TO ——

Whatgood soever in thy heart or mindDoth yet no higher source nor fountain ownThan thine own self, nor bow to other throne—Suspect and fear—although therein thou findHigh purpose to go forth and bless thy kind,Or in the awful temple of thy soulTo worship what is loveliest, and controulThe ill within, and by strong laws to bind.Good is of God—and none is therefore sureThat has dared wander from its source away:Laws without sanction will not long endure,Love will grow faint and fainter day by day,And Beauty from the straight path will allure,And weakening first, will afterwards betray.

Whatmaiden gathers flowers, who does not love[2]?And some have said, that none in summer bowers,Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers:O lady, of a purpose dost thou moveThrough garden walks, as willing to disproveThis gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand,Hast culled a thousand thus at my command,Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove.There is no meaning in a thousand flowers—Onelily from its green stalk wouldst thou part,Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold,One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers,Upgathering closely to its virgin heartAn undivulgèd hoard of central gold.

Look, dearest, what a glory from the sunHas fringed that cloud with silver edges bright,And how it seems to drink the golden lightOf evening—you would think that it had wonA splendour of its own: but lo! anonYou shall behold a dark mass float away,Emptied of light and radiance, from the day,Its glory faded utterly and gone.And doubt not we should suffer the same lossAs this weak vapour, which awhile did seemTranslucent and made pure of all its dross,If, having shared the light, we should misdeemThat light our own, or count we hold in feeThat which we must receive continually.

Welive not in our moments or our years—The Present we fling from us like the rindOf some sweet Future, which we after findBitter to taste, or bindthatin with fears,And water it beforehand with our tears—Vain tears for that which never may arrive:Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to liveNeglected or unheeded disappears.Wiser it were to welcome and make oursWhate’er of good, though small, the present brings—Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers,With a child’s pure delight in little things;And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,Knowing that mercy ever will endure.

Ifsorrow came not near us, and the loreWhich wisdom-working sorrow best imparts,Found never time of entrance to our hearts,If we had won already a safe shore,Or if our changes were already o’er,Our pilgrim being we might quite forget,Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set,Where there shall be no sorrow any more.Therefore we will not be unwise to askThis, nor secure exemption from our shareOf mortal suffering, and life’s drearier task—Not this, but grace our portion so to bear,That we may rest, when grief and pain are over,“With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover.”

O dowered with a searching glance to seeQuite through the hollow masks, wherewith the bareAnd worthless shows of greatness vizored are,This lore thou hast, because all things to theeAre proven by the absolute decreeOf duty, and whatever will not squareWith that “prime wisdom,” though of seeming fairOr stately, thou rejectest faithfully.Till chidden in thy strength, each random aimOf good, whose aspect heavenward does not turn,Shrinks self-rebuked—thou looking kindliest blameFrom the calm region of thine eyes, that burnWith tempered but continuous flashes bright,Like the mild lightnings of a tropic night.

The tradition on which the following Ballad is founded is an existing one, and exactly as it is here recounted was narrated to the author during his stay at Granada.

