[8]i.e. "Passero Solitario" a bird very common in Italy, shy, and of lonely habits, with dark blue feathers on its breast. Its voice is most melodious.
[8]i.e. "Passero Solitario" a bird very common in Italy, shy, and of lonely habits, with dark blue feathers on its breast. Its voice is most melodious.
THE INFINITE.I always loved this solitary hillAnd this green hedge that hides on every sideThe last and dim horizon from our view.But as I sit and gaze, a never-endingSpace far beyond it and unearthly silenceAnd deepest quiet to my thought I picture,And as with terror is my heart o'ercastWith wondrous awe. And while I hear the windAmid the green leaves rustling, I compareThat silence infinite unto this sound,And to my mind eternity occurs,And all the vanished ages, and the present;Whose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in thisImmensity my thought is drifted on,And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet.THE HOLIDAY NIGHT.The night is fair, without a breath of wind,And on the roofs and gardens full of peaceThe moon reposes and reveals afarEach mountain all serene. O my beloved!The haunts of men are silent; in their homesRarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp.Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrappedWithin thy quiet room; no carking careDisturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or thinkHow deep a wound thou openedst in my heart.Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greetThe firmament, to gaze on so benign,And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways,Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hopeDenied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyesNo other light, save that of tears, may shine."This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastimeThou now dost take repose: perchance in dreamsThose who pleased thee and whom thyself did please,Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes,Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile,I ask myself how much of life remainsFor me to live, and here upon the earth,Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me downIn utter desolation. O ye daysSo full of horror for such early years!Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not farI hear a workman's solitary song;After his joyaunce, in late hours of nightHe is returning to his poor abode;And bitterly my heart is rent in twainWhen I consider all on earth doth passAnd leaveth not a trace. Behold! the dayOf joy is gone, and to its festive hoursThe day of toil succeeds, and time doth takeWhate'er belongs to man. Where, where is nowThe pride of ancient nations? Where the fameOf our renowned forefathers, and the vastDominion of old Rome, the clash of armsResounding o'er the ocean and the earth?All now is peace and silence, and the worldIs wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more.In those beginning years, when eagerlyWe seek the festive day, I lay awakeWhen it was over, tossing full of griefUpon my bed; and in late hours of nightA song I heard upon the road without,Expiring in the distance by degrees,With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.TO THE MOON.O fair and gracious Moon! Well I rememberA year hath passed, since up this very hillI came so full of anguish to behold thee:And o'er yon forest thou didst shed thy beams,As at this moment, filling it with light.But veiled in mist, and tremulous with tearsThat hung upon my lashes, to mine eyesThy radiance did appear, for dark with woeWas then my life, and is, nor will it change,O Moon, thou my adored! And yet I loveTo bear in mind and one by one to countThe slow years of my sorrow. Oh, how sweetIt is to youth, when hope has yet a long,And memory has but a brief, career,To dwell in thought on things for ever past,Though they be sad and though affliction live!SOLITUDE.When on his roost the cock begins to crowAnd beat his wings; and to his work proceedsThe tiller of the soil; and on the dewsThe rising sun his flashing rays doth cast:Upon the panes the morning shower doth beat,Awaking me from slumber with its sound:And I arise and bless the filmy clouds,The birds that tune their notes, the pleasant windAnd the delightful verdure of the meads:Because, ye walls of unpropitious towns,I've seen and known ye far too well, where HateHaunteth Affliction, where I sorrowing live,And so shall die, would it were soon! At leastSome scanty pity is allowed my griefIn these abodes by Nature, once, alas!How kinder far to me! And thou as well,O Nature, turnest from the wretched; fullOf scorn for woe, thou payest homage vileTo Happiness, the universal queen.In Heaven and Earth no friend for the ill-starred,No refuge, death excepted, doth remain!At times I seat me in a lonely spot,Upon a hill, or by a calm lake's bank,Fringed and adorned with flowers taciturn.There, when full mid-day heat informs the sky,His peaceful image doth the sun depict,And to the air moves neither leaf nor herb,And neither ruffling wave nor cricket shrill,Nor birds disporting in the boughs above,Nor fluttering butterfly, nor voice nor stepAfar or near, can sight or hearing find.Those shores are held in deepest quietude:Whence I the world and even myself forget,Seated unmoved; and it appears to meMy body is released, no longer wornWith soul or feeling, and its old reposeIs blended with the silence all around.O fleeting Love! full many a day is goneSince from my bosom thou hast ta'en thy flight,Though fired of yore by most impassioned zeal.It hath been blighted by the frigid handOf cold misfortune, and is turned to iceEven in the time when it should blossom forth.The period I remember when thou firstDidst hold thy court within this heart of mine.It was the time, irrevocably sweet,When youthful eyes are opened to the sceneOf earthly sorrow, and it smiles on themAs though it were a paradise below.The guileless heart of youth doth gladly beatFor virgin hopes and for desires sublime;And the deluded mortal doth prepareFor all the labours of his days to come,As if they were a joyous festivalAnd gay carousah—But I scarcely saw,Love, thine approach, than Fortune harsh destroyedThe tenour of my life, and to these eyesNought else was seemly than eternal tears.But if at times along the sunny meadsIn early morn, or when meridian raysOn hills and plains and houses shed their light,I see the features of a maiden fair;Or when in the untroubled quietudeOf Summer night my vagrant steps proceedAnd guide me to the walls of near abodes,And I behold the lonely scene, and hearA maiden's thrilling voice, who in the hoursOf silent night accompanies her workWith joyous lay; emotion moves my heartThat seemed a stone; but it, alas! returnsEre long to wonted gloom: a stranger nowIs every tender feeling to my soul.O beauteous moon, unto whose tranquil rayThe forest things display their love; and inThe early dawn the hunter doth complain,Finding their traces intricate and false,Erroneous led astray: hail, O benignNocturnal Queen! Unwelcome falls thy lightIn lonely wood or mountainous recessOr ruined building empty, on the steelOf pallid bandit, who with eager earsHearkens afar unto the sound of wheelsAnd horses' hoofs, or to the steps that treadThe quiet road; then suddenly advancing,With clanking arms, and with a rough, rude voice.And with death-boding looks, chills with alarmThe wanderer's heart, and leaves him on the earthDespoiled and well-nigh dead. Unwelcome comesWithin the city precincts, thy clear lightTo paramour ignoble, who doth lurkNear walls and portals, hiding in the shadeOf secret