VI.It was the evening—and a group were strewnO'er such a spot as ye, I ween, might see,When basking in the summer's breathless noon,With upward face beneath the drowsy tree;While golden dreams the willing soul receives,And Elf-land glimmers through the checkering leaves.It was the evening—still it lay, and fair,Lapp'd in the quiet of the lulling air;Still, but how happy! like a living thingAll love itself—all love around it seeing;And drinking from the earth, as from a spring,The hush'd delight and essence of its being.And round the spot (a wall of glossy shade)The interlaced and bowering trees reposed;And through the world of foliage had been madeGreen lanes and vistas, which at length were closedBy fount, or fane, or statue white and hoar,Startling the heart with the fond dreams of yore.And near, half-glancing through its veil of leaves,An antique temple stood in marble grace;Where still, if fondly wise, the heart conceivesFaith in the lingering Genius of the Place:Seen wandering yet perchance at earliest dawnOr greyest eve—with Nymph or bearded Faun.Dainty with mosses was the grass you press'd,Through which the harmless lizard glancing crept.And—wearied infants on Earth's gentle breast—In every nook the little field-flowers slept.But ever when the soft air draws its breath(Breeze is a word too rude), with half-heard sigh,From orange-shrubs and myrtles—wanderethThe Grove's sweet Dryad borne in fragrance by.And aye athwart the alleys fitfullyGlanced the fond moth enamour'd of the star;And aye, from out her watch-tower in the tree,The music which a falling leaf might mar,So faint—so faëry seem'd it—of the birdTransform'd at Daulis thrillingly was heard.And in the centre of that spot, which layA ring embosom'd in the wood's embrace,A fountain, clear as ever glass'd the day,Breathed yet a fresher luxury round the place;But now it slept, as if its silver shower,And the wide reach of its aspiring sound,Were far too harsh for that transparent hour:—Yet—like a gnome that mourneth underground—You caught the murmur of the rill which gaveThe well's smooth calm the passion of its wave;Ev'n as man's heart that still, with secret sigh,Stirs through each thought that would reflect the sky.
VI.
It was the evening—and a group were strewnO'er such a spot as ye, I ween, might see,When basking in the summer's breathless noon,With upward face beneath the drowsy tree;While golden dreams the willing soul receives,And Elf-land glimmers through the checkering leaves.
It was the evening—still it lay, and fair,Lapp'd in the quiet of the lulling air;Still, but how happy! like a living thingAll love itself—all love around it seeing;And drinking from the earth, as from a spring,The hush'd delight and essence of its being.And round the spot (a wall of glossy shade)The interlaced and bowering trees reposed;And through the world of foliage had been madeGreen lanes and vistas, which at length were closedBy fount, or fane, or statue white and hoar,Startling the heart with the fond dreams of yore.And near, half-glancing through its veil of leaves,An antique temple stood in marble grace;Where still, if fondly wise, the heart conceivesFaith in the lingering Genius of the Place:Seen wandering yet perchance at earliest dawnOr greyest eve—with Nymph or bearded Faun.Dainty with mosses was the grass you press'd,Through which the harmless lizard glancing crept.And—wearied infants on Earth's gentle breast—In every nook the little field-flowers slept.But ever when the soft air draws its breath(Breeze is a word too rude), with half-heard sigh,From orange-shrubs and myrtles—wanderethThe Grove's sweet Dryad borne in fragrance by.And aye athwart the alleys fitfullyGlanced the fond moth enamour'd of the star;And aye, from out her watch-tower in the tree,The music which a falling leaf might mar,So faint—so faëry seem'd it—of the birdTransform'd at Daulis thrillingly was heard.And in the centre of that spot, which layA ring embosom'd in the wood's embrace,A fountain, clear as ever glass'd the day,Breathed yet a fresher luxury round the place;But now it slept, as if its silver shower,And the wide reach of its aspiring sound,Were far too harsh for that transparent hour:—Yet—like a gnome that mourneth underground—You caught the murmur of the rill which gaveThe well's smooth calm the passion of its wave;Ev'n as man's heart that still, with secret sigh,Stirs through each thought that would reflect the sky.
VII.And, group'd around the fountain, forms were seen,Shaped as for courts in loving Chivalry,Such as Boccacio placed, 'mid alleys green,Listening to tales in careless Fiesolé!Dress'd as for nymphs, the classic banquet thereWas spread on grassy turfs, with coolest fruitAnd drinks Falernian—while the mellow airHeaved to the light swell of the amorous lute;And by the music lovers grew more bold,And Beauty blush'd to secrets, murmuring told.
VII.
And, group'd around the fountain, forms were seen,Shaped as for courts in loving Chivalry,Such as Boccacio placed, 'mid alleys green,Listening to tales in careless Fiesolé!Dress'd as for nymphs, the classic banquet thereWas spread on grassy turfs, with coolest fruitAnd drinks Falernian—while the mellow airHeaved to the light swell of the amorous lute;And by the music lovers grew more bold,And Beauty blush'd to secrets, murmuring told.
VIII.But 'mid that graceful meeting, there were noneWho yielded not to him—that English guest.Nor by sweet lips, half wooing to be won,Were words that thrill and smiles that sigh suppress'd;And fair with lofty brow, and locks of gold,And manhood stately with a Dorian grace,He seem'd like some young Spartan, when of oldThe simple sons of thoughtful HerculesOn Elis stood, and look'd the lords of Greece.Oh! little dream'd those flatterers as they gazedOn him—the radiant cynosure of all,While on their eyes his youth's fresh glory blazed,What that bright heart was destined to befall!That worst of wars—the Battle of the Soil—Which leaves but Crime unscath'd on either side!The daily fever, and the midnight toil;The hope defeated, and the name belied;Wrath's fierce attack, and Slander's slower art,The watchful viper of the evil tongue;—The sting which pride defies, but not the heart—The noblest heart is aye the easiest wrung:The flowers, the fruit, the summer of rich life,Cast on the sands and weariest paths of earth;The march—but not the action—of the strifeWithout;—and Sorrow coil'd around his hearth:The film, the veil, the shadow, and the night,Along those eyes which now in all surveyA tribute and a rapture;—the despiteOf Fortune wreak'd on his declining day;The clouds slow-labouring upward round his heart;—Oh! little dream'd they this!—nor less what lightShould through those clouds—a new-born glory—start;And from the spot man's mystic Father trod,Circling the round Earth with a solemn ray,Cast its great shadow to the Throne of God!
