Ranolf and Amohia A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised |
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| I. |
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| II. |
 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
I.
Depart then, Ranolf! leave to Grief and Time
The task to cleave out, in some other clime
Less fraught with frenzied thoughts, their ends sublime!
Even Sorrow could not here its fruits mature—
Not here—nor now; for Change and Time, be sure,
Are needed to assist it in its Art
Of Soul-Tuition. This by theory too,
Though spurning now the power of both, he knew;
And felt his only course was to depart.
The land seemed loathsome to his laden heart;
Sick—sick he was; aweary of the skies!
The Mountains seemed to look him in the face—
Cold—calm and sullen, conscious of his woe;
Each shrub and tree that once had charmed him so,
Turned wormwood with the thoughts it bade him trace:
And every River rolled before his eyes,
A Mara-flood of bitterest memories.
The task to cleave out, in some other clime
Less fraught with frenzied thoughts, their ends sublime!
Even Sorrow could not here its fruits mature—
Not here—nor now; for Change and Time, be sure,
Are needed to assist it in its Art
Of Soul-Tuition. This by theory too,
Though spurning now the power of both, he knew;
And felt his only course was to depart.
The land seemed loathsome to his laden heart;
Sick—sick he was; aweary of the skies!
The Mountains seemed to look him in the face—
Cold—calm and sullen, conscious of his woe;
Each shrub and tree that once had charmed him so,
Turned wormwood with the thoughts it bade him trace:
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A Mara-flood of bitterest memories.
When the first shock of Amo's death was o'er,
And he could rouse himself to act once more,
With but one lad his light effects to bear,
He started for some Northwest harbour where
Vessels that haunt these latitudes repair.
A Ship he sought; but cared not whence it came
Or whither bound: to him it was the same
So that away, far distant, he were borne:
All lands seemed now of all attractions shorn!
Perhaps, as most deserted and forlorn,
The barren, dreary, ever-restless Sea,
Would to his desolate Soul most soothing be.
And he could rouse himself to act once more,
With but one lad his light effects to bear,
He started for some Northwest harbour where
Vessels that haunt these latitudes repair.
A Ship he sought; but cared not whence it came
Or whither bound: to him it was the same
So that away, far distant, he were borne:
All lands seemed now of all attractions shorn!
Perhaps, as most deserted and forlorn,
The barren, dreary, ever-restless Sea,
Would to his desolate Soul most soothing be.
His road was nearly that which Amo chose,
In search self-ruinous of ruthless foes.
Not that he sought with conscious aim the more
To take that path because 'twas hers before:
His unresigning anguish could not crave
To see, or seek for solace at her grave;
Herself—herself! the vain demand—nought less—
His greedy grief insatiable would press;
Not any maddening circumstance or scene
To rouse remembrances of what had been—
Too prompt already, manifold and keen!
Yet haply he was guided on the whole,
By that attraction of his secret soul;
A bias, though unconsciously obeyed,
Towards even the shadow of that loved one's shade—
Towards any place her sweetest presence still
With haunting fondness sadly seemed to fill.
When near the coast, they told him of a Ship
Whose Master would ere long his anchor trip
For three years' chase of his gigantic game,
Run down o'er boundless Ocean hunting-grounds
With hardy boats'-crews for his well-trained hounds—
In that most venturous, gravest, grandest Sport
Which makes all others seem contracted—tame!
His Ship was now with ample produce stored,
Wood—water—fresh provisions all on board;
And he was just about to leave the Port,
Cutting his boisterous crew's rude revels short.
In search self-ruinous of ruthless foes.
Not that he sought with conscious aim the more
To take that path because 'twas hers before:
His unresigning anguish could not crave
To see, or seek for solace at her grave;
Herself—herself! the vain demand—nought less—
His greedy grief insatiable would press;
Not any maddening circumstance or scene
To rouse remembrances of what had been—
Too prompt already, manifold and keen!
Yet haply he was guided on the whole,
By that attraction of his secret soul;
A bias, though unconsciously obeyed,
Towards even the shadow of that loved one's shade—
Towards any place her sweetest presence still
With haunting fondness sadly seemed to fill.
282
Whose Master would ere long his anchor trip
For three years' chase of his gigantic game,
Run down o'er boundless Ocean hunting-grounds
With hardy boats'-crews for his well-trained hounds—
In that most venturous, gravest, grandest Sport
Which makes all others seem contracted—tame!
His Ship was now with ample produce stored,
Wood—water—fresh provisions all on board;
And he was just about to leave the Port,
Cutting his boisterous crew's rude revels short.
| Ranolf and Amohia | |