April on the Battlefields

April now walks the fields again, Trailing her tearful leaves And holding all her frightened buds against her heart: Wrapt in her clouds and mists, She walks, Groping her way among the graves of men.

The green of earth is differently green, A dreadful knowledge trembles in the grass, And little wide-eyed flowers die too soon: There is a stillness here -- After a terror of all raving sounds -- And birds sit close for comfort upon the boughs Of broken trees.

April, thou grief! What of thy sun and glad, high wind, Thy valiant hills and woods and eager brooks, Thy thousand-petalled hopes? The sky forbids thee sorrow, April! And yet -- I see thee walking listlessly Across those scars that once were joyous sod, Those graves, Those stepping-stones from life to life.

Death is an interruption between two heart-beats, That I know -- Yet know not how I know -- But April mourns, Trailing her tender green, The passion of her green, Across the passion of those fearful fields.

Yes, all the fields! No barrier here, No challenge in the night, No stranger-land; She passes with her perfect countersign, Her green; She wanders in her mournful garden, Dropping her buds like tears, Spreading her lovely grief upon the graves of man.

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The Forest Sanctuary - Part II.

I.Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water,With yet a nearer swell-fresh breeze, awake!And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughterThy wave's pure silvery green,-and shining lake,Spread far before my cabin, with thy zoneOf ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone!Send voices through the forest aisles, and makeGlad music round me, that my soul may dare,Cheer'd by such tones, to look back on a dungeon's air!

III. There, fetter'd down from day, to think the whileHow bright in Heaven the festal sun is glowing,Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile,Flush like the rose; and how the streams are flowingWith sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass,And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass;And how the rich dark summer-trees are bowingWith their full foliage;-this to know, and pineBound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot-'twas mine.

IV. Wherefore was this?-Because my soul had drawnLight from the book whose words are grav'd in light!There, at its well-head, had I found the dawn,And day, and noon of freedom:-but too brightIt shines on that which man to man hath given,And call'd the truth-the very truth, from Heaven!And therefore seeks he, in his brother's sight,To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bindWith his strong chains to earth, what is not earth's-the mind!

V. It is a weary and a bitter taskBack from the lip the burning word to keep,And to shut out Heaven's air with falsehood's mask,And in the dark urn of the soul to heapIndignant feelings-making even of thoughtA buried treasure, which may but be soughtWhen shadows are abroad-and night-and sleep.I might not brook it long-and thus was thrownInto that grave-like cell, to wither there alone.

VI. And I a child of danger, whose delightsWere on dark hills and many-sounding seas-I that amidst the Cordillera heightsHad given Castilian banners to the breeze,And the full circle of the rainbow seenThere, on the snows; and in my country beenA mountain wanderer, from the PyreneesTo the Morena crags-how left I notLife, or the soul's life quench'd, on that sepulchral spot?

VII. Because Thou didst not leave me, oh, my God!Thou wert with those that bore the truth of oldInto the deserts from the oppressor's rod,And made the caverns of the rock their fold,And in the hidden chambers of the dead,Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed,And met when stars met, by their beams to holdThe free heart's communing with Thee,-and ThouWert in the midst, felt, own'd-the strengthener then as now!

VIII. Yet once I sank. Alas! man's wavering mind!Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it blow?How they bear with them, floating uncombin'd,The shadows of the past, that come and go,As o'er the deep the old long-buried things,Which a storm's working to the surface brings!Is the reed shaken, and must we be so,With every wind?-So, Father! must we be,Till we can fix undimm'd our stedfast eyes on Thee.

IX. Once my soul died within me. What had thrownThat sickness o'er it?-Even a passing thoughtOf a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'ergrown,Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought!Perchance the damp roof's water-drops, that fellJust then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell,Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caughtSome tone from memory, of the music, wellingEver with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky dwelling.

X. But so my spirit's fever'd longings wrought,Wakening, it might be, to the faint sad sound,That from the darkness of the walls they broughtA lov'd scene round me, visibly around.Yes! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by hue,Like stars from midnight, through the gloom it grew,That haunt of youth, hope, manhood!-till the boundOf my shut cavern seem'd dissolv'd, and IGirt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky.

XI. I look'd-and lo! the clear broad river flowing,Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep,The lone tower dark against a Heaven all glowing,Like seas of glass and fire!-I saw the sweepOf glorious woods far down the mountain side,And their still shadows in the gleaming tide,And the red evening on its waves asleep;And midst the scene-oh! more than all-there smil'dMy child's fair face, and hers, the mother of my child!

XII. With their soft eyes of love and gladness rais'dUp to the flushing sky, as when we stoodLast by that river, and in silence gaz'dOn the rich world of sunset:-but a floodOf sudden tenderness my soul oppress'd,And I rush'd forward with a yearning breast,To clasp-alas! a vision!-Wave and wood,And gentle faces, lifted in the lightOf day's last hectic blush, all melted from my sight.

XIV. But I was rous'd-and how?-It is no taleEven midst thy shades, thou wilderness, to tell!I would not have my boy's young cheek made pale,Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befelIn that drear prison-house.-His eye must growMore dark with thought, more earnest his fair brow,More high his heart in youthful strength must swell;So shall it fitly burn when all is told:-Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet enfold!

XV.It is enough that through such heavy hours,As wring us by our fellowship of clay,I liv'd, and undegraded. We have powersTo snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away!Shall the wild Indian, for his savage fame,Laugh and expire, and shall not truth's high nameBear up her martyrs with all-conquering sway?It is enough that Torture may be vain-I had seen Alvar die-the strife was won from Pain.

XVI. And faint not, heart of man! though years wane slow!There have been those that from the deepest caves,And cells of night, and fastnesses, belowThe stormy dashing of the ocean-waves,Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have nurs'dA quenchless hope, and watch'd their time, and burstOn the bright day, like wakeners from the graves!I was of such at last!-unchain'd I trodThis green earth, taking back my freedom from my God!

XVII. That was an hour to send its fadeless traceDown life's far sweeping tide!-A dim, wild night,Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face,Yet how my heart leap'd in her blessed light!The shepherd's light-the sailor's on the sea-The hunter's homeward from the mountains free,Where its lone smile makes tremulously brightThe thousand streams!-I could but gaze through tears-Oh! what a sight is Heaven, thus first beheld for years!

XVIII. The rolling clouds!-they have the whole blue spaceAbove to sail in-all the dome of sky!My soul shot with them in their breezy raceO'er star and gloom!-but I had yet to fly,As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot,And strange, I knew-the sunbeam knew it not;-Wildest of all the savage glens that lieIn far sierras, hiding their deep springs,And travers'd but by storms, or sounding eagles' wings.

XIX. Ay, and I met the storm there!-I had gain'dThe covert's heart with swift and stealthy tread:A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain'dTheir autumn foliage rustling on my head;A moan-a hollow gust-and there I stoodGirt with majestic night, and ancient wood,And foaming water.-Thither might have fledThe mountain Christian with his faith of yore,When Afric's tambour shook the ringing western shore!

XXI. And with the arrowy lightnings!-for they flash'd,Smiting the branches in their fitful play,And brightly shivering where the torrents dash'dUp, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray!And there to stand amidst the pealing strife,The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life,And all the mountain-voices on their way,-Was it not joy?-'twas joy in rushing might,After those years that wove but one long dead of night!

XXII. There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon,And lit me to my home of youth again,Through the dim chesnut shade, where oft at noon,By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain,In gentle sleep: but now I pass'd as oneThat may not pause where wood-streams whispering run,Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain,Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind,The foe's quick rustling step close on the leaves behind.

XXIII. My home of youth!-oh! if indeed to partWith the soul's lov'd ones be a mournful thing,When we go forth in buoyancy of heart,And bearing all the glories of our springFor life to breathe on,-is it less to meet,When these are faded?-who shall call it sweet?-Even though love's mingling tears may haply bringBalm as they fall, too well their heavy showersTeach us how much is lost of all that once was ours!

XXIV. Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow,Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky,Nor the faint flower-scents, as they come and goIn the soft air, like music wandering by;-Oh! not by these, th' unfailing, are we taughtHow time and sorrow on our frames have wrought,But by the sadden'd eye, the darken'd brow,Of kindred aspects, and the long dim gaze,Which tells us we are chang'd,-how chang'd from other days!

XXV. Before my father-in my place of birth,I stood an alien. On the very floorWhich oft had trembled to my boyish mirth,The love that rear'd me, knew my face no more!There hung the antique armour, helm and crest,Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast,There droop'd the banner, with the marks it boreOf Paynim spears; and I, the worn in frameAnd heart, what there was I?-another and the same!

XXVI. Then bounded in a boy, with clear dark eye--How should he know his father?-when we parted,From the soft cloud which mantles infancy,His soul, just wakening into wonder, dartedIts first looks round. Him follow'd one, the brideOf my young days, the wife how lov'd and tried!Her glance met mine-I could not speak-she startedWith a bewilder'd gaze;-until there cameTears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her name.

XXVII. She knew me then!-I murmur'd 'Leonor!' And her heart answer'd!-oh! the voice is knownFirst from all else, and swiftest to restoreLove's buried images with one low tone,That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is faded,And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded,And all the brightness from the aspect gone!-Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled,Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe and dread.

XXVIII. For there we might not rest. Alas! to leaveThose native towers, and know that they must fallBy slow decay, and none remain to grieveWhen the weeds cluster'd on the lonely wall!We were the last-my boy and I-the lastOf a long line which brightly thence had pass'd!My father bless'd me as I left his hall--With his deep tones and sweet, tho' full of years,He bless'd me there, and bath'd my child's young head with tears.

XXIX. I had brought sorrow on his grey hairs down,And cast the darkness of my branded name(For so he deem'd it) on the clear renown,My own ancestral heritage of fame.And yet he bless'd me!-Father! if the dustLie on those lips benign, my spirit's trustIs to behold thee yet, where grief and shameDim the bright day no more; and thou wilt knowThat not thro' guilt thy son thus bow'd thine age with woe!

XXX. And thou, my Leonor! that unrepining,If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me,When stars-the stars that earliest rise-are shining,How their soft glance unseals each thought of thee!For on our flight they smil'd;-their dewy rays,Thro' the last olives, lit thy tearful gazeBack to the home we never more might see;So pass'd we on, like earth's first exiles, turningFond looks where hung the sword above their Eden burning.

XXXI. It was a woe to say-'Farewell, my Spain!The sunny and the vintage land, farewell!'-I could have died upon the battle plainFor thee, my country! but I might not dwellIn thy sweet vales, at peace.-The voice of songBreathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along;The citron's glow is caught from shade and dell;But what are these?-upon thy flowery sodI might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out to God!

XXXII. O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep!-Strange heart of man! that ev'n midst woe swells high,When thro' the foam he sees his proud bark sweep,Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky!Yes! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind;His spirit rises with the rising wind;For, wedded to the far futurity,On, on, it bears him ever, and the mainSeems rushing, like his hope, some happier shore to gain.

XXXIII. Not thus is woman. Closely her still heartDoth twine itself with ev'n each lifeless thing,Which, long remember'd, seem'd to bear its partIn her calm joys. For ever would she cling,A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earthWhere she hath loved, and given her children birth,And heard their first sweet voices. There may SpringArray no path, renew no flower, no leaf,But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell grief.

XXXIV. I look'd on Leonor, and if there seem'dA cloud of more than pensiveness to rise,In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleam'd,And the soft darkness of her serious eyes,Misty with tender gloom; I call'd it noughtBut the fond exile's pang, a lingering thoughtOf her own vale, with all its melodiesAnd living light of streams. Her soul would restBeneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gorgeous west!

XXXV. Oh! could we live in visions! could we holdDelusion faster, longer, to our breast,When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold,That which we see not, and are therefore blest!But they, our lov'd and loving, they to whomWe have spread out our souls in joy and gloom,Their looks and accents, unto ours address'd,Have been a language of familiar toneToo long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and unknown.

XXXVI. I told my heart 'twas but the exile's woeWhich press'd on that sweet bosom;-I deceiv'dMy heart but half:-a whisper faint and low,Haunting it ever, and at times believ'd,Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seemLike those that dream, and know the while they dream,Midst the soft falls of airy voices griev'd,And troubled, while bright phantoms round them play,By a dim sense that all will float and fade away!

XXXVII. Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo'd the breeze,To speed me onward with the wings of morn.-Oh! far amidst the solitary seas,Which were not made for man, what man hath borne,Answering their moan with his!-what thou didst bear,My lost and loveliest! while that secret careGrew terror, and thy gentle spirit, wornBy its dull brooding weight, gave way at last,Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast!

XXXVIII. For unto thee, as thro' all change, reveal'dMine inward being lay. In other eyesI had to bow me yet, and make a shield,To fence my burning bosom, of disguise;By the still hope sustain'd, ere long to winSome sanctuary, whose green retreats within,My thoughts unfetter'd to their source might rise,Like songs and scents of morn.-But thou didst lookThro' all my soul, and thine even unto fainting shook.

XXXIX. Fall'n, fall'n, I seem'd-yet, oh! not less belov'd,Tho' from thy love was pluck'd the early pride,And harshly, by a gloomy faith reproved,And sear'd with shame!-tho' each young flower had died,There was the root,-strong, living, not the lessThat all it yielded now was bitterness;Yet still such love as quits not misery's side,Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace,Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face.

XLI. There was thine agony-to love so wellWhere fear made love life's chastener.-HeretoforeWhate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell,Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soarAway to sunshine, and thy clear eye speakMost of the skies when grief most touch'd thy cheek.Now, that far brightness faded! never moreCouldst thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy heart,Since at Heaven's gate it seem'd that thou and I must part.

XLII. Alas! and life hath moments when a glance(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirr'd,)A flush-a fading of the cheek perchance.A word-less, less-the cadence of a word,Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath,Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with death!-Even thus, what never from thy lip was heardBroke on my soul.-I knew that in thy sightI stood-howe'er belov'd-a recreant from the light!

XLIII. Thy sad sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along,--Oh! the deep soul it breath'd!-the love, the woe,The fervor, pour'd in that full gush of song,As it went floating through the fiery glowOf the rich sunset!-bringing thoughts of Spain,With all her vesper-voices, o'er the main,Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow.-' Ave sanctissima! '-how oft that layHath melted from my heart the martyr-strength away!

XLIV. 'Ora pro nobis, mater!' -What a spellWas in those notes, with day's last glory dyingOn the flush'd waters!-seem'd they not to swellFrom the far dust, wherein my sires were lyingWith crucifix and sword?-Oh! yet how clearComes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear!'Ora!' -with all the purple waves replying,All my youth's visions rising in the strain--And I had thought it much to bear the rack and chain!

XLV. Torture!-the sorrow of affection's eye,Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core,Deeper, and teaching more of agony,May pierce than many swords!-and this I boreWith a mute pang. Since I had vainly strivenFrom its free springs to pour the truth of HeavenInto thy trembling soul, my Leonor!Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share:-Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in prayer!

XLVI. We could not pray together midst the deep,Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay,Through days of splendour, nights too bright for sleep,Soft, solemn, holy!-We were on our wayUnto the mighty Cordillera-land,With men whom tales of that world's golden strandHad lur'd to leave their vines.-Oh! who shall sayWhat thoughts rose in us, when the tropic skyTouch'd all its molten seas with sunset's alchemy?

XLVII. Thoughts no more mingled!-Then came night-th' intenseDark blue-the burning stars!-I saw thee shineOnce more, in thy serene magnificence,O Southern Cross! as when thy radiant signFirst drew my gaze of youth.-No, not as then;I had been stricken by the darts of menSince those fresh days, and now thy light divineLook'd on mine anguish, while within me stroveThe still small voice against the might of suffering love.

XLVIII. But thou, the clear, the glorious! thou wert pouringBrilliance and joy upon the crystal wave,While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring,Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave!-Alas! I watch'd her dark religious glance,As it still sought thee through the Heaven's expanse,Bright Cross!-and knew not that I watch'd what gaveBut passing lustre-shrouded soon to be-A soft light found no more-no more on earth or sea!

XLIX.I knew not all-yet something of unrestSat on my heart. Wake, ocean-wind! I said;Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest,Where through rich clouds of foliage o'er her head,Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by,Like singing voices, and the green earth lieStarry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread!-But the calm bound us midst the glassy main;Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flowers again.L. Yes! as if Heaven upon the waves were sleeping,Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay,All moveless through their blue transparence keeping,The shadows of our sails, from day to day;While she-oh! strongest is the strong heart's woe-And yet I live! I feel the sunshine's glow-And I am he that look'd, and saw decaySteal o'er the fair of earth, th' ador'd too much!-It is a fearful thing to love what death may touch.

LI. A fearful thing that love and death may dwellIn the same world!-She faded on-and I-Blind to the last, there needed death to tellMy trusting soul that she could fade to die!Yet, ere she parted, I had mark'd a change,-But it breath'd hope-'twas beautiful, though strange:Something of gladness in the melodyOf her low voice, and in her words a flightOf airy thought-alas! too perilously bright!

LII. And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild,And quick, and eager, like the flashing gazeOf some all wondering and awakening child,That first the glories of the earth surveys.-How could it thus deceive me?-she had wornAround her, like the dewy mists of morn,A pensive tenderness through happiest days,And a soft world of dreams had seem'd to lieStill in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye.

LIII. And I could hope in that strange fire!-she died,She died, with all its lustre on her mien!-The day was melting from the waters wide,And through its long bright hours her thoughts had been,It seem'd, with restless and unwonted yearning,To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turningFor her fond words were all of vintage-scene,And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath--Oh! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death!

LIV. And from her lips the mountain-songs of old,In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung;Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold,The 'Rio verde', on her soul that hung,And thence flow'd forth.-But now the sun was low,And watching by my side its last red glow,That ever stills the heart, once more she sungHer own soft 'Ora, mater!' -and the soundWas even like love's farewell-so mournfully profound.

LV. The boy had dropp'd to slumber at our feet;--'And I have lull'd him to his smiling restOnce more!' she said:-I rais'd him-it was sweet,Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which bless'dHis look that hour;-for now her voice grew weak;And on the flowery crimson of his cheek,With her white lips a long, long kiss she press'd,Yet light, to wake him not.-Then sank her headAgainst my bursting heart.-What did I clasp?-the dead!

LVI. I call'd-to call what answers not our cries-By that we lov'd to stand unseen, unheard,With the loud passion of our tears and sighsTo see but some cold glistering ringlet stirr'd,And in the quench'd eye's fixedness to gaze,All vainly searching for the parted rays;This is what waits us!-Dead!-with that chill wordTo link our bosom-names!-For this we pourOur souls upon the dust-nor tremble to adore!

LVII. But the true parting came!-I look'd my lastOn the sad beauty of that slumbering face;How could I think the lovely spirit pass'd,Which there had left so tenderly its trace?Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow-No! not like sleep to look upon art Thou,Death, death!-She lay, a thing for earth's embrace,To cover with spring-wreaths.-For earth's?-the waveThat gives the bier no flowers-makes moan above her grave!

LVIII. On the mid-seas a knell!-for man was there,Anguish and love-the mourner with his dead!A long low-rolling knell-a voice of prayer-Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread,-And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high,Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky,Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red;-Were these things round me?-Such o'er memory sweepWildly when aught brings back that burial of the deep.

LIX. Then the broad lonely sunrise!-and the plashInto the sounding waves!-around her headThey parted, with a glancing moment's flash,Then shut-and all was still. And now thy bedIs of their secrets, gentlest Leonor!Once fairest of young brides!-and never more,Lov'd as thou wert, may human tear be shedAbove thy rest!-No mark the proud seas keep,To show where he that wept may pause again to weep.

LX. So the depths took thee!-Oh! the sullen senseOf desolation in that hour compress'd!Dust going down, a speck, amidst th' immenseAnd gloomy waters, leaving on their breastThe trace a weed might leave there!-Dust!-the thingWhich to the heart was as a living springOf joy, with fearfulness of love possess'd,Thus sinking!-Love, joy, fear, all crush'd to this-And the wide Heaven so far-so fathomless th' abyss!

LXI. Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low,What shall wake thence the dead?-Blest, blest are theyThat earth to earth entrust; for they may knowAnd tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's clayShall rise at last, and bid the young flowers bloom,That waft a breath of hope around the tomb,And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray!But thou, what cave hath dimly chamber'd thee? Vain dreams!-oh! art thou not where there is no more sea?

LXII. The wind rose free and singing:-when for ever,O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain,I could have bent my sight with fond endeavourDown, where its treasure was, its glance to strain;Then rose the reckless wind!-Before our prowThe white foam flash'd-ay, joyously-and thouWert left with all the solitary mainAround thee-and thy beauty in my heart,And thy meek sorrowing love-oh! where could that depart?

LXIII. I will not speak of woe; I may not tell-Friend tells not such to friend-the thoughts which rentMy fainting spirit, when its wild farewellAcross the billows to thy grave was sent,Thou, there most lonely!-He that sits above,In his calm glory, will forgive the loveHis creatures bear each other, ev'n if blentWith a vain worship; for its close is dimEver with grief, which leads the wrung soul back to Him!

LXIV. And with a milder pang if now I bearTo think of thee in thy forsaken rest,If from my heart be lifted the despair,The sharp remorse with healing influence press'd,If the soft eyes that visit me in sleepLook not reproach, though still they seem to weep;It is that He my sacrifice hath bless'd,And fill'd my bosom, through its inmost cell,With a deep chastening sense that all at last is well.

LXV. Yes! thou art now-Oh! wherefore doth the thoughtOf the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair,The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought,The sand thy pillow-thou that wert so fair!Come o'er me still?-Earth, earth!-it is the holdEarth ever keeps on that of earthy mould!But thou art breathing now in purer air,I well believe, and freed from all of error,Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life with terror.

LXVI. And if the love which here was passing lightWent with what died not-Oh! that this we knew,But this!-that through the silence of the night,Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true,Would speak, and say, if in their far repose,We are yet aught of what we were to thoseWe call the dead!-their passionate adieu,Was it but breath, to perish?-Holier trustBe mine!-thy love is there, but purified from dust!

LXVII. A thing all heavenly!-clear'd from that which hungAs a dim cloud between us, heart and mind!Loos'd from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils flungA chain, so darkly with its growth entwin'd.This is my hope!-though when the sunset fades,When forests rock the midnight on their shades,When tones of wail are in the rising wind,Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh;For the strong hours will sway this frail mortality!

LXVIII. We have been wanderers since those days of woe,Thy boy and I!-As wild birds tend their young,So have I tended him-my bounding roe!The high Peruvian solitudes among;And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form,Where our frail bridge hath quiver'd midst the storm.-But there the war-notes of my country rung,And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fledTo hide in shades unpierc'd a mark'd and weary head.

LXIX. But he went on in gladness-that fair child!Save when at times his bright eye seem'd to dream,And his young lips, which then no longer smil'd,Ask'd of his mother!-that was but a gleamOf Memory, fleeting fast; and then his playThrough the wide Llanos cheer'd again our way,And by the mighty Oronoco stream,On whose lone margin we have heard at morn,From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music borne.

LXX. So like a spirit's voice! a harping tone,Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear,Such as might reach us from a world unknown,Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and fear!'Twas sweet!-yet those deep southern shades oppress'dMy soul with stillness, like the calms that restOn melancholy waves: I sigh'd to hearOnce more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage fann'd,And turn'd to seek the wilds of the red hunter's land.

LXXI. And we have won a bower of refuge now,In this fresh waste, the breath of whose reposeHath cool'd, like dew, the fever of my brow,And whose green oaks and cedars round me close,As temple-walls and pillars, that excludeEarth's haunted dreams from their free solitude;All, save the image and the thought of thoseBefore us gone; our lov'd of early years,Gone where affection's cup hath lost the taste of tears.

LXXII. I see a star-eve's first-born!-in whose trainPast scenes, words, looks, come back. The arrowy spireOf the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane,Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire;The pine gives forth its odours, and the lakeGleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake,Till every string of nature's solemn lyreIs touch'd to answer; its most secret toneDrawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own.

LXXIII. And hark! another murmur on the air,Not of the hidden rills, or quivering shades!-That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear,Filling the leafy twilight of the gladesWith hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bedOf the blue mournful seas, that keep the dead:But they are far!-the low sun here pervadesDim forest-arches, bathing with red goldTheir stems, till each is made a marvel to behold,

LXXIV. Gorgeous, yet full of gloom!-In such an hour,The vesper-melody of dying bellsWanders through Spain, from each grey convent's towerO'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive-dells,By every peasant heard, and muleteer,And hamlet, round my home:-and I am here,Living again through all my life's farewells,In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was spoken,And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart-yet unbroken!

LXXV. In such an hour are told the hermit's beads;With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by:Peace be with all! whate'er their varying creeds,With all that send up holy thoughts on high!Come to me, boy!-by Guadalquivir's vines,By every stream of Spain, as day declines,Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky.-We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child!Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild.

Close Comfort

Two cheetah cubs stood unafraidTogether side-by-side, Thus harmony was well portrayedAnd thus personified, Love's treasure trove, tranquillity, Too precious to neglect, Made manifest for all to see, With mutual respect...

We savour peace while it remains, Like sunshine from aboveThat gently warms the dusty plainsAs if God smiles with love...The cheetah cubs breathe in, breathe outAnd not much more gets done, What need have they to run aboutBeneath that sizzling sun?

Their hearts beat gently, life goes on, Contentment overflows...Their sibling rivalry has gone, But how long for, who knows? Yet while peace nestles in each heartAnd love indwells each mind, Tranquillity can thus impartGood reasons to be kind...

Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting by Stephen Gayford called 'Close Comfort'.

In The Eye Of The Hurricane Rose

In the eye of the hurricane rose all is as calm as a beeas my world is shed around melike eyelids.The racket of Canada geeseholding a political rally high over everybody's heads a thousand feet straight upas the economy returns like spring. I know what it isto be a phoenix of a tree and lose your leaveslike a fire that goes out in the night.I used to be a snowmanand purified myself with my own disappearancewhen things warmed up. Now I'm a scarecrowwith nothing to chase awayexcept the farmer. It wasn't me that held a grudge against the birds.Everything's wrong but it's all right, the chaos is vividly illustratedwith picture musicand I'm wearing my eye in my earand there's a keyboard and an easel nearlike a skeleton with a forced grin. A painting a day. Van Gogh on steroids. But I can't afford to eat my cadmium yellowand they're not handing out food for thought at the back of the think-tank anymore.I don't know what to say about all those people who set out to be artists and wound up being stores. People eat. People pay the rent. Baby needs new shoes. Benign reason can smother an artistfaster than the demands of a serial killerin the hands of the pillow she dreams uponand the tigers of wrath who are wiser than the horses of instruction who took so easily to the cartas Blake said in his sayings from hellsoon learn that heroism isn't smartif you don't want to be hunted into extinction by judas-goats in the junglefor your private parts.And then if you get through the blackwater of all thatlike a battered waterlily after a storm that doesn't have any respect for nunscomes a swarm of dabblers and nibblers like one of the plagues of Egypt the blackflies the maggots the tapeworms that pose like paper butterflieson the lips of origami flowersfor Japanese tourists into unenlightened North American haikusabout cherry blossoms that never fall on dogshit. The eternal skydoesn't inhibit the flight of the white cloudsand you can see thatas clearly in a dirty puddle in a parking lotas you can through the eyes of the Buddha.Life is a bubble. A firefly. A distant star. A lightning bolt. You don't need to transplant a plastic cornea into the pineal gland of your third eye in order to see like the Hubble. You just need to gain some elevation. You just need to break the surly bonds of earthand get into orbit awhile if you're looking for an overview that isn't just another footnote in a Restoration playtrying to refine Shakespeare by turning real diamondsinto zircon costume jewellery that makes the light taste like junkfood. I approach lifeby putting the pedal to the metal like an absolute constant as if it were already behind me like the light of a star in all ten directionsthat stays ahead of itself so that time cannot encompass itlike a fletcher turning freebirds into arrows. There are no zeniths and nadirs in the void.Don't try to live like a curve ball on the straight and narrow. Space isn't mutable once you've achieved ultimate volume and mass and stand eye to eye with the universeyou don't want to meetuntil you can both sit down on equal groundand come to some kind of mutual understanding.Don't use a lie to go divining for the truth when the truth isn't water it's a weathervane. All things change when we do. The first word ah blossoms into all others and they're all truesaid some master I've forgot. If it hasn't got a wombdon't listen to its myth of origin.If it isn't a lifeboat don't get inor better yetlearn to swim on your own.Writing poetry is like pearl-diving for the moon at the bottom of your tears. If you want to go deepyou can't bottle an emergency atmospherelike a backup breath to keep Atlantis from drowning when the fish are already swimmingthrough your windows like new insights into your fathomless past.But if you don't have the depthto be a shipwreckdon't keep an albatross on deck a spider on watchin the ropes of your mastor mistake a sirenfor the cutting edge of a figurehead and fix her to your bowand expect to avoid the rocks. It's the loneliness of the moon that makes the loon sing on the lake not a parrot that talks.Poetry isn't just a matterof picking up the flattest stonesthat wash up from your oceanic emotionsabout what it was liketo go skinny-dipping with Medusa on the moonto make them scan skipping out over a sea of tranquil shadows. Words are waterbirds.Not flightplans. They know where all the best mirrors areto make a good landingand which are blind and dangerous but poetry isn't about keeping the lights on at nightalong your runways and starmapsor tracking fireflies on a radar screen in a lighthouseas the circling muse runs low on fuel trying to get her wheels down.You can't grind inspiration out and expect to be ambushed by a muse as if she were a clown in a musical jack-in-a-boxand not the serpent at the wellwhen you go for water.Where are the elixirs where are the toxins in your voice where are the fangmarks that punctuate your pulse? Where is the lamia that shed your lunar skinwith a spiritual knife just before she cut your heart out at the top of a pyramid of prophetic skullswithout an afterlife to speak of? If you're still around to assess what you've sacrificedto the dead ends of poetry you haven't died enoughto make it live. You're still a highway not a river. Roadkill in a crosswalk not a mindstream that can talk to starswith intensity about the return of the great blue heronsto the prodigal begging bowls of last year's nests.Puppets dance to the strings of laughing liars.Make kindling of them.Make fires and throw Pinocchio inif you want to sit with heretics that tell the truthas if every word of it were a death wish the genies hear in silenceas the lampsturn themselves down lowto maintain their decorum as they bite their tongues like flames.Words are to names as visuals are to visions and images are to symbols. The first mean precisely what they say.Accurate simulacra.Clear as day.A photograph not a painting. But it's the lens that mimics the eye not the other way aroundand when the telescope's brought down to earthlike seed is to tree like light is to lifethey're both wide-eyed flowersgaping at their own interpretation.The mind is an artist. The mind is a scientist. The mind is a poet a postmana baglady sorting through her own garbage.The mind can paint the worldsas the Flower Ornament Scripture said.You can paint them yellow blue black or red. Reality's an atomic pointillist.Reality's the negative space around an impressionist lifeboat full of lightas the waves give chase to the children. Reality's a crazed expressionist.Reality's a forty thousand year old cave painting.A fresco in a womb full of correspondencessimulated in the flesh of the great mother who keeps giving birth to the animalslate at nightafter everyone's gone home and the gallery's closed. Back to Blake. What is first imagined is later proved. You live in the world you paintyou write you carve you think you feel you play like your father's guitar.You can paint it with windows with mirrors with ion microscopes. You can make a painting of a painting and call it a work in progressthat improves upon the original like a host is enhanced by a guest or a ghost in a different dress. Or you can minimalize the picture plane like spaceand despise perspectiveand hold it up to your facelike a mugshot to a detectiveto see if you can recognize anyoneby the pattern of the blood spatter.Tired of working with the light in Monet's garden. Cross the Japanese bridge above the waterlilies over to the other side of the equation and work with matter as if you were ploughing paintto plant potatoes. But whatever you express worlds within worlds within worlds whatever your medium be it stars or Mars black heaven or hell or the triune identity of earthwater land and skyremember they all find their equivalencein your creative energyacting on its own potential as if the abyss spontaneously took matters into its own hands and out of nothingout of its own emergenceout of its own bright vacancy and dark abundanceout of the synergic emptinessof its own unidentifiable likenessto everything that exists in your imagination and beyondmade this.

On The Death Of Damon. (Translated From Milton)

Ye Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shedErewhile for Daphnis and for Hylas dead,And over Bion's long-lamented bier,The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear)Now, through the villas laved by Thames rehearseThe woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,What sighs he heav'd, and how with groans profoundHe made the woods and hollow rocks resoundYoung Damon dead; nor even ceased to pourHis lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year,Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital airThe last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'dIn Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn,For his flock's sake now hasted to return,And when the shepherd had resumed his seatAt the elm's root within his old retreat,Then 'twas his lot, then, all his loss to know,And, from his burthen'd heart, he vented thus his woe.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas! what Deities shall I supposeIn heav'n or earth concern'd for human woes,Since, Oh my Damon! their severe decreeSo soon condemns me to regret of Thee!Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaidWith fame and honour, like a vulgar shade? Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,And sep'rates sordid from illustrious souls,Drive far the rabble, and to Thee assignA happier lot with spirits worthy thine!Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chanceThe wolf first give me a forbidding glance,Thou shalt not moulder undeplor'd, but longThy praise shall dwell on ev'ry shepherd's tongue;To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,And, after Him, to thee the votive lay,While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove,At least if antient piety and truthWith all the learned labours of thy youthMay serve thee aught, or to have left behindA sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.Go, seek your home, my lambs, my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you. Yes, Damon! such thy sure reward shall be,But ah, what doom awaits unhappy me?Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide,As thou wast wont, for ever at my side,Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet,And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat,Whether the grim wolf's ravage to preventOr the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went?Whose converse, now, shall calm my stormy day,With charming song who, now, beguile my way? Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel findA balmy med'cine for my troubled mind?Or whose discourse with innocent delightShall fill me now, and cheat the wint'ry night,While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear,And black'ning chesnuts start and crackle there,While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm,And the wind thunders thro' the neighb'ring elm?Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Or who, when summer suns their summit reach,And Pan sleeps hidden by the shelt'ring beech,When shepherds disappear, Nymphs seek the sedge,And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge,Who then shall render me thy pleasant veinOf Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Where glens and vales are thickest overgrownWith tangled boughs, I wander now aloneTill night descend, while blust'ring wind and show'rBeat on my temples through the shatter'd bow'r.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas, what rampant weeds now shame my fields,And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields!My rambling vines unwedded to the treesBear shrivel'd grapes, my myrtles fail to please,Nor please me more my flocks; they, slighted, turnTheir unavailing looks on me, and mourn.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Aegon invites me to the hazel grove,Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove,And young Alphesiboeus to a seatWhere branching elms exclude the midday heat--'Here fountains spring-here mossy hillocks rise--''Here Zephyr whispers and the stream replies--' Thus each persuades, but deaf to ev'ry callI gain the thickets, and escape them all.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Then Mopsus said (the same who reads so wellThe voice of birds, and what the stars foretell,For He by chance had noticed my return)What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern?Ah Thyrsis! thou art either crazed with love,Or some sinister influence from above, Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherd rue,His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.The Nymphs amazed my melancholy see,And, Thyrsis! cry--what will become of thee?What would'st thou, Thyrsis? such should not appearThe brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe,Brisk youth should laugh and love--ah shun the fateOf those twice wretched mopes who love too late! Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Aegle with Hyas came, to sooth my pain,And Baucis' daughter, Dryope the vain,Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neatKnown far and near, and for her self-conceit,Came Chloris too, whose cottage on the landsThat skirt the Idumanian current stands;But all in vain they came, and but to seeKind words and comfortable lost on me.Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah blest indiff'rence of the playful herd,None by his fellow chosen or preferr'd!No bonds of amity the flocks enthrall,But each associates and is pleased with all;So graze the dappled deer in num'rous droves,And all his kind alike the zebra loves'The same law governs where the billows roarAnd Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore;The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race,His fit companion finds in ev'ry place,With whom he picks the grain that suits him best,Flits here and there, and late returns to rest,And whom if chance the falcon make his prey,Or Hedger with his well-aim'd arrow slay,For no such loss the gay survivor grieves'New love he seeks, and new delight receives.We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice,Scorning all others, in a single choice, We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind,And if the long-sought good at last we find,When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals,And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals.Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks,To traverse Alpine snows, and rugged rocks!What need so great had I to visit RomeNow sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb?Or, had she flourish'd still as when, of oldFor her sake Tityrus forsook his fold,What need so great had I t'incur a pauseOf thy sweet intercourse for such a cause,For such a cause to place the roaring sea,Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me?Else, I had grasp'd thy feeble hand, composedThy decent limbs, thy drooping eye-lids closed,And, at the last, had said--Farewell--Ascend--Nor even in the skies forget thy friend.Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Although well-pleas'd, ye tuneful Tuscan swains!My mind the mem'ry of your worth retains,Yet not your worth can teach me less to mournMy Damon lost--He too was Tuscan born,Born in your Lucca, city of renown,And Wit possess'd and Genius like your own.Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd besideThe murm'ring course of Arno's breezy tide,Beneath the poplar-grove I pass'd my hours,Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flow'rs,And hearing, as I lay at ease along,Your swains contending for the prize of song!I also dared attempt (and, as it seemsNot much displeas'd attempting) various themes,For even I can presents boast from you,The shepherd's pipe and osier basket too,And Dati and Francini both have madeMy name familiar to the beechen shade, And they are learn'd, and each in ev'ry placeRenown'd for song, and both of Lydian Race.Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.While bright the dewy grass with moon-beams shone,And I stood hurdling in my kids alone,How often have I said (but thou had'st foundEre then thy dark cold lodgment under-ground)Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares,Or wicker-work for various use prepares! How oft, indulging Fancy, have I plann'dNew scenes of pleasure, that I hop'd at hand,Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried--What hoa, my friend--come, lay thy task aside--Haste, let us forth together, and beguileThe heat beneath yon whisp'ring shades awhile,Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood,Or where Cassivelan's grey turrets stood!There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teachThy friend the name and healing pow'rs of each,From the tall blue-bell to the dwarfish weed,What the dry land and what the marshes breed,For all their kinds alike to thee are known,And the whole art of Galen is thy own.Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd beThe useless herbs that gave not health to thee!Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dreamI meditating sat some statelier theme,The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though newAnd unassay'd before, than wide they flew, Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustainThe deep-ton'd music of the solemn strain;And I am vain perhaps, but will tellHow proud a theme I choose--ye groves farewell!Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Of Brutus, Dardan Chief, my song shall be,How with his barks he plough'd the British sea,First from Rutupia's tow'ring headland seen,And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen; Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold,And of Arviragus, and how of oldOur hardy sires th'Armorican controll'd,And the wife of Gorlois, who, surprisedBy Uther in her husband's form disguised,(Such was the force of Merlin's art) becamePregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.These themes I now revolve--and Oh--if FateProportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,Adieu my shepherd's-reed--yon pine-tree boughShall be thy future home, there dangle ThouForgotten and disus'd, unless ere longThou change thy Latin for a British song.A British?--even so--the pow'rs of ManAre bounded; little is the most he can,And it shall well suffice me, and shall beFame and proud recompense enough for me,If Usa golden-hair'd my verse may learn,If Alain, bending o'er his chrystal urn,Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream,Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteemTamar's ore-tinctur'd flood, and, after these,The wave-worn shores of utmost OrcadesGo, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.All this I kept in leaves of laurel-rindEnfolded safe, and for thy view design'd,This--and a gift from Manso's hand beside,(Manso, not least his native city's pride)Two cups, that radiant as their giver shone,Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone.The spring was graven there; here, slowly windThe Red-Sea shores with groves of spices lined;Her plumes of various hues amid the boughsThe sacred, solitary Phoenix shows,And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her headTo see Aurora leave her wat'ry bed.In other part, th'expansive vault above,And there too, even there, the God of love;With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tip'd arrows blaze,Around, his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,Nor aims at vulgar minds or little soulsNor deigns one look below, but aiming highSends every arrow to the lofty sky,Hence, forms divine, and minds immortal learnThe pow'r of Cupid, and enamour'd burn.Thou also Damon (neither need I fearThat hope delusive) thou art also there;For whither should simplicity like thine Retire, where else such spotless virtue shine?Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below,Nor tears suit thee--cease then my tears to flow,Away with grief on Damon ill-bestow'd,Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,Has pass'd the show'ry arch, henceforth residesWith saints and heroes, and from flowing tidesQuaffs copious immortality and joyWith hallow'd lips. Oh! blest without alloy,And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim,Look down entreated by whatever name,If Damon please thee most (that rural sound)Shall oft with ecchoes fill the groves around)Or if Diodatus, by which aloneIn those ethereal mansions thou art known.Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the tasteOf wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,The honours, therefore, by divine decreeThe lot of virgin worth are giv'n to thee;Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,And the green palm-branch waving in thy handThou immortal Nuptials shalt rejoiceAnd join with seraphs thy according voice,Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyreGuides the blest orgies of the blazing quire.

Book II - Part 01 - Proem

'Tis sweet, when, down the mighty main, the winds Roll up its waste of waters, from the landTo watch another's labouring anguish far, Not that we joyously delight that manShould thus be smitten, but because 'tis sweet To mark what evils we ourselves be spared; 'Tis sweet, again, to view the mighty strife Of armies embattled yonder o'er the plains, Ourselves no sharers in the peril; but naught There is more goodly than to hold the highSerene plateaus, well fortressed by the wise, Whence thou may'st look below on other menAnd see them ev'rywhere wand'ring, all dispersed In their lone seeking for the road of life; Rivals in genius, or emulous in rank, Pressing through days and nights with hugest toil For summits of power and mastery of the world. O wretched minds of men! O blinded hearts! In how great perils, in what darks of lifeAre spent the human years, however brief!- O not to see that Nature for herself Barks after nothing, save that pain keep off, Disjoined from the body, and that mind enjoy Delightsome feeling, far from care and fear! Therefore we see that our corporeal lifeNeeds little, altogether, and only such As takes the pain away, and can besides Strew underneath some number of delights. More grateful 'tis at times (for Nature craves No artifice nor luxury), if forsooth There be no golden images of boys Along the halls, with right hands holding out The lamps ablaze, the lights for evening feasts, And if the house doth glitter not with gold Nor gleam with silver, and to the lyre resound No fretted and gilded ceilings overhead, Yet still to lounge with friends in the soft grassBeside a river of water, underneath A big tree's boughs, and merrily to refresh Our frames, with no vast outlay- most of allIf the weather is laughing and the times of the year Besprinkle the green of the grass around with flowers. Nor yet the quicker will hot fevers go, If on a pictured tapestry thou toss, Or purple robe, than if 'tis thine to lie Upon the poor man's bedding. Wherefore, since Treasure, nor rank, nor glory of a reign Avail us naught for this our body, thus Reckon them likewise nothing for the mind: Save then perchance, when thou beholdest forth Thy legions swarming round the Field of Mars, Rousing a mimic warfare- either side Strengthened with large auxiliaries and horse, Alike equipped with arms, alike inspired; Or save when also thou beholdest forth Thy fleets to swarm, deploying down the sea: For then, by such bright circumstance abashed, Religion pales and flees thy mind; O then The fears of death leave heart so free of care. But if we note how all this pomp at last Is but a drollery and a mocking sport, And of a truth man's dread, with cares at heels, Dreads not these sounds of arms, these savage swords But among kings and lords of all the world Mingles undaunted, nor is overawed By gleam of gold nor by the splendour bright Of purple robe, canst thou then doubt that this Is aught, but power of thinking?- when, besides The whole of life but labours in the dark. For just as children tremble and fear allIn the viewless dark, so even we at times Dread in the light so many things that be No whit more fearsome than what children feign, Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark. This terror then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse, But only Nature's aspect and her law.

Sonnet: The Beggar's Sleep

Like wooden log, he sleeps with weary mind, At times, he spends a sleepless night till dawn; Insects, animalcules, his frame does find; Giving happiness that birds will sense at morn.

Under the wide and starry night, He lies, And sleeps in Mother Nature's lap cold earth; Who cares if he lives or suddenly dies; Half-naked lies his frame, naked at birth.

With heavy heart, his drunken torso sleeps, In golden splendour of a Moonlit night; Sometimes, within his heart, he sadly weeps, The world of men ignore his nasty plight. Nevertheless, Heaven is open wide, How can the Maker ev'r a beggar chide?

She is my home for MY lady Irene

Green; green is the riverside grassThe willows weeping by the stream.The song birds sing pleasantlyand yet my heart, my heart is sad.My beloved is not here and sothe house echoes with emptiness.I wait longing for her return.Loneliness oppresses me although I know she will come back.A week can seem eternity.I stand by the casement and watchKeeping vigil impatiently.In the distance a cloud of dust.May herald she is on her wayMy spirits lift, my heart takes wing.The house will come to life againonce she steps over the thresholdwithout her the house is just a house.Her presence makes the house a homeWithout my lover to share itof what use is a mansion.

Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 47

A padshah was casting a glanced of contempt upon a company of dervishes and one of them, understanding by his sagacity the meaning of it, said: ‘O king, in this world we are inferior to thee in dignity but more happy in life. In death we are equal and in the resurrection superior to thee.’

Though the master of a country may have enjoyment And the dervish may be in need of bread In that hour when both of them will die They will take from the world not more than a shroud. When thou takest thy departure from the realm It will be better to be a mendicant than a padshah. Externally the dervish shows a patched robe and a shaved head but in reality his heart is living and his lust dead. He does not sit at the door of pretence away from people To fight against them if they oppose him Because when a millstone rolls from a mountain He is not an A’rif who gets out of the way of the stone.

The way of dervishes is praying, gratitude, service, obedience, almsgiving, contentment, professing the unity of God, trust, submission and patience. Whoever possesses these qualities is really a dervish, although he may wear an elegant robe, whereas a prattler who neglects his orisons, is luxurious, sensual, turns day into night in the bondage of lust, and night into day in the sleep of carelessness, eats whatever he gets, and speaks whatever comes upon his tongue, is a profligate, although he may wear the habit of a dervish.

O thou whose interior is denuded of piety But wearest outwardly the garb of hypocrisy Do not display a curtain of seven colours. Thou hast reed mats inside thy house.

Lohengrin

Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors,Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in,Sir Lohengrin, the youngest of the knights,Had paused to taste the sweetness of the air.All sounds came up the mountain-side to him,Softened to music,— noise of laboring men,The cheerful cock-crow and the low of kine,Bleating of sheep, and twittering of the birds,Commingled into murmurous harmonies—When harsh, and near, and clamorous tolled the bell.He started, with his hand upon his sword;His face, an instant since serene and fair,And simple with the beauty of a boy,Heroic, flushed, expectant all at once.The lovely valley stretching out beneathWas now a painted picture,— nothing more;All music of the mountain or the valeRang meaningless to him who heard the bell.'I stand upon the threshold, and am called,'His clear, young voice shrilled gladly through the air,And backward through the sounding corridors.

'And have ye heard the bell, my brother knights,Untouched by human hands or winds of heaven?It called me, yea, it called my very name!'So, breathing still of morning, LohengrinSprang 'midst the gathering circle of the knights,Eager, exalted. 'Nay, it called us all:It rang as it hath often rung before,—Because the good cause, somewhere on the earth,Requires a champion,' with a serious smile,An older gravely answered. 'Where to go?We know not, and we know not whom to serve.'Then spake Sir Percivale, their holiest knight,And father of the young Sir Lohengrin: 'All that to us seems old, familiar, stale, Unto the boy is vision, miracle.Cross him not, brethren, in his first desire.I will dare swear the summons rang to him,Not sternly solemn, as it tolled to us,But gracious, sweet, and gay as marriage-bells.'His pious hands above the young man's headWandered in blessing, lightly touching it,As fondly as a mother. 'Lohengrin,My son, farewell,— God send thee faith and strength.'' God send me patience and humility,'Murmured the boyish knight, from contrite heart,With head downcast for those anointing hands.Then raising suddenly wide, innocent eyes,—'Father, my faith is boundless as God's love.'

Complete in glittering silver armor clad,With silver maiden-shield, blank of device,Sir Lohengrin rode down the Montsalvatsch,With Percivale and Tristram, FrimutelleAnd Eliduc, to speed him on his quest.They fared in silence, for the elder knightsWere filled with grave misgivings, solemn thoughtsOf fate and sorrow, and they heard the bellTolling incessant; while Sir Lohengrin,Buoyant with hope, and dreaming like a girl,With wild blood dancing in his veins, had madeThe journey down the mount unconsciously,Surprised to find that he had reached the vale.Distinct and bowered in green the mountain loomed,Topped with the wondrous temple, with its crossSmitten to splendor by the eastern sun.Around them lay the valley beautiful,Imparadised with flowers and light of June;And through the valley flowed a willowy stream,Golden and gray, at this delicious hour,With purity and sunshine. Here the knights,Irresolute, gave pause — which path to choose?'God lead me right!' said meek Sir Lohengrin;And as he spoke afar upon the stream,He saw a shining swan approaching them.Full-breasted, with the current it sailed down,Dazzling in sun and shadow, air and wave,With unseen movement, wings a little spread,Their downy under-feathers fluttering,Stirred by its stately progress; in its beakIt held a silver chain, and drew therebyA dainty carven shallop after it,Embossed with silver and with ivory.'Lead ye my charger up the mount again,'Cried Lohengrin, and leaped unto the ground,'For I will trust my guidance to the swan.'' Nay, hold, Sir Lohengrin,' said Eliduc,' Thou hast not made provision for this quest.'' God will provide,' the pious knight replied.Then Percival: 'Be faithful to thy vows;Bethink thee of thine oath when thou art askedThy mission in the temple, or thy race.Farewell, farewell.' 'Farewell,' cried Lohengrin,And sprang into the shallop as it passed,And waved farewells unto his brother knights,Until they saw the white and silver shineOf boat and swan and armor less and less,Till in the willowy distance they were lost.

