SONNET.

Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me—thy soft breastShall pant to mine—bend o'er me—thy sweet eyes,And loosened hair and breathing lips, and armsDrawing me to thee—these build up a screenTo shut me in with thee, and from all fear;So that I might unlock the sleepless broodOf fancies from my soul, their lurking-place,Nor doubt that each would pass, ne'er to returnTo one so watched, so loved and so secured.But what can guard thee but thy naked love?Ah dearest, whoso sucks a poisoned woundEnvenoms his own veins! Thou art so good,So calm—if thou shouldst wear a brow less lightFor some wild thought which, but for me, were keptFrom out thy soul as from a sacred star!Yet till I have unlocked them it were vainTo hope to sing; some woe would light on me;Nature would point at one whose quivering lipWas bathed in her enchantments, whose brow burnedBeneath the crown to which her secrets knelt,Who learned the spell which can call up the dead,And then departed smiling like a fiendWho has deceived God,—if such one should seekAgain her altars and stand robed and crownedAmid the faithful! Sad confession first,Remorse and pardon and old claims renewed,Ere I can be—as I shall be no more.I had been spared this shame if I had satBy thee forever from the first, in placeOf my wild dreams of beauty and of good,Or with them, as an earnest of their truth:No thought nor hope having been shut from thee,No vague wish unexplained, no wandering aimSent back to bind on fancy's wings and seekSome strange fair world where it might be a law;But, doubting nothing, had been led by thee,Through youth, and saved, as one at length awakedWho has slept through a peril. Ah vain, vain!Thou lovest me; the past is in its graveThough its ghost haunts us; still this much is ours,To cast away restraint, lest a worse thingWait for us in the dark. Thou lovest me;And thou art to receive not love but faith,For which thou wilt be mine, and smile and takeAll shapes and shames, and veil without a fearThat form which music follows like a slave:And I look to thee and I trust in thee,As in a Northern night one looks alwayUnto the East for morn and spring and joy.Thou seest then my aimless, hopeless state,And, resting on some few old feelings wonBack by thy beauty, wouldst that I essayThe task which was to me what now thou art:And why should I conceal one weakness more?Thou wilt remember one warm morn when winterCrept aged from the earth, and spring's first breathBlew soft from the moist hills; the black-thorn boughs,So dark in the bare wood, when glisteningIn the sunshine were white with coming buds,Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banksHad violets opening from sleep like eyes.I walked with thee who knew'st not a deep shameLurked beneath smiles and careless words which soughtTo hide it till they wandered and were mute,As we stood listening on a sunny moundTo the wind murmuring in the damp copse,Like heavy breathings of some hidden thingBetrayed by sleep; until the feeling rushedThat I was low indeed, yet not so lowAs to endure the calmness of thine eyes.And so I told thee all, while the cool breastI leaned on altered not its quiet beating:And long ere words like a hurt bird's complaintBade me look up and be what I had been,I felt despair could never live by thee:Thou wilt remember. Thou art not more dearThan song was once to me; and I ne'er sungBut as one entering bright halls where allWill rise and shout for him: sure I must ownThat I am fallen, having chosen giftsDistinct from theirs—that I am sad and fainWould give up all to be but where I was,Not high as I had been if faithful found,But low and weak yet full of hope, and sureOf goodness as of life—that I would loseAll this gay mastery of mind, to sitOnce more with them, trusting in truth and loveAnd with an aim—not being what I am.O Pauline, I am ruined who believedThat though my soul had floated from its sphereOf wild dominion into the dim orbOf self—that it was strong and free as ever!It has conformed itself to that dim orb,Reflecting all its shades and shapes, and nowMust stay where it alone can be adored.I have felt this in dreams—in dreams in whichI seemed the fate from which I fled; I feltA strange delight in causing my decay.I was a fiend in darkness chained foreverWithin some ocean-cave; and ages rolled,Till through the cleft rock, like a moonbeam, cameA white swan to remain with me; and agesRolled, yet I tired not of my first free joyIn gazing on the peace of its pure wings:And then I said, "It is most fair to me,Yet its soft wings must sure have suffered changeFrom the thick darkness, sure its eyes are dim.Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbedWith sleeping ages here; it cannot leave me,For it would seem, in light beside its kind,Withered, though here to me most beautiful."And then I was a young witch whose blue eyes,As she stood naked by the river springs,Drew down a god: I watched his radiant formGrowing less radiant, and it gladdened me;Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshineUpon my knees, singing to me of heaven,He turned to look at me, ere I could loseThe grin with which I viewed his perishing:And he shrieked and departed and sat longBy his deserted throne, but sunk at lastMurmuring, as I kissed his lips and curledAround him, "I am still a god—to thee."Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall,Since all the wandering and all the weaknessWill be a saddest comment on the song:And if, that done, I can be young again,I will give up all gained, as willinglyAs one gives up a charm which shuts him outFrom hope or part or care in human kind.As life wanes, all its care and strife and toilSeem strangely valueless, while the old treesWhich grew by our youth's home, the waving massOf climbing plants heavy with bloom and dew,The morning swallows with their songs like words,All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts:So, aught connected with my early life,My rude songs or my wild imaginings,How I look on them—most distinct amidThe fever and the stir of after years!I ne'er had ventured e'en to hope for this,Had not the glow I felt at His award,Assured me all was not extinct within:His whom all honor, whose renown springs upLike sunlight which will visit all the world,So that e'en they who sneered at him at first,Come out to it, as some dark spider crawlsFrom his foul nets which some lit torch invades,Yet spinning still new films for his retreat.Thou didst smile, poet, but can we forgive?Sun-treader, life and light be thine forever!Thou art gone from us; years go by and springGladdens and the young earth is beautiful,Yet thy songs come not, other bards arise,But none like thee: they stand, thy majesties,Like mighty works which tell some spirit thereHath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,Till, its long task completed, it hath risenAnd left us, never to return, and allRush in to peer and praise when all in vain.The air seems bright with thy past presence yet,But thou art still for me as thou hast beenWhen I have stood with thee as on a throneWith all thy dim creations gathered roundLike mountains, and I felt of mould like them,And with them creatures of my own were mixed,Like things half-lived, catching and giving life.But thou art still for me who have adoredThough single, panting but to hear thy nameWhich I believed a spell to me alone,Scarce deeming thou wast as a star to men!As one should worship long a sacred springScarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross,And one small tree embowers droopingly—Joying to see some wandering insect wonTo live in its few rushes, or some locustTo pasture on its boughs, or some wild birdStoop for its freshness from the trackless air:And then should find it but the fountain-head,Long lost, of some great river washing townsAnd towers, and seeing old woods which will liveBut by its banks untrod of human foot,Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quiveringIn light as some thing lieth half of lifeBefore God's foot, waiting a wondrous change;Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stayIts course in vain, for it does ever spreadLike a sea's arm as it goes rolling on,Being the pulse of some great country—soWast thou to me, and art thou to the world!And I, perchance, half feel a strange regretThat I am not what I have been to thee:Like a girl one has silently loved longIn her first loneliness in some retreat,When, late emerged, all gaze and glow to viewHer fresh eyes and soft hair and lips which bloomLike a mountain berry: doubtless it is sweetTo see her thus adored, but there have beenMoments when all the world was in our praise,Sweeter than any pride of after hours.Yet, sun-treader, all hail! From my heart's heartI bid thee hail! E'en in my wildest dreams,I proudly feel I would have thrown to dustThe wreaths of fame which seemed o'erhanging me,To see thee for a moment as thou art.And if thou livest, if thou lovest, spirit!Remember me who set this final sealTo wandering thought—that one so pure as thouCould never die. Remember me who flungAll honor from my soul, yet paused and said,"There is one spark of love remaining yet,For I have naught in common with him, shapesWhich followed him avoid me, and foul formsSeek me, which ne'er could fasten on his mind;And though I feel how low I am to him,Yet I aim not even to catch a toneOf harmonies he called profusely up;So, one gleam still remains, although the last."Remember me who praise thee e'en with tears,For never more shall I walk calm with thee;Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,A melody some wondrous singer sings,Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,They dream not to essay; yet it no lessBut more is honored. I was thine in shame,And now when all thy proud renown is out,I am a watcher whose eyes have grown dimWith looking for some star which breaks on himAltered and worn and weak and full of tears.Autumn has come like spring returned to us,Won from her girlishness; like one returnedA friend that was a lover, nor forgetsThe first warm love, but full of sober thoughtsOf fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yetWith the old smile, but yet so changed and still!And here am I the scoffer, who have probedLife's vanity, won by a word againInto my own life—by one little wordOf this sweet friend who lives in loving me,Lives strangely on my thoughts and looks and words,As fathoms down some nameless ocean thingIts silent course of quietness and joy.O dearest, if indeed I tell the past,May'st thou forget it as a sad sick dream!Or if it linger—my lost soul too soonSinks to itself and whispers we shall beBut closer linked, two creatures whom the earthBears singly, with strange feelings unrevealedSave to each other; or two lonely thingsCreated by some power whose reign is done,Having no part in God or his bright world.I am to sing whilst ebbing day dies soft,As a lean scholar dies worn o'er his book,And in the heaven stars steal out one by oneAs hunted men steal to their mountain watch.I must not think, lest this new impulse dieIn which I trust; I have no confidence:So, I will sing on fast as fancies come;Rudely, the verse being as the mood it paints.I strip my mind bare, whose first elementsI shall unveil—not as they struggle forthIn infancy, nor as they now exist,When I am grown above them and can rule—But in that middle stage when they were fullYet ere I had disposed them to my will;And then I shall show how these elementsProduced my present state, and what it is.I am made up of an intensest life,Of a most clear idea of consciousnessOf self, distinct from all its qualities,From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all:But linked, in me, to self-supremacy,Existing as a centre to all things,Most potent to create and rule and callUpon all things to minister to it;And to a principle of restlessnessWhich would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all—This is myself; and I should thus have beenThough gifted lower than the meanest soul.And of my powers, one springs up to saveFrom utter death a soul with such desireConfined to clay—of powers the only oneWhich marks me—an imagination whichHas been a very angel, coming notIn fitful visions, but beside me everAnd never failing me; so, though my mindForgets not, not a shred of life forgets,Yet I can take a secret pride in callingThe dark past up to quell it regally.A mind like this must dissipate itself,But I have always had one lode-star; now,As I look back, I see that I have haltedOr hastened as I looked towards that star—A need, a trust, a yearning after God:A feeling I have analyzed but late,But it existed, and was reconciledWith a neglect of all I deemed his laws,Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.I felt as one beloved, and so shut inFrom fear: and thence I date my trust in signsAnd omens, for I saw God everywhere;And I can only lay it to the fruitOf a sad after-time that I could doubtEven his being—e'en the while I feltHis presence, never acted from myself,Still trusted in a hand to lead me throughAll danger; and this feeling ever foughtAgainst my weakest reason and resolve.And I can love nothing—and this dull truthHas come the last: but sense supplies a loveEncircling me and mingling with my life.These make myself: I have long sought in vainTo trace how they were formed by circumstance,Yet ever found them mould my wildest youthWhere they alone displayed themselves, convertedAll objects to their use: now see their course!They came to me in my first dawn of lifeWhich passed alone with wisest ancient booksAll halo-girt with fancies of my own;And I myself went with the tale—a godWandering after beauty, or a giantStanding vast in the sunset—an old hunterTalking with gods, or a high-crested chiefSailing with troops of friends to Tenedos.I tell you, naught has ever been so clearAs the place, the time, the fashion of those lives:I had not seen a work of lofty art,Nor woman's beauty nor sweet nature's face,Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as thoseOn the dim clustered isles in the blue sea,The deep groves and white temples and wet caves:And nothing ever will surprise me now—Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair.And strange it is that I who could so dreamShould e'er have stooped to aim at aught beneath—Aught low or painful; but I never doubted:So, as I grew, I rudely shaped my lifeTo my immediate wants; yet strong beneathWas a vague sense of power though folded up—A sense that, though those shades and times were past,Their spirit dwelt in me, with them should rule.Then came a pause, and long restraint chained downMy soul till it was changed. I lost myself,And were it not that I so loathe that loss,I could recall how first I learned to turnMy mind against itself; and the effectsIn deeds for which remorse were vain as forThe wanderings of delirious dream; yet thenceCame cunning, envy, falsehood, all world's wrongThat spotted me: at length I cleansed my soul.Yet long world's influence remained; and naughtBut the still life I led, apart once more,Which left me free to seek soul's old delights,Could e'er have brought me thus far back to peace.As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit;And song rose, no new impulse but the oneWith which all others best could be combined.My life has not been that of those whose heavenWas lampless save where poesy shone out;But as a clime where glittering mountain-topsAnd glancing sea and forests steeped in lightGive back reflected the far-flashing sun;For music (which is earnest of a heaven,Seeing we know emotions strange by it,Not else to be revealed,) is like a voice,A low voice calling fancy, as a friend,To the green woods in the gay summer time:And she fills all the way with dancing shapesWhich have made painters pale, and they go onTill stars look at them and winds call to themAs they leave life's path for the twilight worldWhere the dead gather. This was not at first,For I scarce knew what I would do. I hadAn impulse but no yearning—only sang.And first I sang as I in dream have seenMusic wait on a lyrist for some thought,Yet singing to herself until it came.I turned to those old times and scenes where allThat's beautiful had birth for me, and madeRude verses on them all; and then I paused—I had done nothing, so I sought to knowWhat other minds achieved. No fear outbrokeAs on the works of mighty bards I gazed,In the first joy at finding my own thoughtsRecorded, my own fancies justified,And their aspirings but my very own.With them I first explored passion and mind,—All to begin afresh! I rather soughtTo rival what I wondered at than formCreations of my own; if much was lightLent by the others, much was yet my own.I paused again: a change was coming—came:I was no more a boy, the past was breakingBefore the future and like fever worked.I thought on my new self, and all my powersBurst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazedOn all things: schemes and systems went and came,And I was proud (being vainest of the weak)In wandering o'er thought's world to seek some oneTo be my prize, as if you wandered o'erThe White Way for a star.And my choice fellNot so much on a system as a man—On one, whom praise of mine shall not offend,Who was as calm as beauty, being suchUnto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,—Believing in them and devoting allHis soul's strength to their winning back to peace;Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,Clothed in all passion's melodies: such firstCaught me and set me, slave of a sweet task,To disentangle, gather sense from song:Since, song-inwoven, lurked there words which seemedA key to a new world, the mutteringOf angels, something yet unguessed by man.How my heart leapt as still I sought and foundMuch there, I felt my own soul had conceived,But there living and burning! Soon the orbOf his conceptions dawned on me; its praiseLives in the tongues of men, men's brows are highWhen his name means a triumph and a pride,So, my weak voice may well forbear to shameWhat seemed decreed my fate: I threw myselfTo meet it, I was vowed to liberty,Men were to be as gods and earth as heaven,And I—ah, what a life was mine to prove!My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,I shall go mad, if I recall that time!Oh let me look back ere I leave foreverThe time which was an hour one fondly waitsFor a fair girl that comes a withered hag!And I was lonely, far from woods and fields,And amid dullest sights, who should be looseAs a stag; yet I was full of bliss, who livedWith Plato and who had the key to life;And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,And many a thought did I build up on thought,As the wild bee hangs cell to cell; in vain,For I must still advance, no rest for mind.'T was in my plan to look on real life,The life all new to me; my theoriesWere firm, so them I left, to look and learnMankind, its cares, hopes, fears, its woes and joys;And, as I pondered on their ways, I soughtHow best life's end might be attained—an endComprising every joy. I deeply mused.And suddenly without heart-wreck I awokeAs from a dream: I said, "'T was beautiful,Yet but a dream, and so adieu to it!"As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadowStrange towers and high-walled gardens thick with trees,Where song takes shelter and delicious mirthFrom laughing fairy creatures peeping over,And on the morrow when he comes to lieForever 'neath those garden-trees fruit-flushedSung round by fairies, all his search is vain.First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,Next—faith in them, and then in freedom's selfAnd virtue's self, then my own motives, endsAnd aims and loves, and human love went last.I felt this no decay, because new powersRose as old feelings left—wit, mockery,Light-heartedness; for I had oft been sad,Mistrusting my resolves, but now I castHope joyously away: I laughed and said,"No more of this!" I must not think: at lengthI looked again to see if all went well.My powers were greater: as some temple seemedMy soul, where naught is changed and incense rollsAround the altar, only God is goneAnd some dark spirit sitteth in his seat.So, I passed through the temple and to meKnelt troops of shadows, and they cried, "Hail, king!We serve thee now and thou shalt serve no more!Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!"And I said, "Are ye strong? Let fancy bear meFar from the past!" And I was borne away,As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,O'er deserts, towers and forests, I being calm.And I said, "I have nursed up energies,They will prey on me." And a band knelt lowAnd cried, "Lord, we are here and we will makeSafe way for thee in thine appointed life!But look on us!" And I said, "Ye will worshipMe; should my heart not worship too?" They shouted,"Thyself, thou art our king!" So, I stood thereSmiling—oh, vanity of vanities!For buoyant and rejoicing was the spiritWith which I looked out how to end my course;I felt once more myself, my powers—all mine;I knew while youth and health so lifted meThat, spite of all life's nothingness, no griefCame nigh me, I must ever be light-hearted;And that this knowledge was the only veilBetwixt joy and despair: so, if age came,I should be left—a wreck linked to a soulYet fluttering, or mind-broken and awareOf my decay. So a long summer mornFound me; and ere noon came, I had resolvedNo age should come on me ere youth was spent,For I would wear myself out, like that mornWhich wasted not a sunbeam; every hourI would make mine, and die.And thus I soughtTo chain my spirit down which erst I freedFor flights to fame: I said, "The troubled lifeOf genius, seen so gay when working forthSome trusted end, grows sad when all proves vain—How sad when men have parted with truth's peaceFor falsest fancy's sake, which waited firstAs an obedient spirit when delightCame without fancy's call: but alters soon,Comes darkened, seldom, hastens to depart,Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.But I shall never lose her; she will liveDearer for such seclusion. I but catchA hue, a glance of what I sing: so, painIs linked with pleasure, for I ne'er may tellHalf the bright sights which dazzle me; but nowMine shall be all the radiance: let them fadeUntold—others shall rise as fair, as fast!And when all's done, the few dim gleams transferred,"—(For a new thought sprang up how well it were,Discarding shadowy hope, to weave such laysAs straight encircle men with praise and love,So, I should not die utterly,—should bringOne branch from the gold forest, like the knightOf old tales, witnessing I had been there)—"And when all's done, how vain seems e'en success—The vaunted influence poets have o'er men!'Tis a fine thing that one weak as myselfShould sit in his lone room, knowing the wordsHe utters in his solitude shall moveMen like a swift wind—that though dead and gone,New eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreamsOf love come true in happier frames than his.Ay, the still night brings thoughts like these, but mornComes and the mockery again laughs outAt hollow praises, smiles allied to sneers;And my soul's idol ever whispers meTo dwell with him and his unhonored song:And I foreknow my spirit, that would pressFirst in the struggle, fail again to makeAll bow enslaved, and I again should sink."And then know that this curse will come on us,To see our idols perish; we may wither,No marvel, we are clay, but our low fateShould not extend to those whom trustinglyWe sent before into time's yawning gulfTo face what dread may lurk in darkness there.To find the painter's glory pass, and feelMusic can move us not as once, or, worst,To weep decaying wits ere the frail bodyDecays! Naught makes me trust some love is true,But the delight of the contented lownessWith which I gaze on him I keep foreverAbove me; I to rise and rival him?Feed his fame rather from my heart's best blood,Wither unseen that he may flourish still."Pauline, my soul's friend, thou dost pity yetHow this mood swayed me when that soul found thine,When I had set myself to live this life,Defying all past glory. Ere thou camestI seemed defiant, sweet, for old delightsHad flocked like birds again; music, my life,Nourished me more than ever; then the loreLoved for itself and all it shows—that kingTreading the purple calmly to his death,While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk,The giant shades of fate, silently flitting,Pile the dim outline of the coming doom;And him sitting alone in blood while friendsAre hunting far in the sunshine; and the boyWith his white breast and brow and clustering curlsStreaked with his mother's blood, but striving hardTo tell his story ere his reason goes.And when I loved thee as love seemed so oft,Thou lovedst me indeed: I wondering searchedMy heart to find some feeling like such love,Believing I was still much I had been.Too soon I found all faith had gone from me,And the late glow of life, like change on clouds,Proved not the morn-blush widening into day,But eve faint-colored by the dying sunWhile darkness hastens quickly. I will tellMy state as though 't were none of mine—despairCannot come near us—this it is, my state.Souls alter not, and mine must still advance;Strange that I knew not, when I flung awayMy youth's chief aims, their loss might lead to lossOf what few I retained, and no resourceBe left me: for behold how changed is all!I cannot chain my soul: it will not restIn its clay prison, this most narrow sphere:It has strange impulse, tendency, desire,Which nowise I account for nor explain,But cannot stifle, being bound to trustAll feelings equally, to hear all sides:How can my life indulge them? yet they live,Referring to some state of life unknown.My selfishness is satiated not,It wears me like a flame; my hunger forAll pleasure, howsoe'er minute, grows pain;I envy—how I envy him whose soulTurns its whole energies to some one end,To elevate an aim, pursue successHowever mean! So, my still baffled hopeSeeks out abstractions; I would have one joy,But one in life, so it were wholly mine,One rapture all my soul could fill: and thisWild feeling places me in dream afarIn some vast country where the eye can seeNo end to the far hills and dales bestrewnWith shining towers and towns, till I grow madWell-nigh, to know not one abode but holdsSome pleasure, while my soul could grasp the world,But must remain this vile form's slave. I lookWith hope to age at last, which quenching much,May let me concentrate what sparks it spares.This restlessness of passion meets in meA craving after knowledge: the sole proofOf yet commanding will is in that powerRepressed; for I beheld it in its dawn,The sleepless harpy with just-budding wings,And I considered whether to foregoAll happy ignorant hopes and fears, to live,Finding a recompense in its wild eyes.And when I found that I should perish so,I bade its wild eyes close from me forever,And I am left alone with old delights;See! it lies in me a chained thing, still promptTo serve me if I loose its slightest bond:I cannot but be proud of my bright slave.How should this earth's life prove my only sphere?Can I so narrow sense but that in lifeSoul still exceeds it? In their elementsMy love outsoars my reason; but since lovePerforce receives its object from this earthWhile reason wanders chainless, the few truthsCaught from its wanderings have sufficed to quellLove chained below; then what were love, set free,Which, with the object it demands, would passReason companioning the seraphim?No, what I feel may pass all human loveYet fall far short of what my love should be.And yet I seem more warped in this than aught,Myself stands out more hideously: of oldI could forget myself in friendship, fame,Liberty, nay, in love of mightier souls;But I begin to know what thing hate is—To sicken and to quiver and grow white—And I myself have furnished its first prey.Hate of the weak and ever-wavering will,The selfishness, the still-decaying frame ...But I must never grieve whom wing can waftFar from such thoughts—as now. Andromeda!And she is with me: years roll, I shall change,But change can touch her not—so beautifulWith her fixed eyes, earnest and still, and hairLifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze,And one red beam, all the storm leaves in heaven,Resting upon her eyes and hair, such hair,As she awaits the snake on the wet beachBy the dark rock and the white wave just breakingAt her feet; quite naked and alone; a thingI doubt not, nor fear for, secure some godTo save will come in thunder from the stars.Let it pass! Soul requires another change.I will be gifted with a wondrous mind,Yet sunk by error to men's sympathy,And in the wane of life, yet only soAs to call up their fears; and there shall comeA time requiring youth's best energies;And lo, I fling age, sorrow, sickness off,And rise triumphant, triumph through decay.And thus it is that I supply the chasm'Twixt what I am and all I fain would be:But then to know nothing, to hope for nothing,To seize on life's dull joys from a strange fearLest, losing them, all's lost and naught remains!There 's some vile juggle with my reason here;I feel I but explain to my own lossThese impulses: they live no less the same.Liberty! what though I despair? my bloodRose never at a slave's name proud as now.Oh sympathies, obscured by sophistries!—Why else have I sought refuge in myself,But from the woes I saw and could not stay?Love! is not this to love thee, my Pauline?I cherish prejudice, lest I be leftUtterly loveless? witness my beliefIn poets, though sad change has come there too;No more I leave myself to follow them—Unconsciously I measure me by them—Let me forget it: and I cherish mostMy love of England—how her name, a wordOf hers in a strange tongue makes my heart beat!Pauline, could I but break the spell! Not now—All's fever—but when calm shall come again,I am prepared: I have made life my own.I would not be content with all the changeOne frame should feel, but I have gone in thoughtThrough all conjuncture, I have lived all lifeWhen it is most alive, where strangest fateNew-shapes it past surmise—the throes of menBit by some curse or in the grasps of doomHalf-visible and still-increasing round,Or crowning their wide being's general aim.These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend,As one breathing his weakness to the earOf pitying angel—dear as a winter flower,A slight flower growing alone, and offeringIts frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun,Yet joyous and confiding like the triumphOf a child: and why am I not worthy thee?I can live all the life of plants, and gazeDrowsily on the bees that flit and play,Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill,Or open in the night of sounds, to lookFor the dim stars; I can mount with the birdLeaping airily his pyramid of leavesAnd twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens;Or like a fish breathe deep the morning airIn the misty sun-warm water; or with flowerAnd tree can smile in light at the sinking sunJust as the storm comes, as a girl would lookOn a departing lover—most serene.Pauline, come with me, see how I could buildA home for us, out of the world, in thought!I am uplifted: fly with me, Pauline!Night, and one single ridge of narrow pathBetween the sullen river and the woodsWaving and muttering, for the moonless nightHas shaped them into images of life,Like the uprising of the giant-ghosts,Looking on earth to know how their sons fare:Thou art so close by me, the roughest swellOf wind in the tree-tops hides not the pantingOf thy soft breasts. No, we will pass to morning—Morning, the rocks and valleys and old woods.How the sun brightens in the mist, and here,Half in the air, like creatures of the place,Trusting the element, living on high boughsThat swing in the wind—look at the silver sprayFlung from the foam-sheet of the cataractAmid the broken rocks! Shall we stay hereWith the wild hawks? No, ere the hot noon come,Dive we down—safe! See this our new retreatWalled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,Dark, tangled, old and green, still sloping downTo a small pool whose waters lie asleepAmid the trailing boughs turned water-plants:And tall trees overarch to keep us in,Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,And in the dreamy water one small groupOf two or three strange trees are got togetherWondering at all around, as strange beasts herdTogether far from their own land: all wildness,No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,And tongues of bank go shelving in the lymph,Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,And old gray stones lie making eddies there,The wild-mice cross them dry-shod. Deeper in!Shut thy soft eyes—now look—still deeper in!This is the very heart of the woods all roundMountain-like heaped above us; yet even hereOne pond of water gleams; far off the riverSweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one—One thin clear sheet has overleaped and woundInto this silent depth, which gained, it liesStill, as but let by sufferance; the trees bendO'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,And through their roots long creeping plants out-stretchTheir twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combinedTo narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread,It winds, all noiselessly through the deep woodTill through a cleft-way, through the moss and stone,It joins its parent-river with a shout.Up for the glowing day, leave the old woods!See, they part like a ruined arch: the sky!Nothing but sky appears, so close the rootsAnd grass of the hill-top level with the air—Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats ladenWith light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,Floating away in the sun in some north sea.Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air,The clear, dear breath of God that loveth us,Where small birds reel and winds take their delight!Water is beautiful, but not like air:See, where the solid azure waters lieMade as of thickened air, and down below,The fern-ranks like a forest spread themselvesAs though each pore could feel the element;Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way,Float with me there, Pauline!—but not like air.Down the hill! Stop—a clump of trees, see, setOn a heap of rock, which look o'er the far plain:So, envious climbing shrubs would mount to restAnd peer from their spread boughs; wide they wave, lookingAt the muleteers who whistle on their way,To the merry chime of morning bells, past allThe little smoking cots, mid fields and banksAnd copses bright in the sun. My spirit wanders:Hedgerows for me—those living hedgerows whereThe bushes close and clasp above and keepThought in—I am concentrated—I feel;But my soul saddens when it looks beyond:I cannot be immortal, taste all joy.O God, where do they tend—these struggling aims?What would I have? What is this "sleep" which seemsTo bound all? can there be a "waking" pointOf crowning life? The soul would never rule;It would be first in all things, it would haveIts utmost pleasure filled, but, that complete,Commanding, for commanding, sickens it.The last point I can trace is—rest beneathSome better essence than itself, in weakness;This is "myself," not what I think should be:And what is that I hunger for but God?My God, my God, let me for once look on theeAs though naught else existed, we alone!And as creation crumbles, my soul's sparkExpands till I can say,—Even from myselfI need thee and I feel thee and I love thee.I do not plead my rapture in thy worksFor love of thee, nor that I feel as oneWho cannot die: but there is that in meWhich turns to thee, which loves or which should love.Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?Why have I labored to put out my life?Is it not in my nature to adore,And e'en for all my reason do I notFeel him, and thank him, and pray to him—now?Can I forego the trust that he loves me?Do I not feel a love which only ONE...O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed!I have denied thee calmly—do I notPant when I read of thy consummate power.And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flashThe brightest gleams of earth's philosophy?Do I not shake to hear aught question thee?If I am erring save me, madden me,Take from me powers and pleasures, let me dieAges, so I see thee! I am knit roundAs with a charm by sin and lust and pride.Yet though my wandering dreams have seen all shapesOf strange delight, oft have I stood by thee—Have I been keeping lonely watch with theeIn the damp night by weeping Olivet,Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less,Or dying with thee on the lonely cross,Or witnessing thine outburst from the tomb.A mortal, sin's familiar friend, doth hereAvow that he will give all earth's reward,But to believe and humbly teach the faith,In suffering and poverty and shame,Only believing he is not unloved.And now, my Pauline, I am thine forever!I feel the spirit which has buoyed me upDesert me, and old shades are gathering fast;Yet while the last light waits, I would say much,This chiefly, it is gain that I have saidSomewhat of love I ever felt for theeBut seldom told; our hearts so beat togetherThat speech seemed mockery; but when dark hours come,And joy departs, and thou, sweet, deem'st it strangeA sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove,Look on this lay I dedicate to thee,Which through thee I began, which thus I end,Collecting the last gleams to strive to tellHow I am thine, and more than ever nowThat I sink fast: yet though I deeplier sink,No less song proves one word has brought me bliss,Another still may win bliss surely back.Thou knowest, dear, I could not think all calm,For fancies followed thought and bore me off,And left all indistinct; ere one was caughtAnother glanced; so, dazzled by my wealth,I knew not which to leave nor which to choose,For all so floated, naught was fixed and firm.And then thou said'st a perfect bard was oneWho chronicled the stages of all life,And so thou bad'st me shadow this first stage.'T is done, and even now I recognizeThe shift, the change from last to past—discernFaintly how life is truth and truth is good.And why thou must be mine is, that e'en nowIn the dim hush of night, that I have done,Despite the sad forebodings, love looks through—Whispers,—E'en at the last I have her still,With her delicious eyes as clear as heavenWhen rain in a quick shower has beat down mist,And clouds float white above like broods of swans.How the blood lies upon her cheek, outspreadAs thinned by kisses! only in her lipsIt wells and pulses like a living thing,And her neck looks like marble misted o'erWith love-breath,—a Pauline from heights above,Stooping beneath me, looking up—one lookAs I might kill her and be loved the more.So, love me—me, Pauline, and naught but me,Never leave loving! Words are wild and weak,Believe them not, Pauline! I stained myselfBut to behold thee purer by my side,To show thou art my breath, my life, a lastResource, an extreme want: never believeAught better could so look on thee; nor seekAgain the world of good thoughts left for mine!There were bright troops of undiscovered suns,Each equal in their radiant course; there wereClusters of far fair isles which ocean keptFor his own joy, and his waves broke on themWithout a choice; and there was a dim crowdOf visions, each a part of some grand whole:And one star left his peers and came with peaceUpon a storm, and all eyes pined for him;And one isle harbored a sea-beaten ship,And the crew wandered in its bowers and pluckedIts fruits and gave up all their hopes of home;And one dream came to a pale poet's sleep,And he said, "I am singled out by God,No sin must touch me." Words are wild and weak,But what they would express is,—Leave me not,Still sit by me with beating breast and hairLoosened, be watching earnest by my side,Turning my books or kissing me when ILook up—like summer wind! Be still to meA help to music's mystery which mind failsTo fathom, its solution, no mere clue!O reason's pedantry, life's rule prescribed!I hopeless, I the loveless, hope and love.Wiser and better, know me now, not whenYou loved me as I was. Smile not! I haveMuch yet to dawn on you, to gladden you.No more of the past! I'll look within no more,I have too trusted my own lawless wants,Too trusted my vain self, vague intuition—Draining soul's wine alone in the still night,And seeing how, as gathering films arose,As by an inspiration life seemed bareAnd grinning in its vanity, while endsFoul to be dreamed of, smiled at me as fixedAnd fair, while others changed from fair to foulAs a young witch turns an old hag at night.No more of this! We will go hand in hand,I with thee, even as a child—love's slave,Looking no farther than his liege commands.And thou hast chosen where this life shall be:The land which gave me thee shall be our home,Where nature lies all wild amid her lakesAnd snow-swathed mountains and vast pines begirtWith ropes of snow—where nature lies all bare,Suffering none to view her but a raceOr stinted or deformed, like the mute dwarfsWhich wait upon a naked Indian queen.And there (the time being when the heavens are thickWith storm) I'll sit with thee while thou dost singThy native songs, gay as a desert birdWhich crieth as it flies for perfect joy,Or telling me old stories of dead knights;Or I will read great lays to thee—how she,The fair pale sister, went to her chill graveWith power to love and to be loved and live:Or we will go together, like twin godsOf the infernal world, with scented lampOver the dead, to call and to awake,Over the unshaped images which lieWithin my mind's cave: only leaving all,That tells of the past doubt. So, when spring comesWith sunshine back again like an old smile,And the fresh waters and awakened birdsAnd budding woods await us, I shall bePrepared, and we will question life once more,Till its old sense shall come renewed by change,Like some clear thought which harsh words veiled before;Feeling God loves us, and that all which errsIs but a dream which death will dissipate.And then what need of longer exile? SeekMy England, and, again there, calm approachAll I once fled from, calmly look on thoseThe works of my past weakness, as one viewsSome scene where danger met him long before.Ah that such pleasant life should be but dreamed!But whate'er come of it, and though it fade,And though ere the cold morning all be gone,As it may be;—though music wait to wile,And strange eyes and bright wine lure, laugh like sinWhich steals back softly on a soul half saved,And I the first deny, decry, despise,With this avowal, these intents so fair,—Still be it all my own, this moment's pride!No less I make an end in perfect joy.E'en in my brightest time, a lurking fearPossessed me: I well knew my weak resolves,I felt the witchery that makes mind sleepOver its treasure, as one half afraidTo make his riches definite: but nowThese feelings shall not utterly be lost,I shall not know again that nameless careLest, leaving all undone in youth, some newAnd undreamed end reveal itself too late:For this song shall remain to tell foreverThat when I lost all hope of such a change,Suddenly beauty rose on me again.No less I make an end in perfect joy,For I, who thus again was visited,Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits,And, though this weak soul sink and darkness whelm,Some little word shall light it, raise aloft,To where I clearlier see and better love,As I again go o'er the tracts of thoughtLike one who has a right, and I shall liveWith poets, calmer, purer still each time,And beauteous shapes will come for me to seize,And unknown secrets will be trusted meWhich were denied the waverer once; but nowI shall be priest and prophet as of old.Sun-treader, I believe in God and truthAnd love; and as one just escaped from deathWould bind himself in bands of friends to feelHe lives indeed, so, I would lean on thee!Thou must be ever with me, most in gloomIf such must come, but chiefly when I die,For I seem, dying, as one going in the darkTo fight a giant: but live thou forever,And be to all what thou hast been to me!All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of meKnow my last state is happy, free from doubtOr touch of fear. Love me and wish me well.

Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me—thy soft breast

Shall pant to mine—bend o'er me—thy sweet eyes,

And loosened hair and breathing lips, and arms

Drawing me to thee—these build up a screen

To shut me in with thee, and from all fear;

So that I might unlock the sleepless brood

Of fancies from my soul, their lurking-place,

Nor doubt that each would pass, ne'er to return

To one so watched, so loved and so secured.

But what can guard thee but thy naked love?

Ah dearest, whoso sucks a poisoned wound

Envenoms his own veins! Thou art so good,

So calm—if thou shouldst wear a brow less light

For some wild thought which, but for me, were kept

From out thy soul as from a sacred star!

Yet till I have unlocked them it were vain

To hope to sing; some woe would light on me;

Nature would point at one whose quivering lip

Was bathed in her enchantments, whose brow burned

Beneath the crown to which her secrets knelt,

Who learned the spell which can call up the dead,

And then departed smiling like a fiend

Who has deceived God,—if such one should seek

Again her altars and stand robed and crowned

Amid the faithful! Sad confession first,

Remorse and pardon and old claims renewed,

Ere I can be—as I shall be no more.

I had been spared this shame if I had sat

By thee forever from the first, in place

Of my wild dreams of beauty and of good,

Or with them, as an earnest of their truth:

No thought nor hope having been shut from thee,

No vague wish unexplained, no wandering aim

Sent back to bind on fancy's wings and seek

Some strange fair world where it might be a law;

But, doubting nothing, had been led by thee,

Through youth, and saved, as one at length awaked

Who has slept through a peril. Ah vain, vain!

Thou lovest me; the past is in its graveThough its ghost haunts us; still this much is ours,To cast away restraint, lest a worse thingWait for us in the dark. Thou lovest me;And thou art to receive not love but faith,For which thou wilt be mine, and smile and takeAll shapes and shames, and veil without a fearThat form which music follows like a slave:And I look to thee and I trust in thee,As in a Northern night one looks alwayUnto the East for morn and spring and joy.Thou seest then my aimless, hopeless state,And, resting on some few old feelings wonBack by thy beauty, wouldst that I essayThe task which was to me what now thou art:And why should I conceal one weakness more?

Thou lovest me; the past is in its grave

Though its ghost haunts us; still this much is ours,

To cast away restraint, lest a worse thing

Wait for us in the dark. Thou lovest me;

And thou art to receive not love but faith,

For which thou wilt be mine, and smile and take

All shapes and shames, and veil without a fear

That form which music follows like a slave:

And I look to thee and I trust in thee,

As in a Northern night one looks alway

Unto the East for morn and spring and joy.

Thou seest then my aimless, hopeless state,

And, resting on some few old feelings won

Back by thy beauty, wouldst that I essay

The task which was to me what now thou art:

And why should I conceal one weakness more?

Thou wilt remember one warm morn when winterCrept aged from the earth, and spring's first breathBlew soft from the moist hills; the black-thorn boughs,So dark in the bare wood, when glisteningIn the sunshine were white with coming buds,Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banksHad violets opening from sleep like eyes.I walked with thee who knew'st not a deep shameLurked beneath smiles and careless words which soughtTo hide it till they wandered and were mute,As we stood listening on a sunny moundTo the wind murmuring in the damp copse,Like heavy breathings of some hidden thingBetrayed by sleep; until the feeling rushedThat I was low indeed, yet not so lowAs to endure the calmness of thine eyes.And so I told thee all, while the cool breastI leaned on altered not its quiet beating:And long ere words like a hurt bird's complaintBade me look up and be what I had been,I felt despair could never live by thee:Thou wilt remember. Thou art not more dearThan song was once to me; and I ne'er sungBut as one entering bright halls where allWill rise and shout for him: sure I must ownThat I am fallen, having chosen giftsDistinct from theirs—that I am sad and fainWould give up all to be but where I was,Not high as I had been if faithful found,But low and weak yet full of hope, and sureOf goodness as of life—that I would loseAll this gay mastery of mind, to sitOnce more with them, trusting in truth and loveAnd with an aim—not being what I am.

Thou wilt remember one warm morn when winter

Crept aged from the earth, and spring's first breath

Blew soft from the moist hills; the black-thorn boughs,

So dark in the bare wood, when glistening

In the sunshine were white with coming buds,

Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banks

Had violets opening from sleep like eyes.

I walked with thee who knew'st not a deep shame

Lurked beneath smiles and careless words which sought

To hide it till they wandered and were mute,

As we stood listening on a sunny mound

To the wind murmuring in the damp copse,

Like heavy breathings of some hidden thing

Betrayed by sleep; until the feeling rushed

That I was low indeed, yet not so low

As to endure the calmness of thine eyes.

