University of Virginia Library

DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS.

1. PART THE FIRST.

INTRODUCTION TO A DRAMA (1821).

Scene. A Wilderness in Spain: The place is dark with trees; and the ground hidden by fern and the entangled undergrowth of the forest. Various birds and animals are seen, scattered about.
1 Raven.
Look above thee, brother;—Look!

Crow.
Cousin, quit the wizard's book.
Leave the adder to die alone:
Study no more the thunder-stone:
Quit the hemlock's seething must;
And Hell's black volcanic dust.

1 Rav.
Look above thee,—in the air!

Crow.
Ho, ho! Is it not a vision rare?

2 Rav.
They hover, and hover,
Now under, now over
The cloud which is growing warm
With the kindling light of the coming storm.

Crow.
Hark, i' the air!

1 Rav.
And the earth!

2 Rav.
Ah, ha! she starts at an evil birth.
She heaves, she heaves,
And the shaking leaves
Grow parch'd, and the wind a sad music weaves.

Crow.
Look! One has shot down like a star.

2 Rav.
But the other is soaring far,
Like a Spirit that seeks the sun,
When his errand below, in the dust, is done.

1 Monkey.
Mark the raven: note the rook!
What do they with the Devil's book?

2 Mon.
Stupid wretches!

1 Mon.
And the crow?
What should such lumps of feathers know?
They're fit for nought,
In my poor thought,
But to trick out a funeral raree-show.

2 Mon.
Peace, son; they are but birds, you know:
They can't distinguish right from wrong.

1 Mon.
I'll teach 'em to subtract ere long.

2 Mon.
We'll try, some day, what can be done.
In the meantime, 'tis fit, my son,
We from them get whate'er we can:
And much we may do,
If we mind our cue,
For a monkey is much on a par with man:
There's a difference—

Parrot.
Ho! I shall crack my side.

2 Mon.
Tho' few see 't, till we sit side by side.
On the one hand, a man has a longer nose,
And struts in clean linen, wherever he goes:
But what has he like to the monkey's tail?—

Par.
Ho, ho!—Ho, ho!

2 Mon.
Then he has'nt such grace,
Nor so fine a face:
These things must be thrown in the opposite scale.

Owls.
Hur-ruh!—Hur-ruh!

[Distant thunder.
Vulture.
The tyrant Tempest is coming!
He strives to hold his breath:
But I smell him, and hear him humming
The beautiful terrible tune of Death.

Starling.
Death!—Death!

Snake.
He is creeping amongst the leaves:
He ruffles the moss and flowers:
He is cunning; but who deceives
The snake in her watchful hours?

Dove.
He cometh: yet I must stay;
For my lover will come, who is far away
In the distant showers.

Nightingale.
And nothing shall force me fly;
For hither I came to die
In the dark pine bowers.

Rat.
Dost hear 'em clatter? Let's run, let's run:
The ruin (I feel it) has just begun.
Save yourselves, brothers, and stay for none.

[Clouds gather overhead.—]
Chorus.
The sky is clothed in rain;
The clouds are big with thunder:
And the hills all shake with a spasm pain;
For Spirits, above and under,
Are shouting,—from steep to steep,
All over the airy deep;
And thorough the caves and veins,
Where Mammon the monarch reigns;
And witches are calling
From wood to wood;
And comets are falling
In swamp and flood!

Owls.
Hur-ruh!—Hur-ruh!

[A Shadow passes across.]
A Voice.
Make way!
And welcome the Spirit that floats this way:
Do ye hear, my slaves?

Snake.
O Master gray!
Thy servants are listening : they obey.

[Chorus continues.]
1 Voice.
He comes!
The Master of mind and breath;
The Ghost that unlocketh the door of Death;
Who turneth the hinge of the coffin down;
Who laugheth at bauble and tinsel crown;
Who opens the lid,
And shows what's hid,
Whether't be king or a lowly clown.

2 Voice.
He comes!
Arise, and shake off your tears,
Ashes and Oaks of a thousand years!
All Trees who have name, from Pine to Palm,
Be quick and strip off your sunset calm.
He comes,—with the evening pale;
Arise! and bid the Magician hail!

3 Voice.
He comes!
Elements sleeping, awake again!
Shout with your voices of wind and rain!
And Thou in the cloud
Alive and loud,
Come forth on the back of the Hurricane!
Thunder and Tempest and Lightning pale,
Leap from your caverns and cry—‘All Hail!’

FRAGMENTS.

1.—The Valley of Ladies.

Neiph.
Come on, come on.—A little further on,
And we shall reach a place where we may pause.
It is a meadow full of the early spring:
Tall grass is there which dallies with the wind,
And never-ending odorous lemon-trees;
Wild flowers in blossom, and sweet citron-buds,
And princely cedars; and the linden-boughs
Make arched walks for love to whisper in.
If you be tired, lie down, and you shall hear
A river, which doth kiss irregular banks,
Enchant your senses with a sleepy tune.
If not, and merry blood doth stir your veins,
The place hath still a fair and pleasant aspect:
For, in the midst of this green meadow, springs
A fountain of white marble; o'er whose sides
Run stories, graven by some cunning hand,
Of pastoral life, and tipsy revelry.
There will we, midst delicious cates, and wines
Sparkling and amorous, and sweet instruments,
Sing gentle mischief as the sun goes down.
Quick! but a few steps more—'round by this copse
Of olives and young chesnuts, (to whose arms
The vines seem clinging, like so many brides,)
And you will reach 't. Ha,—Stay!—Look! here it is.

Fiamet.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!—Look! how Philostratus
Buries his forehead in the fresh green grass.

Pamphilus.
Hail, vernal spot! We bear to thy embrace
Pleasures that ask for calm; Love, and Delight;
Harmonious pulses where no evil dwells;
Smiles without treach'ry; words all soft and true;
Music like morning, fresh and full of youth;
And all else that belongs to gentleness.

2.—An Utilitarian.

He is a slave to Science. He would pull
Great Heaven to pieces; and anatomise
Each fragment of its crystal battlements:
Weigh out its hymns; divide its light, and class
The radiant feathers of Archangels' wings.
Do we not know,—doth he not know, that still
Mysterious Wonder aye must reign above us;
Struggle howe'er we may? Doth he not know,
That Adoration and great Wonder, (like
Good deeds which bless the giver,) ever lift
The Soul above the dust, and strengthen us?

3.—The Uses of Courage.

Pity me not: I am not without joy.
Within the shadow of a grand Despair,
Proud thoughts abide; which with their stately strength
Maintain the Spirit in its resolute path.
Be sure of this: brave men do not resign
All Heaven with love. He who can walk alone
Unto his grave, and (conquering his own heart)
Force the black Future, till its seeming Void
Grows populous with shapes, and yields to him,
Its regions subject, is not without joy;
But, like some warrior, who, the day being won,
Strides on triumphant amidst heaps of slain;
All pain and wounds forgot.

4.—Life everywhere.

Call not these things inanimate,—the trees,
The grass, the herbs, the flowers. A busy life
Dwells in their seething limbs; and, as soft blooms
Unfold themselves unto the alluring Sun,
Fond music, (which we hear not,) mystic odours,
Accompany their soft confessions. Thus,
One springs and fades,—then others come,—whilst sighs
Exhale from each unto the listening air,
Telling thro' all its course,(from life to death,
From verdant spring-time until autumn sere,)
The same eternal story.

5.—Fame the offspring of Fortune.

A.
Had he but lived
With Fortune for his mate, and such a stage
To play his part on, as some Spirits have had,
He would have been—

B.
A king?

A.
A man! what else,
King, Emperor, Tyrant, Shah, would matter not.
He would have been—a Name; such as of old
Grew into Gods!

B.
And so he died?

A.
He died,
And not a verse did honour him. His doom
Was writ already; and his star was called
—Oblivion!

6.—Love independent of Reason.

Love follows not desert, but accident.
We love—because we love: I know no more.
'Tis not great thoughts, nor noble qualities,
Nor conduct pure compel it. These rather challenge
Our deep respect than Love: That sweet emotion
Owes to our tender hearts its gentle force,
And scorns all meaner reason.

7.—A Jester; from the antique.

A.
You're merry Lovelace?

L.
I am always merry.
When I came sprawling into this brave world,
My mother laughed, and could not feel her pains:
The midwife tittered, and the nurse did smooth
Her grave and wrinkled apron with a smile.
I grinned ere I could talk; reaped all my learning
Out of a jest-book; and, ere I was man,
Was a felon by each law of gravity.
When I do right, I laugh; 'tis self-approval:
And when I'm wrong, I laugh: it comforts me.
I laugh at folly, much; at wisdom, more:
The first by common rule, the last because
'Tis my peculiar game; and I note often,
Beneath the shadow of a grave man's frown,
A foolscap dancing,—nay, I hear the bells,
And burst abroad in monstrous merriment.

A.
You are the wiser man. If I could see
The Sun, as thou dost, through impervious clouds,
I might be happier. As it is, I bear
The grievous load of life, which poor men carry,
As loosely as I may.

L.
What ails thee now?
Come, thou hast lost a kitten in the mumps?
Thy maid has cracked her garter? Thou hast heard
Thy pig is gone astray, and's put i' the pound?
Not so? Why then thy parsley-bed has failed?
There are no hopes of apples? The last clutch
Of chickens do not thrive as thou expect'st?
Or else, some brown-skinn'd wench, whose eyebrows meet,
Has sworn a child to another,—and 'tis thine?

A.
Peace, peace! Wilt lend me a crown?

L.
Bah! Is that all?
Why, ay: I'll do much more, for one like thee,
Whom I would fain laugh out of poverty.

8.—A case of Witchcraft.

A.
I remember,
When first she saw him, how her dark orbs drew
His soul aside. Her voice, (that sweet witch-music,)
Bound him in trance; and so she floated round,
Taking him prisoner with her golden hair;—

B.
Almost a Parasite?

A.
'Twas even so:
She wound about him, with her leaves and thorns;
Hid him in roses, preyed upon his strength;
And so at last he perished. Peace be with him!

9.—Mésalliance.

A.
You ask, why am I sad?—Give ear to me:—
When I was young, I was a fool,—and married.
The girl I wed was like a bright June morning;
Fresh, fragrant, dewy-lipped, and azure-eyed,
And floated onward with a cloud-like motion;
And when she owned her love for me, her cheek
Out-blushed the burning sun at Midsummer.

B.
And yet you were a fool?

A.
Ay, a mad fool.
For, look,—she was more humble than the dust;
A peasant's daughter. I,—who track my line
Even unto fable, and am honour-bound
To keep my golden lineage unalloyed,
Did wrong to heroes and to kings, my sires,
To mix their blood with baseness.

10.—Resolution.

Let us go forth and tread down fate together.
We'll be companions of the gusty winds;
Laugh loud at hunger; conquer want; out-curse
The fierceness of the howling wilderness.
Firm here; or bolder onwards; that's our way.
He who gives back a foot, gives vantage ground
To whatsoever is his enemy.