Skirting the bases of the rolling hills,He glided on the river hour by hour,All through the endless summer day. At firstOn either side the willows brushed his boat,Then underneath their sweeping arch he passed,Into a rich, enchanted wilderness,Cool, full of mystic shadows and rare lights,Wherein the very river changed its hue,Reflecting tender shades of waving green,And mossy undergrowth of grass and fern.Here yellow lilies floated 'midst broad leaves,Upon their reedy stalks, and far below,Beneath the flags and rushes, coppery breamSedately sailed, and flickering perch, and daceWith silvery lustres caught the glancing raysOf the June sun upon their mottled scales.'Midst the close sedge the bright-eyed water-mouseNibbled its food, while overhead, its kin,The squirrel, frisked among the trees. The airWas full of life and sound of restless birds,Darting with gayer tints of red and blueAnd speckled plumage 'mid gray willow leaves,And sober alders, and light-foliaged birch.Unnumbered insects fluttered o'er the banks,Some dimpling the smooth river's slippery floor,Leaping from point to point. Then passed the knight'Twixt broad fields basking in excess of light,And girt around by range on range of hills,Green, umber, purple, waving limitless,Unto the radiant crystal of the sky.Through unfamiliar solitudes the swanStill led him, and he saw no living thingSave creatures of the wood, no human face,Nor sign of human dwelling. But he sailed,Holding high thoughts and vowing valorous vows,Filled with vast wonder and keen happiness,At the world's very beauty, and his lifeOpened in spacious vistas measureless,As lovely as the stream that bore him on.So dazzled was the boyish LohengrinBy all the vital beauty of the real,And the yet wilder beauty of his dreams,That he had lost all sense of passing time,And woke as from a trance of centuries,To find himself within the heart of hills,The river widened to an ample lake,And the swan faring towards a narrow gorge,That seemed to lead him to the sunset clouds.Suffused with color were the extremest heights;The river rippled in a glassy flood,Glorying in the glory of the sky.O what a moment for a man to takeDown with him in his memory to the grave!Life at that hour appeared as infiniteAs expectation, sacred, wonderful,A vision and a privilege. The streamLessened to force its way through rocky walls,Then swerved and flowed, a purple brook, through woodsDewy with evening, sunless, odorous.There Lohengrin, with eyes upon the stream,Now brighter than the earth, saw, deep and clear,The delicate splendor of the earliest star.All night, too full of sweet expectancy,Too reverent of the loveliness, for sleep,He watched the rise and setting of the stars..All things were new upon that magic day,Suggesting nobler possibilities,For a life passed in wise serenity,Confided with sublimely simple faithUnto the guidance of the higher will.In the still heavens hung the large round moon,White on the blue-black ripples glittering,And rolled soft floods of slumberous, misty lightOver dim fields and colorless, huge hills.But the pure swan still bore its burden on,The ivory shallop and the silver knight,Pale-faced in that white lustre, neither madeFor any port, but seemed to float at willAimlessly in a strange, unpeopled land.So passed the short fair night, and morning brokeUpon the river where it flowed through flatsWide, fresh, and vague in gray, uncertain dawn,With cool air sweet from leagues of dewy grass.Then 'midst the flush and beauty of the east,The risen sun made all the river flow,Smitten with light, in gold and gray again.Rightly he judged his voyage but begun,When the swan loitered by low banks set thickWith cresses, and red berries, and sweet herbs,That he might pluck and taste thereof; for theseSuch wondrous vigor in his frame infused,They seemed enchanted and ambrosial fruits.Day waxed and waned and vanished many times,And many suns still found him journeying;But when the sixth night darkened hill and wold,He seemed bewitched as by a wizard's spell,By this slow, constant progress, and deep sleepPossessed his spirit, and his head drooped lowOn the hard pillow of his silver shield.Unconscious he was borne through silent hours,Nor wakened by the dawn of a new day,But in his dreamless sleep he never lostThe sense of moving forward on a stream.Now fared the swan through tilled and cultured lands,Dappled with sheep and kine on pastures soft,Sprinkled with trim and pleasant cottages,With men and women working noiselessly,As in a picture; nearer then they drew,And sounds of rural labor, spoken words,Sir Lohengrin might hear, but still he slept,Nor saw the shining turrets of a town,Gardens and castles, domes and cross-topped spiresFair in the distance, and the flowing stream,Cleaving its liquid path 'midst many men,And glittering galleries filled with courtly folk,Ranged for a tourney-show in open air.Ah! what a miracle it seemed to these,—The white bird bearing on the river's breastThat curious, sparkling shallop, and withinThe knight in silver armor, with bared head,And crisp hair blown about his angel face,Asleep upon his shield! They gazed on himAs on the incarnate spirit of pure faith,And as the very ministrant of God.But one great damsel throned beside a king,With coroneted head and white, wan face,Flushed suddenly, and clasped her hands in prayer,And raised large, lucid eyes in thanks to Heaven.Then, in his dreamless slumber, Lohengrin, Feeling the steady motion of the boatSuddenly cease, awoke. Refreshed, alert,He knew at once that he had reached his port,And saw that peerless maiden thanking HeavenFor his own advent, and his heart leaped upInto his throat, and love o'ermastered him.After the blare of flourished trumpets died,A herald thus proclaimed the tournament:'Greetings and glory to the majestyOf the imperial Henry. By his grace,This tourney has been granted to the knight,Frederick of Telramund, who claims the handOf Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant,His ward, and stands prepared to prove in armsHis rights against all champions in the lists,Whom his unwilling mistress may select.Sir Frederick, Lord of Telramund, is here:What champion will espouse the lady's cause?'Sir Frederick, huge in stature and in bulk,In gleaming armor terribly equipped,Advanced defiant, as the herald ceased.Then Lohengrin, with spear and shield in hand,Sprang lightly, from his shallop, in the lists.His beaver raised disclosed his ardent face,His whole soul shining from inspired eyes.With cast-back head, sun-smitten silver mail,Quivering with spirit, light, and life, he stood,And flung his gauntlet at Sir Frederick's feet,Crying with shrill, clear voice that rang again,'Sir Lohengrin adopts the lady's cause.'Then these with shock of conflict couched their spearsIn deadly combat; but their weapons clangedHarmless against their mail impregnable,Or else were nimbly foiled by dexterous shields.Unequal and unjust it seemed at first,—The slender boy matched with the warrior huge,Who bore upon him with the skill and strengthOf a tried conqueror; but the stranger knightDisplayed such agile grace in parrying blows,Such fiery valor dealing his own strokes,That men looked on in wonder, and his foeWas hardly put upon it for his life.Thrice they gave praise, to breathe, and to prepareFor fiercer battle, and the galleries rangWith plaudits, and the names of both the knights.And they, with spirits whetted by the strife,Met for the fourth, last time, and fenced and struck,And the keen lance of Lohengrin made way,Between the meshes of Sir Frederick's mail,Through cuirass and through jerkin, to the flesh,With pain so sharp and sudden that he fell.Then Henry threw his warder to the ground,And cried the stranger knight had won the day;And all the lesser voices, following his,Called, ' Lohengrin—Sir Lohengrin hath won!'He, flushed with victory, standing in the lists,Deafened with clamor of his very name,Reëchoed to the heavens, felt himselfAlone and alien, and would fain float backUnto the temple, had he not recalled The fair, great damsel throned beside the king.But lo! the swan had vanished, and the boatHe fancied he descried a tiny star,Glimmering in the shining distances.'His Majesty would greet Sir Lohengrin;And Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant,Would thank him for his prowess.' Thus proclaimedThe herald, while the unknown knight was ledTo the imperial throne. Then Elsie spake:'Thou hast redeemed my life from misery;How may I worthily reward or thank?Be thou the nearest to our ducal throne,The highest knight of Limburg and Brabant,The greatest gentleman,— unless thy rank,In truth, be suited to thine own deserts,And thou, a prince, art called to higher aims.''Madam, my thanks are rather due to Fate,For having chosen so poor an instrumentFor such a noble end. A knight am I,The champion of the helpless and oppressed,Bound by fast vows to own no other nameThan Lohengrin, the Stranger, in this land,And to depart when asked my race or rank.Trusting in God I came, and, trusting Him,I must remain, for all my fate hath changed,All my desires and hopes, since I am here.'

So ended that great joust, and in the daysThereafter Elsie and Sir Lohengrin,United by a circumstance so strange,Loved and were wedded. A more courteous duke,A braver chevalier, Brabant ne'er saw.Such grace breathed from his person and his deeds,Such simple innocence and faith looked forthFrom eyes well-nigh too beautiful for man,That whom he met, departed as his friend.But Elsie, bound to him by every bondOf love and honor and vast gratitude,Being of lesser faith and confidence,Tortured herself with envious jealousies,Misdoubting her own beauty, and her powerTo win and to retain so great a heart.Each year Sir Lohengrin proclaimed a joust In memory of the tourney where he wonHis lovely Duchess, and his lance prevailedAgainst all lesser knights. When his twain sons,Loyal and brave and gentle as their sire,Had grown to stalwart men, and his one girl,Eyed like himself and as his Duchess fair,Floramie, grew to gracious maidenhood,He gave a noble tourney, and o'erthrewThe terrible and potent Duke of Cleves.'Ha!' sneered the Dame of Cleves, 'this LohengrinMay be a knight adroit and valorous,But who knows whence he sprang?' and lightly laughed,Seeing the hot blood kindle Elsie's cheek.That night Sir Lohengrin sought rest betimes,By hours of crowded action quite forespent,And found the Duchess Elsie on her couch,Staining the silken broideries with her tears.'Why dost thou weep?' he questioned tenderly,Kissing her delicate hands, and parting backHer heavy yellow hair from brow and face.'The Duchess Anne of Cleves hath wounded me.''Sweet, am not I at hand to comfort thee?'And he caressed her as an ailing child,Until she smiled and slept. But the next nightHe found her weeping, and he questioned her,With the same answer, and again she slept;Then the third night he asked her why she grievedAnd she uprising, white, with eager eyes,Cried, 'Lohengrin, my lord, my only love,For our sons' sake, who know not whence they spring,Our daughter who remains a virgin yet,Let me not hear folk girding at thy race.I know thy blood is royal, I have faith;But tell me all, that I may publish itUnto our dukedom.' Hurt and wondering,He answered simply, 'I am Lohengrin,Son to Sir Percivale, and ministrantWithin the holy temple of the Grail.I would thy faith were greater, this is all.Now must I bid farewell.' ' O Lohengrin,What have I done?' She clung about his neck,And moistened all his beard with streaming tears;But he with one long kiss relaxed her armsCalmly from his embrace, and stood alone.' Blame not thy nature now with vain reproofs.This also is our fate: in all things else.We have submitted,—let us yield in this,With no less grace now that God tries our hearts,Than when He sent us victory and love.'' Yea, go, — you never loved me,' faltered she;' I will not blame my nature, but your own.Through all our wedded years I doubted you;Your eyes have never brightened meeting mineAs I have seen them in religious zeal,Or in exalted hours of victory.'A look of perfect weariness, unmixedWith wrath or grief, o'erspread the knight's pale face;But with the pity that a god might showTowards one with ills impossible to him,He drew anear, caressing her, and sighed:' Through all our wedded years you doubted me?Poor child, poor child! and it has come to this.Thank Heaven, I gave no cause for your mistrust,Desiring never an ideal more fairOf womanhood than was my chosen wife.'She, broken, sobbing, leaned her delicate headOn his great shoulder, and remorseful cried,' O loyal, honest, simple Lohengrin,Thy wife has been unworthy: this is whyThou sayest farewell in accents cold and strange,With alien eyes that even now beholdThings fairer, better, than her mournful face.'But he with large allowance answered her:'If this be truth, it is because I feelThat I belong no more unto myself,Neither to thee, for God withdraws my soulBeyond all earthly passions unto Him.Now that we know our doom, with serious calm,Beside thee I will sit, till break of day,Thus holding thy chill hand and tell thee all.This will resign thee, for I cannot thinkHow any human soul that hath beheldLife's compensations and its miracles,Can fail to trust in what is yet to come.'Then he began from that auroral hourWhen he first heard the temple bell, and toldThe wonder of the swan that came for him,His journey down the stream, the tournament,His strength unwonted, combating the knightWho towered above him with superior forceOf flesh and sinew,— how he prayed through all,Imploring God to let the just cause win,Unconscious of the close-thronged galleries,Feeling two eyes alone that burned his soul.She knew the rest. Therewith he kissed her browAnd ended,—' Now the knights will take me backInto the temple; all who keep their vows,Are welcomed there again to peace and rest.There will my years fall from me like a cloak,And I will stand again at manhood's prime.Then when all errors of the flesh are purgedFrom these I loved here, they may follow me,Unto perpetual worship and to peace.'She lay quite calm, and smiling heard his voice,Already grown to her remote and changed,And when he ceased, arose and gazed in aweOn his transfigured face and kissed his brow,And understood, accepting all her fate.Anon he called his children, and to these:'Farewell, sweet Florance and dear Percivale;Here is my horn, and here mine ancient sword,—Guard them with care and win with them repute.Here, Elsie, is the ring my mother gave,—Part with it never; and thou, Floramie,Take thou my love,—I have naught else to give;Be of strong faith in him thou mean'st to wed.'So these communed together, till the nightDied from the brightening skies, and in the eastThe morning star hung in aerial rose,And the blue deepened; while moist lawn and hedgeBreathed dewy freshness through the windows oped.Then on the stream, that nigh the palace flowed,A stainless swan approached them; in its beakIt held a silver chain, and drew therebyA dainty, carven shallop after it,Embossed with silver and with ivory.Followed by waved farewells and streaming eyes,Sir Lohengrin embarked and floated forthUnto perpetual worship and to peace.

Justin

DEDICATION

O POOR, sad hearts that struggle on and wait,Like shipwrecked sailors on a spar at sea,Through deepening glooms, if haply, soon or late, Some day-dawn glimmer of what is to be,Not knowing Christ, nor gladdened by His Love5And Life indwelling—to you I dedicateThese humble musings, praying that from above, On you, being faithful found, the light may shineOf Life incarnate and of Love divine.Take, then, these thoughts, in loving memory10Of those dead hearts that brought it first to me.

DOWN by the sea, in infinite solitudeAnd wrapt in darkness, save when gleams of lightBroke from the moon aslant the hurrying cloudsThat fled the wind, lay Justin, worn with grief,And heart-sick with vain searching after God.

15He heeded not the cold white foam that creptIn silence round his feet, nor the tall sedgeThat sighed like lonely forest round his head;His heart was weary of this weight of being,Weary of all the mystery of life,20Weary of all the littleness of men,And the dark riddle that he could not solve—Why men should be, why pain and sin and death,And where were hid the lineaments of God.No voice was near. Behind, a lofty cape,25Whose iron face was scarred by many a storm,Loomed threatening in the dark, and cleft the main,And laid its giant hand upon the deep.One grizzled oak tree crowned it, and the surfBroke ever at its base, with ceaseless voice30Powerless to mar its silent majesty.Sweet was the loneliness to Justin, sweetPerturbèd nature, as in harmonyWith the dark thoughts that beat upon his soul.Nor speechless long he lay. The tide of grief,35O'erflowing the narrow limits of the mind,Broke from him, and in burning word he cried:"O God, if God there be in this foul chase!O Fate, if Fate it be that drives us thus!O Chance, if it be Thou that mouldeth all!40Stern Power, whate'er Thy name, that sit'st sublimeAbove creation, throned creation's Lord,With feet upon the spheres, whose flaming armsScatter new worlds form age to age, to rollThro' the dim cycles of all time, to bloom45Into warm life—what iron law impels,Or wanton cruelty in the eternal deepOf mind supreme, Thee to send sin and deathTo prey thus on the creatures of Thine hands,Until the while skulls crumble back to earth50From whence they sprung? O Chance! O Fate! O God!My soul is broken with the clang of worlds;The universe is discord all to me,I see dark planets roll o'er human graves;I feel them quivering with the cries of souls.55I know no more. O Power, whose face is veiledFrom man in Thine own greatness,—Thou, whom IThro' weary years have sought, but sought in vain,In every shadow upon every hill,In the sweet features of a child, or on60The illimitable sea, in heat, in cold,And in the rain that clothes the earth with buds,And in the breath of things invisible,Till, worn and helpless, now I long for death,—Let me before I die hear some still voice65(If such indeed there be), some undertoneThat, flowing from eternity thro' allThe jarring voices that now rend the soul,Shall blend them into one long harmony:So let me hearing die, and dying rest." 70

He ceased, and, sweet as after day of stormFlows the still sea at even—the winds and wavesAsleep in purple mists—a silence creptOver the worlds and flooded Justin's soul;And in the silence Justin heard a voice,75And the warm throbbing of a human heart.And thro' the darkness moved the form of Christ,White-robed, with crown of thorns and those sad eyesThat saw His Mother weep beside the cross.Then form innumerable throats uprose80One glorious music, one great hymn of praiseFrom all creation, th' universal soundsOf tireless nature,—thunders of the seaOn clouded crags where arctic winds at nightTear at its foaming lips, a land of ice85And spectral suns; the deep-toned mountains, too,All shadow-clad in forests, send their voiceFrom caverns subterranean, where the newtsAnd blind-worms fear no day; the lion's roarOn viewless waste; the thundering cataract,90And huge leviathan. Nor only these,But from the laughing groves and vine-clad hillsAnd valleys come sweet sounds—the notes of birds,The hum of insects, when the meridian sunDrives the glad reapers to their noonday meal,95By leaf-arched brook; and lowings from the fold,In cooler evening, when the maidens plyTheir daily task; the children's innocent mirth,And angels' songs, cloud-wafted from the deepOf heaven's blue; and, fainter still, the sounds100Of far-off worlds and the orbed universe.But that which ran thro' all, and linked them allIn one long harmony—that undertoneWhich made them music—was the voice of ChristAnd the soft beating of His human heart.105A calm light stole on Justin, and a peace,Unknown before, unutterable, deepWithin the spirit's depths—a new-born senseAs if his heart had eyes, and every eyeSaw God thro' all in His own loveliness.110The vision passed, and slowly Justin rose,Unwilling quickly to disturb the peaceWhich his strange dream had poured into his soul,And the last accents of the voice that yetThrobbed in his heart and kindled all his love.115There was a stillness and a hush o'er nature,The sweet expectancy of early dawnThat waits its king; the wind had fall'n, the seaAnd shore spoke but in whispers; only birdsFelt not the universal awe, but from their nests,120Dew-sprinkled, woke with songs the sleeping woods,Through which, a faded beauty, peered the moon.Then, turning, Justin suddenly beheldA man of years, with long dark robes and hairWhiter than sea-foam in the moonlight seen,125Strewn on black rocks, who, seeing Justin rise,Moved nearer to him, saying, "O my son!For son thou art in this new faith wheretoI call thee, seeing thou wilt be born againBy water and the washing of thy soul130Form its vain creeds, me hath the Father sent(In His great mercy loving thee and all)To be a witness to thee of thy dream,To solve the mysteries thou couldst not solveBy thine own searching, and to lead thee now135To that dear Voice thou heard'st, and lay thine headUpon the Heart that filled thy soul with peace."So by the sea, among the frowning rocks,They sat in converse, while the aged priestLed Justin's spirit onward thro' the gloom140Of vain philosophies, as one who guidesAn alpine traveller up some dizzy height,Where opening views expand at every stepThro' lessening mist, till Justin gazed at lastUpon a manger rude, and, sleeping, lain therein,145He saw the features of the Son of God."My Father," then cried Justin, "now my heartReads the bright message of my dream. I seeHow vain and futile all philosophies,But this the last which burns into my soul150With fire of love so wondrous; yet I seeHow even they, with weak and tremulous hand,Point toward the Christ and lead men up to Him.I now descry His footsteps in dead years,He guiding me unconscious, knowing Him not.155When first my limbs, full-grown in sinewy youth,Felt the strong life within, my spirit gladMoved like broad day enshrined in cloudless skies;No care I knew, no sorrow grieved my heart,But all was joy—a throbbing, flowing joy.160I wandered thro' the forests and the wilds,On mountain height, above the birth of storms;I heard unmoved the thunder at my feet,And tottering crags that filled abysmal depthsWith shattered pinnacles, and voices dread165That made earth tremble to its central fire;I heard the lion's roar, but felt no fear:The many-fingered forests clapped their hands,They breathed my life, the lions were free as I,—I felt all nature and myself were one;170Birds, beasts, and insects, breathing flowers and trees,And charmèd life linked us in brotherhood.I watched the rising sun from day to daySurprise the world with glories ever new.No clouds obscured; the rosy hands of dawn175But lifted us to realms of joyousnessAnd deepening light. No thought of setting daySaddened my heart, and in the silent eveI saw the new sun, like a golden seed,Hid in the crimson bosom of the old,180Full of fresh life and hope and songs of birds,To wake the morn. The fish and I were friends;Their silvery shinings could no swifter pierceThe lucid depths and shallows than could I;They were my brothers, too, for thy had life,185And life meant joy, and joy was brotherhood.My comrades laughed, and called me, ‘ocean's king,'‘Neptune, the ocean's king.' ‘Not so,' said I;‘Call me not king, but rather friend of all!'Thus passed the years, till one day in a wood,190As I lay dreaming by a moss-edged pool,Whose twinkling eyes were laughing at the treesThat laughed in golden glories overhead,While burnished beetles, green and amber-hued,Skimmed o'er its waves, I heard a strange wild note,195Above the notes of birds, so beautiful,It thrilled my soul, and made my pulses glowWith warmer life. The leaves were pushed aside,And, stepping thro' the shadows, came a youth,God-like in motion, tall and supple-limbed,200Drenched with the dappled sunlight, and begirtWith skin of leopard clasped about the waistWith silver. Pendant from his neck there hungA shell, such as Apollo found at dawn,Sea-voiced and singing to the plaintive wind,205Careless who heard. This, when he held and struckWith skilful hand, gave forth divinest sounds,Softer than the low humming of the bees,And sweeter than the trill of nightingale;Or, stern and powerful, as his mood would change,210Like the loud voice that fills the midnight treesAnd runs before the chariot of the storm,Startling all nature, crying, ‘Lo! he comes,The Storm-God comes!' or, shrill as winter windsThat wail at evening round the woodman's hut,215When close-drawn lattice and the blazing hearthAnd meal well earned make glad the hearts withinOf children and of sire. ‘O youth!' I cried,Gaining my speech at last, ‘fain would I knowThe art that can so charm the sense,—not birds220Or aught on earth so beautiful. Could IBut follow thee in all thy wanderings,But hear thee play and drink my spirit's fillOf those wild melodies, how would not joyGrow more intense! After such wakening life225Were poor indeed, the common lot of beastsAnd flowers; but man I see is higher,(Tho' till this hour content). These strains have rousedImmortal sense within of something great;Unutterable longings chafe the soul,230Dreams of the gods, and voices of dead years.The liquid strains so thrilled me with their powerThat, with expanded consciousness, I sawThe birth of empires, heard the rolling spheres,Masts snapped at sea, and, in strange concourse blent,235The din of cities, cries of wasted hearts,Marshalling of steeds, ravings of fevered men;While, over all the moaning of a sea,And faint, a voice growing stronger, ‘Is this all?'If Music has such power, She, and not life,240Must be man's good. Oh, let me follow Thee,Her worshipper, for She can satisfy.'Then, with a smile like sunlight on his face,He sang this song in answer, carelessly—‘O Soul, glad Soul, what wert thou without song?245 Morns never smiling, wilds without a tree,A waste of voiceless twilight wide and long, Dark rivers dying in eternal sea,O Soul, sad Soul, that wert thou without song.‘O Soul, sad Soul, the rivers have to die,250 Morn grows to eve, trees wither by the way,Clouds hide the sun and tears fall from the sky;But Music lives though earth should melt away.Oh! joy, glad Soul, she will not let thee die.'"He scarce had ceased when such a pain convulsed255His features as the agony that comesAt death, and with one ringing cry he shookAn adder from his foot, then wildly fled,With face distorted, blanched with deadly fear,Eyes glaring madly, thro' the tangled glade,260Like some chased stag that hears the hounds behind,Nor recks what lies before. I followed fast,But swift as wind he fled. A river deepAnd rapid flowed hard by, whose rocky sides,Upheaved by some convulsion, frowning stood265To guard its narrow channel. There a cliff Stretched half across the stream, and at its footThe hurrying waters curled in many a foldOf creamy white. Him, on the rocks I foundThere lying, prostrate, racked with anguish sore,270And cold with coming death; his foaming lipsWere bloodless, and his limbs, all stained and torn,Writhed helplessly. I brought green moss and placedFor pillow 'neath his head; I laved his browAnd face and clotted hair; but all in vain275I strove, for ever a wild look would comeIn his dark eyes, and shade of ghastly fear.Colder he grew, and silent, till at lengthI thought him dead, and wondered, pitying him,And his fair form so helpless on the sand,280As some white statue fallen from its niche,Broken irreparably. A sudden thoughtFlashed on my mind. The shell—the shell was there,Still round his neck. If I could strike some soundsOf that new power that had so swayed my soul,285What might not chance! For music should indeed,If god of men, be master over death, And light up fire within the chilling breast.I seized the shell and struck it: one low soundBroke from it, dying among the cliffs and roar290Of current, soft as a child's moan in dreams.But, ere I touched again, with a wild laughThat made the forests ring and scared the owlsFrom their day-sleep, and drove them hooting outIn blinding sunlight, suddenly he sprang,295Clutched with mad hands the shell, and, crushing it,Flung the white fragments in the waves below.He saw them sink, then crying aloud, ‘'Tis vain!'Tis vain; the shadow comes!' he fell back dead.O death-cry in the roaring of the waves,300O death-cry in the stillness of the rocks,O death-cry in the laughing of the trees!The shadow passing by had fallen on me,Never to rise. So thought I then. I broke Into loud weeping thus that life should end,305In pain and loathsomeness, the fairest flowerOf nature dying unfruitful. Stygian darkAnd horrors of the shades passed over me,Cries of the Furies and the torrents roarRang in my ears, and voices out of hell310Re-echoed, ‘Vain! 'tis vain; the shadow comes!'I hid the dead with moss, then turned and fled,I cared not whither, so that I might flyFrom the dark thoughts that drove me night and day,And sights of death that haunted me. All changed 315The glorious world! and rapine, lust, and deathGlared in each face, and blasted all but wildsWhere man was not. Then, Father, came the thoughtThat in that higher nature might be peaceWhich music roused, but could not satisfy;320So sought I wisdom and the secret, dread,Of life and death, nor knew I where to find.I journeyed to the blazing East, and there,In blinding simooms and a sun that scorchedLeague upon league of sand, I stood before325The stony monster that primeval hands,Fraught with mad longings, shaped with giant toolsFrom mountain-side. O passionless cold lips!O smile of scorn! O glance of burning hate!I placed my lips against its stony mouth,330On fire to hear, tho' hearing were to die,The secret of the Sphinx. I heard the birthAnd death of empires, heard the rolling spheres,Masts snapped at sea, and, in strange concourse blent,The din of cities, cries of wasted hearts,335Marshalling of steeds, ravings of fevered men,While over all the moaning of a sea,And faint a voice, growing stronger, ‘This is all.'And this was all; and so I journeyed home,Heart-sick, and with dark thoughts that gnawed my soul340As fire eats out a tree, when thunder-cloudsDarken the woods, and lightning blasts the stems,With fruit half-ripe. The unexpressed desireFor something further than the furthest star,For something deeper than the lowest deep,345For something behind all, thro' all, in all,Drove me to fathom all philosophy.Thus long time sought I God, not knowing, in fire,In cold, in light, and, mole-like, closed my eyes,And groped thro' nature, while the truth I sought350Was at my door, His hand upon my latch,And I too blind to see, for the dark shadeOf things material hung upon my sight.Oh, Father, I was fearful lest the truthShould grind my soul to powder if I found.355For what was I but man? and God, the GodOf this great universe, what should He careFor one worn heart among a myriad stars?If I should find—what should I find, indeed,But some great power my senses could not grasp,360A part of some vast whole I could not see,And I no more to Him than breathing clay?What link between the Maker and the made?For men can draw no nourishment from stonesAnd things in nature save thro' beasts and flowers,365Which link the two; and so, methought, if GodShould be the God I deem Him, how can He,The hidden Force that blindly moves the world,Soothe the fierce hunger in the soul of manThat craves for love? What sympathy between370The finite and the infinite? Life itselfGrew hard to breathe beneath eternal clouds;No sun, no goal, to cheer it. But I seeIn this dear Christ the answer of my soul;The pledge of God's great love; the link that binds375The Godhead and the manhood into one;The undertone that makes one harmonyOf our existence, giving life and peaceAnd love for men where once a fruitless searchThro' the blind forces of the universe380In weary years shut out the light of day,And dried the fount of love within the soul."He ceased, and answered lovingly the Sage:"Son, I perceive that now thy soul hath foundThe peace it sought, and in the rifted Side385A hiding-place and shelter form the blast.Now I perceive the Spirit, as at first,Moves on the troubled waters of thy mind,And from dark chaos bringeth light and peace.And now in this still hour, when every day390On the dim altar lies the Son of God,That offering of which the prophet spake,*And feeds His children with their daily bread,Let us speak on of those high themes that liftThe soul from out the trammels of this life395Up to the throne of God; and so, perchance,As on that country road at eventide,The risen One shall come with gentle voiceAnd set our hearts on fire."† Thus they conversed,400Unconscious of aught else in trance divine.And, as a mist rising from vale and hillDiscloses fields, and further off the dawnOn the broad sea, until there rolls unveiledThe long full glory of the landscape, thus,405As Justin sat, clearer his vision grewOf this new faith, until he saw the ChristCome towards him thro' the mists of dying creedsThat once had shrouded Him. And thus they spake;And Justin learned how suffering here and sin410Resisted were but powers to try the soul,And forge it out more strong for this hard life,More bright for that hereafter, and that Christ,Informing all the soul with His great love,Can purge the thoughts and bend the stubborn will.415For other creeds but touch the edge of being,But this new life breathes life into our life;For Christ hath trod our path before, and conquered all,In the cold desert and upon the cross,With bleeding hands and feet. 420 Then, kneeling downUpon the cold, hard rocks, with lifted faceTurned to the glimmering east, he cried, "O God!Lord of innumerable worlds which move,Zone upon zone, thro' that thick night which hangs425About Thy feet for ever—Thou, whose voiceFrom the dead earth can frame the souls of men,The lips that murmur praises, and the eyesThat kindle into love—O Thou, from whomIn the blind past flowed forth the light and power430That make creation circle round Thy throneThro' all the ages—Thou, to whom aloneTime's self is dead, and death is but new lifeThat flows unseen thro' this great universe,Reframing all and springing in new forms435More worthy Thee—O Thou, in whom uniteThe past, the present, and the future—Thou,The centre of all time, the great I AM,Heart of eternity, —in Thee I find,O God, my God, the resting-place I sought,440In Thee I find the answer of my quest,In Thee the satisfaction of my soul.I thank Thee Thou hast led me like a childTo these sweet streams for which my soul hath longedThro' the dim past. And now I see anew445How all creation, like some pyramid,Built on a waste of ages as the sandsOf a great desert, doth on every side,Step upon step, lead upward to Thy throne.Inscrutable Thy ways, O God, and yet450Thro' the thick clouds that hide Thy face there comesA beam of light, the offspring of Thy love;For in my dreams I heard a human voice,And the warm beating of a human heartThrobbing thro' nature; and I saw far off455In the dim void the suffering face of Christ.O Christ in God! O God in Christ! O God!Pledge of the Father's love, O Fount of light!Thine was the voice that stilled my fearful heart,Thine was the heart that filled my soul with peace.460O Christ, the centre of humanity!O God, the heart of this great universe!O Christ in God! Thou linkest all to TheeBy Thy torn side and bleeding hands and feet.How can we fear, tho' long and loud the storm,465If thro' the darkness comes a human voice? How can we tremble, when our head is laidUpon that breast where beasts a human heart?O Man in God, that bringest God to men!O God in Man, that liftest man to God!470Effulgence of the essence which, divine,Without Thee incommunicable were;Strong Light to light all mysteries, and Thou,The perfect rest I sought through weary yearsOn trackless wastes! Behold, in faith and love,475O God, my God, I come, I come to Thee."He ceased, and, slowly rising from his knees,He saw the priest afar with tearful eyes,And arms outstretched in thankfulness, and said,"I would be born again in this new faith,480My Father, by the washing of my soulForm its dark stains, for I am but a babe,And would learn life anew." So, silent, movedThey to the shore, absorbed in thoughts too deepFor earthly speech, and silence fell awhile485Upon the earth in reverence to its God,And sky and ocean seemed to wait in awe.There, by the long white ripples on the shore,The priest stooped down in that still hour, and tookA handful form the waves, the eternal sea,490That, like the love of God, flows over all,Or height or depth, and levels all, and thusBaptized he Justin in the Triune Name,And on his forehead made the holy sign;And, as the water fell on him, the sun495Rose in full glory, and the sky grew bright,And angels sang far off, for day had dawnedUpon the ocean and in Justin's soul.Then spake the priest, "My son, in this calm seaI read thy life, all stillness now and peace,500In the sweet morning 'neath the new-born day.But see, the wind now breaks it into waves,Which, rising form their sleep, each tipped with light,Make that long golden pathway to the sun.So shall it be with thee. Thy soul now yearns505To rest for ever at the feet of Christ;But suffering, pain, and toil shall sweep acrossIts stillness, and the strife of noisy tongues,And persecution, cold, and nakednessShall break its surface; but each pain shall be510Bright with the love of Christ, and all thy lifeShall be a path to lead men up to Him."So the priest parted, blessing him, and JustinRose from his knees and moved among all men,And reasoned with them of the love of God515And his dear Christ, and led men up to HimFrom false philosophies, until at lastHis life set in the crimson of his blood,And rose in splendour near the throne of God.

A Voice From The Factories

WHEN fallen man from Paradise was driven, Forth to a world of labour, death, and care; Still, of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven Resolved one brief memorial to spare, And gave his offspring an imperfect share Of that lost happiness, amid decay; Making their first approach to life seem fair, And giving, for the Eden past away, CHILDHOOD, the weary life's long happy holyday. II.

Sacred to heavenly peace, those years remain! And when with clouds their dawn is overcast, Unnatural seem the sorrow and the pain (Which rosy joy flies forth to banish fast, Because that season's sadness may not last). Light is their grief! a word of fondness cheers The unhaunted heart; the shadow glideth past; Unknown to them the weight of boding fears, And soft as dew on flowers their bright, ungrieving tears. III.

See the Stage-Wonder (taught to earn its bread By the exertion of an infant skill), Forsake the wholesome slumbers of its bed, And mime, obedient to the public will. Where is the heart so cold that does not thrill With a vexatious sympathy, to seeThat child prepare to play its part, and still With simulated airs of gaiety Rise to the dangerous rope, and bend the supple knee? IV.

Painted and spangled, trembling there it stands, Glances below for friend or father's face, Then lifts its small round arms and feeble hands With the taught movements of an artist's grace: Leaves its uncertain gilded resting-place-- Springs lightly as the elastic cord gives way-- And runs along with scarce perceptible pace-- Like a bright bird upon a waving spray, Fluttering and sinking still, whene'er the branches play. V.

Now watch! a joyless and distorted smile Its innocent lips assume; (the dancer's leer!) Conquering its terror for a little while: Then lets the TRUTH OF INFANCY appear, And with a stare of numbed and childish fear Looks sadly towards the audience come to gaze On the unwonted skill which costs so dear, While still the applauding crowd, with pleased amaze, Ring through its dizzy ears unwelcome shouts of praise. VI.

What is it makes us feel relieved to seeThat hapless little dancer reach the ground; With its whole spirit's elasticity Thrown into one glad, safe, triumphant bound? Why are we sad, when, as it gazes round At that wide sea of paint, and gauze, and plumes, (Once more awake to sense, and sight, and sound,) The nature of its age it re-assumes, And one spontaneous smile at length its face illumes? VII.

Because we feel, for Childhood's years and strength, Unnatural and hard the task hath been;-- Because our sickened souls revolt at length, And ask what infant-innocence may mean, Thus toiling through the artificial scene;-- Because at that word, CHILDHOOD, start to birth All dreams of hope and happiness serene-- All thoughts of innocent joy that visit earth-- Prayer--slumber--fondness--smiles--and hours of rosy mirth. VIII.

And therefore when we hear the shrill faint cries Which mark the wanderings of the little sweep; Or when, with glittering teeth and sunny eyes, The boy-Italian's voice, so soft and deep, Asks alms for his poor marmoset asleep; They fill our hearts with pitying regret, Those little vagrants doomed so soon to weep-- As though a term of joy for all was set, And that their share of Life's long suffering was not yet. IX.

Ever a toiling child doth make us sad: 'T is an unnatural and mournful sight, Because we feel their smiles should be so glad, Because we know their eyes should be so bright. What is it, then, when, tasked beyond their might, They labour all day long for others' gain,-- Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night, While uncompleted hours of toil remain? Poor little FACTORY SLAVES--for You these lines complain! X.

Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows, Is that these little pent-up wretches feel; Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows, And the low whirring of the incessant wheel Dizzies the head, and makes the senses reel: There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky, Vice premature and Care's corroding seal Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful die, Line the smooth open brow, and sink the saddened eye. XI.

For them the fervid summer only brings A double curse of stifling withering heat; For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings, No moss-grown walks refresh their weary feet;-- No river's murmuring sound;--no wood-walk, sweet With many a flower the learned slight and pass;-- Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass,-- Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass.

Page 17 XII.

Have we forgotten our own infancy, That joys so simple are to them denied?-- Our boyhood's hopes--our wanderings far and free, Where yellow gorse-bush left the common wideAnd open to the breeze?--The active pride Which made each obstacle a pleasure seem; When, rashly glad, all danger we defied, Dashed through the brook by twilight's fading gleam, Or scorned the tottering plank, and leapt the narrow stream? XIII.

In lieu of this,--from short and bitter night, Sullen and sad the infant labourer creeps; He joys not in the glow of morning's light, But with an idle yearning stands and weeps, Envying the babe that in its cradle sleeps: And ever as he slowly journeys on, His listless tongue unbidden silence keeps; His fellow-labourers (playmates hath he none) Walk by, as sad as he, nor hail the morning sun. XIV.

Mark the result. Unnaturally debarred All nature's fresh and innocent delights, While yet each germing energy strives hard, And pristine good with pristine evil fights; When every passing dream the heart excites, And makes even guarded virtue insecure; Untaught, unchecked, they yield as vice invites: With all around them cramped, confined, impure, Fast spreads the moral plague which nothing new shall cure. XV.

Yes, this reproach is added; (infamous In realms which own a Christian monarch's sway!) Not suffering only is their portion, thus Compelled to toil their youthful lives away: Excessive labour works the SOUL'S decay-- Quenches the intellectual light within-- Crushes with iron weight the mind's free play-- Steals from us LEISURE purer thoughts to win-- And leaves us sunk and lost in dull and native sin. XVI.

Yet in the British Senate men rise up, (The freeborn and the fathers of our land!) And while these drink the dregs of Sorrow's cup, Deny the sufferings of the pining band. With nice-drawn calculations at command, They prove--rebut--explain--and reason long; Proud of each shallow argument they stand, And prostitute their utmost powers of tongue Feebly to justify this great and glaring wrong. XVII.

So rose, with such a plausible defence Of the unalienable RIGHT OF GAIN, Those who against Truth's brightest eloquence Upheld the cause of torture and of pain: And fear of Property's Decrease made vain, For years, the hope of Christian Charity To lift the curse from SLAVERY'S dark domain, And send across the wide Atlantic sea The watchword of brave men--the thrilling shout, 'BE FREE!' XVIII.

What is to be a slave? Is't not to spend A life bowed down beneath a grinding ill?-- To labour on to serve another's end,-- To give up leisure, health, and strength, and skill-- And give up each of these against your will? Hark to the angry answer:--'Theirs is notA life of slavery; if they labour,--still We pay their toil. Free service is their lot; And what their labour yields, by us is fairly got.' XIX.

Oh, Men! blaspheme not Freedom! Are they free Who toil until the body's strength gives way? Who may not set a term for Liberty, Who have no time for food, or rest, or play, But struggle through the long unwelcome day Without the leisure to be good or glad? Such is their service--call it what you may. Poor little creatures, overtasked and sad, Your Slavery hath no name,--yet is its Curse as bad! XX.

Again an answer. ''T is their parents' choice. By some employ the poor man's child must earn Its daily bread; and infants have no voice In what the allotted task shall be: they learn What answers best, or suits the parents' turn.' Mournful reply! Do not your hearts inquire Who tempts the parents' penury? They yearn Toward their offspring with a strong desire, But those who starve will sell, even what they most require. XXI.

We grant their class must labour--young and old; We grant the child the needy parents' tool: But still our hearts a better plan behold; No bright Utopia of some dreaming fool, But rationally just, and good by rule. Not against TOIL, but TOIL'S EXCESS we pray, (Else were we nursed in Folly's simplest school); That so our country's hardy children may Learn not to loathe, but bless, the well apportioned day. XXII.

One more reply! The last reply--the great Answer to all that sense or feeling shows, To which all others are subordinate:-- 'The Masters of the Factories must lose By the abridgement of these infant woes. Show us the remedy which shall combine Our equal gain with their increased repose-- Which shall not make our trading class repine, But to the proffered boon its strong effects confine.' XXIII.

Oh! shall it then be said that TYRANT acts Are those which cause our country's looms to thrive? That Merchant England's prosperous trade exacts This bitter sacrifice, e'er she derive That profit due, for which the feeble strive? Is her commercial avarice so keen, That in her busy multitudinous hive Hundreds must die like insects, scarcely seen, While the thick-thronged survivors work where they have been? XXIV.

Forbid it, Spirit of the glorious Past Which gained our Isle the surname of 'The Free,' And made our shores a refuge at the last To all who would not bend the servile knee, The vainly-vanquished sons of Liberty! Here ever came the injured, the opprest, Compelled from the Oppressor's face to flee-- And found a home of shelter and of rest In the warm generous heart that beat in England's breast. XXV.

Here came the Slave, who straightway burst his chain, And knew that none could ever bind him more; Here came the melancholy sons of Spain; And here, more buoyant Gaul's illustrious poor Waited the same bright day that shone before. Here rests the Enthusiast Pole! and views afar With dreaming hope, from this protecting shore, The trembling rays of Liberty's pale star Shine forth in vain to light the too-unequal war! XXVI.

And shall REPROACH cling darkly to the name Which every memory so much endears? Shall we, too, tyrannise,--and tardy Fame Revoke the glory of our former years, And stain Britannia's flag with children's tears? So shall the mercy of the English throne Become a by-word in the Nation's ears, As one who pitying heard the stranger's groan, But to these nearer woes was cold and deaf as stone. XXVII.

Are there not changes made which grind the Poor? Are there not losses every day sustained,-- Deep grievances, which make the spirit sore? And what the answer, when these have complained? 'For crying evils there hath been ordained The REMEDY OF CHANGE; to obey its call Some individual loss must be disdained, And pass as unavoidable and small, Weighed with the broad result of general good to all.' XXVIII.

Oh! such an evil now doth cry aloud! And CHANGE should be by generous hearts begun, Though slower gain attend the prosperous crowd; Lessening the fortunes for their children won. Why should it grieve a father, that his son Plain competence must moderately bless? That he must trade, even as his sire has done, Not born to independent idleness, Though honestly above all probable distress? XXIX.

Rejoice! Thou hast not left enough of gold From the lined heavy ledger, to entice His drunken hand, irresolutely bold, To squander it in haggard haunts of vice:-- The hollow rattling of the uncertain dice Eats not the portion which thy love bestowed;-- Unable to afford that PLEASURE'S price, Far off he slumbers in his calm abode, And leaves the Idle Rich to follow Ruin's road. XXX.

Happy his lot! For him there shall not be The cold temptation given by vacant time; Leaving his young and uncurbed spirit free To wander thro' the feverish paths of crime! For him the Sabbath bell's returning chime Not vainly ushers in God's day of rest; No night of riot clouds the morning's prime: Alert and glad, not languid and opprest, He wakes, and with calm soul is the Creator blest. XXXI.

Ye save for children! Fathers, is there notA plaintive magic in the name of child, Which makes you feel compassion for their lot On whom Prosperity hath never smiled? When with your OWN an hour hath been beguiled (For whom you hoard the still increasing store), Surely, against the face of Pity mild, Heart-hardening Custom vainly bars the door, For that less favoured race--THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. XXXII.

'The happy homes of England!'--they have been A source of triumph, and a theme for song; And surely if there be a hope serene And beautiful, which may to Earth belong, 'T is when (shut out the world's associate throng, And closed the busy day's fatiguing hum), Still waited for with expectation strong, Welcomed with joy, and overjoyed to come, The good man goes to seek the twilight rest of home. XXXIII.

There sits his gentle Wife, who with him knelt Long years ago at God's pure altar-place; Still beautiful,--though all that she hath felt Hath calmed the glory of her radiant face, And given her brow a holier, softer grace. Mother of SOULS IMMORTAL, she doth feel A glow from Heaven her earthly love replace; Prayer to her lip more often now doth steal, And meditative hope her serious eyes reveal. XXXIV.

Fondly familiar is the look she gives As he returns, who forth so lately went,-- For they together pass their happy lives; And many a tranquil evening have they spent Since, blushing, ignorantly innocent, She vowed, with downcast eyes and changeful hue, To love Him only. Love fulfilled, hath lent Its deep repose; and when he meets her view, Her soft look only says,--'I trust--and I am true.' XXXV.

Scattered like flowers, the rosy children play-- Or round her chair a busy crowd they press; But, at the FATHER'S coming, start away, With playful struggle for his loved caress, And jealous of the one he first may bless. To each, a welcoming word is fondly said; He bends and kisses some; lifts up the less; Admires the little cheek, so round and red, Or smooths with tender hand the curled and shining head. XXXVI.

Oh! let us pause, and gaze upon them now. Is there not one--beloved and lovely boy! With Mirth's bright seal upon his open brow, And sweet fond eyes, brimful of love and joy? He, whom no measure of delight can cloy, The daring and the darling of the set; He who, though pleased with every passing toy, Thoughtless and buoyant to excess, could yetNever a gentle word or kindly deed forget? XXXVII.

And one, more fragile than the rest, for whom-- As for the weak bird in a crowded nest-- Are needed all the fostering care of home And the soft comfort of the brooding breast: One, who hath oft the couch of sickness prest! On whom the Mother looks, as it goes by, With tenderness intense, and fear supprest, While the soft patience of her anxious eye Blends with 'God's will be done,'--'God grant thou may'st not die!' XXXVIII.

And is there not the elder of the band? She with the gentle smile and smooth bright hair, Waiting, some paces back,--content to stand Till these of Love's caresses have their share; Knowing how soon his fond paternal care Shall seek his violet in her shady nook,-- Patient she stands--demure, and brightly fair-- Copying the meekness of her Mother's look, And clasping in her hand the favourite story-book. XXXIX.

Wake, dreamer!--Choose;--to labour Life away, Which of these little precious ones shall go (Debarred of summer-light and cheerful play) To that receptacle for dreary woe, The Factory Mill?--Shall He, in whom the glow Of Life shines bright, whose free limbs' vigorous tread Warns us how much of beauty that we knowWould fade, when he became dispirited, And pined with sickened heart, and bowed his fainting head?

XL.

Or shall the little quiet one, whose voice So rarely mingles in their sounds of glee, Whose life can bid no living thing rejoice, But rather is a long anxiety;-- Shall he go forth to toil? and keep the free Frank boy, whose merry shouts and restless grace Would leave all eyes that used his face to see, Wistfully gazing towards that vacant space Which makes their fireside seem a lone and dreary place? XLI.

Or, sparing these, send Her whose simplest words Have power to charm,--whose warbled, childish song, Fluent and clear and bird-like, strikes the chords Of sympathy among the listening throng,-- Whose spirits light, and steps that dance along, Instinctive modesty and grace restrain: The fair young innocent who knows no wrong,-- Whose slender wrists scarce hold the silken skein Which the glad Mother winds;--shall She endure this pain?

Ye shudder,--nor behold the vision more! Oh, Fathers! is there then one law for these, And one for the pale children of the Poor,-- That to their agony your hearts can freeze; Deny their pain, their toil, their slow disease; And deem with false complaining they encroach Upon your time and thought? Is yours the Ease Which misery vainly struggles to approach, Whirling unthinking by, in Luxury's gilded coach? XLIV.

Examine and decide. Watch through his day One of these little ones. The sun hath shone An hour, and by the ruddy morning's ray, The last and least, he saunters on alone. See where, still pausing on the threshold stone, He stands, as loth to lose the bracing wind; With wistful wandering glances backward thrown On all the light and glory left behind, And sighs to think that HE must darkly be confined! XLV.

Enter with him. The stranger who surveys The little natives of that dreary place (Where squalid suffering meets his shrinking gaze), Used to the glory of a young child's face, Its changeful light, its coloured sparkling grace, (Gleams of Heaven's sunshine on our shadowed earth!) Starts at each visage wan, and bold, and base, Whose smiles have neither innocence nor mirth,-- And comprehends the Sin original from birth. XLVI.

There the pale Orphan, whose unequal strength Loathes the incessant toil it must pursue, Pines for the cool sweet evening's twilight length, The sunny play-hour, and the morning's dew: Worn with its cheerless life's monotonous hue, Bowed down, and faint, and stupefied it stands; Each half-seen object reeling in its view-- While its hot, trembling, languid little hands Mechanically heed the Task-master's commands. XLVII.

There, sounds of wailing grief and painful blows Offend the ear, and startle it from rest; (While the lungs gasp what air the place bestows Or misery's joyless vice, the ribald jest, Breaks the sick silence: staring at the guest Who comes to view their labour, they beguile The unwatched moment; whispers half supprest And mutterings low, their faded lips defile,-- While gleams from face to face a strange and sullen smile. XLVIII.

