FOOTNOTES[A]I cannot quote the Mabinogion without expressing a grateful sense of the obligations Lady Charlotte Guest has conferred upon all lovers of our early literature, in her invaluable edition and translation of that interesting collection of British romances.[B]Dryden, with an accurate delicacy of erudition for which one might scarcely give him credit, does not in his translation follow Virgil's quantity,Porsënna, but makes the word short,Porsëna.[C]It may perhaps occur to the reader that Latin, with which Arthur (in an age so shortly subsequent to the Roman occupation of Britain) could scarcely fail to be well acquainted, might have furnished a better mode of communication between himself and the Augur. But the Latin language would have been very imperfectly settled at the time of the supposed Etrurian emigration; would have had small connection with the literature, sacred or profane, of the Etrurians; and would long have been despised as a rude medley of various tongues and dialects, by the proud and polished race which the Romans subjected.[D]Thewis to be pronounced asoo.
FOOTNOTES
[A]I cannot quote the Mabinogion without expressing a grateful sense of the obligations Lady Charlotte Guest has conferred upon all lovers of our early literature, in her invaluable edition and translation of that interesting collection of British romances.
[A]I cannot quote the Mabinogion without expressing a grateful sense of the obligations Lady Charlotte Guest has conferred upon all lovers of our early literature, in her invaluable edition and translation of that interesting collection of British romances.
[B]Dryden, with an accurate delicacy of erudition for which one might scarcely give him credit, does not in his translation follow Virgil's quantity,Porsënna, but makes the word short,Porsëna.
[B]Dryden, with an accurate delicacy of erudition for which one might scarcely give him credit, does not in his translation follow Virgil's quantity,Porsënna, but makes the word short,Porsëna.
[C]It may perhaps occur to the reader that Latin, with which Arthur (in an age so shortly subsequent to the Roman occupation of Britain) could scarcely fail to be well acquainted, might have furnished a better mode of communication between himself and the Augur. But the Latin language would have been very imperfectly settled at the time of the supposed Etrurian emigration; would have had small connection with the literature, sacred or profane, of the Etrurians; and would long have been despised as a rude medley of various tongues and dialects, by the proud and polished race which the Romans subjected.
[C]It may perhaps occur to the reader that Latin, with which Arthur (in an age so shortly subsequent to the Roman occupation of Britain) could scarcely fail to be well acquainted, might have furnished a better mode of communication between himself and the Augur. But the Latin language would have been very imperfectly settled at the time of the supposed Etrurian emigration; would have had small connection with the literature, sacred or profane, of the Etrurians; and would long have been despised as a rude medley of various tongues and dialects, by the proud and polished race which the Romans subjected.
[D]Thewis to be pronounced asoo.
[D]Thewis to be pronounced asoo.
"The Corn-flower opens as the sheaves are rife;Song is the twin of golden Contemplation,The Harvest-flower of life."
"The Corn-flower opens as the sheaves are rife;Song is the twin of golden Contemplation,The Harvest-flower of life."
Most of the Poems in this First Book have been recently composed, and hitherto unpublished; and those which have appeared before, have been, some materially altered, all carefully revised.
In the Second Book some Poems were written in early life, and have been but little altered; others—chiefly of a more thoughtful character—are of later date, and are now printed for the first time.
Who that has loved knows not the tender taleWhich flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?Whose youth has paused not, dreaming, in the valeWhere the rath violets dwell?Lo, where they shrink along the lonely brake,Under the leafless melancholy tree;Not yet the cuckoo sings, nor glides the snake,Nor wild thyme lures the bee;Yet at their sight and scent entranced and thrall'd,All June seems golden in the April skies;How sweet the days we yearn for,—till fulfill'd:O distant Paradise,Dear Land to which Desire for ever flees;Time doth no present to our grasp allow,Say in the fix'd Eternal shall we seizeAt last the fleeting Now?Dream not of days to come—of that UnknownWhither Hope wanders—maze without a clue;Give their true witchery to the flowers;—thine ownYouth in their youth renew.Avarice, remember when the cowslip's goldLured and yet lost its glitter in thy grasp.Do thy hoards glad thee more than those of old?Thosewither'd in thy clasp,Fromthesethy clasp falls palsied.—It was thenThat thou wert rich—thy coffers are a lie;Alas, poor fool, Joy is the wealth of men,And Care their penury.Come, foil'd Ambition, what hast thou desired?Empire and power?—O, wanderer, tempest-tost!These once were thine, when life's gay spring inspiredThy soul with glories lost.Let the flowers charm thee back to that rich timeWhen golden Dreamland lay within thy chart,When Love bestow'd a realm indeed sublime—The boundless human heart.Hark, hark again, the tread of bashful feet!Hark the boughs rustling round the trysting-place!Let air again with one dear breath be sweet,Earth fair with one dear face.Brief-lived first flowers—first love! The hours steal onTo prank the world in summer's pomp of hue,But what can flaunt beneath a fiercer sunWorth what we lose in you?Oft by a flower, a leaf, in some loved bookWe mark the lines that charm us most;—RetraceThy life;—recall its loveliest passage;—Look,Dead violets keep the place!
Who that has loved knows not the tender taleWhich flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?Whose youth has paused not, dreaming, in the valeWhere the rath violets dwell?
Lo, where they shrink along the lonely brake,Under the leafless melancholy tree;Not yet the cuckoo sings, nor glides the snake,Nor wild thyme lures the bee;
Yet at their sight and scent entranced and thrall'd,All June seems golden in the April skies;How sweet the days we yearn for,—till fulfill'd:O distant Paradise,
Dear Land to which Desire for ever flees;Time doth no present to our grasp allow,Say in the fix'd Eternal shall we seizeAt last the fleeting Now?
