 | Poems of many years (1844) |  |
1
THE BOOK OF YOUTH.
3
TO ---,
FIVE YEARS OLD.
Delighted soul! that in thy new abode
Dwellest contentedly and knowest not
What men can mean who faint beneath the load
Of mortal life and mourn an earthly lot;
Dwellest contentedly and knowest not
What men can mean who faint beneath the load
Of mortal life and mourn an earthly lot;
Who would believe thou wert so far from home?
Who could suppose thee exiled or astray?
This world of twilight whither thou art come
Seems just as welcome as thy native day.
Who could suppose thee exiled or astray?
This world of twilight whither thou art come
Seems just as welcome as thy native day.
That comely form, wherein thy thoughts are pent,
Hiding its rebel nature, serves thee still,
A pliable and pleasant instrument,
Harmonious to thy impulses and will.
Hiding its rebel nature, serves thee still,
A pliable and pleasant instrument,
Harmonious to thy impulses and will.
4
Thou hast not spent as yet thy little store
Of happy instincts:—Thou canst still beguile
Painful reflection and ungrateful lore
With many a placid dream and causeless smile.
Of happy instincts:—Thou canst still beguile
Painful reflection and ungrateful lore
With many a placid dream and causeless smile.
And when the awful stranger Evil bends
His eye upon thee, Thou wilt first essay
To turn him from his dark pursuits and ends
By gracious dalliance and familiar play:
His eye upon thee, Thou wilt first essay
To turn him from his dark pursuits and ends
By gracious dalliance and familiar play:
As well might kindly words arrest the roll
Of billows raging o'er a wintry sea,—
O Providence! remit to this one soul
Its destined years, and take it back to Thee.
Of billows raging o'er a wintry sea,—
O Providence! remit to this one soul
Its destined years, and take it back to Thee.
12
[Six years, six cycles of dead hours]
Oh! that I were, as I was, in the days of my youth, when the
secret of God was upon my Tabernacle! Job xxix. 4.
Six years, six cycles of dead hours,
Six falls of leaves, six births of flowers!
It is not that, you know full well,
That makes my labouring bosom swell,
'Tis not the memory of lost Time,
Since last I heard that matin chime,
That brings to sense the sleeping sorrow,
To bid this long-left scene good-morrow,—
It is the curse to feel as Men,
And be not now as we were then.
The snowy down on yonder hill
Through thousand summers glistens still,—
Yon stream will ne'er to time surrender
Its rapid path of diamond splendour,—
Yon orb, but now who swept the East,
With train of ruby' and amethyst,
Rides on, unweariedly as ever,
O'er frowning rock, and glittering river;
Those trees, I own, are somewhat higher,—
The ivy round the village spire
In fuller-clustering leaf has grown,—
We cannot call that cot our own,—
But what has changed in this sweet glen
As we from what our hearts were then?
Six falls of leaves, six births of flowers!
It is not that, you know full well,
That makes my labouring bosom swell,
'Tis not the memory of lost Time,
Since last I heard that matin chime,
That brings to sense the sleeping sorrow,
To bid this long-left scene good-morrow,—
It is the curse to feel as Men,
And be not now as we were then.
13
Through thousand summers glistens still,—
Yon stream will ne'er to time surrender
Its rapid path of diamond splendour,—
Yon orb, but now who swept the East,
With train of ruby' and amethyst,
Rides on, unweariedly as ever,
O'er frowning rock, and glittering river;
Those trees, I own, are somewhat higher,—
The ivy round the village spire
In fuller-clustering leaf has grown,—
We cannot call that cot our own,—
But what has changed in this sweet glen
As we from what our hearts were then?
Say you, the glow of Hope is bright,
Or, if it be a meteor light,
That hurtles through the thickening sky,
'Tis wise to catch it ere it die?
Tell you me, 'tis a joy to feel
Our toil increase a fellow's weal?
That, 'mid these fainting, fading, bowers,
There linger still some amaranth flowers,
And honest will, and honest prayer,
Will find them lurking everywhere?—
Say on, I can but add, Amen,—
We are not now as we were then.
Or, if it be a meteor light,
That hurtles through the thickening sky,
'Tis wise to catch it ere it die?
Tell you me, 'tis a joy to feel
Our toil increase a fellow's weal?
That, 'mid these fainting, fading, bowers,
There linger still some amaranth flowers,
And honest will, and honest prayer,
Will find them lurking everywhere?—
Say on, I can but add, Amen,—
We are not now as we were then.