These then are his Companions: he, too young To share their base and saddening merriment, Sits by: his little head in silence hung; His limbs cramped up; his body weakly bent; Toiling obedient, till long hours so spent Produce Exhaustion's slumber, dull and deep. The Watcher's stroke,--bold--sudden--violent,-- Urges him from that lethargy of sleep, And bids him wake to Life,--to labour and to weep! XLIX.

But the day hath its End. Forth then he hies With jaded, faltering step, and brow of pain; Creeps to that shed,--his HOME,--where happy lies The sleeping babe that cannot toil for Gain; Where his remorseful Mother tempts in vain With the best portion of their frugal fare: Too sick to eat--too weary to complain-- He turns him idly from the untasted share, Slumbering sinks down unfed, and mocks her useless care. L.

Weeping she lifts, and lays his heavy head (With a woman's grieving tenderness) On the hard surface of his narrow bed; Bends down to give a sad unfelt caress, And turns away;--willing her God to bless, That, weary as he is, he need not fight Against that long-enduring bitterness, The VOLUNTARY LABOUR of the Night, But sweetly slumber on till day's returning light. LI.

Such is his day and night! Now then return Where your OWN slumber in protected ease; They whom no blast may pierce, no sun may burn; The lovely, on whose cheeks the wandering breeze Hath left the rose's hue. Ah! not like these Does the pale infant-labourer ask to be: He craves no tempting food--no toys to please-- Not Idleness,--but less of agony; Not Wealth,--but comfort, rest, CONTENTED POVERTY. LIII.

There is, among all men, in every clime, A difference instinctive and unschooled: God made the MIND unequal. From all time By fierceness conquered, or by cunning fooled, The World hath had its Rulers and its Ruled:-- Yea--uncompelled--men abdicate free choice, Fear their own rashness, and, by thinking cooled, Follow the counsel of some trusted voice;-- A self-elected sway, wherein their souls rejoice. LIV.

Thus, for the most part, willing to obey, Men rarely set Authority at naught: Albeit a weaker or a worse than they May hold the rule with such importance fraught: And thus the peasant, from his cradle taught That some must own, while some must till the land, Rebels not--murmurs not--even in his thought. Born to his lot, he bows to high command, And guides the furrowing plough with a contented hand. LV.

But, if the weight which habit renders light Is made to gall the Serf who bends below-- The dog that watched and fawned, prepares to bite! Too rashly strained, the cord snaps from the bow-- Too tightly curbed, the steeds their riders throw-- And so, (at first contented his fair state Of customary servitude to know,) Too harshly ruled, the poor man learns to hate And curse the oppressive law that bids him serve the Great. LVI.

THEN first he asks his gloomy soul the CAUSE Of his discomfort; suddenly compares-- Reflects--and with an angry Spirit draws The envious line between his lot and theirs, Questioning the JUSTICE of the unequal shares. And from the gathering of this discontent, Where there is strength, REVOLT his standard rears; Where there is weakness, evermore finds vent The sharp annoying cry of sorrowful complaint. LVII.

Therefore should Mercy, gentle and serene, Sit by the Ruler's side, and share his Throne:-- Watch with unerring eye the passing scene, And bend her ear to mark the feeblest groan; Lest due Authority be overthrown, And they that ruled perceive (too late confest!) Permitted Power might still have been their own, Had they but watched that none should be opprest-- No just complaint despised--no WRONG left unredrest. LVIII.

Nor should we, Christians in a Christian land, Forget who smiled on helpless infancy, And blest them with divinely gentle hand.-- 'Suffer that little children come to me:' Such were His words to whom we bow the knee! These to our care the Saviour did commend; And shall we His bequest treat carelessly, Who yet our full protection would extend To the lone Orphan child left by an Earthly Friend? LIX.

No! rather what the Inspired Law imparts To guide our ways, and make our path more sure; Blending with Pity (native to our hearts), Let us to these, who patiently endure Neglect, and penury, and toil, secure The innocent hopes that to their age belong: So, honouring Him, the Merciful and Pure, Who watches when the Oppressor's arm grows strong,-- And helpeth them to right--the Weak--who suffer wrong!

The Task: Book IV. -- The Winter Evening

Hark! ‘tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumbering at his back.True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind,Yet, careless what he brings, his one concernIs to conduct it to the destined inn,And, having dropp’d the expected bag, pass on.He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of griefPerhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;To him indifferent whether grief or joy.Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wetWith tears, that trickled down the writer’s cheeksFast as the periods from his fluent quill,Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,Or nymphs responsive, equally affectHis horse and him, unconscious of them all.But O the important budget! usher’d inWith such heart-shaking music, who can sayWhat are its tidings? have our troops awaked?Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d,Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?Is India free? and does she wear her plumedAnd jewell’d turban with a smile of peace,Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,The popular harangue, the tart reply,The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;I burn to set the imprison’d wranglers free,And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urnThrows up a steamy column, and the cups,That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,So let us welcome peaceful evening in.Not such his evening, who with shining faceSweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezedAnd bored with elbow points through both his sides,Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,And his head thumps, to feed upon the breathOf patriots, bursting with heroic rage,Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.This folio of four pages, happy work!Which not e’en critics criticise; that holdsInquisitive attention, while I read,Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;What is it but a map of busy life,Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridgeThat tempts Ambition. On the summit seeThe seals of office glitter in his eyes;He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.Here rills of oily eloquence, in softMeanders, lubricate the course they take;The modest speaker is ashamed and grievedTo engross a moment’s notice; and yet begs,Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,However trivial all that he conceives.Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;The dearth of information and good sense,That it foretells us, always comes to pass.Cataracts of declamation thunder here;There forests of no meaning spread the page,In which all comprehension wanders lost;While fields of pleasantry amuse us thereWith merry descants on a nation’s woes.The rest appears a wilderness of strangeBut gay confusion; roses for the cheeksAnd lilies for the brows of faded age,Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder’d of their sweets,Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits,And Katerfelto, with his hair on endAt his own wonders, wondering for his bread.

‘Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,To peep at such a world; to see the stirOf the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;To hear the roar she sends through all her gatesAt a safe distance, where the dying soundFalls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.Thus sitting, and surveying thus at easeThe globe and its concerns, I seem advancedTo some secure and more than mortal heightThat liberates and exempts me from them all.It turns submitted to my view, turns roundWith all its generations; I beholdThe tumult and am still. The sound of warHas lost its terrors ere it reaches me;Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the prideAnd avarice that make man a wolf to man;Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,By which he speaks the language of his heart,And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.He travels and expatiates, as the beeFrom flower to flower, so he from land to land;The manners, customs, policy of allPay contribution to the store he gleans;He sucks intelligence in every clime,And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return—a rich repast for me.He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyesDiscover countries, with a kindred heartSuffer his woes, and share in his escapes;While fancy, like the finger of a clock,Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,Thy scatter’d hair with sleet like ashes fill’d,Thy breath congeal’d upon thy lips, thy cheeksFringed with a beard made white with other snowsThan those of age, thy forehead wrapp’d in clouds,A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throneA sliding car, indebted to no wheels,But urged by storms along its slippery way,I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold’st the sunA prisoner in the yet undawning east,Shortening his journey between morn and noon,And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,Down to the rosy west; but kindly stillCompensating his loss with added hoursOf social converse and instructive ease,And gathering, at short notice, in one groupThe family dispersed, and fixing thought,Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.I crown thee king of intimate delights,Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,And all the comforts that the lowly roofOf undisturb’d Retirement, and the hoursOf long uninterrupted evening know.No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;No powder’d pert proficient in the artOf sounding an alarm assaults these doorsTill the street rings; no stationary steedsCough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:But here the needle plies its busy task,The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,Follow the nimble finger of the fair;A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blowWith most success when all besides decay.The poet’s or historian’s page by oneMade vocal for the amusement of the rest;The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet soundsThe touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct,And in the charming strife triumphant still,Beguile the night, and set a keener edgeOn female industry: the threaded steelFlies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.The volume closed, the customary ritesOf the last meal commence. A Roman meal,Such as the mistress of the world once foundDelicious, when her patriots of high note,Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,And under an old oak’s domestic shade,Enjoy’d, spare feast! a radish and an egg!Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,Nor such as with a frown forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:Nor do we madly, like an impious world,Who deem religion frenzy, and the GodThat made them an intruder on their joys,Start at his awful name, or deem his praiseA jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,Exciting oft our gratitude and love,While we retrace with Memory’s pointing wand,That calls the past to our exact review,The dangers we have ‘scaped, the broken snare,The disappointed foe, deliverance foundUnlook’d for, life preserved, and peace restored,Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim’dThe Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply,More to be prized and coveted than yours,As more illumined, and with nobler truths,That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.

Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng,To thaw him into feeling; or the smartAnd snappish dialogue, that flippant witsCall comedy, to prompt him with a smile?The self-complacent actor, when he views(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)The slope of faces from the floor to the roof(As if one master spring controll’d them all),Relax’d into a universal grin,Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joyHalf so refined or so sincere as ours.Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricksThat idleness has ever yet contrivedTo fill the void of an unfurnish’d brain,To palliate dulness, and give time a shove.Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing.Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound;But the World’s Time is Time in masquerade!Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledgedWith motley plumes; and, where the peacock showsHis azure eyes, is tinctured black and redWith spots quadrangular of diamond form,Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maceWell does the work of his destructive scythe.Thus deck’d, he charms a world whom Fashion blindsTo his true worth, most pleased when idle most;Whose only happy are their wasted hours.E’en misses, at whose age their mothers woreThe backstring and the bib, assume the dressOf womanhood, fit pupils in the schoolOf card-devoted Time, and, night by nightPlaced at some vacant corner of the board,Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?As he that travels far oft turns aside,To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower,Which seen delights him not; then, coming home,Describes and prints it, that the world may knowHow far he went for what was nothing worth;So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,With colours mix’d for a far different use,Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thingThat Fancy finds in her excursive flights.

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,With matron step slow moving, while the NightTreads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ’dIn letting fall the curtain of reposeOn bird and beast, the other charged for manWith sweet oblivion of the cares of day:Not sumptuously adorn’d, not needing aid,Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems;A star or two, just twinkling on thy browSuffices thee; save that the moon is thineNo less than hers, not worn indeed on highWith ostentatious pageantry, but setWith modest grandeur in thy purple zone,Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:And, whether I devote thy gentle hoursTo books, to music, or the poet’s toil;To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,When they command whom man was born to please;I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.

Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blazeWith lights, by clear reflection multipliedFrom many a mirror, in which he of Gath,Goliath, might have seen his giant bulkWhole without stooping, towering crest and all,My pleasures too begin. But me perhapsThe glowing hearth may satisfy awhileWith faint illumination, that upliftsThe shadows to the ceiling, there by fitsDancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.Not undelightful is an hour to meSo spent in parlour twilight: such a gloomSuits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,The mind contemplative, with some new themePregnant, or indisposed alike to all.Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,That never felt a stupor, know no pause,Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess,Fearless, a soul that does not always think.Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wildSoothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,Trees, churches, and strange visages, express’dIn the red cinders, while with poring eyeI gazed, myself creating what I saw.Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch’dThe sooty films that play upon the bars,Pendulous and foreboding, in the viewOf superstition, prophesying still,Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach.‘Tis thus the understanding takes reposeIn indolent vacuity of thought,And sleeps and is refresh’d. Meanwhile the faceConceals the mood lethargic with a maskOf deep deliberation, as the manWere task’d to his full strength, absorb’d and lost.Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hourAt evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons homeThe recollected powers; and, snapping shortThe glassy threads with which the fancy weavesHer brittle toils, restores me to myself.How calm is my recess; and how the frost,Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endearThe silence and the warmth enjoy’d within!I saw the woods and fields at close of dayA variegated show; the meadows green,Though faded; and the lands, where lately wavedThe golden harvest, of a mellow brown,Upturn’d so lately by the forceful share.I saw far off the weedy fallows smileWith verdure not unprofitable, grazedBy flocks, fast feeding, and selecting eachHis favourite herb; while all the leafless grovesThat skirt the horizon, wore a sable hueScarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.To-morrow brings a change, a total change!Which even now, though silently perform’d, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the faceOf universal nature undergoes.Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakesDescending, and with never-ceasing lapse,Softly alighting upon all below,Assimilate all objects. Earth receivesGladly the thickening mantle; and the greenAnd tender blade, that fear’d the chilling blast,Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.

In such a world so thorny, and where noneFinds happiness unblighted; or, if found,Without some thistly sorrow at its side;It seems the part of wisdom, and no sinAgainst the law of love, to measure lotsWith less distinguish’d than ourselves; that thusWe may with patience bear our moderate ills,And sympathise with others suffering more.Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalksIn ponderous boots beside his reeking team.The wain goes heavily, impeded soreBy congregated loads, adhering closeTo the clogg’d wheels; and in its sluggish paceNoiseless appears a moving hill of snow.The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,While every breath, by respiration strongForced downward, is consolidated soonUpon their jutting chests. He, form’d to bearThe pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,With half-shut eyes, and pucker’d cheeks, and teethPresented bare against the storm, plods on.One hand secures his hat, save when with bothHe brandishes his pliant length of whip,Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.O happy; and, in my account, deniedThat sensibility of pain with whichRefinement is endued, thrice happy thou!Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeedThe piercing cold, but feels it unimpair’d.The learned finger never need exploreThy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east,That breathes the spleen, and searches every boneOf the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.Thy days roll on exempt from household care;Thy waggon is thy wife, and the poor beasts,That drag the dull companion to and fro,Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear’st, Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great,With needless hurry whirl’d from place to place,Humane as they would seem, not always show.

Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,Such claim compassion in a night like this,And have a friend in every feeling heart.Warm’d, while it lasts, by labour all day long,They brave the season, and yet find at eve,Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool.The frugal housewife trembles when she lightsHer scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.The few small embers left she nurses well;And, while her infant race, with outspread hands,And crowded knees, sit cowering o’er the sparks,Retires, content to quake, so they be warm’d.The man feels least, as more inured than sheTo winter, and the current in his veinsMore briskly moved by his severer toil;Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.The taper soon extinguish’d, which I sawDangled along at the cold finger’s endJust when the day declined; and the brown loafLodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauceOf savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still;Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas!Where penury is felt the thought is chain’d,And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few!With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care,Ingenious Parsimony takes, but justSaves the small inventory, bed, and stool,Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale.They live, and live without extorted almsFrom grudging hands; but other boast have noneTo soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg,Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,For ye are worthy; choosing rather farA dry but independent crust, hard earn’d,And eaten with a sigh, than to endureThe rugged frowns and insolent rebuffsOf knaves in office, partial in the workOf distribution, liberal of their aidTo clamorous importunity in rags,But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blushTo wear a tatter’d garb however coarse,Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth:These ask with painful shyness, and refusedBecause deserving, silently retire!But be ye of good courage! Time itselfShall much befriend you. Time shall give increase;And all your numerous progeny, well train’d,But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not wantWhat, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.I mean the man who, when the distant poorNeed help, denies them nothing but his name.

But poverty with most, who whimper forthTheir long complaints, is self-inflicted woe;The effect of laziness or sottish waste.Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroadFor plunder; much solicitous how bestHe may compensate for a day of slothBy works of darkness and nocturnal wrong.Woe to the gardener’s pale, the farmer’s hedge,Plash’d neatly, and secured with driven stakesDeep in the loamy bank! Uptorn by strength,Resistless in so bad a cause, but lameTo better deeds, he bundles up the spoil,An ass’s burden, and, when laden mostAnd heaviest, light of foot steals fast away;Nor does the boarded hovel better guardThe well-stack’d pile of riven logs and rootsFrom his pernicious force. Nor will he leaveUnwrench’d the door, however well secured,Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleepsIn unsuspecting pomp. Twitch’d from the perch,He gives the princely bird, with all his wives,To his voracious bag, struggling in vain,And loudly wondering at the sudden change.Nor this to feed his own. ‘Twere some excuse,Did pity of their sufferings warp asideHis principle, and tempt him into sinFor their support, so destitute. But theyNeglected pine at home; themselves, as moreExposed than others, with less scruple madeHis victims, robb’d of their defenceless all.Cruel is all he does. ‘Tis quenchless thirstOf ruinous ebriety that promptsHis every action, and imbrutes the man.O for a law to noose the villain’s neckWho starves his own; who persecutes the bloodHe gave them in his children’s veins, and hatesAnd wrongs the woman he has sworn to love!

Pass where we may, through city or through town,Village, or hamlet, of this merry land,Though lean and beggar’d, every twentieth paceConducts the unguarded nose to such a whiffOf stale debauch, forth issuing from the styesThat law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.There sit, involved and lost in curling cloudsOf Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman thereTakes a Lethean leave of all his toil;Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike,All learned, and all drunk! the fiddle screamsPlaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail’dIts wasted tones and harmony unheard:Fierce the dispute, whate’er the theme; while she,Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,Perch’d on the sign-post, holds with even handHer undecisive scales. In this she laysA weight of ignorance; in that, of pride;And smiles delighted with the eternal poise.Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound,The cheek-distending oath, not to be praisedAs ornamental, musical, polite,Like those which modern senators employ,Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame!Behold the schools in which plebeian minds,Once simple, are initiated in arts,Which some may practise with politer grace,But none with readier skill!—’tis here they learnThe road that leads from competence and peaceTo indigence and rapine; till at lastSociety, grown weary of the load,Shakes her encumber’d lap, and casts them out.But censure profits little: vain the attemptTo advertise in verse a public pest,That, like the filth with which the peasant feedsHis hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.The excise is fatten’d with the rich resultOf all this riot; and ten thousand casks,For ever dribbling out their base contents,Touch’d by the Midas finger of the state,Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.Drink, and be mad then; ‘tis your country bids!Gloriously drunk, obey the important call!Her cause demands the assistance of your throat;—Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

Would I had fallen upon those happier days,That poets celebrate; those golden times,And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings,And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had heartsThat felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems,From courts dismiss’d, found shelter in the groves;The footsteps of Simplicity, impress’dUpon the yielding herbage (so they sing)Then were not all effaced: then speech profaneAnd manners profligate were rarely found,Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim’d.Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreamsSat for the picture: and the poet’s hand,Imparting substance to an empty shade,Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.Grant it:—I still must envy them an ageThat favour’d such a dream; in days like theseImpossible, when Virtue is so scarce,That to suppose a scene where she presides,Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.No: we are polish’d now! The rural lass,Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,Her artless manners, and her neat attire,So dignified, that she was hardly lessThan the fair shepherdess of old romance,Is seen no more. The character is lost!Her head, adorn’d with lappets pinn’d aloft,And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,And magnified beyond all human size,Indebted to some smart wig-weaver’s handFor more than half the tresses it sustains;Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering formIll propp’d upon French heels; she might be deem’d(But that the basket dangling on her armInterprets her more truly) of a rankToo proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs.Expect her soon with footboy at her heels,No longer blushing for her awkward load,Her train and her umbrella all her care!

The town has tinged the country; and the stainAppears a spot upon a vestal’s robe,The worse for what it soils. The fashion runsDown into scenes still rural; but, alas!Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now!Time was when in the pastoral retreatThe unguarded door was safe; men did not watchTo invade another’s right, or guard their own.Then sleep was undisturb’d by fear, unscaredBy drunken howlings; and the chilling taleOf midnight murder was a wonder heardWith doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.But farewell now to unsuspicious nights,And slumbers unalarm’d! Now, ere you sleep,See that your polish’d arms be primed with care,And drop the night bolt;—ruffians are abroad;And the first ‘larum of the cock’s shrill throatMay prove a trumpet, summoning your earTo horrid sounds of hostile feet within.E’en daylight has its dangers; and the walkThrough pathless wastes and woods, unconscious onceOf other tenants than melodious birds,Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.Lamented change! to which full many a causeInveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.The course of human things from good to ill,From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.Increase of power begets increase of wealth;Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague,That seizes first the opulent, descendsTo the next rank contagious, and in timeTaints downward all the graduated scaleOf order, from the chariot to the plough.The rich, and they that have an arm to checkThe licence of the lowest in degree,Desert their office; and themselves, intentOn pleasure, haunt the capital, and thusTo all the violence of lawless handsResign the scenes their presence might protect.Authority herself not seldom sleeps,Though resident, and witness of the wrong.The plump convivial parson often bearsThe magisterial sword in vain, and laysHis reverence and his worship both to restOn the same cushion of habitual sloth.Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;When he should strike he trembles, and sets free,Himself enslaved by terror of the band,The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind.Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,He too may have his vice, and sometimes proveLess dainty than becomes his grave outsideIn lucrative concerns. Examine wellHis milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean—But here and there an ugly smutch appears.Foh! ‘twas a bribe that left it: he has touch’dCorruption! Whoso seeks an audit herePropitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.

But faster far, and more than all the rest,A noble cause, which none who bears a sparkOf public virtue, ever wish’d removed,Works the deplored and mischievous effect.‘Tis universal soldiership has stabb’dThe heart of merit in the meaner class.Arms, through the vanity and brainless rageOf those that bear them, in whatever cause,Seem most at variance with all moral good,And incompatible with serious thought.The clown, the child of nature, without guile,Blest with an infant’s ignorance of allBut his own simple pleasures; now and thenA wrestling-match, a foot-race, or a fair;Is balloted, and trembles at the news:Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swearsA bible-oath to be whate’er they please,To do he knows not what. The task perform’d,That instant he becomes the serjeant’s care,His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.His awkward gait, his introverted toes,Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,Procure him many a curse. By slow degreesUnapt to learn, and form’d of stubborn stuff,He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well:He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk;He steps right onward, martial in his air,His form, and movement; is as smart aboveAs meal and larded locks can make him; wearsHis hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace;And, his three years of heroship expired,Returns indignant to the slighted plough.He hates the field, in which no fife or drumAttends him; drives his cattle to a march;And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.‘Twere well if his exterior change were all—But with his clumsy port the wretch has lostHis ignorance and harmless manners too.To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home,By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath beach,The great proficiency he made abroad;To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends;To break some maiden’s and his mother’s heart;To be a pest where he was useful once;Are his sole aim, and all his glory now.

Man in society is like a flowerBlown in its native bed: ‘tis there aloneHis faculties, expanded in full bloom,Shine out; there only reach their proper use.But man, associated and leagued with manBy regal warrant, or self-join’d by bondFor interest sake, or swarming into clansBeneath one head for purposes of war,Like flowers selected from the rest, and boundAnd bundled close to fill some crowded vase,Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr’d,Contracts defilement not to be endured.Hence charter’d burghs are such public plagues;And burghers, men immaculate perhapsIn all their private functions, once combined,Become a loathsome body, only fitFor dissolution, hurtful to the main.Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sinAgainst the charities of domestic life,Incorporated, seem at once to loseTheir nature; and, disclaiming all regardFor mercy and the common rights of man,Build factories with blood, conducting tradeAt the sword’s point, and dyeing the white robeOf innocent commercial Justice red.Hence too the field of glory, as the worldMisdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,With all its majesty of thundering pomp,Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taughtOn principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for every vice.

But slighted as it is, and by the greatAbandon’d, and, which still I more regret,Infected with the manners and the modesIt knew not once, the country wins me sill.I never framed a wish, or form’d a plan,That flatter’d me with hopes of earthly bliss,But there I laid the scene. There early stray’dMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free.My very dreams were rural; rural tooThe firstborn efforts of my youthful muse,Sportive, and jingling her poetic bellsEre yet her ear was mistress of their powers.No bard could please me but whose lyre was tunedTo Nature’s praises. Heroes and their featsFatigued me, never weary of the pipeOf Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.Then Milton had indeed a poet’s charms:New to my taste, his Paradise surpass’dThe struggling efforts of my boyish tongueTo speak its excellence. I danced for joy.I marvell’d much that, at so ripe an ageAs twice seven years, his beauties had then firstEngaged my wonder; and admiring still,And still admiring, with regret supposedThe joy half lost, because not sooner found.There too, enamour’d of the life I loved,Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuitDetermined, and possessing it at last,With transports, such as favour’d lovers feel,I studied, prized, and wish’d that I had knownIngenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim’dBy modern lights from an erroneous taste,I cannot but lament thy splendid witEntangled in the cobwebs of the schools.I still revere thee, courtly though retired;Though stretch’d at ease in Chertsey’s silent bowers,Not unemployed; and finding rich amendsFor a lost world in solitude and verse.‘Tis born with all: the love of Nature’s worksIs an ingredient in the compound man,Infused at the creation of the kind.And, though the Almighty Maker has throughoutDiscriminated each from each, by strokesAnd touches of his hand, with so much artDiversified, that two were never foundTwins at all points—yet this obtains in all,That all discern a beauty in his works,And all can taste them: minds that have been form’dAnd tutor’d, with a relish more exact,But none without some relish, none unmoved.It is a flame that dies not even thereWhere nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,Nor habits of luxurious city life,Whatever else they smother of true worthIn human bosoms, quench it or abate.The villas with which London stands begirtLike a swarth Indian with his belt of beadsProve it. A breath of unadulterate air,The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheerThe citizen, and brace his languid frame!E’en in the stifling bosom of the townA garden, in which nothing thrives, has charmsThat soothe the rich possessor; much consoled, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wellHe cultivates. These serve him with a hint That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing greenIs still the livery she delights to wear,Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,The prouder sashes fronted with a rangeOf orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,The Frenchman’s darling? are they not all proofsThat man, immured in cities, still retainsHis inborn inextinguishable thirstOf rural scenes, compensating his lossBy supplemental shifts, the best he may,The most unfurnish’d with the means of life,And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds,To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,Yet feel the burning instinct: over head Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,And water’d duly. There the pitcher stands,A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there;Sad witnesses how close-pent man regretsThe country, with what ardour he contrivesA peep at Nature, when he can no more.

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,And contemplation, heart-consoling joys,And harmless pleasures, in the throng’d abodeOf multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emolument, or fame;I shall not add myself to such a chase,Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.Some must be great. Great offices will haveGreat talents. And God gives to every manThe virtue, temper, understanding, taste,That lifts him into life, and lets him fallJust in the niche he was ordain’d to fill.To the deliverer of an injured landHe gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heartTo feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;To monarchs dignity; to judges sense;To artists ingenuity and skill;To me an unambitious mind, contentIn the low vale of life, that early feltA wish for ease and leisure, and ere longFound here that leisure and that ease I wish’d.

The Growth of Love

1They that in play can do the thing they would,Having an instinct throned in reason's place,--And every perfect action hath the graceOf indolence or thoughtless hardihood--These are the best: yet be there workmen goodWho lose in earnestness control of face,Or reckon means, and rapt in effort baseReach to their end by steps well understood. Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the painsOf one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,--Even as a painter breathlessly who stainsHis scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

2For thou art mine: and now I am ashamedTo have uséd means to win so pure acquist,And of my trembling fear that might have misstThro' very care the gold at which I aim'd;And am as happy but to hear thee named,As are those gentle souls by angels kisstIn pictures seen leaving their marble cistTo go before the throne of grace unblamed. Nor surer am I water hath the skillTo quench my thirst, or that my strength is freedIn delicate ordination as I will,Than that to be myself is all I needFor thee to be most mine: so I stand still,And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

3The whole world now is but the ministerOf thee to me: I see no other schemeBut universal love, from timeless dreamWaking to thee his joy's interpreter.I walk around and in the fields conferOf love at large with tree and flower and stream,And list the lark descant upon my theme,Heaven's musical accepted worshipper. Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud'Twixt things and me is quash'd in our new truce;And nature now dearly with thee enduedNo more in shame ponders her old excuse,But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

4The very names of things belov'd are dear,And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,As many a face thro' love's long residenceGroweth to fair instead of plain and sere:But when I say thy name it hath no peer,And I suppose fortune determined thenceHer dower, that such beauty's excellenceShould have a perfect title for the ear. Thus may I think the adopting Muses choseTheir sons by name, knowing none would be heardOr writ so oft in all the world as those,--Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for thirdThe classic Milton, and to us aroseShelley with liquid music in the world.

5The poets were good teachers, for they taughtEarth had this joy; but that 'twould ever beThat fortune should be perfected in me,My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.So I stood low, and now but to be caughtBy any self-styled lords of the age with theeVexes my modesty, lest they should seeI hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought. And when we sit alone, and as I pleaseI taste thy love's full smile, and can enstateThe pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,My thought swims like a ship, that with the weightOf her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seasBecalm'd, and cannot stir her golden freight.

6While yet we wait for spring, and from the dryAnd blackening east that so embitters March,Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;Already in glimpses of the tarnish'd skyThe sun is warm and beckons to the larch,And where the covert hazels interarchTheir tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie. Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hidA million buds but stay their blossoming;And trustful birds have built their nests amidThe shuddering boughs, and only wait to singTill one soft shower from the south shall bid,And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

7In thee my spring of life hath bid the whileA rose unfold beyond the summer's best,The mystery of joy made manifestIn love's self-answering and awakening smile;Whereby the lips in wonder reconcilePassion with peace, and show desire at rest,--A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,That bloom'd to immortalize the Tuscan style When first the angel-song that faith hath ken'dFancy pourtray'd, above recorded oathOf Israel's God, or light of poem pen'd;The very countenance of plighted troth'Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blendThe hope of one and happiness of both.

8For beauty being the best of all we knowSums up the unsearchable and secret aimsOf nature, and on joys whose earthly namesWere never told can form and sense bestow;And man hath sped his instinct to outgoThe step of science; and against her shamesImagination stakes out heavenly claims,Building a tower above the head of woe. Nor is there fairer work for beauty foundThan that she win in nature her releaseFrom all the woes that in the world abound:Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,If from man's greater need beauty redound,And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

9Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,That late dismay'd her faithless faith forbore;And wins again her love lost in the loreOf schools and script of many a learned book:For thou what ruthless death untimely tookShalt now in better brotherhood restore,And save my batter'd ship that far from shoreHigh on the dismal deep in tempest shook.

So in despite of sorrow lately learn'dI still hold true to truth since thou art true,Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'dNor come the heavenly sun and bathing blueTo my life's need more splendid and unearn'dThan hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due.

10Winter was not unkind because uncouth;His prison'd time made me a closer guest,And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,Biting all else with keen and angry toothAnd bravelier the triumphant blood of youthMantling thy cheek its happy home possest,And sterner sport by day put strength to test,And custom's feast at night gave tongue to truth Or say hath flaunting summer a deviceTo match our midnight revelry, that rangWith steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?Or when we hark't to nightingales that sangOn dewy eves in spring, did they enticeTo gentler love than winter's icy fang?

11There's many a would-be poet at this hour,Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo'd,And o'er his lamplit desk in solitudeDeems that he sitteth in the Muses' bower:And some the flames of earthly love devour,Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew'dIn the world's wilderness with heavenly foodThe sickly body of their perishing power.

So none of all our company, I boast,But now would mock my penning, could they seeHow down the right it maps a jagged coast;Seeing they hold the manlier praise to beStrong hand and will, and the heart best when most'Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

12How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,And beauty that my fancy fed upon?Now not my life's contrition for my faultCan blot that day, nor work me recompence,Tho' I might worthily thy worth exalt,Making thee long amends for short offence. For surely nowhere, love, if not in theeAre grace and truth and beauty to be found;And all my praise of these can only beA praise of thee, howe'er by thee disown'd:While still thou must be mine tho' far removed,And I for one offence no more beloved.

13Now since to me altho' by thee refusedThe world is left, I shall find pleasure still;The art that most I have loved but little usedWill yield a world of fancies at my will:And tho' where'er thou goest it is from me,I where I go thee in my heart must bear;And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair. Farewell, yet think not such farewell a changeFrom tenderness, tho' once to meet or partBut on short absence so could sense derangeThat tears have graced the greeting of my heart;They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

14When sometimes in an ancient house where stateFrom noble ancestry is handed on,We see but desolation thro' the gate,And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,Bred of disease or melancholy fate,Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphereTo wander nameless save to pity or hate: What is the wreck of all he hath in fiefWhen he that hath is wrecking? nought is fineUnto the sick, nor doth it burden griefThat the house perish when the soul doth pine.Thus I my state despise, slain by a stingSo slight 'twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

15Who builds a ship must first lay down the keelOf health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bedFor decks of purity, her floor and ceil.Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,To fortune's wind the sails of purpose spread:And at the prow make figured maidenheadO'erride the seas and answer to the wheel. And let him deep in memory's hold have stor'dWater of Helicon: and let him fitThe needle that doth true with heaven accord:Then bid her crew, love, diligence and witWith justice, courage, temperance come aboard,And at her helm the master reason sit.

16This world is unto God a work of art,Of which the unaccomplish'd heavenly planIs hid in life within the creature's heart,And for perfection looketh unto man.Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slowPains and persistence were his idols made,Destroy'd and made, ere ever he could knowThe mighty mother must be so obey'd. For lack of knowledge and thro' little skillHis childish mimicry outwent his aim;His effort shaped the genius of his will;Till thro' distinction and revolt he came,True to his simple terms of good and ill,Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

17Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt facesIn negligent and travel-stain'd array,That in the city of Dante come to-day,Haughtily visiting her holy places?O these be noble men that hide their graces,True England's blood, her ancient glory's stay,By tales of fame diverted on their wayHome from the rule of oriental races. Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyesAnd motion delicate, but swift to fireFor honour, passionate where duty lies,Most loved and loving: and they quickly tireOf Florence, that she one day more deniesThe embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

18Where San Miniato's convent from the sunAt forenoon overlooks the city of flowersI sat, and gazing on her domes and towersCall'd up her famous children one by one:And three who all the rest had far outdone,Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,I saw, and god-like Buonarroti's powers,And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong'd son.

Is all this glory, I said, another's praise?Are these heroic triumphs things of old,And do I dead upon the living gaze?Or rather doth the mind, that can beholdThe wondrous beauty of the works and days,Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

19Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell,Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;And that your names, remember'd day and night,Live on the lips of those that love you well.'Tis ye that conquer'd have the powers of hell,Each with the special grace of your delight:Ye are the world's creators, and thro' mightOf everlasting love ye did excel. Now ye are starry names, above the stormAnd war of Time and nature's endless wrongYe flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,Wing'd with bright music and melodious song,--The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-danceIn dear Imagination's rich pleasance.

20The world still goeth about to shew and hide,Befool'd of all opinion, fond of fame:But he that can do well taketh no pride,And see'th his error, undisturb'd by shame:So poor's the best that longest life can do,The most so little, diligently done;So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,So vast the joy that love from love hath won. God's love to win is easy, for He lovethDesire's fair attitude, nor strictly weighsThe broken thing, but all alike approvethWhich love hath aim'd at Him: that is heaven's praise:And if we look for any praise on earth,'Tis in man's love: all else is nothing worth.

21O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic painAnd clownish merriment whose sense could wakeSermons in stones, and count death but an ache,All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strainReveal'd anew; but thou for man didst makeNature twice natural, only to shakeHer kingdom with the creatures of thy brain. Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is lothTo yield to art her fair supremacy;In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.What shall I say? for God--whose wise decreeConfirmeth all He did by all He doth--Doubled His whole creation making thee.

22I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,And carry purpose up to the ends of the airIn calm and storm my sails I feather, and whereBy freezing cliffs the unransom'd wreckage lies:Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surpriseThe silence: over plains in the moonlight bareI chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dareIn treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies. Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir'dBy the only joy of knowing that ye fly;Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum'd in a word,The alphabet of a god's idea, and IWho master it, I am the only bird.

23O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,Hailing in each the citadel divineThe which ye thought to have enter'd long ago;Until at length your feeble steps and slowFalter upon the threshold of the shrine,And your hearts overhurden'd doubt in fineWhether it be Jerusalem or no: Dishearten'd pilgrims, I am one of you;For, having worshipp'd many a barren face,I scarce now greet the goal I journey'd to:I stand a pagan in the holy place;Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,And question with the God that I embrace.

24Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;Her melting air, at every breath we draw,Floods heart with love to praise God's gracious law:But suddenly--so short is pleasure's lease--The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,And nature's conquer'd face is full of awe;As now the trait'rous north with icy flawFreezes the dew upon the sick lamb's fleece, And 'neath the mock sun searching everywhereRattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:So that the birds are silent with despairWithin the thickets; nor their armour thinWill gaudy flies adventure in the air,Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

25Nothing is joy without thee: I can findNo rapture in the first relays of spring,In songs of birds, in young buds opening,Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;For lack of thee, who once wert throned behindAll beauty, like a strength where graces cling,--The jewel and heart of light, which everythingWrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined. Ah! since thou'rt fled, and I in each fair sightThe sweet occasion of my joy deplore,Where shall I seek thee best, or whom inviteWithin thy sacred temples and adore?Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

26The work is done, and from the fingers fallThe bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro':The tasking eye that overrunneth allRests, and affirms there is no more to do.Now the third joy of making, the sweet flowerOf blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hourThe shrivelling vanity of mortal merit. And thou, my perfect work, thou'rt of to-day;To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,True only should the swift life stand at stay:Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee:Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

27The fabled sea-snake, old Leviathan,Or else what grisly beast of scaly chineThat champ'd the ocean-wrack and swash'd the brine,Before the new and milder days of man,Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fanLike his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,Late-born of golden seed to breed a lineOf offspring swifter and more huge of plan. Straight is her going, for upon the sunWhen once she hath look'd, her path and place are plain;With tireless speed she smiteth one by oneThe shuddering seas and foams along the main;And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,Roars thro' her nostrils like a hurricane.

28A thousand times hath in my heart's behoofMy tongue been set his passion to impart;A thousand times hath my too coward heartMy mouth reclosed and fix'd it to the roof;Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,A thousand times kept silence with such artThat words could do no more: yet on thy partHath silence given a thousand times reproof. I should be bolder, seeing I commendLove, that my dilatory purpose primes,But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:Nay, I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,Renew my sorrows rather than offend,A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

29I travel to thee with the sun's first rays,That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.I wait upon thy coming, but always--Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite--Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,And in my solitude dost mock my praise. Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:I see no fame in Khufu's pyramid,No history where loveless Nile doth roll.--This is eternal life, which doth forbidMortal detraction to the exalted soul,And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

30My lady pleases me and I please her;This know we both, and I besides know wellWherefore I love her, and I love to tellMy love, as all my loving songs aver.But what on her part could the passion stir,Tho' 'tis more difficult for love to spell,Yet can I dare divine how this befel,Nor will her lips deny it if I err. She loves me first because I love her, thenLoves me for knowing why she should be loved,And that I love to praise her, loves again.So from her beauty both our loves are moved,And by her beauty are sustain'd; nor whenThe earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

31In all things beautiful, I cannot seeHer sit or stand, but love is stir'd anew:'Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,And all that comes is past expectancy.If she be silent, silence let it be;He who would bid her speak might sit and sueThe deep-brow'd Phidian Jove to be untrueTo his two thousand years' solemnity. Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings,Wins on the hearing like a shapen prowBorne by the mastery of its urgent wings:Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth showShe hath the intelligence of heavenly things,Unsullied by man's mortal overthrow.

32Thus to be humbled: 'tis that ranging prideNo refuge hath; that in his castle strongBrave reason sits beleaguer'd, who so longKept field, but now must starve where he doth hide;That industry, who once the foe defied,Lies slaughter'd in the trenches; that the throngOf idle fancies pipe their foolish song,Where late the puissant captains fought and died. Thus to be humbled: 'tis to be undone;A forest fell'd; a city razed to ground;A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspunTill not a thread remains that can be wound.And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin'd one,Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown'd.

33I care not if I live, tho' life and breathHave never been to me so dear and sweet.I care not if I die, for I could meet--Being so happy--happily my death.I care not if I love; to-day she saithShe loveth, and love's history is complete.Nor care I if she love me; at her feetMy spirit bows entranced and worshippeth. I have no care for what was most my care,But all around me see fresh beauty born,And common sights grown lovelier than they were:I dream of love, and in the light of mornTremble, beholding all things very fairAnd strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

34O my goddess divine sometimes I sayNow let this word for ever and all suffice;Thou art insatiable, and yet not twiceCan even thy lover give his soul away:And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay;For never any other, by deviceOf wisdom, love or beauty, could enticeMy homage to the measure of this day. I have no more to give thee: lo, I have soldMy life, have emptied out my heart, and spentWhate'er I had; till like a beggar, boldWith nought to lose, I laugh and am content.A beggar kisses thee; nay, love, behold,I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

35All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof,That few there be are wean'd from earthly love.Joy's ladder it is, reaching from home to home,The best of all the work that all was good;Whereof 'twas writ the angels aye upclomb,Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood. But I my time abuse, my eyes by dayCenter'd on thee, by night my heart on fire--Letting my number'd moments run away--Nor e'en 'twixt night and day to heaven aspire:So true it is that what the eye seeth notBut slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

36O my life's mischief, once my love's delight,That drew'st a mortgage on my heart's estate,Whose baneful clause is never out of date,Nor can avenging time restore my right:Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite,Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate:That art the well-loved cause of all my hate,The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night: Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,My very grasp of life is old and slack,And even my passion falters in my rhyme.

37At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dustI race by field or highway, and my horseSpare not, but urge direct in headlong courseUnto some fair far hill that gain I must:But near arrived the vision soon mistrust,Rein in, and stand as one who sees the sourceOf strong illusion, shaming thought to forceFrom off his mind the soil of passion's gust.

My brow I bare then, and with slacken'd speedCan view the country pleasant on all sides,And to kind salutation give good heed:I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

38An idle June day on the sunny Thames,Floating or rowing as our fancy led,Now in the high beams basking as we sped,Now in green shade gliding by mirror'd stems;By lock and weir and isle, and many a spotOf memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill,Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not ill The heavenly Muse, tho' she requite them not: I would have life--thou saidst--all as this day,Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,With not a grief to cloud, and not a rayOf passion overhot my peace to oppress;With no ambition to reproach delay,Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

39A man that sees by chance his picture, madeAs once a child he was, handling some toy,Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy,Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray'd:He cannot think the simple thought which play'dUpon those features then so frank and coy;'Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o'er the joyHis fatherly pity bends in tears dismay'd. Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:--Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,Which seeing, he fears to say This child was I.

40Tears of love, tears of joy and tears of care,Comforting tears that fell uncomforted,Tears o'er the new-born, tears beside the dead,Tears of hope, pride and pity, trust and prayer,Tears of contrition; all tears whatsoe'erOf tenderness or kindness had she shedWho here is pictured, ere upon her headThe fine gold might be turn'd to silver there. The smile that charm'd the father hath given placeUnto the furrow'd care wrought by the son;But virtue hath transform'd all change to grace:So that I praise the artist, who hath doneA portrait, for my worship, of the faceWon by the heart my father's heart that won.

41If I could but forget and not recallSo well my time of pleasure and of play,When ancient nature was all new and gay,Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,--Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small,Nor dream'd what fearful searchings underlayThe flowers and leafy ecstasy of May,The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall: Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,Press'd in the mêlée of accursed things,Having such help in love and such reward:But that 'tis I who once--'tis this that stings--Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,Where yet I'd be had I but heavenly wings.

42When I see childhood on the threshold seizeThe prize of life from age and likelihood,I mourn time's change that will not be withstood,Thinking how Christ said Be like one of these.For in the forest among many treesScarce one in all is found that hath made goodThe virgin pattern of its slender wood,That courtesied in joy to every breeze; But scath'd, but knotted trunks that raise on highTheir arms in stiff contortion, strain'd and bareWhose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.So, little children, ye--nay nay, ye ne'erFrom me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

43When parch'd with thirst, astray on sultry sandThe traveller faints, upon his closing earSteals a fantastic music: he may hearThe babbling fountain of his native land.Before his eyes the vision seems to stand,Where at its terraced brink the maids appear,Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear,And not refuse the help of lover's hand. O cruel jest--he cries, as some one flingsThe sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire--O shameless, O contempt of holy things.But never of their wanton play they tire,As not athirst they sit beside the springs,While he must quench in death his lost desire.

44The image of thy love, rising on darkAnd desperate days over my sullen sea,Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.Whate'er my sorrow be, I then may harkA loving voice: whate'er my terror be,This heavenly comfort still I win from thee,To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark. Prodigal nature makes us but to tasteOne perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;And lest her precious gift should run to waste,Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:So to the memory of the gift that gracedHer hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

45In this neglected, ruin'd edificeOf works unperfected and broken schemes,Where is the promise of my early dreams,The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?No charm is left now that could once enticeWind-wavering fortune from her golden streams,And full in flight decrepit purpose seems,Trailing the banner of his old device. Within the house a frore and numbing airHas chill'd endeavour: sickly memories reignIn every room, and ghosts are on the stair:And hope behind the dusty window-paneWatches the days go by, and bow'd with careForecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

46Once I would say, before thy vision came,My joy, my life, my love, and with some kindOf knowledge speak, and think I knew my mindOf heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.Whate'er their sounds be, now all mean the same,Denoting each the fair that none can find;Or if I say them, 'tis as one long blindForgets the sights that he was used to name. Now if men speak of love, 'tis not my love;Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their lifeOf praise the life that I think honour of:Nay tho' they turn from house and child and wifeAnd self, and in the thought of heaven aboveHold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

47Since then 'tis only pity looking back,Fear looking forward, and the busy mindWill in one woeful moment more upwindThan lifelong years unroll of bitter or black;What is man's privilege, his hoarding knackOf memory with foreboding so combined,Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kindThe perpetuity which all things lack?

Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to haveBeing a continuance of what, alas,We mourn, and scarcely hear with to the grave;Or something so unknown that it o'erpassThe thought of comfort, and the sense that gaveCannot consider it thro' any glass.

48Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and takeNot now the child into thine arms, from frightComposed by drowsy tune and shaded light,Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make;Nor now the boy, who scorn'd thee for the sakeOf growing knowledge or mysterious night,Tho' with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite,And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake; No, nor the man severe, who from his bestFailing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;But me; from whom thy comfort tarrieth,For all my wakeful prayer sent without restTo thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

49The spirit's eager sense for sad or gayFilleth with what he will our vessel full:Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy's dayBut like a child at any toy will pull:If sorrow, he will weep for fancy's sake,And spoil heaven's plenty with forbidden care.What fortune most denies we slave to take;Nor can fate load us more than we can bear. Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,While he keep hope: as he who alway fearethA grief that never comes hath yet the smart;And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

50The world comes not to an end: her city-hivesSwarm with the tokens of a changeless trade,With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade,Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.New homes on old are set, as lives on lives;Invention with invention overlaid:But still or tool or toy or book or bladeShaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives. The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,With little better'd means; for works dependOn works and overlap, and thought on thought:And thro' all change the smiles of hope amendThe weariest face, the same love changed in nought:In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

51O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth,That in my secret book with so much careI write you, this one here and that one there,Marking the time and order of your birth?How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth,A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare,Look ye for any welcome anywhereFrom any shelf or heart-home on the earth? Should others ask you this, say then I yearn'dTo write you such as once, when I was young,Finding I should have loved and thereto turn'd.'Twere something yet to live again amongThe gentle youth beloved, and where I learn'dMy art, be there remember'd for my song.

52Who takes the census of the living dead,Ere the day come when memory shall o'ercrowdThe kingdom of their fame, and for that proudAnd airy people find no room nor stead?Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth backThe fairest treasures of his ancient store,Better with best confound, so he may packHis greedy gatherings closer, more and more? Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,And purge her story of the men of hate,That they go dirgeless down to Satan's rageWith all else foul, deform'd and miscreate:She hath full toil to keep the names of loveHonour'd on earth, as they are bright above.

53I heard great Hector sounding war's alarms,Where thro' the listless ghosts chiding he strode,As tho' the Greeks besieged his last abode,And he his Troy's hope still, her king-at-arms.But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charmsWith weary oblivion, his passion glow'dLike the cold night-worm's candle, and only show'dSuch mimic flame as neither heats nor harms. 'Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,How rude catastrophe had dim'd his day,And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:To arms! to arms! what more the voice would sayWas swallow'd in the valleys, and grew faintUpon the thin air, as he pass'd away.

54Since not the enamour'd sun with glance more fondKisses the foliage of his sacred tree,Than doth my waking thought arise on thee,Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond;Nay, since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bondIs writ my promise of eternitySince to such high hope thou'st encouraged me,That if thou look but from me I despond; Since thou'rt my all in all, O think of this:Think of the dedication of my youth:Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,My sheer annihilation if I miss:Think--if thou shouldst be false--think of thy truth.

55These meagre rhymes, which a returning moodSometimes o'errateth, I as oft despise;And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude,See them as others with contemptuous eyes.Nay, and I wonder less at God's respectFor man, a minim jot in time and space,Than at the soaring faith of His elect,That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace. O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,Most infinitely tender, so to touchThe work that we can meanly reckon of:Surely--I say--we are favour'd overmuch.But of this wonder, what doth most amazeIs that we know our love is held for praise.

56Beauty sat with me all the summer day,Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;Nor mark'd I till we parted, how, hard by,Love in her train stood ready for his prey.She, as too proud to join herself the fray,Trusting too much to her divine ally,When she saw victory tarry, chid him--"WhyDost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?" Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,Told of our ancient truce: so from the fightWe straight withdrew our forces, all the three.Baffled but not dishearten'd she took flightScheming new tactics: Love came home with me,And prompts my measured verses as I write.

57In autumn moonlight, when the white air wanIs fragrant in the wake of summer hence,'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereonIn melancholy and godlike indolence:When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal primeTo fond pretence of immortality,Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,All things whate'er have been or yet shall be. And like the garden, where the year is spent,The ruin of old life is full of yearning,Mingling poetic rapture of lamentWith flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning;Only in visions of the white air wanBy godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

58When first I saw thee, dearest, if I sayThe spells that conjure back the hour and place,And evermore I look upon thy face,As in the spring of years long pass'd away;No fading of thy beauty's rich array,No detriment of age on thee I trace,But time's defeat written in spoils of grace,From rivals robb'd, whom thou didst pity and slay. So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,To life's desire the same, and nothing new:But as thou wert in dream and prescienceAt love's arising, now thou stand'st to viewIn the broad noon of his magnificence.

