The Solitary, and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child;
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters;
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing.
Coleridge.

I

An hour, and this majestic day is gone;
Another messenger flown in fleet quest
Of Time. Behold! one winged cloud alone,
Like a spread dragon overhangs the west,
Bathing the splendour of his crimson crest
In the sun's last suffusion,—he hath roll'd
His vast length o'er the dewy sky, imprest
With the warm dyes of many-colour'd gold,
Which, now the sun is sunk, wax faint, and grey, and cold.

II

Lone Hesperus hath climb'd the western stair,
And hung his silver cresset forth in vain,
For hungry Darkness crawling from his lair
Moves o'er the mountain, and with flooding mane
Flings out thick gloom over th'ethereal plain,
And the dun welkin trembles into night.
Hark! the sad Nightingale begins her strain,
And Echo, like a weary anchorite,
Sits crouching in the woods, mute in her own despite.

III

And now the Moon, bursting her watery prison,
Heaves her full orb into the azure clear,
Pale witness, from the slumbering sea new-risen,
To glorify the landscape far and near.
All beauteous things more beautiful appear;
The sky-crown'd summit of the mountain gleams,
Smote by the star-point of her glittering spear,
More steadfastly, and all the valley seems
Strown with a softer light, the atmosphere of dreams.

IV

How still! as though Silence herself were dead,
And her wan ghost were floating in the air:
The Moon glides o'er the heaven with printless tread,
And to her far-off frontier doth repair;
O'er-wearied lids are closing every where;—
All living things that own the touch of sleep
Are beckon'd, as the wasting moments wear,
Till, one by one, in valley, or from steep,
Unto their several homes they, and their shadows, creep.

V

And all at length are gone: the dew impearl'd
Is hanging on the flower and on the grass,
That when from out the dream-girt under-world,
The fairy train to their light measures pass,
Each lady-elf may find a looking-glass,
To bind her hair and smooth her tiny brow;
The moonlight is up-gather'd in a mass,
Nor moves upon the waveless water now;
The aspen leaf scarce stirs upon the stirless bough.

VI

How many in the deaf oblivious realm
Of Sleep, are hushed beneath her dynasty;
Even he, whom many a woe and grief o'erwhelm,
Who but recruits his jaded strength to try
Another fall with stronger destiny
And will not be o'ermaster'd, sinks at last,
Even as a dreamless babe to rest, while I,
Lingering upon the bleak shore of the past,
My hopes into that sea, like worthless pebbles, cast.

VII

And thus my thoughts, goading my sluggish will,
Run the fierce gauntlet and the circle round:
This finite world's infinity of ill;
All that is lost, all that was never found,—
All that, urg'd bravely forward, did rebound
And strike the spirit down into the dust,—
This mockery,—this echo of no sound,—
This cheat that levies faith upon distrust,
And from our very joys replenishes disgust.

VIII

And at this hour such sights as human eyes
Have never seen, and see not, yet appear
Presented to the mind in the dread guise
Which the late-living dead are born to wear;
Though shrouded, bless'd, and laid at peace in prayer,
They rise, like weeds uprooted by the storm;
See, as they go, the mortal hue is there,
The stern placidity, the rigid form,
They fly as though they might outspeed the ravening worm.

IX

Not unaveng'd, O Time! not unfulfill'd
Thy promise and thy threat in this dark hour,
When feelings weak as tears, and all unskill'd
In language, move with this o'er-searching power:
The sorry heart they covet be their dower,
And Heaven be with them; since it be no less
Than misery, for so coy a paramour
To languish, be inconstant happiness
Still from my heart—I heed no more her vain caress.

X

O, thou most perfect Love! who dost control
And yet excite—unseen that we may see,
Reason of Nature, instinct of the soul,
Whereby our spirits bind us to be free,
And, truant ever, still return to thee;
Thou who dost gird the world as with a zone,
And hold'st the unharness'd seraphim in fee,
What or in earth or heaven is not thine own,
Where dost thou hold thy seat, and not upon a throne?

XI

The harmony of the awakening spheres,—
Nor less did ours respond to thee than they,
When charter'd for her plenitude of years,
In the clear empyrean pois'd she lay
New-born, and Chaos was Time's yesterday.
Diffus'd through all, thy universal power
Pierces the shade, reposes in the ray;
Alike the planted oak, the painted flower,
Eternity is thine, and thine the circling hour.

XII

What were the world without thee? a long sleep
Untenanted by dreams; a narrow tomb
Wherein, the worm's reversion, we should creep
Like worms, impatient, eager of our doom.
The sun would rise, but only to illume
Blank Horror—Nature, effigy of dearth,
The wombless daughter of creation's womb,
With dewless eyes would sad bewail her birth,
Cursing the espoused vow which gave her to the earth.

XIII

But Love's mysterious sympathies pervade
Creation, with strange impulses imbued;
Which, if the soul be yet unquench'd, are made,
Spite of the heart's inconstant habitude,
To turn the bitter to maturest good;
So that, whate'er remain to tempt desire
Is, from our wither'd hopes themselves, renew'd
To worthier growth, as a fast-fading fire
Doth, by dead branches fed, a livelier strength acquire.

XIV

And thus it is, after this long endur'd,
And how endur'd I know not, suffering,—
This penance cold to which we are inur'd,
This dull, diurnal lie whereto we cling,—
That, upon all that fade, from all that spring,
A gentler balm doth healing Time bestow,
And Wisdom with sedater presence bring,
A riper seed into our hearts to sow,
Of something our affections grafted long ago.

XV

Or whence, when all that should have stay'd are gone,
And nothing but the memory lives behind,
The better earnestness that leads us on,
By a forc'd retrocession of the mind,
From outward things a comfort still to find;
From daily objects of the sight alone—
As frozen springs touch'd by a southern wind—
To conjure out some soft responsive tone,
Some word unsyllabled, that answers to our own!

XVI

For when old Winter sinks into his shroud,
And Spring, led thither by the merry Hours,
Pillows his head upon a rosy cloud,
And fills his icy-fringed hand with flowers,
And bears him to his grave with gentlest showers,
Heart-gnawing Care doth stay his eager tooth,
Nor longer his unblest repast devours,
And Peace comes forth again, like gentle Ruth,
Gleaning whate'er be left from the full sheaves of youth.

XVII

And with unclouded azure like her own,
The anxious soul is for awhile belied,
When Summer puts her gorgeous raiment on
Sun-wrought, and walks the earth in loveliest pride;
A mimic summer to the breast doth glide,
To renovate the heart, though dead and cold,
Cold as the death-sweat of a parricide,
O'er whom is flung the unconsecrated mould,
For whom no prayer is read—no passing bell is toll'd!

XVIII

Then, haply, if by vagrant Fancy caught
Of crude conceit, half-felt, scarce understood,
By meditation led, will I resort
To the deep centre of some hoary wood,
Where lies a deep, still water, and there brood,
Scarce of the world, scarce in it, and be blest
Forgotten, and out-silence Solitude,
And, closer to the heart of Nature prest,
Dream like a tear-tir'd child upon his mother's breast.

XIX

Laid at the foot of some old tree, whose boughs
Leaf-laden, bent, their soften'd shadows wed
In the clear water, on whose surface ploughs
His venturous way the midge, with trailing thread:
The dusky-spotted moth, his wings half-spread,
Goes flagging drowsily across the mere,
The Druid Echo slumbers over-head,
A shrunk leaf wavers down untimely sere;
No sound that silence hears but the rapt senses hear.

XX

Far thence unquiet fear, unworthy strife—
Philosophy, that teaches us to live,
Hath taught us long ago to despise life;
For what hast thou, wan harlot, now to give,
But the old, base, refus'd alternative?
And still upon thy giddy wave to be,
With the hag Pleasure sailing in her sieve,
Fit halcyon on thine ever-changing sea,
No—Proteus' self were too immutable for thee.

XXI

Here, bade at length our sun's vex'd motion cease,
We with vain prayers no more afflict the skies,
We would have happiness, and here is peace,
For which we have done well to compromise
Our best, yet best-forgotten, memories;
All yearning wishes, unsurrender'd yet,
All hateful Pity's hateful sympathies,
All the arrear of fortune, and the debt
Due on that treacherous score, grown wiser, we forget.

XXII

No smile may e'er again deceive, nor hope,
Heaven's furlough to the slave, protract the day
Prefigur'd in our mystic horoscope;
Philosophy hath call'd us—we obey.
Then let the impatient hunter to his prey,
With all Hell's grim auxiliary pack
Of unflesh'd bloodhounds never held at bay,
Scarce heard, they rush on their unerring track,
Reverberate Echo dies ere she can travel back.

XXIII

And they who have not spun their fretted woof
To the last sable thread, and idly deem
Their souls are lightning-free, and thunder-proof,
Let them float down the tide of Passion's stream,
And toil unsated in the sensual beam.
How calm and clear the atmosphere at first,
How brightly doth the far horizon gleam,
Till the cloud-cradled storm, by silence nurs'd,
Awake, and o'er their heads with hideous ruin burst.

XXIV

As when, of amorous Night uncertain birth,
The giant of still Noontide, weary grown,
Crawls sultrily along the steaming earth,
And basks him in the meadows sunbeam-strown;
Anon, his brow collapses to a frown;
Unto his feet he springs, and bellows loud,
With uncouth rage pulls the rude tempest down,
Shatters the woods, beneath his fury bow'd,
And hunts the frighted winds, and huddles cloud on cloud.

XXV

Nor rests, but by the heat to madness stung,
With headlong speed tramples the golden grain,
And, at a bound, over the mountains flung,
Grasps the reluctant thunder by the mane,
And drags it back, girt with a sudden chain
Of thrice-brac'd lightning; now, more fiercely dire,
Slipt from its holds, flies down the hissing rain;
The labouring welkin teems with leaping fire
Which strikes the straining oak, and smites the glimmering spire.

XXVI

And yet at length appeas'd he sinks, and spent,
Gibbers far off over the misty hills,
And the stain'd sun, through a cloud's jagged rent,
Goes down, and all the west with glory fills.
A fresher bloom the odorous earth distils,
A richer green reviving nature spreads;
The water-braided rainbow melting, spills
Her liquid light into the air, and sheds
Her lovely hues upon the flowers' dejected heads.

XXVII

But as a lamp hung in a vaulted grave,
Burning now fierce, now dim, yet never clear,
Torn rudely from its vaulted architrave
By some invisible hand, too surely near,
So doth their sun for ever disappear,
Flat-sunk, and lost in Passion's wide morass,
Nor rises in the other hemisphere;
But, like the circle of a magic glass,
Leaves a broad disk behind whereon dark shadows pass.

XXVIII

Therefore, be wise, while yet thou may'st be so:—
We live but to the level of our woes
While we reside in passion; all is woe,
But such as from a purer fountain flows,
Than from the earth-sprung senses ever rose;
And, as the serpent casts its radiant skin,
Even in the early spring, so, with strong throes,
Mighty in thy incensed youth, begin
To struggle through the coil, the hideous slough of sin.

XXIX

To dream upon the earth, and know we dream;—
Defeated aspirations—vain delights,
Which are not what they are, nor what they seem,
Nay, live not, save as the worn sense invites,
To tend, and lie, and bend, like parasites,
And loiter in the vestibule of joy;
What should we deem of these dim, shadowy sprites,
Unknown familiars our tir'd hopes employ,
To rear, and mar, and mend, and furnish, and destroy?

XXX

A moon-beam, wavering in its watery grave,
Whereof the living presence is in heaven,
Now melting, now appearing, as the wave
In giddy circlets dancingly is driven—
A gossamer by the thin west-wind riven,
When the dissever'd silver of its hair
To shade the brow of Zephyrus is given—
Such joys our false defrauded spirits wear;
Such fleeting mockeries our wasted souls repair.