gloom, and standing still and dreadingThe lamps that through the windows pour their ray,And peopled halls. Unwelcome to base minds,To me benign for ever shall thy sightAmid the regions be, where nothing elseThan happy hills and spacious fields thou showestUnto my gaze. And even I was wont,Though innocent my soul, to accuse thy rayDivinely fair in scenes inhabited,When offering me unto the sight of men,And showing human forms unto mine eye.Now shall I praise it ever, when I gazeUpon thee sailing 'mid the clouds, or thouSerenest ruler of ethereal spheres,Art looking down upon the abode of earth.Thou oft shalt see me, taciturn and lone,Wandering in bowers, or through the verdant meads,Or on the grass reclining, well contentIf I have leisure from deep heart to sigh.TO HIS LOVE.Loved beauty, who afar,Or hiding thy sweet face,Inspirest me with amorous delight,Unless in slumberous night,A sacred shade my dreamy visions traceOr when the day doth graceOur verdant meads and fair is Nature's smile:The age, devoid of guile,Perchance thou blessedst, which we golden style,And now amid the raceOf men thou fliest, light as shadows are,Ethereal soul? Or did beguiling FateBid thee, veiled from our eyes, the future times await?To gaze on thee aliveThe hope henceforth is flown,Unless that time when naked and aloneUpon new paths unto a dwelling strangeMy spirit shall proceed. When dawn did riveThe early clouds of my tempestuous day,Methought thou wouldst upon earth's barren soilBe the companion of mine arduous range.But there is nought we on our globe surveyResembling thee; and if with careful toilWe could discover any like to thee,She would less beauteous be,Though much of thine in face, in limb, and voice we'd see.Amid the floods of woeThat Fate hath given to our years below,If son of man thy beauty did adore,Even such as I conceive it in my mind,He would existence, so unblessed before,Sweet and delightful find;And clearly doth to me my spirit tellThat I to praise and glory would aspire,As in mine early years, for love of thee.But Heaven hath not deemed wellTo grant a solace to our misery;And linked to thee, existence would acquireSuch beauty as on high doth bless the heavenly choir.Amid the shady valeWhere sounds the rustic songOf the laborious tiller of the soil,Where seated I bewailThe youthful error that was with me long,But now doth far recoil;And on the hills where I, remembering, weepThe lost desires and the departed hopeOf my sad days, the thought of thee doth keepMy heart from death, and gives life further scope.Could I in this dark age and evil air,Preserve thine image in my soul most deep,'Twere joy enough, for truth can never be our share.If an eternal thoughtThou art, whom ne'er with mortal, fragile frameEternal Wisdom suffers to be fraught,Or to become the preyOf all the sorrows of death-bringing life;Or if another globe,Amid the innumerable worlds that flameOn high when Night displays her dusky robe,Thy beauty doth convey;Or star, near neighbour of the sun, doth leaveIts light on thee while gentler breezes play:From where the days are short and dark with strife,This hymn of an unknown adorer, oh receive!THE REVIVAL.I thought that in me utterlyIn life's most fragrant flowerThe sweet woes had lost power,Born in my early years.The sweet woes and the tenderestSighs of the heart profound,All things whereby a groundFor joy in life appears.How many tears and murmuringsDid from my new state flow,When I my heart of snowDiscovered void of pain!Gone was the wonted agony,And love I could not hold,And this my bosom coldGave sighing up as vain.I wept that life so desolateAnd waste for me was made,The earth in gloom arrayed,Closed in eternal frost;The day forlorn, the taciturnNight more obscure and lone;For me no kind moon shone;The stars in Heaven were lost.But of that grief the originIn old affection lay;Within my bosom's swayMy heart was still alive.Yet for the wonted imagesThe weary fancy sighed;My sorrow's boundless tideWith pain did ever strive.Ere long in me that agonyOf pain was wholly spent,And further to lamentI had no courage left.I lay all senseless and amazed,I did not ask for balm;As though in death's last calm,My heart in twain was cleft.I was from him how different,In whom did ardours shine,Who errors all divineFed in his soul of yore!The early swallow vigilant,Who near the windows gaySalutes the rising day,Moved this my heart no more;Nor did the Autumn pale and sereWhere lonely I might dwell;Nor did the evening bell;Nor sun that sought the main.In vain I saw bright HesperusShine in celestial round,In vain the valleys soundWith nightingale's sweet pain.And ye, O eyes of tendernessAnd glances full of joy,Ye, unto lovers coyFirst love that never dies;And snowy hand of whitest graceThat liest in my own;In vain your power is shown,My gloomy mood ne'er flies.Bereft of every happiness,Sad, but not tempest-torn,I was not all forlorn,My brow became serene.I should have murmured for the endOf this my life of woe,If in me long agoDead had desire not been.As in old age decrepitudeMakes life disprized and bare,My years of youth most fairThus, thus alone were spent;'Twas thus the days ineffableThou, O my heart, didst live,Days that short joyaunce give,By Heaven to us lent.Who the obscure, ingloriousRepose bids me now miss?What virtue new is this,This that in me I find?Emotions sweet, imaginingsErroneous and sublime,Are ye not for all timeThe exiles of my mind?Are ye in truth the only rayOf these my sable years,The loves I lost with tearsIn a more tender age?Though on the sky or verdant meadsOr where I list, I gaze,Grief doth my soul amaze,And yet delights assuage.And with my musing sympathizeThe plains, the woods and hills;My heart doth hear the rills,And murmur of the sea.Who after such forgetfulnessGives me the gift of tears?How is it the earth appearsSo changed and new to me?Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart,Hath granted thee a smile?Ah! Hope, so full of guile,I'll ne'er again behold.My fond delusions and desiresNone else than Nature gave,My native ardour braveGrief did in bondage hold,Though not destroy: 'twas unsubduedBy misery and fate,Nor did it death awaitFrom Truth's unhallowed gaze.To my divine imaginingI know that she is strange;I know that Nature's rangeLies far from Mercy's ways;That not for weal solicitousShe is, for life alone;She bids us live to groan,For nothing else she cares.I know that the unfortunateNo pity find below,That from the sight of woeMen hurry unawares;That this our age so reprobateScorns virtue and renown;That glory fails to crownThe noble, learned toil.And you, ye eyes so tremulous,Ye glances all divine,I know you idly shine,And far from love recoil.There is no wondrous, intimateAffection in your gaze;No spark ere long to blaze,Lies in that snowy breast;For it doth mock the tenderestEmotion and desire;And a celestial fireBy deep scorn is distrest.And yet in me I feel reviveThe dear illusions known:My soul looks on its ownSensations with surprise.From thee, my heart, this last and fairSpirit and inborn fire,All comforts in my direGrief, but from thee arise.I feel my spirit is not dowered,Though lofty, sweet, and pure,By Nature, Fortune's lure,The world, or loveliness:But if thou livest, O, ill-starred,And yieldest not to Fate,I'll ne'er as cruel hateWho gave me life's distress.TO SILVIA.Silvia, rememberest thouYet that sweet time of thine abode on earth,When beauty graced thy browAnd fired thine eyes, so radiant and so gay;And thou, so joyous, yet of pensive mood,Didst pass on youth's fair way?The chambers calm and still,The