WITH CHARLES AVISON

IAh, but—because you were struck blind, could blessYour sense no longer with the actual viewOf man and woman, those fair forms you drewIn happier days so duteously and true,—Must I account my Gerard de LairesseAll sorrow-smitten? He was hindered too—Was this no hardship?—from producing, plainTo us who still have eyes, the pageantryWhich passed and passed before his busy brainAnd, captured on his canvas, showed our skyTraversed by flying shapes, earth stocked with broodOf monsters,—centaurs bestial, satyrs lewd,—Not without much Olympian glory, shapesOf god and goddess in their gay escapesFrom the severe serene: or haply pacedThe antique ways, god-counselled, nymph-embraced,Some early human kingly personage.Such wonders of the teeming poet's-ageWere still to be: nay, these indeed began—Are not the pictures extant?—till the banOf blindness struck both palette from his thumbAnd pencil from his finger.IIBlind—not dumb,Else, Gerard, were my inmost bowels stirredWith pity beyond pity: no, the wordWas left upon your unmolested lips:Your mouth unsealed, despite of eyes' eclipse,Talked all brain's yearning into birth. I lackSomehow the heart to wish your practice backWhich boasted hand's achievement in a scoreOf veritable pictures, less or more,Still to be seen: myself have seen them,—movedTo pay due homage to the man I lovedBecause of that prodigious book he wroteOn Artistry's Ideal, by taking note,Making acquaintance with his artist-work.So my youth's piety obtained successOf all too dubious sort: for, though it irkTo tell the issue, few or none would guessFrom extant lines and colors, De Lairesse,Your faculty, although each deftly-groupedAnd aptly-ordered figure-piece was judgedWorthy a prince's purchase in its day.Bearded experience bears not to be dupedLike boyish fancy: 'twas a boy that budgedNo foot's breath from your visioned steps awayThe while that memorable "Walk" he trudgedIn your companionship,—the Book must sayWhere, when and whither,—"Walk," come what come may,No measurer of steps on this our globeShall ever match for marvels. Faustus' robe,And Fortunatus' cap were gifts of price:But—oh, your piece of sober sound adviceThat artists should descry abundant worthIn trivial commonplace, nor groan at dearthIf fortune bade the painter's craft be pliedIn vulgar town and country! Why despondBecause hemmed round by Dutch canals? BeyondThe ugly actual, lo, on every sideImagination's limitless domainDisplayed a wealth of wondrous sounds and sightsRipe to be realized by poet's brainActing on painter's brush! "Ye doubt? Poor wights,What if I set example, go before,While you come after, and we both exploreHolland turned Dreamland, taking care to noteObjects whereto my pupils may devoteAttention with advantage?"IIISo commencedThat "Walk" amid true wonders—none to you,But huge to us ignobly common-sensed,Purblind, while plain could proper optics viewIn that old sepulchre by lightning split,Whereof the lid bore carven,—any doltImagines why,—Jove's very thunderbolt:You who could straight perceive, by glance at it,This tomb must needs be Phaeton's! In a trice,Confirming that conjecture, close on hand,Behold, half out, half in the ploughed-up sand,A chariot-wheel explained its bolt-device:What other than the Chariot of the SunEver let drop the like? Consult the tome—I bid inglorious tarriers-at-home—For greater still surprise the while that "Walk"Went on and on, to end as it begun,Chokefull of chances, changes, every oneNo whit less wondrous. What was there to balkUs, who had eyes, from seeing? You with noneMissed not a marvel: wherefore? Let us talk.IVSay am I right? Your sealed sense moved your mind,Free from obstruction, to compassionateArt's power left powerless, and supply the blindWith fancies worth all facts denied by fate.Mind could invent things, add to—take away,At pleasure, leave out trifles mean and baseWhich vex the sight that cannot say them nayBut, where mind plays the master, have no place.And bent on banishing was mind, be sure,All except beauty from its mustered tribeOf objects apparitional which lurePainter to show and poet to describe—That imagery of the antique songTruer than truth's self. Fancy's rainbow-birthConceived 'mid clouds in Greece, could glance alongYour passage o'er Dutch veritable earth,As with ourselves, who see, familiar throngAbout our pacings men and women worthNowise a glance—so poets apprehend—Since naught avails portraying them in verse:While painters turn upon the heel, intendTo spare their work the critic's ready curseDue to the daily and undignified.VI who myself contentedly abideAwake, nor want the wings of dream,—who trampEarth's common surface, rough, smooth, dry or damp,—I understand alternatives, no lessConceive your soul's leap, Gerard de Lairesse!How were it could I mingle false with true,Boast, with the sights I see, your vision too?Advantage would it prove or detrimentIf I saw double? Could I gaze intentOn Dryope plucking the blossoms red,As you, whereat her lote-tree writhed and bled!Yet lose no gain, no hard fast wide-awakeHaving and holding nature for the sakeOf nature only—nymph and lote-tree thusGained by the loss of fruit not fabulous,Apple of English homesteads, where I seeNor seek more than crisp buds a struggling beeUncrumples, caught by sweet he clambers through?Truly, a moot point: make it plain to me,Who, bee-like, sate sense with the simply true,Nor seek to heighten that sufficiencyBy help of feignings proper to the page—Earth's surface-blank whereon the elder agePut color, poetizing—poured rich lifeOn what were else a dead ground—nothingness—Until the solitary world grew rifeWith Joves and Junos, nymphs and satyrs. Yes,The reason was, fancy composed the strife'Twixt sense and soul: for sense, my De Lairesse,Cannot content itself with outward things,Mere beauty: soul must needs know whence there springs—How, when and why—what sense but loves, nor listsTo know at all.VINot one of man's acquistsOught he resignedly to lose, methinks:So, point me out which was it of the linksSnapt first, from out the chain which used to bindOur earth to heaven, and yet for you, since blind,Subsisted still efficient and intact?Oh, we can fancy too! but somehow factHas got to—say, not so much push asideFancy, as to declare its place suppliedBy fact unseen but no less fact the same,Which mind bids sense accept. Is mind to blame,Or sense,—does that usurp, this abdicate?First of all, as you "walked"—were it too lateFor us to walk, if so we willed? ConfessWe have the sober feet still, De Lairesse!Why not the freakish brain too, that must needsSupplement nature—not see flowers and weedsSimply as such, but link with each and allThe ultimate perfection—what we callRightly enough the human shape divine?The rose? No rose unless it disentwineFrom Venus' wreath the while she bends to kissHer deathly love?VIIPlain retrogression, this!No, no: we poets go not back at all:What you did we could do—from great to smallSinking assuredly: if this world lastOne moment longer when Man finds its PastExceed its Present—blame the Protoplast!If we no longer see as you of old,'Tis we see deeper. Progress for the bold!You saw the body, 'tis the soul we see.Try now! Bear witness while you walk with me,I see as you: if we loose arms, stop pace,'Tis that you stand still, I conclude the raceWithout your company. Come, walk once moreThe "Walk:" if I to-day as you of yoreSee just like you the blind—then sight shall cry—The whole long day quite gone through—victory!VIIIThunders on thunders, doubling and redoublingDoom o'er the mountain, while a sharp white fireNow shone, now sheared its rusty herbage, troublingHardly the fir-boles, now discharged its ireFull where some pine-tree's solitary spireCrashed down, defiant to the last: till—lo,The motive of the malice!—all aglow,Circled with flame there yawned a sudden riftI' the rock-face, and I saw a form erectFront and defy the outrage, while—as checked,Chidden, beside him dauntless in the drift—Cowered a heaped creature, wing and wing outspreadIn deprecation o'er the crouching headStill hungry for the feast foregone awhile.O thou, of scorn's unconquerable smile,Was it when this—Jove's feathered fury—slippedGore-glutted from the heart's core whence he ripped—This eagle-hound—neither reproach nor prayer—Baffled, in one more fierce attempt to tearFate's secret from thy safeguard,—was it thenThat all these thunders rent earth, ruined airTo reach thee, pay thy patronage of men?He thundered,—to withdraw, as beast to lair,Before the triumph on thy pallid brow.Gather the night again about thee now,Hate on, love ever! Morn is breaking there—The granite ridge pricks through the mist, turns goldAs wrong turns right. O laughters manifoldOf ocean's ripple at dull earth's despair!IXBut morning's laugh sets all the crags alightAbove the baffled tempest: tree and treeStir themselves from the stupor of the night,And every strangled branch resumes its rightTo breathe, shakes loose dark's clinging dregs, waves freeIn dripping glory. Prone the runnels plunge,While earth, distent with moisture like a sponge,Smokes up, and leaves each plant its gem to see,Each grass-blade's glory-glitter. Had I knownThe torrent now turned river?—masterfulMaking its rush o'er tumbled ravage—stoneAnd stub which barred the froths and foams: no bullEver broke bounds in formidable sportMore overwhelmingly, till lo, the spasmSets him to dare that last mad leap: reportWho may—his fortunes in the deathly chasmThat swallows him in silence! Rather turnWhither, upon the upland, pedestalledInto the broad day-splendor, whom discernThese eyes but thee, supreme one, rightly calledMoon-maid in heaven above and, here below,Earth's huntress-queen? I note the garb succinctSaving from smirch that purity of snowFrom breast to knee—snow's self with just the tinctOf the apple-blossom's heart-blush. Ah, the bowSlack-strung her fingers grasp, where, ivory-linkedHorn curving blends with horn, a moonlike pairWhich mimic the brow's crescent sparkling so—As if a star's live restless fragment winkedProud yet repugnant, captive in such hair!What hope along the hillside, what far blissLets the crisp hair-plaits fall so low they kissThose lucid shoulders? Must a morn so blitheNeeds have its sorrow when the twang and hissTell that from out thy sheaf one shaft makes writheIts victim, thou unerring Artemis?Why did the chamois stand so fair a markArrested by the novel shape he dreamedWas bred of liquid marble in the darkDepths of the mountain's womb which ever teemedWith novel births of wonder? Not one sparkOf pity in that steel-gray glance which gleamedAt the poor hoof's protesting as it stampedIdly the granite? Let me glide unseenFrom thy proud presence: well mayst thou be queenOf all those strange and sudden deaths which dampedSo oft Love's torch and Hymen's taper litFor happy marriage till the maidens paledAnd perished on the temple-step, assailedBy—what except to envy must man's witImpute that sure implacable releaseOf life from warmth and joy? But death means peace.XNoon is the conqueror,—not a spray, nor leaf,Nor herb, nor blossom but has rendered upIts morning dew: the valley seemed one cupOf cloud-smoke, but the vapor's reign was brief;Sun-smitten, see, it hangs—the filmy haze—Gray-garmenting the herbless mountain-side,To soothe the day's sharp glare: while far and wideAbove unclouded burns the sky, one blazeWith fierce immitigable blue, no birdVentures to spot by passage. E'en of peaksWhich still presume there, plain each pale point speaksIn wan transparency of waste incurredBy over-daring: far from me be such!Deep in the hollow, rather, where combineTree, shrub and brier to roof with shade and coolThe remnant of some lily-strangled pool,Edged round with mossy fringing soft and fine.Smooth lie the bottom slabs, and overheadWatch elder, bramble, rose, and service-treeAnd one beneficent rich barberryJewelled all over with fruit-pendants red.What have I seen! O Satyr, well I knowHow sad thy case, and what a world of woeWas hid by the brown visage furry-framedOnly for mirth: who otherwise could think—Marking thy mouth gape still on laughter's brink,Thine eyes a-swim with merriment unnamedBut haply guessed at by their furtive wink?And all the while a heart was panting sickBehind that shaggy bulwark of thy breast—Passion it was that made those breath-bursts thickI took for mirth, subsiding into rest.So, it was Lyda—she of all the trainOf forest-thridding nymphs,—'twas only sheTurned from thy rustic homage in disdain,Saw but that poor uncouth outside of thee,And, from her circling sisters, mocked a painEcho had pitied—whom Pan loved in vain—For she was wishful to partake thy glee,Mimic thy mirth—who loved her not again,Savage for Lyda's sake. She crouches there—Thy cruel beauty, slumberously laidSupine on heaped-up beast-skins, unawareThy steps have traced her to the briery glade,Thy greedy hands disclose the cradling lair,Thy hot eyes reach and revel on the maid!XINow, what should this be for? The sun's declineSeems as he lingered lest he lose some actDread and decisive, some prodigious factLike thunder from the safe sky's sapphirineAbout to alter earth's conditions, packedWith fate for nature's self that waits, awareWhat mischief unsuspected in the airMenaces momently a cataract.Therefore it is that yonder space extendsUntrenched upon by any vagrant tree,Shrub, weed well-nigh; they keep their bounds, leave freeThe platform for what actors? Foes or friends,Here come they trooping silent: heaven suspendsPurpose the while they range themselves. I see!Bent on a battle, two vast powers agreeThis present and no after-contest endsOne or the other's grasp at rule in reachOver the race of man—host fronting host,As statue statue fronts—wrath-molten each,Solidified by hate,—earth halved almost,To close once more in chaos. Yet two shapesShow prominent, each from the universeOf minions round about him, that disperseLike cloud-obstruction when a bolt escapes.Who flames first? Macedonian, is it thou?Ay, and who fronts thee, King Darius, drapesHis form with purple, fillet-folds his brow.XIIWhat, then the long day dies at last? AbruptThe sun that seemed, in stooping, sure to meltOur mountain-ridge, is mastered: black the beltOf westward crags, his gold could not corrupt,Barriers again the valley, lets the flowOf lavish glory waste itself away—Whither? For new climes, fresh eyes breaks the day!Night was not to be baffled. If the glowWere all that's gone from us! Did clouds, afloatSo filmily but now, discard no rose,Sombre throughout the fleeciness that growsA sullen uniformity. I noteRather displeasure,—in the overspreadChange from the swim of gold to one pale leadOppressive to malevolence,—than lateThose amorous yearnings when the aggregateOf cloudlets pressed that each and all might sateIts passion and partake in relics redOf day's bequeathment: now, a frown insteadEstranges, and affrights who needs must fareOn and on till his journey ends: but where?Caucasus? Lost now in the night. AwayAnd far enough lies that Arcadia.The human heroes tread the world's dark wayNo longer. Yet I dimly see almost—Yes, for my last adventure! 'Tis a ghost.So drops away the beauty! There he standsVoiceless, scarce strives with deprecating hands ...XIIIEnough! Stop further fooling, De Lairesse!My fault, not yours! Some fitter way expressHeart's satisfaction that the Past indeedIs past, gives way before Life's best and last,The all-including Future! What were lifeDid soul stand still therein, forego her strifeThrough the ambiguous Present to the goalOf some all-reconciling Future? Soul,Nothing has been which shall not bettered beHereafter,—leave the root, by law's decreeWhence springs the ultimate and perfect tree!Busy thee with unearthing root? Nay, climb—Quit trunk, branch, leaf and flower—reach, rest sublimeWhere fruitage ripens in the blaze of day!O'erlook, despise, forget, throw flower away,Intent on progress? No whit more than stopAscent therewith to dally, screen the topSufficiency of yield by interposedTwistwork bold foot gets free from. Wherefore glozedThe poets—"Dream afresh old godlike shapes,Recapture ancient fable that escapes,Push back reality, repeople earthWith vanished falseness, recognize no worthIn fact new-born unless 't is rendered backPallid by fancy, as the western rackOf fading cloud bequeaths the lake some gleamOf its gone glory!"XIVLet things be—not seem,I counsel rather,—do, and nowise dream!Earth's young significance is all to learn:The dead Greek lore lies buried in the urnWhere who seeks fire finds ashes. Ghost, forsooth!What was the best Greece babbled of as truth?"A shade, a wretched nothing,—sad, thin, drear,Cold, dark, it holds on to the lost loves here,If hand have haply sprinkled o'er the deadThree charitable dust-heaps, made mouth redOne moment by the sip of sacrifice:Just so much comfort thaws the stubborn iceSlow-thickening upward till it choke at lengthThe last faint flutter craving—not for strength,Not beauty, not the riches and the ruleO'er men that made life life indeed." Sad schoolWas Hades! Gladly,—might the dead but slinkTo life back,—to the dregs once more would drinkEach interloper, drain the humblest cupFate mixes for humanity.XVCheer up,—Be death with me, as with Achilles erst,Of Man's calamities the last and worst:Take it so! By proved potency that stillMakes perfect, be assured, come what come will,What once lives never dies—what here attainsTo a beginning, has no end, still gainsAnd never loses aught: when, where, and how—Lies in Law's lap. What 's death then? Even nowWith so much knowledge is it hard to bearBrief interposing ignorance? Is careFor a creation found at fault just there—There where the heart breaks bond and outruns time,To reach not follow what shall be?XVIHere 's rhymeSuch as one makes now,—say, when Spring repeatsThat miracle the Greek Bard sadly greets:"Spring for the tree and herb—no Spring for us!"Let Spring come: why, a man salutes her thus:Dance, yellows and whites and reds,—Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, headsAstir with the wind in the tulip-beds!There 's sunshine; scarcely a wind at allDisturbs starved grass and daisies smallOn a certain mound by a churchyard wall.Daisies and grass be my heart's bedfellowsOn the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows:Dance you, reds and whites and yellows!

