What good soever in thy heart or mind
Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own
Than thine own self, nor bow to other throne—
Suspect and fear—although therein thou find
High purpose to go forth and bless thy kind,
Or in the awful temple of thy soul
To worship what is loveliest, and controul
The ill within, and by strong laws to bind.
Good is of God—and none is therefore sure
That has dared wander from its source away:
Laws without sanction will not long endure,
Love will grow faint and fainter day by day,
And Beauty from the straight path will allure,
And weakening first, will afterwards betray.
Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own
Than thine own self, nor bow to other throne—
Suspect and fear—although therein thou find
High purpose to go forth and bless thy kind,
Or in the awful temple of thy soul
To worship what is loveliest, and controul
The ill within, and by strong laws to bind.
Good is of God—and none is therefore sure
That has dared wander from its source away:
Laws without sanction will not long endure,
Love will grow faint and fainter day by day,
And Beauty from the straight path will allure,
And weakening first, will afterwards betray.
TO ——
What maiden gathers flowers, who does not love[2]?
And some have said, that none in summer bowers,
Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers:
O lady, of a purpose dost thou move
Through garden walks, as willing to disprove
This gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand,
Hast culled a thousand thus at my command,
Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove.
There is no meaning in a thousand flowers—
One lily from its green stalk wouldst thou part,
Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold,
One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers,
Upgathering closely to its virgin heart
An undivulgèd hoard of central gold.
And some have said, that none in summer bowers,
Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers:
O lady, of a purpose dost thou move
Through garden walks, as willing to disprove
This gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand,
Hast culled a thousand thus at my command,
Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove.
There is no meaning in a thousand flowers—
One lily from its green stalk wouldst thou part,
Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold,
One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers,
Upgathering closely to its virgin heart
An undivulgèd hoard of central gold.
TO THE SAME.
Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun
Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright,
And how it seems to drink the golden light
Of evening—you would think that it had won
A splendour of its own: but lo! anon
You shall behold a dark mass float away,
Emptied of light and radiance, from the day,
Its glory faded utterly and gone.
And doubt not we should suffer the same loss
As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem
Translucent and made pure of all its dross,
If, having shared the light, we should misdeem
That light our own, or count we hold in fee
That which we must receive continually.
Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright,
And how it seems to drink the golden light
Of evening—you would think that it had won
A splendour of its own: but lo! anon
You shall behold a dark mass float away,
Emptied of light and radiance, from the day,
Its glory faded utterly and gone.
And doubt not we should suffer the same loss
As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem
Translucent and made pure of all its dross,
If, having shared the light, we should misdeem
That light our own, or count we hold in fee
That which we must receive continually.
TO THE SAME.
We live not in our moments or our years—
The Present we fling from us like the rind
Of some sweet Future, which we after find
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears,
And water it beforehand with our tears—
Vain tears for that which never may arrive:
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live
Neglected or unheeded disappears.
Wiser it were to welcome and make ours
Whate’er of good, though small, the present brings—
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers,
With a child’s pure delight in little things;
And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,
Knowing that mercy ever will endure.
The Present we fling from us like the rind
Of some sweet Future, which we after find
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears,
And water it beforehand with our tears—
Vain tears for that which never may arrive:
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live
Neglected or unheeded disappears.
Wiser it were to welcome and make ours
Whate’er of good, though small, the present brings—
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers,
With a child’s pure delight in little things;
And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,
Knowing that mercy ever will endure.
TO THE SAME.
If sorrow came not near us, and the lore
Which wisdom-working sorrow best imparts,
Found never time of entrance to our hearts,
If we had won already a safe shore,
Or if our changes were already o’er,
Our pilgrim being we might quite forget,
Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set,
Where there shall be no sorrow any more.
Therefore we will not be unwise to ask
This, nor secure exemption from our share
Of mortal suffering, and life’s drearier task—
Not this, but grace our portion so to bear,
That we may rest, when grief and pain are over,
“With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover.”
Which wisdom-working sorrow best imparts,
Found never time of entrance to our hearts,
If we had won already a safe shore,
Or if our changes were already o’er,
Our pilgrim being we might quite forget,
Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set,
Where there shall be no sorrow any more.
Therefore we will not be unwise to ask
This, nor secure exemption from our share
Of mortal suffering, and life’s drearier task—
Not this, but grace our portion so to bear,
That we may rest, when grief and pain are over,
“With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover.”
TO THE SAME.
O dowered with a searching glance to see
Quite through the hollow masks, wherewith the bare
And worthless shows of greatness vizored are,
This lore thou hast, because all things to thee
Are proven by the absolute decree
Of duty, and whatever will not square
With that “prime wisdom,” though of seeming fair
Or stately, thou rejectest faithfully.
