Happy the man whose toil

  Leads on laborious hills;

The rock beneath the soil

  The measure of his ills.

Happiest, who can go forth

  Thro’ every age and clime,

His home the whole of earth,

  His heritage all time.

In vasty Wilds and with

  No crimson petals pranckt

The shallow briars breathe

  And bloom and die unthankt.

And we the useless Briar,

  And round us Desert spread

The red Sun rolls his fire

  And smites the Desert dead;

Death, Silence, and the Star

  With scornful nostrils curl’d;

And half-forgotten, far,

  The movements of the world.

           II

One hour released I rusht

  About the world again;

The living thousands crusht;

  The streets were full of rain;

I felt the north wind sting

  And glory’d in the sleet;

I heard my footsteps ring

  Along the frosty street;

And saw—less seen than felt—

  Swift-flashing Italy,

And that bright city built

  Upon the mirroring Sea.

           III

My country, my England, home,

  Are thy flowers bright, thy bells

Ringing the spring welcome,

  The winter long farewells?

Are thy fields fair—each flower

  Fill’d with the heav’nly dew,

My country, at this hour

  When I am thinking of you?

Art thou so far, so fair?

  Across what leagues of foam,

My country? Art thou still there,

  My England, my country, my home?

           IV

This hateful desert land

  Is pent by a great sea

That booms upon the strand

  For ever. Salt the sea

And salt the shore; the thorn

  And cactus stand and gaze

Upon these waves; new-born

  The young grass ends her days;

Straightly the beach is lined.

  I wander to the shore.

The sunset dies behind,

  The full moon springs before.

Of these great Deeps that link

  The land I love with this,

I wander to the brink,

  I watch the waters kiss

This lonely shore. O Waves,

  O Winds and Waters, where

My country? Sing, O Waves,

  And tell me of it here.

O Night? O Moon that comest,

  A sad face fronting mine?

O dusking Deep that boomest,

  What tidings of it thine?

           V

O Homeland, at this hour

  What joys are thine? This moon

What lovers in what bower

  Sees? and what jocund tune

From smoky villages

  Is heard? What homely light

Shines welcome through the trees?

  What watch-dog barks delight?

What lingering linnet flings

  Her good-night in the air?

What honeysuckle rings

  Her chime of fragrance there?

One moment, and I see

  The cot, the lane, the light,

The moon behind the tree,

  The evening turn to night;

One moment know the scent

  Of smoke of fragrant fires,

And hear the cattle pent

  Within the wattled byres.

One moment—and I wake;

  The vision fades and falls;

These lifeless deserts make

  Me adamantine walls.

I hear the pinions creak

  Of night-birds, beating by;

And lost hyaenas shriek

  Unto the spectral sky.

The Stars, immortal Sons

  Of God, are full of fire;

But we, rejected ones,

  Know heav’n but in desire.

My Soul said, ‘Art thou dead?

  The chasm of night is riv’n;

What dost thou see?’ I said,

  ‘The full-fired fires of heav’n.’

‘Look not but see,’ he said.

  I said, ‘I know not whether

They are the hosts of God

  Clashing their spears together.

So bright the stars appear

  Their splendour smokes in heav’n;

I think indeed I hear

  Their distant voices ev’n.’

He said, ‘See not but know.’

  I said, ‘I cannot see;

I think perhaps they go

  To some great victory.’

He said, ‘For ever they go,

  Still onward, on and on;

And that is why they know

  The victory’s clarion.’

I said, ‘I am too weak

  To do more than I must.’

He said, ‘Then cease to seek

  And perish in the dust.’

I cannot choose but try

  Behind these prison bars

To measure earth and sky

  And know the whole of stars;

And what I rede I write,

  Vain visions as they rise,

Vain visions of the night,

  Unworthy others’ eyes.

I said, ‘Tho’ dungeon’d here

  In these deep dens of night,

My soul shall persevere

  To seek supernal light;

Untainted Truth to know

  From that fair face of Lies

Whose heav’nly features glow

  Like Truth’s, save in the eyes;

Till, after all these years,

  The wisdom come unsought

To see the stars as spheres

  And sound the bounds of thought.’