Ah, but—because you were struck blind, could blessYour sense no longer with the actual viewOf man and woman, those fair forms you drewIn happier days so duteously and true,—Must I account my Gerard de LairesseAll sorrow-smitten? He was hindered too—Was this no hardship?—from producing, plainTo us who still have eyes, the pageantryWhich passed and passed before his busy brainAnd, captured on his canvas, showed our skyTraversed by flying shapes, earth stocked with broodOf monsters,—centaurs bestial, satyrs lewd,—Not without much Olympian glory, shapesOf god and goddess in their gay escapesFrom the severe serene: or haply pacedThe antique ways, god-counselled, nymph-embraced,Some early human kingly personage.Such wonders of the teeming poet's-ageWere still to be: nay, these indeed began—Are not the pictures extant?—till the banOf blindness struck both palette from his thumbAnd pencil from his finger.

Ah, but—because you were struck blind, could bless

Your sense no longer with the actual view

Of man and woman, those fair forms you drew

In happier days so duteously and true,—

Must I account my Gerard de Lairesse

All sorrow-smitten? He was hindered too

—Was this no hardship?—from producing, plain

To us who still have eyes, the pageantry

Which passed and passed before his busy brain

And, captured on his canvas, showed our sky

Traversed by flying shapes, earth stocked with brood

Of monsters,—centaurs bestial, satyrs lewd,—

Not without much Olympian glory, shapes

Of god and goddess in their gay escapes

From the severe serene: or haply paced

The antique ways, god-counselled, nymph-embraced,

Some early human kingly personage.

Such wonders of the teeming poet's-age

Were still to be: nay, these indeed began—

Are not the pictures extant?—till the ban

Of blindness struck both palette from his thumb

And pencil from his finger.

Blind—not dumb,Else, Gerard, were my inmost bowels stirredWith pity beyond pity: no, the wordWas left upon your unmolested lips:Your mouth unsealed, despite of eyes' eclipse,Talked all brain's yearning into birth. I lackSomehow the heart to wish your practice backWhich boasted hand's achievement in a scoreOf veritable pictures, less or more,Still to be seen: myself have seen them,—movedTo pay due homage to the man I lovedBecause of that prodigious book he wroteOn Artistry's Ideal, by taking note,Making acquaintance with his artist-work.So my youth's piety obtained successOf all too dubious sort: for, though it irkTo tell the issue, few or none would guessFrom extant lines and colors, De Lairesse,Your faculty, although each deftly-groupedAnd aptly-ordered figure-piece was judgedWorthy a prince's purchase in its day.Bearded experience bears not to be dupedLike boyish fancy: 'twas a boy that budgedNo foot's breath from your visioned steps awayThe while that memorable "Walk" he trudgedIn your companionship,—the Book must sayWhere, when and whither,—"Walk," come what come may,No measurer of steps on this our globeShall ever match for marvels. Faustus' robe,And Fortunatus' cap were gifts of price:But—oh, your piece of sober sound adviceThat artists should descry abundant worthIn trivial commonplace, nor groan at dearthIf fortune bade the painter's craft be pliedIn vulgar town and country! Why despondBecause hemmed round by Dutch canals? BeyondThe ugly actual, lo, on every sideImagination's limitless domainDisplayed a wealth of wondrous sounds and sightsRipe to be realized by poet's brainActing on painter's brush! "Ye doubt? Poor wights,What if I set example, go before,While you come after, and we both exploreHolland turned Dreamland, taking care to noteObjects whereto my pupils may devoteAttention with advantage?"

Blind—not dumb,

Else, Gerard, were my inmost bowels stirred

With pity beyond pity: no, the word

Was left upon your unmolested lips:

Your mouth unsealed, despite of eyes' eclipse,

Talked all brain's yearning into birth. I lack

Somehow the heart to wish your practice back

Which boasted hand's achievement in a score

Of veritable pictures, less or more,

Still to be seen: myself have seen them,—moved

To pay due homage to the man I loved

Because of that prodigious book he wrote

On Artistry's Ideal, by taking note,

Making acquaintance with his artist-work.

So my youth's piety obtained success

Of all too dubious sort: for, though it irk

To tell the issue, few or none would guess

From extant lines and colors, De Lairesse,

Your faculty, although each deftly-grouped

And aptly-ordered figure-piece was judged

Worthy a prince's purchase in its day.

Bearded experience bears not to be duped

Like boyish fancy: 'twas a boy that budged

No foot's breath from your visioned steps away

The while that memorable "Walk" he trudged

In your companionship,—the Book must say

Where, when and whither,—"Walk," come what come may,

No measurer of steps on this our globe

Shall ever match for marvels. Faustus' robe,

And Fortunatus' cap were gifts of price:

But—oh, your piece of sober sound advice

That artists should descry abundant worth

In trivial commonplace, nor groan at dearth

If fortune bade the painter's craft be plied

In vulgar town and country! Why despond

Because hemmed round by Dutch canals? Beyond

The ugly actual, lo, on every side

Imagination's limitless domain

Displayed a wealth of wondrous sounds and sights

Ripe to be realized by poet's brain

Acting on painter's brush! "Ye doubt? Poor wights,

What if I set example, go before,

While you come after, and we both explore

Holland turned Dreamland, taking care to note

Objects whereto my pupils may devote

Attention with advantage?"

III

So commencedThat "Walk" amid true wonders—none to you,But huge to us ignobly common-sensed,Purblind, while plain could proper optics viewIn that old sepulchre by lightning split,Whereof the lid bore carven,—any doltImagines why,—Jove's very thunderbolt:You who could straight perceive, by glance at it,This tomb must needs be Phaeton's! In a trice,Confirming that conjecture, close on hand,Behold, half out, half in the ploughed-up sand,A chariot-wheel explained its bolt-device:What other than the Chariot of the SunEver let drop the like? Consult the tome—I bid inglorious tarriers-at-home—For greater still surprise the while that "Walk"Went on and on, to end as it begun,Chokefull of chances, changes, every oneNo whit less wondrous. What was there to balkUs, who had eyes, from seeing? You with noneMissed not a marvel: wherefore? Let us talk.

So commenced

That "Walk" amid true wonders—none to you,

But huge to us ignobly common-sensed,

Purblind, while plain could proper optics view

In that old sepulchre by lightning split,

Whereof the lid bore carven,—any dolt

Imagines why,—Jove's very thunderbolt:

You who could straight perceive, by glance at it,

This tomb must needs be Phaeton's! In a trice,

Confirming that conjecture, close on hand,

Behold, half out, half in the ploughed-up sand,

A chariot-wheel explained its bolt-device:

What other than the Chariot of the Sun

Ever let drop the like? Consult the tome—

I bid inglorious tarriers-at-home—

For greater still surprise the while that "Walk"

Went on and on, to end as it begun,

Chokefull of chances, changes, every one

No whit less wondrous. What was there to balk

Us, who had eyes, from seeing? You with none

Missed not a marvel: wherefore? Let us talk.

Say am I right? Your sealed sense moved your mind,Free from obstruction, to compassionateArt's power left powerless, and supply the blindWith fancies worth all facts denied by fate.Mind could invent things, add to—take away,At pleasure, leave out trifles mean and baseWhich vex the sight that cannot say them nayBut, where mind plays the master, have no place.And bent on banishing was mind, be sure,All except beauty from its mustered tribeOf objects apparitional which lurePainter to show and poet to describe—That imagery of the antique songTruer than truth's self. Fancy's rainbow-birthConceived 'mid clouds in Greece, could glance alongYour passage o'er Dutch veritable earth,As with ourselves, who see, familiar throngAbout our pacings men and women worthNowise a glance—so poets apprehend—Since naught avails portraying them in verse:While painters turn upon the heel, intendTo spare their work the critic's ready curseDue to the daily and undignified.

Say am I right? Your sealed sense moved your mind,

Free from obstruction, to compassionate

Art's power left powerless, and supply the blind

With fancies worth all facts denied by fate.

Mind could invent things, add to—take away,

At pleasure, leave out trifles mean and base

Which vex the sight that cannot say them nay

But, where mind plays the master, have no place.

And bent on banishing was mind, be sure,

All except beauty from its mustered tribe

Of objects apparitional which lure

Painter to show and poet to describe—

That imagery of the antique song

Truer than truth's self. Fancy's rainbow-birth

Conceived 'mid clouds in Greece, could glance along

Your passage o'er Dutch veritable earth,

As with ourselves, who see, familiar throng

About our pacings men and women worth

Nowise a glance—so poets apprehend—

Since naught avails portraying them in verse:

While painters turn upon the heel, intend

To spare their work the critic's ready curse

Due to the daily and undignified.