O hymned in many a poet’s strain,Alhambra, by enchanter’s handExalted on this throne of Spain,A marvel of the land,The last of thy imperial race,Alhambra, when he oversteptThy portal’s threshold, turned his face—He turned his face and wept.In sooth it was a thing to weep,If then, as now, the level plainBeneath was spreading like the deep,The broad unruffled main:If, like a watch-tower of the sun,Above the Alpujarras rose,Streaked, when the dying day was done,With evening’s roseate snows.Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound,And the twelve lions, couchant yet,Sustain their ponderous burthen, roundThe marble basin set.But never, when the moon is brightO’er hill and golden-sanded stream,And thy square turrets in the lightAnd taper columns gleam,Will village maiden dare to fillHer pitcher from that basin wide,But rather seeks a niggard rillFar down the steep hill-side!It was an Andalusian maid,With rose and pink-enwoven hair,Who told me what the fear that stayedTheir footsteps from that stair:How, rising from that watery floor,A Moorish maiden, in the gleamOf the wan moonlight, stands beforeThe stirrer of the stream:And mournfully she begs the grace,That they would speak the words divine,And sprinkling water in her face,Would make the sacred sign.And whosoe’er will grant this boon,Returning with the morrow’s light,Shall find the fountain pavement strewnWith gold and jewels bright:A regal gift—for once, they say,Her father ruled this broad domain,The last who kept beneath his swayThis pleasant place of Spain.It surely is a fearful doom,That one so beautiful should haveNo present quiet in her tomb,No hope beyond the grave.It must be, that some amuletDoth make all human pity vain,Or that upon her brow is setThe silent seal of pain,Which none can meet—else long ago,Since many gentle hearts are there,Some spirit, touched by joy or woe,Had answered to her prayer.But so it is, that till this hourThat mournful child beneath the moonStill rises from her watery bower,To urge this simple boon—To beg, as all have need of grace,That they would speak the words divine,And, sprinkling water in her face,Would make the sacred sign.

O hymned in many a poet’s strain,Alhambra, by enchanter’s handExalted on this throne of Spain,A marvel of the land,

The last of thy imperial race,Alhambra, when he oversteptThy portal’s threshold, turned his face—He turned his face and wept.

In sooth it was a thing to weep,If then, as now, the level plainBeneath was spreading like the deep,The broad unruffled main:

If, like a watch-tower of the sun,Above the Alpujarras rose,Streaked, when the dying day was done,With evening’s roseate snows.

Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound,And the twelve lions, couchant yet,Sustain their ponderous burthen, roundThe marble basin set.

But never, when the moon is brightO’er hill and golden-sanded stream,And thy square turrets in the lightAnd taper columns gleam,

Will village maiden dare to fillHer pitcher from that basin wide,But rather seeks a niggard rillFar down the steep hill-side!

It was an Andalusian maid,With rose and pink-enwoven hair,Who told me what the fear that stayedTheir footsteps from that stair:

How, rising from that watery floor,A Moorish maiden, in the gleamOf the wan moonlight, stands beforeThe stirrer of the stream:

And mournfully she begs the grace,That they would speak the words divine,And sprinkling water in her face,Would make the sacred sign.

And whosoe’er will grant this boon,Returning with the morrow’s light,Shall find the fountain pavement strewnWith gold and jewels bright:

A regal gift—for once, they say,Her father ruled this broad domain,The last who kept beneath his swayThis pleasant place of Spain.

It surely is a fearful doom,That one so beautiful should haveNo present quiet in her tomb,No hope beyond the grave.

It must be, that some amuletDoth make all human pity vain,Or that upon her brow is setThe silent seal of pain,

Which none can meet—else long ago,Since many gentle hearts are there,Some spirit, touched by joy or woe,Had answered to her prayer.

But so it is, that till this hourThat mournful child beneath the moonStill rises from her watery bower,To urge this simple boon—

To beg, as all have need of grace,That they would speak the words divine,And, sprinkling water in her face,Would make the sacred sign.

Peace, Freedom, Happiness, have loved to waitOn the fair islands, fenced by circling seas,And ever of such favoured spots as theseHave the wise dreamers dreamed, that would createThat perfect model of a happy state,Which the world never saw. Oceana,Utopia such, and Plato’s isle that layWestward of Gades and the Great Sea’s gate.Dreams are they all, which yet have helped to makeThat underneath fair polities we dwell,Though marred in part by envy, faction, hate—Dreams which are dear, dear England, for thy sake,Who art indeed that sea-girt citadel,And nearest image of that perfect state.

Thoughnever axe until a later dayAssailed thy forests’ huge antiquity,Yet elder Fame had many tales of thee—Whether Phœnician shipman far astrayHad brought uncertain notices awayOf islands dreaming in the middle sea;Or that man’s heart, which struggles to be freeFrom the old worn-out world, had never stayTill, for a place to rest on, it had foundA region out of ken, that happier isle,Which the mild ocean breezes blow around,Where they who thrice upon this mortal stageHad kept their hands from wrong, their hearts from guile,Should come at length, and live a tearless age.