XXXI

'Tis even so—our weary course we bend
Contented to remain still discontent;
Pursue one track to a most certain end,
And squander raptures madness scarcely lent;
Which when and how they came, or where they went
We know not—toiling for an empty spoil,
With tameless industry and zeal unspent,
Yet, when the prize is clear, disdaining toil—
Thus are we bound in sin's inextricable coil.

XXXII

Too idle when occasion would have scope,
Deprest by shadows, and in dreams elate;
Too busy in the idleness of hope,
All good set down to chance, all ill to fate,
Unmov'd when ruin thunders at the gate;
Slaves to the false, regardless of the true,
Blind sophists, paltering between love and hate,
Doing what Heaven itself can scarce undo—
The thread at last is spun—Death finds the ravel'd clue.

XXXIII

Strange paradox! Eternal contradiction!
Man! Who shall know thee, who shall seek to know?
Great without aim, and base against conviction,
Still sowing, and still reaping what you sow,
A harvest whereof even the seed is woe;
Stubborn caprice, taking the name of will;
Vice, swift to enter, to depart how slow;
Despair that will not die, and cannot kill,
And empty toys to mock the empty brain they fill!

XXXIV

And thus, and to this consummation wrought,
The Spring we yet were hoping fades away,
Even in the very ecstacy of thought,
And Time's December comes before our May.
The wintry sun looks down with slanting ray,
And something must be finish'd, or begun,
And yesterday's to-morrow is to-day,
Commence the promis'd race you vow'd to run—
Ah! past-redemption wretch, thou art indeed undone!

XXXV

For why with obstinate endurance cast
Wisdom behind you, and still gaze before?
The present is the future of the past,
And what vile mockery that ever bore
The name of hope, hath floated safe to shore?
Yes, weltering in the tide of ruthless time,
He may a wreck of some fond dream restore,
The precious freight from a once happy clime,
Marr'd by the strangling ooze of Ocean's brooding slime.

XXXVI

Take it.—If yet it bear the lasting trace
Of all that once did our young hearts perplex,
If yet it bear upon its hideous face,
Maugre the tossing of a hundred wrecks,
A semblance of the memory's dark reflex,
Take it;—'twill show what we affect in youth,
Unto what ghastly idols bow our necks,
To what unholy fires surrender truth,
Which tears may never quench, nor ruddy drops of ruth.

XXXVII

We live in visions; we exist in dreams;
Obsequious satellites that wait before,
Yet stay not; nothing is that nothing seems,
And all is nothing when it is no more.
Still urge we onward to the fatal shore,
Pursue, and curse the phantoms we pursue,
Relax, repent, and piteously implore;
No rose-bud in a wilderness of rue—
What wilt thou now, fond heart? the past, at least, is true.

XXXVIII

Then take thy comfort from the past, 'tis thine
To gather wisdom in thine own despite;
Recal thy nobler functions, or resign;
Truth bids thee tarry, wilt thou quit her sight?
O Truth! thou still art mighty by the light
Of reason—but I sought thee in the morn,
Thy steps to my young soul did I invite,
And yet thou cam'st not—shall I help thy scorn,
And woo thee once again to this sad heart forlorn?

XXXIX

Say, even as sailing from the shores of Greece,
To Jason were the hard conditions known,
Ere he might yet obtain the wondrous fleece,
The monstrous reptile must be first o'erthrown,
And the fire-breathing oxen tam'd and won
Under a stubborn yoke to till the field;
Shall it be mine (the dragon's teeth are sown,
The armed troop is risen) once more to wield
Thy sword, O Truth, and bear thine error-blasting shield?

XL

Time was, that cheated by thy seeming worth,
I sought thee far with ineffectual eyes,
Hoping to find thee yet upon the earth,
Nor knew thy home lay in the upper skies;
(O! that our folly known were to be wise!)
So when an urchin scales the mountain's height,
To reach the sun that on its summit lies,
Far o'er the valley, melting from his sight,
The treacherous disk descends, and all is homeless night!

XLI

Say, wheresoe'er thou be, is virtue gain,
Is honour wisdom, honesty content;
Are all we deem of pleasure or of pain
Aught but the vilest clogs, by folly lent,
To impede our halting wheels in their descent?
If all be true that is affirm'd of Heaven,
Why is life wasted, wherefore is it spent?
Is all we suffer not to be forgiven?
Then were our daily bread of a most tearful leaven.

XLII

Beware of Folly, she is wondrous wise;
Beware of Wisdom, she is half a fool;
Of Love beware, so blind with Argus' eyes;
Of Hate, so passing hot, so lasting cool;
Of all that work by word, or prate by rule;
Of speculation built upon desert;
Of Hope, the brittle reed in Fortune's pool,
Which our clear-imag'd Heaven doth invert;
What granted prayer could now re-form thee as thou wert!

XLIII

Let be the baser drudgery of life
To those who toil for plenty, or increase;
'Twixt knaves and fools what look ye for but strife,
'Twixt fate and thee let fruitless discord cease;
For life is but a flaw'd and blotted lease;
And 'twixt thyself and all the world preserve
An arm'd neutrality, a barren peace;
Lean not to one, nor from the other swerve,
Thy way is straight;—proceed with an ungalled nerve.

XLIV

Meanwhile, of cities and the crowded mart
I take my welcome leave; and faint, and tir'd,
Fall back on nature, and the glorious art
Which my young soul so ceaselessly desir'd,
Begun too late—alas! too soon inspir'd!
Yet not too late, if, of that eager flame
One spark remain which my sad bosom fir'd,
With weak but steadfast hand, and measur'd aim,
I fling it to the stars—oh, waft it thither, Fame!

XLV

For me, associate of the woods become,
Disciple of the streams, the trees, the flowers,
From home, well pleas'd to seek a dearer home,
A waif of time, I stray among the hours,
And glorify all Nature's hidden powers;
Myself, another pulse of Nature grown,
Careless what sun may shine, what tempest lowers
I take my humour from her various tone,
And know myself at last, myself so long unknown!

XLVI

The Seasons are my friends, companions dear:
Hale Winter will I tend with constant feet,
When over wold and desert, lake and mere,
He sails triumphant in a rack of sleet,
With his rude joy the russet earth to greet,
Pinching the tiny brook and infant ferry;
And I will hear him on his mountain seat,
Shouting his boisterous carol shrill and merry,
Crown'd with a Christmas wreath of crimson holly-berry.

XLVII

Young Spring will I encounter, coy and arch,
When in her humid scarf she leaves the hills,
Her dewy cheeks dried by the winds of March,
To set the pebbly music of the rills,
As yet scarce freed from stubborn icicles;
And Summer shall entice me once again,
Ere yet the light her golden dew distils,
To intercept the morning on the plain,
And see Dan Phœbus slowly tend his drowsy wain.

XLVIII

But, pensive Autumn, most with thee I love,
When the wrung peasant's anxious toil is done,
Among thy bound and golden sheaves to rove,
And glean the harvest of a setting sun,
From the pure mellowing fields of ether won;
And in some sloping meadow, musing, sit,
Till Vesper rising slowly, widow'd Nun,
Reads whisperingly, her radiant lamp new-lit,
The gospel of the stars, great Nature's holy writ.

XLIX

O! vain deceit, I cannot cozen time,
Or put off memory: never again to me,
As mirth that wakens joy, the matin chime
Shall strike a welcome call to field or lea;
My heart no more may mov'd or melted be
By old accustom'd scenes and sounds, which erst
Drew tears that happiness might boast to see;
Of peace, of joy, of comfort, all—amerc'd,
Man's doom is well fulfill'd, his primal fate revers'd!

L

Ah! where is that unclouded April now
Of good that should have been; of great design'd;
The blossom'd spring of an unfurrow'd brow,
And all the green savannas of the mind;
That confidence in man and human kind
Which should have been eternal, whither fled?
Go, ask the constant stars, the inconstant wind,
Ask the snapt rose wherefore its odour shed,
Demand, how fares the worm? of the dissolved dead.

LI

What now? Retir'd to some deserted shade,
Be this vile, restless, breathing self interr'd
The dark day through; there weary, wasted, laid
Where ne'er before a human creature stirr'd
The sluggish air by breathing human word;
Where never light unbidden may intrude,
Nor zephyr murmur peace, lest he be heard
Of mocking Echo, and her formless brood,
Which, full of eager life, infest the solitude.

LII

There may my credulous heart at length be freed
From many a weak, from many a vain pursuit;
There my torn bosom may in silence bleed,
And human hopes, unearth'd, take stronger root,
Albeit no tears their upward growth recruit;
The worm will learn to love me ere I die,
The toad, the lizard, and the eyeless newt
Shall welcome me, and I will yet rely
On yearning Nature's love—my voice is her reply.

LIII

Though smote by Fate's premeditated stroke,
Yet, not unheard, a mournful voice shall soar
As though, arous'd, a far off echo spoke;
Nor shall the growth which my lone spirit bore,
Although I fall, be seen and felt no more;
But Nature shall live through me, round me, still:
Even as a fell'd and branchless tree, whose core
The axe hath reach'd not, nor the crooked bill,
Puts forth its stunted green with strong and vernal thrill.

LIV

One consolation lives, which human breath
Can never melt, for it hath never made;
The massy body of material Death,
In all his cumbrous panoply array'd,
Comes on—his deaf, blind course may not be stay'd;
Earth, lonely orphan, goes her cheerless way,
Bid her good-speed, she may not be delay'd;
The bright sun clambers Heaven, and with his ray
Tricks out a gaudy fool, which men have christen'd day.

LV

They serve their turn and vanish; they are sped—
Baubles, which to old dotard Time revert;
Man, man alone, of all the myriad dead,
With irresistible volition girt,
In spite of all on earth shall re-assert
The immortal doom which is and ever was;
Time hath no power the spirit's life to hurt;
As breath that passes from the mirror'd glass,
From the eternal soul earth's breathing stain shall pass!

LVI

Content.—Since here we worse than vainly writhe,
Lamenting pleasures past, and hopes cut down,
Hopes which while Time, the mower, whets his scythe,
With indefatigable strength are grown
Another crop of hectic weeds o'erblown;
Since old delusion deems it summer yet,
When the last swallow of the year is flown;
Since eyes that weep, and knotted brows that sweat,
But fertilise the ground with after-sorrows set,—

LVII

Why not content? The hour runs to its close;
The day, the month, and the unfruitful year;
The jet of life more free and wider flows,
As Youth's contracted channels disappear:
O Youth! false treacherous stream, for ever dear.
We turn—the better prospect dim is seen
Before us, and we wipe the bitter tear;
The shallop in the haven rides serene;—
Oh, for eternal shores, and fields for ever green!

II. PART II.

------ This deep world
Of darkness do we dread? How oft amid
Thick cloud and dark doth Heaven's all-ruling sire
Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd,
And with the majesty of darkness round
Covers his throne.
Milton.

I

'Twas a soft voice—soft as remember'd tones
Of one who died too early; or, perchance,
That treasur'd melody such magic owns
And whispers of the past;—a sunbeam's glance
Through a long-darken'd window flung askance,
Kindling one sadden'd portrait in a room,
Where it hangs last of the inheritance,
Wakes not more painful memory of the tomb
To the long absent heir, struck into sudden gloom.

II

O Music! in thy more impassion'd sway
Thou mak'st me wild, e'en till my ravish'd brain,
Into the heaven of transport borne away
Knows its own griefs no longer, and the pain
It nourish'd, till existence grew the bane
Of time, is eas'd of its most weary load,
And the soul trembles from the breast again,
Call'd by thy blithe strain from its dark abode,
Where, as it seem'd, it lay almost unseen of God!

III

But if thy mood be of a sadder measure,
Thou dost my heart in deeper anguish steep;
And all the past, foregone, or vanish'd pleasure,
Before me doth in sad procession creep;
And I could dash me on the earth and weep,
But that mine eyes forbid the burning tears;
Or yield a life I can no longer keep,
To fill with sorry hope's dissembling fears
A calendar of woe, made up of days and years!