Dream not of days to come—of that UnknownWhither Hope wanders—maze without a clue;Give their true witchery to the flowers;—thine ownYouth in their youth renew.
Avarice, remember when the cowslip's goldLured and yet lost its glitter in thy grasp.Do thy hoards glad thee more than those of old?Thosewither'd in thy clasp,
Fromthesethy clasp falls palsied.—It was thenThat thou wert rich—thy coffers are a lie;Alas, poor fool, Joy is the wealth of men,And Care their penury.
Come, foil'd Ambition, what hast thou desired?Empire and power?—O, wanderer, tempest-tost!These once were thine, when life's gay spring inspiredThy soul with glories lost.
Let the flowers charm thee back to that rich timeWhen golden Dreamland lay within thy chart,When Love bestow'd a realm indeed sublime—The boundless human heart.
Hark, hark again, the tread of bashful feet!Hark the boughs rustling round the trysting-place!Let air again with one dear breath be sweet,Earth fair with one dear face.
Brief-lived first flowers—first love! The hours steal onTo prank the world in summer's pomp of hue,But what can flaunt beneath a fiercer sunWorth what we lose in you?
Oft by a flower, a leaf, in some loved bookWe mark the lines that charm us most;—RetraceThy life;—recall its loveliest passage;—Look,Dead violets keep the place!
Not a sound is heardBut my heart by thine,Breathe not a word,Lay thy hand in mine.How trembling, yet still,On the lake's clear tide,Sleep the distant hill,And the bank beside.The near and the far,Intermingled flow;The herb and the starImaged both below.So deep and so clear,Through the shadowy light,The far and the nearIn my soul unite;The future and past,Like the bank and hill,On the surface glass'd,Though they tremble still;Disturb not the dreamOf this double whole;The heav'n in the streamOn my soul thy soul.The sense cannot count(As the waters glassThe forest and mountAnd the clouds that pass)The shadows and gleamsIn that stilly deep,Like the tranquil dreamsOf a hermit's sleep.Oneshadow aloneOn my soul doth fall,—And yet in the oneIt reflects on All.
Not a sound is heardBut my heart by thine,Breathe not a word,Lay thy hand in mine.
How trembling, yet still,On the lake's clear tide,Sleep the distant hill,And the bank beside.
The near and the far,Intermingled flow;The herb and the starImaged both below.
So deep and so clear,Through the shadowy light,The far and the nearIn my soul unite;
The future and past,Like the bank and hill,On the surface glass'd,Though they tremble still;
Disturb not the dreamOf this double whole;The heav'n in the streamOn my soul thy soul.
The sense cannot count(As the waters glassThe forest and mountAnd the clouds that pass)
The shadows and gleamsIn that stilly deep,Like the tranquil dreamsOf a hermit's sleep.
Oneshadow aloneOn my soul doth fall,—And yet in the oneIt reflects on All.
Doubting of life, my spirit paused perplextLet fall its fardell of laborious care,And the sharp cry of my great trouble vextUnsympathizing air.Out on this choice of unrewarded toil,This upward path into the realm of snow!Oh for one glimpse of the old happy soilFragrant with flowers below!For what false gold, like alchemists, we yearn,Wasting the wealth we never can recall,Joy and life's lavish prime;—and our return?Ashes, cold ashes, all!Could youth but dream what narrow burial-urnsHopes that went forth to conquer worlds should hold,How in a tomb the lamp Experience burnsAmidst the dust of old!—Look back, how all the beautiful Ideal,Sporting in doubtful moonlight, one by oneFade from the rising of the hard-eyed Real,Like Fairies from the sun.Love render'd saintlike by its pure devotion;Knowledge exulting lone by shoreless seasAnd Feelings tremulous to each emotion,As May leaves to the breeze.And, oh, that grand Ambition, poet-nurst,When boyhood's heart swells up to the Sublime,And on the gaze the towers of Glory firstFlash from the peaks of Time!Are they then wiser who but nurse the growthOf joys in life's most common element,Creeping from hour to hour in that calm slothWhich Egoists call "Content?"Who freight for storms no hopeful argosy,Who watch no beacon wane on hilltops grey,Who bound their all, where from the human eyeThe horizon fades away?Alas for Labour, if indeed more wiseTo drink life's tide unwitting where it flows;Renounce the arduous palm, and only prizeThe Cnidian vine and rose!Out from the Porch the Stoic cries "For shame!"What hast thou left us, Stoic, in thy school?"That pain or pleasure is but in the name?"Go, prick thy finger, fool!Never grave Pallas, never Muse severeCharm'd this hard life like the free, zoneless Grace;Pleasure is sweet, in spite of every sneerOn Zeno's wrinkled face.What gain'd and left ye to this age of oursYe early priesthoods of the Isis, Truth,—When light first glimmer'd from the Cuthite's towers;When Thebes was in her youth?When to the weird Chaldæan spoke the seer,When Hades open'd at Heraclean spells,When Fate made Nature her interpreterIn leaves and murmuring wells?When the keen Greek chased flying Science on,Upward and up the infinite abyss?—Like perish'd stars your arts themselves have goneNoiseless to nothingness!And what is knowledge but the Wizard's ring,Kindling a flame to circumscribe a ground?The belt of light that lures the spirit's wingHems the invoker round.Ponder and ask again "what boots our toil?"Can we the Garden's wanton child gainsay,When from kind lips he culls their rosy spoilAnd lives life's holiday?Life answers "No—if ended here be life,Seize what the sense can give—it is thine all;Disarm thee, Virtue, barren is thy strife;Knowledge, thy torch let fall."Seek thy lost Psyche, yearning Love, no more!Love is but lust, if soul be only breath;Who would put forth one billow from the shoreIf the great sea be—Death?"But if the soul, that slow artificerFor ends its instinct rearsfromlife hath striven,Feeling beneath its patient webwork stirWings only freed in Heaven,Thenand but then to toil is to be wise;Solved is the riddle of the grand desireWhich ever, ever, for the Distant sighs,And must perforce aspire.Rise, then, my soul, take comfort from thy sorrow;Thou feel'st thy treasure when thou feel'st thy load;Life without thought, the day without the morrow,God on the brute bestow'd;Longings obscure as for a native clime,Flight from what is to live in what may be,God gave the Soul.—Thy discontent with TimeProves thine eternity.