I who myself contentedly abideAwake, nor want the wings of dream,—who trampEarth's common surface, rough, smooth, dry or damp,—I understand alternatives, no lessConceive your soul's leap, Gerard de Lairesse!How were it could I mingle false with true,Boast, with the sights I see, your vision too?Advantage would it prove or detrimentIf I saw double? Could I gaze intentOn Dryope plucking the blossoms red,As you, whereat her lote-tree writhed and bled!Yet lose no gain, no hard fast wide-awakeHaving and holding nature for the sakeOf nature only—nymph and lote-tree thusGained by the loss of fruit not fabulous,Apple of English homesteads, where I seeNor seek more than crisp buds a struggling beeUncrumples, caught by sweet he clambers through?Truly, a moot point: make it plain to me,Who, bee-like, sate sense with the simply true,Nor seek to heighten that sufficiencyBy help of feignings proper to the page—Earth's surface-blank whereon the elder agePut color, poetizing—poured rich lifeOn what were else a dead ground—nothingness—Until the solitary world grew rifeWith Joves and Junos, nymphs and satyrs. Yes,The reason was, fancy composed the strife'Twixt sense and soul: for sense, my De Lairesse,Cannot content itself with outward things,Mere beauty: soul must needs know whence there springs—How, when and why—what sense but loves, nor listsTo know at all.

I who myself contentedly abide

Awake, nor want the wings of dream,—who tramp

Earth's common surface, rough, smooth, dry or damp,

—I understand alternatives, no less

Conceive your soul's leap, Gerard de Lairesse!

How were it could I mingle false with true,

Boast, with the sights I see, your vision too?

Advantage would it prove or detriment

If I saw double? Could I gaze intent

On Dryope plucking the blossoms red,

As you, whereat her lote-tree writhed and bled!

Yet lose no gain, no hard fast wide-awake

Having and holding nature for the sake

Of nature only—nymph and lote-tree thus

Gained by the loss of fruit not fabulous,

Apple of English homesteads, where I see

Nor seek more than crisp buds a struggling bee

Uncrumples, caught by sweet he clambers through?

Truly, a moot point: make it plain to me,

Who, bee-like, sate sense with the simply true,

Nor seek to heighten that sufficiency

By help of feignings proper to the page—

Earth's surface-blank whereon the elder age

Put color, poetizing—poured rich life

On what were else a dead ground—nothingness—

Until the solitary world grew rife

With Joves and Junos, nymphs and satyrs. Yes,

The reason was, fancy composed the strife

'Twixt sense and soul: for sense, my De Lairesse,

Cannot content itself with outward things,

Mere beauty: soul must needs know whence there springs—

How, when and why—what sense but loves, nor lists

To know at all.

Not one of man's acquistsOught he resignedly to lose, methinks:So, point me out which was it of the linksSnapt first, from out the chain which used to bindOur earth to heaven, and yet for you, since blind,Subsisted still efficient and intact?Oh, we can fancy too! but somehow factHas got to—say, not so much push asideFancy, as to declare its place suppliedBy fact unseen but no less fact the same,Which mind bids sense accept. Is mind to blame,Or sense,—does that usurp, this abdicate?First of all, as you "walked"—were it too lateFor us to walk, if so we willed? ConfessWe have the sober feet still, De Lairesse!Why not the freakish brain too, that must needsSupplement nature—not see flowers and weedsSimply as such, but link with each and allThe ultimate perfection—what we callRightly enough the human shape divine?The rose? No rose unless it disentwineFrom Venus' wreath the while she bends to kissHer deathly love?

Not one of man's acquists

Ought he resignedly to lose, methinks:

So, point me out which was it of the links

Snapt first, from out the chain which used to bind

Our earth to heaven, and yet for you, since blind,

Subsisted still efficient and intact?

Oh, we can fancy too! but somehow fact

Has got to—say, not so much push aside

Fancy, as to declare its place supplied

By fact unseen but no less fact the same,

Which mind bids sense accept. Is mind to blame,

Or sense,—does that usurp, this abdicate?

First of all, as you "walked"—were it too late

For us to walk, if so we willed? Confess

We have the sober feet still, De Lairesse!

Why not the freakish brain too, that must needs

Supplement nature—not see flowers and weeds

Simply as such, but link with each and all

The ultimate perfection—what we call

Rightly enough the human shape divine?

The rose? No rose unless it disentwine

From Venus' wreath the while she bends to kiss

Her deathly love?

VII

Plain retrogression, this!No, no: we poets go not back at all:What you did we could do—from great to smallSinking assuredly: if this world lastOne moment longer when Man finds its PastExceed its Present—blame the Protoplast!If we no longer see as you of old,'Tis we see deeper. Progress for the bold!You saw the body, 'tis the soul we see.Try now! Bear witness while you walk with me,I see as you: if we loose arms, stop pace,'Tis that you stand still, I conclude the raceWithout your company. Come, walk once moreThe "Walk:" if I to-day as you of yoreSee just like you the blind—then sight shall cry—The whole long day quite gone through—victory!

Plain retrogression, this!

No, no: we poets go not back at all:

What you did we could do—from great to small

Sinking assuredly: if this world last

One moment longer when Man finds its Past

Exceed its Present—blame the Protoplast!

If we no longer see as you of old,

'Tis we see deeper. Progress for the bold!

You saw the body, 'tis the soul we see.

Try now! Bear witness while you walk with me,

I see as you: if we loose arms, stop pace,

'Tis that you stand still, I conclude the race

Without your company. Come, walk once more

The "Walk:" if I to-day as you of yore

See just like you the blind—then sight shall cry

—The whole long day quite gone through—victory!

VIII

Thunders on thunders, doubling and redoublingDoom o'er the mountain, while a sharp white fireNow shone, now sheared its rusty herbage, troublingHardly the fir-boles, now discharged its ireFull where some pine-tree's solitary spireCrashed down, defiant to the last: till—lo,The motive of the malice!—all aglow,Circled with flame there yawned a sudden riftI' the rock-face, and I saw a form erectFront and defy the outrage, while—as checked,Chidden, beside him dauntless in the drift—Cowered a heaped creature, wing and wing outspreadIn deprecation o'er the crouching headStill hungry for the feast foregone awhile.O thou, of scorn's unconquerable smile,Was it when this—Jove's feathered fury—slippedGore-glutted from the heart's core whence he ripped—This eagle-hound—neither reproach nor prayer—Baffled, in one more fierce attempt to tearFate's secret from thy safeguard,—was it thenThat all these thunders rent earth, ruined airTo reach thee, pay thy patronage of men?He thundered,—to withdraw, as beast to lair,Before the triumph on thy pallid brow.Gather the night again about thee now,Hate on, love ever! Morn is breaking there—The granite ridge pricks through the mist, turns goldAs wrong turns right. O laughters manifoldOf ocean's ripple at dull earth's despair!

Thunders on thunders, doubling and redoubling

Doom o'er the mountain, while a sharp white fire

Now shone, now sheared its rusty herbage, troubling

Hardly the fir-boles, now discharged its ire

Full where some pine-tree's solitary spire

Crashed down, defiant to the last: till—lo,

The motive of the malice!—all aglow,

Circled with flame there yawned a sudden rift

I' the rock-face, and I saw a form erect

Front and defy the outrage, while—as checked,

Chidden, beside him dauntless in the drift—

Cowered a heaped creature, wing and wing outspread

In deprecation o'er the crouching head

Still hungry for the feast foregone awhile.

O thou, of scorn's unconquerable smile,

Was it when this—Jove's feathered fury—slipped

Gore-glutted from the heart's core whence he ripped—

This eagle-hound—neither reproach nor prayer—

Baffled, in one more fierce attempt to tear

Fate's secret from thy safeguard,—was it then

That all these thunders rent earth, ruined air

To reach thee, pay thy patronage of men?

He thundered,—to withdraw, as beast to lair,

Before the triumph on thy pallid brow.

Gather the night again about thee now,

Hate on, love ever! Morn is breaking there—

The granite ridge pricks through the mist, turns gold

As wrong turns right. O laughters manifold

Of ocean's ripple at dull earth's despair!

But morning's laugh sets all the crags alightAbove the baffled tempest: tree and treeStir themselves from the stupor of the night,And every strangled branch resumes its rightTo breathe, shakes loose dark's clinging dregs, waves freeIn dripping glory. Prone the runnels plunge,While earth, distent with moisture like a sponge,Smokes up, and leaves each plant its gem to see,Each grass-blade's glory-glitter. Had I knownThe torrent now turned river?—masterfulMaking its rush o'er tumbled ravage—stoneAnd stub which barred the froths and foams: no bullEver broke bounds in formidable sportMore overwhelmingly, till lo, the spasmSets him to dare that last mad leap: reportWho may—his fortunes in the deathly chasmThat swallows him in silence! Rather turnWhither, upon the upland, pedestalledInto the broad day-splendor, whom discernThese eyes but thee, supreme one, rightly calledMoon-maid in heaven above and, here below,Earth's huntress-queen? I note the garb succinctSaving from smirch that purity of snowFrom breast to knee—snow's self with just the tinctOf the apple-blossom's heart-blush. Ah, the bowSlack-strung her fingers grasp, where, ivory-linkedHorn curving blends with horn, a moonlike pairWhich mimic the brow's crescent sparkling so—As if a star's live restless fragment winkedProud yet repugnant, captive in such hair!What hope along the hillside, what far blissLets the crisp hair-plaits fall so low they kissThose lucid shoulders? Must a morn so blitheNeeds have its sorrow when the twang and hissTell that from out thy sheaf one shaft makes writheIts victim, thou unerring Artemis?Why did the chamois stand so fair a markArrested by the novel shape he dreamedWas bred of liquid marble in the darkDepths of the mountain's womb which ever teemedWith novel births of wonder? Not one sparkOf pity in that steel-gray glance which gleamedAt the poor hoof's protesting as it stampedIdly the granite? Let me glide unseenFrom thy proud presence: well mayst thou be queenOf all those strange and sudden deaths which dampedSo oft Love's torch and Hymen's taper litFor happy marriage till the maidens paledAnd perished on the temple-step, assailedBy—what except to envy must man's witImpute that sure implacable releaseOf life from warmth and joy? But death means peace.

But morning's laugh sets all the crags alight

Above the baffled tempest: tree and tree

Stir themselves from the stupor of the night,

And every strangled branch resumes its right

To breathe, shakes loose dark's clinging dregs, waves free

In dripping glory. Prone the runnels plunge,

While earth, distent with moisture like a sponge,

Smokes up, and leaves each plant its gem to see,

Each grass-blade's glory-glitter. Had I known

The torrent now turned river?—masterful

Making its rush o'er tumbled ravage—stone

And stub which barred the froths and foams: no bull

Ever broke bounds in formidable sport

More overwhelmingly, till lo, the spasm

Sets him to dare that last mad leap: report

Who may—his fortunes in the deathly chasm

That swallows him in silence! Rather turn

Whither, upon the upland, pedestalled

Into the broad day-splendor, whom discern

These eyes but thee, supreme one, rightly called

Moon-maid in heaven above and, here below,

Earth's huntress-queen? I note the garb succinct

Saving from smirch that purity of snow

From breast to knee—snow's self with just the tinct

Of the apple-blossom's heart-blush. Ah, the bow

Slack-strung her fingers grasp, where, ivory-linked

Horn curving blends with horn, a moonlike pair

Which mimic the brow's crescent sparkling so—

As if a star's live restless fragment winked

Proud yet repugnant, captive in such hair!

What hope along the hillside, what far bliss

Lets the crisp hair-plaits fall so low they kiss

Those lucid shoulders? Must a morn so blithe

Needs have its sorrow when the twang and hiss

Tell that from out thy sheaf one shaft makes writhe

Its victim, thou unerring Artemis?

Why did the chamois stand so fair a mark

Arrested by the novel shape he dreamed

Was bred of liquid marble in the dark

Depths of the mountain's womb which ever teemed

With novel births of wonder? Not one spark

Of pity in that steel-gray glance which gleamed

At the poor hoof's protesting as it stamped

Idly the granite? Let me glide unseen

From thy proud presence: well mayst thou be queen

Of all those strange and sudden deaths which damped

So oft Love's torch and Hymen's taper lit

For happy marriage till the maidens paled

And perished on the temple-step, assailed

By—what except to envy must man's wit

Impute that sure implacable release

Of life from warmth and joy? But death means peace.

Noon is the conqueror,—not a spray, nor leaf,Nor herb, nor blossom but has rendered upIts morning dew: the valley seemed one cupOf cloud-smoke, but the vapor's reign was brief;Sun-smitten, see, it hangs—the filmy haze—Gray-garmenting the herbless mountain-side,To soothe the day's sharp glare: while far and wideAbove unclouded burns the sky, one blazeWith fierce immitigable blue, no birdVentures to spot by passage. E'en of peaksWhich still presume there, plain each pale point speaksIn wan transparency of waste incurredBy over-daring: far from me be such!Deep in the hollow, rather, where combineTree, shrub and brier to roof with shade and coolThe remnant of some lily-strangled pool,Edged round with mossy fringing soft and fine.Smooth lie the bottom slabs, and overheadWatch elder, bramble, rose, and service-treeAnd one beneficent rich barberryJewelled all over with fruit-pendants red.What have I seen! O Satyr, well I knowHow sad thy case, and what a world of woeWas hid by the brown visage furry-framedOnly for mirth: who otherwise could think—Marking thy mouth gape still on laughter's brink,Thine eyes a-swim with merriment unnamedBut haply guessed at by their furtive wink?And all the while a heart was panting sickBehind that shaggy bulwark of thy breast—Passion it was that made those breath-bursts thickI took for mirth, subsiding into rest.So, it was Lyda—she of all the trainOf forest-thridding nymphs,—'twas only sheTurned from thy rustic homage in disdain,Saw but that poor uncouth outside of thee,And, from her circling sisters, mocked a painEcho had pitied—whom Pan loved in vain—For she was wishful to partake thy glee,Mimic thy mirth—who loved her not again,Savage for Lyda's sake. She crouches there—Thy cruel beauty, slumberously laidSupine on heaped-up beast-skins, unawareThy steps have traced her to the briery glade,Thy greedy hands disclose the cradling lair,Thy hot eyes reach and revel on the maid!

