and know the thing I am,

By contrast with the thing I am not; so, through sham

And outside, I arrive at inmost real, probe

And prove how the nude form obtained the checkered robe.

CIV

—Experience, I am glad to master soon or late,Here, there, and everywhere i' the world, without debate!Only, in Venice why? What reason for Mark's SquareRather than Timbuctoo?

—Experience, I am glad to master soon or late,

Here, there, and everywhere i' the world, without debate!

Only, in Venice why? What reason for Mark's Square

Rather than Timbuctoo?

And I became aware,Scarcely the word escaped my lips, that swift ensuedIn silence and by stealth, and yet with certitude,A formidable change of the amphitheatreWhich held the Carnival; although the human stirContinued just the same amid that shift of scene.

And I became aware,

Scarcely the word escaped my lips, that swift ensued

In silence and by stealth, and yet with certitude,

A formidable change of the amphitheatre

Which held the Carnival; although the human stir

Continued just the same amid that shift of scene.

CVI

For as on edifice of cloud i' the gray and greenOf evening,—built about some glory of the west,To barricade the sun's departure,—manifest,He plays, pre-eminently gold, gilds vapor, crag and crestWhich bend in rapt suspense above the act and deedThey cluster round and keep their very own, nor heedThe world at watch; while we, breathlessly at the baseO' the castellated bulk, note momently the maceOf night fall here, fall there, bring change with every blow,Alike to sharpened shaft and broadened porticoI' the structure: heights and depths, beneath the leaden stress,Crumble and melt and mix together, coalesce,Re-form, but sadder still, subdued yet more and moreBy every fresh defeat, till wearied eyes need poreNo longer on the dull impoverished decadenceOf all that pomp of pile in towering evidenceSo lately:—

For as on edifice of cloud i' the gray and green

Of evening,—built about some glory of the west,

To barricade the sun's departure,—manifest,

He plays, pre-eminently gold, gilds vapor, crag and crest

Which bend in rapt suspense above the act and deed

They cluster round and keep their very own, nor heed

The world at watch; while we, breathlessly at the base

O' the castellated bulk, note momently the mace

Of night fall here, fall there, bring change with every blow,

Alike to sharpened shaft and broadened portico

I' the structure: heights and depths, beneath the leaden stress,

Crumble and melt and mix together, coalesce,

Re-form, but sadder still, subdued yet more and more

By every fresh defeat, till wearied eyes need pore

No longer on the dull impoverished decadence

Of all that pomp of pile in towering evidence

So lately:—

CVII

Even thus nor otherwise, meseemedThat if I fixed my gaze awhile on what I dreamedWas Venice' Square, Mark's Church, the scheme was straight unschemed,A subtle something had its way within the heartOf each and every house I watched, with counterpartOf tremor through the front and outward face, untilMutation was at end; impassive and stock-stillStood now the ancient house, grown—new, is scarce the phrase,Since older, in a sense,—altered to ... what i' the ways,Ourselves are wont to see, coerced by city, town,Or village, anywhere i' the world, pace up or downEurope! In all the maze, no single tenementI saw, but I could claim acquaintance with.

Even thus nor otherwise, meseemed

That if I fixed my gaze awhile on what I dreamed

Was Venice' Square, Mark's Church, the scheme was straight unschemed,

A subtle something had its way within the heart

Of each and every house I watched, with counterpart

Of tremor through the front and outward face, until

Mutation was at end; impassive and stock-still

Stood now the ancient house, grown—new, is scarce the phrase,

Since older, in a sense,—altered to ... what i' the ways,

Ourselves are wont to see, coerced by city, town,

Or village, anywhere i' the world, pace up or down

Europe! In all the maze, no single tenement

I saw, but I could claim acquaintance with.

CVIII

There wentConviction to my soul, that what I took of lateFor Venice was the world; its Carnival—the stateOf mankind, masquerade in life-long permanenceFor all time, and no one particular feast-day. Whence'T was easy to infer what meant my late disgustAt the brute-pageant, each grotesque of greed and lustAnd idle hate, and love as impotent for good—When from my pride of place I passed the interludeIn critical review; and what, the wonder that ensuedWhen, from such pinnacled pre-eminence, I foundSomehow the proper goal for wisdom was the groundAnd not the sky,—so, slid sagaciously betimesDown heaven's baluster-rope, to reach the mob of mimesAnd mummers; whereby came discovery there was justEnough and not too much of hate, love, greed and lust,Could one discerningly but hold the balance, shiftThe weight from scale to scale, do justice to the driftOf nature, and explain the glories by the shamesMixed up in man, one stuff miscalled by different namesAccording to what stage i' the process turned his rough,Even as I gazed, to smooth—only get close enough!—What was all this except the lesson of a life?

There went

Conviction to my soul, that what I took of late

For Venice was the world; its Carnival—the state

Of mankind, masquerade in life-long permanence

For all time, and no one particular feast-day. Whence

'T was easy to infer what meant my late disgust

At the brute-pageant, each grotesque of greed and lust

And idle hate, and love as impotent for good—

When from my pride of place I passed the interlude

In critical review; and what, the wonder that ensued

When, from such pinnacled pre-eminence, I found

Somehow the proper goal for wisdom was the ground

And not the sky,—so, slid sagaciously betimes

Down heaven's baluster-rope, to reach the mob of mimes

And mummers; whereby came discovery there was just

Enough and not too much of hate, love, greed and lust,

Could one discerningly but hold the balance, shift

The weight from scale to scale, do justice to the drift

Of nature, and explain the glories by the shames

Mixed up in man, one stuff miscalled by different names

According to what stage i' the process turned his rough,

Even as I gazed, to smooth—only get close enough!

—What was all this except the lesson of a life?

CIX

And—consequent upon the learning how from strifeGrew peace—from evil, good—came knowledge that, to getAcquaintance with the way o' the world, we must nor fretNor fume, on altitudes of self-sufficiency,But bid a frank farewell to what—we think—should be,And, with as good a grace, welcome what is—we find.