Doubting of life, my spirit paused perplextLet fall its fardell of laborious care,And the sharp cry of my great trouble vextUnsympathizing air.
Out on this choice of unrewarded toil,This upward path into the realm of snow!Oh for one glimpse of the old happy soilFragrant with flowers below!
For what false gold, like alchemists, we yearn,Wasting the wealth we never can recall,Joy and life's lavish prime;—and our return?Ashes, cold ashes, all!
Could youth but dream what narrow burial-urnsHopes that went forth to conquer worlds should hold,How in a tomb the lamp Experience burnsAmidst the dust of old!—
Look back, how all the beautiful Ideal,Sporting in doubtful moonlight, one by oneFade from the rising of the hard-eyed Real,Like Fairies from the sun.
Love render'd saintlike by its pure devotion;Knowledge exulting lone by shoreless seasAnd Feelings tremulous to each emotion,As May leaves to the breeze.
And, oh, that grand Ambition, poet-nurst,When boyhood's heart swells up to the Sublime,And on the gaze the towers of Glory firstFlash from the peaks of Time!
Are they then wiser who but nurse the growthOf joys in life's most common element,Creeping from hour to hour in that calm slothWhich Egoists call "Content?"
Who freight for storms no hopeful argosy,Who watch no beacon wane on hilltops grey,Who bound their all, where from the human eyeThe horizon fades away?
Alas for Labour, if indeed more wiseTo drink life's tide unwitting where it flows;Renounce the arduous palm, and only prizeThe Cnidian vine and rose!
Out from the Porch the Stoic cries "For shame!"What hast thou left us, Stoic, in thy school?"That pain or pleasure is but in the name?"Go, prick thy finger, fool!
Never grave Pallas, never Muse severeCharm'd this hard life like the free, zoneless Grace;Pleasure is sweet, in spite of every sneerOn Zeno's wrinkled face.
What gain'd and left ye to this age of oursYe early priesthoods of the Isis, Truth,—When light first glimmer'd from the Cuthite's towers;When Thebes was in her youth?
When to the weird Chaldæan spoke the seer,When Hades open'd at Heraclean spells,When Fate made Nature her interpreterIn leaves and murmuring wells?
When the keen Greek chased flying Science on,Upward and up the infinite abyss?—Like perish'd stars your arts themselves have goneNoiseless to nothingness!
And what is knowledge but the Wizard's ring,Kindling a flame to circumscribe a ground?The belt of light that lures the spirit's wingHems the invoker round.
Ponder and ask again "what boots our toil?"Can we the Garden's wanton child gainsay,When from kind lips he culls their rosy spoilAnd lives life's holiday?
Life answers "No—if ended here be life,Seize what the sense can give—it is thine all;Disarm thee, Virtue, barren is thy strife;Knowledge, thy torch let fall.
"Seek thy lost Psyche, yearning Love, no more!Love is but lust, if soul be only breath;Who would put forth one billow from the shoreIf the great sea be—Death?"
But if the soul, that slow artificerFor ends its instinct rearsfromlife hath striven,Feeling beneath its patient webwork stirWings only freed in Heaven,
Thenand but then to toil is to be wise;Solved is the riddle of the grand desireWhich ever, ever, for the Distant sighs,And must perforce aspire.
Rise, then, my soul, take comfort from thy sorrow;Thou feel'st thy treasure when thou feel'st thy load;Life without thought, the day without the morrow,God on the brute bestow'd;
Longings obscure as for a native clime,Flight from what is to live in what may be,God gave the Soul.—Thy discontent with TimeProves thine eternity.
Oh Œvoë,liber Pater,Oh, the vintage feast divine,When the God was in the bosomAnd his rapture in the wine;When the Faun laugh'd out at morning;When the Mænad hymn'd the night;And the Earth itself was drunkenWith the worship of delight;Oh Œvoë,liber Pater,Whose orgies are uponThe hilltops of Parnassus,The banks of Helicon;—How often have I hail'd thee!How often have I beenThe bearer of the thyrsus,When its wither'd leaves were green.Then the boughs were purple gleamingWith the dewdrop and the star;And chanting came the wood-nymph,And flashing came the car.Long faded are the garlandsOf the thyrsus that I bore,When the wood-nymph chanted "Follow"In the vintage-feast of yore.My vineyards are the richestFalernian slopes bestow;Has the vineherd lost his cunning?Has the summer lost its glow?Oh, never on FalerniumThe Care-Dispeller trod,Its vine-leaves wreathe no thyrsus,Its fruits allure no god.For ever young, Lyæus;For ever young his priest;The Boy-god of the Morning,The conqueror of the East,His wine is Nature's life-blood;His vineyards bloom uponThe hilltops of Parnassus,The banks of Helicon.But the hilltops of ParnassusAre free to every age;I have trod them with the Poet,I have mapp'd them with the Sage;And I'll take my pert discipleTo see, with humble eyes,How the Gladness-bringer honoursThe worship of the wise.Lo, the arching of the vine-leaves;Lo, the sparkle of the fount;Hark, the carol of the Mænads;Lo, the car is on the Mount!"Ho, room, ye thyrsus-bearers,Your playmate I have been!""Go, madman," laughs Lyæus,"Thy thyrsus then was green."And adown the gleaming alleysThe gladness-givers glide;And the wood-nymph murmurs "Follow,"To the young man by my side.