Noon is the conqueror,—not a spray, nor leaf,

Nor herb, nor blossom but has rendered up

Its morning dew: the valley seemed one cup

Of cloud-smoke, but the vapor's reign was brief;

Sun-smitten, see, it hangs—the filmy haze—

Gray-garmenting the herbless mountain-side,

To soothe the day's sharp glare: while far and wide

Above unclouded burns the sky, one blaze

With fierce immitigable blue, no bird

Ventures to spot by passage. E'en of peaks

Which still presume there, plain each pale point speaks

In wan transparency of waste incurred

By over-daring: far from me be such!

Deep in the hollow, rather, where combine

Tree, shrub and brier to roof with shade and cool

The remnant of some lily-strangled pool,

Edged round with mossy fringing soft and fine.

Smooth lie the bottom slabs, and overhead

Watch elder, bramble, rose, and service-tree

And one beneficent rich barberry

Jewelled all over with fruit-pendants red.

What have I seen! O Satyr, well I know

How sad thy case, and what a world of woe

Was hid by the brown visage furry-framed

Only for mirth: who otherwise could think—

Marking thy mouth gape still on laughter's brink,

Thine eyes a-swim with merriment unnamed

But haply guessed at by their furtive wink?

And all the while a heart was panting sick

Behind that shaggy bulwark of thy breast—

Passion it was that made those breath-bursts thick

I took for mirth, subsiding into rest.

So, it was Lyda—she of all the train

Of forest-thridding nymphs,—'twas only she

Turned from thy rustic homage in disdain,

Saw but that poor uncouth outside of thee,

And, from her circling sisters, mocked a pain

Echo had pitied—whom Pan loved in vain—

For she was wishful to partake thy glee,

Mimic thy mirth—who loved her not again,

Savage for Lyda's sake. She crouches there—

Thy cruel beauty, slumberously laid

Supine on heaped-up beast-skins, unaware

Thy steps have traced her to the briery glade,

Thy greedy hands disclose the cradling lair,

Thy hot eyes reach and revel on the maid!

Now, what should this be for? The sun's declineSeems as he lingered lest he lose some actDread and decisive, some prodigious factLike thunder from the safe sky's sapphirineAbout to alter earth's conditions, packedWith fate for nature's self that waits, awareWhat mischief unsuspected in the airMenaces momently a cataract.Therefore it is that yonder space extendsUntrenched upon by any vagrant tree,Shrub, weed well-nigh; they keep their bounds, leave freeThe platform for what actors? Foes or friends,Here come they trooping silent: heaven suspendsPurpose the while they range themselves. I see!Bent on a battle, two vast powers agreeThis present and no after-contest endsOne or the other's grasp at rule in reachOver the race of man—host fronting host,As statue statue fronts—wrath-molten each,Solidified by hate,—earth halved almost,To close once more in chaos. Yet two shapesShow prominent, each from the universeOf minions round about him, that disperseLike cloud-obstruction when a bolt escapes.Who flames first? Macedonian, is it thou?Ay, and who fronts thee, King Darius, drapesHis form with purple, fillet-folds his brow.

Now, what should this be for? The sun's decline

Seems as he lingered lest he lose some act

Dread and decisive, some prodigious fact

Like thunder from the safe sky's sapphirine

About to alter earth's conditions, packed

With fate for nature's self that waits, aware

What mischief unsuspected in the air

Menaces momently a cataract.

Therefore it is that yonder space extends

Untrenched upon by any vagrant tree,

Shrub, weed well-nigh; they keep their bounds, leave free

The platform for what actors? Foes or friends,

Here come they trooping silent: heaven suspends

Purpose the while they range themselves. I see!

Bent on a battle, two vast powers agree

This present and no after-contest ends

One or the other's grasp at rule in reach

Over the race of man—host fronting host,

As statue statue fronts—wrath-molten each,

Solidified by hate,—earth halved almost,

To close once more in chaos. Yet two shapes

Show prominent, each from the universe

Of minions round about him, that disperse

Like cloud-obstruction when a bolt escapes.

Who flames first? Macedonian, is it thou?

Ay, and who fronts thee, King Darius, drapes

His form with purple, fillet-folds his brow.

XII

What, then the long day dies at last? AbruptThe sun that seemed, in stooping, sure to meltOur mountain-ridge, is mastered: black the beltOf westward crags, his gold could not corrupt,Barriers again the valley, lets the flowOf lavish glory waste itself away—Whither? For new climes, fresh eyes breaks the day!Night was not to be baffled. If the glowWere all that's gone from us! Did clouds, afloatSo filmily but now, discard no rose,Sombre throughout the fleeciness that growsA sullen uniformity. I noteRather displeasure,—in the overspreadChange from the swim of gold to one pale leadOppressive to malevolence,—than lateThose amorous yearnings when the aggregateOf cloudlets pressed that each and all might sateIts passion and partake in relics redOf day's bequeathment: now, a frown insteadEstranges, and affrights who needs must fareOn and on till his journey ends: but where?Caucasus? Lost now in the night. AwayAnd far enough lies that Arcadia.The human heroes tread the world's dark wayNo longer. Yet I dimly see almost—Yes, for my last adventure! 'Tis a ghost.So drops away the beauty! There he standsVoiceless, scarce strives with deprecating hands ...

What, then the long day dies at last? Abrupt

The sun that seemed, in stooping, sure to melt

Our mountain-ridge, is mastered: black the belt

Of westward crags, his gold could not corrupt,

Barriers again the valley, lets the flow

Of lavish glory waste itself away

—Whither? For new climes, fresh eyes breaks the day!

Night was not to be baffled. If the glow

Were all that's gone from us! Did clouds, afloat

So filmily but now, discard no rose,

Sombre throughout the fleeciness that grows

A sullen uniformity. I note

Rather displeasure,—in the overspread

Change from the swim of gold to one pale lead

Oppressive to malevolence,—than late

Those amorous yearnings when the aggregate

Of cloudlets pressed that each and all might sate

Its passion and partake in relics red

Of day's bequeathment: now, a frown instead

Estranges, and affrights who needs must fare

On and on till his journey ends: but where?

Caucasus? Lost now in the night. Away

And far enough lies that Arcadia.

The human heroes tread the world's dark way

No longer. Yet I dimly see almost—

Yes, for my last adventure! 'Tis a ghost.

So drops away the beauty! There he stands

Voiceless, scarce strives with deprecating hands ...

XIII

Enough! Stop further fooling, De Lairesse!My fault, not yours! Some fitter way expressHeart's satisfaction that the Past indeedIs past, gives way before Life's best and last,The all-including Future! What were lifeDid soul stand still therein, forego her strifeThrough the ambiguous Present to the goalOf some all-reconciling Future? Soul,Nothing has been which shall not bettered beHereafter,—leave the root, by law's decreeWhence springs the ultimate and perfect tree!Busy thee with unearthing root? Nay, climb—Quit trunk, branch, leaf and flower—reach, rest sublimeWhere fruitage ripens in the blaze of day!O'erlook, despise, forget, throw flower away,Intent on progress? No whit more than stopAscent therewith to dally, screen the topSufficiency of yield by interposedTwistwork bold foot gets free from. Wherefore glozedThe poets—"Dream afresh old godlike shapes,Recapture ancient fable that escapes,Push back reality, repeople earthWith vanished falseness, recognize no worthIn fact new-born unless 't is rendered backPallid by fancy, as the western rackOf fading cloud bequeaths the lake some gleamOf its gone glory!"

Enough! Stop further fooling, De Lairesse!

My fault, not yours! Some fitter way express

Heart's satisfaction that the Past indeed

Is past, gives way before Life's best and last,

The all-including Future! What were life

Did soul stand still therein, forego her strife

Through the ambiguous Present to the goal

Of some all-reconciling Future? Soul,

Nothing has been which shall not bettered be

Hereafter,—leave the root, by law's decree

Whence springs the ultimate and perfect tree!

Busy thee with unearthing root? Nay, climb—

Quit trunk, branch, leaf and flower—reach, rest sublime

Where fruitage ripens in the blaze of day!

O'erlook, despise, forget, throw flower away,

Intent on progress? No whit more than stop

Ascent therewith to dally, screen the top

Sufficiency of yield by interposed

Twistwork bold foot gets free from. Wherefore glozed

The poets—"Dream afresh old godlike shapes,

Recapture ancient fable that escapes,

Push back reality, repeople earth

With vanished falseness, recognize no worth

In fact new-born unless 't is rendered back

Pallid by fancy, as the western rack

Of fading cloud bequeaths the lake some gleam

Of its gone glory!"

XIV

Let things be—not seem,I counsel rather,—do, and nowise dream!Earth's young significance is all to learn:The dead Greek lore lies buried in the urnWhere who seeks fire finds ashes. Ghost, forsooth!What was the best Greece babbled of as truth?"A shade, a wretched nothing,—sad, thin, drear,Cold, dark, it holds on to the lost loves here,If hand have haply sprinkled o'er the deadThree charitable dust-heaps, made mouth redOne moment by the sip of sacrifice:Just so much comfort thaws the stubborn iceSlow-thickening upward till it choke at lengthThe last faint flutter craving—not for strength,Not beauty, not the riches and the ruleO'er men that made life life indeed." Sad schoolWas Hades! Gladly,—might the dead but slinkTo life back,—to the dregs once more would drinkEach interloper, drain the humblest cupFate mixes for humanity.

Let things be—not seem,

I counsel rather,—do, and nowise dream!

Earth's young significance is all to learn:

The dead Greek lore lies buried in the urn

Where who seeks fire finds ashes. Ghost, forsooth!

What was the best Greece babbled of as truth?

"A shade, a wretched nothing,—sad, thin, drear,

Cold, dark, it holds on to the lost loves here,

If hand have haply sprinkled o'er the dead

Three charitable dust-heaps, made mouth red

One moment by the sip of sacrifice:

Just so much comfort thaws the stubborn ice

Slow-thickening upward till it choke at length

The last faint flutter craving—not for strength,

Not beauty, not the riches and the rule

O'er men that made life life indeed." Sad school

Was Hades! Gladly,—might the dead but slink

To life back,—to the dregs once more would drink

Each interloper, drain the humblest cup

Fate mixes for humanity.

Cheer up,—Be death with me, as with Achilles erst,Of Man's calamities the last and worst:Take it so! By proved potency that stillMakes perfect, be assured, come what come will,What once lives never dies—what here attainsTo a beginning, has no end, still gainsAnd never loses aught: when, where, and how—Lies in Law's lap. What 's death then? Even nowWith so much knowledge is it hard to bearBrief interposing ignorance? Is careFor a creation found at fault just there—There where the heart breaks bond and outruns time,To reach not follow what shall be?

Cheer up,—

Be death with me, as with Achilles erst,

Of Man's calamities the last and worst:

Take it so! By proved potency that still

Makes perfect, be assured, come what come will,

What once lives never dies—what here attains

To a beginning, has no end, still gains

And never loses aught: when, where, and how—

Lies in Law's lap. What 's death then? Even now

With so much knowledge is it hard to bear

Brief interposing ignorance? Is care

For a creation found at fault just there—

There where the heart breaks bond and outruns time,

To reach not follow what shall be?

XVI

Here 's rhymeSuch as one makes now,—say, when Spring repeatsThat miracle the Greek Bard sadly greets:"Spring for the tree and herb—no Spring for us!"Let Spring come: why, a man salutes her thus:

Here 's rhyme

Such as one makes now,—say, when Spring repeats

That miracle the Greek Bard sadly greets:

"Spring for the tree and herb—no Spring for us!"

Let Spring come: why, a man salutes her thus:

Dance, yellows and whites and reds,—Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, headsAstir with the wind in the tulip-beds!

Dance, yellows and whites and reds,—

Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, heads

Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds!

There 's sunshine; scarcely a wind at allDisturbs starved grass and daisies smallOn a certain mound by a churchyard wall.

There 's sunshine; scarcely a wind at all

Disturbs starved grass and daisies small

On a certain mound by a churchyard wall.

Daisies and grass be my heart's bedfellowsOn the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows:Dance you, reds and whites and yellows!

Daisies and grass be my heart's bedfellows

On the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows:

Dance you, reds and whites and yellows!

