That son of Italy who tried to blow,[8]
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sate with his bride to see a public show.
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sate with his bride to see a public show.
Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong,—
Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong,—
Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,
Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!
Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and found
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.
Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and found
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,
Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.
Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.
A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD.
What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?—
’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry
Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony;
It was the sight of that Lord Arundel
Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,
And his child’s reason flickered, and did die.
Painted (he willed it) in the gallery
They hang; the picture doth the story tell.
’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry
Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony;
It was the sight of that Lord Arundel
Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,
And his child’s reason flickered, and did die.
Painted (he willed it) in the gallery
They hang; the picture doth the story tell.
Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand!
The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze,
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!
The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze,
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!
Methinks the woe, which made that father stand
Baring his dumb remorse to future days,
Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.
Baring his dumb remorse to future days,
Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.
RACHEL.
I.
In Paris all looked hot and like to fade;
Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,
Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, a brougham rolled through the streets, and made
Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,
Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, a brougham rolled through the streets, and made
Halt at the white and silent colonnade
Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease,
Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,
Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed.
Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease,
Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,
Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed.
She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled
To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;
Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear?
To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;
Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear?
Ah! where the spirit its highest life hath led,
All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine;
And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!
All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine;
And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!
II.
Unto a lonely villa, in a dell
Above the fragrant warm Provençal shore,
The dying Rachel in a chair they bore
Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,
Above the fragrant warm Provençal shore,
The dying Rachel in a chair they bore
Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,
And laid her in a stately room, where fell
The shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—
The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,
Polymnia,—full on her death-bed. ’Twas well!
The shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—
The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,
Polymnia,—full on her death-bed. ’Twas well!
The fret and misery of our northern towns,
In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain,
Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns,
In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain,
Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns,
Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease:
Sole object of her dying eyes remain
The beauty and the glorious art of Greece.
Sole object of her dying eyes remain
The beauty and the glorious art of Greece.
III.
Sprung from the blood of Israel’s scattered race,
At a mean inn in German Aarau born,
To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,
Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face,
At a mean inn in German Aarau born,
To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,
Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face,
Imparting life renewed, old classic grace;
Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn,
A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn,
While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,—
Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn,
A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn,
While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,—
Ah! not the radiant spirit of Greece alone
She had—one power, which made her breast its home.
In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers,
She had—one power, which made her breast its home.
In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers,
Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome.
The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours;
Her genius and her glory are her own.
The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours;
Her genius and her glory are her own.
WORLDLY PLACE.
Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master’s ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen,—
Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?
And drudge under some foolish master’s ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen,—
Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?
Even in a palace! On his truth sincere,
Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame
Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here!
The aids to noble life are all within.”
I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here!
The aids to noble life are all within.”
EAST LONDON.
’Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said,—
“Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?”
“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.”
“Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?”
“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.”
O human soul! as long as thou canst so
Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow,
Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow,
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,—
Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!
Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home.
Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!
Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home.
WEST LONDON.
Crouched on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square,
A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;
A babe was in her arms, and at her side
A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.
A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;
A babe was in her arms, and at her side
A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.
Some laboring-men, whose work lay somewhere there,
Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hied
Across, and begged, and came back satisfied.
The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.
Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hied
Across, and begged, and came back satisfied.
The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.
Thought I, “Above her state this spirit towers;
She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,
Of sharers in a common human fate.
She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,
Of sharers in a common human fate.
She turns from that cold succor, which attends
The unknown little from the unknowing great,
And points us to a better time than ours.”
The unknown little from the unknowing great,
And points us to a better time than ours.”
EAST AND WEST.
In the bare midst of Anglesey they show
Two springs which close by one another play;
And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,
“Two saints met often where those waters flow.
Two springs which close by one another play;
And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,
“Two saints met often where those waters flow.
One came from Penmon westward, and a glow
Whitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray;
Eastward the other, from the dying day,
And he with unsunned face did always go.”
Whitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray;
Eastward the other, from the dying day,
And he with unsunned face did always go.”
THE BETTER PART.
Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,
How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!
“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;
No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;
How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!
“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;
No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;
We live no more, when we have done our span.”
“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?
From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear?
Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”
“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?