sunny paths around,Did to thy song resound,When thou, upon thy handiwork intent,Wast seated, full of joyAt the fair future where thy hopes were bound.It was the fragrant month of flowery May,And thus went by thy day.I leaving oft behindThe labours and the vigils of my mind,That did my life consume,And of my being far the best entomb,Bade from the casement of my father's houseMine ears give heed unto thy silver song,And to thy rapid handThat swept with skill the spinning thread along.I watched the sky serene,The radiant ways and flowers,And here the sea, the mountain there, expand.No mortal tongue can tellWhat made my bosom swell.What thoughts divinely sweet,What hopes, O Silvia! and what souls were ours!In what guise did we meetOur destiny and life?When I remember such aspiring flown,Fierce pain invades my soul,Which nothing can console,And my misfortune I again bemoan.O Nature, void of ruth,Why not give some returnFor those fair promises? Why full of fraudThy wretched offspring spurn?Thou ere the herbs by winter were destroyed,Led to the grave by an unknown disease,Didst perish, tender blossom: thy life's flowerWas not by thee enjoyed;Nor heard, thy heart to please,The admiration of thy raven hairOr of the enamoured glances of thine eyes;Nor thy companions in the festive hourSpoke of love's joys and sighs.Ere long my hope as wellWas dead and gone. By cruel Fate's decreeWas youthfulness deniedUnto my years. Ah me!How art thou past for aye,Thou dear companion of my earlier day,My hope so much bewailed!Is this the world? Are theseThe joys, the loves, the labours and the deedsWhereof so often we together spoke?Is this the doom to which mankind proceeds?When truth before thee layRevealed, thou sankest; and thy dying handPointed to death, a figure of cold gloom,And to a distant tomb.THE MEMORIES.Ye stars of Ursa's sign, I did not thinkI should return, as formerly, to gazeUpon you, shining on my father's garden,And with you to hold parley from the windowsOf this old mansion where in youth I dwelt,And of my joys beheld the bitter end.How many strange imaginings of yoreYour aspect and the stars that near you shine,Created in my thoughts when 'twas my wont,In silence wrapped, on verdant sward reclining,To pass the hours of evening, gazing longUpon the sky and list'ning to the soundThat issued from frog-haunted marshes far.'Twas then the glow-worm hovered round the hedgesAnd o'er the beds of flowers; while to the windThe fragrant alleys rustled, and beyondThe cypress forest moaned; and 'neath our roofVoices proceeded, and the quiet workOf the attendants. And what thoughts immense,What sweetest dreams inspired me at the viewOf that far-distant sea, those azure mountains,Which yonder I discern, and which some dayI hoped to cross, an unknown world, unknownFelicity depicting to my years!This life of mine, so painful and so bare,I willingly with death would have exchanged!Nor did my heart foretell I should be doomedTo consummate my youthful years in thisMy native hamlet rude; amid a raceRibaldrous, vile; to which are names most strange,And often themes of mockery and jibes,Learning and science; and it hates and shuns me,Not out of envy, for it does not deemMy worth superior, but because it knowsThat in my heart I think so, though thereofAn outward sign to none I ever gave.Here do I pass my years, abandoned, hidden,And without love or life; and needs amidA rabble so malignant, bitter grow;Here I discard all pity and all virtue,And a despiser of mankind become,Because of those around me; and, meanwhile,The cherished time of youth escapes, more dearThan fame or laurels, dearer than the pureRadiance of day and vital breath; I lose theeWithout a joy, and uselessly, in thisInhuman dwelling-place, immersed in woes,Of barren life thou solitary flower!I hear the wind that wafts the striking timeFrom yonder village-clock. I well rememberThat sound was the sole comfort to my nights,When as a child, in darkness of my room,I passed a sleepless vigil, full of terrors,Sighing for day. Around me there is nothingI see or hear, whence fancies old do notReturn, or sweet remembrances arise,Sweet in themselves; but full of pain appearsThe present to my mind, the vain desireFor what is past, though sad, the thought "I was!"Yon loggia, turned towards the dying lightOf the expiring day; these pictured walls,Those herds that live in painting, and the sunO'er lonely country rising, to my leisureGave many joys, what time my mighty errorBeside me stood, wherever I might be,Prompting my heart. Here in these ancient halls,When shone the snow without, and stormy blastsWere whistling round these ample windows high,My pleasures had their scene, and my gay laughRe-echoed in that time when we supposeThe bitter, cruel mystery of thingsEntirely sweet; an inexperienced lover,Admiring heavenly beauty he conceives,The youth pays court unto his life which yetBefore him lies untasted, unconsumed.Ye hopes, ye vanished hopes, ye sweet illusionsOf my beginning years! always in songTo you I come; and although time doth fly,And thoughts do change, and even affections vary,Forget you, I shall never. Shades, I know,Are glory and honour, riches and delight,Merest desire; life doth not yield a fruit,Tis useless misery. And although emptyAre these my years, and desolate and darkMy lot on earth, I see that fortune keepsLittle from me. Alas! but when my thoughtsRecur to you, oh ye my ancient hopes!And to my fond imagining of yore,And then consider my existence, madeSo painful and so vile that death is allThat of such high aspiring still is mine:I feel my heart contract, I feel that whollyThere is no consolation for my fate.And when at last this long implored for deathShall come to me, and thus the end be reachedOf all my woes; when to my soul this earthShall be a vale remote; and from my sightThe future shall escape: of ye in truthI will be mindful, and even then your imageWill make me sigh, will make the thought most bitterThat I have lived in vain, and even the sweetnessOf dying it will temper with affliction.Even in the earliest youthful turbulenceOf happiness, of anguish, of desire,I often called for death; and long I satOut there, upon the margin of yon fountain,And thought of ending in that lucid streamMy hope and pain. But soon Misfortune blindConducted me through life's most various maze,And I then wept for youth and for the flowerOf my ill-fated days, that ere its timeWithered; and often through belated hoursUpon my bed reclining, mournfullyConning my verses at the lamp's dim ray,With silence and with night I did lamentMy spirit flying hence, and on myselfIn languid pain a funeral dirge I sang.Who without sighing can remember ye,O early dawn of youth, O happy daysCharming beyond narration? When on manFair women first do smile and make him blestWith tokens of their love; when all aroundIs radiant; when even envy still is silent,Not yet roused, or else kind; and when it seems,Oh unaccustomed miracle! the worldDoth offer him a helping, generous hand,Forgives his errors, celebrated his newArrival in this life, and full of homageAppears to hail him and receive him lord?Ah fleeting days! As swift as lightning's flashThey disappear. And who of those on earthCan be to woe a stranger, if for himThat season is no more, if his fair time,If youth, ah youth! for evermore be gone?O my Nerina I and perchance of theeThese scenes I hear not tell? Art thou perchanceFallen from my recollection? Where art thou,That here of thee the memory aloneI find, my sweetest love? This native soilSees thee no more; that window, whence thy wontIt was to