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diff --git a/old/54985-0.txt b/old/54985-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index eed6f23..0000000 --- a/old/54985-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14414 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Matthew Arnold - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Poems - -Author: Matthew Arnold - -Release Date: June 26, 2017 [EBook #54985] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - POEMS - - BY - - MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - _NEW AND COMPLETE EDITION._ - - [Illustration: colophon] - - NEW YORK: - - THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., - - NO. 13 ASTOR PLACE. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -_EARLY POEMS._ - - PAGE - -SONNETS:-- - - Quiet Work 1 - - To a Friend 2 - - Shakspeare 2 - - Written in Emerson’s Essays 3 - - Written in Butler’s Sermons 3 - - To the Duke of Wellington 4 - - “In Harmony with Nature” 5 - - To George Cruikshank 5 - - To a Republican Friend, 1848 6 - - Continued 7 - - Religious Isolation 7 - - -MYCERINUS 8 - - -THE CHURCH OF BROU:-- - - I. The Castle 12 - - II. The Church 16 - - III. The Tomb 18 - - -A MODERN SAPPHO 19 - -REQUIESCAT 21 - -YOUTH AND CALM 22 - -A MEMORY-PICTURE 23 - -THE NEW SIRENS 25 - -THE VOICE 34 - -YOUTH’S AGITATIONS 36 - -THE WORLD’S TRIUMPHS 36 - -STAGIRIUS 37 - -HUMAN LIFE 39 - -TO A GYPSY CHILD BY THE SEASHORE 40 - -A QUESTION 43 - -IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS 43 - -THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST 45 - -THE SECOND BEST 46 - -CONSOLATION 47 - -RESIGNATION 49 - - -_NARRATIVE POEMS._ - -SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 59 - -THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 86 - -BALDER DEAD:-- - - I. Sending 94 - - II. Journey to the Dead 104 - - III. Funeral 114 - -TRISTRAM AND ISEULT:-- - - I. Tristram 131 - - II. Iseult of Ireland 143 - - III. Iseult of Brittany 150 - -SAINT BRANDAN 157 - -THE NECKAN 160 - -THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 162 - - -_SONNETS._ - -AUSTERITY OF POETRY 167 - -A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD 167 - -RACHEL: I., II., III 168 - -WORLDLY PLACE 170 - -EAST LONDON 170 - -WEST LONDON 171 - -EAST AND WEST 171 - -THE BETTER PART 172 - -THE DIVINITY 172 - -IMMORTALITY 173 - -THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID 173 - -MONICA’S LAST PRAYER 174 - - -_LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS._ - -SWITZERLAND:-- - - I. Meeting 175 - - II. Parting 176 - - III. A Farewell 179 - - IV. Isolation. To Marguerite 182 - - V. To Marguerite. Continued 183 - - VI. Absence 184 - - VII. The Terrace at Berne 185 - -THE STRAYED REVELLER 187 - -FRAGMENT OF AN “ANTIGONE” 197 - -FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A “DEJANEIRA” 201 - -EARLY DEATH AND FAME 202 - -PHILOMELA 202 - -URANIA 204 - -EUPHROSYNE 205 - -CALAIS SANDS 206 - -FADED LEAVES:-- - - I. The River 207 - - II. Too Late 208 - - III. Separation 208 - - IV. On the Rhine 209 - - V. Longing 209 - - -DESPONDENCY 210 - -SELF-DECEPTION 210 - -DOVER BEACH 211 - -GROWING OLD 213 - -THE PROGRESS OF POESY 214 - -PIS ALLER 214 - -THE LAST WORD 215 - -A NAMELESS EPITAPH 215 - -EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 216 - -BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE 254 - -EPILOGUE TO LESSING’S LAOCOÖN 258 - -PERSISTENCY OF POETRY 264 - -A CAUTION TO POETS 264 - -THE YOUTH OF NATURE 265 - -THE YOUTH OF MAN 269 - -PALLADIUM 273 - -PROGRESS 273 - -REVOLUTIONS 275 - -SELF-DEPENDENCE 276 - -MORALITY 277 - -A SUMMER NIGHT 278 - -THE BURIED LIFE 281 - -LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 284 - -A WISH 286 - -THE FUTURE 288 - - -_ELEGIAC POEMS._ - -THE SCHOLAR-GYPSY 291 - -THYRSIS 299 - -MEMORIAL VERSES 307 - -STANZAS IN MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN 310 - -STANZAS FROM CARNAC 311 - -A SOUTHERN NIGHT 312 - -HAWORTH CHURCHYARD 317 - -EPILOGUE 321 - -RUGBY CHAPEL 321 - -HEINE’S GRAVE 328 - -STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE 335 - -STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF “OBERMANN” 342 - -OBERMANN ONCE MORE 348 - -NOTES 361 - - - - -EARLY POEMS. - -_SONNETS._ - - - - -QUIET WORK. - - - One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, - One lesson which in every wind is blown, - One lesson of two duties kept at one - Though the loud world proclaim their enmity,-- - - Of toil unsevered from tranquillity; - Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows - Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, - Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. - - Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, - Man’s senseless uproar mingling with his toil, - Still do thy quiet ministers move on, - - Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; - Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, - Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone. - - - - -TO A FRIEND. - - - Who prop, thou ask’st, in these bad days, my mind?-- - He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men, - Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,[1] - And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. - - Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, - That halting slave, who in Nicopolis - Taught Arrian, when Vespasian’s brutal son - Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his - - My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, - From first youth tested up to extreme old age, - Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; - - Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole; - The mellow glory of the Attic stage, - Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. - - - - -SHAKSPEARE. - - - Others abide our question. Thou art free. - We ask and ask. Thou smilest, and art still, - Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, - Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, - - Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, - Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, - Spares but the cloudy border of his base - To the foiled searching of mortality; - - And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, - Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure, - Didst tread on earth unguessed at.--Better so! - - All pains the immortal spirit must endure, - All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, - Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. - - - - -WRITTEN IN EMERSON’S ESSAYS. - - - “O monstrous, dead, unprofitable world, - That thou canst hear, and hearing hold thy way! - A voice oracular hath pealed to-day, - To-day a hero’s banner is unfurled; - - Hast thou no lip for welcome?”--So I said. - Man after man, the world smiled and passed by; - A smile of wistful incredulity, - As though one spake of life unto the dead,-- - - Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full - Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free; - Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful; - - The seeds of godlike power are in us still; - Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will!-- - Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery? - - - - -WRITTEN IN BUTLER’S SERMONS. - - - Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, - Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control,-- - So men, unravelling God’s harmonious whole, - Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. - - Vain labor! Deep and broad, where none may see, - Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne - Where man’s one nature, queen-like, sits alone, - Centred in a majestic unity; - - And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen - Linking their coral arms under the sea, - Or clustered peaks with plunging gulfs between, - - Spanned by aërial arches all of gold, - Whereo’er the chariot-wheels of life are rolled - In cloudy circles to eternity. - - - - -TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. - -ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED. - - - Because thou hast believed, the wheels of life - Stand never idle, but go always round; - Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, - Moved only; but by genius, in the strife - - Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, - Urged; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand, - The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand; - And, in this vision of the general law, - - Hast labored, but with purpose; hast become - Laborious, persevering, serious, firm,-- - For this, thy track across the fretful foam - - Of vehement actions without scope or term, - Called history, keeps a splendor; due to wit, - Which saw one clew to life, and followed it. - - - - -IN HARMONY WITH NATURE. - -TO A PREACHER. - - - “In harmony with Nature?” Restless fool, - Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee, - When true, the last impossibility,-- - To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool! - - Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more, - And in that _more_ lie all his hopes of good. - Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood; - Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore; - - Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest; - Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave; - Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest. - - Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends; - Nature and man can never be fast friends. - Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave! - - - - -TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. - -ON SEEING, IN THE COUNTRY, HIS PICTURE OF “THE BOTTLE.” - - - Artist, whose hand, with horror winged, hath torn - From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung - The prodigy of full-blown crime among - Valleys and men to middle fortune born, - Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn,-- - Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude - Like comets on the heavenly solitude? - Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn, - - Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The soul - Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says, - “Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man - - May be by man effaced; man can control - To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. - Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he _can_.” - - - - -TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848. - - - God knows it, I am with you. If to prize - Those virtues, prized and practised by too few, - But prized, but loved, but eminent in you, - Man’s fundamental life; if to despise - - The barren optimistic sophistries - Of comfortable moles, whom what they do - Teaches the limit of the just and true - (And for such doing they require not eyes); - - If sadness at the long heart-wasting show - Wherein earth’s great ones are disquieted; - If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow - - The armies of the homeless and unfed,-- - If these are yours, if this is what you are, - Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share. - -CONTINUED. - - Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem - Rather to patience prompted, than that proud - Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud,-- - France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme; - - Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream, - Is on all sides o’ershadowed by the high - Uno’erleaped mountains of necessity, - Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. - - Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, - When, bursting through the network superposed - By selfish occupation,--plot and plan, - - Lust, avarice, envy,--liberated man, - All difference with his fellow-mortal closed, - Shall be left standing face to face with God. - - - - -RELIGIOUS ISOLATION. - -TO THE SAME FRIEND. - - - Children (as such forgive them) have I known, - Ever in their own eager pastime bent - To make the incurious bystander, intent - On his own swarming thoughts, an interest own,-- - - Too fearful or too fond to play alone. - Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul - (Not less thy boast) illuminates, control - Wishes unworthy of a man full-grown. - - What though the holy secret, which moulds thee, - Moulds not the solid earth? though never winds - Have whispered it to the complaining sea, - - Nature’s great law, and law of all men’s minds? - To its own impulse every creature stirs: - Live by thy light, and earth will live by hers! - - - - -MYCERINUS.[2] - - “Not by the justice that my father spurned, - Not for the thousands whom my father slew, - Altars unfed and temples overturned, - Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks are due; - Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie, - Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny. - - “I will unfold my sentence and my crime. - My crime,--that, rapt in reverential awe, - I sate obedient, in the fiery prime - Of youth, self-governed, at the feet of Law; - Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings, - By contemplation of diviner things. - - “My father loved injustice, and lived long; - Crowned with gray hairs he died, and full of sway. - I loved the good he scorned, and hated wrong-- - The gods declare my recompense to-day. - I looked for life more lasting, rule more high; - And when six years are measured, lo, I die! - - “Yet surely, O my people, did I deem - Man’s justice from the all-just gods was given; - A light that from some upper fount did beam, - Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven; - A light that, shining from the blest abodes, - Did shadow somewhat of the life of gods. - - “Mere phantoms of man’s self-tormenting heart, - Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed! - Vain dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart, - When the duped soul, self-mastered, claims its meed; - When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows, - Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close! - - “Seems it so light a thing, then, austere powers, - To spurn man’s common lure, life’s pleasant things? - Seems there no joy in dances crowned with flowers, - Love free to range, and regal banquetings? - Bend ye on these indeed an unmoved eye, - Not gods, but ghosts, in frozen apathy? - - “Or is it that some force, too stern, too strong, - Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile, - Bears earth and heaven and men and gods along, - Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile? - And the great powers we serve, themselves may be - Slaves of a tyrannous necessity? - - “Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars, - Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight, - And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars, - Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night? - Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen, - Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene? - - “Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be, - Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream? - Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see, - Blind divinations of a will supreme; - Lost labor! when the circumambient gloom - But hides, if gods, gods careless of our doom? - - “The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak, - My sand runs short; and as yon star-shot ray, - Hemmed by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak, - Now, as the barrier closes, dies away,-- - Even so do past and future intertwine, - Blotting this six years’ space, which yet is mine. - - “Six years,--six little years,--six drops of time! - Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane, - And old men die, and young men pass their prime, - And languid pleasure fade and flower again, - And the dull gods behold, ere these are flown, - Revels more deep, joy keener than their own. - - “Into the silence of the groves and woods - I will go forth; though something would I say,-- - Something,--yet what, I know not: for the gods - The doom they pass revoke not nor delay; - And prayers and gifts and tears are fruitless all, - And the night waxes, and the shadows fall. - - “Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king! - I go, and I return not. But the will - Of the great gods is plain; and ye must bring - Ill deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfil - Their pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise,-- - The praise of gods, rich boon! and length of days.” - - --So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn; - And one loud cry of grief and of amaze - Broke from his sorrowing people; so he spake, - And turning, left them there: and with brief pause, - Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way - To the cool region of the groves he loved. - There by the river-banks he wandered on, - From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees, - Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneath - Burying their unsunned stems in grass and flowers; - Where in one dream the feverish time of youth - Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy - Might wander all day long and never tire. - Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn, - Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down, - A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom, - From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove, - Revealing all the tumult of the feast,-- - Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine; - While the deep-burnished foliage overhead - Splintered the silver arrows of the moon. - It may be that sometimes his wondering soul - From the loud joyful laughter of his lips - Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man - Who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape, - Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems, - Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl, - Whispering, _A little space, and thou art mine!_ - It may be, on that joyless feast his eye - Dwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within, - Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength, - And by that silent knowledge, day by day, - Was calmed, ennobled, comforted, sustained. - It may be; but not less his brow was smooth, - And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom, - And his mirth quailed not at the mild reproof - Sighed out by winter’s sad tranquillity; - Nor, palled with its own fulness, ebbed and died - In the rich languor of long summer-days; - Nor withered when the palm-tree plumes, that roofed - With their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall, - Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring; - No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds. - So six long years he revelled, night and day. - And when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull sound - Sometimes from the grove’s centre echoes came, - To tell his wondering people of their king; - In the still night, across the steaming flats, - Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile. - - - - -_THE CHURCH OF BROU._ - -I. - -The Castle. - - - Down the Savoy valleys sounding, - Echoing round this castle old, - ’Mid the distant mountain-chalets - Hark! what bell for church is tolled? - - In the bright October morning - Savoy’s Duke had left his bride. - From the castle, past the drawbridge, - Flowed the hunters’ merry tide. - - Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. - Gay, her smiling lord to greet, - From her mullioned chamber-casement - Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. - - From Vienna, by the Danube, - Here she came, a bride, in spring. - Now the autumn crisps the forest; - Hunters gather, bugles ring. - - Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, - Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. - Off!--They sweep the marshy forests, - Westward on the side of France. - - Hark! the game’s on foot; they scatter! - Down the forest-ridings lone, - Furious, single horsemen gallop. - Hark! a shout--a crash--a groan! - - Pale and breathless, came the hunters-- - On the turf dead lies the boar. - God! the duke lies stretched beside him, - Senseless, weltering in his gore. - - In the dull October evening, - Down the leaf-strewn forest-road, - To the castle, past the drawbridge, - Came the hunters with their load. - - In the hall, with sconces blazing, - Ladies waiting round her seat, - Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais - Sate the Duchess Marguerite. - - Hark! below the gates unbarring! - Tramp of men, and quick commands! - “’Tis my lord come back from hunting;” - And the duchess claps her hands. - - Slow and tired, came the hunters; - Stopped in darkness in the court. - “Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters! - To the hall! What sport, what sport?” - - Slow they entered with their master; - In the hall they laid him down. - On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, - On his brow an angry frown. - - Dead her princely youthful husband - Lay before his youthful wife, - Bloody ’neath the flaring sconces-- - And the sight froze all her life. - - In Vienna, by the Danube, - Kings hold revel, gallants meet. - Gay of old amid the gayest - Was the Duchess Marguerite. - - In Vienna, by the Danube, - Feast and dance her youth beguiled. - Till that hour she never sorrowed; - But from then she never smiled. - - ’Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys, - Far from town or haunt of man, - Stands a lonely church, unfinished, - Which the Duchess Maud began. - - Old, that duchess stern began it, - In gray age, with palsied hands; - But she died while it was building, - And the church unfinished stands,-- - - Stands as erst the builders left it, - When she sank into her grave; - Mountain greensward paves the chancel, - Harebells flower in the nave. - - “In my castle all is sorrow,” - Said the Duchess Marguerite then: - “Guide me, some one, to the mountain; - We will build the church again.” - - Sandalled palmers, faring homeward, - Austrian knights from Syria came. - “Austrian wanderers bring, O warders! - Homage to your Austrian dame.” - - From the gate the warders answered,-- - “Gone, O knights, is she you knew! - Dead our duke, and gone his duchess; - Seek her at the church of Brou.” - - Austrian knights and march-worn palmers - Climb the winding mountain-way; - Reach the valley, where the fabric - Rises higher day by day. - - Stones are sawing, hammers ringing; - On the work the bright sun shines; - In the Savoy mountain-meadows, - By the stream, below the pines. - - On her palfrey white the duchess - Sate, and watched her working train,-- - Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, - German masons, smiths from Spain. - - Clad in black, on her white palfrey, - Her old architect beside,-- - There they found her in the mountains, - Morn and noon and eventide. - - There she sate, and watched the builders, - Till the church was roofed and done; - Last of all, the builders reared her - In the nave a tomb of stone. - - On the tomb two forms they sculptured, - Lifelike in the marble pale,-- - One, the duke in helm and armor; - One, the duchess in her veil. - - Round the tomb the carved stone fret-work - Was at Easter-tide put on. - Then the duchess closed her labors; - And she died at the St. John. - - -II. - -The Church. - - Upon the glistening leaden roof - Of the new pile, the sunlight shines; - The stream goes leaping by. - The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; - ’Mid bright green fields, below the pines, - Stands the church on high. - What church is this, from men aloof? - ’Tis the Church of Brou. - - At sunrise, from their dewy lair - Crossing the stream, the kine are seen - Round the wall to stray,-- - The churchyard wall that clips the square - Of open hill-sward fresh and green - Where last year they lay. - But all things now are ordered fair - Round the Church of Brou. - - On Sundays, at the matin-chime, - The Alpine peasants, two and three, - Climb up here to pray; - Burghers and dames, at summer’s prime, - Ride out to church from Chambery, - Dight with mantles gay. - But else it is a lonely time - Round the Church of Brou. - - On Sundays, too, a priest doth come - From the walled town beyond the pass, - Down the mountain-way; - And then you hear the organ’s hum, - You hear the white-robed priest say mass, - And the people pray. - But else the woods and fields are dumb - Round the Church of Brou. - - And after church, when mass is done, - The people to the nave repair - Round the tomb to stray; - And marvel at the forms of stone, - And praise the chiselled broideries rare-- - Then they drop away. - The princely pair are left alone - In the Church of Brou. - - -III. - -The Tomb. - - So rest, forever rest, O princely pair! - In your high church, ’mid the still mountain-air, - Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come. - Only the blessed saints are smiling dumb - From the rich painted windows of the nave - On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave; - Where thou, young prince, shalt never more arise - From the fringed mattress where thy duchess lies, - On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds, - And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds - To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve; - And thou, O princess, shalt no more receive, - Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, - The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, - Coming benighted to the castle-gate. - So sleep, forever sleep, O marble pair! - Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair - On the carved western front a flood of light - Streams from the setting sun, and colors bright - Prophets, transfigured saints, and martyrs brave, - In the vast western window of the nave; - And on the pavement round the tomb there glints - A checker-work of glowing sapphire-tints, - And amethyst, and ruby,--then unclose - Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, - And from your broidered pillows lift your heads, - And rise upon your cold white marble beds; - And looking down on the warm rosy tints - Which checker, at your feet, the illumined flints, - Say, _What is this? we are in bliss--forgiven-- - Behold the pavement of the courts of heaven!_ - Or let it be on autumn-nights, when rain - Doth rustlingly above your heads complain - On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls - Shedding her pensive light at intervals - The moon through the clere-story windows shines, - And the wind washes through the mountain-pines,-- - Then, gazing up ’mid the dim pillars high, - The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, - _Hush_, ye will say, _it is eternity! - This is the glimmering verge of heaven, and these - The columns of the heavenly palaces._ - And in the sweeping of the wind your ear - The passage of the angels’ wings will hear, - And on the lichen-crusted leads above - The rustle of the eternal rain of love. - - - - -_A MODERN SAPPHO._ - - - They are gone--all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver? - Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade. - - Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river: - Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade! - - Ere he come,--ere the boat by the shining-branched border - Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,-- - Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order, - Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broidered flags gleam. - - Last night we stood earnestly talking together: - She entered--that moment his eyes turned from me! - Fastened on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather. - As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be. - - Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger, - Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn. - They must love--while they must! but the hearts that love longer - Are rare--ah! most loves but flow once, and return. - - I shall suffer--but they will outlive their affection; - I shall weep--but their love will be cooling; and he, - As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, - Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee! - - For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking - The strong band which passion around him hath furled, - Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking, - Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world. - - Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing, - Perceive but a voice as I come to his side; - --But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing, - Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. - - So, to wait! But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving? - ’Tis he! ’tis their flag, shooting round by the trees! - --Let my turn, if it _will_ come, be swift in arriving! - Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these. - - Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure? - World, have thy children yet bowed at his knee? - Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure? - --Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me. - - - - -_REQUIESCAT._ - - - Strew on her roses, roses, - And never a spray of yew: - In quiet she reposes; - Ah! would that I did too! - - Her mirth the world required; - She bathed it in smiles of glee. - But her heart was tired, tired, - And now they let her be. - - Her life was turning, turning, - In mazes of heat and sound; - But for peace her soul was yearning, - And now peace laps her round. - - Her cabined, ample spirit, - It fluttered and failed for breath; - To-night it doth inherit - The vasty hall of death. - - - - -_YOUTH AND CALM._ - - - ’Tis death! and peace indeed is here, - And ease from shame, and rest from fear. - There’s nothing can dismarble now - The smoothness of that limpid brow. - But is a calm like this, in truth, - The crowning end of life and youth? - And when this boon rewards the dead, - Are all debts paid, has all been said? - And is the heart of youth so light, - Its step so firm, its eye so bright, - Because on its hot brow there blows - A wind of promise and repose - From the far grave, to which it goes; - Because it has the hope to come, - One day, to harbor in the tomb? - Ah, no! the bliss youth dreams is one - For daylight, for the cheerful sun, - For feeling nerves and living breath; - Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. - It dreams a rest, if not more deep, - More grateful than this marble sleep; - It hears a voice within it tell,-- - _Calm’s not life’s crown, though calm is well_. - ’Tis all, perhaps, which man acquires, - But ’tis not what our youth desires. - - - - -_A MEMORY-PICTURE._ - - - Laugh, my friends, and without blame - Lightly quit what lightly came; - Rich to-morrow as to-day, - Spend as madly as you may! - I, with little land to stir, - Am the exacter laborer. - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - Once I said, “A face is gone - If too hotly mused upon; - And our best impressions are - Those that do themselves repair.” - Many a face I so let flee-- - Ah!-is faded utterly. - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - Marguerite says, “As last year went, - So the coming year’ll be spent; - Some day next year, I shall be, - Entering heedless, kissed by thee.” - Ah, I hope! yet, once away, - What may chain us, who can say? - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - Paint that lilac kerchief, bound - Her soft face, her hair around; - Tied under the archest chin - Mockery ever ambushed in. - Let the fluttering fringes streak - All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - Paint that figure’s pliant grace - As she toward me leaned her face, - Half refused and half resigned, - Murmuring, “Art thou still unkind?” - Many a broken promise then - Was new made--to break again. - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, - Eager tell-tales of her mind; - Paint, with their impetuous stress - Of inquiring tenderness, - Those frank eyes, where deep doth be - An angelic gravity. - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - What! my friends, these feeble lines - Show, you say, my love declines? - To paint ill as I have done, - Proves forgetfulness begun? - Time’s gay minions, pleased you see, - Time, your master, governs me; - Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry,-- - “Quick, thy tablets, Memory!” - - Ah, too true! Time’s current strong - Leaves us true to nothing long. - Yet, if little stays with man, - Ah, retain we all we can! - If the clear impression dies, - Ah, the dim remembrance prize! - Ere the parting hour go by, - Quick, thy tablets, Memory! - - - - -_THE NEW SIRENS._ - - - In the cedar-shadow sleeping, - Where cool grass and fragrant glooms - Late at eve had lured me, creeping - From your darkened palace rooms,-- - I, who in your train at morning - Strolled and sang with joyful mind, - Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning; - Saw the hoarse boughs labor in the wind. - - Who are they, O pensive Graces, - (For I dreamed they wore your forms) - Who on shores and sea-washed places - Scoop the shelves and fret the storms? - Who, when ships are that way tending, - Troop across the flushing sands, - To all reefs and narrows wending, - With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands? - - Yet I see, the howling levels - Of the deep are not your lair; - And your tragic-vaunted revels - Are less lonely than they were. - Like those kings with treasure steering - From the jewelled lands of dawn, - Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing, - Stream all day through your enchanted lawn. - - And we too, from upland valleys, - Where some Muse with half-curved frown - Leans her ear to your mad sallies - Which the charmed winds never drown; - By faint music guided, ranging - The scared glens, we wandered on, - Left our awful laurels hanging, - And came heaped with myrtles to your throne. - - From the dragon-wardered fountains - Where the springs of knowledge are, - From the watchers on the mountains, - And the bright and morning star; - We are exiles, we are falling, - We have lost them at your call-- - O ye false ones, at your calling - Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall! - - Are the accents of your luring - More melodious than of yore? - Are those frail forms more enduring - Than the charms Ulysses bore? - That we sought you with rejoicings, - Till at evening we descry - At a pause of Siren voicings - These vexed branches and this howling sky?... - - * * * * * - - Oh, your pardon! The uncouthness - Of that primal age is gone, - And the skin of dazzling smoothness - Screens not now a heart of stone. - Love has flushed those cruel faces; - And those slackened arms forego - The delight of death-embraces, - And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow. - - “Ah!” you say; “the large appearance - Of man’s labor is but vain, - And we plead as stanch adherence - Due to pleasure as to pain.” - Pointing to earth’s careworn creatures, - “Come,” you murmur with a sigh: - “Ah! we own diviner features, - Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye. - - “Come,” you say, “the hours were dreary; - Life without love does not fade; - Vain it wastes, and we grew weary - In the slumbrous cedarn shade. - Round our hearts with long caresses, - With low sighings, Silence stole, - And her load of steaming tresses - Weighed, like Ossa, on the aery soul. - - “Come,” you say, “the soul is fainting - Till she search and learn her own, - And the wisdom of man’s painting - Leaves her riddle half unknown. - Come,” you say, “the brain is seeking, - While the princely heart is dead; - Yet this gleaned, when gods were speaking, - Rarer secrets than the toiling head. - - “Come,” you say, “opinion trembles, - Judgment shifts, convictions go; - Life dries up, the heart dissembles: - Only, what we feel, we know. - Hath your wisdom known emotions? - Will it weep our burning tears? - Hath it drunk of our love-potions - Crowning moments with the weight of years?” - - I am dumb. Alas! too soon all - Man’s grave reasons disappear! - Yet, I think, at God’s tribunal - Some large answer you shall hear. - But for me, my thoughts are straying - Where at sunrise, through your vines, - On these lawns I saw you playing, - Hanging garlands on your odorous pines; - - When your showering locks inwound you, - And your heavenly eyes shone through; - When the pine-boughs yielded round you, - And your brows were starred with dew; - And immortal forms, to meet you, - Down the statued alleys came, - And through golden horns, to greet you, - Blew such music as a god may frame. - - Yes, I muse! And if the dawning - Into daylight never grew, - If the glistering wings of morning - On the dry noon shook their dew, - If the fits of joy were longer, - Or the day were sooner done, - Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger, - No weak nursling of an earthly sun ... - Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, - Dusk the hall with yew! - - * * * * * - - For a bound was set to meetings, - And the sombre day dragged on; - And the burst of joyful greetings, - And the joyful dawn, were gone. - For the eye grows filled with gazing, - And on raptures follow calms; - And those warm locks men were praising - Drooped, unbraided, on your listless arms. - - Storms unsmoothed your folded valleys, - And made all your cedars frown; - Leaves were whirling in the alleys - Which your lovers wandered down. - --Sitting cheerless in your bowers, - The hands propping the sunk head, - Do they gall you, the long hours, - And the hungry thought that must be fed? - - Is the pleasure that is tasted - Patient of a long review? - Will the fire joy hath wasted, - Mused on, warm the heart anew? - --Or, are those old thoughts returning, - Guests the dull sense never knew, - Stars, set deep, yet inly burning, - Germs, your untrimmed passion overgrew? - - Once, like us, you took your station, - Watchers for a purer fire; - But you drooped in expectation, - And you wearied in desire. - When the first rose flush was steeping - All the frore peak’s awful crown, - Shepherds say, they found you sleeping - In some windless valley, farther down. - - Then you wept, and slowly raising - Your dozed eyelids, sought again, - Half in doubt, they say, and gazing - Sadly back, the seats of men; - Snatched a turbid inspiration - From some transient earthly sun, - And proclaimed your vain ovation - For those mimic raptures you had won.... - - * * * * * - - With a sad, majestic motion, - With a stately, slow surprise, - From their earthward-bound devotion - Lifting up your languid eyes-- - Would you freeze my louder boldness, - Dumbly smiling as you go, - One faint frown of distant coldness - Flitting fast across each marble brow? - - Do I brighten at your sorrow, - O sweet pleaders? doth my lot - Find assurance in to-morrow - Of one joy which you have not? - Oh, speak once, and shame my sadness! - Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain, - Mocked and baffled by your gladness, - Mar the music of your feasts in vain! - - * * * * * - - Scent, and song, and light, and flowers! - Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow-- - Come, bind up those ringlet showers! - Roses for that dreaming brow! - Come, once more that ancient lightness, - Glancing feet, and eager eyes! - Let your broad lamps flash the brightness - Which the sorrow-stricken day denies. - - Through black depths of serried shadows, - Up cold aisles of buried glade; - In the mist of river-meadows - Where the looming deer are laid; - From your dazzled windows streaming, - From your humming festal room, - Deep and far, a broken gleaming - Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom. - - Where I stand, the grass is glowing: - Doubtless you are passing fair! - But I hear the north wind blowing, - And I feel the cold night-air, - Can I look on your sweet faces, - And your proud heads backward thrown, - From this dusk of leaf-strewn places - With the dumb woods and the night alone? - - Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses,-- - Mad delight, and frozen calms,-- - Mirth to-day, and vine-bound tresses, - And to-morrow--folded palms; - Is this all? this balanced measure? - Could life run no happier way? - Joyous at the height of pleasure, - Passive at the nadir of dismay? - - But, indeed, this proud possession, - This far-reaching, magic chain, - Linking in a mad succession - Fits of joy and fits of pain,-- - Have you seen it at the closing? - Have you tracked its clouded ways? - Can your eyes, while fools are dozing, - Drop, with mine, adown life’s latter days? - - When a dreary light is wading - Through this waste of sunless greens, - When the flashing lights are fading - On the peerless cheek of queens, - When the mean shall no more sorrow, - And the proudest no more smile; - While the dawning of the morrow - Widens slowly westward all that while? - - Then, when change itself is over, - When the slow tide sets one way, - Shall you find the radiant lover, - Even by moments, of to-day? - The eye wanders, faith is failing: - Oh, loose hands, and let it be! - Proudly, like a king bewailing, - Oh, let fall one tear, and set us free! - - All true speech and large avowal - Which the jealous soul concedes; - All man’s heart which brooks bestowal, - All frank faith which passion breeds,-- - These we had, and we gave truly; - Doubt not, what we had, we gave! - False we were not, nor unruly; - Lodgers in the forest and the cave. - - Long we wandered with you, feeding - Our rapt souls on your replies, - In a wistful silence reading - All the meaning of your eyes. - By moss-bordered statues sitting, - By well-heads, in summer days. - But we turn, our eyes are flitting-- - See, the white east, and the morning-rays! - - And you too, O worshipped Graces, - Sylvan gods of this fair shade! - Is there doubt on divine faces? - Are the blessed gods dismayed? - Can men worship the wan features, - The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, - Of unsphered, discrownèd creatures, - Souls as little godlike as their own? - - Come, loose hands! The wingèd fleetness - Of immortal feet is gone; - And your scents have shed their sweetness, - And your flowers are overblown. - And your jewelled gauds surrender - Half their glories to the day; - Freely did they flash their splendor, - Freely gave it--but it dies away. - - In the pines, the thrush is waking; - Lo, yon orient hill in flames! - Scores of true-love-knots are breaking - At divorce which it proclaims. - When the lamps are paled at morning, - Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand. - Cold in that unlovely dawning, - Loveless, rayless, joyless, you shall stand! - - Pluck no more red roses, maidens, - Leave the lilies in their dew; - Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, - Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew! - --Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, - Her I loved at eventide? - Shall I ask, what faded mourner - Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?... - Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens! - Dusk the hall with yew! - - - - -_THE VOICE._ - - - As the kindling glances, - Queen-like and clear, - Which the bright moon lances - From her tranquil sphere - At the sleepless waters - Of a lonely mere, - On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully, - Shiver and die; - As the tears of sorrow - Mothers have shed-- - Prayers that to-morrow - Shall in vain be sped - When the flower they flow for - Lies frozen and dead-- - Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast, - Bringing no rest; - - Like bright waves that fall - With a lifelike motion - On the lifeless margin of the sparkling ocean; - A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall; - A gush of sunbeams through a ruined hall; - Strains of glad music at a funeral,-- - So sad, and with so wild a start - To this deep-sobered heart, - So anxiously and painfully, - So drearily and doubtfully, - And, oh! with such intolerable change - Of thought, such contrast strange, - O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, - Like wanderers from the world’s extremity, - Unto their ancient home! - - In vain, all, all in vain, - They beat upon mine ear again,-- - Those melancholy tones so sweet and still; - Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year - Did steal into mine ear; - Blew such a thrilling summons to my will, - Yet could not shake it; - Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill, - Yet could not break it. - - - - -_YOUTH’S AGITATIONS._ - - - When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, - From this poor present self which I am now; - When youth has done its tedious vain expense - Of passions that forever ebb and flow: - - Shall I not joy youth’s heats are left behind, - And breathe more happy in an even clime? - Ah, no! for then I shall begin to find - A thousand virtues in this hated time! - - Then I shall wish its agitations back, - And all its thwarting currents of desire; - Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, - And call this hurrying fever, generous fire; - - And sigh that one thing only has been lent - To youth and age in common,--discontent. - - - - -_THE WORLD’S TRIUMPHS._ - - - So far as I conceive the world’s rebuke - To him addressed who would recast her new, - Not from herself her fame of strength she took, - But from their weakness who would work her rue. - - “Behold,” she cries, “so many rages lulled, - So many fiery spirits quite cooled down; - Look how so many valors, long undulled, - After short commerce with me, fear my frown! - - Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry, - Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!”-- - The world speaks well; yet might her foe reply, - “Are wills so weak? then let not mine wait long! - - Hast thou so rare a poison? let me be - Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me!” - - - - -_STAGIRIUS._[3] - - - Thou, who dost dwell alone; - Thou, who dost know thine own; - Thou, to whom all are known - From the cradle to the grave,-- - Save, oh! save. - From the world’s temptations, - From tribulations, - From that fierce anguish - Wherein we languish, - From that torpor deep - Wherein we lie asleep, - Heavy as death, cold as the grave, - Save, oh! save. - - When the soul, growing clearer, - Sees God no nearer; - When the soul, mounting higher, - To God comes no nigher; - But the arch-fiend Pride - Mounts at her side, - Foiling her high emprise, - Sealing her eagle eyes, - And, when she fain would soar, - Makes idols to adore, - Changing the pure emotion - Of her high devotion, - To a skin-deep sense - Of her own eloquence; - Strong to deceive, strong to enslave,-- - Save, oh! save. - - From the ingrained fashion - Of this earthly nature - That mars thy creature; - From grief that is but passion, - From mirth that is but feigning, - From tears that bring no healing, - From wild and weak complaining, - Thine old strength revealing, - Save, oh! save. - From doubt, where all is double; - Where wise men are not strong, - Where comfort turns to trouble, - Where just men suffer wrong; - Where sorrow treads on joy, - Where sweet things soonest cloy, - Where faiths are built on dust, - Where love is half mistrust, - Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea,-- - Oh! set us free. - Oh, let the false dream fly, - Where our sick souls do lie - Tossing continually! - Oh, where thy voice doth come, - Let all doubts be dumb, - Let all words be mild, - All strifes be reconciled, - All pains beguiled! - Light bring no blindness, - Love no unkindness, - Knowledge no ruin, - Fear no undoing! - From the cradle to the grave, - Save, oh! save. - - - - -_HUMAN LIFE._ - - - What mortal, when he saw, - Life’s voyage done, his heavenly Friend, - Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly,-- - “I have kept uninfringed my nature’s law; - The inly-written chart thou gavest me, - To guide me, I have steered by to the end”? - - Ah! let us make no claim, - On life’s incognizable sea, - To too exact a steering of our way; - Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim, - If some fair coast has lured us to make stay, - Or some friend hailed us to keep company. - - Ay! we would each fain drive - At random, and not steer by rule. - Weakness! and worse, weakness bestowed in vain! - Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive; - We rush by coasts where we had lief remain: - Man cannot, though he would, live chance’s fool. - - No! as the foaming swath - Of torn-up water, on the main, - Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar - On either side the black deep-furrowed path - Cut by an onward-laboring vessel’s prore, - And never touches the ship-side again; - - Even so we leave behind, - As, chartered by some unknown Powers, - We stem across the sea of life by night, - The joys which were not for our use designed,-- - The friends to whom we had no natural right, - The homes that were not destined to be ours. - - - - -_TO A GYPSY CHILD BY THE SEASHORE_; - -DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. - - - Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes? - Who hid such import in an infant’s gloom? - Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise? - Who massed, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom? - - Lo! sails that gleam a moment, and are gone; - The swinging waters, and the clustered pier. - Not idly earth and ocean labor on, - Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. - - But thou, whom superfluity of joy - Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, - Nor weariness, the full-fed soul’s annoy, - Remaining in thy hunger and in thy pain; - Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averse - From thine own mother’s breast, that knows not thee; - With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst converse, - And that soul-searching vision fell on me. - - Glooms that go deep as thine, I have not known; - Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. - Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own; - Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. - - What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? - His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, - Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below? - --Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. - - Some exile’s, mindful how the past was glad? - Some angel’s, in an alien planet born? - --No exile’s dream was ever half so sad, - Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn. - - Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh - Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore; - But in disdainful silence turn away, - Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? - - Or do I wait, to hear some gray-haired king - Unravel all his many-colored lore; - Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, - Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more? - - Down the pale cheek, long lines of shadow slope, - Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give. - --Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope, - Foreseen thy harvest, yet proceed’st to live. - - O meek anticipant of that sure pain - Whose sureness gray-haired scholars hardly learn! - What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain? - What heavens, what earth, what suns, shalt thou discern? - - Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, - Match that funereal aspect with her pall, - I think thou wilt have fathomed life too far, - Have known too much--or else forgotten all. - - The Guide of our dark steps, a triple veil - Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps; - Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale - Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps. - - Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, - Not daily labor’s dull, Lethæan spring, - Oblivion in lost angels can infuse - Of the soiled glory, and the trailing wing; - - And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may, - In the thronged fields where winning comes by strife; - And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray, - Some reaches of thy storm-vexed stream of life; - - Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the cloud - That severed the world’s march and thine, be gone; - Though ease dulls grace, and wisdom be too proud - To halve a lodging that was all her own,-- - - Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern, - Oh, once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain! - Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, - And wear this majesty of grief again. - - - - -_A QUESTION._ - -TO FAUSTA. - - - Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows - Like the wave; - Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. - Love lends life a little grace, - A few sad smiles; and then - Both are laid in one cold place,-- - In the grave. - - Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die - Like spring flowers; - Our vaunted life is one long funeral. - Men dig graves with bitter tears - For their dead hopes; and all, - Mazed with doubts and sick with fears, - Count the hours. - - We count the hours! These dreams of ours, - False and hollow, - Do we go hence, and find they are not dead? - Joys we dimly apprehend - Faces that smiled and fled, - Hopes born here, and born to end, - Shall we follow? - - - - -_IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS._ - - - If, in the silent mind of One all-pure, - At first imagined lay - The sacred world; and by procession sure - From those still deeps, in form and color drest, - Seasons alternating, and night and day, - The long-mused thought to north, south, east, and west, - Took then its all-seen way; - - Oh, waking on a world which thus-wise springs! - Whether it needs thee count - Betwixt thy waking and the birth of things - Ages or hours--oh, waking on life’s stream! - By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount - (Only by this thou canst) the colored dream - Of life remount! - - Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow, - And faint the city gleams; - Rare the lone pastoral huts--marvel not thou! - The solemn peaks but to the stars are known,-- - But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams; - Alone the sun arises, and alone - Spring the great streams. - - But, if the wild unfathered mass no birth - In divine seats hath known; - In the blank, echoing solitude, if Earth, - Rocking her obscure body to and fro, - Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, - Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throe - Forms, what she forms, alone; - - Oh, seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed head - Piercing the solemn cloud - Round thy still dreaming brother-world outspread! - O man, whom Earth, thy long-vexed mother, bare - Not without joy,--so radiant, so endowed - (Such happy issue crowned her painful care),-- - Be not too proud! - - Oh, when most self-exalted most alone, - Chief dreamer, own thy dream! - Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown; - Who hath a monarch’s hath no brother’s part-- - Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. - Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer’s heart! - “_I, too, but seem._” - - - - -_THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST._ - -TO CRITIAS. - - - “Why, when the world’s great mind - Hath finally inclined, - Why,” you say, Critias, “be debating still? - Why, with these mournful rhymes - Learned in more languid climes, - Blame our activity - Who, with such passionate will, - Are what we mean to be?” - - Critias, long since, I know - (For Fate decreed it so), - Long since the world hath set its heart to live; - Long since, with credulous zeal - It turns life’s mighty wheel, - Still doth for laborers send - Who still their labor give, - And still expects an end. - - Yet, as the wheel flies round, - With no ungrateful sound - Do adverse voices fall on the world’s ear. - Deafened by his own stir, - The rugged laborer - Caught not till then a sense - So glowing and so near - Of his omnipotence. - - So, when the feast grew loud - In Susa’s palace proud, - A white-robed slave stole to the great king’s side. - He spake--the great king heard; - Felt the slow-rolling word - Swell his attentive soul; - Breathed deeply as it died, - And drained his mighty bowl. - - - - -_THE SECOND BEST._ - - - Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, - Quiet living, strict-kept measure - Both in suffering and in pleasure,-- - ’Tis for this thy nature yearns. - - But so many books thou readest, - But so many schemes thou breedest, - But so many wishes feedest, - That thy poor head almost turns. - - And (the world’s so madly jangled, - Human things so fast entangled) - Nature’s wish must now be strangled - For that best which she discerns. - - So it _must_ be! yet, while leading - A strained life, while over-feeding, - Like the rest, his wit with reading, - No small profit that man earns,-- - - Who through all he meets can steer him, - Can reject what cannot clear him, - Cling to what can truly cheer him; - Who each day more surely learns - - That an impulse, from the distance - Of his deepest, best existence, - To the words, “Hope, Light, Persistence,” - Strongly sets and truly burns. - - - - -_CONSOLATION._ - - - Mist clogs the sunshine. - Smoky dwarf houses - Hem me round everywhere; - A vague dejection - Weighs down my soul. - - Yet, while I languish, - Everywhere countless - Prospects unroll themselves, - And countless beings - Pass countless moods. - - Far hence, in Asia, - On the smooth convent-roofs, - On the gold terraces, - Of holy Lassa, - Bright shines the sun. - - Gray time-worn marbles - Hold the pure Muses; - In their cool gallery, - By yellow Tiber, - They still look fair. - - Strange unloved uproar[A] - Shrills round their portal; - Yet not on Helicon - Kept they more cloudless - Their noble calm. - - Through sun-proof alleys - In a lone, sand-hemmed - City of Africa, - A blind, led beggar, - Age-bowed, asks alms. - - No bolder robber - Erst abode ambushed - Deep in the sandy waste; - No clearer eyesight - Spied prey afar. - - Saharan sand-winds - Seared his keen eyeballs; - Spent is the spoil he won. - For him the present - Holds only pain. - - Two young, fair lovers, - Where the warm June-wind, - Fresh from the summer fields - Plays fondly round them, - Stand, tranced in joy. - - With sweet, joined voices, - And with eyes brimming, - “Ah!” they cry, “Destiny, - Prolong the present! - Time, stand still here!” - - The prompt stern goddess - Shakes her head, frowning: - Time gives his hour-glass - Its due reversal; - Their hour is gone. - - With weak indulgence - Did the just goddess - Lengthen their happiness, - She lengthened also - Distress elsewhere. - - The hour whose happy - Unalloyed moments - I would eternalize, - Ten thousand mourners - Well pleased see end. - - The bleak, stern hour, - Whose severe moments - I would annihilate, - Is passed by others - In warmth, light, joy. - - Time, so complained of, - Who to no one man - Shows partiality, - Brings round to all men - Some undimmed hours. - - [A] Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849. - - - - -_RESIGNATION._ - -TO FAUSTA. - - - _To die be given us, or attain! - Fierce work it were, to do again._ - - So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, prayed - At burning noon; so warriors said, - Scarfed with the cross, who watched the miles - Of dust which wreathed their struggling files - Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows - Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, - The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, - Crouched on his saddle, while the sun - Went lurid down o’er flooded plains - Through which the groaning Danube strains - To the drear Euxine: so pray all, - Whom labors, self-ordained, inthrall; - Because they to themselves propose - On this side the all-common close - A goal which, gained, may give repose. - So pray they; and to stand again - Where they stood once, to them were pain; - Pain to thread back and to renew - Past straits, and currents long steered through. - - But milder natures, and more free,-- - Whom an unblamed serenity - Hath freed from passions, and the state - Of struggle these necessitate; - Whom schooling of the stubborn mind - Hath made, or birth hath found, resigned,-- - These mourn not, that their goings pay - Obedience to the passing day. - These claim not every laughing hour - For handmaid to their striding power; - Each in her turn, with torch upreared, - To await their march; and when appeared, - Through the cold gloom, with measured race, - To usher for a destined space - (Her own sweet errands all foregone) - The too imperious traveller on. - These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou, - Time’s chafing prisoner, ask it now! - - We left just ten years since, you say, - That wayside inn we left to-day.