Ever as we journey sink

  The old behind the new,

And Heav’n commands we think

  As justly as we do.

One golden virtue more

  Than virtue we must prize,

One iron duty more

  Than duty, to be wise.

Who to himself hath said,

  ‘This chamber must be closed;

This tract of truth I dread,

  This darkness God-imposed

May not be lifted,’ keeps

  An ever-open door

Thro’ which deception creeps,

  Confounding more and more,

Until to wild extremes

  Of falsehood driv’n he dies,

Intoxicate with dreams

  And drunk with a thousand lies.

And more if he have taken

  A secret lie for friend,

He shall be found forsaken,

  And terrible his end.

So one doth travelling ride;

  A dreadful forest fears;

Rejoiced at length a guide

  He meeteth unawares.

With thunder overthrown

  Day dies in solitude;

The guide, a monster grown,

  Devours him in the wood.

Idle and base the cry

  ‘If it be so, so be it;

But if it be so, then I

  Will look not lest I see it.’

Or this, ‘If it be so

  We lose this thing or that;

’Twere better not to know.’

  The lightning spareth not

The timorous soul who hides

  His head in danger thus:

The iron fact abides;

  Things were not made for us.

Who answers, who repines?

  Not he who works in love,

But he who thinks divines

  The thing he cannot prove.

He takes his stand and rolls

  The phrase he hopes for Heav’n,

But cheats the hungry souls

  And gives them bread of leav’n.

His ears are filled with wax,

  His bandaged eyeballs blind,

And yet no doubts perplex,

  And he can see the wind.

Though all in science good,

  By incessant question found,

Beyond it strayed we brood

  And argue round and round;

And where we hoped the end,

  Such distance we have come,

Amazed we only find

  The point we started from;

And fancies, like the breath

  We utter, do but prove

A cloud above, beneath,

  To fog us as we move.

We climb from cloud to cloud

  The airy precipice;

Fain would we reach to God;

  We fall thro’ the abyss.

The vapours will not bear.

  Wild-clutching we are hurl’d

Thro’ measurements of air

  Again upon the world.

Clear rings the answer high,

  ‘The mystery makes itself;

The mystery is a lie;

  Be cleansed and know thyself.’

If with unshaken will,

  Resolving not to stray

But to be rising still,

  We clamber day by day

From truth to truth, at last,

  In valleys of the night

Not lost, we know the vast

  And simple upper light,

Only one labouring knows.

  The base, tumultuous wreck

Of rock and forest shows;

  The summit, a single peak.

So sought, so seen, so found.

  And what the end so high?

A summit splendour crown’d

  Between the earth and sky,

Where with sidereal blaze

  The mistless planets glow,

And stars unsully’d gaze

  On unpolluted snow.

No strife the vast reveals

  But perfect peace indeed—

The thunder of spinning wheels

  At rest in eternal speed.

Ingrate, we give no thought

  To all these golden things

The toiling past hath brought,

  The toiling present brings.

But on this silent shore

  And waste barbarian,

We hear the engines roar

  And mind the might of man.

So one in savage lands:

  He enters all alone;

No weapon in his hands.

  The secret spears unthrown,

The creepers lose their guile,

  Seeing his face, distrest

They know not why. A smile,

  A sign or two, a jest,

And all on bended knees

  Withhold the savage stroke.

With beating heart he sees

  The lessening steamer-smoke.

He draws a power to be

  From powers sacrificed;

And in his eyes we see

  The teaching of the Christ,

And all the great beside,

  The oracles of time

From Delphic clefts have cried

  Or crasht in thundering rhyme.

A book his finger parts;

  He moves thro’ adverse cries;

Master of many arts

  And careless of the skies.

What are thy mighty deeds,

  O Past, thy gains, O Time?

A dust of ruin’d creeds,

  A scroll or two of rhyme?

A temple earthquake-dasht?

  A false record of things?