And—consequent upon the learning how from strife

Grew peace—from evil, good—came knowledge that, to get

Acquaintance with the way o' the world, we must nor fret

Nor fume, on altitudes of self-sufficiency,

But bid a frank farewell to what—we think—should be,

And, with as good a grace, welcome what is—we find.

Is—for the hour, observe! Since something to my mindSuggested soon the fancy, nay, certitude that change,Never suspending touch, continued to derangeWhat architecture, we, walled up within the cirqueO' the world, consider fixed as fate, not fairy-work.For those were temples, sure, which tremblingly grew blankFrom bright, then broke afresh in triumph,—ah, but sankAs soon, for liquid change through artery and veinO' the very marble wound its way! And first a stainWould startle and offend amid the glory; next,Spot swift succeeded spot, but found me less perplexedBy portents; then, as 't were, a sleepiness soft stoleOver the stately fane, and shadow sucked the wholeFaçade into itself, made uniformly earthWhat was a piece of heaven; till, lo, a second birth,And the veil broke away because of something newInside, that pushed to gain an outlet, paused in viewAt last, and proved a growth of stone or brick or woodWhich, alien to the aim o' the Builder, somehow stoodThe test, could satisfy, if not the early raceFor whom he built, at least our present populace,Who must not bear the blame for what, blamed, proves mishapOf the Artist: his work gone, another fills the gap,Serves the prime purpose so. Undoubtedly there spreadsBuilding around, above, which makes men lift their headsTo look at, or look through, or look—for aught I care—Over: if only up, it is, not down, they stare."Commercing with the skies," and not the pavement in the Square.

Is—for the hour, observe! Since something to my mind

Suggested soon the fancy, nay, certitude that change,

Never suspending touch, continued to derange

What architecture, we, walled up within the cirque

O' the world, consider fixed as fate, not fairy-work.

For those were temples, sure, which tremblingly grew blank

From bright, then broke afresh in triumph,—ah, but sank

As soon, for liquid change through artery and vein

O' the very marble wound its way! And first a stain

Would startle and offend amid the glory; next,

Spot swift succeeded spot, but found me less perplexed

By portents; then, as 't were, a sleepiness soft stole

Over the stately fane, and shadow sucked the whole

Façade into itself, made uniformly earth

What was a piece of heaven; till, lo, a second birth,

And the veil broke away because of something new

Inside, that pushed to gain an outlet, paused in view

At last, and proved a growth of stone or brick or wood

Which, alien to the aim o' the Builder, somehow stood

The test, could satisfy, if not the early race

For whom he built, at least our present populace,

Who must not bear the blame for what, blamed, proves mishap

Of the Artist: his work gone, another fills the gap,

Serves the prime purpose so. Undoubtedly there spreads

Building around, above, which makes men lift their heads

To look at, or look through, or look—for aught I care—

Over: if only up, it is, not down, they stare.

"Commercing with the skies," and not the pavement in the Square.

CXI

But are they only temples that subdivide, collapse,And tower again, transformed? Academies, perhaps!Domes where dwells Learning, seats of Science, bower and hallWhich house Philosophy—do these, too, rise and fall,Based though foundations be on steadfast mother-earth,With no chimeric claim to supermundane birth,No boast that, dropped from cloud, they did not grow from ground?Why, these fare worst of all! these vanish and are foundNowhere, by who tasks eye some twice within his termOf threescore years and ten, for tidings what each germHas burgeoned out into, whereof the promise stunnedHis ear with such acclaim,—praise-payment to refundThe praisers, never doubt, some twice before they dieWhose days are long i' the land.

But are they only temples that subdivide, collapse,

And tower again, transformed? Academies, perhaps!

Domes where dwells Learning, seats of Science, bower and hall

Which house Philosophy—do these, too, rise and fall,

Based though foundations be on steadfast mother-earth,

With no chimeric claim to supermundane birth,

No boast that, dropped from cloud, they did not grow from ground?

Why, these fare worst of all! these vanish and are found

Nowhere, by who tasks eye some twice within his term

Of threescore years and ten, for tidings what each germ

Has burgeoned out into, whereof the promise stunned

His ear with such acclaim,—praise-payment to refund

The praisers, never doubt, some twice before they die

Whose days are long i' the land.

CXII

Alack, Philosophy!Despite the chop and change, diminished or increased,Patched-up and plastered-o'er, Religion stands at leastI' the temple-type. But thou? Here gape I, all agogThese thirty years, to learn how tadpole turns to frog;And thrice at least have gazed with mild astonishment,As, skyward up and up, some fire-new fabric sentIts challenge to mankind, that, clustered underneathTo hear the word, they straight believe, ay, in the teethO' the Past, clap hands, and hail triumphant Truth's outbreak—Tadpole-frog-theory propounded past mistake!In vain! A something ails the edifice, it bends,It bows, it buries ... Haste! cry "Heads below" to friends—But have no fear they find, when smother shall subside,Some substitution perk with unabated prideI' the predecessor's place!

Alack, Philosophy!

Despite the chop and change, diminished or increased,

Patched-up and plastered-o'er, Religion stands at least

I' the temple-type. But thou? Here gape I, all agog

These thirty years, to learn how tadpole turns to frog;

And thrice at least have gazed with mild astonishment,

As, skyward up and up, some fire-new fabric sent

Its challenge to mankind, that, clustered underneath

To hear the word, they straight believe, ay, in the teeth

O' the Past, clap hands, and hail triumphant Truth's outbreak—

Tadpole-frog-theory propounded past mistake!

In vain! A something ails the edifice, it bends,

It bows, it buries ... Haste! cry "Heads below" to friends—

But have no fear they find, when smother shall subside,

Some substitution perk with unabated pride

I' the predecessor's place!