59'Twas on the very day winter took leaveOf those fair fields I love, when to the skiesThe fragrant Earth was smiling in surpriseAt that her heaven-descended, quick reprieve,I wander'd forth my sorrow to relieveYet walk'd amid sweet pleasure in such wiseAs Adam went alone in Paradise,Before God of His pity fashion'd Eve. And out of tune with all the joy aroundI laid me down beneath a flowering tree,And o'er my senses crept a sleep profound;In which it seem'd that thou wert given to me,Rending my body, where with hurried soundI feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.

61The dark and serious angel, who so longVex'd his immortal strength in charge of me,Hath smiled for joy and fled in libertyTo take his pastime with the peerless throng.Oft had I done his noble keeping wrong,Wounding his heart to wonder what might beGod's purpose in a soul of such degree;And there he had left me but for mandate strong. But seeing thee with me now, his task at closeHe knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,And work confusion of so many foes:The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goesUnto what great reward I cannot say.

62I will be what God made me, nor protestAgainst the bent of genius in my time,That science of my friends robs all the best,While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme.Be they our mighty men, and let me dwellIn shadow among the mighty shades of old,With love's forsaken palace for my cell;Whence I look forth and all the world behold, And say, These better days, in best things worse,This bastardy of time's magnificence,Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,To crown new love with higher excellence.Curs'd tho' I be to live my life alone,My toil is for man's joy, his joy my own.

63I live on hope and that I think do allWho come into this world, and since I seeMyself in swim with such good company,I take my comfort whatsoe'er befall.I abide and abide, as if more stout and tallMy spirit would grow by waiting like a treeAnd, clear of others' toil, it pleaseth meIn dreams their quick ambition to forestall And if thro' careless eagerness I slideTo some accomplishment, I give my voiceStill to desire, and in desire abide.I have no stake abroad; if I rejoiceIn what is done or doing, I confideNeither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

64Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoyThe purchase of those tears, the world's disdain,Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?Have ye no springtide, and no burst of MayIn flowers and leafy trees, when solemn nightPants with love-music, and the holy dayBreaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light? What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thoughtOf us, or in new excellence divineIs old forgot? or do ye count for noughtWhat the Greek did and what the Florentine?We keep your memories well : O in your storeLive not our best joys treasured evermore?

65Ah heavenly joy But who hath ever heard,Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever findJoy's language? There is neither speech nor wordNought but itself to teach it to mankind.Scarce in our twenty thousand painful daysWe may touch something: but there lives--beyondThe best of art, or nature's kindest phase--The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond: The cause of beauty given to man's desiresWrit in the expectancy of starry skies,The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,The aim of all the good that here we prize;Which but to love, pursue and pray for wellMaketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

66My wearied heart, whenever, after all,Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete,When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat,And from all dear illusions disenthrall:However then thou shalt appear to callMy fearful heart, since down at others' feetIt bade me kneel so oft, I'll not retreatFrom thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall. And I shall say, "Receive this loving heartWhich err'd in sorrow only; and in sinTook no delight; but being forced apartFrom thee, without thee hoping thee to win,Most prized what most thou madest as thou artOn earth, till heaven were open to enter in."

67Dreary was winter, wet with changeful stingOf clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost;And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring,That dallied with her promise till 'twas lost.A sunless and half-hearted summer drown'dThe flowers in needful and unwelcom'd rain;And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown'dFrom fruitless orchards and unripen'd grain. But could the skies of this most desolate yearIn its last month learn with our love to glow,Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphereAbove the sunsets of five years ago:Of my great praise too part should be its own,Now reckon'd peerless for thy love alone

69Eternal Father, who didst all create,In whom we live, and to whose bosom move,To all men be Thy name known, which is Love,Till its loud praises sound at heaven's high gate.Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state,That here on earth Thou may'st as well approveOur service, as Thou ownest theirs above,Whose joy we echo and in pain await.

Grant body and soul each day their daily breadAnd should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,Even as our anger soon is past and deadBe Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,And in the vale of terror comforted.

Metamorphoses: Book The Eleventh

HERE, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing plain,The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad,In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad, Warbling in air perceiv'd his lovely lay,And from a rising ground beheld him play. When one, the wildest, with dishevel'd hair,That loosely stream'd, and ruffled in the air;Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy'd,See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry'd. Then at his face her missive javelin sent, Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went;But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round, Prevent a deep impression of the wound. Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone, Which, by the sound subdu'd as soon as thrown, Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense Implores his pardon for its late offence.The Death of But now their frantick rage unbounded grows, Orpheus Turns all to madness, and no measure knows:Yet this the charms of musick might subdue,But that, with all its charms, is conquer'd too;In louder strains their hideous yellings rise,And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro' the skies, Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confoundThe moving lyre, and ev'ry gentle sound: Then 'twas the deafen'd stones flew on with speed,And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful poet bleed.The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew,Now, by the female mob's more furious rage, Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady stage. Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail, Nor can his song against their wrath prevail: They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight, By day they chase the boding fowl of night. So crowded amphitheatres surveyThe stag, to greedy dogs a future prey. Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwineOf budding tendrils from the leafy vine,For sacred rites of mild religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the poet's head.Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these Hurl prickly branches sliver'd from the trees.And, lest their passion shou'd be unsupply'd,The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy'd Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke,The fallow'd field with slow advances broke; Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil, Procuring food with long laborious toil. These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near, Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear. Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found, Carelesly left upon the broken ground.With these the furious lunaticks engage,And first the lab'ring oxen feel their rage; Then to the poet they return with speed, Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed:In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain He tries, before, his never-failing strain.And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou'd wound, Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight!To see the fleeting soul now take its flight.Thee the soft warblers of the feather'd kind Bewail'd; for thee thy savage audience pin'd;Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led, Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead;And drooping trees their leafy glories shed. Naids and Dryads with dishevel'd hair Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear; Nor cou'd the river-Gods conceal their moan,But with new floods of tears augment their own. His mangled limbs lay scatter'd all around, His head, and harp a better fortune found;In Hebrus' streams they gently roul'd along,And sooth'd the waters with a mournful song. Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire,A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre;The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn,And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return.Now with the current to the sea they glide, Born by the billows of the briny tide;And driv'n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar, They strand, and lodge upon Methymna's shore.But here, when landed on the foreign soil,A venom'd snake, the product of the isle Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru'dWith clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood. Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives,And from the fact the greedy monster drives: Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone, Still grinning ghastly, tho' transform'd to stone. His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore,And knows the places it had seen before:Among the shadows of the pious train He finds Eurydice, and loves again;With pleasure views the beauteous phantom's charms,And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms.There side by side they unmolested walk, Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk; Aft or before the bard securely goes,And, without danger, can review his spouse.The Thracian Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong, Women Of Orpheus murder'd, on the madding throng, transform'd to Decreed that each accomplice dame should standTrees Fix'd by the roots along the conscious land. Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ranTo wreak their malice on the guiltless man, Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound,Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground.And, as the fowler with his subtle gins, His feather'd captives by the feet entwines,That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose,Yet only closer draw the fatal noose; So these were caught; and, as they strove in vainTo quit the place, they but encreas'd their pain. They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul'd;The root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its hold.In vain their toes and feet they look to find,For ev'n their shapely legs are cloath'd with rind. One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke,And finds the flesh transform'd to solid oak; Another, with surprize, and grief distrest, Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast.A rugged bark their softer neck invades, Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades; At once they seem, and are, a real grove,With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above.The Fable of Nor this suffic'd; the God's disgust remains, Midas And he resolves to quit their hated plains;The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care,And, with a better choir, he fixes there; Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll'd, Then undistinguish'd for its sands of gold.The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng, Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along. Silenus only miss'd; for while he reel'd, Feeble with age, and wine, about the field,The hoary drunkard had forgot his way,And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey; Who to king Midas drag the captive God, While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod. Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore,And knew the rites of Bacchus long before. He, when he saw his venerable guest,In honour of the God ordain'd a feast. Ten days in course, with each continu'd night,Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight: Then on th' eleventh, when with brighter ray Phosphor had chac'd the fading stars away,The king thro' Lydia's fields young Bacchus sought,And to the God his foster-father brought. Pleas'd with the welcome sight, he bids him soonBut name his wish, and swears to grant the boon.A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow'd On him whose choice so little judgment show'd. Give me, says he (nor thought he ask'd too much),That with my body whatsoe'er I touch, Chang'd from the nature which it held of old, May be converted into yellow gold. He had his wish; but yet the God repin'd,To think the fool no better wish could find.But the brave king departed from the place,With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face: Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay. Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew,The twig strait glitter'd with a golden hue: He takes a stone, the stone was turn'd to gold;A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming pow'r,In weight and substance like a mass of ore. He pluck'd the corn, and strait his grasp appears Fill'd with a bending tuft of golden ears.An apple next he takes, and seems to holdThe bright Hesperian vegetable gold. His hand he careless on a pillar lays.With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze:And while he washes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Danae's show'r.To see these miracles so finely wrought, Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought.The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board, Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord; Whose pow'rful hands the bread no sooner hold,But its whole substance is transform'd to gold: Up to his mouth he lifts the sav'ry meat, Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat: His patron's noble juice of purple hue, Touch'd by his lips, a gilded cordial grew; Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold, It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold.The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize, Starving in all his various plenty lies: Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow'r,For which he ask'd so earnestly before; Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst;And justly tortur'd with an equal thirst. At last his shining arms to Heav'n he rears,And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray'rs. O father Bacchus, I have sinn'd, he cry'd,And foolishly thy gracious gift apply'd;Thy pity now, repenting, I implore; Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more.The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest, Touch'd the kind deity's good-natur'd breast;The gentle God annull'd his first decree,And from the cruel compact set him free.But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm,And to dilute the relicks of the charm, He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land Nigh where the tow'rs of Lydian Sardis stand; Then trace the river to the fountain head,And meet it rising from its rocky bed;There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain,To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain.The king instructed to the fount retires,But with the golden charm the stream inspires:For while this quality the man forsakes,An equal pow'r the limpid water takes; Informs with veins of gold the neighb'ring land,And glides along a bed of golden sand.Now loathing wealth, th' occasion of his woes, Far in the woods he sought a calm repose;In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort,And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court. Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind!But his condition alter'd not his mind.For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow,And from his cliffs surveys the seas below,In his descent, by Sardis bounded here, By the small confines of Hypaepa there, Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play'd, Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer'd shade.The nymphs are pleas'd, the boasting sylvan plays,And speaks with slight of great Apollo's lays. Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still Accepts the tryal with unequal skill.The venerable judge was seated high On his own hill, that seem'd to touch the sky. Above the whisp'ring trees his head he rears,From their encumbring boughs to free his ears;A wreath of oak alone his temples bound,The pendant acorns loosely dangled round.In me your judge, says he, there's no delay: Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play. Pan tun'd the pipe, and with his rural song Pleas'd the low taste of all the vulgar throng; Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please, Midas was there, and Midas judg'd with these.The mountain sire with grave deportment nowTo Phoebus turns his venerable brow:And, as he turns, with him the listning woodIn the same posture of attention stood.The God his own Parnassian laurel crown'd,And in a wreath his golden tresses bound, Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground.High on the left his iv'ry lute he rais'd,The lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring jewels, blaz'dIn his right hand he nicely held the quill, His easy posture spoke a master's skill.The strings he touch'd with more than human art, Which pleas'd the judge's ear, and sooth'd hisheart; Who soon judiciously the palm decreed,And to the lute postpon'd the squeaking reed.All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard, Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd;To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems,For Pan's barbarick notes he most esteems.The lyrick God, who thought his untun'd ear Deserv'd but ill a human form to wear,Of that deprives him, and supplies the placeWith some more fit, and of an ampler space: Fix'd on his noddle an unseemly pair, Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair; Without a total change from what he was, Still in the man preserves the simple ass. He, to conceal the scandal of the deed,A purple turbant folds about his head; Veils the reproach from publick view, and fearsThe laughing world would spy his monstrous ears. One trusty barber-slave, that us'd to dress His master's hair, when lengthen'd to excess,The mighty secret knew, but knew alone,And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known. Restless, at last, a private place he found, Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground;In a low whisper he reveal'd the case,And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the place.In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous cropFrom the confided furrow sprouted up; Which, high advancing with the ripening year, Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care:For then the rustling blades, and whisp'ring wind,To tell th' important secret, both combin'd.The Building of Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies, Troy Darts thro' the air, and cleaves the liquid skies; Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns; Where, built between the two projecting strands,To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands.Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ,To found the lofty tow'rs of future Troy.The work, from schemes magnificent begun, At vast expence was slowly carry'd on: Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God Who rules the swelling surges with his nod, Assuming each a mortal shape, combine At a set price to finish his design.The work was built; the king their price denies,And his injustice backs with perjuries. This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the main,A mighty deluge, o'er the Phrygian plain: 'Twas all a sea; the waters of the deepFrom ev'ry vale the copious harvest sweep;The briny billows overflow the soil, Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman's toil. Nor this appeas'd the God's revengeful mind,For still a greater plague remains behind;A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands,And the king's daughter for his prey demands.To him that sav'd the damsel, was decreedA set of horses of the Sun's fine breed:But when Alcides from the rock unty'dThe trembling fair, the ransom was deny'd. He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack'd,And the twice-perjur'd city bravely sack'd. Telamon aided, and in justice shar'd Part of the plunder as his due reward:The princess, rescu'd late, with all her charms, Hesione, was yielded to his arms;For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before: Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one,But he the Goddess had enjoy'd alone.The Story of For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said, Thetis and Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed, Peleus And take some spritely lover to your bed.A son you'll have, the terror of the field,To whom in fame, and pow'r his sire shall yield. Jove, who ador'd the nymph with boundless love, Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove. He knew the Fates, nor car'd to raise up one, Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own, On happy Peleus he bestow'd her charms,And bless'd his grandson in the Goddess' arms:A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show;Two arms project, and shape it like a bow; 'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide Does scarce the yellow-gravell'd bottom hide;For the quick eye may thro' the liquid waveA firm unweedy level beach perceive.A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows, Whose boughs, tho' thick, a beauteous grot disclose;The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes, Rather by art than Nature seems to rise.A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis boreTo this her lov'd retreat, her fav'rite shore.Here Peleus seiz'd her, slumbring while she lay,And urg'd his suit with all that love could say:But when he found her obstinately coy, Resolv'd to force her, and command the joy;The nymph, o'erpowr'd, to art for succour fliesAnd various shapes the eager youth surprize:A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain, His hands the fleeting substance still detain:A branchy tree high in the air she grew; About its bark his nimble arms he threw:A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes;The frighten'd lover quits his hold, and flies:The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores, Then a libation on the ocean pours; While the fat entrails crackle in the fire,And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire; 'Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor desponding lover said:No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ,For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy. You must once more th' unwary nymph surprize, As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies; Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands,And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands. Still hold her under ev'ry different shape, 'Till tir'd she tries no longer to escape. Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood,And broken accents flutter'd, where he stood. Bright Sol had almost now his journey done,And down the steepy western convex run; When the fair Nereid left the briny wave,And, as she us'd, retreated to her cave. He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose,And into various shapes her body throws:She went to move her arms, and found 'em ty'd; Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry'd,And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side. About her waiste his longing arms he flung,From which embrace the great Achilles sprung.The Peleus unmix'd felicity enjoy'd Transformation (Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride),of Daedalion 'Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue,And his own brother by curst chance he slew: Then driv'n from Thessaly, his native clime, Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime; Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill'd the throne,And like his sire, the morning planet, shone;But now, unlike himself, bedew'd with tears, Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears. First to the town with travel spent, and care, Peleus, and his small company repair: His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed, On the rich pasture of a neighb'ring mead.The prince before the royal presence brought, Shew'd by the suppliant olive what he sought; Then tells his name, and race, and country right,But hides th' unhappy reason of his flight. He begs the king some little town to give, Where they may safe his faithful vassals live. Ceyx reply'd: To all my bounty flows,A hospitable realm your suit has chose. Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame,And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim.All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare; My kingdom (would 'twere worth the sharing) share.Tears stop'd his speech: astonish'd Peleus pleadsTo know the cause from whence his grief proceeds.The prince reply'd: There's none of ye but deems This hawk was ever such as now it seems;Know 'twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam'd,For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam'd;Like me to that bright luminary born, Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn. His fierceness still remains, and love of blood,Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood. My make was softer, peace my greatest care;But this my brother wholly bent on war; Late nations fear'd, and routed armies fledThat force, which now the tim'rous pigeons dread.A daughter he possess'd, divinely fair,And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year; Young Chione: a thousand rivals stroveTo win the maid, and teach her how to love. Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one dayFrom Delphi, and Cyllene past this way; Together they the virgin saw: desire At once warm'd both their breasts with am'rous fire. Phoebus resolv'd to wait 'till close of day;But Mercury's hot love brook'd no delay;With his entrancing rod the maid he charms,And unresisted revels in her arms. 'Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam's dress,To the late rifled beauty got access.Her time compleat nine circling moons had run;To either God she bore a lovely son:To Mercury Autolycus she brought, Who turn'd to thefts and tricks his subtle thought; Possess'd he was of all his father's slight, At will made white look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire,The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the lyre,And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire.In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth,The love of Gods, and royal father's worth,And Jove among your ancestors rehearse! Could blessings such as these e'er prove a curse?To her they did, who with audacious pride, Vain of her own, Diana's charms decry'd.Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill; My face you like not, you shall try my skill.She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung,And sent a shaft that pierc'd her guilty tongue:The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries;In the red stream her soul reluctant flies.With sorrow wild I ran to her relief,And try'd to moderate my brother's grief. He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat. When on the fun'ral pile he saw her laid, Thrice he to rush into the flames assay'd, Thrice with officious care by us was stay'd.Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain,Like a stung heifer that resents the pain,And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain. O'er the most rugged ways so fast he ran, He seem'd a bird already, not a man: He left us breathless all behind; and nowIn quest of death had gain'd Parnassus' brow:But when from thence headlong himself he threw, He fell not, but with airy pinions flew. Phoebus in pity chang'd him to a fowl, Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul,Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul.A hawk become, the feather'd race's foe, He tries to case his own by other's woe.A Wolf turn'd While they astonish'd heard the king relate into Marble These wonders of his hapless brother's fate;The prince's herdsman at the court arrives,And fresh surprize to all the audience gives. O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear, He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear.The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell, Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal. Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav'n had gain'd,And half his way was past, and half remain'd,I to the level shore my cattle drove,And let them freely in the meadows rove. Some stretch'd at length admire the watry plain, Some crop'd the herb, some wanton swam the main.A temple stands of antique make hard by, Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye; Unpolish'd rafters bear its lowly height, Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight.Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore;I learnt it from the man who thither bore His net, to dry it on the sunny shore. Adjoyns a lake, inclos'd with willows round, Where swelling waves have overflow'd the mound,And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground.From thence a russling noise increasing flies, Strikes the still shore; and frights us with surprize, Strait a huge wolf rush'd from the marshy wood, His jaws besmear'd with mingled foam, and blood, Tho' equally by hunger urg'd, and rage, His appetite he minds not to asswage; Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares,But the whole herd with mad disorder tears. Some of our men who strove to drive him thence, Torn by his teeth, have dy'd in their defence.The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore, Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore. Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought; While yet some few remain alive, we oughtTo seize our arms, and with confederate force Try if we so can stop his bloody course.But Peleus car'd not for his ruin'd herd; His crime he call'd to mind, and thence inferr'd,That Psamathe's revenge this havock made,In sacrifice to murder'd Phocus' shade.The king commands his servants to their arms; Resolv'd to go; but the loud noise alarms His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew,And her half-plaited hair behind her threw: About his neck she hung with loving fears,And now with words, and now with pleading tears, Intreated that he'd send his men alone,And stay himself, to save two lives in one. Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget;Too much the offer leaves me in your debt.No arms against the monster I shall bear,But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray'r.The citadel's high turrets pierce the sky, Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry; This they ascend, and thence with sorrow kenThe mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men; Th' inexorable ravager they view,With blood discolour'd, still the rest pursue:There Peleus pray'd submissive tow'rds the sea,And deprecates the ire of injur'd Psamathe.But deaf to all his pray'rs the nymph remain'd, 'Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain'd. Pleas'd with the luxury, the furious beast, Unstop'd, continues still his bloody feast: While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew, Chang'd by the nymph, a marble block he grew.No longer dreadful now the wolf appears, Bury'd in stone, and vanish'd like their fears.Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex'd;To the Magnesian shore he wanders next. Acastus there, who rul'd the peaceful clime, Grants his request, and expiates his crime.The Story of These prodigies affect the pious prince, Ceyx and But more perplex'd with those that happen'd since, Alcyone He purposes to seek the Clarian God, Avoiding Delphi, his more fam'd abode, Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road.Yet could he not from her he lov'd so well,The fatal voyage, he resolv'd, conceal;But when she saw her lord prepar'd to part,A deadly cold ran shiv'ring to her heart;Her faded cheeks are chang'd to boxen hue,And in her eyes the tears are ever new.She thrice essay'd to speak; her accents hung,And falt'ring dy'd unfinish'd on her tongue,And vanish'd into sighs: with long delayHer voice return'd, and found the wonted way. Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknownThy once belov'd Alcyone has done? Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone! Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife,And unconcern'd forsake the sweets of life?What can thy mind to this long journey move? Or need'st thou absence to renew thy love?Yet, if thou go'st by land, tho' grief possess My soul ev'n then, my fears will be the less.But ah! be warn'd to shun the watry way,The face is frightful of the stormy sea:For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks,And empty tombs erected on the banks. Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind, Because my sire in caves constrains the wind, Can with a breath their clam'rous rage appease, They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas:Not so; for once indulg'd, they sweep the main; Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain;But bent on mischief bear the waves before,And not content with seas, insult the shore, When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage,And rooted forests fly before their rage: At once the clashing clouds to battel move,And lightnings run across the fields above:I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport, While yet a child within my father's court:In times of tempest they command alone,And he but sits precarious on the throne:The more I know, the more my fears augment;And fears are oft prophetick of th' event.But if not fears, or reasons will prevail, If Fate has fix'd thee obstinate to sail, Go not without thy wife, but let me bear My part of danger with an equal share,And present, what I suffer only fear: Then o'er the bounding billows shall we fly, Secure to live together, or to die. These reasons mov'd her warlike husband's heart,But still he held his purpose to depart:For as he lov'd her equal to his life, He would not to the seas expose his wife; Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain,But sought by arguments to sooth her pain: Nor these avail'd; at length he lights on one,With which so difficult a cause he won: My love, so short an absence cease to fear,For by my father's holy flame I swear, Before two moons their orb with light adorn, If Heav'n allow me life, I will return. This promise of so short a stay prevails; He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails,And gives the word to launch; she trembling views This pomp of death, and parting tears renews: Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel, Sigh'd with a sad presage, and swooning fell: While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew, Rais'd on their banks, their oars in order drewTo their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew.The queen recover'd, rears her humid eyes,And first her husband on the poop espies, Shaking his hand at distance on the main;She took the sign, and shook her hand again. Still as the ground recedes, contracts her viewWith sharpen'd sight, 'till she no longer knewThe much-lov'd face; that comfort lost suppliesWith less, and with the galley feeds her eyes;The galley born from view by rising gales,She follow'd with her sight the flying sails: When ev'n the flying sails were seen no more, Forsaken of all sight she left the shore. Then on her bridal bed her body throws,And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close:Her husband's pillow, and the widow'd part Which once he press'd, renew'd the former smart.And now a breeze from shoar began to blow,The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row; Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales: By this the vessel half her course had run, Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the closeOf day a stiffer gale at east arose:The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far,Like heralds, first denounce the watry war. This seen, the master soon began to cry, Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet fly,And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound,And in the speaker's mouth the speech is drown'd.Yet of their own accord, as danger taught Each in his way, officiously they wrought; Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides, Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides,And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves Th' intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves.In this confusion while their work they ply,The winds augment the winter of the sky,And wage intestine wars; the suff'ring seas Are toss'd, and mingled, as their tyrants please.The master would command, but in despairOf safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care, Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows, Th' ungovern'd tempest to such fury grows: Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill;With such a concourse comes the flood of ill;The cries of men are mix'd with rattling shrowds; Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds: At once from east to west, from pole to pole,The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roul.Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies,And in the fires above the water fries: When yellow sands are sifted from below,The glittering billows give a golden show:And when the fouler bottom spews the blackThe Stygian dye the tainted waters take: Then frothy white appear the flatted seas,And change their colour, changing their disease,Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds,And now sublime, she rides upon the winds; As from a lofty summit looks from high,And from the clouds beholds the nether sky;Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight,And at a distance see superior light;The lashing billows make a loud report,And beat her sides, as batt'ring rams a fort: Or as a lion bounding in his way,With force augmented, bears against his prey, Sidelong to seize; or unapal'd with fear, Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear: So seas impell'd by winds, with added pow'r Assault the sides, and o'er the hatches tow'r.The planks (their pitchy cov'ring wash'd away)Now yield; and now a yawning breach display:The roaring waters with a hostile tide Rush through the ruins of her gaping side. Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends,And ocean swell'd with waters upwards tends; One rising, falling one, the Heav'ns and sea Meet at their confines, in the middle way:The sails are drunk with show'rs, and drop with rain, Sweet waters mingle with the briny main.No star appears to lend his friendly light; Darkness, and tempest make a double night;But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns,And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns.Now all the waves their scatter'd force unite,And as a soldier foremost in the fight, Makes way for others, and an host alone Still presses on, and urging gains the town; So while th' invading billows come a-breast,The hero tenth advanc'd before the rest, Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway,And from the walls descends upon the prey; Part following enter, part remain without,With envy hear their fellows' conqu'ring shout,And mount on others' backs, in hopes to shareThe city, thus become the seat of war.An universal cry resounds aloud,The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd; Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near; As many waves, as many deaths appear. One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief; One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief,But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate: One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate,And calls those happy whom their fun'rals wait. This wretch with pray'rs and vows the Gods implores,And ev'n the skies he cannot see, adores.That other on his friends his thoughts bestows, His careful father, and his faithful spouse.The covetous worldling in his anxious mind, Thinks only on the wealth he left behind.All Ceyx his Alcyone employs,For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys: His wife he wishes, and would still be near,Not her with him, but wishes him with her:Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar, Which Fate has destin'd him to see no more; He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night He knew not whither to direct his sight. So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky,That the black night receives a deeper dye.The giddy ship ran round; the tempest toreHer mast, and over-board the rudder bore. One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow, Proud of her conquest gain'd, insults the waves below; Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore,And toss'd on seas; press'd with the pond'rous blow, Down sinks the ship within th' abyss below: Down with the vessel sink into the mainThe many, never more to rise again. Some few on scatter'd planks, with fruitless care, Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair. Ev'n he who late a scepter did command,Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand;And while he struggles on the stormy main, Invokes his father, and his wife's, in vain.But yet his consort is his greatest care, Alcyone he names amidst his pray'r; Names as a charm against the waves and wind; Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind. Tir'd with his toil, all hopes of safety past,From pray'rs to wishes he descends at last;That his dead body, wafted to the sands, Might have its burial from her friendly hands, As oft as he can catch a gulp of air,And peep above the seas, he names the fair;And ev'n when plung'd beneath, on her he raves, Murm'ring Alcyone below the waves: At last a falling billow stops his breath, Breaks o'er his head, and whelms him underneath.That night, his heav'nly form obscur'd with tears,And since he was forbid to leave the skies, He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes. Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown) Computes how many nights he had been gone. Observes the waining moon with hourly view, Numbers her age, and wishes for a new;Against the promis'd time provides with care,And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear:And for her self employs another loom, New-dress'd to meet her lord returning home, Flatt'ring her heart with joys, that never were to come:She fum'd the temples with an od'rous flame,And oft before the sacred altars came,To pray for him, who was an empty name.All Pow'rs implor'd, but far above the restTo Juno she her pious vows address'd,Her much-lov'd lord from perils to protect,And safe o'er seas his voyage to direct: Then pray'd, that she might still possess hisheart,And no pretending rival share a part; This last petition heard of all her pray'r,The rest, dispers'd by winds, were lost in air.But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed, Tir'd with her vain devotions for the dead, Resolv'd the tainted hand should be repell'd, Which incense offer'd, and her altar held: Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid, By whom thy queen's commands are well convey'd, Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God Who rules the night by visions with a nod, Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form Resembling him, who perish'd in the storm; This form before Alcyone present,To make her certain of the sad event. Indu'd with robes of various hue she flies,And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies): Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep Descends, to search the silent house of sleep.The House of Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode, Sleep Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God; Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun, Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon;But lazy vapours round the region fly, Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky:No crowing cock does there his wings display, Nor with his horny bill provoke the day; Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese, Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace; Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh, Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry;But safe repose without an air of breath Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow Arising upwards from the rock below,The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps,And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps. Around its entry nodding poppies grow,And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,And passing, sheds it on the silent plains:No door there was th' unguarded house to keep, On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep.But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed, Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted: Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God,And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad: About his head fantastick visions fly, Which various images of things supply,And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more, Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.The virgin ent'ring bright, indulg'd the dayTo the brown cave, and brush'd the dreams away:The God disturb'd with this new glare of light, Cast sudden on his face, unseal'd his sight,And rais'd his tardy head, which sunk again,And sinking, on his bosom knock'd his chin; At length shook off himself, and ask'd the dame, (And asking yawn'd) for what intent she came.To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest, Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow'rs the best! O peace of mind, repairer of decay, Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day, Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away! Adorn a dream, expressing human form,The shape of him who suffer'd in the storm,And send it flitting to the Trachin court,The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report: Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand, Who begs a vain relief at Juno's hand.She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep, Unable to support the fumes of sleep;But fled, returning by the way she went,And swerv'd along her bow with swift ascent.The God, uneasy 'till he slept again, Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain;And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud, Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd: Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'dThe shape of man, and imitated best;The walk, the words, the gesture could supply,The habit mimick, and the mein bely; Plays well, but all his action is confin'd, Extending not beyond our human kind. Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes,And dreadful images, and monster shapes: This demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high hallThe Gods have nam'd; but men Phobetor call.A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul;Earth, fruits, and flow'rs he represents in dreams,And solid rocks unmov'd, and running streams. These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes display,The rest before th' ignoble commons play.Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd; Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch'd, Down from his propping elbow drops his head, Dissolv'd in sleep, and shrinks within his bed. Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar'd, So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard.To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade, Thro' air his momentary journey made: Then lays aside the steerage of his wings, Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king's;And pale, as death, despoil'd of his array, Into the queen's apartment takes his way,And stands before the bed at dawn of day: Unmov'd his eyes, and wet his beard appears;And shedding vain, but seeming real tears;The briny waters dropping from his hairs. Then staring on her with a ghastly look,And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke.Know'st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife? Or are my features perish'd with my life? Look once again, and for thy husband lost, Lo all that's left of him, thy husband's ghost!Thy vows for my return were all in vain,The stormy south o'ertook us in the main,And never shalt thou see thy living lord again. Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in death,And while I call'd, a billow stop'd my breath. Think not, that flying fame reports my fate;I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate. Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor'd Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford;But rise, prepar'd in black, to mourn thy perish'd lord. Thus said the player-God; and adding artOf voice and gesture, so perform'd his part,She thought (so like her love the shade appears)That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears;She groan'd, her inward soul with grief opprest,She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast; Then stretch'd her arms t' embrace his body bare;Her clasping arms inclose but empty air: At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay; One is our fate, and common is our way!

Tannhauser

The Landgrave Hermann held a gatheringOf minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours,At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight,Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard,Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowedWith apprehension and rare utteranceOf noble music, fared in thoughtful wiseAcross the Horsel meadows. Full of light,And large repose, the peaceful valley lay,In the late splendor of the afternoon,And level sunbeams lit the serious faceOf the young knight, who journeyed to the west,Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs,Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms,That in the distance loomed as soft and fairAnd purple as their shadows on the grass.The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air,Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in,Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light.The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home,In the near meadow, reverently knelt,And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast,Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heardThe pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight,Unmindful of the sacred hour announced,Disdainful or unconscious, held his course.'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight,Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!'He murmured bitterly beneath his breath.'Were I a pagan, riding to contendFor the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal,What fire of inspiration, would I singThe praises of the gods! How may my lyreGlorify these whose very life I doubt?The world is governed by one cruel God,Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ,Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold,They give us for a heaven of living gods,Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song;A creed of suffering and despair, walled inOn every side by brazen boundaries,That limit the soul's vision and her hopeTo a red hell or and unpeopled heaven.Yea, I am lost already,-even nowAm doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts.O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?'He raised his wan face to the faded skies,Now shadowing into twilight; no responseCame from their sunless heights; no miracle,As in the ancient days of answering gods.With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth,Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs.Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side;Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the riftsOf their huge crags, and made small darker spotsUpon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horseStumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones,Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly faredThrough the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed,And an oppressive mystery enwrappedThe roadstead and the rocks, Sir TannhauserFancied he saw upon the mountain-sideThe fluttering of white raiment. With a senseOf wild joy and horror, he gave pause,For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat,Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought,That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff.The white thing seemed descending,-now a cloudIt looked, and now a rag of drifted mist,Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous,And now an apparition clad in white,Shapely and real,-then he lost it quite,Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face.As with wide eyes he stood, he was awareOf a strange splendor at his very side,A presence and a majesty so great,That ere he saw, he felt it was divine.He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone,In speechless adoration, on the earth,Before the matchless goddess, who appearedWith no less freshness of immortal youthThan when first risen from foam of Paphian seas.He heard delicious strains of melody,Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained,Float in the air, while in the distance rang,Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones,The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs,Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass.A voice that made all music dissonanceThen thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight,Triumphantly: 'The gods need but appear,And their usurped thrones are theirs again!'Then tenderly: 'Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise;Worship me not, for I desire thy love.Look on me, follow me, for I am fainOf thy fair, human face.' He rose and looked,Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul.Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted,Rained in a glittering shower to the ground,And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was claspedThe scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold,Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars.She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth;Her eyes, her slightest gesture would sufficeTo bind all men in blissful slavery.She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side,With feet that left their print in flowers divine,-Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth,Impurpled amaranth and asphodel,Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scentsRicher than all the roses of mid-June.The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixedUpon her brightness, as she lightly leaptFrom crag to crag, with flying auburn hair,Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on,Higher and higher up the haunted cliff.At last amidst a grove of pines she paused,Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste,Delight, and wonder. Then upon his handShe placed her own, and all his blood at onceTingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek,At the supreme caress; but the mere touchInfused fresh life, and when she looked at himWith gracious tenderness, he felt himselfStrong suddenly to bear the blinding lightOf those great eyes. 'Dear knight,' she murmured low,'For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,-To grace my weary home in banishment?'His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke,In tones abrupt that startled his own earsWith their strange harshness; but with thanks profuseShe guided him, still holding his cold handIn her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave,Whence a rare glory issued, and a smellOf spice and roses, frankincense and balm.They entering stood within a marble hall,With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther endThe goddess led him to a spiral flightOf stairs, descending always 'midst black gloomInto the very bowels of the earth.Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way,The knight's feet touching not the solid stair,But sliding down as in a vexing dream,Blind, feeling but that hand divine that stillEmpowered him to walk on empty air.Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze,In vast palace filled with reveling folk.Cunningly pictured on the ivory wallsWere rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green,And all the summer landscape's various pomp.The precious canopy aloft was carvedIn semblance of the pleached forest trees,Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethroughA light pierced, more resplendent than the day.O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floorOf burnished metal, fretted and embossedWith all the marvelous story of her birthPainted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts,And carved by heavenly artists,-crystal seas,And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells,And all the wonder of her lucent limbsSphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throneShe took her seat, the knight beside her still,Singing on couches of fresh asphodel,And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers cameIn glittering phalanx to adore their queen.Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads,Crested with living jewels, fanned the airWith flickering wings from naked shoulders soft.Then with preluding low, a thousand harps,And citherns, and strange nameless instruments,Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies,And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds,With changing lustres like a summer sea.Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled,And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw,But of strong, stalwart men like him were none.He gazed thereon bewitched, until the handOf Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell againUpon his own, and roused him from his trance.He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloudAuroral, flaming as at sunrising,Arose from nothing, floating over themIn luminous folds, like that vermilion mistPenciled upon the throne, and as it waxedIn density and brightness, all the throngOf festal dancers, less and less distinct,Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream,And vanished altogether; and these twain,Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud,Now with a glory inconceivable,Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each.

All hours came laden with their own delightsIn that enchanted place, wherein TimeKnew no divisions harsh of night and day,But light was always, and desire of sleepWas satisfied at once with slumber soft,Desire of food with magical repast,By unseen hands on golden tables spread.But these the knight accepted like a god,All less was lost in that excess of joy,The crowning marvel of her love for him,Assuring him of his divinity.Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appearedLike the vague trouble of a transient dream,-The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughtsBeyond his own control, the constant thirstFor something fairer than his life, more realThan airy revelations of his Muse.Here was his soul's desire satisfied.All nobler passions died; his lyre he flungRecklessly forth, with vows to dedicateHis being to herself. She knew and seizedThe moment of her mastery, and conveyedThe lyre beyond his sight and memory.With blandishment divine she changed for him,Each hour, her mood; a very woman now,Fantastic, voluble, affectionate,And jealous of the vague, unbodied air,Exacting, penitent, and pacified,All in a breath. And often she appearedMajestic with celestial wrath, with eyesThat shot forth fire, and a heavy brow,Portentous as the lowering front of heaven,When the reverberant, sullen thunder rollsAmong the echoing clouds. Thus she denouncedHer ancient, fickle worshippers, who leftHer altars desecrate, her fires unfed,Her name forgotten. 'But I reign, I reign!'She would shrill forth, triumphant; 'yea, I reign.Men name me not, but worship me unnamed,Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts;Not with bent knees and empty breath of words,But with devoted sacrifice of lives.'Then melting in a moment, she would weepAmbrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile,Accusing her own base ingratitude,In craving worship, when she had his heart,Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin,Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glanceOf lovely helplessness, entreated himNot to desert her, like the faithless world,For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods,Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove,Until he took from her the heavy curseOf immortality. With closer vows,The knight then sealed his worship and forsworeAll other aims and deeds to serve her cause.Thus passed unnoted seven barren yearsOf reckless passion and voluptuous sloth,Undignified by any lofty thoughtIn his degraded mind, that sometime wasEndowed with noble capability.From revelry to revelry he passed,Craving more pungent pleasure momently,And new intoxications, and each hourThe siren goddess answered his desires.Once when she left him with a weary senseOf utter lassitude, he sat alone,And, raising listless eyes, he saw himselfIn a great burnished mirror, wrought aboutWith cunning imagery of twisted vines.He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes,For his who in the flush of manhood rodeAmong the cliffs, and followed up the cragsThe flying temptress; and there fell on himA horror of her beauty, a disgustFor his degenerate and corrupted life,With irresistible, intense desire,To feel the breath of heaven on his face.Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods,He saw, within the glass, behind him glideThe form of Venus. Certain of her power,She had laid by, in fond security,The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser,With surfeited regard, beheld her now,No fairer than the women of the earth,Whom with serenity and health he left,Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved,She knew her destiny; and when he turned,He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thusAn alien face, and eyes with vision true,That for long time with glamour had been blind.Hiding the hideous rage within her breast,With girlish simpleness of folded hands,Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien,She spoke: 'Behold, my love, I have cast forthAll magic, blandishments and sorcery,For I have dreamed a dream so terrible,That I awoke to find my pillow stainedWith tears as of real woe. I thought my belt,By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power,Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed,I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone,Wrinkled by every year that I have seen.Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer,So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose,And drew the glittering girdle from my zone,Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said,'If it be this he loves, then let him go!I have no solace as a mortal hath,No hope of change or death to comfort meThrough all eternity; yet he is free,Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains,Bound in perpetual imprisonment.'Tell me my vision was a baseless dream;See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,-In pity, look on me, before thy wordCondemns me to immortal misery!'As she looked down, the infernal influenceWorked on his soul again; for she was fairBeyond imagination, and her browSeemed luminous with high self-sacrifice.He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft,With its close-curling gold, and love revived.

But ere he spoke, he heard the distant soundOf one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleamOf violent anger flashed across the faceUpraised to his in feigned simplicityAnd singleness of purpose. Then he sprang,Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strengthto vanquish and resist, beyond her reach,Crying, 'My old Muse calls me, and I hear!Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream;I will be gone from this accursed hall!'Then she, too, rose, dilating over him,And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs,Unto her girdle, and her head appearedRefulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully:'Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now,To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape?ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE:Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool.'But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes,Against that blinding lustre, heeded notHer thundered words, and cried in sharp despair,'Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat,The very bases of the hall gave way,The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared,And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff,Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air.

Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags,Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks,Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock.The ethereal, unfathomable sky,Hung over him, the valley lay beneath,Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaledSweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top.He breathed intoxicate the infinite air,And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew,Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green,And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears.No sounds of labor reached him from the farmsAnd hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe;But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned,Till broken by the faint, melodious chimesOf the small village church that called to prayer.He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff,And swung himself from shelving granite slopesTo narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms,Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands,With long hair flying from his dripping brow,Uncovered head, and white, exalted face.No memory had he of his smooth ascent,No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills;He only heard the bell, inviting himTo satisfy the craving of his heart,For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reachedThe beaten, dusty road, and passed thereonThe pious peasants faring towards the church,And scarce refrained from greeting them like friendsDearly beloved, after long absence met.How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked,In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure,After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs,And odorous, loose hair! He noted notSuspicious glances on his garb uncouth,His air extravagant and face distraught,With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys,And prudent crossings of the women's breasts.He passed the flowering close about the church,And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart,The little heather-bell between his lips,And his eyes fastened on the good green grass.Thus entered he the sanctuary, litWith frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stainedThrough painted glass. How pure and innocentThe waiting congregation seemed to him,Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised!With faltering strength, he cowered down alone,And held sincere communion with the Lord,For one brief moment, in a sudden gushOf blessed tears. The minister of GodRose to invoke a blessing on his flock,And then began the service,-not in wordsTo raise the lowly, and to heal the sick,But an alien tongue, with phrases formed,And meaningless observances. The knight,Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple wordThat might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts,But when in his own speech a new priest spake,Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text:'Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world.He that believes and is baptized, is saved.He that believeth not, is damned in hell!'He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes;The crowded congregation disappeared;He felt alone in some black sea of hell,While a great light smote one exalted face,Vivid already with prophetic fire,Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom.He longed in that void circle to cry out,With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound,And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth.As the last words resounded through the church,And once again the pastor blessed his flock,Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly downThe arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall,A fallen man with face upon his knees,A heap of huddled garments and loose hair,Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir,'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers,Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest,Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly,Now with the yellow glow upon his face,Now a black shadow gliding farther on,Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash.But from the vacant aisles he heard at onceA hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound.Upholding his last light above his head,And peering eagerly amidst the stalls,He cried, 'Be blest who cometh in God's name.'Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose.'Father, I am a sinner, and I seekForgiveness and help, by whatso meansI can regain the joy of peace with God.''The Lord hath mercy on the penitent.'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said,'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess,And I will shrive you.' Thus the good priest movedTowards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand.But shrinking down, he drew his fingers backFrom the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet.'Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal.The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity,And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not,My contact is pollution,-hear, O hear,While I disburden my charged soul.' He lay,Casting about for words and strength to speak.'O father, is there help for such a one,'In tones of deep abasement he began,'Who hath rebelled against the laws of God,With pride no less presumptuous than hisWho lost thereby his rank in heaven?' 'My son,There is atonement for all sins,-or slightOr difficult, proportioned to the crime.Though this may be the staining of thy handsWith blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men.''My hands are white,-my crime hath found no name,This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snapTo live it over, let me make the attempt.I was a knight and bard, with such a giftOf revelation that no hour of lifeLacked beauty and adornment, in myselfThe seat and centre of all happiness.What inspiration could my lofty MuseDraw from those common and familiar themes,Painted upon the windows and the wallsOf every church,-the mother and her child,The miracle and mystery of the birth,The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind!That saw not symbols of eternal truthIn that grand tragedy and victory,Significant and infinite as life.What tortures did my skeptic soul endure,At war against herself and all mankind!The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness,With balancing of reasons nicely weighed;The dawn that brought no hope nor energy,The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord,Taxing His glorious divinityWith all the grief and folly of the world.Then came relapses into abject fear,And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart.Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel,Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry,'O large and noble type of our ideal,At least my heart and prayer return to thee,Amidst a faithless world of proselytes.Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips,And eyes that look perpetual reproach,Insults and is a blasphemy on youth.Is she to claim the worship of a manHot with the first rich flush of ripened life?'Realities, like phantoms, glided by,Unnoted 'midst the torment and delightsOf my conflicting spirit, and I doffedthe modest Christian weeds of charityAnd fit humility, and steeled myselfIn pagan panoply of stoicismAnd self-sufficing pride. Yet constantlyI gained men's charmed attention and applause,With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre,To me the native language of my soul,To them attractive and miraculous,As all things whose solution and whose sourceRemain a mystery. Then came suddenlyThe summons to attend the gatheringOf minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court.Resolved to publish there my pagan creedIn harmonies so high and beautifulThat all the world would share my zeal and faith,I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs.O God! how may I tell you how SHE came,The temptress of a hundred centuries,Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense,Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries,And for I may not guess how many yearsHeld me a captive in degrading bonds.There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul,Which I learned not in that alluring hell,Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie,By calling on the Mother of our Lord.O for the power to stand again erect,And look men in the eyes! What penitence,What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts,What terrible privations may sufficeTo cleanse me in the sight of God and man?'Ill-omened silence followed his appeal.Patient and motionless he lay awhile,Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force,Confronting in his breathless vehemence,With palpitating heart, the timid priest.'Answer me, as you hope for a response,One day, at the great judgment seat yourself.''I cannot answer,' said the timid priest,'I have not understood.' 'Just God! is thisThe curse Thou layest upon me? I outstripThe sympathy and brotherhood of men,So far removed is my experienceFrom their clean innocence. Inspire me,Prompt me to words that bring me near to them!Father,' in gentler accents he resumed,'Thank Heaven at your every orisonThat sin like mine you cannot apprehend.More than the truth perchance I have confessed,But I have sinned, and darkly,-this is true;And I have suffered, and am suffering now.Is there no help in your great Christian creedOf liberal charity, for such a one?''My son,' the priest replied, 'your speech distraughtHath quite bewildered me. I fain would hopeThat Christ's large charity can reach your sin,But I know naught. I cannot but believeThat the enchantress who first tempted youMust be the Evil one,-your early doubtWas the possession of your soul by him.Travel across the mountain to the town,The first cathedral town upon the roadThat leads to Rome,-a sage and reverend priest,The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have comeFrom his leal servant, Friar Lodovick;He hath vast lore and great authority,And may absolve you freely of your sin.'

Over the rolling hills, through summer fields,By noisy villages and lonely lanes,Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretchedShimmering in the heat, a pilgrim faredTowards the cathedral town. Sir TannhauserHad donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loinsWith a coarse rope that ate into his flesh,Muffled a cowl about his shaven head,Hung a great leaden cross around his neck;And bearing in his hands a knotty staff,With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course.He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn,When his forced travel was least difficult.But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast,Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue,And angry thunder grumbled through the hills,And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flashOf the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt.And tumbling showers scoured along the plain.Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent,Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom,Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land,And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly boltHarmless upon his cursed, immortal head.At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs,With all its western windows smitten redBy a rich sunset, and with massive towersOf its cathedral overtopping all,greeted his sight. Some weary paces more,And as the twilight deepened in the streets,He stood within the minster. How serene,In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed!How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles,Still hazy with fumes of frankincense!The vesper had been said, yet here and thereA wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled,Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt,And still the organist, with wandering hands,Drew from the keys mysterious melodies,And filled the church with flying waifs of song,That with ethereal beauty moved the soulTo a more tender prayer and gentler faithThan choral anthems and the solemn mass.A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness,Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears;Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost,The love of his neglected lyre, his art,Revived by these aerial harmonies.He was unworthy now to touch the strings,Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasyAnd high resolves, as in the days agone;And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness,He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands,To utter all the trouble of his lifeUnto the Muse who understands and helps.Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsinessBy dying music and sweet-scented air,His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame.Auroral light the eastern oriels touched,When with delicious sense of rest he woke,Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles.'God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place;This is my Bethel; here I feel againA holy calm, if not of innocence,Yet purest after that, the calm sereneOf expiation and forgiveness.'He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forthThrough the tall portal to the open square,And turning, paused to look upon the pile.The northern front against the crystal skyLoomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade,With each projecting buttress, carven cross,Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing lightBy the slant sunbeams of the risen morn.The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests,Builded in hidden nooks about the porch.No human life was stirring in the square,Save now and then a rumbling market-team,Fresh from the fields and farms without the town.He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps,And kissed the moistened stone, while overheadThe circling swallows sang, and all aroundThe mighty city lay asleep and still.

To stranger's ears must yet again be madeThe terrible confession; yet againA deathly chill, with something worse than fear,Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every wordWidened the gulf between his kind and him.The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head,In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to allWith cold, official apathy, nor madeA sign of pity nor encouragement.The friar understood the pilgrim's grief,The language of his eyes; his speech aloneWas alien to these kind, untutored ears.But this was truly to be misconstrued,To tear each palpitating word aliveFrom out the depths of his remorseful soul,And have it weighed with the precision coolAnd the nice logic of a reasoning mind.This spiritual Father judged his crimeAs the mad mischief of a reckless boy,That call for strict, immediate punishment.But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man,Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare giftsOf an exuberant nature rankly rich,And knew his weary head was growing grayWith a life's terrible experience,Found his old sense of proper worth revive;But modestly he ended: 'Yet I felt,O holy Father, in the church, this morn,A strange security, a peace serene,As though e'en yet the Lord regarded meWith merciful compassion; yea, as thoughEven so vile a worm as I might workMine own salvation, through repentant prayers.''Presumptuous man, it is no easy taskTo expiate such sin; a space of prayerThat deprecates the anger of the Lord,A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands,May not atone for years of impious lust;Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope.''Is there no hope on earth?' the pilgrim sighed.'None through thy penance,' said the saintly man.'Yet there may be through mediation, help.There is a man who by a blameless lifeHath won the right to intercede with God.No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,-The Cardinal Filippo,-he abides,Within the Holy City. Seek him out;This is my only counsel,-through thyselfCan be no help and no forgiveness.'