[4] - Our jovial host, as forth we fare, - Shouts greeting from his easy-chair. - High on a bank our leader stands, - Reviews and ranks his motley bands, - Makes clear our goal to every eye,-- - The valley’s western boundary. - A gate swings to! our tide hath flowed - Already from the silent road. - The valley-pastures, one by one, - Are threaded, quiet in the sun; - And now, beyond the rude stone bridge, - Slopes gracious up the western ridge. - Its woody border, and the last - Of its dark upland farms, is past; - Cool farms, with open-lying stores, - Under their burnished sycamores,-- - All past! and through the trees we glide - Emerging on the green hillside. - There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, - Our wavering, many-colored line; - There winds, up-streaming slowly still - Over the summit of the hill. - And now, in front, behold outspread - Those upper regions we must tread,-- - Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, - The cheerful silence of the fells. - - Some two hours’ march, with serious air, - Through the deep noontide heats we fare; - The red-grouse, springing at our sound, - Skims, now and then, the shining ground; - No life, save his and ours, intrudes - Upon these breathless solitudes. - Oh, joy! again the farms appear. - Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; - There springs the brook will guide us down, - Bright comrade, to the noisy town. - Lingering, we follow down; we gain - The town, the highway, and the plain. - And many a mile of dusty way, - Parched and road-worn, we made that day; - But, Fausta, I remember well, - That as the balmy darkness fell, - We bathed our hands with speechless glee, - That night, in the wide-glimmering sea. - - Once more we tread this self-same road, - Fausta, which ten years since we trod; - Alone we tread it, you and I, - Ghosts of that boisterous company. - Here, where the brook shines, near its head, - In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed; - Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, - Capped with faint smoke, the noisy town,-- - Here sit we, and again unroll, - Though slowly, the familiar whole. - The solemn wastes of heathy hill - Sleep in the July sunshine still; - The self-same shadows now, as then, - Play through this grassy upland glen; - The loose dark stones on the green way - Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay; - On this mild bank above the stream, - (You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam. - Still this wild brook, the rushes cool, - The sailing foam, the shining pool! - These are not changed; and we, you say, - Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they. - - The gypsies, whom we met below, - They too have long roamed to and fro; - They ramble, leaving, where they pass, - Their fragments on the cumbered grass. - And often to some kindly place - Chance guides the migratory race, - Where, though long wanderings intervene, - They recognize a former scene. - The dingy tents are pitched; the fires - Give to the wind their wavering spires; - In dark knots crouch round the wild flame - Their children, as when first they came; - They see their shackled beasts again - Move, browsing, up the gray-walled lane. - Signs are not wanting, which might raise - The ghost in them of former days,-- - Signs are not wanting, if they would; - Suggestions to disquietude. - For them, for all, time’s busy touch, - While it mends little, troubles much. - Their joints grow stiffer--but the year - Runs his old round of dubious cheer; - Chilly they grow--yet winds in March, - Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch; - They must live still--and yet, God knows, - Crowded and keen the country grows; - It seems as if, in their decay, - The law grew stronger every day. - So might they reason, so compare, - Fausta, times past with times that are; - But no! they rubbed through yesterday - In their hereditary way, - And they will rub through, if they can, - To-morrow on the self-same plan, - Till death arrive to supersede, - For them, vicissitude and need. - - The poet, to whose mighty heart - Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, - Subdues that energy to scan - Not his own course, but that of man. - Though he move mountains, though his day - Be passed on the proud heights of sway, - Though he hath loosed a thousand chains, - Though he hath borne immortal pains, - Action and suffering though he know,-- - He hath not lived, if he lives so. - He sees, in some great-historied land, - A ruler of the people stand, - Sees his strong thought in fiery flood - Roll through the heaving multitude, - Exults--yet for no moment’s space - Envies the all-regarded place. - Beautiful eyes meet his, and he - Bears to admire uncravingly; - They pass: he, mingled with the crowd, - Is in their far-off triumphs proud. - - From some high station he looks down, - At sunset, on a populous town; - Surveys each happy group which fleets, - Toil ended, through the shining streets,-- - Each with some errand of its own,-- - And does not say, _I am alone_. - He sees the gentle stir of birth - When morning purifies the earth; - He leans upon a gate, and sees - The pastures, and the quiet trees. - Low, woody hill, with gracious bound, - Folds the still valley almost round; - The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn, - Is answered from the depth of dawn; - In the hedge straggling to the stream, - Pale, dew-drenched, half-shut roses gleam. - But, where the farther side slopes down, - He sees the drowsy new-waked clown - In his white quaint-embroidered frock - Make, whistling, toward his mist-wreathed flock, - Slowly, behind his heavy tread, - The wet, flowered grass heaves up its head. - Leaned on his gate, he gazes: tears - Are in his eyes, and in his ears - The murmur of a thousand years. - Before him he sees life unroll, - A placid and continuous whole,-- - That general life, which does not cease, - Whose secret is not joy, but peace; - That life, whose dumb wish is not missed - If birth proceeds, if things subsist; - The life of plants, and stones, and rain, - The life he craves--if not in vain - Fate gave, what chance shall not control, - His sad lucidity of soul. - - You listen; but that wandering smile, - Fausta, betrays you cold the while! - Your eyes pursue the bells of foam - Washed, eddying, from this bank, their home. - _Those gypsies_--so your thoughts I scan-- - _Are less, the poet more, than man_. - _They feel not, though they move and see._ - _Deeper the poet feels; but he_ - _Breathes, when he will, immortal air,_ - _Where Orpheus and where Homer are._ - _In the day’s life, whose iron round_ - _Hems us all in, he is not bound;_ - _He leaves his kind, o’erleaps their pen,_ - _And flees the common life of men._ - _He escapes thence, but we abide._ - _ Not deep the poet sees, but wide._ - - The world in which we live and move - Outlasts aversion, outlasts love, - Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, - Remorse, grief, joy; and, were the scope - Of these affections wider made, - Man still would see, and see dismayed, - Beyond his passion’s widest range, - Far regions of eternal change. - Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, - Finds him with many an unsolved plan, - With much unknown, and much untried, - Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried, - Still gazing on the ever full - Eternal mundane spectacle,-- - This world in which we draw our breath, - In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. - - Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares - Judge vain beforehand human cares; - Whose natural insight can discern - What through experience others learn; - Who needs not love and power, to know - Love transient, power an unreal show; - Who treads at ease life’s uncheered ways: - Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise! - Rather thyself for some aim pray, - Nobler than this, to fill the day; - Rather that heart, which burns in thee, - Ask, not to amuse, but to set free; - Be passionate hopes not ill resigned - For quiet, and a fearless mind. - And though fate grudge to thee and me - The poet’s rapt security, - Yet they, believe me, who await - No gifts from chance, have conquered fate. - They, winning room to see and hear, - And to men’s business not too near, - Through clouds of individual strife - Draw homeward to the general life. - Like leaves by suns not yet uncurled; - To the wise, foolish; to the world, - Weak: yet not weak, I might reply, - Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye, - To whom each moment in its race, - Crowd as we will its neutral space, - Is but a quiet watershed - Whence, equally, the seas of life and death are fed. - - Enough, we live! and if a life - With large results so little rife, - Though bearable, seem hardly worth - This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth; - Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread, - The solemn hills around us spread, - This stream which falls incessantly, - The strange-scrawled rocks, the lonely sky, - If I might lend their life a voice, - Seem to bear rather than rejoice. - And even could the intemperate prayer - Man iterates, while these forbear, - For movement, for an ampler sphere, - Pierce Fate’s impenetrable ear; - Not milder is the general lot - Because our spirits have forgot, - In action’s dizzying eddy whirled, - The something that infects the world. - - - - -NARRATIVE POEMS. - - - - -_SOHRAB AND RUSTUM._[5] - -AN EPISODE. - - - And the first gray of morning filled the east, - And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. - But all the Tartar camp along the stream - Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in sleep. - Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long - He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed: - But when the gray dawn stole into his tent, - He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, - And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent, - And went abroad into the cold wet fog, - Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s tent. - Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood - Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand - Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o’erflow - When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere; - Through the black tents he passed, o’er that low strand, - And to a hillock came, a little back - From the stream’s brink,--the spot where first a boat, - Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. - The men of former times had crowned the top - With a clay fort; but that was fallen, and now - The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent, - A dome of laths, and o’er it felts were spread. - And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood - Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, - And found the old man sleeping on his bed - Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. - And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step - Was dulled; for he slept light, an old man’s sleep; - And he rose quickly on one arm, and said,-- - “Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. - Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?” - But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said,-- - “Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. - The sun has not yet risen, and the foe - Sleep: but I sleep not; all night long I lie - Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. - For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek - Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, - In Samarcand, before the army marched; - And I will tell thee what my heart desires. - Thou know’st if, since from Ader-baijan first - I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, - I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, - At my boy’s years, the courage of a man. - This too thou know’st, that while I still bear on - The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, - And beat the Persians back on every field, - I seek one man, one man, and one alone,-- - Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, - Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field, - His not unworthy, not inglorious son. - So I long hoped, but him I never find. - Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. - Let the two armies rest to-day; but I - Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords - To meet me, man to man: if I prevail, - Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall-- - Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. - Dim is the rumor of a common fight, - Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; - But of a single combat fame speaks clear.” - He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand - Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said,-- - “O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! - Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, - And share the battle’s common chance with us - Who love thee, but must press forever first, - In single fight incurring single risk, - To find a father thou hast never seen? - That were far best, my son, to stay with us - Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war, - And when ’tis truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns. - But if this one desire indeed rules all, - To seek out Rustum--seek him not through fight! - Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, - O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son! - But far hence seek him, for he is not here. - For now it is not as when I was young, - When Rustum was in front of every fray: - But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, - In Seistan, with Zal, his father old; - Whether that his own mighty strength at last - Feels the abhorred approaches of old age; - Or in some quarrel with the Persian king. - There go!--Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes - Danger or death awaits thee on this field. - Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost - To us; fain therefore send thee hence in peace - To seek thy father, not seek single fights - In vain. But who can keep the lion’s cub - From ravening, and who govern Rustum’s son? - Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.” - So said he, and dropped Sohrab’s hand, and left - His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; - And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat - He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet, - And threw a white cloak round him, and he took - In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword; - And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, - Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul; - And raised the curtain of his tent, and called - His herald to his side, and went abroad. - The sun by this had risen, and cleared the fog - From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. - And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed - Into the open plain: so Haman bade,-- - Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled - The host, and still was in his lusty prime. - From their black tents, long files of horse, they streamed; - As when some gray November morn the files, - In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes - Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes - Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, - Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound - For the warm Persian seaboard,--so they streamed. - The Tartars of the Oxus, the king’s guard, - First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears; - Large men, large steeds, who from Bokhara come - And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. - Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, - The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, - And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands; - Light men and on light steeds, who only drink - The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. - And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came - From far, and a more doubtful service owned,-- - The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks - Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards - And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes - Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste, - Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray - Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, - Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere,-- - These all filed out from camp into the plain. - And on the other side the Persians formed,-- - First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seemed, - The Ilyats of Khorassan; and behind, - The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, - Marshalled battalions bright in burnished steel. - But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, - Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, - And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. - And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw - That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, - He took his spear, and to the front he came, - And checked his ranks, and fixed them where they stood. - And the old Tartar came upon the sand - Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said,-- - “Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! - Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. - But choose a champion from the Persian lords - To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.” - As in the country, on a morn in June, - When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, - A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy,-- - So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, - A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran - Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. - But as a troop of pedlers from Cabool - Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, - That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow; - Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass - Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, - Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves - Slake their parched throats with sugared mulberries; - In single file they move, and stop their breath, - For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows,-- - So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. - And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up - To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, - And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host - Second, and was the uncle of the king; - These came and counselled, and then Gudurz said,-- - “Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, - Yet champion have we none to match this youth. - He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart. - But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits - And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart. - Him will I seek, and carry to his ear - The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s name; - Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. - Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.” - So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and cried,-- - “Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said! - Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.” - He spake; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode - Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. - But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, - And crossed the camp which lay behind, and reached, - Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum’s tents. - Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, - Just pitched; the high pavilion in the midst - Was Rustum’s, and his men lay camped around. - And Gudurz entered Rustum’s tent, and found - Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still - The table stood before him, charged with food,-- - A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, - And dark-green melons; and there Rustum sate - Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, - And played with it; but Gudurz came and stood - Before him; and he looked, and saw him stand, - And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the bird, - And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said,-- - “Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight. - What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.” - But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said,-- - “Not now. A time will come to eat and drink, - But not to-day: to-day has other needs. - The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze; - For, from the Tartars is a challenge brought - To pick a champion from the Persian lords - To fight their champion--and thou know’st his name: - Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. - O Rustum, like thy might is this young man’s! - He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart; - And he is young, and Iran’s chiefs are old, - Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. - Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!” - He spoke; but Rustum answered with a smile,-- - “Go to! if Iran’s chiefs are old, then I - Am older. If the young are weak, the king - Errs strangely; for the king, for Kai Khosroo, - Himself is young, and honors younger men, - And lets the aged moulder to their graves. - Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young: - The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I. - For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s fame? - For would that I myself had such a son, - And not that one slight helpless girl I have!-- - A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, - And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, - My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, - And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, - And he has none to guard his weak old age. - There would I go, and hang my armor up, - And with my great name fence that weak old man, - And spend the goodly treasures I have got, - And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame, - And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, - And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more.” - He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply,-- - “What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, - When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks - Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, - Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say,-- - _Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame,_ - _And shuns to peril it with younger men_.” - And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply,-- - “O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? - Thou knowest better words than this to say. - What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, - Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? - Are not they mortal? am not I myself? - But who for men of naught would do great deeds? - Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame! - But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms: - Let not men say of Rustum, he was matched - In single fight with any mortal man.” - He spoke, and frowned; and Gudurz turned, and ran - Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy,-- - Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. - But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and called - His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, - And clad himself in steel. The arms he chose - Were plain, and on his shield was no device; - Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, - And, from the fluted spine a-top, a plume - Of horse-hair waved, a scarlet horse-hair plume. - So armed, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, - Followed him like a faithful hound at heel,-- - Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, - The horse whom Rustum on a foray once - Did in Bokhara by the river find - A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, - And reared him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, - Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green - Crusted with gold, and on the ground were worked - All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. - So followed, Rustum left his tents, and crossed - The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. - And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts - Hailed; but the Tartars knew not who he was. - And dear as the wet diver to the eyes - Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, - By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, - Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, - Having made up his tale of precious pearls, - Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands,-- - So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. - And Rustum to the Persian front advanced; - And Sohrab armed in Haman’s tent, and came. - And as a-field the reapers cut a swath - Down through the middle of a rich man’s corn, - And on each side are squares of standing corn, - And in the midst a stubble short and bare,-- - So on each side were squares of men, with spears - Bristling, and in the midst the open sand. - And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast - His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw - Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. - As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn, - Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge - Who with numb blackened fingers makes her fire,-- - At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn, - When the frost flowers the whitened window-panes,-- - And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts - Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed - The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar - Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth - All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused - His spirited air, and wondered who he was. - For very young he seemed, tenderly reared; - Like some young cypress, tall and dark and straight, - Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws - Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, - By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound,-- - So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. - And a deep pity entered Rustum’s soul - As he beheld him coming; and he stood, - And beckoned to him with his hand, and said,-- - “O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft, - And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold! - Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave. - Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron, - And tried; and I have stood on many a field - Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe: - Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. - O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? - Be governed: quit the Tartar host, and come - To Iran, and be as my son to me, - And fight beneath my banner till I die! - There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.” - So he spake, mildly. Sohrab heard his voice, - The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw - His giant figure planted on the sand, - Sole, like some single tower, which a chief - Hath builded on the waste in former years - Against the robbers; and he saw that head, - Streaked with its first gray hairs; hope filled his soul, - And he ran forward, and embraced his knees, - And clasped his hand within his own, and said,-- - “Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul! - Art thou not Rustum? Speak! art thou not he?” - But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, - And turned away, and spake to his own soul,-- - “Ah me! I muse what this young fox may mean! - False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. - For if I now confess this thing he asks, - And hide it not, but say, _Rustum is here!_ - He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes; - But he will find some pretext not to fight, - And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, - A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. - And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall - In Samarcand, he will arise and cry,-- - ‘I challenged once, when the two armies camped - Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords - To cope with me in single fight; but they - Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I - Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.’ - So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud; - Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.” - And then he turned, and sternly spake aloud,-- - “Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus - Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast called - By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or yield! - Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? - Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face, and flee! - For well I know, that did great Rustum stand - Before thy face this day, and were revealed, - There would be then no talk of fighting more. - But being what I am, I tell thee this,-- - Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: - Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield, - Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds - Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, - Oxus in summer wash them all away.” - He spoke; and Sohrab answered, on his feet,-- - “Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fight me so! - I am no girl, to be made pale by words. - Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand - Here on this field, there were no fighting then. - But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. - Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I; - And thou art proved, I know, and I am young-- - But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. - And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure - Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. - For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, - Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, - Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall; - And whether it will heave us up to land, - Or whether it will roll us out to sea,-- - Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death,-- - We know not, and no search will make us know: - Only the event will teach us in its hour.” - He spoke; and Rustum answered not, but hurled - His spear: down from the shoulder, down it came, - As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, - That long has towered in the airy clouds, - Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, - And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear - Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, - Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw - In turn, and full struck Rustum’s shield; sharp rang, - The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the spear. - And Rustum seized his club, which none but he - Could wield; an unlopped trunk it was, and huge, - Still rough,--like those which men in treeless plains - To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, - Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up - By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time - Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, - And strewn the channels with torn boughs,--so huge - The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck - One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, - Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came - Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand. - And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell - To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand. - And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, - And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay - Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; - But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, - But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said,-- - “Thou strik’st too hard! that club of thine will float - Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. - But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I; - No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. - Thou say’st thou art not Rustum; be it so! - Who art thou, then, that canst so touch my soul? - Boy as I am, I have seen battles too,-- - Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, - And heard their hollow roar of dying men; - But never was my heart thus touched before. - Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? - O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! - Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, - And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, - And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, - And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum’s deeds. - There are enough foes in the Persian host, - Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; - Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou - Mayst fight; fight _them_, when they confront thy spear! - But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!” - He ceased; but while he spake, Rustum had risen, - And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club - He left to lie, but had regained his spear, - Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand - Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, - The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soiled - His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. - His breast heaved, his lips foamed, and twice his voice - Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way:-- - “Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! - Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! - Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more! - Thou art not in Afrasiab’s gardens now - With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; - But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance - Of battle, and with me, who make no play - Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand. - Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! - Remember all thy valor; try thy feints - And cunning! all the pity I had is gone, - Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts - With thy light skipping tricks and thy girl’s wiles.” - He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, - And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed - Together, as two eagles on one prey - Come rushing down together from the clouds, - One from the east, one from the west; their shields - Dashed with a clang together, and a din - Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters - Make often in the forest’s heart at morn, - Of hewing axes, crashing trees,--such blows - Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. - And you would say that sun and stars took part - In that unnatural conflict: for a cloud - Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun - Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose - Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, - And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. - In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; - For both the on-looking hosts on either hand - Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, - And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. - But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes - And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield - Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear - Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, - And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. - Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s helm, - Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest - He shore away, and that proud horse-hair plume, - Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; - And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom - Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, - And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh the horse, - Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry: - No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar - Of some pained desert-lion, who all day - Has trailed the hunter’s javelin in his side, - And comes at night to die upon the sand; - The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, - And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. - But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, - And struck again; and again Rustum bowed - His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, - Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, - And in the hand the hilt remained alone. - Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes - Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, - And shouted, _Rustum_! Sohrab heard that shout, - And shrank amazed: back he recoiled one step, - And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; - And then he stood bewildered, and he dropped - His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. - He reeled, and staggering back sank to the ground. - And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, - And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all - The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair,-- - Saw Rustum standing safe upon his feet, - And Sohrab wounded on the bloody sand. - Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began,-- - “Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill - A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, - And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent; - Or else that the great Rustum would come down - Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move - His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. - And then that all the Tartar host would praise - Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, - To glad thy father in his weak old age. - Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! - Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be - Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.” - And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied,-- - “Unknown thou art, yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. - Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! - No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. - For, were I matched with ten such men as thee, - And I were that which till to-day I was, - They should be lying here, I standing there. - But that belovèd name unnerved my arm,-- - That name, and something, I confess, in thee, - Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield - Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. - And now thou boastest, and insult’st my fate. - But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: - The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! - My father, whom I seek through all the world, - He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!” - As when some hunter in the spring hath found - A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, - Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, - And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, - And followed her to find her where she fell - Far off; anon her mate comes winging back - From hunting, and a great way off descries - His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks - His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps - Circles above his eyry, with loud screams - Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she - Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, - In some far stony gorge out of his ken, - A heap of fluttering feathers,--never more - Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; - Never the black and dripping precipices - Echo her stormy scream as she sails by,-- - As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, - So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood - Over his dying son, and knew him not. - And with a cold, incredulous voice, he said,-- - “What prate is this of fathers and revenge? - The mighty Rustum never had a son.” - And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied,-- - “Ah, yes, he had! and that lost son am I. - Surely the news will one day reach his ear,-- - Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, - Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; - And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap - To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. - Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! - What will that grief, what will that vengeance, be? - Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen! - Yet him I pity not so much, but her, - My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells - With that old king, her father, who grows gray - With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. - Her most I pity, who no more will see - Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, - With spoils and honor, when the war is done. - But a dark rumor will be bruited up, - From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; - And then will that defenceless woman learn - That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; - But that in battle with a nameless foe, - By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.” - He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, - Thinking of her he left, and his own death. - He spoke; but Rustum listened, plunged in thought. - Nor did he yet believe it was his son - Who spoke, although he called back names he knew; - For he had had sure tidings that the babe - Which was in Ader-baijan born to him - Had been a puny girl, no boy at all-- - So that sad mother sent him word, for fear - Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. - And so he deemed that either Sohrab took, - By a false boast, the style of Rustum’s son; - Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. - So deemed he: yet he listened, plunged in thought; - And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide - Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore - At the full moon; tears gathered in his eyes; - For he remembered his own early youth, - And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, - The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries - A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, - Through many rolling clouds,--so Rustum saw - His youth; saw Sohrab’s mother in her bloom; - And that old king, her father, who loved well - His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child - With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, - They three, in that long-distant summer-time,-- - The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt - And hound, and morn on those delightful hills - In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth, - Of age and looks to be his own dear son, - Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand; - Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe - Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, - Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, - And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, - On the mown, dying grass,--so Sohrab lay, - Lovely in death, upon the common sand. - And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said,-- - “O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son - Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved! - Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men - Have told thee false: thou art not Rustum’s son. - For Rustum had no son: one child he had,-- - But one,--a girl; who with her mother now - Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us,-- - Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.” - But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now - The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, - And he desired to draw forth the steel, - And let the blood flow free, and so to die. - But first he would convince his stubborn foe; - And, rising sternly on one arm, he said,-- - “Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? - Truth sits upon the lips of dying men; - And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. - I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear - That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, - That she might prick it on the babe she bore.” - He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum’s cheeks, - And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand - Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, - That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud; - And to his heart he pressed the other hand, - And in a hollow voice he spake, and said,-- - “Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie! - If thou show this, then art thou Rustum’s son.” - Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed - His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, - And showed a sign in faint vermilion points - Pricked; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, - Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, - An emperor’s gift,--at early morn he paints, - And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp - Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands,-- - So delicately pricked the sign appeared - On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rustum’s seal. - It was that griffin which of old reared Zal, - Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die, - A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks; - Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved; - Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. - And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, - And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, - And then he touched it with his hand, and said,-- - “How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper sign - Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s?” - He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood - Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry,-- - _O boy--thy father!_ and his voice choked there. - And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, - And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. - But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast - His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips, - And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, - Trying to call him back to life; and life - Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, - And they stood wide with horror; and he seized - In both his hands the dust which lay around, - And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair,-- - His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; - And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, - And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword, - To draw it, and forever let life out. - But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, - And with a soothing voice he spake, and said,-- - “Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day - The doom which at my birth was written down - In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand. - Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, - When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, - I know it! But fate trod those promptings down - Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged - The strife, and hurled me on my father’s spear. - But let us speak no more of this. I find - My father, let me feel that I have found! - Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take - My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, - And wash them with thy tears, and say, _My son!_ - Quick, quick! for numbered are my sands of life, - And swift; for like the lightning to this field - I came, and like the wind I go away,-- - Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind; - But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.” - So said he; and his voice released the heart - Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast - His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud, - And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts, - When they saw Rustum’s grief; and Ruksh, the horse, - With his head bowing to the ground, and mane - Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe - First to the one, then to the other, moved - His head, as if inquiring what their grief - Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, - The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. - But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said,-- - “Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet - Should then have rotted on their nimble joints, - When first they bore thy master to this field!” - But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said,-- - “Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days, - My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, - My terrible father’s terrible horse! and said, - That I should one day find thy lord and thee. - Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! - O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I! - For thou hast gone where I shall never go, - And snuffed the breezes of my father’s home. - And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, - And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake - Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself - Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, - Corn in a golden platter, soaked with wine, - And said, _O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!_ But I - Have never known my grandsire’s furrowed face, - Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, - Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; - But lodged among my father’s foes, and seen - Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand, - Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, - And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk - The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, - Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, - The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, - The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.” - Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewailed,-- - “Oh that its waves were flowing over me! - Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt - Roll tumbling in the current o’er my head!” - But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied,-- - “Desire not that, my father! thou must live. - For some are born to do great deeds, and live - As some are born to be obscured, and die. - Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, - And reap a second glory in thine age; - Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. - But come! thou seest this great host of men - Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! - Let me entreat for them: what have they done? - They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. - Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. - But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, - But carry me with thee to Seistan, - And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,-- - Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. - And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, - And heap a stately mound above my bones, - And plant a far-seen pillar over all; - That so the passing horseman on the waste - May see my tomb a great way off, and cry,-- - _Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there,_ - _Whom his great father did in ignorance kill!_ - And I be not forgotten in my grave.” - And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied,-- - “Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab my son, - So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, - And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, - And carry thee away to Seistan, - And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, - With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. - And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, - And heap a stately mound above thy bones, - And plant a far-seen pillar over all, - And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. - And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go! - Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! - What should I do with slaying any more? - For would that all whom I have ever slain - Might be once more alive,--my bitterest foes, - And they who were called champions in their time, - And through whose death I won that fame I have,-- - And I were nothing but a common man, - A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, - So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! - Or rather would that I, even I myself, - Might now be lying on this bloody sand, - Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, - Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou; - And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; - And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; - And say, _O son, I weep thee not too sore, - For willingly, I know, thou met’st thine end!_ - But now in blood and battles was my youth, - And full of blood and battles is my age, - And I shall never end this life of blood.” - Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied,-- - “A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! - But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, - Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, - When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, - Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, - Returning home over the salt blue sea, - From laying thy dear master in his grave.” - And Rustum gazed in Sohrab’s face, and said,-- - “Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! - Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.” - He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took - The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased - His wound’s imperious anguish; but the blood - Came welling from the open gash, and life - Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side - The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled, - Like the soiled tissue of white violets - Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank, - By children whom their nurses call with haste - In-doors from the sun’s eye; his head drooped low, - His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay,-- - White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, - Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, - Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, - And fixed them feebly on his father’s face; - Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs - Unwillingly the spirit fled away, - Regretting the warm mansion which it left, - And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. - So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead; - And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak - Down o’er his face, and sate by his dead son. - As those black granite pillars, once high-reared - By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear - His house, now ’mid their broken flights of steps - Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side,-- - So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. - And night came down over the solemn waste, - And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, - And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, - Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, - As of a great assembly loosed, and fires - Began to twinkle through the fog; for now - Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; - The Persians took it on the open sands - Southward, the Tartars by the river-marge; - And Rustum and his son were left alone. - - But the majestic river floated on, - Out of the mist and hum of that low land, - Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, - Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, - Under the solitary moon; he flowed - Right for the polar star, past Orgunjè, - Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin - To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, - And split his currents; that for many a league - The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along - Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles,-- - Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had - In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, - A foiled circuitous wanderer,--till at last - The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide - His luminous home of waters opens, bright - And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars - Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. - - - - -_THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA._ - - -HUSSEIN. - - O most just vizier, send away - The cloth-merchants, and let them be, - Them and their dues, this day! the king - Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. - - -THE VIZIER. - - O merchants, tarry yet a day - Here in Bokhara! but at noon - To-morrow come, and ye shall pay - Each fortieth web of cloth to me, - As the law is, and go your way. - - O Hussein, lead me to the king! - Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own, - Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead! - How is it with my lord? - - -HUSSEIN. - - Alone, - Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, - O vizier! without lying down, - In the great window of the gate, - Looking into the Registàn, - Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves - Are this way bringing the dead man - O vizier, here is the king’s door! - - -THE KING. - - O vizier, I may bury him? - - -THE VIZIER. - - O king, thou know’st, I have been sick - These many days, and heard no thing - (For Allah shut my ears and mind), - Not even what thou dost, O king! - Wherefore, that I may counsel thee, - Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste - To speak in order what hath chanced. - - -THE KING. - - O vizier, be it as thou say’st! - - -HUSSEIN. - - Three days since, at the time of prayer, - A certain Moollah, with his robe - All rent, and dust upon his hair, - Watched my lord’s coming forth, and pushed - The golden mace-bearers aside, - And fell at the king’s feet, and cried,-- - - “Justice, O king, and on myself! - On this great sinner, who did break - The law, and by the law must die! - Vengeance, O king!” - - But the king spake: - “What fool is this, that hurts our ears - With folly? or what drunken slave? - My guards, what! prick him with your spears! - Prick me the fellow from the path!” - - As the king said, so was it done, - And to the mosque my lord passed on. - - But on the morrow, when the king - Went forth again, the holy book - Carried before him, as is right, - And through the square his way he took; - - My man comes running, flecked with blood - From yesterday, and falling down - Cries out most earnestly, “O king, - My lord, O king, do right, I pray! - - “How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern - If I speak folly? but a king, - Whether a thing be great or small, - Like Allah, hears and judges all. - - “Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierce - In these last days the sun hath burned; - That the green water in the tanks - Is to a putrid puddle turned; - And the canal, that from the stream - Of Samarcand is brought this way, - Wastes and runs thinner every day. - - ‘Now I at nightfall had gone forth - Alone, and in a darksome place - Under some mulberry-trees I found - A little pool; and in short space - With all the water that was there - I filled my pitcher, and stole home - Unseen; and having drink to spare, - I hid the can behind the door, - And went up on the roof to sleep. - - “But in the night, which was with wind - And burning dust, again I creep - Down, having fever, for a drink. - - “Now, meanwhile had my brethren found - The water-pitcher, where it stood - Behind the door upon the ground, - And called my mother; and they all, - As they were thirsty, and the night - Most sultry, drained the pitcher there; - That they sate with it, in my sight, - Their lips still wet, when I came down. - - “Now mark! I, being fevered, sick, - (Most unblest also), at that sight - Brake forth, and cursed them--dost thou hear?