11.—Ascending Visions.

A.
Within yon antique rooms
Great Powers abide, which guard this place from wrong;
The strength of Michael; Raffaelle's angel grace;
Grave Titian's splendour; Paolo's sunset dreams:
And Deities, who once (so poets write)
Dwelt on Olympus, from their heights come down,
And sit all round in marble!

B.
Let us go in.

A.
Stand here, and gaze thy fill on beauteous Art!
—Now, look beyond,—beyond its deeds or dreams,
And thou wilt see the Spirits of human power,
Creators of the things which shine below.
Pause not! but let thine aspirations still
Ascend: for wondrous regions lie beyond:
Whose mystic heights, whose darkness calm and holy,
No star can penetrate. There, dwells the Thought,—
The Power, the Spirit of Good, from whence all else
Derive their purpose and their origin.

12.—The New Year.

Time slips from under us. The Year is gone!
And now—what comes? Hark to the headlong bells,
Whose sudden cries shoot through the circling air,
Like lightning through the dark. What birth is next?
The Year,—the new-born Year! Cold, weak and pale,
She enters on her round. No flowers a wake,
To herald her: no winds start forth, to pipe
Their Bacchanalian welcomes in her ear:
But Silence and inanimate Nature lie
In watch, awaiting her first look serene;
And, deep within her brease, what marvels sleep;
What deeds of good and ill; what dreams,—desires,
Flowers like the stars, and thoughts beyond the flowers;
Laughing delights, mute woes, passionate tears;
And kindness, human sunshine, softening all!

13.—Life and Death.

A.
You, in your fierce desire to vanquish me,
Forget this truth:—The Gods who give us life,
Give us death also!

B.
Both are good:—What better,
After tempestuous hours, than deep repose!

14.—Autumn.

The melancholy Autumn comes on us:
Not red and stormy; but in a shroud of rain,
Weeping for Summer fled. The fields lie bare;
The orchards stripped; the gardener's pride is o'er;
For all sweet-smelling flowers have lost their lives;
Geranium; heliotrope: Even the rose,
That was the queen of all the sunny year,—
She, in whose perfumed halls the wild bee lingered,
Lightening his toil with song,—is pale and dead!
So is't with us:—Our spring is blown and gone:
Our manly summer, o'er whose moments Love
Threw lustre like the morning, fades at last!

15.—The Sorrow of an Heir.

Duke.

16.—Unborn Flowers.

How gentle is the sward! Tread soft! Perhaps
A blue-eyed creature whom the Spring forgot
To sweeten, lies below. Perhaps she was
Too frail to unfold her bloom; so died i' the bud.

17.—A Mother pleads to see her Children.

Judge.
You are accused—

M.
Accused? say you, accused?
Why so were saints and martyrs: Nay (hear this)
Christ was accused! The only Son of God,—
He was reviled and smitten: crowned with thorns,
Nailed to the cross,—murdered! Do you hear?
You judges of a mean and bloody law?
Who spell out, with cold tongues, accursed words,
That freeze my soul.—Do you say—dare you say,
That I—a mother—ay, a fond one (back,
You blinding tears!)—

Judge.
The law—

M.
I want not law.
I ask for justice:—Such as Heaven doth teach
Unto wise hearts, and man metes out to man:
Such as doth keep the troubled world in quiet.
I ask for justice: do I ask too much?
A mother,—I demand to see the babes
I bore in pain, and fed, and for some years,
(A few, too few!) guided as they should go,
And taught them truth and gentle thoughts; and now
I ask to see them. God! I ask 't of thee;
For man denies me. Ah! God!—Father! Friend!
(I have no other;) from thine awful throne
Hear my petition. Give my children to me:
And other fortune, short of this, I'll bear,
And thank your grace for ever.

18.—A Superstition.

'Tis said, that in some land, I think in Spain,
(Rising upon you like an awful dream,)
A wondrous Image stands. 'Tis broad and gaunt;
Tall as a giant; with a stormy front;
And snaky hair, and large eyes all of stone;
And arm'd, or so it seems, from head to heel,
With a crook'd falchion, and enormous casque,
And mighty links of mail, which once were brass;
And spurs of marble, and marmoreal limbs;
All bent, like one who staggers. Full at the East
It glares, like a defiance, lowering, bold;
And scorn still lurks about its steadfast eye;
And on its brow a lordly courage sits.
—This statue, as 'tis told, was once a king;
A fierce idolater; who cursed the moon,
And hated Heaven, yet own'd some hellish sway:—
A strange religion this; and yet it was so.
Well,—he was born a king, as I have said,
And reign'd o'er armed millions, without law.
He sold brave men for beggar gold, and stain'd
The innocent youth of virtue. He robb'd altars;
Ate like Apicius; drank, like Afric sands,
Rivers of wine; then fell to frenzy. At last,
Swarming rebellions (like the Atlantic stirred
To madness, by the bellowing of great storms)
Rose up, and lash'd to wrath by horrid wrongs,
Hunted the tyrant from his brazen throne,—
Hunted him, like a wolf, from cave to cave;
Through rocks, and mountains, and deep perilous glens;
Day after day, night after night, until
His soul burst out in curses. On one dull dawn,
Which show'd him lurking to relentless foes,
He flung some terrible reproach at Heaven;
Laugh'd at its God, 'tis said, and cursed the Sun:—
Whereat the broad eye of the Day unclosed,
And stared him into stone!

19.—A Page untranslateable.

I gaze into her eyes:—But who can see
Beyond the impenetrable stars! I hear
The music of her steps, and of her sighs,
And of her presence, when she is most still:
Yet something 'scapes me. I could sooner read
The mysteries of the moon, when frenzy howls,
Than her all potent silence.

20.—Twilight.

I love this light:
'Tis the old age of Day, methinks; or haply
The infancy of Night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming?—Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks, and the woods are still.

21.—Exiles.

Man.
A little further on,
And thou shalt find a safe sad resting-place.
It is a fallen palace, through whose gates,
Arches and flapping casements, the wild rain
And gusty winds pour in. Long years ago,
It was the mansion of a Count of Spain;
Who dealt with the dark Spirits, as 'tis told,
And met a sudden doom. I have heard that he
Encountered his dusk master, as he sate
At supper by himself one winter's night,
And died in madness.

Arm.
Is the place so lonely?

M.
Ay, is it. The stork hath left it; and no thing
Comes there, beside the snake; save when, hard pressed
By savage hunters, or relentless cold,
The wild fox makes 't his dwelling through the night,
And flies at morning.

A.
I am ready now:
Give me our boy, and I will carry him.

M.
Not so: I'm stouter,—nay, I feel no pain.
He sleeps. Look on him,—little famished wretch!
Hunger disdains to tear him. Now, let's on:
This way, beneath the pines. There is no track;
But I have sported here in brighter days,
And know the thickets.

A.
Ha! you stagger? stay:
Now, give me thy sweet burthen.

M.
Tush! 'twas chance;
A straggling root from yon old chesnut tree.
We'll tread with greater care.

A.
I'll sing to thee;
And cheer thee on our melancholy march.
'Tis said men fight the better when they hear
Sweet music; ay, endure fatigue and thirst,
Hunger and such poor wants. If so, I'll strain
My throat until it shame the nightingale,
But I'll do thee some service. Listen then.

[She sings.
M.
Go on: it cheers me. Well?

A.
I had forgot.
The rest is sad: we'll have 't another time.

M.
Now, now:—although 't be darker than our lot;
Let's hear it. When we cannot feel the sun,
Or hear the spring wind laugh, or babbling river,
There's music in the rain.

22.—Friends in Death.

E.
In some lone cemetery,
Distant from towns, (some wild wood-girded spot,
Ruin'd and full of graves, all very old,
Over whose scarce-seen mounds the pine tree sheds
Its solemn fruit, as giving dust to dust,)
He sleeps in quiet. Had he no friend? Oh! yes:
Pity which hates all noise, and Sorrow, like
The enamouring marble that wraps virgin mould,
And palest Silence, who will weep alone,
And all sad friends of Death, were friends to him!

23.—A New Alcestis.

Manuel.
[Watching the body of Armida.]
. . . It may not be!
I watch in vain. At dawn, at noon, at eve,
And ever through the mystic midnight hour,
I watch by her, who was so late my bride;
Yet see no change. Midway, 'tween life and death,
She stays; the tinct still red upon her lip;
And a hue, like that the blush-rose wears, when June
Bares her sweet breast to day, redeems her cheek
From everlasting death: and yet, —she's dead!
I saw, (too well!) amidst my useless tears,
Her life dissolve away: so, —though she lies
As yet of no one beauty disarrayed,
We'll give her tender burial. Open, earth!

[Music. The following Incantation is heard.]
[She revives.]
Man.
Ha! —God!

Arm.
What seest thou? —Manuel, dear Manuel!

Man.
Speak! earth-like, tomb-like—Speak! a word, a word;
Low as the whisper of death.

Arm.
Dear Manuel!

Man.
The music comes again. Like sighing cypress, —
Like organ dirges, heard midst tears and prayer,
It floats about my brain: —But she is dead!

Arm.
Have I slept long?

Man.
A life! —thy feet have trod
The bubbling burning waters, and come back
From Hell, like Orpheus' lover, whom the gods
Dashed into death once more.

Arm.
Thy reason's troubled:
Sit by me, and we'll talk.

Man.
Darest thou betray
The dumb dark secrets thou hast learned below?
Beware! their gods may stir: dæmons may rise,
Armed with revenge and hate; and, passing the bound
That doth divide us from the worlds of fire,
Seize on thee for their own. Art thou not theirs?
Their right? their prey? Their subject? oh! if so,
They'll drag thee down to torment (o' that be sure)
Though I stand strong beside thee. Look, she smiles.

Arm.
If thou 'rt unhappy, if thy dreams be wild,
Thy heart in anger, or thine honour hurt,
Come unto me. Am I not she who swore
To love thee ever?

Man.
Ay; through life and death, —
Through death, and through all dim eternity.
Thou swor'st to follow me, —above, —below, —
Forsaking all things, Heaven itself, if Love
Might be o'er Time triumphant.

Arm.
And it is.

Man.
It is, it is. O heart, be calm! she lives!

Arm.
I live: I love. —I love; what more should be?

Man.
Nothing: the world's complete.

24.—Old Romance.

Dost thou not love the golden antique time,
When knights and heroes, for a lady's love,
Would spear the dragon?
Or when Boccaccio's dames, now long ago,
Lay laughing on the grass, hearing and telling
Wild love adventures, witty merry tales,
That made the heart leap high. And yet, even they
Would sadden amidst their flowers, when that some story
(Like a rose unfolded) was betrayed, which shewed
What Love indeed was made of, —when the world—
Chance—falsehood—danger tried its truth till death,
And proved its hues unaltered.