How different from the buoyant joy of mornWas this discouraged sense of lassitude,The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears,Measured and pitiless, and blent with these,The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,-'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE.'Was it the truth, despite his penitence,And the dedication of his thought to God,That still some portion of himself was hers,Some lust survived, some criminal regret,For her corrupted love? He searched his heart:All was remorse, religious and sincere,And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him;For all men shunned him, and denied him help,Knowing at once in looking on his face,Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old,That he had struggled with some deadly fiend,And that he was no longer kin to them.Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped,To strengthen will and courage to proceed.The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets,But now the lessening clouds were flying east,And though the gentle shower still wet his face,The west was cloudless while the sun went down,And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth,Against the opposite dull gray. There wasA beauty in the mingled storm and peace,Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fieldsBasked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain.The roar of all the town was now a buzzLess than the insects' drowsy murmuringThat whirred their gauzy wings around his head.The breeze that follows on the sunsettingWas blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grassInto the heated city. But he stood,Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin,Still wrestling with his soul to win it backFrom her who claimed it to eternity.Then on the delicate air there came to himThe intonation of the minster bells,Chiming the vespers, musical and faint.He knew not what of dear and beautifulThere was in those familiar peals, that spakeOf his first boyhood and his innocence,Leading him back, with gracious influence,To pleasant thoughts and tender memories,And last, recalling the fair hour of hopeHe passed that morning in the church. Again,The glad assurance of God's boundless loveFilled all his being, and he rose serene,And journeyed forward with a calm content.

Southward he wended, and the landscape tookA warmer tone, the sky a richer light.The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops,With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole,Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape,The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines,With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growthOf tangled greenery. The elm and ashLess frequent grew than cactus, cypresses,And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees.The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast,Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No moreHe passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights,But terraces with marble-paven steps,With fountains leaping in the sunny air,And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom.Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls,Where now and then a golden globe of fruitOr full-flushed flower peered out upon the road,Nodding against the stone, and where he heardSometimes the voices of the chanting monks,Sometimes the laugh of children at their play,Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sightsWere in the suburbs of the wealthy towns.For many a day through wildernesses rank,Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared,The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head;Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm,That drave adown the gullies melted snowAnd clattering boulders from the mountain-tops.At times, between the mountains and the seaFair prospects opened, with the boundless stretchOf restless, tideless water by his side,And their long wash upon the yellow sand.Beneath this generous sky the country-folkCould lead a freer life,-the fat, green fieldsOffered rich pasturage, athwart the airRang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes.The knight met many a strolling troubadour,Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer;And oft beneath some castle's balcony,At night, he heard their mellow voices rise,Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines,Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's.Then Nature stole with healthy influenceInto his thoughts; his love of beauty woke,His Muse inspired dreams as in the past.But after this came crueler remorse,And he would tighten round his loins the rope,And lie for hours beside some wayside cross,And feel himself unworthy to enjoyThe splendid gift and privilege of life.Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desireTo reach the City of the Seven Hills,And gain his absolution. Some leagues moreWould bring him to the vast Campagna land,When by a roadside well he paused to rest.'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard byLay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass.But from their midst one came towards the well,Not trudging like a man forespent with toil,But frisking like a child at holiday,With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come,And found him scarcely older than a child,A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand,And a guitar upon his shoulder slung.A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade,But doffing this, to catch whatever breezeMight stir among the branches, he disclosedA charming head of rippled, auburn hair,A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls,With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's.Above his head he slipped the instrument,And laid it with his hat upon the turf,Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool,And drew it dripping upward, ere he sawThe watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought)The precious draught. 'Your pardon, holy sir,Drink first,' he cried, 'before I take the jarUnto my father in the reaping-field.'Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad,The pilgrim answered,-'Thanks, my thirst is quenchedFrom mine own palm.' The stranger deftly poisedThe brimming pitcher on his head, and turnedBack to the reaping-folk, while TannhauserLooked after him across the sunny fields,Clasping each hand about his waist to bearThe balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, foundThe lad's guitar near by, and fell at onceTo striking its tuned string with wandering hands,And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams.'Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing,And yet I love it, for I make it speak.'The boy again stood by him and dispelledHis train of fantasies half sweet, half sad.'That was not in my thought,' the knight replied.'Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hathThe art to make this speak is raised therebyAbove all loneliness or grief or fear.'More to himself than to the lad he spake,Who, understanding not, stood doubtfullyAt a loss for answer; but the knight went on:'How came it in your hands, and who hath tunedyour voice to follow it.' 'I am unskilled,Good father, but my mother smote its stringsTo music rare.' Diverted from one theme,Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy,The knight encouraged him to confidence;Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed,And told bright tales of his first wanderings,When in lords' castles and kings' palacesMen still made place for him, for in his landThe gift was rare and valued at its worth,And brought great victory and sounding fame.Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth,His suffering passed as though it had not been.Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear,His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughtsThat went and came,-then, as the pilgrim ceased,Drew breath and spake: 'And where now is your lyre?'The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face,Crying aloud, 'Lost! lost! forever lost!'Then, gathering strength, he bared his face againUnto the frightened, wondering boy, and roseWith hasty fear. 'Ah, child, you bring me backUnwitting to remembrance of my grief,For which I donned eternal garb of woe;And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hourOf healthy human intercourse and peace.'T is not for me to tarry by the way.Farewell!' The impetuous, remorseful boy,Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance,Fell at his feet and cried, 'Forgive my words,Witless but innocent, and leave me notWithout a blessing.' Moved unutterably,The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head,And muttered, 'At this moment would to GodThat I were worthy!' Then waved wasted handsOver the youth in act of blessing him,But faltered, 'Cleanse me through his innocence,O heavenly Father!' and with quickening stepsHastened away upon the road to Rome.The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swathsWith scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop.Thin shadows of the afternoon slept softOn the green meadows as the knight passed forth.

He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowersOn the Campagna's undulating plain,With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered,Before him regnant on her throne of hills.A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town,But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery lightFrom shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes.Across his path an arching bridge of stoneWas raised above a shrunken yellow stream,Hurrying with the light on every waveTowards the great town and outward to the sea.Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leanedAgainst the barrier, throwing back his cowl,And gazed upon the dull, unlovely floodThat was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare,Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun,And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds,Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred.When the low sun had dropped behind the hills,He found himself within the streets of Rome,Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real.The chattering hubbub of the market-placeWas over now; but voices smote his earOf garrulous citizens who jostled past.Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song,The tinkling fountains set in gardens coolAbout the pillared palaces, and blentWith trickling of the conduits in the squares,The noisy teams within the narrow streets,-All these the stranger heard and did not hear,While ringing bells pealed out above the town,And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it.Wide open stood the doors of every church,And through the porches pressed a streaming throng.Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sightOf broken columns raised to JupiterBeside the cross, immense cathedrals rearedUpon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirlAnd eager bustle of the living townFilling the storied streets, whose very stonesWere solemn monuments, and spake of death.Although he wrestled with himself, the thoughtOf that poor, past religion smote his heartWith a huge pity and deep sympathy,Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired.Where was the noble race who ruled the world,Moulded of purest elements, and stuffedWith sternest virtues, every man a king,Wearing the purple native in his heart?These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests,And womanish patricians filled their place.Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel,Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart,Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps,Till in the dying glimmer of the dayHe raised his eyes and found himself aloneAmid the ruined arches, broken shafts,And huge arena of the Coliseum.He did not see it as it was, dim-litBy something less than day and more than night,With wan reflections of the rising moonRather divined than seen on ivied walls,And crumbled battlements, and topless columns-But by the light of all the ancient days,Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes,Fixed on the circus with a savage joy,Where brandished swords flashed white, and human bloodStreamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king.He started, shuddering, and drew breath to seeThe foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones,The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moonShining o'er all; and fell upon his knees,Restored to faith in one wise, loving God.Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome,Waiting his audience with the Cardinal,And from the gates, on pretext frivolous,Passed daily forth,-his Eminency slept,-Again, his Eminency was fatiguedBy tedious sessions of the Papal court,And thus the patient pilgrim was referredUnto a later hour. At last the pageBore him a missive with Filippo's seal,That in his name commended TannhauserUnto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knightRead the brief scroll, then sadly forth again,Along the bosky alleys of the park,Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets.'Good God!' he muttered, 'Thou hast ears for all,And sendest help and comfort; yet these men,Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselvesWith arrogance, and from their large delightIn all the beauty of the beauteous earth,And peace of indolent, untempted souls,Deny the hungry outcast a bare word.'Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts,He felt a depth of clear serenity,Unruffled in his heart beneath it all.No outward object now had farther powerTo wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deepsOf vast contrition was boundless hope.

Yet not to leave a human chance untried,He sought the absolution of the Pope.In a great hall with airy galleries,Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church,He took his seat amidst the humblest friars.Through open windows came sweet garden smells,Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds.Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems,And splendid wealth of color,-white-stoled priests,And scarlet cardinals, and bishops cladIn violet vestments,-while beneath the shadeOf the high gallery huddled dusky shapes,With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks,And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp;Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser;Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet.The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air,Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came,And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestriesPassed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers,His vergers bearing slender silver wands,Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals,The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised,And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed,The vicar of the lowly Galilean,Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood,With censer swung before and peacock fansWaved constantly by pages, either side.Attended thus, they bore him to his throne,And priests and laymen fell upon their knees.Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer,The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled,To kiss the borders of the papal skirts,Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone;Some silent, abject, some accusing themOf venial sins in accents of remorse,Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth.Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for himTo cry 'Peccavi,' and crook suppliant knees.His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his faceLivid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes,His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds,Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voiceBrake silence, saying, 'I am Tannhauser.For seven years I lived apart from men,Within the Venusberg.' A horror seizedThe assembled folk; some turbulently rose;Some clamored, 'From the presence cast him forth!'But the knight never ceased his steady gazeUpon the Pope. At last,-'I have not spokenTo be condemned,' he said, 'by such as these.Thou, spiritual Father, answer me.Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ.Can I through expiation gain my shrift,And work mine own redemption?' 'Insolent man!'Thundered the outraged Pope, 'is this the toneWherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin?Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth!Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope,No gleam, through cycles of eternity,For the redemption of a soul like thine.Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forthIn leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring,Than Christ will pardon thee.' And as he spoke,He struck the rod upon the floor with forceThat gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles,So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone.The knight saw naught, he only heard his judgeRing forth his curses, and the court cry out'Anathema!' and loud, and blent therewith,Derisive laughter in the very hall,And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart:'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!'Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow,Amidst the storm of voices, till they died,And all was silence, save the reckless songOf a young bird upon a twig without.Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised,And shrieked, ''T is false! I am no longer thine!'And through the windows open to the park,Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men.

By church nor palace paused he, till he passedAll squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone,And stood alone amidst the broad expanseOf the Campagna, twinkling in the heat.He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snappedThe cord that held the cross about his neck,And far from him the leaden burden flung.'O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in TheeSubsists at last, through all discouragements.Between us must no type nor symbol stand,No mediator, were he more divineThan the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests,I part aside, and hold communion freeBeneath the empty sky of noon, with naughtBetween my nothingness and thy high heavens-Spirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God!Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride,Have mercy in accordance with my faith.'Long time he lay upon the scorching grass,With his face buried in the tangled weeds.Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soulAgainst its demons in that sacred hour,The solitude, the anguish, the remorse?When shadows long and thin lay on the ground,Shivering with fever, helpless he arose,But with a face divine, ineffable,Such as we dream the face of Israel,When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn,Blessed him, and disappeared.Upon the marsh,All night, he wandered, striving to emergeFrom the wild, pathless plain,-now limitlessAnd colorless beneath the risen moon;Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none,Save broken aqueducts and parapets,And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon.His dress was dank and clinging with the dew;A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head,With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirpedAmong the long, rank grass, and far and nearThe fire-flies flickered through the summer air.Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain.'Ah, fool!' he mused, 'to look for help from men.Had they the will to aid, they lack the power.In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth,Through mine own anguish it must be atoned.Our saviours are not saints and ministers,But tear-strung women, children soft of heart,Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word,Some glance of comfort, save us from despair.These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trustIn mine own kind, when all the world grew dark.Make me not proud in spirit, O my God!Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin,One black and foul corruption, yet I knowMy frailty is exceeded by thy love.Neither is this the slender straw of hope,Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief,That fills my inmost soul with vast content.As surely as the hollow faiths of oldShriveled to dust before one ray of Truth,So will these modern temples pass away,Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms,And man will look in his own breast for help,Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins,Revere himself, and find the God within.Patience and patience!' Through the sleepless nightHe held such thoughts; at times before his eyesFlashed glimpses of the Church that was to be,Sublimely simple in the light sereneOf future ages; then the vision changedTo the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurledTheir curses on him. Staggering, he awokeUnto the truth, and found himself alone,Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chillCrept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves,Giddy and overcome, he fell and sleptUpon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred,Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light.He dragged his weary frame some paces more,Unto a solitary herdsman's hut,Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night,Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grewFair as the ruined works of ancient art,Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof,Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped,Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man,Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay,Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep,His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon,The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun,Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock.The knight craved drink and bread, and with respectFor pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirredHis lazy length, and shared with him his meal.Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth,Yearning with morbid fancy once againTo see the kind face of the minstrel boyHe met beside the well. At set of sunHe reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone,The day's toil over, yet he took his seat.A milking-girl with laden buckets full,Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank.From a near cottage ran a ragged boy,And filled his wooden pail, and to his homeReturned across the fields. A herdsman came,And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed,Greeting the holy man who sat there still,Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat highWhen he descried at last a youthful form,Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head,Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he,The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face.But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown,The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear,Asked the lad's name. 'My name is Salvator,To serve you, sir,' he carelessly replied,With eyes and hands intent upon his jar,Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glanceUpon his questioner, and left the well,Crying with keen and sudden sympathy,'Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not.Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feetAre grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed,Your hands are dry with fever.' But the knight:'Nay, as I look on thee, I think the LordWills not that I should suffer any more.''Then you have suffered much,' sighed Salvator,With wondering pity. 'You must come with me;My father knows of you, I told him all.A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre,His health and fame, to give himself to God,-Yours is a life indeed to be desired!If you will lie with us this night, our homeWill verily be blessed.' By kindness crushed,Wandering in sense and words, the broken knightResisted naught, and let himself be ledTo the boy's home. The outcast and accursedWas welcomed now by kindly human hands;Once more his blighted spirit was revivedBy contact with refreshing innocence.There, when the morning broke upon the world,The humble hosts no longer knew their guest.His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed,Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the nightThe angel came who brings eternal peace.__________

Far into Wartburg, through all Italy,In every town the Pope sent messengers,Riding in furious haste; among them, oneWho bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom;The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring,And leaf and blossom. God is merciful.

The Undying One- Canto III

'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make Howling and moaning, listlessly and low: Methinks that to a heart that ought to break All the earth's voices seem to murmur so. The visions that crost Our path in light-- The things that we lost In the dim dark night-- The faces for which we vainly yearn-- The voices whose tones will not return-- That low sad wailing breeze doth bring Borne on its swift and rushing wing. Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud, And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud? When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth, And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one, It hath been yours to spend alone-- Never,--though years may roll along Cheer'd by the merry dance and song; Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before, When louder perchance it used to roar-- Never shall sound of that wintry gale Be aught to you but a voice of wail! So o'er the careless heart and eye The storms of the world go sweeping by; But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep, Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep. Let one of our airy joys decay-- Let one of our blossoms fade away-- And all the griefs that others share Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear: And the sound of wail, like that rushing windShall bring all our own deep woe to mind!

'I went through the world, but I paused not nowAt the gladsome heart and the joyous brow: I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark: And the grief of others, though sad to see, Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!

'I saw the inconstant lover come to take Farewell of her he loved in better days, And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break-- Which beat so fondly at his words of praise. She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing, Seeking to mock the hues of early spring, When misery and years had done their worst To wither her away. The big tears burst From out her flashing eyes, which turn'd on him With agony, reproach, and fear, while dim Each object swam in her uncertain sight, And nature's glories took the hue of night. There was, in spite of all her passion's storm, A wild revolting beauty in her form; A beauty as of sin, when first she comes To tempt us from our calm and pleasant homes. Her voice, with the appealing tone it took, Her soft clear voice, belied her fearless look: And woman's tenderness seem'd still to dwell In that full bosom's agonizing swell. And he stood there, the worshipp'd one of years-- Sick of her fondness--angry at her tears; Choking the loathing words which rose within The heart whose passion tempted her to sin; While with a strange sad smile lost hours she mourns, And prays and weeps, and weeps and prays by turns.

A moment yet he paused, and sigh'd--a sigh Of deep, deep bitterness; and on his eye Love's gentle shadow rested for a space-- And faded feelings brighten'd o'er his face. 'Twas but a moment, and he turn'd in wrath To quench the sunshine on her lonely path. And his lip curl'd, as on that alter'd cheek His cold glance rested--while, all faint and weak, With tearful sad imploring gaze she stood, Watching with trembling heart his changeful mood; Her thin lips parted with a ghastly smile, She strove to please--yet felt she fail'd the while. And thus his words burst forth:' And dost thou dare Reproach me with the burden of thy care? Accuse thy self-will'd heart, where passion reign'd; Some other hand the lily might have stain'd, For thou didst listen when none else approved, Proud in thy strength, and eager to be loved. Rose of the morning, how thy leaves are gone! How art thou faded since the sunrise shone! Think not my presence was the cause of all-- Oh no, thy folly would have made thee fall: Alike thy woe--alike the cause of blame-- Another tempter, but thine act the same. And tell me not of all I said or swore: Poor wretch! art thou as in the days of yore?

Thing of the wanton heart and faded brow, Whate'er I said or did--I loathe thee now!' The frozen tears sank back beneath the lid, Whose long black lashes half their sadness hid-- And with a calm and stedfast look, which spoke Unutterable scorn, her spirit woke:-- 'And thou art he, for whom my young heart gave All hope of pardon on this side the grave! For whom I still have struggled on, for years, Through days of bitterness and nights of tears!-- True, I am changed since that bright summer's day, When first from home love lured my steps to stray: And true it is that art hath sought to hide The work of woe which all my words belied;-- But for whose sake have I with watchful care, Though sick at heart, endeavour'd to be fair? For whom, when daylight broke along the skies, Have I with fear survey'd my weeping eyes? For whom, with trembling fingers sought to dress Each woe-worn feature with mock loveliness? Chased the pale sickness from my darken'd brow, And strove to listen, calm--as I do now? For whom--if not for thee?--Oh! had I been Pure as the stainless lily--were each scene Of guilt and passion blotted from that book Where weepingly and sad the angels look--

Did I stand here the calm approved wife, Bound to thee by the chain that binds for life-- Could I have loved thee more? The dream is past-- I who forsook, am lonely at the last! One hour ago the thought that we must part, And part for ever, would have broke my heart: But now--I cast thee from me! Go and seek To pale the roses on a fresher cheek. Why lingerest thou? Dost fear, when thou art gone, My woman's heart will wake, and live alone? Fear not--the specious tongue whose well-feign'd tale Hath lured the dove to leave her native vale, May use its art some other to beguile; And the approving world--will only smile. But she who sins, and suffers for that sin, Who throws the dangerous die, and doth not win-- Loves once--and loves no more!' He glided by, And she turn'd from him with a shuddering sigh.

'I saw the widower mournful stand, Gazing out on the sea and the land; O'er the yellow corn and the waving trees, And the blue stream rippling in the breeze. Oh! beautiful seem the earth and sky-- Why doth he heave that bitter sigh?

Vain are the sunshine and brightness to him-- His heart is heavy, his eyes are dim. His thoughts are not with the moaning sea, Though his gaze be fix'd on it vacantly: His thoughts are far, where the dark boughs wave O'er the silent rest of his Mary's grave. He starts, and brushes away the tear; For the soft small voices are in his ear, Of the bright-hair'd angels his Mary left To comfort her lonely and long bereft. With a gush of sorrow he turns to press His little ones close with a fond caress, And they sigh--oh! not because Mary sleeps, For she is forgotten--but that HE weeps. Yes! she is forgotten--the patient love, The tenderness of that meek-eyed dove, The voice that rose on the evening air To bid them kneel to the God of prayer, The joyous tones that greeted them, when After a while she came again-- The pressure soft of her rose-leaf cheek-- The touch of her hand, as white and weak She laid it low on each shining head, And bless'd the sons of the early dead: All is forgotten--all past away Like the fading close of a summer's day:

Or the sound of her voice (though they scarce can tell Whose voice it was, that they loved so well) Comes with their laughter, a short sweet dream-- As the breeze blows over the gentle stream, Rippling a moment its quiet breast, And leaving it then to its sunny rest. But he!--oh! deep in his inmost soul, Which hath drunk to the dregs of sorrow's bowl-- Her look--and her smile--the lightest word Of the musical voice he so often heard, And never may hear on earth again, Though he love it more than he loved it then-- Are buried--to rise at times unbid And force hot tears to the burning lid: The mother that bore her may learn to forget, But he will remember and weep for her yet! Oh! while the heart where her head hath lain In its hours of joy, in its sighs of pain; While the hand which so oft hath been clasp'd in hers In the twilight hour, when nothing stirs-- Beat with the deep, full pulse of life-- Can he forget his gentle wife? Many may love him, and he in truth May love; but not with the love of his youth: Ever amid his joy will come A stealing sigh for that long-loved home, And her step and her voice will go gliding by In the desolate halls of his memory!

'I saw a father weeping, when the last Of all his dear ones from his sight had past-- The young lamb, in his solitary fold, Who should have buried him, for he was old. Silently she had pass'd away from earth, Beloved by none but him who gave her birth: And now he sat, with haggard look and wild, By the lone tomb of his forgotten child:--

'None remember thee! thou whose heartPour'd love on all around. Thy name no anguish can impart-- 'Tis a forgotten sound. Thine old companions pass me by With a cold bright smile, and a vacant eye-- And none remember theeSave me. 'None remember thee! thou wert notBeauteous as some things are; No glory beam'd upon thy lot, My pale and quiet star. Like a winter bud that too soon hath burst, Thy cheek was fading from the first--

And none remember theeSave me! 'None remember thee! they could spy Nought, when they gazed on thee, But thy soul's deep love in thy quiet eye-- It hath pass'd from their memory. The gifts of genius were not thine Proudly before the world to shine-- And none remember theeSave me! 'None remember thee! now thou'rt gone, Or they could not choose but weep,-- When they think of thee, my gentle one, In thy long and lonely sleep. Fain would I murmur thy name, and tell How fondly together we used to dwell-- But none remember theeSave me!'

'I saw a husband, and a guilty wife, Who once made all the sunshine of his life, Kneeling upon the threshold of her home, Where heavily her weary feet had come: A faded form, a humble brow, are hers-- The livery which sinful sorrow wears;

While with deep agony she lifts her eyes, And prays him to forgive her, ere she dies! Long days--long days swell in his broken heart, When death had seem'd less bitter than to part-- When in her innocence her hush'd lip spoke The faint confession of the love he woke; And the first kiss on that pure cheek impress'd, Made her shrink, trembling, from his faithful breast. And after years when her light footstep made Most precious music--when in sun or shade She was the same bright, happy, loving thing-- Low at his feet she now lies withering! His half-stretch'd hand already bids her be Forgiven and at peace--his kindly eye Is turn'd on her through tears, to think that she, His purely-loved, should bide such agony. Already on his tongue the quivering word Of comfort trembles, though as yet unheard; Already he hath bent o'er that pale face: Why starts he, groaning, from her wild embrace? Oh! as she clasp'd his knees, her full heart woke To all its tenderness--a murmur broke Forth from her lip; the cherish'd name of one Whose image dwelt when purity was gone, Secure amid the ruins of lost things, Filling her soul with soft imaginings,

Like a lone flower within the moss-grown halls Where echo vainly unto echo calls. Deep wrath, and agony, and vain despair, Are painted on his brow who hears her prayer. 'Breathe not her name--it is a sound Of fearfulness and dread. Seest thou no trace of tears around? Yet have salt tears been shed! Thy babe who nestled at thy breast, And laugh'd upon thy knee; That creature of the quiet rest, Thy child--was too like thee! The careless fawn that lightly springs-- The rosebud in the dew-- The fair of nature's fairy things-- Like them thy daughter grew. And then she left her father's side, Not, woman! as a happy bride, With a tearful smile, half sad, half meek; The flush of guilt was on her cheek: And in the desert wilds I sought-- And in the haunts of men. Woman! what thou hast felt is naught To what I suffer'd then. I thought that--but it may not be-- I thought I could have pardon'd thee;

But when I dream of her, and think Thy steps led on to ruin's brink-- Oh she is gone, and thou art hereWhere ye both were of yore-- To mock with late-repentant tear Hopes which may come no more! Hadst thou, frail wretch, been by her still, To shield her gentle head from ill-- To do thy mother's part--but go-- I will not curse thee, in my woe : Only, depart!--and haply when Lonely and left I die, Thy pardon'd form shall rise againAnd claim one parting sigh!' He closed on her the portal of her home, Where never more her weary feet may come-- And their wrung hearts are sever'd till that day When God shall hear, and judge the things of clay.

'I saw the parricide raving stand, With a rolling eye, and a bloody hand; Through his thick chill veins the curdling stream Flows dark and languid. No sunny beam Can wake the deep pulse of his heart to joy, Since he raised his murderous hand to destroy. By day, by night, no pause is given Of hope to the soul accursed by Heaven. Through the riotous feast; through his own dull groans; Through the musical sound of his loved one's tones; Through the whispering breath of the evening air, Faulters the old man's dying prayer. Few were the words he spoke as he sank; And the greedy poniard his life-blood drank: 'Spare me, my son, I will yield thee all.' Oh, what would the murderer give to recall One murmuring sigh to that silent tongue, Which in infancy sought his ear to please; One pulse of life, to the hands that clung Feebly and tremblingly round his knees! In vain! he hath won the gold he sought; And the burning agony of thought Shall haunt him still, till he lays his head With a shuddering groan on his dying bed!

'I saw a young head bow'd in its deep woe, Ev'n unto death; and sad, and faint, and slow, As she sat lonely in her hall of tears, Her lips address'd some shade of other years: 'Oh! dear to the eyes that are weeping Was thy form, my lost love: Though the heart where thine image is sleeping Its truth might not prove. I have wept and turn'd from thee, for fear thou shouldst trace All the love that I bore thee, deep writ on my face. But oh! could we once more be meeting, As then, love, we met: Could I feel that fond heart of thine beating, Close, close, to mine yet: I would cling to thee, dearest, nor fear thou shouldst guess How deeply thy welcome had power to bless, Oh! tis not for a day, or an hour, I part from thee now, To weep and shake off, like a flower, The tears from my brow: 'Tis to sit dreaming idly of days that are gone, And start up to remember--that I am alone. They say that my heart hath recover'd The deep bitter blow; That the cloud which for long days hath hover'd, Is gone from my brow; That my eyes do not weep, and my lips wear a smile; It is true --but I do not forget thee the while. Oh, they know not, amidst all my gladness, Thy shadow is there:

They feel not the deep thrill of sadness, Nor the soul's lone despair. They see not the sudden quick pang, when thy name Is carelessly utter'd, to praise or to blame! If to gaze on each long-treasured token Till bitter tears flow, And to wonder my heart is not brokenBy the weight of its woe: To join in the world's loud and 'wildering din, While a passionate feeling is choking within: If to yearn, in the arms that once bound thee, To lean down my head; With the dear ones who used to come round thee, Salt tear-drops to shed: If to list to the voice that is like thine, in vain; And feel its dim echo ring wild through my brain: If to dream there were pleasure in meeting Those who once were with thee: To murmur a sad farewell greeting, Then sink on my knee; With my straining hands clasp'd to the Heavens in prayer, And my choked bosom heaving with grief and despair: If to sit and to think of thee only, While they laugh round the hearth; And feel my full heart grow more lonely At the sound of their mirth:-- If this be forgetting thee, dear one and good-- Forget thee--forget thee--Oh God! that I could!'

'I saw the child of parents poor, Dreaming with pain of her cottage door; Which she left for the splendour which may not cheer-- Pomp hath not power to dry one tear. The palace--the sunshine--what are they to her'Mid the heart's full throb, and the bosom's stir? The picture that rises bedimm'd with tears, Is an aged woman, bow'd down by years; Sitting alone in her evening's close, And feebly weeping for many woes. Her thin hands are weaving the endless thread, Her faded eyes gaze where her daughter fled, O'er the moss-grown copse and the wooded hill: 'Oh! would that I were with my mother still! That I were with her who rear'd me up-- (And I fill'd to the brim her sorrow's cup)-- That I were with her who taught me to pray At the morning's dawn and the close of day-- That I were with her whose harshest look Was half of sorrow and half rebuke. Oh! the depth of my sin I never could see, But I feel it now, with the babe on my knee.'

The high proud gaze of her scornful eye Is quench'd with the tears for days gone by; And her little one starts from its broken rest, Woke by the sobs of that heaving breast. She gazes with fear on its undimm'd brow-- What are the thoughts that lurk below? Perchance, like her own, the day will come When its name shall be hush'd in its parent home; When the hearts that cherish its lightest tone, Shall wish that the sound from earth were gone. Perchance it is doom'd to an early grave, Or a struggling death on the stormy wave; Or the fair little dimpled hand that clings So fast in her soft hair's shining rings, May be dark with the blood of his fellow-men, And the clanking chain hang round it then. Haply, forgetting her patient care, The young, bright creature slumbering there, Shall forsake her--as she hath forsaken them-- For a heavy heart and a diadem! She clasps it strong with a burning kiss-- 'Oh God! in thy mercy, spare me this.''

'I saw a widow, by her cherish'd son, Ere all of light, and life, and hope, was gone-- When the last dying glance was faintly raised, Ere death with withering power the brightness glazed Of those deep heavenly eyes: a glance which seem'd To ask her, if the world where he had dream'd Such dreams of happiness with her, must be Forsaken in the spring-tide of his glee: If he indeed must die. I saw her take His hand, and gaze, as if her heart would break, On his pale brow and languid limbs of grace, And wipe the death-dew gently from his face. I saw her after, when the unconscious clay, Deaf to her wild appeals, all mutely lay, With brow upturn'd, and parted lips, whose hue Was scarce more pale than hers, who met my view. She stood, and wept not in her deep despair, But press'd her lips upon his shining hair With a long bitter kiss, and then with grief-- Like hers of old, who pray'd and found relief-- She groan'd to God, and watch'd to see him stir, But, ah! no prophet came, to raise him up for her!

'I saw the orphan go forth in dread Through the pitiless world, and turn to gaze Once more on the dark and narrow bed Where sleep the authors of her days. Well may she weep them, for never more, After she turns from that cottage door, Will her young heart beat to a kindly word, Such as in early days she heard: Or her young eye shine, as she hastens her pace To bask in the light of a loved one's face. Her lot is cast; Her hope is past; The careless, the cold, and the cruel may come To gaze on the orphan, and pass her by: But a word, or a sound, or a look of home-- For them she must bow her head, and die!

'I saw the dark and city-clouded spot, Where, by his busy patrons all forgot, The young sad poet dreams of better days, And gives his genius forth in darken'd rays. Chill o'er his soul, gaunt poverty hath thrown Her veil of shadows, as he sighs alone; And, withering up the springs and streams of youth, Left him to feel misfortune's bitter truth, And own with deep, impassion'd bitterness, Who would describe--must faintly feel, distress. Slowly he wanders, with a languid pace, To the small window of his hiding-place;

Pressing with straining force, all vainly now, His hot, weak fingers on his throbbing brow; And seeking for bright thoughts, which care and pain Have driven from his dim and 'wilder'd brain. He breathes a moment that unclouded air, And gazes on the face of nature there-- Longing for fresh wild flowers and verdant fields, And all the joys the open sunshine yields: Then turning, he doth rest his heavy eye Where his torn papers in confusion lie, And raves awhile, and seats himself again, To toil and strive for thoughts and words, in vain: Till he can bid his drooping fancy feel, And barter genius, for a scanty meal!

'I've been where fell disease a war hath waged Against young joy,--where pestilence hath raged, And beauty hath departed from the earthWith none to weep her.--I have seen the birth Of the lorn infant, greeted but with tears, And dim forebodings, and remorseful fears, When to the weary one the grave would show Less dreadful than a long long life of woe. I've been in prisons, where in lone despair, Barr'd from God's precious gifts, the sun and air, The debtor pines, for a little gold, His fellow man in iron chains would hold: There have I seen the bright inquiring eye Fade into dull and listless vacancy; There have I seen the meek grow stern and wild; And the strong man sit weeping like a child; Till God's poor tortured creatures in their heartWere fain to Curse their Maker, and depart. All have I seen--and I have watch'd apart The fruitless struggles of a breaking heart, Bruised, crush'd, and wounded by the spoiler's power, And left to wither like a trodden flower; Till I have learnt with ease each thought to trace That flush'd across the fair and fading face, And known the source of tears, which day by day Weakness hath shed, and pride hath brush'd away.

'It was in Erin--in the autumn time, By the broad Shannon's banks of beauty roaming; I saw a scene of mingled woe and crime-- Oh! ev'n to my sear'd eyes the tears seem'd coming! It was a mother standing gaunt and wild, Working her soul to murder her young child, Who lay unconscious in its soft repose Upon the breast, that heaved with many woes. She stood beside the waters, but her eyes Were not upon the river, nor the skies, Nor on the fading things of earth. Her soul Was rapt in bitterness--and evening stole Chill o'er her form, while yet with nerveless hand She sought to throw her burden from the land. 'Twas pitiful to see her strive in vain, Rise sternly up, then melt to love again; With horrible energy, and lip compress'd, Hold forth her child--then strain it to her breast Convulsively; as if some gentle thought Of all its helpless beauty first was brought Into her 'wilder'd mind--the soft faint smiles, Whose charm the mother of her tears beguiles, Which speak not aught of mirth or merriment, But of full confidence, and deep content, And ignorance of woe:--the murmur'd soundsWhich were to her a language, rise up now-- And, like a torrent bursting from its bounds, Swell in her heart, and shoot across her brow. Oh! she who plans its death in her despair, Hath tended it with fond and watchful care; Hath borne it wearily for many a mile, Repaid with one fond glance, or gentle smile: Hath watch'd through long dark nights with patient love, When some light sickness struck her nestling dove;

And yearn'd to bear its pain, when that meek eye Turn'd on her, with appealing agony! Look on her now!--that faint and feverish start Hath waken'd all the mother in her heart: That feeble cry hath thrill'd her very frame :-- Was it for murder such a soft heart came? She will not do it--Fool! the spirit thereIs stronger far than love--it is despair! Mothers alone may read that mother's woe: Her heart may break--but she will strike the blow. Once more she pauses; bending o'er its face, Calm and unconscious in its timid grace; Then murmurs to it by the chilly wave, Ere one strong effort dooms it to the grave:--

'Thou of the sinless breast! Which passion hath not heaved, nor dark remorse Swell'd with its full and agonizing curse-- Lo! thou art come to rest!

'Deep 'neath the sullen sky, And the dark waters which do boil and foam, Greedy to take thee to their silent home-- My little one must lie!

'Peace to thy harmless soul! There is a heaven where thou mayst dwell in peace; Where the dark howling of the waters cease, Which o'er thy young head roll.

'There, in the blue still night, Thou'lt watch, where stars are gleaming from the sky, O'er the dark spot where thou wert doom'd to die, And smile, a cherub bright.'

'A plash upon the waves--a low Half-stifled sob, which seem'd as though The choked breath fought against the stream-- And all was silent as a dream. Then rose the shriek that might not stay, Though much that soul had braved; And ere its echo died away, Her little one was saved.

Sudden I plunged, and panting caught The bright and floating hair, Which on the waters lustre brought, As if 'twere sunshine there. I stood beside that form of want and sin, That miserable woman in her tears; Who wept, as though she had not cast it inTo perish with the sorrows of past years. She thank'd me with a bitter thankfulness, And thus I spoke: 'Oh! woman, if it isSickness and poverty, and lone distress, That prompted thee to do a deed like this, Take gold, and wander forth, and let me be A parent to the child renounced by thee!' Greedily did she gaze upon the gold, With a wild avarice in her hollow eye; And stretch'd her thin damp fingers, clammy cold, To seize the glittering ore with ecstasy. But when I claim'd the little helpless thing, For whose young life that gold had paid the worth; Close to the breast where it lay shivering, She strain'd it gaspingly, and then burst forth:--

'I would have slain it! Fool! 'tis true I would; Because I saw it pine, and had no food: Because I could not bear its faint frail cry, Which told my brain such tales of agony: Because its dumb petitioning glances said, Am I thy child? and canst not give me bread? Because, while faint and droopingly it lay Within my failing arms from day to day, The tigress rose within my soul--I could Have slain a man, and bid it lap his blood! My little one!--my uncomplaining child! Whose lengthen'd misery drove thy mother wild, Did they believe that aught but death could part These nestling limbs from her poor tortured heart?-- No! had the slimy waters gurgled o'er Thy corpse, and wash'd the slippery reed-grown shore, Leaving no trace, except in my despair, Of what had once disturb'd the stillness there-- I could have gazed upon it, and not wept; For calmly then my little one had slept. No nightly moans would then have wrung my soul; No daylight withering bid the tear-drop roll. In my dark hours of misery and want, The memory of thy pallid face might haunt, Not, not to wring my heart with vain regret, But to remind what thou hadst suffer'd yet, If from life's wretchedness I had not freed Thy grateful soul, which thank'd me for the deed.

I lost thee--but I have thee here again, Close to the heart which now can feel no pain. Cling to me!--let me feel that velvet cheek-- Look at me, with those eyes so dove-like meek! Press thy pale lips to mine, and let me be Repaid for all I have endured for thee. Part from thee!--never! while this arm hath strength To hold thee to the bosom where thou liest: Praise be to God, bright days have dawn'd at length! I need not watch thy struggles as thou diest. Part from thee! never--no, my pale sweet flower! The wealth of worlds would bribe my heart in vain, Though 'twere to give thee up for one short hour-- Take back thy gold--I have my babe again! Yet give me food, and I will clasp thy knees, And night and day will kneel for thee to Heaven; Else will a lingering death of slow disease, Or famine gaunt, be all that thou hast given. And when I die-- then, then be kind'--She ceased: Her parted lips were tinged with crimson gore, Her faint hand half, and only half, released The unconscious form she had been weeping o'er: Worn nature could not bear the sudden strife; I look'd upon her--but there was no life!

'That little outcast grew a fairy girl, A beautiful, a most beloved one. There was a charm in every separate curl Whose rings of jet hung glistening in the sun, Which warm'd her marble brow. There was a grace Peculiar to herself, ev'n from the first: Shadows and thoughtfulness you seem'd to trace Upon that brow, and then a sudden burst Of sunniness and laughter sparkled out, And spread their rays of joyfulness about. Like the wild music of her native land, Which wakes to joy beneath the minstrel's hand, Yet at its close gives forth a lingering tone-- Sad, as if mourning that its mirth is gone, And leaves that note to dwell within your heart, When all the sounds of joyfulness depart: So in her heart's full chords there seem'd to be A strange and wild, but lovely melody: Half grief--half gladness--but the sadness still Hanging like shadows on a summer rill. And when her soul from its deep silence woke, And from her lip sweet note of answer broke, Memory in vain would seek the smile that play'd With her slow words, like one beam in the shade; Her sorrow hung upon your heart for years-- And all her sweet smiles darken'd into tears.

I loved her, as a father loves his child: For she was dutiful, and fond, and mild, As children should be--and she ripen'd on Like a young rosebud opening to the sun; Till the full light of womanhood was shed, Like a soft glory, round about her head. In all my wanderings, through good and ill, In storm and sunshine, she was with me still: Not like a cold sad shadow, forced to glide Weary--unloved--unnoticed, by my side: But with her whole heart's worship, ever near, To love, to smile, to comfort, and to cheer. Her gentle soul would fear to hurt a worm; Yet danger found her unappall'd and firm: Her lip might blanch, but her unalter'd eye Said, I am ready for thy sake to die. She stood by me and fear'd not, in that place When the scared remnant of my wretched race Gave England's Richard gifts, to let them be All unmolested in their misery: And while their jewels sparkled on his hand, His traitor lips gave forth the dark command Which, midst a drunken nation's loud carouse, Sent unexpected death from house to house, Bade strong arms strike, where none their force withstood, And woman's wail be quench'd in woman's blood.

She stood by me and fear'd not, when again, A bloody death cut short a life of pain; When, with red glaring eyes and desperate force, Brother laid brother low, a prostrate corse, Rather than yield their bodies up to those, In word, in act, and in religion--foes. She gazed and fainted not, while all around They lay like slaughter'd cattle on the ground; With the wide gash in each extended throat, Calling for vengeance to the God who smote On Israel's side, ere Israel fell away, And in her guilt was made the stranger's prey.

'And after that, we dwelt in many lands, And wander'd through the desert's burning sands; Where, strange to say, young Miriam sigh'd to be: Where nature lay stretch'd out so silently Beneath the glorious sun, and here and thereThe fountains bubbled up, as fresh and fair As if the earth were fill'd with them, and none In their last agonizing thirst sank down, With eyes turn'd sadly to far distant dreams Of unseen gushing waters, and cool streams.

'There is a little island all alone In the blue Mediterranean; and we went Where never yet a human foot had gone, And dwelt there, and young Miriam was content. There was a natural fountain, where no ray Of light or warmth had ever found its way, Thick clustered o'er with flowers; and there she made A bower of deep retirement and shade; And proud she was, when, rosy with the glow Of triumph and exertion, she could show Her palace of green leaves,--and watch my eyes For the expected glance of pleased surprise. Oh! she was beautiful!--if ever earthTo aught of breathing loveliness gave birth.

'One evening--one sweet evening, as we stood, Silently gazing on the silent flood: A sudden thought rose swelling in my heart: Ought my sweet Miriam thus to dwell apart From human kind? So good, so pure, so bright, So form'd to be a fervent heart's delight; Was she to waste the power and will to bless In ministering to my loneliness? And then a moment's glance took in her life-- I saw my Miriam a blessed wife;

I saw her with fair children round her knee, I heard their voices in that home of glee, And turn'd to gaze on her:--if ever yet, Turning with shadowy hope, and vain regret, And consciousness of secret guilt or woe, Thine eyes have rested on the open brow Of sinless childhood--thou hast known what IFelt, when my glance met Miriam's cloudless eye. Oh! Thought, thou mould where misery is cast-- Thou joiner of the present with the past-- Eternal torturer! wherefore can we notThrough all our life be careless of our lot As in our early years?--No cares to come Threw their vain shadow o'er her bosom's home; No bitter sorrow, with its vain recall, Poison'd her hope--the present hour was all. I gazed on her--and as a slow smile broke Of meek affection round her rosy mouth, I thought the simple words my heart would choke, 'Would Miriam weep to leave the sunny south?' Silent she stood--then, in a tone scarce heard, Faulter'd forth, 'father!' Oh! it wrung, that word; And snatching her with haste unto my breast, Where in her childhood's hour of sunny rest Calmly her innocent head had often slept, With a strange sense of misery--I wept.

'Oh! weary days, oh! weary days, Of flattery and empty praise, When in the tainted haunts of menMy Miriam was brought again. With vacant gaze and gentle sigh, She turned her from them mournfully; As if she rather felt, than saw, That they were near:--they scarce could draw A word of answer from her tongue, Where once such merry music rung, Save when the island was their theme-- And then, as waking from a dream, Her soft eye lighted for a while, And round her mouth a playful smile Stole for a moment, and then fled, As if the hope within were dead. Where'er I gazed, where'er I went, Her earnest look was on me bent Stealthily, as she wish'd to trace Her term of exile on my face. And many sought her hand in vain. With pleading voice, and look of pain. Weepingly she would turn away When I besought her to be gay; And resolutely firm, withstood The noble and the great of blood;

Though they woo'd humbly, as they woo Who scarcely hope for what they sue. Oh! glad was Miriam, when at last I deem'd our term of absence past: And as her light foot quickly sprang From out our bark, 'twas thus she sang:--

'The world! the sunny world! I love To roam untired, till evening throws Sweet shadows through the pleasant grove, And bees are murmuring on the rose. I love to see the changeful flowersLie blushing in the glowing day-- Bend down their heads to 'scape the showers, Then shake the chilly drops away.

'The world! the sunny world! oh bright And beautiful indeed thou art-- The brilliant day, the dark-blue night, Bring joy--but not to every heart. No! till, like flowers, those hearts can fling Grief's drops from off their folded leaves, 'Twill only smile in hope's bright spring, And darken when the spirit grieves.'

'She was return'd; but yet she grew not glad; Her cheek wore not the freshness which it had. The withering of the world, like the wild storm Over a tender blossom, left her form With traces of the havoc that had been, Ev'n in the sunny calm, and placid scene. Her brow was darken'd with a gentle cloud; Her step was slower, and her laugh less loud; And oft her sweet voice faulter'd, though she said Nothing in which deep meaning could be read. I watch'd her gestures when she saw me not, And once--(oh! will that evening be forgot?) I stole upon her, when she little thought Aught but the moaning wind her whispers caught.

'She sat within her bower, where the sunLinger'd, as loth to think his task was done: And languidly she raised her heavy gaze, To meet the splendour of his parting rays. O'er the smooth cheek which rested on her hand; Down the rich curls by evening breezes fann'd; Upon the full red lip, and rounded arm, The swan-like neck, so snowy, yet so warm-- Each charm the rosy light was wandering o'er, Brightening what seem'd all-beautiful before.

I paused a moment, gazing yet unseen Beneath the sleeping shadows dark and green; And thought, how strange that one so form'd to bless Should better love to live in loneliness. Pure, but not passionless, was that soft brow So warmly gilded by the sunset now; And in her glistening eye there shone a tear, Like those we shed when dreaming--for some dear But lost illusion, which returns awhile Our nights to brighten with remember'd smile, And yet we feel is lost, though sleep, strong sleep, Chains the swoln lid, that fain would wake and weep. I sat me down beside her; round the zone That clasp'd her slender waist my arm was thrown: And the bright ringlets of her shining hair My fond hand parted on her forehead fair; And thus I spoke, as with a smile and sigh She murmur'd forth a welcome timidly: 'Again within the desert and at rest, Say, does my Miriam find herself more blest, Than when gay throngs in fond devotion hung Upon the sportive accents of her tongue? Is all which made the city seem so gay, The song, the dance, all dream-like pass'd away? The sighs, the vows, the worshipping forgot? And art thou happier in this lonely spot?

Is there no form, all vision-like enshrined Deep 'mid the treasures of thy guileless mind? And, deaf to every pure and faithful sigh, Say, would my desert rose-bud lonely die?' High, 'neath the arm which carelessly caress'd, Rose the quick beatings of that gentle breast; And the slight pulses of her fair young hand, Which lay so stirlessly within my own, Trembled and stopp'd, and trembled, as I scann'd The flushing cheek on which my glance was thrown. 'She loves,' said I; while selfish bitter griefSwell'd in my soul;--'she loves, and I must live Alone again, more wretched for the brief Bright sunshine which her presence used to give.' And then with sadden'd tones, (which, though I strove To make them playful, tremulously came) I murmur'd:'Yes! he lives, whom thou canst love. His name, dear Miriam--whisper me his name.' There was a pause, and audibly she drew Her heaving breath; and faint and fainter grew The hand that lay in mine; and o'er her brow Flush'd shadows chased each other to and fro: Till like a scorch'd-up flower, with languid grace That young head droop'd, but sought no resting-place.

'Dreams pass'd across my soul--dreams of old days-- Of forms which in the quiet grave lay sleeping; Of eyes which death had stripp'd of all their rays, And weary life had quench'd with bitter weeping: Dreams of the days when, human still, my heartRefused to feel immortal, and kept clinging To transient joys, which came and did depart As fresh flowers wither, which young hands are flinging. Dreams of the days I loved, and was beloved-- When some young heart for me its sighs was giving, And fond lips murmur'd forth the vow that proved Its truth in death, its tenderness when living: And dreaming thus, I sigh'd. Answering, there came A deep, low, tremulous sob, which thrill'd my frame. A moment, that young form shrunk back abash'd At its own feelings; and all vainly dash'd The tear aside, which speedily return'd To quench the cheek where fleeting blushes burn'd. A moment, while I sought her fears to stay, The timid girl in silence shrank away-- A moment, from my grasp her hand withdrew-- A moment, hid her features from my view-- Then rising, sank with tears upon my breast, Her struggles and her love at once confess'd.

'Years--sorrow--death--the hopes that leave me lone, All I have suffer'd, and must suffer on; The love of other bright things which may pass In half eclipse, beyond the darken'd glass Through which my tearful soul hath learnt to gaze-- The fond delusions of all future days:-- All that this world can bring, hath not the power To blot from memory that delicious hour. She, who I thought would leave me desolate-- For whom I brooded o'er a future fate; She, who had wander'd through each sunny land, Yet found no heart that could her love command-- She lay within my arms, my own--my own-- Unsought, unwoo'd, but oh! too surely won.