Till chidden in thy strength, each random aim
Of good, whose aspect heavenward does not turn,
Shrinks self-rebuked—thou looking kindliest blame
From the calm region of thine eyes, that burn
With tempered but continuous flashes bright,
Like the mild lightnings of a tropic night.
Quite through the hollow masks, wherewith the bare
And worthless shows of greatness vizored are,
This lore thou hast, because all things to thee
Are proven by the absolute decree
Of duty, and whatever will not square
With that “prime wisdom,” though of seeming fair
Or stately, thou rejectest faithfully.
Till chidden in thy strength, each random aim
Of good, whose aspect heavenward does not turn,
Shrinks self-rebuked—thou looking kindliest blame
From the calm region of thine eyes, that burn
With tempered but continuous flashes bright,
Like the mild lightnings of a tropic night.
A LEGEND OF ALHAMBRA.
The tradition on which the following Ballad is founded is an existing one, and exactly as it is here recounted was narrated to the author during his stay at Granada.
O hymned in many a poet’s strain,
Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand
Exalted on this throne of Spain,
A marvel of the land,
Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand
Exalted on this throne of Spain,
A marvel of the land,
The last of thy imperial race,
Alhambra, when he overstept
Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face—
He turned his face and wept.
Alhambra, when he overstept
Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face—
He turned his face and wept.
In sooth it was a thing to weep,
If then, as now, the level plain
Beneath was spreading like the deep,
The broad unruffled main:
If then, as now, the level plain
Beneath was spreading like the deep,
The broad unruffled main:
If, like a watch-tower of the sun,
Above the Alpujarras rose,
Streaked, when the dying day was done,
With evening’s roseate snows.
Above the Alpujarras rose,
Streaked, when the dying day was done,
With evening’s roseate snows.
Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound,
And the twelve lions, couchant yet,
Sustain their ponderous burthen, round
The marble basin set.
And the twelve lions, couchant yet,
Sustain their ponderous burthen, round
The marble basin set.
But never, when the moon is bright
O’er hill and golden-sanded stream,
And thy square turrets in the light
And taper columns gleam,
O’er hill and golden-sanded stream,
And thy square turrets in the light
And taper columns gleam,
Will village maiden dare to fill
Her pitcher from that basin wide,
But rather seeks a niggard rill
Far down the steep hill-side!
Her pitcher from that basin wide,
But rather seeks a niggard rill
Far down the steep hill-side!
It was an Andalusian maid,
With rose and pink-enwoven hair,
Who told me what the fear that stayed
Their footsteps from that stair:
With rose and pink-enwoven hair,
Who told me what the fear that stayed
Their footsteps from that stair:
How, rising from that watery floor,
A Moorish maiden, in the gleam
Of the wan moonlight, stands before
The stirrer of the stream:
A Moorish maiden, in the gleam
Of the wan moonlight, stands before
The stirrer of the stream:
And mournfully she begs the grace,
That they would speak the words divine,
And sprinkling water in her face,
Would make the sacred sign.
That they would speak the words divine,
And sprinkling water in her face,
Would make the sacred sign.
And whosoe’er will grant this boon,
Returning with the morrow’s light,
Shall find the fountain pavement strewn
With gold and jewels bright:
Returning with the morrow’s light,
Shall find the fountain pavement strewn
With gold and jewels bright:
A regal gift—for once, they say,
Her father ruled this broad domain,
The last who kept beneath his sway
This pleasant place of Spain.
Her father ruled this broad domain,
The last who kept beneath his sway
This pleasant place of Spain.
It surely is a fearful doom,
That one so beautiful should have
No present quiet in her tomb,
No hope beyond the grave.
That one so beautiful should have
No present quiet in her tomb,
No hope beyond the grave.
It must be, that some amulet
Doth make all human pity vain,
Or that upon her brow is set
The silent seal of pain,
Doth make all human pity vain,
Or that upon her brow is set
The silent seal of pain,
Which none can meet—else long ago,
Since many gentle hearts are there,
Some spirit, touched by joy or woe,
Had answered to her prayer.
Since many gentle hearts are there,
Some spirit, touched by joy or woe,
Had answered to her prayer.
But so it is, that till this hour
That mournful child beneath the moon
Still rises from her watery bower,
To urge this simple boon—
That mournful child beneath the moon
Still rises from her watery bower,
To urge this simple boon—
To beg, as all have need of grace,
That they would speak the words divine,
And, sprinkling water in her face,
Would make the sacred sign.
That they would speak the words divine,
And, sprinkling water in her face,
Would make the sacred sign.