25.—An Agrarian Law.

D.
We will divide
The treasures of the land amongst us all:
Nature made all men equal.

A.
Soh! what's here?
Divide what we have earned by our hard labour?
Let all men share alike? The idle take
The industrious labourer's mite? The drunkard swill
The drink that we have bought with sober toil?
The robber come into our doors, and cry
“Half of your loaf is mine”? —If we divide
Our neighbour's goods to-day, why not divide
Again to-morrow? Will our wealth become
Aught the more sacred, 'cause 'twas plundered first?
Why may not one to-morrow come, and claim
What we have stol'n to-day? How can we keep,
Save by our strength of arm, the gold we get,
A week, —a day, —an hour? How can we tell
The very food we earn shall be our own,
When we have ta'en another's?

B.
That is true.

D.
All will be right, in future.

A.
Who will work,
If what he earns be never safe? who'll sow,
That they who trade in plunder still may reap
The corn he ought to gather? One great end
Of all Laws is Security: —That lost,
A country doth become a robber's den,
Bloody and base, where nought but bad men thrive.

26.—Aggrandizement by the Passions.

Tut, tut! all's vanity. Not I alone;
Ambition, Courage, Hate, Revenge, Despair,
All seem to exceed the measure of themselves,
When each is lofty. Hast e'er heard the wind
Run blustering through the forests, and make tremble
The aspen and the birch? Why, who would dream
That 'twas the self-same air which fanned the flowers
So delicately i' the spring? Hast seen the sea
Come swaggering on the land, till the land shook,
And all the shores and echoing caverns lost
Their dumbness in affright? Look well upon't:
'Tis the same murmuring creature scarce surmounts
The pebbles on our beach; only, being wrought
To madness by some wrong, or the moon's scorn,
'T jumps from its calm, and scales the sky, to show
What strength 't may have when angered. So it is
With the Passions, which are all irregular,
Bound by no limit, t nding to no end,
Unless to show how high the Spirit of man
May soar beyond its puny dwelling place.

27.—Advice on Marriage.

Never, boy, wed a wit. Man does not marry
To poise his reason 'gainst a quarrelling tongue;
But for sweet idleness. Chose I a wife,
I'd have her, —perhaps, fair, —certainly gentle;
True, if 'twere possible; and tender—oh!
As daylight when it melts in evening seas,
The waves all dark with slumber.

28.—Death in Youth.

My brother's dead! He was a man to seize
The eagle Greatness in its flight, and wear
Its feather in his casque. He's dead: —he died
Young; as the great will die; as Summer dies,
By drought and its own fevers burned to death.

29.—Hopefulness of Love.

Look, where she stands! Hath the magician Love
Touched her to stone? No, no: she breathes, she moves:
Beauty sits bravely in her glittering eye;
And passion stains her cheek. What thoughts are these,
Unfolding like rose flowers at dawn of day? —
Methinks she sees the sunny Future lie
Basking before her.

30.—Good in every heart.

Nature never made
A heart all marble; but, in 'ts fissures, sows
The wild flower Love; from whose rich seeds spring forth
A world of mercies and sweet charities.

31.—A Lover's Memory.

They call her beautiful: It may be so:
All that I know is, when she leaves me, Dreams
Rise up, and Visions, of some giory passed,
Encompass me; and I remember soon,
How planet-struck I was when she was by;
Although I then saw nothing.

32.—Polyphemus.

J.
This“triumph” by our friend is wanton soft:
But there's high matter in the sea-nymph's story,
Which might become a painter's pencil well.
He should have drawn the Cyclop, —as he sate
Uplifted like a crag, and piped his songs
Of Galatea to the watery shores.
Some say that, Orpheus-like, he charm'd dull stones,
Made Ocean murmur, and the airy winds
Took captive; and 'tis known, he sigh'd and sang
The deathful ditties which belong to love;
And call'd on Galatea: —She, the while,
Lay mute, and closed (if e'er she heard his strains)
Her soul against his passion. Day by day,
He sang; and, like the mateless lark, call'd forth
The dawn; and underneath the burning noon
Held fiery celebration; and at eve,
Fatigued by sorrow and wild song, —he wept.

33.—Parent's Love: Value of Reproof.

The love of parents hath a deep still source;
And falleth like a flood upon their child.
Sometimes the child is grateful: then his love
Comes like the spray returning. —In this case,
A father, full of truth, has checked his son;
Harshly perhaps; for many a benefit
Puts on the vizor of a stern reproof:
But, oh! within, (as roughest rinds conceal
The tenderest kernels,) gentle thoughts abide;
Sweet meanings; seeds that, if the soil be sure,
Will bring forth fruits of wisdom.

34.—Goodness comes without parade.

A.
The Music, then,
A rainbow of sweet sounds, did steal upon me,
Arching my cloudy thoughts with brighter hopes.

B.
Is it not ever thus? The gifts of Gods
Come not in thunder, but all silent: —Thus
Comes forth the Flower, and thus the summer Dawn
With noiseless steps moves up the eastern sky,
And brings us light and comfort. Thanks for all!

35.—Evening Music.

Ja.
I thought I heard my husband's footstep? No.

Girl.
'Twas but a deer crossing the path.

Ja.
You're right;
My wish outran my judgment. Come, —a song:
My heart is painful, and I cannot sleep.
A song! Let it be soft, yet nowise sad;
Some air that floats upon the edge of silence,
But enters not its bound. The world's at rest!
Why cannot I (poor watcher) lose my pains
In sweet oblivion, like the happy world?

Girl.
What shall I sing, madam?

Ja.
Whate'er you will;
Some verse you love, girl. —Well, if I must choose,
Let it be some such old sweet household song,
As a mother, rocking her sick child to rest,
Sings thro' the night. Or, —if you will, —recount
How all wild thoughts and cares of feverish life
Find refuge at last in sleep. See! day is past,
And night already here.

(Music.)
Girl.
(sings).
Day is over; Night is here:
Closed are the eye and ear
In sleep, in sleep!
Pain is silent; Toil reposes:
Love is hid amongst his roses:
Let the murmuring Music creep
Into silence, and remain
Till the morning smiles again!
Neither moan, nor weep:
Dreams, and all the race of Fear,
Fade away, and disappear
In the deepest deep!

Ja.
Thanks, little one: You have a voice might grieve
The nightingale, could she but hear you sing.
Or, —was 't the theme? Soft, gentlest, friendly Sleep!
Sweet holiday! Of all earth's good the help, —
Or origin: thyself a midnight Hymn,
Which weary Nature, when her work is done,
Breathes to the God of all!

36.—Fancy thrives in Darkness.

In happy daylight, child, our fancy's dull;
Quelled, dazzled by the sunshine. In the storm,
And in the night, and on the turbulent sea, —
When thunder and the winds wage war together,
And, underneath, the vast black heaving Deep
Bears up the sailor to the clouds, he sees,
Far off, the beauty of his flowery home,
Where, fenced by humble walls, his children sleep;
Their mother watching o'er.

37.—Children.

Sigh not for Children. Thou wilt love them much;
And Care will follow Love, and then Despair.
First, one will sicken; then, another leave thee
For the base world; and he thou lov'st the most, —
The light o' thy life, girl, will go out at last,
Like fading starlight; leaving thee, alone,
To sordid thoughts and childless misery.

38.—Pride of Birth.

I was born high. I did not spring from mire,
Like the foul fungus: but, from airy heights,
Descended with my branches, and let men
Gather my golden fruits to comfort them.

39.—A Discovery.

Confidential Talk.

A.
You said you wished to trust some secret to me?

Y.
Sit down, and let us talk. Is the door fast?

A.
'Tis ne'er left open. I don't sleep o' nights,
With my throat bare for every knife that comes.
No: I know better.

Y.
Ay; you know there are some
Will knock a man o' the head for half a dollar;
And dream that night the merrier?

A.
No, not so:
Not for so little.

Y.
You interpret me
Too literally. I meant for some small sum:
A slight annuity, now?

A.
Ha! —well? what then?

Y.
Why nothing, —nothing. We've forgot the secret.

A.
I heard a noise.

Y.
'Twas but the wind. —Now, listen.
—Some years ago, before I went abroad—
'Twas on a winter's night: —the storm that had vexed
The evening, now was hushed: The ground, late crisp
With frost, grew soft; and footsteps made no noise.
'Twas dark, pitch dark; and not a sound was heard;
Save when some murderer, struggling with his dreams,
Babbled of blood, or some child-robber groaned—

A.
S'Death, what's all this! Go to your tale at once.

Y.
Patience! On such a night, I lay awake,
Amidst the silence: Midnight might be past;
When you and your late wife—

A.
Your mother: well?

Y.
Crept nearer to the ashes, then nigh dead;
And, after words more stormy than the wind,
Fell talking of old times. You—(look at me!)
You spoke together, loosely, of some deed,
Done years before; of some rich man's desire
To jump into his elder brother's seat,
And lose some —reptile brat that troubled him.
And then you whispered, (whist your wife peered round,
Shaking like Horror), “Safe, 'gainst all the world”!
You swore (I hear your hoarse words now) you had trod
The earth on ‘the body’, and made all things sure.
Then followed a strange fact (I had well nigh laughed
Right through the crevice, where I watched, unknown);
'Twas of a child, stolen from his home; brought up
In workhouse poverty; and taken, at last,
Into your house. Ha, ha! —I hurried back
Into my bed, and there laughed out my fill:
The tale was so like my own.

A.
Stay here, a moment.

Y.
No, by my soul; not I. You shall not pass.
Look! I have pistols in my belt. You know
I am not a man to trifle.

A.
Would you kill
Your father?

Y.
Ha, ha, ha! Am I a fool?
Did you not say ‘the child’ wore on its throat
A mark? Look! —What am I? I am the child:
And I will know my parentage.

A.
Be calm.

Y.
Dost think—had I not done a foolish thing,
That I'd have slept so long upon this tale?
Not I, by Hell. I was compelled to starve
Ten years abroad, to cheat our cursed laws:
But time has run; and they who might have thrust me,
A culprit, out to the burning colonies,
Can do't no more. Their power is dead: Dost mark?
And now I come upon you, and will ungrave
The bloody secret. I will know the worst.
If you speak fairly, all may still go well:
If not, I'll straight before some magistrate,
And make my oath against you.

A.
Ha, ha, ha!
You have been dreaming.

Y.
We will search—a field!
And we will know whose purse now feeds your wants.
You were not born to live on others' toil:
But, bred a servant, —what has raised you thus?
Look on me. Who am I? Do I not know
That creatures, whom some wrong (as damnable
As mine) hath crushed in youth, though hid in rags,
Have felt their spirits mount up to the clouds,
And forced their way to fortune: —So will I.
Confess; or I am gone.