Oh Œvoë,liber Pater,Oh, the vintage feast divine,When the God was in the bosomAnd his rapture in the wine;
When the Faun laugh'd out at morning;When the Mænad hymn'd the night;And the Earth itself was drunkenWith the worship of delight;
Oh Œvoë,liber Pater,Whose orgies are uponThe hilltops of Parnassus,The banks of Helicon;—
How often have I hail'd thee!How often have I beenThe bearer of the thyrsus,When its wither'd leaves were green.
Then the boughs were purple gleamingWith the dewdrop and the star;And chanting came the wood-nymph,And flashing came the car.
Long faded are the garlandsOf the thyrsus that I bore,When the wood-nymph chanted "Follow"In the vintage-feast of yore.
My vineyards are the richestFalernian slopes bestow;Has the vineherd lost his cunning?Has the summer lost its glow?
Oh, never on FalerniumThe Care-Dispeller trod,Its vine-leaves wreathe no thyrsus,Its fruits allure no god.
For ever young, Lyæus;For ever young his priest;The Boy-god of the Morning,The conqueror of the East,
His wine is Nature's life-blood;His vineyards bloom uponThe hilltops of Parnassus,The banks of Helicon.
But the hilltops of ParnassusAre free to every age;I have trod them with the Poet,I have mapp'd them with the Sage;
And I'll take my pert discipleTo see, with humble eyes,How the Gladness-bringer honoursThe worship of the wise.
Lo, the arching of the vine-leaves;Lo, the sparkle of the fount;Hark, the carol of the Mænads;Lo, the car is on the Mount!
"Ho, room, ye thyrsus-bearers,Your playmate I have been!""Go, madman," laughs Lyæus,"Thy thyrsus then was green."
And adown the gleaming alleysThe gladness-givers glide;And the wood-nymph murmurs "Follow,"To the young man by my side.
By summer-reeds a music murmur'd low,And straight the Shepherd-age came back to me;When idylls breathed where Himera's waters flow,Or on the Hœmus hill, or Rhodopè;[A]As when the swans, by Moschus heard at noon,Mourn'd their lost Bion on the Thracian streams;[B]Or when Simæthea murmur'd to the moonOf Myndian Delphis,[C]—old Sicilian themes.Then softly turning, on the margent-slopeWhich back as clear translucent waters gave,Behold, a Shape as beautiful as Hope,And calm as Grief, bent, singing o'er the wave.To the sweet lips, sweet music seem'd a thingNatural as perfume to the violet.All else was silent; not a zephyr's wingStirr'd from the magic of the charmer's net.What was the sense beneath the silver tone?What the fine chain that link'd the floating measure?Not mine, to say,—the language was unknown,And sense was lost in undistinguish'd pleasure.Pleasure, dim-shadow'd with a gentle painAs twilight Hesper with a twilight shroud;Or like the balm of a delicious rainPress'd from the fleeces of a summer cloud.When the song ceased, I knelt before the singerAnd raised my looks to soft and childlike eyes,Sighing? "What fountain, O thou nectar-bringerFeeds thy full urn with golden melodies?"Interpret sounds, O Hebé of the soul,Oft heard, methinks, in Ida's starry grove,When to thy feet the charmèd eagle stole,And the dark thunder left the brows of Jove!"Smiling, the Beautiful replied to me,And still the language flow'd in words unknown;Only in those pure eyes my sense could seeHow calm the soul that so perplex'd my own.And while she spoke, symphonious murmurs rose;Dryads from trees, Nymphs murmur'd from the rills;Murmur'd Mænalian Pan from dim reposeIn the lush coverts of Pelasgic hills;Murmur'd the voice of Chloris in the flower;Bent, murmuring from his car, Hyperion;Each thing regain'd the old Presiding Power,And spoke,—and still the language was unknown.Dull listener, placed amidst the harmonious Whole,Hear'st thou no voice to sense divinely dark?The sweetest sounds that wander to the soulAre in the Unknown Language.—Pause, and hark!
By summer-reeds a music murmur'd low,And straight the Shepherd-age came back to me;When idylls breathed where Himera's waters flow,Or on the Hœmus hill, or Rhodopè;[A]
As when the swans, by Moschus heard at noon,Mourn'd their lost Bion on the Thracian streams;[B]Or when Simæthea murmur'd to the moonOf Myndian Delphis,[C]—old Sicilian themes.
Then softly turning, on the margent-slopeWhich back as clear translucent waters gave,Behold, a Shape as beautiful as Hope,And calm as Grief, bent, singing o'er the wave.
To the sweet lips, sweet music seem'd a thingNatural as perfume to the violet.All else was silent; not a zephyr's wingStirr'd from the magic of the charmer's net.
What was the sense beneath the silver tone?What the fine chain that link'd the floating measure?Not mine, to say,—the language was unknown,And sense was lost in undistinguish'd pleasure.
Pleasure, dim-shadow'd with a gentle painAs twilight Hesper with a twilight shroud;Or like the balm of a delicious rainPress'd from the fleeces of a summer cloud.
When the song ceased, I knelt before the singerAnd raised my looks to soft and childlike eyes,Sighing? "What fountain, O thou nectar-bringerFeeds thy full urn with golden melodies?
"Interpret sounds, O Hebé of the soul,Oft heard, methinks, in Ida's starry grove,When to thy feet the charmèd eagle stole,And the dark thunder left the brows of Jove!"