VIII.
But 'mid that graceful meeting, there were noneWho yielded not to him—that English guest.Nor by sweet lips, half wooing to be won,Were words that thrill and smiles that sigh suppress'd;And fair with lofty brow, and locks of gold,And manhood stately with a Dorian grace,He seem'd like some young Spartan, when of oldThe simple sons of thoughtful HerculesOn Elis stood, and look'd the lords of Greece.Oh! little dream'd those flatterers as they gazedOn him—the radiant cynosure of all,While on their eyes his youth's fresh glory blazed,What that bright heart was destined to befall!That worst of wars—the Battle of the Soil—Which leaves but Crime unscath'd on either side!The daily fever, and the midnight toil;The hope defeated, and the name belied;Wrath's fierce attack, and Slander's slower art,The watchful viper of the evil tongue;—The sting which pride defies, but not the heart—The noblest heart is aye the easiest wrung:The flowers, the fruit, the summer of rich life,Cast on the sands and weariest paths of earth;The march—but not the action—of the strifeWithout;—and Sorrow coil'd around his hearth:The film, the veil, the shadow, and the night,Along those eyes which now in all surveyA tribute and a rapture;—the despiteOf Fortune wreak'd on his declining day;The clouds slow-labouring upward round his heart;—Oh! little dream'd they this!—nor less what lightShould through those clouds—a new-born glory—start;And from the spot man's mystic Father trod,Circling the round Earth with a solemn ray,Cast its great shadow to the Throne of God!
IX.The festive rite was o'er—the group was gone,Yet still our wanderer linger'd there alone—For round his eye, and in his heart, there layThe tender spells which cleave to solitude.Who, when some gay delight hath pass'd away,Feels not a charmèd musing in his mood,A poesy of thought, which yearns to pourStill worship to the Spirit of the Hour?Ah! they who bodied into deityThe rosy Hours, I ween, did scarcely err.Sweet hours, yehavea life, and holilyThat life is worn! and when no rude sounds stirThe quiet of our hearts—we inly hearThe hymnlike music of your floating voices,Telling us mystic tidings of the sphereWhere hand in hand your linkèd choir rejoices,And filling us with calm and solemn thought,Diviner far than all our earth-born lore hath taught.With folded arms and upward brow, he leantAgainst the pillar of a sleeping tree;When, hark! the still boughs rustled, and there wentA murmur and a sigh along the air,And a light footstep, like a melody,Pass'd by the flowers. He turn'd;—What Nymph is there?What Hamadryad from the green recessEmerging into beauty like a star?—He gazed—sweet Heaven! 'tis she whose lovelinessHad in his England's gardens first (and farFrom these delicious groves) upon him beam'd,And look'd to life the wonders he had dream'd.* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
IX.
The festive rite was o'er—the group was gone,Yet still our wanderer linger'd there alone—For round his eye, and in his heart, there layThe tender spells which cleave to solitude.Who, when some gay delight hath pass'd away,Feels not a charmèd musing in his mood,A poesy of thought, which yearns to pourStill worship to the Spirit of the Hour?Ah! they who bodied into deityThe rosy Hours, I ween, did scarcely err.Sweet hours, yehavea life, and holilyThat life is worn! and when no rude sounds stirThe quiet of our hearts—we inly hearThe hymnlike music of your floating voices,Telling us mystic tidings of the sphereWhere hand in hand your linkèd choir rejoices,And filling us with calm and solemn thought,Diviner far than all our earth-born lore hath taught.
With folded arms and upward brow, he leantAgainst the pillar of a sleeping tree;When, hark! the still boughs rustled, and there wentA murmur and a sigh along the air,And a light footstep, like a melody,Pass'd by the flowers. He turn'd;—What Nymph is there?What Hamadryad from the green recessEmerging into beauty like a star?—He gazed—sweet Heaven! 'tis she whose lovelinessHad in his England's gardens first (and farFrom these delicious groves) upon him beam'd,And look'd to life the wonders he had dream'd.
* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
X.They met again and oft! what time the StarOf Hesperus hung his rosy lamp on high;Love's earliest beacon, from our storms afar,Lit in the loneliest watch-tower of the sky,Perchance by souls that, ere this world was made,Were the first lovers the first stars survey'd.And Mystery o'er their twilight meeting threwThe charm that nought like mystery doth bestow:Her name—her birth—her home he never knew;And she—hislove was all she sought to know.And when in anxious or in tender moodHe pray'd her to disclose at least her name,A look from her the unwelcome prayer subduedSo sad the cloud that o'er her features came:Her lip grew blanch'd, as with an ominous fear,And all her heart seem'd trembling in her tear.So worshipp'd he in silence and sweet wonder,Pleased to confide, contented not to know;And Hope, life's checkering moonlight, smiled asunderDoubts, which, like clouds, rise ever from below.And thus his love grew daily, and perchanceWas all the stronger circled by romance.He found a name for her, if not her own,Haply as soft, and to her heart as dear—"Zoe"—name stolen from the tuneful Greek,It meaneth 'life,' when common lips do speak—And more on those that love;—sweet language knownTo lovers, sacred to themselves alone;Words, like Egyptian symbols, set apartFor the mysterious Priesthood of the Heart.Creep slowly on, O charm'd reluctant Time—Rarely so hallow'd, Time, creep slowly on—Ev'n I would linger in my truant rhyme,Nor tell too soon how soon those hours were gone.Flowers bloom again—leaves glad once more the tree—Poor life, there comes no second Spring to thee!
X.
They met again and oft! what time the StarOf Hesperus hung his rosy lamp on high;Love's earliest beacon, from our storms afar,Lit in the loneliest watch-tower of the sky,Perchance by souls that, ere this world was made,Were the first lovers the first stars survey'd.And Mystery o'er their twilight meeting threwThe charm that nought like mystery doth bestow:Her name—her birth—her home he never knew;And she—hislove was all she sought to know.And when in anxious or in tender moodHe pray'd her to disclose at least her name,A look from her the unwelcome prayer subduedSo sad the cloud that o'er her features came:Her lip grew blanch'd, as with an ominous fear,And all her heart seem'd trembling in her tear.So worshipp'd he in silence and sweet wonder,Pleased to confide, contented not to know;And Hope, life's checkering moonlight, smiled asunderDoubts, which, like clouds, rise ever from below.And thus his love grew daily, and perchanceWas all the stronger circled by romance.He found a name for her, if not her own,Haply as soft, and to her heart as dear—"Zoe"—name stolen from the tuneful Greek,It meaneth 'life,' when common lips do speak—And more on those that love;—sweet language knownTo lovers, sacred to themselves alone;Words, like Egyptian symbols, set apartFor the mysterious Priesthood of the Heart.