England, we love thee better than we know—And this I learned, when after wanderings long’Mid people of another stock and tongue,I heard again thy martial music blow,And saw thy gallant children to and froPace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates,Which like twin giants watch the Herculean straits:When first I came in sight of that brave show,It made my very heart within me dance,To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advanceForward so far into the mighty sea;Joy was it and exultation to beholdThine ancient standard’s rich emblazonry,A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.

Welook for, and have promise to beholdA better country, such as earth has none—Yet, England, am I still thy duteous son,And never will this heart be dead or coldAt the relation of thy glories old,Or of what newer triumphs thou hast won,Where thou as with a mighty arm hast doneThe work of God, quelling the tyrants bold.Elect of nations, for the whole world’s goodThou wert exalted to a doom so high—To outbrave Rome’s “triple tyrant,” to confoundEvery oppressor, that with impious floodWould drown the landmarks of humanity,The limits God hath set to nations and their bound[3].

Thenations may not be trod out, and quiteObliterated from the world’s great page—The nations, that have filled from age to ageTheir place in story. They who in despiteOf this, a people’s first and holiest right,In lust of unchecked power or brutal rage,Against a people’s life such warfare wage,With man no more, but with the Eternal fight.They who break down the barriers He hath set,Break down what would another time defendAnd shelter their own selves: they who forget(For the indulgence of the present will)The lasting ordinances, in the endWill rue their work, when ill shall sanction ill.

Whatwould it help to call thee what thou art?When all is spoken, thou remainest stillWith the same power and the same evil willTo crush a nation’s life out, to dispartAll holiest ties, to turn awry and thwartAll courses that kind nature keeps, to spillThe blood of noblest veins, to maim, or killWith torture of slow pain the aching heart.When our weak hands hang useless, and we feelDeeds cannot be, who then would ease his breastWith the impotence of words? But our appealIs unto Him, who counts a nation’s tears,With whom are the oppressor and opprest,And vengeance, and the recompensing years.

Howlong shall weary nations toil in blood,How often roll the still returning stoneUp the sharp painful height, ere they will ownThat on the base of individual good,Of virtue, manners, and pure homes enduedWith household graces—that on this aloneShall social freedom stand—where these are gone,There is a nation doomed to servitude?O suffering, toiling France, thy toil is vain!The irreversible decree stands sure,Where men are selfish, covetous of gain,Heady and fierce, unholy and impure,Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain;They cannot build a work which shall endure.

Thyduteous loving children fear for theeIn one thing chiefly—for thy pure abodesAnd thy undesecrated household Gods,Thou most religious, and for this most free,Of all the nations. Oh! look out and seeThe injuries which she, who in the nameOf liberty thy fellowship would claim,Has done to virtue and to liberty;Whose philtres have corrupted everywhereThe living springs men drink of, all save thine.Oh! then of her and of her love beware!Better again eight hundred years of strife,Than give her leave to sap and undermineThe deep foundations of thy moral life.

Yousay we love not freedom, honoured friend;Yea, doubtless, we can lend to scheme like yoursSmall love. Yet not for this—that it assuresToo much to man—this would not me offend:But for I know that all such schemes will endWith leaving him too little,—will depriveOf that free energy by which we live:For of such plots the final act attend—See them who loathed the very name of king,Emulous in slavery, bow their souls beforeThe new-coined title of some meaner thingThan ever crown of king or emperor wore;For such in God’s and Nature’s righteousness,The weakness which avenges all excess.