The manuscript of theGrand Marchwritten by Avison was in the possession of Browning's father, and a copy is given at the end of the poem. TheRelfewho is two or three times mentioned was Browning's teacher of music, who was a learned contrapuntist.

IHow strange!—but, first of all, the little factWhich led my fancy forth. This bitter mornShowed me no object in the stretch forlornOf garden-ground beneath my window, backedBy yon worn wall wherefrom the creeper, tackedTo clothe its brickwork, hangs now, rent and rackedBy five months' cruel winter,—showed no tornAnd tattered ravage worse for eyes to seeThan just one ugly space of clearance, leftBare even of the bones which used to beWarm wrappage, safe embracement: this one cleft——Oh, what a life and beauty filled it upStartlingly, when methought the rude clay cupRan over with poured bright wine! 'T was a birdBreast-deep there, tugging at his prize, deterredNo whit by the fast-falling snow-flake: gainSuch prize my blackcap must by might and main—The cloth-shred, still a-flutter from its nailThat fixed a spray once. Now, what told the taleTo thee,—no townsman but born orchard-thief,—That here—surpassing moss-tuft, beard from sheafOf sun-scorched barley, horsehairs long and stout,All proper country-pillage—here, no doubt,Was just the scrap to steal should line thy nestSuperbly? Off he flew, his bill possessedThe booty sure to set his wife's each wingGreenly a-quiver. How they climb and cling,Hang parrot-wise to bough, these blackcaps! StrangeSeemed to a city-dweller that the finchShould stray so far to forage: at a pinch,Was not the fine wool's self within his range—Filchings on every fence? But no: the needWas of this rag of manufacture, spoiledBy art, and yet by nature near unsoiled,New-suited to what scheming finch would breedIn comfort, this uncomfortable March.IIYet—by the first pink blossom on the larch!—This was scarce stranger than that memory,—In want of what should cheer the stay-at-home,My soul,—must straight clap pinion, well-nigh roamA century back, nor once close plume, descryThe appropriate rag to plunder, till she pounced—Pray, on what relic of a brain long still?What old-world work proved forage for the billOf memory the far-flyer? "March" announced,I verily believe, the dead and goneName of a music-maker: one of suchIn England as did little or did much,But, doing, had their day once. Avison!Singly and solely for an air of thine,Bold-stepping "March," foot stept to ere my handCould stretch an octave, I o'erlooked the bandOf majesties familiar, to declineOn thee—not too conspicuous on the listOf worthies who by help of pipe or wireExpressed in sound rough rage or soft desire—Thou, whilom of Newcastle organist!IIISo much could one—well, thinnish air effect!Am I ungrateful? for, your March, styled "Grand,"Did veritably seem to grow, expand,And greaten up to title as, unchecked,Dream-marchers marched, kept marching, slow and sure,In time, to tune, unchangeably the same,From nowhere into nowhere,—out they came,Onward they passed, and in they went. No lureOf novel modulation pricked the flatForthright persisting melody,—no hintThat discord, sound asleep beneath the flint,Struck—might spring spark-like, claim due tit-for-tat,Quenched in a concord. No! Yet, such the mightOf quietude's immutability,That somehow coldness gathered warmth, well-nighQuickened—which could not be!—grew burning-brightWith fife-shriek, cymbal-clash and trumpet-blare,To drum-accentuation: pacing turnedStriding, and striding grew gigantic, spurnedAt last the narrow space 'twixt earth and air,So shook me back into my sober self.IVAnd where woke I? The March had set me downThere whence I plucked the measure, as his brownFrayed flannel-bit my blackcap. Great John Relfe,Master of mine, learned, redoubtable,It little needed thy consummate skillTo fitly figure such a bass! The keyWas—should not memory play me false—well, C.Ay, with the Greater Third, in Triple Time,Three crochets to a bar: no change, I grant,Except from Tonic down to Dominant.And yet—and yet—if I could put in rhymeThe manner of that marching!—which had stopped—I wonder, where?—but that my weak self droppedFrom out the ranks, to rub eyes disentrancedAnd feel that, after all the way advanced,Back must I foot it, I and my compeers,Only to reach, across a hundred years,The bandsman Avison whose little bookAnd large tune thus had led me the long way(As late a rag my blackcap) from to-dayAnd to-day's music-manufacture,—Brahms,Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt,—to where—trumpets, shawms,Show yourselves joyful!—Handel reigns—supreme?By no means! Buononcini's work is themeFor fit laudation of the impartial few:(We stand in England, mind you!) Fashion tooFavors Geminiani—of those choiceConcertos: nor there wants a certain voiceRaised in thy favor likewise, famed PepuschDear to our great-grandfathers! In a bushOf Doctor's wig, they prized thee timing beatsWhile Greenway trilled "Alexis." Such were featsOf music in thy day—dispute who list—Avison, of Newcastle organist!VAnd here 's your music all alive once more—As once it was alive, at least: just soThe figured worthies of a waxwork-showAttest—such people, years and years ago,Looked thus when outside death had life below,—Could say "We are now" not "We were of yore,"—"Feel how our pulses leap!" and not "Explore—Explain why quietude has settled o'erSurface once all awork!" Ay, such a "Suite"Roused heart to rapture, such a "Fugue" would catchSoul heavenwards up, when time was: why attachBlame to exhausted faultlessness, no matchFor fresh achievement? Feat once—ever feat!How can completion grow still more complete?Hear Avison! He tenders evidenceThat music in his day as much absorbedHeart and soul then as Wagner's music now,Perfect from centre to circumference—Orbed to the full can be but fully orbed:And yet—and yet—whence comes it that "O Thou"—Sighed by the soul at eve to Hesperus—Will not again take wing and fly away(Since fatal Wagner fixed it fast for us)In some unmodulated minor? Nay,Even by Handel's help!VII state it thus:There is no truer truth obtainableBy Man than comes of music. "Soul"—(acceptA word which vaguely names what no adeptIn word-use fits and fixes so that stillThing shall not slip word's fetter and remainInnominate as first, yet, free again,Is no less recognized the absoluteFact underlying that same other factConcerning which no cavil can disputeOur nomenclature when we call it "Mind"—Something not Matter)—"Soul," who seeks shall findDistinct beneath that something. You exactAn illustrative image? This may suit.VIIWe see a work: the worker works behind,Invisible himself. Suppose his actBe to o'erarch a gulf: he digs, transports,Shapes and, through enginery—all sizes, sorts,Lays stone by stone until a floor compactProves our bridged causeway. So works Mind—by stressOf faculty, with loose facts, more or less,Builds up our solid knowledge: all the same,Underneath rolls what Mind may hide not tame,An element which works beyond our guess,Soul, the unsounded sea—whose lift of surge,Spite of all superstructure, lets emerge,In flower and foam, Feeling from out the deepsMind arrogates no mastery upon—Distinct indisputably. Has there goneTo dig up, drag forth, render smooth from roughMind's flooring,—operosity enough?Still the successive labor of each inch,Who lists may learn: from the last turn of winchThat let the polished slab-stone find its place,To the first prod of pickaxe at the baseOf the unquarried mountain,—what was allMind's varied process except natural,Nay, easy even, to descry, describe,After our fashion? "So worked Mind: its tribeOf senses ministrant above, below,Far, near, or now or haply long agoBrought to pass knowledge." But Soul's sea,—drawn whence,Fed how, forced whither,—by what evidenceOf ebb and flow, that 's felt beneath the tread,Soul has its course 'neath Mind's work overhead,—Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul?Yet wherefore heaving sway and restless rollThis side and that, except to emulateStability above? To match and mateFeeling with knowledge,—make as manifestSoul's work as Mind's work, turbulence as rest,Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears, that rise and sinkCeaselessly, passion's transient flit and wink,A ripple's tinting or a spume-sheet's spreadWhitening the wave,—to strike all this life dead,Run mercury into a mould like lead,And henceforth have the plain result to show—How we Feel, hard and fast as what we Know—This were the prize and is the puzzle!—whichMusic essays to solve: and here 's the hitchThat balks her of full triumph else to boast.VIIIAll Arts endeavor this, and she the mostAttains thereto, yet fails of touching: why?Does Mind get Knowledge from Art's ministry?What 's known once is known ever: Arts arrange,Dissociate, re-distribute, interchangePart with part, lengthen, broaden, high or deepConstruct their bravest,—still such pains produceChange, not creation: simply what lay looseAt first lies firmly after, what designWas faintly traced in hesitating lineOnce on a time, grows firmly resoluteHenceforth and evermore. Now, could we shootLiquidity into a mould,—some wayArrest Soul's evanescent moods, and keepUnalterably still the forms that leapTo life for once by help of Art!—which yearnsTo save its capture: Poetry discerns,Painting is 'ware of passion's rise and fall,Bursting, subsidence, intermixture—allA-seethe within the gulf. Each Art a-strainWould stay the apparition,—nor in vain:The Poet's word-mesh, Painter's sure and swiftColor-and-line-throw—proud the prize they lift!Thus felt Man and thus looked Man,—passions caughtI' the midway swim of sea,—not much, if aught,Of nether-brooding loves, hates, hopes and fears,Enwombed past Art's disclosure. Fleet the years,And still the Poet's page holds HelenaAt gaze from topmost Troy—"But where are they,My brothers, in the armament I nameHero by hero? Can it be that shameFor their lost sister holds them from the war?"—Knowing not they already slept afarEach of them in his own dear native land.Still on the Painter's fresco, from the handOf God takes Eve the life-spark whereuntoShe trembles up from nothingness. OutdoBoth of them, Music! Dredging deeper yet,Drag into day,—by sound, thy master-net,—The abysmal bottom-growth, ambiguous thingUnbroken of a branch, palpitatingWith limbs' play and life's semblance! There it lies.Marvel and mystery, of mysteriesAnd marvels, most to love and laud thee for!Save it from chance and change we most abhor!Give momentary feeling permanence,So that thy capture hold, a century hence,Truth's very heart of truth as, safe to-day,The Painter's Eve, the Poet's HelenaStill rapturously bend, afar still throwThe wistful gaze! Thanks, Homer, Angelo!Could Music rescue thus from Soul's profound,Give feeling immortality by sound,Then were she queenliest of Arts! Alas—As well expect the rainbow not to pass!"Praise 'Radamisto'—love attains thereinTo perfect utterance! Pity—what shall winThy secret like 'Rinaldo'?"—so men said:Once all was perfume—now, the flower is dead—They spied tints, sparks have left the spar! Love, hate,Joy, fear, survive,—alike importunateAs ever to go walk the world again,Nor ghost-like pant for outlet all in vainTill Music loose them, fit each filmilyWith form enough to know and name it byFor any recognizer sure of kenAnd sharp of ear, no grosser denizenOf earth than needs be. Nor to such appealIs Music long obdurate: off they steal—How gently, dawn-doomed phantoms! back come theyFull-blooded with new crimson of broad day—Passion made palpable once more. Ye lookYour last on Handel? Gaze your first on Gluck!Why wistful search, O waning ones, the chartOf stars for you while Haydn, while MozartOccupies heaven? These also, fanned to fire,Flamboyant wholly,—so perfections tire,—Whiten to wanness, till ... let others noteThe ever-new invasion!IXI devoteRather my modicum of parts to useWhat power may yet avail to re-infuse(In fancy, please you!) sleep that looks like deathWith momentary liveliness, lend breathTo make the torpor half inhale. O Relfe,An all-unworthy pupil, from the shelfOf thy laboratory, dares unstopBottle, ope box, extract thence pinch and dropOf dusts and dews a many thou didst shrineEach in its right receptacle, assignTo each its proper office, letter largeLabel and label, then with solemn charge,Reviewing learnedly the list completeOf chemical reactives, from thy feetPush down the same to me, attent below,Power in abundance: armed wherewith I goTo play the enlivener. Bring good antique stuff!Was it alight once? Still lives spark enoughFor breath to quicken, run the smouldering ashRed right-through. What, "stone-dead" were fools so rashAs style my Avison, because he lackedModern appliance, spread out phrase unrackedBy modulations fit to make each hairStiffen upon his wig? See there—and there!I sprinkle my reactives, pitch broadcastDiscords and resolutions, turn aghastMelody's easy-going, jostle lawWith license, modulate (no Bach in awe)Change enharmonically (Hudl to thank)And lo, upstart the flamelets,—what was blankTurns scarlet, purple, crimson! Straightway scannedBy eyes that like new lustre—Love once moreYearns through the Largo, Hatred as beforeRages in the Rubato: e'en thy March,My Avison, which, sooth to say—(ne'er archEyebrows in anger!)—timed, in Georgian yearsThe step precise of British GrenadiersTo such a nicety,—if score I crowd,If rhythm I break, if beats I vary,—tapAt bar's off-starting turns true thunder-clap,Eyer the pace augmented till—what 's here?Titanic striding toward Olympus!XFearNo such irreverent innovation! StillGlide on, go rolling, water-like, at will—Nay, were thy melody in monotone,The due three-parts dispensed with!XIThis aloneComes of my tiresome talking: Music's throneSeats somebody whom somebody unseats,And whom in turn—by who knows what new featsOf strength—shall somebody as sure push down,Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown,And orb imperial—whereto? Never dreamThat what once lived shall ever die! They seemDead—do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? BringOur life to kindle theirs, and straight each kingStarts, you shall see, stands up, from head to footNo inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (SuitMeasure to subject, first—no marching onYet in thy bold C major, Avison,As suited step a minute since: no: wait—Into the minor key first modulate—Gently with A, now—in the Lesser Third!)XIIOf all the lamentable debts incurredBy Man through buying knowledge, this were worst:That he should find his last gain prove his firstWas futile—merely nescience absolute,Not knowledge in the bud which holds a fruitHaply undreamed of in the soul's Spring-tide,Pursed in the petals Summer opens wide,And Autumn, withering, rounds to perfect ripe,—Not this,—but ignorance, a blur to wipeFrom human records, late it graced so much."Truth—this attainment? Ah, but such and suchBeliefs of yore seemed inexpugnableWhen we attained them! E'en as they, so willThis their successor have the due morn, noon,Evening and night—just as an old-world tuneWears out and drops away, until who hearsSmilingly questions—'This it was brought tearsOnce to all eyes,—this roused heart's rapture once?'So will it be with truth that, for the nonce,Styles itself truth perennial: 'ware its wile!Knowledge turns nescience,—foremost on the file,Simply proves first of our delusions."XIIINow—Blare it forth, bold C major! Lift thy brow,Man, the immortal, that wast never fooledWith gifts no gifts at all, nor ridiculed—Man knowing—he who nothing knew! As Hope,Fear, Joy, and Grief,—though ampler stretch and scopeThey seek and find in novel rhythm, fresh phrase,—Were equally existent in far daysOf Music's dim beginning—even so,Truth was at full within thee long ago,Alive as now it takes what latest shapeMay startle thee by strangeness. Truths escapeTime's insufficient garniture: they fade,They fall—those sheathings now grown sere, whose aidWas infinite to truth they wrapped, saved fineAnd free through March frost: May dews crystallineNourish truth merely,—does June boast the fruitAs—not new vesture merely but, to boot,Novel creation? Soon shall fade and fallMyth after myth—the husk-like lies I callNew truth's corolla-safeguard: Autumn comes,So much the better!XIVTherefore—bang the drums,Blow the trumpets, Avison! March-motive? that'sTruth which endures resetting. Sharps and flats,Lavish at need, shall dance athwart thy scoreWhen ophicleide and bombardon's uproarMate the approaching trample, even nowBig in the distance—or my ears deceive—Of federated England, fitly weaveMarch-music for the Future!XVOr supposeBack, and not forward, transformation goes?Once more some sable-stoled procession—say,From Little-ease to Tyburn—wends its way,Out of the dungeon to the gallows-treeWhere heading, hacking, hanging is to beOf half-a-dozen recusants—this dayThree hundred years ago! How duly dronesElizabethan plain-song—dim antiqueGrown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreakA classic vengeance on thy March! It moans—Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quiteCrotchet-and-quaver pertness—brushing barsAside and filling vacant sky with starsHidden till now that day return to night.XVINor night nor day: one purpose move us both,Be thy mood mine! As thou wast minded, Man 'sThe cause our music champions: I were lothTo think we cheered our troop to Preston PansIgnobly: back to times of England's best!Parliament stands for privilege—life and limbGuards Hollis, Haselrig, Strode, Hampden, Pym,The famous Five. There 's rumor of arrest.Bring up the Train Bands, Southwark! They protest:Shall we not all join chorus? Hark the hymn,—Rough, rude, robustious—homely heart a-throb,Harsh voice a-hallo, as beseems the mob!How good is noise! what 's silence but despairOf making sound match gladness never there?Give me some great glad "subject," glorious Bach,Where cannon-roar not organ-peal we lack!Join in, give voice robustious rude and rough,—Avison helps—so heart lend noise enough!Fife, trump, drum, sound! and singers thenMarching say "Pym, the man of men!"Up, heads, your proudest,—out throats, your loudest—"Somerset's Pym!"Strafford from the block, Eliot from the den,Foes, friends, shout "Pym, our citizen!"Wail, the foes he quelled,—hail, the friends he held,"Tavistock's Pym!"Hearts prompt heads, hands that ply the penTeach babes unborn the where and when.—Tyrants, he braved them,—patriots, he saved them—"Westminster's Pym!"