IV

Aye, many a tear, precursor of a sigh,
And many a smile that for an instant shone,
A friend estrang'd, or a dead enemy,
Or the sweet murmuring voice of that dear one
Whose love, so doubted, may no more be known;
Perchance, an unkind word spoken in jest,
Or something which the memory dare not own;
Yes, all that was ne'er to itself exprest
Before, at music's breath invades the tortur'd breast.

V

Yet pure and holy is the grief that springs
Out of the cold and unresponsive earth
Which we term life, from chance-created things:
These holier feelings, deem'd of little worth,
Hid when the storm prevail'd, burst soften'd forth
From their cold sleep, as water under ice,
Which scapes the fierce rage of the boisterous north,
Yet, if the gentler Zephyrus entice,
Gushes into the air, a spring of Paradise.

VI

Oh! better not to live, than live the death
Of being without impulse, and supply
A daily portion of superfluous breath
To animate a pulse that scarce can die:
The strength to soar, without the will to fly;
The soul still brooding on its own estate
Like desolation aping destiny;
The heart that will not love, and cannot hate,
For which Heaven hath no joy, and Hell can find no bait.

VII

Rather than this, all loosen'd ties forgot,
Slunk to our graves, bid us, in cold disgust,
Take counsel of the worm how we may rot,
And crave the last tranquillity of dust:
Better be mov'd by hate, or fear's distrust,
Or sympathise with devils, than exist
A link in life's dark chain wrought o'er with rust,
Still losing all—all lost, and nothing miss'd—
A pilgrim to no shrine—a listless votarist!

VIII

But see! the moon is on her journey gone,
And through the ethereal infinite doth steer,
To do her dreary ministry alone;
Like Day's shrunk ghost leapt from Night's sable bier;
And now she doth, propell'd on her career,
Chafing the pale mists from her axle driven,
Like the mad queen of pestilence appear,
Lashing her white mares through the vaulted heaven,
When first to red-ey'd Plague, Death, her betroth'd, is given.

IX

The hurrying clouds roll onward, past recal,
Onward and onward, ne'er to travel back,
Nor can the wind pursuing disenthral
The leagued junction of their linked rack;
Onward they go, nor their swift footing slack;
Like unshriven sinners, with blanch'd tresses hoary,
Who, as they hasten on their pathless track,
Mutter not of their sad and mournful story,
Fleeing toward the hated shore of Purgatory.

X

That strain still haunts me—wonder ye? 'twas wrought
By the pale German with melodious pain,
Him who, in blissful agony of thought,
Wrung from the o'ertask'd torture of his brain
Such dreams as fill the heart and thrill the vein:
How deep a symphony of peace profound
Usher'd the graceful coming of the strain;
A harbinger to celebrate around
The inauguration of a joy-apparell'd sound.

XI

And she who sang—how sweetly from her lips,
How proudly did it woo the listening air,
As though it might its very self eclipse,
Kiss'd into music by a mouth so fair—
For she was beautiful beyond compare;
Lovely as morning's earliest, loveliest glow,
And pure as heaven-directed fountains are,
Or snow, before it reach the fallen snow,
Or the starr'd sky above to mortal gaze below.

XII

Her step brought gladness, as the joyful light,
Daughter of Morning, when she, swift to run,
Springs from the bosom of old grandam Night,
To rouse the lagging horses of the sun,
Which have not yet the mountain steep begun;
Her presence was as a delightful dream,
From the dim continent of slumber won,
Which we so long strove vainly to redeem,
Yet whose first coming did not half so beauteous seem.

XIII

A dream indeed—such visions as repose
In the rapt heart of boyhood, ere it take
The canker for the freshness of the rose,
Smiling itself to ruin: for thy sake,
If that it might be so, I ne'er would wake,
And ever in that dear deceit live on;
But not a drop of the oblivious lake
Shall pass these lips; the worst that is, is gone,
And to regret thee now, would that to me atone?

XIV

Lost—we ourselves seek our own miseries:
Unconsciously above itself, the mind
Lends its immortal yearnings to the eyes,
And with a treacherous fondness, undesign'd,
Still makes the beauty which it cannot find;
Ah me! the sad mutation is not slow,
And reason errs, but is not ever blind;
For blest or curst did never mortal grow,
But time and change in league together made him so.

XV

Alas! 'tis even thus—we have seen as much,
For mutability is lord of all;
The motley dotard, with his cleaving crutch,
Smites down the strong, the weak doth reinstall:
Even the most steadfast at his bidding fall:
The pedagogue instructs us, and we learn
The wisdom of the serpent, still to crawl,
To lie, to flatter, to be spurn'd and spurn,
To float still with the stream, and with the tide to turn.

XVI

Change, change, for ever change—the eternal chime
Rings in our startled ears with eager knell,
Mocking the solemn audit of old Time
With busy interruption:—we rebel,
Revolt, and yet are reconcil'd too well;
For he doth rivet all things, or estrange,
And to his undisputed will compel;
Even Nature's uniformity is change;
The unbounded universe is his permitted range.

XVII

Thrice happy they who know no grief or care,
Which Time and Change may in their circuit bring,
But flaunt their yellow leaves into the air,
As though they were the vigorous growth of spring;
Who, enviably deaf to every thing,
In a perpetual nonage of the mind,
Stagger right on with marvellous strength, and fling
Their callous breasts undaunted to the wind,
Bearding grim ruin's front, indomitably blind.

XVIII

Say, were not happier than to curse and sigh,
The literal mind, the ever-vacant head?
Better to have been twin-born with apathy,
And suckled by a wolf, than to be fed
With human milk by a weak mother shed;
Better in tangled forests to be born,
Than in this sultry desert softly bred;
Better by rough and casual brambles torn,
Than blandly prick'd to death by one remorseless thorn.

XIX

It is the bane of youth—the heritage
Breeding us cowards in our own despite,
Unmindful of the war we have to wage;
Yes, this poor weakness doth o'ercome us quite,
Making us bear with wrong, and pain, and slight,
When we should haste, impatient of the strife,
Like a bereaved lion to the fight,
Nor leave the insensate slaves that prey on life
To hack our yielding souls with a most edgeless knife.

XX

Yes, Time confirms it, and the world allows,—
That, crush'd enow by fortune's crazy wheel,
We humble not ourselves, nor vail our brows,
Nor feel for aught, or all who do not feel,
But wear our yielding hearts in secret steel;
And emulate the tiger in his den,
Whose strength is still his only safe appeal—
A savage is the world's best denizen,
And man must be a brute that he may herd with men.

XXI

But to be curs'd with feeling—to be curs'd
With sensibilities too finely cast,
And see our dearest ties departed first;
Our confidence in others fading fast;
Our own esteem too soon worn out, though last
To fail us; and before our memories set
The false, ourselves once true, the true, the past—
Horrible vision! but there's comfort yet,
Yes, we may still conceal what we may ne'er forget.

XXII

For there are some who wear an earnest soul,
Even to the form their pliant humours please,
Who or repress, or stifle, or control
What they would fain destroy, and no one sees
How warm their hearts have been, until they freeze.
A morbid pride still urges to conceal
The cause, the remedy, and the disease;
Too proud to lackey servile Fortune's heel,
Whatever chance befal, they dare not seem to feel.

XXIII

Must they be conn'd—shall they be understood?
Forbid it pride:—shall the most sacred urn
Of sorrow, bath'd perchance in tears of blood,
Be rudely lifted, that each slave may learn
How long the ashes of dead hope will burn
Unquench'd; shall the worn heart be then sleeve-worn,
To serve grave folly's philosophic turn,
Or bid the moralist to scan and scorn?
No—better on life's rock still to be vulture-torn.

XXIV

Meanwhile, these Alpine natures, plac'd alone,
Wrapt in the clouds, a frozen harvest reap
Of an unkindly seed too early sown;
Nor can they the precarious summit keep,
But rush untimely to the gloomy deep:
As though an avalanche, hurtless before,
The sunbeams' nearest favourite, should leap
From the high clift which its vast pressure bore,
Never to threaten fate or tempt the thunder more.

XXV

Alas! for all the miseries that strew
The common path our trackless footsteps make,
As we creep on this maze of darkness through:
The hearts that break, the hearts that cannot break,
The hearts that bury their last hopes, and take
E'en comfort from the grave, and struggle still,
And, lingering on for very misery's sake,
Live—not because they would, but that they will;
And die when baffled Death is left no power to kill.

XXVI

And, Oh! how many sorrows hang between
Heaven and the prayers whereto Heaven is denied;
The countless woes that never must be seen,
The glorious duplicity of Pride
Which, what it must endure, at least must hide;
The madman gazing on his rusted chain,
The hideous calmness of the suicide,
Whose dust the earth receives, as water rain—
Our joys are frail, Oh God! and do we live in vain?

XXVII

No—our best recompense is patience here:—
There is more power toward Heaven to elevate,
In the descending orbit of a tear,
Than all the round earth, and its empty state,
Can wrest from the supremacy of Fate;
The poet's heavenly fire within the breast,
Cannot the obdurate heart reanimate;
Yes, e'en the poet cloth'd in amplest vest;
Oh! let me linger yet, and deem his spirit blest.

XXVIII

His youth is as a vision wrought in air,
A noon-tide palace painted in the sun,
Resort of all the million creatures fair,
Minions of fancy, which continuous run
From the brain's crucible wherein they are spun;
But there are forms of a diviner dream,
Beauty with vestal eyes, pure as a nun,
Love that doth make eternity his theme,
And friendship still unchang'd in life's aye-changing stream.

XXIX

His poesy is as a vessel mann'd
By love, impell'd by strength; or Cupid's bow
Drawn by the strong unerring Pythian's hand;
Or like the unquarried marble, by a blow,
Dealt with the fervid force of Angelo,
Struck into life, which, plac'd in some vast hall,
Constrains the soul into a heavenly glow,
Chastening the air around its pedestal
That it with tongueless echoes may no longer brawl.

XXX

His hand lets loose the whirlwind, or subdues,
And smooths the ocean till its rage be still;
Caparisons the clouds in gorgeous hues
Of heaven, and bids the giddy air fulfil,
Unmurmuring, all the impulse of his will;
His spirit breathes through flower and trampled weed,
And puts a voice into the empty rill,
Or dallies with the dew-drop's watery bead,
Hanging upon the thorn, a light-encircled seed.

XXXI

No doubt invests him yet, nor the dim dread
Of something felt too soon, though ne'er exprest;
But a faint halo shrines his radiant head,
A laurel shade, and with undoubting breast
He holds his course, unshackl'd, unpossest;
As the maned lion walks the desert, free,
Startling the morn; untir'd as, when in quest
Of some new shore, the irrevocable sea
Rolls on where cleaving prow may never hope to be.

XXXII

And standing on a far off promontory
Watching the horizon, his keen eyes descry
The ruddy day-break of young blushing glory,
Expanding like a flower of crimson dye,
Whose buds are sparkles of the galaxy.
So stands, as yet unscath'd, some lofty pine,
Which, as it rears its green strength to the sky,
First sees Aurora leave her golden shrine
Towering alone upon the cloud-girt Apennine.

XXXIII

But not unscath'd may the fond wretch aspire;
With hell's anticipation in the veins
He burns; like close fire wrought upon by fire,
Hope kindles into life as passion wanes;
And all that youth hath dream'd, or fancy feigns,
All that the earth had granted, or denied,
All joy that flies, all sorrow that remains,
To the strong tenor of his verse allied,
Comes bursting from his brain, by genius deified.

XXXIV

From sleepless torpor giant Misery,
As by a spell that may not be withstood,
Opens her slumberous lids for ever dry:
All hungry Memory's incessant brood;
Despair that makes its own cleft heart its food,
Phrensy with witless speech and sage discourse,
Horror with dabbled tresses drench'd in blood,
Forth from their cells, to go their sullen course,
Doth he, as with a wand, before our eyes enforce.