Ah! who may guess, who yet was never triedHow fearful the temptation to replyWith wrong for wrong, yea fiercely to defyIn spirit, even when action is denied?Therefore praise waits on thee, not drawn asideBy this strong lure of hell—on thee whose eyeBeing formed by love, could every where descryLove, or some workings unto love allied—And benediction on the grace that dealtSo with thy soul—and prayer, more earnest prayer,Intenser longing than before we feltFor all that in dark places lying are,For captives in strange lands, for them who pineIn depth of dungeon, or in sunless mine[4].

Songsof deliverance compassed thee about,Long ere thy prison doors were backward flung:When first thy heart to gentle thoughts was strung,A song arose in heaven, an angel shoutFor one delivered from the hideous rout,That with defiance and fierce mutual hateDo each the other’s griefs exasperate.Thou, loving, from thy grief hadst taken outIts worst—for who is captive or a slaveBut He, who from that dungeon and foul grave,His own dark soul, refuses to come forthInto the light and liberty above?Or whom may we call wretched on this earthSave only him who has left off to love?

Whoever such adventure yet,Or a like delight has known,To that which Count Arnaldo metOn the morning of St. John?He had gone forth beside the sea,With his falcon on his hand,And saw a pinnace fast and free,That was making to the land.And he that by the rudder stoodAs he went was singing still,“My galley, oh my galley good,Heaven protect thee from all ill;“From all the dangers and the woeThat on ocean’s waters wait,Almeria’s reefs and shallows low,And Gibraltar’s stormy strait.“From Venice and its shallow way,From the shoals of Flanders’ coast,And from the gulf of broad Biscay,Where the dangers are the most.”Then Count Arnaldo spoke aloud,You might hear his accents well—“Those words, thou mariner, I wouldUnto me that thou wouldst tell.”To him that mariner repliedIn a courteous tone, but free—“I never sing that song,” he cried,“Save to one who sails with me.”

Whoever such adventure yet,Or a like delight has known,To that which Count Arnaldo metOn the morning of St. John?

He had gone forth beside the sea,With his falcon on his hand,And saw a pinnace fast and free,That was making to the land.

And he that by the rudder stoodAs he went was singing still,“My galley, oh my galley good,Heaven protect thee from all ill;

“From all the dangers and the woeThat on ocean’s waters wait,Almeria’s reefs and shallows low,And Gibraltar’s stormy strait.

“From Venice and its shallow way,From the shoals of Flanders’ coast,And from the gulf of broad Biscay,Where the dangers are the most.”

Then Count Arnaldo spoke aloud,You might hear his accents well—“Those words, thou mariner, I wouldUnto me that thou wouldst tell.”

To him that mariner repliedIn a courteous tone, but free—“I never sing that song,” he cried,“Save to one who sails with me.”

Notthou from us, O Lord, but weWithdraw ourselves from thee.When we are dark and dead,And Thou art covered with a cloud,Hanging before Thee, like a shroud,So that our prayer can find no way,Oh! teach us that we do not say,“Where isthybrightness fled?”But that we search and tryWhat in ourselves has wrought this blame;For thou remainest still the same;But earth’s own vapours earth may fillWith darkness and thick clouds, while stillThe sun is in the sky.

Notthou from us, O Lord, but weWithdraw ourselves from thee.

When we are dark and dead,And Thou art covered with a cloud,Hanging before Thee, like a shroud,So that our prayer can find no way,Oh! teach us that we do not say,“Where isthybrightness fled?”

But that we search and tryWhat in ourselves has wrought this blame;For thou remainest still the same;But earth’s own vapours earth may fillWith darkness and thick clouds, while stillThe sun is in the sky.

Highthoughts at first, and visions highAre ours of easy victory;The word we bear seems so divine,So framed for Adam’s guilty line,That none, unto ourselves we say,Of all his sinning suffering race,Will hear that word, so full of grace,And coldly turn away.

But soon a sadder mood comes round—High hopes have fallen to the ground,And the ambassadors of peaceGo weeping, that men will not ceaseTo strive with heaven—they weep and mourn,That suffering men will not be blest,That weary men refuse to rest,And wanderers to return.