ENGLAND.
Peace, Freedom, Happiness, have loved to wait
On the fair islands, fenced by circling seas,
And ever of such favoured spots as these
Have the wise dreamers dreamed, that would create
That perfect model of a happy state,
Which the world never saw. Oceana,
Utopia such, and Plato’s isle that lay
Westward of Gades and the Great Sea’s gate.
Dreams are they all, which yet have helped to make
That underneath fair polities we dwell,
Though marred in part by envy, faction, hate—
Dreams which are dear, dear England, for thy sake,
Who art indeed that sea-girt citadel,
And nearest image of that perfect state.
On the fair islands, fenced by circling seas,
And ever of such favoured spots as these
Have the wise dreamers dreamed, that would create
That perfect model of a happy state,
Which the world never saw. Oceana,
Utopia such, and Plato’s isle that lay
Westward of Gades and the Great Sea’s gate.
Dreams are they all, which yet have helped to make
That underneath fair polities we dwell,
Though marred in part by envy, faction, hate—
Dreams which are dear, dear England, for thy sake,
Who art indeed that sea-girt citadel,
And nearest image of that perfect state.
THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
Though never axe until a later day
Assailed thy forests’ huge antiquity,
Yet elder Fame had many tales of thee—
Whether Phœnician shipman far astray
Had brought uncertain notices away
Of islands dreaming in the middle sea;
Or that man’s heart, which struggles to be free
From the old worn-out world, had never stay
Till, for a place to rest on, it had found
A region out of ken, that happier isle,
Which the mild ocean breezes blow around,
Where they who thrice upon this mortal stage
Had kept their hands from wrong, their hearts from guile,
Should come at length, and live a tearless age.
Assailed thy forests’ huge antiquity,
Yet elder Fame had many tales of thee—
Whether Phœnician shipman far astray
Had brought uncertain notices away
Of islands dreaming in the middle sea;
Or that man’s heart, which struggles to be free
From the old worn-out world, had never stay
Till, for a place to rest on, it had found
A region out of ken, that happier isle,
Which the mild ocean breezes blow around,
Where they who thrice upon this mortal stage
Had kept their hands from wrong, their hearts from guile,
Should come at length, and live a tearless age.
GIBRALTAR.
England, we love thee better than we know—
And this I learned, when after wanderings long
’Mid people of another stock and tongue,
I heard again thy martial music blow,
And saw thy gallant children to and fro
Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates,
Which like twin giants watch the Herculean straits:
When first I came in sight of that brave show,
It made my very heart within me dance,
To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance
Forward so far into the mighty sea;
Joy was it and exultation to behold
Thine ancient standard’s rich emblazonry,
A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.
And this I learned, when after wanderings long
’Mid people of another stock and tongue,
I heard again thy martial music blow,
And saw thy gallant children to and fro
Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates,
Which like twin giants watch the Herculean straits:
When first I came in sight of that brave show,
It made my very heart within me dance,
To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance
Forward so far into the mighty sea;
Joy was it and exultation to behold
Thine ancient standard’s rich emblazonry,
A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.
ENGLAND.
We look for, and have promise to behold
A better country, such as earth has none—
Yet, England, am I still thy duteous son,
And never will this heart be dead or cold
At the relation of thy glories old,
Or of what newer triumphs thou hast won,
Where thou as with a mighty arm hast done
The work of God, quelling the tyrants bold.
Elect of nations, for the whole world’s good
Thou wert exalted to a doom so high—
To outbrave Rome’s “triple tyrant,” to confound
Every oppressor, that with impious flood
Would drown the landmarks of humanity,
The limits God hath set to nations and their bound[3].
A better country, such as earth has none—
Yet, England, am I still thy duteous son,
And never will this heart be dead or cold
At the relation of thy glories old,
Or of what newer triumphs thou hast won,
Where thou as with a mighty arm hast done
The work of God, quelling the tyrants bold.
Elect of nations, for the whole world’s good
Thou wert exalted to a doom so high—
To outbrave Rome’s “triple tyrant,” to confound
Every oppressor, that with impious flood
Would drown the landmarks of humanity,
The limits God hath set to nations and their bound[3].
POLAND, 1831.
The nations may not be trod out, and quite
Obliterated from the world’s great page—
The nations, that have filled from age to age
Their place in story. They who in despite
Of this, a people’s first and holiest right,
In lust of unchecked power or brutal rage,
Against a people’s life such warfare wage,
With man no more, but with the Eternal fight.
They who break down the barriers He hath set,
Break down what would another time defend
And shelter their own selves: they who forget
(For the indulgence of the present will)
The lasting ordinances, in the end
Will rue their work, when ill shall sanction ill.