'She was not one of many words and vows, And breathings of her love, and eager shows Of warm affection;--in her quiet eye, Which gazed on all she worshipp'd silently, There dwelt deep confidence in what she loved, And nothing more--till some slight action proved My ceaseless thought of her: then her heart woke, And fervent feeling like a sunrise broke O'er her illumined face. Her love for me Was pure and deep, and hidden as the fount

Which floweth 'neath our footsteps gushingly, And of whose wanderings none may take account; And like those waters, when the fountain burst To light and sunshine, which lay dark at first, Quietly deep, it still kept flowing on-- Not the less pure for being look'd upon.

'And then she loved all things, and all loved her. Each sound that mingleth in the busy stir Of nature, was to her young bosom rife With the intelligence of human life. Edith, my playful Edith, when her heartTenderly woke to do its woman's part, Fill'd with a sentiment so strong and new, Each childish passion from her mind withdrew, And looking round upon the world beheld Her Isbal only. By deep sorrow quell'd, Xarifa's was a melancholy love. The plashing waters, the blue sky above, The echo speaking from the distant hill, The murmurs indistinct which sweetly fill The evening air--all had for her a tone Of mournful music--and I stood alone The one thing that could bid her heart rejoice With the deep comfort of a human voice.

Not so, young Miriam. Love, within her breast, Had been a welcome and familiar guest Ev'n from her childhood:--I was link'd with allThe sunny things that to her lot might fall; The past--the present--and the future, wereReplete with joys in which I had my share. Nothing had been, or ever could be, felt Singly, within the heart where such love dwelt-- Her birds, her trees, her favourite walks, her flowers, She knew them not as hers--they were all ours. And thus she loved in her imaginings Our earth, and all its dumb and living things; Oft whispering in her momentary glee, It was the world I dwelt in; part of me: And, bound by a sweet charm she might not break, She look'd upon that world, and loved it for my sake.

'How shall I tell it? Linda, a dark pain Is in my heart, and in my burning brain.-- Where is she?--where is Miriam?--who art thou? Oh! wipe the death-dew from her pallid brow; I dare not touch her! See, how still she lies, Closing in weakness her averted eyes: Gaspingly struggling for her gentle breath-- And stretching out her quivering limbs in death!

Will no one save her? Fool!--the shadow thereIs the creation of thine own despair. No love, no agony, is in her heart: In sin, in suffering, she hath now no part. She is gone from thee--sooner doom'd to go Than Nature meant; but thou didst will it so.

'Oh, Linda! the remembrance of that day, When sad Xarifa's spirit pass'd away, Haunted me ever with a power that thou, Who hast not sinn'd or suffer'd, canst not know. My joys were turn'd to miseries, and wrought My heart into delirium; I thought That, as she wept, so Miriam would weep, And start and murmur in her troubled sleep: That, as she doubted, Miriam too would find A dark suspicion steal across her mind: That, as she faded, Miriam too would fade, And lose the smile that round her full lips play'd: That as she perish'd--Miriam too would die, And chide me with her last reproachful sigh. Often when gazing on her open brow, And the pure crimson of her soft cheek's glow-- Sudden, a dark unhappy change would seem To fall upon her features like a dream.

In vain her merry voice, with laughing tone, Bade the dim shadow from my heart begone: Pale--pale and sorrowful--she seem'd to rise, Death on her cheek, and darkness in her eyes; The roundness of her form was gone, and care Had blanch'd the tresses of her glossy hair. Wan and reproachful, mournfully and mild Her thin lips moved, and with an effort smiled. And when with writhing agony I woke From the delusion, and the dark spell broke; And Miriam stood there, smiling brilliantly, Shuddering, I said, 'And yet these things must be.' Must be;--that young confiding heart must shrink From my caress; the joyous eyes which drink Light from the sunshine that doth play within, Must grovel downcast with a sense of sin; Or, startled into consciousness, will gaze Bewilderingly upon the sunset rays; And, meeting mine, with sorrow wild and deep, Heart and eyes sinking, turn again to weep. Yes, these things must be: if, when years have pass'd, Each leaving her more fading than the last, She turns to the companion of her track, And, while her wandering thoughts roam sadly back, Seeks in her soul the reason why his form Laughs at the slow decay or ruffling storm,

That hath wreck'd better things;--while on her sight, With the deep horrible glare, and certain light Of hell to a lost soul, the slow truth breaks; Till, as one wounded in his sleep, awakes To writhe, and shriek, and perish--silently: Her heart is roused--to comprehend and die.

'To die!--and wherefore should she not depart Ere doubt hath agonized the trusting heart? Wherefore not pass away from earth, ere yetIts mossy bosom with her tears is wet?-- It was a summer's morning, when the first Glance of that dreadful haunting vision burst Upon my mind:--I doom'd her then to die, For then I pictured to my heart and eye A world where Miriam was not:--often after, Amid the joyous ringing of her laughter, In sunshine and in shade, those thoughts return'd, Madden'd my brain, and in my bosom burn'd. Oh, God! how bitter were those idle hours, When softly bending o'er her fragrant flowers, She form'd her innocent plans, and playfully Spoke of that future which was not to be! How bitter were her smiles--her perfect love-- Her deep reliance, which no frowns could move,

On the affections of my murderous heart, Where the thought brooded,--when shall she depart? As Jephthah gazed upon her smiling face, Who bounded forth to claim his first embrace; And felt, with breathless and bewilder'd pause, Her early death foredoom'd--her love the cause: As Jephthah struggled with the vow that still Bound his pain'd soul against his own free will; And heard her fond and meekly-worded prayer, To climb the well-known hills, and wander there, Weeping to think that in her virgin pride The beautiful must perish--no man's bride; And that her name must die away from earth; And that her voice must leave the halls of mirth, And they be not less mirthful: so to me It was to gaze on Miriam silently: Miriam, who loved me; who, if I had said, 'Lo! thou must perish--bow thy gentle head,'-- Would have repress'd each faint life-longing sigh, Bared her white bosom, and knelt down to die, Without a murmur.--So when she upraised Her quiet eyes, and on my features gazed, Asking me to come forth and roam with herAround her favourite haunts, the maddening stir Of agony and vain resolve would rend My bosom, and to earth my proud head bend.

It seem'd to me as if that gentle prayer She breathed--to bid farewell to all her share Of life and sunshine; to behold againThe high bright happy hills and outstretch'd plain; And then--come back and die. I left that isle, And Miriam follow'd with a tearful smile, Glad to be with me, sorrowful to go From the dear scene of joy and transient woe. As Eve to Eden--towards that land of rest She gazed, then turn'd, and wept upon my breast. To Italy's sweet shores we bent our course; And for a while my grief and my remorse, And all my fearful thoughts, forsook me, when We mingled in the busy haunts of men. But oh! the hour was fix'd--though long delay'd; Like the poor felon's doom, which some reprieve hath stay'd.

'One night a dream disturb'd my frenzied soul. Methought, to Miriam I confess'd the whole Of what thou know'st, and watch'd her young glad face, That on her brow her feelings I might trace. Methought that, as I gazed, the flushing red Once more upon her cheek and bosom spread, As when she told her love; and then--and then-- (How strongly does that vision rise again!)

Each hue of life by gradual shades withdrew, Till ev'n her dark blue eyes seem'd fading too. Paler and paler--whiter and more white-- Gazing upon me in the ghastly light, Her features grew; till all at length did seem Like moving marble, in that sickly dream, Except the faded eyes; they faintly kept The hue of life, and look'd on me, and wept. And still she spoke not, but stood weeping there, Till I was madden'd with mine own despair-- And woke. She lay beside me, who was soonTo perish by my hand: the pale clear moon O'er her fair form a marble whiteness threw, And wild within my heart the madness grew. I rush'd from out that chamber, and I stood By the dim waters of the moon-lit flood; And in that hour of frantic misery, I thought my vision told how she would die, Pining and weeping.--I return'd again, And gazed upon her with a sickening pain. Her fair soft arms were flung above her head, And the deep rose of sleep her cheek was tinging: The tear which all who follow me must shed, Slept 'neath the lashes which those orbs were fringing. And there she lay--so still, so statue-like-- I stagger'd to her--

I lifted up my desperate arm to strike-- Linda--I slew her! Once--only once--she faintly strove to rise; Once--only once--she call'd upon my name; And o'er the dark blue heaven of those eyes, Death, with its midnight shadows, slowly came. That tone's despairing echo died away; The last faint quivering pulsation ceased To thrill that form of beauty, as it lay From all the storms and cares of life released: And I sat by the dead. Fast o'er my soul A dream of memory's treasured relics stole. And the day rose before me, and the hour, When Miriam sat within her own sweet bower, The red rich sunset lighting on her cheek; Afraid to trust herself to move or speak, Conscious and shrinking--while I strove to trace Her bosom's secret on her guileless face. I turn'd to press her to my burning heart-- I that had slain her--Wherefore did I start? Cold, pure, and pale, that glowing cheek was laid, And motionless each marble limb was lying; Closed were those eyes which tears of passion shed, And hush'd the voice that call'd on me in dying. Gone!--gone!--that frozen bosom never more, Press'd to mine own, in rapture shall be beating: Gone!--gone!--her love, her struggles--all was o'er, Life--weary life, would bring for us no meeting!

'They bore her from me, and they laid her low, With all her beauty, in the cheerless tomb; And dragg'd me forth, all weak with pain and woe, Heedless of death, to meet a murderer's doom. The wheel--the torturing wheel--was placed to tear Each quivering limb, and wring forth drops of pain; And they did mock me in my mute despair, And point to it, and frown--but all in vain. The hour at length arrived--a bright sweet day Rose o'er the world of torture, and of crime; And human blood-hounds and wild birds of prey Waited with eagerness their feasting time. And as I gazed, a wild hope sprang within My feverish breast:--perchance this dreadful deathAnd my past sufferings might efface my sin; And I might now resign my weary breath. And as the blessed thought flash'd o'er my mind, I gazed around, and smiled.--To die--to die-- Oh little thought those wolves of human kind, What rapture in that word may sometimes lie! They stripp'd my unresisting limbs, and bound; And the huge ponderous engine gave a sound

Like a dull heavy echo of the moans, The exhausted cries, the deep and sullen groans, Of all its many victims. Through each vein Thrill'd the strange sense of swift and certain pain; And each strong muscle from the blood-stain'd rack, Conscious of suffering, quiveringly shrank back. But I rejoiced--I say I did rejoice: And when from the loud multitude a voice Cried 'Death!' I wildly echoed it, and said 'Death! Death! oh, lay me soon among the dead.' And they did gaze on me with fiendish stare, Half curiosity, and half the glare Of bloody appetite; while to and fro, Nearer and nearer, wheel'd the carrion crow, As seeking where to strike.--A pause, and hark! The signal sound! When sudden as a dream, the heavens grew dark On all around: And the loud blast came sweeping in its wrath, Scattering wide desolation o'er its path: And the hoarse thunder struggled on its way; And livid lightning mock'd the darken'd day With its faint hellish lights.--They fled, that crowd, With fearful shrieks, and cries, and murmurs loud, And left me bound. The awful thunder crash'd Above my head; and in my up-turn'd eyes

The gleams of forked fire brightly flash'd, Then died along the dark and threatening skies: And the wild howling of the fearful windMadden'd my ringing brain; while, swiftly driven, The torrent showers fell all thick and blind, Till mingling seem'd the earth and angry heaven, A flash--a sound--a shock--and I was free-- Prostrate beside me lay the shiver'd wheel In broken fragments--I groan'd heavily, And for a while I ceased to breathe or feel.

'And I arose again, to know that deathWas not yet granted--that the feverish hope Of yielding up in torture my cursed breath Was quench'd for ever; and the boundless scope Of weary life burst on my soul again, Like the dim distance of the heaving main On some lost mariner's faint failing eyes; Who, fondly dreaming of his native shore, (While in his throat the gurgling waters rise) Fancies he breathes that welcome air once more, And far across the bleak lone billows sees Its blue cool rivers, and its shady trees; Till when, upraised a moment by the wave, He views the watery waste, and sickening draws One long last gasping sigh for a green grave, Ere helplessly he sinks in Ocean's yawning jaws.

'Night fell around. The quiet dews were weeping Silently on the dark and mournful earth; And Sorrow pale its sleepless watch was keeping, And slumber weigh'd the closing lid of mirth; While the full round-orb'd moon look'd calmly down From her thin cloud, as from a light-wreathed crown: And I went out beneath her silver beams; And through my 'wilder'd brain there pass'd dark dreams Of Miriam, and of misery, and death; And of that tomb, and what lay hid beneath: And I did lay my head upon that grave, Weepingly calling on her gentle name; And to the winds my grieving spirit gave In words which half without my knowledge came:--

'Thou art gone, with all thy loveliness, To the silence of the tomb, Where the voice of friends can never bless, Nor the cool sweet breezes come; Deep, deep beneath the flowers bright, Beneath the dark blue sky, Which may not send its joyous light To gladden those who die. This world to thee was not a world of woe: My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?

'Thou art gone, and gone for ever--thouIn whom my life was bound: The seal of death is on thy brow, And in thy breast a wound. Who could have slain thee, thou who wert So helpless and so fair? When strong arms rose to do thee hurt, Why was not Isbal there? Didst thou not call upon him in thy woe? My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?

'Thou art gone!--Oh! fain my heart would rest, And dream--but thou art gone; The head that lay upon my breast Is hid beneath that stone. And art thou there? and wilt thou ne'er Rise up from that dark place, And, shaking back thy glossy hair, Laugh gladly in my face? This world to thee was not a world of woe: I loved thee--wherefore, wherefore didst thou go?

'Return, return! Oh! if the rack-- If nature's death-like strife, Borne silently, could bring thee back Once more to light, and life: Ev'n if those lips that used to wreathe Smiles that a glory shed, Ne'er parted but in scorn, to breathe Dark curses on my head:-- Oh! I could bear it all, nor think it woe: My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?

'Once more--once more--oh! yet once more! If I could see thee stand, A breathing creature, as before I smote thee with this hand. If that dear voice--oh! must these groans, This agony be vain? Will no one lift the ponderous stones, And let thee rise again? Thou wert not wont in life to work me woe: My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?'

'And then I reason'd--Wherefore should the sodHold all of her, which hath not gone to God? I have the power again that form to see-- I have the wish once more with her to be: And wherefore should we fear to look uponWhat, from our sight, some few short hours is gone? Wherefore the thrill our senses which comes o'er At sight of what shall breathe and feel no more? Oh! Miriam, can there be indeed a place Where I must dread to look upon thy face?-- And then I knelt, and desperately did tear

Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hopeTo speak my poems in mysterious tuneWith man and nature,–with the lava-lymphThat trickles from successive galaxiesStill drop by drop adown the finger of God,In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–With spring's delicious trouble in the groundTormented by the quickened blood of roots.And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheavesIn token of the harvest-time of flowers?–With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopesAnd fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strainOf sexual passion, which devours the fleshIn a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–With multitudinous life, and finallyWith the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,Their radiant faces upward, burn awayThis dark of the body, issuing on a worldBeyond our mortal?–can I speak my verseSo plainly in tune to these things and the rest,That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,As having the same warrant over themTo hold and move them, if they will or no,Alike imperious as the primal rhythmOf that theurgic nature? I must fail,Who fail at the beginning to hold and moveOne man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,And he born tender, made intelligent,Inclined to ponder the precipitous sidesOf difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–Of me, incurious! likes me very well,And wishes me a paradise of good,Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,But otherwise evades me, puts me offWith kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,Aurora Leigh: be humble.There it is;We women are too apt to look to one,Which proves a certain impotence in art.We strain our natures at doing something great,Far less because it's something great to do,Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselvesAs being not small, and more appreciableTo some one friend. We must have mediatorsBetwixt our highest conscience and the judge;Some sweet saint's blood must quicken in our palms.Or all the life in heaven seems slow and cold:Good only, being perceived as the end of good,And God alone pleased,–that's too poor, we think,And not enough for us, by any means.Ay–Romney, I remember, told me onceWe miss the abstract, when we comprehend!We miss it most when we aspire, . . and fail.

Yet, so, I will not.–This vile woman's wayOf trailing garments, shall not trip me up.I'll have no traffic with the personal thoughtIn art's pure temple. Must I work in vain,Without the approbation of a man?It cannot be; it shall not. Fame itself,That approbation of the general race,Presents a poor end, (though the arrow speed,Shot straight with vigorous finger to the white,)And the highest fame was never reached exceptBy what was aimed above it. Art for art,And good for God Himself, the essential Good!We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect,Although our woman-hands should shake and fail;And if we fail . . But must we?– Shall I fail?The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase,'Let no one be called happy till his death.'To which I add,–Let no one till his deathBe called unhappy. Measure not the workUntil the day's out and the labour done;Then bring your gauges. If the day's work's scant,Why, call it scant; affect no compromise;And, in that we have nobly striven at least,Deal with us nobly, women though we be,And honour us with truth, if not with praise.

My ballads prospered; but the ballad's raceIs rapid for a poet who bears weightsOf thought and golden image. He can standLike Atlas, in the sonnet,–and supportHis own heavens pregnant with dynastic stars;But then he must stand still, nor take a step.

In that descriptive poem called 'The Hills,'The prospects were too far and indistinct.'Tis true my critics said, 'A fine view, that!'The public scarcely cared to climb the bookFor even the finest; and the public's right,A tree's mere firewood, unless humanised;Which well the Greeks knew, when they stirred the barkWith close-pressed bosoms of subsiding nymphs,And made the forest-rivers garrulousWith babble of gods. For us, we are called to markA still more intimate humanityIn this inferior nature,–or, ourselves,Must fall like dead leaves trodden underfootBy veritabler artists. Earth shut upBy Adam, like a fakir in a boxLeft too long buried, remained stiff and dry,A mere dumb corpse, till Christ the Lord came down,Unlocked the doors, forced opened the blank eyes,And used his kingly chrisms to straighten outThe leathery tongue turned back into the throat:Since when, she lives, remembers, palpitatesIn every lip, aspires in every breath,Embraces infinite relations. Now,We want no half-gods, Panomph&alig;ean Joves,Fauns, Naiads, Tritons, Oreads, and the rest,To take possession of a senseless worldTo unnatural vampire-uses. See the earth,The body of our body, the green earth,Indubitably human, like this fleshAnd these articulated veins through whichOur heart drives blood! There's not a flower of spring,That dies ere June, but vaunts itself alliedBy issue and symbol, by significanceAnd correspondence, to that spirit-worldOutside the limits of our space and time,Whereto we are bound. Let poets give it voiceWith human meanings; else they miss the thought,And henceforth step down lower, stand confessedInstructed poorly for interpreters,–Thrown out by an easy cowslip in the text.

Even so my pastoral failed: it was a bookOf surface-pictures–pretty, cold, and falseWith literal transcript,–the worse done, I think,For being not ill-done. Let me set my markAgainst such doings, and do otherwise.This strikes me.–if the public whom we know,Could catch me at such admissions, I should passFor being right modest. Yet how proud we are,In daring to look down upon ourselves!

The critics say that epics have died outWith Agamemnon and the goat-nursed gods–I'll not believe it. I could never dreamAs Payne Knight did, (the mythic mountaineerWho travelled higher than he was born to live,And showed sometimes the goitre in his throatDiscoursing of an image seen through fog,)That Homer's heroes measured twelve feet high.They were but men!–his Helen's hair turned greyLike any plain Miss Smith's, who wears a front:And Hector's infant blubbered at a plumeAs yours last Friday at a turkey-cock.All men are possible heroes: every age,Heroic in proportions, double-faced,Looks backward and before, expects a mornAnd claims an epos. Ay, but every ageAppears to souls who live in it, (ask Carlyle)Most unheroic. Ours, for instance, ours!The thinkers scout it, and the poets aboundWho scorn to touch it with a finger-tip:A pewter age,–mixed metal, silver-washed;An age of scum, spooned off the richer past;An age of patches for old gabardines;An age of mere transition, meaning nought,Except that what succeeds must shame it quite,If God please. That's wrong thinking, to my mind,And wrong thoughts make poor poems. Every age,Through being beheld too close, is ill-discernedBy those who have not lived past it. We'll supposeMount Athos carved, as Persian Xerxes schemed,To some colossal statue of a man:The peasants, gathering brushwood in his ear,Had guessed as little of any human formUp there, as would a flock of browsing goats.They'd have, in fact, to travel ten miles offOr ere the giant image broke on them,Full human profile, nose and chin distinct,Mouth, muttering rhythms of silence up the sky,And fed at evening with the blood of suns;Grand torso,–hand, that flung perpetuallyThe largesse of a silver river downTo all the country pastures. 'Tis even thusWith times we live in,–evermore too greatTo be apprehended near.But poets shouldExert a double vision; should have eyesTo see near things as comprehensiblyAs if afar they took their point of sight,And distant things, as intimately deep,As if they touched them. Let us strive for this.I do distrust the poet who discernsNo character or glory in his times,And trundles back his soul five hundred years,Past moat and drawbridge, into a castle-court,Oh not to sing of lizards or of toadsAlive i' the ditch there!–'twere excusable;But of some black chief, half knight, half sheep-lifterSome beauteous dame, half chattel and half queen,As dead as must be, for the greater part,The poems made on their chivalric bones.And that's no wonder: death inherits death.

Nay, if there's room for poets in the worldA little overgrown, (I think there is)Their sole work is to represent the age,Their age, not Charlemagne's,–this live, throbbing age,That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires,And spends more passion, more heroic heat,Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing-rooms,Than Roland with his knights, at Roncesvalles.To flinch from modern varnish, coat or flounce,Cry out for togas and the picturesque,Is fatal,–foolish too. King Arthur's selfWas commonplace to Lady Guenever;And Camelot to minstrels seemed as flat,As Regent street to poets. Never flinch,But still, unscrupulously epic, catchUpon a burning lava of a song,The full-veined, heaving, double-breasted Age:That, when the next shall come, the men of thatMay touch the impress with reverent hand, and say'Behold,–behold the paps we all have sucked!That bosom seems to beat still, or at leastIt sets ours beating. This is living art,Which thus presents, and thus records true life.'

What form is best for poems? Let me thinkOf forms less, and the external. Trust the spirit,As sovran nature does, to make the form;For otherwise we only imprison spirit,And not embody. Inward evermoreTo outward,–so in life, and so in art,Which still is life. Five acts to make a play.And why not fifteen? Why not ten? or seven?What matter for the number of the leaves,Supposing the tree lives and grows? exactThe literal unities of time and place,When 'tis the essence of passion to ignoreBoth time and place? Absurd. Keep up the fireAnd leave the generous flames to shape themselves.

'Tis true the stage requires obsequiousnessTo this or that convention; 'exit' hereAnd 'enter' there; the points for clapping, fixed,Like Jacob's white-peeled rods before the rams;And all the close-curled imagery clippedIn manner of their fleece at shearing time.Forget to prick the galleries to the heartPrecisely at the fourth act,–culminateOur five pyramidal acts with one act more,–We're lost so! Shakspeare's ghost could scarcely pleadAgainst our just damnation. Stand aside;We'll muse for comfort that, last century,On this same tragic stage on which we have failed,A wigless Hamlet would have failed the same.

And whosoever writes good poetry,Looks just to art. He does not write for youOr me,–for London or for Edinburgh;He will not suffer the best critic knownTo step into his sunshine of free thoughtAnd self-absorbed conception, and exactAn inch-long swerving of the holy lines.If virtue done for popularityDefiles like vice, can art for praise or hireStill keep its splendour, and remain pure art?Eschew such serfdom. What the poet writes,He writes: mankind accepts it, if it suits,And that's success: if not, the poem's passedFrom hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand,Until the unborn snatch it, crying outIn pity on their fathers' being so dull,And that's success too.I will write no plays.Because the drama, less sublime in this,Makes lower appeals, defends more menially,Adopts the standard of the public tasteTo chalk its height on, wears a dog chain roundIts regal neck, and learns to carry and fetchThe fashions of the day to please the day;Fawns close on pit and boxes, who clap hands,Commending chiefly its docilityAnd humour in stage-tricks; or else indeedGets hissed at, howled at, stamped at like a dog,Or worse, we'll say. For dogs, unjustly kicked,Yell, bite at need; but if your dramatist(Being wronged by some five hundred nobodiesBecause their grosser brains most naturallyMisjudge the fineness of his subtle wit)Shows teeth an almond's breath, protests the lengthOf a.modest phrase,–' My gentle countrymen,'There's something in it, haply of your fault,'–Why then, besides five hundred nobodies,He'll have five thousand, and five thousand more,Against him,–the whole public,–all the hoofsOf King Saul's father's asses, in full drove,–And obviously deserve it. He appealedTo these,–and why say more if they condemn,Than if they praised him?–Weep, my Æschylus,But low and far, upon Sicilian shores!For since 'twas Athens (so I read the myth)Who gave commission to that fatal weight,The tortoise, cold and hard, to drop on theeAnd crush thee,–better cover thy bald head;She'll hear the softest hum of Hyblan beeBefore thy loud'st protesting.–For the rest,The risk's still worse upon the modern stage;I could not, in so little, accept success,Nor would I risk so much, in ease and calm,For manifester gains; let those who prize,Pursue them: I stand off.And yet, forbid,That any irreverent fancy or conceitShould litter in the Drama's throne-room, whereThe rulers of our art, in whose full veinsDynastic glories mingle, sit in strengthAnd do their kingly work,–conceive, command,And, from the imagination's crucial heat,Catch up their men and women all a-flameFor action all alive, and forced to proveTheir life by living out heart, brain, and nerve,Until mankind makes witness, 'These be menAs we are,' and vouchsafes the kiss that's dueTo Imogen and Juliet–sweetest kinOn art's side. 'Tis that, honouring to its worthThe drama, I would fear to keep it downTo the level of the footlights. Dies no moreThe sacrificial goat, for Bacchus slain,–His filmed eyes fluttered by the whirling whiteOf choral vestures,–troubled in his bloodWhile tragic voices that clanged keen as swords,Leapt high together with the altar-flame,And made the blue air wink. The waxen mask,Which set the grand still front of Themis' sonUpon the puckered visage of a player;–The buskin, which he rose upon and moved,As some tall ship, first conscious of the wind,Sweeps slowly past the piers;–the mouthpiece,whereThe mere man's voice with all its breaths and breaksWent sheathed in brass, and clashed on even heightsIts phrasèd thunders;–these things are no more,Which once were. And concluding, which is clear,The growing drama has outgrown such toysOf simulated stature, faces and speech,It also, peradventure, may outgrowThe simulation of the painted scene,Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume;And take for a worthier stage the soul itself,Its shifting fancies and celestial lights,With all its grand orchestral silencesTo keep the pauses of the rhythmic sounds.

Alas, I still see something to be done,And what I do falls short of what I see,Though I waste myself on doing. Long green days,Worn bare of grass and sunshine,–long calm nights,From which the silken sleeps were fretted out,–Be witness for me, with no amateur'sIrreverent haste and busy idlenessI've set myself to art! What then? what's done?What's done, at last? Behold, at last, a book.If life-blood's necessary,–which it is,(By that blue vein athrob on Mahomet's brow,Each prophet-poet's book must show man's blood!)If life-blood's fertilising, I wrung mineOn every leaf of this,–unless the dropsSlid heavily on one side and left it dry.That chances often: many a fervid manWrites books as cold and flat as grave-yard stonesFrom which the lichen's scraped; and if St. PreuxHad written his own letters, as he might,We had never wept to think of the little mole'Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Passion isBut something suffered, after all. While artSets action on the top of suffering:The artist's part is both to be and do,Transfixing with a special, central powerThe flat experience of the common man,And turning outward, with a sudden wrench,Half agony, half ecstasy, the thingHe feels the inmost: never felt the lessBecause he sings it. Does a torch less burnFor burning next reflectors of blue steel,That he should be the colder for his place'Twixt two incessant fires,–his personal life's,And that intense refraction which burns backPerpetually against him from the roundOf crystal conscience he was born intoIf artist born? O sorrowful great giftConferred on poets, of a twofold life,When one life has been found enough for pain!We staggering 'neath our burden as mere men,Being called to stand up straight as demi-gods,Support the intolerable strain and stressOf the universal, and send clearly upWith voices broken by the human sob,Our poems to find rhymes among the stars!But soft!–a 'poet' is a word soon said;A book's a thing soon written. Nay, indeed,The more the poet shall be questionable,The more unquestionably comes his book!And this of mine,–well, granting to myselfSome passion in it, furrowing up the flats,Mere passion will not prove a volume worthIts gall and rags even. Bubbles round a keelMean nought, excepting that the vessel moves.There's more than passion goes to make a man,Or book, which is a man too.I am sad:I wonder if Pygmalion had these doubts,And, feeling the hard marble first relent,Grow supple to the straining of his arms,And tingle through its cold to his burning lip,Supposed his senses mocked, and that the toilOf stretching past the known and seen, to reachThe archetypal Beauty out of sight,Had made his heart beat fast enough for two,And with his own life dazed and blinded him!Not so; Pygmalion loved,–and whoso lovesBelieves the impossible.And I am sad:I cannot thoroughly love a work of mine,Since none seems worthy of my thought and hopeMore highly mated. He has shot them down,My Phoebus Apollo, soul within my soul,Who judges by the attempted, what's attained,And with the silver arrow from his height,Has struck down all my works before my face,While I say nothing. Is there aught to say?I called the artist but a greatened man:He may be childless also, like a man.

I laboured on alone. The wind and dustAnd sun of the world beat blistering in my face;And hope, now for me, now against me, draggedMy spirits onward,–as some fallen balloon,Which, whether caught by blossoming tree or bare,Is torn alike. I sometimes touched my aim,Or seemed,–and generous souls cried out, 'Be strong,Take courage; now you're on our level,–now!The next step saves you!' I was flushed with praise,But, pausing just a moment to draw breath,I could not choose but murmur to myself'Is this all? all that's done? and all that's gained?If this then be success, 'tis dismallerThan any failure.' O my God, my God,O supreme Artist, who as sole returnFor all the cosmic wonder of Thy work,Demandest of us just a word . . a name,'My Father!'–thou hast knowledge, only thou,How dreary 'tis for women to sit stillOn winter nights by solitary fires,And hear the nations praising them far off;Too far! ay, praising our quick sense of love,Our very heart of passionate womanhood,Which could not beat so in the verse withoutBeing present also in the unkissed lips,And eyes undried because there's none to askThe reason they grew moist.To sit alone,And think, for comfort, how, that very night,Affianced lovers, leaning face to faceWith sweet half-listenings for each other's breath,Are reading haply from some page of ours,To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks had touched,When such a stanza, level to their mood,Seems floating their own thoughts out–'So I feelFor thee,'–'And I, for thee: this poet knowsWhat everlasting love is!'–how, that night.A father, issuing from the misty roadsUpon the luminous round of lamp and hearthAnd happy children, having caught up firstThe youngest there until it shrunk and shriekedTo feel the cold chin prick its dimple throughWith winter from the hills, may throw i' the lapOf the eldest, (who has learnt to drop her lidsTo hide some sweetness newer than last year's)Our book and cry, . . 'Ah you, you care for rhymes;So here be rhymes to pore on under trees,When April comes to let you! I've been toldThey are not idle as so many are,But set hearts beating pure as well as fast:It's yours, the book: I'll write your name in it,–That so you may not lose, however lostIn poet's lore and charming reverie,The thought of how your father thought of youIn riding from the town.'To have our booksAppraised by love, associated with love,While we sit loveless! is it hard, you think?At least 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 'twas said,Means simply love. It was a man said that.And then there's love and love: the love of all(To risk, in turn, a woman's paradox,)Is but a small thing to the love of one.You bid a hungry child be satisfiedWith a heritage of many corn-fields: nay,He says he's hungry,–he would rather haveThat little barley-cake you keep from himWhile reckoning up his harvests. So with us;(Here, Romney, too, we fail to generalise!)We're hungry. Hungry! but it's pitifulTo wail like unweaned babes and suck our thumbsBecause we're hungry. Who, in all this world,(Wherein we are haply set to pray and fast,And learn what good is by its opposite)Has never hungered? Woe to him who has foundThe meal enough: if Ugolino's full,His teeth have crunched some foul unnatural thing:For here satiety proves penuryMore utterly irremediable. And sinceWe needs must hunger,–better, for man's love,Than God's truth! better, for companions sweet,Than great convictions! let us bear our weights,Preferring dreary hearths to desert souls.

Well, well, they say we're envious, we who rhyme;But I, because I am a woman, perhaps,And so rhyme ill, am ill at envying.I never envied Graham his breadth of style,Which gives you, with a random smutch or two,(Near-sighted critics analyse to smutch)Such delicate perspectives of full life;Nor Belmore, for the unity of aimTo which he cuts his cedarn poems, fineAs sketchers do their pencils; not Mark Gage,For that caressing colour and trancing toneWhereby you're swept away and melted inThe sensual element, which, with a back wave,Restores you to the level of pure soulsAnd leaves you with Plotinus. None of these,For native gifts or popular applause,I've envied; but for this,–that when, by chance,Says some one,–'There goes Belmore, a great man!He leaves clean work behind him, and requiresNo sweeper up of the chips,' . . a girl I know,Who answers nothing, save with her brown eyes,Smiles unawares, as if a guardian saintSmiled in her:–for this, too,–that Gage comes homeAnd lays his last book's prodigal reviewUpon his mother's knees, where, years ago,He had laid his childish spelling-book and learnedTo chirp and peck the letters from her mouth,As young birds must. 'Well done,' she murmured then,She will not say it now more wonderingly;And yet the last 'Well done' will touch him more,As catching up to-day and yesterdayIn a perfect chord of love; and so, Mark Gage,I envy you your mother!–and you, Graham,Because you have a wife who loves you so,She half forgets, at moments, to be proudOf being Graham's wife, until a friend observes,'The boy here, has his father's massive brow,Done small in wax . . if we push back the curls.'

Who loves me? Dearest father,–mother sweet,–I speak the names out sometimes by myself,And make the silence shiver: they sound strange,As Hindostanee to an Ind-born manAccustomed many years to English speech;Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete,Which will not leave off singing. Up in heavenI have my father,–with my mother's faceBeside him in a blotch of heavenly light;No more for earth's familiar household use,No more! The best verse written by this hand,Can never reach them where they sit, to seemWell-done to them. Death quite unfellows us,Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live and dead,And makes us part as those at Babel did,Through sudden ignorance of a common tongue.A living Cæsar would not dare to playAt bowls, with such as my dead father is.

And yet, this may be less so than appears,This change and separation. Sparrows fiveFor just two farthings, and God cares for each.If God is not too great for little cares,Is any creature, because gone to God?I've seen some men, veracious, nowise mad,Who have thought or dreamed, declared and testified,They've heard the Dead a-ticking like a clockWhich strikes the hours of the eternities,Beside them, with their natural ears, and knownThat human spirits feel the human way,And hate the unreasoning awe which waves them offFrom possible communion. It may be.

At least, earth separates as well as heaven.For instance, I have not seen Romney LeighFull eighteen months . . add six, you get two years.They say he's very busy with good works,–Has parted Leigh Hall into almshouses.He made an almshouse of his heart one day,Which ever since is loose upon the latchFor those who pull the string.–I never did.

It always makes me sad to go abroad;And now I'm sadder that I went to-nightAmong the lights and talkers at Lord Howe's.His wife is gracious, with her glossy braids,And even voice, and gorgeous eyeballs, calmAs her other jewels. If she's somewhat cold,Who wonders, when her blood has stood so longIn the ducal reservoir she calls her lineBy no means arrogantly? she's not proud;Not prouder than the swan is of the lakeHe has always swum in;–'tis her element,And so she takes it with a natural grace,Ignoring tadpoles. She just knows, perhaps,There are men, move on without outriders,Which isn't her fault. Ah, to watch her face,When good Lord Howe expounds his theoriesOf social justice and equality–'Tis curious, what a tender, tolerant bendHer neck takes: for she loves him, likes his talk,Such clever talk–that dear, odd Algernon!'She listens on, exactly as if he talkedSome Scandinavian myth of Lemures,Too pretty to dispute, and too absurd.

She's gracious to me as her husband's friend,And would be gracious, were I not a Leigh,Being used to smile just so, without her eyes,On Joseph Strangways, the Leeds mesmerist,And Delia Dobbs, the lecturer from 'the States'Upon the 'Woman's question.' Then, for him,I like him . . he's my friend. And all the roomsWere full of crinkling silks that swept aboutThe fine dust of most subtle courtesies.What then?–why then, we come home to be sad.How lovely One I love not, looked to-night!She's very pretty, Lady Waldemar.Her maid must use both hands to twist that coilOf tresses, then be careful lest the richBronze rounds should slip :–she missed, though, a grey hair,A single one,–I saw it; otherwiseThe woman looked immortal. How they told,Those alabaster shoulders and bare breasts,On which the pearls, drowned out of sight in milk,Were lost, excepting for the ruby-clasp!They split the amaranth velvet-boddice downTo the waist, or nearly, with the audacious pressOf full-breathed beauty. If the heart withinWere half as white!–but, if it were, perhapsThe breast were closer covered, and the sightLess aspectable, by half, too.I heardThe young man with the German student's look–A sharp face, like a knife in a cleft stick,Which shot up straight against the parting lineSo equally dividing the long hair,–Say softly to his neighbour, (thirty-fiveAnd mediæval) 'Look that way, Sir Blaise.She's Lady Waldemar–to the left,–in red–Whom Romney Leigh, our ablest man just now,Is soon to marry.' Then repliedSir Blaise Delorme, with quiet, priest-like voice,Too used to syllable damnations roundTo make a natural emphasis worth while:'Is Leigh your ablest man? the same, I think,Once jilted by a recreant pretty maidAdopted from the people? Now, in change,He seems to have plucked a flower from the other sideOf the social hedge.' 'A flower, a flower,' exclaimedMy German student,–his own eyes full-blownBent on her. He was twenty, certainly.

Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arrogance,As if he had dropped his alms into a hat,And had the right to counsel,–'My young friend,I doubt your ablest man's abilityTo get the least good or help meet for him,For pagan phalanstery or Christian home,From such a flowery creature.'

'Beautiful!'My student murmured, rapt,–'Mark how she stirsJust waves her head, as if a flower indeed,Touched far off by the vain breath of our talk.'

At which that bilious Grimwald, (he who writesFor the Renovator) who had seemed absorbedUpon the table-book of autographs,(I dare say mentally he crunched the bonesOf all those writers, wishing them aliveTo feel his tooth in earnest) turned short roundWith low carnivorous laugh,–'A flower, of course!She neither sews nor spins,–and takes no thoughtOf her garments . . falling off.'The student flinched,Sir Blaise, the same; then both, drawing back their chairsAs if they spied black-beetles on the floor,Pursued their talk, without a word being thrownTo the critic. Good Sir Blaise's brow is highAnd noticeably narrow; a strong wind,You fancy, might unroof him suddenly,And blow that great top attic off his headSo piled with feudal relics. You admireHis nose in profile, though you miss his chin;But, though you miss his chin, you seldom missHis golden cross worn innermostly, (carvedFor penance, by a saintly Styrian monkWhose flesh was too much with him,) slipping troughSome unaware unbuttoned casualtyOf the under-waistcoat. With an absent airSir Blaise sate fingering it and speaking low,While I, upon the sofa, heard it all.

'My dear young friend, if we could bear our eyesLike blessedest St. Lucy, on a plate,They would not trick us into choosing wives,As doublets, by the colour. OtherwiseOur fathers chose,–and therefore, when they had hungTheir household keys about a lady's waist,The sense of duty gave her dignity:She kept her bosom holy to her babes;And, if a moralist reproved her dress,'Twas, 'Too much starch!'–and not, 'Too little lawn!'

'Now, pshaw!' returned the other in a heat,A little fretted by being called 'young friend,'Or so I took it,–'for St. Lucy's sake,If she's the saint to curse by, let us leaveOur fathers,–plagued enough about our sons!'(He stroked his beardless chin) 'yes, plagued, sir, plagued:The future generations lie on usAs heavy as the nightmare of a seer;Our meat and drink grow painful prophecy:I ask you,–have we leisure, if we liked,To hollow out our weary hands to keepYour intermittent rushlight of the pastFrom draughts in lobbies? Prejudice of sex,And marriage-laws . . the socket drops them throughWhile we two speak,–however may protestSome over-delicate nostrils, like our own,'Gainst odours thence arising.' 'You are young,'Sir Blaise objected. 'If I am,' he saidWith fire,–'though somewhat less so than I seem.The young run on before, and see the thingThat's coming. Reverence for the young, I cry.In that new church for which the world's near ripe,You'll have the younger in the elder's chair,Presiding with his ivory front of hopeO'er foreheads clawed by cruel carrion birdsOf life's experience.' 'Pray your blessing, sir,'Sir Blaise replied good-humouredly,–'I pluckedA silver hair this morning from my beard,Which left me your inferior. Would I wereEighteen, and worthy to admonish you!If young men of your order run beforeTo see such sights as sexual prejudiceAnd marriage-law dissolved,–in plainer words,A general concubinage expressedIn a universal pruriency,–the thingIs scarce worth running fast for, and you'd gainBy loitering with your elders.' 'Ah,' he said,'Who, getting to the top of Pisgah-hill,Can talk with one at the bottom of the view,To make it comprehensible? Why LeighHimself, although our ablest man, I said,Is scarce advanced to see as far as this,Which some are: he takes up imperfectlyThe social question–by one handle–leavesThe rest to trail. A Christian socialist,Is Romney Leigh, you understand.' 'Not I.I disbelieve in Christians-pagans, muchAs you in women-fishes. If we mixTwo colours, we lose both, and make a thirdDistinct from either. Mark you! to mistakeA colour is the sign of a sick brain,And mine, I thank the saints, is clear and cool:A neutral tint is here impossible.The church,–and by the church, I mean, of course,The catholic, apostolic, mother-church,–Draws lines as plain and straight as her own wall;Inside of which, are Christians, obviously,And outside . . dogs.' 'We thank you. Well I knowThe ancient mother-church would fain still biteFor all her toothless gums,–as Leigh himselfWould fain be a Christian still, for all his wit;Pass that; you two may settle it, for me.You're slow in England. In a month I learntAt Göttingen, enough philosophyTo stock your English schools for fifty years;Pass that, too. Here, alone, I stop you short,–Supposing a true man like Leigh could standUnequal in the stature of his lifeTo the height of his opinions. Choose a wifeBecause of a smooth skin?–not he, not he!He'd rail at Venus' self for creaking shoes,Unless she walked his way of righteousness:And if he takes a Venus Meretrix(No imputation on the lady there)Be sure that, by some sleight of Christian art,He has metamorphosed and converted herTo a Blessed Virgin.' 'Soft!' Sir Blaise drew breathAs if it hurt him,–'Soft! no blasphemy,I pray you!' 'The first Christians did the thing;Why not the last?' asked he of Göttingen,With just that shade of sneering on the lip,Compensates for the lagging of the beard,–'And so the case is. If that fairest fairIs talked of as the future wife of Leigh,She's talked of, too, at least as certainly,As Leigh's disciple. You may find her nameOn all his missions and commissions, school,Asylums, hospitals,–he has had her down,With other ladies whom her starry leadPersuaded from their spheres, to his country-placeIn Shropshire, to the famed phalansteryAt Leigh Hall, christianised from Fourier's own,(In which he has planted out his sapling stocksOf knowledge into social nurseries)And there, they say, she has tarried half a week,And milked the cows, and churned, and pressed the curd,And said 'my sister' to the lowest drabOf all the assembled castaways; such girls!Ay, sided with them at the washing-tub–Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked perfect arms,Round glittering arms, plunged elbow-deep in suds,Like wild swans hid in lilies all a-shake.'

Lord Howe came up. 'What, talking poetrySo near the image of the unfavouring Muse?That's you, Miss Leigh: I've watched you half an hour,Precisely as I watched the statue calledA Pallas in the Vatican;–you mindThe face, Sir Blaise?–intensely calm and sad,As wisdom cut it off from fellowship,–But that spoke louder. Not a word from you!And these two gentlemen were bold, I marked,And unabashed by even your silence.' 'Ah,'Said I, 'my dear Lord Howe, you shall not speakTo a printing woman who has lost her place,(The sweet safe corner of the household fireBehind the heads of children) complimentsAs if she were a woman. We who have cliptThe curls before our eyes, may see at leastAs plain as men do: speak out, man to man;No compliments, beseech you.' 'Friend to friend,Let that be. We are sad to-night, I saw,(–Good night, Sir Blaise! Ah, Smith–he has slipped away)I saw you across the room, and stayed, Miss Leigh,To keep a crowd of lion-hunters off,With faces toward your jungle. There were three;A spacious lady, five feet ten and fat,Who has the devil in her (and there's room)For walking to and fro upon the earth,From Chippewa to China; she requiresYour autograph upon a tinted leaf'Twixt Queen Pomare's and Emperor Soulouque's;Pray give it; she has energies, though fat:For me, I'd rather see a rick on fireThan such a woman angry. Then a youthFresh from the backwoods, green as the underboughs,Asks modestly, Miss Leigh, to kiss your shoe,And adds, he has an epic, in twelve parts,Which when you've read, you'll do it for his boot,–All which I saved you, and absorb next weekBoth manuscript and man,–because a lordIs still more potent that a poetess,With any extreme republican. Ah, ah,You smile at last, then.' 'Thank you.' 'Leave the smile,I'll lose the thanks for't,–ay, and throw you inMy transatlantic girl, with golden eyes,That draw you to her splendid whiteness, asThe pistil of a water-lily draws,Adust with gold. Those girls across the seaAre tyrannously pretty,–and I swore(She seemed to me an innocent, frank girl)To bring her to you for a woman's kiss,Not now, but on some other day or week:–We'll call it perjury; I give her up.'

'No, bring her.' 'Now,' said he, 'you make it hardTo touch such goodness with a grimy palm.I thought to tease you well, and fret you cross,And steel myself, when rightly vexed with you,For telling you a thing to tease you more.'

'Of Romney?' 'No, no; nothing worse,' he cried,'Of Romney Leigh, than what is buzzed about,–That he is taken in an eye-trap too,Like many half as wise. The thing I meanRefers to you, not him.' 'Refers to me,'He echoed,–'Me! You sound it like a stoneDropped down a dry well very listlessly,By one who never thinks about the toadAlive at the bottom. Presently perhapsYou'll sound your 'me' more proudly–till I shrink.

Lord Howe's the toad, then, in this question?' 'Brief,We'll take it graver. Give me sofa-room,And quiet hearing. You know Eglinton,John Eglinton, of Eglinton in Kent?'

'Is he the toad?–he's rather like the snail;Known chiefly for the house upon his back:Divide the man and house–you kill the man;That's Eglinton of Eglinton, Lord Howe.'He answered grave. 'A reputable man,An excellent landlord of the olden stamp,If somewhat slack in new philanthropies;Who keeps his birthdays with a tenants' dance,Is hard upon them when they miss the churchOr keep their children back from catechism,But not ungentle when the aged poorPick sticks at hedge-sides; nay, I've heard him say'The old dame has a twinge because she stoops:'That's punishment enough for felony.

'O tender-hearted landlord! May I takeMy long lease with him, when the time arrivesFor gathering winter-faggots?'

'To a most obedient mother. Born to wearHis father's shoes, he wears her husband's too:Indeed, I've heard its touching. Dear Lord Howe,You shall not praise me so against your heart,When I'm at worst for praise and faggots.' 'BeLess bitter with me, for . . in short,' he said,'I have a letter, which he urged me soTo bring you . . I could scarcely choose but yieldInsisting that a new love passing throughThe hand of an old friendship, caught from itSome reconciling perfume.' 'Love, you say?My lord, I cannot love. I only findThe rhymes for love,–and that's not love, my lord.Take back your letter.' 'Pause: you'll read it first?'

'I will not read it: it is stereotyped;The same he wrote to,–anybody's name,–Anne Blythe, the a�ctress, when she had died so true,A duchess fainted in an open box:Pauline, the dancer, after the great pas,In which her little feet winked overheadLike other fire-flies, and amazed the pit:Or Baldinacci, when her F in altHad touched the silver tops of heaven itselfWith such a pungent soul-dart, even the QueenLaid softly, each to each, her white-gloved palms,And sighed for joy: or else (I thank your friend)Aurora Leigh,–when some indifferent rhymes,Like those the boys sang round the holy oxOn Memphis-road, have chanced, perhaps, to setOur Apis-public lowing. Oh, he wants,Instead of any worthy wife at home,A star upon his stage of Eglinton!Advise him that he is not overshrewdIn being so little modest: a dropped starMakes bitter waters, says a Book I've read,–And there's his unread letter,' 'My dear friend,'Lord Howe began . .

In haste I tore the phrase.'You mean your friend of Eglinton, or me?'

'I mean you, you,' he answered with some fire.'A happy life means prudent compromise;The tare runs through the farmer's garnered sheaves;But though the gleaner's apron holds pure wheat,We count her poorer. Tare with wheat, we cry,And good with drawbacks. You, you love your art,And, certain of vocation, set your soulOn utterance. Only, . . in this world we have made,(They say God made it first, but, if He did,'Twas so long since, . . and, since, we have spoiled it so,He scarce would know it, if He looked this way,From hells we preach of, with the flames blown out,)In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world,Where all the heaviest wrongs get uppermost,–In this uneven, unfostering England here,Where ledger-strokes and sword-strokes count indeed,But soul-strokes merely tell upon the fleshThey strike from,–it is hard to stand for art,Unless some golden tripod from the seaBe fished up, by Apollo's divine chance,To throne such feet as yours, my prophetess,At Delphi. Think,–the god comes down as fierceAs twenty bloodhounds! shakes you, strangles you,Until the oracular shriek shall ooze in froth!At best it's not all ease,–at worst too hard:A place to stand on is a 'vantage gained,And here's your tripod. To be plain, dear friend,You're poor, except in what you richly give;You labour for your own bread painfully,Or ere you pour our wine. For art's sake, pause.'