hold discourse with me, and whenceSadly the starry radiance is reflected,Is desolate. Where art thou, that no moreI hear thy voice as in a former day,When every distant accent from thy lipsThat reached mine ear, had in it such a charm,It changed my hue? Those times are gone. Those daysAre over, my adored. Thou passedst. OthersBy Fate are now allowed on earth to liveAnd make their dwelling 'mid these fragrant hills.But far too rapidly thy life did end,Even as a dream. It was thy wont to dance,And on thy brow shone joy, and in thine eyesThat fond imagining, that radiant lightOf youth, when Fate extinguished them, and thouDidst lie in death. Ah me, Nerina! StillThe old love reigns in my heart. If I at timesTo festive pleasures go, unto myselfI say: "Alas, Nerina I For such joysThou dost no more array thee, nor proceed."If May returns, and flowers and roundelaysThe lovers offer to their well-beloved,I say, "Nerina mine! for thee no moreDoth Spring return, nor do the sweets of love."Each day serene in beauty, and each bedOf flowers I see, each joyaunce that I feel,I say: "Nerina now no more enjoys them,Nor sees the earth and sky." Ah, thou art gone,Thou my eternal sigh, gone: and unitedWith all my musings, with my tenderest feelings,And with the heart's emotions, sad yet dear.Shall be for aye the bitter memory.THE NOCTURNAL SONGOF ANOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA.Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say,Thou silent Moon serene!At night thou dost proceed,Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest.Hast thou ne'er weary beenOf repursuing the everlasting way?Untired as yet, still takest thou delightOn earth to turn thy sight?Even as thy life on high,The shepherd's life doth fly.When dawn succeeds to night,He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze.He sees the grass and flowers,And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours,Nor other hope doth raise.Say, Moon, what boots his lifeTo humble swain, or thyDivine existence unto thee on high?Where doth my life below,Thy course immortal go?Even as an old man bent,Ragged and white of hair,Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear,O'er mountains and through vales,O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through marshes,A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat,To snow, to ice, to sleet,Still toils upon his way,Through sloughs and torrents goes,Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief,Without rest or relief,Footsore and suffering, until he arrivesWhere his long path did tend,Where all his weary wandering finds an end:A dread abyss profoundWhere dark oblivion grasps him as her prey:Thou virgin Moon, even soIs this our life below.Man draws for toil his breath,And birth itself is on the verge of death.In pain and suffering direHis days begin, and in life's early mornHis mother and his sireTry to console him that he e'er was born.As he in years doth grow,They help him onwards, and for ever strive,By action and by word,To keep his hope alive,And to console him for our fate below:Nor any way more kindTheir fondness to display, can parents find.But why give to the light,Why with life animateA wretched spirit ever seeking balm?If heavy be our fate,Why do we bear its weight?O virgin Moon, even soIs this our life below.But thou in region calmDost little heed upon my wail bestow.Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way,Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray,Perchance to thee well knownAre life and suffering and distressful moan;Thou knowest what is death, what the supremeGrey pallor of the face,The earth that leaveth not a mental trace,And the awakening from our life's deep dream.And thou, in truth, dost seeThe cause of things, and what the fruit may beOf morning and of night,And of Time's silent, never-ending flight.Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweetSpring with its buds doth greet,Why summer heats arise, and what deviceBrings winter with its ice.A thousand things unto thy soul are plain,Which are but riddles to the simple swain.Oft when I see thee shineIn lonely sphere and solemn state divineUpon our waste that stretches to the skies;Or when my flock I leadAnd see thy radiance on my path proceed,And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes,Within my soul I say:"What means so many a ray?Where goes the wind? what booteth in the skyThe endless space serene? What is the thoughtOf this vast solitude, and what am I?"Thus my amazement to express I sought,Nor of the proud abode,Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race,Nor of the labours and the powers that goadAll things of earth and of the realms divine,Revolving without rest,To be again where they commenced their road:Of all I cannot traceThe use or meaning. Surely thou art blestWith deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine.I only know and feel,Of all the skies reveal,Of my frail life below,That unto me existence is but woe.O thou, my flock that liest in repose!Thrice blessed thou, unconscious of distress!How much I envy thee!Nor merely that from woesThy destiny is free,Nor that all things unkind,All sudden fears soon vanish from thy mind;But most because thou knowest not weariness.When lying on a grassy plot in shade,Thou art contented made.A long part of the yearThus flies by thee, and not a care is near.And I as well on grassy plot in shadeMy body oft have laid;But weariness lies heavy on my soul;And, seated, I am further from the goalOf peace and sweet repose.And yet I yearn for nought,Nor have I any reason for my woes.What makes thy happy stateI cannot say; but thou art fortunate,And I have little joy,My flock; nor therein lies my whole annoy.If thou couldst speak, I'd askWhy, lying in calm shade,All beasts are happy made;But when I leisure knowI am assailed by weariness and woe?If wings perchance had IAbove the clouds to fly,And one by one the radiant stars to count,Or like fierce thunder o'er the crags to roam,I should be happier, thou my gentle flock,I should be happier, virgin Moon on high.Or else, perchance, my thoughtBy vagrant dreams is full of errors fraught;Perchance in every formThat Nature may on everything bestow,The day of birth brings everlasting woe.THE RULING THOUGHT.Omnipotent and kind,Lord of the deep recesses of my mind;In terrors clad, yet dearGift of the skies; so nearIn my gloom-darkened days,Thought upon which so oft I fix my gaze:Thy nature unrevealedWho doth not contemplate? Who wears a shieldImpervious to thy power?Though tongue of man must sayWhat passion in his bosom beareth sway,All thou may'st utter seemeth new for aye.How like a hermit loneWas this my spirit madeEven from the time thou didst my mind invade!As rapidly as lightnings flash and die,My other thoughts did fade,Not one remaining. Like a strong tower, highOn solitary plain,Thou, lonely giant, o'er my soul dost reign.What to my visionary gaze becameAll things of earth, and allThat life can give, alone excepting thee!How on my spirit pallThe labours and the leisure,And vain desiring of still vainer pleasure,Compared unto that joy,That heavenly joy, which maketh thee my treasure!As from the naked peaksOf rugged Appenine,With longing gaze the weary pilgrim seeksThe verdant meads that in the distance shine:Thus from the harsh and dryScene of the world, to thee I gladly fly,As to a beauteous garden, and I findThy fair abode unto my spirit kind.I scarcely can believeThat I this life and our ignoble worldFor years of weary lengthWithout thee had the strengthTo bear. Hard