Well is it, if has not ensuedAnother and a worser mood,When all unfaithful thoughts have way,When we hang down our hands, and say,Alas! it is a weary pain,To seek with toil and fruitless strifeTo chafe the numbed limbs into life,That will not live again.

Then if Spring odours on the windFloat by, they bring into our mindThat it were wiser done, to giveOur hearts to Nature, and to liveFor her—or in the student’s bowerTo search into her hidden things,And seek in books the wondrous springsOf knowledge and of power.

Or if we dare not thus draw back,Yet oh! to shun the crowded trackAnd the rude throng of men! to dwellIn hermitage or lonely cell,Feeding all longings that aspireLike incense heavenward, and with careAnd lonely vigil nursing thereFaith’s solitary pyre.

Oh! let not us this thought allow—The heat, the dust upon our brow,Signs of the contest, we may wear:Yet thus we shall appear more fairIn our Almighty Master’s eye,Than if in fear to lose the bloom,Or ruffle the soul’s lightest plume,We from the strife should fly.

And for the rest, in weariness,In disappointment, or distress,When strength decays, or hope grows dim,We ever may recur to Him,Who has the golden oil divine,Wherewith to feed our failing urns,Who watches every lamp that burnsBefore his sacred shrine.

Dearboy, thy momentary laughter ringsSincerely out, and that spontaneous glee,Seeming to need no hint from outward things,Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow,That borrows nothing from the world around?Its springs must deeper lie than we can know,A well whose springs lie safely underground.So be it ever—and thou happy boy,When Time, that takes these wild delights away,Gives thee a measure of sedater joy,Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;—Then may that joy, like this, to outward thingsOwe nothing—but lie safe beneath the sod,A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs,From the glad-making river of our God.

Dearboy, thy momentary laughter ringsSincerely out, and that spontaneous glee,Seeming to need no hint from outward things,Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.

From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow,That borrows nothing from the world around?Its springs must deeper lie than we can know,A well whose springs lie safely underground.

So be it ever—and thou happy boy,When Time, that takes these wild delights away,Gives thee a measure of sedater joy,Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;—

Then may that joy, like this, to outward thingsOwe nothing—but lie safe beneath the sod,A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs,From the glad-making river of our God.

Deemnot these fishers idle, though by dayYou hear the snatches of their lazy song,And see them listlessly the sunlight longStrew the curved beach of this indented bay:So deemed I, till I viewed their trim arrayOf boats last night,—a busy armament,With sails as dark as ever Theseus bentUpon his fatal rigging, take their way.Rising betimes, I could not choose but lookFor their return, and when along the lakeThe morning mists were curling, saw them makeHomeward, returning toward their quiet nook,With draggled nets down hanging to the tide,Weary, and leaning o’er their vessels’ side.

Theclouds are gathering in their western dome,Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew,While I with baffled effort still pursueAnd track these waters toward their mountain home,In vain—though cataract, and mimic foam,And island-spots, round which the streamlet threwIts sister arms, which joyed to meet anew,Have lured me on, and won me still to roam;Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass,Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass—And I, thy founts unvisited, return.Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers?Or dost thou feed a solitary urn,Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?

SweetWater-nymph, more shy than Arethuse,Why wilt thou hide from me thy green retreat,Where duly Thou with silver-sandalled feet,And every Naiad, her green locks profuse,Welcome with dance sad evening, or unloose,To share your revel, an oak-cinctured throng,Oread and Dryad, who the daylight longBy rock, or cave, or antique forest, useTo shun the Wood-god and his rabble bold?Such comes not now, or who with impious strifeWould seek to untenant meadow stream and plainOf that indwelling power, which is the lifeAnd which sustaineth each, which poets oldAs god and goddess thus have loved to feign.