And so I told thee all, while the cool breast

I leaned on altered not its quiet beating:

And long ere words like a hurt bird's complaint

Bade me look up and be what I had been,

I felt despair could never live by thee:

Thou wilt remember. Thou art not more dear

Than song was once to me; and I ne'er sung

But as one entering bright halls where all

Will rise and shout for him: sure I must own

That I am fallen, having chosen gifts

Distinct from theirs—that I am sad and fain

Would give up all to be but where I was,

Not high as I had been if faithful found,

But low and weak yet full of hope, and sure

Of goodness as of life—that I would lose

All this gay mastery of mind, to sit

Once more with them, trusting in truth and love

And with an aim—not being what I am.

O Pauline, I am ruined who believedThat though my soul had floated from its sphereOf wild dominion into the dim orbOf self—that it was strong and free as ever!It has conformed itself to that dim orb,Reflecting all its shades and shapes, and nowMust stay where it alone can be adored.I have felt this in dreams—in dreams in whichI seemed the fate from which I fled; I feltA strange delight in causing my decay.I was a fiend in darkness chained foreverWithin some ocean-cave; and ages rolled,Till through the cleft rock, like a moonbeam, cameA white swan to remain with me; and agesRolled, yet I tired not of my first free joyIn gazing on the peace of its pure wings:And then I said, "It is most fair to me,Yet its soft wings must sure have suffered changeFrom the thick darkness, sure its eyes are dim.Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbedWith sleeping ages here; it cannot leave me,For it would seem, in light beside its kind,Withered, though here to me most beautiful."And then I was a young witch whose blue eyes,As she stood naked by the river springs,Drew down a god: I watched his radiant formGrowing less radiant, and it gladdened me;Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshineUpon my knees, singing to me of heaven,He turned to look at me, ere I could loseThe grin with which I viewed his perishing:And he shrieked and departed and sat longBy his deserted throne, but sunk at lastMurmuring, as I kissed his lips and curledAround him, "I am still a god—to thee."

O Pauline, I am ruined who believed

That though my soul had floated from its sphere

Of wild dominion into the dim orb

Of self—that it was strong and free as ever!

It has conformed itself to that dim orb,

Reflecting all its shades and shapes, and now

Must stay where it alone can be adored.

I have felt this in dreams—in dreams in which

I seemed the fate from which I fled; I felt

A strange delight in causing my decay.

I was a fiend in darkness chained forever

Within some ocean-cave; and ages rolled,

Till through the cleft rock, like a moonbeam, came

A white swan to remain with me; and ages

Rolled, yet I tired not of my first free joy

In gazing on the peace of its pure wings:

And then I said, "It is most fair to me,

Yet its soft wings must sure have suffered change

From the thick darkness, sure its eyes are dim.

Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbed

With sleeping ages here; it cannot leave me,

For it would seem, in light beside its kind,

Withered, though here to me most beautiful."

And then I was a young witch whose blue eyes,

As she stood naked by the river springs,

Drew down a god: I watched his radiant form

Growing less radiant, and it gladdened me;

Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshine

Upon my knees, singing to me of heaven,

He turned to look at me, ere I could lose

The grin with which I viewed his perishing:

And he shrieked and departed and sat long

By his deserted throne, but sunk at last

Murmuring, as I kissed his lips and curled

Around him, "I am still a god—to thee."

Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall,Since all the wandering and all the weaknessWill be a saddest comment on the song:And if, that done, I can be young again,I will give up all gained, as willinglyAs one gives up a charm which shuts him outFrom hope or part or care in human kind.As life wanes, all its care and strife and toilSeem strangely valueless, while the old treesWhich grew by our youth's home, the waving massOf climbing plants heavy with bloom and dew,The morning swallows with their songs like words,All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts:So, aught connected with my early life,My rude songs or my wild imaginings,How I look on them—most distinct amidThe fever and the stir of after years!

Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall,

Since all the wandering and all the weakness

Will be a saddest comment on the song:

And if, that done, I can be young again,

I will give up all gained, as willingly

As one gives up a charm which shuts him out

From hope or part or care in human kind.

As life wanes, all its care and strife and toil

Seem strangely valueless, while the old trees

Which grew by our youth's home, the waving mass

Of climbing plants heavy with bloom and dew,

The morning swallows with their songs like words,

All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts:

So, aught connected with my early life,

My rude songs or my wild imaginings,

How I look on them—most distinct amid

The fever and the stir of after years!

I ne'er had ventured e'en to hope for this,Had not the glow I felt at His award,Assured me all was not extinct within:

I ne'er had ventured e'en to hope for this,

Had not the glow I felt at His award,

Assured me all was not extinct within:

His whom all honor, whose renown springs upLike sunlight which will visit all the world,So that e'en they who sneered at him at first,Come out to it, as some dark spider crawlsFrom his foul nets which some lit torch invades,Yet spinning still new films for his retreat.Thou didst smile, poet, but can we forgive?

His whom all honor, whose renown springs up

Like sunlight which will visit all the world,

So that e'en they who sneered at him at first,

Come out to it, as some dark spider crawls

From his foul nets which some lit torch invades,

Yet spinning still new films for his retreat.

Thou didst smile, poet, but can we forgive?

Sun-treader, life and light be thine forever!Thou art gone from us; years go by and springGladdens and the young earth is beautiful,Yet thy songs come not, other bards arise,But none like thee: they stand, thy majesties,Like mighty works which tell some spirit thereHath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,Till, its long task completed, it hath risenAnd left us, never to return, and allRush in to peer and praise when all in vain.The air seems bright with thy past presence yet,But thou art still for me as thou hast beenWhen I have stood with thee as on a throneWith all thy dim creations gathered roundLike mountains, and I felt of mould like them,And with them creatures of my own were mixed,Like things half-lived, catching and giving life.But thou art still for me who have adoredThough single, panting but to hear thy nameWhich I believed a spell to me alone,Scarce deeming thou wast as a star to men!As one should worship long a sacred springScarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross,And one small tree embowers droopingly—Joying to see some wandering insect wonTo live in its few rushes, or some locustTo pasture on its boughs, or some wild birdStoop for its freshness from the trackless air:And then should find it but the fountain-head,Long lost, of some great river washing townsAnd towers, and seeing old woods which will liveBut by its banks untrod of human foot,Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quiveringIn light as some thing lieth half of lifeBefore God's foot, waiting a wondrous change;Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stayIts course in vain, for it does ever spreadLike a sea's arm as it goes rolling on,Being the pulse of some great country—soWast thou to me, and art thou to the world!And I, perchance, half feel a strange regretThat I am not what I have been to thee:Like a girl one has silently loved longIn her first loneliness in some retreat,When, late emerged, all gaze and glow to viewHer fresh eyes and soft hair and lips which bloomLike a mountain berry: doubtless it is sweetTo see her thus adored, but there have beenMoments when all the world was in our praise,Sweeter than any pride of after hours.Yet, sun-treader, all hail! From my heart's heartI bid thee hail! E'en in my wildest dreams,I proudly feel I would have thrown to dustThe wreaths of fame which seemed o'erhanging me,To see thee for a moment as thou art.And if thou livest, if thou lovest, spirit!Remember me who set this final sealTo wandering thought—that one so pure as thouCould never die. Remember me who flungAll honor from my soul, yet paused and said,"There is one spark of love remaining yet,For I have naught in common with him, shapesWhich followed him avoid me, and foul formsSeek me, which ne'er could fasten on his mind;And though I feel how low I am to him,Yet I aim not even to catch a toneOf harmonies he called profusely up;So, one gleam still remains, although the last."Remember me who praise thee e'en with tears,For never more shall I walk calm with thee;Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,A melody some wondrous singer sings,Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,They dream not to essay; yet it no lessBut more is honored. I was thine in shame,And now when all thy proud renown is out,I am a watcher whose eyes have grown dimWith looking for some star which breaks on himAltered and worn and weak and full of tears.

Sun-treader, life and light be thine forever!

Thou art gone from us; years go by and spring

Gladdens and the young earth is beautiful,

Yet thy songs come not, other bards arise,

But none like thee: they stand, thy majesties,

Like mighty works which tell some spirit there

Hath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,

Till, its long task completed, it hath risen

And left us, never to return, and all

Rush in to peer and praise when all in vain.

The air seems bright with thy past presence yet,

But thou art still for me as thou hast been

When I have stood with thee as on a throne

With all thy dim creations gathered round

Like mountains, and I felt of mould like them,

And with them creatures of my own were mixed,

Like things half-lived, catching and giving life.

But thou art still for me who have adored

Though single, panting but to hear thy name

Which I believed a spell to me alone,

Scarce deeming thou wast as a star to men!

As one should worship long a sacred spring

Scarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross,

And one small tree embowers droopingly—

Joying to see some wandering insect won

To live in its few rushes, or some locust

To pasture on its boughs, or some wild bird

Stoop for its freshness from the trackless air:

And then should find it but the fountain-head,

Long lost, of some great river washing towns

And towers, and seeing old woods which will live

But by its banks untrod of human foot,

Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quivering

In light as some thing lieth half of life

Before God's foot, waiting a wondrous change;

Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay

Its course in vain, for it does ever spread

Like a sea's arm as it goes rolling on,

Being the pulse of some great country—so

Wast thou to me, and art thou to the world!

And I, perchance, half feel a strange regret

That I am not what I have been to thee:

Like a girl one has silently loved long

In her first loneliness in some retreat,

When, late emerged, all gaze and glow to view

Her fresh eyes and soft hair and lips which bloom

Like a mountain berry: doubtless it is sweet

To see her thus adored, but there have been

Moments when all the world was in our praise,

Sweeter than any pride of after hours.

Yet, sun-treader, all hail! From my heart's heart

I bid thee hail! E'en in my wildest dreams,

I proudly feel I would have thrown to dust

The wreaths of fame which seemed o'erhanging me,

To see thee for a moment as thou art.

And if thou livest, if thou lovest, spirit!

Remember me who set this final seal

To wandering thought—that one so pure as thou

Could never die. Remember me who flung

All honor from my soul, yet paused and said,

"There is one spark of love remaining yet,

For I have naught in common with him, shapes

Which followed him avoid me, and foul forms

Seek me, which ne'er could fasten on his mind;

And though I feel how low I am to him,

Yet I aim not even to catch a tone

Of harmonies he called profusely up;

So, one gleam still remains, although the last."

Remember me who praise thee e'en with tears,

For never more shall I walk calm with thee;

Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,

A melody some wondrous singer sings,

Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,

They dream not to essay; yet it no less

But more is honored. I was thine in shame,

And now when all thy proud renown is out,

I am a watcher whose eyes have grown dim

With looking for some star which breaks on him

Altered and worn and weak and full of tears.

Autumn has come like spring returned to us,Won from her girlishness; like one returnedA friend that was a lover, nor forgetsThe first warm love, but full of sober thoughtsOf fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yetWith the old smile, but yet so changed and still!And here am I the scoffer, who have probedLife's vanity, won by a word againInto my own life—by one little wordOf this sweet friend who lives in loving me,Lives strangely on my thoughts and looks and words,As fathoms down some nameless ocean thingIts silent course of quietness and joy.O dearest, if indeed I tell the past,May'st thou forget it as a sad sick dream!Or if it linger—my lost soul too soonSinks to itself and whispers we shall beBut closer linked, two creatures whom the earthBears singly, with strange feelings unrevealedSave to each other; or two lonely thingsCreated by some power whose reign is done,Having no part in God or his bright world.I am to sing whilst ebbing day dies soft,As a lean scholar dies worn o'er his book,And in the heaven stars steal out one by oneAs hunted men steal to their mountain watch.I must not think, lest this new impulse dieIn which I trust; I have no confidence:So, I will sing on fast as fancies come;Rudely, the verse being as the mood it paints.

Autumn has come like spring returned to us,

Won from her girlishness; like one returned

A friend that was a lover, nor forgets

The first warm love, but full of sober thoughts

Of fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yet

With the old smile, but yet so changed and still!

And here am I the scoffer, who have probed

Life's vanity, won by a word again

Into my own life—by one little word

Of this sweet friend who lives in loving me,

Lives strangely on my thoughts and looks and words,

As fathoms down some nameless ocean thing

Its silent course of quietness and joy.

O dearest, if indeed I tell the past,

May'st thou forget it as a sad sick dream!

Or if it linger—my lost soul too soon

Sinks to itself and whispers we shall be

But closer linked, two creatures whom the earth

Bears singly, with strange feelings unrevealed

Save to each other; or two lonely things

Created by some power whose reign is done,

Having no part in God or his bright world.

I am to sing whilst ebbing day dies soft,

As a lean scholar dies worn o'er his book,

And in the heaven stars steal out one by one

As hunted men steal to their mountain watch.

I must not think, lest this new impulse die

In which I trust; I have no confidence:

So, I will sing on fast as fancies come;

Rudely, the verse being as the mood it paints.

I strip my mind bare, whose first elementsI shall unveil—not as they struggle forthIn infancy, nor as they now exist,When I am grown above them and can rule—But in that middle stage when they were fullYet ere I had disposed them to my will;And then I shall show how these elementsProduced my present state, and what it is.

I strip my mind bare, whose first elements

I shall unveil—not as they struggle forth

In infancy, nor as they now exist,

When I am grown above them and can rule—

But in that middle stage when they were full

Yet ere I had disposed them to my will;

And then I shall show how these elements

Produced my present state, and what it is.

I am made up of an intensest life,Of a most clear idea of consciousnessOf self, distinct from all its qualities,From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all:But linked, in me, to self-supremacy,Existing as a centre to all things,Most potent to create and rule and callUpon all things to minister to it;And to a principle of restlessnessWhich would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all—This is myself; and I should thus have beenThough gifted lower than the meanest soul.