to conceiveIt is that men aspire,Ignoring thee, to many a vain desire.Ne'er from the hour when firstExperience taught me what this life can be,Did fear of death bring terror to my heart;And now a jest to meSeems what the world so baseAt times extols, but never dares to face,The necessary end:If any peril falleth to my part,Before its threat my spirit doth not bend.I always held in scornThe craven and the mean;Now every deed, of lowly baseness born,Doth move my spirit keen;My soul doth flash with ireWhen human vileness desolates my view.This haughty age untrue,Feeding itself on barren hopes and vain,To folly gentle, and to virtue dire,That asks for things of use,Nor sees by what abuseOur life becometh useless more and more,I loathe, arising o'erIts meanness. Human acts I ne'er esteem;The crowd that doth disdainThy loveliness, in all I worthless deem.What passion doth not yieldTo that inspired by thee?The one thou hast revealedAlone rules man in sovran majesty.Pride, hatred, avarice and fierce disdain,The zeal to shine and reign,What else than shadows vainAre they beside it? One affection livesAmong our race below,By laws eternal sentTo rule mankind, a lord omnipotent.Life hath no meaning and not one delightExcept from that which unto man is all,The sole excuse of FateWho placed on earthly soilOur race to languish in such fruitless toil;Whereby alone at times,Not to the rabble, but the gentle heart,Life more than death appears the better part.To cull thy joys, O thought divinely sweet!The weight of human woes,Of life the weary chain,Were not endured in utter anguish vain;And I would even return,Versed as I am in every earthly ill,For such a goal to repursue the road.Of viper's sting and of the sands that burnI never felt the goadSo much, that, coming unto thy relief,It gave no balm unto terrestrial grief.What wondrous worlds, what newImmensities, what Paradise is there,Where oft thy wizard power my spirit drewIn lofty flights, and whereBy other radiance than on earth e'er shined,I stray, nor to my mindMy earthly state recall, nor truth unkind!Such are, methinks, the dreamsOf the immortals. Ah! a dream, in sooth,Thou art, sweet thought, a garment to adornHarsh and unlovely truth,An error palpable. But even of thoseFair errors Nature shows,Thou art divine, because so strong and deep,That 'gainst the real thou thy ground dost keep;Thy power its equal seems,And only in death from mortal spirit goes.And thou, indeed, my thought, unto my daysAlone the vital breath,Thou cherished cause of infinite despair,With me shalt fall beneath the stroke of death:I gather from the signs my soul displaysThat thou shalt reign, eternal monarch, there.All other errors, sweetDisperse on pinions fleetAt Truth's approach. And even the more I turnUpon her brow to gaze,Of whom with thee discoursing my days fly,The more the joyaunce grows,The frenzy wild whence my existence flows.Angelic loveliness!The fairest face that ever met mine eye,Methinks like image vainAttempts to rival thee. Thou art aloneThe fountain and the springOf every charm that can enchantment bring.From when I saw thee first,What other care did ever prompt my heartThan love of thee? How much of day doth partWithout a thought of thine? In sleep immerst,When lay my weary soulBy dreams unhaunted of thy sovran form?As beautiful as dreamsThy angel vision seems.On earth below or in the distant spheres:What hope to me appearsOf finding aught more lovely than thine eyes,Or sweeter joyaunce than thy thought supplies?LOVE AND DEATH."He dies in youth who to the gods is dear."MBNANDER.Brethren at one time, Love and Death, did FateOf yore ingenerate.Nought fairer here belowHath this our world, nor have the stars, to show.Joys from the one do flow,The greatest joys that weCan in the ocean of existence see.The other every painAnd every woe bids wane.A maiden fair of face,Sweet to behold, not suchAs doth imagine this our craven race,She likes to join full oftThe youthful god of love,And both then fly aloft,The paths of earth above,Chief comfort of each wise and noble heart;Nor was a heart more wiseThan when by love inspired;Nor in a braver moodThis life of woe and anguish to despise,Nor for a lord more highThan this one is, each danger to defy:For where thou giv'st thine aid,Love, courage soon is made,Or doth revive; in noble actions wiseAnd not, as it is wont, in idle mind,Becomes our humankind.When in the heart profoundAriseth young andA weary, languid longing for the graveOur bosom doth inspire:How, I know not; but suchOf real love the first effect is found.Perchance our eyes we castUpon the desert of the world aghast,And mortal man his habitation loathesWithout that joy supremeWhereof his soul doth dream;But in his heart foreboding tempests wildFrom that same joy, he sighs for quiet mildAnd for a harbour's easeThat should the storm appease,Of which he felt such wild emotions vast.And when with vivid fireThe passion burns the heart,And an imperishable empire gains:How many times, O Death,With an intense desireThe lover prays thee to conclude his pains!How oft by night, how oftBy day, impatient of his weary frame,He would have called his destiny divine,If he had ne'er arisen,Nor seen again the unpitying planets shine!And oft when tolled the deep funereal knell,And sang the dirge beside the sable hearseThat bears the dead to their eternal night,With many burning sighsFrom deepest heart he envied the reposeOf him who went among the tombs to dwell.Even they of low degree:The tiller of the soil,All strength ignoring that from wisdom flows.The tender maiden, full of fear and shame,Who at the very nameOf Death was wont to quake:The gloomy horrors of the dreaded graveOft overcome with fortitude most brave,Long thoughtful of the meansThat end all earthly woes,And in uncultured mindThe wondrous beauty of expiring find.So much to death inclinedThe power of love appears; and many a time,To such a height the furious tempest risenThat it breaks through the trammels of its prison,The body worn and frailYields to the storm, and Death we see prevailEven in that guise through her fraternal power;Or Love so deeply stirs the heart to ire,That by their deed the rustic, void of guile,And tender maiden fairIn agonised despairTheir lives destroy when youth doth on them smile.The world doth mock their end,To whom may Heaven peace and old age send.To fervent, to sublime,To daring souls august,May one or both of ye kind Fortune yield,O friends and lords, and shieldOf this our humankind,Ye to whose power no rival power we findThroughout the world, where we our eyes may cast,Unless in Fate, so terrible and vast.And thou, whom even from earliest days of yoreI honour and implore,Thou beauteous Death, aloneOf all the world to earthly woes benign!If e'er to thee I've shownMy love in song, if to thy sway divineI tried to expiateUnthankful scorn and hate,Delay no more, inclineTo an unwonted prayer,Close from the light's harsh glareThese tear-worn eyes, O sovereign of our fate!Me thou shalt find, whatever be the dayWhen at my moan thou shalt thy wings display,With an undaunted brow,'Gainst Fortune fortified,The ruthless hand that with my guileless goreIs crimsoned o'er and o'er.Not covering with praise,Not blessing, as the waysOf men dictate, whom ancient errors guide;All idle hopes that may console them nowLike children in their grief,And every comfort briefI'll spurn: nought else than thee in any ageImplore my woes to assuage;Hope but that day's reliefWhen I, serene, my head can lay to restUpon thy virgin breast.TO HIMSELF.Now shalt thou rest for aye,My weary heart. The