A picture lightning-flasht

  Of cruel eyes of kings?

No, these: a wiser rule;

  A science of ampler span;

A heart more pitiful;

  More mind; a nobler man.

Seek without seeking ends,

  And shatter without ruth;

On thee our fate depends;

  Be faithful, keep the truth.

We think it false to dream

  Beyond the likely fact;

We grant thee, Truth, supreme,

  Whatever thou exact.

I pray thee, Truth, control

  My destiny distraught,

And move my sightless soul

  In thy high ways of thought.

Hold thou my hand. I go

  Wherever thou wilt guide,

Tho’ bleak the bitter snow

  And black the mountain side.

Or if thou bid’st descend,

  I fear not for myself,

Tho’ raging thunders rend

  And lightnings lash, the gulf.

My deeds I will endow,

  My spirit render clean,

O Truth, with thee; and thou

  Wilt make the desert green;

And haply show withal

  The wells that will not sink,

Sweet pastures for the soul,

  And in the desert drink.

But in my state infirm

  That Spirit comes and cries

To me in wrath, ‘O worm,

  They see not who have eyes,

How thou that hast not? Know,

  My children drink the sun,

Taking them wings to go

  Where others walk or run:

Yet scarcely one life-taught

  Can ever rightly heed

The issue of a thought

  Or do a fruitful deed.’

I would but only this:

  I wish that I could go

And see the thing that is,

  And, seeing, better know;

And take things in my hand

  And find if false or fit;

But in this far-off land

  What hope is there of it?

There is no hope of it;

  I see but sad despair,

Unless it may be writ

  God cureth care by care.

So one in prison thrust;

  He ages span by span,

But in the prison dust

  Becomes a better man.

I thought that I might rise

  And, looking to the stars,

Lift up my blinded eyes

  And bless God unawares,

In words whose merit this—

  Poor buds of blighting air—

To know no loveliness

  But breathe the scent of prayer;

Since Heaven hath decreed

  Who suffers lives with God,

And he who writes indeed

  Must write in his own blood

I thought, tho’ fetter’d fast,

  I yet might move my hands

To cast or to recast

  Some labour—sift the sands

For knowledge—search the vast

  Some hidden hope to find—

Perhaps to help at last

  The cause of humankind.

O hope abandon’d! Not

  In me the worth or wit.

God gave this lowly lot

  Because I merit it.

In humble ways I move

  Myself to little things;

The heated hands I prove,

  I watch the light that springs

Or fades in fever’d eyes;

  My only solace here,

Not to be rich or wise

  But to have done with fear.

God sees the silent space

  Where footstep never trod;

And in the lonely place

  The listener is God.

O Deep, a depth from thee,

  O Fate, thy fixèd calm,

O Sorrow, what to me

  Thou givest not, thy balm;

That I might worthier show

  A scorn of your controls,

And let Misfortune know

  Iron chains make iron souls.

If chain’d we could but take

  Contagion from the steel,

And wisdom’s mantle shake

  Around us head to heel,

And chill the eyes and rest

  No longer violent,

The steel, still more imprest,

  Would banish discontent.

The strongest chains are burst

  When we have done with care;

A joy lives in the worst,

  A gladness in despair.

So when great clouds all night

  Hold high debate of thunder

In awful tones that fright

  The huddled cities under;

And roar their rage and move

  About the breadths of space,

And sudden flashes prove

  The madness in their face;

At length, when break of day

  Shows heav’nly peace newborn,

They muttering melt away

  Before the might of morn.

But turn thine eyes and see

  With some more love sincere

The prisoners that with thee

  Are also dungeon’d here—

The pale flower in the chink,

  The spider at the grate,

The bird that comes to drink

  His tollage from thy plate.’

Grief, sitting sad’ning still

  With cold eyes inward cast,

Looks round the empty will

  And dreary chambers vast

Of thought. She cannot sit;

  She loathes her selfish tears;

She looks once more without,

  And lo! worse grief appears.