From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear?
Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”
So answerest thou; but why not rather say,—
“Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high!
Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?
“Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high!
Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?
More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!
Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try
If we then, too, can be such men as he!”
Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try
If we then, too, can be such men as he!”
THE DIVINITY.
“Yes, write it in the rock,” Saint Bernard said,
“Grave it on brass with adamantine pen!
’Tis God himself becomes apparent, when
God’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed;
“Grave it on brass with adamantine pen!
’Tis God himself becomes apparent, when
God’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed;
For God of these his attributes is made.”—
Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of men
The suffrage captive: now not one in ten
Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9]
Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of men
The suffrage captive: now not one in ten
Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9]
God’s wisdom and God’s goodness! Ay, but fools
Mis-define these till God knows them no more.
Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schools
Mis-define these till God knows them no more.
Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schools
Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore?
This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules;
’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.
This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules;
’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.
IMMORTALITY.
Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say,
The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne.
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say,
The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn
The world’s poor, routed leavings? or will they
Who failed under the heat of this life’s day
Support the fervors of the heavenly morn?
The world’s poor, routed leavings? or will they
Who failed under the heat of this life’s day
Support the fervors of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may be
Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagged not in the earthly strife,
Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagged not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing,—only he,
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID.
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save.
So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the side
Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10]
“Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,
Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”
So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,
The infant Church! of love she felt the tide
Stream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.
So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the side
Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10]
“Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,
Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”
So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,
The infant Church! of love she felt the tide
Stream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.
And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,
With eye suffused but heart inspired true,
On those walls subterranean, where she hid
With eye suffused but heart inspired true,
On those walls subterranean, where she hid
Her head ’mid ignominy, death, and tombs,
She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—
And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—
And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
MONICA’S LAST PRAYER.[11]
“Ah! could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;
But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;
But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.
Thus Monica, and died in Italy.
Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.
Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.
Had been! but at the end, to her pure soul
All tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.
All tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.
Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole.
Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!
Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!
LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS.
SWITZERLAND.
I. MEETING.
Again I see my bliss at hand,
The town, the lake, are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12]
Unaltered with the year.
The town, the lake, are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12]
Unaltered with the year.
I know that graceful figure fair,
That cheek of languid hue;
I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.
That cheek of languid hue;
I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.
Again I spring to make my choice;
Again in tones of ire
I hear a God’s tremendous voice,—
“Be counselled, and retire.”
Again in tones of ire
I hear a God’s tremendous voice,—
“Be counselled, and retire.”
Ye guiding Powers who join and part,
What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,
And let the peaceful be!
What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,
And let the peaceful be!
II. PARTING.
Ye storm-winds of autumn!
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hillside
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms,—
Ye are bound for the mountains!
Ah! with you let me go
Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air.
How deep is their stillness!
Ah! would I were there!
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hillside
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms,—
Ye are bound for the mountains!
Ah! with you let me go
Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air.
How deep is their stillness!
Ah! would I were there!
But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?
Ah! it comes nearer—
Sweet notes, this way!
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?
Ah! it comes nearer—
Sweet notes, this way!
Hark! fast by the window
The rushing winds go,
To the ice-cumbered gorges,
The vast seas of snow!
There the torrents drive upward
Their rock-strangled hum;
There the avalanche thunders
The hoarse torrent dumb.
—I come, O ye mountains!
Ye torrents, I come!
The rushing winds go,
To the ice-cumbered gorges,
The vast seas of snow!
There the torrents drive upward
Their rock-strangled hum;
There the avalanche thunders
The hoarse torrent dumb.
—I come, O ye mountains!
Ye torrents, I come!
But who is this, by the half-opened door,
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?
The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—
The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells
The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—
Ah! they bend nearer—
Sweet lips, this way!
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?
The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—
The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells
The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—
Ah! they bend nearer—
Sweet lips, this way!
Hark! the wind rushes past us!
Ah! with that let me go
To the clear, waning hill-side,
Unspotted by snow,
There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,
The frore mountain wall,
Where the niched snow-bed sprays down
Its powdery fall.
There its dusky blue clusters
The aconite spreads;
There the pines slope, the cloud-strips
Hung soft in their heads.