A.
Give me a day.

Y.
I will not give an hour. This minute's thine,
To yield, or dare:—the next belongs to Fate.

40.—Constancy in Crime.

Sir Ph.
Fellow, look on me. Dost thou think I
A spot upon my soul, risked fame, and hired [;laid
A well-paid ruffian to achieve this deed,
But to draw back? Know better. It is done:
And shall not be repented. Shouldst thou dare
To babble but a word of what is past,
Count on your death. 'Twill be a patriot deed,
To hire a villain's knife to kill a villain:
There 'll be a rogue the less. Think well upon it.

Bra.
You will not be so bloody?

Sir Ph.
Think upon it.
I'm here, high seated, firmly seated too.
But if a foot be stirred, why I shall think
A robber comes; —

Bra.
And then?

Sir Ph.
Then he'll be—shot;
And no time lost i' the doing. Think upon it.

41.—Popular Commotions.

About this time the Trumpet talked of war.
On which, I set my books in decent order;
Took leave of friends; bequeathed a gift or two;
And, though till then I had battled but with words,
I buckled on my sword like other men,
And plunged in action. 'Twas called “civil” war.
The People were abroad, —like a mighty fleet
Wrenched from its moorings, by some sudden storm;
Tossed to and fro—past counsel, —blind and deaf
To all things, save the roaring hurricane.

42.—Battles.

Then all bad Passions mingled in the strife:
Hate, with clos'd lips and cold unaltered eye,
Defied his enemy: Black Revenge rushed forth:
And Envy with his hidden knife came on,
Stealing behind his prey. This way and that,
(Scared by the trumpet or the sullen drum)
Fled Beauty, mocked by Vice; and helpless Age;
And timorous Youth; whilst Murder, with hot eyes,
Spent breath, and staggering through the slippery streets,
Paused for a while, and with red dripping fingers
Wiped from his sweating brow his cloud of hair,
And reckoned his harvest 'round.

43.—Animal Love.

Rod.
What kind of witch was this?

Mor.
Um—ph! You may see
Her like, in some old picture. Look!—I' the distance,
Are skies of deepest blue: Near, overhead,
Hang clouds of cool green leaves, and tendrils heavy
With bloomy grapes; Beneath, Nymphs or Bacchantes,
With pulpy lips, and glances full of heat,
Sporting about, (careless of Fauns hard by,)
Their rich brown burnished skins, kissed by the Sun,
And naked in the merry vintage time.
Well,—such was she: and I—I loved her, 'faith,
As I should, then, have loved some luscious peach,—

Rod.
How?

Mor.
I must needs confess it, uncle Roderick:
Her large luxurious bosom and bold eyes
Shot fire upon my flesh and maddened me.
Reproach me not: I was a foolish boy,
(A fool,) and cast body and soul away,
In those love-squandering days.Now,—I am man;
And have man's reason, man's maturer taste.
Instead of languid rooms and rose-fed air,
I front the roaring Boreas where he blows:
In place of dances, I look out for wars;
Converse on battles; mark how squadrons wheel;
And hope to live out life in nobleness.

44.—Wisdom, a Problem.

I came into the world as others do;
Life quickening in my limbs, the burning blood
Racing through every vein and artery;
Free, vigorous, healthy; tuned to passionate themes,
And born for pleasure. I grew up—a man,
My spirit ripening as my limbs waxed strong;
I read, marked, hoarded; heaped up word on word,
And thought on thought; and, when severer years
Banished bright Hope and quelled my April laugh,
And hung the Future round with clouds of care,
Men dreamed that I was wise. Alas! I lost
The fruit of wisdom,—joy. I smiled, indeed,
As, day by day, I reckoned up my gains,
And learned how I had toiled, as sage men do,
Accumulating riches for no end:—
But still I was called wise, and that sufficed.
Now, look upon me! Didst thou ever see
Old Age, girl? Look upon him,—face to face!
Observe, how white and withered is his skin:
How his lean limbs go tottering: how his tongue
Stammers forth sadness! From his eyes the light
Of love and intellect is quenched and gone:
And every thing about him, body and mind,
Tells a foul tale of Time.

45.—Comfort in Nature.

Art sick?—art sad?—art angry with the world?
Do all friends fail thee? Why, then, give thyself
Unto the forests and the ambrosial fields:
Commerce with them, and with the eternal sky.
Despair not, fellow. He who casts himself
On Nature's fair full bosom, and draws food,
Drinks from a fountain that is never dry.
The Poet haunts there: Youth that ne'er grows old
Dwells with her and her flowers; and Beauty sleeps
In her most green recesses, to be found
By all who seek her truly.

46.—Mute Confession.

Dost thou deny it? I have seen thee look
Into the sunny region of his hair;
And gaze upon his brow. Oh, shut thy lips!
I want no words: thou dost confess it now.
There,—on thy painted cheeks and glittering eyes,
The story's writ:—Be silent; all is well.

47.—A Lily.

A.
She is not fresh in colour, like the rose;
Nor bright like morning. On her cheek there lies
Such paleness as becomes the maiden moon,
When clouds are threatening, and the angry storm
Mutters of death to come.

B.
She is not dead?

A.
Death could not kill her: he but kissed her cheek,
And made 't a little paler. So, she lives,
And fades,—and fades; and in the end (as day
Dies into evening,) she 'll some summer night
Shrink and be seen no more.

48.—Uninspired Music.

There should be inspiration still in Art;
Raising the artist's toil, and sweetening it.
These ponderous labours yield me no delight.
I am not learn'd in Music; yet I know
That the Art whose skill must mean to move the soul,
And echo Nature, should be true to it.
Now Nature's voice is not like this vast strain,
Monotonously grand: Some sounds there are
In dignity below the thunder; some
Tender as Love; some gay as bridal thoughts;
Some stern as justice; others, more serene,
Which (mute by day) awake when Evening wakes,
And soothe the setting sun with harmony.

49.—Fellowship.

A.
Now, fellow?

B.
Fellow me not.

A.
How now, good friend!
Are we not fellows? Do not morn and eve
Bring the same hunger to our scanty boards?
Come not warm Summer, bleak December's cold,
Darkness and dreaming sleep, to both,—alike?
In what strange transit of the labouring moon
Wast thou sent forth, that thou shouldst soar beyond
The regular flight of men?—Give me thy hand.

50.—The Rise of a Favourite.

51.—Fate of the Daring.

Fame and an early death: that is the doom
Of all who greatly dare. I do not speak
Of men who have with cautious footsteps trod
The way to the heights of power; but such as plunged
At once into renown, and gave their blood
For reverence from unborn posterity.

52.—A Father's Anger.

53.—Good never ceases.

A.
I cannot bring him back;—for he is dead.
I cannot re-illuminate his clay:
The Spirit, which once shone through it like flame,
And soared up to the brain and said, Be wise,
Is flown beyond the stars! With him departed
The beauty of the world—truth,—genius,—all
That lent this orb its lustre.

B.
You are young;
And years will bring you calm. Meantime, take comfort.
Think not that all of good has passed away:
There is no hour but hath its noble deed:
Each minute is rich in worth,—heroic thoughts,
High, gentle, generous acts:—All that Time lacks
Is—an historian!

54.—The Limit of a Hero.

Nothing may now be done. Our fellows, here,
Slumber in ignorant night. One man, albeit
He should rise star-like and so set, can shew
Only the course of his own luminous orb.
Some impulse he may lend, indeed; yet he
Is master but of his sole destiny.
To bear a people sunwards, there must be
Time and just laws, commerce and useful arts,
(Civilization being expressed in these);
For from such sources gentle manners flow;
And leisure, wherein Thought doth dwell and thrive,
A Spirit of many names,—as Science, Art,
And Meditation, which doth lead to truth.

55.—A Prophet.

Man.
The melancholy prophet—there he sits;
Dark-eyed, deep-browed, deep-thoughted; tranquil, too,
As though his terrible oracles did not sound
Damnation to the land, and overturn.
I hear his voice;
Like Darkness murmuring forth her eastern song,—
Ruin to wealth, and punishment to pride,
Its awful burthen. Twenty years ago,
I knew this man. I did not think he held
So large a mind, nor such grave earnest soul.
(I do repent in ashes). He was then
Simply a scholar; and (as I fancy) felt
The place he trod on was too low for him;
Or else, he scorned the sordid crowds he met;
Or had ambition; or desired to breathe
His Soul upon the world, and brighten it.
Whate'er he was; he is a man to lead
The true and nobler Spirits in his train;
Amongst the rest—myself; a humble man
Who, as yet, have but the wish to serve for truth.

56.—A Sceptic in Happiness.

A.
Look on her. Is she not most beautiful?
Most happy, too? for rank, and youth, and health,
Are hers; and suppliant Fortune waits to ask
Where lies her choice. Can you foresee what Earth
Has more to yield?

B.
Methinks a ‘more’ might be.

A.
I know not what. Look, how the sunny smiles,
Like golden meshes, wind about her brow!
How airily, yet with what state, she walks!
Your eyes are dim to-day.

B.
I see, I see.
The rose grows on her cheek.—is there no thorn?

57.—False Worship.

Y.
With what respect
Yon burgher bows to you.

A.
He is a fool:
He ducks unto my purse, which will not open;
Passing you by, whom radiant youth and love,
And hope and health, (the kingly wine of life,)
And earnest thoughts of noble deeds to come,
Sustain and strengthen. Yet, be not too proud:
For dreams are fading. As you sit beside
The stream that flows into oblivion,
Gathering the golden pebbles from its banks,
Summer will pass, and Autumn, moaning low,
(And you will hear them not;) and suddenly
Down like a curse December's frost will fall,
And strip your strength away, and shrivel you up,
Until you grow the weakly thing that I am.
I cheat men of respect. What have I?—Gold!
The God of pauper spirits: nought beside.
Give me your pity: but respect yourself;
And strive to earn what ought to force respect.

58.—The Test of Love.

Loves she? She loves not: she hath never loved.
Her walk is easy; her discourse is neat:
She sigheth not; her smile has mirth in it:
Her gaze is firm, untroubled, cloudless, cold:
No fear makes pale her cheek: No hopeless pain
Lies there; nor hope, half-hidden: No sweet trouble
Stains it with beauty like the rose's leaf:—
But all is free as air, as fresh as youth,
As clear from care as untouched innocence.

59.—A Truism.

See,—morning, in the East, unbinds her hair,
Loosening its lustre on the dewy ground,
And springs upon her blue aërial way!
Thus we spring lightly onward; but, when Night
Flows in upon the ocean of the sky,—
Or when, in sullen mood, Orion turns
His starry shoulder from the lowering world,
We seem to obey the Spirit of the Time,
Forsaking our own God-given strength, and bend
The slaves o' the season.

60.—Silence.