I answered slow,–as some wayfaring man,Who feels himself at night too far from home,Makes stedfast face against the bitter wind.'Is art so less a thing than virtue is,That artists first must cater for their easeOr ever they make issue past themselvesTo generous use? alas, and is it so,That we, who would be somewhat clean, must sweepOur ways as well as walk them, and no friendConfirm us nobly,–'Leave results to God,But you be clean?' What! 'prudent compromiseMakes acceptable life,' you say instead,You, you, Lord Howe?–in things indifferent, well.For instance, compromise the wheaten breadFor rye, the meat for lentils, silk for serge,And sleep on down, if needs, for sleep on straw;But there, end compromise. I will not bateOne artist-dream, on straw or down, my lord,Nor pinch my liberal soul, though I be poor,Nor cease to love high, though I live thus low.

So speaking, with less anger in my voiceThan sorrow, I rose quickly to depart;While he, thrown back upon the noble shameOf such high-stumbling natures, murmured words,The right words after wrong ones. Ah, the manIs worthy, but so given to entertainImpossible plans of superhuman life,–He sets his virtues on so raised a shelf,To keep them at the grand millennial height,He has to mount a stool to get at them;And meantime, lives on quite the common way,With everybody's morals. As we passed,Lord Howe insisting that his friendly armShould oar me across the sparkling brawling streamWhich swept from room to room, we fell at onceOn Lady Waldemar. 'Miss Leigh,' she said,And gave me such a smile, so cold and bright,As if she tried it in a 'tiring glassAnd liked it; 'all to-night I've strained at you,As babes at baubles held up out of reachBy spiteful nurses, ('Never snatch,' they say,)And there you sate, most perfectly shut inBy good Sir Blaize and clever Mister Smith,And then our dear Lord Howe! at last, indeed,I almost snatched. I have a world to speakAbout your cousin's place in Shropshire, whereI've been to see his work . . our work,–you heardI went? . . and of a letter yesterday,In which, if I should read a page or two,You might feel interest, though you're locked of courseIn literary toil.–You'll like to hearYour last book lies at the phalanstery,As judged innocuous for the elder girlsAnd younger women who still care for books.We all must read, you see, before we live:But slowly the ineffable light comes up,And, as it deepens, drowns the written word,–So said your cousin, while we stood and feltA sunset from his favorite beech-tree seat:He might have been a poet if he would,But then he saw the higher thing at once,And climbed to it. It think he looks well now,Has quite got over that unfortunate . .Ah, ah . . I know it moved you. Tender-heart!You took a liking to the wretched girl.Perhaps you thought the marriage suitable,Who knows? a poet hankers for romance,And so on. As for Romney Leigh, 'tis sureHe never loved her,–never. By the way,You have not heard of her . .? quite out of sight.And out of saving? lost in every sense?'

She might have gone on talking half-an-hour,And I stood still, and cold, and pale, I think,As a garden-statue a child pelts with snowFor pretty pastime. Every now and thenI put in 'yes' or 'no,' I scarce knew why;The blind man walks wherever the dog pulls,And so I answered. Till Lord Howe broke in;'What penance takes the wretch who interruptsThe talk of charming women? I, at last,Must brave it. Pardon, Lady Waldemar!The lady on my arm is tired, unwell,And loyally I've promised she may sayNor harder word this evening, than . . goodnight;The rest her face speaks for her.'–Then we went.

And I breathe large at home. I drop my cloak,Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that tiesMy hair . . now could I but unloose my soul!We are sepulchred alive in this close world,And want more room.The charming woman there–This reckoning up and writing down her talkAffects me singularly. How she talkedTo pain me! woman's spite!–You wear steel-mail;A woman takes a housewife from her breast,And plucks the delicatest needle outAs 'twere a rose, and pricks you carefully'Neath nails, 'neath eyelids, in your nostrils,–say,A beast would roar so tortured,–but a man,A human creature, must not, shall not flinch,No, not for shame.What vexes after all,Is just that such as she, with such as I,Knows how to vex. Sweet heaven, she takes me upAs if she had fingered me and dog-eared meAnd spelled me by the fireside, half a life!She knows my turns, my feeble points,–What then?The knowledge of a thing implies the thing;Of course she found that in me, she saw that,Her pencil underscored this for a fault,And I, still ignorant. Shut the book up! close!And crush that beetle in the leaves. O heart,At last we shall grow hard too, like the rest,And call it self-defence because we are soft.

And after all, now, . . why should I be pained,That Romney Leigh, my cousin, should espouseThis Lady Waldemar? And, say, she heldHer newly-blossomed gladness in my face, . .'Twas natural surely, if not generous,Considering how, when winter held her fast,I helped the frost with mine, and pained her moreThan she pains me. Pains me!–but wherefore pained?'Tis clear my cousin Romney wants a wife,–So, good!–The man's need of the woman, here,Is greater than the woman's of the man,And easier served; for where the man discernsA sex, (ah, ah, the man can generalise,Said he) we see but one, ideallyAnd really: where we yearn to lose ourselvesAnd melt like white pearls in another's wine,He seeks to double himself by what he loves,And make his drink more costly by our pearls.At board, at bed, at work, and holiday,It is not good for a man to be alone,–And that's his way of thinking, first and last;And thus my cousin Romney wants a wife.

But then my cousin sets his dignityOn personal virtue. If he understandsBy love, like others, self-aggrandisement,It is that he may verily be greatBy doing rightly and kindly. Once he thought,For charitable ends set duly forthIn heaven's white judgement-book, to marry . . ah,We'll call her name Aurora Leigh, althoughShe's changed since then!–and once, for social ends,Poor Marian Erle, my sister Marian Erle,My woodland sister, sweet Maid Marian,Whose memory moans on in me like the windThrough ill-shut casements, making me more sadThan ever I find reasons for. Alas,Poor pretty plaintive face, embodied ghost,He finds it easy, then, to clap thee offFrom pulling at his sleeve and book and pen,–He locks thee out at night into the cold,Away from butting with thy horny eyesAgainst his crystal dreams,–that, now, he's strongTo love anew? that Lady WaldemarSucceeds my Marian?After all, why not?He loved not Marian, more than once he lovedAurora. If he loves, at last, that Third,Albeit she prove as slippery as spilt oilOn marble floors, I will not augur himIll luck for that. Good love, howe'er ill-placed,Is better for a man's soul in the end,Than if he loved ill what deserves love well.A pagan, kissing, for a step of Pan,The wild-goat's hoof-print on the loamy down,Exceeds our modern thinker who turns backThe strata . . granite, limestone, coal, and clay,Concluding coldly with, 'Here's law! Where's God?'

And then at worse,–if Romney loves her not,–At worst,–if he's incapable of love,Which may be–then indeed, for such a manIncapable of love, she's good enough;For she, at worst too, is a woman stillAnd loves him as the sort of woman can.

My loose long hair began to burn and creep,Alive to the very ends, about my knees:I swept it backward as the wind sweeps flame,With the passion of my hands. Ah, Romney laughedOne day . . (how full the memories came up!)'–Your Florence fire-flies live on in your hair,'He said, 'it gleams so.' Well, I wrung them out,My fire-flies; made a knot as hard as life,Of those loose, soft, impracticable curls,And then sat down and thought . . 'She shall not thinkHer thoughts of me,'–and drew my desk and wrote.

'Dear Lady Waldemar, I could not speakWith people around me, nor can sleep to-nightAnd not speak, after the great news I heardOf you and of my cousin. My you beMost happy; and the good he meant the world,Replenish his own life. Say what I say,And let my word be sweeter for your mouth,As you are you . . I only Aurora Leigh.'

That's quiet, guarded! Though she hold it upAgainst the light, she'll not see through it moreThan lies there to be seen. So much for pride;And now for peace, a little! Let me stopAll writing back . . 'Sweet thanks, my sweetest friend,'You've made more joyful my great joy itself.'–No, that's too simple! she would twist it thus,'My joy would still be as sweet as thyme in drawers,However shut up in the dark and dry;But violets, aired and dewed by love like yours,Out-smell all thyme! we keep that in our clothes,But drop the other down our bosoms, tillthey smell like' . . ah, I see her writing backJust so. She'll make a nosegay of her words,And tie it with blue ribbons at the endTo suit a poet;–pshaw!And then we'll haveThe call to church; the broken, sad, bad dreamDreamed out at last; the marriage-vow completeWith the marriage-breakfast; praying in white gloves,Drawn off in haste for drinking pagan toastsIn somewhat stronger wine than any sippedBy gods, since Bacchus had his way with grapes.

A postscript stops all that, and rescues me.'You need not write. I have been overworked,And think of leaving London, England, even,And hastening to get nearer to the sun,Where men sleep better. So, adieu,'–I foldAnd seal,–and now I'm out of all the coil;I breathe now; I spring upward like a branch,A ten-years school-boy with a crooked stickMay pull down to his level, in search of nuts,But cannot hold a moment. How we twangBack on the blue sky, and assert our height,While he stares after! Now, the wonder seemsThat I could wrong myself by such a doubt.We poets always have uneasy hearts;Because our hearts, large-rounded as the globe,Can turn but one side to the sun at once.We are used to dip our artist-hands in gallAnd potash, trying potentialitiesOf alternated colour, till at lastWe get confused, and wonder for our skinHow nature tinged it first. Well–here's the trueGood flesh-colour; I recognise my hand,–Which Romney Leigh may clasp as just a friend's,And keep his clean.And now, my Italy.Alas, if we could ride with naked soulsAnd make no noise and pay no price at all,I would have seen thee sooner, Italy,–For still I have heard thee crying through my life,Thou piercing silence of ecstatic graves,Men call that name!

But even a witch, to-day,Must melt down golden pieces in the nardWherewith to anoint her broomstick ere she rides;And poets evermore are scant of gold,And, if they find a piece behind the door,It turns by sunset to a withered leaf.The Devil himself scarce trusts his patentedGold-making art to any who make rhymes,But culls his Faustus from philosophersAnd not from poets. 'Leave my Job,' said God;And so, the Devil leaves him without pence,And poverty proves, plainly, special grace.In these new, just, administrative times,Men clamour for an order of merit. Why?Here's black bread on the table, and no wine!At least I am a poet in being poor;Thank God. I wonder if the manuscriptOf my long poem, it 'twere sold outright,Would fetch enough to buy me shoes, to goA-foot, (thrown in, the necessary patchFor the other side the Alps)? it cannot be:I fear that I must sell this residueOf my father's books; although the ElzevirsHave fly-leaves over-written by his hand,In faded notes as thick and fine and brownas cobwebs on a tawny monumentOf the old Greeks–conferenda hoec cum his–Corruptè citat–lege potiùs,And so on, in the scholar's regal wayOf giving judgment on the parts of speech,As if he sate on all twelve thrones up-piled,Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books and notesMust go together. And this Proclus too,In quaintly dear contracted Grecian types,Fantastically crumpled, like his thoughtsWhich would not seem too plain; you go round twiceFor one step forward, then you take it backBecause you're somewhat giddy! there's the ruleFor Proclus. Ah, I stained this middle leafWith pressing in't my Florentine iris-bell,Long stalk and all; my father chided meFor that stain of blue blood,–I recollectThe peevish turn his voice took,–'Silly girls,Who plant their flowers in our philosophyTo make it fine, and only spoil the book!No more of it, Aurora.' Yes–no more!Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than all praiseOf those who love not! 'tis so lost to me,I cannot, in such beggared life, affordTo lose my Proclus. Not for Florence, even.

The kissing Judas, Wolff, shall go instead,Who builds us such a royal book as thisTo honour a chief-poet, folio-built,And writes above, 'The house of Nobody:'Who floats in cream, as rich as any suckedFrom Juno's breasts, the broad Homeric lines,And, while with their spondaic prodigious mouthsThey lap the lucent margins as babe-gods,Proclaims them bastards. Wolff's an atheist;And if the Iliad fell out, as he says,By mere fortuitous concourse of old songs,We'll guess as much, too, for the universe.

That Wolff, those Platos: sweep the upper shelvesAs clean as this, and so I am almost rich,Which means, not forced to think of being poorIn sight of ends. To-morrow: no delay.I'll wait in Paris till good CarringtonDispose of such, and, having chaffered forMy book's price with the publisher, directAll proceeds to me. Just a line to askHis help.And now I come, my Italy,My own hills! are you 'ware of me, my hills,How I burn toward you? do you feel to-nightThe urgency and yearning of my soul,As sleeping mothers feel the sucking babeAnd smile?–Nay, not so much as when, in heat,Vain lightnings catch at your inviolate tops,And tremble while ye are stedfast. Still, ye goYour own determined, calm, indifferent wayToward sunrise, shade by shade, and light by light;Of all the grand progression nought left out;As if God verily made you for yourselves,And would not interrupt your life with ours.

Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'dTo labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,Attempting one more labour, in a trice,Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouthAs yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,And wished and had their trouble for their pains.Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at lastUnder a pork-pie hat and crinoline,And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —Jealous that the good trick which served the turnHave justice rendered it, nor class one dayWith friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!But listen, for we must co-operate;I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!First, how to make the matter plain, of course —What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:Ay, we must take one instant of my lifeSpent sitting by your side in this neat room:Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,Therefore want work: and spy no better workFor eye and hand and mind that guides them both,During this instant, than to draw my penFrom blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my lineFive inches long and tolerably straight:Better to draw than leave undrawn, I think.Fitter to do than let alone, I hold,Though better, fitter, by but one degree.Therefore it was that, rather than sit stillSimply, my right-hand drew it while my leftPulled smooth and pinched the moustache to a point.

Now I permit your plump lips to unpurse:So far, one possibly may understand"Without recourse to witchcraft!" True, my dear.Thus folks begin with Euclid, — finish, how?Trying to square the circle! — at any rate,Solving abstruser problems than this first"How find the nearest way 'twixt point and point."Deal but with moral mathematics so —Master one merest moment's work of mine,Even this practising with pen and ink, —Demonstrate why I rather plied the quillThan left the space a blank, — you gain a fact,And God knows what a fact's worth! So proceedBy inference from just this moral fact— I don't say, to that plaguy quadrature"What the whole man meant, whom you wish you knew,"But, what meant certain things he did of old,Which puzzled Europe, — why, you'll find them plain,This way, not otherwise: I guarantee.Understand one, you comprehend the rest.Rays from all round converge to any point:Study the point then ere you track the rays!The size o' the circle's nothing; subdivideEarth, and earth's smallest grain of mustard-seed,You count as many parts, small matching large,If you can use the mind's eye: otherwise,Material optics, being gross at best,Prefer the large and leave our mind the small —And pray how many folks have minds can see?Certainly you — and somebody in ThraceWhose name escapes me at the moment. You —Lend me your mind then! Analyse with meThis instance of the line 'twixt blot and blotI rather chose to draw than leave a blank.Things else being equal. You are taught therebyThat 't is my nature, when I am at ease,Rather than idle out my life too long,To want to do a thing — to put a thought,Whether a great thought or a little one,Into an act, as nearly as may be.Make what is absolutely new — I can't,Mar what is made already well enough —I won't: but turn to best account the thingThat 's half-made — that I can. Two blots, you sawI knew how to extend into a lineSymmetric on the sheet they blurred before —Such little act sufficed, this time, such thought.

Now, we'll extend rays, widen out the verge,Describe a larger circle; leave this firstClod of an instance we began with, riseTo the complete world many clods effect.Only continue patient while I throw,Delver-like, spadeful after spadeful up,Just as truths come, the subsoil of me, mouldWhence spring my moods: your object, — just to find,Alike from handlift and from barrow-load, 100What salts and silts may constitute the earth —If it be proper stuff to blow man glass,Or bake him pottery, bear him oaks or wheat —What's born of me, in brief; which found, all's known.If it were genius did the digging-job,Logic would speedily sift its product smoothAnd leave the crude truths bare for poetry;But I'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back.What one spread fails to bring, another may.In goes the shovel and out comes scoop — as here!

I live to please myself. I recognizePower passing mine, immeasurable, God —Above me, whom He made, as heaven beyondEarth — to use figures which assist our sense.I know that He is there as I am here.By the same proof, which seems no proof at all,It so exceeds familiar forms of proof.Why "there," not "here"? Because, when I say "there,"I treat the feeling with distincter shapeThat space exists between us: I, — not He, —Live, think, do human work here — no machine.His will moves, but a being by myself,His, and not He who made me for a work,Watches my working, judges its effect,But does not interpose. He did so once,And probably will again some time — not now,Life being the minute of mankind, not God's,In a certain sense, like time before and timeAfter man's earthly life, so far as manNeeds apprehend the matter. Am I clear?Suppose I bid a courier take to-night(. . . Once for all, let me talk as if I smokedYet in the Residenz, a personage:I must still represent the thing I was,Galvanically make dead muscle play.Or how shall I illustrate muscle's use?)I could then, last July, bid courier takeMessage for me, post-haste, a thousand miles.I bid him, since I have the right to bid,And, my part done so far, his part begins;He starts with due equipment, will and power,Means he may use, misuse, not use at all.At his discretion, at his peril too.I leave him to himself: but, journey done,I count the minutes, call for the resultIn quickness and the courier quality.Weigh its worth, and then punish or rewardAccording to proved service; not before.Meantime, he sleeps through noontide, rides till dawn.Sticks to the straight road, tries the crooked path,Measures and manages resource, trusts, doubtsAdvisers by the wayside, does his bestAt his discretion, lags or launches forth,(He knows and I know) at his peril too.You see? Exactly thus men stand to God:I with my courier, God with me. Just soI have His bidding to perform; but mindAnd body, all of me, though made and meantFor that sole service, must consult, concertWith my own self and nobody beside,How to effect the same: God helps not else.'T is I who, with my stock of craft and strength,Choose the directer cut across the hedge,Or keep the foot-track that respects a crop.Lie down and rest, rise up and run, — live spare,Feed free, — all that 's my business: but, arrive,Deliver message, bring the answer back,And make my bow, I must: then God will speak,Praise me or haply blame as service proves.To other men, to each and everyone,Another law! what likelier? God, perchance,Grants each new man, by some as new a mode.Intercommunication with Himself,Wreaking on finiteness infinitude;By such a series of effects, gives eachLast His own imprint: old yet ever newThe process: 't is the way of Deity.How it succeeds, He knows: I only knowThat varied modes of creatureship abound,Implying just as varied intercourseFor each with the creator of them all.Each has his own mind and no other's mode.What mode may yours be? I shall sympathize!No doubt, you, good young lady that you are,Despite a natural naughtiness or two,Turn eyes up like a Pradier MagdalenAnd see an outspread providential handAbove the owl's-wing aigrette — guard and guide —Visibly o'er your path, about your bed,Through all your practisings with London-town.It points, you go; it stays fixed, and you stop;You quicken its procedure by a wordSpoken, a thought in silence, prayer and praise.Well, I believe that such a hand may stoop,And such appeals to it may stave off harm,Pacify the grim guardian of this Square,And stand you in good stead on quarter-day:Quite possible in your case; not in mine."Ah, but I choose to make the difference,Find the emancipation?" No, I hope!If I deceive myself, take noon for night,Please to become determinedly blindTo the true ordinance of human life.Through mere presumption — that is my affair.And truly a grave one; but as grave I thinkYour affair, yours, the specially observed, —Each favoured person that perceives his pathPointed him, inch by inch, and looks aboveFor guidance, through the mazes of this world,In what we call its meanest life-career— Not how to manage Europe properly.But how keep open shop, and yet pay rent.Rear household, and make both ends meet, the same.I say, such man is no less tasked than ITo duly take the path appointed himBy whatsoever sign he recognize.Our insincerity on both our heads!No matter what the object of a life,Small work or large, — the making thrive a shop,Or seeing that an empire take no harm, —There are known fruits to judge obedience by.You've read a ton's weight, now, of newspaper —Lives of me, gabble about the kind of prince —You know my work i' the rough; I ask you, then.Do I appear subordinated lessTo hand-impulsion, one prime push for all.Than little lives of men, the multitudeThat cried out, every quarter of an hour,For fresh instructions, did or did not work,And praised in the odd minutes?

Eh, my dear?Such is the reason why I acquiescedIn doing what seemed best for me to do,So as to please myself on the great scale,Having regard to immortalityNo less than life — did that which head and heartPrescribed my hand, in measure with its meansOf doing — used my special stock of power —Not from the aforesaid head and heart alone,But every sort of helpful circumstance.Some problematic and some nondescript:All regulated by the single careI' the last resort — that I made thoroughly serveThe when and how, toiled where was need, reposedAs resolutely to the proper point.Braved sorrow, courted joy, to just one end:Namely, that just the creature I was boundTo be, I should become, nor thwart at allGod's purpose in creation. I conceiveNo other duty possible to man, —Highest mind, lowest mind, — no other lawBy which to judge life failure or success:What folks call being saved or cast away.

Such was my rule of life; I worked my bestSubject to ultimate judgment, God's not man's.Well then, this settled, — take your tea, I beg.And meditate the fact, 'twixt sip and sip, —This settled — why I pleased myself, you saw,By turning blot and blot into a line,O' the little scale, — we'll try now (as your tongueTries the concluding sugar-drop) what's meantTo please me most o' the great scale. Why, just now,With nothing else to do within my reach.Did I prefer making two blots one lineTo making yet another separateThird blot, and leaving those I found unlinked?It meant, I like to use the thing I find.Rather than strive at unfound novelty:I make the best of the old, nor try for new.Such will to act, such choice of action's way.Constitute — when at work on the great scale,Driven to their farthest natural consequenceBy all the help from all the means — my ownParticular faculty of serving God,Instinct for putting power to exerciseUpon some wish and want o' the time, I provePossible to mankind as best I may.This constitutes my mission, — grant the phrase, —Namely, to rule men — men within my reach,To order, influence and dispose them soAs render solid and stabilifyMankind in particles, the light and loose,For their good and my pleasure in the act.Such good accomplished proves twice good to me —Good for its own sake, as the just and right.And, in the effecting also, good againTo me its agent, tasked as suits my taste.

Is this much easy to be understoodAt first glance? Now begin the steady gaze!

My rank — (if I must tell you simple truth —Telling were else not worth the whiff o' the weedI lose for the tale's sake) — dear, my rank i' the worldIs hard to know and name precisely: errI may, but scarcely over-estimateMy style and title. Do I class with menMost useful to their fellows? Possibly, —Therefore, in some sort, best; but, greatest mindAnd rarest nature? Evidently no.A conservator, call me, if you please,Not a creator nor destroyer: oneWho keeps the world safe. I profess to traceThe broken circle of society,Dim actual order, I can redescribeNot only where some segment silver-trueStays clear, but where the breaks of black commenceBaffling you all who want the eye to probe —As I make out yon problematic thinWhite paring of your thumb-nail outside there,Above the plaster-monarch on his steed —See an inch, name an ell, and prophecyO' the rest that ought to follow, the round moonNow hiding in the night of things: that round,I labour to demonstrate moon enoughFor the month's purpose, — that society,Render efficient for the age's need:Preserving you in either case the old,Nor aiming at a new and greater thing,A sun for moon, a future to be madeBy first abolishing the present law:No such proud task for me by any means!History shows you men whose master-touchNot so much modifies as makes anew:Minds that transmute nor need restore at all.A breath of God made manifest in fleshSubjects the world to change, from time to time,Alters the whole conditions of our raceAbruptly, not by unperceived degreesNor play of elements already there,But quite new leaven, leavening the lump,And liker, so, the natural process. See!Where winter reigned for ages — by a turnI' the time, some star-change, (ask geologists)The ice-tracts split, clash, splinter and disperse.And there's an end of immobility,Silence, and all that tinted pageant, baseTo pinnacle, one flush from fairy-landDead-asleep and deserted somewhere, — see! —As a fresh sun, wave, spring and joy outburst.Or else the earth it is, time starts from trance.Her mountains tremble into fire, her plainsHeave blinded by confusion: what result?New teeming growth, surprises of strange lifeImpossible before, a world broke upAnd re-made, order gained by law destroyed.Not otherwise, in our societyFollow like portents, all as absoluteRegenerations: they have birth at rareUncertain unexpected intervalsO' the world, by ministry impossibleBefore and after fulness of the days:Some dervish desert-spectre, swordsman, saint,Law-giver, lyrist, — Oh, we know the names!Quite other these than I. Our time requiresNo such strange potentate, — who else would dawn, —No fresh force till the old have spent itself.Such seems the natural economy.To shoot a beam into the dark, assists:To make that beam do fuller service, spreadAnd utilize such bounty to the height,That assists also, — and that work is mine.I recognize, contemplate, and approveThe general compact of society.Not simply as I see effected good.But good i' the germ, each chance that's possibleI' the plan traced so far: all results, in short,For better or worse of the operation dueTo those exceptional natures, unlike mine,Who, helping, thwarting, conscious, unaware.Did somehow manage to so far describeThis diagram left ready to my hand.Waiting my turn of trial. I see success.See failure, see what makes or mars throughout.How shall I else but help complete this planOf which I know the purpose and approve,By letting stay therein what seems to stand,And adding good thereto of easier reachTo-day than yesterday?

So much, no more!Whereon, "No more than that?" — inquire aggrievedHalf of my critics: "nothing new at all?The old plan saved, instead of a sponged slateAnd fresh-drawn figure?" — while, "So much as that?"Object their fellows of the other faith:"Leave uneffaced the crazy labyrinthOf alteration and amendment, linesWhich every dabster felt in duty boundTo signalize his power of pen and inkBy adding to a plan once plain enough?Why keep each fool's bequeathment, scratch and blurrWhich overscrawl and underscore the piece —Nay, strengthen them by touches of your own?"

Well, that 's my mission, so I serve the world,Figure as man o' the moment, — in defaultOf somebody inspired to strike such changeInto society — from round to square.The ellipsis to the rhomboid, how you please,As suits the size and shape o' the world he finds.But this I can, — and nobody my peer, —Do the best with the least change possible:Carry the incompleteness on, a stage,Make what was crooked straight, and roughness smooth.And weakness strong: wherein if I succeed,It will not prove the worst achievement, sure.In the eyes at least of one man, one I lookNowise to catch in critic company:To-wit, the man inspired, the genius' selfDestined to come and change things thoroughly.He, at least, finds his business simplified.Distinguishes the done from undone, readsPlainly what meant and did not mean this timeWe live in, and I work on, and transmitTo such successor: he will operateOn good hard substance, not mere shade and shine.Let all my critics, born to idlenessAnd impotency, get their good, and haveTheir hooting at the giver: I am deaf —Who find great good in this society,Great gain, the purchase of great labour. TouchThe work I may and must, but — reverentIn every fall o' the finger-tip, no doubt.Perhaps I find all good there's warrant forI' the world as yet: nay, to the end of time, —Since evil never means part companyWith mankind, only shift side and change shape.I find advance i' the main, and notablyThe Present an improvement on the Past,And promise for the Future — which shall proveOnly the Present with its rough made smooth,Its indistinctness emphasized; I hopeNo better, nothing newer for mankind,But something equably smoothed everywhere,Good, reconciled with hardly-quite-as-good,Instead of good and bad each jostling each."And that's all?" Ay, and quite enough for me!We have toiled so long to gain what gain I findI' the Present, — let us keep it! We shall toilSo long before we gain — if gain God grant —A Future with one touch of differenceI' the heart of things, and not their outside face, —Let us not risk the whiff of my cigarFor Fourier, Comte and all that ends in smoke!

This I see clearest probably of menWith power to act and influence, now alive:Juster than they to the true state of things;In consequence, more tolerant that, sideBy side, shall co-exist and thrive alikeIn the age, the various sorts of happinessjNIoral, mark! — not material — moods o' the mindSuited to man and man his opposite:Say, minor modes of movement — hence to there,Or thence to here, or simply round about —So long as each toe spares its neighbour's kibe,Nor spoils the major march and main advance.The love of peace, care for the family,Contentment with what's bad but might be worse —Good movements these! and good, too, discontent,So long as that spurs good, which might be best,Into becoming better, anyhow:Good — pride of country, putting hearth and homeI' the back-ground, out of undue prominence:Good — yearning after change, strife, victory,And triumph. Each shall have its orbit marked,But no more, — none impede the other's pathIn this wide world, — though each and all alike,Save for me, fain would spread itself through spaceAnd leave its fellow not an inch of way.I rule and regulate the course, excite,Restrain: because the whole machine should marchImpelled by those diversely-moving parts,Each blind to aught beside its little bent.Out of the turnings round and round inside,Comes that straightforward world-advance, I want,And none of them supposes God wants tooAnd gets through just their hindrance and my help.I think that to have held the balance straightFor twenty years, say, weighing claim and claim,And giving each its due, no less no more,This was good service to humanity,Right usage of my power in head and heart,And reasonable piety beside.Keep those three points in mind while judging me!You stand, perhaps, for some one man, not men, —Represent this or the other interest,Nor mind the general welfare, — so, impugnMy practice and dispute my value: why?You man of faith, I did not tread the worldInto a paste, and thereof make a smoothUniform mound whereon to plant your flag,The lily-white, above the blood and brains!Nor yet did I, you man of faithlessness,So roll things to the level which you love,That you could stand at ease there and surveyThe universal Nothing undisgracedBy pert obtrusion of some old church-spireI' the distance! Neither friend would I content,Nor, as the world were simply meant for him.Thrust out his fellow and mend God's mistake.Why, you two fools, — my dear friends all the same, —Is it some change o' the world and nothing elseContents you? Should whatever was, not be?How thanklessly you view things! There 's the rootOf the evil, source of the entire mistake: You see no worth i' the world, nature and life,Unless we change what is to what may be.Which means, — may be, i' the brain of one of you!"Reject what is?" — all capabilities —Nay, you may style them chances if you choose —All chances, then, of happiness that lieOpen to anybody that is born,Tumbles into this life and out again, —All that may happen, good and evil too,I' the space between, to each adventurerUpon this 'sixty, Anno Domini:A life to live — and such a life a worldTo learn, one's lifetime in, — and such a world!However did the foolish pass for wiseBy calling life a burden, man a flyOr worm or what's most insignificant?"O littleness of man!" deplores the bard;And then, for fear the Powers should punish him,I' the space between, to each adventurerUpon this 'sixty, Anno Domini:A life to live — and such a life a worldTo learn, one's lifetime in, — and such a world!However did the foolish pass for wiseBy calling life a burden, man a flyOr worm or what's most insignificant?"O littleness of man!" deplores the bard;And then, for fear the Powers should punish him,"O grandeur of the visible universeOur human littleness contrasts withal!O sun, O moon, ye mountains and thou sea,Thou emblem of immensity, thou this,That and the other, — what impertinenceIn man to eat and drink and walk aboutAnd have his little notions of his own,The while some wave sheds foam upon the shore!"First of all, 't is a lie some three-times thick:The bard, — this sort of speech being poetry, —The bard puts mankind well outside himselfAnd then begins instructing them: "This wayI and my friend the sea conceive of you!What would you give to think such thoughts as oursOf you and the sea together? "Down they goOn the humbled knees of them: at once they drawDistinction, recognize no mate of theirsIn one, despite his mock humility,So plain a match for what he plays with. Next,The turn of the great ocean-play-fellow,When the bard, leaving Bond Street very farFrom ear-shot, cares not to ventriloquize,But tells the sea its home-truths: "You, my match?You, all this terror and inmiensityAnd what not? Shall I tell you what you are?Just fit to hitch into a stanza, soWake up and set in motion who's asleepO' the other side of you, in England, elseUnaware, as folk pace their Bond Street now,Somebody here despises them so much!Between us, — they are the ultimate! to themAnd their perception go these lordly thoughts:Since what were ocean — mane and tail, to boot —Mused I not here, how make thoughts thinkable?Start forth my stanza and astound the world!Back, billows, to your insignificance!Deep, you are done with!"

Learn, my gifted friend,There are two things i' the world, still wiser folkAccept — intelligence and sympathy.You pant about unutterable powerI' the ocean, all you feel but cannot speak?Why, that's the plainest speech about it all.You did not feel what was not to be felt.Well, then, all else but what man feels is naught —The wash o' the liquor that o'erbrims the cupCalled man, and runs to waste adown his side,Perhaps to feed a cataract, — who cares?I'll tell you: all the more I know mankind,The more I thank God, like my grandmother,For making me a little lower thanThe angels, honour-clothed and glory-crowned:This is the honour, — that no thing I know,Feel or conceive, but I can make my ownSomehow, by use of hand or head or heart:This is the glory, — that in all conceived.Or felt or known, I recognize a mindNot mine but like mine, — for the double joy, —Making all things for me and me for Him.There's folly for you at this time of day!So think it! and enjoy your ignoranceOf what — no matter for the worthy's name —Wisdom set working in a noble heart,When he, who was earth's best geometerUp to that time of day, consigned his lifeWith its results into one matchless book,The triumph of the human mind so far.All in geometry man yet could do:And then wrote on the dedication-pageIn place of name the universe applauds,"But, God, what a geometer art Thou!"I suppose Heaven is, through Eternity,The equalizing, ever and anon,In momentary rapture, great with small,Omniscience with intelligency, GodWith man, — the thunder-glow from pole to poleAbolishing, a blissful moment-space,Great cloud alike and small cloud, in one fire —As sure to ebb as sure again to flowWhen the new receptivity deservesThe new completion. There's the Heaven for me.And I say, therefore, to live out one's lifeI' the world here, with the chance, — whether by painOr pleasure be the process, long or shortThe time, august or mean the circumstanceTo human eye, — of learning how set footDecidedly on some one path to Heaven,Touch segment in the circle whence all linesLead to the centre equally, red linesOr black lines, so they but produce themselves —This, I do say, — and here my sermon ends, —This makes it worth our while to tenderlyHandle a state of things which mend we might.Mar we may, but which meanwhile helps so far.Therefore my end is — save society!

"And that's all?" twangs the never-failing tauntO' the foe — "No novelty, creativeness,Mark of the master that renews the age?""Nay, all that?" rather will demur my judgeI look to hear some day, nor friend nor foe —"Did you attain, then, to perceive that GodKnew what He undertook when He made things?"Ay: that my task was to co-operateRather than play the rival, chop and changeThe order whence comes all the good we know,With this, — good's last expression to our sense, —That there's a further good conceivableBeyond the utmost earth can realize:And, therefore, that to change the agency,The evil whereby good is brought about —Try to make good do good as evil does —Were just as if a chemist, wanting white.And knowing black ingredients bred the dye.Insisted these too should be white forsooth!Correct the evil, mitigate your best,Blend mild with harsh, and soften black to grayIf gray may follow with no detrimentTo the eventual perfect purity!But as for hazarding the main resultBy hoping to anticipate one halfIn the intermediate process, — no, my friends!This bad world, I experience and approve;Your good world, — with no pity, courage, hope.Fear, sorrow, joy, — devotedness, in short,Which I account the ultimate of man,Of which there's not one day nor hour but bringsIn flower or fruit, some sample of success,Out of this same society I save —None of it for me! That I might have none,I rapped your tampering knuckles twenty years.Such was the task imposed me, such my end.

Now for the means thereto. Ah, confidence —Keep we together or part company?This is the critical minute! "Such my end?"Certainly; how could it be otherwise?Can there be question which was the right task —To save or to destroy society?Why, even prove that, by some miracle,Destruction were the proper work to choose,And that a torch best remedies what's wrongI' the temple, whence the long procession woundOf powers and beauties, earth's achievements all.The human strength that strove and overthrew, —The human love that, weak itself, crowned strength,—The instinct crying "God is whence I came!" —The reason laying down the law "And suchHis will i' the world must be! " — the leap and shoutOf genius "For I hold His very thoughts,The meaning of the mind of Him!" — nay, moreThe ingenuities, each active forceThat turning in a circle on itseltLooks neither up nor down but keeps the spot.Mere creature-like and, for religion, works,Works only and works ever, makes and shapesAnd changes, still wrings more of good from less,Still stamps some bad out, where was worst before.So leaves the handiwork, the act and deed.Were it but house and land and wealth, to showHere was a creature perfect in the kind —Whether as bee, beaver, or behemoth,What's the importance? he has done his workFor work's sake, worked well, earned a creature's praise; —I say, concede that same fane, whence deploysAge after age, all this humanity,Diverse but ever dear, out of the darkBehind the altar into the broad dayBy the portal — enter, and, concede there mocksEach lover of free motion and much spaceA perplexed length of apse and aisle and nave, —Pillared roof and carved screen, and what care I?That irk the movement and impede the march, —Nay, possibly, bring flat upon his noseAt some odd break-neck angle, by some freakOf old-world artistry, that personageWho, could he but have kept his skirts from griefAnd catching at the hooks and crooks about,Had stepped out on the daylight of our timePlainly the man of the age, — still, still, I barExcessive conflagration in the case."Shake the flame freely!" shout the multitude:The architect approves I stuck my torchInside a good stout lantern, hung its lightAbove the hooks and crooks, and ended so. To save society was well: the meansWhereby to save it, — there begins the doubtPermitted you, imperative on me;Were mine the best means? Did I work arightWith powers appointed me? — since powers deniedConcern me nothing.

Well, my work reviewedFairly, leaves more hope than discouragement.First, there's the deed done: what I found, I leave,-What tottered, I kept stable: if it standOne month, without sustainment, still thank meThe twenty years' sustainer! Now, observe,Sustaining is no brilliant self-displayLike knocking down or even setting up:Much bustle these necessitate; and stillTo vulgar eye, the mightier of the mythIs Hercules, who substitutes his ownFor Atlas' shoulder and supports the globeA whole day, — not the passive and obscureAtlas who bore, ere Hercules was born,And is to go on bearing that same loadWhen Hercules turns ash on OEta's top.'T is the transition-stage, the tug and strain.That strike men: standing still is stupid-like.My pressure was too constant on the wholeFor any part's eruption into spaceMid sparkles, crackling, and much praise of me.I saw that, in the ordinary life,Many of the little make a mass of menImportant beyond greatness here and there;As certainly as, in life exceptional,When old things terminate and new commence,A solitary great man's worth the world.God takes the business into His own handsAt such time: who creates the novel flowerContrives to guard and give it breathing-room:I merely tend the corn-field, care for crop,And weed no acre thin to let emergeWhat prodigy may stifle there perchance,— No, though my eye have noted where he lurks.Oh those mute myriads that spoke loud to me —The eyes that craved to see the light, the mouthsThat sought the daily bread and nothing more,The hands that supplicated exercise,Men that had wives, and women that had babes,And all these making suit to only live!Was I to turn aside from husbandry,Leave hope of harvest for the corn, my care,To play at horticulture, rear some roseOr poppy into perfect leaf and bloomWhen, mid the furrows, up was pleased to sproutSome man, cause, system, special interestI ought to study, stop the world meanwhile?"But I am Liberty, Philanthropy,Enhghtenment, or Patriotism, the powerWhereby you are to stand or fall!" cries each:"Mine and mine only be the flag you flaunt!"And, when I venture to object "Meantime,What of yon myriads with no flag at all —My crop which, who flaunts flag must tread across?""Now, this it is to have a puny mind!"Admire my mental prodigies: "down — down —Ever at home o' the level and the low.There bides he brooding! Could he look above,With less of the owl and more of the eagle eye,He'd see there's no way helps the little causeLike the attainment of the great. Dare firstThe chief emprise; dispel yon cloud betweenThe sun and us; nor fear that, though our headsFind earlier warmth and comfort from his ray,What Hes about our feet, the multitude,Will fail of benefaction presently.Come now, let each of us awhile cry truceTo special interests, make common causeAgainst the adversary — or perchanceMere dullard to his own plain interest!Which of us will you choose? — since needs must beSome one o' the warring causes you inclineTo hold, i' the main, has right and should prevail;Why not adopt and give it prevalence?Choose strict Faith or lax Incredulity, —King, Caste and Cultus — or the Rights of Man,Sovereignty of each Proudhon o'er himself,And all that follows in just consequence!Go free the stranger from a foreign yoke;Or stay, concentrate energy at home;Succeed! — when he deserves, the stranger will.Comply with the Great Nation's impulse, printBy force of arms, — since reason pleads in vain,And, mid the sweet compulsion, pity weeps, —Hohenstiel-Schwangau on the universe! Snub the Great Nation, cure the impulsive itchWith smartest fillip on a restless noseWas ever launched by thumb and finger! BidHohenstiel-Schwangau first repeal the taxOn pig-tails and pomatum and then mindAbstruser matters for next century!Is your choice made? Why then, act up to choice!Leave the illogical touch now here now thereI' the way of work, the tantalizing helpFirst to this then the other opposite:The blowing hot and cold, sham policy,Sure ague of the mind and nothing more,Disease of the perception or the Will,That fain would hide in a fine name! Your choice,Speak it out and condemn yourself thereby!"

Well, Leicester-square is not the Residenz:Instead of shrugging shoulder, turning friendThe deaf ear, with a wink to the police —I'll answer — by a question, wisdom's mode.How many years, o' the average, do menLive in this world? Some score, say computists.Quintuple me that term and give mankindThe likely hundred, and with all my heartI'll take your task upon me, work your way,Concentrate energy on some one cause:Since, counseller, I also have my cause,My flag, my faith in its effect, my hopeIn its eventual triumph for the goodO' the world. And once upon a time, when IWas like all you, mere voice and nothing more,Myself took wings, soared sun-ward, and thence sang"Look where I live i' the loft, come up to me,Groundlings, nor grovel longer I gain this height.And prove you breathe here better than below!Why, what emancipation far and wideWill follow in a trice! They too can soar,Each tenant of the earth's circumferenceClaiming to elevate humanity,They also must attain such altitude,Live in the luminous circle that surroundsThe planet, not the leaden orb itself.Press out, each point, from surface to yon vergeWhich one has gained and guaranteed your realm!"Ay, still my fragments wander, music-fraught,Sighs of the soul, mine once, mine now, and mineFor ever! Crumbled arch, crushed aqueduct,Alive with tremors in the shaggy growthOf wild-wood, crevice-sown, that triumphs thereImparting exultation to the hills!Sweep of the swathe when only the winds walkAnd waft my words above the grassy seaUnder the blinding blue that basks o'er Rome, —Hear ye not still — "Be Italy again?"And ye, what strikes the panic to your heart?Decrepit council-chambers, — where some lampDrives the unbroken black three paces offFrom where the greybeards huddle in debate,Dim cowls and capes, and midmost glimmers oneLike tarnished gold, and what they say is doubt.And what they think is fear, and what suspendsThe breath in them is not the plaster-patchTime disengages from the painted wallWhere Rafael moulderingly bids adieu,Nor tick of the insect turning tapestryTo dust, which a queen's finger traced of old;But some word, resonant, redoubtable.Of who once felt upon his head a handWhereof the head now apprehends his foot."Light in Rome, Law in Rome, and LibertyO' the soul in Rome — the free Church, the free State!Stamp out the nature that's best typifiedBy its embodiment in Peter's Dome,The scorpion-body with the greedy pairOf outstretched nippers, either colonnadeAgape for the advance of heads and hearts!"There's one cause for you! one and only one.For I am vocal through the universe,I' the work-shop, manufactory, exchangeAnd market-place, sea-port and custom-houseO' the frontier: listen if the echoes die —"Unfettered commerce! Power to speak and hear,And print and read! The universal vote!Its rights for labour!" This, with much beside,I spoke when I was voice and nothing more,But altogether such an one as youMy censors. "Voice, and nothing more, indeed!"Re-echoes round me: "that's the censure, there'sInvolved the ruin of you soon or late!Voice, — when its promise beat the empty air:And nothing more, — when solid earth's your stage.And we desiderate performance, deedFor word, the realizing all you dreamedIn the old days: now, for deed, we find at doorO' the council-chamber posted, mute as mouse,Hohenstiel-Schwangau, sentry and safeguardO' the greybeards all a-chuckle, cowl to cape.Who challenge Judas, — that 's endearment's style, —To stop their mouths or let escape grimace,While they keep cursing Italy and him.The power to speak, hear, print and read is ours?Ay, we learn where and how, when clapped insideA convict-transport bound for cool Cayenne!The universal vote we have: its urn,We also have where votes drop, fingered-o'erBy the universal Prefect. Say, Trade's freeAnd Toil turned master out o' the slave it was:What then? These feed man's stomach, but his soulCraves finer fare, nor lives by bread alone.As somebody says somewhere. Hence you standProved and recorded either false or weak, Faulty in promise or performance: which?"Neither, I hope. Once pedestalled on earth,To act not speak, I found earth was not air.I saw that multitude of mine, and notThe nakedness and nullity of airFit only for a voice to float in free.Such eyes I saw that craved the light alone.Such mouths that wanted bread and nothing else,Such hands that supplicated handiwork,Men with the wives, and women with the babes,Yet all these pleading just to live, not die!Did I believe one whit less in belief.Take truth for falsehood, wish the voice revokedThat told the truth to heaven for earth to hear?No, this should be, and shall; but when and how?At what expense to these who averageYour twenty years of life, my computists?"Not bread alone" but bread before all elseFor these: the bodily want serve first, said I;If earth-space and the life-time help not here,Where is the good of body having been?But, helping body, if we somewhat baulkThe soul of finer fare, such food's to findElsewhere and afterward — all indicates.Even this self-same fact that soul can starveYet body still exist its twenty years:While, stint the body, there's an end at onceO' the revel in the fancy that Rome's free.And superstition's fettered, and one printsWhate'er one pleases and who pleases readsThe same, and speaks out and is spoken to.And divers hundred thousand fools may voteA vote untampered with by one wise man,And so elect Barabbas deputyIn lieu of his concurrent. I who traceThe purpose written on the face of things,For my behoof and guidance — (whoso needsNo such sustainment, sees beneath my signs,Proves, what I take for writing, penmanship,Scribble and flourish with no sense for meO' the sort I solemnly go spelling out, —Let him! there 's certain work of mine to showAlongside his work: which gives warrantyOf shrewder vision in the workman — judge!)I who trace Providence without a breakI' the plan of things, drop plumb on this plain printOf an intention with a view to good,That man is made in sympathy with manAt outset of existence, so to speak;But in dissociation, more and more,Man from his fellow, as their lives advanceIn culture; still humanity, that's bornA mass, keeps flying off, fining awayEver into a multitude of points,And ends in isolation, each from each:Peerless above i' the sky, the pinnacle, —Absolute contact, fusion, all belowAt the base of being. How comes this about?This stamp of God characterizing manAnd nothing else but man in the universe —That, while he feels with man (to use man's speech)I' the little things of life, its fleshly wantsOf food and rest and health and happiness,Its simplest spirit-motions, loves and hates,Hopes, fears, soul-cravings on the ignoblest scale,O' the fellow-creature, — owns the bond at base, —He tends to freedom and divergencyIn the upward progress, plays the pinnacleWhen life's at greatest (grant again the phrase!Because there's neither great nor small in life.)"Consult thou for thy kind that have the eyesTo see, the mouths to eat, the hands to work,Men with the wives, and women with the babes!"Prompts Nature. "Care thou for thyself aloneI' the conduct of the mind God made thee with!Think, as if man had never thought before!Act, as if all creation hung attentOn the acting of such faculty as thine,To take prime pattern from thy masterpiece!"Nature prompts also: neither law obeyedTo the uttermost by any heart and soulWe know or have in record: both of themAcknowledged blindly by whatever manWe ever knew or heard of in this world."Will you have why and wherefore, and the factMade plain as pikestaff?" modern Science asks."That mass man sprung from was a jelly-lumpOnce on a time; he kept an after courseThrough fish and insect, reptile, bird and beast,Till he attained to be an ape at lastOr last but one. And if this doctrine shockIn aught the natural pride" . . . Friend, banish fear,The natural humility replies!Do you suppose, even I, poor potentate,Hohenstiel-Schwangau, who once ruled the roast, —I was born able at all points to plyMy tools? or did I have to learn my trade,Practise as exile ere perform as prince?The world knows something of my ups and downs:But grant me time, give me the management And manufacture of a model me.Me fifty-fold, a prince without a flaw, —Why, there's no social grade, the sordidest,My embryo potentate should blink and scape.King, all the better he was cobbler once,He should know, sitting on the throne, how tastesLife to who sweeps the doorway. But life's hard,Occasion rare; you cut probation short,And, being half-instructed, on the stageYou shuffle through your part as best you may,And bless your stars, as I do. God takes time.I like the thought He should have lodged me onceI' the hole, the cave, the hut, the tenement.The mansion and the palace; made me learnThe feel o' the first, before I found myselfLoftier i' the last, not more emancipateFrom first to last of lodging, I was I,And not at all the place that harboured me.Do I refuse to follow farther yetI' the backwardness, repine if tree and flower,Mountain or streamlet were my dwelling-placeBefore I gained enlargement, grew mollusc?As well account that way for many a thrillOf kinship, I confess to, with the powersCalled Nature: animate, inanimate.In parts or in the whole, there's something thereMan-like that somehow meets the man in me.My pulse goes altogether with the heartO' the Persian, that old Xerxes, when he stayedHis march to conquest of the world, a dayI' the desert, for the sake of one superbPlane-tree which queened it there in solitude:Giving her neck its necklace, and each armIts armlet, suiting soft waist, snowy side.With cincture and apparel. Yes, I lodgedIn those successive tenements; perchanceTaste yet the straitness of them while I stretchLimb and enjoy new liberty the more.And some abodes are lost or ruinous;Some, patched-up and pieced out, and so transformedThey still accommodate the travellerHis day of life-time. O you count the links,Descry no bar of the unbroken man?Yes, — and who welds a lump of ore, supposeHe likes to make a chain and not a bar.And reach by link on link, link small, link large,Out to the due length — why, there's forethought stillOutside o' the series, forging at one end.While at the other there's — no matter whatThe kind of critical intelligenceBelieving that last link had last but oneFor parent, and no link was, first of all,Fitted to anvil, hammered into shape.Else, I accept the doctrine, and deduceThis duty, that I recognize mankind,In all its height and depth and length and breadth.Mankind i' the main have little wants, not large:I, being of will and power to help, i' the main,Mankind, must help the least wants first. My friend,That is, my foe, without such power and will,May plausibly concentrate all he wields,And do his best at helping some large want,Exceptionally noble cause, that's seenSubordinate enough from where I stand.As he helps, I helped once, when like himself.Unable to help better, work more wide;And so would work with heart and hand to-day,Did only computists confess a fault,And multiply the single score by five,Five only, give man's life its hundred years.Change life, in me shall follow change to match!Time were then, to work here, there, everywhere,By turns and try experiment at ease!Full time to mend as well as mar: why waitThe slow and sober uprise all aroundO' the building? Let us run up, right to roof.Some sudden marvel, piece of perfectness,And testify what we intend the whole!Is the world losing patience? "Wait!" say we:"There's time: no generation needs to dieUnsolaced; you Ve a century in store!"But, no: I sadly let the voices wingTheir way i' the upper vacancy, nor testTruth on this solid as I promised once.Well, and what is there to be sad about?The world's the world, life's life, and nothing else.'T is part of life, a property to prize.That those o' the higher sort engaged i' the world,Should fancy they can change its ill to good.Wrong to right, ugliness to beauty: findEnough success in fancy turning fact.To keep the sanguine kind in countenanceAnd justify the hope that busies them:Failure enough, — to who can follow changeBeyond their vision, see new good prove illI' the consequence, see blacks and whites of lifeShift square indeed, but leave the chequered faceUnchanged i' the main, — failure enough for such.To bid ambition keep the whole from change,As their best service. I hope naught beside. No, my brave thinkers, whom I recognize,Gladly, myself the first, as, in a sense,All that our world's worth, flower and fruit of man!Such minds myself award supremacyOver the common insignificance,When only Mind's in question, — Body bowsTo quite another government, you know.Be Kant crowned king o' the castle in the air!Hans Slouch, — his own, and children's mouths to feedI' the hovel on the ground, — wants meat, nor chews"The Critique of Pure Reason" in exchange.But, now, — suppose I could allow your claimsAnd quite change life to please you, — would it please?Would life comport with change and still be life?Ask, now, a doctor for a remedy:There's his prescription. Bid him point you outWhich of the five or six ingredients savesThe sick man. "Such the efficacity?Then why not dare and do things in one doseSimple and pure, all virtue, no alloyOf the idle drop and powder?" What's his word?The efficacity, neat, were neutralized:It wants dispersing and retarding, — nayIs put upon its mettle, plays its partPrecisely through such hindrance everywhere,Finds some mysterious give and take i' the case,Some gain by opposition, he foregoesShould he unfetter the medicament.So with this thought of yours that fain would workFree in the world: it wants just what it finds —The ignorance, stupidity, the hate,Envy and malice and uncharitablenessThat bar your passage, break the flow of youDown from those happy heights where many a cloudCombined to give you birth and bid you beThe royalest of rivers: on you glideSilverly till you reach the summit-edge,Then over, on to all that ignorance.Stupidity, hate, envy, bluffs and blocks.Posted to fret you into foam and noise.What of it? Up you mount in minute mist,And bridge the chasm that crushed your quietude,A spirit-rainbow, earthborn jewelryOutsparkling the insipid firmamentBlue above Terni and its orange-trees.Do not mistake me! You, too, have your rights!Hans must not burn Kant's house above his head,Because he cannot understand Kant's book:And still less must Hans' pastor bum Kant's selfBecause Kant understands some books too well.But, justice seen to on this little point,Answer me, is it manly, is it sageTo stop and struggle with arrangements hereIt took so many lives, so much of toil,To tinker up into efficiency?Can't you contrive to operate at once, —Since time is short and art is long, — to showYour quality i' the world, whatever you boast,Without this fractious call on folks to crushThe world together just to set you free,Admire the capers you will cut perchance,Nor mind the mischief to your neighbours?