No life but, at moments,
The mountain bee’s hum.
—I come, O ye mountains!
Ye pine-woods, I come!
Ah! with that let me go
To the clear, waning hill-side,
Unspotted by snow,
There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,
The frore mountain wall,
Where the niched snow-bed sprays down
Its powdery fall.
There its dusky blue clusters
The aconite spreads;
There the pines slope, the cloud-strips
Hung soft in their heads.
No life but, at moments,
The mountain bee’s hum.
—I come, O ye mountains!
Ye pine-woods, I come!
Forgive me! forgive me!
Ah, Marguerite, fain
Would these arms reach to clasp thee!
But see! ’tis in vain.
Ah, Marguerite, fain
Would these arms reach to clasp thee!
But see! ’tis in vain.
In the void air, towards thee,
My stretched arms are cast;
But a sea rolls between us,—
Our different past!
My stretched arms are cast;
But a sea rolls between us,—
Our different past!
To the lips, ah! of others
Those lips have been prest,
And others, ere I was,
Were strained to that breast.
Those lips have been prest,
And others, ere I was,
Were strained to that breast.
Far, far from each other
Our spirits have grown.
And what heart knows another?
Ah! who knows his own?
Our spirits have grown.
And what heart knows another?
Ah! who knows his own?
Blow, ye winds! lift me with you!
I come to the wild.
Fold closely, O Nature!
Thine arms round thy child.
I come to the wild.
Fold closely, O Nature!
Thine arms round thy child.
To thee only God granted
A heart ever new,—
To all always open,
To all always true.
A heart ever new,—
To all always open,
To all always true.
Ah! calm me, restore me;
And dry up my tears
On thy high mountain platforms,
Where morn first appears;
And dry up my tears
On thy high mountain platforms,
Where morn first appears;
Where the white mists, forever,
Are spread and upfurled,—
In the stir of the forces
Whence issued the world.
Are spread and upfurled,—
In the stir of the forces
Whence issued the world.
III. A FAREWELL.
My horse’s feet beside the lake,
Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,
Sent echoes through the night to wake
Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.
Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,
Sent echoes through the night to wake
Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.
The poplar avenue was passed,
And the roofed bridge that spans the stream;
Up the steep street I hurried fast,
Led by thy taper’s starlike beam.
And the roofed bridge that spans the stream;
Up the steep street I hurried fast,
Led by thy taper’s starlike beam.
I came! I saw thee rise! the blood
Poured flushing to thy languid cheek.
Locked in each other’s arms we stood,
In tears, with hearts too full to speak.
Poured flushing to thy languid cheek.
Locked in each other’s arms we stood,
In tears, with hearts too full to speak.
Days flew; ah, soon I could discern
A trouble in thine altered air!
Thy hand lay languidly in mine,
Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.
A trouble in thine altered air!
Thy hand lay languidly in mine,
Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.
I blame thee not! This heart, I know,
To be long loved was never framed;
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.
To be long loved was never framed;
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.
And women,—things that live and move
Mined by the fever of the soul,—
They seek to find in those they love
Stern strength, and promise of control.
Mined by the fever of the soul,—
They seek to find in those they love
Stern strength, and promise of control.
They ask not kindness, gentle ways;
These they themselves have tried and known:
They ask a soul which never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.
These they themselves have tried and known:
They ask a soul which never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.
I too have felt the load I bore
In a too strong emotion’s sway;
I too have wished, no woman more,
This starting, feverish heart away.
In a too strong emotion’s sway;
I too have wished, no woman more,
This starting, feverish heart away.
I too have longed for trenchant force,
And will like a dividing spear;
Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,
Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.
And will like a dividing spear;
Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,
Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.
But in the world I learnt, what there
Thou too wilt surely one day prove,—
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.
Thou too wilt surely one day prove,—
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.
Go, then! till time and fate impress
This truth on thee, be mine no more!
They will! for thou, I feel, not less
Than I, wast destined to this lore.
This truth on thee, be mine no more!
They will! for thou, I feel, not less
Than I, wast destined to this lore.
We school our manners, act our parts;
But He, who sees us through and through,
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.