Creep slowly on, O charm'd reluctant Time—Rarely so hallow'd, Time, creep slowly on—Ev'n I would linger in my truant rhyme,Nor tell too soon how soon those hours were gone.Flowers bloom again—leaves glad once more the tree—Poor life, there comes no second Spring to thee!
"Protinus insoliti subierunt corda furores,Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram.Interea misero quæ jam mihi sola placebatAblata est oculis non reditura meis."—Milt. Eleg. vii.
"Protinus insoliti subierunt corda furores,Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram.Interea misero quæ jam mihi sola placebatAblata est oculis non reditura meis."—Milt. Eleg. vii.
"Protinus insoliti subierunt corda furores,Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram.Interea misero quæ jam mihi sola placebatAblata est oculis non reditura meis."—Milt. Eleg. vii.
I.Who shall dispart the Poet's golden threads,From the fine tissues of Philosophy?—Mounts to one goal, each guess thatupwardleads,Whether it soar in some impassion'd sighOr some still thought; alike, it doth but tendTo Light that draws it heavenward.—'Tis but oneGreat law that from the violet lifts the dewAt dawn and twilight to the amorous sun,Or calls the mist, which navies glimmer through,From the vast hush of an unfathom'd sea.The Athenian guess'd that when our souls descendFrom some lost realm (sad aliens here to be),Dim broken memories of the state beforeForm what we call our 'reason';[C]—nothing taughtBut all remember'd;—gleams from elder lore,Pallid revivals of sublimer thought,Which, though by fits and dreamily recall'd,Make all the light our sense receives below;Like the vague hues down-floating—disenthrall'dFrom their bright birthplace, the lost Iris-bow.Is this Philosophy or Song? Why ask?How judge?—The instant that we leave the groundOf the hard Positive, who saith "Iknow?"Conjecture, fancy, faith—'tisthesewe task,When Reason passes but an inch the boundIn which our senses draw the captive's breath.And never yet Philosopher severeStrove for a glimpse beyond the Bridge of Death,But straight he enter'd on that atmospherePoets illume:—Let Logic prove the Known;Truths that we know not, if we would explore,We must imagine! Link, then, evermoreTogether—each so desolate alone,O Poesy, O Knowledge!—Is not Love,Of all those memories which to parent skiesMount struggling back—(as to their source above,In upward showers, imprison'd founts arise;)Oh, is not Love the strongest and the clearest?Love, and thine eyes instinctive seek the Heaven;Love, and a hymn from every star thou hearest;Love, and a world beyond the sense is given;Love, and how many a glorious sleeping powerWakes in thy breast and lifts thyself from thee;Love, and, till then so wedded to the Hour,Thy thoughts go forth and ask Eternity!Lose what thou lovest, and the life of oldIs from thine eyes, O soul, no more conceal'd;Look beyond Death, and through thy tears beholdThere, where Love goes—thine ancient home reveal'd.
I.
Who shall dispart the Poet's golden threads,From the fine tissues of Philosophy?—Mounts to one goal, each guess thatupwardleads,Whether it soar in some impassion'd sighOr some still thought; alike, it doth but tendTo Light that draws it heavenward.—'Tis but oneGreat law that from the violet lifts the dewAt dawn and twilight to the amorous sun,Or calls the mist, which navies glimmer through,From the vast hush of an unfathom'd sea.The Athenian guess'd that when our souls descendFrom some lost realm (sad aliens here to be),Dim broken memories of the state beforeForm what we call our 'reason';[C]—nothing taughtBut all remember'd;—gleams from elder lore,Pallid revivals of sublimer thought,Which, though by fits and dreamily recall'd,Make all the light our sense receives below;Like the vague hues down-floating—disenthrall'dFrom their bright birthplace, the lost Iris-bow.
Is this Philosophy or Song? Why ask?How judge?—The instant that we leave the groundOf the hard Positive, who saith "Iknow?"Conjecture, fancy, faith—'tisthesewe task,When Reason passes but an inch the boundIn which our senses draw the captive's breath.And never yet Philosopher severeStrove for a glimpse beyond the Bridge of Death,But straight he enter'd on that atmospherePoets illume:—Let Logic prove the Known;Truths that we know not, if we would explore,We must imagine! Link, then, evermoreTogether—each so desolate alone,O Poesy, O Knowledge!—
Is not Love,Of all those memories which to parent skiesMount struggling back—(as to their source above,In upward showers, imprison'd founts arise;)Oh, is not Love the strongest and the clearest?Love, and thine eyes instinctive seek the Heaven;Love, and a hymn from every star thou hearest;Love, and a world beyond the sense is given;Love, and how many a glorious sleeping powerWakes in thy breast and lifts thyself from thee;Love, and, till then so wedded to the Hour,Thy thoughts go forth and ask Eternity!
Lose what thou lovest, and the life of oldIs from thine eyes, O soul, no more conceal'd;Look beyond Death, and through thy tears beholdThere, where Love goes—thine ancient home reveal'd.
II.The lovers met in twilight and in stealth.Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale,That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles,And there collects and there conceals the wealth,Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale,Love hoards aloof the glories that it stealeth;And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells,On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth.All nature was a treasury which their heartsRifled and coin'd in passion; the soft grass,The bee's blue palace in the violet's bell;The sighing leaves which, as the day departs,The light breeze stirreth with a gentle swell;The stiller boughs blent in one emerald mass,Whence, rarely floating liquid Eve along,Some unseen linnet sent its vesper song;All furnish'd them with images and words,And thoughts which spoke not, but lay hush'd like prayer;Their love made life one melody, like birds,And circled earth with its own rosy air.What in that lovely climate doth the breastInterpret not into some sound of love?Canst thou ev'n gaze upon the hues that rest,Like the god's smile, upon the pictured dreamLimn'd on mute canvas by the golden Claude,Nor feel thy pulses as to music move?—Nor feel thy soul by some sweet presence awed?Nor know that presence by its light,—and deemThe Landscape breathing with a Voice Divine,"Love, for the land on which ye gaze is mine?"