Smiling, the Beautiful replied to me,And still the language flow'd in words unknown;Only in those pure eyes my sense could seeHow calm the soul that so perplex'd my own.
And while she spoke, symphonious murmurs rose;Dryads from trees, Nymphs murmur'd from the rills;Murmur'd Mænalian Pan from dim reposeIn the lush coverts of Pelasgic hills;
Murmur'd the voice of Chloris in the flower;Bent, murmuring from his car, Hyperion;Each thing regain'd the old Presiding Power,And spoke,—and still the language was unknown.
Dull listener, placed amidst the harmonious Whole,Hear'st thou no voice to sense divinely dark?The sweetest sounds that wander to the soulAre in the Unknown Language.—Pause, and hark!
Wearily flaggeth my Soul in the Desert;Wearily, wearily.Sand, ever sand, not a gleam of the fountain;Sun, ever sun, not a shade from the mountain;Wave after wave flows the sea of the Desert,Drearily, drearily.Life dwelt with life in my far native valleys,Nightly and daily;Labour had brothers to aid and beguile;A tear for my tear, and a smile for my smile;And the sweet human voices rang out; and the valleysEchoed them gaily.Under the almond-tree, once in the spring-time,Careless reclining;The sigh of my Leila was hush'd on my breast,As the note of the last bird had died in its nest;Calm look'd the stars on the buds of the spring-time,Calm—but how shining!Below on the herbage there darken'd a shadow;Stirr'd the boughs o'er me;Dropp'd from the almond-tree, sighing, the blossom;Trembling the maiden sprang up from my bosom;Then the step of a stranger came mute through the shadow,Pausing before me.He stood grey with age in the robe of a Dervise,As a king awe-compelling;And the cold of his eye like the diamond was bright,As if years from the hardness had fashion'd the light,"A draught from thy spring for the way-weary Dervise,And rest in thy dwelling."And my herds gave the milk, and my tent gave the shelter;And the stranger spell-bound meWith his tales, all the night, of the far world of wonder,Of the ocean of Oman with pearls gleaming under;And I thought, "O, how mean are the tents' simple shelterAnd the valleys around me!"I seized as I listen'd, in fancy, the treasuresBy Afrites conceal'd;Scared the serpents that watch in the ruins afarO'er the hoards of the Persian in lost Chil-Menar;—Alas! ill that night happy youth had more treasuresThan Ormus can yield.Morn came, and I went with my guest through the gorgesIn the rock hollow'd;The flocks bleated low as I pass'd them ungrieving,The almond-buds strew'd the sweet earth I was leaving;Slowly went Age through the gloom of the gorges,Lightly Youth follow'd.We won through the Pass—the Unknown lay before me,Sun-lighted and wide;Then I turn'd to my guest, but how languid his tread,And the awe I had felt in his presence was fled,And I cried, "Can thy age in the journey before meStill keep by my side?""Hope and Wisdom soon part; be it so," said the Dervise,"My mission is done."As he spoke, came the gleam of the crescent and spear,Chimed the bells of the camel more sweet and more near;—"Go, and march with the Caravan, youth," sigh'd the Dervise,"Fare thee well!"—he was gone.What profits to speak of the wastes I have traversedSince that early time?One by one the procession, replacing the guide,Have dropp'd on the sands, or have stray'd from my side;And I hear never more in the solitudes traversedThe camel-bell's chime.How oft I have yearn'd for the old happy valley,But the sands have no track;He who scorn'd what was near must advance to the far,Who forsaketh the landmark must march by the star,And the steps that once part from the peace of the valleyCan never come back.So on, ever on, spreads the path of the Desert,Wearily, wearily;Sand, ever sand—not a gleam of the fountain;Sun, ever sun—not a shade from the mountain;As a sea on a sea, flows the width of the Desert,Drearily, drearily.How narrow content, and how infinite knowledge!Lost vale, and lost maiden!Enclosed in the garden the mortal was blest:A world with its wonders lay round him unguest;That world was his own when he tasted of knowledge—Was it worth Aden?
Wearily flaggeth my Soul in the Desert;Wearily, wearily.Sand, ever sand, not a gleam of the fountain;Sun, ever sun, not a shade from the mountain;Wave after wave flows the sea of the Desert,Drearily, drearily.
Life dwelt with life in my far native valleys,Nightly and daily;Labour had brothers to aid and beguile;A tear for my tear, and a smile for my smile;And the sweet human voices rang out; and the valleysEchoed them gaily.
Under the almond-tree, once in the spring-time,Careless reclining;The sigh of my Leila was hush'd on my breast,As the note of the last bird had died in its nest;Calm look'd the stars on the buds of the spring-time,Calm—but how shining!
Below on the herbage there darken'd a shadow;Stirr'd the boughs o'er me;Dropp'd from the almond-tree, sighing, the blossom;Trembling the maiden sprang up from my bosom;Then the step of a stranger came mute through the shadow,Pausing before me.
He stood grey with age in the robe of a Dervise,As a king awe-compelling;And the cold of his eye like the diamond was bright,As if years from the hardness had fashion'd the light,"A draught from thy spring for the way-weary Dervise,And rest in thy dwelling."
And my herds gave the milk, and my tent gave the shelter;And the stranger spell-bound meWith his tales, all the night, of the far world of wonder,Of the ocean of Oman with pearls gleaming under;And I thought, "O, how mean are the tents' simple shelterAnd the valleys around me!"
I seized as I listen'd, in fancy, the treasuresBy Afrites conceal'd;Scared the serpents that watch in the ruins afarO'er the hoards of the Persian in lost Chil-Menar;—Alas! ill that night happy youth had more treasuresThan Ormus can yield.