But He, who sees us through and through,
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.
And though we wear out life, alas!
Distracted as a homeless wind,
In beating where we must not pass,
In seeking what we shall not find;
Distracted as a homeless wind,
In beating where we must not pass,
In seeking what we shall not find;
Yet we shall one day gain, life past,
Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole;
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last
Our true affinities of soul.
Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole;
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last
Our true affinities of soul.
We shall not then deny a course
To every thought the mass ignore;
We shall not then call hardness force,
Nor lightness wisdom any more.
To every thought the mass ignore;
We shall not then call hardness force,
Nor lightness wisdom any more.
Then, in the eternal Father’s smile,
Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare
To seem as free from pride and guile,
As good, as generous, as they are.
Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare
To seem as free from pride and guile,
As good, as generous, as they are.
Then we shall know our friends! Though much
Will have been lost,—the help in strife,
The thousand sweet, still joys of such
As hand in hand face earthly life,—
Will have been lost,—the help in strife,
The thousand sweet, still joys of such
As hand in hand face earthly life,—
Though these be lost, there will be yet
A sympathy august and pure;
Ennobled by a vast regret,
And by contrition sealed thrice sure.
A sympathy august and pure;
Ennobled by a vast regret,
And by contrition sealed thrice sure.
And we, whose ways were unlike here,
May then more neighboring courses ply;
May to each other be brought near,
And greet across infinity.
May then more neighboring courses ply;
May to each other be brought near,
And greet across infinity.
How sweet, unreached by earthly jars,
My sister! to maintain with thee
The hush among the shining stars,
The calm upon the moonlit sea!
My sister! to maintain with thee
The hush among the shining stars,
The calm upon the moonlit sea!
How sweet to feel, on the boon air,
All our unquiet pulses cease!
To feel that nothing can impair
The gentleness, the thirst for peace,—
All our unquiet pulses cease!
To feel that nothing can impair
The gentleness, the thirst for peace,—
The gentleness too rudely hurled
On this wild earth of hate and fear;
The thirst for peace, a raving world
Would never let us satiate here.
On this wild earth of hate and fear;
The thirst for peace, a raving world
Would never let us satiate here.
IV. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE.
We were apart: yet, day by day,
I bade my heart more constant be.
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee;
Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.
I bade my heart more constant be.
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee;
Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.
The fault was grave! I might have known,
What far too soon, alas! I learned,—
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturned.
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.
Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell!
What far too soon, alas! I learned,—
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturned.
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.
Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!—And thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and spherèd course
To haunt the place where passions reign,—
Back to thy solitude again!
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and spherèd course
To haunt the place where passions reign,—
Back to thy solitude again!
Back! with the conscious thrill of shame
Which Luna felt, that summer-night,
Flash through her pure immortal frame,
When she forsook the starry height
To hang o’er Endymion’s sleep
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.
Which Luna felt, that summer-night,
Flash through her pure immortal frame,
When she forsook the starry height
To hang o’er Endymion’s sleep
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.
Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved
How vain a thing is mortal love,
Wandering in heaven, far removed;
But thou hast long had place to prove
This truth,—to prove, and make thine own:
“Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”
How vain a thing is mortal love,
Wandering in heaven, far removed;
But thou hast long had place to prove
This truth,—to prove, and make thine own:
“Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”
Or, if not quite alone, yet they
Which touch thee are unmating things,—
Ocean and clouds and night and day;
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;
And life, and others’ joy and pain,
And love, if love, of happier men.
Which touch thee are unmating things,—
Ocean and clouds and night and day;
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;
And life, and others’ joy and pain,
And love, if love, of happier men.
Of happier men; for they, at least,
Have dreamed two human hearts might blend
In one, and were through faith released
From isolation without end
Prolonged; nor knew, although not less
Alone than thou, their loneliness.
Have dreamed two human hearts might blend
In one, and were through faith released
From isolation without end
Prolonged; nor knew, although not less
Alone than thou, their loneliness.
V. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED.
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour,—
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour,—
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain:
Oh, might our marges meet again!
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain:
Oh, might our marges meet again!