I am made up of an intensest life,

Of a most clear idea of consciousness

Of self, distinct from all its qualities,

From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;

And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all:

But linked, in me, to self-supremacy,

Existing as a centre to all things,

Most potent to create and rule and call

Upon all things to minister to it;

And to a principle of restlessness

Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all—

This is myself; and I should thus have been

Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.

And of my powers, one springs up to saveFrom utter death a soul with such desireConfined to clay—of powers the only oneWhich marks me—an imagination whichHas been a very angel, coming notIn fitful visions, but beside me everAnd never failing me; so, though my mindForgets not, not a shred of life forgets,Yet I can take a secret pride in callingThe dark past up to quell it regally.

And of my powers, one springs up to save

From utter death a soul with such desire

Confined to clay—of powers the only one

Which marks me—an imagination which

Has been a very angel, coming not

In fitful visions, but beside me ever

And never failing me; so, though my mind

Forgets not, not a shred of life forgets,

Yet I can take a secret pride in calling

The dark past up to quell it regally.

A mind like this must dissipate itself,But I have always had one lode-star; now,As I look back, I see that I have haltedOr hastened as I looked towards that star—A need, a trust, a yearning after God:A feeling I have analyzed but late,But it existed, and was reconciledWith a neglect of all I deemed his laws,Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.I felt as one beloved, and so shut inFrom fear: and thence I date my trust in signsAnd omens, for I saw God everywhere;And I can only lay it to the fruitOf a sad after-time that I could doubtEven his being—e'en the while I feltHis presence, never acted from myself,Still trusted in a hand to lead me throughAll danger; and this feeling ever foughtAgainst my weakest reason and resolve.

A mind like this must dissipate itself,

But I have always had one lode-star; now,

As I look back, I see that I have halted

Or hastened as I looked towards that star—

A need, a trust, a yearning after God:

A feeling I have analyzed but late,

But it existed, and was reconciled

With a neglect of all I deemed his laws,

Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.

I felt as one beloved, and so shut in

From fear: and thence I date my trust in signs

And omens, for I saw God everywhere;

And I can only lay it to the fruit

Of a sad after-time that I could doubt

Even his being—e'en the while I felt

His presence, never acted from myself,

Still trusted in a hand to lead me through

All danger; and this feeling ever fought

Against my weakest reason and resolve.

And I can love nothing—and this dull truthHas come the last: but sense supplies a loveEncircling me and mingling with my life.

And I can love nothing—and this dull truth

Has come the last: but sense supplies a love

Encircling me and mingling with my life.

These make myself: I have long sought in vainTo trace how they were formed by circumstance,Yet ever found them mould my wildest youthWhere they alone displayed themselves, convertedAll objects to their use: now see their course!

These make myself: I have long sought in vain

To trace how they were formed by circumstance,

Yet ever found them mould my wildest youth

Where they alone displayed themselves, converted

All objects to their use: now see their course!

They came to me in my first dawn of lifeWhich passed alone with wisest ancient booksAll halo-girt with fancies of my own;And I myself went with the tale—a godWandering after beauty, or a giantStanding vast in the sunset—an old hunterTalking with gods, or a high-crested chiefSailing with troops of friends to Tenedos.I tell you, naught has ever been so clearAs the place, the time, the fashion of those lives:I had not seen a work of lofty art,Nor woman's beauty nor sweet nature's face,Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as thoseOn the dim clustered isles in the blue sea,The deep groves and white temples and wet caves:And nothing ever will surprise me now—Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair.

They came to me in my first dawn of life

Which passed alone with wisest ancient books

All halo-girt with fancies of my own;

And I myself went with the tale—a god

Wandering after beauty, or a giant

Standing vast in the sunset—an old hunter

Talking with gods, or a high-crested chief

Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos.

I tell you, naught has ever been so clear

As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives:

I had not seen a work of lofty art,

Nor woman's beauty nor sweet nature's face,

Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those

On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea,

The deep groves and white temples and wet caves:

And nothing ever will surprise me now—

Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,

Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair.

And strange it is that I who could so dreamShould e'er have stooped to aim at aught beneath—Aught low or painful; but I never doubted:So, as I grew, I rudely shaped my lifeTo my immediate wants; yet strong beneathWas a vague sense of power though folded up—A sense that, though those shades and times were past,Their spirit dwelt in me, with them should rule.

And strange it is that I who could so dream

Should e'er have stooped to aim at aught beneath—

Aught low or painful; but I never doubted:

So, as I grew, I rudely shaped my life

To my immediate wants; yet strong beneath

Was a vague sense of power though folded up—

A sense that, though those shades and times were past,

Their spirit dwelt in me, with them should rule.

Then came a pause, and long restraint chained downMy soul till it was changed. I lost myself,And were it not that I so loathe that loss,I could recall how first I learned to turnMy mind against itself; and the effectsIn deeds for which remorse were vain as forThe wanderings of delirious dream; yet thenceCame cunning, envy, falsehood, all world's wrongThat spotted me: at length I cleansed my soul.Yet long world's influence remained; and naughtBut the still life I led, apart once more,Which left me free to seek soul's old delights,Could e'er have brought me thus far back to peace.

Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down

My soul till it was changed. I lost myself,

And were it not that I so loathe that loss,

I could recall how first I learned to turn

My mind against itself; and the effects

In deeds for which remorse were vain as for

The wanderings of delirious dream; yet thence

Came cunning, envy, falsehood, all world's wrong

That spotted me: at length I cleansed my soul.

Yet long world's influence remained; and naught

But the still life I led, apart once more,

Which left me free to seek soul's old delights,

Could e'er have brought me thus far back to peace.

As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit;And song rose, no new impulse but the oneWith which all others best could be combined.My life has not been that of those whose heavenWas lampless save where poesy shone out;But as a clime where glittering mountain-topsAnd glancing sea and forests steeped in lightGive back reflected the far-flashing sun;For music (which is earnest of a heaven,Seeing we know emotions strange by it,Not else to be revealed,) is like a voice,A low voice calling fancy, as a friend,To the green woods in the gay summer time:And she fills all the way with dancing shapesWhich have made painters pale, and they go onTill stars look at them and winds call to themAs they leave life's path for the twilight worldWhere the dead gather. This was not at first,For I scarce knew what I would do. I hadAn impulse but no yearning—only sang.

As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit;

And song rose, no new impulse but the one

With which all others best could be combined.

My life has not been that of those whose heaven

Was lampless save where poesy shone out;

But as a clime where glittering mountain-tops

And glancing sea and forests steeped in light

Give back reflected the far-flashing sun;

For music (which is earnest of a heaven,

Seeing we know emotions strange by it,

Not else to be revealed,) is like a voice,

A low voice calling fancy, as a friend,

To the green woods in the gay summer time:

And she fills all the way with dancing shapes

Which have made painters pale, and they go on

Till stars look at them and winds call to them

As they leave life's path for the twilight world

Where the dead gather. This was not at first,

For I scarce knew what I would do. I had

An impulse but no yearning—only sang.

And first I sang as I in dream have seenMusic wait on a lyrist for some thought,Yet singing to herself until it came.I turned to those old times and scenes where allThat's beautiful had birth for me, and madeRude verses on them all; and then I paused—I had done nothing, so I sought to knowWhat other minds achieved. No fear outbrokeAs on the works of mighty bards I gazed,In the first joy at finding my own thoughtsRecorded, my own fancies justified,And their aspirings but my very own.With them I first explored passion and mind,—All to begin afresh! I rather soughtTo rival what I wondered at than formCreations of my own; if much was lightLent by the others, much was yet my own.

And first I sang as I in dream have seen

Music wait on a lyrist for some thought,

Yet singing to herself until it came.

I turned to those old times and scenes where all

That's beautiful had birth for me, and made

Rude verses on them all; and then I paused—

I had done nothing, so I sought to know

What other minds achieved. No fear outbroke

As on the works of mighty bards I gazed,

In the first joy at finding my own thoughts

Recorded, my own fancies justified,

And their aspirings but my very own.

With them I first explored passion and mind,—

All to begin afresh! I rather sought

To rival what I wondered at than form

Creations of my own; if much was light

Lent by the others, much was yet my own.

I paused again: a change was coming—came:I was no more a boy, the past was breakingBefore the future and like fever worked.I thought on my new self, and all my powersBurst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazedOn all things: schemes and systems went and came,And I was proud (being vainest of the weak)In wandering o'er thought's world to seek some oneTo be my prize, as if you wandered o'erThe White Way for a star.

I paused again: a change was coming—came:

I was no more a boy, the past was breaking

Before the future and like fever worked.

I thought on my new self, and all my powers

Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed

On all things: schemes and systems went and came,

And I was proud (being vainest of the weak)

In wandering o'er thought's world to seek some one

To be my prize, as if you wandered o'er

The White Way for a star.

And my choice fellNot so much on a system as a man—On one, whom praise of mine shall not offend,Who was as calm as beauty, being suchUnto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,—Believing in them and devoting allHis soul's strength to their winning back to peace;Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,Clothed in all passion's melodies: such firstCaught me and set me, slave of a sweet task,To disentangle, gather sense from song:Since, song-inwoven, lurked there words which seemedA key to a new world, the mutteringOf angels, something yet unguessed by man.How my heart leapt as still I sought and foundMuch there, I felt my own soul had conceived,But there living and burning! Soon the orbOf his conceptions dawned on me; its praiseLives in the tongues of men, men's brows are highWhen his name means a triumph and a pride,So, my weak voice may well forbear to shameWhat seemed decreed my fate: I threw myselfTo meet it, I was vowed to liberty,Men were to be as gods and earth as heaven,And I—ah, what a life was mine to prove!My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,I shall go mad, if I recall that time!

And my choice fell

Not so much on a system as a man—

On one, whom praise of mine shall not offend,

Who was as calm as beauty, being such

Unto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,—

Believing in them and devoting all

His soul's strength to their winning back to peace;

Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,

Clothed in all passion's melodies: such first

Caught me and set me, slave of a sweet task,

To disentangle, gather sense from song:

Since, song-inwoven, lurked there words which seemed

A key to a new world, the muttering

Of angels, something yet unguessed by man.

How my heart leapt as still I sought and found

Much there, I felt my own soul had conceived,

But there living and burning! Soon the orb

Of his conceptions dawned on me; its praise

Lives in the tongues of men, men's brows are high

When his name means a triumph and a pride,

So, my weak voice may well forbear to shame

What seemed decreed my fate: I threw myself

To meet it, I was vowed to liberty,

Men were to be as gods and earth as heaven,

And I—ah, what a life was mine to prove!

My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,

I shall go mad, if I recall that time!

Oh let me look back ere I leave foreverThe time which was an hour one fondly waitsFor a fair girl that comes a withered hag!And I was lonely, far from woods and fields,And amid dullest sights, who should be looseAs a stag; yet I was full of bliss, who livedWith Plato and who had the key to life;And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,And many a thought did I build up on thought,As the wild bee hangs cell to cell; in vain,For I must still advance, no rest for mind.

Oh let me look back ere I leave forever

The time which was an hour one fondly waits

For a fair girl that comes a withered hag!

And I was lonely, far from woods and fields,

And amid dullest sights, who should be loose

As a stag; yet I was full of bliss, who lived

With Plato and who had the key to life;

And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,

And many a thought did I build up on thought,

As the wild bee hangs cell to cell; in vain,

For I must still advance, no rest for mind.

'T was in my plan to look on real life,The life all new to me; my theoriesWere firm, so them I left, to look and learnMankind, its cares, hopes, fears, its woes and joys;And, as I pondered on their ways, I soughtHow best life's end might be attained—an endComprising every joy. I deeply mused.

'T was in my plan to look on real life,

The life all new to me; my theories

Were firm, so them I left, to look and learn

Mankind, its cares, hopes, fears, its woes and joys;

And, as I pondered on their ways, I sought

How best life's end might be attained—an end

Comprising every joy. I deeply mused.

And suddenly without heart-wreck I awokeAs from a dream: I said, "'T was beautiful,Yet but a dream, and so adieu to it!"As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadowStrange towers and high-walled gardens thick with trees,Where song takes shelter and delicious mirthFrom laughing fairy creatures peeping over,And on the morrow when he comes to lieForever 'neath those garden-trees fruit-flushedSung round by fairies, all his search is vain.First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,Next—faith in them, and then in freedom's selfAnd virtue's self, then my own motives, endsAnd aims and loves, and human love went last.I felt this no decay, because new powersRose as old feelings left—wit, mockery,Light-heartedness; for I had oft been sad,Mistrusting my resolves, but now I castHope joyously away: I laughed and said,"No more of this!" I must not think: at lengthI looked again to see if all went well.

And suddenly without heart-wreck I awoke

As from a dream: I said, "'T was beautiful,

Yet but a dream, and so adieu to it!"

As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadow

Strange towers and high-walled gardens thick with trees,

Where song takes shelter and delicious mirth

From laughing fairy creatures peeping over,

And on the morrow when he comes to lie

Forever 'neath those garden-trees fruit-flushed

Sung round by fairies, all his search is vain.

First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,

Next—faith in them, and then in freedom's self

And virtue's self, then my own motives, ends

And aims and loves, and human love went last.

I felt this no decay, because new powers

Rose as old feelings left—wit, mockery,

Light-heartedness; for I had oft been sad,

Mistrusting my resolves, but now I cast

Hope joyously away: I laughed and said,

"No more of this!" I must not think: at length

I looked again to see if all went well.