CXIII

No,—the one voice which failedNever, the preachment's coign of vantage nothing ailed,—That had the luck to lodge i' the house not made with hands!And all it preached was this: "Truth builds upon the sands,Though stationed on a rock: and so her work decays,And so she builds afresh, with like result. Naught staysBut just the fact that Truth not only is, but fainWould have men know she needs must be, by each so plainAttempt to visibly inhabit where they dwell."Her works are work, while she is she; that work does wellWhich lasts mankind their lifetime through, and lets believeOne generation more, that, though sand run through sieve,Yet earth now reached is rock, and what we moderns findErected here is Truth, who, 'stablished to her mindI' the fulness of the days, will never change in showMore than in substance erst: men thought they knew; we know!

No,—the one voice which failed

Never, the preachment's coign of vantage nothing ailed,—

That had the luck to lodge i' the house not made with hands!

And all it preached was this: "Truth builds upon the sands,

Though stationed on a rock: and so her work decays,

And so she builds afresh, with like result. Naught stays

But just the fact that Truth not only is, but fain

Would have men know she needs must be, by each so plain

Attempt to visibly inhabit where they dwell."

Her works are work, while she is she; that work does well

Which lasts mankind their lifetime through, and lets believe

One generation more, that, though sand run through sieve,

Yet earth now reached is rock, and what we moderns find

Erected here is Truth, who, 'stablished to her mind

I' the fulness of the days, will never change in show

More than in substance erst: men thought they knew; we know!

CXIV

Do you, my generation? Well, let the blocks prove mistI' the main enclosure,—church and college, if they list,Be something for a time, and everything anon,And anything awhile, as fit is off or on,Till they grow nothing, soon to reappear no lessAs something,—shape reshaped, till out of shapelessnessCome shape again as sure! no doubt, or round or squareOr polygon its front, some building will be there,Do duty in that nook o' the wall o' the world where onceThe Architect saw fit precisely to ensconceCollege or church, and bid such bulwark guard the lineO' the barrier round about, humanity's confine.

Do you, my generation? Well, let the blocks prove mist

I' the main enclosure,—church and college, if they list,

Be something for a time, and everything anon,

And anything awhile, as fit is off or on,

Till they grow nothing, soon to reappear no less

As something,—shape reshaped, till out of shapelessness

Come shape again as sure! no doubt, or round or square

Or polygon its front, some building will be there,

Do duty in that nook o' the wall o' the world where once

The Architect saw fit precisely to ensconce

College or church, and bid such bulwark guard the line

O' the barrier round about, humanity's confine.

CXV

Leave watching change at work i' the greater scale, on theseThe main supports, and turn to their intersticesFilled up by fabrics too, less costly and less rare,Yet of importance, yet essential to the FairThey help to circumscribe, instruct, and regulate!See, where each booth-front boasts, in letters small or great,Its speciality, proclaims its privilege to stopA breach, beside the best!

Leave watching change at work i' the greater scale, on these

The main supports, and turn to their interstices

Filled up by fabrics too, less costly and less rare,

Yet of importance, yet essential to the Fair

They help to circumscribe, instruct, and regulate!

See, where each booth-front boasts, in letters small or great,

Its speciality, proclaims its privilege to stop

A breach, beside the best!

CXVI

Here History keeps shop,Tells how past deeds were done, so and not otherwise:"Man! hold truth evermore! forget the early lies!"There sits Morality, demure behind her stall,Dealing out life and death: "This is the thing to callRight, and this other, wrong; thus think, thus do, thus say,Thus joy, thus suffer!—not to-day as yesterday—Yesterday's doctrine dead, this only shall endure!Obey its voice and live!"—enjoins the dame demure.While Art gives flag to breeze, bids drum beat, trumpet blow,Inviting eye and ear to yonder raree-show.Up goes the canvas, hauled to height of pole. I think,We know the way—long lost, late learned—to paint! A winkOf eye, and lo, the pose! the statue on its plinth!How could we moderns miss the heart o' the labyrinthPerversely all these years, permit the Greek secludeHis secret till to-day? And here 's another feudNow happily composed: inspect this quartet-score!Got long past melody, no word has Music moreTo say to mortal man! But is the bard to beBehindhand? Here 's his book, and now perhaps you seeAt length what poetry can do!

Here History keeps shop,

Tells how past deeds were done, so and not otherwise:

"Man! hold truth evermore! forget the early lies!"

There sits Morality, demure behind her stall,

Dealing out life and death: "This is the thing to call

Right, and this other, wrong; thus think, thus do, thus say,

Thus joy, thus suffer!—not to-day as yesterday—

Yesterday's doctrine dead, this only shall endure!

Obey its voice and live!"—enjoins the dame demure.

While Art gives flag to breeze, bids drum beat, trumpet blow,

Inviting eye and ear to yonder raree-show.

Up goes the canvas, hauled to height of pole. I think,

We know the way—long lost, late learned—to paint! A wink

Of eye, and lo, the pose! the statue on its plinth!

How could we moderns miss the heart o' the labyrinth

Perversely all these years, permit the Greek seclude

His secret till to-day? And here 's another feud

Now happily composed: inspect this quartet-score!

Got long past melody, no word has Music more

To say to mortal man! But is the bard to be

Behindhand? Here 's his book, and now perhaps you see

At length what poetry can do!

CXVII

Why, that 's stabilityItself, that change on change we sorrowfully sawCreep o'er the prouder piles! We acquiesced in lawWhen the fine gold grew dim i' the temple, when the brassWhich pillared that so brave abode where Knowledge was,Bowed and resigned the trust; but, bear all this caprice,Harlequinade where swift to birth succeeds deceaseOf hue at every turn o' the tinsel-flag which flamesWhile Art holds booth in Fair? Such glories chased by shamesLike these, distract beyond the solemn and augustProcedure to decay, evanishment in dust,Of those marmoreal domes,—above vicissitude,We used to hope!