Obliterated from the world’s great page—
The nations, that have filled from age to age
Their place in story. They who in despite
Of this, a people’s first and holiest right,
In lust of unchecked power or brutal rage,
Against a people’s life such warfare wage,
With man no more, but with the Eternal fight.
They who break down the barriers He hath set,
Break down what would another time defend
And shelter their own selves: they who forget
(For the indulgence of the present will)
The lasting ordinances, in the end
Will rue their work, when ill shall sanction ill.
TO NICHOLAS, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA.
ON HIS REPORTED CONDUCT TOWARDS THE POLES.
What would it help to call thee what thou art?
When all is spoken, thou remainest still
With the same power and the same evil will
To crush a nation’s life out, to dispart
All holiest ties, to turn awry and thwart
All courses that kind nature keeps, to spill
The blood of noblest veins, to maim, or kill
With torture of slow pain the aching heart.
When our weak hands hang useless, and we feel
Deeds cannot be, who then would ease his breast
With the impotence of words? But our appeal
Is unto Him, who counts a nation’s tears,
With whom are the oppressor and opprest,
And vengeance, and the recompensing years.
When all is spoken, thou remainest still
With the same power and the same evil will
To crush a nation’s life out, to dispart
All holiest ties, to turn awry and thwart
All courses that kind nature keeps, to spill
The blood of noblest veins, to maim, or kill
With torture of slow pain the aching heart.
When our weak hands hang useless, and we feel
Deeds cannot be, who then would ease his breast
With the impotence of words? But our appeal
Is unto Him, who counts a nation’s tears,
With whom are the oppressor and opprest,
And vengeance, and the recompensing years.
ON THE RESULTS OF THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.
How long shall weary nations toil in blood,
How often roll the still returning stone
Up the sharp painful height, ere they will own
That on the base of individual good,
Of virtue, manners, and pure homes endued
With household graces—that on this alone
Shall social freedom stand—where these are gone,
There is a nation doomed to servitude?
O suffering, toiling France, thy toil is vain!
The irreversible decree stands sure,
Where men are selfish, covetous of gain,
Heady and fierce, unholy and impure,
Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain;
They cannot build a work which shall endure.
How often roll the still returning stone
Up the sharp painful height, ere they will own
That on the base of individual good,
Of virtue, manners, and pure homes endued
With household graces—that on this alone
Shall social freedom stand—where these are gone,
There is a nation doomed to servitude?
O suffering, toiling France, thy toil is vain!
The irreversible decree stands sure,
Where men are selfish, covetous of gain,
Heady and fierce, unholy and impure,
Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain;
They cannot build a work which shall endure.
TO ENGLAND.
A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING.
Thy duteous loving children fear for thee
In one thing chiefly—for thy pure abodes
And thy undesecrated household Gods,
Thou most religious, and for this most free,
Of all the nations. Oh! look out and see
The injuries which she, who in the name
Of liberty thy fellowship would claim,
Has done to virtue and to liberty;
Whose philtres have corrupted everywhere
The living springs men drink of, all save thine.
Oh! then of her and of her love beware!
Better again eight hundred years of strife,
Than give her leave to sap and undermine
The deep foundations of thy moral life.
In one thing chiefly—for thy pure abodes
And thy undesecrated household Gods,
Thou most religious, and for this most free,
Of all the nations. Oh! look out and see
The injuries which she, who in the name
Of liberty thy fellowship would claim,
Has done to virtue and to liberty;
Whose philtres have corrupted everywhere
The living springs men drink of, all save thine.
Oh! then of her and of her love beware!
Better again eight hundred years of strife,
Than give her leave to sap and undermine
The deep foundations of thy moral life.
SONNET.
You say we love not freedom, honoured friend;
Yea, doubtless, we can lend to scheme like yours
Small love. Yet not for this—that it assures
Too much to man—this would not me offend:
But for I know that all such schemes will end
With leaving him too little,—will deprive
Of that free energy by which we live:
For of such plots the final act attend—
See them who loathed the very name of king,
Emulous in slavery, bow their souls before
The new-coined title of some meaner thing
Than ever crown of king or emperor wore;
For such in God’s and Nature’s righteousness,
The weakness which avenges all excess.
Yea, doubtless, we can lend to scheme like yours
Small love. Yet not for this—that it assures
Too much to man—this would not me offend:
But for I know that all such schemes will end
With leaving him too little,—will deprive
Of that free energy by which we live:
For of such plots the final act attend—
See them who loathed the very name of king,
Emulous in slavery, bow their souls before
The new-coined title of some meaner thing
Than ever crown of king or emperor wore;
For such in God’s and Nature’s righteousness,
The weakness which avenges all excess.