-- - One was my mother.---- Now do right!” - - But my lord mused a space, and said,-- - “Send him away, sirs, and make on! - It is some madman,” the king said. - As the king bade, so was it done. - - The morrow, at the self-same hour, - In the king’s path, behold, the man, - Not kneeling, sternly fixed! He stood - Right opposite, and thus began, - Frowning grim down: “Thou wicked king, - Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear! - What! must I howl in the next world, - Because thou wilt not listen here? - - “What! wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, - And all grace shall to me be grudged? - Nay, but I swear, from this thy path - I will not stir till I be judged!” - - Then they who stood about the king - Drew close together, and conferred; - Till that the king stood forth, and said, - “Before the priests thou shalt be heard.” - - But when the Ulemas were met, - And the thing heard, they doubted not; - But sentenced him, as the law is, - To die by stoning on the spot. - - Now the king charged us secretly: - “Stoned must he be, the law stands so. - Yet, if he seek to fly, give way: - Hinder him not, but let him go.” - - So saying, the king took a stone, - And cast it softly; but the man, - With a great joy upon his face, - Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran. - - So they, whose lot it was, cast stones, - That they flew thick, and bruised him sore. - But he praised Allah with loud voice, - And remained kneeling as before. - - My lord had covered up his face; - But when one told him, “He is dead,” - Turning him quickly to go in, - “Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said. - - And truly, while I speak, O king, - I hear the bearers on the stair: - Wilt thou they straightway bring him in? - --Ho! enter ye who tarry there! - - -THE VIZIER. - - O king, in this I praise thee not! - Now must I call thy grief not wise. - Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, - To find such favor in thine eyes? - - Nay, were he thine own mother’s son, - Still thou art king, and the law stands. - It were not meet the balance swerved, - The sword were broken in thy hands. - - But being nothing, as he is, - Why for no cause make sad thy face? - Lo, I am old! three kings ere thee - Have I seen reigning in this place. - - But who, through all this length of time, - Could bear the burden of his years, - If he for strangers pained his heart - Not less than those who merit tears? - - Fathers we _must_ have, wife and child, - And grievous is the grief for these; - This pain alone, which _must_ be borne, - Makes the head white, and bows the knees. - - But other loads than this his own, - One man is not well made to bear. - Besides, to each are his own friends, - To mourn with him, and show him care. - - Look, this is but one single place, - Though it be great; all the earth round, - If a man bear to have it so, - Things which might vex him shall be found. - - Upon the Russian frontier, where - The watchers of two armies stand - Near one another, many a man, - Seeking a prey unto his hand, - - Hath snatched a little fair-haired slave; - They snatch also, towards Mervè, - The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep, - And up from thence to Orgunjè. - - And these all, laboring for a lord, - Eat not the fruit of their own hands; - Which is the heaviest of all plagues, - To that man’s mind who understands. - - The kaffirs also (whom God curse!) - Vex one another, night and day; - There are the lepers, and all sick; - There are the poor, who faint alway. - - All these have sorrow, and keep still, - Whilst other men make cheer, and sing. - Wilt thou have pity on all these? - No, nor on this dead dog, O king! - - -THE KING. - - O vizier, thou art old, I young! - Clear in these things I cannot see. - My head is burning, and a heat - Is in my skin which angers me. - - But hear ye this, ye sons of men! - They that bear rule, and are obeyed, - Unto a rule more strong than theirs - Are in their turn obedient made. - - In vain therefore, with wistful eyes - Gazing up hither, the poor man, - Who loiters by the high-heaped booths, - Below there, in the Registàn,-- - - Says, “Happy he who lodges there! - With silken raiment, store of rice, - And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, - Grape-sirup, squares of colored ice,-- - - “With cherries served in drifts of snow.” - In vain hath a king power to build - Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques; - And to make orchard-closes, filled - - With curious fruit-trees brought from far, - With cisterns for the winter-rain, - And, in the desert, spacious inns - In divers places,--if that pain - - Is not more lightened, which he feels, - If his will be not satisfied; - And that it be not, from all time - The law is planted, to abide. - - Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man! - Thou wast athirst; and didst not see, - That, though we take what we desire, - We must not snatch it eagerly. - - And I have meat and drink at will, - And rooms of treasures, not a few. - But I am sick, nor heed I these; - And what I would, I cannot do. - - Even the great honor which I have, - When I am dead, will soon grow still; - So have I neither joy, nor fame. - But what I can do, that I will. - - I have a fretted brick-work tomb - Upon a hill on the right hand, - Hard by a close of apricots, - Upon the road of Samarcand; - - Thither, O vizier, will I bear - This man my pity could not save, - And, plucking up the marble flags, - There lay his body in my grave. - - Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls! - Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb! - Then say, “He was not wholly vile, - Because a king shall bury him.” - - - - -_BALDER DEAD._[6] - - -I. SENDING. - - So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round - Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, - Which all the gods in sport had idly thrown - At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove; - But in his breast stood fixed the fatal bough - Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave - To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw threw-- - ’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm. - And all the gods and all the heroes came, - And stood round Balder on the bloody floor, - Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rang - Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries; - And on the tables stood the untasted meats, - And in the horns and gold-rimmed sculls the wine. - And now would night have fallen, and found them yet - Wailing; but otherwise was Odin’s will. - And thus the Father of the ages spake:-- - “Enough of tears, ye gods, enough of wail! - Not to lament in was Valhalla made. - If any here might weep for Balder’s death, - I most might weep, his father; such a son - I lose to-day, so bright, so loved a god. - But he has met that doom which long ago - The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun, - And fate set seal, that so his end must be. - Balder has met his death, and ye survive. - Weep him an hour, but what can grief avail? - For ye yourselves, ye gods, shall meet your doom,-- - All ye who hear me, and inhabit heaven, - And I too, Odin too, the lord of all. - But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes, - With women’s tears and weak complaining cries: - Why should we meet another’s portion so? - Rather it fits you, having wept your hour, - With cold dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern, - To live, as erst, your daily life in heaven. - By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok, - The foe, the accuser, whom, though gods, we hate, - Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day. - Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns, - Bring wood to the seashore to Balder’s ship, - And on the deck build high a funeral pile, - And on the top lay Balder’s corpse, and put - Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea - To burn; for that is what the dead desire.” - So spake the king of gods, and straightway rose, - And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode; - And from the hall of heaven he rode away - To Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne, - The mount, from whence his eye surveys the world. - And far from heaven he turned his shining orbs - To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men. - And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze, - Whom antlered reindeer pull over the snow; - And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind, - Fair men, who live in holes under the ground; - Nor did he look once more to Ida’s plain, - Nor toward Valhalla and the sorrowing gods; - For well he knew the gods would heed his word, - And cease to mourn, and think of Balder’s pyre. - But in Valhalla all the gods went back - From around Balder, all the heroes went; - And left his body stretched upon the floor. - And on their golden chairs they sate again, - Beside the tables, in the hall of heaven; - And before each the cooks who served them placed - New messes of the boar Serimner’s flesh, - And the Valkyries crowned their horns with mead. - So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes, - Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank, - While twilight fell, and sacred night came on. - But the blind Hoder left the feasting gods - In Odin’s hall, and went through Asgard streets, - And past the haven where the gods have moored - Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall; - Though sightless, yet his own mind led the god. - Down to the margin of the roaring sea - He came, and sadly went along the sand, - Between the waves and black o’erhanging cliffs - Where in and out the screaming seafowl fly; - Until he came to where a gully breaks - Through the cliff-wall, and a fresh stream runs down - From the high moors behind, and meets the sea. - There, in the glen, Fensaler stands, the house - Of Frea, honored mother of the gods, - And shows its lighted windows to the main. - There he went up, and passed the open doors; - And in the hall he found those women old, - The prophetesses, who by rite eterne - On Frea’s hearth feed high the sacred fire - Both night and day; and by the inner wall - Upon her golden chair the mother sate, - With folded hands, revolving things to come. - To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said,-- - “Mother, a child of bale thou bar’st in me! - For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes, - Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in heaven; - And, after that, of ignorant witless mind - Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul; - That I alone must take the branch from Lok, - The foe, the accuser, whom, though gods, we hate, - And cast it at the dear-loved Balder’s breast, - At whom the gods in sport their weapons threw. - ’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm. - Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly, - For who will bear my hateful sight in heaven? - Can I, O mother, bring them Balder back? - Or--for thou know’st the fates, and things allowed-- - Can I with Hela’s power a compact strike, - And make exchange, and give my life for his?” - He spoke: the mother of the gods replied,-- - “Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son, - Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these? - That one, long portioned with his doom of death, - Should change his lot, and fill another’s life, - And Hela yield to this, and let him go! - On Balder, Death hath laid her hand, not thee; - Nor doth she count this life a price for that. - For many gods in heaven, not thou alone, - Would freely die to purchase Balder back, - And wend themselves to Hela’s gloomy realm. - For not so gladsome is that life in heaven - Which gods and heroes lead, in feast and fray, - Waiting the darkness of the final times, - That one should grudge its loss for Balder’s sake,-- - Balder their joy, so bright, so loved a god. - But fate withstands, and laws forbid this way. - Yet in my secret mind one way I know, - Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail; - But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.” - And the blind Hoder answered her, and said,-- - “What way is this, O mother, that thou show’st? - Is it a matter which a god might try?” - And straight the mother of the gods replied,-- - “There is a way which leads to Hela’s realm, - Untrodden, lonely, far from light and heaven. - Who goes that way must take no other horse - To ride, but Sleipner, Odin’s horse, alone. - Nor must he choose that common path of gods - Which every day they come and go in heaven, - O’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch, - Past Midgard fortress, down to earth and men. - But he must tread a dark untravelled road - Which branches from the north of heaven, and ride - Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, - Through valleys deep-ingulfed with roaring streams. - And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge - Which spans with golden arches Giall’s stream, - Not Bifrost, but that bridge a damsel keeps, - Who tells the passing troops of dead their way - To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela’s realm. - And she will bid him northward steer his course. - Then he will journey through no lighted land, - Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set; - But he must ever watch the northern Bear, - Who from her frozen height with jealous eye - Confronts the Dog and Hunter in the south, - And is alone not dipt in ocean’s stream; - And straight he will come down to ocean’s strand,-- - Ocean, whose watery ring infolds the world, - And on whose marge the ancient giants dwell. - But he will reach its unknown northern shore, - Far, far beyond the outmost giant’s home, - At the chinked fields of ice, the wastes of snow. - And he must fare across the dismal ice - Northward, until he meets a stretching wall - Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. - But then he must dismount, and on the ice - Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin’s horse, - And make him leap the grate, and come within. - And he will see stretch round him Hela’s realm, - The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, - And hear the roaring of the streams of hell. - And he will see the feeble, shadowy tribes, - And Balder sitting crowned, and Hela’s throne. - Then must he not regard the wailful ghosts - Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around; - But he must straight accost their solemn queen, - And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers, - Telling her all that grief they have in heaven - For Balder, whom she holds by right below; - If haply he may melt her heart with words, - And make her yield, and give him Balder back.” - She spoke; but Hoder answered her and said,-- - “Mother, a dreadful way is this thou show’st; - No journey for a sightless god to go!” - And straight the mother of the gods replied,-- - “Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son. - But he whom first thou meetest when thou com’st - To Asgard, and declar’st this hidden way, - Shall go; and I will be his guide unseen.” - She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil, - And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands. - But at the central hearth those women old, - Who while the mother spake had ceased their toil, - Began again to heap the sacred fire. - And Hoder turned, and left his mother’s house, - Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea; - And came again down to the roaring waves, - And back along the beach to Asgard went, - Pondering on that which Frea said should be. - But night came down, and darkened Asgard streets. - Then from their loathèd feast the gods arose, - And lighted torches, and took up the corpse - Of Balder from the floor of Odin’s hall, - And laid it on a bier, and bare him home - Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house - Breidablik, on whose columns Balder graved - The enchantments that recall the dead to life. - For wise he was, and many curious arts, - Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew; - Unhappy! but that art he did not know, - To keep his own life safe, and see the sun. - There to his hall the gods brought Balder home, - And each bespake him as he laid him down,-- - “Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borne - Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin, - So thou might’st live, and still delight the gods!” - They spake, and each went home to his own house. - But there was one, the first of all the gods - For speed, and Hermod was his name in heaven; - Most fleet he was, but now he went the last, - Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house - Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell, - Against the harbor, by the city-wall. - Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up - From the sea cityward, and knew his step; - Nor yet could Hermod see his brother’s face, - For it grew dark; but Hoder touched his arm. - And as a spray of honeysuckle-flowers - Brushes across a tired traveller’s face - Who shuffles through the deep dew-moistened dust, - On a May evening, in the darkened lanes, - And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by,-- - So Hoder brushed by Hermod’s side, and said,-- - “Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn - To Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back; - And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.” - He spake, and brushed soft by, and disappeared. - And Hermod gazed into the night, and said,-- - “Who is it utters through the dark his best - So quickly, and will wait for no reply? - The voice was like the unhappy Hoder’s voice. - Howbeit I will see, and do his hest; - For there rang note divine in that command.” - So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came - Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house; - And all the gods lay down in their own homes. - And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief, - Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other gods; - And he went in, and shut the door, and fixed - His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. - But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose,-- - The throne from which his eye surveys the world,-- - And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode - To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven, - High over Asgard, to light home the king. - But fiercely Odin galloped, moved in heart; - And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came; - And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang - Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets; - And the gods trembled on their golden beds - Hearing the wrathful Father coming home,-- - For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came. - And to Valhalla’s gate he rode, and left - Sleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall; - And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. - But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder’s wife, - Came with the goddesses who wrought her will, - And stood by Balder lying on his bier. - And at his head and feet she stationed scalds - Who in their lives were famous for their song; - These o’er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain, - A dirge,--and Nanna and her train replied. - And far into the night they wailed their dirge; - But when their souls were satisfied with wail, - They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went - Into an upper chamber, and lay down; - And Frea sealed her tired lids with sleep. - And ’twas when night is bordering hard on dawn, - When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low; - Then Balder’s spirit through the gloom drew near, - In garb, in form, in feature, as he was, - Alive; and still the rays were round his head - Which were his glorious mark in heaven; he stood - Over against the curtain of the bed, - And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake,-- - “Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett’st thy woe! - Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes, - Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek; but thou, - Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep. - Sleep on; I watch thee, and am here to aid. - Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul! - Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead. - For with to-morrow’s dawn the gods prepare - To gather wood, and build a funeral-pile - Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire, - That sad, sole honor of the dead; and thee - They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth, - With me, for thus ordains the common rite. - But it shall not be so; but mild, but swift, - But painless, shall a stroke from Frea come, - To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul, - And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee. - And well I know that by no stroke of death, - Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die, - So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side, - Whom thou so well hast loved; but I can smooth - Thy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail. - Yes, and I fain would altogether ward - Death from thy head, and with the gods in heaven - Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired; - But right bars this, not only thy desire. - Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead - In that dim world, in Hela’s mouldering realm; - And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead, - Whom Hela with austere control presides. - For of the race of gods is no one there, - Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen. - For all the nobler souls of mortal men - On battle-field have met their death, and now - Feast in Valhalla, in my father’s hall: - Only the inglorious sort are there below; - The old, the cowards, and the weak are there,-- - Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay. - But even there, O Nanna, we might find - Some solace in each other’s look and speech, - Wandering together through that gloomy world, - And talking of the life we led in heaven, - While we yet lived, among the other gods.” - He spake, and straight his lineaments began - To fade; and Nanna in her sleep stretched out - Her arms towards him with a cry; but he - Mournfully shook his head, and disappeared. - And as the woodman sees a little smoke - Hang in the air afield, and disappear, - So Balder faded in the night away. - And Nanna on her bed sank back; but then - Frea, the mother of the gods, with stroke - Painless and swift, set free her airy soul, - Which took, on Balder’s track, the way below; - And instantly the sacred morn appeared. - - -II. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD. - - Forth from the east, up the ascent of heaven, - Day drove his courser with the shining mane; - And in Valhalla, from his gable-perch, - The golden-crested cock began to crow. - Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night, - With shrill and dismal cries that bird shall crow, - Warning the gods that foes draw nigh to heaven; - But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note, - To wake the gods and heroes to their tasks. - And all the gods and all the heroes woke. - And from their beds the heroes rose, and donned - Their arms, and led their horses from the stall, - And mounted them, and in Valhalla’s court - Were ranged; and then the daily fray began. - And all day long they there are hacked and hewn - ’Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopped off, and blood; - But all at night return to Odin’s hall - Woundless and fresh: such lot is theirs in heaven. - And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth - Toward earth and fights of men; and at their side - Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode; - And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch, - Past Midgard fortress, down to earth they came; - There through some battle-field, where men fall fast, - Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride, - And pick the bravest warriors out for death, - Whom they bring back with them at night to heaven, - To glad the gods, and feast in Odin’s hall. - But the gods went not now, as otherwhile, - Into the tilt-yard, where the heroes fought, - To feast their eyes with looking on the fray; - Nor did they to their judgment-place repair - By the ash Igdrasil, in Ida’s plain, - Where they hold council, and give laws for men. - But they went, Odin first, the rest behind, - To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold; - Where are in circle ranged twelve golden chairs, - And in the midst one higher, Odin’s throne. - There all the gods in silence sate them down; - And thus the Father of the ages spake:-- - “Go quickly, gods, bring wood to the seashore, - With all which it beseems the dead to have, - And make a funeral-pile on Balder’s ship; - On the twelfth day the gods shall burn his corpse. - But, Hermod, thou take Sleipner, and ride down - To Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back.” - So said he; and the gods arose, and took - Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor, - Shouldering his hammer, which the giants know. - Forth wended they, and drave their steeds before. - And up the dewy mountain tracks they fared - To the dark forests, in the early dawn; - And up and down, and side and slant they roamed. - And from the glens all day an echo came - Of crashing falls; for with his hammer Thor - Smote ’mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines, - And burst their roots, while to their tops the gods - Made fast the woven ropes, and haled them down, - And lopped their boughs, and clove them on the sward, - And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw, - And drave them homeward; and the snorting steeds - Went straining through the crackling brushwood down, - And by the darkling forest-paths the gods - Followed, and on their shoulders carried boughs. - And they came out upon the plain, and passed - Asgard, and led their horses to the beach, - And loosed them of their loads on the seashore, - And ranged the wood in stacks by Balder’s ship; - And every god went home to his own house. - - But when the gods were to the forest gone, - Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth, - And saddled him: before that, Sleipner brooked - No meaner hand than Odin’s on his mane, - On his broad back no lesser rider bore; - Yet docile now he stood at Hermod’s side, - Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode, - Knowing the god they went to seek, how dear. - But Hermod mounted him, and sadly fared - In silence up the dark untravelled road - Which branches from the north of heaven, and went - All day; and daylight waned, and night came on. - And all that night he rode, and journeyed so, - Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, - Through valleys deep-ingulfed, by roaring streams. - And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridge - Which spans with golden arches Giall’s stream, - And on the bridge a damsel watching armed, - In the strait passage, at the farther end, - Where the road issues between walling rocks. - Scant space that warder left for passers-by; - But as when cowherds in October drive - Their kine across a snowy mountain pass - To winter pasture on the southern side, - And on the ridge a wagon chokes the way, - Wedged in the snow; then painfully the hinds - With goad and shouting urge their cattle past, - Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snow - To right and left, and warm steam fills the air,-- - So on the bridge that damsel blocked the way, - And questioned Hermod as he came, and said,-- - “Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse, - Under whose hoofs the bridge o’er Giall’s stream - Rumbles and shakes? Tell me thy race and home. - But yester-morn, five troops of dead passed by, - Bound on their way below to Hela’s realm, - Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone. - And thou hast flesh and color on thy cheeks, - Like men who live, and draw the vital air; - Nor look’st thou pale and wan, like men deceased, - Souls bound below, my daily passers here.” - And the fleet-footed Hermod answered her,-- - “O damsel, Hermod am I called, the son - Of Odin; and my high-roofed house is built - Far hence, in Asgard, in the city of gods; - And Sleipner, Odin’s horse, is this I ride. - And I come, sent this road on Balder’s track: - Say, then, if he hath crossed thy bridge or no?” - He spake; the warder of the bridge replied,-- - “O Hermod, rarely do the feet of gods - Or of the horses of the gods resound - Upon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know. - Balder hath gone this way, and ta’en the road - Below there, to the north, toward Hela’s realm. - From here the cold white mist can be discerned, - Not lit with sun, but through the darksome air - By the dim vapor-blotted light of stars, - Which hangs over the ice where lies the road. - For in that ice are lost those northern streams, - Freezing and ridging in their onward flow, - Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run, - The spring that bubbles up by Hela’s throne. - There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts, - Hela’s pale swarms; and there was Balder bound. - Ride on! pass free! but he by this is there.” - She spake, and stepped aside, and left him room. - And Hermod greeted her, and galloped by - Across the bridge; then she took post again. - But northward Hermod rode, the way below; - And o’er a darksome tract, which knows no sun, - But by the blotted light of stars, he fared. - And he came down to ocean’s northern strand, - At the drear ice, beyond the giants’ home. - Thence on he journeyed o’er the fields of ice - Still north, until he met a stretching wall - Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. - Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths, - On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin’s horse, - And made him leap the grate, and came within. - And he beheld spread round him Hela’s realm, - The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, - And heard the thunder of the streams of hell. - For near the wall the river of Roaring flows, - Outmost; the others near the centre run,-- - The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain; - These flow by Hela’s throne, and near their spring. - And from the dark flocked up the shadowy tribes; - And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-beds - Of some clear river, issuing from a lake, - On autumn-days, before they cross the sea; - And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangs - Swinging, and others skim the river-streams, - And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores,-- - So around Hermod swarmed the twittering ghosts. - Women, and infants, and young men who died - Too soon for fame, with white ungraven shields; - And old men, known to glory, but their star - Betrayed them, and of wasting age they died, - Not wounds; yet, dying, they their armor wore, - And now have chief regard in Hela’s realm. - Behind flocked wrangling up a piteous crew, - Greeted of none, disfeatured and forlorn,-- - Cowards, who were in sloughs interred alive; - And round them still the wattled hurdles hung - Wherewith they stamped them down, and trod them deep, - To hide their shameful memory from men. - But all he passed unhailed, and reached the throne - Of Hela, and saw, near it, Balder crowned, - And Hela set thereon, with countenance stern; - And thus bespake him first the solemn queen:-- - “Unhappy, how hast thou endured to leave - The light, and journey to the cheerless land - Where idly flit about the feeble shades? - How didst thou cross the bridge o’er Giall’s stream, - Being alive, and come to ocean’s shore? - Or how o’erleap the grate that bars the wall?” - She spake; but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang, - And fell before her feet, and clasped her knees; - And spake, and mild entreated her, and said,-- - “O Hela, wherefore should the gods declare - Their errands to each other, or the ways - They go? the errand and the way is known. - Thou know’st, thou know’st, what grief we have in heaven - For Balder, whom thou hold’st by right below. - Restore him! for what part fulfils he here? - Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats, - And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy? - Not for such end, O queen, thou hold’st thy realm. - For heaven was Balder born, the city of gods - And heroes, where they live in light and joy. - Thither restore him, for his place is there!” - He spoke; and grave replied the solemn queen,-- - “Hermod, for he thou art, thou son of heaven! - A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine. - Do the gods send to me to make them blest? - Small bliss my race hath of the gods obtained. - Three mighty children to my father Lok - Did Angerbode, the giantess, bring forth,-- - Fenris the wolf, the serpent huge, and me. - Of these the serpent in the sea ye cast, - Who since in your despite hath waxed amain, - And now with gleaming ring infolds the world; - Me on this cheerless nether world ye threw, - And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule; - While on his island in the lake afar, - Made fast to the bored crag, by wile not strength - Subdued, with limber chains lives Fenris bound. - Lok still subsists in heaven, our father wise, - Your mate, though loathed, and feasts in Odin’s hall; - But him too foes await, and netted snares, - And in a cave a bed of needle-rocks, - And o’er his visage serpents dropping gall. - Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds, - And with himself set us his offspring free, - When he guides Muspel’s children to their bourne. - Till then in peril or in pain we live, - Wrought by the gods--and ask the gods our aid? - Howbeit, we abide our day: till then, - We do not as some feebler haters do,-- - Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs, - Helpless to better us, or ruin them. - Come, then! if Balder was so dear beloved, - And this is true, and such a loss is heaven’s,-- - Hear how to heaven may Balder be restored. - Show me through all the world the signs of grief! - Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops! - Let all that lives and moves upon the earth - Weep him, and all that is without life weep; - Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones. - So shall I know the lost was dear indeed, - And bend my heart, and give him back to heaven.” - She spake; and Hermod answered her, and said,-- - “Hela, such as thou say’st, the terms shall be. - But come, declare me this, and truly tell: - May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail, - Or is it here withheld to greet the dead?” - He spake; and straightway Hela answered him,-- - “Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and hold - Converse; his speech remains, though he be dead.” - And straight to Balder Hermod turned, and spake: - “Even in the abode of death, O Balder, hail! - Thou hear’st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine, - The terms of thy releasement hence to heaven; - Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfilled. - For not unmindful of thee are the gods, - Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell; - Even here they seek thee out, in Hela’s realm. - And, sure, of all the happiest far art thou - Who ever have been known in earth or heaven: - Alive, thou wast of gods the most beloved; - And now thou sittest crowned by Hela’s side, - Here, and hast honor among all the dead.” - He spake; and Balder uttered him reply, - But feebly, as a voice far off; he said,-- - “Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death! - Better to live a serf, a captured man, - Who scatters rushes in a master’s hall, - Than be a crowned king here, and rule the dead. - And now I count not of these terms as safe - To be fulfilled, nor my return as sure, - Though I be loved, and many mourn my death; - For double-minded ever was the seed - Of Lok, and double are the gifts they give. - Howbeit, report thy message; and therewith, - To Odin, to my father, take this ring, - Memorial of me, whether saved or no; - And tell the heaven-born gods how thou hast seen - Me sitting here below by Hela’s side, - Crowned, having honor among all the dead.” - He spake, and raised his hand, and gave the ring. - And with inscrutable regard the queen - Of hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb. - But Hermod took the ring, and yet once more - Kneeled and did homage to the solemn queen; - Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to ride - Back, through the astonished tribes of dead, to heaven. - And to the wall he came, and found the grate - Lifted, and issued on the fields of ice. - And o’er the ice he fared to ocean’s strand, - And up from thence, a wet and misty road, - To the armed damsel’s bridge, and Giall’s stream. - Worse was that way to go than to return, - For him: for others, all return is barred. - Nine days he took to go, two to return, - And on the twelfth morn saw the light of heaven. - And as a traveller in the early dawn - To the steep edge of some great valley comes, - Through which a river flows, and sees, beneath, - Clouds of white rolling vapors fill the vale, - But o’er them, on the farther slope, descries - Vineyards, and crofts, and pastures, bright with sun,-- - So Hermod, o’er the fog between, saw heaven. - And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the air - Of heaven; and mightily, as winged, he flew. - And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise; - And he drew near, and heard no living voice - In Asgard; and the golden halls were dumb. - Then Hermod knew what labor held the gods; - And through the empty streets he rode, and passed - Under the gate-house to the sands, and found - The gods on the seashore by Balder’s ship. - - -III. FUNERAL. - - The gods held talk together, grouped in knots, - Round Balder’s corpse, which they had thither borne; - And Hermod came down towards them from the gate. - And Lok, the father of the serpent, first - Beheld him come, and to his neighbor spake,-- - “See, here is Hermod, who comes single back - From hell; and shall I tell thee how he seems? - Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog, - Some morn, at market, in a crowded town,-- - Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain, - And follows this man after that, for hours; - And late at evening, spent and panting, falls - Before a stranger’s threshold, not his home, - With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongue - Hangs quivering out between his dust-smeared jaws, - And piteously he eyes the passers-by; - But home his master comes to his own farm, - Far in the country, wondering where he is,-- - So Hermod comes to-day unfollowed home.” - And straight his neighbor, moved with wrath, replied,-- - “Deceiver! fair in form, but false in heart! - Enemy, mocker, whom, though gods, we hate,-- - Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe! - Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand, - And bind thy carcass, like a bale, with cords, - And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim! - If clear from plotting Balder’s death, to swim; - But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown, - And perish, against fate, before thy day.” - So they two soft to one another spake. - But Odin looked toward the land, and saw - His messenger; and he stood forth, and cried. - And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down, - And in his father’s hand put Sleipner’s rein, - And greeted Odin and the gods, and said,-- - “Odin, my father, and ye, gods of heaven! - Lo, home, having performed your will, I come. - Into the joyless kingdom have I been, - Below, and looked upon the shadowy tribes - Of ghosts, and communed with their solemn queen; - And to your prayer she sends you this reply:-- - _Show her through all the world the signs of grief!_ - _Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder stops!_ - _Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones._ - _So shall she know your loss was dear indeed,_ - _And bend her heart, and give you Balder back._” - He spoke, and all the gods to Odin looked; - And straight the Father of the ages said,-- - “Ye gods, these terms may keep another day. - But now put on your arms, and mount your steeds, - And in procession all come near, and weep - Balder; for that is what the dead desire. - When ye enough have wept, then build a pile - Of the heaped wood, and burn his corpse with fire - Out of our sight; that we may turn from grief, - And lead, as erst, our daily life in heaven.” - He spoke, and the gods armed; and Odin donned - His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold, - And led the way on Sleipner; and the rest - Followed, in tears, their father and their king. - And thrice in arms around the dead they rode, - Weeping; the sands were wetted, and their arms, - With their thick-falling tears,--so good a friend - They mourned that day, so bright, so loved a god. - And Odin came, and laid his kingly hands - On Balder’s breast, and thus began the wail:-- - “Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son! - In that great day, the twilight of the gods, - When Muspel’s children shall beleaguer heaven, - Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm.” - Thou camest near the next, O warrior Thor! - Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot drawn, - Swaying the long-haired goats with silvered rein; - And over Balder’s corpse these words didst say:-- - “Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land, - And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts, - Now, and I know not how they prize thee there-- - But here, I know, thou wilt be missed and mourned. - For haughty spirits and high wraths are rife - Among the gods and heroes here in heaven, - As among those whose joy and work is war; - And daily strifes arise, and angry words. - But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day, - Heard no one ever an injurious word - To god or hero, but thou keptest back - The others, laboring to compose their brawls. - Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind! - For we lose him, who smoothed all strife in heaven.” - He spake, and all the gods assenting wailed. - And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears; - The loveliest goddess she in heaven, by all - Most honored after Frea, Odin’s wife. - Her long ago the wandering Oder took - To mate, but left her to roam distant lands; - Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold. - Names hath she many; Vanadis on earth - They call her, Freya is her name in heaven; - She in her hands took Balder’s head, and spake,-- - “Balder, my brother, thou art gone a road - Unknown and long, and haply on that way - My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met, - For in the paths of heaven he is not found. - Oh! if it be so, tell him what thou wast - To his neglected wife, and what he is, - And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word! - For he, my husband, left me here to pine, - Not long a wife, when his unquiet heart - First drove him from me into distant lands; - Since then I vainly seek him through the world, - And weep from shore to shore my golden tears, - But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain. - Thou only, Balder, wast forever kind, - To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say,-- - _Weep not, O Freya, weep no golden tears!_ - _One day the wandering Oder will return,_ - _Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search,_ - _On some great road, or resting in an inn,_ - _Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree_. - So Balder said; but Oder, well I know, - My truant Oder I shall see no more - To the world’s end; and Balder now is gone, - And I am left uncomforted in heaven.” - She spake, and all the goddesses bewailed. - Last from among the heroes one came near, - No god, but of the hero-troop the chief,-- - Regner, who swept the northern sea with fleets, - And ruled o’er Denmark and the heathy isles, - Living; but Ella captured him and slew,-- - A king, whose fame then filled the vast of heaven: - Now time obscures it, and men’s later deeds. - He last approached the corpse, and spake and said,-- - “Balder, there yet are many scalds in heaven - Still left, and that chief scald, thy brother Brage, - Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone. - And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear, - After the feast is done, in Odin’s hall; - But they harp ever on one string, and wake - Remembrance in our soul of wars alone, - Such as on earth we valiantly have waged, - And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death. - But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strike - Another note, and, like a bird in spring, - Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth, - And wife, and children, and our ancient home. - Yes, and I too remembered then no more - My dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead, - Nor Ella’s victory on the English coast; - But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle, - And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tend - Her flock along the white Norwegian beach. - Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy. - Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead.” - So Regner spake, and all the heroes groaned. - But now the sun had passed the height of heaven, - And soon had all that day been spent in wail; - But then the Father of the ages said,-- - “Ye gods, there well may be too much of wail! - Bring now the gathered wood to Balder’s ship; - Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre.” - But when the gods and heroes heard, they brought - The wood to Balder’s ship, and built a pile, - Full the deck’s breadth, and lofty; then the corpse - Of Balder on the highest top they laid, - With Nanna on his right, and on his left - Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew. - And they set jars of wine and oil to lean - Against the bodies, and stuck torches near, - Splinters of pine-wood, soaked with turpentine; - And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff, - And slew the dogs who at his table fed, - And his horse, Balder’s horse, whom most he loved, - And threw them on the pyre; and Odin threw - A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring. - The mast they fixed, and hoisted up the sails; - Then they put fire to the wood; and Thor - Set his stout shoulder hard against the stern - To push the ship through the thick sand; sparks flew - From the deep trench she ploughed, so strong a god - Furrowed it; and the water gurgled in. - And the ship floated on the waves, and rocked. - But in the hills a strong east-wind arose, - And came down moaning to the sea; first squalls - Ran black o’er the sea’s face, then steady rushed - The breeze, and filled the sails, and blew the fire. - And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea. - Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire, - And the pile crackled; and between the logs - Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt, - Curling and darting, higher, until they licked - The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast, - And ate the shrivelling sails; but still the ship - Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire. - And the gods stood upon the beach, and gazed. - And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down - Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on. - Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm; - But through the dark they watched the burning ship - Still carried o’er the distant waters on, - Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. - And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder’s pile; - But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared; - The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile. - And as, in a decaying winter-fire, - A charred log, falling, makes a shower of sparks,-- - So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in, - Reddening the sea around; and all was dark. - But the gods went by starlight up the shore - To Asgard, and sate down in Odin’s hall - At table, and the funeral-feast began. - All night they ate the boar Serimner’s flesh, - And from their horns, with silver rimmed, drank mead, - Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. - And morning over all the world was spread. - Then from their loathèd feast the gods arose, - And took their horses, and set forth to ride - O’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch, - To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida’s plain. - Thor came on foot, the rest on horseback rode. - And they found Mimir sitting by his fount - Of wisdom, which beneath the ash-tree springs; - And saw the Nornies watering the roots - Of that world-shadowing tree with honey-dew. - There came the gods, and sate them down on stones; - And thus the Father of the ages said:-- - “Ye gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought. - Accept them or reject them! both have grounds. - Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfilled, - To leave forever Balder in the grave, - An unrecovered prisoner, shade with shades. - But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail?-- - Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfilled; - For dear-beloved was Balder while he lived - In heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears? - But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come, - These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud. - Bethink ye, gods, is there no other way? - Speak, were not this a way, the way for gods,-- - If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms, - Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior Thor - Drawn in his car beside me, and my sons, - All the strong brood of heaven, to swell my train, - Should make irruption into Hela’s realm, - And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light, - And bring in triumph Balder back to heaven?” - He spake, and his fierce sons applauded loud. - But Frea, mother of the gods, arose, - Daughter and wife of Odin; thus she said:-- - “Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this! - Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine. - For of all powers the mightiest far art thou, - Lord over men on earth, and gods in heaven; - Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheld - One thing,--to undo what thou thyself hast ruled. - For all which hath been fixed was fixed by thee. - In the beginning, ere the gods were born, - Before the heavens were builded, thou didst slay - The giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth,-- - Thou and thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor,-- - And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal void. - But of his flesh and members thou didst build - The earth and ocean, and above them heaven. - And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns, - Thou sent’st and fetchedst fire, and madest lights, - Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in heaven, - Dividing clear the paths of night and day. - And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort; - Then me thou mad’st; of us the gods were born. - Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest spars - Of wood, and framedst men, who till the earth, - Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail. - And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown, - Save one, Bergelmer: he on shipboard fled - Thy deluge, and from him the giants sprang. - But all that brood thou hast removed far off, - And set by ocean’s utmost marge to dwell. - But Hela into Niflheim thou threw’st, - And gav’st her nine unlighted worlds to rule, - A queen, and empire over all the dead. - That empire wilt thou now invade, light up - Her darkness, from her grasp a subject tear? - Try it; but I, for one, will not applaud. - Nor do I merit, Odin, thou shouldst slight - Me and my words, though thou be first in heaven; - For I too am a goddess, born of thee, - Thine eldest, and of me the gods are sprung; - And all that is to come I know, but lock - In mine own breast, and have to none revealed. - Come, then! since Hela holds by right her prey, - But offers terms for his release to heaven, - Accept the chance: thou canst no more obtain. - Send through the world thy messengers; entreat - All living and unliving things to weep - For Balder: if thou haply thus may’st melt - Hela, and win the loved one back to heaven.” - She spake, and on her face let fall her veil, - And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands. - Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word; - Straightway he spake, and thus addressed the gods:-- - “Go quickly forth through all the world, and pray - All living and unliving things to weep - Balder, if haply he may thus be won.” - When the gods heard, they straight arose, and took - Their horses, and rode forth through all the world. - North, south, east, west, they struck, and roamed the world, - Entreating all things to weep Balder’s death; - And all that lived, and all without life, wept. - And as in winter, when the frost breaks up, - At winter’s end, before the spring begins, - And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in, - After an hour a dripping sound is heard - In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow - Under the trees is dibbled thick with holes, - And from the boughs the snow-loads shuffle down; - And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plots - Of grass peep out amid surrounding snow, - And widen, and the peasant’s heart is glad,-- - So through the world was heard a dripping noise - Of all things weeping to bring Balder back; - And there fell joy upon the gods to hear. - But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he took - To show him spits and beaches of the sea - Far off, where some unwarned might fail to weep,-- - Niord, the god of storms, whom fishers know; - Not born in heaven, he was in Vanheim reared, - With men, but lives a hostage with the gods; - He knows each frith, and every rocky creek - Fringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream,-- - They two scoured every coast, and all things wept. - And they rode home together, through the wood - Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies - Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron; - There in the wood before a cave they came, - Where sate, in the cave’s mouth, a skinny hag, - Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by. - Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape. - She greeted them the first, and laughed, and said,-- - “Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven, - That ye come pleasuring to Thok’s iron wood? - Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites. - Look, as in some boor’s yard a sweet-breathed cow, - Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay, - Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head - To chew the straw, her litter, at her feet,-- - So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!” - She spake; but Hermod answered her, and said,-- - “Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears. - Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, - But will restore if all things give him tears. - Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear.” - Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied,-- - “Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears? - Thok with dry eyes will weep o’er Balder’s pyre. - Weep him all other things, if weep they will: - I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey.” - She spake, and to the cavern’s depth she fled, - Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain. - And as seafaring men, who long have wrought - In the great deep for gain, at last come home, - And towards evening see the headlands rise - Of their dear country, and can plain descry - A fire of withered furze which boys have lit - Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds - Out of a tilled field inland: then the wind - Catches them, and drives out again to sea; - And they go long days tossing up and down - Over the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpse - Of port they had makes bitterer far their toil,-- - So the gods’ cross was bitterer for their joy. - Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake,-- - “It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all! - Ride back, and tell in heaven this heavy news; - I must again below, to Hela’s realm.” - He spoke, and Niord set forth back to heaven. - But northward Hermod rode, the way below, - The way he knew; and traversed Giall’s stream, - And down to ocean groped, and crossed the ice, - And came beneath the wall, and found the grate - Still lifted: well was his return foreknown. - And once more Hermod saw around him spread - The joyless plains, and heard the streams of hell. - But as he entered, on the extremest bound - Of Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near, - Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid,-- - Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew. - And Hermod looked, and knew his brother’s ghost, - And called him by his name, and sternly said,-- - “Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes! - Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulf - Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here, - In twilight, on the lonely verge of hell, - Far from the other ghosts, and Hela’s throne? - Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder’s voice, - Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.” - He spoke; but Hoder answered him, and said,-- - “Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursue - The unhappy with reproach, even in the grave? - For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom, - Not daily to endure abhorring gods, - Nor with a hateful presence cumber heaven; - And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by? - No less than Balder have I lost the light - Of heaven, and communion with my kin; - I too had once a wife, and once a child, - And substance, and a golden house in heaven: - But all I left of my own act, and fled - Below; and dost thou hate me even here? - Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all, - Though he has cause, have any cause; but he, - When that with downcast looks I hither came, - Stretched forth his hand, and with benignant voice, - _Welcome_, he said, _if there be welcome here,_ - _Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me!