Why, that 's stability

Itself, that change on change we sorrowfully saw

Creep o'er the prouder piles! We acquiesced in law

When the fine gold grew dim i' the temple, when the brass

Which pillared that so brave abode where Knowledge was,

Bowed and resigned the trust; but, bear all this caprice,

Harlequinade where swift to birth succeeds decease

Of hue at every turn o' the tinsel-flag which flames

While Art holds booth in Fair? Such glories chased by shames

Like these, distract beyond the solemn and august

Procedure to decay, evanishment in dust,

Of those marmoreal domes,—above vicissitude,

We used to hope!

CXVIII

"So, all is change, in fine," pursuedThe preachment to a pause. When—"All is permanence!"Returned a voice. Within? without? No matter whenceThe explanation came: for, understand, I oughtTo simply say—"I saw," each thing I say "I thought."Since ever, as, unrolled, the strange scene-picture grewBefore me, sight flashed first, though mental comment tooWould follow in a trice, come hobblingly to halt.

"So, all is change, in fine," pursued

The preachment to a pause. When—"All is permanence!"

Returned a voice. Within? without? No matter whence

The explanation came: for, understand, I ought

To simply say—"I saw," each thing I say "I thought."

Since ever, as, unrolled, the strange scene-picture grew

Before me, sight flashed first, though mental comment too

Would follow in a trice, come hobblingly to halt.

CXIX

So, what did I see next but,—much as when the vaultI' the west,—wherein we watch the vapory, manifoldTransfiguration,—tired turns blaze to black,—behold,Peak reconciled to base, dark ending feud with bright,The multiform subsides, becomes the definite.Contrasting life and strife, where battle they i' the blankSeverity of peace in death, for which we thankOne wind that conies to quell the concourse, drive at lastThings to a shape which suits the close of things, and castPalpably o'er vexed earth heaven's mantle of repose?

So, what did I see next but,—much as when the vault

I' the west,—wherein we watch the vapory, manifold

Transfiguration,—tired turns blaze to black,—behold,

Peak reconciled to base, dark ending feud with bright,

The multiform subsides, becomes the definite.

Contrasting life and strife, where battle they i' the blank

Severity of peace in death, for which we thank

One wind that conies to quell the concourse, drive at last

Things to a shape which suits the close of things, and cast

Palpably o'er vexed earth heaven's mantle of repose?

CXX

Just so, in Venice' Square, that things were at the closeWas signalled to my sense; for I perceived arrestO' the change all round about. As if some impulse pressedEach gently into each, what was distinctness, late,Grew vague, and, line from line no longer separate,No matter what its style, edifice ... shall I say,Died into edifice? I find no simpler wayOf saying how, without or dash or shock or traceOf violence, I found unity in the placeOf temple, tower,—nay, hall and house and hut,—one blankSeverity of peace in death; to which they sankResigned enough, till ... ah, conjecture, I beseech,What special blank did they agree to, all and each?What common shape was that wherein they mutely mergedLikes and dislikes of form, so plain before?

Just so, in Venice' Square, that things were at the close

Was signalled to my sense; for I perceived arrest

O' the change all round about. As if some impulse pressed

Each gently into each, what was distinctness, late,

Grew vague, and, line from line no longer separate,

No matter what its style, edifice ... shall I say,

Died into edifice? I find no simpler way

Of saying how, without or dash or shock or trace

Of violence, I found unity in the place

Of temple, tower,—nay, hall and house and hut,—one blank

Severity of peace in death; to which they sank

Resigned enough, till ... ah, conjecture, I beseech,

What special blank did they agree to, all and each?

What common shape was that wherein they mutely merged

Likes and dislikes of form, so plain before?

CXXI

I urgedYour step this way, prolonged our path of enterpriseTo where we stand at last, in order that your eyesMight see the very thing, and save my tongue describeThe Druid monument which fronts you. Could I bribeNature to come in aid, illustrate what I mean,What wants there she should lend to solemnize the scene?

I urged

Your step this way, prolonged our path of enterprise

To where we stand at last, in order that your eyes

Might see the very thing, and save my tongue describe

The Druid monument which fronts you. Could I bribe

Nature to come in aid, illustrate what I mean,

What wants there she should lend to solemnize the scene?

CXXII

How does it strike you, this construction gaunt and gray—Sole object, these piled stones, that gleam unground-awayBy twilight's hungry jaw, which champs fine all besideI' the solitary waste we grope through? Oh, no guideNeed we to grope our way and reach the monstrous doorOf granite! Take my word, the deeper you exploreThat caverned passage, filled with fancies to the brim,The less will you approve the adventure! such a grimBar-sinister soon blocks abrupt your path, and endsAll with a cold dread shape,—shape whereon Learning spendsLabor, and leaves the test obscurer for the gloss,While Ignorance reads right—recoiling from that Cross!Whence came the mass and mass, strange quality of stoneUnquarried anywhere i' the region round? Unknown!Just as unknown, how such enormity could beConveyed by land, or else transported over sea,And laid in order, so, precisely each on each,As you and I would build a grotto where the beachSheds shell—to last an hour: this building lasts from ageTo age the same. But why?

How does it strike you, this construction gaunt and gray—

Sole object, these piled stones, that gleam unground-away

By twilight's hungry jaw, which champs fine all beside

I' the solitary waste we grope through? Oh, no guide

Need we to grope our way and reach the monstrous door

Of granite! Take my word, the deeper you explore

That caverned passage, filled with fancies to the brim,

The less will you approve the adventure! such a grim

Bar-sinister soon blocks abrupt your path, and ends

All with a cold dread shape,—shape whereon Learning spends

Labor, and leaves the test obscurer for the gloss,

While Ignorance reads right—recoiling from that Cross!

Whence came the mass and mass, strange quality of stone

Unquarried anywhere i' the region round? Unknown!