14
Oh, Brother! when I gaze upon
These tombs of little blisses gone,—
When, through the dense and steamy air,
Which we with men are wont to share,
A breeze of distant Youth has stole
In freshness on my fever'd soul,—
I feel like one who long has lain
With madness gathering in his brain,
And, bursting from the strong distress,
Wakes to a terrible consciousness.
Then blame you that my pulse beat now?
Blame you the agony on my brow?
Time was, when fear was all a stranger,
Ere knowledge showed the way to danger—
When love was firm,—when faith was sure,
And head and heart alike secure;—
But now, . . . Remember you a flower,
Which we with care, from sun and shower,—
It was our mother's,—loved to guard,
And how we joyed in our reward,
When first we watched its bloom appear,
When it was old so many a year;
And how we heard, with tearful eye,
The good old gardener's prophecy,—
For he was deep in nature's lore,—
That that bright plant would bloom no more?
The flowers fell off,—the stalk was gathered,—
The root grew dry,—the lank leaves withered,—
And, sad to lose its only pride,
The poor Agave sunk and died:
our one, our only bloom is gone,
But, Brother, still we linger on.
These tombs of little blisses gone,—
When, through the dense and steamy air,
Which we with men are wont to share,
A breeze of distant Youth has stole
In freshness on my fever'd soul,—
I feel like one who long has lain
With madness gathering in his brain,
And, bursting from the strong distress,
Wakes to a terrible consciousness.
Then blame you that my pulse beat now?
Blame you the agony on my brow?
Time was, when fear was all a stranger,
Ere knowledge showed the way to danger—
When love was firm,—when faith was sure,
And head and heart alike secure;—
But now, . . . Remember you a flower,
Which we with care, from sun and shower,—
It was our mother's,—loved to guard,
And how we joyed in our reward,
When first we watched its bloom appear,
When it was old so many a year;
And how we heard, with tearful eye,
The good old gardener's prophecy,—
For he was deep in nature's lore,—
That that bright plant would bloom no more?
The flowers fell off,—the stalk was gathered,—
The root grew dry,—the lank leaves withered,—
15
The poor Agave sunk and died:
our one, our only bloom is gone,
But, Brother, still we linger on.
Between the cradle and the shroud,
If chance, amid the pilgrim croud,
Though strange the time and strange the place,
We light on some familiar face,
Once loved and known, as friend knows friend,
In whom a thousand memories blend,
Which whilom slumbered dull and dim,
But rise in light and cling to him;
Though not a line of old as wont,
Though care has knit the ample front,
And vice unstrung the well-toned frame,
Still something,—something is the same.
But if we ever hope to find
Some traces in that life-worn mind
Of its pure self, its simple being,
Such as it was, when, unforeseeing,
We thought that Nature's laws would fail,
Ere Sin could make its boldness quail;
Such as it was, ere sensuous things
Had clipped the bird of Eden's wings,
Ere stifled groan and secret sigh
Replaced the tear so soon brushed by,—
'Tis vain,—alas, for human shame!
There nothing, nothing is the same.
If chance, amid the pilgrim croud,
Though strange the time and strange the place,
We light on some familiar face,
Once loved and known, as friend knows friend,
In whom a thousand memories blend,
Which whilom slumbered dull and dim,
But rise in light and cling to him;
Though not a line of old as wont,
Though care has knit the ample front,
And vice unstrung the well-toned frame,
Still something,—something is the same.
But if we ever hope to find
Some traces in that life-worn mind
Of its pure self, its simple being,
Such as it was, when, unforeseeing,
We thought that Nature's laws would fail,
Ere Sin could make its boldness quail;
Such as it was, ere sensuous things
Had clipped the bird of Eden's wings,
Ere stifled groan and secret sigh
Replaced the tear so soon brushed by,—
16
There nothing, nothing is the same.
Oh! that the painter's favourite scheme
Were not alone a painter's dream!
Oh! that the Paradise he feigns,
Where Innocence with Childhood reigns,
And cherub forms and infant guise
Inclose the heart divinely wise,
Were not alone a Poet's creed,—
No symbol,—but a truth indeed!
That all this circling life might close
Its wearied course where first it rose,
And that our second life might be
A new, eternal, infancy,
Keeping the bliss we lose as men,
And being aye as we were then!
Were not alone a painter's dream!
Oh! that the Paradise he feigns,
Where Innocence with Childhood reigns,
And cherub forms and infant guise
Inclose the heart divinely wise,
Were not alone a Poet's creed,—
No symbol,—but a truth indeed!