My powers were greater: as some temple seemedMy soul, where naught is changed and incense rollsAround the altar, only God is goneAnd some dark spirit sitteth in his seat.So, I passed through the temple and to meKnelt troops of shadows, and they cried, "Hail, king!We serve thee now and thou shalt serve no more!Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!"And I said, "Are ye strong? Let fancy bear meFar from the past!" And I was borne away,As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,O'er deserts, towers and forests, I being calm.And I said, "I have nursed up energies,They will prey on me." And a band knelt lowAnd cried, "Lord, we are here and we will makeSafe way for thee in thine appointed life!But look on us!" And I said, "Ye will worshipMe; should my heart not worship too?" They shouted,"Thyself, thou art our king!" So, I stood thereSmiling—oh, vanity of vanities!For buoyant and rejoicing was the spiritWith which I looked out how to end my course;I felt once more myself, my powers—all mine;I knew while youth and health so lifted meThat, spite of all life's nothingness, no griefCame nigh me, I must ever be light-hearted;And that this knowledge was the only veilBetwixt joy and despair: so, if age came,I should be left—a wreck linked to a soulYet fluttering, or mind-broken and awareOf my decay. So a long summer mornFound me; and ere noon came, I had resolvedNo age should come on me ere youth was spent,For I would wear myself out, like that mornWhich wasted not a sunbeam; every hourI would make mine, and die.

My powers were greater: as some temple seemed

My soul, where naught is changed and incense rolls

Around the altar, only God is gone

And some dark spirit sitteth in his seat.

So, I passed through the temple and to me

Knelt troops of shadows, and they cried, "Hail, king!

We serve thee now and thou shalt serve no more!

Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!"

And I said, "Are ye strong? Let fancy bear me

Far from the past!" And I was borne away,

As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,

O'er deserts, towers and forests, I being calm.

And I said, "I have nursed up energies,

They will prey on me." And a band knelt low

And cried, "Lord, we are here and we will make

Safe way for thee in thine appointed life!

But look on us!" And I said, "Ye will worship

Me; should my heart not worship too?" They shouted,

"Thyself, thou art our king!" So, I stood there

Smiling—oh, vanity of vanities!

For buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit

With which I looked out how to end my course;

I felt once more myself, my powers—all mine;

I knew while youth and health so lifted me

That, spite of all life's nothingness, no grief

Came nigh me, I must ever be light-hearted;

And that this knowledge was the only veil

Betwixt joy and despair: so, if age came,

I should be left—a wreck linked to a soul

Yet fluttering, or mind-broken and aware

Of my decay. So a long summer morn

Found me; and ere noon came, I had resolved

No age should come on me ere youth was spent,

For I would wear myself out, like that morn

Which wasted not a sunbeam; every hour

I would make mine, and die.

And thus I soughtTo chain my spirit down which erst I freedFor flights to fame: I said, "The troubled lifeOf genius, seen so gay when working forthSome trusted end, grows sad when all proves vain—How sad when men have parted with truth's peaceFor falsest fancy's sake, which waited firstAs an obedient spirit when delightCame without fancy's call: but alters soon,Comes darkened, seldom, hastens to depart,Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.But I shall never lose her; she will liveDearer for such seclusion. I but catchA hue, a glance of what I sing: so, painIs linked with pleasure, for I ne'er may tellHalf the bright sights which dazzle me; but nowMine shall be all the radiance: let them fadeUntold—others shall rise as fair, as fast!And when all's done, the few dim gleams transferred,"—(For a new thought sprang up how well it were,Discarding shadowy hope, to weave such laysAs straight encircle men with praise and love,So, I should not die utterly,—should bringOne branch from the gold forest, like the knightOf old tales, witnessing I had been there)—"And when all's done, how vain seems e'en success—The vaunted influence poets have o'er men!'Tis a fine thing that one weak as myselfShould sit in his lone room, knowing the wordsHe utters in his solitude shall moveMen like a swift wind—that though dead and gone,New eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreamsOf love come true in happier frames than his.Ay, the still night brings thoughts like these, but mornComes and the mockery again laughs outAt hollow praises, smiles allied to sneers;And my soul's idol ever whispers meTo dwell with him and his unhonored song:And I foreknow my spirit, that would pressFirst in the struggle, fail again to makeAll bow enslaved, and I again should sink.

And thus I sought

To chain my spirit down which erst I freed

For flights to fame: I said, "The troubled life

Of genius, seen so gay when working forth

Some trusted end, grows sad when all proves vain—

How sad when men have parted with truth's peace

For falsest fancy's sake, which waited first

As an obedient spirit when delight

Came without fancy's call: but alters soon,

Comes darkened, seldom, hastens to depart,

Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.

But I shall never lose her; she will live

Dearer for such seclusion. I but catch

A hue, a glance of what I sing: so, pain

Is linked with pleasure, for I ne'er may tell

Half the bright sights which dazzle me; but now

Mine shall be all the radiance: let them fade

Untold—others shall rise as fair, as fast!

And when all's done, the few dim gleams transferred,"—

(For a new thought sprang up how well it were,

Discarding shadowy hope, to weave such lays

As straight encircle men with praise and love,

So, I should not die utterly,—should bring

One branch from the gold forest, like the knight

Of old tales, witnessing I had been there)—

"And when all's done, how vain seems e'en success—

The vaunted influence poets have o'er men!

'Tis a fine thing that one weak as myself

Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words

He utters in his solitude shall move

Men like a swift wind—that though dead and gone,

New eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams

Of love come true in happier frames than his.

Ay, the still night brings thoughts like these, but morn

Comes and the mockery again laughs out

At hollow praises, smiles allied to sneers;

And my soul's idol ever whispers me

To dwell with him and his unhonored song:

And I foreknow my spirit, that would press

First in the struggle, fail again to make

All bow enslaved, and I again should sink.

"And then know that this curse will come on us,To see our idols perish; we may wither,No marvel, we are clay, but our low fateShould not extend to those whom trustinglyWe sent before into time's yawning gulfTo face what dread may lurk in darkness there.To find the painter's glory pass, and feelMusic can move us not as once, or, worst,To weep decaying wits ere the frail bodyDecays! Naught makes me trust some love is true,But the delight of the contented lownessWith which I gaze on him I keep foreverAbove me; I to rise and rival him?Feed his fame rather from my heart's best blood,Wither unseen that he may flourish still."

"And then know that this curse will come on us,

To see our idols perish; we may wither,

No marvel, we are clay, but our low fate

Should not extend to those whom trustingly

We sent before into time's yawning gulf

To face what dread may lurk in darkness there.

To find the painter's glory pass, and feel

Music can move us not as once, or, worst,

To weep decaying wits ere the frail body

Decays! Naught makes me trust some love is true,

But the delight of the contented lowness

With which I gaze on him I keep forever

Above me; I to rise and rival him?

Feed his fame rather from my heart's best blood,

Wither unseen that he may flourish still."

Pauline, my soul's friend, thou dost pity yetHow this mood swayed me when that soul found thine,When I had set myself to live this life,Defying all past glory. Ere thou camestI seemed defiant, sweet, for old delightsHad flocked like birds again; music, my life,Nourished me more than ever; then the loreLoved for itself and all it shows—that kingTreading the purple calmly to his death,While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk,The giant shades of fate, silently flitting,Pile the dim outline of the coming doom;And him sitting alone in blood while friendsAre hunting far in the sunshine; and the boyWith his white breast and brow and clustering curlsStreaked with his mother's blood, but striving hardTo tell his story ere his reason goes.And when I loved thee as love seemed so oft,Thou lovedst me indeed: I wondering searchedMy heart to find some feeling like such love,Believing I was still much I had been.Too soon I found all faith had gone from me,And the late glow of life, like change on clouds,Proved not the morn-blush widening into day,But eve faint-colored by the dying sunWhile darkness hastens quickly. I will tellMy state as though 't were none of mine—despairCannot come near us—this it is, my state.

Pauline, my soul's friend, thou dost pity yet

How this mood swayed me when that soul found thine,

When I had set myself to live this life,

Defying all past glory. Ere thou camest

I seemed defiant, sweet, for old delights

Had flocked like birds again; music, my life,

Nourished me more than ever; then the lore

Loved for itself and all it shows—that king

Treading the purple calmly to his death,

While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk,

The giant shades of fate, silently flitting,

Pile the dim outline of the coming doom;

And him sitting alone in blood while friends

Are hunting far in the sunshine; and the boy

With his white breast and brow and clustering curls

Streaked with his mother's blood, but striving hard

To tell his story ere his reason goes.

And when I loved thee as love seemed so oft,

Thou lovedst me indeed: I wondering searched

My heart to find some feeling like such love,

Believing I was still much I had been.

Too soon I found all faith had gone from me,

And the late glow of life, like change on clouds,

Proved not the morn-blush widening into day,

But eve faint-colored by the dying sun

While darkness hastens quickly. I will tell

My state as though 't were none of mine—despair

Cannot come near us—this it is, my state.

Souls alter not, and mine must still advance;Strange that I knew not, when I flung awayMy youth's chief aims, their loss might lead to lossOf what few I retained, and no resourceBe left me: for behold how changed is all!I cannot chain my soul: it will not restIn its clay prison, this most narrow sphere:It has strange impulse, tendency, desire,Which nowise I account for nor explain,But cannot stifle, being bound to trustAll feelings equally, to hear all sides:How can my life indulge them? yet they live,Referring to some state of life unknown.

Souls alter not, and mine must still advance;

Strange that I knew not, when I flung away

My youth's chief aims, their loss might lead to loss

Of what few I retained, and no resource

Be left me: for behold how changed is all!

I cannot chain my soul: it will not rest

In its clay prison, this most narrow sphere:

It has strange impulse, tendency, desire,

Which nowise I account for nor explain,

But cannot stifle, being bound to trust

All feelings equally, to hear all sides:

How can my life indulge them? yet they live,

Referring to some state of life unknown.

My selfishness is satiated not,It wears me like a flame; my hunger forAll pleasure, howsoe'er minute, grows pain;I envy—how I envy him whose soulTurns its whole energies to some one end,To elevate an aim, pursue successHowever mean! So, my still baffled hopeSeeks out abstractions; I would have one joy,But one in life, so it were wholly mine,One rapture all my soul could fill: and thisWild feeling places me in dream afarIn some vast country where the eye can seeNo end to the far hills and dales bestrewnWith shining towers and towns, till I grow madWell-nigh, to know not one abode but holdsSome pleasure, while my soul could grasp the world,But must remain this vile form's slave. I lookWith hope to age at last, which quenching much,May let me concentrate what sparks it spares.

My selfishness is satiated not,

It wears me like a flame; my hunger for

All pleasure, howsoe'er minute, grows pain;

I envy—how I envy him whose soul

Turns its whole energies to some one end,

To elevate an aim, pursue success

However mean! So, my still baffled hope

Seeks out abstractions; I would have one joy,

But one in life, so it were wholly mine,

One rapture all my soul could fill: and this

Wild feeling places me in dream afar

In some vast country where the eye can see

No end to the far hills and dales bestrewn

With shining towers and towns, till I grow mad

Well-nigh, to know not one abode but holds

Some pleasure, while my soul could grasp the world,

But must remain this vile form's slave. I look

With hope to age at last, which quenching much,

May let me concentrate what sparks it spares.

This restlessness of passion meets in meA craving after knowledge: the sole proofOf yet commanding will is in that powerRepressed; for I beheld it in its dawn,The sleepless harpy with just-budding wings,And I considered whether to foregoAll happy ignorant hopes and fears, to live,Finding a recompense in its wild eyes.And when I found that I should perish so,I bade its wild eyes close from me forever,And I am left alone with old delights;See! it lies in me a chained thing, still promptTo serve me if I loose its slightest bond:I cannot but be proud of my bright slave.

This restlessness of passion meets in me

A craving after knowledge: the sole proof

Of yet commanding will is in that power

Repressed; for I beheld it in its dawn,

The sleepless harpy with just-budding wings,

And I considered whether to forego

All happy ignorant hopes and fears, to live,

Finding a recompense in its wild eyes.

And when I found that I should perish so,

I bade its wild eyes close from me forever,

And I am left alone with old delights;

See! it lies in me a chained thing, still prompt

To serve me if I loose its slightest bond:

I cannot but be proud of my bright slave.

How should this earth's life prove my only sphere?Can I so narrow sense but that in lifeSoul still exceeds it? In their elementsMy love outsoars my reason; but since lovePerforce receives its object from this earthWhile reason wanders chainless, the few truthsCaught from its wanderings have sufficed to quellLove chained below; then what were love, set free,Which, with the object it demands, would passReason companioning the seraphim?No, what I feel may pass all human loveYet fall far short of what my love should be.And yet I seem more warped in this than aught,Myself stands out more hideously: of oldI could forget myself in friendship, fame,Liberty, nay, in love of mightier souls;But I begin to know what thing hate is—To sicken and to quiver and grow white—And I myself have furnished its first prey.Hate of the weak and ever-wavering will,The selfishness, the still-decaying frame ...But I must never grieve whom wing can waftFar from such thoughts—as now. Andromeda!And she is with me: years roll, I shall change,But change can touch her not—so beautifulWith her fixed eyes, earnest and still, and hairLifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze,And one red beam, all the storm leaves in heaven,Resting upon her eyes and hair, such hair,As she awaits the snake on the wet beachBy the dark rock and the white wave just breakingAt her feet; quite naked and alone; a thingI doubt not, nor fear for, secure some godTo save will come in thunder from the stars.Let it pass! Soul requires another change.I will be gifted with a wondrous mind,Yet sunk by error to men's sympathy,And in the wane of life, yet only soAs to call up their fears; and there shall comeA time requiring youth's best energies;And lo, I fling age, sorrow, sickness off,And rise triumphant, triumph through decay.And thus it is that I supply the chasm'Twixt what I am and all I fain would be:But then to know nothing, to hope for nothing,To seize on life's dull joys from a strange fearLest, losing them, all's lost and naught remains!