Just as unknown, how such enormity could be

Conveyed by land, or else transported over sea,

And laid in order, so, precisely each on each,

As you and I would build a grotto where the beach

Sheds shell—to last an hour: this building lasts from age

To age the same. But why?

CXXIII

Ask Learning! I engageYou get a prosy wherefore, shall help you to advanceIn knowledge just as much as helps you IgnoranceSurmising, in the mouth of peasant-lad or lass,"I heard my father say he understood it wasA building, people built as soon as earth was madeAlmost, because they might forget (they were afraid)Earth did not make itself, but came of Somebody.They labored that their work might last, and show therebyHe stays, while we and earth, and all things come and go.Come whence? Go whither? That, when come and gone, we knowPerhaps, but not while earth and all things need our bestAttention: we must wait and die to know the rest.Ask, if that 's true, what use in setting up the pile?To make one fear and hope: remind us, all the whileWe come and go, outside there 's Somebody that stays;A circumstance which ought to make us mind our ways,Because,—whatever end we answer by this life,—Next time, best chance must be for who, with toil and strife,Manages now to live most like what he was meantBecome: since who succeeds so far, 't is evident,Stands foremost on the file; who fails, has less to hopeFrom new promotion. That 's the rule—with even a ropeOf mushrooms, like this rope I dangle! those that grewGreatest and roundest, all in life they had to do,Gain a reward, a grace they never dreamed, I think;Since, outside white as milk and inside black as ink,They go to the Great House to make a dainty dishFor Don and Donna; while this basket-load, I wishWell off my arm, it breaks,—no starveling of the heapBut had his share of dew, his proper length of sleepI' the sunshine: yet, of all, the outcome is—this queerCribbed quantity of dwarfs which burden basket hereTill I reach home; 't is there that, having run their rigs,They end their earthly race, are flung as food for pigs.Any more use I see? Well, you must know, there liesSomething, the Curé says, that points to mysteriesAbove our grasp: a huge stone pillar, once upright,Now laid at length, half-lost—discreetly shunning sightI' the bush and brier, because of stories in the air—Hints what it signified, and why was stationed there,Once on a time. In vain the Curé tasked his lungs—Showed, in a preachment, how, at bottom of the rungsO' the ladder, Jacob saw, where heavenly angels steptUp and down, lay a stone which served him, while he slept,For pillow; when he woke, he set the same uprightAs pillar, and a-top poured oil: things requisiteTo instruct posterity, there mounts from floor to roof,A staircase, earth to heaven; and also put in proof,When we have sealed the sky, we well may let aloneWhat raised us from the ground, and—paying to the stoneProper respect, of course—take staff and go our way,Leaving the Pagan night for Christian break of day.'For,' preached he, 'what they dreamed, these Pagans, wide-awakeWe Christians may behold. How strange, then, were mistakeDid anybody style the stone,—because of dropRemaining there from oil which Jacob poured a-top,—Itself the Gate of Heaven, itself the end, and notThe means thereto!' Thus preached the Curé and no jotThe more persuaded people but that, what once a thingMeant and had right to mean, it still must mean. So clingFolk somehow to the prime authoritative speech,And so distrust report, it seems as they could reachFar better the arch-word, whereon their fate depends.Through rude charactery, than all the grace it lends,That lettering of your scribes! who flourish pen apaceAnd ornament the text, they say—we say, efface.Hence, when the earth began its life afresh in May,And fruit-trees bloomed, and waves would wanton, and the bayRuffle its wealth of weed, and stranger-birds arrive,And beasts take each a mate,—folk, too, found sensitive,Surmised the old gray stone upright there, through such tractsOf solitariness and silence, kept the factsEntrusted it, could deal out doctrine, did it please:No fresh and frothy draught, but liquor on the lees,Strong, savage, and sincere: first bleedings from a vineWhereof the product now do Curés so refineTo insipidity, that, when heart sinks, we striveAnd strike from the old stone the old restorative.'Which is?'—why, go and ask our grandames how they usedTo dance around it, till the Curé disabusedTheir ignorance, and bade the parish in a bandLay flat the obtrusive thing that cumbered so the land!And there, accordingly, in bush and brier it—'bidesIts time to rise again!' (so somebody derides,That 's pert from Paris,) 'since, yon spire, you keep erectYonder, and pray beneath, is nothing, I suspect,But just the symbol's self, expressed in slate for rock,Art's smooth for Nature's rough, new chip from the old block!'There, sir, my say is said! Thanks, and Saint Gille increaseThe wealth bestowed so well!"—wherewith he pockets piece,Doffs cap, and takes the road. I leave in Learning's clutchMore money for his book, but scarcely gain as much.

Ask Learning! I engage

You get a prosy wherefore, shall help you to advance

In knowledge just as much as helps you Ignorance

Surmising, in the mouth of peasant-lad or lass,

"I heard my father say he understood it was

A building, people built as soon as earth was made

Almost, because they might forget (they were afraid)

Earth did not make itself, but came of Somebody.

They labored that their work might last, and show thereby

He stays, while we and earth, and all things come and go.

Come whence? Go whither? That, when come and gone, we know

Perhaps, but not while earth and all things need our best

Attention: we must wait and die to know the rest.

Ask, if that 's true, what use in setting up the pile?

To make one fear and hope: remind us, all the while

We come and go, outside there 's Somebody that stays;

A circumstance which ought to make us mind our ways,

Because,—whatever end we answer by this life,—

Next time, best chance must be for who, with toil and strife,

Manages now to live most like what he was meant

Become: since who succeeds so far, 't is evident,

Stands foremost on the file; who fails, has less to hope

From new promotion. That 's the rule—with even a rope

Of mushrooms, like this rope I dangle! those that grew

Greatest and roundest, all in life they had to do,

Gain a reward, a grace they never dreamed, I think;

Since, outside white as milk and inside black as ink,

They go to the Great House to make a dainty dish

For Don and Donna; while this basket-load, I wish

Well off my arm, it breaks,—no starveling of the heap

But had his share of dew, his proper length of sleep

I' the sunshine: yet, of all, the outcome is—this queer

Cribbed quantity of dwarfs which burden basket here

Till I reach home; 't is there that, having run their rigs,

They end their earthly race, are flung as food for pigs.