Who ordered that their longing’s fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
VI. ABSENCE.
In this fair stranger’s eyes of gray,
Thine eyes, my love! I see.
I shiver; for the passing day
Had borne me far from thee.
Thine eyes, my love! I see.
I shiver; for the passing day
Had borne me far from thee.
This is the curse of life! that not
A nobler, calmer train
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot
Our passions from our brain;
A nobler, calmer train
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot
Our passions from our brain;
But each day brings its petty dust,
Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.
Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.
I struggle towards the light; and ye,
Once-longed-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.
Once-longed-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.
I struggle towards the light; but oh,
While yet the night is chill,
Upon time’s barren, stormy flow,
Stay with me, Marguerite, still!
While yet the night is chill,
Upon time’s barren, stormy flow,
Stay with me, Marguerite, still!
VII. THE TERRACE AT BERNE.
(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)
Ten years! and to my waking eye
Once more the roofs of Berne appear;
The rocky banks, the terrace high,
The stream! and do I linger here?
Once more the roofs of Berne appear;
The rocky banks, the terrace high,
The stream! and do I linger here?
The clouds are on the Oberland,
The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;
But bright are those green fields at hand,
And through those fields comes down the Aar,
The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;
But bright are those green fields at hand,
And through those fields comes down the Aar,
And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,
Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;
And ’neath the garden-walk it hums,
The house! and is my Marguerite there
Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;
And ’neath the garden-walk it hums,
The house! and is my Marguerite there
Ah! shall I see thee, while a flush
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,
Quick through the oleanders brush,
And clap thy hands, and cry, ’Tis thou!
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,
Quick through the oleanders brush,
And clap thy hands, and cry, ’Tis thou!
Or hast thou long since wandered back,
Daughter of France! to France, thy home;
And flitted down the flowery track
Where feet like thine too lightly come?
Daughter of France! to France, thy home;
And flitted down the flowery track
Where feet like thine too lightly come?
Doth riotous laughter now replace
Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,
Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering lace
The kerchief that inwound thy hair?
Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,
Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering lace
The kerchief that inwound thy hair?
Or is it over? art thou dead?—
Dead!—and no warning shiver ran
Across my heart, to say thy thread
Of life was cut, and closed thy span!
Dead!—and no warning shiver ran
Across my heart, to say thy thread
Of life was cut, and closed thy span!
Could from earth’s ways that figure slight
Be lost, and I not feel ’twas so?
Of that fresh voice the gay delight
Fail from earth’s air, and I not know?
Be lost, and I not feel ’twas so?
Of that fresh voice the gay delight
Fail from earth’s air, and I not know?
Or shall I find thee still, but changed,
But not the Marguerite of thy prime?
With all thy being re-arranged,—
Passed through the crucible of time;
But not the Marguerite of thy prime?
With all thy being re-arranged,—
Passed through the crucible of time;
With spirit vanished, beauty waned,
And hardly yet a glance, a tone,
A gesture—any thing—retained
Of all that was my Marguerite’s own?
And hardly yet a glance, a tone,
A gesture—any thing—retained
Of all that was my Marguerite’s own?
I will not know! For wherefore try,
To things by mortal course that live,
A shadowy durability,
For which they were not meant, to give?
To things by mortal course that live,
A shadowy durability,
For which they were not meant, to give?
Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass
Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, alas!
Man meets man,—meets, and quits again.
Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, alas!
Man meets man,—meets, and quits again.
I knew it when my life was young;
I feel it still now youth is o’er.
—The mists are on the mountain hung,
And Marguerite I shall see no more.
I feel it still now youth is o’er.
—The mists are on the mountain hung,
And Marguerite I shall see no more.
THE STRAYED REVELLER.
THE PORTICO OF CIRCE’S PALACE. EVENING.
A Youth.
Circe.
THE YOUTH.
Faster, faster,
O Circe, goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
O Circe, goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me! thy right arm,
Leaned up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
I held but now.
Down on me! thy right arm,
Leaned up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
I held but now.
Is it then evening
So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Clustered in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, goddess,
Waves thy white robe!
So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Clustered in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, goddess,
Waves thy white robe!
CIRCE.
Whence art thou, sleeper?