SONNET TO SILVIO PELLICO,
ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF HIS IMPRISONMENT.
Ah! who may guess, who yet was never tried
How fearful the temptation to reply
With wrong for wrong, yea fiercely to defy
In spirit, even when action is denied?
Therefore praise waits on thee, not drawn aside
By this strong lure of hell—on thee whose eye
Being formed by love, could every where descry
Love, or some workings unto love allied—
And benediction on the grace that dealt
So with thy soul—and prayer, more earnest prayer,
Intenser longing than before we felt
For all that in dark places lying are,
For captives in strange lands, for them who pine
In depth of dungeon, or in sunless mine[4].
How fearful the temptation to reply
With wrong for wrong, yea fiercely to defy
In spirit, even when action is denied?
Therefore praise waits on thee, not drawn aside
By this strong lure of hell—on thee whose eye
Being formed by love, could every where descry
Love, or some workings unto love allied—
And benediction on the grace that dealt
So with thy soul—and prayer, more earnest prayer,
Intenser longing than before we felt
For all that in dark places lying are,
For captives in strange lands, for them who pine
In depth of dungeon, or in sunless mine[4].
TO THE SAME.
Songs of deliverance compassed thee about,
Long ere thy prison doors were backward flung:
When first thy heart to gentle thoughts was strung,
A song arose in heaven, an angel shout
For one delivered from the hideous rout,
That with defiance and fierce mutual hate
Do each the other’s griefs exasperate.
Thou, loving, from thy grief hadst taken out
Its worst—for who is captive or a slave
But He, who from that dungeon and foul grave,
His own dark soul, refuses to come forth
Into the light and liberty above?
Or whom may we call wretched on this earth
Save only him who has left off to love?
Long ere thy prison doors were backward flung:
When first thy heart to gentle thoughts was strung,
A song arose in heaven, an angel shout
For one delivered from the hideous rout,
That with defiance and fierce mutual hate
Do each the other’s griefs exasperate.
Thou, loving, from thy grief hadst taken out
Its worst—for who is captive or a slave
But He, who from that dungeon and foul grave,
His own dark soul, refuses to come forth
Into the light and liberty above?
Or whom may we call wretched on this earth
Save only him who has left off to love?
FROM THE SPANISH.
Who ever such adventure yet,
Or a like delight has known,
To that which Count Arnaldo met
On the morning of St. John?
Or a like delight has known,
To that which Count Arnaldo met
On the morning of St. John?
He had gone forth beside the sea,
With his falcon on his hand,
And saw a pinnace fast and free,
That was making to the land.
With his falcon on his hand,
And saw a pinnace fast and free,
That was making to the land.
And he that by the rudder stood
As he went was singing still,
“My galley, oh my galley good,
Heaven protect thee from all ill;
As he went was singing still,
“My galley, oh my galley good,
Heaven protect thee from all ill;
“From all the dangers and the woe
That on ocean’s waters wait,
Almeria’s reefs and shallows low,
And Gibraltar’s stormy strait.
That on ocean’s waters wait,
Almeria’s reefs and shallows low,
And Gibraltar’s stormy strait.
“From Venice and its shallow way,
From the shoals of Flanders’ coast,
And from the gulf of broad Biscay,
Where the dangers are the most.”
From the shoals of Flanders’ coast,
And from the gulf of broad Biscay,
Where the dangers are the most.”
LINES.
Not thou from us, O Lord, but we
Withdraw ourselves from thee.
Withdraw ourselves from thee.
When we are dark and dead,
And Thou art covered with a cloud,
Hanging before Thee, like a shroud,
So that our prayer can find no way,
Oh! teach us that we do not say,
“Where is thy brightness fled?”
And Thou art covered with a cloud,
Hanging before Thee, like a shroud,
So that our prayer can find no way,
Oh! teach us that we do not say,
“Where is thy brightness fled?”
But that we search and try
What in ourselves has wrought this blame;
For thou remainest still the same;
But earth’s own vapours earth may fill
With darkness and thick clouds, while still
The sun is in the sky.
What in ourselves has wrought this blame;
For thou remainest still the same;
But earth’s own vapours earth may fill
With darkness and thick clouds, while still
The sun is in the sky.
TO A FRIEND ENTERING THE MINISTRY.
I.
High thoughts at first, and visions high
Are ours of easy victory;
The word we bear seems so divine,
So framed for Adam’s guilty line,
That none, unto ourselves we say,
Of all his sinning suffering race,
Will hear that word, so full of grace,
And coldly turn away.