Morn came, and I went with my guest through the gorgesIn the rock hollow'd;The flocks bleated low as I pass'd them ungrieving,The almond-buds strew'd the sweet earth I was leaving;Slowly went Age through the gloom of the gorges,Lightly Youth follow'd.
We won through the Pass—the Unknown lay before me,Sun-lighted and wide;Then I turn'd to my guest, but how languid his tread,And the awe I had felt in his presence was fled,And I cried, "Can thy age in the journey before meStill keep by my side?"
"Hope and Wisdom soon part; be it so," said the Dervise,"My mission is done."As he spoke, came the gleam of the crescent and spear,Chimed the bells of the camel more sweet and more near;—"Go, and march with the Caravan, youth," sigh'd the Dervise,"Fare thee well!"—he was gone.
What profits to speak of the wastes I have traversedSince that early time?One by one the procession, replacing the guide,Have dropp'd on the sands, or have stray'd from my side;And I hear never more in the solitudes traversedThe camel-bell's chime.
How oft I have yearn'd for the old happy valley,But the sands have no track;He who scorn'd what was near must advance to the far,Who forsaketh the landmark must march by the star,And the steps that once part from the peace of the valleyCan never come back.
So on, ever on, spreads the path of the Desert,Wearily, wearily;Sand, ever sand—not a gleam of the fountain;Sun, ever sun—not a shade from the mountain;As a sea on a sea, flows the width of the Desert,Drearily, drearily.
How narrow content, and how infinite knowledge!Lost vale, and lost maiden!Enclosed in the garden the mortal was blest:A world with its wonders lay round him unguest;That world was his own when he tasted of knowledge—Was it worth Aden?
king.Who art thou, who art thou, indistinct as the sprayRising up from a torrent in vapour and cloud?Ghastly Phantom, obscuring the splendour of dayAnd enveloped in awe, as a corpse with a shroud?wraith.King, my form is thy shade,And my life is thy breath;Lo, thy likeness display'dIn the mirror of Death!king.My veins are as ice! 'Tis my voice that I hear!'Tis my form coming forth from the cloud that I see!My voice?—can its sound be so dread to my ear?My form?—can myself be so loathly to me?wraith.Never Man comes in sightOf himself till the last;In the flicker of lightWhen the fuel is past!king.Nay, avaunt, lying Spectre, my fears are dispell'd,For the likeness that fool'd me is fading away,And I see, where the shape of a king was beheld,But the coil of an earthworm that creeps into clay.wraith.As thy shade I began;As thyself I depart;And thy last looks, O Man,See the worm that thou art!
king.
Who art thou, who art thou, indistinct as the sprayRising up from a torrent in vapour and cloud?Ghastly Phantom, obscuring the splendour of dayAnd enveloped in awe, as a corpse with a shroud?
wraith.
King, my form is thy shade,And my life is thy breath;Lo, thy likeness display'dIn the mirror of Death!
king.
My veins are as ice! 'Tis my voice that I hear!'Tis my form coming forth from the cloud that I see!My voice?—can its sound be so dread to my ear?My form?—can myself be so loathly to me?
wraith.
Never Man comes in sightOf himself till the last;In the flicker of lightWhen the fuel is past!
king.
Nay, avaunt, lying Spectre, my fears are dispell'd,For the likeness that fool'd me is fading away,And I see, where the shape of a king was beheld,But the coil of an earthworm that creeps into clay.
wraith.
As thy shade I began;As thyself I depart;And thy last looks, O Man,See the worm that thou art!
O Strong as the eagle,O mild as the dove,How like and how unlikeO Death and O Love!Knitting earth to the heaven,The near to the far,With the step in the dust,And the eye on the star.Ever changing your symbolsOf light or of gloom;Now the rue on the altar,The rose on the tomb.From Love, if the infantReceiveth his breath,The love that gave lifeYields a subject to Death.When Death smites the aged,Escaping aboveFlies the soul re-deliver'dBy Death unto Love.And therefore in wailingWe enter on life;And therefore in smilingDepart from its strife.Thus Love is best knownBy the tears it has shed;And Death's surest signIs the smile of the dead.The purer the spirit,The clearer its view,The more it confoundethThe shapes of the two;For, if thou lov'st truly,Thou canst not disseverThe grave from the altar,The Now from the Ever;And if, nobly hoping,Thou gazest above,In Death thou beholdestThe aspect ofLove.
O Strong as the eagle,O mild as the dove,How like and how unlikeO Death and O Love!
Knitting earth to the heaven,The near to the far,With the step in the dust,And the eye on the star.
Ever changing your symbolsOf light or of gloom;Now the rue on the altar,The rose on the tomb.
From Love, if the infantReceiveth his breath,The love that gave lifeYields a subject to Death.
When Death smites the aged,Escaping aboveFlies the soul re-deliver'dBy Death unto Love.
And therefore in wailingWe enter on life;And therefore in smilingDepart from its strife.
Thus Love is best knownBy the tears it has shed;And Death's surest signIs the smile of the dead.
The purer the spirit,The clearer its view,The more it confoundethThe shapes of the two;
For, if thou lov'st truly,Thou canst not disseverThe grave from the altar,The Now from the Ever;
And if, nobly hoping,Thou gazest above,In Death thou beholdestThe aspect ofLove.