XXXV

Such impulses as others are too glad
To stifle altogether, move his soul
To madness—or the dread of going mad.
Feelings, like liquid flame, destroying roll
Over his heart, and parch the wither'd scroll
Whereon his youth's fantastic dreams were writ:
Forth from his heart proceeds a solemn knoll
Perpetual;—every day doth he commit
One hope more to the earth, the earth which nourish'd it.

XXXVI

For he hath learn'd, what all must surely learn,
Not less those spirits which the loftiest climb,
That our best hopes, which now so brightly burn,
At length shall strew the dead like scatter'd lime;
That the thick-blossom'd glory of the prime,
Long ere its general odour fill the air
Is lost; that Love's eternity is time;
That nothing is so gross, and nought so fair,
But they may yet link hands, a most unloathing pair.

XXXVII

Oh! 'tis most wretched, to be thus compell'd,
To throw up in disgust, all faith in all
That should be holiest—to have fondly held
Belief in virtue, and that creed recal!
'Tis nothing that our own rais'd idols fall;
That they were frail we knew; 'tis nought to find
Our own vain hopes shatter'd to atoms small;
But it may well subdue the noble mind
To know that such dear, sanguine dreams must be resign'd.

XXXVIII

To have liv'd in this fond lie; to have made it part
Of his existence; to have suffered toil,
And pain, and sad revulsions of the heart,
The bitter produce of too rich a soil,
And now to stand against this fierce recoil!
The noontide wave rejoicing in the ray,
Ere night may with remorseless Scylla boil,
And thus, divested of his inward stay,
Base, soulless Pleasure calls, and Passion marks her prey.

XXXIX

Yet, as the sun in his meridian height,
Is sometime held in a cloud's gorgeous link,
Which dusks the azure with its vapoury light
And veils the heaven with beauty—at a wink
Of his broad eye, the air-spun fetters shrink
Away from their great charge—so the bright chain
Of vice, which else would hold him to life's brink,
Shall he not scatter thence with one disdain,
As Samson snapt his bonds like silken threads in twain?

XL

Alas! it may not be: spirits whose growth
Is lofty, hurl'd from their ambitious height
By their own native strength and weakness both,—
(Strong to endure, and to obey the might
Of Heaven—but weak against such power to fight)
Soar not again, but, as an angry flame
Casts out dead embers to the solemn night,
Express their burning sense of grief or shame,
But strive no more to rise, nor sacrifice to fame.

XLI

Judge him not harshly: he is sunk too low
For thee to exalt thy worthier self upon;
The happiness he sought thou can'st not know,
The misery he found thou hast not known:
The meed of glory was not his alone:
Bare is the summit of Parnassus' station,
And cold the fountain pure of Helicon.
Thou hast not felt the great, the mad temptation,
The hell—the heaven—the paradise—the deep damnation!

XLII

Take then the good he offers, unalloy'd—
Nor thy great sympathy with good repress:
The bad reject, despise not, and avoid;
For what the noble mind doth well express,
The stricken heart doth sometimes teach no less.
And if he came not as a pillar of fire,
To guide us through this hopeless wilderness,
Behold! he stands—what would ye more require?
A beacon on the height, whose flame shall ne'er expire.

XLIII

Oh! ye immortal fools, still drudging slaves,
Who ever toiling, ever toil in vain,
To tread another pathway to your graves;
Sons of Prometheus, who inherit pain,
The rock, the vulture, and the abiding chain;
Sweep the wrung heart-strings, visit every chord,
With jarless music fill the immortal strain,
Then call upon the whirlwind to afford,
Some gentle breeze forgot, that must be now restor'd.

XLIV

Is this the Muse's guerdon—speak! is this
What Fame will vouch for, worthy of her wreath?
Better be nothing, as the worldling is,
Or the fat fool who lives himself to death,
Or any servile pensioner of breath
Who idly tarries in the temple's porch;
Woe to the hapless wight who entereth—
The unconsuming fires his bosom scorch,
Oh! from that altar fly—reverse thy blazing torch.

XLV

Not for herself, nor for the wealth she brings,
Is the Muse woo'd and won; but for the deep,
Occult, profound, unfathomable things,
The engines of our tears whene'er we weep,
The impulse of our dreams whene'er we sleep,
The mysteries that our sad hearts possess,
Which, and the keys of which, the Muse doth keep.
Oh! may the trust her young disciple bless,
Whene'er she yields her gifts in faith and gentleness!

XLVI

To kindle soft humanity; to raise,
With gentle strength infus'd, the spirit bow'd;
To pour a second sunlight on our days,
And draw the restless lightning from our cloud;
To cheer the humble, and to dash the proud;
What heaven withholds more largely to supply,
And fringe with joy our ever-weaving shroud;
Besought in peace to live, and taught to die;
The poet's task is done—Oh Immortality!

III. PART III.

------ “Of comfort no man speak.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Shakspeare.

I

A sweet and lovely Evening:—Heaven and earth
Do lend each other beauty, and the cloud
Blushes auspicious of tomorrow's birth.
Let not my spirit be too rudely bow'd,
By the tumultuous throng and busy crowd,
That memory doth ev'n by this scene restore;
And bid my throbbing heart speak not so loud;
For oh! my brother, crush'd, and stricken sore,
Unto thy silent grave I bend my steps once more.

II

And many a Spring hath died above thy head,
And many a Summer flower that blooms to fade;
And Autumn many a leafy offering shed,
Whereof the Winter his cold couch hath made:
The young green tree affords an ampler shade;
And many a musing stranger, wandering by,
Hath pass'd the lowly turf where thou art laid,
And heav'd, perchance, the involuntary sigh,
Since thy neglected grave thy brother hath been nigh.

III

And now he comes—ah! can he be the same
That with religious step, in early youth,
Awe-struck and trembling to thy chamber came,
And kiss'd thy forehead pale—in earnest sooth
Vowing to dedicate his soul to truth,
For ever, for thy sake? Ah! bootless vow!
But pity, fare thee well, and thankless ruth—
For they must reap who sow, who sow must plough,
And, as thine ashes then, cold is his bosom now.

IV

Oh! chang'd,—how chang'd, since that once heavenly prime,
When Love, and Hope, and Happiness were new,
And not an hour, compell'd from niggard time,
But with spontaneous strength and vigour drew
Sweets from the conscious earth, like honey-dew.
Now Love, and Hope, and Happiness are slain,
And I, who reckless the blithe kindred slew,
Like a poor prodigal alone remain,
And sink upon thy grave—a very child again.

V

Oh! bitter tears, though sweet: contrasted ever,
Thus joy and grief our future peace destroy,
And what Time hath bound up his hand will sever,
And our best gold is but impure alloy,
And happiness but miserable joy.
Alas! that man, by some perverse decree,
Should mar the better wisdom of the boy,
And never be, and never seek to be,
Aught but a chainless slave, most fetter'd when most free.

VI

All that was once with me, departed friend,
By which I had deserv'd and bought thy love,
Hath found an end, and a too speedy end—
And unto hell below, or heaven above
Is gone—what recks to tell how hard I strove?
And what avails, in this most wintry scene,
The eagle's wing, the pinion of the dove?
Grass grows and is cut down, and grass is green—
Man lives, and dies, and is—what he hath ever been!

VII

And I, who sought the unblossom'd tree, return
To gnash the bitter fruit my griefs afford;
And learn, with unknown patience, to unlearn
A lesson time hath taught me, word by word.—
Yet not in vain, or late, have I implor'd,
Outcast, abandon'd though I be, and driven
From mine own Eden by a sheathless sword,
If to my latter day such peace be given,
As suffering too prolong'd may win from pitying heaven.

VIII

Oh! that the spade had delv'd my early tomb
Instead of thine; for I was to the worm
A closer kinsman; weaker from the womb;
Windfall of glory, canker'd from the germ,
Of baser earth, and less resisting form:
Thou had'st disdain'd the weakness that o'ercame
My nature, and, undaunted by the storm,
Had'st thrown away the vizor of false shame,
And with unglaived hand struck out thy way to fame.

IX

Had'st thou but liv'd—by Heaven!—but I am dumb,
Or I should madly question His behest,
Who all so sudden bade His Angel come,
To lay thee in death's hard unconscious breast.
The mellow sun falls down into the west;
What marvel? he shall rise another day;
But should his sultry orb be dispossest,
And in its half-meridian torn away,
Were wonder impious then—thou better Christian, say?

X

Yet I repine not: no, my Brother, grief
Is stronger than the strongest—yea, more strong,
Can it be so? then happiness is brief
In a rude world, where nought but pain is long.
Thou art, I trust, the blessed few among,
Where wisdom and immortal fancy dwell,
And with that hope, I bear this ceaseless wrong,
And my vain sighs back to my heart compel,
Which echoes to that word—that voiceless word—farewell!

XI

Ah! wherefore should the heart, the brain, be riven?
We live, and taste enough of present gall,
The past is gone, though it were pass'd in Heaven,
And though, like madness, sweeping with it all,
'Tis o'er, 'tis nothing—for 'tis past recal:
The paltering beldame Memory, from below,
Tampers with death to curse us—so to Saul,
The conjur'd ghost of Samuel, rising slow,
Told with prophetic lips his destin'd overthrow.

XII

Enough that we exist:—if from the past
We argue of the future, what survives
Is wretched all too soon, and doom'd at last;
And present being, as the vessel, thrives,
Flung helpless where the rearward tempest drives.
Let fate roll on; put sternly out to sea,
'Tis a brave hulk that bears us and our lives,
And if one bubble on the surface be,
In wisdom's name pursue, for Pleasure beckons thee.

XIII

And let the wine cup mantle, and subdue
Such cureless woe as may not be destroy'd—
For what is truth, but, unto pleasure true,
Turns all it meets to due content enjoy'd,
And helps to fill the yet insatiate void?
And if ye needs must moralise, behold
Diligent Death, unseen of man, employ'd,
Prowling with full-fed leisure through the fold,
Each stride an ample grave of yet untroubled mould.

XIV

For sometimes doffing his superfluous state,
In realms below our lower hemisphere,
Bridle and bit he flings aside elate,
And casts his crown away, and brandish'd spear,
And leaves his pallid steed in mid career,
Which, joyous of the unincumber'd rein,
Neighs madly through the echoing meadows drear;
Bites the vague air, and bounds along the plain,
With fire-shot eyes surcharg'd, and wild abandon'd mane.

XV

Sometimes Death lies couch'd in a quaking fen,
Muttering his fancies wild in witless words,
Abortions of his teeming thought, and then,
For pastime breathes a murrain in the herds,
'Till the full blood fermenting thickly curds;
Or with black-juiced hemlock, intersown
'Twixt herbs of daily use, the margin girds
Of some dark pool, where, frequent and alone,
Plies the unlearned wight for healing plants unknown.

XVI

And oft he sits amid the serpent roots
Of churchyard solitary yews, and plays
With wormless skulls, or wearily recruits
The languor of his lurid eyes with rays
Won from the dog-star by his earnest gaze:
Then, of a sudden, will be thence away,
And chafe an ignis-fatuus into blaze,
Wherewith he runs o'er meads and marshes grey,
Luring the traveller far from anxious home astray.

XVII

Anon, he comes with aspect seeming fair,
Bearing the train of Night's star-woven shroud,
And borrows wings of the unplumed air,
That he may reach some black revolted cloud,
Which, far away, broods sullenly and proud:
Unto its breast full fondly doth he leap,
And plants white plague, and fever dewy-brow'd,
Then calls a hot sirocco from the deep,
O'er hills and fertile vales with poison-breath to sweep.

XVIII

And oft when tempest gathers in the sky,
Faithful he clings to the doom'd vessel's mast,
And howls responsive to the whirlwind's cry:
In vain the dodging bark shoots far and fast
Over the seething deep—the hungry blast
Pursues, and spouting rain, and headlong fire—
One shriek—'tis sunk—and the mad storm drives past.—
Upon a spar, amid the hubbub dire,
Death homeward rides, well pleas'd at his fulfill'd desire.