You err: I am resigned. I yield due praise
Unto your bellowing orator. And yet—
How grand is Silence! In her tranquil deeps
What mighty things are born!—Thought, Beauty, Faith,
All Good;—bright Thought, which springeth forth, at once,
Like sudden sunrise; Faith, the angel-eyed,
Who takes her rest beside the heart of man,
Serene and still; eternal Beauty, crowned
With flowers, that with the changing seasons change;
And Good of all kinds. Whilst the babbling verse
Of the vain poet frets its restless way,
In stately strength the Sage's mind flows on,
Making no noise:—and so, when clamorous crowds
Rush forth,—or tedious wits 'waken the senate house,—
Or some fierce actor stamps upon his stage,—
With what a gentle foot doth silent Time
Steal on his everlasting journey!

61.—A Conqueror's Account of Himself.

Nap.
The good of France and mine are mixed. I am
The leaf of laurel on her tree—no more:
One of her sons. I stand, indeed, the First,
Because Necessity will have a man
To front the aspect of alarming times.
Still am I one o' the people. I claim not
A line stretched backwards beyond Nimrod's reign;
Nor call on Cæsar, or Semiramis,
To answer for a weak or daring son.
I am—myself; the first,—perhaps the last
Of all my race who won or wore a crown.
Yet have I ambition still; for I would feel
My soldiers' tears raining upon my grave;
And have, on lasting brass, my nobler deeds
Thus written:—“Here lies Napoleon, Emperor;
Who rose by courage, and the people's will,
Up to a throne:—He won a hundred battles,—
At Arcola, at Rivoli, at Marengo,
At Austerlitz, at Jena, and by the snows
Of Moscow, and the Lybian pyramids:
He cut (like Hannibal) the white Alps through:
Learning he raised; built public roads and foun-tains;
And made one equal Law for all the land.”

62.—Parish Law-givers.

Jul.
I must dissent from this. Nothing so bad
As these close paltry parish governments;
Wherein some butcher Cæsar rules the realm,—
Or publican, with quart in hand, gives law,—
Or tailor, talking by the yard, deludes
His stitching and beer-vanquish'd auditors.
Look on their deeds! They do abhor the rich;
And scorn the poor: between which two, they ride
Triumphant in their puny oligarchy.
If we must bend to tyranny, let it be grand!
I spit upon a slave who serves a slave.
Besides,—in these times, no One man can keep
The despot's summit; save in barbarous realms.
Our danger is ‘confederacy’: Bands of rich,
Or bands of poor, who join their wits for ill,
And tyrannize above the good and meek.

63.—Kindness is Power.

A Conqueror is Kindness; far beyond
The armed Victor, who doth thundering preach
Civilization with the cannon's tongue,
Woe-bought delights, and bloody benefits.
A gentle word begets a gentle thought;
Drawing the sting from malice. Better thus,
Than bruise with hate the ignorant Serpent's head;
Who knoweth nothing till you teach it him.

64.—Soldier's Love.

Cousin, I wear
This bluntness as a shield. But, when you come,
Straightway I strip my bull-hide armour off,
And bare my heart before you. Should you kill me,
Why so; I'll die more loyally than the fool
Who whispers of love through tears. I never weep
Sometimes I shake, indeed, as oaks rent down
Shake in the blast; but not a groan comes forth,
To tell what pain dwells inwards. Pity me!
Love me, sweet cousin! If thou 'lt lend me a grain
Of that same precious heart, I'll pay thee back
With tons of trouble.

65.—A Poet's Reply.

Jeer me no more. What would you have? Speak out!
You bid me‘Dare!’Well, then, I dare! What more?
You bid me fear: You dread lest other men
‘Shall write their fame in lightning; shall stand forth,
Laurelled with glory, whilst I lie i' the dark?’
In God's name, is there not wide room for all?
I envy no man; and no man I fear.
Let them go on. Some day,I'll burst abroad;
And take a flight, as the wild eagles do,
When from the summit of some giddiest crag
They plunge into the immeasurable air,
And dare all things, and never turn aside,
Nor shrink, nor stop, nor close their orbs, until
They rest upon the chariot of the Sun!

2. PART THE SECOND.

66.—A Murderer reproaches his Employer;

—the Retort.

Sir Philip.
You come o' the sudden?

Brand.
Ay, Sir,—unannounced,
As doth the wind, or raging waters, when
They burst their bonds, and on the hearths of men
Rush down with cries of ruin!

Sir Philip.
You are learned:
What is't you want?

Brand.
Sir, the philosopher's stone,—
Justice; long sought, ne'er found. I've kept sad watch,
In hopes your pity would dissolve at last,
And flow upon us: But your heart is steel,
(Hard, cold, thrice-tempered in an orphan's tears,)
And will not melt, nor bend.

Sir Philip.
Where doth this lead?

Brand.
I'll tell you, so you've patience—Let us turn
Our thoughts back thro' the crimes of thirty years,
And we shall see each other as we were;
Both young, and one imprudent. I—(let loose
By manhood from the bondage of my youth,)
Plunged into riot: You, more wise, lent out
Your wisdom to great men, who paid you back
(With something better than the courtier's coin)
With place and profit; on which helps, you rose
To greatness. Then,—a sudden tempest wrecked
The vessel where your fortunes lay embayed,
And hurled you down to your ancient poverty.
—Tired of the toil of rising, and long used
To silken pleasures, you could not put on
Your youthful habits; but, with discontent
(The villain's sword) walked thoughtful up and down,
Seeking some wretch still needier than yourself,
And came on— me! I was—('twas my black hour!)
So closely knit to every basest grief,
So famish'd, and in such frightful beggary,
That I have quarrelled with the houseless cur
For scraps the stomach sickens at. You saw this;
And (though you had before refused my wants)
Proffered—I know not what: 'twas wealth—'twas life;
(For from my bones the lean and traitorous flesh
Had fled, and left a desperate skeleton;)
And ready was I to do aught 'gainst earth,
Nay, 'gainst high Heaven,—if 'twere but for a meal!
But, what's all this? You know't, as well as I.
You had a dying brother,—he a son,
Whose life eclipsed and hid you from the light:—
'Twas but a little blood, and all was over!
You tempted, and—I fell.

Sir Philip.
Why, you were then
A murderer, ready made. What cant is this?
Were you not paid? Your bones well armed with flesh?
That flesh apparelled like a gentleman?
Dog that you are, why,—when all's fairly done,
The bargain consummate, the coin paid down,
And you still fattening at my yearly cost,—
Why do you come, and with your diseased tongue,
Howl at bright Fortune? Will you starve again?
Shrink into bone? Swear yourself out aloud
The butcher of a child? Wilt hang? Wilt kneel,—
And let the scoffing crowd spit scorn upon thee?
What is 't you ask? What end do you propose,—
That thus with insolent, useless, base remorse,
You beard me in my house, and bid me shake
Your vulgar hand in bloody fellowship?

67.—A Man without Repentance.

I do not grieve that I am here alone;
Nor grieve I for what's done. Could I now will
That Time might tread his weary footsteps back,
And earth grow bright again, I would not hav't.
What use? What end? My soul again would welcome
Her terrible choice: Again would I, undismayed,
Wed my dark fortune—live in ghastly dreams;
Rather than bear the weight of beggary,
The curse of hunger,—toil, contempt, and shame,
And die, at last,—a felon, or a slave.

68.—A Jew's use for Riches.

Jew.
My Lord, I live here in perpetual fear;
My only friend being gold. Five times already
I've bought this wintered body from the flames;
As oft repeals from exile. Scorn I endure,
And hatred bear, from all. Were I but poor,
I should be trod on like the common dust,
Gibbeted, tortured;—I must keep my gold!
It is my arms,—my shield. The Christian wolves
Would worry me, did I not cast them down
The yellow bait, which bids them say“Dog,—Jew!
“Live, till we come to-morrow!”

Rod.
You could lend
Count Gomez on his bond—how much I know not—
But twenty times the weight I ask of thee.

Jew.
He's an—Inquisitor, (doth no one hear?)
Hath power;—can help me, crush me. When they drag me,
Blindfold and shaking, through the horrid dark,
'Tis sweet, as I go down the dungeon steps,
And thro' the long cold silent vaulted places,
To think I have a friend who's judge to-night,
Whom gold has bought, and gold can ever buy.
So, when I'm questioned, I reply with tears,
And humble prayers, and swear I've made a vow,
To give in Christian alms a thousand ducats,
And straight—my cords are loosened!

69.—Consolation in Poverty.

Arm.
Why do we murmur? Are we poor? What's that?
'Tis but to breathe the air of industry;
To use sweet exercise from morn till eve,—
Earn health, content, rude strength, and appetite;
And, when Night draws her curtains round us, sleep
Through all the unbroken silence.

Man.
Thou'rt a sweet comforter. 'Tis not so bad,
Methinks, to toil before the eye of day.

Arm.
If there be angels watching—

Man.
They shall see
I will dig lustily.

Arm.
They shall see, too,
We'll not repine, because we have no longer
A little leisure that we lost in dreams!

70.—The same subject.

Man.
If we had never known each other, sweet,
We both might have been happy.

Arm.
Think not thus.
It was the unerring sense of happiness
That led us gently to each other's arms;
A prophecy more sure than hope can be;
And we obeyed it.

Man.
therefore are we here,
Starving,—half-dead,—despairing!

Arm.
Loving, too:
Thou must not forget that.

Man.
O sweet, sweet woman!
Never! The subtle world will find its road
Into the deeps o' the heart. It is a worm,
Winding its way through every obstacle,—
Grief, joy, dark fortune,—till it finds the core,
And there—ill luck!—it preys.

71.—The Exultation of an Heir.

Jac.
He sleeps upon his marble pillow, now,
Pale as a peasant.

Giul.
Oh, a million times
I give thee joy.

Jac.
Ay, Giulio, I am heir
To lordships, mansions, forests, parks, and gems.
He had three mighty manors in Castile;
Two broad estates in Leon; two amidst
The mulberry trees of Murcia, and huge chests
Crammed full of ingots, dug by naked slaves
Who famished on coarse bread. Besides all these,
There bloom plantations in the East, whose fruits
Are pearls, and spice, and princely diamonds;
And in Brazil Pactolus floods, ne'er dumb,
Whose waves all talk in gold!

72.—Love.

A.
The tide of love sets from me!

B.
Pshaw! 'tmay turn.
Love's not a petty stream, runs all one way;
But like the Ocean,—deep, and vast, and swayed
By Phantasy, its moon! This hour it rolls
Inward upon a rough and barren beach;
To-morrow far away. Dost thou despair
'Twill ever reach thee? Oh, there's none so base,
But have their worshippers. Dost thou not know
The corse which one unmanner'd wave rejects,
The next will ravish. Thou mayst see it borne
Far out from sight of land, and there 'twill ride
Triumphant on the shoulders of the main;
All winds and billows making music for't,
As though 'twere the Jove of waters!

73.—Revenge.