Let me pause, for I am weary,Weary of the trodden ways;And the landscape spreads more drearyWhere it stretches from my gaze.Many a prize I deem'd a blessingWhen I started for the goal,Midway in the course possessingAdds a burthen to the soul.By the thorn that scantly shadethFrom the slopèd sun reclin'd,Let me look, before it fadethOn the eastern hill behind;—On the hill that life ascended,While the dewy morn was young;While the mist with light contendedAnd the early skylark sung.Then, as when at first united,Rose together Love and Day;Nature with her sun was lighted,And my soul with Viola!O my young earth's lost Immortal!Naiad vanish'd from the streams!Eve, torn from me at the portalOf my Paradise of Dreams!On thy name, with lips that quiver,With a voice that chokes, I call.—Well! the cave may hide the river,But the ocean merges all.Yet, if but in self-deceiving,Can no magic charm thy shade?Come unto my human grieving,Come, but as the human maid!By the fount where love was plightedWhere the lone wave glass'd the skies;By the hands that once united;By the welcome of the eyes;By the silence sweetly brokenWhen the full heart murmur'd low,And with sighs the words were spokenEre the later tears did flow;By the blush and soft confession;By the wanderings side by side;By the love-denied possession;And the heavenlier, so denied;By the faith yet undiverted;By the worship sacred yet;To the soul so long deserted,Come, as when of old we met;Blooming as my youth beheld theeIn the trysting-place of yore,—Hark a footfall! I have spell'd thee,Lo, thy living smile once more!
Let me pause, for I am weary,Weary of the trodden ways;And the landscape spreads more drearyWhere it stretches from my gaze.
Many a prize I deem'd a blessingWhen I started for the goal,Midway in the course possessingAdds a burthen to the soul.
By the thorn that scantly shadethFrom the slopèd sun reclin'd,Let me look, before it fadethOn the eastern hill behind;—
On the hill that life ascended,While the dewy morn was young;While the mist with light contendedAnd the early skylark sung.
Then, as when at first united,Rose together Love and Day;Nature with her sun was lighted,And my soul with Viola!
O my young earth's lost Immortal!Naiad vanish'd from the streams!Eve, torn from me at the portalOf my Paradise of Dreams!
On thy name, with lips that quiver,With a voice that chokes, I call.—Well! the cave may hide the river,But the ocean merges all.
Yet, if but in self-deceiving,Can no magic charm thy shade?Come unto my human grieving,Come, but as the human maid!
By the fount where love was plightedWhere the lone wave glass'd the skies;By the hands that once united;By the welcome of the eyes;
By the silence sweetly brokenWhen the full heart murmur'd low,And with sighs the words were spokenEre the later tears did flow;
By the blush and soft confession;By the wanderings side by side;By the love-denied possession;And the heavenlier, so denied;
By the faith yet undiverted;By the worship sacred yet;To the soul so long deserted,Come, as when of old we met;
Blooming as my youth beheld theeIn the trysting-place of yore,—Hark a footfall! I have spell'd thee,Lo, thy living smile once more!
Glides the brooklet through the rushes,Now with dipping boughs at play,Now with quicker music-gushesWhere the pebbles chafe the way.Lonely from the lonely meadowsSlopes the undulating hill;And the slowness of its shadowsBut at sunset gains the rill:Not a sign of man's existence,Not a glimpse of man's abode,Yet the church-spire in the distanceLinks the solitude with God.All so quiet, all so glowing,In the golden hush of noon;Nature's still heart overflowingFrom the breathless lips of June.Song itself the bird forsaketh,Save from wooded deeps remote,Mellowly and singly breaketh,Mellowly, the cuckoo's note.'Tis the scene where youth beheld thee;'Tis the trysting-place of yore;Yes, my mighty grief hath spell'd thee,Blooming—living—mine once more!
Glides the brooklet through the rushes,Now with dipping boughs at play,Now with quicker music-gushesWhere the pebbles chafe the way.
Lonely from the lonely meadowsSlopes the undulating hill;And the slowness of its shadowsBut at sunset gains the rill:
Not a sign of man's existence,Not a glimpse of man's abode,Yet the church-spire in the distanceLinks the solitude with God.
All so quiet, all so glowing,In the golden hush of noon;Nature's still heart overflowingFrom the breathless lips of June.
Song itself the bird forsaketh,Save from wooded deeps remote,Mellowly and singly breaketh,Mellowly, the cuckoo's note.
'Tis the scene where youth beheld thee;'Tis the trysting-place of yore;Yes, my mighty grief hath spell'd thee,Blooming—living—mine once more!
Hand in hand we stood confiding,Boy and maiden, hand in hand,Where the path, in twain dividing,Reach'd the Undiscover'd Land.Oh, the Hebé then beside me,Oh, the embodied Dream of Youth,With an angel's soul to guide me,And a woman's heart to soothe!Like the Morning in the gladnessOf the smile that lit the skies;Liker Twilight in the sadnessLurking deep in starry eyes!Gaudier flowerets had effaced theeIn the formal garden set;Nature in the shade had placed theeWith thy kindred violet;As the violet to completenessComing evèn ere the day;All thy life a silent sweetnessWaning with a warmer ray.So, upon the verge of sorrowStood we, blindly, hand in hand,Whispering of a happy morrowIn that undiscover'd land.Thou, O meek one, fame foretelling,Grown ambitious but for me;While my heart, if proudly swelling,Beat—ah, not for Fame, but thee!In that summer-noon we parted,Life redundant over all.Once again—O broken-hearted—When the autumn leaves did fall,Meeting—life from life to sever!Parting,—as depart the dead,When the dark "Farewell for ever,"Fades from marble lips, unsaid;As upon a bark that slowlyLessens lone adown the sea,Looks abandon'd Melancholy—Did thy still eyes follow me!Wilful in thy self devotion,Patient on the desert shore,Gazing, gazing, till from oceanWaned thy last hope evermore.Gentle victim, they might bind thee,But to fetter was to slay;As a statue they enshrined thee,At a sepulchre to pray;Bade the bloodless lips not falter;Bade the cold despair be brave;Yes, the next morn at the altar!But the next moon in the grave!Little dream'd they when they bore theeTo the nuptial funeral shrine,That tomethey did restore thee,And release thy soul to mine!Well thy noble heart might smotherNature's agonizing cry,What can perjure to anotherFaith—if firm eno' to die!Yet can ev'n the grave regain thee?Gain as human love would see?Darling—Pardon, I profane thee;Angel, bend and comfort me!
