The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley :: :: University of Virginia Library

Leave me, my son, an hour in loneliness
On this Sicilian Eryx: my farewell
Of earth is near accomplished: I would hold
Communion with the faces of the past,
Collect my soul in memory ere I go,
And feed on shadows of the ancient years.
Here underprop thy mantle to my head,
For here the mountains have a lonely sound,
And like faint harmony the wash of sea:
Return thee in an hour, return, my son.

I die in a strange land: a casual grave
Where never son of mine shall talk or tread
Hereafter, and no kindred step impress
My lonely bones. I have left my fathers' urns
As far behind me as the rising sun,
To measure distance by the painful sense
Of travel to the pausing limbs of age.

I do remember when my country fell,
They snatch'd me thro' the tumult to the ships.
Æneas strode before them, many a Greek
That barr'd his passage died: but my old blood
Glow'd not to see them fall, as in the days
When battle lit my soul like maiden's lips.
Mine eyes were dim, I only could complain
At fair endeavour wasted to ensure
A wither'd abject from the sword to-day
Whose urn is due to-morrow, and I said:

“All is disorder'd like an ancient tale,
And the old form of time is cracked and thrown
Dishonoured by. Confusion big with death
Usurps our hearths, and draws a line of blood
Across the record of our dearest hours.
There is no further sorrow to endure,
No tear beyond what I have seen to-day:
Thrust me in mercy thro' and let me rest
In Trojan earth: most old am I to change
My country: ye are young, your years are sweet,
But mine are very weary: what reward
Of voyage mine except a stranger grave?

A scratch will end me: 'tis an easy boon.
Is it no bitter thing, this ancient frame
Condemned upon the threshold of its dust,
To ride the wild heads of the hollowed waves,
The lapse and weather of the scaling seas
When all discomfort multiplies an ache
Of waning years, stiff burden in themselves.'
But they or heard me not or would not heed

Thence, in the curving buffet of the tide,
Our keels have girdled half the seas in quest
Of visionary kingdoms, with reward
Of infinite misfortune to our hands.
We set the sail for other thrones, beyond
The sea-mark of the rolling spheres in heaven,
And found no scant of danger or of death;
But reap this sole unenvied royalty,
To be the chief of mortals that endure.

O stedfast son of thine unstable sire,
Dost thou misdoubt the shielding God's command,
That led thee out among tumultuous seas,
Still pointing onwards? Oracle of heaven,
Care dost thou build us, in each port new care:
Where is that utmost haven of thy word?
Peace, be content, old heart, what shouldst thou do
With future? Cheat no longer closing eyes
With lust to see the kingdom of thy son.

In the next valley or beyond the stars
'Tis one to me: my wounded life admits
No interim to reach it: here I pause.

No farther: be it then: my way is done.
Turn, ancient eyes, turn backwards ere your sleep;
I, the old man, would number back the years
Of all my flower and strength and nervy prime,
Heroic—once heroic and thus now.
Erase, old heart, the staining years between,
Face thy great hours once more, then cease to beat:
Nay, rather let large silence hold the past:
Its changeless veil removes not for the moan
Of retrospect, and weak it were to fear
Immutable conclusion wholly best.

Behold my son returns, and I will smooth
These doubtings from my face: enough for me
The question and the anguish: this were shame,
To dash his living purpose with the taint
Of this my palsied fancy and mistrust—
Courage, my son, to-morrow we will spread
New sails, the land of promise sure is near.
If my breath hold till sunrise I will sail
Not less than the young soldier in the fleet:
If I have slept by then, large choice of grave
Is here upon the beach: but sail not less,
My spirit leading to the fated land.