My Revenge
Was born in laughter, (as our highest delights
Oft blush at first through tears);—but 'twill endure,—
Like oaks which, born in May, seem slight and weak,
But having a score of winters on their heads,
Grow strong and rugged,—so doth my Revenge!
Nought shall impoverish it. The bounteous years
Shall lend their seasons and apparel it,
And, lest its roots should e'er be loos'd by pity,
We'll water it well, with—blood!

74.—A Blush.

Look, look! The summer rises in her cheeks.
A blush, as hot as June, comes flooding o'er
Her too proud paleness. Burning modesty
Warms all her brow, and Beauty, quite abashed,
Droops her twin stars to earthward.

75.—A Butt.

A.
Yon fellow is a fool, sir: he indeed
Doth not profess so much; but 'tis his trade,—
His calling, to be the butt of other men.
He thrives by't. You may kick him:—but, to-morrow,
Be sure he'll borrow money! If you cast
A jibe upon him that would shame a dog,
He'll ask what time you dine. A laugh to him
Is worth a supper; and a blow—'tis wealth!
To look at these things philosophically—

B.
At present were misplaced:—Dost mean so much?

A.
Pardon me, sir. The air of folly best
Doth nourish in the cynic keenest thoughts:
Dwells he 'midst men of sense his spirit dies,
Having no food for his fierce scorn to live on.

76.—Specimen of Courtiers.

A.
Didst ever see such a bundle of base weeds?

B.
Dost think there's one of all this useless tribe
Is worth a real?

A.
Not one; and yet the varlets
Demand a lawyer's fee in brave pistoles,
Ere they will serve you. Look on him who bows!
Satin-faced villain!—for his help he asks
A double bribe, with twice as soft a tongue
As he who talks plain Spanish.

B.
Who is that?

A.
That frothy thing?—a blank, sir: but the next,—
Whose acid visage wrinkles into frowns,
Gains favour of the Duke (who dreads his jibes)
By slandering all who're honest. He perhaps
May do us some sour service. Do not dream
He's not a knave because he frowns on you;
For that's his fashion. He will purse a bribe
As readily as he who's bathed in smiles.
They're villains both, —born, bred; even-paced rogues;
The difference lies in the manner; nothing more.

77.—Account of a Boaster.

B.
Sir, he's a fellow
To take the devil by the sinister horn,
And twirl him like a top. Some years ago,
He needs must fly this honest wholesome country,
To sniff bad air in France. 'Twas there (he swore 't!)
He slew a regiment; and—with his eyes—
Murdered a world of women! Thence he went
To Rome; and for some threepence did propose
To drink up brimming Tiber till 'twas dry.

A.
And did he do 't?

B.
E'gad, sir, I can't tell you:
But I lean much to doubt: for, spite o' the bet,—
I've heard that still the river's bed runs moist,
And Rome does not lack water.

78.—A Bridal Couple.

Knit up thy spirit! Men should go faced in brass,
In these high unabashed bridal times.
Observe thou when the virgin wife dawns forth,
Like blushing morning;—Ha! look where she comes
In sweetness like the hawthorn buds unblown;
While the proud bridegroom, like the month of May,
Steps on 'midst flowers.

79.—A Mature Taste.

Jac.
It is not every man prefers an apple;
For some like best the crab. 'Tis thus with thee.

Rod.
Well, well! I own, I do not care for women
Whose kiss is like a peach. Give me a touch
O' the austere flavour. Too much sweet will spoil
The daintiest dish. That taste is immature,
And young, which feeds, like flies, on treacle, cousin:
Salt, spice, hot flavours, suit the learned tongue;
And such a one is mine.

80.—The Schoolmaster abroad.

Caraf.
I am the bard—

Man.
Peace, peace! I know you well.
I've heard your verses, by the hour, sir, twanged
To rascal viols, through rogues' noses,—pah!
Just at my hour of sleep. I'll have thee hanged
For scurvy rhymes. Thou 'st spread a plague so foul,
So foolish, that our women learn to spell;
Nay, kings decipher; and our lords are mad
Until they can write nonsense. Till thou cam'st,
We were all pure in happy ignorance,—
Content,—with love, sport, wine; and thought of nothing,
Save what should be for dinner.

81.—Nothing perfect.

Scorn not our verse, because it might soar higher.
What's perfect on poor earth? Is not the bird
At whose sweet song the forests ache with love,
Shorn of all beauty? Is the bittern's cry
As merry as the lark's? the lark's as soft
As the lost cuckoo's? Nay, the lion hath
His fault? and the elephant, (tho' sage as wisdom,)
May grieve he lacks the velvet of the pard.

82.—Remonstrance.

The Heavens themselves,
Which throw their shadows on the floor o' the earth,
Show, in their nature, blackness: Storms and rains
Chequer the glory of their brightest hours.
How then canst thou, who walk'st 'neath changeful skies,
E'er hope for cloudless fortune?

83.—The Intellect strengthened by Study.

A.
If I do this what further can I do?

B.
Why, more than ever. Every task thou dost
Brings strength and capability to act.
He who doth climb the difficult mountain's top,
Will the next day outstrip an idler man.
Dip thy young brain in wise men's deep discourse,—
In books, which though they freeze thy wit awhile,
Will knit thee, i' the end, with wisdom.

84.—Taste in Vice.

He is too hard for such sweet pleasures, sir.
None ever relish (even the raciest) vice,
'Less they've a little virtue. Tis the sense
Of wrong that sends the tingling blood abroad.
They who do ill, yet feel no preference for 't,
Do it in base and tasteless ignorance.
Sin should be seen to blush through Virtue's cheeks,
Mingling the rose and lily.

85.—A Rich Man.

Rich? ask'st thou if he's rich? Observe me, sir!
His money-bags are torpid,—they're so full!
Crammed, glutton-like, with lumps of spendthrift gold,
They swell their sides and sleep!

86.—Sadness avoided by the Wealthy.

A.
“What will I wear”when I do visit the Duke?
Why, black,—the colour of my fortunes,—black.

B.
Tush! thou shouldst go all gay and bride groom-like;
Smiling in gold.

C.
The lady, sir, speaks well.
Men of a pampered lot care not to look
On aught that's mournful. They recoil from woe,
As sickly natures from the sight of pain.
They want the healthy sinewy spirit, that makes
Endurance pleasant like to exercise.

87.—Loss of Strength.

When I was young, I was as hot as wrath,
Swift, like the wind, and thoughtless. My hair fell
In coal-black curls upon my brawny neck,
And sunshine filled my eyes. My voice was clear;
But stern as storms are, when they scare the sea!
Now—now—look on me! Couldst thou think despair
Could so deform, and with remorseless showers
Wash all my strength away? I, who could once
Strike dead the hydra,—split the oak,—now cannot
Outwrestle the summer urchin in his play!

88.—Questions to one restored from Death.

Sit down beside me,—thou, who hast left so lately
The calm dark regions, for this fretful world,—
Come back to sorrow, like the unthinking bird
Who seeks once more its cage! Sit down beside me;
And tell me what dim dreams have fallen on thee,
And what blank aspects and unbodied things
Thou met'st, in thy pale march! Didst thou not see
The—Dead? Methinks, I saw them, once! Some were there
By their own serpent passions stung to death;
Some whom too little love, or too much care,
Made white as winter; pining skeletons,
Whom hunger turned to stone; mad parents,—oh!
Who watched, for aye, some little corse—in vain;
A ghastly brotherhood, who hung together,
Knit firm by misery or some common wrong!

89.—The Grave.

'Tis fenced all round with fears, like triple brass:
Rocks of despair stand round it: Seas of woe
Shut out that region from the sunny world;
And diabolic Ghosts, (whose care it is,
And penalty, to keep that silent land
Untroubled until Doom,) like ghastly giants,
Stand armed beside rebellious bones, and scare
The restless back to slumber.

90.—Knowledge.

A.
What's knowledge?

B.
Sorrow,—sorrow: little else.
All the black units which make up the amount
Of human life, (sad sum of deeds and thoughts!)
Together joined, form knowledge. The great marks,
Which guide us on wards thro' tempestuous seas,
Are beacons, currents, rocks. The sunny places
Teach nothing, save that now and then we sink,
By trusting what looks fair. The gibbet there
Blurts out a lesson; and the clamorous blast,
That shakes yon rattling felon in his chains,
Screams forth a dismal moral.

91.—A Poor Man.

Had I been born a stone, I might have been
Free from that curse—a heart: but I bear in me
A throbbing devil, who will never sleep.
I am possessed! Care, Care,—the cruel pain
Which children bring upon the parents' soul,
Eats into mine, corrodes, and cankers it.
You laugh—‘I do not starve’— not yet, not yet:
But wait to-morrow! Famine will be here.
In the mean time, we've still grim Care, (whose tooth
Is like the tiger's,—sharp,) lest dreams should fall
And shadow us with sweet forgetfulness.

92.—A constant Soldier.

Ay, still he loves
The lion-tressed Bellona, like a bride;
Woos her with blows; and when his limbs all sweat
With struggling through the iron ranks of war,
Down doth he tumble on the tired ground,
Wipes his red forehead; cries ‘How brave is this!’
And dreams all night of bloody victory!

93.—The Heathen Deities.

Their Gods! What were their Gods?
There's Mars,—all bloody-haired; and Hercules,
Whose soul was in his sinews; Pluto, blacker
Than his own hell; Vulcan, who shook his horns
At every limp he took! Great Bacchus rode
Upon a barrel; and in a cockle-shell
Neptune kept state. Then, Mercury—was a thief;
Juno—a shrew; Pallas a prude, at best;
And Venus walked the clouds in search of lovers!
Only great Jove, the lord and thunderer,
Sate in the circle of his starry power,
And frowned ‘I Will!’ to all.

94.—Might and Right.

Rod.
The lawful Right? The ‘lawful!’What is that?
But I will tell thee. Might is Right; and when
'Tis written in red letters, ‘This is law!’
Then might is law, and law is wise and right.
Who doubts? We'll hang him by the statute,—strait!
S'death, there's no use in strength of limbs or brain,
If they help not who owns them. When you catch
A trout, who has the right, and who the law?
Why,you,—who are the strong. If he could rise,
And shake his tail against your lawful right,
He'd say—“all this is 'gainst our marine laws!
“You rascals on dry land invade our realms,
“By wrong, and by no law. You send abroad
“No proclamations; prove no injuries;
“Quote no good reasons; no specific code;
“But strait, when you desire some trout to eat,
“You pounce upon us with your hell-barb'd hooks,
“And treat us worse than were we Africans.
“We'll not endure 't!”

Count.
Ha, ha, ha!

Rod.
Right, Count! Right!
You give th' old answer—(‘Might is Right’)—laugh loud
At their remonstrance, and have, sans remorse,
The speaker grill'd for supper.

95.—Unions dangerous.