How should this earth's life prove my only sphere?

Can I so narrow sense but that in life

Soul still exceeds it? In their elements

My love outsoars my reason; but since love

Perforce receives its object from this earth

While reason wanders chainless, the few truths

Caught from its wanderings have sufficed to quell

Love chained below; then what were love, set free,

Which, with the object it demands, would pass

Reason companioning the seraphim?

No, what I feel may pass all human love

Yet fall far short of what my love should be.

And yet I seem more warped in this than aught,

Myself stands out more hideously: of old

I could forget myself in friendship, fame,

Liberty, nay, in love of mightier souls;

But I begin to know what thing hate is—

To sicken and to quiver and grow white—

And I myself have furnished its first prey.

Hate of the weak and ever-wavering will,

The selfishness, the still-decaying frame ...

But I must never grieve whom wing can waft

Far from such thoughts—as now. Andromeda!

And she is with me: years roll, I shall change,

But change can touch her not—so beautiful

With her fixed eyes, earnest and still, and hair

Lifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze,

And one red beam, all the storm leaves in heaven,

Resting upon her eyes and hair, such hair,

As she awaits the snake on the wet beach

By the dark rock and the white wave just breaking

At her feet; quite naked and alone; a thing

I doubt not, nor fear for, secure some god

To save will come in thunder from the stars.

Let it pass! Soul requires another change.

I will be gifted with a wondrous mind,

Yet sunk by error to men's sympathy,

And in the wane of life, yet only so

As to call up their fears; and there shall come

A time requiring youth's best energies;

And lo, I fling age, sorrow, sickness off,

And rise triumphant, triumph through decay.

And thus it is that I supply the chasm

'Twixt what I am and all I fain would be:

But then to know nothing, to hope for nothing,

To seize on life's dull joys from a strange fear

Lest, losing them, all's lost and naught remains!

There 's some vile juggle with my reason here;I feel I but explain to my own lossThese impulses: they live no less the same.Liberty! what though I despair? my bloodRose never at a slave's name proud as now.Oh sympathies, obscured by sophistries!—Why else have I sought refuge in myself,But from the woes I saw and could not stay?Love! is not this to love thee, my Pauline?I cherish prejudice, lest I be leftUtterly loveless? witness my beliefIn poets, though sad change has come there too;No more I leave myself to follow them—Unconsciously I measure me by them—Let me forget it: and I cherish mostMy love of England—how her name, a wordOf hers in a strange tongue makes my heart beat!

There 's some vile juggle with my reason here;

I feel I but explain to my own loss

These impulses: they live no less the same.

Liberty! what though I despair? my blood

Rose never at a slave's name proud as now.

Oh sympathies, obscured by sophistries!—

Why else have I sought refuge in myself,

But from the woes I saw and could not stay?

Love! is not this to love thee, my Pauline?

I cherish prejudice, lest I be left

Utterly loveless? witness my belief

In poets, though sad change has come there too;

No more I leave myself to follow them—

Unconsciously I measure me by them—

Let me forget it: and I cherish most

My love of England—how her name, a word

Of hers in a strange tongue makes my heart beat!

Pauline, could I but break the spell! Not now—All's fever—but when calm shall come again,I am prepared: I have made life my own.I would not be content with all the changeOne frame should feel, but I have gone in thoughtThrough all conjuncture, I have lived all lifeWhen it is most alive, where strangest fateNew-shapes it past surmise—the throes of menBit by some curse or in the grasps of doomHalf-visible and still-increasing round,Or crowning their wide being's general aim.

Pauline, could I but break the spell! Not now—

All's fever—but when calm shall come again,

I am prepared: I have made life my own.

I would not be content with all the change

One frame should feel, but I have gone in thought

Through all conjuncture, I have lived all life

When it is most alive, where strangest fate

New-shapes it past surmise—the throes of men

Bit by some curse or in the grasps of doom

Half-visible and still-increasing round,

Or crowning their wide being's general aim.

These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend,As one breathing his weakness to the earOf pitying angel—dear as a winter flower,A slight flower growing alone, and offeringIts frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun,Yet joyous and confiding like the triumphOf a child: and why am I not worthy thee?I can live all the life of plants, and gazeDrowsily on the bees that flit and play,Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill,Or open in the night of sounds, to lookFor the dim stars; I can mount with the birdLeaping airily his pyramid of leavesAnd twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens;Or like a fish breathe deep the morning airIn the misty sun-warm water; or with flowerAnd tree can smile in light at the sinking sunJust as the storm comes, as a girl would lookOn a departing lover—most serene.

These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend,

As one breathing his weakness to the ear

Of pitying angel—dear as a winter flower,

A slight flower growing alone, and offering

Its frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun,

Yet joyous and confiding like the triumph

Of a child: and why am I not worthy thee?

I can live all the life of plants, and gaze

Drowsily on the bees that flit and play,

Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill,

Or open in the night of sounds, to look

For the dim stars; I can mount with the bird

Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves

And twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,

Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens;

Or like a fish breathe deep the morning air

In the misty sun-warm water; or with flower

And tree can smile in light at the sinking sun

Just as the storm comes, as a girl would look

On a departing lover—most serene.

Pauline, come with me, see how I could buildA home for us, out of the world, in thought!I am uplifted: fly with me, Pauline!

Pauline, come with me, see how I could build

A home for us, out of the world, in thought!

I am uplifted: fly with me, Pauline!

Night, and one single ridge of narrow pathBetween the sullen river and the woodsWaving and muttering, for the moonless nightHas shaped them into images of life,Like the uprising of the giant-ghosts,Looking on earth to know how their sons fare:Thou art so close by me, the roughest swellOf wind in the tree-tops hides not the pantingOf thy soft breasts. No, we will pass to morning—Morning, the rocks and valleys and old woods.How the sun brightens in the mist, and here,Half in the air, like creatures of the place,Trusting the element, living on high boughsThat swing in the wind—look at the silver sprayFlung from the foam-sheet of the cataractAmid the broken rocks! Shall we stay hereWith the wild hawks? No, ere the hot noon come,Dive we down—safe! See this our new retreatWalled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,Dark, tangled, old and green, still sloping downTo a small pool whose waters lie asleepAmid the trailing boughs turned water-plants:And tall trees overarch to keep us in,Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,And in the dreamy water one small groupOf two or three strange trees are got togetherWondering at all around, as strange beasts herdTogether far from their own land: all wildness,No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,And tongues of bank go shelving in the lymph,Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,And old gray stones lie making eddies there,The wild-mice cross them dry-shod. Deeper in!Shut thy soft eyes—now look—still deeper in!This is the very heart of the woods all roundMountain-like heaped above us; yet even hereOne pond of water gleams; far off the riverSweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one—One thin clear sheet has overleaped and woundInto this silent depth, which gained, it liesStill, as but let by sufferance; the trees bendO'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,And through their roots long creeping plants out-stretchTheir twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combinedTo narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread,It winds, all noiselessly through the deep woodTill through a cleft-way, through the moss and stone,It joins its parent-river with a shout.

Night, and one single ridge of narrow path

Between the sullen river and the woods

Waving and muttering, for the moonless night

Has shaped them into images of life,

Like the uprising of the giant-ghosts,

Looking on earth to know how their sons fare:

Thou art so close by me, the roughest swell

Of wind in the tree-tops hides not the panting

Of thy soft breasts. No, we will pass to morning—

Morning, the rocks and valleys and old woods.

How the sun brightens in the mist, and here,

Half in the air, like creatures of the place,

Trusting the element, living on high boughs

That swing in the wind—look at the silver spray

Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract

Amid the broken rocks! Shall we stay here

With the wild hawks? No, ere the hot noon come,

Dive we down—safe! See this our new retreat

Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,

Dark, tangled, old and green, still sloping down

To a small pool whose waters lie asleep

Amid the trailing boughs turned water-plants:

And tall trees overarch to keep us in,

Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,

And in the dreamy water one small group

Of two or three strange trees are got together

Wondering at all around, as strange beasts herd

Together far from their own land: all wildness,

No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,

And tongues of bank go shelving in the lymph,

Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,

And old gray stones lie making eddies there,

The wild-mice cross them dry-shod. Deeper in!

Shut thy soft eyes—now look—still deeper in!

This is the very heart of the woods all round

Mountain-like heaped above us; yet even here

One pond of water gleams; far off the river

Sweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one—

One thin clear sheet has overleaped and wound

Into this silent depth, which gained, it lies

Still, as but let by sufferance; the trees bend

O'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,

And through their roots long creeping plants out-stretch

Their twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,

Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined

To narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread,

It winds, all noiselessly through the deep wood

Till through a cleft-way, through the moss and stone,

It joins its parent-river with a shout.

Up for the glowing day, leave the old woods!See, they part like a ruined arch: the sky!Nothing but sky appears, so close the rootsAnd grass of the hill-top level with the air—Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats ladenWith light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,Floating away in the sun in some north sea.Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air,The clear, dear breath of God that loveth us,Where small birds reel and winds take their delight!Water is beautiful, but not like air:See, where the solid azure waters lieMade as of thickened air, and down below,The fern-ranks like a forest spread themselvesAs though each pore could feel the element;Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way,Float with me there, Pauline!—but not like air.

Up for the glowing day, leave the old woods!

See, they part like a ruined arch: the sky!

Nothing but sky appears, so close the roots

And grass of the hill-top level with the air—

Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats laden

With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,

Floating away in the sun in some north sea.

Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air,

The clear, dear breath of God that loveth us,

Where small birds reel and winds take their delight!

Water is beautiful, but not like air:

See, where the solid azure waters lie

Made as of thickened air, and down below,

The fern-ranks like a forest spread themselves

As though each pore could feel the element;

Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way,

Float with me there, Pauline!—but not like air.

Down the hill! Stop—a clump of trees, see, setOn a heap of rock, which look o'er the far plain:So, envious climbing shrubs would mount to restAnd peer from their spread boughs; wide they wave, lookingAt the muleteers who whistle on their way,To the merry chime of morning bells, past allThe little smoking cots, mid fields and banksAnd copses bright in the sun. My spirit wanders:Hedgerows for me—those living hedgerows whereThe bushes close and clasp above and keepThought in—I am concentrated—I feel;But my soul saddens when it looks beyond:I cannot be immortal, taste all joy.

Down the hill! Stop—a clump of trees, see, set

On a heap of rock, which look o'er the far plain:

So, envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest

And peer from their spread boughs; wide they wave, looking

At the muleteers who whistle on their way,

To the merry chime of morning bells, past all

The little smoking cots, mid fields and banks

And copses bright in the sun. My spirit wanders:

Hedgerows for me—those living hedgerows where

The bushes close and clasp above and keep

Thought in—I am concentrated—I feel;

But my soul saddens when it looks beyond:

I cannot be immortal, taste all joy.

O God, where do they tend—these struggling aims?What would I have? What is this "sleep" which seemsTo bound all? can there be a "waking" pointOf crowning life? The soul would never rule;It would be first in all things, it would haveIts utmost pleasure filled, but, that complete,Commanding, for commanding, sickens it.The last point I can trace is—rest beneathSome better essence than itself, in weakness;This is "myself," not what I think should be:And what is that I hunger for but God?

O God, where do they tend—these struggling aims?

What would I have? What is this "sleep" which seems

To bound all? can there be a "waking" point

Of crowning life? The soul would never rule;

It would be first in all things, it would have

Its utmost pleasure filled, but, that complete,

Commanding, for commanding, sickens it.

The last point I can trace is—rest beneath

Some better essence than itself, in weakness;

This is "myself," not what I think should be:

And what is that I hunger for but God?

My God, my God, let me for once look on theeAs though naught else existed, we alone!And as creation crumbles, my soul's sparkExpands till I can say,—Even from myselfI need thee and I feel thee and I love thee.I do not plead my rapture in thy worksFor love of thee, nor that I feel as oneWho cannot die: but there is that in meWhich turns to thee, which loves or which should love.

My God, my God, let me for once look on thee

As though naught else existed, we alone!

And as creation crumbles, my soul's spark

Expands till I can say,—Even from myself

I need thee and I feel thee and I love thee.

I do not plead my rapture in thy works

For love of thee, nor that I feel as one

Who cannot die: but there is that in me

Which turns to thee, which loves or which should love.

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?Why have I labored to put out my life?Is it not in my nature to adore,And e'en for all my reason do I notFeel him, and thank him, and pray to him—now?Can I forego the trust that he loves me?Do I not feel a love which only ONE...O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed!I have denied thee calmly—do I notPant when I read of thy consummate power.And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flashThe brightest gleams of earth's philosophy?Do I not shake to hear aught question thee?If I am erring save me, madden me,Take from me powers and pleasures, let me dieAges, so I see thee! I am knit roundAs with a charm by sin and lust and pride.Yet though my wandering dreams have seen all shapesOf strange delight, oft have I stood by thee—Have I been keeping lonely watch with theeIn the damp night by weeping Olivet,Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less,Or dying with thee on the lonely cross,Or witnessing thine outburst from the tomb.

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?

Why have I labored to put out my life?

Is it not in my nature to adore,

And e'en for all my reason do I not

Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him—now?

Can I forego the trust that he loves me?

Do I not feel a love which only ONE...

O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed!

I have denied thee calmly—do I not

Pant when I read of thy consummate power.

And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash

The brightest gleams of earth's philosophy?

Do I not shake to hear aught question thee?

If I am erring save me, madden me,

Take from me powers and pleasures, let me die

Ages, so I see thee! I am knit round

As with a charm by sin and lust and pride.

