 | Poems |  |
126
A FRAGMENT.
I.
The rosy evening of a day in May
Shedding its coloured lights upon a bay
That sleeps beneath green banks. The winds at rest.
Low o'er the waters, winging to the west,
A seabird, with its plumage full display'd,
Whiter than sea-foam.
Shedding its coloured lights upon a bay
That sleeps beneath green banks. The winds at rest.
Low o'er the waters, winging to the west,
A seabird, with its plumage full display'd,
Whiter than sea-foam.
Standing in the shade
Of an old cedar on the seabank high
A youth, gazing around with thoughtful eye:
A pleasant face,—that would be joyous wholly
But for a trace of pensive melancholy.
Listen! He speaks:
Of an old cedar on the seabank high
A youth, gazing around with thoughtful eye:
A pleasant face,—that would be joyous wholly
But for a trace of pensive melancholy.
Listen! He speaks:
“Fair, fair, O very fair,
The summer beauty of the evening air,
Brooding o'er plains, and hills, and tranquil streams,
And seas, and windless capes! O Heaven, meseems
This Earth were yet an Eden if the smoke
And roar of cities never rose or broke
On eye or ear, and men like brethren dwelt
In the green wilderness, and never felt
The fiendish lust for gold: yond' gleaming cloud,
That seems a turban'd head devoutly bow'd,
Filling the western sky, and that one star
In deepest ether sunk serenely far
Are wealth enough!
The summer beauty of the evening air,
Brooding o'er plains, and hills, and tranquil streams,
127
This Earth were yet an Eden if the smoke
And roar of cities never rose or broke
On eye or ear, and men like brethren dwelt
In the green wilderness, and never felt
The fiendish lust for gold: yond' gleaming cloud,
That seems a turban'd head devoutly bow'd,
Filling the western sky, and that one star
In deepest ether sunk serenely far
Are wealth enough!
O some bright angel, come!
I will not start, or swoon, or straight be dumb
By thy mysterious presence overpowered,
For sure this Earth by beauty overbowered
Was meant for forms angelic!
I will not start, or swoon, or straight be dumb
By thy mysterious presence overpowered,
For sure this Earth by beauty overbowered
Was meant for forms angelic!
Say if e'er
The first man God made saw a scene more fair
Bending o'er Eden! Did his being thrill
With pleasure such as mine?—yet haunted still
By thoughtful pain that in a little while,
Though other joys may follow, this will smile
No more at all!—
The first man God made saw a scene more fair
Bending o'er Eden! Did his being thrill
With pleasure such as mine?—yet haunted still
By thoughtful pain that in a little while,
Though other joys may follow, this will smile
No more at all!—
128
Poor mortal! this fair scene
That runs thee back to the primeval green
Of new-made Eden; this, which thou dost prize
As Heaven itself,—it passes from thine eyes;
Is made and unmade; lavish'd but not for thee;
Cast like unfingered gold into the sea!
That runs thee back to the primeval green
Of new-made Eden; this, which thou dost prize
As Heaven itself,—it passes from thine eyes;
Is made and unmade; lavish'd but not for thee;
Cast like unfingered gold into the sea!
'Twas some black angel's whisper. I will change,
Will look to heaven and it will vanish!
Will look to heaven and it will vanish!
Strange!
The scene is as before; but I remain,
My pleasure dash'd with recollective pain
That Time is toying with me: in my sadness
He brings me face to face with scenes of gladness:
They glad me, and they go; and grief again
Is my unasked companion: joy and pain
Thus hurry me through life,—the slaves of Time
And my refined tormentors. But sublime
Rise, rise, my soul, superior to thy fate
In a calm proud indifference!
The scene is as before; but I remain,
My pleasure dash'd with recollective pain
That Time is toying with me: in my sadness
He brings me face to face with scenes of gladness:
They glad me, and they go; and grief again
Is my unasked companion: joy and pain
Thus hurry me through life,—the slaves of Time
And my refined tormentors. But sublime
Rise, rise, my soul, superior to thy fate
In a calm proud indifference!
It wears late!
The sun has set. The clouds are settling down
On the stern hill-brow, like an iron frown.
The air is colourless: th' o'erarching heaven
Is like a prison-vault, gray and uneven:
The land lies soulless—'tis the brutish Earth,
That is enclad with Spring and knows no mirth,
And stripped again and cares not, and so yearly:
And the vast sea is water,—water merely!”
The sun has set. The clouds are settling down
129
The air is colourless: th' o'erarching heaven
Is like a prison-vault, gray and uneven:
The land lies soulless—'tis the brutish Earth,
That is enclad with Spring and knows no mirth,
And stripped again and cares not, and so yearly:
And the vast sea is water,—water merely!”
II.
An Autumn night. The winds are whistling shrill:
The long-haired pinetrees half way up the hill
Fling their dishevelled tresses to the gale,
And fill with sighing all the hollow vale.
Clouds through the sky careering. Wild unrest
Except among the stars. A night unblest.
Deep in a sunken valley by a brook
That hurries guiltily from human look
From hemlock-darkened bank to caverned stone,
A shapeless figure in the shadows lone
Reclining: to himself he speaks in tones
Of bitter anguish, broke by frequent moans:—
The long-haired pinetrees half way up the hill
Fling their dishevelled tresses to the gale,
And fill with sighing all the hollow vale.
Clouds through the sky careering. Wild unrest
Except among the stars. A night unblest.
Deep in a sunken valley by a brook
That hurries guiltily from human look
From hemlock-darkened bank to caverned stone,
A shapeless figure in the shadows lone
Reclining: to himself he speaks in tones
Of bitter anguish, broke by frequent moans:—
“I loved. No mother ever loved her child
Half so devotedly. 'Twill drive me wild,—
One glance into the past, the silent land
Where all my hopes lie dead. What shadowy hand
Thus tempts me to my ruin? Do not ope
The door of that dead-room! Without or hope
Of what's to come or memory of the past,
Here let me lie a clod,—such as at last
I must be. What is life to me that I
Should thus desire it if I have to die,
Or anyone, or anything I love?
The winds around me, and the stars above,
Scream on, shine on, and mock me! Is there one
That knows what sorrow is? Do I alone
Rave discontented?—Yet the nations toil
And sweat, and work, and walk the Earth awhile,
Then drop into the wormy cell beneath,
And murmur not,—and ere they drop bequeath
Their sweaty-handled tools and thistly soil
To those they love; and they, too, sweat and toil!
Why do they build? Is there a structure stands?
They seem like children raising on the sands
Castles of sand in hearing of the wave,
Yet, unlike children, hope their towers will brave,
Though former wrecks are round them scattered wide,
Time's more relentless and almighty tide!”
Half so devotedly. 'Twill drive me wild,—
One glance into the past, the silent land
130
Thus tempts me to my ruin? Do not ope
The door of that dead-room! Without or hope
Of what's to come or memory of the past,
Here let me lie a clod,—such as at last
I must be. What is life to me that I
Should thus desire it if I have to die,
Or anyone, or anything I love?
The winds around me, and the stars above,
Scream on, shine on, and mock me! Is there one
That knows what sorrow is? Do I alone
Rave discontented?—Yet the nations toil
And sweat, and work, and walk the Earth awhile,
Then drop into the wormy cell beneath,
And murmur not,—and ere they drop bequeath
Their sweaty-handled tools and thistly soil
To those they love; and they, too, sweat and toil!
Why do they build? Is there a structure stands?
They seem like children raising on the sands
Castles of sand in hearing of the wave,
Yet, unlike children, hope their towers will brave,
Though former wrecks are round them scattered wide,
Time's more relentless and almighty tide!”
| Poems | |