F.
His wit is duller than a priest's discourse;
And she seems coldly honest.

Gin.
True! what then?
What seemeth nitre near the cannon's month?
Cold, cold. What the charr'd wood? Why, dull as death.
Yet,—married to each other, they will flame
Damnation through a land, and make it Hell.

96.—Death stationary.

Should we look on him now, he would be young;
Paler than stone, perhaps,—but young as when
No twice two hundred years had wintered him.
Life 'tis alone grows old: Immortal Death
Takes no step nearer to the goal of Time:
One cold brief tread, a sigh, and then to sleep:—
Magic ne'er moves him further.

97.—A Lover's Likeness.

Her walk is like the wind; her smile more sweet
Than sunshine, when it gilds the buds of May.
Rare words she has, and merry, like the lark;
And songs,—which were too sweet, but that sometimes
They droop and sadden like the pining flute;
And then her eyes, (soft planets,) lose their light
In bashful rain, o'er which her cloudy hair
Hangs, like the night, protecting.

98.—Another.

The blessings of the skies all wait about her:
Health, Grace, inimitable Beauty, wreathed
Round every motion:—On her lip, the rose
Has left its sweetness, (for what bee to kiss?)
And from the darkening Heaven of her eyes,
A starry Spirit looks out:—Can it be Love?

99.—Music.

Now Music feedeth on the silent air,—
Like Ocean, who upon the moonlight shores
Of lone Sigæum, steals with murmuring noies,—
Devouring the bright sands and purple slopes,
And so, content, retires:—Yet music leaves
Her soul upon the silence, and our hearts
Hear, and for ever hoard those golden sounds,
And reproduce them sweet in after hours.

100.—The Town.

The Town! what is there in the Town, to lure
Our household dreams away from the fresh flowers?
Is not the Town a monster, ravenous?
Fierce? hydra-headed? fed by peasants' strength?
Deck'd out with plunder of the fields? along
Whose limbs of stone and marble arteries,
Innumerous emmets crawl, till they sink down
Dead with excess of feasting?

101.—Specimen of a Cavalier.

Her father leaned, from th' first, to Cromwell's side,
And was a rank and stern republican:
But mine was a Cavalier,—one of those Spirits
Born in all ages for the help of thrones;
A careless fellow, somewhat poor in virtue,
Whose blazing honour lit a stormy life,
That spent its latest puff in loyalty.
He followed the first Charles, and fought at Worcester:
Faced death and danger; saw his master die;
And after sought his son. He was the life
O' the banished court; laugh'd, danced, and played o' the cittern;
And, when he died, left me a handsome sword;
Two suits of silk, a sentence for the king,
(In my behalf); and then set out on his journey,
To make good friends with Heaven's courtiers.

102.—A Publican and his Customers.

We publicans, sir, ever lived on the edge
Of other secrets. 'Tis our stock in trade,
To know what's doing in our neighbour's house,
And deal't out with our liquor. Some few rogues
With sun-scorched cheeks come here, 'tis true, for nought
But to calm their stomachs with plain provender:
But choice Spirits love to mingle with their wine
Novelties,—scandal! Rather than be dumb,
They'll gossip of themselves. There's Justice Bolster
Discharges him of all his wealth of words
Here, sir,—in this poor room! There's not a case
Of note, but he's its master. From the thoughts
Of ministers, to actions at the assize,—
From a 'scaped murderer to a vagrant cat,
Nought can escape. Oh, sir, he is a jewel;
And doth absorb my beer like summer sand!

103.—A new Petruchio.

Do I not know
That gentle blood (press't down howe'er you will,)
Will moun and make the world look gravely at it.
Dost deem that aught can hide in beggar rags
A heart so bold as mine? Have I not seen
The sea come tumbling on our heads, and laughed?
The lightnings on the line singe ships to ashes?
Heard the wolves howling on my track? and felt
That cannibals clustered round my hiding-place?
Have I not stood on Etna, when she shot
Her fiery rivers 'gainst the affrighted clouds?
And dream'st thou aught of common danger now
Shall daunt me from my way!

104.—Death.

A.
Who, save Man,
E'er reckons on to-morrow! or dreads death?

B.
Death! what is death,—at whose pale picture men
Shake, and the blood grows cold? Is he one thing?
Dream? Substance? Shadow? or is Death more vague,—
Made up of many fears, which band together
And overthrow the soul?—Give me reply!
Is Death so terrible? Why, we do know
Philosophy, Religion, Fame, Revenge,
Despair, Ambition, Shame, all conquer it.
The Soldier who doth face it every day,—
The feathered Savage, and the Sailor, tossing
All night upon the loose uncertain deep,
Laugh it to scorn. The fish, the bird, the brute,
(Though each doth apprehend the sense of pain,)
Never dread death. It is a weakness bred
Only in man. Methinks, if we build up
Our proud Distinction, sole supremacy,
Upon so slight foundation as our fears,
Our fame may totter.

105.—Night Thoughts.

'Tis night,—still night! The murmuring world lies still!
All things which are lie still and whisper not:
The owl, the bat, the clock which strikes the hour,
And summons forgetful man to think of Heaven,
The midnight cricket on the ashy hearth,
Are quiet,—dumb! Hope, Fear, lie drown'd in dreams;
And Conscience, calmer than a baby's breath,
Murders the heart no more. Who goes? 'Tis nought,—
Save the bird Echo, who comes back to me,
Afraid o' the silence. Love! art thou asleep?
Rose o' the night, on whom the soft dew lies,—
Here come I, Sweet, mocking the nightingale,
To sing of endless love, passionate pain,
And wishes that know no rest!

106.—Mute Sorrow the most powerful.

Let not thy tale tell but of stormy sorrows!
She—who was late a maid, but now doth lie
In Hymen's bosom like a rose grown pale,
A sad sweet wedded wife—why is she left
Out of the story? Are good deeds,—great griefs,
That live, but ne'er complain—nought? What are tears?
Remorse,—deceit,—at best weak water drops,
Which wash out the bloom of sorrow.

107.—Flowers.

We have left, behind us,
The riches of the meadows,—and now come
To visit the virgin Primrose where she dwells,
'Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths.
'Tis here she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank
The sun is kissing? Near,—go near! for there,
('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling grasses,)
Immaculate odours from the violet
Spring up for ever! Like sweet thoughts that come
Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off
In music to the skies, and there are lost,
These ever-steaming odours seek the sun,
And fade in the light he scatters.

108.—A Lover's Irresolution.

My heart is mad:—why not my brain? Oh, witch!
That flaming Hymen now would quench his torch,
Or Hate, betwixt thy fool and thee, would set
Double divorce for ever! Shall I go?
I cannot quit her: but,—like men who mock
The voice of thunder, tarry until—I die!
Shall I not go?—I will not; though the tongues
Of chiding virtue rail me strait to stone.
Here will I stand,—a statue, fixed and firm,
Before the fiery altar of my love,
Both worshipper and martyr.

109.—Useless Fear.

O.
There is a gloomy prophet at my ear:
He whispers,—sad and low.

F.
Tush! Shake him off.
The shadow that each ill sends forward, ever
Is larger than the ill. When that the thing
You dread comes near, and you can measure it,
Then ruffle up thy Courage,—till it stands
'Tween thee and danger, like a champion!
Wait, till the peril come; then boldly look at 't.

110.—A transient Thought.

Sometimes a dark Thought crossed
My fancy, like the sullen bat that flies
Athwart the melancholy moon at eve.

111.—Reproof to one who has no ear.

L.
I see small difference
'Tween one sound and its next. All seem a-kin,
And run on the same feet, ever.

I.
Peace! Thou want'st
One heavenly sense, and speak'st in ignorance.
Seest thou no differing shadows, which divide
The rose and poppy? 'Tis the same with sounds.
There's not a minute in the round of time,
But's higed with different music. In the small space,
Between the thought and its swift utterance,—
Ere silence buds to sound,—the angels listening
Hear infinite varieties of song!
And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres,
Have flown an evening's journey!

112.—Grief, fantastical.

Nothing can vie with Sorrow in excess:
Hope's gay, and Fear is strange, and Joy grows wild;
Yet each hath shows of reason. Grief alone
Amidst her pomp is high fantastical.

113.—Dreams.

A.
Dream is the Soul of Sleep; and, when it strays
From its dark caverns in the inmost brain,
Then Sleep is dead:—But it returns, and then
The corpse awakens,—lives,—is born again—

B.
Then dream must be some God—

A.
I'faith, I know not.
'Tis a strange fellow in a night-cap, sir.
And at times a very wild somnambulist.

114.—Age double-sighted.

Let no one judge the worth of life, save he
Whose head is white with time. The youthful Spirit,
Set on the edge o'the world, hath but one sight,
And looks for beauty in the years to come;
But Age, like double-fronted Janus, gazes
All ways, and ponders wisely on the past.

115.—Philosophers human.

You brag, methinks, somewhat too much of late,
Of your lamp-lit philosophy. One bite
Of a mad cat—(no more than kills a tailor,)
Will put an end to 't, and your dreams together.

116.—Kings.

. . . Methinks,
There's something lonely in the state of kings!
None dare come near them. As the eagle, poised
Upon his sightless throne in upper air,
Scares gentler birds away, so kings (cut off
From human kindred, by the curse of power,)
Are shunned and live alone. Who dare come near
The region of a king? There is a wall
(Invisible indeed, yet strong and high,)
Which fences kings from close approach of men.
They live respected—oh, that cheat ‘respect!’
As if the homage which abases others
Could comfort him that has't. Alone,—alone!
Prisoned in ermine and a velvet chair,
Shut out from hope, (the height being all attained,)
Yet touched by terrors,—what can sooth a king?

117.—Revenge.

Let loose your strength, blasts of the burning zone!
Join all, and scorch him with a blistering plague!
Rain damps upon his bones! Scald all his brain,
Till he go mad. Stay,—stop! I'll have him bound
Fast to a frozen rock, till piercing winds
Stiffen his heart to ice. He shall endure
The terrible extremes of cold and fire,
For he himself was ever pitiless.

118.—Picture of a Hypochondriac.

There sits he, with his arms across his heart,
And melancholy eye-lids like the Dawn,
When she (the sun being yet unseen) doth gaze
Coldly upon the wet and frozen flowers.

119.—Infirmity lies in the Mind.

We do what we desire. 'Tis not the sinews
Fail when we falter, but the infirm thought.
Thus the bald Roman, who trod down the world,
Unto his shuddering pilot cried,—“What fear?
Thou carriest Cæsar!”—Dare,—and it is done!

120.—An ancient Pile.

Look straight before you. Thus,—as now you see it,
Yon pile hath stood, in all its stony strength,
Through centuries forgotten. Ruinous Time,
The outrageous Thunder, and all wasting storms
Have striven to drag it down; yet, still it stands,
Enduring like a Truth,—from age to age.

121.—The Exaggeration of Grief.