Yet though my wandering dreams have seen all shapes

Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee—

Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee

In the damp night by weeping Olivet,

Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less,

Or dying with thee on the lonely cross,

Or witnessing thine outburst from the tomb.

A mortal, sin's familiar friend, doth hereAvow that he will give all earth's reward,But to believe and humbly teach the faith,In suffering and poverty and shame,Only believing he is not unloved.

A mortal, sin's familiar friend, doth here

Avow that he will give all earth's reward,

But to believe and humbly teach the faith,

In suffering and poverty and shame,

Only believing he is not unloved.

And now, my Pauline, I am thine forever!I feel the spirit which has buoyed me upDesert me, and old shades are gathering fast;Yet while the last light waits, I would say much,This chiefly, it is gain that I have saidSomewhat of love I ever felt for theeBut seldom told; our hearts so beat togetherThat speech seemed mockery; but when dark hours come,And joy departs, and thou, sweet, deem'st it strangeA sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove,Look on this lay I dedicate to thee,Which through thee I began, which thus I end,Collecting the last gleams to strive to tellHow I am thine, and more than ever nowThat I sink fast: yet though I deeplier sink,No less song proves one word has brought me bliss,Another still may win bliss surely back.Thou knowest, dear, I could not think all calm,For fancies followed thought and bore me off,And left all indistinct; ere one was caughtAnother glanced; so, dazzled by my wealth,I knew not which to leave nor which to choose,For all so floated, naught was fixed and firm.And then thou said'st a perfect bard was oneWho chronicled the stages of all life,And so thou bad'st me shadow this first stage.'T is done, and even now I recognizeThe shift, the change from last to past—discernFaintly how life is truth and truth is good.And why thou must be mine is, that e'en nowIn the dim hush of night, that I have done,Despite the sad forebodings, love looks through—Whispers,—E'en at the last I have her still,With her delicious eyes as clear as heavenWhen rain in a quick shower has beat down mist,And clouds float white above like broods of swans.How the blood lies upon her cheek, outspreadAs thinned by kisses! only in her lipsIt wells and pulses like a living thing,And her neck looks like marble misted o'erWith love-breath,—a Pauline from heights above,Stooping beneath me, looking up—one lookAs I might kill her and be loved the more.

And now, my Pauline, I am thine forever!

I feel the spirit which has buoyed me up

Desert me, and old shades are gathering fast;

Yet while the last light waits, I would say much,

This chiefly, it is gain that I have said

Somewhat of love I ever felt for thee

But seldom told; our hearts so beat together

That speech seemed mockery; but when dark hours come,

And joy departs, and thou, sweet, deem'st it strange

A sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove,

Look on this lay I dedicate to thee,

Which through thee I began, which thus I end,

Collecting the last gleams to strive to tell

How I am thine, and more than ever now

That I sink fast: yet though I deeplier sink,

No less song proves one word has brought me bliss,

Another still may win bliss surely back.

Thou knowest, dear, I could not think all calm,

For fancies followed thought and bore me off,

And left all indistinct; ere one was caught

Another glanced; so, dazzled by my wealth,

I knew not which to leave nor which to choose,

For all so floated, naught was fixed and firm.

And then thou said'st a perfect bard was one

Who chronicled the stages of all life,

And so thou bad'st me shadow this first stage.

'T is done, and even now I recognize

The shift, the change from last to past—discern

Faintly how life is truth and truth is good.

And why thou must be mine is, that e'en now

In the dim hush of night, that I have done,

Despite the sad forebodings, love looks through—

Whispers,—E'en at the last I have her still,

With her delicious eyes as clear as heaven

When rain in a quick shower has beat down mist,

And clouds float white above like broods of swans.

How the blood lies upon her cheek, outspread

As thinned by kisses! only in her lips

It wells and pulses like a living thing,

And her neck looks like marble misted o'er

With love-breath,—a Pauline from heights above,

Stooping beneath me, looking up—one look

As I might kill her and be loved the more.

So, love me—me, Pauline, and naught but me,Never leave loving! Words are wild and weak,Believe them not, Pauline! I stained myselfBut to behold thee purer by my side,To show thou art my breath, my life, a lastResource, an extreme want: never believeAught better could so look on thee; nor seekAgain the world of good thoughts left for mine!There were bright troops of undiscovered suns,Each equal in their radiant course; there wereClusters of far fair isles which ocean keptFor his own joy, and his waves broke on themWithout a choice; and there was a dim crowdOf visions, each a part of some grand whole:And one star left his peers and came with peaceUpon a storm, and all eyes pined for him;And one isle harbored a sea-beaten ship,And the crew wandered in its bowers and pluckedIts fruits and gave up all their hopes of home;And one dream came to a pale poet's sleep,And he said, "I am singled out by God,No sin must touch me." Words are wild and weak,But what they would express is,—Leave me not,Still sit by me with beating breast and hairLoosened, be watching earnest by my side,Turning my books or kissing me when ILook up—like summer wind! Be still to meA help to music's mystery which mind failsTo fathom, its solution, no mere clue!O reason's pedantry, life's rule prescribed!I hopeless, I the loveless, hope and love.Wiser and better, know me now, not whenYou loved me as I was. Smile not! I haveMuch yet to dawn on you, to gladden you.No more of the past! I'll look within no more,I have too trusted my own lawless wants,Too trusted my vain self, vague intuition—Draining soul's wine alone in the still night,And seeing how, as gathering films arose,As by an inspiration life seemed bareAnd grinning in its vanity, while endsFoul to be dreamed of, smiled at me as fixedAnd fair, while others changed from fair to foulAs a young witch turns an old hag at night.No more of this! We will go hand in hand,I with thee, even as a child—love's slave,Looking no farther than his liege commands.

So, love me—me, Pauline, and naught but me,

Never leave loving! Words are wild and weak,

Believe them not, Pauline! I stained myself

But to behold thee purer by my side,

To show thou art my breath, my life, a last

Resource, an extreme want: never believe

Aught better could so look on thee; nor seek

Again the world of good thoughts left for mine!

There were bright troops of undiscovered suns,

Each equal in their radiant course; there were

Clusters of far fair isles which ocean kept

For his own joy, and his waves broke on them

Without a choice; and there was a dim crowd

Of visions, each a part of some grand whole:

And one star left his peers and came with peace

Upon a storm, and all eyes pined for him;

And one isle harbored a sea-beaten ship,

And the crew wandered in its bowers and plucked

Its fruits and gave up all their hopes of home;

And one dream came to a pale poet's sleep,

And he said, "I am singled out by God,

No sin must touch me." Words are wild and weak,

But what they would express is,—Leave me not,

Still sit by me with beating breast and hair

Loosened, be watching earnest by my side,

Turning my books or kissing me when I

Look up—like summer wind! Be still to me

A help to music's mystery which mind fails

To fathom, its solution, no mere clue!

O reason's pedantry, life's rule prescribed!

I hopeless, I the loveless, hope and love.

Wiser and better, know me now, not when

You loved me as I was. Smile not! I have

Much yet to dawn on you, to gladden you.

No more of the past! I'll look within no more,

I have too trusted my own lawless wants,

Too trusted my vain self, vague intuition—

Draining soul's wine alone in the still night,

And seeing how, as gathering films arose,

As by an inspiration life seemed bare

And grinning in its vanity, while ends

Foul to be dreamed of, smiled at me as fixed

And fair, while others changed from fair to foul

As a young witch turns an old hag at night.

No more of this! We will go hand in hand,

I with thee, even as a child—love's slave,

Looking no farther than his liege commands.

And thou hast chosen where this life shall be:The land which gave me thee shall be our home,Where nature lies all wild amid her lakesAnd snow-swathed mountains and vast pines begirtWith ropes of snow—where nature lies all bare,Suffering none to view her but a raceOr stinted or deformed, like the mute dwarfsWhich wait upon a naked Indian queen.And there (the time being when the heavens are thickWith storm) I'll sit with thee while thou dost singThy native songs, gay as a desert birdWhich crieth as it flies for perfect joy,Or telling me old stories of dead knights;Or I will read great lays to thee—how she,The fair pale sister, went to her chill graveWith power to love and to be loved and live:Or we will go together, like twin godsOf the infernal world, with scented lampOver the dead, to call and to awake,Over the unshaped images which lieWithin my mind's cave: only leaving all,That tells of the past doubt. So, when spring comesWith sunshine back again like an old smile,And the fresh waters and awakened birdsAnd budding woods await us, I shall bePrepared, and we will question life once more,Till its old sense shall come renewed by change,Like some clear thought which harsh words veiled before;Feeling God loves us, and that all which errsIs but a dream which death will dissipate.And then what need of longer exile? SeekMy England, and, again there, calm approachAll I once fled from, calmly look on thoseThe works of my past weakness, as one viewsSome scene where danger met him long before.Ah that such pleasant life should be but dreamed!

And thou hast chosen where this life shall be:

The land which gave me thee shall be our home,

Where nature lies all wild amid her lakes

And snow-swathed mountains and vast pines begirt

With ropes of snow—where nature lies all bare,

Suffering none to view her but a race

Or stinted or deformed, like the mute dwarfs

Which wait upon a naked Indian queen.

And there (the time being when the heavens are thick

With storm) I'll sit with thee while thou dost sing

Thy native songs, gay as a desert bird

Which crieth as it flies for perfect joy,

Or telling me old stories of dead knights;

Or I will read great lays to thee—how she,

The fair pale sister, went to her chill grave

With power to love and to be loved and live:

Or we will go together, like twin gods

Of the infernal world, with scented lamp

Over the dead, to call and to awake,

Over the unshaped images which lie

Within my mind's cave: only leaving all,

That tells of the past doubt. So, when spring comes

With sunshine back again like an old smile,

And the fresh waters and awakened birds

And budding woods await us, I shall be

Prepared, and we will question life once more,

Till its old sense shall come renewed by change,

Like some clear thought which harsh words veiled before;

Feeling God loves us, and that all which errs

Is but a dream which death will dissipate.

And then what need of longer exile? Seek

My England, and, again there, calm approach

All I once fled from, calmly look on those

The works of my past weakness, as one views

Some scene where danger met him long before.

Ah that such pleasant life should be but dreamed!

But whate'er come of it, and though it fade,And though ere the cold morning all be gone,As it may be;—though music wait to wile,And strange eyes and bright wine lure, laugh like sinWhich steals back softly on a soul half saved,And I the first deny, decry, despise,With this avowal, these intents so fair,—Still be it all my own, this moment's pride!No less I make an end in perfect joy.E'en in my brightest time, a lurking fearPossessed me: I well knew my weak resolves,I felt the witchery that makes mind sleepOver its treasure, as one half afraidTo make his riches definite: but nowThese feelings shall not utterly be lost,I shall not know again that nameless careLest, leaving all undone in youth, some newAnd undreamed end reveal itself too late:For this song shall remain to tell foreverThat when I lost all hope of such a change,Suddenly beauty rose on me again.No less I make an end in perfect joy,For I, who thus again was visited,Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits,And, though this weak soul sink and darkness whelm,Some little word shall light it, raise aloft,To where I clearlier see and better love,As I again go o'er the tracts of thoughtLike one who has a right, and I shall liveWith poets, calmer, purer still each time,And beauteous shapes will come for me to seize,And unknown secrets will be trusted meWhich were denied the waverer once; but nowI shall be priest and prophet as of old.

But whate'er come of it, and though it fade,

And though ere the cold morning all be gone,

As it may be;—though music wait to wile,

And strange eyes and bright wine lure, laugh like sin

Which steals back softly on a soul half saved,

And I the first deny, decry, despise,

With this avowal, these intents so fair,—

Still be it all my own, this moment's pride!

No less I make an end in perfect joy.

E'en in my brightest time, a lurking fear

Possessed me: I well knew my weak resolves,

I felt the witchery that makes mind sleep

Over its treasure, as one half afraid

To make his riches definite: but now

These feelings shall not utterly be lost,

I shall not know again that nameless care

Lest, leaving all undone in youth, some new

And undreamed end reveal itself too late:

For this song shall remain to tell forever

That when I lost all hope of such a change,

Suddenly beauty rose on me again.

No less I make an end in perfect joy,

For I, who thus again was visited,

Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits,

And, though this weak soul sink and darkness whelm,

Some little word shall light it, raise aloft,

To where I clearlier see and better love,

As I again go o'er the tracts of thought

Like one who has a right, and I shall live

With poets, calmer, purer still each time,

And beauteous shapes will come for me to seize,

And unknown secrets will be trusted me

Which were denied the waverer once; but now

I shall be priest and prophet as of old.

Sun-treader, I believe in God and truthAnd love; and as one just escaped from deathWould bind himself in bands of friends to feelHe lives indeed, so, I would lean on thee!Thou must be ever with me, most in gloomIf such must come, but chiefly when I die,For I seem, dying, as one going in the darkTo fight a giant: but live thou forever,And be to all what thou hast been to me!All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of meKnow my last state is happy, free from doubtOr touch of fear. Love me and wish me well.

Sun-treader, I believe in God and truth

And love; and as one just escaped from death

Would bind himself in bands of friends to feel

He lives indeed, so, I would lean on thee!

Thou must be ever with me, most in gloom

If such must come, but chiefly when I die,

For I seem, dying, as one going in the dark

To fight a giant: but live thou forever,

And be to all what thou hast been to me!

All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of me

Know my last state is happy, free from doubt

Or touch of fear. Love me and wish me well.

Mr. Gosse in hisPersonaliacopies from theMonthly Repositorythe following sonnet. Three other pieces first printed in the same periodical will be found as afterward grouped inBells and Pomegranates.

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