THE YOUTH.
When the white dawn first
Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley-head,
Came breaking, goddess!
I sprang up, I threw round me
My dappled fawn-skin;
Passing out, from the wet turf,
Where they lay, by the hut door,
I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,
All drenched in dew,—
Came swift down to join
The rout early gathered
In the town, round the temple,
Iacchus’ white fane
On yonder hill.
Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley-head,
Came breaking, goddess!
I sprang up, I threw round me
My dappled fawn-skin;
Passing out, from the wet turf,
Where they lay, by the hut door,
I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,
All drenched in dew,—
Came swift down to join
The rout early gathered
In the town, round the temple,
Iacchus’ white fane
On yonder hill.
Quick I passed, following
The woodcutters’ cart-track
Down the dark valley. I saw
On my left, through the beeches,
Thy palace, goddess,
Smokeless, empty!
Trembling, I entered; beheld
The court all silent,
The lions sleeping,
On the altar this bowl.
I drank, goddess!
And sank down here, sleeping,
On the steps of thy portico.
The woodcutters’ cart-track
Down the dark valley. I saw
On my left, through the beeches,
Thy palace, goddess,
Smokeless, empty!
Trembling, I entered; beheld
The court all silent,
The lions sleeping,
On the altar this bowl.
I drank, goddess!
And sank down here, sleeping,
On the steps of thy portico.
CIRCE.
Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
Wouldst more of it? See how glows,
Through the delicate, flushed marble,
The red creaming liquor,
Strewn with dark seeds!
Drink, then! I chide thee not,
Deny thee not my bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!
Drink—drink again!
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
Wouldst more of it? See how glows,
Through the delicate, flushed marble,
The red creaming liquor,
Strewn with dark seeds!
Drink, then! I chide thee not,
Deny thee not my bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!
Drink—drink again!
THE YOUTH.
Thanks, gracious one!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me!
More subtle-winding,
Than Pan’s flute-music!
Faint—faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me!
More subtle-winding,
Than Pan’s flute-music!
Faint—faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!
CIRCE.
Hist! Thou—within there!
Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.
Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.
ULYSSES.
Ever new magic!
Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus’ darling,
Or some youth beloved of Pan,
Of Pan and the nymphs;
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
That crown his hair,
Falling forward, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants;
His fawn-skin, half untied,
Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he,
That he sits, overweighed
By fumes of wine and sleep,
So late, in thy portico?
What youth, goddess,—what guest
Of gods or mortals?
Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus’ darling,
Or some youth beloved of Pan,
Of Pan and the nymphs;
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
That crown his hair,
Falling forward, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants;
His fawn-skin, half untied,
Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he,
That he sits, overweighed
By fumes of wine and sleep,
So late, in thy portico?
What youth, goddess,—what guest
Of gods or mortals?
CIRCE.
Hist! he wakes!
I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!
I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!
THE YOUTH.
Who speaks? Ah! who comes forth
To thy side, goddess, from within?
How shall I name him,—
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Ah! and I see too
His sailor’s bonnet,
His short coat, travel-tarnished,
With one arm bare!—
Art thou not he, whom fame
This long time rumors
The favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves?
Art thou he, stranger,—
The wise Ulysses,
Laertes’ son?
To thy side, goddess, from within?
How shall I name him,—
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Ah! and I see too
His sailor’s bonnet,
His short coat, travel-tarnished,
With one arm bare!—
Art thou not he, whom fame
This long time rumors
The favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves?
Art thou he, stranger,—
The wise Ulysses,
Laertes’ son?
ULYSSES.
I am Ulysses.
And thou too, sleeper?
Thy voice is sweet.
It may be thou hast followed
Through the islands some divine bard,
By age taught many things,—
Age, and the Muses;
And heard him delighting
The chiefs and people
In the banquet, and learned his songs,
Of gods and heroes,
Of war and arts,
And peopled cities,
Inland, or built
By the gray sea. If so, then hail!
I honor and welcome thee.
And thou too, sleeper?
Thy voice is sweet.