II.
The lovers met in twilight and in stealth.Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale,That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles,And there collects and there conceals the wealth,Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale,Love hoards aloof the glories that it stealeth;And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells,On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth.
All nature was a treasury which their heartsRifled and coin'd in passion; the soft grass,The bee's blue palace in the violet's bell;The sighing leaves which, as the day departs,The light breeze stirreth with a gentle swell;The stiller boughs blent in one emerald mass,Whence, rarely floating liquid Eve along,Some unseen linnet sent its vesper song;All furnish'd them with images and words,And thoughts which spoke not, but lay hush'd like prayer;Their love made life one melody, like birds,And circled earth with its own rosy air.What in that lovely climate doth the breastInterpret not into some sound of love?Canst thou ev'n gaze upon the hues that rest,Like the god's smile, upon the pictured dreamLimn'd on mute canvas by the golden Claude,Nor feel thy pulses as to music move?—Nor feel thy soul by some sweet presence awed?Nor know that presence by its light,—and deemThe Landscape breathing with a Voice Divine,"Love, for the land on which ye gaze is mine?"
III.But all round them waslife—thelivingscene,The real sky, and earth, and wave, and air:The turf on which Egeria's steps had been,The shade, stream, grotto, which had known her care.Still o'er them floated an inspiring breath—The fragrance and the melody of song—The legend—glory—verse—that vanquish'd deathStill through the orange glades were borne along,And sunk into their souls to swell the hoardOf those rich thoughts the miser Passion stored!
III.
But all round them waslife—thelivingscene,The real sky, and earth, and wave, and air:The turf on which Egeria's steps had been,The shade, stream, grotto, which had known her care.Still o'er them floated an inspiring breath—The fragrance and the melody of song—The legend—glory—verse—that vanquish'd deathStill through the orange glades were borne along,And sunk into their souls to swell the hoardOf those rich thoughts the miser Passion stored!
IV.Buttheyrequired no fuel to the flameWhich burn'd within them, all undyingly;No scene to steeptheirpassion in romance,No spell fromoutwardnature to enhanceThe nature at their bosoms: all the sameTheir love had been if cast upon a rock,And frown'd on from the Arctic's haggard sky.Nay, ev'n the vices and the cares, which moveLike waves o'er that foul ocean of dull life,That rolls through cities in a sullen strifeWith heaven, had raged on them, nor in the shockCrumbled one atom from their base of love.And, like still waters, poesy lay deepWithin the hush'd yet haunted soul of each;And the fair moon, and all the stars that steepHeaven's silence and its spirit in delight,Had with that tide a sympathy and speech!For them there was a glory in the night,A whisper in the forest, and the air;Love is the priest of Nature, and can teachA world of mystery to the few that share,With self-devoted faith, the wingèd Flamen's care.
IV.
Buttheyrequired no fuel to the flameWhich burn'd within them, all undyingly;No scene to steeptheirpassion in romance,No spell fromoutwardnature to enhanceThe nature at their bosoms: all the sameTheir love had been if cast upon a rock,And frown'd on from the Arctic's haggard sky.Nay, ev'n the vices and the cares, which moveLike waves o'er that foul ocean of dull life,That rolls through cities in a sullen strifeWith heaven, had raged on them, nor in the shockCrumbled one atom from their base of love.And, like still waters, poesy lay deepWithin the hush'd yet haunted soul of each;And the fair moon, and all the stars that steepHeaven's silence and its spirit in delight,Had with that tide a sympathy and speech!For them there was a glory in the night,A whisper in the forest, and the air;Love is the priest of Nature, and can teachA world of mystery to the few that share,With self-devoted faith, the wingèd Flamen's care.
V.Ineachlay poesy—for Woman's heartNurses the stream, unsought, and oft unseen;And if it flow not through the tide of art,Nor woo the glittering daylight—you may weenIt slumbers, but not ceases; and, if check'dThe egress of rich words, it flows in thought,And in its silent mirror doth reflectWhate'er Affection to its banks has brought.This makes her love so glowing and so tender,Dyeing it in such deep and dreamlike hues;Earth—Heaven—creative Genius—all that render,In man, their wealth and homage to the muse;Do but, inher, enrich the heart, and throngTo centre there what men disperse in song.O treasure! which awhile the world outweighsThat blessèd human heart Youth calls its own!Measure the space some envied Cæsar swaysWith that which stretches from the heavenly throneInto the Infinite;—and then compareAll after-conquests in the dim and dullBounds of the Real, with the realms that wereYouth's, when its reign was o'er the Beautiful!He who loves nobly and is nobly lovedIs lord of the Ideal. Could it last!It doth—it doth! lasts mournful but unmoved,In the still Ghost-land that reflects the Past.Age will forget its wintry yesterday,But not one sunbeam that rejoiced its May;Showing, perchance, that all which we resumeOf this hard life, beyond the Funeral River,Are the fair blossoms of the age of bloom;And hearts mourn most the things that live for ever.
V.
Ineachlay poesy—for Woman's heartNurses the stream, unsought, and oft unseen;And if it flow not through the tide of art,Nor woo the glittering daylight—you may weenIt slumbers, but not ceases; and, if check'dThe egress of rich words, it flows in thought,And in its silent mirror doth reflectWhate'er Affection to its banks has brought.This makes her love so glowing and so tender,Dyeing it in such deep and dreamlike hues;Earth—Heaven—creative Genius—all that render,In man, their wealth and homage to the muse;Do but, inher, enrich the heart, and throngTo centre there what men disperse in song.O treasure! which awhile the world outweighsThat blessèd human heart Youth calls its own!Measure the space some envied Cæsar swaysWith that which stretches from the heavenly throneInto the Infinite;—and then compareAll after-conquests in the dim and dullBounds of the Real, with the realms that wereYouth's, when its reign was o'er the Beautiful!He who loves nobly and is nobly lovedIs lord of the Ideal. Could it last!It doth—it doth! lasts mournful but unmoved,In the still Ghost-land that reflects the Past.Age will forget its wintry yesterday,But not one sunbeam that rejoiced its May;Showing, perchance, that all which we resumeOf this hard life, beyond the Funeral River,Are the fair blossoms of the age of bloom;And hearts mourn most the things that live for ever.