Thesea is like a mirror far and near,And ours a prosperous voyage, safe from harms;And yet the sense that everlasting armsAre round us and about us, is as dearNow when no sight of danger doth appear,As though our vessel did its blind way urge’Mid the long weltering of the dreariest surge,Through which a perishing bark did ever steer.Lord of the calm and tempest, be it ours,Poor mariners! to pay due vows to thee,Though not a cloud on all the horizon lowersOf all our life—for even so shall weHave greater boldness towards thee, when indeedThe storm is up, and there is earnest need.

Onestar is shining in the crimson eve,And the thin texture of the faint blue skyAbove is like a veil intensely drawn;Upon the spirit with a solemn weightThe marvel and the mystery of eveIs lying, as all holy thoughts and calm,By the vain stir and tumult of the dayChased far away, come back on tranquil wing,Like doves returning to their noted haunts.It is the solemn even-tide—the hourOf holy musings, and to us no lessOf sweet refreshment for the bodily frameThan for the spirit, harassed both and wornWith a long day of travel; and methinksIt must have been an evening such as this,After a day of toilsome journeyings o’er,When looking out on Tiber, as we nowLook out on this fair river flowing by,Together sat the saintly Monica[5],And with her, given unto her prayers, that son,The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youthNow first was running clear and bright and smooth,And solitary sitting in the nicheOf a deep window held delightful talk—Such as they never could have known before,While a deep chasm, deeper than natural loveCould e’er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls—Of what must be the glorious life in heaven.And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky,And on the golden west, that richest glowOf sunset to the uncreated light,Which must invest for ever those bright worlds,Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give,Its noblest pleasures, they with one consentCounted as vile, nor once to be compared—Oh! rather say not worthy to be namedWith what is to be looked for there; and thusLeaving behind them all things which are seen,By many a stately stair they did ascendAbove the earth and all created things,The sun and starry heavens—yea, and aboveThe mind of man, until they did attainWhere light no shadow has, and life no death,Where past or future are not, nor can be,But an eternal present, and the LambHis people feeds from indeficient streams.Then pausing for a moment, as to tasteThat river of delights, at length they cried,Oh! to be thus for ever, and to hearThus in the silence of the lower world,And in the silence of all thoughts that keepVain stir within, unutterable words,And with the splendour of His majesty,Whose seat is in the middle of the throne,Thus to be fed for ever—this must beThe beatific vision, the third heaven.What we have for these passing moments known,To know the same for ever—this would beThat life whereof even now we held debate.When will it be? oh when?These things they said,And for a season breathed immortal air,But then perforce returned to earth again:For the air on those first summits is too fineFor our long breathing, while we yet have onOur gross investiture of mortal weeds.Yet not for nothing had their spirits flownTo those high regions, bringing back at onceA reconcilement with the mean things here,And a more earnest longing for what thereOf nobler was by partial glimpses thusSeen through the crannies of the prison house.And she, that mother—such entire contentPossessed her bosom, and her Lord had filledThe orb of her desires so round and full,Had answered all her prayers for her lost sonWith such an overmeasure of his grace,She had no more to ask, and did not knowWhy she should tarry any longer here,Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt,And to these thoughts which overflowed her heartGave thankful utterance meet; nor many daysAfter this vision and foretaste of joy,Inherited the substance of the thingsWhich she had seen, and entered into peace.

These things they said,And for a season breathed immortal air,But then perforce returned to earth again:For the air on those first summits is too fineFor our long breathing, while we yet have onOur gross investiture of mortal weeds.

Yet not for nothing had their spirits flownTo those high regions, bringing back at onceA reconcilement with the mean things here,And a more earnest longing for what thereOf nobler was by partial glimpses thusSeen through the crannies of the prison house.And she, that mother—such entire contentPossessed her bosom, and her Lord had filledThe orb of her desires so round and full,Had answered all her prayers for her lost sonWith such an overmeasure of his grace,She had no more to ask, and did not knowWhy she should tarry any longer here,Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt,And to these thoughts which overflowed her heartGave thankful utterance meet; nor many daysAfter this vision and foretaste of joy,Inherited the substance of the thingsWhich she had seen, and entered into peace.

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