How strange!—but, first of all, the little factWhich led my fancy forth. This bitter mornShowed me no object in the stretch forlornOf garden-ground beneath my window, backedBy yon worn wall wherefrom the creeper, tackedTo clothe its brickwork, hangs now, rent and rackedBy five months' cruel winter,—showed no tornAnd tattered ravage worse for eyes to seeThan just one ugly space of clearance, leftBare even of the bones which used to beWarm wrappage, safe embracement: this one cleft——Oh, what a life and beauty filled it upStartlingly, when methought the rude clay cupRan over with poured bright wine! 'T was a birdBreast-deep there, tugging at his prize, deterredNo whit by the fast-falling snow-flake: gainSuch prize my blackcap must by might and main—The cloth-shred, still a-flutter from its nailThat fixed a spray once. Now, what told the taleTo thee,—no townsman but born orchard-thief,—That here—surpassing moss-tuft, beard from sheafOf sun-scorched barley, horsehairs long and stout,All proper country-pillage—here, no doubt,Was just the scrap to steal should line thy nestSuperbly? Off he flew, his bill possessedThe booty sure to set his wife's each wingGreenly a-quiver. How they climb and cling,Hang parrot-wise to bough, these blackcaps! StrangeSeemed to a city-dweller that the finchShould stray so far to forage: at a pinch,Was not the fine wool's self within his range—Filchings on every fence? But no: the needWas of this rag of manufacture, spoiledBy art, and yet by nature near unsoiled,New-suited to what scheming finch would breedIn comfort, this uncomfortable March.

How strange!—but, first of all, the little fact

Which led my fancy forth. This bitter morn

Showed me no object in the stretch forlorn

Of garden-ground beneath my window, backed

By yon worn wall wherefrom the creeper, tacked

To clothe its brickwork, hangs now, rent and racked

By five months' cruel winter,—showed no torn

And tattered ravage worse for eyes to see

Than just one ugly space of clearance, left

Bare even of the bones which used to be

Warm wrappage, safe embracement: this one cleft—

—Oh, what a life and beauty filled it up

Startlingly, when methought the rude clay cup

Ran over with poured bright wine! 'T was a bird

Breast-deep there, tugging at his prize, deterred

No whit by the fast-falling snow-flake: gain

Such prize my blackcap must by might and main—

The cloth-shred, still a-flutter from its nail

That fixed a spray once. Now, what told the tale

To thee,—no townsman but born orchard-thief,—

That here—surpassing moss-tuft, beard from sheaf

Of sun-scorched barley, horsehairs long and stout,

All proper country-pillage—here, no doubt,

Was just the scrap to steal should line thy nest

Superbly? Off he flew, his bill possessed

The booty sure to set his wife's each wing

Greenly a-quiver. How they climb and cling,

Hang parrot-wise to bough, these blackcaps! Strange

Seemed to a city-dweller that the finch

Should stray so far to forage: at a pinch,

Was not the fine wool's self within his range

—Filchings on every fence? But no: the need

Was of this rag of manufacture, spoiled

By art, and yet by nature near unsoiled,

New-suited to what scheming finch would breed

In comfort, this uncomfortable March.

Yet—by the first pink blossom on the larch!—This was scarce stranger than that memory,—In want of what should cheer the stay-at-home,My soul,—must straight clap pinion, well-nigh roamA century back, nor once close plume, descryThe appropriate rag to plunder, till she pounced—Pray, on what relic of a brain long still?What old-world work proved forage for the billOf memory the far-flyer? "March" announced,I verily believe, the dead and goneName of a music-maker: one of suchIn England as did little or did much,But, doing, had their day once. Avison!Singly and solely for an air of thine,Bold-stepping "March," foot stept to ere my handCould stretch an octave, I o'erlooked the bandOf majesties familiar, to declineOn thee—not too conspicuous on the listOf worthies who by help of pipe or wireExpressed in sound rough rage or soft desire—Thou, whilom of Newcastle organist!

Yet—by the first pink blossom on the larch!—

This was scarce stranger than that memory,—

In want of what should cheer the stay-at-home,

My soul,—must straight clap pinion, well-nigh roam

A century back, nor once close plume, descry

The appropriate rag to plunder, till she pounced—

Pray, on what relic of a brain long still?

What old-world work proved forage for the bill

Of memory the far-flyer? "March" announced,

I verily believe, the dead and gone

Name of a music-maker: one of such

In England as did little or did much,

But, doing, had their day once. Avison!

Singly and solely for an air of thine,

Bold-stepping "March," foot stept to ere my hand

Could stretch an octave, I o'erlooked the band

Of majesties familiar, to decline

On thee—not too conspicuous on the list

Of worthies who by help of pipe or wire

Expressed in sound rough rage or soft desire—

Thou, whilom of Newcastle organist!

III

So much could one—well, thinnish air effect!Am I ungrateful? for, your March, styled "Grand,"Did veritably seem to grow, expand,And greaten up to title as, unchecked,Dream-marchers marched, kept marching, slow and sure,In time, to tune, unchangeably the same,From nowhere into nowhere,—out they came,Onward they passed, and in they went. No lureOf novel modulation pricked the flatForthright persisting melody,—no hintThat discord, sound asleep beneath the flint,Struck—might spring spark-like, claim due tit-for-tat,Quenched in a concord. No! Yet, such the mightOf quietude's immutability,That somehow coldness gathered warmth, well-nighQuickened—which could not be!—grew burning-brightWith fife-shriek, cymbal-clash and trumpet-blare,To drum-accentuation: pacing turnedStriding, and striding grew gigantic, spurnedAt last the narrow space 'twixt earth and air,So shook me back into my sober self.

So much could one—well, thinnish air effect!

Am I ungrateful? for, your March, styled "Grand,"

Did veritably seem to grow, expand,

And greaten up to title as, unchecked,

Dream-marchers marched, kept marching, slow and sure,

In time, to tune, unchangeably the same,

From nowhere into nowhere,—out they came,

Onward they passed, and in they went. No lure

Of novel modulation pricked the flat

Forthright persisting melody,—no hint

That discord, sound asleep beneath the flint,

Struck—might spring spark-like, claim due tit-for-tat,

Quenched in a concord. No! Yet, such the might

Of quietude's immutability,

That somehow coldness gathered warmth, well-nigh

Quickened—which could not be!—grew burning-bright

With fife-shriek, cymbal-clash and trumpet-blare,

To drum-accentuation: pacing turned

Striding, and striding grew gigantic, spurned

At last the narrow space 'twixt earth and air,

So shook me back into my sober self.

And where woke I? The March had set me downThere whence I plucked the measure, as his brownFrayed flannel-bit my blackcap. Great John Relfe,Master of mine, learned, redoubtable,It little needed thy consummate skillTo fitly figure such a bass! The keyWas—should not memory play me false—well, C.Ay, with the Greater Third, in Triple Time,Three crochets to a bar: no change, I grant,Except from Tonic down to Dominant.And yet—and yet—if I could put in rhymeThe manner of that marching!—which had stopped—I wonder, where?—but that my weak self droppedFrom out the ranks, to rub eyes disentrancedAnd feel that, after all the way advanced,Back must I foot it, I and my compeers,Only to reach, across a hundred years,The bandsman Avison whose little bookAnd large tune thus had led me the long way(As late a rag my blackcap) from to-dayAnd to-day's music-manufacture,—Brahms,Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt,—to where—trumpets, shawms,Show yourselves joyful!—Handel reigns—supreme?By no means! Buononcini's work is themeFor fit laudation of the impartial few:(We stand in England, mind you!) Fashion tooFavors Geminiani—of those choiceConcertos: nor there wants a certain voiceRaised in thy favor likewise, famed PepuschDear to our great-grandfathers! In a bushOf Doctor's wig, they prized thee timing beatsWhile Greenway trilled "Alexis." Such were featsOf music in thy day—dispute who list—Avison, of Newcastle organist!

And where woke I? The March had set me down

There whence I plucked the measure, as his brown

Frayed flannel-bit my blackcap. Great John Relfe,

Master of mine, learned, redoubtable,

It little needed thy consummate skill

To fitly figure such a bass! The key

Was—should not memory play me false—well, C.

Ay, with the Greater Third, in Triple Time,

Three crochets to a bar: no change, I grant,

Except from Tonic down to Dominant.

And yet—and yet—if I could put in rhyme

The manner of that marching!—which had stopped

—I wonder, where?—but that my weak self dropped

From out the ranks, to rub eyes disentranced

And feel that, after all the way advanced,

Back must I foot it, I and my compeers,

Only to reach, across a hundred years,

The bandsman Avison whose little book

And large tune thus had led me the long way

(As late a rag my blackcap) from to-day

And to-day's music-manufacture,—Brahms,

Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt,—to where—trumpets, shawms,

Show yourselves joyful!—Handel reigns—supreme?