XIX

Shall he survive who insolently braves
His power? The sultan on his royal throne,
Who smites his palms, and all his myriad slaves
Fall at his feet—may he abide his frown,
When in his sightless fury rushing on,
Clasping him in a strict compress'd embrace,
He hurls his guilty soul to Hades down,
To gladden the precursors of his race,
Who wander hand-in-hand that dreary dwelling-place?

XX

He hath no pride: patrician in his might,
He deigns to visit woe too long implor'd;
Where the lone student gasps away the night
He comes, and, putting off his form abhorr'd,
Darts through his bosom like a liquid sword;
And carries through the heart unto the brain,
The life-long letters of that little word,
Which no Chaldean wisdom may explain,
And, in that moment spelt, is never heard again.

XXI

The moonbeam rests upon the youth: he turns
His gaze upon a cold and callous moon
As soon will be his heart—a heart that burns,
As an unclouded sun of summer's noon;
Even to the last, the fervid heat of June:
Soon shall that heart be cold—the young, the gay,
Who yet know pity's impulse, sigh “too soon!”
Ah no!—the unceasing pressure of to-day
Ill suits the weary head with woe untimely grey.

XXII

His mother's ashes in her coffin thrill,
Expecting him: his last thoughts wander far,
On first sweet memories unforgotten still;
On fairest hopes Time did not well to mar;
On chords whose broken music now doth jar:
On one belov'd, who did his spirit guide,
As to the mariner the guiding star,
Yet left him cheerless, in her scorn and pride,
To steer his bark alone across life's ocean wide.

XXIII

The formidable shapes which coming Death
Upon his stole's thrice-woven darkness wears,
Start from the horrid tissue—but the breath
Of their most loathsome voice no terror bears:
They come too late for dread—the tale he hears
Is as soft rain to the dry desert's thirst;
His breast, the grave of joy, the home of tears,
What should it fear? hath he not felt the worst?
Perdition scarce were hell to souls on earth so curs'd.

XXIV

Oh God!—of all that is most dear to man,
That human thoughts conceive, or hearts partake,
What stands? since in this near and niggard span,
The joys thy mercy and thy goodness make,
Melt, ere they warm, like the snow's airy flake;
Since, eager of the tomb whereto they fly,
The home they should have cherish'd, they forsake;
And he, poor slave and creature of a sigh,
Ere he commence to live, must needs begin to die.

XXV

True—that the death we cater for each hour,
Existence with no sparing hand supplies;
In vain we woo our fickle paramour,
Who, ever what we most desire, denies.
He who should live, is he who only dies;
Some youth, perchance, whom love and fond regard
Have canonis'd, and shrin'd in sacred ties;
Earth, thou can'st show his virtue's best reward—
Behold yon trodden mound of dry and alien sward.

XXVI

But we are strong, as we have need of strength,
Even in our own default, and linger on
Enduring and forbearing, till, at length,
The very staple of our griefs is gone
And we grow hard by custom—'tis all one:
Our joys deep laid in earth, our hopes above,
Nor hope nor joy disturbs the heart's dull tone;
One stirs it not, nor can the other move,
While woe keeps tearless watch upon the grave of love.

XXVII

Ah! would I could recal him from the past,
Untimely, sudden, and for ever gone;
That gentle spirit to the waters cast,
Whose restless planet, edg'd with darkness, shone
With mournful light and yet of Heaven alone;
Who with intrenchant shield and temper'd sword,
Plume-crested, like a new Bellerophon,
Had with fresh strength a nobler verse restor'd,
And left a name for raseless marble to record.

XXVIII

But he was sunk in the devouring wave,
Wak'd into rage by Ocean's tyrannous nod,
Masterless Ocean, ne'er but once a slave,
Then only to the only Son of God,
Who, on his neck proud-lifted, meekly trod
And smil'd him into peace—shall he withhold
His vengeance, lightning-wing'd and thunder-shod,
When the frail bark rips up his bosom cold?
No—o'er that laurell'd head the atheist billows roll'd.

XXIX

Yet, lest Apollo, for the outrage done,
In mockery of his power, and in despite,
To his disciple and the Muses' son,
Should henceforth, in his all-resistless might,
Remit his beams, nor crown the deep with light,
The hoary monarch bade, with timely heed,
The auxiliar tempest to reluctant flight,
And summon'd all his billows in his need,
Bidding his daughter haste with more than utmost speed.

XXX

And Arethusa came, and with dear care
Rais'd the sunk form that ne'er should suffer more,
And strain'd the salt ooze from his clotted hair,
And, laid in her cerulean bosom, bore,
The hapless bard to the Italian shore;
And there he lay, whom pity ne'er forgave,
Whom life might ne'er recal, nor love restore,
A sight all powerful and strong to save
The souls of those who deem no life beyond the grave.

XXXI

Yet to his urn there came a motley crew,
More base, more blind—and earthlier than the worm;
Much marvell'd they, and sage conclusions drew,
Much did their solemn minds rebuke the storm;
One beat his breast to keep his bosom warm:
The moralist pursued his saw, “to die;”
The nice-brain'd sophist, full of phrase and form,
Affirm'd the wherefore, and assum'd the why;
While ever and anon they shouted “Charity!”

XXXII

Such charity as leaves all hate behind
In bitter earnestness of wrath—such speed
As oversteps the fleet feet of the wind,
Bearing the sponge, the hyssop, and the reed,
When Truth cries out in her extremest need,
Was theirs;—such subtle praise as fain would be
Reputed back as their own honour's meed;
Such censure as the smirking Pharisee,
When he hath thank'd his God, was theirs, and their decree.

XXXIII

Oh, Shelley! not a word—no, not one word,
The voice of censure, or of pity's breath.
Take all that my unskilful hands afford,
This bunch of cypress, this unfashion'd wreath
Hung at the postern of remorseless Death.
Meanwhile, let be, if aught these words avail,
The sword of Justice laid in Mercy's sheath;
Sure we are fallen enough, and false, and frail,
And have scarce space to pray—then wherefore should we rail?

XXXIV

Oh! Man, vain, heartless man, thou art frail indeed;
And heavenly justice is aveng'd in this;
The law of the irrevocable Mede
Not half so fix'd or sure—provide thee bliss,
Heap all that can be, to the all that is
Upon thee, and thou art the vilest slave
That ever added strength to emphasis
For both to curse thee—that which mercy gave
Spurning, from justice now, unspurn'd, look thou to have.

XXXV

But in another shape—He gives thee wealth,
And thou dost grind to agony the poor;
He blesses thee with spring-begotten health,
Thou driv'st the stricken creature from thy door;
Religion, and from the heart's bitter core
Thou pourest thy complacent blasphemies;
Yet will He, in just season fit, restore
Thine alienated soul, and humanize,
In spite of thee, thy heart, which else forsaken dies.

XXXVI

Till, goaded into wisdom, thou become
By suffering dignified, by sorrow rais'd;
And turn at length thy stubborn spirit home,
Goaded by strict affliction, and amaz'd;
And not the less supernal goodness prais'd,
For that, upon thy helpless state He cast
The pity of His heavenly love, and gaz'd
Where, in thrice triple chains, thou stood'st aghast,
In shadow of deep Hell, deliver'd thence at last!

XXXVII

Oh! grant us yet, nor be this prayer unheard,
Whatever else at our request denied,
Meek Charity in thought, in deed, in word;
Humility that walks by the way-side,
And with the pilgrim Patience doth abide,
In such low state as the worn peasant knows;
Content at least, whatever fate betide,
How few our joys, how multiplied our woes,
To bear out life to its probationary close!

XXXVIII

For man is, unto his futurity,
The dark reflection of a brighter shade
Which lives in Heaven—What is come forth to die?
A painted preconceit of Nature, laid
With the dead dust wherein it was array'd,
Rots—the insensate image, once improv'd
By a once vivid somewhat, is decay'd;
The witness and the surety are remov'd,
And faith is memory now, more dear and more belov'd!

XXXIX

Conscious of its high origin implied,
What wonder that the earth-chaf'd essence pours,
Or fain would pour, its faith-augmented tide,
With refluent speed to its immortal source,
Not in untimely, but permissive course.
So when some river, ere its glad return,
Reins in its weary waves, then with fresh force
Impels them—back they flow again, and spurn
The slaking wild flower's lip, impatient of their urn.

XL

Come then, O Death! for thou art welcome ever,
Whether thou come, with darkling brow austere,
To crush out life with lingering, slow endeavour,
Or like young Cupid, crown'd with stars, appear,
Beside thee Psyche, in thy hand a spear,
Tipp'd with a beam of heaven's interior light,
Still, blessed be the hour that brings thee here,
And I will hail thine unaccustom'd sight,
And follow thee with joy where'er thy steps invite.

XLI

For still to be, and be o'erthrown by sorrow,
To wrestle with our weakness from our birth,
And all the strength we know constrain'd to borrow,
Antæus-like, from the reluctant earth,
If this be life, then of how little worth!—
Receiv'd in thy dominion, Death, we fling
Aside the harness, and disdain the girth;
No sorrow there—no grief—no suffering—
Peace, peace, 'tis much for man—O Death! where is thy sting!

XLII

The unwritten edict, woe, shall be repeal'd,
And the dark clouds of fortune overblown;
The thick and sluggish blood shall lie congeal'd,
The brow relax'd from its enforced frown,
And the dry, tearless eyelid solder'd down;
All the tir'd functions of this human coil,
The heart, the brain—the sceptre and the crown
Whereby we sway'd our passions—to the soil
Committed thankfully—Death's undisputed spoil.

XLIII

Peace shall be there—peace in the silent tomb,
Shall hush us to the last, eternal rest,
Whereto the unresisted act of doom
Consigns us: bound in close unspotted vest
From head to heel, shall we be dispossest
Most softly; wrapt in a most dreamless slumber,
Corruption shall be our unconscious guest,
And myriads, that the casual earth encumber,
Of teeming worms, which do the countless stars out-number.

XLIV

And o'er our graves the rank weed duly grows.—
Meanwhile, the world has ras'd our memories through,
And struck us from the list—and friends and foes
Forget us, and forgive us, and pursue
Their avocations endless; and the few
Whose love was all that could our spirits bless,
Replace their void affections, or renew,
Yea, wring at last a joy from their distress,
Making our whisper'd names a second happiness!

XLV

Oh, excellent! I cannot choose but smile,
And hug the only dream my hopes retain,
That in some far, far distant, happy isle,
Dropt in the blue, illimitable main,
The sea of space, we yet may live again;
Far from the craven crew of sated care,
From pain remote, and memory of pain,
From all we bear, from all we cannot bear,
From Sin's dread shade, Remorse, and shadowless Despair!

XLVI

Yes, the inscrutable decree fulfill'd,
The journey done, the measure to the brim,
Not too presumptuous deem I it to build
A dream serener than this vision dim,
Winnow'd by dewy wings of Seraphim.
Oh! have we suffer'd vainly,—tempted, tried,
Still are we worthless in the sight of Him?
I'll not believe it—closer to my side
I hold unblemish'd faith, and patiently abide.

XLVII

But for this world, this hollow-teeming world,
Of faithless proffers spurn'd, and snares withstood,
Be the vile fraught to anarch Chaos hurl'd,
Or dash'd for ever in the Stygian flood,
A paradise for hell's innumerous brood:
For man too long hath pamper'd her, and fed
With human tears bequeath'd, and human blood,
And sweat from the wrung brow of labour shed,
And the most sacred dust of the beloved dead.

XLVIII

But soft—a motion trembles in the sky,
And with a timid streak of dubious glow,
Curdles the east, and from his terrace high,
The glad procession of the light doth go:
Clear, and more clear, all neighbouring objects grow,
Wrought from the sable texture of the dark,
And now a fresh chill air begins to blow,
And now springs up the voluntary lark,
And the great sun appears, Heaven's glorious hierarch!