VI.Twice glided through her course the wandering QueenWho rules the stars and deeps, since first they met.'Tis eve once more, that earliest hour, sereneWith the last light, before the sun hath set;And Zoe waits her lover on the hill,Waits, looking forth afar:—The parting rayOf the reluctant Day-god linger'd still;Aslant it glinted through the pinewood boughs,Broadly to rest upon the ruins grey,That at her feet in desolate glory lay.Through chasm and chink, the myrtle's glossy green,Votive of old to Cytheræa's brows—Rose over wrecks, and smiled: And there, like GriefClose-neighbouring Love, the aloe forced betweenMyrtle with myrtle clasp'd—its barbèd leaf.Where Zoe stands, the Cæsar's Palace stood,And from that lofty terrace ye survey,Naked within their thunder-riven tomb,The bones of that dead Titaness call'd Rome.Beyond, the Tiber, through the Latian PlainWith many a lesser sepulchre bestrew'd,Mourn'd songless onward to the Tyrrhene main;Around, in amphitheatre afarThe hills lay basking in the purple sky;Till all grew grey, and Maro's shepherd-starLook'd through the silence with a loving eye.And soft from silver clouds stole forth the Moon,Hush'd as if still she watch'd Endymion.* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
VI.
Twice glided through her course the wandering QueenWho rules the stars and deeps, since first they met.'Tis eve once more, that earliest hour, sereneWith the last light, before the sun hath set;And Zoe waits her lover on the hill,Waits, looking forth afar:—The parting rayOf the reluctant Day-god linger'd still;Aslant it glinted through the pinewood boughs,Broadly to rest upon the ruins grey,That at her feet in desolate glory lay.Through chasm and chink, the myrtle's glossy green,Votive of old to Cytheræa's brows—Rose over wrecks, and smiled: And there, like GriefClose-neighbouring Love, the aloe forced betweenMyrtle with myrtle clasp'd—its barbèd leaf.Where Zoe stands, the Cæsar's Palace stood,And from that lofty terrace ye survey,Naked within their thunder-riven tomb,The bones of that dead Titaness call'd Rome.Beyond, the Tiber, through the Latian PlainWith many a lesser sepulchre bestrew'd,Mourn'd songless onward to the Tyrrhene main;Around, in amphitheatre afarThe hills lay basking in the purple sky;Till all grew grey, and Maro's shepherd-starLook'd through the silence with a loving eye.And soft from silver clouds stole forth the Moon,Hush'd as if still she watch'd Endymion.
* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
VII.They sate them on a fallen column, whereThe wild acanthus clomb the shatter'd stone,Mocking the sculptured mimicry—which thereWas graven on the pillar'd pomp o'erthrown,[D]Flowerless, if green, the herbage type-like decksArt that will flower not over Glory's wrecks."Ah, doth not Heaven seem near us when alone?How air and moonbeam interchange delight!How like the homeward bird my soul hath flownUnto its rest!—O glorious is the night,Glorious with stars, and starry thoughts, and Thee!"Her sweet voice paused; then from the swelling heartSigh'd—"Joy to meet, but O despair to part!""And wherefore part? Out of all time to meThou cam'st emerging from the depth of dreams,As rose the Venus from her native sea;And at thy coming, Light with all his beamsIllumed Creation's golden Jubilee.What, if my life be wrench'd from youth too soonTo find in duty Manhood's troubled doom,—Lo, where yon star clings ever through the gloomFast by the labouring melancholy moon,So shine, unsever'd from thy pilgrim's side,And gift his soul with an immortal bride."Trembling she heard—no answer but a sigh—Sighing, still trembled; tenderly he raisedHer downcast cheek, and sought the wish'd-for eye.On the long lashes hung slow-gathering tears:And that subdued, despondent thought which wearsWoe, as a Nun the fatal funeral veil,Silent and self-consuming—cast its gloomO'er the sad face yet sadder for its bloom.He gazed, and felt within him, as he gazed,His heart beneath the dire foreboding quail,Ev'n as the gifted melancholy seerKnows by his shudder when a grief is near."Thou answerest not—yet my soul trusts in thee;Albeit—as if for child of earth too fairThy love vouchsafed, thy life conceal'd from me,Nymph-like, thou comest out of starry air,—And I, content the Beautiful to see,Presumed till now no hardier human prayer.But now, the spell the hour appointed breaks,Now in these lips a power that thralls me speaks;I seek mine England, canst thou leave thy Rome?Start not—but let this hand still rest in thine;Canst thou not say 'thy home shall be my home,'Canst thou not say 'thy People shall be mine?'"
VII.
They sate them on a fallen column, whereThe wild acanthus clomb the shatter'd stone,Mocking the sculptured mimicry—which thereWas graven on the pillar'd pomp o'erthrown,[D]Flowerless, if green, the herbage type-like decksArt that will flower not over Glory's wrecks.
"Ah, doth not Heaven seem near us when alone?How air and moonbeam interchange delight!How like the homeward bird my soul hath flownUnto its rest!—O glorious is the night,Glorious with stars, and starry thoughts, and Thee!"Her sweet voice paused; then from the swelling heartSigh'd—"Joy to meet, but O despair to part!"
"And wherefore part? Out of all time to meThou cam'st emerging from the depth of dreams,As rose the Venus from her native sea;And at thy coming, Light with all his beamsIllumed Creation's golden Jubilee.What, if my life be wrench'd from youth too soonTo find in duty Manhood's troubled doom,—Lo, where yon star clings ever through the gloomFast by the labouring melancholy moon,So shine, unsever'd from thy pilgrim's side,And gift his soul with an immortal bride."Trembling she heard—no answer but a sigh—Sighing, still trembled; tenderly he raisedHer downcast cheek, and sought the wish'd-for eye.On the long lashes hung slow-gathering tears:And that subdued, despondent thought which wearsWoe, as a Nun the fatal funeral veil,Silent and self-consuming—cast its gloomO'er the sad face yet sadder for its bloom.He gazed, and felt within him, as he gazed,His heart beneath the dire foreboding quail,Ev'n as the gifted melancholy seerKnows by his shudder when a grief is near."Thou answerest not—yet my soul trusts in thee;Albeit—as if for child of earth too fairThy love vouchsafed, thy life conceal'd from me,Nymph-like, thou comest out of starry air,—And I, content the Beautiful to see,Presumed till now no hardier human prayer.But now, the spell the hour appointed breaks,Now in these lips a power that thralls me speaks;I seek mine England, canst thou leave thy Rome?Start not—but let this hand still rest in thine;Canst thou not say 'thy home shall be my home,'Canst thou not say 'thy People shall be mine?'"
