CLXII.THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY.
I
O if in a valley
With close mountains round,
Or in the green alley
Of a woodland ground
There be a joy in nearness to each sight and sound,—
II
Or if, in the bowers
Of a pleasance old,
There be joy for hours
In the sheets of gold
And red and white and blue, in formal shapes unrolled,—
III
Or if in a ruin
With weeds overgrown,
Where time is undoing
That which men have done,
It is a joy to be hemmed in with aisles of stone,—
IV
And if from all places
Close and desolate,
As from silent faces
Through a convent grate,
Sad thoughts and gentle ones on the beholder wait,—
V
There is strong emotion
And a dancing mirth
From the sight of ocean,
And wide plains of earth,
Which is not a less heavenly, though a wilder birth.
VI
Though there be a glory
On the famous fields,
Which chivalric story
With its sunset gilds,
And where the cypher of the past a wisdom yields,
VII
There is glory brighter
On the desert scene,
Where the only writer
That hath ever been
Is the pure sky above with its unhindered sheen.
VIII
And the earth's sweet changes
Are a quiet past,
Whose soft action ranges
O'er the solemn waste,
And where green grass grows now, wild waters once were cast.
IX
To the misty sunlight
Is its bosom bare,
And the flaky moonlight
Makes no shadows there,
And it is free to all outpourings of bright air.
X
Whether pearly morning
Doth herself transfuse
In the sky, adorning
All the myriad dews,
Or twilight steals from sunset banners of red hues;
XI
Whether noonday glimmers
In the hazy dome;
Or, like noisy swimmers
Scattering the foam,
The hailstorms with white oars across the desert roam;
XII
Whether night's strong motion,
Without sound or tool,
The bright earth and ocean
Strives to overrule,
Lights wander here and there, and still the scene is beautiful.
XIII
In the boundless quiet
Of the misty plain,
The wild horses riot
Without bit or rein;
The fatal touch of man hath not passed on their mane.
XIV
With their broad eyes flashing,
Beautiful and free,
The swift herd is dashing
In its untamed glee
Across the plain, as ships may dash across the sea:
XV
And far off delaying
By the shrunken rills,
With a haughty neighing
The lone air it fills,—
Fierce creatures in the joy of their own mighty wills.
XVI
Day with silvery brightness
Dawned there upon me;
The hoarfrost with its whiteness,
Like a moonlit sea,
For leagues of land both far and wide gleamed mistily.
XVII
From the pallid glimmer
Of the morning moon
Till the plains grew dimmer
In the vaporous noon,
In which a tree or cloud would be a blessèd boon,—
XVIII
In relays and courses
At rude cabins given,
We galloped, like wild horses,
Till the cool fresh even,
And we saw two things all day,—the green plain and heaven!
XIX
Once we saw the rolling
Of the Danube nigh,
Once we heard the tolling
Of churchbells wafted by,
But otherwise we were as wild birds in the sky.
XX
But towards night less dreary
Was the grassy way,
And we passed, unweary,
Villages that lay,
Oases, in a belt of light acacia.
XXI
Still we came no nigher
The Carpathian chain,
A fence of white haze-fire
Compassing the plain,
Like land, which may be cloud or land, seen o'er the main.
XXII
On the desert ample
Evening's chilly hour
Bade the breezes trample
In their wildest power,
And o'er the twilight plain like viewless horses scour.
XXIII
Soon the winds were shaking
All the ether blue,
Where the mists were making
The ambrosial dew,
And with a moaning surge a solemn tempest grew.
XXIV
And I felt my spirit
On the storm ascending,
Where for ever near it
A dim shape was bending,
Like a wild horse herd across the desert wending.
XXV
And my thoughts were going
From me with wild force,
Like the white hairs flowing
From the dashing horse;
I laughed whene'er the strong wind struck me in its course.
XXVI
We met a serf belated
On the dusky plain,
With his waggon freighted
With the baron's grain;
He was half blinded with the whirling sleet and rain.
XXVII
And I felt it better
In the desert drear
To be without fetter
Of submissive fear;
And I cried out in anger to the peasant near,—
XXVIII
“Leave thy waggon naked
To the angry sky,
Let thy thirst be slakèd
With earth's liberty,
For freedom is a vaster thing than slavery.”
XXIX
But the long-haired vassal
Looked at me confounded,
As in hour of wassail
By young lords surrounded,
When biting scoff hath e'en his abject spirit wounded.
XXX
When on every feature
I saw fear and pain,
I felt for the poor creature
On that lonesome plain:
Though storms without raged on, my heart was calm again.
XXXI
Men there are who think not
That great words unmeet
Are wells whence we drink not
Waters clear and sweet,
And wonder the world stays not at such words its feet.
XXXII
Such are liberators
With their spirits lifted
To the mood of traitors,
From their good end shifted,
For lack of sympathy on frothy shallows drifted.
XXXIII
Surely it is better
We should not undo
This wild vassal's fetter,
Lest his heart should rue
His altered lot, as men set free too early do.
XXXIV
But the storm is over;
And with oakwoods walled,
We, with quail and plover
For the night installed,
Are in the moonlit heart of the Bakonver Wald.