It may be thou hast followed
Through the islands some divine bard,
By age taught many things,—
Age, and the Muses;
And heard him delighting
The chiefs and people
In the banquet, and learned his songs,
Of gods and heroes,
Of war and arts,
And peopled cities,
Inland, or built
By the gray sea. If so, then hail!
I honor and welcome thee.
THE YOUTH.
The gods are happy.
They turn on all sides
Their shining eyes,
And see below them
The earth and men.
They turn on all sides
Their shining eyes,
And see below them
The earth and men.
They see Tiresias
Sitting, staff in hand,
On the warm, grassy
Asopus bank,
His robe drawn over
His old sightless head,
Revolving inly
The doom of Thebes.
Sitting, staff in hand,
On the warm, grassy
Asopus bank,
His robe drawn over
His old sightless head,
Revolving inly
The doom of Thebes.
They see the centaurs
In the upper glens
Of Pelion, in the streams
Where red-berried ashes fringe
The clear-brown shallow pools,
With streaming flanks, and heads
Reared proudly, snuffing
The mountain wind.
In the upper glens
Of Pelion, in the streams
Where red-berried ashes fringe
The clear-brown shallow pools,
With streaming flanks, and heads
Reared proudly, snuffing
The mountain wind.
They see the Indian
Drifting, knife in hand,
His frail boat moored to
A floating isle thick-matted
With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,
And the dark cucumber.
He reaps and stows them,
Drifting—drifting; round him,
Round his green harvest-plot,
Flow the cool lake-waves,
The mountains ring them.
Drifting, knife in hand,
His frail boat moored to
A floating isle thick-matted
With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,
And the dark cucumber.
He reaps and stows them,
Drifting—drifting; round him,
Round his green harvest-plot,
Flow the cool lake-waves,
The mountains ring them.
They see the Scythian
On the wide steppe, unharnessing
His wheeled house at noon.
He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,—
Mares’ milk, and bread
Baked on the embers. All around,
The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starred
With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
And flag-leaved iris-flowers.
Sitting in his cart
He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,
Alive with bright green lizards,
And the springing bustard-fowl,
The track, a straight black line,
Furrows the rich soil; here and there
Clusters of lonely mounds
Topped with rough-hewn,
Gray, rain-bleared statues, overpeer
The sunny waste.
On the wide steppe, unharnessing
His wheeled house at noon.
He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,—
Mares’ milk, and bread
Baked on the embers. All around,
The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starred
With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
And flag-leaved iris-flowers.
Sitting in his cart
He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,
Alive with bright green lizards,
And the springing bustard-fowl,
The track, a straight black line,
Furrows the rich soil; here and there
Clusters of lonely mounds
Topped with rough-hewn,
Gray, rain-bleared statues, overpeer
The sunny waste.
They see the ferry
On the broad, clay-laden
Lone Chorasmian stream; thereon,
With snort and strain,
Two horses, strongly swimming, tow
The ferry-boat, with woven ropes
To either bow
Firm-harnessed by the mane; a chief,
With shout and shaken spear,
Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern
The cowering merchants in long robes
Sit pale beside their wealth
Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,
Of gold and ivory,
Of turquoise-earth, and amethyst,
Jasper and chalcedony,
And milk-barred onyx-stones.
The loaded boat swings groaning
In the yellow eddies;
The gods behold them.
On the broad, clay-laden
Lone Chorasmian stream; thereon,
With snort and strain,
Two horses, strongly swimming, tow
The ferry-boat, with woven ropes
To either bow
Firm-harnessed by the mane; a chief,
With shout and shaken spear,
Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern
The cowering merchants in long robes
Sit pale beside their wealth
Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,
Of gold and ivory,
Of turquoise-earth, and amethyst,
Jasper and chalcedony,
And milk-barred onyx-stones.
The loaded boat swings groaning
In the yellow eddies;
The gods behold them.
They see the heroes
Sitting in the dark ship
On the foamless, long-heaving,
Violet sea,
At sunset nearing
The Happy Islands.
Sitting in the dark ship
On the foamless, long-heaving,
Violet sea,
At sunset nearing
The Happy Islands.
These things, Ulysses,
The wise bards also
Behold, and sing.
But oh, what labor!