VIII.Wildly she falter'd, starting from his breast,"What dost thou ask—must it all end in this!Art thou not happy, Ingrate? Rest, O, rest,England has toil—Italia happiness!"And as she spoke—a loftier light than prideFlash'd from his eye, and thus themanreplied,—"Hear and approve me—In my father's landAge-long have men, as Heathens, bow'd the kneeTo the dire Statue with the sceptred hand,Which Force enthrones for Thought's idolatry.But now I hear the signal-sound afar,Like the first clarion waking sleep to war,When slumbering armies gird a doomèd town.Dread with the whirlwind, glorious with the light,Strong with the thunderbolt, comes rushing downTruth:—Let the mountains reel beneath her might!Vigour and health her angry wings dispense,And speed the storm, to clear the pestilence.For this, at morn, when through the gladd'ning airLarks rise to heaven—arose my freeman's prayer.For this, has Night in solemn prophet-dreamsLimn'd Time's great morrow—now its day-star gleams!Yea, ere I loved thee, ere a sigh had ask'dEv'n if the love of woman were for me,A Shape of queenlier grief than ever task'dThe votive hearts of antique Chivalry,Born to command the sword, inspire the song,Unveil'd her beauty, and reveal'd her wrong.The Cause she pleads for with the world began;The realm torn from her is the Soul of Man—And her great name despoil'd is—Liberty!And now she calls me with imperial voiceHomeward o'er land and ocean to her cause;Sworn to her service at mine own free choice,Shall I be recreant when the sword she draws?"
VIII.
Wildly she falter'd, starting from his breast,"What dost thou ask—must it all end in this!Art thou not happy, Ingrate? Rest, O, rest,England has toil—Italia happiness!"And as she spoke—a loftier light than prideFlash'd from his eye, and thus themanreplied,—"Hear and approve me—In my father's landAge-long have men, as Heathens, bow'd the kneeTo the dire Statue with the sceptred hand,Which Force enthrones for Thought's idolatry.But now I hear the signal-sound afar,Like the first clarion waking sleep to war,When slumbering armies gird a doomèd town.Dread with the whirlwind, glorious with the light,Strong with the thunderbolt, comes rushing downTruth:—Let the mountains reel beneath her might!Vigour and health her angry wings dispense,And speed the storm, to clear the pestilence.For this, at morn, when through the gladd'ning airLarks rise to heaven—arose my freeman's prayer.For this, has Night in solemn prophet-dreamsLimn'd Time's great morrow—now its day-star gleams!Yea, ere I loved thee, ere a sigh had ask'dEv'n if the love of woman were for me,A Shape of queenlier grief than ever task'dThe votive hearts of antique Chivalry,Born to command the sword, inspire the song,Unveil'd her beauty, and reveal'd her wrong.The Cause she pleads for with the world began;The realm torn from her is the Soul of Man—And her great name despoil'd is—Liberty!And now she calls me with imperial voiceHomeward o'er land and ocean to her cause;Sworn to her service at mine own free choice,Shall I be recreant when the sword she draws?"
IX.She look'd upon that brow so fair and high,Too bright for sorrow as too bold for fear;She look'd upon the depth of that large eyeWhence (ev'n when lost to daylight) starry clearShone earth's sublimest soul;—then tremblinglyOn his young arm her gentle hand she laid,And in the simple movement more was saidOf the weak woman's heart, than ever yetOf that sweet mystery man's rude speech hath told.The touch rebuked him as he thrill'd to it;Back to their deep the stormier passions roll'd,And left his brow (as when the heaven aboveSmiles through departing cloud) serene with love."Come then—companion in this path sublime;Link life with life, and strengthen soul with soul;If vain the hope that lights the onward time;If back to darkness fade the phantom goal;If Dreams, that now seem prophet-visions, beDreams, and no more—still let me cling to thee!Still, seeing thee, have faith in human worth,And feel the Beautiful yet lives for earth!Come, though from marble domes and myrtle bowers,Come, though to lowly roofs and northern skies;In its own fancies Love has regal towers,And orient sunbeams in belovèd eyes.Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall,Thou at thy woman-choice shalt ne'er repine;Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall,This man's true breast shall ward the bolt from thine.Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathesSoul into night,—so be thy love to me!Look, where around the bird the ilex wreathesStill, sheltering boughs,—so be my love to thee!O dweller in my heart, the music thine!And the deep shelter—wilt thou scorn it? mine!"He ceased, and drew her closer to his breast;Soft from the ilex sang the nightingale:Thy heart, O woman, in its happy restHush'd a diviner tale!And o'er her bent her lover; and the goldOf his rich locks with her dark tresses blended;And still, and calm, and tenderly, the loneAnd mellowing night upon their forms descended;And thus, amid the ghostly walls of old,Seen through that silvery, moonlit, lucent air,They seem'd not wholly of an earth-born mould,But suited to the memories breathing there—Two Genii of the mix'd and tender race,Their charmèd homes in lonely coverts singling,Last of their order, doom'd to haunt the place,And bear sweet being interfused and mingling,Draw through their life the same delicious breath,And fade together into air in death.Oh! what then burn'd within her, as her fondAnd pure lips yearn'd to breathe the enduring vow?All was forgot, save him before her now—A blank, a non-existence, lay beyond—All was forgot—all feeling, thought, but this—For ever parted, or for ever his!The voice just stirs her lip—what sound is there?The cleft stone sighing to the curious air?The night-bird rustling, or the fragment's fall,Soft amid weeds, from Cæsar's ruin'd wall?* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *From his embrace abrupt the maiden sprangWith low wild cry despairing:—In the shadeOf that dark tree where still the night-bird sang,Stood a stern image statue-like, and madeA shadow in the shadow;—locks of snowCrown'd, with the awe of age, the solemn brow;Lofty its look with passionless command,As some old chief's of grand inhuman Rome:Calm from its stillness moved the beckoning hand,And low from rigid lips it murmur'd "Come!"—* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
IX.