A.
And this is all a fiction?

B.
Ay, 'tis thus
Men shadow out the truth when they are sad.
They say but ill, who tell us that Grief speaks
In household phrases. Friend, she is a queen,
Pale Tragedy by name, who sears our brain,
Until it fashions forth fantastic shapes,
Unnatural to the eye which hath no tears,
But seen through those, are true like other things
Which misty distance veils and magnifies.

122.—A Princess's Dishonour.

She was a princess,—but she fell; and now
Her shame goes blushing through a line of kings!

123.—A Desperate Man.

You walk by day:
I with the negro, Night!—When all is dark,
The sick moon absent, and the stars all hid,
We curse together,—curse all shades of men,
Like brothers in one great calamity.
Am I not shorn of beams? Is not my fate
Black? starless? sunless? When warm airs come down
From Heaven, what know I of the flowery times?
What of abundant harvest hours?—nought, nought!
I'm cold; I'm hard. The wolf, who has no mate,
And scarce a meal, and's forced to howl all night
His hunger to Siberian snows, doth live
In a world too bleak for pity:—So do I.
I am a wolf,—who prowl all night for prey,
Desperate, remorseless!

124.—Suitable Music.

A.
Thou lov'dst this light and dancing music once?

B.
That was when earth was quiet; now 'tis mad.
Light music fits light times:—But, when wild Ocean
Goes bellowing to the moon, or flings her hair,
All white with wrath, upon the moaning sands,—
When winds come muttering, and the thickening Night
Grows solemn with alarm, as from its den
Some Earthquake, dragon-eyed, lifting its head,
Looks reddening on us from the inner world, —
Then love I mighty music!

125.—A Tender Voice.

Her voice is soft; not shrill and like the lark's,
But tenderer,—graver,—almost hoarse at times;
As though the earnestness of love prevailed,
And quelled all shriller music.

126.—A Fancy.

I've sometimes thought that I could shoot me down
Unto the muddy bottoms of the sea,
And hold my breath there,—'till, midst stones and shells,
And jewels yet unborn, and riches sleeping,
I tore up Fortune by her golden hair,
And grew a God on earth.

127.—A Young Man's Opinion of Age.

Bid me not trust her hoary parent's smile!
I cannot; for I read foul falsehoods there.
Oh, Guzman! Pity never wore gray hairs;
But died in 'ts youth!—Trust not a furrowed brow:
For Time digs pits where hate and cunning sleep;
And sixty winter winds can ne'er pass by,
And leave the heart still warm. Age is a grave;
Where Kindness, and quell'd Passion, and mute Love,
Lie, hand in hand, cold,—dead,—perhaps forgotten!

128.—A Sceptic in Virtue.

Our blood will bear no lesson. All men know
That Job was patient—that adulterous Sin,
Writes Hell upon our foreheads—that thieves' necks
Are forfeit to the grave and frowning Law:
Yet who is chaste, unless his veins be cold?
Who calm, if tempted? Who that wants, is honest?
Who lives, from mitred Pope to ragged monk,
That's virtuous all for virtue? Tush, not one.
The mild and passionate are the same in this.
Sometimes a lure more potent bids man swerve
From the first sin, and turn to darker thoughts:
Sometimes he doth delay the accomplishment,—
But that's for weightier pleasure; or he's driven
Back, by pale fear or cunning policy;
But ne'er bribed by poor Virtue.

129.—Slander of Women.

Giul.
They say the devil Snake did tempt the Woman!
But—ha, ha!—who—who tempted him to tempt?
Give me good answer there! Why,'twasthe Woman!
The Fiend had somewhat which did stir his blood,
(If blood he had,) some sting—some appetite.
The love of evil? Well, what caused the love?
What was't that first begot the insane touch,
Which crept amidst his bright and rancorous scales?
What sight? or sound? or dream? 'Twas she—the Woman!
Still doth she act the serpent with our hearts:
Still doth she twine her 'round our hopes; and kill,
With venomous looks, and words as sharp as death,
All the world's pleasure!

Jac.
They are constant to us—

Giul.
They are as constant to their changing blood,
As the wild billow to the mounting moon!
No further. They come on, —swelling with ruin,
And overtake the quiet soul of man.

130.—No Love to be despised.

Iol.
I laugh at thy base verse.

Jul.
That is not well.
You should have mercy on my desperate pain.
Disdain'st thou? Well,—so be it! I will love
Through all misfortune; even through thy disdain.
I've striven—for years—against this frightful woe,
Though thou didst never know 't. The lonely Night
Has seen me wander midst her silent hours,
Darker than they, with my too great despair;
And the poor rhymes, which thou dost scorn so much,
Were dug out of my heart! —ay, forced, at times,
Through burning, blinding tears! Dost thou despise
A love like this? A lady should not scorn
One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be.
Love is an offering of the whole heart, Madam,
A sacrifice of all that poor life hath;
And he who gives his‘all,’—whate'er that be,
Gives greatly,—and deserveth no one's scorn!

131.—A Lover of Sentiment.

Giul.
She's proud; but she's a woman, and shall be
Thine own—dost hear?—thine own!

Jac.
Estremaduran!
If now thou mock'st me, thou had'st better pull
The burning sky upon thee!

Giul.
Listen to me.
She's not (proud as she seems) all arrogance.
I know that she at times will sigh,— and weep;
Tangle blue love-knots; and sing out, by night,
The painfullest ditties—ha, ha, ha!

Jac.
Great lady!
Canst thou be sad?—then I forgive thee all!

Giul.
Immedicable fool! Sickness can't cure thee.

Jac.
Oh, Giulio, Giulio! while a sand is falling,
We turn from hate to pity. I, who late
Abhorr'd the crimsoning pride upon her cheek,
Now read in it a different history.
Urge me no more. Henceforth I am her friend.

132.—A Protégé.

A.
I have a worm, a little petted thing,
Which I rear up. I see 't not; yet I know
'Tis ashy like the adder, and has fangs.
Seldom it sleeps, and then it dreams of food;
So gnaws for ever. I have fed this worm,
With mine own heart, like the fond pelican.

B.
Smother it, Count: 'tis a mis-shapen child,
Which may beget new monsters.

A.
I will let
My heart's stream out upon it, some loud night,
When winds grow clamorous, and rough Nature knits
Our resolution up to deeds of daring.

133.—The General Law.

All things which live and are, love quiet hours.
Sometimes, indeed, the waves caught up by storms,
Kiss Heaven and murmur, but they straight retire.
Sometimes, the red and busy Earthquake lifts
His head above the hills and looks on us.
Sometimes a star drops. Sometimes Heaven itself
Grows dark, and loses its celestial blue.
But calm returneth. Thus doth man (made fit
To league with Fortune in her varying moods)
Rise on the wings of fear, or grow love-mad,
Yet sinks at last to earth, and dreams in quiet.

134.—A Bold Man.

Fear?
I know not Fear. It is a ghost that haunts
The timid heart. 'Tis a dream, which waking men
Should scorn and put aside. A girl—a child—
A thing that was a man,—(but now is grown
A shaking palsy, winter-white with age)—
These may bow down to Fear: but I am—man!
The image of the Gods who know not fear,—
Far from the cradle, farther from the grave!

135.—A Brother.

When the Sun walks upon the blue sea-waters,
Smiling the shadows from yon purple hills,
We pace this shore,—I and my brother here,
Good Gerald. We arise with the shrill lark,
And both unbind our brows from sullen dreams;
And then doth my dear Brother, who hath worn
His cheek all pallid with perpetual thought,
Enrich me with sweet words; and oft a smile
Will stray amidst his lessons, as he marks
New wonder paint my cheek, or fondly reads,
Upon the burning page of my black eyes,
The truth reflected which he casts on me:—
For he is like the Sun,—giving me light;
Pouring into the caves of my young brain,
Knowledge from his bright fountains! Thus it is
I drink in the starry truth. Science and Art,
And Learning pale, all crown my thoughts with flowers;
And Music waiteth on me, sad and sweet;
And great Imagination, for my sake,
Lets loose her dreams, and bids her wonders flow
By me,—until I talk in poetry!

136.—An Epitaph.

[Mark, when he died, his tombs, his epitaphs!]

Mark, when he died, his tombs, his epitaphs!
Men did not pluck the ostrich for his sake;
Nor dye 't in sable. No black steeds were there,
Caparisoned in woe; no hired crowds;
No hearse, wherein the crumbling clay (imprisoned
Like ammunition in a tumbril) rolled
Rattling along the street, and silenced grief;
No arch whereon the bloody laurel hung;
No stone; no gilded verse;—poor common shews!
But tears, and tearful words, and sighs as deep
As sorrow is—these were his epitaphs!
Thus,—(fitly graced,) he lieth now, inurned
In hearts that loved him, on whose tender sides
Are graved his many virtues. When they perish,—
He's lost!—and so 't should be. The poet's name
And hero's—on the brazen book of Time,
Are writ in sunbeams, by Fame's loving hand;
But none record the household virtues there.
These better sleep (when all dear friends are fled)
In endless and serene oblivion!

137.—We love one different from ourselves.

Giul.
I hunger for her, and am all athirst!
Her scorn affronts me, and doth make me mad.
Mine eyes—these eyes, are wet with heavy drops!
Would'st think me such a fool?

Ferd.
If she disdain thee,
Love, and be quiet, coz.

Giul.
How? What? Be still?
Dost think I am a wild beast tamed by wrongs?
If one, I am the hyæna!—for he sheds tears,
And bites the while he's howling:—but, I'm quiet!

Ferd.
I thought thou lov'dst a rose cheek'd-girl, and merry;
A laugher of sixteen summers; such there are:
But she is paler than a primrose morning,
When Winter weds with Spring!

Giul.
'Tis all the better.
It is my nature to abhor in others,
That lightness which doth please me in myself.
I love not mine own parallel. The old giants,
Who stood as tall at trees, lov'd little women,
Or there's no truth in fable. Thus do I:
I love a sober face, a modest eye,
A step demure, a mien as grave as virtue.

138.—Satisfaction in a Blow.

Giul.
You say,“we'll have no blood.”Then let us wash
His throat with poison. I know rogues who deal in
Black aconite, and such like lazy drinks;
But one sells a quicker juice, whereof a drop
Will kill—in a breath—a giant!

Ferd.
That is good.

Giul.
Yet steel is surer: and a blow (while't send
Life through our limbs, like a swift race), doth calm
The turbulent spirits, and gives time for vengeance.
I hate to see the brute I hate fall dead
Without a struggle. Let's kill him like men,
And stand up freshened from the exercise!

139.—A Lady drowned.

Is she dead?. . .
Why so shall I be,—ere these Autumn blasts
Have blown on the beard of Winter. Is she dead
Ay, she is dead,—quite dead! The wild Sea kissed
With its cold white lips, and then—put her to sleep
She has a sand pillow, and a water sheet,
And never turns her head or knows 'tis morning.