Any more use I see? Well, you must know, there lies

Something, the Curé says, that points to mysteries

Above our grasp: a huge stone pillar, once upright,

Now laid at length, half-lost—discreetly shunning sight

I' the bush and brier, because of stories in the air—

Hints what it signified, and why was stationed there,

Once on a time. In vain the Curé tasked his lungs—

Showed, in a preachment, how, at bottom of the rungs

O' the ladder, Jacob saw, where heavenly angels stept

Up and down, lay a stone which served him, while he slept,

For pillow; when he woke, he set the same upright

As pillar, and a-top poured oil: things requisite

To instruct posterity, there mounts from floor to roof,

A staircase, earth to heaven; and also put in proof,

When we have sealed the sky, we well may let alone

What raised us from the ground, and—paying to the stone

Proper respect, of course—take staff and go our way,

Leaving the Pagan night for Christian break of day.

'For,' preached he, 'what they dreamed, these Pagans, wide-awake

We Christians may behold. How strange, then, were mistake

Did anybody style the stone,—because of drop

Remaining there from oil which Jacob poured a-top,—

Itself the Gate of Heaven, itself the end, and not

The means thereto!' Thus preached the Curé and no jot

The more persuaded people but that, what once a thing

Meant and had right to mean, it still must mean. So cling

Folk somehow to the prime authoritative speech,

And so distrust report, it seems as they could reach

Far better the arch-word, whereon their fate depends.

Through rude charactery, than all the grace it lends,

That lettering of your scribes! who flourish pen apace

And ornament the text, they say—we say, efface.

Hence, when the earth began its life afresh in May,

And fruit-trees bloomed, and waves would wanton, and the bay

Ruffle its wealth of weed, and stranger-birds arrive,

And beasts take each a mate,—folk, too, found sensitive,

Surmised the old gray stone upright there, through such tracts

Of solitariness and silence, kept the facts

Entrusted it, could deal out doctrine, did it please:

No fresh and frothy draught, but liquor on the lees,

Strong, savage, and sincere: first bleedings from a vine

Whereof the product now do Curés so refine

To insipidity, that, when heart sinks, we strive

And strike from the old stone the old restorative.

'Which is?'—why, go and ask our grandames how they used

To dance around it, till the Curé disabused

Their ignorance, and bade the parish in a band

Lay flat the obtrusive thing that cumbered so the land!

And there, accordingly, in bush and brier it—'bides

Its time to rise again!' (so somebody derides,

That 's pert from Paris,) 'since, yon spire, you keep erect

Yonder, and pray beneath, is nothing, I suspect,

But just the symbol's self, expressed in slate for rock,

Art's smooth for Nature's rough, new chip from the old block!'

There, sir, my say is said! Thanks, and Saint Gille increase

The wealth bestowed so well!"—wherewith he pockets piece,

Doffs cap, and takes the road. I leave in Learning's clutch

More money for his book, but scarcely gain as much.

CXXIV

To this it was, this same primeval monument,That, in my dream, I saw building with building blentFall: each on each they fast and founderingly wentConfusion-ward; but thence again subsided fast,Became the mound you see. Magnificently massedIndeed, those mammoth-stones, piled by the ProtoplastTemple-wise in my dream! beyond compare with fanesWhich, solid-looking late, had left no least remainsI' the bald and blank, now sole usurper of the plainsOf heaven, diversified and beautiful before.And yet simplicity appeared to speak no moreNor less to me than spoke the compound. At the core,One and no other word, as in the crust of late,Whispered, which, audible through the transition-state,Was no loud utterance in even the ultimateDisposure. For as some imperial chord subsists,Steadily underlies the accidental mistsOf music springing thence, that run their mazy raceAround, and sink, absorbed, back to the triad base,—So, out of that one word, each variant rose and fellAnd left the same "All 's change, but permanence as well."—Grave note whence—list aloft!—harmonics sound, that mean:"Truth inside, and outside, truth also; and betweenEach, falsehood that is change, as truth is permanence.The individual soul works through the shows of sense(Which, ever proving false, still promise to be true)Up to an outer soul as individual too;And, through the fleeting, lives to die into the fixed,And reach at length 'God, man, or both together mixed,'Transparent through the flesh, by parts which prove a whole,By hints which make the soul discernible by soul—Let only soul look up, not down, not hate but love,As truth successively takes shape, one grade aboveIts last presentment, tempts as it were truth indeedRevealed this time; so tempts, till we attain to readThe signs aright, and learn, by failure, truth is forcedTo manifest itself through falsehood; whence divorcedBy the excepted eye, at the rare season, forThe happy moment, truth instructs us to abhorThe false, and prize the true, obtainable thereby.Then do we understand the value of a lie;Its purpose served, its truth once safe deposited,Each lie, superfluous now, leaves, in the singer's stead,The indubitable song; the historic personagePut by, leaves prominent the impulse of his age;Truth sets aside speech, act, time, place, indeed, but bringsNakedly forward now the principle of thingsHighest and least."

To this it was, this same primeval monument,

That, in my dream, I saw building with building blent

Fall: each on each they fast and founderingly went

Confusion-ward; but thence again subsided fast,

Became the mound you see. Magnificently massed

Indeed, those mammoth-stones, piled by the Protoplast

Temple-wise in my dream! beyond compare with fanes

Which, solid-looking late, had left no least remains

I' the bald and blank, now sole usurper of the plains

Of heaven, diversified and beautiful before.