Hand in hand we stood confiding,Boy and maiden, hand in hand,Where the path, in twain dividing,Reach'd the Undiscover'd Land.
Oh, the Hebé then beside me,Oh, the embodied Dream of Youth,With an angel's soul to guide me,And a woman's heart to soothe!
Like the Morning in the gladnessOf the smile that lit the skies;Liker Twilight in the sadnessLurking deep in starry eyes!
Gaudier flowerets had effaced theeIn the formal garden set;Nature in the shade had placed theeWith thy kindred violet;
As the violet to completenessComing evèn ere the day;All thy life a silent sweetnessWaning with a warmer ray.
So, upon the verge of sorrowStood we, blindly, hand in hand,Whispering of a happy morrowIn that undiscover'd land.
Thou, O meek one, fame foretelling,Grown ambitious but for me;While my heart, if proudly swelling,Beat—ah, not for Fame, but thee!
In that summer-noon we parted,Life redundant over all.Once again—O broken-hearted—When the autumn leaves did fall,
Meeting—life from life to sever!Parting,—as depart the dead,When the dark "Farewell for ever,"Fades from marble lips, unsaid;
As upon a bark that slowlyLessens lone adown the sea,Looks abandon'd Melancholy—Did thy still eyes follow me!
Wilful in thy self devotion,Patient on the desert shore,Gazing, gazing, till from oceanWaned thy last hope evermore.
Gentle victim, they might bind thee,But to fetter was to slay;As a statue they enshrined thee,At a sepulchre to pray;
Bade the bloodless lips not falter;Bade the cold despair be brave;Yes, the next morn at the altar!But the next moon in the grave!
Little dream'd they when they bore theeTo the nuptial funeral shrine,That tomethey did restore thee,And release thy soul to mine!
Well thy noble heart might smotherNature's agonizing cry,What can perjure to anotherFaith—if firm eno' to die!
Yet can ev'n the grave regain thee?Gain as human love would see?Darling—Pardon, I profane thee;Angel, bend and comfort me!
Cold the loiterer who refusethAt the well of life to drink,Till the wave a sparkle loseth,And the silver cord a link.But the flagging of the forcesIn the journey of the soul,If the first draught waste the sources,If the first touch break the bowl!—On the surface bright with pleasureStill thy distant shade was cast;Ah! the heart was where the treasure,And the Present with the Past.If from Fame, the all-deceiver,Toil contending garlands sought,Oft our force if but our fever,And our swiftness flight from Thought.Hollow Pleasure, vain Ambition,Give me back the impulse free—Hope that seem'd its own fruition,Life contented but to be,When the earth with Heaven was hauntedIn the shepherd age of gold,And the Venus rose enchantedFrom the sunny seas of old.Cease, not mine the ignoble moralOf an unresisted grief;Can the lightning sear the laurel,Or the winter fade its leaf?Flowerless, fruitless, to the dying,Green as when the sap began,Bolt and winter both defying,—So be manhood unto man.Once I wander'd forth dejectedIn the later times of gloom;And the icy moon reflectedOnestill shadow o'er thy tomb.There, in desolation kneeling,Snows around me, stars above,Came that second world of feeling,Came that second birth of Love,When regret grows aspiration,When o'er chaos moves the breath;And a new-born dim creationRising, wid'ning, dawns from death.Then methought my soul was liftedFrom the anguish and the strife;With a finer vision giftedFor the Spirituals of Life;For the links that, while they thrall us,Upward mount in just degree,Knitting even, if they gall us,Life to Immortality;For the subtler glories blendingWith the common air we know,Ansel hosts to heaven ascendingUp the ladder based below.Straight each harsher iron dutyDid the sudden light illume;Oh, what streams of solemn beautyTake their sources in the tomb!
Cold the loiterer who refusethAt the well of life to drink,Till the wave a sparkle loseth,And the silver cord a link.
But the flagging of the forcesIn the journey of the soul,If the first draught waste the sources,If the first touch break the bowl!—
On the surface bright with pleasureStill thy distant shade was cast;Ah! the heart was where the treasure,And the Present with the Past.
If from Fame, the all-deceiver,Toil contending garlands sought,Oft our force if but our fever,And our swiftness flight from Thought.
Hollow Pleasure, vain Ambition,Give me back the impulse free—Hope that seem'd its own fruition,Life contented but to be,
When the earth with Heaven was hauntedIn the shepherd age of gold,And the Venus rose enchantedFrom the sunny seas of old.
Cease, not mine the ignoble moralOf an unresisted grief;Can the lightning sear the laurel,Or the winter fade its leaf?
Flowerless, fruitless, to the dying,Green as when the sap began,Bolt and winter both defying,—So be manhood unto man.
Once I wander'd forth dejectedIn the later times of gloom;And the icy moon reflectedOnestill shadow o'er thy tomb.
There, in desolation kneeling,Snows around me, stars above,Came that second world of feeling,Came that second birth of Love,
When regret grows aspiration,When o'er chaos moves the breath;And a new-born dim creationRising, wid'ning, dawns from death.
Then methought my soul was liftedFrom the anguish and the strife;With a finer vision giftedFor the Spirituals of Life;
For the links that, while they thrall us,Upward mount in just degree,Knitting even, if they gall us,Life to Immortality;
For the subtler glories blendingWith the common air we know,Ansel hosts to heaven ascendingUp the ladder based below.
Straight each harsher iron dutyDid the sudden light illume;Oh, what streams of solemn beautyTake their sources in the tomb!