By no means! Buononcini's work is theme

For fit laudation of the impartial few:

(We stand in England, mind you!) Fashion too

Favors Geminiani—of those choice

Concertos: nor there wants a certain voice

Raised in thy favor likewise, famed Pepusch

Dear to our great-grandfathers! In a bush

Of Doctor's wig, they prized thee timing beats

While Greenway trilled "Alexis." Such were feats

Of music in thy day—dispute who list—

Avison, of Newcastle organist!

And here 's your music all alive once more—As once it was alive, at least: just soThe figured worthies of a waxwork-showAttest—such people, years and years ago,Looked thus when outside death had life below,—Could say "We are now" not "We were of yore,"—"Feel how our pulses leap!" and not "Explore—Explain why quietude has settled o'erSurface once all awork!" Ay, such a "Suite"Roused heart to rapture, such a "Fugue" would catchSoul heavenwards up, when time was: why attachBlame to exhausted faultlessness, no matchFor fresh achievement? Feat once—ever feat!How can completion grow still more complete?Hear Avison! He tenders evidenceThat music in his day as much absorbedHeart and soul then as Wagner's music now,Perfect from centre to circumference—Orbed to the full can be but fully orbed:And yet—and yet—whence comes it that "O Thou"—Sighed by the soul at eve to Hesperus—Will not again take wing and fly away(Since fatal Wagner fixed it fast for us)In some unmodulated minor? Nay,Even by Handel's help!

And here 's your music all alive once more—

As once it was alive, at least: just so

The figured worthies of a waxwork-show

Attest—such people, years and years ago,

Looked thus when outside death had life below,

—Could say "We are now" not "We were of yore,"

—"Feel how our pulses leap!" and not "Explore—

Explain why quietude has settled o'er

Surface once all awork!" Ay, such a "Suite"

Roused heart to rapture, such a "Fugue" would catch

Soul heavenwards up, when time was: why attach

Blame to exhausted faultlessness, no match

For fresh achievement? Feat once—ever feat!

How can completion grow still more complete?

Hear Avison! He tenders evidence

That music in his day as much absorbed

Heart and soul then as Wagner's music now,

Perfect from centre to circumference—

Orbed to the full can be but fully orbed:

And yet—and yet—whence comes it that "O Thou"—

Sighed by the soul at eve to Hesperus—

Will not again take wing and fly away

(Since fatal Wagner fixed it fast for us)

In some unmodulated minor? Nay,

Even by Handel's help!

I state it thus:There is no truer truth obtainableBy Man than comes of music. "Soul"—(acceptA word which vaguely names what no adeptIn word-use fits and fixes so that stillThing shall not slip word's fetter and remainInnominate as first, yet, free again,Is no less recognized the absoluteFact underlying that same other factConcerning which no cavil can disputeOur nomenclature when we call it "Mind"—Something not Matter)—"Soul," who seeks shall findDistinct beneath that something. You exactAn illustrative image? This may suit.

I state it thus:

There is no truer truth obtainable

By Man than comes of music. "Soul"—(accept

A word which vaguely names what no adept

In word-use fits and fixes so that still

Thing shall not slip word's fetter and remain

Innominate as first, yet, free again,

Is no less recognized the absolute

Fact underlying that same other fact

Concerning which no cavil can dispute

Our nomenclature when we call it "Mind"—

Something not Matter)—"Soul," who seeks shall find

Distinct beneath that something. You exact

An illustrative image? This may suit.

VII

We see a work: the worker works behind,Invisible himself. Suppose his actBe to o'erarch a gulf: he digs, transports,Shapes and, through enginery—all sizes, sorts,Lays stone by stone until a floor compactProves our bridged causeway. So works Mind—by stressOf faculty, with loose facts, more or less,Builds up our solid knowledge: all the same,Underneath rolls what Mind may hide not tame,An element which works beyond our guess,Soul, the unsounded sea—whose lift of surge,Spite of all superstructure, lets emerge,In flower and foam, Feeling from out the deepsMind arrogates no mastery upon—Distinct indisputably. Has there goneTo dig up, drag forth, render smooth from roughMind's flooring,—operosity enough?Still the successive labor of each inch,Who lists may learn: from the last turn of winchThat let the polished slab-stone find its place,To the first prod of pickaxe at the baseOf the unquarried mountain,—what was allMind's varied process except natural,Nay, easy even, to descry, describe,After our fashion? "So worked Mind: its tribeOf senses ministrant above, below,Far, near, or now or haply long agoBrought to pass knowledge." But Soul's sea,—drawn whence,Fed how, forced whither,—by what evidenceOf ebb and flow, that 's felt beneath the tread,Soul has its course 'neath Mind's work overhead,—Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul?Yet wherefore heaving sway and restless rollThis side and that, except to emulateStability above? To match and mateFeeling with knowledge,—make as manifestSoul's work as Mind's work, turbulence as rest,Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears, that rise and sinkCeaselessly, passion's transient flit and wink,A ripple's tinting or a spume-sheet's spreadWhitening the wave,—to strike all this life dead,Run mercury into a mould like lead,And henceforth have the plain result to show—How we Feel, hard and fast as what we Know—This were the prize and is the puzzle!—whichMusic essays to solve: and here 's the hitchThat balks her of full triumph else to boast.

We see a work: the worker works behind,

Invisible himself. Suppose his act

Be to o'erarch a gulf: he digs, transports,

Shapes and, through enginery—all sizes, sorts,

Lays stone by stone until a floor compact

Proves our bridged causeway. So works Mind—by stress

Of faculty, with loose facts, more or less,

Builds up our solid knowledge: all the same,

Underneath rolls what Mind may hide not tame,

An element which works beyond our guess,

Soul, the unsounded sea—whose lift of surge,

Spite of all superstructure, lets emerge,

In flower and foam, Feeling from out the deeps

Mind arrogates no mastery upon—

Distinct indisputably. Has there gone

To dig up, drag forth, render smooth from rough

Mind's flooring,—operosity enough?

Still the successive labor of each inch,

Who lists may learn: from the last turn of winch

That let the polished slab-stone find its place,

To the first prod of pickaxe at the base

Of the unquarried mountain,—what was all

Mind's varied process except natural,

Nay, easy even, to descry, describe,

After our fashion? "So worked Mind: its tribe

Of senses ministrant above, below,

Far, near, or now or haply long ago

Brought to pass knowledge." But Soul's sea,—drawn whence,

Fed how, forced whither,—by what evidence

Of ebb and flow, that 's felt beneath the tread,

Soul has its course 'neath Mind's work overhead,—

Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul?

Yet wherefore heaving sway and restless roll

This side and that, except to emulate

Stability above? To match and mate

Feeling with knowledge,—make as manifest

Soul's work as Mind's work, turbulence as rest,

Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears, that rise and sink

Ceaselessly, passion's transient flit and wink,

A ripple's tinting or a spume-sheet's spread

Whitening the wave,—to strike all this life dead,

Run mercury into a mould like lead,

And henceforth have the plain result to show—

How we Feel, hard and fast as what we Know—

This were the prize and is the puzzle!—which

Music essays to solve: and here 's the hitch

That balks her of full triumph else to boast.

VIII

All Arts endeavor this, and she the mostAttains thereto, yet fails of touching: why?Does Mind get Knowledge from Art's ministry?What 's known once is known ever: Arts arrange,Dissociate, re-distribute, interchangePart with part, lengthen, broaden, high or deepConstruct their bravest,—still such pains produceChange, not creation: simply what lay looseAt first lies firmly after, what designWas faintly traced in hesitating lineOnce on a time, grows firmly resoluteHenceforth and evermore. Now, could we shootLiquidity into a mould,—some wayArrest Soul's evanescent moods, and keepUnalterably still the forms that leapTo life for once by help of Art!—which yearnsTo save its capture: Poetry discerns,Painting is 'ware of passion's rise and fall,Bursting, subsidence, intermixture—allA-seethe within the gulf. Each Art a-strainWould stay the apparition,—nor in vain:The Poet's word-mesh, Painter's sure and swiftColor-and-line-throw—proud the prize they lift!Thus felt Man and thus looked Man,—passions caughtI' the midway swim of sea,—not much, if aught,Of nether-brooding loves, hates, hopes and fears,Enwombed past Art's disclosure. Fleet the years,And still the Poet's page holds HelenaAt gaze from topmost Troy—"But where are they,My brothers, in the armament I nameHero by hero? Can it be that shameFor their lost sister holds them from the war?"—Knowing not they already slept afarEach of them in his own dear native land.Still on the Painter's fresco, from the handOf God takes Eve the life-spark whereuntoShe trembles up from nothingness. OutdoBoth of them, Music! Dredging deeper yet,Drag into day,—by sound, thy master-net,—The abysmal bottom-growth, ambiguous thingUnbroken of a branch, palpitatingWith limbs' play and life's semblance! There it lies.Marvel and mystery, of mysteriesAnd marvels, most to love and laud thee for!Save it from chance and change we most abhor!Give momentary feeling permanence,So that thy capture hold, a century hence,Truth's very heart of truth as, safe to-day,The Painter's Eve, the Poet's HelenaStill rapturously bend, afar still throwThe wistful gaze! Thanks, Homer, Angelo!Could Music rescue thus from Soul's profound,Give feeling immortality by sound,Then were she queenliest of Arts! Alas—As well expect the rainbow not to pass!"Praise 'Radamisto'—love attains thereinTo perfect utterance! Pity—what shall winThy secret like 'Rinaldo'?"—so men said:Once all was perfume—now, the flower is dead—They spied tints, sparks have left the spar! Love, hate,Joy, fear, survive,—alike importunateAs ever to go walk the world again,Nor ghost-like pant for outlet all in vainTill Music loose them, fit each filmilyWith form enough to know and name it byFor any recognizer sure of kenAnd sharp of ear, no grosser denizenOf earth than needs be. Nor to such appealIs Music long obdurate: off they steal—How gently, dawn-doomed phantoms! back come theyFull-blooded with new crimson of broad day—Passion made palpable once more. Ye lookYour last on Handel? Gaze your first on Gluck!Why wistful search, O waning ones, the chartOf stars for you while Haydn, while MozartOccupies heaven? These also, fanned to fire,Flamboyant wholly,—so perfections tire,—Whiten to wanness, till ... let others noteThe ever-new invasion!

All Arts endeavor this, and she the most

Attains thereto, yet fails of touching: why?

Does Mind get Knowledge from Art's ministry?

What 's known once is known ever: Arts arrange,

Dissociate, re-distribute, interchange

Part with part, lengthen, broaden, high or deep

Construct their bravest,—still such pains produce

Change, not creation: simply what lay loose

At first lies firmly after, what design

Was faintly traced in hesitating line

Once on a time, grows firmly resolute

Henceforth and evermore. Now, could we shoot

Liquidity into a mould,—some way

Arrest Soul's evanescent moods, and keep

Unalterably still the forms that leap

To life for once by help of Art!—which yearns

To save its capture: Poetry discerns,

Painting is 'ware of passion's rise and fall,

Bursting, subsidence, intermixture—all

A-seethe within the gulf. Each Art a-strain

Would stay the apparition,—nor in vain:

The Poet's word-mesh, Painter's sure and swift

Color-and-line-throw—proud the prize they lift!

Thus felt Man and thus looked Man,—passions caught

I' the midway swim of sea,—not much, if aught,

Of nether-brooding loves, hates, hopes and fears,

Enwombed past Art's disclosure. Fleet the years,

And still the Poet's page holds Helena

At gaze from topmost Troy—"But where are they,

My brothers, in the armament I name

Hero by hero? Can it be that shame

For their lost sister holds them from the war?"

—Knowing not they already slept afar

Each of them in his own dear native land.

Still on the Painter's fresco, from the hand

Of God takes Eve the life-spark whereunto

She trembles up from nothingness. Outdo

Both of them, Music! Dredging deeper yet,

Drag into day,—by sound, thy master-net,—

The abysmal bottom-growth, ambiguous thing

Unbroken of a branch, palpitating

With limbs' play and life's semblance! There it lies.

Marvel and mystery, of mysteries

And marvels, most to love and laud thee for!

Save it from chance and change we most abhor!

Give momentary feeling permanence,

So that thy capture hold, a century hence,

Truth's very heart of truth as, safe to-day,

The Painter's Eve, the Poet's Helena

Still rapturously bend, afar still throw

The wistful gaze! Thanks, Homer, Angelo!

Could Music rescue thus from Soul's profound,

Give feeling immortality by sound,

Then were she queenliest of Arts! Alas—

As well expect the rainbow not to pass!

"Praise 'Radamisto'—love attains therein

To perfect utterance! Pity—what shall win

Thy secret like 'Rinaldo'?"—so men said:

Once all was perfume—now, the flower is dead—

They spied tints, sparks have left the spar! Love, hate,

Joy, fear, survive,—alike importunate

As ever to go walk the world again,

Nor ghost-like pant for outlet all in vain

Till Music loose them, fit each filmily

With form enough to know and name it by

For any recognizer sure of ken

And sharp of ear, no grosser denizen

Of earth than needs be. Nor to such appeal

Is Music long obdurate: off they steal—

How gently, dawn-doomed phantoms! back come they

Full-blooded with new crimson of broad day—

Passion made palpable once more. Ye look

Your last on Handel? Gaze your first on Gluck!