final error diesWherewith I nourished my divinest dreams.'Tis gone. I feel in me for sweet delusionsNot merely hope, but even desire, is dead.Rest for all time. EnoughHath been thine agitation. There is noughtSo precious, thou shouldst seek it; and the earthDeserveth not a sigh. But weary bitternessIs life, nought else, and ashes is the world.Be now at peace. DespairFor the last time. Unto our race did FateGive nought, save death. Now hold in scorn and hateThyself and Nature and the power unknown,That reigns supreme unto the grief of all,And the vast vanity of this terrestrial ball.ASPASIA.Again at times appeareth to my thoughtThy semblance, O Aspasia I either flashingAcross my path amid the haunts of menIn other forms; or 'mid deserted fieldsWhen shines the sun or tranquil host of stars,As by the sweetest harmony awoke,Arising in my soul which seems once moreTo yield unto that vision all superb,How much adored, O Heaven I of yore how fullyThe joyaunce and the halo of my life?I never meet the perfume of the gardens,Or of the flowers that cities may display,Without beholding thee as thou appearedstUpon that day, when in thy splendid roomsWhich gave the perfume of the sweetest flowersOf recent Spring, arrayed in robes that boreThe violet's hue, first thine angelic formDid meet my gaze as thou, reclining, layestOn strange, white furs, and deep, voluptuous charmSeemed to be thine, whilst thou, a skilled enchantressOf loving hearts, upon the rosy lipsOf thy fair children many a fervent kissImprintedst, bending down to them thy neckOf snowy beauty, and with lovely handTheir guileless forms, unconscious of thy wile,Clasping unto thy bosom, so desired,Though hidden. To the visions of my soulAnother sky and more entrancing worldAnd radiance as from heaven were revealed.Thus in my heart, though not unarmed, thy powerInfixed the arrow which I wounded bore,Until that day when the revolving earthA second time her yearly course fulfilled.A ray divine unto my thought appeared,Lady, thy beauty. Similar effectsBeauty and music's harmony produce,Revealing both the mysteries sublimeOf unknown Eden. Thence the loving soul,Though injured in his love, adores the birthOf his fond mind, the amorous ideaThat doth include Olympus in its range,And seems in face, in manner, and in speechLike unto her whom the enchanted loverFancies alone to cherish and admire.Not her, but that sweet image, he doth claspEven in the raptures of a fond embrace,At last his error and the objects changedPerceiving, wrath invades him, and he oftWrongly accuses her he thought he loved.The mind of woman to that lofty heightRarely ascends, and what her charms inspireShe little thinks and seldom understands.So frail a mind can harbour no such thought;In vain doth man, deluded by the lightOf those enthralling eyes, indulge in hope;In vain he asks for deep and hidden thoughts,Transcending mortal ken, of her to whomHath Nature's laws a lesser rank assigned,For as her frame less strength than man's received,So too her mind less energy and depth.?Nor thou as yet what inspirations vastWithin my thought thy loveliness aroused,Aspasia, could'st conceive. Thou little knowestWhat love unmeasured and what woes intense,What frenzy wild and feelings without name,Thou didst within me move, nor shall the timeAppear when thou canst know it. EquallyThe skilled performer ignorant remainsOf what with hand or voice he doth arouseWithin his hearers. That Aspasia nowIs dead, whom I so worshipped. She lies lowFor evermore, once idol of my life:Unless at times, a cherished shade, she rises,Ere long to vanish. Thou art still alive,Not merely lovely, but of such perfectionThat, as I think, thou dost eclipse the rest.But now the ardour, born of thee, is spent:Because I loved not thee, but that fair goddessWho had her dwelling in me, now her grave.Her long I worshipped, and so was I pleasedBy her celestial loveliness, that I,Even from the first full conscious and awareOf what thou art, so wily and so false,Beholding in thine eyes the light of hers,Fondly pursued thee while she lived in me;Not dazzled or deluded; but inducedBy the enjoyment of that sweet resemblance,A long and bitter slavery to bear.Now boast, for well thou may'st; say that aloneOf all thy sex art thou to whom I bentMy haughty head, to whom I gladly gaveMy heart in homage. Say that thou wert firstAnd last, I truly hope, to see mine eyes'Imploring gaze, and me before thee standTimid and fearful (as I write, I burnWith wrath and shame); me of myself deprived,Each look of thine, each gesture and each wordObserving meekly; at thy haughty freaksPale and subdued; then radiant with delightAt any sign of favour; changing hueAt every glance of thine. The charm is gone;And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke,Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me,Yet after such delirium and long thraldom,Gladly my freedom I again embrace,And my unshackled mind. For if a lifeVoid of affections and of errors sweet,Be like a starless night in winter's depth,Revenge sufficient and sufficient balmIt is to me that here upon the grassLeisurely lying and unmoved, I gazeOn sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile.ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO RILIEVOREPRESENTING A MAIDEN TAKING LEAVE OF HER FRIENDS.Where goest thou, and what imperious voiceCalls thee away from love,Thou maiden fair of face?Why, lonely wanderer, from thy native placeDost thou depart before thy days are old?Say, wilt thou ne'er return? No more rejoiceWhom round thee now thou dost in tears behold?Thou weepest not, and dauntless is thy brow,Though sadness on thy features leaves a trace.If life hath pleasing or unjoyous been,If dark with gloom or bright with joy the placeTo which thou hurriest now,Is by no sign upon thy features seen.Alas! I cannot findSolution of the problem in my mind:Nor can our race belowWith full assurance knowIf Heaven to thee doth gentle favour show,Or unrelenting ire,Or if thy doom be fortunate or dire.Death summons thee. The dawning of thy daysBeholds their early close.The home thy footsteps leaveShall ne'er again thy beauteous form receive.On thy fond parents thou no more shalt gaze;Beneath the earth thy future home is laid,Where for all time thy dwelling shall be made.It may be, thou art blest: but on thy doomWho meditates, must sigh in bitter gloom.The light ne'er to have seen,Methinks would be the best. But, being born,When beauty first begins to reign, a queen,And the fair form to adorn,And meets eternal praise,And many a fervent and adoring gaze;When Hope her fragrant buds begins to show,And ere the beauteous land and sky aroundUnpitying Truth in darkness doth confound:To find, like vaporous and ethereal cloudsThat in frail shapes on the horizon play,The future fly, as though unheralded,The joys of times desiredBeneath the silent tombstone lying dead:If in this doom the mindSome happiness can find,Even sternest heart with pity must be fired.Thou mother feared and weptBy mortal races from their earliest days,Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise,Who givest life in order to destroy!If agony be keptAlive by early and untimely death,Why on the innocent thy wrath employ?And if it give relief,Why of all woes the chief,Why make the parting so disconsolateTo him who still draws breath,To him whom Death's eternal realms await?Unhappy where we gaze,Unhappy where we turn or where we rest,Are man's disastrous days!It pleaseth thee that voidAnd utterly destroyedShould be our youthful hope; that seas of woeShould part our years; to evil