Are ours of easy victory;
The word we bear seems so divine,
So framed for Adam’s guilty line,
That none, unto ourselves we say,
Of all his sinning suffering race,
Will hear that word, so full of grace,
And coldly turn away.
II.
But soon a sadder mood comes round—
High hopes have fallen to the ground,
And the ambassadors of peace
Go weeping, that men will not cease
To strive with heaven—they weep and mourn,
That suffering men will not be blest,
That weary men refuse to rest,
And wanderers to return.
High hopes have fallen to the ground,
And the ambassadors of peace
Go weeping, that men will not cease
To strive with heaven—they weep and mourn,
That suffering men will not be blest,
That weary men refuse to rest,
And wanderers to return.
III.
Well is it, if has not ensued
Another and a worser mood,
When all unfaithful thoughts have way,
When we hang down our hands, and say,
Alas! it is a weary pain,
To seek with toil and fruitless strife
To chafe the numbed limbs into life,
That will not live again.
Another and a worser mood,
When all unfaithful thoughts have way,
When we hang down our hands, and say,
Alas! it is a weary pain,
To seek with toil and fruitless strife
To chafe the numbed limbs into life,
That will not live again.
IV.
Then if Spring odours on the wind
Float by, they bring into our mind
That it were wiser done, to give
Our hearts to Nature, and to live
For her—or in the student’s bower
To search into her hidden things,
And seek in books the wondrous springs
Of knowledge and of power.
Float by, they bring into our mind
That it were wiser done, to give
Our hearts to Nature, and to live
For her—or in the student’s bower
To search into her hidden things,
And seek in books the wondrous springs
Of knowledge and of power.
V.
Or if we dare not thus draw back,
Yet oh! to shun the crowded track
And the rude throng of men! to dwell
In hermitage or lonely cell,
Feeding all longings that aspire
Like incense heavenward, and with care
And lonely vigil nursing there
Faith’s solitary pyre.
Yet oh! to shun the crowded track
And the rude throng of men! to dwell
In hermitage or lonely cell,
Feeding all longings that aspire
Like incense heavenward, and with care
And lonely vigil nursing there
Faith’s solitary pyre.
VI.
Oh! let not us this thought allow—
The heat, the dust upon our brow,
Signs of the contest, we may wear:
Yet thus we shall appear more fair
In our Almighty Master’s eye,
Than if in fear to lose the bloom,
Or ruffle the soul’s lightest plume,
We from the strife should fly.
The heat, the dust upon our brow,
Signs of the contest, we may wear:
Yet thus we shall appear more fair
In our Almighty Master’s eye,
Than if in fear to lose the bloom,
Or ruffle the soul’s lightest plume,
We from the strife should fly.
VII.
And for the rest, in weariness,
In disappointment, or distress,
When strength decays, or hope grows dim,
We ever may recur to Him,
Who has the golden oil divine,
Wherewith to feed our failing urns,
Who watches every lamp that burns
Before his sacred shrine.
In disappointment, or distress,
When strength decays, or hope grows dim,
We ever may recur to Him,
Who has the golden oil divine,
Wherewith to feed our failing urns,
Who watches every lamp that burns
Before his sacred shrine.
TO A CHILD, PLAYING.
Dear boy, thy momentary laughter rings
Sincerely out, and that spontaneous glee,
Seeming to need no hint from outward things,
Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.
Sincerely out, and that spontaneous glee,
Seeming to need no hint from outward things,
Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.
From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow,
That borrows nothing from the world around?
Its springs must deeper lie than we can know,
A well whose springs lie safely underground.
That borrows nothing from the world around?
Its springs must deeper lie than we can know,
A well whose springs lie safely underground.
So be it ever—and thou happy boy,
When Time, that takes these wild delights away,
Gives thee a measure of sedater joy,
Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;—
When Time, that takes these wild delights away,
Gives thee a measure of sedater joy,
Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;—
Then may that joy, like this, to outward things
Owe nothing—but lie safe beneath the sod,
A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs,
From the glad-making river of our God.
Owe nothing—but lie safe beneath the sod,
A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs,
From the glad-making river of our God.
THE HERRING-FISHERS OF LOCHFYNE.
Deem not these fishers idle, though by day
You hear the snatches of their lazy song,
And see them listlessly the sunlight long
Strew the curved beach of this indented bay:
So deemed I, till I viewed their trim array
Of boats last night,—a busy armament,
With sails as dark as ever Theseus bent
Upon his fatal rigging, take their way.
Rising betimes, I could not choose but look
For their return, and when along the lake
The morning mists were curling, saw them make
Homeward, returning toward their quiet nook,
With draggled nets down hanging to the tide,
Weary, and leaning o’er their vessels’ side.