Why wistful search, O waning ones, the chart

Of stars for you while Haydn, while Mozart

Occupies heaven? These also, fanned to fire,

Flamboyant wholly,—so perfections tire,—

Whiten to wanness, till ... let others note

The ever-new invasion!

I devoteRather my modicum of parts to useWhat power may yet avail to re-infuse(In fancy, please you!) sleep that looks like deathWith momentary liveliness, lend breathTo make the torpor half inhale. O Relfe,An all-unworthy pupil, from the shelfOf thy laboratory, dares unstopBottle, ope box, extract thence pinch and dropOf dusts and dews a many thou didst shrineEach in its right receptacle, assignTo each its proper office, letter largeLabel and label, then with solemn charge,Reviewing learnedly the list completeOf chemical reactives, from thy feetPush down the same to me, attent below,Power in abundance: armed wherewith I goTo play the enlivener. Bring good antique stuff!Was it alight once? Still lives spark enoughFor breath to quicken, run the smouldering ashRed right-through. What, "stone-dead" were fools so rashAs style my Avison, because he lackedModern appliance, spread out phrase unrackedBy modulations fit to make each hairStiffen upon his wig? See there—and there!I sprinkle my reactives, pitch broadcastDiscords and resolutions, turn aghastMelody's easy-going, jostle lawWith license, modulate (no Bach in awe)Change enharmonically (Hudl to thank)And lo, upstart the flamelets,—what was blankTurns scarlet, purple, crimson! Straightway scannedBy eyes that like new lustre—Love once moreYearns through the Largo, Hatred as beforeRages in the Rubato: e'en thy March,My Avison, which, sooth to say—(ne'er archEyebrows in anger!)—timed, in Georgian yearsThe step precise of British GrenadiersTo such a nicety,—if score I crowd,If rhythm I break, if beats I vary,—tapAt bar's off-starting turns true thunder-clap,Eyer the pace augmented till—what 's here?Titanic striding toward Olympus!

I devote

Rather my modicum of parts to use

What power may yet avail to re-infuse

(In fancy, please you!) sleep that looks like death

With momentary liveliness, lend breath

To make the torpor half inhale. O Relfe,

An all-unworthy pupil, from the shelf

Of thy laboratory, dares unstop

Bottle, ope box, extract thence pinch and drop

Of dusts and dews a many thou didst shrine

Each in its right receptacle, assign

To each its proper office, letter large

Label and label, then with solemn charge,

Reviewing learnedly the list complete

Of chemical reactives, from thy feet

Push down the same to me, attent below,

Power in abundance: armed wherewith I go

To play the enlivener. Bring good antique stuff!

Was it alight once? Still lives spark enough

For breath to quicken, run the smouldering ash

Red right-through. What, "stone-dead" were fools so rash

As style my Avison, because he lacked

Modern appliance, spread out phrase unracked

By modulations fit to make each hair

Stiffen upon his wig? See there—and there!

I sprinkle my reactives, pitch broadcast

Discords and resolutions, turn aghast

Melody's easy-going, jostle law

With license, modulate (no Bach in awe)

Change enharmonically (Hudl to thank)

And lo, upstart the flamelets,—what was blank

Turns scarlet, purple, crimson! Straightway scanned

By eyes that like new lustre—Love once more

Yearns through the Largo, Hatred as before

Rages in the Rubato: e'en thy March,

My Avison, which, sooth to say—(ne'er arch

Eyebrows in anger!)—timed, in Georgian years

The step precise of British Grenadiers

To such a nicety,—if score I crowd,

If rhythm I break, if beats I vary,—tap

At bar's off-starting turns true thunder-clap,

Eyer the pace augmented till—what 's here?

Titanic striding toward Olympus!

FearNo such irreverent innovation! StillGlide on, go rolling, water-like, at will—Nay, were thy melody in monotone,The due three-parts dispensed with!

Fear

No such irreverent innovation! Still

Glide on, go rolling, water-like, at will—

Nay, were thy melody in monotone,

The due three-parts dispensed with!

This aloneComes of my tiresome talking: Music's throneSeats somebody whom somebody unseats,And whom in turn—by who knows what new featsOf strength—shall somebody as sure push down,Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown,And orb imperial—whereto? Never dreamThat what once lived shall ever die! They seemDead—do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? BringOur life to kindle theirs, and straight each kingStarts, you shall see, stands up, from head to footNo inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (SuitMeasure to subject, first—no marching onYet in thy bold C major, Avison,As suited step a minute since: no: wait—Into the minor key first modulate—Gently with A, now—in the Lesser Third!)

This alone

Comes of my tiresome talking: Music's throne

Seats somebody whom somebody unseats,

And whom in turn—by who knows what new feats

Of strength—shall somebody as sure push down,

Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown,

And orb imperial—whereto? Never dream

That what once lived shall ever die! They seem

Dead—do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? Bring

Our life to kindle theirs, and straight each king

Starts, you shall see, stands up, from head to foot

No inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (Suit

Measure to subject, first—no marching on

Yet in thy bold C major, Avison,

As suited step a minute since: no: wait—

Into the minor key first modulate—

Gently with A, now—in the Lesser Third!)

XII

Of all the lamentable debts incurredBy Man through buying knowledge, this were worst:That he should find his last gain prove his firstWas futile—merely nescience absolute,Not knowledge in the bud which holds a fruitHaply undreamed of in the soul's Spring-tide,Pursed in the petals Summer opens wide,And Autumn, withering, rounds to perfect ripe,—Not this,—but ignorance, a blur to wipeFrom human records, late it graced so much."Truth—this attainment? Ah, but such and suchBeliefs of yore seemed inexpugnableWhen we attained them! E'en as they, so willThis their successor have the due morn, noon,Evening and night—just as an old-world tuneWears out and drops away, until who hearsSmilingly questions—'This it was brought tearsOnce to all eyes,—this roused heart's rapture once?'So will it be with truth that, for the nonce,Styles itself truth perennial: 'ware its wile!Knowledge turns nescience,—foremost on the file,Simply proves first of our delusions."

Of all the lamentable debts incurred

By Man through buying knowledge, this were worst:

That he should find his last gain prove his first

Was futile—merely nescience absolute,

Not knowledge in the bud which holds a fruit

Haply undreamed of in the soul's Spring-tide,

Pursed in the petals Summer opens wide,

And Autumn, withering, rounds to perfect ripe,—

Not this,—but ignorance, a blur to wipe

From human records, late it graced so much.

"Truth—this attainment? Ah, but such and such

Beliefs of yore seemed inexpugnable

When we attained them! E'en as they, so will

This their successor have the due morn, noon,

Evening and night—just as an old-world tune

Wears out and drops away, until who hears

Smilingly questions—'This it was brought tears

Once to all eyes,—this roused heart's rapture once?'

So will it be with truth that, for the nonce,

Styles itself truth perennial: 'ware its wile!

Knowledge turns nescience,—foremost on the file,

Simply proves first of our delusions."

XIII

Now—Blare it forth, bold C major! Lift thy brow,Man, the immortal, that wast never fooledWith gifts no gifts at all, nor ridiculed—Man knowing—he who nothing knew! As Hope,Fear, Joy, and Grief,—though ampler stretch and scopeThey seek and find in novel rhythm, fresh phrase,—Were equally existent in far daysOf Music's dim beginning—even so,Truth was at full within thee long ago,Alive as now it takes what latest shapeMay startle thee by strangeness. Truths escapeTime's insufficient garniture: they fade,They fall—those sheathings now grown sere, whose aidWas infinite to truth they wrapped, saved fineAnd free through March frost: May dews crystallineNourish truth merely,—does June boast the fruitAs—not new vesture merely but, to boot,Novel creation? Soon shall fade and fallMyth after myth—the husk-like lies I callNew truth's corolla-safeguard: Autumn comes,So much the better!

Now—

Blare it forth, bold C major! Lift thy brow,

Man, the immortal, that wast never fooled

With gifts no gifts at all, nor ridiculed—

Man knowing—he who nothing knew! As Hope,

Fear, Joy, and Grief,—though ampler stretch and scope

They seek and find in novel rhythm, fresh phrase,—

Were equally existent in far days

Of Music's dim beginning—even so,

Truth was at full within thee long ago,

Alive as now it takes what latest shape

May startle thee by strangeness. Truths escape

Time's insufficient garniture: they fade,

They fall—those sheathings now grown sere, whose aid

Was infinite to truth they wrapped, saved fine

And free through March frost: May dews crystalline

Nourish truth merely,—does June boast the fruit

As—not new vesture merely but, to boot,

Novel creation? Soon shall fade and fall

Myth after myth—the husk-like lies I call

New truth's corolla-safeguard: Autumn comes,

So much the better!

XIV

Therefore—bang the drums,Blow the trumpets, Avison! March-motive? that'sTruth which endures resetting. Sharps and flats,Lavish at need, shall dance athwart thy scoreWhen ophicleide and bombardon's uproarMate the approaching trample, even nowBig in the distance—or my ears deceive—Of federated England, fitly weaveMarch-music for the Future!

Therefore—bang the drums,

Blow the trumpets, Avison! March-motive? that's

Truth which endures resetting. Sharps and flats,

Lavish at need, shall dance athwart thy score

When ophicleide and bombardon's uproar

Mate the approaching trample, even now

Big in the distance—or my ears deceive—

Of federated England, fitly weave

March-music for the Future!

Or supposeBack, and not forward, transformation goes?Once more some sable-stoled procession—say,From Little-ease to Tyburn—wends its way,Out of the dungeon to the gallows-treeWhere heading, hacking, hanging is to beOf half-a-dozen recusants—this dayThree hundred years ago! How duly dronesElizabethan plain-song—dim antiqueGrown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreakA classic vengeance on thy March! It moans—Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quiteCrotchet-and-quaver pertness—brushing barsAside and filling vacant sky with starsHidden till now that day return to night.

Or suppose

Back, and not forward, transformation goes?

Once more some sable-stoled procession—say,

From Little-ease to Tyburn—wends its way,

Out of the dungeon to the gallows-tree

Where heading, hacking, hanging is to be

Of half-a-dozen recusants—this day

Three hundred years ago! How duly drones

Elizabethan plain-song—dim antique

Grown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreak

A classic vengeance on thy March! It moans—

Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quite

Crotchet-and-quaver pertness—brushing bars

Aside and filling vacant sky with stars

Hidden till now that day return to night.

XVI

Nor night nor day: one purpose move us both,Be thy mood mine! As thou wast minded, Man 'sThe cause our music champions: I were lothTo think we cheered our troop to Preston PansIgnobly: back to times of England's best!Parliament stands for privilege—life and limbGuards Hollis, Haselrig, Strode, Hampden, Pym,The famous Five. There 's rumor of arrest.Bring up the Train Bands, Southwark! They protest:Shall we not all join chorus? Hark the hymn,—Rough, rude, robustious—homely heart a-throb,Harsh voice a-hallo, as beseems the mob!How good is noise! what 's silence but despairOf making sound match gladness never there?Give me some great glad "subject," glorious Bach,Where cannon-roar not organ-peal we lack!Join in, give voice robustious rude and rough,—Avison helps—so heart lend noise enough!

Nor night nor day: one purpose move us both,

Be thy mood mine! As thou wast minded, Man 's

The cause our music champions: I were loth

To think we cheered our troop to Preston Pans

Ignobly: back to times of England's best!

Parliament stands for privilege—life and limb

Guards Hollis, Haselrig, Strode, Hampden, Pym,

The famous Five. There 's rumor of arrest.

Bring up the Train Bands, Southwark! They protest:

Shall we not all join chorus? Hark the hymn,

—Rough, rude, robustious—homely heart a-throb,

Harsh voice a-hallo, as beseems the mob!

How good is noise! what 's silence but despair

Of making sound match gladness never there?

Give me some great glad "subject," glorious Bach,

Where cannon-roar not organ-peal we lack!

Join in, give voice robustious rude and rough,—

Avison helps—so heart lend noise enough!

Fife, trump, drum, sound! and singers thenMarching say "Pym, the man of men!"Up, heads, your proudest,—out throats, your loudest—"Somerset's Pym!"

Fife, trump, drum, sound! and singers then

Marching say "Pym, the man of men!"

Up, heads, your proudest,—out throats, your loudest—

"Somerset's Pym!"

Strafford from the block, Eliot from the den,Foes, friends, shout "Pym, our citizen!"Wail, the foes he quelled,—hail, the friends he held,"Tavistock's Pym!"

Strafford from the block, Eliot from the den,

Foes, friends, shout "Pym, our citizen!"

Wail, the foes he quelled,—hail, the friends he held,

"Tavistock's Pym!"

Hearts prompt heads, hands that ply the penTeach babes unborn the where and when.—Tyrants, he braved them,—patriots, he saved them—"Westminster's Pym!"

Hearts prompt heads, hands that ply the pen

Teach babes unborn the where and when.

—Tyrants, he braved them,—patriots, he saved them—

"Westminster's Pym!"

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