only shieldBe Death; and that which we can never shun,The law stern and supreme,By thee is given us when our course is run.Ah me! But after our laborious wayWhy is, at least, the goal not fair and gay?Why her, who doth controlOur future, looming darkly in our soul,Why her, who is the balmTo these our days ne'er calm,In sable robes array,Involve in shadows grey?Why in our fancy formThe harbour more terrific than the storm?If this, indeed, be woe,This death which thou dost keepImpending o'er us all, whom, without guilt,Unconscious and unwilling, thou hast doomedTo live; he who is wrapped in death's long sleep,Should more our envy rouse,Than he who liveth his beloved to weep.If, as I firmly think,Life is but miseryAnd death a mercy, yet whoever couldDesire, even as he should,The fatal day of those to him most dear,To find himself bereaved,Disconsolate and grieved,To see away from his deserted homeThe cherished figure borneThat did for many years his life adorn?To utter an eternal fare-thee-well,Without hope finding birthTo meet again on earth;Then lonely and abandoned in this world,Gazing around in wonted time and scene,To bear in mind the union that hath been?Ah I tell me, Nature, how hast thou the heartFrom the embrace to rendOf friend, the loving friend,From brother, brother dear,The offspring from the sire,And love from love; and bidding one expire,Doom the survivor to existence dire?How could thy ruthless deedCause so much sorrow that the living bleedIn heart for love entombed? But Nature's end,On her mysterious way,Is not to foster joy, or sorrow to allay.THE SETTING OF THE MOON.As in the lonely nightO'er lakes and mountains bathed in silver light,When zephyr gaily plays,And visions meet our gaze,Strange forms that weave a powerIn the nocturnal hour,By distant shadows wroughtO'er hill and dale and gently flowing streams:The Moon descends unto the sky's last vergeBehind the ridge of Alp or Appenine,Or in the Tyrrhene sea her rays doth merge;And as she falls, no radiance more doth shine,The shadows fade, and allThe world lies wrapped in one funereal pall;Bereaved the night remains;And singing in impassioned, mournful strains,The wanderer salutes the last, faint rayOf her who lit his wayWith argent crescent in the spheres divine:Even thus youth wanes and flies,And every joyaunce dies,And Hope expires, the reed whereon we leantIn happier days, ere every bliss was spent,And ere our life obscureAnd desolate became.The weary wanderer gazes on the sceneOf sable hue that now doth intervene,And vainly asketh whySo dire a path before him yet should lie;And as unto his eyeThe world appeareth changed,He finds himself no more what he hath been,But to the world and all its ways estranged.Too happy and too gayOur span of mortal lifeWould seem unto the powers that rule above,If youthfulness were to endure for aye,Wherein a thousand sorrows yield one joy;Too gentle the decreeWhence all that liveth doomed to death we see,Unless a gift were made,When men have finished half of their long way,Than death itself with greater terrors fraught;The worst of ills and the extreme of woe,Old age was found by an unswerving doom,Wherein desire doth glow,Hope wanes and pales and dwindles down to nought,The fountains of delight are frozen and quelled,The sorrow's greater, and all bliss withheld.Ye mountains and ye plains,When fall the rays that in the West adorn IWith silvery trace the sable veil of night,Ye shall not be forlornFor many hours: the Eastern skies ere longYe shall perceive aglowWith break of day and early rise of morn,Whom following, the Sun his fires doth show,And blazing all aroundIn full effulgence strong,With seas of light invadesThe space above and the terrestrial glades.But life of man, when lovely youth is spent,No other light hath found,Nor to existence other dawn is lent:'Tis lonely and bereaved even to its close:And to the night that weighs on later years,By the decree of doom,As goal is given the silence of the tomb.THE GENISTAORTHE FLOWER OF THE DESERT."Men loved darkness rather than the light."ST. JOHN III., XIX.Here on the barren soilOf Mount Vesuvius dread,That fell destroyer sternWho doth delight no other flower or tree,Thy solitary blossoms thou dost spread,Fragrant Genista sweet,Rejoicing in the deserts. I beheldThy flowers adorn the lonely hills that standAround the city grand,That was of yore the Empress of mankind,And for the reign resigned,They with their dumb solemnity austereSeem from the wanderer to claim a tear.Now I again behold thee on this shore;Fond of sad haunts, abandoned by the world,Companion of misfortune evermore.These regions, sprinkled o'erWith showers of barren ashes and suppliedWith lava petrified,Resounding to the pilgrim as he treads:Where we see twining in the sun the snake,And where in caverns darkThe timorous hares their wonted refuge take:Were happy homes, and fields,Like those where harvest now its rich boon yields,Alive with lowing herds;They were palatial hallsAnd wondrous gardens, dearUnto the great, and famous cities' walls:All which the haughty mountain with the torrentsThat from his fiery crater ruthless rolled,Crushed, while their inmates were by death destroyed.Now ruin makes a voidOf all around where, beauteous flower, thou growest,And as in pity for the scene of woeUpon the air a perfume sweet bestowest,Consoling to the desert. To this shoreLet him proceed whose wont it is to praiseOur earthly state, and let him see how muchOur race is held in careBy loving Nature. And he here as wellCan more exactly tellHow far extends the power of human kind,Whom its harsh tyrant, when it least may fear,With slight exertion can destroy in part,And with a little moreCould in an instant wholly sweep away,Annihilate, and slay.Upon these shores are seenOf our poor human race"The splendid fortunes and progressive pace."[9]Here gaze as on a mirror,Thou age unwise and proud,Who errest from the wayThat rising thought illumined with its ray,And as thy steps a backward course pursue,Art glad of thy return,Which seemeth progress to thy troubled view.Thy folly by all mindsWhose evil destiny made thee their sire,Is pampered, even thoughThey, when unheeded, throwDisdain on thee. Not IWill so inglorious sink into my grave,'Twere easy enough, I know,For me to join the others in their wrongAnd to thine ears melodious make my song:But rather the disdain of thee that liesWithin my bosom deep,I shall, as widely as I can, display,Although neglect for thoseBe held in store who much their age oppose.This evil which I've borneWith thee in common, moved till now my scorn.Fair freedom is the subject of thy dreams:Yet thou enslavest thought,By whom alone we're broughtFrom rudeness by degrees, by whom aloneIs culture fostered, who alone can sendThe fate of nations to a better end.So much didst thou in horror hold the truthOf the harsh doom and dungeon-like abodeThat Nature gave us. Therefore didst thou turn,With craven soul, thy vision from the lightThat made it clear; and in thy flight dost spurnAs vile who seek its rays,And him alone dost praise,Who, scornful of himself or of the rest,Above the stars says man's degree is blest.He, poor of state and suffering of frame,Who has a generous and lofty soul,Doth not the homage claimThat gold and strength procure,Nor of a splendid life and figure proudMaketh among the crowdAn empty show absurd;But not with treasures or with vigour blessedHe owns himself unfeigning, and is heardIn discourse to be candid on himself,Still giving truth its due.Unwise I hold his mind,And not of loftier kind,Who, born to perish and in sorrow