You hear the snatches of their lazy song,
And see them listlessly the sunlight long
Strew the curved beach of this indented bay:
So deemed I, till I viewed their trim array
Of boats last night,—a busy armament,
With sails as dark as ever Theseus bent
Upon his fatal rigging, take their way.
Rising betimes, I could not choose but look
For their return, and when along the lake
The morning mists were curling, saw them make
Homeward, returning toward their quiet nook,
With draggled nets down hanging to the tide,
Weary, and leaning o’er their vessels’ side.
IN THE ISLE OF MULL.
The clouds are gathering in their western dome,
Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew,
While I with baffled effort still pursue
And track these waters toward their mountain home,
In vain—though cataract, and mimic foam,
And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw
Its sister arms, which joyed to meet anew,
Have lured me on, and won me still to roam;
Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass,
Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass—
And I, thy founts unvisited, return.
Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers?
Or dost thou feed a solitary urn,
Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?
Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew,
While I with baffled effort still pursue
And track these waters toward their mountain home,
In vain—though cataract, and mimic foam,
And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw
Its sister arms, which joyed to meet anew,
Have lured me on, and won me still to roam;
Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass,
Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass—
And I, thy founts unvisited, return.
Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers?
Or dost thou feed a solitary urn,
Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?
THE SAME.
Sweet Water-nymph, more shy than Arethuse,
Why wilt thou hide from me thy green retreat,
Where duly Thou with silver-sandalled feet,
And every Naiad, her green locks profuse,
Welcome with dance sad evening, or unloose,
To share your revel, an oak-cinctured throng,
Oread and Dryad, who the daylight long
By rock, or cave, or antique forest, use
To shun the Wood-god and his rabble bold?
Such comes not now, or who with impious strife
Would seek to untenant meadow stream and plain
Of that indwelling power, which is the life
And which sustaineth each, which poets old
As god and goddess thus have loved to feign.
Why wilt thou hide from me thy green retreat,
Where duly Thou with silver-sandalled feet,
And every Naiad, her green locks profuse,
Welcome with dance sad evening, or unloose,
To share your revel, an oak-cinctured throng,
Oread and Dryad, who the daylight long
By rock, or cave, or antique forest, use
To shun the Wood-god and his rabble bold?
Such comes not now, or who with impious strife
Would seek to untenant meadow stream and plain
Of that indwelling power, which is the life
And which sustaineth each, which poets old
As god and goddess thus have loved to feign.
AT SEA.
The sea is like a mirror far and near,
And ours a prosperous voyage, safe from harms;
And yet the sense that everlasting arms
Are round us and about us, is as dear
Now when no sight of danger doth appear,
As though our vessel did its blind way urge
’Mid the long weltering of the dreariest surge,
Through which a perishing bark did ever steer.
Lord of the calm and tempest, be it ours,
Poor mariners! to pay due vows to thee,
Though not a cloud on all the horizon lowers
Of all our life—for even so shall we
Have greater boldness towards thee, when indeed
The storm is up, and there is earnest need.
And ours a prosperous voyage, safe from harms;
And yet the sense that everlasting arms
Are round us and about us, is as dear
Now when no sight of danger doth appear,
As though our vessel did its blind way urge
’Mid the long weltering of the dreariest surge,
Through which a perishing bark did ever steer.
Lord of the calm and tempest, be it ours,
Poor mariners! to pay due vows to thee,
Though not a cloud on all the horizon lowers
Of all our life—for even so shall we
Have greater boldness towards thee, when indeed
The storm is up, and there is earnest need.
AN EVENING IN FRANCE.
One star is shining in the crimson eve,
And the thin texture of the faint blue sky
Above is like a veil intensely drawn;
Upon the spirit with a solemn weight
The marvel and the mystery of eve
Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm,
By the vain stir and tumult of the day
Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing,
Like doves returning to their noted haunts.
It is the solemn even-tide—the hour
Of holy musings, and to us no less
Of sweet refreshment for the bodily frame
Than for the spirit, harassed both and worn
With a long day of travel; and methinks
It must have been an evening such as this,
After a day of toilsome journeyings o’er,
When looking out on Tiber, as we now
Look out on this fair river flowing by,
Together sat the saintly Monica[5],
And with her, given unto her prayers, that son,
The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youth
Now first was running clear and bright and smooth,
And solitary sitting in the niche
Of a deep window held delightful talk—
Such as they never could have known before,
While a deep chasm, deeper than natural love
Could e’er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls—
Of what must be the glorious life in heaven.