That all this circling life might close
Its wearied course where first it rose,
And that our second life might be
A new, eternal, infancy,
Keeping the bliss we lose as men,
And being aye as we were then!
37
[Back again, back again!]
By eating the fruit that grows on the banks of the river of Delight,
in the Anostum, in the country of the Meropes, men gain a blessed
course of life, without one moment of sadness;—when they are in
years, by little and little they wax young again, recovering their
former vigour and force, and thence they turn still backward, even to
their first infancy, becoming little babes again, and then they die.
Antonio de Torquemada.
Back again, back again!
We are passing back again;
We are ceasing to be men!
Without the strife
Of waning life,
Or weary fears
Of loveless years,—
Without the darkened eye,
Without the paling brow,
Without a pulse of pain,
Out of our maturity,
We are passing now
Back again!
Clap your hands! clap your hands!
Now are broken all the bands
Of dull forms and phantom power,
That could prevent us doing
What joy would wish to do,—
For out of manhood's ruin,
We are growing, hour by hour,
Happy children too!—
From out the din
And storm of sin,
From out the fight
Of wrong and right,
Where the wrong
Is all too strong,
We glide our backward course along:
From out the chilly weather,
In which we laid, of old,
Our hearts so close together,
To keep them from the cold:—
From the folly of the wise,
From the petty war of gain,
From Pleasure's painèd votaries,
We are hasting back again,
Into other, healthier, lands,—
Clap your hands,—
Back again!
Faery fruit! faery fruit!
Can our charmèd hearts be mute,
When they feel at work within
Thine almighty medicine?
Joy through all our hearts is tingling,—
Joy with our life-blood is mingling,—
Before us rise
The dancing eyes,
That cannot speak
Of aught but light,
Unknowing gloom,—
The rounded cheek,
For ever bright
With cool, red, bloom;—
Our faded leaves are closing,
Our petals are reposing
Within their undeveloped stem;—
It is beautiful to see
Archetypes of infancy,
For we are growing like to them.
The wisdom of the common earth,
And reason's servile royalty,
Dust to dust,—the nothing-worth,—
Tread it down triumphantly,
To a just oblivion,—
Freely-springing hearts and pure,
Who are putting on
Consecrated vestiture
Of a new, old, communion!—
We are passing back again;
We are ceasing to be men!
Without the strife
Of waning life,
Or weary fears
Of loveless years,—
Without the darkened eye,
Without the paling brow,
Without a pulse of pain,
Out of our maturity,
We are passing now
Back again!
38
Now are broken all the bands
Of dull forms and phantom power,
That could prevent us doing
What joy would wish to do,—
For out of manhood's ruin,
We are growing, hour by hour,
Happy children too!—
From out the din
And storm of sin,
From out the fight
Of wrong and right,
Where the wrong
Is all too strong,
We glide our backward course along:
From out the chilly weather,
In which we laid, of old,
Our hearts so close together,
To keep them from the cold:—
From the folly of the wise,
From the petty war of gain,
From Pleasure's painèd votaries,
We are hasting back again,
Into other, healthier, lands,—
Clap your hands,—
Back again!
39
Can our charmèd hearts be mute,
When they feel at work within
Thine almighty medicine?
Joy through all our hearts is tingling,—
Joy with our life-blood is mingling,—
Before us rise
The dancing eyes,
That cannot speak
Of aught but light,
Unknowing gloom,—
The rounded cheek,
For ever bright
With cool, red, bloom;—
Our faded leaves are closing,
Our petals are reposing
Within their undeveloped stem;—
It is beautiful to see
Archetypes of infancy,
For we are growing like to them.
The wisdom of the common earth,
And reason's servile royalty,
Dust to dust,—the nothing-worth,—
Tread it down triumphantly,
To a just oblivion,—
Freely-springing hearts and pure,
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Consecrated vestiture
Of a new, old, communion!—
Our home! our home!
Our native air,—our brothers' song,
That we have lost so long!
We are worthy now to come,
Where dwelleth the Divine;—
Through the narrow door of Death
Pass;—we breathe eternal breath,—
Father! father! we are thine!
Our native air,—our brothers' song,
That we have lost so long!
We are worthy now to come,
Where dwelleth the Divine;—
Through the narrow door of Death
Pass;—we breathe eternal breath,—
Father! father! we are thine!
| Poems of many years (1844) | |