"Age!Age and experience bring discouragement,"You taunt me: I maintain the opposite.Am I discouraged who, — perceiving health.Strength, beauty, as they tempt the eye of soul,Are uncombinable with flesh and blood, —Resolve to let my body live its best,And leave my soul what better yet may beOr not be, in this life or afterward?— In either fortune, wiser than who waitsTill magic art procure a miracle.In virtue of my very confidenceMankind ought to outgrow its babyhood,I prescribe rocking, deprecate rough hands,While thus the cradle holds it past mistake.Indeed, my task's the harder — equableSustainment everywhere, all strain, no push —Whereby friends credit me with indolence,Apathy, hesitation. "Stand stock-stillIf able to move briskly? 'All a-strain' —So must we compliment your passiveness?Sound asleep, rather!"

Just the judgment passedUpon a statue, luckless like myself,I saw at Rome once! 'T was some artist's whimTo cover all the accessories closeI' the group, and leave you only LaocoönWith neither sons nor serpents to denoteThe purpose of his gesture. Then a crowdWas called to try the question, criticizeWherefore such energy of legs and arms.Nay, eyeballs, starting from the socket. One —I give him leave to write my history —Only one said "I think the gesture strivesAgainst some obstacle we cannot see."All the rest made their minds up. "'T is a yawnOf sheer fatigue subsiding to repose:The Statue's 'Somnolency' clear enough!"There, my arch stranger-friend, my audience bothAnd arbitress, you have one half your wish, At least: you know the thing I tried to do!All, so far, to my praise and glory — allTold as befits the self-apologist, —Who ever promises a candid sweepAnd clearance of those errors miscalled crimesNone knows more, none laments so much as he,And ever rises from confession, provedA god whose fault was — trying to be man.Just so, fair judge, — if I read smile aright —I condescend to figure in your eyesAs biggest heart and best of Europe's friends,And hence my failure. God will estimateSuccess one day; and, in the mean time — you!I daresay there's some fancy of the sortFrolicking round this final puff I sendTo die up yonder in the ceiling-rose, —Some consolation-stakes, we losers win!A plague of the return to "I — I — IDid this, meant that, hoped, feared the other thing!"Autobiography, adieu! The restShall make amends, be pure blame, historyAnd falsehood: not the ineffective truth,But Thiers-and-Victor-Hugo exercise.Hear what I never was, but might have beenI' the better world where goes tobacco-smoke!Here lie the dozen volumes of my life:(Did I say "lie?" the pregnant word will serve.)Cut on to the concluding chapter, though!Because the little hours begin to strike.Hurry Thiers-Hugo to the labour's end!

Something like this the unwritten chapter reads.

Exemplify the situation thus!Hohenstiel-Schwangau, being, no dispute,Absolute mistress, chose the Assembly, first,To serve her: chose this man, its PresidentAfterward, to serve also, — speciallyTo see that they did service one and all.And now the proper term of years was out.When the Head-servant must vacate his place;And nothing lay so patent to the worldAs that his fellow-servants one and allWere — mildly make we mention — knaves or fools,Each of them with his purpose flourished fullI' the face of you by word and impudence,Or filtered slyly out by nod and winkAnd nudge upon your sympathetic rib —That not one minute more did knave or foolMean to keep faith and serve as he had swornHohenstiel-Schwangau, once that Head away.Why did such swear except to get the chance,When time should ripen and confusion bloom,Of putting Hohenstielers-SchwangaueseTo the true use of human property?Restoring souls and bodies, this to Pope,And that to King, that other to his plannedPerfection of a Share-and-share-alike,That other still, to Empire absoluteIn shape of the Head-servant's very selfTransformed to master whole and sole: each schemeDiscussible, concede one circumstance —That each scheme's parent were, beside himself,Hohenstiel-Schwangau, not her serving-manSworn to do service in the way she choseRather than his way: way superlative,Only, — by some infatuation, — hisAnd his and his and everyone's but hersWho stuck to just the Assembly and the Head.I niake no doubt the Head, too, had his dreamOf doing sudden duty swift and sureOn all that heap of untrustworthiness —Catching each vaunter of the villanyHe meant to perpetrate when time was ripe,Once the Head-servant fairly out of doors, —And, caging here a knave and there a fool,Cry "Mistress of the servants, these and me,Hohenstiel-Schwangau! I, their trusty Head,Pounce on a pretty scheme concocting hereThat's stopped, extinguished by my vigilance.Your property is safe again: but mark!Safe in these hands, not yours, who lavish trustToo lightly. Leave my hands their charge awhile!I know your business better than yourself:Let me alone about it! Some fine day,Once we are rid of the embarrassment,You shall look up and see your longings crowned!"Such fancy may have tempted to be false,But this man chose truth and was wiser so.He recognized that for great minds i' the worldThere is no trial like the appropriate oneOf leaving little minds their libertyOf littleness to blunder on through life,Now, aiming at right end by foolish means.Now, at absurd achievement through the aidOf good and wise means: trial to acquiesceIn folly's life-long privilege — though with powerTo do the little minds the good they need,Despite themselves, by just abolishingTheir right to play the part and fill the placeI' the scheme of things He schemed who made alikeGreat minds and little minds, saw use for each. Could the orb sweep those puny particlesIt just half-lights at distance, hardly leadsI' the leash — sweep out each speck of them from spaceThey anticize in with their days and nightsAnd whirlings round and dancings off, forsooth,And all that fruitless individual lifeOne cannot lend a beam to but they spoil —Sweep them into itself and so, one star,Preponderate henceforth i' the heritageOf heaven! No! in less senatorial phrase.The man endured to help, not save outrightThe multitude by substituting himFor them, his knowledge, will and way, for God's:Not change the world, such as it is, and wasAnd will be, for some other, suiting allExcept the purpose of the maker. No!He saw that weakness, wickedness will be,And therefore should be: that the perfect manAs we account perfection — at most pure0' the special gold, whate'er the form it take,Head-work or heart-work, fined and thrice-refinedI' the crucible of life, whereto the powersOf the refiner, one and all, were flungTo feed the flame their utmost, — e'en that block.He holds out breathlessly triumphant, — breaksInto some poisonous ore, its opposite.At the very purest, so compensatingThe Adversary — what if we believe?For earlier stern exclusion of his stuff.See the sage, with the hunger for the truth,And see his system that's all true, exceptThe one weak place that's stanchioned by a lie!The moralist, that walks with head erectI' the crystal clarity of air so long.Until a stumble, and the man's one mire!Philanthropy undoes the social knotWith axe-edge, makes love room 'twixt head and trunk!Religion — but, enough, the thing's too clear!Well, if these sparks break out i' the greenest tree.Our topmost of performance, yours and mine,AVhat will be done i' the dry ineptitudeOf ordinary mankind, Ipark and bole.All seems ashamed of but their mother-earth?Therefore throughout his term of servitudeHe did the appointed service, and forboreExtraneous action that were duty else,Done by some other servant, idle nowOr mischievous: no matter, each his own —Own task, and, in the end, own praise or blame!He suffered them strut, prate and brag their best.Squabble at odds on every point save one,And there shake hands, — agree to trifle time,Obstruct advance with, each, his cricket-cry"Wait till the Head be off the shoulders here!Then comes my King, my Pope, my Autocrat,My Socialist Republic to her own —To-wit, that property of only me,Hohenstiel-Schwangau who conceits herselfFree, forsooth, and expects I keep her so!"— Nay, suffered when, perceiving with dismayHis silence paid no tribute to their noise,They turned on him. "Dumb menace in that mouth,Malice in that unstridulosity!He cannot but intend some stroke of stateShall signalize his passage into peaceOut of the creaking, — hinder transferenceO' the Hohenstielers-Schwangauese to king.Pope, autocrat, or socialist republic! That'sExact the cause his lips unlocked would cry!Therefore be stirring: brave, beard, bully him!Dock, by the million, of its friendly joints,The electoral body short at once! who did,May do again, and undo us beside.Wrest from his hands the sword for self-defence,The right to parry any thrust in playWe peradventure please to meditate!"And so forth; creak, creak, creak: and ne'er a lineHis locked mouth oped the wider, till at lastO' the long degraded and insulting day,Sudden the clock told it was judgment-time.Then he addressed himself to speak indeedTo the fools, not knaves: they saw him walk straight downEach step of the eminence, as he first engaged,And stand at last o' the level, — all he swore."People, and not the people's varletry,This is the task you set myself and these!Thus I performed my part of it, and thusThey thwarted me throughout, here, here, and here:Study each instance! yours the loss, not mine.What they intend now is demonstrableAs plainly: here's such man, and here's such modeOf making you some other than the thingYou, wisely or unwisely, choose to be,And only set him up to keep you so.Do you approve this? Yours the loss, not mine.Do you condemn it? There's a remedy.Take me — who know your mind, and mean your good,With clearer head and stouter arm than they,Or you, or haply anybody else —And make me master for the moment! Choose What time, what power you trust me with: I tooWill choose as frankly ere I trust myselfWith time and power: they must be adequateTo the end and aim, since mine the loss, with yoursIf means be wanting; once their worth approved,Grant them, and I shall forthwith operate —Ponder it well! — to the extremest stretch0' the power you trust me: if with unsuccess,God wills it, and there's nobody to blame."

Whereon the people answered with a shout"The trusty one! no tricksters any more!"How could they other? He was in his place.

What followed? Just what he foresaw, what provedThe soundness of both judgments, — his, o' the knavesAnd fools, each trickster with his dupe, — and theirsThe people, in what head and arm should help.There was uprising, masks dropped, flags unfurled,Weapons outflourished in the wind, my faith!Heavily did he let his fist fall plumbOn each perturber of the public peace,No matter whose the wagging head it broke —From bald-pate craft and greed and impudenceOf night-hawk at first cliance to prowl and preyFor glory and a little gain beside,Passing for eagle in the dusk of the age, —To florid head-top, foamy patriotismAnd tribunitial daring, breast laid bareThro' confidence in rectitude, with handOn private pistol in the pocket: theseAnd all the dupes of these, who lent themselvesAs dust and feather do, to help offenceO' the wind that whirls them at you, then subsidesIn safety somewhere, leaving filth afloat,Annoyance you may brush from eyes and beard, —These he stopped: bade the wind's spite howl or whineIts worst outside the building, wind conceivesMeant to be pulled together and becomeIts natural playground so. What foolishnessOf dust or feather proved importunateAnd fell 'twixt thumb and finger, found them gripeTo detriment of bulk and buoyancy.Then followed silence and submission. Next,The inevitable comment came on workAnd work's cost; he was censured as profuseOf human life and liberty: too swiftAnd thorough his procedure, who had laggedAt the outset, lost the opportunityThrough timid scruples as to right and wrong."There's no such certain mark of a small mind"(So did Sagacity explain the fault)"As when it needs must square away and sinkTo its own small dimensions, private scaleOf right and wrong, — humanity i' the large,The right and wrong of the universe, forsooth!This man addressed himself to guard and guideHohenstiel-Schwangau. When the case demandsHe frustrate villany in the egg, unhatched,With easy stamp and minimum of pangE'en to the punished reptile, 'There's my oathRestrains my foot,' objects our guide and guard,'I must leave guardianship and guidance now:Rather than stretch one handbreadth of the law,I am bound to see it break from end to end.First show me death i' the body politic:Then prescribe pill and potion, what may pleaseHohenstiel-Schwangau! all is for her sake:'T was she ordained my service should be so.What if the event demonstrate her unwise,If she unwill the thing she willed before?I hold to the letter and obey the bondAnd leave her to perdition loyally.'Whence followed thrice the expenditure we blameOf human life and liberty: for wantO' the by-blow, came deliberate butcher's-work!""Elsewhere go carry your complaint!" bade he."Least, largest, there's one law for all the minds,Here or above: be true at any price!'T is just o' the great scale, that such happy strokeOf falsehood would be found a failure. TruthStill stands unshaken at her base by me,Reigns paramount i' the world, for the large goodO' the long late generations, — I and youForgotten like this buried foohshness!Not so the good I rooted in its grave."

This is why he refused to break his oath,Rather appealed to the people, gained the powerTo act as he thought best, then used it, onceFor all, no matter what the consequenceTo knaves and fools. As thus began his sway,So, through its twenty years, one rule of rightSufficed him: govern for the many first,The poor mean multitude, all mouths and eyes:Bid the few, better favoured in the brain,Be patient, nor presume on privilege.Help him, or else be quiet, — never craveThat he help them, — increase, forsooth, the gulfYawning so terribly 'twixt mind and mindI' the world here, which his purpose was to blockAt bottom, were it by an inch, and bridge,If by a filament, no more, at top, Equalize things a little! And the wayHe took to work that purpose out, was plainEnough to intellect and honestyAnd — superstition, style it if you please,So long as you allow there was no lackO' the quality imperative in man —Reverence. You see deeper? thus saw he,And by the light he saw, must walk: how elseWas he to do his part? the man's, with mightAnd main, and not a faintest touch of fearSure he was in the hand of God who comesBefore and after, with a work to doWhich no man helps nor hinders. Thus the man,So timid when the business was to touchThe uncertain order of humanity,Imperil, for a problematic cureOf grievance on the surface, any goodI' the deep of things, dim yet discernible —This same man, so irresolute before,Show him a true excrescence to cut sheer,A devil's-graft on God's foundation-stone,Then — no complaint of indecision more!He wrenched out the whole canker, root and branch,Deaf to who cried the world would tumble inAt its four corners if he touched a twig.Witness that lie of lies, arch-infamy.When the Republic, with all life involvedIn just this law — "Each people rules itselfIts own way, not as any stranger please" —Turned, and for first proof she was living, badeHohenstiel-Schwangau fasten on the throatOf the first neighbour that claimed benefitO' the law herself established: "HohenstielFor Hohenstielers! Rome, by parityOf reasoning, for Romans? That 's a jestWants proper treatment, — lancet-puncture suitsThe proud flesh: Rome ape Hohenstiel forsooth!"And so the siege and slaughter and successWhereof we nothing doubt that HohenstielWill have to pay the price, in God's good time,Which does not always fall on SaturdayWhen the world looks for wages. Any how.He found this infamy triumphant. Well, —Sagacity suggested, make this speech!"The work was none of mine: suppose wrong wait,Stand over for redressing? Mine for me,My predecessors' work on their own head!Meantime, there's plain advantage, should we leaveThings as we find them. Keep Rome manacledHand and foot: no fear of unruliness!Her foes consent to even seem our friendsSo long, no longer. Then, there's glory gotI' the boldness and bravado to the world.The disconcerted world must grin and bearThe old saucy writing, — 'Grunt thereat who may,So shall things be, for such my pleasure is —Hohenstiel-Schwangau.' How that reads in RomeI' the Capitol where Brennus broke his pate!And what a flourish for our journalists!"

Only, it was nor read nor flourished of,Since, not a moment did such glory stayExcision of the canker! Out it came,Root and branch, with much roaring, and some blood,And plentiful abuse of him from friendAnd foe. Who cared? Not Nature, that assuagedThe pain and set the patient on his legsPromptly: the better! had it been the worse,'T is Nature you must try conclusions with,Not he, since nursing canker kills the sickFor certain, while to cut may cure, at least."Ah," groaned a second time Sagacity,"Again the little mind, precipitate,Rash, rude, when even in the right, as here!The great mind knows the power of gentleness,Only tries force because persuasion fails.Had this man, by prelusive trumpet-blast,Signified 'Truth and Justice mean to come.Nay, fast approach your threshold! Ere they knock,See that the house be set in order, sweptAnd garnished, windows shut, and doors thrown wide!The free State comes to visit the free Church:Receive her! or . . or . . never mind what else!'Thus moral suasion heralding brute force,How had he seen the old abuses die,And new life kindle here, there, everywhere.Roused simply by that mild yet potent spell —Beyond or beat of drum or stroke of sword —Public opinion!"

"How, indeed?" he asked,"When all to see, after some twenty years,Were your own fool-face waiting for the sight.Faced by as wide a grin from ear to earO' the knaves that, while the fools were waiting, worked —Broke yet another generation's heart —Twenty years' respite helping! Teach your nurse'Compliance with, before you suck, the teat!'Find what that means, and meanwhile hold your tongue!"

Whereof the war came which he knew must be.

Now, this had proved the dry-rot of the raceHe ruled o'er, that, in the old day, when was needThey fought for their own liberty and life,Well did they fight, none better: whence, such loveOf fighting somehow still for fighting's sakeAgainst no matter whose the libertyAnd life, so long as self-conceit should crowAnd clap the wing, while justice sheathed her claw, —That what had been the glory of the worldWhen thereby came the world's good, grew its plagueNow that the champion-armour, donned to dareThe dragon once, was clattered up and downHighway and by-path of the world at peace,Merely to mask marauding, or for sakeO' the shine and rattle that apprized the fieldsHohenstiel-Schwangau was a fighter yet.And would be, till the weary world suppressedA peccant humour out of fashion now.Accordingly the world spoke plain at last.Promised to punish who next played with fire.

So, at his advent, such discomfitureTaking its true shape of beneficence,Hohenstiel-Schwangau, half-sad and part-wise,Sat: if with wistful eye reverting oftTo each pet weapon rusty on its peg,Yet, with a sigh of satisfaction tooThat, peacefulness become the law, herselfGot the due share of godsends in its train,Cried shame and took advantage quietly.Still, so the dry-rot had been nursed intoBlood, bones and marrow, that, from worst to best,All, — clearest brains and soundest hearts, save here, —All had this lie acceptable for lawPlain as the sun at noonday — "War is best,Peace is worst; peace we only tolerateAs needful preparation for new war:War may be for whatever end we will —Peace only as the proper help thereto.Such is the law of right and wrong for usHohenstiel-Schwangau: for the other world,As naturally, quite another law.Are we content? The world is satisfied.Discontent? Then the world must give us leaveStrike right and left to exercise our armTorpid of late through overmuch repose,And show its strength is still superlativeAt somebody's expense in life or limb:Which done, — let peace succeed and last a year!"Such devil's-doctrine was so judged God's law,We say, when this man stepped upon the stage,That it had seemed a venial fault at mostHad he once more obeyed Sagacity."You come i' the happy interval of peace,The favourable weariness from war:Prolong it! — artfully, as if intentOn ending peace as soon as possible.Quietly so increase the sweets of easeAnd safety, so employ the multitude.Put hod and trowel so in idle hands.So stuff and stop the wagging jaws with bread.That selfishness shall surreptitiouslyDo wisdom's office, whisper in the earOf Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there's a pleasant feelIn being gently forced down, pinioned fastTo the easy arm-chair by the pleading armsO' the world beseeching her to there abideContent with all the harm done hitherto,And let herself be petted in return,Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse,The old unjust wars, nay — in verse and proseAnd speech, — to vaunt new victories, as vileA plague o' the future, — so that words sufficeFor present comfort, and no deeds denoteThat, — tired of illimitable line on lineOf boulevard-building, tired o' the theatreWith the tuneful thousand in their thrones above.For glory of the male intelligence.And Nakedness in her due niche below,For illustration of the female use —She, 'twixt a yawn and sigh, prepares to slipOut of the arm-chair, wants some blood againFrom over the boundary, to colour-upThe sheeny sameness, keep the world awareHohenstiel-Schwangau must have exerciseDespite the petting of the universe!Come, you're a city-builder: what's the wayWisdom takes when time needs that she enticeSome fierce tribe, castled on the mountain-peak,Into the quiet and amenityO' the meadow-land below? By crying 'DoneWith fight now, down with fortress?' Rather — 'DareOn, dare ever, not a stone displaced!'Cries Wisdom, 'Cradle of our ancestors.Be bulwark, give our children safety still!Who of our children please, may stoop and tasteO' the valley-fatness, unafraid, — for why?At first alarm, they have thy mother-ribsTo run upon for refuge; foes forgetScarcely what Terror on her vantage-coigne,Couchant supreme among the powers of air,Watches — prepared to pounce — the country wide!Meanwhile the encouraged valley holds its own,From the first hut's adventure in descent. Half home, half hiding place, — to dome and spireBefitting the assured metropolis:Nor means offence to the fort which caps the crag,All undismantled of a turret-stone,And bears the banner-pole that creaks at timesEmbarrassed by the old emblazonment,When festal days are to commemorate.Otherwise left untenanted, no doubt,Since, never fear, our myriads from belowWould rush, if needs were, man the walls once more.Renew the exploits of the earlier timeAt moment's notice! But till notice sound,Inhabit we in ease and opulence!'And so, till one day thus a notice sounds,Not trumpeted, but in a whisper-gustFitfully playing through mute city streetsAt midnight weary of day's feast and game —'Friends, your famed fort's a ruin past repair!Its use is — to proclaim it had a useStolen away long since. Climb to study thereHow to paint barbican and battlementI' the scenes of our new theatre! We fightNow — by forbidding neighbours to sell steelOr buy wine, not by blowing out their brains!Moreover, while we let time sap the strengthO' the walls omnipotent in menace once,Neighbours would seem to have prepared surprise —Run up defences in a mushroom-growth,For all the world like what we boasted: brief —Hohenstiel-Schwangau's policy is peace!' "

Ay, so Sagacity advised him filchFolly from fools: handsomely substituteThe dagger o' lath, while gay they sang and dancedFor that long dangerous sword they liked to feel,Even at feast-time, clink and make friends start.No! he said "Hear the truth, and bear the truth,And bring the truth to bear on all you areAnd do, assured that only good comes thenceWhate'er the shape good take! While I have rule.Understand! — war for war's sake, war for the sakeO' the good war gets you as war's sole excuse,Is damnable and damned shall be. You wantGlory? Why so do I, and so does God.Where is it found, — in this paraded shame, —One particle of glory? Once you warredFor liberty against the world, and won:There was the glory. Now, you fain would warBecause the neighbour prospers overmuch, —Because there has been silence half-an-hour,Like Heaven on earth, without a cannon-shotAnnouncing Hohenstielers-SchwangaueseAre minded to disturb the jubilee, —Because the loud tradition echoes faint,And who knows but posterity may doubtIf the great deeds were ever done at all,Much less believe, were such to do again,So the event would follow: therefore, proveThe old power, at the expense of somebody!Oh, Glory, — gilded bubble, bard and sageSo nickname rightly, — would thy dance endureOne moment, would thy mocking make believeOnly one upturned eye thy ball was gold,Had'st thou less breath to buoy thy vacancyThan a whole multitude expends in praise,Less range for roaming than from head to headOf a whole people? Flit, fall, fly again,Only, fix never where the resolute handMay prick thee, prove the lie thou art, at once!Give me real intellect to reason with,No multitude, no entity that apesOne wise man, being but a million fools!How and whence wishest glory, thou wise one?Would'st get it, — did'st thyself guide Providence, —By stinting of his due each neighbour roundIn strength and knowledge and dexteritySo as to have thy littleness grow largeBy all those somethings, once, turned nothings, now,As children make a molehill mountainousBy scooping out the plain into a trenchAnd saving so their favourite from approach?Quite otherwise the cheery game of life.True yet mimetic warfare, whereby manDoes his best with his utmost, and so endsThe victor most of all in fair defeat.Who thinks, — would he have no one think beside?Who knows, who does, — must other learning dieAnd action perish? Why, our giant provesNo better than a dwarf, with rivalryProstrate around him. 'Let the whole race standAnd try conclusions fairly!' he cries first.Show me the great man would engage his peerRather by grinning 'Cheat, thy gold is brass!'Than granting 'Perfect piece of purest ore!Still, is it less good mintage, this of mine?'Well, and these right and sound results of soulI' the strong and healthy one wise man, — shall suchBe vainly sought for, scornfully renouncedI' the multitude that make the entity —The people? — to what purpose, if no less.In power and purity of soul, below The reach of the unit than, in multipliedMight of the body, vulgarized the more,Above, in thick and threefold brutishness?See! you accept such one wise man, myself:Wiser or less wise, still I operateFrom my own stock of wisdom, nor exactOf other sort of natures you admire.That whoso rhymes a sonnet pays a tax,Who paints a landscape dips brush at his cost,Who scores a septett true for strings and windMulcted must be — else how should I imposeProperly, attitudinize aright,Did such conflicting claims as these divertHohenstiel-Schwangau from observing me?Therefore, what I find facile, you be sure,With effort or without it, you shall dare —You, I aspire to make my better selfAnd truly the Great Nation. No more warFor war's sake, then! and, — seeing, wickednessSprings out of folly, — no more foolish dreadO' the neighbour waxing too inordinateA rival, through his gain of wealth and ease!What? — keep me patient, Powers! — the people here,Earth presses to her heart, nor owns a prideAbove her pride i' the race all flame and airAnd aspiration to the boundless Great,The incommensurably Beautiful —Whose very faulterings groundward come of flightUrged by a pinion all too passionateFor heaven and what it holds of gloom and glow:Bravest of thinkers, bravest of the braveDoers, exalt in Science, rapturousIn Art, the — more than all — magnetic raceTo fascinate their fellows, mould mankindHohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion, — these, what? — theseWill have to abdicate their primacyShould such a nation sell them steel untaxed,And such another take itself, on hireFor the natural sen'night, somebody for lordUnpatronized by me whose back was turned?Or such another yet would fain build bridge,Lay rail, drive tunnel, busy its poor selfWith its appropriate fancy: so there's — flash —Hohenstiel-Schwangau up in arms at once!Genius has somewhat of the infantine:But of the childish, not a touch nor taintExcept through self-will, which, being foolishness,Is certain, soon or late, of punishment.Which Providence avert! — and that it mayAvert what both of us would so deserve.No foolish dread o' the neighbour, I enjoin!By consequence, no wicked war with him,While I rule!

Does that mean — no war at allWhen just the wickedness I here proscribeComes, haply, from the neighbour? Does my speechPrecede the praying that you beat the swordTo plough-share, and the spear to pruning-hook.And sit down henceforth under your own vineAnd fig-tree through the sleepy summer month,Letting what hurly-burly please explodeOn the other side the mountain-frontier? No,Beloved! I foresee and I announceNecessity of warfare in one case,For one cause: one way, I bid broach the bloodO' the world. For truth and right, and only rightAnd truth, — right, truth, on the absolute scale of God,No pettiness of man's admeasurement, —In such case only, and for such one cause,Fight your hearts out, whatever fate betideHands energetic to the uttermost!Lie not! Endure no lie which needs your heartAnd hand to push it out of mankind's path —No lie that lets the natural forces workToo long ere lay it plain and pulverized —Seeing man's life lasts only twenty years!And such a lie, before both man and God,Being, at this time present, Austria's ruleO'er Italy, — for Austria's sake the first,Italy's next, and our sake last of all.Come with me and deliver Italy!Smite hip and thigh until the oppressor leaveFree from the Adriatic to the AlpsThe oppressed one! We were they who laid her lowIn the old bad day when Villany braved TruthAnd Right, and laughed 'Henceforward, God deposed,The Devil is to rule for evermoreI' the world!' — whereof to stop the consequence,And for atonement of false glory thereGaped at and gabbled over by the world,We purpose to get God enthroned againFor what the world will gird at as sheer shameI' the cost of blood and treasure. 'All for naught —Not even, say, some patch of province, spliceO' the frontier? — some snug honorarium-feeShut into glove and pocketed apace?'(Questions Sagacity) 'in deferenceTo the natural susceptibilityOf folks at home, unwitting of that pitchYou soar to, and misdoubting if Truth, RightAnd the other such augustnesses repay Expenditure in coin o' the realm, — but promptTo recognize the cession of SavoyAnd Nice as marketable value!' No,Sagacity, go preach to Metternich,And, sermon ended, stay where he resides IHohenstiel-Schwangau, you and I must marchThe other road! war for the hate of war,Not love, this once!" So Italy was free.

What else noteworthy and commendableI' the man's career? — that he was resoluteNo trepidation, much less treacheryOn his part, should imperil from its poiseThe ball o' the world, heaved up at such expenseOf pains so far, and ready to rebound,Let but a finger maladroitly fall,Under pretence of making fast and sureThe inch gained by late volubility,And run itself back to the ancient restAt foot o' the mountain. Thus he ruled, gave proofThe world had gained a point, progressive so,By choice, this time, as will and power concurred,0' the fittest man to rule; not chance of birth,Or such-like dice-throw. Oft SagacityWas at his ear: "Confirm this clear advance,Support this wise procedure! You, electO' the people, mean to justify their choiceAnd out-king all the kingly imbeciles;But that's just half the enterprise: remainsYou find them a successor like yourself,In head and heart and eye and hand and aim,Or all done's undone; and whom hope to mouldSo like you as the pupil Nature sends,The son and heir's completeness which you lack?Lack it no longer! Wed the pick o' the world,Where'er you think you find it. Should she beA queen, — tell Hohenstielers-Schwangauese'So do the old enthroned decrepitudesAcknowledge, in the rotten hearts of them,Their knell is knolled, they hasten to make peaceWith the new order, recognize in meYour right to constitute what king you will.Cringe therefore crown in hand and bride on arm,To both of us: we triumph, I suppose!'Is it the other sort of rank? — bright eye,Soft smile, and so forth, all her queenly boast?Undaunted the exordium — 'I, the manO' the people, with the people mate myself:So stand, so fall. Kings, keep your crowns and brides!Our progeny (if Providence agree)Shall live to tread the baubles underfootAnd bid the scarecrows consort with their kin.For son, as for his sire, be the free wifeIn the free state!' "

That is. SagacityWould prop up one more lie, the most of allPernicious fancy that the son and heirReceives the genius from the sire, himselfTransmits as surely, — ask experience else!Which answers, — never was so plain a truthAs that God drops his seed of heavenly flameJust where He wills on earth: sometimes where manSeems to tempt — such the accumulated storeOf faculties — one spark to fire the heap;Sometimes where, fire-ball-like, it falls uponThe naked unpreparedness of rock,Burns, beaconing the nations through their night.Faculties, fuel for the flame? All helpsCome, ought to come, or come not, crossed by chance,From culture and transmission. What's your wantI' the son and heir? Sympathy, aptitude.Teachableness, the fuel for the flame?You'll have them for your pains: but the flame's self,The novel thought of God shall light the world?No, poet, though your offspring rhyme and chimeI' the cradle, — painter, no, for all your petDraws his first eye, beats Salvatore's boy, —And thrice no, statesman, should your progenyTie bib and tucker with no tape but red,And make a foolscap-kite of protocols!Critic and copyist and bureaucratTo heart's content! The seed o' the apple-treeBrings forth another tree which bears a crab:'T is the great gardener grafts the excellenceOn wildings where he will.

"How plain I view,Across those misty years 'twixt me and Rome " —(Such the man's answer to Sagacity)The little wayside temple, halfway downTo a mild river that makes oxen whiteMiraculously, un-mouse-colours hide,Or so the Roman country people dream!I view that sweet small shrub-embedded shrineOn the declivity, was sacred onceTo a transmuting Genius of the land,Could touch and turn its dunnest natures bright,— Since Italy means the Land of the Ox, we know.Well, how was it the due succession fellFrom priest to priest who ministered i' the coolCalm fane o' the Clitumnian god? The sireBrought forth a son and sacerdotal sprout,Endowed instinctively with good and graceTo suit the gliding gentleness below — Did he? Tradition tells another tale.Each priest obtained his predecessor's staff,

Robe, fillet and insignia, blamelessly.By springing out of ambush, soon or late.And slaying him: the initiative riteSimply was murder, save that murder took,I' the case, another and religious name.So it was once, is now, shall ever beWith genius and its priesthood in this world:The new power slays the old — but handsomely.There he lies, not diminished by an inchOf stature that he graced the altar with.Though somebody of other bulk and buildCries 'What a goodly personage lies hereReddening the water where the bulrush roots!May I conduct the service in his place.Decently and in order, as did he,And, as he did not, keep a wary watchWhen meditating 'neath a willow shade!'Find out your best man, sure the son of him,Will prove best man again, and, better stillSomehow than best, the grandson-prodigy!You think the world would last another dayDid we so make us masters of the trickWhereby the works go, we could pre-arrangeTheir play and reach perfection when we please?Depend on it, the change and the surpriseAre part o' the plan: 't is we wish steadiness;Nature prefers a motion by unrest,Advancement through this force that jostles that.And so, since much remains i' the world to see.Here is it still, affording God the sight."Thus did the man refute Sagacity,Ever at this one whisper in his ear:"Here are you picked out, by a miracle,And placed conspicuously enough, folks sayAnd you believe, by Providence outrightTaking a new way — nor without success —To put the world upon its mettle: good!But Fortune alternates with Providence;Resource is soon exhausted. Never countOn such a happy hit occurring twice!Try the old method next time!"

"Old enough,"(At whisper in his ear, the laugh outbroke)"And most discredited of all the modesBy just the men and women who make boastThey are kings and queens thereby! Mere self-defenceShould teach them, on one chapter of the lawMust be no sort of trifling — chastity:They stand or fall, as their progenitorsWere chaste or unchaste. Now, run eye aroundMy crowned acquaintance, give each life its lookAnd no more, — why, you'd think each life was ledPurposely for example of what painsWho leads it took to cure the prejudice.And prove there's nothing so unproveableAs who is who, what son of what a sire,And, — inferentially, — how faint the chanceThat the next generation needs to fearAnother fool o' the selfsame type as heHappily regnant now by right divineAnd luck o' the pillow! No: select your lordBy the direct employment of your brainsAs best you may, — bad as the blunder prove,A far worse evil stank beneath the sunWhen some legitimate blockhead managed soMatters that high time was to interfere,Though interference came from hell itselfAnd not the blind mad miserable mobHappily ruled so long by pillow-luckAnd divine right, — by lies in short, not truth.And meanwhile use the allotted minute . . . "

One, —Two, three, four, five — yes, five the pendule warns!Eh? Why, this wild work wanders past all boundAnd bearing! Exile, Leicester-square, the lifeI' the old gay miserable time, rehearsed,Tried on again like cast clothes, still to serveAt a pinch, perhaps? "Who's who?" was aptly asked,Since certainly I am not I! since when?Where is the bud-mouthed arbitress? A nodOut-Homering Homer! Stay — there flits the clueI fain would find the end of! Yes, — "Meanwhile,Use the allotted minute!" Well, you see,(Veracious and imaginary Thiers,Who map out thus the life I might have led,But did not, — all the worse for earth and me —Doff spectacles, wipe pen, shut book, decamp!)You see 't is easy in heroics! PlainPedestrian speech shall help me perorate.Ah, if one had no need to use the tongue!How obvious and how easy 't is to talkInside the soul, a ghostly dialogue —Instincts with guesses, — instinct, guess, againWith dubious knowledge, half-experience: eachAnd all the interlocutors alikeSubordinating, — as decorum bids,Oh, never fear! but still decisively, —Claims from without that take too high a tone,— ("God wills this, man wants that, the dignityPrescribed a prince would wish the other thing") — Putting them back to insignificanceBeside one intimatest fact — myselfAm first to be considered, since I liveTwenty years longer and then end, perhaps!But, where one ceases to soliloquize,Somehow the motives, that did well enoughI' the darkness, when you bring them into lightAre found, like those famed cave-fish, to lack eyeAnd organ for the upper magnitudes.The other common creatures, of less fineExistence, that acknowledge earth and heaven,Have it their own way in the argument.Yes, forced to speak, one stoops to say — one's aimWas — what it peradventure should have been; —To renovate a people, mend or endThat bane come of a blessing meant the world —Inordinate culture of the sense made quickBy soul, — the lust o' the flesh, lust of the eye,And pride of life, — and, consequent on these,The worship of that prince o' the power o' the airWho paints the cloud and fills the emptinessAnd bids his votaries, famishing for truth.Feed on a lie.

Alack, one lies oneselfEven in the stating that one's end was truth,Truth only, if one states as much in words!Give me the inner chamber of the soulFor obvious easy argument! 't is thereOne pits the silent truth against a lie —Truth which breaks shell a careless simple bird,Nor wants a gorget nor a beak filed fine,Steel spurs and the whole armoury o' the tongue,To equalize the odds. But, do your best,Words have to come: and somehow words deflectAs the best cannon ever rifled will.

"Deflect" indeed! nor merely words from thoughtsBut names from facts: "Clitumnus" did I say?As if it had been his ox-whitening waveWhereby folk practised that grim cult of old —The murder of their temple's priest by whoWould qualify for his succession. Sure —Nemi was the true lake's style. Dream had needOf the ox-whitening piece of prettinessAnd so confused names, well known once awake.

So, i' the Residenz yet, not Leicester-square,Alone, — no such congenial intercourse! —My reverie concludes, as dreaming should,With daybreak: nothing done and over yet,Except cigars! The adventure thus may be,Or never needs to be at all: who knows?My Cousin-Duke, perhaps, at whose hard head— Is it, now — is this letter to be launched,The sight of whose grey oblong, whose grim seal,Set all these fancies floating for an hour?

Twenty years are good gain, come what come will!Double or quits! The letter goes! Or stays?

The Princes' Quest - Part the Ninth

And passing through the city he went outInto the fat fields lying thereabout,And lo the spirit of the emerald stoneWith secret influence to himself unknownGuided the wandering of his errant feet,The servants of the errant soul; and sweetThe meadows were, with babble of birds, and noiseOf brooks, the water's voice and the wind's voice.Howbeit he gave small heed to any of them;And now the subtile spirit of the gemLed him along a winding way that ranBeyond the fields to where the woods beganTo spread green matwork for the mountains' feet;A region where the Silence had her seatAnd hearkened to the sounds that only sheCan hear-the fall of dew on herb and tree;The voice of the growing of the grass; the nightDown-fluttering breathless from the heaven's height;And autumn whispering unawares at timesStrange secrets and dark sayings, wrapt in rhymesWind-won from forest branches. At this placeThe old man rested for a little space,Forgetful that the day was wellnigh flown:But soon the urgent spirit of the stoneItself re-entered and possessed anewHis soul; and led thereby, and wandering throughA mile of trackless and untrodden ground,By favour of the rising moon he foundA rude path, broken here and there by rillsWhich crossed it as they hurried from the hills.And going whitherso the wild path went,A two hours' journeying brought him, wellnigh spentWith toiling upwards, to a mountain pass,A bleak lone place where no trees grew nor grass,But on each hand a peak of rock, high-reared,Uprose: afar the two like horns appearedOf some great beast, so tapering-tall they were.And now with forward gaze the wandererStood where the pass was highest and the trackWent downward both ways; and behind his backThe full moon shone, and lo before his faceThe bright sea glimmered at the mountain's base.It seemed, what way soever he might turn,His fate still led him to that watery bourn.

So journeying down the track which lay before,He came, an hour past midnight, to the shore,And, looking backward, far above espiedThe two sharp peaks, one peak on either sideOf that lone pass; verily like a pairOf monstrous horns, the tips far-seen, up there:And in the nether space betwixt the two,A single monstrous eye the moon shone through.

Now all this while the spirit of the stoneHad led him forward, he, the old man lone,Taking no thought of whither he was bound.And roaming now along the beach he foundA creek, and in the creek, some little wayFrom where it joined the sea, a pinnace layMoored at the marge; and stepping thereinto,He sat him down, and from his bosom drewThe mystic gem, and placed it at the prow,That he might watch its paly splendours, howThey lightened here and there, and flashed aflame,Mocked at the moon and put the stars to shame.But hardly was the stone out of his hand,When the boat wrenched her moorings from the land,And swift as any captive bird set freeShot o'er the shimmering surface of the sea,The spirit of the emerald guiding her;And for a time the old man could not stirFor very greatness of astonishment.

But merrily o'er the moonlit waters wentThe pinnace, till the land was out of sight,Far in the dreaming distance. All that night,Faster than ever wind in winter blew,Faster than quarrel flies the bow, she flew.A moment was a league in that wild flightFrom vast to vast of ocean and the night.And now the moon her lanthorn had withdrawn:And now the pale weak heralds of the dawnLifted the lids of their blear eyes afar:The last belated straggler of a starWent home; and in her season due the mornBrake on a cold and silent sea forlorn-A strange mute sea, where never wave hath stirred,Nor sound of any wandering wind is heard,Nor voice of sailors sailing merrily:A sea untraversed, an enchanted seaFrom all the world fate-folden; hemmed aboutOf linkèd Dreams; encompassed with a Doubt.

But not the less for lack of wind went she,The flying pinnace, o'er that silent sea,Till those dull waters of enchantment layBehind her many a league. And now her wayWas toward a shining tract of ocean, whereLow winds with bland breath flattered the mild air,And low waves did together clasp and close,And skyward yearning from the sea there roseAnd seaward yearning from the sky there fellA Spirit of Deep Content Unspeakable:So midway meeting betwixt sky and sea,These twain are married for eternity,And rule the spirits of that Deep, and shareThe lordship of the legions of the air.

Here winds but came to rest them from their warsWith far seas waged. Here Darkness had her starsAlways, a nightly multitudinous birth.And entering on this happier zone of earth,The boat 'gan bate her speed, and by degreesTempered her motion to the tranquil seas,As if she knew the land not far ahead,The port not far: so forward pilotedBy that sweet spirit and strong, she held her wayUnveering. And a little past midday,The wanderer lifted up his eyes, and rightBefore him saw what seemed a great wall, whiteAs alabaster, builded o'er the sea,High as the heaven; but drawing nearer hePerceived it was a mighty mist that layUpon the ocean, stretching far awayNorthward and southward, and the sun appearedPowerless to melt its mass. And while he nearedThis cloudy barrier stretching north and south,A tale once told him by his mother's mouth,In childhood, while he sat upon her knee,Rose to remembrance: how that on the sea.Sat somewhere a Great Mist which no sun's heatCould melt, nor wind make wander from, its seat.So great it was, the fastest ship would needSeven days to compass it, with all her speed.And they of deepest lore and wisest witDeemed that an island in the midst of itBloomed like a rosebush ring'd with snows, a placeOf pleasance, folded in that white embraceAnd chill. But never yet would pilot steerInto the fog that wrapped it round, for fearOf running blindfold in that sightless mistOn sunken reefs whereof no mariner wist:And so from all the world this happy isleLay hidden. Thus the queen, long since; and whileHe marvelled if the mist before his kenCould be the same she told of-even then,Hardly a furlong 'fore the pinnace' prowIt lay: and now 'twas hard at hand: and nowThe boat had swept into the folds of it!But all that vision of white darkness-litBy the full splendour of the emerald stoneThat from the forepart of the pinnace shone-Melted around her, as in sunder cleftBy that strong spirit of light; and there was leftA wandering space, behind her and before,Of radiance, roofed and walled with mist, the floorA liquid pavement large. And so she passedThrough twilight immemorial, and at lastIssued upon the other side, where layThe land no mortal knew before that day.

There wilding orchards faced the beach, and bareAll manner of delicious fruit and rare,Such as in gardens of kings' palacesTrembles upon the sultry-scented trees,The soul of many sunbeams at its core.Well-pleased the wanderer landed on this shore,Beholding all its pleasantness, how sweetAnd soft, to the tired soul, to the tired feet.And so he sat him down beneath the boughs,And there a low wind seemed to drone and drowseAmong the leaves as it were gone astrayAnd like to faint forwearied by the way;Till the persistence of the sound begatAn heaviness within him as he sat:So when Sleep chanced to come that way, he foundA captive not unwilling to be bound,And on his body those fine fetters putWherewith he bindeth mortals hand and foot.

When the tired sleeper oped again his eyes,'Twas early morn, and he beheld the skiesGlowing from those deep hours of rest and dewWherein all creatures do themselves renew.The laughing leaves blink'd in the sun, throughoutThose dewy realms of orchard thereabout;But green fields lay beyond, and farther still,Betwixt them and the sun, a great high hillKept these in shadow, and the brighter madeThe fruitlands look for all that neighbouring shade.And he the solitary man uprose,His face toward the mountain beyond thoseFair fields not yet acquainted with the sun;And crossed the fields, and climbed the hill, and wonThe top; and journeying down the eastern sideEntered upon a grassy vale and wide,Where in the midst a pure stream ran, as yetA youngling, hardly able to forgetThe lofty place of its nativity,Nor lusting yet for union with the sea.And through this valley, taking for his guideThe stream, and walking by the waterside,He wandered on, but had at whiles to fordThe lesser brooks that from the mountains pouredInto this greater; which by slow degrees,Enlarged with such continual soft increase,Became a river broad and fair, but stillAs clear as when it flowed a mountain-rill:And he the wanderer wandering by that streamSaw 'twas the river he had known in dream.

So day by day he journeyed; and it chancedOne day he fared till night was well advancedEre lying down to sleep; and when he wakedNext morn, his bones and all his body ached,And on his temples lay a weary heat,And with sore pain he got upon his feet.Yet when he rose and hard at hand espiedThe City sloping to the riverside,With bright white walls and golden port agleam,Such as he saw them figured in the dream-Then the blood leapt as fire along his veinsAnd the o'erwearied limbs forgat their pains.But when he strove to make what speed he mightToward the happy haven full in sight,The feet that would have hastened thereuntoCould not; and heavily, as old men do,He fell to earth, and groaned aloud and said,'Old man, what would'st thou, with thy silvered head,Yonder, where all their tresses be as goldForever?-Thou art suffered to beholdThe city of thy search: what wilt thou more?Tarry thou here upon this river-shore;Thou mightest farther go nor find the grassGreener, whereon to lay thy head, and passInto the deep dark populous empty land.'

So spake the man, not able to withstandThis dumb remonstrance of the flesh, now firstThwarting the soul. Howbeit a mighty thirstConsumed him, and he crawled unto the brinkOf the clear stream hard by, that he might drinkOne draught thereof, and with the water stillHis deep desire. When lo a miracle!No sooner had he drunken than his wholeBody was changed and did from crown to soleThe likeness of its youthful self put on,The Prince of half-an-hundred years agone,Wearing the very garments that he woreWhat time his years were but a single score.

Then he remembered how that in The DreamOne told him of the marvel of that stream,Whose waters are a well of youth eterne.And night and day its crystal heart doth yearnTo wed its youthhood with the sea's old age;And faring on that bridal pilgrimage,Its waters past the shining city are rolled,And all the people drink and wax not old.