She look'd upon that brow so fair and high,Too bright for sorrow as too bold for fear;She look'd upon the depth of that large eyeWhence (ev'n when lost to daylight) starry clearShone earth's sublimest soul;—then tremblinglyOn his young arm her gentle hand she laid,And in the simple movement more was saidOf the weak woman's heart, than ever yetOf that sweet mystery man's rude speech hath told.The touch rebuked him as he thrill'd to it;Back to their deep the stormier passions roll'd,And left his brow (as when the heaven aboveSmiles through departing cloud) serene with love."Come then—companion in this path sublime;Link life with life, and strengthen soul with soul;If vain the hope that lights the onward time;If back to darkness fade the phantom goal;If Dreams, that now seem prophet-visions, beDreams, and no more—still let me cling to thee!Still, seeing thee, have faith in human worth,And feel the Beautiful yet lives for earth!Come, though from marble domes and myrtle bowers,Come, though to lowly roofs and northern skies;In its own fancies Love has regal towers,And orient sunbeams in belovèd eyes.Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall,Thou at thy woman-choice shalt ne'er repine;Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall,This man's true breast shall ward the bolt from thine.Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathesSoul into night,—so be thy love to me!Look, where around the bird the ilex wreathesStill, sheltering boughs,—so be my love to thee!O dweller in my heart, the music thine!And the deep shelter—wilt thou scorn it? mine!"He ceased, and drew her closer to his breast;Soft from the ilex sang the nightingale:Thy heart, O woman, in its happy restHush'd a diviner tale!And o'er her bent her lover; and the goldOf his rich locks with her dark tresses blended;And still, and calm, and tenderly, the loneAnd mellowing night upon their forms descended;And thus, amid the ghostly walls of old,Seen through that silvery, moonlit, lucent air,They seem'd not wholly of an earth-born mould,But suited to the memories breathing there—Two Genii of the mix'd and tender race,Their charmèd homes in lonely coverts singling,Last of their order, doom'd to haunt the place,And bear sweet being interfused and mingling,Draw through their life the same delicious breath,And fade together into air in death.Oh! what then burn'd within her, as her fondAnd pure lips yearn'd to breathe the enduring vow?All was forgot, save him before her now—A blank, a non-existence, lay beyond—All was forgot—all feeling, thought, but this—For ever parted, or for ever his!
The voice just stirs her lip—what sound is there?The cleft stone sighing to the curious air?The night-bird rustling, or the fragment's fall,Soft amid weeds, from Cæsar's ruin'd wall?
* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
From his embrace abrupt the maiden sprangWith low wild cry despairing:—In the shadeOf that dark tree where still the night-bird sang,Stood a stern image statue-like, and madeA shadow in the shadow;—locks of snowCrown'd, with the awe of age, the solemn brow;Lofty its look with passionless command,As some old chief's of grand inhuman Rome:Calm from its stillness moved the beckoning hand,And low from rigid lips it murmur'd "Come!"—
* * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *
"I argue notAgainst Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jotOf heart or hope, but still bear up, and steerRight onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?The conscience, friend."—MILTON'SSonnet to Cyriack Skinner.
"I argue notAgainst Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jotOf heart or hope, but still bear up, and steerRight onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?The conscience, friend."—MILTON'SSonnet to Cyriack Skinner.
"I argue notAgainst Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jotOf heart or hope, but still bear up, and steerRight onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?The conscience, friend."—MILTON'SSonnet to Cyriack Skinner.
I.Years have flown by;—and Strife hath raged and ceased;Still on the ear the halted thunder rings;And still in halls, where purple tyrants feast,Glares the red warning to inebriate kings.Midnight is past: the lamp with steadfast lightA silent cell, a mighty toil illumes;And hot and lurid on the student's sightFlares the still ray which, like himself, consumesIts life in gilding darkness. Damp and chillGather the dews on aching temples wan,Wrung from the frame which fails the unconquer'd willIn the fierce struggle between soul and man.
I.
Years have flown by;—and Strife hath raged and ceased;Still on the ear the halted thunder rings;And still in halls, where purple tyrants feast,Glares the red warning to inebriate kings.Midnight is past: the lamp with steadfast lightA silent cell, a mighty toil illumes;And hot and lurid on the student's sightFlares the still ray which, like himself, consumesIts life in gilding darkness. Damp and chillGather the dews on aching temples wan,Wrung from the frame which fails the unconquer'd willIn the fierce struggle between soul and man.
II.Alas! no more to golden palaces,To starlit founts and dryad-haunted trees,TheSWEET DELUSIONwafts the dreamy soul;But with slow step and steadfast eyes that strainDazzled and scathed, towards the far-flaming goalHe braved the storm, and labour'd up the plainO doubtful labour, but O glorious pain!On the doom'd sight the gradual darkness stealsBates he a jot of heart and hope?—he feelsBut in his loss a world's eternal gain.[E]Blame we or laud the Cause, all human lifeIs grander by one grand self-sacrifice;While earth disputes if righteous be the strife,The martyr soars beyond it to the skies.Yes, though when Freedom had her temple wonShe rear'd a scaffold to obscure a shrine;And, by the human sacrifice of one,Sullied the million,—who could then defineThe subtle tints where good and evil blend?—There comes no rainbow when the floods descend!Who, just escaped the chain and prison-bar,Halts on the bridge to guess where glides the stream;Who plays the casuist 'mid the roar of war;Or in the arena builds the Academe?Whate'er their errors, lightly those condemnWho, had they felt not, fought not, glow'd and err'd,Had left us what their fathers left to them—Either the thraldom of the passive herdStall'd for the shambles at the master's word,Or the dread overleap of walls that close,And spears that bristle:—And the last they chose.Calm from the hills their children gaze to-day,And breathe the airs to which they forced the way.
II.