And yet simplicity appeared to speak no more

Nor less to me than spoke the compound. At the core,

One and no other word, as in the crust of late,

Whispered, which, audible through the transition-state,

Was no loud utterance in even the ultimate

Disposure. For as some imperial chord subsists,

Steadily underlies the accidental mists

Of music springing thence, that run their mazy race

Around, and sink, absorbed, back to the triad base,—

So, out of that one word, each variant rose and fell

And left the same "All 's change, but permanence as well."

—Grave note whence—list aloft!—harmonics sound, that mean:

"Truth inside, and outside, truth also; and between

Each, falsehood that is change, as truth is permanence.

The individual soul works through the shows of sense

(Which, ever proving false, still promise to be true)

Up to an outer soul as individual too;

And, through the fleeting, lives to die into the fixed,

And reach at length 'God, man, or both together mixed,'

Transparent through the flesh, by parts which prove a whole,

By hints which make the soul discernible by soul—

Let only soul look up, not down, not hate but love,

As truth successively takes shape, one grade above

Its last presentment, tempts as it were truth indeed

Revealed this time; so tempts, till we attain to read

The signs aright, and learn, by failure, truth is forced

To manifest itself through falsehood; whence divorced

By the excepted eye, at the rare season, for

The happy moment, truth instructs us to abhor

The false, and prize the true, obtainable thereby.

Then do we understand the value of a lie;

Its purpose served, its truth once safe deposited,

Each lie, superfluous now, leaves, in the singer's stead,

The indubitable song; the historic personage

Put by, leaves prominent the impulse of his age;

Truth sets aside speech, act, time, place, indeed, but brings

Nakedly forward now the principle of things

Highest and least."

CXXV

Wherewith change ends. What change to dreadWhen, disengaged at last from every veil, insteadOf type remains the truth? once—falsehood: but anonTheosuton e broteion eper kekramenon,Something as true as soul is true, though veils betweenProve false and fleet away. As I mean, did he mean,The poet whose bird-phrase sits, singing in my earA mystery not unlike? What through the dark and drearBrought comfort to the Titan? Emerging from the lymph,"God, man, or mixture" proved only to be a nymph:"From whom the clink on clink of metal" (money, judgedAbundant in my purse) "struck" (bumped at, till it budged)"The modesty, her soul's habitual resident"(Where late the sisterhood were lively in their tent)"As out of wingèd car" (that caravan on wheels)"Impulsively she rushed, no slippers to her heels,"And "Fear not, friends we flock!" soft smiled the sea-Fifine—Primitive of the veils (if he meant what I mean)The poet's Titan learned to lift, ere "Three-formed Fate,Moirai Trimorphoi" stood unmasked the Ultimate.

Wherewith change ends. What change to dread

When, disengaged at last from every veil, instead

Of type remains the truth? once—falsehood: but anon

Theosuton e broteion eper kekramenon,

Something as true as soul is true, though veils between

Prove false and fleet away. As I mean, did he mean,

The poet whose bird-phrase sits, singing in my ear

A mystery not unlike? What through the dark and drear

Brought comfort to the Titan? Emerging from the lymph,

"God, man, or mixture" proved only to be a nymph:

"From whom the clink on clink of metal" (money, judged

Abundant in my purse) "struck" (bumped at, till it budged)

"The modesty, her soul's habitual resident"

(Where late the sisterhood were lively in their tent)

"As out of wingèd car" (that caravan on wheels)

"Impulsively she rushed, no slippers to her heels,"

And "Fear not, friends we flock!" soft smiled the sea-Fifine—

Primitive of the veils (if he meant what I mean)

The poet's Titan learned to lift, ere "Three-formed Fate,

Moirai Trimorphoi" stood unmasked the Ultimate.

CXXVI

Enough o' the dream! You see how poetry turns prose.Announcing wonder-work, I dwindle at the closeDown to mere commonplace old facts which everybody knows.So dreaming disappoints! The fresh and strange at first,Soon wears to trite and tame, nor warrants the outburstOf heart with which we hail those heights, at very brinkOf heaven, whereto one least of lifts would lead, we think,But wherefrom quick decline conducts our step, we find,To homely earth, old facts familiar left behind.Did not this monument, for instance, long agoSay all it had to say, show all it had to show,Nor promise to do duty more in dream?

Enough o' the dream! You see how poetry turns prose.

Announcing wonder-work, I dwindle at the close

Down to mere commonplace old facts which everybody knows.

So dreaming disappoints! The fresh and strange at first,

Soon wears to trite and tame, nor warrants the outburst

Of heart with which we hail those heights, at very brink

Of heaven, whereto one least of lifts would lead, we think,

But wherefrom quick decline conducts our step, we find,

To homely earth, old facts familiar left behind.

Did not this monument, for instance, long ago

Say all it had to say, show all it had to show,

Nor promise to do duty more in dream?

CXXVII

Awaking so,What if we, homeward-bound, all peace and some fatigue,Trudge, soberly complete our tramp of near a league,Last little mile which makes the circuit just, Elvire?We end where we began: that consequence is clear.All peace and some fatigue, wherever we were nursedTo life, we bosom us on death, find last is firstAnd thenceforth final too.

Awaking so,

What if we, homeward-bound, all peace and some fatigue,

Trudge, soberly complete our tramp of near a league,

Last little mile which makes the circuit just, Elvire?

We end where we began: that consequence is clear.

All peace and some fatigue, wherever we were nursed

To life, we bosom us on death, find last is first

And thenceforth final too.