O prince, what pain!
The wise bards also
Behold, and sing.
But oh, what labor!
O prince, what pain!
They too can see
Tiresias; but the gods,
Who gave them vision,
Added this law:
That they should bear too
His groping blindness,
His dark foreboding,
His scorned white hairs;
Bear Hera’s anger
Through a life lengthened
To seven ages.
Tiresias; but the gods,
Who gave them vision,
Added this law:
That they should bear too
His groping blindness,
His dark foreboding,
His scorned white hairs;
Bear Hera’s anger
Through a life lengthened
To seven ages.
They see the centaurs
On Pelion: then they feel,
They too, the maddening wine
Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain
They feel the biting spears
Of the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,
Drive crashing through their bones; they feel,
High on a jutting rock in the red stream,
Alcmena’s dreadful son
Ply his bow. Such a price
The gods exact for song:
To become what we sing.
On Pelion: then they feel,
They too, the maddening wine
Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain
They feel the biting spears
Of the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,
Drive crashing through their bones; they feel,
High on a jutting rock in the red stream,
Alcmena’s dreadful son
Ply his bow. Such a price
The gods exact for song:
To become what we sing.
They see the Indian
On his mountain lake; but squalls
Make their skiff reel, and worms
In the unkind spring have gnawn
Their melon-harvest to the heart. They see
The Scythian; but long frosts
Parch them in winter-time on the bare steppe,
Till they too fade like grass; they crawl
Like shadows forth in spring.
On his mountain lake; but squalls
Make their skiff reel, and worms
In the unkind spring have gnawn
Their melon-harvest to the heart. They see
The Scythian; but long frosts
Parch them in winter-time on the bare steppe,
Till they too fade like grass; they crawl
Like shadows forth in spring.
They see the merchants
On the Oxus-stream; but care
Must visit first them too, and make them pale:
Whether, through whirling sand,
A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst
Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,
In the walled cities the way passes through,
Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs,
On some great river’s marge,
Mown them down, far from home.
On the Oxus-stream; but care
Must visit first them too, and make them pale:
Whether, through whirling sand,
A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst
Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,
In the walled cities the way passes through,
Crushed them with tolls; or fever-airs,
On some great river’s marge,
Mown them down, far from home.
They see the heroes
Near harbor; but they share
Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,—
Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;
Or where the echoing oars
Of Argo first
Startled the unknown sea.
Near harbor; but they share
Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,—
Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;
Or where the echoing oars
Of Argo first
Startled the unknown sea.
The old Silenus
Came, lolling in the sunshine,
From the dewy forest-coverts,
This way, at noon.
Sitting by me, while his fauns
Down at the water-side
Sprinkled and smoothed
His drooping garland,
He told me these things.
Came, lolling in the sunshine,
From the dewy forest-coverts,
This way, at noon.
Sitting by me, while his fauns
Down at the water-side
Sprinkled and smoothed
His drooping garland,
He told me these things.
But I, Ulysses,
Sitting on the warm steps,
Looking over the valley,
All day long, have seen,
Without pain, without labor,
Sometimes a wild-haired mænad,
Sometimes a faun with torches,
And sometimes, for a moment,
Passing through the dark stems
Flowing-robed, the beloved,
The desired, the divine,
Beloved Iacchus.
Sitting on the warm steps,
Looking over the valley,
All day long, have seen,
Without pain, without labor,
Sometimes a wild-haired mænad,
Sometimes a faun with torches,
And sometimes, for a moment,
Passing through the dark stems
Flowing-robed, the beloved,
The desired, the divine,
Beloved Iacchus.
Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!
Ah, glimmering water,
Fitful earth-murmur,
Dreaming woods!
Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess,
And thou, proved, much-enduring,
Wave-tossed wanderer!
Who can stand still?
Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—
The cup again!
Ah, glimmering water,
Fitful earth-murmur,
Dreaming woods!
Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling goddess,
And thou, proved, much-enduring,
Wave-tossed wanderer!
Who can stand still?
Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—
The cup again!
Faster, faster,
O Circe, goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
O Circe, goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
FRAGMENT OF AN “ANTIGONE.”
THE CHORUS.