XLIX

Another day breaks forth—another day—
Then let me close this ineffectual strain,
From painful, passive torture call'd away,
To quick reality of active pain.
Enough, enough, the rust is on the chain:—
Return'd to do diurnal penance still,
To the last dregs the bitter cup to drain,
The gloomy circuit of my fate fulfil,
This is my measur'd task—this the Almighty's will!

THE STORY OF JASPER BROOKE.

JASPER PROPOSES MARRIAGE TO HIS SON.

It was a dark and ancient room
In which old Jasper sat alone;
Within, the sun had never shone:
But Jasper was cheerful amid the gloom,
As a light that burneth in a tomb.
“Ha! ha!” he chuckled, and rubb'd his hands;
“The sunshine that the ripple bears
Casteth its colour on the sands,
As yellow as harvest ears;
And why are we young, or why are we old,
If we see not our sunshine turn to gold?”

There was an opening of the door:
“Timely thou comest, my son, in sooth”—
(He spake unto a fair-hair'd youth,
Whose years were scarce a score):—
“Come, sit thee down, and sit thee near;
I have that to whisper in thine ear
Which—or my hopes will do me wrong—
Shall not be a secret long.
Thou knowest Master Barton? Well;
That he is rich I need not tell;
That he hath honey in many a cell;
Such honey as the summer bees
Gather'd in the Hesperides.
But Philip, my son, thou hast been blind:
Of Master Barton's is there aught
Thou hast not seen, or hast not sought,
Which is for thee designed?”

The young man took a moment's thought,
But it enter'd not his mind.

“Your pardon, Sir; aught sought or seen!
You are merry; I guess not what you mean.”

“Pshaw!” cried old Jasper, peevishly,
“Thou canst not see a star in the sky,
If downward thou wilt bend thine eye.
Its shadow, that frolics in the water,
Is marvel enough for thee, I wot;
Say, Mistress Alice hast thou forgot,
And is she not his daughter?”

There was a something in Philip's eyes;
It was not wonder or surprise;
And yet it made his brows to rise.
The old man gazes on the boy,
And well he sees it is not joy,
As slow his son replies:—

“What words of my poor speech can raise
A fitting tribute to her praise?

She is indeed a lovely maid
As ever grew to womanhood;
But is more worthy to be woo'd
By one who, when against her weigh'd,
Is held as virtuous and good.
Be his the prize whom schools refine,
In whom all nobler virtues shine;
I dare not hope it may be mine.”

“I see,” cried his father, “and well I see;
The tale has been often told;
There was a maiden of low degree,
And—but the story's old:—
'Twas a quaint play made out of a song.
I saw it presented, and it pass'd;
How love is deep, and the hill is steep;
How love is strong, and reason is wrong;
And the old man's outwitted at last.
But oh! false wretch! that would'st to me
Make thy humility thy plea!

Thou durst not hope! Well, then, refer
Thy fears, hope's counterparts, to her.
Thou durst not hope! thou mean'st, I ween,
Thou fearest lest thy hopes be seen.
Wherefore that face of blank dismay?
Have I not seen before to-day,
A traveller on a crooked way?
Hear me: Twelve years my memory dates,
Since the good ship, from Genoa's port,
(Would it had been the tempest's sport,
Wreck'd in the fell Gibraltar straits!)
Sail'd hither, bringing with her one,
By woe and bankruptcy undone.
Carlo Uberti was his name.
He sought me; urg'd a piteous claim
Of former merchandise consign'd;
(Weak fool! to think within his mind,
Who eats the fruit must love the rind.)
I was the fool. His story wrought
Upon my heart—his child he brought—

A little tender, touching thing,
A summer cheek, an eye of spring.
What more to move me could he bring?
My house receiv'd him and his child;
The father wept, the daughter smil'd;
Thus, like a fool, was I beguil'd.
He died. What more? The child remains;
The child whom I have foster'd still;
And how does she requite my pains,
My care repay, my hopes fulfil?
And thou, would'st thou, of simple wit,
Lure a poor sparrow to the sill,
And frame a cage, and cherish it,
As though its russet feathers vied
With birds, the sun's adopted pride,
Of scarlet plumage, golden-dyed?
Thou lov'st this Julia; spare the lie
That rises in thee to deny,
What thy cheek tells me, and thine eye.”

Philip stood mute, abash'd; nor durst
Meet Jasper's taunting glance at first;
For he was timid; had been nurs'd
Upon a mother's breast forlorn,
And rear'd at pious knees prayer-worn.
Oft blest with tears, in tones that spoke
Through sighs that more than language spoke;
And all the mother had been shed
Upon his young and thoughtful head:
He was in union with the dead.
Wherefore his gentle aspect took
(His nature being hers) her look,
Its patient softness, mild and sweet;
A home for sun-bright candour meet,
Too pure a dwelling for deceit.

And so upon his knees he fell
Entreatingly, hands clasp'd, and said,
“I have been rash, I know it well;
Yet blame on me alone be laid,—
On me alone: if we have lov'd—”

“Ye are two fools,” cried Jasper, mov'd
To laughter; “ye have both done wrong;
And now for pardon would ye sue?
First to do ill, and next to rue,
Is to tie knots in censure's thong,
Then beg exemption from its smart.
Rise, boy of an ignoble heart!
Groveller, against ambition proof,
Dreamer of visions weak and vain:
Content with straw will thatch his roof,
When Enterprise has seiz'd the grain:
Seek Mistress Alice, and transfer
Thy vows to Julia, unto her.”

“O, Sir, it cannot be undone;
Look not so sternly on your son;
The holy priest hath made us one.”

Never was cheek so sudden blanch'd
As Jasper's; never withering curse

Restrain'd, throat-strangled ere 'twas launch'd,
As that which, bursting as it dies,
Throws up its fire into his eyes.

“Thou liest, boy; those words recal:
Thy priest at the confessional,
If thou speak'st falsely, shall apply
His absolution to the lie;
If thou speak'st truly, priest nor Pope,
With dispensation seal'd and sign'd,
Can give thee joy, or peace, or hope,
Or cheer thy heart, or clear thy mind.”

He flung him from his feet—“Begone!
Leave me; I will—must be alone.”

The youth confounded and dismay'd
By wrath to violence betray'd,
His father silently obey'd.
'Twas well; for Nature had been loth

To hear the deep and fearful oath,
With which, upon his impious knees,
The aged man his vengeance arms;
It was an oath the blood to freeze,
But Jasper's blood it warms.

JASPER SEEKS VENGEANCE.

What noise, what uproar in the street?
What wide-diffusing rumour fleet,
Hath brought those thousand gather'd feet?
At Jasper's house the people stand,
Awaiting something yet unknown;
Anxiety on every hand,
In every gesture, look, and tone.
While one the other doth beseech
“What news?” “The matter?” and while each
Hates all inquisitiveness shown,
In neighbour's nudge, or twitch, or speech,
Because unsatisfied his own.

But if without this dizzying din,
There is sufficing cause within:
Sin working with imputed sin.
Behold! two men, alert, yet grim,
Of order'd face, and strong of limb,
And active deeds, not idle words,
Bind Philip's passive arms with cords;
And a young girl, poor, strenuous thing!
Clings to the youth, and still must cling;
And calls on every saint to save,
And man to hear, and Heaven to spare;
How vain, how bootless, though she rave!
Blessings are won by prayer.
“Good friends, in God's name list to me;
If you will set my husband free,
My life and all my soul is worth,
Thanks endless, and from this day forth,
Slave's service till my dying day,
Cannot—you must not say me nay—
The deed of graciousness repay.”

Then with sheer hopelessness possest,
By the two faces blank and dense,
Her heart ceas'd throbbing, and the sense
Of life went from her vacant breast,
And she was carried thence
Gently, by one of those rude men,
Who was not in his function then.
And whom doth yonder room contain?
Him whose cold heart and heated brain
Have wrought this wickedness amain—
Old Jasper; and, with trembling knees,
And rheumy eyes, and palsied hands,
One, whom fourscore hath curs'd with these,
Before old Jasper stands.
So old is he who speaks, 'tis well
That, having such a tale to tell,
He is so old, and weak, and here;
For even his voice too shrill and clear
Rings in the startled Jasper's ear.

“Master, I dare not do this thing;
'Tis poison added to the sting
Of Death, who soon will fold me round,
And leave my body in the ground.
Thoughts have come on me unaware,
Thoughts unsolicited by prayer.
The little lad; I see him now;
'Twas the first time his pretty brow
Was ever bent by sorrow's stress:
His blessed mother, as I guess,
Who was all grace and heavenliness,
Had told him I was like to die—”

“Yet, Kirke, good Kirke,”—but Jasper's eye
And teeth tight-clench'd with malice fell,
Suit not with soft persuasion well;—
“Hast thou not promis'd? would'st begone
From what we have struck hands upon?”

But Kirke took up his former strain:
“The little lad; I see him now;

How did he tend me—soothe my pain,
And bring me cooling drink, and how
For hours and hours watch by my side—
Would 'twere God's pleasure I had died!
I have done sin for you, but this—”

“The holy book hath had thy kiss,”
Urg'd Jasper; “and to be forsworn,
Better that thou had'st ne'er been born.
Thou 'rt outcast by thine own consent:
An oath when broken is not sprent;
But with a curse of Heaven re-knit;
For angels have attested it.
Dost thou forget; dost thou regard
What I have pledg'd—that rich reward
Which hath been, during fifty years,
The texture of thy hopes and fears,
Which makes thee lord of time, with power,
Blithe, sprightly as a paramour,
To turn to pleasure every hour?”

He had deem'd it strange, who had beheld:
Nature, which in Kirke's breast had swell'd,
At once his avarice expell'd;
And his eyes glimmer'd, and his face,
Expanding, put on hideous grace.
His palm in Jasper's coyly slid,
Told he would do as he was bid:
He sigh'd, and said, “I am content.”
Jasper knew well his implement,
And had him fast; and forth they went.
The senseless girl, as still as stone,
Is tended by a household crone,
And Philip to his fate is gone.
Fast bound, 'twixt the two keepers led,
None see upon him guilt or dread,
For on his breast his face is bow'd,
Passing through the fissur'd crowd;
Whose eyes the following twain engage:
Never were seen such types of age;
Jasper collected, cold, severe,

Kirke past the consciousness of fear,
His hearing numb'd, his eye-sight blear—
Fill'd, as it seem'd, with many woes;
The people bless him as he goes.
Yet ne'er was bosom vainly cross'd;
Mistaken blessings are not lost:
Pious intention sanctifies
What to its object Heaven denies.

But how is this? Old Brooke abroad!
Like to a drover with a goad,
Who pricks a beast along the road,
Following his son, the gentle youth
Whom they have bound in felon guise!
Why this is wonder, shame and ruth,
Here is a sight for eyes!
Who can explain what this should mean?
Sight like to this was never seen:
Each asks, but none replies.
So all drive onward; all are bent

To know the cause and its event;
All press along the sultry way,
As each for his own welfare strove;
While casements fraught with life above
Give it a look of holiday.
The multitude with heaving sway,
The sun-motes dallying with the dust,
Which is as full of warmth as they;
Who would not take the scene on trust?
Had Philip's face been rais'd, I ween,
It had not look'd so gay a scene.

And they are come to the Guildhall,
And silence on the crowd doth fall,
Silence as at a funeral
For a moment. Cancell'd is the hush,
And rude the clamour and the crush,
When they behold a narrow slit,
Which sideways only will admit
One singly; and the cautious door,

100

Having received its destin'd five,
Sharp closes, and will have no more.
How with the porters do they strive,
Face-flush'd, whose crown-surmounted staves,
Held transverse, he is bold who braves!
“Back! turbulent, disloyal knaves!”
Cries the head door-keeper in heat;
“Seek ye committal to the Fleet?”

