RECOLLECTIONS.Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not thinkI should again be turning, as I used,To see you over father’s garden shine,And from the windows talk with you againOf this old house, where as a child I dwelt,And where I saw the end of all my joys.What charming images, what fables, once,The sight of you created in my thought,And of the lights that bear you company!Silent upon the verdant clod I sat,My evening thus consuming, as I gazedUpon the heavens, and listened to the chantOf frogs that in the distant marshes croaked;While o’er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed,And the green avenues and cypressesIn yonder grove were murmuring to the wind;While in the house were heard, at intervals,The voices of the servants at their work.What thoughts immense in me the sight inspiredOf that far sea, and of the mountains blue,That yonder I behold, and which I thoughtOne day to cross, mysterious worlds and joysMysterious in the future fancying!Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oftThis sorrowful and barren life of mineI willingly would have for death exchanged!Nor did my heart e’er tell me, I should beCondemned the flower of my youth to spendIn this wild native region, and amongstA wretched, clownish crew, to whom the namesOf wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds,Or arguments of laughter and of scorn;Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no;For they do not esteem me better thanThemselves, but fancy that I, in my heart,That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed,No token of such feeling to display.And here I pass my years, abandoned, lost,Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce,’Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones,My pity and my courtesy I lose,And I become a scorner of my race,By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, flyThe precious hours of youth, more precious farThan fame, or laurel, or the light of day,Or breath of life: thus uselessly, withoutOne joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode,Whose only guests are care and suffering,O thou, the only flower of barren life!The wind now from the tower of the townThe deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh,What comfort was that sound to me, a child,When in my dark and silent room I lay,Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn!Whate’er I see or hear, recalls to mindSome vivid image, recollection sweet;Sweet in itself, but O how bitter madeBy painful sense of present suffering,By idle longing for the past, though sad,And by the still recurring thought, “I was”!Yon gallery that looks upon the west;Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sunJust rising o’er the solitary plain,My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled,While busy Fancy, at my side, still spreadHer bright illusions, wheresoe’er I went.In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without,And round these ample windows howled the wind,My sports resounded, and my merry words,In those bright days, when all the mysteriesAnd miseries of things an aspect wear,So full of sweetness; when the ardent youthSees in his untried life a world of charms,And, like an unexperienced lover, dotesOn heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!O hopes, illusions of my early days!—Of you I still must speak, to you return;For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts,Or feelings, can efface you from my mind.Full well I know that honor and renownAre phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream;That life, a useless misery, has notOne solid fruit to show; and though my daysAre empty, wearisome, my mortal stateObscure and desolate, I clearly seeThat Fortune robs me but of little. Yet,Alas! as often as I dwell on you,Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy’s dreams,And then look at the blank reality,A life of ennui and of wretchedness;And think, that of so vast a fund of hope,Death is, to-day, the only relic left,I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myselfOf every comfort utterly bereft.And when the death, that I have long invoked,Shall be at hand, the end be reached of allMy sufferings; when this vale of tears shall beTo me a stranger, and the future fade,Fade from sight forever; even then, shall IRecall you; and your images will makeMe sigh; the thought of having lived in vain,Will then intrude, with bitterness to taintThe sweetness of that day of destiny.Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth,With all its joys, desires, and sufferings,I often called on death, and long would sitBy yonder fountain, longing, in its wavesTo put an end alike to hope and grief.And afterwards, by lingering sickness broughtUnto the borders of the grave, I weptO’er my lost youth, the flower of my days,So prematurely fading; often, too,At late hours sitting on my conscious bed,Composing, by the dim light of the lamp,I with the silence and the night would moanO’er my departing soul, and to myselfIn languid tones would sing my funeral-song.Who can remember you without a sigh,First entrance into manhood, O ye daysBewitching, inexpressible, when firstOn the enchanted mortal smiles the maid,And all things round in emulation smile;And envy holds its peace, not yet awake,Or else in a benignant mood; and when,—O marvel rare!—the world a helping handTo him extends, his faults excuses, greetsHis entrance into life, with bows and smilesAcknowledges his claims to its respect?O fleeting days! How like the lightning’s flash,They vanish! And what mortal can escapeUnhappiness, who has already passedThat golden period, his owngoodtime,That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?And thou, Nerina, does not every spotThy memory recall? And couldst thou e’erBe absent from my thought? Where art thou gone,That here I find the memory alone,Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native placeBeholds no more; that window, whence thou oftWouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflectsThe light of yonder stars, is desolate.Where art thou, that I can no longer hearThy gentle voice, as in those days of old,When every faintest accent from thy lipsWas wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone.Theyhave been, my sweet love! And thou with themHast passed. To others now it is assignedTo journey to and fro upon the earth,And others dwell amid these fragrant hills.How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was likeA dream. While dancing there, joy on thy browResplendent shone, anticipations brightShone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when FateExtinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie.Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns.If I at times still go unto some feast,Or social gathering, unto myselfI say: “Nerina, thou no more to feastDost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn.”If May returns, when lovers offeringsOf flowers and of songs to maidens bring,I say: “Nerina mine, to thee spring ne’erReturns, and love no more its tribute brings.”Each pleasant day, each flowery field that IBehold, each pleasure that I taste, the thoughtSuggest: “Nerina pleasure knows no more,The face of heaven and earth no more beholds.”Ah, thou hast passed, for whom I ever sigh!Hast passed; and still the memory of theeRemains, and with each thought and fancy blendsEach varying emotion of the heart;Andwillremain, so bitter, yet so sweet!
Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not thinkI should again be turning, as I used,To see you over father’s garden shine,And from the windows talk with you againOf this old house, where as a child I dwelt,And where I saw the end of all my joys.What charming images, what fables, once,The sight of you created in my thought,And of the lights that bear you company!Silent upon the verdant clod I sat,My evening thus consuming, as I gazedUpon the heavens, and listened to the chantOf frogs that in the distant marshes croaked;While o’er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed,And the green avenues and cypressesIn yonder grove were murmuring to the wind;While in the house were heard, at intervals,The voices of the servants at their work.What thoughts immense in me the sight inspiredOf that far sea, and of the mountains blue,That yonder I behold, and which I thoughtOne day to cross, mysterious worlds and joysMysterious in the future fancying!Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oftThis sorrowful and barren life of mineI willingly would have for death exchanged!
Nor did my heart e’er tell me, I should beCondemned the flower of my youth to spendIn this wild native region, and amongstA wretched, clownish crew, to whom the namesOf wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds,Or arguments of laughter and of scorn;Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no;For they do not esteem me better thanThemselves, but fancy that I, in my heart,That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed,No token of such feeling to display.And here I pass my years, abandoned, lost,Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce,’Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones,My pity and my courtesy I lose,And I become a scorner of my race,By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, flyThe precious hours of youth, more precious farThan fame, or laurel, or the light of day,Or breath of life: thus uselessly, withoutOne joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode,Whose only guests are care and suffering,O thou, the only flower of barren life!
The wind now from the tower of the townThe deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh,What comfort was that sound to me, a child,When in my dark and silent room I lay,Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn!Whate’er I see or hear, recalls to mindSome vivid image, recollection sweet;Sweet in itself, but O how bitter madeBy painful sense of present suffering,By idle longing for the past, though sad,And by the still recurring thought, “I was”!Yon gallery that looks upon the west;Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sunJust rising o’er the solitary plain,My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled,While busy Fancy, at my side, still spreadHer bright illusions, wheresoe’er I went.In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without,And round these ample windows howled the wind,My sports resounded, and my merry words,In those bright days, when all the mysteriesAnd miseries of things an aspect wear,So full of sweetness; when the ardent youthSees in his untried life a world of charms,And, like an unexperienced lover, dotesOn heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!
O hopes, illusions of my early days!—Of you I still must speak, to you return;For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts,Or feelings, can efface you from my mind.Full well I know that honor and renownAre phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream;That life, a useless misery, has notOne solid fruit to show; and though my daysAre empty, wearisome, my mortal stateObscure and desolate, I clearly seeThat Fortune robs me but of little. Yet,Alas! as often as I dwell on you,Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy’s dreams,And then look at the blank reality,A life of ennui and of wretchedness;And think, that of so vast a fund of hope,Death is, to-day, the only relic left,I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myselfOf every comfort utterly bereft.And when the death, that I have long invoked,Shall be at hand, the end be reached of allMy sufferings; when this vale of tears shall beTo me a stranger, and the future fade,Fade from sight forever; even then, shall IRecall you; and your images will makeMe sigh; the thought of having lived in vain,Will then intrude, with bitterness to taintThe sweetness of that day of destiny.
Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth,With all its joys, desires, and sufferings,I often called on death, and long would sitBy yonder fountain, longing, in its wavesTo put an end alike to hope and grief.And afterwards, by lingering sickness broughtUnto the borders of the grave, I weptO’er my lost youth, the flower of my days,So prematurely fading; often, too,At late hours sitting on my conscious bed,Composing, by the dim light of the lamp,I with the silence and the night would moanO’er my departing soul, and to myselfIn languid tones would sing my funeral-song.
Who can remember you without a sigh,First entrance into manhood, O ye daysBewitching, inexpressible, when firstOn the enchanted mortal smiles the maid,And all things round in emulation smile;And envy holds its peace, not yet awake,Or else in a benignant mood; and when,—O marvel rare!—the world a helping handTo him extends, his faults excuses, greetsHis entrance into life, with bows and smilesAcknowledges his claims to its respect?O fleeting days! How like the lightning’s flash,They vanish! And what mortal can escapeUnhappiness, who has already passedThat golden period, his owngoodtime,That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?
And thou, Nerina, does not every spotThy memory recall? And couldst thou e’erBe absent from my thought? Where art thou gone,That here I find the memory alone,Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native placeBeholds no more; that window, whence thou oftWouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflectsThe light of yonder stars, is desolate.Where art thou, that I can no longer hearThy gentle voice, as in those days of old,When every faintest accent from thy lipsWas wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone.Theyhave been, my sweet love! And thou with themHast passed. To others now it is assignedTo journey to and fro upon the earth,And others dwell amid these fragrant hills.How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was likeA dream. While dancing there, joy on thy browResplendent shone, anticipations brightShone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when FateExtinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie.Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns.If I at times still go unto some feast,Or social gathering, unto myselfI say: “Nerina, thou no more to feastDost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn.”If May returns, when lovers offeringsOf flowers and of songs to maidens bring,I say: “Nerina mine, to thee spring ne’erReturns, and love no more its tribute brings.”Each pleasant day, each flowery field that IBehold, each pleasure that I taste, the thoughtSuggest: “Nerina pleasure knows no more,The face of heaven and earth no more beholds.”Ah, thou hast passed, for whom I ever sigh!Hast passed; and still the memory of theeRemains, and with each thought and fancy blendsEach varying emotion of the heart;Andwillremain, so bitter, yet so sweet!