_ - And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to force - My hated converse on thee, came I up - From the deep gloom, where I will now return; - But earnestly I longed to hover near, - Not too far off, when that thou camest by; - To feel the presence of a brother god, - And hear the passage of a horse of heaven, - For the last time--for here thou com’st no more.” - He spake, and turned to go to the inner gloom. - But Hermod stayed him with mild words, and said,-- - “Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind! - Truly thou say’st, the planning guilty mind - Was Lok’s: the unwitting hand alone was thine. - But gods are like the sons of men in this: - When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause. - Howbeit stay, and be appeased; and tell, - Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela’s side, - Or is he mingled with the unnumbered dead?” - And the blind Hoder answered him and spake,-- - “His place of state remains by Hela’s side, - But empty; for his wife, for Nanna, came - Lately below, and joined him; and the pair - Frequent the still recesses of the realm - Of Hela, and hold converse undisturbed. - But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balm - Which floats before a visitant from heaven, - And have drawn upward to this verge of hell.” - He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of wind - Rolled heavily the leaden mist aside - Round where they stood, and they beheld two forms - Make toward them o’er the stretching cloudy plain. - And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were,-- - Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said,-- - “Balder, too truly thou foresaw’st a snare! - Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey. - No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge - In thy own house Breidablik, nor enjoy - The love all bear toward thee, nor train up - Forset, thy son, to be beloved like thee. - Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age. - Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!” - He spake; and Balder answered him, and said,-- - “Hail and farewell! for here thou com’st no more. - Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt’st - In heaven, nor let the other gods lament, - As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn. - For Nanna hath rejoined me, who of old, - In heaven, was seldom parted from my side; - And still the acceptance follows me, which crowned - My former life, and cheers me even here. - The iron frown of Hela is relaxed - When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead - Love me, and gladly bring for my award - Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates,-- - Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.” - And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply,-- - “Thou hast, then, all the solace death allows,-- - Esteem and function; and so far is well. - Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground, - Rusting forever; and the years roll on, - The generations pass, the ages grow, - And bring us nearer to the final day - When from the south shall march the fiery band, - And cross the bridge of heaven, with Lok for guide, - And Fenris at his heel with broken chain; - While from the east the giant Rymer steers - His ship, and the great serpent makes to land; - And all are marshalled in one flaming square - Against the gods, upon the plains of heaven. - I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.” - He spake; but Balder answered him, and said,-- - “Mourn not for me! Mourn, Hermod, for the gods; - Mourn for the men on earth, the gods in heaven, - Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day! - The day will come, when fall shall Asgard’s towers, - And Odin, and his sons, the seed of heaven; - But what were I, to save them in that hour? - If strength might save them, could not Odin save, - My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor, - Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr? - I, what were I, when these can naught avail? - Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, - And the two hosts are marshalled, and in heaven - The golden-crested cock shall sound alarm, - And his black brother-bird from hence reply, - And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour,-- - Longing will stir within my breast, though vain. - But not to me so grievous as, I know, - To other gods it were, is my enforced - Absence from fields where I could nothing aid; - For I am long since weary of your storm - Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your life - Something too much of war and broils, which make - Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. - Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail; - Mine ears are stunned with blows, and sick for calm. - Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, - Unarmed, inglorious; I attend the course - Of ages, and my late return to light, - In times less alien to a spirit mild, - In new-recovered seats, the happier day.” - He spake, and the fleet Hermod thus replied:-- - “Brother, what seats are these, what happier day? - Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.” - And the ray-crownèd Balder answered him,-- - “Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads - Another heaven, the boundless. No one yet - Hath reached it. There hereafter shall arise - The second Asgard, with another name. - Thither, when o’er this present earth and heavens - The tempest of the latter days hath swept, - And they from sight have disappeared and sunk, - Shall a small remnant of the gods repair; - Hoder and I shall join them from the grave. - There re-assembling we shall see emerge - From the bright ocean at our feet an earth - More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits - Self-springing, and a seed of man preserved, - Who then shall live in peace, as now in war. - But we in heaven shall find again with joy - The ruined palaces of Odin, seats - Familiar, halls where we have supped of old; - Re-enter them with wonder, never fill - Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears. - And we shall tread once more the well-known plain - Of Ida, and among the grass shall find - The golden dice wherewith we played of yore; - And that will bring to mind the former life - And pastime of the gods, the wise discourse - Of Odin, the delights of other days. - O Hermod, pray that thou may’st join us then! - Such for the future is my hope; meanwhile, - I rest the thrall of Hela, and endure - Death, and the gloom which round me even now - Thickens, and to its inner gulf recalls. - Farewell, for longer speech is not allowed!” - He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his hand - To Nanna; and she gave their brother blind - Her hand, in turn, for guidance; and the three - Departed o’er the cloudy plain, and soon - Faded from sight into the interior gloom. - But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, - Mute, gazing after them in tears; and fain, - Fain had he followed their receding steps, - Though they to death were bound, and he to heaven, - Then: but a power he could not break withheld. - And as a stork which idle boys have trapped, - And tied him in a yard, at autumn sees - Flocks of his kind pass flying o’er his head - To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun; - He strains to join their flight, and from his shed - Follows them with a long complaining cry,-- - So Hermod gazed, and yearned to join his kin. - - At last he sighed, and set forth back to heaven. - - - - -_TRISTRAM AND ISEULT._[7] - - -I. - -Tristram. - - TRISTRAM. - - Is she not come? The messenger was sure. - Prop me upon the pillows once again. - Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure. - --Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane! - What lights will those out to the northward be? - - THE PAGE. - - The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. - - TRISTRAM. - - Soft--who is that, stands by the dying fire? - - THE PAGE. - - Iseult. - - TRISTRAM. - - Ah! not the Iseult I desire. - - * * * * * - - What knight is this so weak and pale, - Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, - Propped on pillows in his bed, - Gazing seaward for the light - Of some ship that fights the gale - On this wild December night? - Over the sick man’s feet is spread - A dark green forest-dress; - A gold harp leans against the bed, - Ruddy in the fire’s light. - I know him by his harp of gold, - Famous in Arthur’s court of old; - I know him by his forest-dress,-- - The peerless hunter, harper, knight, - Tristram of Lyoness. - - What lady is this, whose silk attire - Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? - The ringlets on her shoulders lying - In their flitting lustre vying - With the clasp of burnished gold - Which her heavy robe doth hold. - Her looks are mild, her fingers slight - As the driven snow are white; - But her cheeks are sunk and pale. - Is it that the bleak sea-gale - Beating from the Atlantic sea - On this coast of Brittany, - Nips too keenly the sweet flower? - Is it that a deep fatigue - Hath come on her, a chilly fear, - Passing all her youthful hour - Spinning with her maidens here, - Listlessly through the window-bars - Gazing seawards many a league - From her lonely shore-built tower, - While the knights are at the wars? - Or, perhaps, has her young heart - Felt already some deeper smart, - Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, - Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair? - Who is this snowdrop by the sea?-- - I know her by her mildness rare, - Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; - I know her by her rich silk dress, - And her fragile loveliness,-- - The sweetest Christian soul alive, - Iseult of Brittany. - - Iseult of Brittany? but where - Is that other Iseult fair, - That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen? - She, whom Tristram’s ship of yore - From Ireland to Cornwall bore, - To Tyntagel, to the side - Of King Marc, to be his bride? - She who, as they voyaged, quaffed - With Tristram that spiced magic draught - Which since then forever rolls - Through their blood, and binds their souls, - Working love, but working teen? - There were two Iseults who did sway - Each her hour of Tristram’s day; - But one possessed his waning time, - The other his resplendent prime. - Behold her here, the patient flower, - Who possessed his darker hour! - Iseult of the snow-white hand - Watches pale by Tristram’s bed. - She is here who had his gloom: - Where art thou who hadst his bloom? - One such kiss as those of yore - Might thy dying knight restore! - Does the love-draught work no more? - Art thou cold, or false, or dead, - Iseult of Ireland? - - * * * * * - - Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, - And the knight sinks back on his pillows again; - He is weak with fever and pain, - And his spirit is not clear. - Hark! he mutters in his sleep, - As he wanders far from here, - Changes place and time of year, - And his closèd eye doth sweep - O’er some fair unwintry sea, - Not this fierce Atlantic deep, - While he mutters brokenly,-- - - TRISTRAM. - - The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails; - Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, - And overhead the cloudless sky of May. - “_Ah! would I were in those green fields at play, - Not pent on shipboard this delicious day! - Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, - Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, - But pledge me in it first for courtesy._” - Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanched like mine - Child, ’tis no water this, ’tis poisoned wine! - Iseult!... - - * * * * * - - Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! - Keep his eyelids; let him seem - Not this fever-wasted wight - Thinned and paled before his time, - But the brilliant youthful knight - In the glory of his prime, - Sitting in the gilded barge, - At thy side, thou lovely charge, - Bending gayly o’er thy hand, - Iseult of Ireland! - And she too, that princess fair, - If her bloom be now less rare, - Let her have her youth again, - Let her be as she was then! - Let her have her proud dark eyes, - And her petulant quick replies; - Let her sweep her dazzling hand - With its gesture of command, - And shake back her raven hair - With the old imperious air! - As of old, so let her be, - That first Iseult, princess bright, - Chatting with her youthful knight - As he steers her o’er the sea, - Quitting at her father’s will - The green isle where she was bred, - And her bower in Ireland, - For the surge-beat Cornish strand; - Where the prince whom she must wed - Dwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill, - High above the sounding sea. - And that golden cup her mother - Gave her, that her future lord, - Gave her, that King Marc and she, - Might drink it on their marriage-day, - And forever love each other,-- - Let her, as she sits on board, - --Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly!-- - See it shine, and take it up, - And to Tristram laughing say,-- - “Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, - Pledge me in my golden cup.” - Let them drink it; let their hands - Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, - As they feel the fatal bands - Of a love they dare not name, - With a wild delicious pain, - Twine about their hearts again! - Let the early summer be - Once more round them, and the sea - Blue, and o’er its mirror kind - Let the breath of the May-wind, - Wandering through their drooping sails, - Die on the green fields of Wales; - Let a dream like this restore - What his eye must see no more. - - TRISTRAM. - - Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear: - Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here? - Were feet like those made for so wild a way? - The southern winter-parlor, by my fay, - Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!-- - “_Tristram!--nay, nay--thou must not take my hand!--_ - _Tristram!--sweet love!--we are betrayed--out-planned._ - _Fly--save thyself--save me! I dare not stay._” - One last kiss first!--“’_Tis vain--to horse--away!_” - - * * * * * - - Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth move - Faster surely than it should, - From the fever in his blood! - All the spring-time of his love - Is already gone and past, - And instead thereof is seen - Its winter, which endureth still,-- - Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, - The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, - The flying leaves, the straining blast, - And that long, wild kiss,--their last. - And this rough December-night, - And his burning fever-pain, - Mingle with his hurrying dream, - Till they rule it; till he seem - The pressed fugitive again, - The love-desperate, banished knight, - With a fire in his brain, - Flying o’er the stormy main. - --Whither does he wander now? - Haply in his dreams the wind - Wafts him here, and lets him find - The lovely orphan child again - In her castle by the coast; - The youngest, fairest chatelaine, - That this realm of France can boast, - Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,-- - Iseult of Brittany. - And--for through the haggard air, - The stained arms, the matted hair, - Of that stranger-knight ill-starred, - There gleamed something which recalled - The Tristram who in better days - Was Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard-- - Welcomed here, and here installed, - Tended of his fever here, - Haply he seems again to move - His young guardian’s heart with love, - In his exiled loneliness, - In his stately, deep distress, - Without a word, without a tear. - --Ah! ’tis well he should retrace - His tranquil life in this lone place; - His gentle bearing at the side - Of his timid youthful bride; - His long rambles by the shore - On winter-evenings, when the roar - Of the near waves came, sadly grand, - Through the dark, up the drowned sand; - Or his endless reveries - In the woods, where the gleams play - On the grass under the trees, - Passing the long summer’s day - Idle as a mossy stone - In the forest-depths alone, - The chase neglected, and his hound - Couched beside him on the ground. - --Ah! what trouble’s on his brow? - Hither let him wander now; - Hither, to the quiet hours - Passed among these heaths of ours - By the gray Atlantic sea,-- - Hours, if not of ecstasy, - From violent anguish surely free! - - TRISTRAM. - - All red with blood the whirling river flows, - The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. - Upon us are the chivalry of Rome; - Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. - “Up, Tristram, up!” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight! - What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!” - --Above the din, her voice is in my ears; - I see her form glide through the crossing spears.-- - Iseult!... - - Ah! he wanders forth again; - We cannot keep him: now, as then, - There’s a secret in his breast - Which will never let him rest. - These musing fits in the green wood, - They cloud the brain, they dull the blood! - --His sword is sharp, his horse is good; - Beyond the mountains will he see - The famous towns of Italy, - And label with the blessed sign - The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. - At Arthur’s side he fights once more - With the Roman Emperor. - There’s many a gay knight where he goes - Will help him to forget his care; - The march, the leaguer, heaven’s blithe air, - The neighing steeds, the ringing blows,-- - Sick pining comes not where these are. - --Ah! what boots it, that the jest - Lightens every other brow, - What, that every other breast - Dances as the trumpets blow, - If one’s own heart beats not light - On the waves of the tossed fight, - If one’s self cannot get free - From the clog of misery? - Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale - Watching by the salt sea-tide, - With her children at her side, - For the gleam of thy white sail. - Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! - To our lonely sea complain, - To our forests tell thy pain. - - TRISTRAM. - - All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, - But it is moonlight in the open glade; - And in the bottom of the glade shine clear - The forest-chapel and the fountain near. - --I think I have a fever in my blood; - Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, - Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. - --Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear light. - God! ’tis _her_ face plays in the waters bright! - “Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon, - At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?”-- - Iseult!... - - Ah, poor soul! if this be so, - Only death can balm thy woe. - The solitudes of the green wood - Had no medicine for thy mood; - The rushing battle cleared thy blood - As little as did solitude. - --Ah! his eyelids slowly break - Their hot seals, and let him wake; - What new change shall we now see? - A happier? Worse it cannot be. - - TRISTRAM. - - Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire! - Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright; - The wind is down; but she’ll not come to-night. - Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now, - Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow. - Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. - --I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, - Would take a score years from a strong man’s age; - And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, - Scant leisure for a second messenger. - --My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late! - To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by; - To-night my page shall keep me company. - Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me! - Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I: - This comes of nursing long and watching late. - To bed--good night! - - She left the gleam-lit fireplace, - She came to the bedside; - She took his hands in hers, her tears - Down on her slender fingers rained. - She raised her eyes upon his face, - Not with a look of wounded pride, - A look as if the heart complained; - Her look was like a sad embrace,-- - The gaze of one who can divine - A grief, and sympathize. - Sweet flower! thy children’s eyes - Are not more innocent than thine. - - But they sleep in sheltered rest, - Like helpless birds in the warm nest, - On the castle’s southern side; - Where feebly comes the mournful roar - Of buffeting wind and surging tide - Through many a room and corridor. - --Full on their window the moon’s ray - Makes their chamber as bright as day. - It shines upon the blank white walls, - And on the snowy pillow falls, - And on two angel-heads doth play - Turned to each other; the eyes closed, - The lashes on the cheeks reposed. - Round each sweet brow the cap close-set - Hardly lets peep the golden hair; - Through the soft-opened lips, the air - Scarcely moves the coverlet. - One little wandering arm is thrown - At random on the counterpane, - And often the fingers close in haste - As if their baby-owner chased - The butterflies again. - This stir they have, and this alone; - But else they are so still! - --Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still; - But were you at the window now, - To look forth on the fairy sight - Of your illumined haunts by night, - To see the park-glades where you play - Far lovelier than they are by day, - To see the sparkle on the eaves, - And upon every giant-bough - Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves - Are jewelled with bright drops of rain,-- - How would your voices run again! - And far beyond the sparkling trees - Of the castle-park, one sees - The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, - Moor behind moor, far, far away, - Into the heart of Brittany. - And here and there, locked by the land, - Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, - And many a stretch of watery sand - All shining in the white moonbeams. - But you see fairer in your dreams! - What voices are these on the clear night air? - What lights in the court, what steps on the stair? - - - - -_TRISTRAM AND ISEULT._ - -II. - -Iseult of Ireland. - - - TRISTRAM. - - Raise the light, my page! that I may see her.-- - Thou art come at last, then, haughty queen! - Long I’ve waited, long I’ve fought my fever; - Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. - - ISEULT. - - Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried: - Bound I was, I could not break the band. - Chide not with the past, but feel the present; - I am here, we meet, I hold thy hand. - - TRISTRAM. - - Thou art come, indeed; thou hast rejoined me; - Thou hast dared it--but too late to save. - Fear not now that men should tax thine honor! - I am dying; build (thou may’st) my grave. - - ISEULT. - - Tristram, ah! for love of heaven, speak kindly! - What! I hear these bitter words from thee? - Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel; - Take my hand--dear Tristram, look on me! - - TRISTRAM. - - I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage; - Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. - But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, proud Iseult! - And thy beauty never was more fair. - - ISEULT. - - Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty! - I, like thee, have left my youth afar. - Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers; - See my cheek and lips, how white they are! - - TRISTRAM. - - Thou art paler; but thy sweet charm, Iseult, - Would not fade with the dull years away. - Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight! - I forgive thee, Iseult! thou wilt stay? - - ISEULT. - - Fear me not, I will be always with thee; - I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; - Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, - Joined at evening of their days again. - - TRISTRAM. - - No, thou shalt not speak! I should be finding - Something altered in thy courtly tone. - Sit--sit by me! I will think, we’ve lived so - In the green wood, all our lives, alone. - - ISEULT. - - Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, - Love like mine is altered in the breast: - Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it; - Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppressed! - - What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers - Words by which the wretched are consoled? - What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler, - Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? - - Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband,-- - That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! - Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings,-- - Those were friends to make me false to thee! - - Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced, - Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown,-- - Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, - Me, a smiling queen upon my throne? - - Vain and strange debate, where both have suffered - Both have passed a youth repressed and sad, - Both have brought their anxious day to evening, - And have now short space for being glad! - - Joined we are henceforth; nor will thy people - Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, - That a former rival shares her office, - When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. - - I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, - I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, - Poured in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, - Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. - - She will cry, “Is this the foe I dreaded? - This his idol, this that royal bride? - Ah! an hour of health would purge his eyesight! - Stay, pale queen, forever by my side.” - - Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. - I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. - Close thine eyes: this flooding moonlight blinds them. - Nay, all’s well again! thou must not weep. - - TRISTRAM. - - I am happy! yet I feel there’s something - Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. - Through a mist I see thee; near--come nearer! - Bend--bend down! I yet have much to say. - - ISEULT. - - Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow.-- - Tristram! Tristram! let thy heart not fail! - Call on God and on the holy angels! - What, love, courage!--Christ! he is so pale. - - TRISTRAM. - - Hush, ’tis vain: I feel my end approaching. - This is what my mother said should be, - When the fierce pains took her in the forest, - The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. - - “Son,” she said, “thy name shall be of sorrow; - Tristram art thou called for my death’s sake.” - So she said, and died in the drear forest. - Grief since then his home with me doth make. - - I am dying. Start not, nor look wildly! - Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. - But, since living we were ununited, - Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave. - - Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult; - Speak her fair, she is of royal blood. - Say, I charged her, that thou stay beside me: - She will grant it; she is kind and good. - - Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee-- - One last kiss upon the living shore! - - ISEULT. - - Tristram! Tristram! stay--receive me with thee! - Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! nevermore. - - * * * * * - - You see them clear--the moon shines bright. - Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, - She sinks upon the ground; her hood - Had fallen back, her arms outspread - Still hold her lover’s hands; her head - Is bowed, half-buried, on the bed. - O’er the blanched sheet, her raven hair - Lies in disordered streams; and there, - Strung like white stars, the pearls still are; - And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, - Flash on her white arms still,-- - The very same which yesternight - Flashed in the silver sconces’ light, - When the feast was gay and the laughter loud - In Tyntagel’s palace proud. - But then they decked a restless ghost - With hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, - And quivering lips on which the tide - Of courtly speech abruptly died, - And a glance which over the crowded floor, - The dancers, and the festive host, - Flew ever to the door; - That the knights eyed her in surprise, - And the dames whispered scoffingly,-- - “Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! - But yesternight and she would be - As pale and still as withered flowers; - And now to-night she laughs and speaks, - And has a color in her cheeks. - Christ keep us from such fantasy!”-- - - Yes, now the longing is o’erpast, - Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame. - Shook her weak bosom day and night, - Consumed her beauty like a flame, - And dimmed it like the desert-blast. - And though the curtains hide her face, - Yet, were it lifted to the light, - The sweet expression of her brow - Would charm the gazer, till his thought - Erased the ravages of time, - Filled up the hollow cheek, and brought - A freshness back as of her prime,-- - So healing is her quiet now; - So perfectly the lines express - A tranquil, settled loveliness, - Her younger rival’s purest grace. - - The air of the December-night - Steals coldly around the chamber bright, - Where those lifeless lovers be. - Swinging with it, in the light - Flaps the ghost-like tapestry. - And on the arras wrought you see - A stately huntsman, clad in green, - And round him a fresh forest-scene. - On that clear forest-knoll he stays, - With his pack round him, and delays. - He stares and stares, with troubled face, - At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, - At that bright, iron-figured door, - And those blown rushes on the floor. - He gazes down into the room - With heated cheeks and flurried air, - And to himself he seems to say,-- - “_What place is this, and who are they?_ - _Who is that kneeling lady fair?_ - _And on his pillows that pale knight_ - _Who seems of marble on a tomb?_ - _How comes it here, this chamber bright,_ - _Through whose mullioned windows clear_ - _The castle-court all wet with rain,_ - _The drawbridge and the moat appear,_ - _And then the beach, and, marked with spray,_ - _The sunken reefs, and far away_ - _The unquiet bright Atlantic plain?_ - _--What! has some glamour made me sleep,_ - _And sent me with my dogs to sweep,_ - _By night, with boisterous bugle-peal,_ - _Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall,_ - _Not in the free green wood at all?_ - _That knight’s asleep, and at her prayer_ - _That lady by the bed doth kneel--_ - _Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal!_ - --The wild boar rustles in his lair; - The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air; - But lord and hounds keep rooted there. - - Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, - O hunter! and without a fear - Thy golden-tasselled bugle blow, - And through the glades thy pastime take-- - For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! - For these thou seest are unmoved; - Cold, cold as those who lived and loved - A thousand years ago. - - - - -_TRISTRAM AND ISEULT._ - -III. - -Iseult of Brittany. - - - A year had flown, and o’er the sea away, - In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay; - In King Marc’s chapel, in Tyntagel old: - There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. - - The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, - Had wandered forth. Her children were at play - In a green circular hollow in the heath - Which borders the seashore; a country path - Creeps over it from the tilled fields behind. - The hollow’s grassy banks are soft-inclined; - And to one standing on them, far and near - The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear - Over the waste. This cirque of open ground - Is light and green; the heather, which all round - Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass - Is strewn with rocks and many a shivered mass - Of veined white-gleaming quartz, and here and there - Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. - In the smooth centre of the opening stood - Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, - Warm with the winter-sun, of burnished green - With scarlet berries gemmed, the fell-fare’s food. - Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, - Watching her children play: their little hands - Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams - Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams - Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound - Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, - Racing full speed, and startling in their rush - The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush - Out of their glossy coverts; but when now - Their cheeks were flushed, and over each hot brow, - Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair, - In blinding masses showered the golden hair, - Then Iseult called them to her, and the three - Clustered under the holly-screen, and she - Told them an old-world Breton history. - - Warm in their mantles wrapped, the three stood there, - Under the hollies, in the clear still air,-- - Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering - Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. - Long they stayed still, then, pacing at their ease, - Moved up and down under the glossy trees; - But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, - From Iseult’s lips the unbroken story flowed, - And still the children listened, their blue eyes - Fixed on their mother’s face in wide surprise. - Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, - Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, - Nor to the snow, which, though ’twas all away - From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, - Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams - Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, - Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, - The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. - And they would still have listened, till dark night - Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; - But when the red glow on the sea grew cold, - And the gray turrets of the castle old - Looked sternly through the frosty evening-air, - Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, - And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, - And led them home over the darkening heath. - And is she happy? Does she see unmoved - The days in which she might have lived and loved - Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, - One after one, to-morrow like to-day? - Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will: - Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, - Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, - So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet - Her children’s? She moves slow; her voice alone - Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, - But even that comes languidly; in truth, - She seems one dying in a mask of youth. - And now she will go home, and softly lay - Her laughing children in their beds, and play - A while with them before they sleep; and then - She’ll light her silver lamp,--which fishermen - Dragging their nets through the rough waves afar, - Along this iron coast, know like a star,-- - And take her broidery-frame, and there she’ll sit - Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; - Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind - Her children, or to listen to the wind. - And when the clock peals midnight, she will move - Her work away, and let her fingers rove - Across the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound, - Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; - Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes - Fixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then rise, - And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told - Her rosary-beads of ebony tipped with gold; - Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow’ll be - To-day’s exact repeated effigy. - Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. - The children, and the gray-haired seneschal, - Her women, and Sir Tristram’s aged hound, - Are there the sole companions to be found. - But these she loves; and noisier life than this - She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. - She has her children, too, and night and day - Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play, - The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, - The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, - These are to her dear as to them; the tales - With which this day the children she beguiled - She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, - In every hut along this sea-coast wild; - She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, - Can forget all to hear them, as of old. - - Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, - Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear - To all that has delighted them before, - And lets us be what we were once no more. - No: we may suffer deeply, yet retain - Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, - By what of old pleased us, and will again. - No: ’tis the gradual furnace of the world, - In whose hot air our spirits are upcurled - Until they crumble, or else grow like steel, - Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring; - Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, - But takes away the power: this can avail, - By drying up our joy in every thing, - To make our former pleasures all seem stale. - This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit - Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, - Till for its sake alone we live and move,-- - Call it ambition, or remorse, or love,-- - This too can change us wholly, and make seem - All which we did before, shadow and dream. - And yet, I swear, it angers me to see - How this fool passion gulls men potently; - Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, - And an unnatural overheat at best. - How they are full of languor and distress - Not having it; which when they do possess, - They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, - And spend their lives in posting here and there - Where this plague drives them; and have little ease, - Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. - Like that bald Cæsar, the famed Roman wight, - Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight - Who made a name at younger years than he; - Or that renowned mirror of chivalry, - Prince Alexander, Philip’s peerless son, - Who carried the great war from Macedon - Into the Soudan’s realm, and thundered on - To die at thirty-five in Babylon. - - What tale did Iseult to the children say, - Under the hollies, that bright winter’s day? - - She told them of the fairy-haunted land - Away the other side of Brittany, - Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; - Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, - Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps, - Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. - For here he came with the fay Vivian, - One April, when the warm days first began. - He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, - On her white palfrey; here he met his end, - In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. - This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay - Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear - Before the children’s fancy him and her. - - Blowing between the stems, the forest-air - Had loosened the brown locks of Vivian’s hair, - Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue eyes - Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. - Her palfrey’s flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, - For they had travelled far and not stopped yet. - A brier in that tangled wilderness - Had scored her white right hand, which she allows - To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; - The other warded off the drooping boughs. - But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes - Fixed full on Merlin’s face, her stately prize. - Her ’havior had the morning’s fresh clear grace, - The spirit of the woods was in her face; - She looked so witching fair, that learned wight - Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight, - And he grew fond, and eager to obey - His mistress, use her empire as she may. - - They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day - Peered ’twixt the stems; and the ground broke away - In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook. - And up as high as where they stood to look - On the brook’s farther side was clear; but then - The underwood and trees began again. - This open glen was studded thick with thorns - Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, - Through last year’s fern, of the shy fallow-deer - Who come at noon down to the water here. - You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along - Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong - The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, - And the weird chipping of the woodpecker - Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, - And a fresh breath of spring stirred everywhere. - Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope’s brow, - To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough - Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, - As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. - Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here - The grass was dry and mossed, and you saw clear - Across the hollow; white anemones - Starred the cool turf, and clumps of primroses - Ran out from the dark underwood behind. - No fairer resting-place a man could find. - “Here let us halt,” said Merlin then; and she - Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. - - They sate them down together, and a sleep - Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. - Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, - And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws, - And takes it in her hand, and waves it over - The blossomed thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. - Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, - And made a little plot of magic ground. - And in that daisied circle, as men say, - Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day; - But she herself whither she will can rove-- - For she was passing weary of his love. - - - - -_SAINT BRANDAN._ - - - Saint Brandan sails the northern main; - The brotherhoods of saints are glad. - He greets them once, he sails again; - So late! such storms! The saint is mad! - - He heard, across the howling seas, - Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; - He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, - Twinkle the monastery-lights; - - But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered; - And now no bells, no convents more! - The hurtling Polar lights are neared, - The sea without a human shore. - - At last (it was the Christmas-night; - Stars shone after a day of storm) - He sees float past an iceberg white, - And on it--Christ!--a living form. - - That furtive mien, that scowling eye, - Of hair that red and tufted fell, - It is--oh, where shall Brandan fly?-- - The traitor Judas, out of hell! - - Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; - The moon was bright, the iceberg near. - He hears a voice sigh humbly, “Wait! - By high permission I am here. - - “One moment wait, thou holy man! - On earth my crime, my death, they knew; - My name is under all men’s ban: - Ah! tell them of my respite too. - - “Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night - (It was the first after I came, - Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, - To rue my guilt in endless flame),-- - - “I felt, as I in torment lay - ’Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, - An angel touch mine arm, and say,-- - _Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!_ - - “‘Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?’ I said. - _The leper recollect_, said he, - _Who asked the passers-by for aid,_ - _In Joppa, and thy charity_. - - “Then I remembered how I went, - In Joppa, through the public street, - One morn when the sirocco spent - Its storms of dust with burning heat; - “And in the street a leper sate, - Shivering with fever, naked, old; - Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, - The hot wind fevered him fivefold. - - “He gazed upon me as I passed, - And murmured, _Help me, or I die!_ - To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, - Saw him look eased, and hurried by. - - “O Brandan! think what grace divine, - What blessing must full goodness shower, - When fragment of it small, like mine, - Hath such inestimable power! - - “Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I - Did that chance act of good, that one! - Then went my way to kill and lie, - Forgot my good as soon as done. - - “That germ of kindness, in the womb - Of mercy caught, did not expire; - Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom, - And friends me in the pit of fire. - - “Once every year, when carols wake, - On earth, the Christmas-night’s repose, - Arising from the sinner’s lake, - I journey to these healing snows. - - “I stanch with ice my burning breast, - With silence balm my whirling brain. - O Brandan! to this hour of rest, - That Joppan leper’s ease was pain.” - - Tears started to Saint Brandan’s eyes; - He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer, - Then looked--and lo, the frosty skies! - The iceberg, and no Judas there! - - - - -_THE NECKAN._ - - - In summer, on the headlands, - The Baltic Sea along, - Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, - And sings his plaintive song. - - Green rolls, beneath the headlands, - Green rolls the Baltic Sea; - And there, below the Neckan’s feet, - His wife and children be. - - He sings not of the ocean, - Its shells and roses pale: - Of earth, of earth, the Neckan sings, - He hath no other tale. - - He sits upon the headlands, - And sings a mournful stave - Of all he saw and felt on earth, - Far from the kind sea-wave. - - Sings how, a knight, he wandered - By castle, field, and town; - But earthly knights have harder hearts - Than the sea-children own. - - Sings of his earthly bridal, - Priest, knights, and ladies gay. - “And who art thou,” the priest began, - “Sir Knight, who wedd’st to-day?” - - “I am no knight,” he answered; - “From the sea-waves I come.” - The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed, - The surpliced priest stood dumb. - - He sings how from the chapel - He vanished with his bride, - And bore her down to the sea-halls, - Beneath the salt sea-tide. - - He sings how she sits weeping - ’Mid shells that round her lie. - “False Neckan shares my bed,” she weeps; - “No Christian mate have I.” - - He sings how through the billows - He rose to earth again, - And sought a priest to sign the cross, - That Neckan heaven might gain. - - He sings how, on an evening, - Beneath the birch-trees cool, - He sate and played his harp of gold, - Beside the river-pool. - - Beside the pool sate Neckan, - Tears filled his mild blue eye. - On his white mule, across the bridge, - A cassocked priest rode by. - - “Why sitt’st thou there, O Neckan, - And play’st thy harp of gold? - Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, - Than thou shalt heaven behold.” - - But, lo! the staff, it budded; - It greened, it branched, it waved. - “O ruth of God!” the priest cried out, - “This lost sea-creature saved!” - - The cassocked priest rode onwards, - And vanished with his mule; - And Neckan in the twilight gray - Wept by the river-pool. - - He wept, “The earth hath kindness, - The sea, the starry poles; - Earth, sea, and sky, and God above,-- - But, ah! not human souls!” - - In summer, on the headlands, - The Baltic Sea along, - Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, - And sings this plaintive song. - - - - -_THE FORSAKEN MERMAN._ - - - Come, dear children, let us away; - Down and away below! - Now my brothers call from the bay, - Now the great winds shoreward blow, - Now the salt tides seaward flow; - Now the wild white horses play, - Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. - Children dear, let us away! - This way, this way! - - Call her once before you go,-- - Call once yet! - In a voice that she will know,-- - “Margaret! Margaret!” - Children’s voices should be dear - (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; - Children’s voices, wild with pain,-- - Surely she will come again! - Call her once, and come away; - This way, this way! - “Mother dear, we cannot stay! - The wild white horses foam and fret.” - Margaret! Margaret! - - Come, dear children, come away down; - Call no more! - One last look at the white-walled town, - And the little gray church on the windy shore; - Then come down! - She will not come, though you call all day; - Come away, come away! - - Children dear, was it yesterday - We heard the sweet bells over the bay,-- - In the caverns where we lay, - Through the surf and through the swell, - The far-off sound of a silver bell? - Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, - Where the winds are all asleep; - Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, - Where the salt weed sways in the stream, - Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, - Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; - Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, - Dry their mail and bask in the brine; - Where great whales come sailing by, - Sail and sail, with unshut eye, - Round the world for ever and aye? - When did music come this way? - Children dear, was it yesterday? - - Children dear, was it yesterday - (Call yet once) that she went away? - Once she sate with you and me, - On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, - And the youngest sate on her knee. - She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, - When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. - She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; - She said, “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray - In the little gray church on the shore to-day. - ’Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! - And I lose my poor soul, merman! here with thee.” - I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves; - Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!” - She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. - - Children dear, was it yesterday? - Children dear, were we long alone? - “The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; - Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say; - Come!” I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. - We went up the beach, by the sandy down - Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town; - Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, - To the little gray church on the windy hill. - From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, - But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. - We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, - And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. - She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: - “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! - Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone; - The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.” - But, ah! she gave me never a look, - For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. - Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. - Come away, children, call no more! - Come away, come down, call no more! - - Down, down, down! - Down to the depths of the sea! - She sits at her wheel in the humming town, - Singing most joyfully. - Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, - For the humming street, and the child with its toy! - For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; - For the wheel where I spun, - And the blessed light of the sun!” - And so she sings her fill, - Singing most joyfully, - Till the spindle drops from her hand, - And the whizzing wheel stands still. - She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, - And over the sand at the sea; - And her eyes are set in a stare; - And anon there breaks a sigh, - And anon there drops a tear, - From a sorrow-clouded eye, - And a heart sorrow-laden, - A long, long sigh, - For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden, - And the gleam of her golden hair. - - Come away, away, children; - Come, children, come down! - The hoarse wind blows colder; - Lights shine in the town. - She will start from her slumber - When gusts shake the door: - She will hear the winds howling, - Will hear the waves roar. - We shall see, while above us - The waves roar and whirl, - A ceiling of amber, - A pavement of pearl. - Singing, “Here came a mortal, - But faithless was she! - And alone dwell forever - The kings of the sea.” - - But, children, at midnight, - When soft the winds blow, - When clear falls the moonlight, - When spring-tides are low; - When sweet airs come seaward - From heaths starred with broom, - And high rocks throw mildly - On the blanched sands a gloom; - Up the still, glistening beaches, - Up the creeks we will hie, - Over banks of bright seaweed - The ebb-tide leaves dry. - We will gaze, from the sand-hills, - At the white sleeping town; - At the church on the hill-side, - And then come back down, - Singing, “There dwells a loved one, - But cruel is she! - She left lonely forever - The kings of the sea.” - - - - -SONNETS. - - - - -_AUSTERITY OF POETRY._ - - - That son of Italy who tried to blow,[8] - Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, - In his light youth amid a festal throng - Sate with his bride to see a public show. - - Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow - Youth like a star; and what to youth belong,-- - Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong. - A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo, - - Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! - Shuddering, they drew her garments off--and found - A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. - - Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, - Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground - Of thought and of austerity within. - - - - -_A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD._ - - - What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?-- - ’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry - Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony; - It was the sight of that Lord Arundel - Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well, - And his child’s reason flickered, and did die. - Painted (he willed it) in the gallery - They hang; the picture doth the story tell. - - Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand! - The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze, - Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are! - - Methinks the woe, which made that father stand - Baring his dumb remorse to future days, - Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far. - - - - -_RACHEL._ - - -I. - - In Paris all looked hot and like to fade; - Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries, - Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, - a brougham rolled through the streets, and made - - Halt at the white and silent colonnade - Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease, - Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease, - Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed. - - She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled - To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine; - Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear? - - Ah! where the spirit its highest life hath led, - All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine; - And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here! - - -II. - - Unto a lonely villa, in a dell - Above the fragrant warm Provençal shore, - The dying Rachel in a chair they bore - Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle, - - And laid her in a stately room, where fell - The shadow of a marble Muse of yore,-- - The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore, - Polymnia,--full on her death-bed. ’Twas well! - - The fret and misery of our northern towns, - In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain, - Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns, - - Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease: - Sole object of her dying eyes remain - The beauty and the glorious art of Greece. - - -III. - - Sprung from the blood of Israel’s scattered race, - At a mean inn in German Aarau born, - To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn, - Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face, - - Imparting life renewed, old classic grace; - Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn, - A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn, - While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,-- - - Ah! not the radiant spirit of Greece alone - She had--one power, which made her breast its home. - In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers, - - Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome. - The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours; - Her genius and her glory are her own. - - - - -_WORLDLY PLACE._ - - - _Even in a palace, life may be led well!_ - So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, - Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den - Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, - - Our freedom for a little bread we sell, - And drudge under some foolish master’s ken - Who rates us if we peer outside our pen,-- - Matched with a palace, is not this a hell? - - _Even in a palace!_ On his truth sincere, - Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; - And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame - - Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, - I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here! - The aids to noble life are all within.” - - - - -_EAST LONDON._ - - - ’Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead - Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, - And the pale weaver, through his windows seen - In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited. - - I met a preacher there I knew, and said,-- - “Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?” - “Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have been - Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, _the living bread_.” - - O human soul! as long as thou canst so - Set up a mark of everlasting light, - Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow, - - To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,-- - Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night! - Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home. - - - - -_WEST LONDON._ - - - Crouched on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, - A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied; - A babe was in her arms, and at her side - A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. - - Some laboring-men, whose work lay somewhere there, - Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hied - Across, and begged, and came back satisfied. - The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. - - Thought I, “Above her state this spirit towers; - She will not ask of aliens, but of friends, - Of sharers in a common human fate. - - She turns from that cold succor, which attends - The unknown little from the unknowing great, - And points us to a better time than ours.” - - - - -_EAST AND WEST._ - - - In the bare midst of Anglesey they show - Two springs which close by one another play; - And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say, - “Two saints met often where those waters flow. - - One came from Penmon westward, and a glow - Whitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray; - Eastward the other, from the dying day, - And he with unsunned face did always go.” - - _Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark!_ men said. - The seer from the East was then in light, - The seer from the West was then in shade. - Ah! now ’tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright - The man of the bold West now comes arrayed: - He of the mystic East is touched with night. - - - - -_THE BETTER PART._ - - - Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, - How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare! - “Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are; - No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan; - - We live no more, when we have done our span.” - “Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care? - From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear? - Live we like brutes our life without a plan!” - - So answerest thou; but why not rather say,-- - “Hath man no second life? _Pitch this one high!_ - Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see? - - _More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!_ - Was Christ a man like us? _Ah! let us try_ - _If we then, too, can be such men as he!_” - - - - -THE DIVINITY. - - - “Yes, write it in the rock,” Saint Bernard said, - “Grave it on brass with adamantine pen! - ’Tis God himself becomes apparent, when - God’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed; - - For God of these his attributes is made.”-- - Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of men - The suffrage captive: now not one in ten - Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9] - - _God’s wisdom and God’s goodness!_ Ay, but fools - Mis-define these till God knows them no more. - _Wisdom and goodness, they are God!_--what schools - - Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore? - This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules; - ’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. - - - - -_IMMORTALITY._ - - - Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, outworn, - We leave the brutal world to take its way, - And, _Patience! in another life_, we say, - _The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne_. - - And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn - The world’s poor, routed leavings? or will they - Who failed under the heat of this life’s day - Support the fervors of the heavenly morn? - - No, no! the energy of life may be - Kept on after the grave, but not begun; - And he who flagged not in the earthly strife, - - From strength to strength advancing,--only he, - His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, - Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. - - - - -_THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID._ - - - _He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save._ - So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the side - Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10] - “Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, - Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.” - So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed, - The infant Church! of love she felt the tide - Stream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave. - - And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs, - With eye suffused but heart inspired true, - On those walls subterranean, where she hid - - Her head ’mid ignominy, death, and tombs, - She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew-- - And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. - - - - -_MONICA’S LAST PRAYER._[11] - - “Ah! could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!” - _Care not for that, and lay me where I fall! - Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call; - But at God’s altar, oh! remember me._ - - Thus Monica, and died in Italy. - Yet fervent had her longing been, through all - Her course, for home at last, and burial - With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. - - Had been! but at the end, to her pure soul - All tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap, - And union before God the only care. - - Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole. - Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep, - Keep by this: _Life in God, and union there!_ - - - - -LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS. - - - - -_SWITZERLAND._ - - -I. MEETING. - - Again I see my bliss at hand, - The town, the lake, are here; - My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12] - Unaltered with the year. - - I know that graceful figure fair, - That cheek of languid hue; - I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair, - And those sweet eyes of blue. - - Again I spring to make my choice; - Again in tones of ire - I hear a God’s tremendous voice,-- - “Be counselled, and retire.” - - Ye guiding Powers who join and part, - What would ye have with me? - Ah, warn some more ambitious heart, - And let the peaceful be! - - -II. PARTING. - - Ye storm-winds of autumn! - Who rush by, who shake - The window, and ruffle - The gleam-lighted lake; - Who cross to the hillside - Thin-sprinkled with farms, - Where the high woods strip sadly - Their yellowing arms,-- - Ye are bound for the mountains! - Ah! with you let me go - Where your cold, distant barrier, - The vast range of snow, - Through the loose clouds lifts dimly - Its white peaks in air. - How deep is their stillness! - Ah! would I were there! - - But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, - Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? - Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn - Lent it the music of its trees at dawn? - Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook - That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? - Ah! it comes nearer-- - Sweet notes, this way! - - Hark! fast by the window - The rushing winds go, - To the ice-cumbered gorges, - The vast seas of snow! - There the torrents drive upward - Their rock-strangled hum; - There the avalanche thunders - The hoarse torrent dumb. - --I come, O ye mountains! - Ye torrents, I come! - - But who is this, by the half-opened door, - Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor? - The sweet blue eyes--the soft, ash-colored hair-- - The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear-- - The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells - The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells-- - Ah! they bend nearer-- - Sweet lips, this way! - - Hark! the wind rushes past us! - Ah! with that let me go - To the clear, waning hill-side, - Unspotted by snow, - There to watch, o’er the sunk vale, - The frore mountain wall, - Where the niched snow-bed sprays down - Its powdery fall. - There its dusky blue clusters - The aconite spreads; - There the pines slope, the cloud-strips - Hung soft in their heads. - No life but, at moments, - The mountain bee’s hum. - --I come, O ye mountains! - Ye pine-woods, I come! - - Forgive me! forgive me! - Ah, Marguerite, fain - Would these arms reach to clasp thee! - But see! ’tis in vain. - - In the void air, towards thee, - My stretched arms are cast; - But a sea rolls between us,-- - Our different past! - - To the lips, ah! of others - Those lips have been prest, - And others, ere I was, - Were strained to that breast. - - Far, far from each other - Our spirits have grown. - And what heart knows another? - Ah! who knows his own? - - Blow, ye winds! lift me with you! - I come to the wild. - Fold closely, O Nature! - Thine arms round thy child. - - To thee only God granted - A heart ever new,-- - To all always open, - To all always true. - - Ah! calm me, restore me; - And dry up my tears - On thy high mountain platforms, - Where morn first appears; - - Where the white mists, forever, - Are spread and upfurled,-- - In the stir of the forces - Whence issued the world. - - -III. A FAREWELL. - - My horse’s feet beside the lake, - Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay, - Sent echoes through the night to wake - Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay. - - The poplar avenue was passed, - And the roofed bridge that spans the stream; - Up the steep street I hurried fast, - Led by thy taper’s starlike beam. - - I came! I saw thee rise! the blood - Poured flushing to thy languid cheek. - Locked in each other’s arms we stood, - In tears, with hearts too full to speak. - - Days flew; ah, soon I could discern - A trouble in thine altered air! - Thy hand lay languidly in mine, - Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. - - I blame thee not! This heart, I know, - To be long loved was never framed; - For something in its depths doth glow - Too strange, too restless, too untamed. - - And women,--things that live and move - Mined by the fever of the soul,-- - They seek to find in those they love - Stern strength, and promise of control. - - They ask not kindness, gentle ways; - These they themselves have tried and known: - They ask a soul which never sways - With the blind gusts that shake their own. - - I too have felt the load I bore - In a too strong emotion’s sway; - I too have wished, no woman more, - This starting, feverish heart away. - - I too have longed for trenchant force, - And will like a dividing spear; - Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course, - Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear. - - But in the world I learnt, what there - Thou too wilt surely one day prove,-- - That will, that energy, though rare, - Are yet far, far less rare than love. - - Go, then! till time and fate impress - This truth on thee, be mine no more! - They will! for thou, I feel, not less - Than I, wast destined to this lore. - - We school our manners, act our parts; - But He, who sees us through and through, - Knows that the bent of both our hearts - Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. - - And though we wear out life, alas! - Distracted as a homeless wind, - In beating where we must not pass, - In seeking what we shall not find; - - Yet we shall one day gain, life past, - Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole; - Shall see ourselves, and learn at last - Our true affinities of soul. - - We shall not then deny a course - To every thought the mass ignore; - We shall not then call hardness force, - Nor lightness wisdom any more. - - Then, in the eternal Father’s smile, - Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare - To seem as free from pride and guile, - As good, as generous, as they are. - - Then we shall know our friends! Though much - Will have been lost,--the help in strife, - The thousand sweet, still joys of such - As hand in hand face earthly life,-- - - Though these be lost, there will be yet - A sympathy august and pure; - Ennobled by a vast regret, - And by contrition sealed thrice sure. - - And we, whose ways were unlike here, - May then more neighboring courses ply; - May to each other be brought near, - And greet across infinity. - - How sweet, unreached by earthly jars, - My sister! to maintain with thee - The hush among the shining stars, - The calm upon the moonlit sea! - - How sweet to feel, on the boon air, - All our unquiet pulses cease! - To feel that nothing can impair - The gentleness, the thirst for peace,-- - - The gentleness too rudely hurled - On this wild earth of hate and fear; - The thirst for peace, a raving world - Would never let us satiate here. - - -IV. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE. - - We were apart: yet, day by day, - I bade my heart more constant be. - I bade it keep the world away, - And grow a home for only thee; - Nor feared but thy love likewise grew, - Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. - - The fault was grave! I might have known, - What far too soon, alas! I learned,-- - The heart can bind itself alone, - And faith may oft be unreturned. - Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell. - Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell! - - Farewell!--And thou, thou lonely heart, - Which never yet without remorse - Even for a moment didst depart - From thy remote and spherèd course - To haunt the place where passions reign,-- - Back to thy solitude again! - - Back! with the conscious thrill of shame - Which Luna felt, that summer-night, - Flash through her pure immortal frame, - When she forsook the starry height - To hang o’er Endymion’s sleep - Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. - - Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved - How vain a thing is mortal love, - Wandering in heaven, far removed; - But thou hast long had place to prove - This truth,--to prove, and make thine own: - “Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.” - - Or, if not quite alone, yet they - Which touch thee are unmating things,-- - Ocean and clouds and night and day; - Lorn autumns and triumphant springs; - And life, and others’ joy and pain, - And love, if love, of happier men. - - Of happier men; for they, at least, - Have _dreamed_ two human hearts might blend - In one, and were through faith released - From isolation without end - Prolonged; nor knew, although not less - Alone than thou, their loneliness. - - -V. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED. - - Yes! in the sea of life enisled, - With echoing straits between us thrown, - Dotting the shoreless watery wild, - We mortal millions live _alone_. - The islands feel the enclasping flow, - And then their endless bounds they know. - - But when the moon their hollows lights, - And they are swept by balms of spring, - And in their glens, on starry nights, - The nightingales divinely sing; - And lovely notes, from shore to shore, - Across the sounds and channels pour,-- - - Oh! then a longing like despair - Is to their farthest caverns sent; - For surely once, they feel, we were - Parts of a single continent! - Now round us spreads the watery plain: - Oh, might our marges meet again! - - Who ordered that their longing’s fire - Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? - Who renders vain their deep desire?-- - A God, a God their severance ruled! - And bade betwixt their shores to be - The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea. - - -VI. ABSENCE. - - In this fair stranger’s eyes of gray, - Thine eyes, my love! I see. - I shiver; for the passing day - Had borne me far from thee. - - This is the curse of life! that not - A nobler, calmer train - Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot - Our passions from our brain; - - But each day brings its petty dust, - Our soon-choked souls to fill; - And we forget because we must, - And not because we will. - - I struggle towards the light; and ye, - Once-longed-for storms of love! - If with the light ye cannot be, - I bear that ye remove. - - I struggle towards the light; but oh, - While yet the night is chill, - Upon time’s barren, stormy flow, - Stay with me, Marguerite, still! - - -VII. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. - -(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.) - - Ten years! and to my waking eye - Once more the roofs of Berne appear; - The rocky banks, the terrace high, - The stream! and do I linger here? - - The clouds are on the Oberland, - The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; - But bright are those green fields at hand, - And through those fields comes down the Aar, - - And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, - Flows by the town, the churchyard fair; - And ’neath the garden-walk it hums, - The house! and is my Marguerite there - - Ah! shall I see thee, while a flush - Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, - Quick through the oleanders brush, - And clap thy hands, and cry, _’Tis thou!_ - - Or hast thou long since wandered back, - Daughter of France! to France, thy home; - And flitted down the flowery track - Where feet like thine too lightly come? - - Doth riotous laughter now replace - Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, - Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering lace - The kerchief that inwound thy hair? - - Or is it over? art thou dead?-- - Dead!--and no warning shiver ran - Across my heart, to say thy thread - Of life was cut, and closed thy span! - - Could from earth’s ways that figure slight - Be lost, and I not feel ’twas so? - Of that fresh voice the gay delight - Fail from earth’s air, and I not know? - - Or shall I find thee still, but changed, - But not the Marguerite of thy prime? - With all thy being re-arranged,-- - Passed through the crucible of time; - - With spirit vanished, beauty waned, - And hardly yet a glance, a tone, - A gesture--any thing--retained - Of all that was my Marguerite’s own? - - I will not know! For wherefore try, - To things by mortal course that live, - A shadowy durability, - For which they were not meant, to give? - - Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass - Upon the boundless ocean-plain, - So on the sea of life, alas! - Man meets man,--meets, and quits again. - - I knew it when my life was young; - I feel it still now youth is o’er. - --The mists are on the mountain hung, - And Marguerite I shall see no more. - - - - -_THE STRAYED REVELLER._ - - -_THE PORTICO OF CIRCE’S PALACE. EVENING._ - - A YOUTH. - - CIRCE. - - THE YOUTH. - - Faster, faster, - O Circe, goddess, - Let the wild, thronging train, - The bright procession - Of eddying forms, - Sweep through my soul! - - Thou standest, smiling - Down on me! thy right arm, - Leaned up against the column there, - Props thy soft cheek; - Thy left holds, hanging loosely, - The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, - I held but now. - - Is it then evening - So soon? I see, the night-dews, - Clustered in thick beads, dim - The agate brooch-stones - On thy white shoulder; - The cool night-wind, too, - Blows through the portico, - Stirs thy hair, goddess, - Waves thy white robe! - - CIRCE. - - Whence art thou, sleeper? - - THE YOUTH. - - When the white dawn first - Through the rough fir-planks - Of my hut, by the chestnuts, - Up at the valley-head, - Came breaking, goddess! - I sprang up, I threw round me - My dappled fawn-skin; - Passing out, from the wet turf, - Where they lay, by the hut door, - I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, - All drenched in dew,-- - Came swift down to join - The rout early gathered - In the town, round the temple, - Iacchus’ white fane - On yonder hill. - - Quick I passed, following - The woodcutters’ cart-track - Down the dark valley. I saw - On my left, through the beeches, - Thy palace, goddess, - Smokeless, empty! - Trembling, I entered; beheld - The court all silent, - The lions sleeping, - On the altar this bowl. - I drank, goddess! - And sank down here, sleeping, - On the steps of thy portico. - - CIRCE. - - Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? - Thou lovest it, then, my wine? - Wouldst more of it? See how glows, - Through the delicate, flushed marble, - The red creaming liquor, - Strewn with dark seeds! - Drink, then! I chide thee not, - Deny thee not my bowl. - Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so! - Drink--drink again! - - THE YOUTH. - - Thanks, gracious one! - Ah, the sweet fumes again! - More soft, ah me! - More subtle-winding, - Than Pan’s flute-music! - Faint--faint! Ah me, - Again the sweet sleep! - - CIRCE. - - Hist! Thou--within there! - Come forth, Ulysses! - Art tired with hunting? - While we range the woodland, - See what the day brings. - - ULYSSES. - - Ever new magic! - Hast thou then lured hither, - Wonderful goddess, by thy art, - The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, - Iacchus’ darling, - Or some youth beloved of Pan, - Of Pan and the nymphs; - That he sits, bending downward - His white, delicate neck - To the ivy-wreathed marge - Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves - That crown his hair, - Falling forward, mingling - With the dark ivy-plants; - His fawn-skin, half untied, - Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he, - That he sits, overweighed - By fumes of wine and sleep, - So late, in thy portico? - What youth, goddess,--what guest - Of gods or mortals? - - CIRCE. - - Hist! he wakes! - I lured him not hither, Ulysses. - Nay, ask him! - - THE YOUTH. - - Who speaks? Ah! who comes forth - To thy side, goddess, from within? - How shall I name him,-- - This spare, dark-featured, - Quick-eyed stranger? - Ah! and I see too - His sailor’s bonnet, - His short coat, travel-tarnished, - With one arm bare!-- - Art thou not he, whom fame - This long time rumors - The favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves? - Art thou he, stranger,-- - The wise Ulysses, - Laertes’ son? - - ULYSSES. - - I am Ulysses. - And thou too, sleeper? - Thy voice is sweet. - It may be thou hast followed - Through the islands some divine bard, - By age taught many things,-- - Age, and the Muses; - And heard him delighting - The chiefs and people - In the banquet, and learned his songs, - Of gods and heroes, - Of war and arts, - And peopled cities, - Inland, or built - By the gray sea. If so, then hail! - I honor and welcome thee. - - THE YOUTH. - - The gods are happy. - They turn on all sides - Their shining eyes, - And see below them - The earth and men. - - They see Tiresias - Sitting, staff in hand, - On the warm, grassy - Asopus bank, - His robe drawn over - His old sightless head, - Revolving inly - The doom of Thebes. - - They see the centaurs - In the upper glens - Of Pelion, in the streams - Where red-berried ashes fringe - The clear-brown shallow pools, - With streaming flanks, and heads - Reared proudly, snuffing - The mountain wind. - - They see the Indian - Drifting, knife in hand, - His frail boat moored to - A floating isle thick-matted - With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants, - And the dark cucumber. - He reaps and stows them, - Drifting--drifting; round him, - Round his green harvest-plot, - Flow the cool lake-waves, - The mountains ring them. - - They see the Scythian - On the wide steppe, unharnessing - His wheeled house at noon. - He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,-- - Mares’ milk, and bread - Baked on the embers. All around, - The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starred - With saffron and the yellow hollyhock - And flag-leaved iris-flowers. - Sitting in his cart - He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, - Alive with bright green lizards, - And the springing bustard-fowl, - The track, a straight black line, - Furrows the rich soil; here and there - Clusters of lonely mounds - Topped with rough-hewn, - Gray, rain-bleared statues, overpeer - The sunny waste. - - They see the ferry - On the broad, clay-laden - Lone Chorasmian stream; thereon, - With snort and strain, - Two horses, strongly swimming, tow - The ferry-boat, with woven ropes - To either bow - Firm-harnessed by the mane; a chief, - With shout and shaken spear, - Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern - The cowering merchants in long robes - Sit pale beside their wealth - Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, - Of gold and ivory, - Of turquoise-earth, and amethyst, - Jasper and chalcedony, - And milk-barred onyx-stones. - The loaded boat swings groaning - In the yellow eddies; - The gods behold them. - - They see the heroes - Sitting in the dark ship - On the foamless, long-heaving, - Violet sea, - At sunset nearing - The Happy Islands. - - These things, Ulysses, - The wise bards also - Behold, and sing. - But oh, what labor! - O prince, what pain! - - They too can see - Tiresias; but the gods, - Who gave them vision, - Added this law: - That they should bear too - His groping blindness, - His dark foreboding, - His scorned white hairs; - Bear Hera’s anger - Through a life lengthened - To seven ages. - - They see the centaurs - On Pelion: then they feel, - They too, the maddening wine - Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain - They feel the biting spears - Of the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive, - Drive crashing through their bones; they feel, - High on a jutting rock in the red stream, - Alcmena’s dreadful son - Ply his bow. Such a price - The gods exact for song: - To become what we sing. - - They see the Indian - On his mountain lake; but squalls - Make their skiff reel, and worms - In the unkind spring have gnawn - Their melon-harvest to the heart. They see - The Scythian; but long frosts - Parch them in winter-time on the bare steppe, - Till they too fade like grass; they crawl - Like shadows forth in spring. - - They see the merchants - On the Oxus-stream; but care - Must visit first them too, and make them pale: - Whether, through whirling sand, - A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst - Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, - In the walled cities the way passes through, - Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs, - On some great river’s marge, - Mown them down, far from home. - - They see the heroes - Near harbor; but they share - Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,-- - Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; - Or where the echoing oars - Of Argo first - Startled the unknown sea. - - The old Silenus - Came, lolling in the sunshine, - From the dewy forest-coverts, - This way, at noon. - Sitting by me, while his fauns - Down at the water-side - Sprinkled and smoothed - His drooping garland, - He told me these things. - - But I, Ulysses, - Sitting on the warm steps, - Looking over the valley, - All day long, have seen, - Without pain, without labor, - Sometimes a wild-haired mænad, - Sometimes a faun with torches, - And sometimes, for a moment, - Passing through the dark stems - Flowing-robed, the beloved, - The desired, the divine, - Beloved Iacchus. - - Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! - Ah, glimmering water, - Fitful earth-murmur, - Dreaming woods! - Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess, - And thou, proved, much-enduring, - Wave-tossed wanderer! - Who can stand still? - Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- - The cup again! - - Faster, faster, - O Circe, goddess, - Let the wild, thronging train, - The bright procession - Of eddying forms, - Sweep through my soul! - - - - -_FRAGMENT OF AN “ANTIGONE.”_ - - - THE CHORUS. - - Well hath he done who hath seized happiness! - For little do the all-containing hours, - Though opulent, freely give,-- - Who, weighing that life well - Fortune presents unprayed, - Declines her ministry, and carves his own; - And, justice not infringed, - Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law. - - He does well too, who keeps that clew the mild - Birth-goddess and the austere Fates first gave. - For, from the day when these - Bring him, a weeping child, - First to the light, and mark - A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home, - Unguided he remains, - Till the Fates come again, this time with death. - - In little companies, - And, our own place once left, - Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid, - By city and household grouped, we live; and many shocks - Our order heaven-ordained - Must every day endure,-- - Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars. - Besides what waste _he_ makes, - The all-hated, order-breaking, - Without friend, city, or home,-- - Death, who dissevers all. - - Him then I praise, who dares - To self-selected good - Prefer obedience to the primal law - Which consecrates the ties of blood; for these, indeed, - Are to the gods a care: - That touches but himself. - For every day man may be linked and loosed - With strangers; but the bond - Original, deep-inwound, - Of blood, can he not bind, - Nor, if fate binds, not bear. - - But hush! Hæmon, whom Antigone, - Robbing herself of life in burying, - Against Creon’s law, Polynices, - Robs of a loved bride,--pale, imploring, - Waiting her passage, - Forth from the palace hitherward comes. - - HÆMON. - - No, no, old men, Creon I curse not! - I weep, Thebans, - One than Creon crueller far! - For he, he, at least, by slaying her, - August laws doth mightily vindicate; - But thou, too bold, headstrong, pitiless!-- - Ah me!--honorest more than thy lover, - O Antigone! - A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse. - - THE CHORUS. - - Nor was the love untrue - Which the Dawn-Goddess bore - To that fair youth she erst, - Leaving the salt sea-beds, - And coming flushed over the stormy frith - Of loud Euripus, saw,-- - Saw and snatched, wild with love, - From the pine-dotted spurs - Of Parnes, where thy waves, - Asopus! gleam rock-hemmed,-- - The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.[13] - - But him, in his sweet prime, - By severance immature, - By Artemis’ soft shafts, - She, though a goddess born, - Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die. - Such end o’ertook that love. - For she desired to make - Immortal mortal man, - And blend his happy life, - Far from the gods, with hers; - To him postponing an eternal law. - - HÆMON. - - But like me, she, wroth, complaining, - Succumbed to the envy of unkind gods; - And, her beautiful arms unclasping, - Her fair youth unwillingly gave. - - THE CHORUS. - - Nor, though enthroned too high - To fear assault of envious gods, - His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retain - From his appointed end - - In this our Thebes; but when - His flying steeds came near - To cross the steep Ismenian glen, - The broad earth opened, and whelmed them and him, - And through the void air sang - At large his enemy’s spear. - - And fain would Zeus have saved his tired son, - Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand - O’er the sun-reddened western straits,[14] - Or at his work in that dim lower world. - Fain would he have recalled - The fraudulent oath which bound - To a much feebler wight the heroic man. - - But he preferred fate to his strong desire. - Nor did there need less than the burning pile - Under the towering Trachis crags, - And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans, - And the roused Maliac gulf, - And scared Œtæan snows, - To achieve his son’s deliverance, O my child! - - - - -_FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A “DEJANEIRA.”_ - - - O frivolous mind of man, - Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts! - Though man bewails you not, - How _I_ bewail you! - - Little in your prosperity - Do you seek counsel of the gods. - Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone. - In profound silence stern, - Among their savage gorges and cold springs, - Unvisited remain - The great oracular shrines. - - Thither in your adversity - Do you betake yourselves for light, - But strangely misinterpret all you hear. - For you will not put on - New hearts with the inquirer’s holy robe, - And purged, considerate minds. - - And him on whom, at the end - Of toil and dolour untold, - The gods have said that repose - At last shall descend undisturbed,-- - Him you expect to behold - In an easy old age, in a happy home: - No end but this you praise. - - But him on whom, in the prime - Of life, with vigor undimmed, - With unspent mind, and a soul - Unworn, undebased, undecayed, - Mournfully grating, the gates - Of the city of death have forever closed,-- - _Him_, I count _him_, well-starred. - - - - -_EARLY DEATH AND FAME._ - - - For him who must see many years, - I praise the life which slips away - Out of the light, and mutely; which avoids - Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife, - Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal, - Insincere praises; which descends - The quiet mossy track to age. - - But when immature death - Beckons too early the guest - From the half-tried banquet of life, - Young, in the bloom of his days; - Leaves no leisure to press, - Slow and surely, the sweets - Of a tranquil life in the shade,-- - Fuller for him be the hours! - Give him emotion, though pain! - Let him live, let him feel, _I have lived_. - Heap up his moments with life! - Triple his pulses with fame! - - - - -_PHILOMELA._ - - - Hark! ah, the nightingale-- - The tawny-throated! - Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! - What triumph! hark! what pain! - - O wanderer from a Grecian shore, - Still, after many years, in distant lands, - Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain - That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain, - Say, will it never heal? - And can this fragrant lawn - With its cool trees, and night, - And the sweet, tranquil Thames, - And moonshine, and the dew, - To thy racked heart and brain - Afford no balm? - - Dost thou to-night behold, - Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, - The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? - Dost thou again peruse - With hot cheeks and seared eyes - The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame? - Dost thou once more assay - Thy flight, and feel come over thee, - Poor fugitive, the feathery change. - Once more, and once more seem to make resound - With love and hate, triumph and agony, - Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? - Listen, Eugenia,-- - How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! - Again--thou hearest? - Eternal passion! - Eternal pain! - - - - -_URANIA._ - - - She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, - While we for hopeless passion die; - Yet she could love, those eyes declare, - Were but men nobler than they are. - - Eagerly once her gracious ken - Was turned upon the sons of men; - But light the serious visage grew grew-- - She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. - - Our petty souls, our strutting wits, - Our labored, puny passion-fits,-- - Ah, may she scorn them still, till we - Scorn them as bitterly as she! - - Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, - One of some worthier race than ours! - One for whose sake she once might prove - How deeply she who scorns can love. - - His eyes be like the starry lights, - His voice like sounds of summer nights; - In all his lovely mien let pierce - The magic of the universe! - - And she to him will reach her hand, - And gazing in his eyes will stand, - And know her friend, and weep for glee, - And cry, _Long, long I’ve looked for thee_. - - Then will she weep: with smiles, till then, - Coldly she mocks the sons of men; - Till then, her lovely eyes maintain - Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. - - - - -_EUPHROSYNE._ - - - I must not say that she was true, - Yet let me say that she was fair; - And they, that lovely face who view, - They should not ask if truth be there. - - Truth--what is truth? Two bleeding hearts, - Wounded by men, by fortune tried, - Outwearied with their lonely parts, - Vow to beat henceforth side by side. - - The world to them was stern and drear, - Their lot was but to weep and moan; - Ah! let them keep their faith sincere, - For neither could subsist alone. - - But souls whom some benignant breath - Hath charmed at birth from gloom and care,-- - These ask no love, these plight no faith, - For they are happy as they are. - - The world to them may homage make, - And garlands for their forehead weave; - And what the world can give, they take-- - But they bring more than they receive. - - They shine upon the world; their ears - To one demand alone are coy: - They will not give us love and tears, - They bring us light and warmth and joy. - - On one she smiled, and he was blest; - She smiles elsewhere--we make a din! - But ’twas not love which heaved her breast, - Fair child! it was the bliss within. - - - - -_CALAIS SANDS._ - - - A thousand knights have reined their steeds - To watch this line of sand-hills run, - Along the never-silent strait, - To Calais glittering in the sun; - - To look toward Ardres’ Golden Field - Across this wide aërial plain, - Which glows as if the Middle Age - Were gorgeous upon earth again. - - Oh, that to share this famous scene, - I saw, upon the open sand, - Thy lovely presence at my side,-- - Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand! - - How exquisite thy voice would come, - My darling, on this lonely air! - How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze - Shake loose some band of soft brown hair! - - Yet now my glance but once hath roved - O’er Calais and its famous plain; - To England’s cliffs my gaze is turned, - O’er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. - - Thou comest! Yes! the vessel’s cloud - Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. - Oh that yon sea-bird’s wings were mine, - To win one instant’s glimpse of thee! - - I must not spring to grasp thy hand, - To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; - But I may stand far off, and gaze, - And watch thee pass unconscious by,-- - - And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, - Mixed with the idlers on the pier. - Ah! might I always rest unseen, - So I might have thee always near! - - To-morrow hurry through the fields - Of Flanders to the storied Rhine! - To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close - Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine. - - - - -_FADED LEAVES._ - - -I. THE RIVER. - - Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat - Under the rustling poplars’ shade; - Silent the swans beside us float: - None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head! - - Let those arch eyes now softly shine, - That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland; - Ah! let them rest, those eyes, on mine! - On mine let rest that lovely hand! - - My pent-up tears oppress my brain, - My heart is swoln with love unsaid. - Ah! let me weep, and tell my pain, - And on thy shoulder rest my head! - - Before I die,--before the soul, - Which now is mine, must re-attain - Immunity from my control, - And wander round the world again; - Before this teased, o’er-labored heart - Forever leaves its vain employ, - Dead to its deep habitual smart, - And dead to hopes of future joy. - - -II. TOO LATE. - - Each on his own strict line we move, - And some find death ere they find love; - So far apart their lives are thrown - From the twin soul that halves their own. - - And sometimes, by still harder fate, - The lovers meet, but meet too late. - --Thy heart is mine! _True, true! ah, true!_ - --Then, love, thy hand! _Ah, no! adieu!_ - - -III. SEPARATION. - - Stop! not to me, at this bitter departing, - Speak of the sure consolations of time! - Fresh be the wound, still-renewed be its smarting, - So but thy image endure in its prime! - - But if the steadfast commandment of Nature - Wills that remembrance should always decay; - If the loved form and the deep-cherished feature - Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away,-- - - Me let no half-effaced memories cumber; - Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee! - Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber; - Dead be the past and its phantoms to me! - - Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me, - Scanning my face and the changes wrought there; - _Who_, let me say, _is this stranger regards me, - With the gray eyes, and the lovely brown hair_? - - -IV. ON THE RHINE. - - Vain is the effort to forget. - Some day I shall be cold, I know, - As is the eternal moon-lit snow - Of the high Alps, to which I go; - But ah! not yet, not yet! - - Vain is the agony of grief. - ’Tis true, indeed, an iron knot - Ties straitly up from mine thy lot; - And, were it snapped--thou lov’st me not! - But is despair relief? - - A while let me with thought have done. - And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine, - And that far purple mountain line, - Lie sweetly in the look divine - Of the slow-sinking sun; - - So let me lie, and, calm as they, - Let beam upon my inward view - Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue,-- - Eyes too expressive to be blue, - Too lovely to be gray. - - Ah, quiet, all things feel thy balm! - Those blue hills too, this river’s flow, - Were restless once, but long ago. - Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow; - Their joy is in their calm. - - -V. LONGING. - - Come to me in my dreams, and then - By day I shall be well again! - For then the night will more than pay - The hopeless longing of the day. - - Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times, - A messenger from radiant climes, - And smile on thy new world, and be - As kind to others as to me! - - Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth, - Come now, and let me dream it truth; - And part my hair, and kiss my brow, - And say, _My love! why sufferest thou?_ - - Come to me in my dreams, and then - By day I shall be well again! - For then the night will more than pay - The hopeless longing of the day. - - - - -_DESPONDENCY._ - - - The thoughts that rain their steady glow - Like stars on life’s cold sea, - Which others know, or say they know,-- - They never shone for me. - - Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit’s sky, - But they will not remain. - They light me once, they hurry by, - And never come again. - - - - -_SELF-DECEPTION._ - - - Say, what blinds us, that we claim the glory - Of possessing powers not our share? - --Since man woke on earth, he knows his story; - But, before we woke on earth, we were. - - Long, long since, undowered yet, our spirit - Roamed, ere birth, the treasuries of God; - Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit, - Asked an outfit for its earthly road. - - Then, as now, this tremulous, eager being - Strained and longed, and grasped each gift it saw; - Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeing - Staved us back, and gave our choice the law. - - Ah! whose hand that day through heaven guided - Man’s new spirit, since it was not we? - Ah! who swayed our choice, and who decided - What our gifts and what our wants should be? - - For, alas! he left us each retaining - Shreds of gifts which he refused in full; - Still these waste us with their hopeless straining, - Still the attempt to use them proves them null. - - And on earth we wander, groping, reeling; - Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. - Ah! and he, who placed our master-feeling, - Failed to place that master-feeling clear. - - We but dream we have our wished-for powers; - Ends we seek, we never shall attain. - Ah! _some_ power exists there, which is ours? - _Some_ end is there, we indeed may gain? - - - - -_DOVER BEACH._ - - - The sea is calm to-night. - The tide is full, the moon lies fair - Upon the straits; on the French coast, the light - Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, - Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. - - Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! - Only, from the long line of spray - Where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand, - Listen! you hear the grating roar - Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, - At their return, up the high strand, - Begin and cease, and then again begin, - With tremulous cadence slow, and bring - The eternal note of sadness in. - - Sophocles long ago - Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought - Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow - Of human misery: we - Find also in the sound a thought, - Hearing it by this distant northern sea. - - The sea of faith - Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore - Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. - But now I only hear - Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, - Retreating, to the breath - Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear - And naked shingles of the world. - - Ah, love, let us be true - To one another! for the world, which seems - To lie before us like a land of dreams, - So various, so beautiful, so new, - Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, - Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; - And we are here as on a darkling plain - Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, - Where ignorant armies clash by night. - - - - -_GROWING OLD._ - - - What is it to grow old? - Is it to lose the glory of the form, - The lustre of the eye? - Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? - --Yes, but not this alone. - - Is it to feel our strength-- - Not our bloom only, but our strength--decay? - Is it to feel each limb - Grow stiffer, every function less exact, - Each nerve more loosely strung? - - Yes, this, and more; but not, - Ah! ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be. - ’Tis not to have our life - Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,-- - A golden day’s decline. - - ’Tis not to see the world - As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, - And heart profoundly stirred; - And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, - The years that are no more. - - It is to spend long days, - And not once feel that we were ever young; - It is to add, immured - In the hot prison of the present, month - To month with weary pain. - - It is to suffer this, - And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. - Deep in our hidden heart - Festers the dull remembrance of a change, - But no emotion,--none. - - It is--last stage of all-- - When we are frozen up within, and quite - The phantom of ourselves, - To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost, - Which blamed the living man. - - - - -_THE PROGRESS OF POESY._ - -A VARIATION. - - - Youth rambles on life’s arid mount, - And strikes the rock, and finds the vein, - And brings the water from the fount,-- - The fount which shall not flow again. - - The man mature with labor chops - For the bright stream a channel grand, - And sees not that the sacred drops - Ran off and vanished out of hand. - - And then the old man totters nigh, - And feebly rakes among the stones. - The mount is mute, the channel dry; - And down he lays his weary bones. - - - - -_PIS ALLER._ - - - “Man is blind because of sin; - Revelation makes him sure: - Without that, who looks within - Looks in vain, for all’s obscure.” - - Nay, look closer into man! - Tell me, can you find indeed - Nothing sure, no moral plan - Clear prescribed, without your creed? - - “No, I nothing can perceive! - Without that, all’s dark for men. - That, or nothing, I believe.”-- - For God’s sake, believe it, then! - - - - -_THE LAST WORD._ - - - Creep into thy narrow bed,-- - Creep, and let no more be said. - Vain thy onset! all stands fast. - Thou thyself must break at last. - - Let the long contention cease! - Geese are swans, and swans are geese. - Let them have it how they will! - Thou art tired: best be still. - - They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee? - Better men fared thus before thee; - Fired their ringing shot, and passed, - Hotly charged--and sank at last. - - Charge once more, then, and be dumb! - Let the victors, when they come, - When the forts of folly fall, - Find thy body by the wall! - - - - -_A NAMELESS EPITAPH._ - - - Ask not my name, O friend! - That Being only, which hath known each man - From the beginning, can - Remember each unto the end. - - - - -_EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA._ - -A DRAMATIC POEM. - - - - -PERSONS. - - - EMPEDOCLES. - PAUSANIAS, _a Physician_. - CALLICLES, _a young Harp-player_. - -_The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna; at first in the forest region, -afterwards on the summit of the mountain._ - - - - -ACT I. - - -SCENE I.--_Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna._ - - CALLICLES (_alone, resting on a rock by the path_). - - The mules, I think, will not be here this hour: - They feel the cool wet turf under their feet - By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes - In which they have toiled all night from Catana, - And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, - How gracious is the mountain at this hour! - A thousand times have I been here alone, - Or with the revellers from the mountain towns, - But never on so fair a morn. The sun - Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests, - And on the highest pines; but farther down, - Here in the valley, is in shade; the sward - Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; - One sees one’s footprints crushed in the wet grass, - One’s breath curls in the air; and on these pines - That climb from the stream’s edge, the long gray tufts, - Which the goats love, are jewelled thick with dew. - Here will I stay till the slow litter comes. - I have my harp too: that is well.--Apollo! - What mortal could be sick or sorry here? - I know not in what mind Empedocles, - Whose mules I followed, may be coming up; - But if, as most men say, he is half mad - With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, - Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, - Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. - The mules must be below, far down. I hear - Their tinkling bells, mixed with the song of birds, - Rise faintly to me: now it stops!--Who’s here? - Pausanias! and on foot? alone? - - PAUSANIAS. - - And thou, then? - I left thee supping with Peisianax, - With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crowned, - Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee, - And praised and spoiled by master and by guests - Almost as much as the new dancing-girl. - Why hast thou followed us? - - CALLICLES. - - The night was hot, - And the feast past its prime: so we slipped out, - Some of us, to the portico to breathe,-- - Peisianax, thou know’st, drinks late,--and then, - As I was lifting my soiled garland off, - I saw the mules and litter in the court, - And in the litter sate Empedocles; - Thou too wast with him. Straightway I sped home; - I saddled my white mule, and all night long - Through the cool lovely country followed you, - Passed you a little since as morning dawned, - And have this hour sate by the torrent here, - Till the slow mules should climb in sight again. - And now? - - PAUSANIAS. - - And now, back to the town with speed! - Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have passed; - They do but halt, they will be here anon. - Thou must be viewless to Empedocles; - Save mine, he must not meet a human eye. - One of his moods is on him that thou know’st; - I think, thou wouldst not vex him. - - CALLICLES. - - No; and yet - I would fain stay, and help thee tend him. Once - He knew me well, and would oft notice me; - And still, I know not how, he draws me to him, - And I could watch him with his proud sad face, - His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow - And kingly gait, forever; such a spell - In his severe looks, such a majesty - As drew of old the people after him, - In Agrigentum and Olympia, - When his star reigned, before his banishment, - Is potent still on me in his decline. - But, O Pausanias, he is changed of late: - There is a settled trouble in his air - Admits no momentary brightening now; - And when he comes among his friends at feasts, - ’Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. - Thou know’st of old he loved this harp of mine, - When first he sojourned with Peisianax; - He is now always moody, and I fear him; - But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, - Dared one but try. - - PAUSANIAS. - - Thou wast a kind child ever. - He loves thee, but he must not see thee now. - Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp; - He loves that in thee, too; there was a time - (But that is past), he would have paid thy strain - With music to have drawn the stars from heaven. - He has his harp and laurel with him still; - But he has laid the use of music by, - And all which might relax his settled gloom. - Yet thou may’st try thy playing, if thou wilt, - But thou must keep unseen: follow us on, - But at a distance! in these solitudes, - In this clear mountain air, a voice will rise, - Though from afar, distinctly; it may soothe him. - Play when we halt; and when the evening comes, - And I must leave him (for his pleasure is - To be left musing these soft nights alone - In the high unfrequented mountain spots), - Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far, - Sometimes to Etna’s top, and to the cone; - But hide thee in the rocks a great way down, - And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles, - With the sweet night to help thy harmony! - Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his. - - CALLICLES. - - More than a day and night, Pausanias, - Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills, - Would I bestow to help Empedocles. - That needs no thanks: one is far better here - Than in the broiling city in these heats. - But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him - In this his present fierce, man-hating mood, - To bring thee out with him alone on Etna? - - PAUSANIAS. - - Thou hast heard all men speaking of Pantheia, - The woman who at Agrigentum lay - Thirty long days in a cold trance of death, - And whom Empedocles called back to life. - Thou art too young to note it, but his power - Swells with the swelling evil of this time, - And holds men mute to see where it will rise. - He could stay swift diseases in old days, - Chain madmen by the music of his lyre, - Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of poisonous streams, - And in the mountain chinks inter the winds. - This he could do of old; but now, since all - Clouds and grows daily worse in Sicily, - Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm - Of sophists has got empire in our schools - Where he was paramount, since he is banished, - And lives a lonely man in triple gloom,-- - He grasps the very reins of life and death. - I asked him of Pantheia yesterday, - When we were gathered with Peisianax; - And he made answer, I should come at night - On Etna here, and be alone with him, - And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend, - Who still was faithful, what might profit me,-- - That is, the secret of this miracle. - - CALLICLES. - - Bah! Thou a doctor! Thou art superstitious. - Simple Pausanias, ’twas no miracle! - Pantheia, for I know her kinsmen well, - Was subject to these trances from a girl. - Empedocles would say so, did he deign; - But he still lets the people, whom he scorns, - Gape and cry _wizard_ at him, if they list. - But thou, thou art no company for him: - Thou art as cross, as soured as himself. - Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens, - And then thy friend is banished; and on that, - Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times, - As if the sky was impious not to fall. - The sophists are no enemies of his; - I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him, - As of his gifted master, and once friend. - He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter. - ’Tis not the times, ’tis not the sophists, vex him: - There is some root of suffering in himself, - Some secret and unfollowed vein of woe, - Which makes the time look black and sad to him. - Pester him not, in this his sombre mood, - With questionings about an idle tale, - But lead him through the lovely mountain paths, - And keep his mind from preying on itself, - And talk to him of things at hand and common, - Not miracles! thou art a learned man, - But credulous of fables as a girl. - - PAUSANIAS. - - And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge, - And on whose lightness blame is thrown away. - Enough of this! I see the litter wind - Up by the torrent-side, under the pines. - I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou - Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have passed; - Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night! - - -SCENE II.--_Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of -Etna._ - - EMPEDOCLES. PAUSANIAS. - - PAUSANIAS. - - The noon is hot. When we have crossed the stream, - We shall have left the woody tract, and come - Upon the open shoulder of the hill. - See how the giant spires of yellow bloom - Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat,[15] - Are shining on those naked slopes like flame! - Let us rest here; and now, Empedocles, - Pantheia’s history! - -[_A harp-note below is heard._ - - EMPEDOCLES. - - Hark! what sound was that - Rose from below? If it were possible, - And we were not so far from human haunt, - I should have said that some one touched a harp. - Hark! there again! - - PAUSANIAS. - - ’Tis the boy Callicles, - The sweetest harp-player in Catana. - He is forever coming on these hills, - In summer, to all country-festivals, - With a gay revelling band; he breaks from them - Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. - But heed him not, he will not mount to us; - I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore, - Instruct me of Pantheia’s story, master, - As I have prayed thee. - - EMPEDOCLES. - - That? and to what end? - - PAUSANIAS. - - It is enough that all men speak of it. - But I will also say, that when the gods - Visit us as they do with sign and plague, - To know those spells of thine which stay their hand - Were to live free from terror. - - EMPEDOCLES. - - Spells? Mistrust them! - Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven; - Man has a mind with which to plan his safety,-- - Know that, and help thyself! - - PAUSANIAS. - - But thine own words? - “The wit and counsel of man was never clear; - Troubles confound the little wit he has.” - Mind is a light which the gods mock us with, - To lead those false who trust it. - - [_The harp sounds again._ - - EMPEDOCLES. - - Hist! once more! - Listen, Pausanias!