Alas! no more to golden palaces,To starlit founts and dryad-haunted trees,TheSWEET DELUSIONwafts the dreamy soul;But with slow step and steadfast eyes that strainDazzled and scathed, towards the far-flaming goalHe braved the storm, and labour'd up the plainO doubtful labour, but O glorious pain!On the doom'd sight the gradual darkness stealsBates he a jot of heart and hope?—he feelsBut in his loss a world's eternal gain.[E]Blame we or laud the Cause, all human lifeIs grander by one grand self-sacrifice;While earth disputes if righteous be the strife,The martyr soars beyond it to the skies.Yes, though when Freedom had her temple wonShe rear'd a scaffold to obscure a shrine;And, by the human sacrifice of one,Sullied the million,—who could then defineThe subtle tints where good and evil blend?—There comes no rainbow when the floods descend!Who, just escaped the chain and prison-bar,Halts on the bridge to guess where glides the stream;Who plays the casuist 'mid the roar of war;Or in the arena builds the Academe?Whate'er their errors, lightly those condemnWho, had they felt not, fought not, glow'd and err'd,Had left us what their fathers left to them—Either the thraldom of the passive herdStall'd for the shambles at the master's word,Or the dread overleap of walls that close,And spears that bristle:—And the last they chose.Calm from the hills their children gaze to-day,And breathe the airs to which they forced the way.
III.And thou, of whom I sing—what should we all,Whate'er our state-creed, venerate in thee?Purpose heroic; and majesticalDisdain of self;—the soul in which we seeConviction, welding, from the furnace-zeal,Duty, the iron mainspring of the mind;Ardour, if fierce, yet fired for England's weal;And man's strong heart-throb beating for mankind.These move our homage, doubtful though we beIf ev'n thy pen acquits the headman's steel,When thy page cites the crownless Dead—and pleadsDefence for nations in a judgeless cause:Judgeless, for time shall ne'er decide what deedsDamn or absolve the hosts whom Freedom leadsO'er the pale border-land of dying lawsInto the vague world of Necessity.
III.
And thou, of whom I sing—what should we all,Whate'er our state-creed, venerate in thee?Purpose heroic; and majesticalDisdain of self;—the soul in which we seeConviction, welding, from the furnace-zeal,Duty, the iron mainspring of the mind;Ardour, if fierce, yet fired for England's weal;And man's strong heart-throb beating for mankind.These move our homage, doubtful though we beIf ev'n thy pen acquits the headman's steel,When thy page cites the crownless Dead—and pleadsDefence for nations in a judgeless cause:Judgeless, for time shall ne'er decide what deedsDamn or absolve the hosts whom Freedom leadsO'er the pale border-land of dying lawsInto the vague world of Necessity.
IV.He lifts his look where on the lattice bar,Through clouds fast gathering, shines a single star;Large on the haze of his receding sightIt spreads, and spreads, and floods all space with light;Nature's last glorious mournful smile on himEv'n while on earth so near the Seraphim.Now from the blaze he veils with tremulous handThe scorching eyes:—and now the starlight fades:Midnight and cloud resettle on the Land,And o'er her champion's vision rush the shades.What rests to both?—the inner light that glowsOut from the gloom that Fate on each bestows;There is noPRESENTto a hope sublime;Man has eternity, and Nations time!
IV.
He lifts his look where on the lattice bar,Through clouds fast gathering, shines a single star;Large on the haze of his receding sightIt spreads, and spreads, and floods all space with light;Nature's last glorious mournful smile on himEv'n while on earth so near the Seraphim.Now from the blaze he veils with tremulous handThe scorching eyes:—and now the starlight fades:Midnight and cloud resettle on the Land,And o'er her champion's vision rush the shades.
What rests to both?—the inner light that glowsOut from the gloom that Fate on each bestows;There is noPRESENTto a hope sublime;Man has eternity, and Nations time!
"Thus with the yearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud instead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me."—Paradise Lost, Book III."Though fall'n on evil days,In darkness, and with danger compass'd round,And solitude; yet not alone, while thouVisit'st my slumbers nightly, or when mornPurples the east."—Paradise Lost, Book VII.
"Thus with the yearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud instead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me."—Paradise Lost, Book III.
"Thus with the yearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud instead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me."—Paradise Lost, Book III.
"Though fall'n on evil days,In darkness, and with danger compass'd round,And solitude; yet not alone, while thouVisit'st my slumbers nightly, or when mornPurples the east."—Paradise Lost, Book VII.
"Though fall'n on evil days,In darkness, and with danger compass'd round,And solitude; yet not alone, while thouVisit'st my slumbers nightly, or when mornPurples the east."—Paradise Lost, Book VII.
I.Its gay farewell to hospitable eavesThe swallow twitter'd in the autumn heaven;Dumb on the crisp earth fell the yellowing leaves,Or, in small eddies, fitfully were drivenDown the bleak waste of the remorseless air.Out, from the widening gaps in dreary boughs,Alone the laurel smiled,—as freshly fairAs its own chaplet on immortal brows,When Fame, indifferent to the changeful sun,Sees waning races wither, and lives on.—An old man sate before that deathless treeWhich bloom'd his humble dwelling-place beside;The last pale rose which lured the lingering beeTo the low porch it scantly blossom'd o'er,Nipp'd by the frost-air had that morning died.The clock faint-heard beyond the gaping door,Low as a death-watch, click'd the moments' knell;And through the narrow opening you might seeUncertain foot-prints on the sanded floor(Uncertain foot-prints which of blindness tell);The rude oak board, the morn's untasted fare;The scatter'd volumes and the pillow'd chair,In which, worn out with toil and travel past,Life, the poor wanderer, finds repose at last.
I.
Its gay farewell to hospitable eavesThe swallow twitter'd in the autumn heaven;Dumb on the crisp earth fell the yellowing leaves,Or, in small eddies, fitfully were drivenDown the bleak waste of the remorseless air.Out, from the widening gaps in dreary boughs,Alone the laurel smiled,—as freshly fairAs its own chaplet on immortal brows,When Fame, indifferent to the changeful sun,Sees waning races wither, and lives on.—An old man sate before that deathless treeWhich bloom'd his humble dwelling-place beside;The last pale rose which lured the lingering beeTo the low porch it scantly blossom'd o'er,Nipp'd by the frost-air had that morning died.The clock faint-heard beyond the gaping door,Low as a death-watch, click'd the moments' knell;And through the narrow opening you might seeUncertain foot-prints on the sanded floor(Uncertain foot-prints which of blindness tell);The rude oak board, the morn's untasted fare;The scatter'd volumes and the pillow'd chair,In which, worn out with toil and travel past,Life, the poor wanderer, finds repose at last.