And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky,
And on the golden west, that richest glow
Of sunset to the uncreated light,
Which must invest for ever those bright worlds,
Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give,
Its noblest pleasures, they with one consent
Counted as vile, nor once to be compared—
Oh! rather say not worthy to be named
With what is to be looked for there; and thus
Leaving behind them all things which are seen,
By many a stately stair they did ascend
Above the earth and all created things,
The sun and starry heavens—yea, and above
The mind of man, until they did attain
Where light no shadow has, and life no death,
Where past or future are not, nor can be,
But an eternal present, and the Lamb
His people feeds from indeficient streams.
Then pausing for a moment, as to taste
That river of delights, at length they cried,
Oh! to be thus for ever, and to hear
Thus in the silence of the lower world,
And in the silence of all thoughts that keep
Vain stir within, unutterable words,
And with the splendour of His majesty,
Whose seat is in the middle of the throne,
Thus to be fed for ever—this must be
The beatific vision, the third heaven.
What we have for these passing moments known,
To know the same for ever—this would be
That life whereof even now we held debate.
When will it be? oh when?
And the thin texture of the faint blue sky
Above is like a veil intensely drawn;
Upon the spirit with a solemn weight
The marvel and the mystery of eve
Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm,
By the vain stir and tumult of the day
Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing,
Like doves returning to their noted haunts.
It is the solemn even-tide—the hour
Of holy musings, and to us no less
Of sweet refreshment for the bodily frame
Than for the spirit, harassed both and worn
With a long day of travel; and methinks
It must have been an evening such as this,
After a day of toilsome journeyings o’er,
When looking out on Tiber, as we now
Look out on this fair river flowing by,
Together sat the saintly Monica[5],
And with her, given unto her prayers, that son,
The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youth
Now first was running clear and bright and smooth,
And solitary sitting in the niche
Of a deep window held delightful talk—
Such as they never could have known before,
While a deep chasm, deeper than natural love
Could e’er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls—
Of what must be the glorious life in heaven.
And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky,
And on the golden west, that richest glow
Of sunset to the uncreated light,
Which must invest for ever those bright worlds,
Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give,
Its noblest pleasures, they with one consent
Counted as vile, nor once to be compared—
Oh! rather say not worthy to be named
With what is to be looked for there; and thus
Leaving behind them all things which are seen,
By many a stately stair they did ascend
Above the earth and all created things,
The sun and starry heavens—yea, and above
The mind of man, until they did attain
Where light no shadow has, and life no death,
Where past or future are not, nor can be,
But an eternal present, and the Lamb
His people feeds from indeficient streams.
Then pausing for a moment, as to taste
That river of delights, at length they cried,
Oh! to be thus for ever, and to hear
Thus in the silence of the lower world,
And in the silence of all thoughts that keep
Vain stir within, unutterable words,
And with the splendour of His majesty,
Whose seat is in the middle of the throne,
Thus to be fed for ever—this must be
The beatific vision, the third heaven.
What we have for these passing moments known,
To know the same for ever—this would be
That life whereof even now we held debate.
When will it be? oh when?
These things they said,
And for a season breathed immortal air,
But then perforce returned to earth again:
For the air on those first summits is too fine
For our long breathing, while we yet have on
Our gross investiture of mortal weeds.
And for a season breathed immortal air,
But then perforce returned to earth again:
For the air on those first summits is too fine
For our long breathing, while we yet have on
Our gross investiture of mortal weeds.
Yet not for nothing had their spirits flown
To those high regions, bringing back at once
A reconcilement with the mean things here,
And a more earnest longing for what there
Of nobler was by partial glimpses thus
Seen through the crannies of the prison house.
And she, that mother—such entire content
Possessed her bosom, and her Lord had filled
The orb of her desires so round and full,
Had answered all her prayers for her lost son
With such an overmeasure of his grace,
She had no more to ask, and did not know
Why she should tarry any longer here,
Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt,
And to these thoughts which overflowed her heart
Gave thankful utterance meet; nor many days
After this vision and foretaste of joy,
Inherited the substance of the things
Which she had seen, and entered into peace.
To those high regions, bringing back at once
A reconcilement with the mean things here,
And a more earnest longing for what there
Of nobler was by partial glimpses thus
Seen through the crannies of the prison house.
And she, that mother—such entire content
Possessed her bosom, and her Lord had filled
The orb of her desires so round and full,
Had answered all her prayers for her lost son
With such an overmeasure of his grace,
She had no more to ask, and did not know
Why she should tarry any longer here,
Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt,
And to these thoughts which overflowed her heart
Gave thankful utterance meet; nor many days
After this vision and foretaste of joy,
Inherited the substance of the things
Which she had seen, and entered into peace.