--Ay, ’tis Callicles; - I know those notes among a thousand. Hark! - - CALLICLES (_sings unseen, from below_). - - The track winds down to the clear stream, - To cross the sparkling shallows; there - The cattle love to gather, on their way - To the high mountain pastures, and to stay, - Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, - Knee-deep in the cool ford; for ’tis the last - Of all the woody, high, well-watered dells - On Etna; and the beam - Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs - Down its steep verdant sides; the air - Is freshened by the leaping stream, which throws - Eternal showers of spray on the mossed roots - Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots - Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells - Of hyacinths, and on late anemones, - That muffle its wet banks; but glade, - And stream, and sward, and chestnut-trees, - End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare - Of the hot noon, without a shade, - Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare,-- - The peak, round which the white clouds play. - - In such a glen, on such a day, - On Pelion, on the grassy ground - Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay, - The young Achilles standing by. - The Centaur taught him to explore - The mountains; where the glens are dry, - And the tired Centaurs come to rest, - And where the soaking springs abound, - And the straight ashes grow for spears, - And where the hill-goats come to feed, - And the sea-eagles build their nest. - He showed him Phthia far away, - And said, “O boy, I taught this lore - To Peleus, in long-distant years!” - He told him of the gods, the stars, - The tides; and then of mortal wars, - And of the life which heroes lead - Before they reach the Elysian place, - And rest in the immortal mead; - And all the wisdom of his race. - - -_The music below ceases, and EMPEDOCLES speaks, accompanying -himself in a solemn manner on his harp._ - - The out-spread world to span, - A cord the gods first slung, - And then the soul of man - There, like a mirror, hung, - And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy. - - Hither and thither spins - The wind-borne, mirroring soul; - A thousand glimpses wins, - And never sees a whole; - Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ. - - The gods laugh in their sleeve - To watch man doubt and fear, - Who knows not what to believe - Since he sees nothing clear, - And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing sure. - - Is this, Pausanias, so? - And can our souls not strive, - But with the winds must go, - And hurry where they drive? - Is Fate indeed so strong, man’s strength indeed so poor? - - I will not judge. That man, - Howbeit, I judge as lost, - Whose mind allows a plan, - Which would degrade it most; - And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill. - - Be not, then, fear’s blind slave! - Thou art my friend; to thee, - All knowledge that I have, - All skill I wield, are free. - Ask not the latest news of the last miracle,-- - - Ask not what days and nights - In trance Pantheia lay, - But ask how thou such sights - May’st see without dismay; - Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus! - - What! hate, and awe, and shame - Fill thee to see our time; - Thou feelest thy soul’s frame - Shaken and out of chime? - What! life and chance go hard with thee too, as with us; - - Thy citizens, ’tis said, - Envy thee and oppress, - Thy goodness no men aid, - All strive to make it less; - Tyranny, pride, and lust fill Sicily’s abodes; - - Heaven is with earth at strife; - Signs make thy soul afraid,-- - The dead return to life, - Rivers are dried, winds stayed; - Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the gods; - And we feel, day and night, - The burden of ourselves: - Well, then, the wiser wight - In his own bosom delves, - And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can. - - The sophist sneers, “Fool, take - Thy pleasure, right or wrong.” - The pious wail, “Forsake - A world these sophists throng.” - Be neither saint-nor sophist-led, but be a man! - - These hundred doctors try - To preach thee to their school. - “We have the truth!” they cry; - And yet their oracle, - Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine. - - Once read thy own breast right, - And thou hast done with fears; - Man gets no other light, - Search he a thousand years. - Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine. - - What makes thee struggle and rave? - Why are men ill at ease? - ’Tis that the lot they have - Fails their own will to please; - For man would make no murmuring, were his will obeyed. - - And why is it, that still - Man with his lot thus fights? - ’Tis that he makes this _will_ - The measure of his _rights_, - And believes nature outraged if his will’s gainsaid. - - Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn - How deep a fault is this; - Couldst thou but once discern - Thou hast no _right_ to bliss, - No title from the gods to welfare and repose,-- - - Then thou wouldst look less mazed - Whene’er of bliss debarred, - Nor think the gods were crazed - When thy own lot went hard. - But we are all the same,--the fools of our own woes! - - For, from the first faint morn - Of life, the thirst for bliss - Deep in man’s heart is born; - And, sceptic as he is, - He fails not to judge clear if this be quenched or no. - - Nor is that thirst to blame. - Man errs not that he deems - His welfare his true aim: - He errs because he dreams - The world does but exist that welfare to bestow. - - We mortals are no kings - For each of whom to sway - A new-made world upsprings, - Meant merely for his play: - No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old. - - In vain our pent wills fret, - And would the world subdue. - Limits we did not set - Condition all we do; - Born into life we are, and life must be our mould. - - Born into life! man grows - Forth from his parents’ stem, - And blends their bloods, as those - Of theirs are blent in them; - So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time. - - Born into life! we bring - A bias with us here, - And, when here, each new thing - Affects us we come near; - To tunes we did not call, our being must keep chime. - - Born into life! in vain, - Opinions, those or these, - Unaltered to retain, - The obstinate mind decrees: - Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in. - - Born into life! who lists - May what is false hold dear, - And for himself make mists - Through which to see less clear: - The world is what it is, for all our dust and din. - - Born into life! ’tis we, - And not the world, are new; - Our cry for bliss, our plea, - Others have urged it too: - Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before. - - No eye could be too sound - To observe a world so vast, - No patience too profound - To sort what’s here amassed; - How man may here best live, no care too great to explore. - - But we,--as some rude guest - Would change, where’er he roam, - The manners there professed - To those he brings from home,-- - We mark not the world’s course, but would have _it_ take _ours_. - - The world’s course proves the terms - On which man wins content; - Reason the proof confirms: - We spurn it, and invent - A false course for the world, and for ourselves false powers. - - Riches we wish to get, - Yet remain spendthrifts still; - We would have health, and yet - Still use our bodies ill; - Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life’s last scenes. - - We would have inward peace, - Yet will not look within; - We would have misery cease, - Yet will not cease from sin; - We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means; - - We do not what we ought; - What we ought not, we do; - And lean upon the thought - That chance will bring us through: - But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers. - - Yet even when man forsakes - All sin,--is just, is pure, - Abandons all which makes - His welfare insecure,-- - Other existences there are, that clash with ours. - - Like us, the lightning-fires - Love to have scope and play; - The stream, like us, desires - An unimpeded way; - Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. - - Streams will not curb their pride - The just man not to entomb, - Nor lightnings go aside - To give his virtues room; - Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man’s barge. - - Nature, with equal mind, - Sees all her sons at play; - Sees man control the wind, - The wind sweep man away; - Allows the proudly riding and the foundering bark. - - And, lastly, though of ours - No weakness spoil our lot, - Though the non-human powers - Of nature harm us not, - The ill deeds of other men make often _our_ life dark. - - What were the wise man’s plan? - Through this sharp, toil-set life, - To fight as best he can, - And win what’s won by strife. - But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found. - - Scratched by a fall, with moans - As children of weak age - Lend life to the dumb stones - Whereon to vent their rage, - And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground; - So, loath to suffer mute, - We, peopling the void air, - Make gods to whom to impute - The ills we ought to bear; - With God and fate to rail at, suffering easily. - - Yet grant,--as sense long missed - Things that are now perceived, - And much may still exist - Which is not yet believed,-- - Grant that the world were full of gods we cannot see; - - All things the world which fill - Of but one stuff are spun, - That we who rail are still, - With what we rail at, one; - One with the o’er-labored Power that through the breadth and length - - Of earth, and air, and sea, - In men, and plants, and stones, - Hath toil perpetually, - And travails, pants, and moans; - Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength. - - And patiently exact - This universal God - Alike to any act - Proceeds at any nod, - And quietly declaims the cursings of himself. - - This is not what man hates, - Yet he can curse but this. - Harsh gods and hostile fates - Are dreams! this only _is_,-- - Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf. - - Nor only, in the intent - To attach blame elsewhere, - Do we at will invent - Stern powers who make their care - To imbitter human life, malignant deities; - - But, next, we would reverse - The scheme ourselves have spun, - And what we made to curse - We now would lean upon, - And feign kind gods who perfect what man vainly tries. - - Look, the world tempts our eye, - And we would know it all! - We map the starry sky, - We mine this earthen ball, - We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands; - - We scrutinize the dates - Of long-past human things, - The bounds of effaced states, - The lines of deceased kings; - We search out dead men’s words, and works of dead men’s hands; - - We shut our eyes, and muse - How our own minds are made, - What springs of thought they use, - How rightened, how betrayed,-- - And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed. - - But still, as we proceed, - The mass swells more and more - Of volumes yet to read, - Of secrets yet to explore. - Our hair grows gray, our eyes are dimmed, our heat is tamed; - We rest our faculties, - And thus address the gods: - “True science if there is, - It stays in your abodes! - Man’s measures cannot mete the immeasurable all. - - “You only can take in - The world’s immense design; - Our desperate search was sin, - Which henceforth we resign, - Sure only that your mind sees all things which befall.” - - Fools! That in man’s brief term - He cannot all things view, - Affords no ground to affirm - That there are gods who do; - Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest. - - Again: Our youthful blood - Claims rapture as its right; - The world, a rolling flood - Of newness and delight, - Draws in the enamoured gazer to its shining breast; - - Pleasure, to our hot grasp, - Gives flowers after flowers; - With passionate warmth we clasp - Hand after hand in ours; - Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent. - - At once our eyes grow clear! - We see, in blank dismay, - Year posting after year, - Sense after sense decay; - Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent. - - Yet still, in spite of truth, - In spite of hopes entombed, - That longing of our youth - Burns ever unconsumed, - Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare. - - We pause; we hush our heart, - And thus address the gods:-- - “The world hath failed to impart - The joy our youth forebodes, - Failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear. - - “Changeful till now, we still - Looked on to something new; - Let us, with changeless will, - Henceforth look on to you, - To find with you the joy we in vain here require!” - - Fools! That so often here - Happiness mocked our prayer, - I think, might make us fear - A like event elsewhere; - Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire. - - And yet, for those who know - Themselves, who wisely take - Their way through life, and bow - To what they cannot break, - Why should I say that life need yield but _moderate_ bliss? - - Shall we, with temper spoiled, - Health sapped by living ill, - And judgment all embroiled - By sadness and self-will,-- - Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is? - - Is it so small a thing - To have enjoyed the sun, - To have lived light in the spring, - To have loved, to have thought, to have done - To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes,-- - - That we must feign a bliss - Of doubtful future date, - And, while we dream on this, - Lose all our present state, - And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? - - Not much, I know, you prize - What pleasures may be had, - Who look on life with eyes - Estranged, like mine, and sad; - And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you; - - Who’s loath to leave this life - Which to him little yields,-- - His hard-tasked sunburnt wife, - His often-labored fields, - The boors with whom he talked, the country-spots he knew. - - But thou, because thou hear’st - Men scoff at heaven and fate, - Because the gods thou fear’st - Fail to make blest thy state, - Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are! - - I say: Fear not! Life still - Leaves human effort scope. - But, since life teems with ill, - Nurse no extravagant hope; - Because thou must not dream, thou need’st not then despair! - - _A long pause._ _At the end of it the notes of a harp below are - again heard, and_ CALLICLES _sings_:-- - - Far, far from here, - The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay - Among the green Illyrian hills; and there - The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, - And by the sea, and in the brakes. - The grass is cool, the sea-side air - Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers - More virginal and sweet than ours. - And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, - Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, - Bask in the glens or on the warm seashore, - In breathless quiet, after all their ills; - Nor do they see their country, nor the place - Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, - Nor the unhappy palace of their race, - Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. - - There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes! - They had stayed long enough to see, - In Thebes, the billow of calamity - Over their own dear children rolled, - Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, - For years, they sitting helpless in their home, - A gray old man and woman; yet of old - The gods had to their marriage come, - And at the banquet all the Muses sang. - - Therefore they did not end their days - In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away, - To where the west-wind plays, - And murmurs of the Adriatic come - To those untrodden mountain lawns; and there - Placed safely in changed forms, the pair - Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, - And all that Theban woe, and stray - Forever through the glens, placid and dumb. - - EMPEDOCLES. - - That was my harp-player again! Where is he? - Down by the stream? - - PAUSANIAS. - - Yes, master, in the wood. - - EMPEDOCLES. - - He ever loved the Theban story well! - But the day wears. Go now, Pausanias, - For I must be alone. Leave me one mule; - Take down with thee the rest to Catana. - And for young Callicles, thank him from me; - Tell him, I never failed to love his lyre; - But he must follow me no more to-night. - - PAUSANIAS. - - Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city? - - EMPEDOCLES. - - Either to-morrow or some other day, - In the sure revolutions of the world, - Good friend, I shall revisit Catana. - I have seen many cities in my time, - Till mine eyes ache with the long spectacle, - And I shall doubtless see them all again; - Thou know’st me for a wanderer from of old. - Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias! - -_He departs on his way up the mountain._ - - PAUSANIAS (_alone_). - - I dare not urge him further--he must go; - But he is strangely wrought! I will speed back, - And bring Peisianax to him from the city; - His counsel could once soothe him. But, Apollo! - How his brow lightened as the music rose! - Callicles must wait here, and play to him; - I saw him through the chestnuts far below, - Just since, down at the stream.--Ho! Callicles! - - _He descends, calling._ - - - - -ACT II. - -_Evening._ _The Summit of Etna._ - - - EMPEDOCLES. - - Alone! - On this charred, blackened, melancholy waste, - Crowned by the awful peak, Etna’s great mouth, - Round which the sullen vapor rolls,--alone! - Pausanias is far hence, and that is well, - For I must henceforth speak no more with man. - He has his lesson too, and that debt’s paid; - And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man, - May bravelier front his life, and in himself - Find henceforth energy and heart. But I,-- - The weary man, the banished citizen, - Whose banishment is not his greatest ill, - Whose weariness no energy can reach, - And for whose hurt courage is not the cure,-- - What should I do with life and living more? - - No, thou art come too late, Empedocles! - And the world hath the day, and must break thee, - Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live: - Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine. - And being lonely thou art miserable; - For something has impaired thy spirit’s strength, - And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy. - Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself, - O sage! O sage! Take, then, the one way left; - And turn thee to the elements, thy friends, - Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers, - And say: Ye servants, hear Empedocles, - Who asks this final service at your hands! - Before the sophist-brood hath overlaid - The last spark of man’s consciousness with words; - Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world, - Be disarrayed of their divinity; - Before the soul lose all her solemn joys, - And awe be dead, and hope impossible, - And the soul’s deep eternal night come on,-- - Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me home! - - -_He advances to the edge of the crater. Smoke and fire -break forth with a loud noise, and CALLICLES is -heard below singing_:-- - - The lyre’s voice is lovely everywhere; - In the court of gods, in the city of men, - And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen, - In the still mountain air. - - Only to Typho it sounds hatefully,-- - To Typho only, the rebel o’erthrown, - Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone, - To embed them in the sea. - Wherefore dost thou groan so loud? - Wherefore do thy nostrils flash, - Through the dark night, suddenly, - Typho, such red jets of flame? - Is thy tortured heart still proud? - Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash? - Still alert thy stone-crushed frame? - Doth thy fierce soul still deplore - Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills, - And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore? - Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep - The fight which crowned thine ills, - Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep? - Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair, - Where erst the strong sea-currents sucked thee down, - Never to cease to writhe, and try to rest, - Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair? - That thy groans, like thunder prest, - Begin to roll, and almost drown - The sweet notes whose lulling spell - Gods and the race of mortals love so well, - When through thy caves thou hearest music swell? - - But an awful pleasure bland - Spreading o’er the Thunderer’s face, - When the sound climbs near his seat, - The Olympian council sees; - As he lets his lax right hand, - Which the lightnings doth embrace, - Sink upon his mighty knees. - And the eagle, at the beck - Of the appeasing, gracious harmony, - Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feathered neck, - Nestling nearer to Jove’s feet; - While o’er his sovran eye - The curtains of the blue films slowly meet. - And the white Olympus-peaks - Rosily brighten, and the soothed gods smile - At one another from their golden chairs, - And no one round the charmed circle speaks. - Only the loved Hebe bears - The cup about, whose draughts beguile - Pain and care, with a dark store - Of fresh-pulled violets wreathed and nodding o’er; - And her flushed feet glow on the marble floor. - - EMPEDOCLES. - - He fables, yet speaks truth! - The brave impetuous heart yields everywhere - To the subtle, contriving head; - Great qualities are trodden down, - And littleness united - Is become invincible. - - These rumblings are not Typho’s groans, I know! - These angry smoke-bursts - Are not the passionate breath - Of the mountain-crushed, tortured, intractable Titan king; - But over all the world - What suffering is there not seen - Of plainness oppressed by cunning, - As the well-counselled Zeus oppressed - That self-helping son of earth! - What anguish of greatness, - Railed and hunted from the world, - Because its simplicity rebukes - This envious, miserable age! - - I am weary of it. - --Lie there, ye ensigns - Of my unloved pre-eminence - In an age like this! - Among a people of children, - Who thronged me in their cities, - Who worshipped me in their houses, - And asked, not wisdom, - But drugs to charm with, - But spells to mutter - All the fool’s-armory of magic! Lie there, - My golden circlet, - My purple robe! - - CALLICLES (_from below_). - - As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day, - And makes the massed clouds roll, - The music of the lyre blows away - The clouds which wrap the soul. - - Oh that fate had let me see - That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, - That famous, final victory - When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire! - - When, from far Parnassus’ side, - Young Apollo, all the pride - Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, - To the Phrygian highlands came; - Where the long green reed-beds sway - In the rippled waters gray - Of that solitary lake - Where Mæander’s springs are born; - Where the ridged pine-wooded roots - Of Messogis westward break, - Mounting westward, high and higher. - There was held the famous strife; - There the Phrygian brought his flutes, - And Apollo brought his lyre; - And, when now the westering sun - Touched the hills, the strife was done, - And the attentive muses said,-- - “Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!” - Then Apollo’s minister - Hanged upon a branching fir - Marsyas, that unhappy Faun, - And began to whet his knife. - But the Mænads, who were there, - Left their friend, and with robes flowing - In the wind, and loose dark hair - O’er their polished bosoms blowing, - Each her ribboned tambourine - Flinging on the mountain-sod, - With a lovely frightened mien - Came about the youthful god. - But he turned his beauteous face - Haughtily another way, - From the grassy sun-warmed place - Where in proud repose he lay, - With one arm over his head, - Watching how the whetting sped. - - But aloof, on the lake-strand, - Did the young Olympus stand, - Weeping at his master’s end; - For the Faun had been his friend. - For he taught him how to sing, - And he taught him flute-playing. - Many a morning had they gone - To the glimmering mountain lakes, - And had torn up by the roots - The tall crested water-reeds - With long plumes and soft brown seeds, - And had carved them into flutes, - Sitting on a tabled stone - Where the shoreward ripple breaks. - And he taught him how to please - The red-snooded Phrygian girls, - Whom the summer evening sees - Flashing in the dance’s whirls - Underneath the starlit trees - In the mountain villages. - Therefore now Olympus stands, - At his master’s piteous cries - Pressing fast with both his hands - His white garment to his eyes, - Not to see Apollo’s scorn.-- - Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun! - - EMPEDOCLES. - - And lie thou there, - My laurel bough! - Scornful Apollo’s ensign, lie thou there! - Though thou hast been my shade in the world’s heat, - Though I have loved thee, lived in honoring thee, - Yet lie thou there, - My laurel bough! - - I am weary of thee. - I am weary of the solitude - Where he who bears thee must abide,-- - Of the rocks of Parnassus, - Of the gorge of Delphi, - Of the moonlight peaks, and the caves. - Thou guardest them, Apollo! - Over the grave of the slain Pytho, - Though young, intolerably severe! - Thou keepest aloof the profane, - But the solitude oppresses thy votary. - The jars of men reach him not in thy valley, - But can life reach him? - Thou fencest him from the multitude: - Who will fence him from himself? - He hears nothing but the cry of the torrents, - And the beating of his own heart; - The air is thin, the veins swell, - The temples tighten and throb there-- - Air! air! - - Take thy bough, set me free from my solitude; - I have been enough alone! - - Where shall thy votary fly, then? back to men? - But they will gladly welcome him once more, - And help him to unbend his too tense thought, - And rid him of the presence of himself, - And keep their friendly chatter at his ear, - And haunt him, till the absence from himself, - That other torment, grow unbearable; - And he will fly to solitude again, - And he will find its air too keen for him, - And so change back; and many thousand times - Be miserably bandied to and fro - Like a sea-wave, betwixt the world and thee, - Thou young, implacable god! and only death - Shall cut his oscillations short, and so - Bring him to poise. There is no other way. - - And yet what days were those, Parmenides! - When we were young, when we could number friends - In all the Italian cities like ourselves; - When with elated hearts we joined your train, - Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.[16] - Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought - Nor outward things were closed and dead to us; - But we received the shock of mighty thoughts - On simple minds with a pure natural joy; - And if the sacred load oppressed our brain, - We had the power to feel the pressure eased, - The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again, - In the delightful commerce of the world. - We had not lost our balance then, nor grown - Thought’s slaves, and dead to every natural joy. - The smallest thing could give us pleasure then,-- - The sports of the country-people, - A flute-note from the woods, - Sunset over the sea; - Seed-time and harvest, - The reapers in the corn, - The vinedresser in his vineyard, - The village-girl at her wheel. - - Fulness of life and power of feeling, ye - Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, - Who dwell on a firm basis of content! - But he who has outlived his prosperous days; - But he whose youth fell on a different world - From that on which his exiled age is thrown,-- - Whose mind was fed on other food, was trained - By other rules than are in vogue to-day; - Whose habit of thought is fixed, who will not change, - But, in a world he loves not, must subsist - In ceaseless opposition, be the guard - Of his own breast, fettered to what he guards, - That the world win no mastery over him; - Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one; - Who has no minute’s breathing-space allowed - To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy,-- - Joy and the outward world must die to him, - As they are dead to me. - - - _A long pause, during which EMPEDOCLES remains motionless, - plunged in thought. The night deepens. - He moves forward, and gazes around him, and proceeds_:-- - - And yon, ye stars, - Who slowly begin to marshal, - As of old, in the fields of heaven, - Your distant, melancholy lines! - Have you, too, survived yourselves? - Are you, too, what I fear to become? - You too once lived; - You too moved joyfully, - Among august companions, - In an older world, peopled by gods, - In a mightier order, - The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent sons of heaven. - But now ye kindle - Your lonely, cold-shining lights, - Unwilling lingerers - In the heavenly wilderness, - For a younger, ignoble world; - And renew, by necessity, - Night after night your courses, - In echoing, unneared silence, - Above a race you know not, - Uncaring and undelighted, - Without friend and without home; - Weary like us, though not - Weary with our weariness. - - No, no, ye stars! there is no death with you, - No languor, no decay! languor and death, - They are with me, not you! ye are alive,-- - Ye, and the pure dark ether where ye ride - Brilliant above me! And thou, fiery world, - That sapp’st the vitals of this terrible mount - Upon whose charred and quaking crust I stand,-- - Thou, too, brimmest with life! the sea of cloud, - That heaves its white and billowy vapors up - To moat this isle of ashes from the world, - Lives; and that other fainter sea, far down, - O’er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams leads - To Etna’s Lipareän sister-fires - And the long dusky line of Italy,-- - That mild and luminous floor of waters lives, - With held-in joy swelling its heart: I only, - Whose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit has failed, - I, who have not, like these, in solitude - Maintained courage and force, and in myself - Nursed an immortal vigor,--I alone - Am dead to life and joy, therefore I read - In all things my own deadness. - - _A long silence. He continues_:-- - - Oh that I could glow like this mountain! - Oh that my heart bounded with the swell of the sea! - Oh that my soul were full of light as the stars! - Oh that it brooded over the world like the air! - - But no, this heart will glow no more; thou art - A living man no more, Empedocles! - Nothing but a devouring flame of thought,-- - But a naked, eternally restless mind! - - _After a pause_:-- - - To the elements it came from, - Every thing will return,-- - Our bodies to earth, - Our blood to water, - Heat to fire, - Breath to air: - They were well born, they will be well entombed. - But mind?... - - And we might gladly share the fruitful stir - Down in our mother earth’s miraculous womb; - Well would it be - With what rolled of us in the stormy main; - We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air, - Or with the nimble, radiant life of fire. - - But mind, but thought, - If these have been the master part of us,-- - Where will _they_ find their parent element? - What will receive _them_, who will call _them_ home? - But we shall still be in them, and they in us; - And we shall be the strangers of the world; - And they will be our lords, as they are now, - And keep us prisoners of our consciousness, - And never let us clasp and feel the All - But through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils. - And we shall be unsatisfied as now; - And we shall feel the agony of thirst, - The ineffable longing for the life of life - Baffled forever; and still thought and mind - Will hurry us with them on their homeless march - Over the unallied unopening earth, - Over the unrecognizing sea; while air - Will blow us fiercely back to sea and earth, - And fire repel us from its living waves. - And then we shall unwillingly return - Back to this meadow of calamity, - This uncongenial place, this human life: - And in our individual human state - Go through the sad probation all again, - To see if we will poise our life at last, - To see if we will now at last be true - To our own only true, deep-buried selves, - Being one with which, we are one with the whole world; - Or whether we will once more fall away - Into the bondage of the flesh or mind, - Some slough of sense, or some fantastic maze - Forged by the imperious lonely thinking-power. - And each succeeding age in which we are born - Will have more peril for us than the last; - Will goad our senses with a sharper spur, - Will fret our minds to an intenser play, - Will make ourselves harder to be discerned. - And we shall struggle a while, gasp and rebel; - And we shall fly for refuge to past times, - Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness; - And the reality will pluck us back, - Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature. - And we shall feel our powers of effort flag, - And rally them for one last fight--and fail; - And we shall sink in the impossible strife, - And be astray forever. - Slave of sense - I have in no wise been; but slave of thought? - And who can say: I have been always free, - Lived ever in the light of my own soul? - I cannot; I have lived in wrath and gloom, - Fierce, disputatious, ever at war with man, - Far from my own soul, far from warmth and light; - But I have not grown easy in these bonds, - But I have not denied what bonds these were. - Yea, I take myself to witness, - That I have loved no darkness, - Sophisticated no truth, - Nursed no dlusion, - Allowed no fear! - - And therefore, O ye elements! I know know-- - Ye know it too--it hath been granted me - Not to die wholly, not to be all enslaved. - I feel it in this hour. The numbing cloud - Mounts off my soul; I feel it, I breathe free. - - Is it but for a moment? - --Ah, boil up, ye vapors! - Leap and roar, thou sea of fire! - My soul glows to meet you. - Ere it flag, ere the mists - Of despondency and gloom - Rush over it again, - Receive me, save me! - - [_He plunges into the crater._ - - CALLICLES (_from below_). - - Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, - Thick breaks the red flame; - All Etna heaves fiercely - Her forest-clothed frame. - - Not here, O Apollo! - Are haunts meet for thee; - But where Helicon breaks down - In cliff to the sea,-- - - Where the moon-silvered inlets - Send far their light voice - Up the still vale of Thisbe,-- - Oh, speed, and rejoice! - - On the sward at the cliff-top - Lie strewn the white flocks: - On the cliff-side the pigeons - Roost deep in the rocks. - - In the moonlight the shepherds, - Soft lulled by the rills, - Lie wrapped in their blankets - Asleep on the hills. - - --What forms are these coming - So white through the gloom? - What garments out-glistening - The gold-flowered broom? - - What sweet-breathing presence - Out-perfumes the thyme? - What voices enrapture - The night’s balmy prime? - - ’Tis Apollo comes leading - His choir, the Nine. - The leader is fairest, - But all are divine. - - They are lost in the hollows! - They stream up again! - What seeks on this mountain - The glorified train? - - They bathe on this mountain, - In the spring by their road; - Then on to Olympus, - Their endless abode. - - --Whose praise do they mention? - Of what is it told? - What will be forever, - What was from of old. - - First hymn they the Father - Of all things; and then, - The rest of immortals, - The action of men. - - The day in his hotness, - The strife with the palm; - The night in her silence, - The stars in their calm. - - - - -_BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE._ - - -I. - - The evening comes, the fields are still. - The tinkle of the thirsty rill, - Unheard all day, ascends again; - Deserted is the half-mown plain, - Silent the swaths; the ringing wain, - The mower’s cry, the dog’s alarms, - All housed within the sleeping farms. - The business of the day is done, - The last-left haymaker is gone. - And from the thyme upon the height, - And from the elder-blossom white - And pale dog-roses in the hedge, - And from the mint-plant in the sedge, - In puffs of balm the night-air blows - The perfume which the day foregoes. - And on the pure horizon far, - See, pulsing with the first-born star, - The liquid sky above the hill! - The evening comes, the fields are still. - - Loitering and leaping, - With saunter, with bounds, - Flickering and circling - In files and in rounds, - Gayly their pine-staff green - Tossing in air, - Loose o’er their shoulders white - Showering their hair, - See! the wild Mænads - Break from the wood, - Youth and Iacchus - Maddening their blood. - See! through the quiet land - Rioting they pass, - Fling the fresh heaps about, - Trample the grass, - Tear from the rifled hedge - Garlands, their prize; - Fill with their sports the field, - Fill with their cries. - - Shepherd, what ails thee, then? - Shepherd, why mute? - Forth with thy joyous song! - Forth with thy flute! - Tempts not the revel blithe? - Lure not their cries? - Glow not their shoulders smooth? - Melt not their eyes? - Is not, on cheeks like those, - Lovely the flush? - --_Ah! so the quiet was! - So was the hush!_ - - -II. - - The epoch ends, the world is still. - The age has talked and worked its fill. - The famous orators have shone, - The famous poets sung and gone, - The famous men of war have fought, - The famous speculators thought, - The famous players, sculptors, wrought, - The famous painters filled their wall, - The famous critics judged it all. - The combatants are parted now; - Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, - The puissant crowned, the weak laid low. - And in the after-silence sweet, - Now strifes are hushed, our ears doth meet, - Ascending pure, the bell-like fame - Of this or that down-trodden name, - Delicate spirits, pushed away - In the hot press of the noonday. - And o’er the plain, where the dead age - Did its now-silent warfare wage,-- - O’er that wide plain, now wrapped in gloom, - Where many a splendor finds its tomb, - Many spent fames and fallen nights nights-- - The one or two immortal lights - Rise slowly up into the sky, - To shine there everlastingly, - Like stars over the bounding hill. - The epoch ends, the world is still. - - Thundering and bursting - In torrents, in waves, - Carolling and shouting - Over tombs, amid graves, - See! on the cumbered plain - Clearing a stage, - Scattering the past about, - Comes the new age. - Bards make new poems, - Thinkers new schools, - Statesmen new systems, - Critics new rules. - All things begin again; - Life is their prize; - Earth with their deeds they fill, - Fill with their cries. - - Poet, what ails thee, then? - Say, why so mute? - Forth with thy praising voice! - Forth with thy flute! - Loiterer! why sittest thou - Sunk in thy dream? - Tempts not the bright new age? - Shines not its stream? - Look, ah! what genius, - Art, science, wit! - Soldiers like Cæsar, - Statesmen like Pitt! - Sculptors like Phidias, - Raphaels in shoals, - Poets like Shakspeare,-- - Beautiful souls! - See, on their glowing cheeks - Heavenly the flush! - --_Ah! so the silence was! - So was the hush!_ - - The world but feels the present’s spell: - The poet feels the past as well; - Whatever men have done, might do, - Whatever thought, might think it too. - - - - -_EPILOGUE TO LESSING’S LAOCOÖN._ - - - One morn as through Hyde Park we walked, - My friend and I, by chance we talked - Of Lessing’s famed Laocoön; - And after we a while had gone - In Lessing’s track, and tried to see - What painting is, what poetry,-- - Diverging to another thought, - “Ah!” cries my friend, “but who hath taught - Why music and the other arts - Oftener perform aright their parts - Than poetry? why she, than they, - Fewer fine successes can display? - - “For ’tis so, surely! Even in Greece, - Where best the poet framed his piece, - Even in that Phœbus-guarded ground - Pausanias on his travels found - Good poems, if he looked, more rare - (Though many) than good statues were-- - For these, in truth, were everywhere. - Of bards full many a stroke divine - In Dante’s, Petrarch’s, Tasso’s line, - The land of Ariosto showed; - And yet, e’en there, the canvas glowed - With triumphs, a yet ampler brood, - Of Raphael and his brotherhood. - And nobly perfect, in our day - Of haste, half-work, and disarray, - Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, - Hath risen Goethe’s, Wordsworth’s song; - Yet even I (and none will bow - Deeper to these) must needs allow, - They yield us not, to soothe our pains, - Such multitude of heavenly strains - As from the kings of sound are blown,-- - Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn.” - - While thus my friend discoursed, we pass - Out of the path, and take the grass. - The grass had still the green of May, - And still the unblackened elms were gay; - The kine were resting in the shade, - The flies a summer murmur made. - Bright was the morn, and south the air; - The soft-couched cattle were as fair - As those which pastured by the sea, - That old-world morn, in Sicily, - When on the beach the Cyclops lay, - And Galatea from the bay - Mocked her poor lovelorn giant’s lay. - “Behold,” I said, “the painter’s sphere! - The limits of his art appear. - The passing group, the summer morn, - The grass, the elms, that blossomed thorn,-- - Those cattle couched, or, as they rise, - Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes,-- - These, or much greater things, but caught - Like these, and in one aspect brought! - In outward semblance he must give - A moment’s life of things that live; - Then let him choose his moment well, - With power divine its story tell.” - - Still we walked on, in thoughtful mood, - And now upon the bridge we stood. - Full of sweet breathings was the air, - Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. - Down o’er the stately bridge the breeze - Came rustling from the garden-trees, - And on the sparkling waters played; - Light-plashing waves an answer made, - And mimic boats their haven neared. - Beyond, the abbey-towers appeared, - By mist and chimneys unconfined, - Free to the sweep of light and wind; - While through their earth-moored nave below, - Another breath of wind doth blow, - Sound as of wandering breeze--but sound - In laws by human artists bound. - “The world of music!” I exclaimed,-- - “This breeze that rustles by, that famed - Abbey, recall it! what a sphere, - Large and profound, hath genius here! - The inspired musician, what a range, - What power of passion, wealth of change! - Some source of feeling he must choose, - And its locked fount of beauty use, - And through the stream of music tell - Its else unutterable spell; - To choose it rightly is his part, - And press into its inmost heart. - - “_Miserere, Domine!_ - The words are uttered, and they flee. - Deep is their penitential moan, - Mighty their pathos, but ’tis gone. - They have declared the spirit’s sore, - Sore load, and words can do no more. - Beethoven takes them then,--those two - Poor, bounded words,--and makes them new; - Infinite makes them, makes them young; - Transplants them to another tongue, - Where they can now, without constraint, - Pour all the soul of their complaint, - And roll adown a channel large - The wealth divine they have in charge. - Page after page of music turn, - And still they live, and still they burn, - Eternal, passion-fraught, and free,-- - _Miserere, Domine!_” - - Onward we moved, and reached the ride - Where gayly flows the human tide. - Afar, in rest the cattle lay; - We heard, afar, faint music play; - But agitated, brisk, and near, - Men, with their stream of life, were here. - Some hang upon the rails, and some - On foot behind them go and come. - This through the ride upon his steed - Goes slowly by, and this at speed. - The young, the happy, and the fair, - The old, the sad, the worn, were there; - Some vacant and some musing went, - And some in talk and merriment. - Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells! - And now and then, perhaps, there swells - A sigh, a tear--but in the throng - All changes fast, and hies along. - Hies, ah! from whence, what native ground? - And to what goal, what ending, bound? - “Behold at last the poet’s sphere! - But who,” I said, “suffices here? - - “For, ah! so much he has to do,-- - Be painter and musician too! - The aspect of the moment show, - The feeling of the moment know! - The aspect not, I grant, express - Clear as the painter’s art can dress; - The feeling not, I grant, explore - So deep as the musician’s lore: - But clear as words can make revealing, - And deep as words can follow feeling. - But, ah! then comes his sorest spell - Of toil,--he must life’s _movement_ tell! - The thread which binds it all in one, - And not its separate parts alone. - The _movement_ he must tell of life, - Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife; - His eye must travel down, at full, - The long, unpausing spectacle; - With faithful, unrelaxing force - Attend it from its primal source, - From change to change and year to year - Attend it of its mid-career, - Attend it to the last repose - And solemn silence of its close. - - “The cattle rising from the grass, - His thought must follow where they pass; - The penitent with anguish bowed, - His thought must follow through the crowd. - Yes! all this eddying, motley throng - That sparkles in the sun along,-- - Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold, - Master and servant, young and old, - Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,-- - He follows home, and lives their life. - - “And many, many are the souls - Life’s movement fascinates, controls. - It draws them on, they cannot save - Their feet from its alluring wave; - They cannot leave it, they must go - With its unconquerable flow. - But ah! how few, of all that try - This mighty march, do aught but die! - For ill-endowed for such a way, - Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they. - They faint, they stagger to and fro, - And wandering from the stream they go; - In pain, in terror, in distress, - They see, all round, a wilderness. - Sometimes a momentary gleam - They catch of the mysterious stream; - Sometimes, a second’s space, their ear - The murmur of its waves doth hear; - That transient glimpse in song they say, - But not as painter can portray; - That transient sound in song they tell, - But not as the musician well. - And when at last their snatches cease, - And they are silent and at peace, - The stream of life’s majestic whole - Hath ne’er been mirrored on their soul. - - “Only a few the life-stream’s shore - With safe unwandering feet explore; - Untired its movement bright attend, - Follow its windings to the end. - Then from its brimming waves their eye - Drinks up delighted ecstasy, - And its deep-toned, melodious voice - Forever makes their ear rejoice. - They speak! the happiness divine - They feel runs o’er in every line; - Its spell is round them like a shower; - It gives them pathos, gives them power. - No painter yet hath such a way, - Nor no musician made, as they, - And gathered on immortal knolls - Such lovely flowers for cheering souls. - Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach - The charm which Homer, Shakspeare, teach. - To these, to these, their thankful race - Gives, then, the first, the fairest place; - And brightest is their glory’s sheen, - For greatest hath their labor been.” - - - - -_PERSISTENCY OF POETRY._ - - - Though the Muse be gone away, - Though she move not earth to-day, - Souls, erewhile who caught her word, - Ah! still harp on what they heard. - - - - -_A CAUTION TO POETS._ - - - What poets feel not, when they make, - A pleasure in creating, - The world, in _its_ turn, will not take - Pleasure in contemplating. - - - - -_THE YOUTH OF NATURE._ - - - Raised are the dripping oars, - Silent the boat! The lake, - Lovely and soft as a dream, - Swims in the sheen of the moon. - The mountains stand at its head - Clear in the pure June-night, - But the valleys are flooded with haze. - Rydal and Fairfield are there; - In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. - So it is, so it will be for aye. - Nature is fresh as of old, - Is lovely; a mortal is dead. - - The spots which recall him survive, - For he lent a new life to these hills. - The Pillar still broods o’er the fields - Which border Ennerdale Lake, - And Egremont sleeps by the sea. - The gleam of The Evening Star - Twinkles on Grasmere no more, - But ruined and solemn and gray - The sheepfold of Michael survives; - And far to the south, the heath - Still blows in the Quantock coombs, - By the favorite waters of Ruth. - These survive! Yet not without pain, - Pain and dejection to-night, - Can I feel that their poet is gone. - - He grew old in an age he condemned. - He looked on the rushing decay - Of the times which had sheltered his youth; - Felt the dissolving throes - Of a social order he loved; - Outlived his brethren, his peers; - And, like the Theban seer, - Died in his enemies’ day. - - Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, - Copais lay bright in the moon, - Helicon glassed in the lake - Its firs, and afar rose the peaks - Of Parnassus, snowily clear; - Thebes was behind him in flames, - And the clang of arms in his ear, - When his awe-struck captors led - The Theban seer to the spring. - Tiresias drank and died. - Nor did reviving Thebes - See such a prophet again. - - Well may we mourn, when the head - Of a sacred poet lies low - In an age which can rear them no more! - The complaining millions of men - Darken in labor and pain; - But he was a priest to us all - Of the wonder and bloom of the world, - Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad. - He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day - Of his race is past on the earth; - And darkness returns to our eyes. - - For, oh! is it you, is it you, - Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, - And mountains, that fill us with joy, - Or the poet who sings you so well? - Is it you, O beauty, O grace, - O charm, O romance, that we feel, - Or the voice which reveals what you are? - Are ye, like daylight and sun, - Shared and rejoiced in by all? - Or are ye immersed in the mass - Of matter, and hard to extract, - Or sunk at the core of the world - Too deep for the most to discern? - Like stars in the deep of the sky, - Which arise on the glass of the sage, - But are lost when their watcher is gone. - - “They are here,”--I heard, as men heard - In Mysian Ida the voice - Of the mighty Mother, or Crete, - The murmur of Nature, reply,-- - “Loveliness, magic, grace, - They are here! they are set in the world, - They abide; and the finest of souls - Hath not been thrilled by them all, - Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. - The poet who sings them may die, - But they are immortal and live, - For they are the life of the world. - Will ye not learn it, and know, - When ye mourn that a poet is dead, - That the singer was less than his themes, - Life, and emotion, and I? - - “More than the singer are these. - Weak is the tremor of pain - That thrills in his mournfullest chord - To that which once ran through his soul. - Cold the elation of joy - In his gladdest, airiest song, - To that which of old in his youth - Filled him and made him divine. - Hardly his voice at its best - Gives us a sense of the awe, - The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom, - Of the unlit gulf of himself. - - “Ye know not yourselves; and your bards-- - The clearest, the best, who have read - Most in themselves--have beheld - Less than they left unrevealed. - Ye express not yourselves: can ye make - With marble, with color, with word, - What charmed you in others re-live? - Can thy pencil, O artist! restore - The figure, the bloom of thy love, - As she was in her morning of spring? - Canst thou paint the ineffable smile - Of her eyes as they rested on thine? - Can the image of life have the glow, - The motion of life itself? - - “Yourselves and your fellows ye know not; and me, - The mateless, the one, will ye know? - Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell - Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, - My longing, my sadness, my joy? - Will ye claim for your great ones the gift - To have rendered the gleam of my skies, - To have echoed the moan of my seas, - Uttered the voice of my hills? - When your great ones depart, will ye say,-- - _All things have suffered a loss,_ - _Nature is hid in their grave_? - - “Race after race, man after man, - Have thought that my secret was theirs, - Have dreamed that I lived but for them, - That they were my glory and joy. - --They are dust, they are changed, they are gone! - I remain.” - - - - -_THE YOUTH OF MAN._ - - - We, O Nature, depart: - Thou survivest us! This, - This, I know, is the law. - Yes! but, more than this, - Thou who seest us die - Seest us change while we live; - Seest our dreams, one by one, - Seest our errors depart; - Watchest us, Nature! throughout - Mild and inscrutably calm. - - Well for us that we change! - Well for us that the power - Which in our morning prime - Saw the mistakes of our youth, - Sweet, and forgiving, and good, - Sees the contrition of age! - - Behold, O Nature, this pair! - See them to-night where they stand, - Not with the halo of youth - Crowning their brows with its light, - Not with the sunshine of hope, - Not with the rapture of spring, - Which they had of old, when they stood - Years ago at my side - In this self-same garden, and said,-- - “We are young, and the world is ours; - Man, man is king of the world! - Fools that these mystics are - Who prate of Nature! but she - Hath neither beauty, nor warmth, - Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. - But man has a thousand gifts, - And the generous dreamer invests - The senseless world with them all. - Nature is nothing; her charm - Lives in our eyes which can paint, - Lives in our hearts which can feel.” - - Thou, O Nature, wast mute, - Mute as of old! Days flew, - Days and years; and Time - With the ceaseless stroke of his wings - Brushed off the bloom from their soul. - Clouded and dim grew their eye, - Languid their heart--for youth - Quickened its pulses no more. - Slowly, within the walls - Of an ever-narrowing world, - They drooped, they grew blind, they grew old. - Thee, and their youth in thee, - Nature! they saw no more. - - Murmur of living, - Stir of existence, - Soul of the world! - Make, oh, make yourselves felt - To the dying spirit of youth! - Come, like the breath of the spring! - Leave not a human soul - To grow old in darkness and pain! - Only the living can feel you, - But leave us not while we live! - - Here they stand to-night,-- - Here, where this gray balustrade - Crowns the still valley; behind - In the castled house with its woods - Which sheltered their childhood; the sun - On its ivied windows; a scent - From the gray-walled gardens, a breath - Of the fragrant stock and the pink, - Perfumes the evening air. - Their children play on the lawns. - They stand and listen; they hear - The children’s shouts, and at times, - Faintly, the bark of a dog - From a distant farm in the hills. - Nothing besides! in front - The wide, wide valley outspreads - To the dim horizon, reposed - In the twilight, and bathed in dew, - Cornfield and hamlet and copse - Darkening fast; but a light, - Far off, a glory of day, - Still plays on the city-spires; - And there in the dusk by the walls, - With the gray mist marking its course - Through the silent, flowery land, - On, to the plains, to the sea, - Floats the imperial stream. - - Well I know what they feel! - They gaze, and the evening wind - Plays on their faces; they gaze,-- - Airs from the Eden of youth - Awake and stir in their soul; - The past returns: they feel - What they are, alas! what they were. - They, not Nature, are changed. - Well I know what they feel! - - Hush, for tears - Begin to steal to their eyes! - Hush, for fruit - Grows from such sorrow as theirs! - - And they remember, - With piercing, untold anguish, - The proud boasting of their youth. - And they feel how Nature was fair. - And the mists of delusion, - And the scales of habit, - Fall away from their eyes; - And they see, for a moment, - Stretching out like the desert - In its weary, unprofitable length, - Their faded, ignoble lives. - - While the locks are yet brown on thy head, - While the soul still looks through thine eyes, - While the heart still pours - The mantling blood to thy cheek, - Sink, O youth, in thy soul! - Yearn to the greatness of Nature; - Rally the good in the depths of thyself! - - - - -_PALLADIUM._ - - - Set where the upper streams of Simois flow, - Was the Palladium, high ’mid rock and wood; - And Hector was in Ilium, far below, - And fought, and saw it not; but there it stood! - - It stood, and sun and moonshine rained their light - On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. - Backward and forward rolled the waves of fight - Round Troy; but while this stood, Troy could not fall. - - So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. - Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; - Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll: - We visit it by moments, ah, too rare! - - Men will renew the battle in the plain - To-morrow: red with blood will Xanthus be; - Hector and Ajax will be there again, - Helen will come upon the wall to see. - - Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, - And fluctuate ’twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, - And fancy that we put forth all our life, - And never know how with the soul it fares. - - Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, - Upon our life a ruling effluence send; - And when it fails, fight as we will, we die; - And, while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. - - - - -_PROGRESS._ - - - The Master stood upon the mount, and taught. - He saw a fire in his disciples’ eyes; - “The old law,” they said, “is wholly come to naught: - Behold the new world rise!” - - “Was it,” the Lord then said, “with scorn ye saw - The old law observed by scribes and Pharisees? - I say unto you, see ye keep that law - More faithfully than these! - - “Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas! - Think not that I to annul the law have willed: - No jot, no tittle, from the law shall pass - Till all have been fulfilled.” - - So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. - And what, then, shall be said to those to-day, - Who cry aloud to lay the old world low - To clear the new world’s way? - - “Religious fervors! ardor misapplied! - Hence, hence!” they cry, “ye do but keep man blind! - But keep him self-immersed, pre-occupied, - And lame the active mind.” - - Ah! from the old world let some one answer give: - “Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares? - I say unto you, see that _your_ souls live - A deeper life than theirs! - - “Say ye, ‘The spirit of man has found new roads, - And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein’? - Leave, then, the cross as ye have left carved gods, - But guard the fire within! - - “Bright, else, and fast the stream of life may roll, - And no man may the other’s hurt behold; - Yet each will have one anguish,--his own soul - Which perishes of cold.” - - Here let that voice make end; then let a strain - From a far lonelier distance, like the wind - Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again - These men’s profoundest mind:-- - - “Children of men! the unseen Power, whose eye - Forever doth accompany mankind, - Hath looked on no religion scornfully - That men did ever find. - - “Which has not taught weak wills how much they can? - Which has not fallen on the dry heart like rain? - Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man,-- - _Thou must be born again!_ - - “Children of men! not that your age excel - In pride of life the ages of your sires, - But that _ye_ think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, - The Friend of man desires.” - - - - -_REVOLUTIONS._ - - - Before man parted for this earthly strand, - While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, - God put a heap of letters in his hand, - And bade him make with them what word he could. - - And man has turned them many times; made Greece, - Rome, England, France; yes, nor in vain essayed - Way after way, changes that never cease! - The letters have combined, something was made. - - But ah! an inextinguishable sense - Haunts him that he has not made what he should; - That he has still, though old, to recommence, - Since he has not yet found the word God would. - - And empire after empire, at their height - Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on; - Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, - And drooped, and slowly died upon their throne. - - One day, thou say’st, there will at last appear - The word, the order, which God meant should be. - --Ah! we shall know _that_ well when it comes near; - The band will quit man’s heart, he will breathe free. - - - - -_SELF-DEPENDENCE._ - - - Weary of myself, and sick of asking - What I am, and what I ought to be, - At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me - Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea. - - And a look of passionate desire - O’er the sea and to the stars I send: - “Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, - Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! - - Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters, - On my heart your mighty charm renew; - Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, - Feel my soul becoming vast like you!” - - From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, - Over the lit sea’s unquiet way, - In the rustling night-air came the answer,-- - “Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they. - - “Unaffrighted by the silence round them, - Undistracted by the sights they see, - These demand not that the things without them - Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. - - “And with joy the stars perform their shining, - And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; - For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting - All the fever of some differing soul. - - “Bounded by themselves, and unregardful - In what state God’s other works may be, - In their own tasks all their powers pouring, - These attain the mighty life you see.” - - O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, - A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear,-- - “Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he - Who finds himself loses his misery!” - - - - -_MORALITY._ - - - We cannot kindle when we will - The fire which in the heart resides; - The spirit bloweth and is still, - In mystery our soul abides. - But tasks in hours of insight willed - Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. - - With aching hands and bleeding feet - We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; - We bear the burden and the heat - Of the long day, and wish ’twere done. - Not till the hours of light return, - All we have built do we discern. - - Then, when the clouds are off the soul, - When thou dost bask in Nature’s eye, - Ask how _she_ viewed thy self-control, - Thy struggling, tasked morality,-- - Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, - Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. - - And she, whose censure thou dost dread, - Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, - See, on her face a glow is spread, - A strong emotion on her cheek! - “Ah, child!” she cries, “that strife divine, - Whence was it, for it is not mine? - - “There is no effort on _my_ brow; - I do not strive, I do not weep: - I rush with the swift spheres, and glow - In joy, and when I will, I sleep. - Yet that severe, that earnest air, - I saw, I felt it once--but where? - - “I knew not yet the gauge of time, - Nor wore the manacles of space; - I felt it in some other clime, - I saw it in some other place. - ’Twas when the heavenly house I trod, - And lay upon the breast of God.” - - - - -_A SUMMER NIGHT._ - - - In the deserted, moon-blanched street, - How lonely rings the echo of my feet! - Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, - Silent and white, unopening down, - Repellent as the world; but see, - A break between the housetops shows - The moon! and lost behind her, fading dim - Into the dewy dark obscurity - Down at the far horizon’s rim, - Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! - - And to my mind the thought - Is on a sudden brought - Of a past night, and a far different scene. - Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep - As clearly as at noon; - The spring-tide’s brimming flow - Heaved dazzlingly between; - Houses, with long white sweep, - Girdled the glistening bay; - Behind, through the soft air, - The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away. - That night was far more fair-- - But the same restless pacings to and fro, - And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, - And the same bright, calm moon. - - And the calm moonlight seems to say,-- - _Hast thou, then, still the old unquiet breast,_ - _Which neither deadens into rest,_ - _Nor ever feels the fiery glow_ - _That whirls the spirit from itself away,_ - _But fluctuates to and fro,_ - _Never by passion quite possessed,_ - _And never quite benumbed by the world’s sway?