JASPER FINDS VENGEANCE.

And now before his Worship stands
Philip; and they unloose his bands.
Aloft, of sage head, slow to err,
The Justice sits in gown of fur;
Beneath, a solemn officer,
Who lifts his sudden lids, and then
Again to his assiduous pen.
“How, Master Brooke,” the Justice cries,
At first distrustful of his eyes,

101

“You here! Your son, too, in this wise!
What should this mean? How should this be?”

“May't please your Worship, ask not me;
My faithful servant, standing by,
He will depose”—An usher straight
Hands Kirke the sacred book to kiss;
While, with a bitter emphasis,
Sighs Jasper, “Blest had been my fate
To die; too long I live, and late,
Since it hath come to this!”
And staying speech, as though perforce,
Folds hands. “Let justice take its course.”

Then Kirke heaves up his voice to tell
A tale which he had conn'd too well;
No lesson had he wont to spell,
Which, when 'twas learn'd, and turned to deed,
Gain'd brave broad pieces for its meed.
“May't please you, my good master here,

102

Whom I have serv'd this fifty year,
Had lost—mislaid at first he thought—
Treasures from foreign countries brought.
He ask'd me knew I of them aught?
God's mercy! I! I do protest
Methought my master spoke in jest.
A rope of pearls; a Venice chain,
Which on a King's breast might have lain;
A golden cup a King might drain.
He question'd me of these—alack!
No wish of mine could fetch them back,
Unless I owned a magic ring,
The lost, or like the lost, to bring
Safe, by a genie, as they sing.
I watch'd, as Master Brooke beseech'd;
My honesty in part impeach'd,
My duty, my fidelity,
Quicken'd my sense, sharpen'd my eye;
And what at length did it descry?
That I should live to see so clear!

103

That I should live to tell it here!
Heaven aid me as I hope to thrive!
Young Master Philip, as I live,
Have I not sworn it? and 'tis truth—
True as the creed—I saw the youth,
Myself behind the arras hid,
Saw him creep past me where I stood,
And softly raise the casket-lid,
Wherein lay, by the Holy Rood!
A ruby, red as fairies' blood,
Telling whose worth, belief would fail,
Pric'd at its carats by the tale,
Committed to the goldsmith's scale.
This did I see him filch; he fled,
I following, fill'd with grief and dread.
And to his chamber did he go,
And in his trunk the gem bestow.
Now, when I told this work of woe
To Master Brooke, as duty bade,
Beshrew me, he was well nigh mad;

104

Call'd me opprobrious names, and swore
I did belie the youth, traduce
The virtuous mother who him bore;
Curs'd me, and the pernicious use
He had put me to; in fine, we clomb,
Like wretches to a midnight tomb,
Trembling, to Master Philip's room;
And there the wrench'd trunk render'd up
The ruby, chain, and pearls, and cup.”

Old Kirke has told his tale at large:
What thinks the Justice of the charge?
He knows not what to think, perplext;
What comment fits so wild a text?
His inmost soul is sorely vex'd.
“Bethink you, Master Brooke,” he said,
“You stand in awful case herein;
Yourself against your son array'd,
Makes justice look as black as sin.
This boy should be your age's staff,

105

Should grave and gild your epitaph;
Yours—but his mother claims him half.
Let me adjure you in her name,
Strive to awake him, and reclaim.
Justice by mercy is enhanc'd;
The sore of sin by mercy lanc'd,
Knows a blest healing; angels bent
Out of the skies watch the event,
And weeping, teach the penitent.
Think twice, I say.”

“Your worship speaks,”
Said Jasper, “to draw tears down cheeks,
As witness Kirke; but, for my part,
I lack that impulse, or that art.
Think! say'st thou? think! think twice or thrice!
I have thought enough; let that suffice.
Justice must not be nipp'd, or nice,
But irrespective, like to Him
Who arms the glowing cherubim.

106

Breath must not stain its sword, or dim.
Thou know'st this well, and know'st it true.
What did the rigid Roman do?
And do we call him beast, or rather,
From his illustrious bearing gather
How justice best becomes a father?
I have thought my thought, and said my say;
Bear I this shame as best I may.”

Now, when the worthy Justice heard
This speech of Jasper's, he was stirr'd;
And pluck'd his gown, and well nigh rent,
To know his reason gave consent,
To what his gentle heart abhorr'd;
And each unanswerable word
He hates; but self-rebuk'd, anon—
“What says the boy?”

He asks a stone.
Nothing. How oft is dear blood spilt!

107

Preach, prying casuist, as thou wilt,
How oft looks innocence like guilt!
When Philip had awak'd to sense,
So that he heard Kirke's evidence,
He was so wrapt with wonder round,
So scar'd by that, ne'er sought but found,
Hell's doing on Heaven-ransom'd ground,
That his own hearing he denied;
'Twas that, not his accuser, lied.
The tender Justice's appeal
To Jasper, what did it import?
To shriek “Not guilty!” through the court,
And with an oath the assertion seal,
Was his first motion; but the steel
Drove home, when Jasper speaks: accus'd—
Nature, humanity, abus'd—
Truth outrag'd, Heaven renounc'd, defied—
The warm blood, in a gushing tide,
Was from the poor boy's heart effus'd;
And to his mind doth glide

108

The hellish practice, plain and clear,
As though himself were standing near,
When each into each whisper'd ear,
Fashion'd the plan, and shap'd the plot,
As round and sable as a blot.

And now (O! holy weakness!) came
A feeling of reflected shame.
Here was his father: must he take,
Even for his life and honour's sake,
The measure of his acts, and make
Such replication as, allow'd,
Sends his own sire, a monster bow'd
With shame, through a remorseless crowd?
Then, detestation in his breast,
Then, fear lest, impious, he detest
Him whom his mother once lov'd best.
Then, desolation in his mind,
Nature, and woe, and mercy, join'd
With thought of her he left behind.

109

So he said nothing; but sank down
A leaden grief from sole to crown,
Into the anguish of a swoon.

“He stands committed!” This—no more,
The Justice said, and to a door
Points Kirke and Jasper, and—'tis o'er.
And thence the two old men depart
By a by-passage, light of heart;
One, that revenge is on its way,
And one, that he hath earn'd his pay.
Of the two hideous passions, say,
Thou who canst human hearts unfold,
Which sooner will itself allay,
The thirst of blood, or thirst of gold?
Neither is quench'd as men grow old.

110

PHILIP AND JULIA IN THE PRISON.

Every to-morrow has its birth
Of joy or sorrow, tears or mirth;
To Philip's morrow it is given,
To see guilt triumph on the earth,
And innocence in Heaven.
He hath been judg'd: another day
Shall not, from dawn to twilight grey,
In soft transition melt away,
Ere, in submissive straightness laid,
He sleep, his breathing cost defray'd,
A commoner with clay.
His hand's-turn done, his office ended;
Nought further to be made or mended,
Nought further to be sav'd or spent;
His arrows prone, his bow unbent;
Gone down to that old element,

111

Which claims its own, has, and will have,
For the fast feaster in the grave.

He hath been judg'd; his sentence just,
As human reason's blind award;
For who could Jasper's oath distrust,
Or Kirke's concurring proof discard?
Though they with hate and horror view'd
The wretch who his own son pursued,
And deem'd his hands in blood imbrued;
Yet were the hate and horror built
On the belief of Philip's guilt.
An infamy that would exceed
All that, since Cain, the world could show—
That nature could beget and breed,
And clothe with years and reverence, two
In the same age, in the same clime,
Both brought together at a time,
One to conceive, and one assist
An act so impious, and enlist

112

The word of God to do it by—
Who had not sworn it were a lie?

Yet, had they seen, when all was past,—
All but the intolerable last—
The victim in his dungeon cast;—
Had they beheld with steadfast eye,
The poor youth in his agony
Of holy, not of mortal fear,—
Not of what must befal him here,
But how he shall, dismiss'd, appear
At Heaven's tribunal manifest—
Yet, ever and anon, his breast
By the dear charmer Hope possest—
His heart, now dry, bereav'd of peace,
Now fresh with dew, like Gideon's fleece,
Yet whether calm or anguish-torn,
Meek as the lamb from which 'twas shorn:—
Had they seen this—those twelve good men—
Had they, unseen, stood by him then;

113

Nor evidence, nor oaths, nor lies,
Nor justice's trim-balanc'd scale,
Charg'd with the weight of perjuries,
Nor reason's self might then avail.
They had turn'd away with pious dread,
And in each other's faces read,
“We shall do murder!” and had fled
To annul their verdict, or disown,
Kneeling before King Henry's throne.

And his young wife his prison shares;
Now, stilly lying where he lies,
Her own soft-mingling with his prayers;
Now, hearing in her voice Despair's,
Whom she awakens with her cries.
She will go somewhere; she will raise—
It hath been done so many ways,
So many times,—friends who shall speak
Truth in such cadence, as shall wreak
Remorse on sin; dread as the sound

114

Of trumpets when the angels blow,
Who dash the guilty to the ground,
Plant triumph on the guiltless brow,
And make earth just again: but how?
Ah! dreams dissolving into pain!
Thrust back to consciousness again,
How wild her projects, and how vain!
A huddled creature on his breast,
With a strange quietude of brain,
Which, seeming to solicit rest,
Is torpid madness at the best—
She lies, and murmurs, as she lies,
Words of inquiry and surmise;
Consoling flatteries soft and low,
Then piteous sentences of woe,
In loose uncertain ebb and flow.
Yet, be they words of joy or grief,
Love speaks them well doth Philip know.
'Tis to his spirit a relief
On his last day, now waxing brief,

115

As a warm bird in a lorn nest,
To hold his widow in his breast.

Now, when the gaoler comes full late
To bid the young girl to the gate—
(He could not bring it to his mind
To come so soon as he design'd)
It is far gone into the night,
And he hath enter'd with a light.
But not the grinding key, or stream
Of flame awakes them from a dream;
One dream, in which they seem to lie,
Fallen on them from the gracious sky:
So like they look'd, so clasp'd as one,
Resting against the wall of stone.

“What sight is here?” the gaoler frown'd,
Then smote his torch upon the ground,
To thwart their faces with the flame;—
“Ave Maria! is it shame,

116

Or weakness, that this heart of mine
Bows down to them, as to a shrine?
Full many a doom'd wretch have I seen,
His last eve and his death between;
Bold, brawling men, who scoff'd at fear,
At this same hour have I seen here;
Some on the floor, a grovelling heap,
Some master'd by the strength of sleep;
Yet of the many, none till now,
Of such a calm and placid brow
As this young man: 'tis prayer, I wis,
From a pure heart which hath done this.
They stir not; shall I wake them?—why?
The bell shall do that work, not I”—
And so he leaves them silently;
In earth-renouncing slumber blest,
Till morning stare upon the west,
When Death shall come to bid the guest.

117

JASPER AND KIRKE MAKE MERRY.