CXXVIII

"Why final? Why the moreWorth credence now than when such truth proved false before?"Because a novel point impresses now: each lieRedounded to the praise of man, was victoryMan's nature had both right to get, and might to gain,And by no means implied submission to the reignOf other quite as real a nature, that saw fitTo have its way with man, not man his way with it.This time, acknowledgment and acquiescence quellTheir contrary in man; promotion proves as wellDefeat: and Truth, unlike the False with Truth's outside,Neither plumes up his will nor puffs him out with pride.I fancy, there must lurk some cogency i' the claim,Man, such abatement made, submits to, all the same.Soul finds no triumph, here, to register like SenseWith whom 't is ask and have,—the want, the evidenceThat the thing wanted, soon or late, will be supplied.This indeed plumes up will; this, sure, puffs out with pride,When, reading records right, man's instincts still attestPromotion comes to Sense because Sense likes it best;For bodies sprouted legs, through a desire to run:While hands, when fain to filch, got fingers one by one,And nature, that 's ourself, accommodative bringsTo bear that, tired of legs which walk, we now bud wingsSince of a mind to fly. Such savor in the noseOf Sense would stimulate Soul sweetly, I suppose,Soul with its proper itch of instinct, prompting clearTo recognize soul's self soul's only master hereAlike from first to last. But if time's pressure, light'sOr rather dark's approach, wrest thoroughly the rightsOf rule away, and bid the soul submissive bearAnother soul than it play master everywhereIn great and small,—this time, I fancy, none disputesThere 's something in the fact that such conclusion suitsNowise the pride of man, nor yet chimes in with attributesConspicuous in the lord of nature. He receivesAnd not demands—not first likes faith and then believes.

"Why final? Why the more

Worth credence now than when such truth proved false before?"

Because a novel point impresses now: each lie

Redounded to the praise of man, was victory

Man's nature had both right to get, and might to gain,

And by no means implied submission to the reign

Of other quite as real a nature, that saw fit

To have its way with man, not man his way with it.

This time, acknowledgment and acquiescence quell

Their contrary in man; promotion proves as well

Defeat: and Truth, unlike the False with Truth's outside,

Neither plumes up his will nor puffs him out with pride.

I fancy, there must lurk some cogency i' the claim,

Man, such abatement made, submits to, all the same.

Soul finds no triumph, here, to register like Sense

With whom 't is ask and have,—the want, the evidence

That the thing wanted, soon or late, will be supplied.

This indeed plumes up will; this, sure, puffs out with pride,

When, reading records right, man's instincts still attest

Promotion comes to Sense because Sense likes it best;

For bodies sprouted legs, through a desire to run:

While hands, when fain to filch, got fingers one by one,

And nature, that 's ourself, accommodative brings

To bear that, tired of legs which walk, we now bud wings

Since of a mind to fly. Such savor in the nose

Of Sense would stimulate Soul sweetly, I suppose,

Soul with its proper itch of instinct, prompting clear

To recognize soul's self soul's only master here

Alike from first to last. But if time's pressure, light's

Or rather dark's approach, wrest thoroughly the rights

Of rule away, and bid the soul submissive bear

Another soul than it play master everywhere

In great and small,—this time, I fancy, none disputes

There 's something in the fact that such conclusion suits

Nowise the pride of man, nor yet chimes in with attributes

Conspicuous in the lord of nature. He receives

And not demands—not first likes faith and then believes.

CXXIX

And as with the last essence, so with its first faint type.Inconstancy means raw, 't is faith alone means ripeI' the soul which runs its round: no matter how it rangeFrom Helen to Fifine, Elvire bids back the changeTo permanence. Here, too, love ends where love began.Such ending looks like law, because the natural manInclines the other way, feels lordlier free than bound.Poor pabulum for pride when the first love is foundLast also! and, so far from realizing gain,Each step aside just proves divergency in vain.The wanderer brings home no profit from his questBeyond the sad surmise that keeping house were bestCould life begin anew. His problem posed arightWas—"From the given point evolve the infinite!"Not—"Spend thyself in space, endeavoring to jointTogether, and so make infinite, point and point:Fix into one Elvire a Fair-ful of Fifines!"Fifine, the foam-flake, she: Elvire, the sea's self, meansCapacity at need to shower how many such!And yet we left her calm profundity, to clutchFoam-flutter, bell on bell, that, bursting at a touch,Blistered us for our pains. But wise, we want no moreO' the fickle element. Enough of foam and roar!Land-locked, we live and die henceforth: for here 's the villa door.

And as with the last essence, so with its first faint type.

Inconstancy means raw, 't is faith alone means ripe

I' the soul which runs its round: no matter how it range

From Helen to Fifine, Elvire bids back the change

To permanence. Here, too, love ends where love began.

Such ending looks like law, because the natural man

Inclines the other way, feels lordlier free than bound.

Poor pabulum for pride when the first love is found

Last also! and, so far from realizing gain,

Each step aside just proves divergency in vain.

The wanderer brings home no profit from his quest

Beyond the sad surmise that keeping house were best

Could life begin anew. His problem posed aright

Was—"From the given point evolve the infinite!"

Not—"Spend thyself in space, endeavoring to joint

Together, and so make infinite, point and point:

Fix into one Elvire a Fair-ful of Fifines!"

Fifine, the foam-flake, she: Elvire, the sea's self, means

Capacity at need to shower how many such!

And yet we left her calm profundity, to clutch

Foam-flutter, bell on bell, that, bursting at a touch,

Blistered us for our pains. But wise, we want no more

O' the fickle element. Enough of foam and roar!

Land-locked, we live and die henceforth: for here 's the villa door.

CXXX

How pallidly you pause o' the threshold! Hardly night,Which drapes you, ought to make real flesh and blood so white!Touch me, and so appear alive to all intents!Will the saint vanish from the sinner that repents?Suppose you are a ghost! A memory, a hope,A fear, a conscience! Quick! Give back the hand I gropeI' the dusk for!

How pallidly you pause o' the threshold! Hardly night,

Which drapes you, ought to make real flesh and blood so white!

Touch me, and so appear alive to all intents!

Will the saint vanish from the sinner that repents?

Suppose you are a ghost! A memory, a hope,

A fear, a conscience! Quick! Give back the hand I grope

I' the dusk for!

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