_ - And I, I know not if to pray - Still to be what I am, or yield, and be - Like all the other men I see. - - For most men in a brazen prison live, - Where, in the sun’s hot eye, - With heads bent o’er their toil, they languidly - Their lives to some unmeaning task-work give, - Dreaming of naught beyond their prison-wall. - And as, year after year, - Fresh products of their barren labor fall - From their tired hands, and rest - Never yet comes more near, - Gloom settles slowly down over their breast. - And while they try to stem - The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest, - Death in their prison reaches them, - Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest. - - And the rest, a few, - Escape their prison, and depart - On the wide ocean of life anew. - There the freed prisoner, where’er his heart - Listeth, will sail; - Nor doth he know how there prevail, - Despotic on that sea, - Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. - Awhile he holds some false way, undebarred - By thwarting signs, and braves - The freshening wind and blackening waves. - And then the tempest strikes him; and between - The lightning-bursts is seen - Only a driving wreck, - And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck - With anguished face and flying hair, - Grasping the rudder hard, - Still bent to make some port, he knows not where, - Still standing for some false, impossible shore. - And sterner comes the roar - Of sea and wind; and through the deepening gloom - Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom, - And he too disappears, and comes no more. - - Is there no life, but these alone? - Madman or slave, must man be one? - - Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain! - Clearness divine! - Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign - Of languor, though so calm, and though so great - Are yet untroubled and unpassionate; - Who, though so noble, share in the world’s toil, - And, though so tasked, keep free from dust and soil! - I will not say that your mild deeps retain - A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain - Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain; - But I will rather say that you remain - A world above man’s head, to let him see - How boundless might his soul’s horizons be, - How vast, yet of what clear transparency! - How it were good to live there, and breathe free; - How fair a lot to fill - Is left to each man still! - - - - -_THE BURIED LIFE._ - - - Light flows our war of mocking words; and yet, - Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! - I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll. - Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, - We know, we know that we can smile! - But there’s a something in this breast, - To which thy light words bring no rest, - And thy gay smiles no anodyne; - Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, - And turn those limpid eyes on mine, - And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. - - Alas! is even love too weak - To unlock the heart, and let it speak? - Are even lovers powerless to reveal - To one another what indeed they feel? - - I knew the mass of men concealed - Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed - They would by other men be met - With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; - I knew they lived and moved - Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest - Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet - The same heart beats in every human breast! - - But we, my love! doth a like spell benumb - Our hearts, our voices? must we too be dumb? - - Ah! well for us, if even we, - Even for a moment, can get free - Our heart, and have our lips unchained; - For that which seals them hath been deep-ordained! - - Fate, which foresaw - How frivolous a baby man would be,-- - By what distractions he would be possessed, - How he would pour himself in every strife, - And well-nigh change his own identity,-- - That it might keep from his capricious play - His genuine self, and force him to obey - Even in his own despite his being’s law, - Bade through the deep recesses of our breast - The unregarded river of our life - Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; - And that we should not see - The buried stream, and seem to be - Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, - Though driving on with it eternally. - - But often, in the world’s most crowded streets, - But often, in the din of strife, - There rises an unspeakable desire - After the knowledge of our buried life; - A thirst to spend our fire and restless force - In tracking out our true, original course; - A longing to inquire - Into the mystery of this heart which beats - So wild, so deep in us,--to know - Whence our lives come, and where they go. - And many a man in his own breast then delves, - But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. - And we have been on many thousand lines, - And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; - But hardly have we, for one little hour, - Been on our own line, have we been ourselves,-- - Hardly had skill to utter one of all - The nameless feelings that course through our breast, - But they course on forever unexpressed. - And long we try in vain to speak and act - Our hidden self, and what we say and do - Is eloquent, is well--but ’tis not true! - And then we will no more be racked - With inward striving, and demand - Of all the thousand nothings of the hour - Their stupefying power; - Ah, yes, and they benumb us at our call! - Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, - From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne - As from an infinitely distant land, - Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey - A melancholy into all our day. - - Only--but this is rare-- - When a beloved hand is laid in ours, - When, jaded with the rush and glare - Of the interminable hours, - Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear, - When our world-deafened ear - Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed,-- - A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, - And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. - The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, - And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. - - A man becomes aware of his life’s flow, - And hears its winding murmur, and he sees - The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. - - And there arrives a lull in the hot race - Wherein he doth forever chase - The flying and elusive shadow, rest. - An air of coolness plays upon his face, - And an unwonted calm pervades his breast; - And then he thinks he knows - The hills where his life rose, - And the sea where it goes. - - - - -_LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS._ - - - In this lone, open glade I lie, - Screened by deep boughs on either hand; - And at its end, to stay the eye, - Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand. - - Birds here make song, each bird has his, - Across the girdling city’s hum. - How green under the boughs it is! - How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! - - Sometimes a child will cross the glade - To take his nurse his broken toy; - Sometimes a thrush flit overhead - Deep in her unknown day’s employ. - - Here at my feet what wonders pass! - What endless, active life is here! - What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! - An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. - - Scarce fresher is the mountain sod - Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, - And, eased of basket and of rod, - Counts his day’s spoil, the spotted trout. - - In the huge world which roars hard by, - Be others happy if they can! - But in my helpless cradle I - Was breathed on by the rural Pan. - - I, on men’s impious uproar hurled, - Think often, as I hear them rave, - That peace has left the upper world, - And now keeps only in the grave. - - Yet here is peace forever new! - When I who watch them am away, - Still all things in this glade go through - The changes of their quiet day. - - Then to their happy rest they pass; - The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, - The night comes down upon the grass, - The child sleeps warmly in his bed. - - Calm soul of all things! make it mine - To feel, amid the city’s jar, - That there abides a peace of thine, - Man did not make, and cannot mar. - - The will to neither strive nor cry, - The power to feel with others, give! - Calm, calm me more! nor let me die - Before I have begun to live. - - - - -_A WISH._ - - - I ask not that my bed of death - From bands of greedy heirs be free; - For these besiege the latest breath - Of fortune’s favored sons, not me. - - I ask not each kind soul to keep - Tearless, when of my death he hears. - Let those who will, if any, weep! - There are worse plagues on earth than tears. - - I ask but that my death may find - The freedom to my life denied; - Ask but the folly of mankind - Then, then at last, to quit my side. - - Spare me the whispering, crowded room, - The friends who come, and gape, and go; - The ceremonious air of gloom,-- - All which makes death a hideous show! - - Nor bring, to see me cease to live, - Some doctor full of phrase and fame, - To shake his sapient head, and give - The ill he cannot cure a name. - - Nor fetch, to take the accustomed toll - Of the poor sinner bound for death, - His brother-doctor of the soul, - To canvass with official breath - The future and its viewless things,-- - That undiscovered mystery - Which one who feels death’s winnowing wings - Must needs read clearer, sure, than he! - - Bring none of these; but let me be, - While all around in silence lies, - Moved to the window near, and see - Once more, before my dying eyes,-- - - Bathed in the sacred dews of morn - The wide aërial landscape spread,-- - The world which was ere I was born, - The world which lasts when I am dead; - - Which never was the friend of _one_, - Nor promised love it could not give, - But lit for all its generous sun, - And lived itself, and made us live. - - There let me gaze, till I become - In soul, with what I gaze on, wed! - To feel the universe my home; - To have before my mind--instead - - Of the sick-room, the mortal strife, - The turmoil for a little breath-- - The pure eternal course of life, - Not human combatings with death! - - Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow - Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear; - Then willing let my spirit go - To work or wait elsewhere or here! - - - - -THE FUTURE. - - - A wanderer is man from his birth. - He was born in a ship - On the breast of the river of Time; - Brimming with wonder and joy, - He spreads out his arms to the light, - Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. - - As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. - Whether he wakes - Where the snowy mountainous pass, - Echoing the screams of the eagles, - Hems in its gorges the bed - Of the new-born, clear-flowing stream; - Whether he first sees light - Where the river in gleaming rings - Sluggishly winds through the plain; - Whether in sound of the swallowing sea,-- - As is the world on the banks, - So is the mind of the man. - - Vainly does each, as he glides, - Fable and dream - Of the lands which the river of Time - Had left ere he woke on its breast, - Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. - Only the tract where he sails - He wots of; only the thoughts, - Raised by the objects he passes, are his. - - Who can see the green earth any more - As she was by the sources of Time? - Who imagines her fields as they lay - In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? - Who thinks as they thought, - The tribes who then roamed on her breast, - Her vigorous, primitive sons? - - What girl - Now reads in her bosom as clear - As Rebekah read, when she sate - At eve by the palm-shaded well? - Who guards in her breast - As deep, as pellucid a spring - Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure? - - What bard, - At the height of his vision, can deem - Of God, of the world, of the soul, - With a plainness as near, - As flashing, as Moses felt, - When he lay in the night by his flock - On the starlit Arabian waste? - Can rise and obey - The beck of the Spirit like him? - - This tract which the river of Time - Now flows through with us, is the plain. - Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. - Bordered by cities, and hoarse - With a thousand cries is its stream. - And we on its breast, our minds - Are confused as the cries which we hear, - Changing and short as the sights which we see. - - And we say that repose has fled - Forever the course of the river of Time. - That cities will crowd to its edge - In a blacker, incessanter line; - That the din will be more on its banks, - Denser the trade on its stream, - Flatter the plain where it flows, - Fiercer the sun overhead; - That never will those on its breast - See an ennobling sight, - Drink of the feeling of quiet again. - - But what was before us we know not, - And we know not what shall succeed. - - Haply, the river of Time-- - As it grows, as the towns on its marge - Fling their wavering lights - On a wider, statelier stream-- - May acquire, if not the calm - Of its early mountainous shore, - Yet a solemn peace of its own. - - And the width of the waters, the hush - Of the gray expanse where he floats, - Freshening its current, and spotted with foam - As it draws to the ocean, may strike - Peace to the soul of the man on its breast,-- - As the pale waste widens around him, - As the banks fade dimmer away, - As the stars come out, and the night-wind - Brings up the stream - Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. - - - - -ELEGIAC POEMS. - - - - -_THE SCHOLAR-GYPSY._[17] - - - Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; - Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes! - No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, - Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, - Nor the cropped grasses shoot another head; - But when the fields are still, - And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, - And only the white sheep are sometimes seen - Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanched green, - Come, shepherd, and again renew the quest! - - Here, where the reaper was at work of late,-- - In this high field’s dark corner, where he leaves - His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse, - And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, - Then here at noon comes back his stores to use,-- - Here will I sit and wait, - While to my ear from uplands far away - The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, - With distant cries of reapers in the corn,-- - All the live murmur of a summer’s day. - - Screened is this nook o’er the high, half-reaped field, - And here till sundown, shepherd! will I be. - Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, - And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see - Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep; - And air-swept lindens yield - Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers - Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, - And bower me from the August-sun with shade; - And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers. - - And near me on the grass lies Glanvil’s book. - Come, let me read the oft-read tale again! - The story of that Oxford scholar poor, - Of shining parts and quick inventive brain, - Who, tired of knocking at preferment’s door, - One summer-morn forsook - His friends, and went to learn the gypsy-lore, - And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood, - And came, as most men deemed, to little good, - But came to Oxford and his friends no more. - - But once, years after, in the country-lanes, - Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, - Met him, and of his way of life inquired; - Whereat he answered, that the gypsy-crew, - His mates, had arts to rule as they desired - The workings of men’s brains, - And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. - “And I,” he said, “the secret of their art, - When fully learned, will to the world impart; - But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill.” - - This said, he left them, and returned no more. - But rumors hung about the country-side, - That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, - Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, - In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray, - The same the gypsies wore. - Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; - At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, - On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frocked boors - Had found him seated at their entering; - - But, ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. - And I myself seem half to know thy looks, - And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace; - And boys who in lone wheat-fields scare the rooks - I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place; - Or in my boat I lie - Moored to the cool bank in the summer-heats, - Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, - And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, - And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats. - - For most, I know, thou lov’st retired ground! - Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, - Returning home on summer-nights, have met - Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, - Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, - As the punt’s rope chops round; - And leaning backward in a pensive dream, - And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers - Plucked in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, - And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. - - And then they land, and thou art seen no more! - Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come - To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, - Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, - Or cross a stile into the public way; - Oft thou hast given them store - Of flowers,--the frail-leafed, white anemone, - Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves, - And purple orchises with spotted leaves,-- - But none hath words she can report of thee! - - And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time’s here - In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, - Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass, - Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames, - To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass, - Have often passed thee near - Sitting upon the river-bank o’ergrown; - Marked thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, - Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air: - But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone! - - At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, - Where at her open door the housewife darns, - Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate - To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. - Children, who early range these slopes and late - For cresses from the rills, - Have known thee eying, all an April-day, - The springing pastures and the feeding kine; - And marked thee, when the stars come out and shine, - Through the long dewy grass move slow away. - - In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood,-- - Where most the gypsies by the turf-edged way - Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see - With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of gray, - Above the forest ground called Thessaly,-- - The blackbird picking food - Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; - So often has he known thee past him stray, - Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withered spray, - And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. - - And once, in winter, on the causeway chill - Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, - Have I not passed thee on the wooden bridge - Wrapped in thy cloak and battling with the snow, - Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry ridge? - And thou hast climbed the hill, - And gained the white brow of the Cumner range; - Turned once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, - The line of festal light in Christ-church hall: - Then sought thy straw in some sequestered grange. - - But what--I dream! Two hundred years are flown - Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, - And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe - That thou wert wandered from the studious walls - To learn strange arts, and join a gypsy-tribe. - And thou from earth art gone - Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid,-- - Some country-nook, where o’er thy unknown grave - Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave, - Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree’s shade. - - --No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! - For what wears out the life of mortal men? - ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls; - ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, - Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, - And numb the elastic powers, - Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, - And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, - To the just-pausing Genius we remit - Our well-worn life, and are--what we have been. - - Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? - Thou hadst _one_ aim, _one_ business, _one_ desire; - Else wert thou long since numbered with thedead! - Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire! - The generations of thy peers are fled, - And we ourselves shall go; - But thou possessest an immortal lot, - And we imagine thee exempt from age, - And living as thou liv’st on Glanvil’s page, - Because thou hadst--what we, alas! have not. - - For early didst thou leave the world, with powers - Fresh, undiverted to the world without, - Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; - Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, - Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. - O life unlike to ours! - Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, - Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, - And each half lives a hundred different lives; - Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. - - Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, - Light half-believers of our casual creeds, - Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed, - Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, - Whose vague resolves never have been fulfilled; - For whom each year we see - Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; - Who hesitate and falter life away, - And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-- - Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too? - - Yes, we await it! but it still delays, - And then we suffer! and amongst us one, - Who most has suffered, takes dejectedly - His seat upon the intellectual throne; - And all his store of sad experience he - Lays bare of wretched days; - Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and signs, - And how the dying spark of hope was fed, - And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, - And all his hourly varied anodynes. - - This for our wisest! and we others pine, - And wish the long unhappy dream would end, - And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear; - With close-lipped patience for our only friend,-- - Sad patience, too near neighbor to despair,-- - But none has hope like thine! - Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, - Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, - Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, - And every doubt long blown by time away. - - Oh, born in days when wits were fresh and clear, - And life ran gayly as the sparkling Thames; - Before this strange disease of modern life, - With its sick hurry, its divided aims, - Its heads o’ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife,-- - Fly hence, our contact fear! - Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! - Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern - From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn, - Wave us away, and keep thy solitude! - - Still nursing the unconquerable hope, - Still clutching the inviolable shade, - With a free, onward impulse brushing through, - By night, the silvered branches of the glade,-- - Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, - On some mild pastoral slope - Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales - Freshen thy flowers as in former years - With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, - From the dark dingles, to the nightingales! - - But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! - For strong the infection of our mental strife, - Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; - And we should win thee from thy own fair life, - Like us distracted, and like us unblest. - Soon, soon thy cheer would die, - Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, - And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made; - And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, - Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. - - Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! - --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, - Descried at sunrise an emerging prow - Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, - The fringes of a southward-facing brow - Among the Ægean isles; - And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, - Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, - Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine, - And knew the intruders on his ancient home,-- - - The young light-hearted masters of the waves,-- - And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail, - And day and night held on indignantly - O’er the blue Midland waters with the gale, - Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, - To where the Atlantic raves - Outside the western straits, and unbent sails - There where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, - Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; - And on the beach undid his corded bales. - - - - -_THYRSIS._[18] - - -_A MONODY, to commemorate the author’s friend, ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, who -died at Florence, 1861._ - - How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! - In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same; - The village street its haunted mansion lacks, - And from the sign is gone Sibylla’s name, - And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks.-- - Are ye too changed, ye hills? - See, ’tis no foot of unfamiliar men - To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays! - Here came I often, often, in old days,-- - Thyrsis and I: we still had Thyrsis then. - - Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, - Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns - The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? - The single-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, - The Vale, the three lone wears, the youthful Thames? - This winter-eve is warm; - Humid the air; leafless, yet soft as spring, - The tender purple spray on copse and briers; - And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, - She needs not June for beauty’s heightening. - - Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!-- - Only, methinks, some loss of habit’s power - Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. - Once passed I blindfold here, at any hour; - Now seldom come I, since I came with him. - That single elm-tree bright - Against the west--I miss it! is it gone? - We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, - Our friend the Gypsy-Scholar was not dead; - While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. - - Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, - But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; - And with the country-folk acquaintance made - By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. - Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assayed. - Ah me! this many a year - My pipe is lost, my shepherd’s-holiday! - Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart - Into the world and wave of men depart, - But Thyrsis of his own will went away. - - It irked him to be here, he could not rest. - He loved each simple joy the country yields, - He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep, - For that a shadow lowered on the fields, - Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. - Some life of men unblest - He knew, which made him droop, and filled his head. - He went; his piping took a troubled sound - Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; - He could not wait their passing; he is dead. - - So, some tempestuous morn in early June, - When the year’s primal burst of bloom is o’er, - Before the roses and the longest day,-- - When garden-walks, and all the grassy floor, - With blossoms red and white of fallen May, - And chestnut-flowers, are strewn,-- - So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting cry, - From the wet field, through the vexed garden-trees, - Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze: - _The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I_! - - Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? - Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on, - Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, - Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, - Sweet-william with his homely cottage-smell, - And stocks in fragrant blow; - Roses that down the alleys shine afar, - And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, - And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, - And the full moon, and the white evening-star. - - He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown! - What matters it? next year he will return, - And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, - With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, - And bluebells trembling by the forest-ways, - And scent of hay new-mown. - But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see,-- - See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, - And blow a strain the world at last shall heed; - For Time, not Corydon, hath conquered thee! - - Alack, for Corydon no rival now!-- - But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, - Some good survivor with his flute would go, - Piping a ditty sad for Bion’s fate; - And cross the unpermitted ferry’s flow, - And relax Pluto’s brow, - And make leap up with joy the beauteous head - Of Proserpine, among whose crownèd hair - Are flowers first opened on Sicilian air, - And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. - - Oh, easy access to the hearer’s grace - When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! - For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, - She knew the Dorian water’s gush divine, - She knew each lily white which Enna yields, - Each rose with blushing face; - She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. - But ah! of our poor Thames she never heard; - Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirred; - And we should tease her with our plaint in vain. - - Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be; - Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour - In the old haunt, and find our tree-topped hill! - Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? - I know the wood which hides the daffodil; - I know the Fyfield tree; - I know what white, what purple fritillaries - The grassy harvest of the river-fields, - Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields; - And what sedged brooks are Thames’s tributaries; - - I know these slopes: who knows them if not I? - But many a dingle on the loved hillside, - With thorns once studded, old white-blossomed trees, - Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried - High towered the spikes of purple orchises, - Hath since our day put by - The coronals of that forgotten time; - Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy’s team, - And only in the hidden brookside gleam - Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. - - Where is the girl who by the boatman’s door, - Above the locks, above the boating throng, - Unmoored our skiff when through the Wytham flats, - Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among, - And darting swallows and light water-gnats, - We tracked the shy Thames shore? - Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell - Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, - Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?-- - They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! - - Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night - In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. - I see her veil draw soft across the day, - I feel her slowly chilling breath invade - The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with gray; - I feel her finger light - Laid pausefully upon life’s headlong train,-- - The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, - The heart less bounding at emotion new, - And hope, once crushed, less quick to spring again. - - And long the way appears, which seemed so short - To the less-practised eye of sanguine youth; - And high the mountain tops, in cloudy air,-- - The mountain tops where is the throne of Truth, - Tops in life’s morning-sun so bright and bare! - Unbreachable the fort - Of the long-battered world uplifts its wall; - And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, - And near and real the charm of thy repose, - And night as welcome as a friend would fall. - - But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss - Of quiet! Look, adown the dusk hillside, - A troop of Oxford hunters going home, - As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! - From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come. - Quick! let me fly, and cross - Into yon farther field! ’Tis done; and see, - Backed by the sunset, which doth glorify - The orange and pale violet evening-sky, - Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! - - I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, - The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, - The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, - And in the scattered farms the lights come out. - I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, - Yet, happy omen, hail! - Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale - (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep - The morningless and unawakening sleep - Under the flowery oleanders pale); - - Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!-- - Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, - These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, - That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him: - To a boon southern country he is fled, - And now in happier air, - Wandering with the great Mother’s train divine - (And purer or more subtile soul than thee, - I trow the mighty Mother doth not see) - Within a folding of the Apennine,-- - - Thou hearest the immortal chants of old! - Putting his sickle to the perilous grain - In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, - For thee the Lityerses-song again - Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;[19] - Sings his Sicilian fold, - His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes; - And how a call celestial round him rang, - And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, - And all the marvel of the golden skies. - - There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here - Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair. - Despair I will not, while I yet descry - ’Neath the soft canopy of English air - That lonely tree against the western sky. - Still, still these slopes, ’tis clear, - Our Gypsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! - Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, - Woods with anemones in flower till May, - Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? - - A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, - Shy to illumine; and I seek it too. - This does not come with houses or with gold, - With place, with honor, and a flattering crew; - ’Tis not in the world’s market bought and sold; - But the smooth-slipping weeks - Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; - Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, - He wends unfollowed, he must house alone; - Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. - - Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound! - Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour. - Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, - If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power, - If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. - And this rude Cumner ground, - Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, - Here cam’st thou in thy jocund youthful time, - Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! - And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. - - What though the music of thy rustic flute - Kept not for long its happy, country tone; - Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note - Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, - Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat-- - It failed, and thou wast mute! - Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, - And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, - And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, - Left human haunt, and on alone till night. - - Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! - ’Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, - Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. - --Then through the great town’s harsh, heart-wearying roar, - Let in thy voice a whisper often come, - To chase fatigue and fear: - _Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died._ - _Roam on! The light we sought is shining still._ - _Dost thou ask proof! Our tree yet crowns the hill,_ - _Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside_. - - - - -_MEMORIAL VERSES._ - -APRIL, 1850. - - - Goethe in Weimar sleeps; and Greece, - Long since, saw Byron’s struggle cease. - But one such death remained to come: - The last poetic voice is dumb,-- - We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s tomb. - - When Byron’s eyes were shut in death, - We bowed our head, and held our breath. - He taught us little, but our soul - Had _felt_ him like the thunder’s roll. - With shivering heart the strife we saw - Of passion with eternal law; - And yet with reverential awe - We watched the fount of fiery life - Which served for that Titanic strife. - - When Goethe’s death was told, we said,-- - Sunk, then, is Europe’s sagest head. - Physician of the iron age, - Goethe has done his pilgrimage. - He took the suffering human race, - He read each wound, each weakness clear; - And struck his finger on the place, - And said, _Thou ailest here, and here_! - He looked on Europe’s dying hour - Of fitful dream and feverish power; - His eye plunged down the weltering strife, - The turmoil of expiring life: - He said, _The end is everywhere, - Art still has truth, take refuge there_! - And he was happy, if to know - Causes of things, and far below - His feet to see the lurid flow - Of terror, and insane distress, - And headlong fate, be happiness. - - And Wordsworth! Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! - For never has such soothing voice - Been to your shadowy world conveyed, - Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade - Heard the clear song of Orpheus come - Through Hades and the mournful gloom. - Wordsworth has gone from us; and ye, - Ah, may ye feel his voice as we! - He too upon a wintry clime - Had fallen,--on this iron time - Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. - He found us when the age had bound - Our souls in its benumbing round; - He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. - He laid us as we lay at birth - On the cool flowery lap of earth: - Smiles broke from us, and we had ease; - The hills were round us, and the breeze - Went o’er the sunlit fields again; - Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. - Our youth returned; for there was shed - On spirits that had long been dead, - Spirits dried up and closely furled, - The freshness of the early world. - - Ah! since dark days still bring to light - Man’s prudence and man’s fiery might, - Time may restore us in his course - Goethe’s sage mind and Byron’s force; - But where will Europe’s latter hour - Again find Wordsworth’s healing power? - Others will teach us how to dare, - And against fear our breast to steel: - Others will strengthen us to bear-- - But who, ah! who will make us feel? - The cloud of mortal destiny, - Others will front it fearlessly; - But who, like him, will put it by? - Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, - O Rotha, with thy living wave! - Sing him thy best! for few or none - Hear thy voice right, now he is gone. - - - - -_STANZAS._ - -IN MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN. - - - I saw him sensitive in frame, - I knew his spirits low; - And wished him health, success, and fame-- - I do not wish it now. - - For these are all their own reward, - And leave no good behind; - They try us, oftenest make us hard, - Less modest, pure, and kind. - - Alas! yet to the suffering man, - In this his mortal state, - Friends could not give what fortune can,-- - Health, ease, a heart elate. - - But he is now by fortune foiled - No more; and we retain - The memory of a man unspoiled, - Sweet, generous, and humane; - - With all the fortunate have not, - With gentle voice and brow. - --Alive, we would have changed his lot: - We would not change it now. - - - - -_STANZAS FROM CARNAC._ - - - Far on its rocky knoll descried, - Saint Michael’s chapel cuts the sky. - I climbed; beneath me, bright and wide, - Lay the lone coast of Brittany. - - Bright in the sunset, weird and still, - It lay beside the Atlantic wave, - As though the wizard Merlin’s will - Yet charmed it from his forest-grave. - - Behind me on their grassy sweep, - Bearded with lichen, scrawled and gray, - The giant stones of Carnac sleep, - In the mild evening of the May. - - No priestly stern procession now - Streams through their rows of pillars old; - No victims bleed, no Druids bow: - Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold. - - From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, - The orchis red gleams everywhere; - Gold furze with broom in blossom vies, - The bluebells perfume all the air. - - And o’er the glistening, lonely land, - Rise up, all round, the Christian spires; - The church of Carnac, by the strand, - Catches the westering sun’s last fires. - - And there, across the watery way, - See, low above the tide at flood, - The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay, - Whose beach once ran with loyal blood! - - And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!-- - All round, no soul, no boat, no hail; - But, on the horizon’s verge descried, - Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail. - - Ah! where is he who should have come[20] - Where that far sail is passing now, - Past the Loire’s mouth, and by the foam - Of Finistère’s unquiet brow,-- - - Home, round into the English wave?-- - He tarries where the Rock of Spain - Mediterranean waters lave; - He enters not the Atlantic main. - - Oh, could he once have reached this air - Freshened by plunging tides, by showers! - Have felt this breath he loved, of fair - Cool Northern fields, and grass, and flowers! - - He longed for it--pressed on. In vain! - At the Straits failed that spirit brave. - The South was parent of his pain, - The South is mistress of his grave. - - - - -_A SOUTHERN NIGHT._ - - - The sandy spits, the shore-locked lakes, - Melt into open, moonlit sea; - The soft Mediterranean breaks - At my feet, free. - - Dotting the fields of corn and vine, - Like ghosts, the huge gnarled olives stand; - Behind, that lovely mountain line! - While, by the strand,-- - - Cette, with its glistening houses white, - Curves with the curving beach away - To where the light-house beacons bright - Far in the bay. - - Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone, - So moonlit, saw me once of yore[21] - Wander unquiet, and my own - Vexed heart deplore. - - But now that trouble is forgot: - Thy memory, thy pain, to-night, - My brother! and thine early lot,[22] - Possess me quite. - - The murmur of this Midland deep - Is heard to-night around thy grave, - There, where Gibraltar’s cannoned steep - O’erfrowns the wave. - - For there, with bodily anguish keen, - With Indian heats at last foredone, - With public toil and private teen,-- - Thou sank’st alone. - - Slow to a stop, at morning gray, - I see the smoke-crowned vessel come; - Slow round her paddles dies away - The seething foam. - - A boat is lowered from her side; - Ah, gently place him on the bench! - That spirit--if all have not yet died-- - A breath might quench. - - Is this the eye, the footstep fast, - The mien of youth, we used to see? - Poor, gallant boy! for such thou wast, - Still art, to me. - - The limbs their wonted tasks refuse; - The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak; - And whiter than thy white burnous - That wasted cheek! - - Enough! The boat, with quiet shock, - Unto its haven coming nigh, - Touches, and on Gibraltar’s rock - Lands thee, to die. - - Ah me! Gibraltar’s strand is far; - But farther yet across the brine - Thy dear wife’s ashes buried are, - Remote from thine. - - For there, where morning’s sacred fount - Its golden rain on earth confers, - The snowy Himalayan Mount - O’ershadows hers. - - Strange irony of fate, alas! - Which, for two jaded English, saves, - When from their dusty life they pass, - Such peaceful graves! - - In cities should we English lie, - Where cries are rising ever new, - And men’s incessant stream goes by,-- - We who pursue - - Our business with unslackening stride, - Traverse in troops, with care-filled breast, - The soft Mediterranean side, - The Nile, the East,-- - - And see all sights from pole to pole, - And glance, and nod, and bustle by; - And never once possess our soul - Before we die. - - Not by those hoary Indian hills, - Not by this gracious Midland sea - Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills, - Should our graves be. - - Some sage, to whom the world was dead, - And men were specks, and life a play; - Who made the roots of trees his bed, - And once a day - - With staff and gourd his way did bend - To villages and homes of man, - For food to keep him till he end - His mortal span,-- - - And the pure goal of being reach; - Gray-headed, wrinkled, clad in white; - Without companion, without speech, - By day and night - - Pondering God’s mysteries untold, - And tranquil as the glacier-snows,-- - He by those Indian mountains old - Might well repose. - - Some gray crusading knight austere, - Who bore Saint Louis company, - And came home hurt to death, and here - Landed to die; - - Some youthful troubadour, whose tongue - Filled Europe once with his love-pain, - Who here outworn had sunk, and sung - His dying strain; - - Some girl, who here from castle-bower, - With furtive step and cheek of flame, - ’Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower - By moonlight came - To meet her pirate-lover’s ship, - And from the wave-kissed marble stair - Beckoned him on with quivering lip - And floating hair, - - And lived some moons in happy trance, - Then learnt his death, and pined away,-- - Such by these waters of romance - ’Twas meet to lay. - - But you--a grave for knight or sage, - Romantic, solitary, still, - O spent ones of a work-day age! - Befits you ill. - - So sang I; but the midnight breeze, - Down to the brimmed, moon-charmèd main, - Comes softly through the olive-trees, - And checks my strain. - - I think of her whose gentle tongue - All plaint in her own cause controlled; - Of thee I think, my brother! young - In heart, high-souled; - - That comely face, that clustered brow, - That cordial hand, that bearing free,-- - I see them still, I see them now, - Shall always see! - - And what but gentleness untired, - And what but noble feeling warm, - Wherever shown, howe’er inspired, - Is grace, is charm? - - What else is all these waters are, - What else is steeped in lucid sheen, - What else is bright, what else is fair, - What else serene? - - Mild o’er her grave, ye mountains, shine! - Gently by his, ye waters, glide! - To that in you which is divine - They were allied. - - - - -_HAWORTH CHURCHYARD._ - -APRIL, 1855. - - - Where, under Loughrigg, the stream - Of Rotha sparkles through fields - Vested forever with green, - Four years since, in the house - Of a gentle spirit now dead, - Wordsworth’s son-in-law, friend,-- - I saw the meeting of two - Gifted women.[23] The one, - Brilliant with recent renown, - Young, unpractised, had told - With a master’s accent her feigned - Story of passionate life; - The other, maturer in fame, - Earning, she too, her praise - First in fiction, had since - Widened her sweep, and surveyed - History, politics, mind. - - The two held converse; they wrote - In a book which of world-famous souls - Kept the memorial: bard, - Warrior, statesman, had signed - Their names: chief glory of all, - Scott had bestowed there his last - Breathings of song, with a pen - Tottering, a death-stricken hand. - - Hope at that meeting smiled fair. - Years in number, it seemed, - Lay before both, and a fame - Heightened, and multiplied power.-- - Behold! The elder, to-day, - Lies expecting from death, - In mortal weakness, a last - Summons! the younger is dead! - - First to the living we pay - Mournful homage: the Muse - Gains not an earth-deafened ear. - - Hail to the steadfast soul, - Which, unflinching and keen, - Wrought to erase from its depth - Mist and illusion and fear! - Hail to the spirit which dared - Trust its own thoughts, before yet - Echoed her back by the crowd! - Hail to the courage which gave - Voice to its creed, ere the creed - Won consecration from time! - - Turn we next to the dead.-- - How shall we honor the young, - The ardent, the gifted? how mourn? - Console we cannot, her ear - Is deaf. Far northward from here, - In a churchyard high ’mid the moors - Of Yorkshire, a little earth - Stops it forever to praise. - - Where behind Keighley the road - Up to the heart of the moors - Between heath-clad showery hills - Runs, and colliers’ carts - Poach the deep ways coming down, - And a rough, grimed race have their homes,-- - There on its slope is built - The moorland town. But the church - Stands on the crest of the hill, - Lonely and bleak; at its side - The parsonage-house and the graves. - - Strew with laurel the grave - Of the early-dying! Alas! - Early she goes on the path - To the silent country, and leaves - Half her laurels unwon, - Dying too soon; yet green - Laurels she had, and a course - Short, but redoubled by fame. - - And not friendless, and not - Only with strangers to meet, - Faces ungreeting and cold, - Thou, O mourned one, to-day - Enterest the house of the grave! - Those of thy blood, whom thou lovedst, - Have preceded thee,--young, - Loving, a sisterly band; - Some in art, some in gift - Inferior--all in fame. - They, like friends, shall receive - This comer, greet her with joy; - Welcome the sister, the friend; - Hear with delight of thy fame! - - Round thee they lie; the grass - Blows from their graves to thy own! - She whose genius, though not - Puissant like thine, was yet - Sweet and graceful; and she - (How shall I sing her?) whose soul - Knew no fellow for might, - Passion, vehemence, grief, - Daring, since Byron died,-- - The world-famed son of fire,--she who sank - Baffled, unknown, self-consumed; - Whose too bold dying song[24] - Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul. - - Of one, too, I have heard, - A brother: sleeps he here? - Of all that gifted race - Not the least gifted; young, - Unhappy, eloquent; the child - Of many hopes, of many tears. - O boy, if here thou sleep’st, sleep well! - On thee too did the Muse - Bright in thy cradle smile; - But some dark shadow came - (I know not what) and interposed. - - Sleep, O cluster of friends, - Sleep! or only when May, - Brought by the west-wind, returns - Back to your native heaths, - And the plover is heard on the moors, - Yearly awake to behold - The opening summer, the sky, - The shining moorland; to hear - The drowsy bee, as of old, - Hum o’er the thyme, the grouse - Call from the heather in bloom! - Sleep, or only for this - Break your united repose! - - - - -_EPILOGUE._ - - - So I sang; but the Muse, - Shaking her head, took the harp-- - Stern interrupted my strain, - Angrily smote on the chords. - - April showers - Rush o’er the Yorkshire moors. - Stormy, through driving mist, - Loom the blurred hills; the rain - Lashes the newly-made grave. - - Unquiet souls! - --In the dark fermentation of earth, - In the never-idle workshop of nature, - In the eternal movement, - Ye shall find yourselves again! - - - - -_RUGBY CHAPEL._ - -NOVEMBER, 1857. - - - Coldly, sadly descends - The autumn evening. The field - Strewn with its dank yellow drifts - Of withered leaves, and the elms, - Fade into dimness apace, - Silent; hardly a shout - From a few boys late at their play! - The lights come out in the street, - In the schoolroom windows; but cold, - Solemn, unlighted, austere, - Through the gathering darkness, arise - The chapel-walls, in whose bound - Thou, my father! art laid. - - There thou dost lie, in the gloom - Of the autumn evening. But ah! - That word _gloom_ to my mind - Brings thee back in the light - Of thy radiant vigor again. - In the gloom of November we passed - Days not dark at thy side; - Seasons impaired not the ray - Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. - Such thou wast! and I stand - In the autumn evening, and think - Of bygone autumns with thee. - - Fifteen years have gone round - Since thou arosest to tread, - In the summer-morning, the road - Of death, at a call unforeseen, - Sudden. For fifteen years, - We who till then in thy shade - Rested as under the boughs - Of a mighty oak, have endured - Sunshine and rain as we might, - Bare, unshaded, alone, - Lacking the shelter of thee. - - O strong soul, by what shore - Tarriest thou now? For that force, - Surely, has not been left vain! - Somewhere, surely, afar, - In the sounding labor-house vast - Of being, is practised that strength, - Zealous, beneficent, firm! - - Yes, in some far-shining sphere, - Conscious or not of the past, - Still thou performest the word - Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, - Prompt, unwearied, as here. - Still thou upraisest with zeal - The humble good from the ground, - Sternly repressest the bad; - Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse - Those who with half-open eyes - Tread the border-land dim - ’Twixt vice and virtue; reviv’st, - Succorest. This was thy work, - This was thy life upon earth. - - What is the course of the life - Of mortal men on the earth? - Most men eddy about - Here and there, eat and drink, - Chatter and love and hate, - Gather and squander, are raised - Aloft, are hurled in the dust, - Striving blindly, achieving - Nothing; and then they die,-- - Perish; and no one asks - Who or what they have been, - More than he asks what waves, - In the moonlit solitudes mild - Of the midmost ocean, have swelled, - Foamed for a moment, and gone. - - And there are some whom a thirst - Ardent, unquenchable, fires, - Not with the crowd to be spent, - Not without aim to go round - In an eddy of purposeless dust, - Effort unmeaning and vain. - Ah yes! some of us strive - Not without action to die - Fruitless, but something to snatch - From dull oblivion, nor all - Glut the devouring grave. - We, we have chosen our path,-- - Path to a clear-purposed goal, - Path of advance; but it leads - A long, steep journey, through sunk - Gorges, o’er mountains in snow. - Cheerful, with friends, we set forth: - Then, on the height, comes the storm. - Thunder crashes from rock - To rock; the cataracts reply; - Lightnings dazzle our eyes; - Roaring torrents have breached - The track; the stream-bed descends - In the place where the wayfarer once - Planted his footstep; the spray - Boils o’er its borders; aloft, - The unseen snow-beds dislodge - Their hanging ruin. Alas! - Havoc is made in our train! - Friends who set forth at our side - Falter, are lost in the storm. - - We, we only are left! - With frowning foreheads, with lips - Sternly compressed, we strain on, - On; and at nightfall at last - Come to the end of our way, - To the lonely inn ’mid the rocks; - Where the gaunt and taciturn host - Stands on the threshold, the wind - Shaking his thin white hairs, - Holds his lantern to scan - Our storm-beat figures, and asks,-- - Whom in our party we bring? - Whom we have left in the snow? - - Sadly we answer, We bring - Only ourselves! we lost - Sight of the rest in the storm. - Hardly ourselves we fought through, - Stripped, without friends, as we are. - Friends, companions, and train, - The avalanche swept from our side. - - But thou wouldst not _alone_ - Be saved, my father! _alone_ - Conquer and come to thy goal, - Leaving the rest in the wild. - We were weary, and we - Fearful, and we in our march - Fain to drop down and to die. - Still thou turnedst, and still - Beckonedst the trembler, and still - Gavest the weary thy hand. - If, in the paths of the world, - Stones might have wounded thy feet, - Toil or dejection have tried - Thy spirit, of that we saw - Nothing: to us thou wast still - Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! - Therefore to thee it was given - Many to save with thyself; - And, at the end of thy day, - O faithful shepherd! to come, - Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. - - And through thee I believe - In the noble and great who are gone; - Pure souls honored and blest - By former ages, who else else-- - Such, so soulless, so poor, - Is the race of men whom I see-- - Seemed but a dream of the heart, - Seemed but a cry of desire. - Yes! I believe that there lived - Others like thee in the past, - Not like the men of the crowd - Who all round me to-day - Bluster or cringe, and make life - Hideous and arid and vile; - But souls tempered with fire, - Fervent, heroic, and good, - Helpers and friends of mankind. - - Servants of God!