Her tears bechidden freeze;

  She watches the world’s need,

And deeper sorrow sees,

  And that that weeps indeed.

There is no misery

  Attired in mourning wear,

Worse misery may not see,

  And that that goeth bare.

We have no heavy cross

  To some one’s is not small;

We weep no heavy loss

  But some one weeps his all;

Half stun’d I look around

  And see a land of death—

Dead bones that walk the ground

  And dead bones underneath;

A race of wretches caught

  Between the palms of Need

And rub’d to utter naught,

  The chaff of human seed;

And all like stricken leaves,

  Despondent multitudes

The wind of winter drives

  About the broken woods.

The toiler tills the field,

  But at his bosom coil’d

The blood-leach makes him yield

  The pence for which he toil’d,

And grows and drops off fat

  From these poor breathless ones,

Who know not this or that

  But work themselves to bones;

And this one fever’d flags,

  And that one hopeless tries,

Or uncomplaining drags

  A giant leg, and dies.

What reck I? Let me go.

  Is not my bosom full?

The sorrow that I know

  Makes others’ sorrow dull.

I will shut up the soul,

  For only joy is just.

Stones with the river roll,

  And we ev’n as we must.

Why should I think of thee,

  O Wisdom, and thy lies?

Better laugh and foolish be

  Than laugh not and be wise.

The wild-birds heed thee not;

  Of thee no torrents roar;

The deep seas know no jot

  Of all thy little lore;

But man who cannot ’scape

  To follow thee and trust,

Thou takest by the nape

  And grindest in the dust.

The limping lepers crawl,

  The tricking traders cheat;

The lean ones cry and fall,

  The fat ones curse and beat;

Never hath freedom’s cry

  The stifling stillness cleaved;

The hopeless millions die

  That yet have never lived.

No noble god of earth,

  Man can but snatch and eat;

Starvation murders worth,

  Wealth makes the beast complete.

What horror here! Is this

  Thy revelation, Truth?

I shake at the abyss.

  What hunger, rage, and ruth,

How hopeless! Heaven, we men

  Are not the gods we think!—

Base pismires of the fen

  That fight and bite and sink.

            II

O myriad-childed Mother,

  Sitting among their graves

Who thee and one another

  Have made for ever slaves,

Great East; O aged Mother,

  Too old for Fear and Hope—

Fear that is Pleasure’s brother,

  And Sorrow’s sister, Hope—

As erst in ages gone,

  So now, thou art half dead,

Thy countenance turned to stone

  By an eternal dread.

With lips that dare not move

  And awful lids apart,

While yet faint pulses prove

  The life about thy heart,

Thou sitt’st at dreadful gaze

  Into the dreadful Vast:

For thou canst well appraise

  The future by the past,

Are these thy mighty deeds,

  O Past, thy gains, O Time?

This wrack of ruin’d creeds,

  This scroll or two of rhyme?—

A temple earthquake-dasht;

  A false record of things;

A picture, lightning-flasht,

  Of cruel eyes of kings;

A mangled race that bleeds

  In cruel custom’s claws,

Besotted by their creeds,

  And murder’d by their laws?

Right easily understood

  Fate’s lesson is, tho’ slow;

She takes a nation’s blood

  To jot a word or two.

And for sufficient space

  To write a line of hers,

She wipes away a race

  And dashes down the verse,

And cries, ‘So much to each,

  And man may mark or not;

But what I choose to teach

  Shall never be forgot.’

To mend this mindless state

  In which, as in the East,

We drift on floods of fate,

  As helpless as the beast,

Then here the issue is—

  Look on this land and weep—

A race as ruin’d as this,

  A misery as deep.

           II

Seeing how pent we are

  Within our human ways,

That save in ceaseless war

  We cannot spend our days,

In struggle each with each

  To get a breathing space,

While Heaven, out of reach,

  Looks on with scornful face;

I wonder, for man’s sake,

  Cannot that mind of his

Which made the engine make

  A better state than this?

Here sitting in my place

  There comes to me unsought

The beautiful sad face

  Of this undying thought.