bred,?Says: "I am made for joy;"And with unhallowed prideThe annals of humanity supplied,Grand destinies and wondrous happiness,Which even to Heaven are strange, not to our globeAlone, predicting hereTo those whom stormy waveOr breath of air malignant, or the shockOf earthquake, so destroysThat Memory scarcely lingers o'er their grave.A noble nature heWho with a spirit freeDares mortal eye to raiseUpon our common fate; who with bold tongue,Debarring nought from truth,Owneth the evil Fortune bade prevail,And our low state and frail;Who in affliction direShows fortitude and lofty strength of soul,Nor the fraternal hatred and the ireSo frequent on our earth, and worst of ills,Unto his misery addeth by declaringMan guilty of his woe, but casteth blameOn her alone who merits all the shame,Who gives birth to mankind,But all whose deeds we harsh and cruel find.Her he calls hostile; and considering men,As truth itself declares,In union joined against her evil waysBy social bonds of old,He as confederates doth all mortals holdAmong themselves, and allWith equal love surveys,And giveth aid where 'tis desired and neededIn various peril and disastrous ways,Beset by common warfare. And to raiseA vengeful hand for injuries of men,Our neighbour to destroy,So ill-advised he deems as on the fieldOf battle, close surrounded by the foe,When most the fight doth rageAgainst our friends to wageDisastrous war, oblivious of the rest,And with pernicious swordTo spread dismay and slaughter 'mid their ranks.When thoughts like these are made,As once they were, unto the nations known,By real knowledge in its influence vast;And the dread horror shownThat first 'gainst Nature badeOur humankind in social chain unite:Then shall the just, the honest and the right,And patriotic fire,And mercy find a more enduring sourceThan is supplied by haughty dreams and vainThat now the vulgar righteousness sustain,Which proves itself even soAs everything that doth from error flow.[10]Full often on this shore,Clad by the hardened floodOf lava in a garment dark of hueThat seems to surge, I seat myself at night,And shining on the saddened land, the starsIn plains of purest azure meet my view,Reflected by the deep;And through the space serene in circles vastThe sparkling Heavens open on my sight,And when my vision on those lights I cast,That seem so small to be,And are in truth so largeThat by their side would shrivel land and seaTo nothingness; to whomNot humankind aloneIs utterly unknown,But even this globe where man is less than nought;And when I gaze upon those clustering starsIn greater distance without any end,Seeming to us like vapour, unto whomNot merely man and not the earth he treads,But all the stars, the neighbours of our world,And even the golden radiance of the Sun,Were never known, or else appear as theyUnto our sight, a spotOf luminous mist: what then unto my thought,Becomest thou, mankind?And when I bear in mindThy state below, whereof the signs are seenUpon the soil I tread: and when I thinkThy pride doth call thee queenAnd end of all, and how thou lovest oftTo fable that unto this grain obscureOf wretched dust which bears the name of earth,For love of thee, of universal thingsThe lords descended, and were known to dwellBenignly in thy midst: and that the dreamsSo idle even the present age renews,Opprobrious to the wise, although it seemsIn knowledge and in deedSuperior to the past: what passion fires,O hapless race of man, what thought inspiresFor thee my heart? In truth, I cannot sayIf mockery or if pity beareth sway.As from its tree a ripened apple falling,By Autumn's power, nought else,Cast on the earth in full maturity,Crushes and overwhelmsThe populous abode of busy ants,Destroying all their hoarded treasures vast,The fruit of summer toil,Which they had piled in those elaborate cavesFormed by their cunning in the yielding soil:Even thus in dread and thundering fury castFrom the deep rumbling wombOf yon destructive mountain in its ire,Night and destruction in a cloud of ashes,Of rocks and lurid fire,Fall on the land devoted to its doom;And boiling torrents runAnd down the mountain flowWith rapid wrath and all-consuming rage;And o'er the verdure fallsA furious rush and grandOf liquid metal and of fiery sand,Such as o'erwhelmed the cities on the shore,And in an instant they were seen no more.On their deserted siteWe see the browzing goat,And other cities we behold arise,Beneath whose splendid domesFull many a vast and ancient ruin lies;And even these lofty wallsThe haughty mountain threatens and appals.Nature no more doth holdIn tenderness and loveThe race of man than insects of the earth;And if we in mankindMay less destruction find,'Tis that of offspring it has greater dearth.One thousand and eight hundred years have passedSince by the force of subterranean fireThe peopled cities found an end so dire;And still the peasant full of anxious fearsFor what he planted on the arid soil,Amid the death-like ashes and the stones,Suspicious turns his eyeTo where he sees, aspiring to the sky,The fatal peak, as cruel as of yore,For ever threatening ruin to his home.And oft at night, alarmed,Lying for sleepless hours,In terror listening to the wandering wind,At last he rises and ascends his roof,And gazes thence upon the dreaded courseOf boiling lava, rushing from the wombOf the unexhausted mount,O'er sandy ridge, and casting lurid lightOn Capri's distant strand,On Naples' bay and Mergellina's land.He wakes his children and his trembling wife,If he perceives it coming, or withinHis household well heats seething waters boil;And with whatever they can snatch in haste,Away they rush, and witness from afarTheir dwelling and their field,From hunger and despair their only shield,By the disastrous torrents soon laid waste,That fiercely rush and cruelly invade,And lie for ever on the wreck they've made.Even as a skeleton that from its graveIs brought to light by piety or greed,The dead Pompeii to the realms of dayFrom old oblivion doth again proceed:And from the ruined Forum and the fileOf shattered columns tall,The wanderer gazes on the cloven peakAnd on the smoky crest,Still threatening even the ruins in their fallAnd in the horror of the secret night,Among theatres empty and forlorn,Among the mouldering temples and amongThe shattered houses where the bat doth hide,Like an ill-omened torchIn empty fanes and halls untenanted,The terrors run of the funereal stream,Which in the shade doth gleamAnd tinges all around with fiery red.Of man unconscious and of all the yearsThat he calls old, and offspring laid by sire,Thus Nature stands in ever-blooming youth;Or rather, she proceedsUpon a path so long, a course so wide,That to our eyes she never seems to move.Meanwhile realms fall, and tongues and nations waneShe seeth nought, and man doth still presumeEternity to claim in haughty pride.And thou, slow-spreading flower,With many an odorous wood,Who dost adorn these regions desolate;Thou too ere long shalt sink beneath the powerOf the unpitying subterranean fire,Which will extend its ire,Returning to the scene it knew of old,Unto thy gentle forests, and beneathThe fatal weight thou wilt thy head incline,Though innocent, without a murmuring wail,But not till then in cowardice cast downWith supplication and imploring prayerBefore the future tyrant, but not raisedWith frenzied pride unto the very stars,Nor on the desert whereThou hadst thy dwelling-place,Not by thy will, by the decree of Fate:But wiser far, and lessIll-starred than man, because thou didst not think.Thy race endowed by Doom,Or by thyself, with an immortal bloom.