--or sons - Shall I not call you? because - Not as servants ye knew - Your Father’s innermost mind, - His who unwillingly sees - One of his little ones lost,-- - Yours is the praise, if mankind - Hath not as yet in its march - Fainted and fallen and died. - - See! In the rocks of the world - Marches the host of mankind, - A feeble, wavering line. - Where are they tending? A God - Marshalled them, gave them their goal. - Ah, but the way is so long! - - Years they have been in the wild: - Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks, - Rising all round, overawe; - Factions divide them; their host - Threatens to break, to dissolve. - Ah! keep, keep them combined! - Else, of the myriads who fill - That army, not one shall arrive; - Sole they shall stray; on the rocks - Batter forever in vain, - Die one by one in the waste. - - Then, in such hour of need - Of your fainting, dispirited race, - Ye like angels appear, - Radiant with ardor divine. - Beacons of hope, ye appear! - Languor is not in your heart, - Weakness is not in your word, - Weariness not on your brow. - Ye alight in our van! at your voice, - Panic, despair, flee away. - Ye move through the ranks, recall - The stragglers, refresh the outworn, - Praise, re-inspire the brave. - Order, courage, return; - Eyes rekindling, and prayers, - Follow your steps as ye go. - Ye fill up the gaps in our files, - Strengthen the wavering line, - Stablish, continue our march, - On, to the bound of the waste, - On, to the City of God. - - - - -_HEINE’S GRAVE._ - - - “_Henri Heine_”--’tis here! - The black tombstone, the name - Carved there--no more; and the smooth, - Swarded alleys, the limes - Touched with yellow by hot - Summer, but under them still, - In September’s bright afternoon, - Shadow, and verdure, and cool. - Trim Montmartre! the faint - Murmur of Paris outside; - Crisp everlasting-flowers, - Yellow and black, on the graves. - - Half blind, palsied, in pain, - Hither to come, from the streets’ - Uproar, surely not loath - Wast thou, Heine! to lie - Quiet, to ask for closed - Shutters, and darkened room, - And cool drinks, and an eased - Posture, and opium, no more; - Hither to come, and to sleep - Under the wings of Renown. - - Ah! not little, when pain - Is most quelling, and man - Easily quelled, and the fine - Temper of genius so soon - Thrills at each smart, is the praise, - Not to have yielded to pain! - No small boast, for a weak - Son of mankind, to the earth - Pinned by the thunder, to rear - His bolt-scathed front to the stars; - And, undaunted, retort - ’Gainst thick-crashing, insane, - Tyrannous tempests of bale, - Arrowy lightnings of soul. - - Hark! through the alley resounds - Mocking laughter! A film - Creeps o’er the sunshine; a breeze - Ruffles the warm afternoon, - Saddens my soul with its chill. - Gibing of spirits in scorn - Shakes every leaf of the grove, - Mars the benignant repose - Of this amiable home of the dead. - - Bitter spirits, ye claim - Heine? Alas, he is yours! - Only a moment I longed - Here in the quiet to snatch - From such mates the outworn - Poet, and steep him in calm. - Only a moment! I knew - Whose he was who is here - Buried: I knew he was yours! - Ah! I knew that I saw - Here no sepulchre built - In the laurelled rock, o’er the blue - Naples bay, for a sweet - Tender Virgil; no tomb - On Ravenna sands, in the shade - Of Ravenna pines, for a high - Austere Dante; no grave - By the Avon side, in the bright - Stratford meadows, for thee, - Shakspeare, loveliest of souls, - Peerless in radiance, in joy! - - What, then, so harsh and malign, - Heine! distils from thy life? - Poisons the peace of thy grave? - - I chide with thee not, that thy sharp - Upbraidings often assailed - England, my country; for we, - Heavy and sad, for her sons, - Long since, deep in our hearts, - Echo the blame of her foes. - We too sigh that she flags; - We too say that she now-- - Scarce comprehending the voice - Of her greatest, golden-mouthed sons - Of a former age any more-- - Stupidly travels her round - Of mechanic business, and lets - Slow die out of her life - Glory, and genius, and joy. - - So thou arraign’st her, her foe; - So we arraign her, her sons. - Yes, we arraign her! but she, - The weary Titan, with deaf - Ears, and labor-dimmed eyes, - Regarding neither to right - Nor left, goes passively by, - Staggering on to her goal; - Bearing on shoulders immense, - Atlanteän, the load, - Well-nigh not to be borne, - Of the too vast orb of her fate. - - But was it thou--I think - Surely it was!--that bard - Unnamed, who, Goethe said, - _Had every other gift, but wanted love_-- - Love, without which the tongue - Even of angels sounds amiss? - - Charm is the glory which makes - Song of the poet divine. - Love is the fountain of charm. - How without charm wilt thou draw, - Poet! the world to thy way? - Not by the lightnings of wit, - Not by the thunder of scorn. - These to the world too are given; - Wit it possesses, and scorn: - Charm is the poet’s alone. - _Hollow and dull are the great,_ - _And artists envious, and the mob profane._ - We know all this, we know! - Cam’st thou from heaven, O child - Of light! but this to declare? - Alas! to help us forget - Such barren knowledge a while, - God gave the poet his song. - - Therefore a secret unrest - Tortured thee, brilliant and bold; - Therefore triumph itself - Tasted amiss to thy soul. - Therefore, with blood of thy foes, - Trickled in silence thine own. - Therefore the victor’s heart - Broke on the field of his fame. - - Ah! as of old, from the pomp - Of Italian Milan, the fair - Flower of marble of white - Southern palaces,--steps - Bordered by statues, and walks - Terraced, and orange bowers - Heavy with fragrance,--the blond - German Kaiser full oft - Longed himself back to the fields, - Rivers, and high-roofed towns - Of his native Germany; so, - So, how often! from hot - Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps - Blazing, and brilliant crowds, - Starred and jewelled, of men - Famous, of women the queens - Of dazzling converse; from fumes - Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain - That mount, that madden,--how oft - Heine’s spirit outworn - Longed itself out of the din, - Back to the tranquil, the cool - Far German home of his youth! - - See! in the May afternoon, - O’er the fresh short turf of the Hartz, - A youth, with the foot of youth, - Heine! thou climbest again: - Up through the tall dark firs - Warming their heads in the sun, - Checkering the grass with their shade; - Up by the stream, with its huge - Moss-hung bowlders, and thin - Musical water half-hid; - Up o’er the rock-strewn slope, - With the sinking sun, and the air - Chill, and the shadows now - Long on the gray hillside,-- - To the stone-roofed hut at the top! - - Or, yet later, in watch - On the roof of the Brocken-tower - Thou standest, gazing!--to see - The broad red sun over field, - Forest, and city, and spire, - And mist-tracked steam of the wide, - Wide German land, going down - In a bank of vapors,--again - Standest, at nightfall, alone! - - Or, next morning, with limbs - Rested by slumber, and heart - Freshened and light with the May, - O’er the gracious spurs coming down - Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks - And beechen coverts, and copse - Of hazels green, in whose depth - Ilse, the fairy transformed, - In a thousand water-breaks light - Pours her petulant youth; - Climbing the rock which juts - O’er the valley,--the dizzily perched - Rock,--to its iron cross - Once more thou cling’st; to the cross - Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh! - - Goethe too had been there.[25] - In the long-past winter he came - To the frozen Hartz, with his soul - Passionate, eager; his youth - All in ferment. But he, - Destined to work and to live, - Left it, and thou, alas! - Only to laugh and to die. - - But something prompts me: Not thus - Take leave of Heine! not thus - Speak the last word at his grave! - Not in pity, and not - With half censure: with awe - Hail, as it passes from earth - Scattering lightnings, that soul! - - The Spirit of the world, - Beholding the absurdity of men,-- - Their vaunts, their feats,--let a sardonic smile, - For one short moment, wander o’er his lips. - _That smile was Heine!_ For its earthly hour - The strange guest sparkled; now ’tis passed away. - - That was Heine! and we, - Myriads who live, who have lived, - What are we all, but a mood, - A single mood, of the life - Of the Spirit in whom we exist, - Who alone is all things in one? - - Spirit, who fillest us all! - Spirit, who utterest in each - New-coming son of mankind - Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt! - O thou, one of whose moods, - Bitter and strange, was the life - Of Heine,--his strange, alas! - His bitter life,--may a life - Other and milder be mine! - May’st thou a mood more serene, - Happier, have uttered in mine! - May’st thou the rapture of peace - Deep have imbreathed at its core; - Made it a ray of thy thought, - Made it a beat of thy joy! - - - - -_STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE._ - - - Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused - With rain, where thick the crocus blows, - Past the dark forges long disused, - The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. - The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride, - Through forest, up the mountain side. - - The autumnal evening darkens round, - The wind is up, and drives the rain; - While, hark! far down, with strangled sound - Doth the Dead Guier’s stream complain, - Where that wet smoke, among the woods, - Over his boiling caldron broods. - - Swift rush the spectral vapors white - Past limestone scars with ragged pines, - Showing--then blotting from our sight!-- - Halt--through the cloud-drift something shines! - High in the valley, wet and drear, - The huts of Courrerie appear. - - _Strike leftward!_ cries our guide; and higher - Mounts up the stony forest-way. - At last the encircling trees retire; - Look! through the showery twilight gray, - What pointed roofs are these advance? - A palace of the kings of France? - - Approach, for what we seek is here! - Alight, and sparely sup, and wait - For rest in this outbuilding near; - Then cross the sward, and reach that gate; - Knock; pass the wicket. Thou art come - To the Carthusians’ world-famed home. - - The silent courts, where night and day - Into their stone-carved basins cold - The splashing icy fountains play, - The humid corridors behold, - Where, ghost-like in the deepening night, - Cowled forms brush by in gleaming white! - - The chapel, where no organ’s peal - Invests the stern and naked prayer! - With penitential cries they kneel - And wrestle; rising then, with bare - And white uplifted faces stand, - Passing the Host from hand to hand; - Each takes, and then his visage wan - Is buried in his cowl once more. - The cells!--the suffering Son of man - Upon the wall; the knee-worn floor; - And where they sleep, that wooden bed, - Which shall their coffin be when dead! - - The library, where tract and tome - Not to feed priestly pride are there, - To hymn the conquering march of Rome, - Nor yet to amuse, as ours are: - They paint of souls the inner strife, - Their drops of blood, their death in life. - - The garden, overgrown--yet mild, - See, fragrant herbs are flowering there: - Strong children of the Alpine wild - Whose culture is the brethren’s care; - Of human tasks their only one, - And cheerful works beneath the sun. - - Those halls, too, destined to contain - Each its own pilgrim-host of old, - From England, Germany, or Spain,-- - All are before me! I behold - The house, the brotherhood austere. - And what am I, that I am here? - - For rigorous teachers seized my youth, - And purged its faith, and trimmed its fire, - Showed me the high, white star of Truth, - There bade me gaze, and there aspire. - Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: - _What dost thou in this living tomb?_ - - Forgive me, masters of the mind! - At whose behest I long ago - So much unlearned, so much resigned: - I come not here to be your foe! - I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, - To curse and to deny your truth; - - Not as their friend, or child, I speak! - But as, on some far northern strand, - Thinking of his own gods, a Greek - In pity and mournful awe might stand - Before some fallen Runic stone; - For both were faiths, and both are gone. - - Wandering between two worlds, one dead, - The other powerless to be born, - With nowhere yet to rest my head, - Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. - Their faith, my tears, the world deride: - I come to shed them at their side. - - Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, - Ye solemn seats of holy pain! - Take me, cowled forms, and fence me round, - Till I possess my soul again; - Till free my thoughts before me roll, - Not chafed by hourly false control! - - For the world cries, your faith is now - But a dead time’s exploded dream; - My melancholy, sciolists say, - Is a passed mode, an outworn theme.-- - As if the world had ever had - A faith, or sciolists been sad! - - Ah! if it _be_ passed, take away, - At least, the restlessness, the pain! - Be man henceforth no more a prey - To these out-dated stings again! - The nobleness of grief is gone: - Ah, leave us not the fret alone! - - But,--if you cannot give us ease,-- - Last of the race of them who grieve, - Here leave us to die out with these - Last of the people who believe! - Silent, while years engrave the brow; - Silent--the best are silent now. - - Achilles ponders in his tent, - The kings of modern thought are dumb; - Silent they are, though not content, - And wait to see the future come. - They have the grief men had of yore, - But they contend and cry no more. - - Our fathers watered with their tears - This sea of time whereon we sail; - Their voices were in all men’s ears - Who passed within their puissant hail. - Still the same ocean round us raves, - But we stand mute, and watch the waves. - - For what availed it, all the noise - And outcry of the former men? - Say, have their sons achieved more joys? - Say, is life lighter now than then? - The sufferers died, they left their pain; - The pangs which tortured them remain. - - What helps it now, that Byron bore, - With haughty scorn which mocked the smart, - Through Europe to the Ætolian shore - The pageant of his bleeding heart? - That thousands counted every groan, - And Europe made his woe her own? - What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze - Carried thy lovely wail away, - Musical through Italian trees - Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? - Inheritors of thy distress, - Have restless hearts one throb the less? - - Or are we easier, to have read, - O Obermann! the sad, stern page, - Which tells us how thou hidd’st thy head - From the fierce tempest of thine age - In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, - Or chalets near the Alpine snow? - - Ye slumber in your silent grave!-- - The world, which for an idle day - Grace to your mood of sadness gave, - Long since hath flung her weeds away. - The eternal trifler breaks your spell; - But we--we learnt your lore too well! - - Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, - More fortunate, alas! than we, - Which without hardness will be sage, - And gay without frivolity. - Sons of the world, oh! speed those years; - But, while we wait, allow our tears! - - Allow them! We admire with awe - The exulting thunder of your race; - You give the universe your law, - You triumph over time and space: - Your pride of life, your tireless powers, - We praise them, but they are not ours. - - We are like children reared in shade - Beneath some old-world abbey wall, - Forgotten in a forest-glade, - And secret from the eyes of all. - Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, - Their abbey, and its close of graves! - - But, where the road runs near the stream, - Oft through the trees they catch a glance - Of passing troops in the sun’s beam,-- - Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance; - Forth to the world those soldiers fare, - To life, to cities, and to war. - - And through the woods, another way, - Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, - Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, - Round some old forest-lodge at morn. - Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; - Laughter and cries--those notes between! - - The banners flashing through the trees - Make their blood dance, and chain their eyes; - That bugle-music on the breeze - Arrests them with a charmed surprise. - Banner by turns and bugle woo: - _Ye shy recluses, follow too!_ - - O children, what do ye reply? - “Action and pleasure, will ye roam - Through these secluded dells to cry - And call us? but too late ye come! - Too late for us your call ye blow, - Whose bent was taken long ago. - - “Long since we pace this shadowed nave; - We watch those yellow tapers shine, - Emblems of hope over the grave, - In the high altar’s depth divine. - The organ carries to our ear - Its accents of another sphere. - - “Fenced early in this cloistral round - Of revery, of shade, of prayer, - How should we grow in other ground? - How can we flower in foreign air? - --Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; - And leave our desert to its peace!” - - - - -_STANZAS_ - -IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN.[26] - -NOVEMBER, 1849. - - - In front the awful Alpine track - Crawls up its rocky stair; - The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, - Close o’er it, in the air. - - Behind are the abandoned baths[27] - Mute in their meadows lone; - The leaves are on the valley-paths, - The mists are on the Rhone,-- - - The white mists rolling like a sea; - I hear the torrents roar. - --Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee; - I feel thee near once more. - - I turn thy leaves; I feel their breath - Once more upon me roll; - That air of languor, cold, and death, - Which brooded o’er thy soul. - - Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe’er thou art, - Condemned to cast about, - All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, - For comfort from without! - - A fever in these pages burns - Beneath the calm they feign; - A wounded human spirit turns, - Here, on its bed of pain. - - Yes, though the virgin mountain air - Fresh through these pages blows; - Though to these leaves the glaciers spare - The soul of their mute snows; - - Though here a mountain murmur swells - Of many a dark-boughed pine; - Though, as you read, you hear the bells - Of the high-pasturing kine,-- - - Yet through the hum of torrent lone, - And brooding mountain bee, - There sobs I know not what ground-tone - Of human agony. - - Is it for this, because the sound - Is fraught too deep with pain, - That, Obermann! the world around - So little loves thy strain? - - Some secrets may the poet tell, - For the world loves new ways: - To tell too deep ones is not well,-- - It knows not what he says. - - Yet, of the spirits who have reigned - In this our troubled day, - I know but two who have attained, - Save thee, to see their way. - - By England’s lakes, in gray old age, - His quiet home one keeps; - And one, the strong much-toiling sage, - In German Weimar sleeps. - - But Wordsworth’s eyes avert their ken - From half of human fate; - And Goethe’s course few sons of men - May think to emulate. - - For he pursued a lonely road, - His eyes on Nature’s plan; - Neither made man too much a god, - Nor God too much a man. - - Strong was he, with a spirit free - From mists, and sane and clear; - Clearer, how much! than ours--yet we - Have a worse course to steer. - - For, though his manhood bore the blast - Of a tremendous time, - Yet in a tranquil world was passed - His tenderer youthful prime. - - But we, brought forth and reared in hours - Of change, alarm, surprise,-- - What shelter to grow ripe is ours? - What leisure to grow wise? - - Like children bathing on the shore, - Buried a wave beneath, - The second wave succeeds before - We have had time to breathe. - - Too fast we live, too much are tried, - Too harassed, to attain - Wordsworth’s sweet calm, or Goethe’s wide - And luminous view to gain. - - And then we turn, thou sadder sage, - To thee! we feel thy spell! - --The hopeless tangle of our age, - Thou too hast scanned it well. - - Immovable thou sittest, still - As death, composed to bear; - Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill, - And icy thy despair. - - Yes, as the son of Thetis said, - I hear thee saying now: - _Greater by far than thou are dead;_ - _Strive not! die also thou!_ - - Ah! two desires toss about - The poet’s feverish blood; - One drives him to the world without, - And one to solitude. - - _The glow_, he cries, _the thrill of life,_ - _Where, where do these abound?_ - Not in the world, not in the strife - Of men, shall they be found. - - He who hath watched, not shared, the strife, - Knows how the day hath gone: - He only lives with the world’s life, - Who hath renounced his own. - - To thee we come, then! Clouds are rolled - Where thou, O seer! art set; - Thy realm of thought is drear and cold-- - The world is colder yet. - - And thou hast pleasures, too, to share - With those who come to thee,-- - Balms floating on thy mountain air, - And healing sights to see. - - How often, where the slopes are green - On Jaman, hast thou sate - By some high chalet-door, and seen - The summer day grow late; - - And darkness steal o’er the wet grass - With the pale crocus starred, - And reach that glimmering sheet of glass - Beneath the piny sward,-- - - Lake Leman’s waters, far below; - And watched the rosy light - Fade from the distant peaks of snow; - And on the air of night - - Heard accents of the eternal tongue - Through the pine branches play,-- - Listened, and felt thyself grow young! - Listened, and wept-- Away! - - Away the dreams that but deceive! - And thou, sad guide, adieu! - I go, fate drives me; but I leave - Half of my life with you. - - We, in some unknown Power’s employ, - Move on a rigorous line; - Can neither, when we will, enjoy, - Nor, when we will, resign. - - I in the world must live; but thou, - Thou melancholy shade! - Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, - Condemn me, nor upbraid. - - For thou art gone away from earth, - And place with those dost claim, - The children of the second birth, - Whom the world could not tame; - - And with that small transfigured band, - Whom many a different way - Conducted to their common land, - Thou learn’st to think as they - - Christian and Pagan, king and slave, - Soldier and anchorite, - Distinctions we esteem so grave, - Are nothing in their sight. - - They do not ask, who pined unseen, - Who was on action hurled, - Whose one bond is, that all have been - Unspotted by the world. - - There without anger thou wilt see - Him who obeys thy spell - No more, so he but rest, like thee, - Unsoiled; and so, farewell! - - Farewell! Whether thou now liest near - That much-loved inland sea, - The ripples of whose blue waves cheer - Vevey and Meillerie; - - And in that gracious region bland, - Where with clear-rustling wave - The scented pines of Switzerland - Stand dark round thy green grave,-- - - Between the dusty vineyard-walls - Issuing on that green place, - The early peasant still recalls - The pensive stranger’s face,-- - - And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date - Ere he plods on again; - Or whether, by maligner fate, - Among the swarms of men,-- - - Where between granite terraces - The blue Seine rolls her wave, - The Capital of Pleasure sees - Thy hardly-heard-of grave,-- - - Farewell! Under the sky we part, - In this stern Alpine dell. - O unstrung will! O broken heart! - A last, a last farewell! - - - - -_OBERMANN ONCE MORE._ - -(COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.) - - _Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d’un monde?_ - OBERMANN. - - - Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts[28] - All meaning from a name! - White houses prank where once were huts; - Glion, but not the same! - - And yet I know not! All unchanged - The turf, the pines, the sky! - The hills in their old order ranged; - The lake, with Chillon by; - - And ’neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff - And stony mounts the way, - The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if - I left them yesterday. - - Across the valley, on that slope, - The huts of Avant shine; - Its pines, under their branches, ope - Ways for the pasturing kine. - - Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, - Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, - Invite to rest the traveller there - Before he climb the pass,-- - - The gentian-flowered pass, its crown[29] - With yellow spires aflame; - Whence drops the path to Allière down, - And walls where Byron came;[30] - - By their green river, who doth change - His birth-name just below, - Orchard and croft and full-stored grange - Nursed by his pastoral flow. - - But stop! to fetch back thoughts that stray - Beyond this gracious bound, - The cone of Jaman, pale and gray, - See, in the blue profound! - - Ah, Jaman! delicately tall - Above his sun-warmed firs,-- - What thoughts to me his rocks recall, - What memories he stirs! - - And who but thou must be, in truth, - Obermann! with me here? - Thou master of my wandering youth, - But left this many a year! - - Yes, I forget the world’s work wrought, - Its warfare waged with pain: - An eremite with thee, in thought - Once more I slip my chain,-- - - And to thy mountain chalet come, - And lie beside its door, - And hear the wild bee’s Alpine hum, - And thy sad, tranquil lore. - - Again I feel the words inspire - Their mournful calm; serene, - Yet tinged with infinite desire - For all that _might_ have been,-- - - The harmony from which man swerved - Made his life’s rule once more; - The universal order served, - Earth happier than before. - - --While thus I mused, night gently ran - Down over hill and wood. - Then, still and sudden, Obermann - On the grass near me stood. - - Those pensive features well I knew,-- - On my mind, years before, - Imaged so oft, imaged so true! - --A shepherd’s garb he wore; - - A mountain flower was in his hand, - A book was in his breast. - Bent on my face, with gaze which scanned - My soul, his eyes did rest. - - “And is it thou,” he cried, “so long - Held by the world which we - Loved not, who turnest from the throng - Back to thy youth and me? - - “And from thy world, with heart opprest, - Choosest thou _now_ to turn? - Ah me! we anchorites read things best, - Clearest their course discern! - - “Thou fled’st me when the ungenial earth, - Man’s work-place, lay in gloom: - Return’st thou in her hour of birth, - Of hopes and hearts in bloom? - - “Perceiv’st thou not the change of day? - Ah! Carry back thy ken, - What, some two thousand years! Survey - The world as it was then. - - “Like ours it looked in outward air. - Its head was clear and true, - Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare, - No pause its action knew; - - “Stout was its arm, each thew and bone - Seemed puissant and alive: - But, ah! its heart, its heart was stone, - And so it could not thrive! - - “On that hard Pagan world, disgust - And secret loathing fell; - Deep weariness and sated lust - Made human life a hell. - - “In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, - The Roman noble lay; - He drove abroad, in furious guise, - Along the Appian Way. - - “He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, - And crowned his hair with flowers; - No easier nor no quicker passed - The impracticable hours. - - “The brooding East with awe beheld - Her impious younger world. - The Roman tempest swelled and swelled, - And on her head was hurled. - - “The East bowed low before the blast - In patient, deep disdain; - She let the legions thunder past, - And plunged in thought again. - - “So well she mused, a morning broke - Across her spirit gray; - A conquering, new-born joy awoke, - And filled her life with day. - - “‘Poor world!’ she cried, ‘so deep accurst, - That runn’st from pole to pole - To seek a draught to slake thy thirst.-- - Go, seek it in thy soul!’ - - “She heard it, the victorious West, - In crown and sword arrayed; - She felt the void which mined her breast, - She shivered and obeyed. - - “She vailed her eagles, snapped her sword, - And laid her sceptre down; - Her stately purple she abhorred, - And her imperial crown. - - “She broke her flutes, she stopped her sports, - Her artists could not please. - She tore her books, she shut her courts, - She fled her palaces. - - “Lust of the eye, and pride of life, - She left it all behind, - And hurried, torn with inward strife, - The wilderness to find. - - “Tears washed the trouble from her face; - She changed into a child; - ’Mid weeds and wrecks she stood,--a place - Of ruin,--but she smiled! - - “Oh, had I lived in that great day, - How had its glory new - Filled earth and heaven, and caught away - My ravished spirit too! - - “No thoughts that to the world belong - Had stood against the wave - Of love which set so deep and strong - From Christ’s then open grave. - - “No cloister-floor of humid stone - Had been too cold for me; - For me no Eastern desert lone - Had been too far to flee. - - “No lonely life had passed too slow, - When I could hourly scan - Upon his cross, with head sunk low, - That nailed, thorn-crownèd Man; - “Could see the Mother with the Child - Whose tender winning arts - Have to his little arms beguiled - So many wounded hearts! - - “And centuries came, and ran their course; - And, unspent all that time, - Still, still went forth that Child’s dear force, - And still was at its prime. - - “Ay, ages long endured his span - Of life,--’tis true received,-- - That gracious Child, that thorn-crowned Man! - --He lived while we believed. - - “While we believed, on earth he went, - And open stood his grave; - Men called from chamber, church, and tent, - And Christ was by to save. - - “Now he is dead! Far hence he lies - In the lorn Syrian town; - And on his grave, with shining eyes, - The Syrian stars look down. - - “In vain men still, with hoping new, - Regard his death-place dumb, - And say the stone is not yet to, - And wait for words to come. - - “Ah! from that silent sacred land - Of sun, and arid stone, - And crumbling wall, and sultry sand, - Comes now one word alone! - - “From David’s lips that word did roll; - ’Tis true and living yet,-- - _No man can save his brother’s soul,_ - _Nor pay his brother’s debt._ - - “Alone, self-poised, henceforward man - Must labor; must resign - His all too human creeds, and scan - Simply the way divine; - - “But slow that tide of common thought, - Which bathed our life, retired; - Slow, slow the old world wore to naught, - And pulse by pulse expired. - - “Its frame yet stood without a breach, - When blood and warmth were fled; - And still it spake its wonted speech, - But every word was dead. - - “And oh! we cried, that on this corse - Might fall a freshening storm! - Rive its dry bones, and with new force - A new-sprung world inform! - - “--Down came the storm! O’er France it passed - In sheets of scathing fire. - All Europe felt that fiery blast, - And shook as it rushed by her. - - “Down came the storm! In ruins fell - The worn-out world we knew. - It passed, that elemental swell: - Again appeared the blue; - - “The sun shone in the new-washed sky. - --And what from heaven saw he? - Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, - Float on a rolling sea! - - “Upon them plies the race of man - All it before endeavored: - ‘Ye live,’ I cried, ‘ye work and plan, - And know not ye are severed! - - “‘Poor fragments of a broken world, - Whereon men pitch their tent! - Why were ye too to death not hurled - When your world’s day was spent? - - “‘That glow of central fire is done - Which with its fusing flame - Knit all your parts, and kept you one; - But ye, ye are the same! - - “‘The past, its mask of union on, - Had ceased to live and thrive: - The past, its mask of union gone, - Say, is it more alive? - - “‘Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead, - Your social order too. - Where tarries he, the Power who said,-- - _See, I make all things new?_ - - “‘The millions suffer still, and grieve. - And what can helpers heal - With old-world cures men half believe - For woes they wholly feel? - - “‘And yet men have such need of joy! - But joy whose grounds are true, - And joy that should all hearts employ - As when the past was new. - - “‘Ah! not the emotion of that past, - Its common hope, were vain! - Some new such hope must dawn at last, - Or man must toss in pain. - - “‘But now the old is out of date, - The new is not yet born. - And who can be _alone_ elate, - While the world lies forlorn?’ - - “Then to the wilderness I fled. - There among Alpine snows - And pastoral huts I hid my head, - And sought and found repose. - - “It was not yet the appointed hour. - Sad, patient, and resigned, - I watched the crocus fade and flower, - I felt the sun and wind. - - “The day I lived in was not mine: - Man gets no second day. - In dreams I saw the future shine, - But ah! I could not stay! - - “Action I had not, followers, fame. - I passed obscure, alone. - The after-world forgets my name, - Nor do I wish it known. - - “Composed to bear, I lived and died, - And knew my life was vain. - With fate I murmur not, nor chide. - At Sèvres by the Seine - - “(If Paris that brief flight allow) - My humble tomb explore! - It bears: _Eternity, be thou - My refuge!_ and no more. - - “But thou, whom fellowship of mood - Did make from haunts of strife - Come to my mountain solitude, - And learn my frustrate life; - - “O thou, who, ere thy flying span - Was past of cheerful youth, - Didst find the solitary man, - And love his cheerless truth,-- - - “Despair not thou as I despaired, - Nor be cold gloom thy prison! - Forward the gracious hours have fared, - And see! the sun is risen! - - “He breaks the winter of the past; - A green, new earth appears. - Millions, whose life in ice lay fast, - Have thoughts and smiles and tears. - - “What though there still need effort, strife? - Though much be still unwon? - Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life; - Death’s frozen hour is done. - - “The world’s great order dawns in sheen - After long darkness rude, - Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, - With happier zeal pursued. - - “With hope extinct, and brow composed, - I marked the present die; - Its term of life was nearly closed, - Yet it had more than I. - - “But thou, though to the world’s new hour - Thou come with aspect marred, - Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power, - Which best befits its bard; - - “Though more than half thy years be past, - And spent thy youthful prime; - Though, round thy firmer manhood cast, - Hang weeds of our sad time - - “Whereof thy youth felt all the spell, - And traversed all the shade,-- - Though late, though dimmed, though weak, yet tell - Hope to a world new-made! - - “Help it to fill that deep desire, - The want which crazed our brain, - Consumed our soul with thirst like fire, - Immedicable pain; - - “Which to the wilderness drove out - Our life, to Alpine snow, - And palsied all our word with doubt, - And all our work with woe. - - “What still of strength is left, employ, - This end to help attain: - _One common wave of thought and joy_ - _Lifting mankind again!_” - - --The vision ended. I awoke - As out of sleep, and no - Voice moved: only the torrent broke - The silence, far below. - - Soft darkness on the turf did lie; - Solemn, o’er hut and wood, - In the yet star-sown nightly sky, - The peak of Jaman stood. - - Still in my soul the voice I heard - Of Obermann! Away - I turned; by some vague impulse stirred, - Along the rocks of Naye,-- - - Past Sonchaud’s piny flanks I gaze, - And the blanched summit bare - Of Malatrait, to where in haze - The Valais opens fair, - - And the domed Velan, with his snows, - Behind the upcrowding hills, - Doth all the heavenly opening close - Which the Rhone’s murmur fills; - - And glorious there, without a sound, - Across the glimmering lake, - High in the Valais-depth profound, - I saw the morning break. - - - - -NOTES. - - - NOTE [1], PAGE 2. - - _Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen._ - - The name Europe (Εὐρώπη, _the wide prospect_) probably describes the - appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia - Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from - the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or - Mæander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them. - - NOTE [2], PAGE 8. - - _Mycerinus._ - - “After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He - abhorred his father’s courses, and judged his subjects more justly - than any of their kings had done. To him there came an oracle from the - city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, - and to die in the seventh year from that time.”--HERODOTUS. - - NOTE [3], PAGE 37. - - _Stagirius._ - - Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three - books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in - the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom’s works. - - NOTE [4], PAGE 51. - - _That wayside inn we left to-day._ - - Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake Country will - find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the - roadside inn at Wythburn, on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards - Keswick; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago; and the passage - over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath. - - NOTE [5], PAGE 59. - - _Sohrab and Rustum._ - - The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm’s “History - of Persia,” as follows:-- - - “The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum’s early amours. He - had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, - whose armies he commanded; and soon obtained a renown beyond that - of all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and - dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest - warriors of that country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last - that hero resolved to do under a feigned name. They met three times. - The first time, they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the - advantage; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but granted - life to his unknown father; the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when - writhing in the pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the - vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and bade him dread the - rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his - son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero; - and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for proofs - of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore open his - mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed on his - arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade him - seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite - frantic: he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, - and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After - Sohrab’s death, he burned his tents and all his goods, and carried - the corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army of Turan was, - agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus - unmolested. To reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are - informed that Rustum could have no idea his son was in existence. The - mother of Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing - to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rustum, as - before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not uncommon in - the chivalrous combats of those days.” - - NOTE [6], PAGE 94. - - - _Balder Dead._ - - “Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible dreams, - indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated them to - the assembled Æsir, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from - him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and - water, from iron and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, - diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of - them would do any harm to Balder. When this was done, it became a - favorite pastime of the Æsir, at their meetings, to get Balder to - stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some - stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes; - for, do they what they would, none of them could harm him, and this - was regarded by all as a great honor shown to Balder. But when Loki - beheld the scene, he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. - Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, - the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended - woman, inquired of her if she knew what the Æsir were doing at their - meetings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and stones at - Balder without being able to hurt him. - - “‘Ay,’ said Frigga, ’neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I - have exacted an oath from all of them.’ - - “‘What!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘have all things sworn to spare Balder?’ - - “‘All things,’ replied Frigga, ‘except one little shrub that grows on - the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I - thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.’ - - “As soon as Loki heard this, he went away, and, resuming his natural - shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods - were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking - of the sports, on account of his blindness; and going up to him said, - ‘Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?’ “‘Because I - am blind,’ answered Hödur, ‘and see not where Balder is, and have, - moreover, nothing to throw with.’ - - “‘Come, then,’ said Loki, ‘do like the rest, and show honor to Balder - by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the - place where he stands.’ - - “Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, - darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down - lifeless.”--_Edda._ - - NOTE [7], PAGE 131. - - _Tristram and Iseult._ - - “In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who - at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became - expert in all knightly exercises. The king of Ireland, at Tristram’s - solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on - King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter’s confidante - a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her - nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to - Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder - of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers. - - “After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the - nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the - romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret - interviews.--Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of - the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult - with the White Hands. He married her, more out of gratitude than love. - Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the - theatre of unnumbered exploits. - - “Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and - to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was - soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he dispatched a - confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to - accompany him to Brittany,” etc.--DUNLOP’S _History of Fiction_. - - NOTE [8], PAGE 167. - - _That son of Italy who tried to blow._ - - Giacopone di Todi. - - NOTE [9], PAGE 172. - - _Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed._ - - Gilbert de la Porrée, at the Council of Rheims in 1148. - - NOTE [10], PAGE 173. - - _Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried._ - - The Montanists. - - NOTE [11], PAGE 174. - - _Monica._ - - See St. Augustine’s “Confessions,” book ix. chapter 11. - - NOTE [12], PAGE 175. - - _My Marguerite smiles upon the strand._ - - See, among “Early Poems,” the poem called “A Memory-Picture,” p. 23. - - NOTE [13], PAGE 199. - - _The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field._ - - Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity - appearing in both earth and sky. - - NOTE [14], PAGE 200. - - _O’er the sun-reddened western straits._ - - Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, - probably took its name from the redness of the west under which the - Greeks saw it. - - NOTE [15], PAGE 222. - - _Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat._ - - The _gentiana lutea_. - - NOTE [16], PAGE 246. - - _Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth._ - - See the Fragments of Parmenides:-- - - ......κοῦραι δʹ ὁδὀν ἡγεμόνευον, - ἡλἱαδες κοῦραι, προλιποῦσαι δὠματα νυκτός, - εἰς ϕάος............ - - - - NOTE [17], PAGE 291. - - _The Scholar-Gypsy._ - - “There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by - his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join - himself to a company of vagabond gypsies. Among these extravagant - people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got - so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their - mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, - there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been - of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among - the gypsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove - him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with - were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had - a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by - the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others; that - himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the - whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give - the world an account of what he had learned.”--GLANVIL’S _Vanity of - Dogmatizing_, 1661. - - NOTE [18], PAGE 299. - - _Thyrsis._ - - Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece, “The - Scholar-Gypsy.” - - NOTE [19], PAGE 305. - - _Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing._ - - Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was - said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had - been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of - the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers - try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if - he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took - upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and - slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, - like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek - popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions - represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath - to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck - blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him - to heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he - ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. - See SERVIUS, _Comment. in Virgil. Bucol._, v. 20 and viii. 68. - - NOTE [20], PAGE 312. - - _Ah! where is he, who should have come._ - - The author’s brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public - Instruction in the Punjab, and author of “Oakfield, or Fellowship in - the East,” died at Gibraltar, on his way home from India, April the - 9th, 1859. - - NOTE [21], PAGE 313. - - _So moonlit, saw me once of yore._ - - See the poem, “A Summer Night,” p. 278. - - NOTE [22], PAGE 313. - - _My brother! and thine early lot._ - - See Note 20. - - NOTE [23], PAGE 317. - - _I saw the meeting of two - Gifted women._ - - Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau. - - NOTE [24], PAGE 320. - - _Whose too bold dying song._ - - See the last lines written by Emily Brontë, in “Poems by Currer, - Ellis, and Acton Bell.” - - NOTE [25], PAGE 334. - - _Goethe too had been there._ - - See _Harzreise im Winter_, in Goethe’s _Gedichte_. - - NOTE [26], PAGE 342. - - The author of _Obermann_, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little - celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost - unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his - principal work, _Obermann_, the delicate feeling for nature which it - exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have - attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this - century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably - always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest. - - Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and - passed some time in the Seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the - seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, - where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed - thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame - or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave - might be placed these words only: _Éternité, deviens mon asile!_ - - The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous - and fortunate authors of his own day,--Chateaubriand and Madame de - Staël,--are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these - eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and though - _Obermann_, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost - entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of - sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him - from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with - him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers, - he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinizing. His - chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these - merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces by which modern - life is and has been impelled lives in the letters of _Obermann_; the - dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the - French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world - which our own time is but now fully bringing to light,--all these are - to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always - seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated - too high. - - Besides _Obermann_, there is one other of Senancour’s works which, for - those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting: its title - is _Libres Méditations d’un Solitaire Inconnu_. - - NOTE [27], PAGE 342. - - _Behind are the abandoned baths._ - - The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, in - the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the - Rhone. - - NOTE [28], PAGE 348. - - _Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts._ - - Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva will - recollect Glion, the mountain village above the Castle of Chillon. - Glion now has hotels, _pensions_, and villas; but twenty years ago it - was hardly more than the huts of Avant opposite to it,--huts through - which goes that beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, followed by so - many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to the Simmenthal and - Thun. - - NOTE [29], PAGE 349. - - _The gentian-flowered pass, its crown._ - - See Note 15. - - NOTE [30], PAGE 349. - - _And walls where Byron came._ - - Montbovon. See Byron’s Journal, in his “Works,” vol. iii. p. 258. The - river Saane becomes the Sarine below Montbovon. - - * * * * * - -CROWELL’S RED LINE POETS. - -66 Volumes. 12mo, Per Volume, $1.25. - - -Gilt edges, red line borders, illustrated, and bound in beautiful -designs. 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Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, N.Y. - - * * * * * - -“_Remember Jacob Abbott’s sensible rule to give children something that -they are growing up to, not away from, and keep down the stock of -children’s books to the very best._” - -CLASSIC JUVENILES - -BY JACOB ABBOTT, - -“_The Prince of Writers for the Young._” - - -[Illustration] - -“Jacob Abbott’s books contain so much practical wisdom concerning the -every-day life of children, and so many lessons in honor, truthfulness, -and courtesy, that they should not be left out of the libraries of boys -and girls.”--_From “Books for the Young,” compiled by C. M. Hewins, -Librarian of the Hartford Library Association._ - -[Illustration] - - =ABBOTT’S AMERICAN HISTORIES FOR YOUTH.= 8 vols. - Illustrated by Darley, Herrick, Chapin, and others. 12mo $10.00 - - I. Aboriginal America. - II. Discovery of America. - III. The Southern Colonies. - IV. The Northern Colonies. - V. Wars of the Colonies. - VI. The Revolt of the Colonies. - VII. The War of the Revolution. - VIII. George Washington. - - =THE ROLLO BOOKS.= 14 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 14.00 - - Rollo Learning to Talk. - Rollo Learning to Read. - Rollo at Work. - Rollo at Play. - Rollo at School. - Rollo’s Vacation. - Rollo’s Experiments. - Rollo’s Museum. - Rollo’s Travels. - Rollo’s Correspondence. - Rollo’s Philosophy--Water. - Rollo’s Philosophy--Air. - Rollo’s Philosophy--Fire. - Rollo’s Philosophy--Sky. - - =THE JONAS BOOKS.= 6 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 6.00 - - Jonas a Judge. - Caleb in Town. - Caleb in the Country. - Jonas’s Stories. - Jonas on a Farm in Summer. - Jonas on a Farm in Winter. - - =THE LUCY BOOKS.= 6 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 6.00 - - Lucy Among the Mountains. - Lucy’s Conversations. - Lucy on the Sea Shore. - Lucy at Study. - Lucy at Play. - Stories Told to Cousin Lucy. - - =AUGUST STORIES.= 4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 5.00 - - August and Elvie. - Hunter and Tom. - Schooner Mary Ann. - Granville Valley. - - =JUNO STORIES.= 4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 5.00 - - Hubert. - Juno and Georgie. - Juno on a Journey. - Mary Osborne. - - =Tennyson’s Complete Poems.= Illustrated Edition, with Portrait and - 24 Full Page Illustrations by celebrated Artists. Engraved by Geo. T. - Andrew. Uniform in size and style with Cambridge Book of Poetry. Royal - 8vo. - - Cloth, gilt $5.00 - Morocco, gilt $10.00 - Tree calf $12.00 - - =The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song.= Selected from English - and American Authors, by CHARLOTTE F. BATES. Illustrated - by the best artists. Containing many selections found in no other - compilation. Carefully indexed and a most attractive and valuable book - of reference. Royal 8vo. - - Cloth, gilt $5.00 - Half morocco 7.50 - Full morocco $10.00 - Tree calf 12.00 - - =Initials and Pseudonyms. A Dictionary of Literary Disguises.= Edited - by WILLIAM CUSHING. 8vo. - - Cloth $5.00 - Half morocco $7.50 - - =A Dictionary of Poetical Quotations.= Based upon that of Henry G. - Bohn. _Revised_, _Corrected_, and _Enlarged_ by the addition of over - 1200 Quotations. By ANNA L. WARD. Crown 8vo. - - Bevelled boards $2.50 - Interleaved edition $3.50 - - =Her Majesty’s Tower.= By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. A History of the - Tower of London. 2 vols. 12mo. 47 Illustrations $4.00 - - =Foster’s Cyclopædias of Illustrations.= Containing over 16,000 - Quotations from Prose and Poetic Literature, on all subjects which - come within the range of Christian Teaching. Prose Illustrations, - Vols. I. and II.; Poetical Illustrations, Vols. I. and II. Price in - cloth, $5.00; in sheep, $6.00 per volume. - - =Conybeare & Howson’s Life of St. Paul.= 12mo. - - Illustrated edition $1.50 - Popular edition $1.00 - - =Red Letter Poems.= By English men and women. Illustrated edition. 24 - Full Page Illustrations. 8vo. - - Cloth, gilt $3.50 - Morocco, or tree calf 7.50 - - =George Eliot’s Poems.= 8vo. Illustrated edition. - - Cloth, gilt 4.50 - Morocco, or tree calf 9.00 - - =George Eliot’s Works.= 8 vols. 12mo. Cloth 10.00 - - =Hawthorne’s Complete Works.= 6 vols. 16mo. Cloth 10.00 - - =Lytton’s (Bulwer) Works.= 13 vols. 12mo 16.25 - - =Walton’s Complete Angler.= With 86 Illustrations. From - Major’s 4th edition 2.00 - - =Charles Lamb’s Works.= 3 vols. 12mo 3.75 - - =Disraeli’s Works.= 6 vols. 12mo 7.50 - - =Milman’s Works.= 8 vols. 12mo 12.00 - - =Dickens’ Works.= 15 vols. 12mo 18.75 - - =Thackeray’s Works.= 11 vols. 12mo 13.75 - - =Waverley Novels.= 12 vols. 12mo 15.00 - - =Princes, Authors and Statesmen of our Time.= By JAMES - T. FIELDS, E. P. WHIPPLE, CANON FARRAR, LOUISE CHANDLER - MOULTON and others, with 50 Illustrations. 8vo 2.75 - - =The Poor Boy and the Merchant Prince=; OR, THE LIFE OF - AMOS LAWRENCE. 16mo. By WILLIAM M. THAYER 1.00 - - =The Good Girl and the True Woman=; OR, THE LIFE OF - MARY LYON. 16mo. By WILLIAM M. THAYER 1.00 - - =Nelson=; OR, HOW A COUNTRY BOY MADE HIS WAY IN THE CITY. - Being Incidents in the Life of a Successful Merchant of Boston. - 16mo. By WILLIAM M. THAYER 1.25 - - =Poor Boys who Became Famous.= By SARAH K. BOLTON. - Short biographical sketches of George Peabody, Horace Greeley, - Bayard Taylor, Michael Faraday, and other Noted People, with - numerous portraits. 12mo 1.50 - - =General Gordon, The Christian Hero.= A careful and well-written - life of this Knightly Soldier, especially adapted to - young people. 12mo 1.25 - - =Little Arthur’s England.= By Lady CALCOTT. With 36 Illustrations. - Elegantly printed and bound in red cloth, giving in - concise and easy language all the essential facts of English History - for young People. 12mo. Cloth 1.25 - - =Little Arthur’s France.= On the plan of Little Arthur’s - England, and bound in uniform style. 12mo 1.25 - - “Exceptionally fitted to interest and instruct young - people.”--_Boston Advertiser._ - - =Off to the Wilds.= By GEO. MANVILLE FENN. A Story of Hunting - Adventures in South Africa. A favorite book with the boys. - Sq. 8vo. Fully Illustrated 1.75 - - =The Mutiny on Board the Leander.= By BERNARD HELDMANN. - A Story of Strange Adventures in the Southern Pacific. - Sq. 8vo. 24 Illustrations 1.75 - - =Martin the Skipper.= By JAMES F. COBB, author of “The - Watchers on the Longships,” etc. A Tale for Boys and Seafaring - Folk. 12mo 1.50 - - =The Watchers on the Longships.= By JAMES F. COBB. A - Story of Thrilling Interest, founded on fact, illustrating Moral - Heroism and Faithfulness to Duty. 12mo 1.50 - - =A Home in the Holy Land.= By MRS. FINN. An excellent - and faithful Description of Home Life in the Holy Land at the - Present Day. 12mo 1.50 - - =The Farmer Boy=; OR, HOW HE BECAME COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF. - The Life of George Washington. By Uncle Juvenal. 16mo 1.00 - - =A Year at Poplar Row.= By MARCH ELLINWOOD. A noble - ideal of Christian Girlhood and Young Womanhood. 12mo 1.25 - - =Hints to Our Boys.= By A. J. SYMINGTON, with an Introduction - by LYMAN ABBOTT, D.D. Square 16mo .75 - - =Abbott’s American Histories for Youth.= 8 vols. Illustrated. - 12mo, $10.00. 4 vols 6.00 - - =August Stories.= 4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 4.50 - - =Juno Stories.= 4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 4.50 - - =The Jonas Books.= 6 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 5.00 - - =The Lucy Books.= 6 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 5.00 - - =The Rollo Books.= 14 vols. 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