Meanwhile, how fare the wicked twain
Who have not done their work in vain,
And deem gold got, blood spilt, is gain?
Though what is got, and spilt, hath strook
Their names sheer out of Heaven's book;
Their souls, the fiend's unquestion'd claim,
Doom'd to that somewhere, fill'd with flame,
Which scalding tears shall ne'er abate,
And breathing sighs shall aggravate;
Which, never early, never late,
Knows night nor day, pause nor endeavour,
But a blind brightness burns for ever.
To-morrow, Kirke is to be gone,
His fifty years of service done;
A nag bears him to Huntingdon,

118

His native place:—forsooth, when first
Over a cup, not drawn for thirst,
He talk'd his bargain o'er again
With the stout owner of a wain,
Of whom the beast was hir'd, his mind
Was to his rearing-place inclin'd:
He felt as one of humankind
Who hath near glimpses, and hath come,
The world's wide circuit, unto home.
But now he sits the live-long day,
And counts his money every way,
And thinks, and groans, and fain would stay.
His wish, grown stronger while postpon'd,
Now feasible, his will disown'd.
To hie him home, his life's long dream;
Wherefore? his now awaken'd theme.
Many his pains, his pleasures few,
Since the old city first he knew,
Much done in it to reck and rue;

119

Yet with it, so his heart imbued,
So linked by long, long habitude,
That now, when he must needs begone,
His sorry scapes of leisure rise
Into his memory, one by one,
Indulgences of Paradise.
And can the old home yield them? No—
And yet, broad pieces paid! 'twere woe
To forfeit these:—he needs must go.
Neither is Jasper well at ease:
Hearts may be cold, but do not freeze
Quiet to the core; the basest lees
Smack of the wine, and the worst sin
Hath a good spirit pent within,
That with unutterable plea,
Shrieks day and night to be set free;
But that, O misery! must not be;
Lest, ere Heaven's mercy can be sought,
Madness arise, and strangle thought,

120

And this world, like the next, be nought.
Leave fools alone who purchase hell:
How craftily, how close and well,
They guard their purchase, who can tell?
Yet Jasper plays his part; can smile,
And looks with language reconcile;
Can hear the under-breathed curse
Behind his back, upon the Bourse,
Hear it, and laugh, nor seem the worse.
Can wring a pleasure out of pain,
Compress'd in his elastic brain;
Nay, can despise the good and just,
Proud of the parry and the thrust
With which his quick wit foils the sense
Of righteousness, and drives it thence.

So he goes home, gay to the view,
Stung in the brain and bosom, too.
And “where is Kirke?”

“O, Sir! is 't you?

121

I was in thought”—

“In tears, my boy!
Tears have two sources, grief and joy.
Thou supp'st with me to-night, good friend:
An hour or two of mirth to mend
The past, and with the future blend.
Is it not well?”

“Ay, Sir, 'tis best:
Well match'd, the giver and the guest.”
Jasper was gone, whom he address'd.
“What a brave wretch,” quoth Kirke, “is this!
I would I had that heart of his!”

The hour is come, the feast is set,
Kirke enters with his eyelids wet:
But Jasper doth not see him yet.
So nicely pacing round the board,
Lord of bright wealth to sight restor'd;
Goblets and ewers, great and small,
Of gold that never pass'd the hall,

122

Salvers and dishes richly wrought;—
To look on them, you would have thought
Such work the Florentine's alone,
Or that Cellini was outdone.
So, thus admiring, placing, peering,
He knows not Kirke stands within hearing,
Nor knowing would have car'd, but cries,
Mocking their brightness with his eyes,
Now, by Saint Paul, the Genoese
Did well when he sail'd thence with these.”

Kirke twitch'd him by the sleeve:—“Old lad,
Thou com'st in time to be made glad;
Sit down; art hungry?—and prepare
To let thy spirit dance in air.
I have wine here, so ripe and rare,
That in a trice the leaden soul,
Groping in darkness like a mole,
Touch'd by the blessing, springs to light,
And mounts to heaven, as of right:—
Down—we will have a merry night.”

123

They sit: but Kirke, though press'd to eat,
Tastes sparingly the luscious meat,
And kneaded bread of whitest wheat;
But lifts his cup full oft, and drinks
Till his eyes sparkle through his winks.
“'Tis good: I trace is as it sinks,
And note it prancing through my veins,
Like a gay troop through narrow lanes.
Ha! ha!”

“Yet, eat, good Kirke.”

“I can't;
This is the minister I want,
Heart-cheering wine: my throat is tight,
As though bound by a silken cord,
The self-same cord which, on that night,
Sent old Uberti to the Lord.
Did he die rich? was this his gear?
These goblets that do service here?”

“Peace, fool!” cried Jasper, “take thy cheer,

124

And stint thy prate: the past retriev'd,
Is a new missal interleav'd
With an old sermon:—let it pass.
Why is flesh liken'd unto grass,
But that it is cut down?”

—“Aye, true,
And turn'd into beasts' profit, too.”

“How say'st thou?”—the white anger came
On Jasper's cheek, quenching the flame;—
A moment—and the wolf is tame.
“A song! why, I have heard thee sing,
When thou wert summer, I was spring,
Such songs, and in a voice so clear,
As, like a bell, thrill'd in the ear.
Thou had'st the trick once, and the tone”—
“But that is forty years agone:
And songs and light hearts go together,
Like June, and flowers, and fair weather.”

125

Kirke rubb'd his palms until they shone;
“And what though forty years be gone?
I know a thing, an old, old thing,
Which my good grandam wont to sing
The while she spun, and taught to me,
Standing no higher than her knee.
Could I recal it!—aye, 'tis so.”
With this, Kirke heaves a painful throe,
And from his long-drawn, crowing throat,
Sets his strange melody afloat,
Words link'd to it by stubborn rote:—

An infant lay in its cradle asleep,
When a stranger came to the door;
“Come in,” cried the host, “open house we keep,
And we drive not away the poor.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

The stranger was weary, and needed rest,
And the good man brought him a chair,
And his dame bestirr'd her to wait on her guest,
And brought him her homely fare.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

126

And when the stranger had broken his fast,
He arose, and in silence stept
To the corner where the cradle was plac'd,
To see if the infant slept.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

“A brave child this,” and the stranger sigh'd,
(The infant was sleeping the while)
“You love him?” “I do,” the dame replied,
And she smil'd with a mother's smile.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

“You love him too?” and he turn'd to his host,
“Ay, that I do,” said the man,
“The boy is my pride, and shall be my boast,
Should I live beyond mortal span.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

“Now, list,” cried the stranger, “nor deem me mad,
The day thou wilt surely rue,
When thy life for his shall be ask'd and be had,
And thy dame shall prove it true.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

127

Loud laugh'd the man: full years a score
Had pass'd away, and were gone,
When a stranger came again to the door,
Within sat a woman—alone.
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

She shriek'd, as the threshold the stranger cross'd,
“Thou, cursed wizard! begone,
Thou hast spoken sooth, and my husband is lost,
For the father hath murder'd his son.”
Ah, well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
We know not what cometh, come how it may.

Kirke's song is ended; at its end
The fumes from his weak brain descend.
Gramercy! should the lay offend!
He opes his fearful eyes, and sees
Jasper, and all his functions freeze.
A face so hideous, so streak'd o'er
With a black choler, ne'er before
Gloom'd wrath, ere it began to pour.
And still so touch'd—or, yet more nigh
The truth—tortur'd with agony,

128

That even Kirke is mov'd, and falls
Down on his knees with a sharp yell,
Grasping the figure that appals,
And gazing on that aspect fell.
“Oh! do not kill me!”—

“Fool! rise up!
Thou hast been hovering o'er the cup,
And hast fallen in: thou winter fly!
What! take thine old blind buzz awry!
No, by my love for thee, not I.
Yet, Kirke—sly jester, skill'd to fleer,
And pass the inferential jeer,
What if, while kneeling at my foot,
I wrung thy weasand? I could do't;
Or tore thy heart out by the root?
But I'll not do such things; I jest:
Thou, my old chirping, mocking guest!
Arise, my boy, and go thy ways”—

How easily doth Jasper raise

129

The mute old trembler from the floor,
And fling him headlong to the door;
Then following, whispers in his ear,
“Go to thy bed; but why thy fear?
Once, I had slain thee for this flout,
But now thou'rt safe:”—he thrusts him out.

And now, with what heart-sinking doubt,
Doth Kirke lie on his truckle-bed,
To which by instinct he had fled—
And listen! Jasper, far below,
He hears, quick-striding to and fro;
And then loud words; then doors that close
Like thunder, soon as open'd; then
Sounds fainter, like subsiding woes;
Then silence 'twixt the two old men,
And a dark space between; and yet
Kirke, taught by terror, will not let
His eyelids drop; in drear affright
Shaking—wide-staring all the night.

130

JASPER'S DREAM.

Sleep! gracious guardian of the earth,
Who blessest the new nightly birth
Of Nature's kindlier children, bath'd
In darkness, and with silence swath'd;
Hast thou stretch'd Jasper on the sea
Of dreams, and doth that practis'd brain,
Controll'd by fancy and by thee,
Work warpedly with strenuous strain?
Yes—in the mind's mad world is he,
Of shapes and shapeless creatures huge,
Gliding in dreary long array:
He hath at hand no febrifuge
The curst succession to allay.
Onward they come, but do not stay,
Through a gross blackness, murmuring low;
Whirling along in endless row.

131

Yet, is it endless? No.
Sudden gone; and, ere thought can pass,
He lays down sixty years, and plays
A boy again in fields of grass
Flush of the cowslip; idly strays
Through rutted lanes; sees through the hedge
The serried wheat; and feels once more
Bird-like within, dear privilege
Of youth—on, dream, and ne'er give o'er!
The lark heaves straight up to the sky,
Taking the ear, trancing the eye,
Carrying aloft his melody;
A speck, now seen, now vanish'd—where?
A sound incorporate with air.
Unlabouring memory retrieves
Close wealthy stacks, and farm-house eaves
Behind, and solemn barns, with doors
As wide as Paul's, and threshing-floors,
And the old grey-green church—and home:
And who doth o'er the threshold come?

132

His father, at a cripple's pace,
With his sun-stricken umber face,
And straight-laid hair of iron grey;
Even as he saw him on the day,
When from his home he fled away;
By whom so long he had been mourn'd,
To whom, ere death, he ne'er return'd,
Whose day of death he never learn'd.
A sight for anguish; but it shifts:
This is but one of memory's gifts;
She hath good store, with which this night,
The sinner's heart she will requite.

Lo! 'tis his marriage morn: his bride,
His other life, sits by his side,
A joy, a comfort, and a pride;
Relinquish'd to his love, and blest
To think her heart by one possest,
Who is her synonyme of best.

133

Again that sacred feeling fills
His soul, and through his being thrills,
Of tenderness that would secure
The bliss of one so good and pure,
That feeling which would not endure.
And now he sees her, still as good,
A fading form of womanhood;
A casket fill'd with holy grief,
A frost-wrung flower that leaf by leaf
Tends to the ground; a pious shrine,
Wrought by a sinner, yet, divine.
Sees her he had made worthy heaven,
And to the heavenly gate had driven.
Upon her dying bed, and hears
Her parting voice, and sees her tears,
And joins her last, low, lingering prayer—
How!—'tis Uberti he sees there,
Pleading for mercy in such tones
As freeze the marrow in the bones;
Yet own no potency, to work

134

In him, or his accomplice Kirke,
Who clings about the dying man,
And does what share of death he can.

Horror! o'erlaid by the strong dream,
Old Jasper gasps, but cannot scream:
The past is on; writhe as thou wilt,
Thou can'st not loose the serpent—guilt.

Whence brought, he knows not, but the shade
Of the Italian lean and pale,
Fronts him, and, at a signal bade,
Two phantoms with a gibbering wail,
Float in, and o'er his sense prevail,
That he must swoon and die. Alas!
Philip more gentle than he was,
But, as a disembodied soul,
Or, as a soul which hath seen death,
Forc'd by some horrible control,
To re-assume its house of breath:

135

And Julia, like some creature wan,
Moon-struck, who slyly doth emerge
Thence, where wild fantasies they fan,
Escap'd the manacles and scourge,
And that unknown incessant man,
Who watches her with sleepless lids:—
Thus seeming, as Uberti bids,
The phantoms float to Jasper's sight;
While, something standing at his right—
He knows that it is clad in white—
In measur'd cadence, dread and drear,
Utters these words into his ear:—
“The last day comes, the final session,
O misery! misery, past expression!
These three even now, even now, prepare
To meet thee, and defeat thee there.
Thou art judg'd, but thou must not despair.
Hope is one element of woe,
In that, to which thou art doom'd to go:
Hope which within shall ever ply,

136

And fool thee everlastingly.
Behold!”—

And now succeeds a calm;
Then brightness, splendour heavenly bright;
Then a soft, gradual, growing psalm
Goes up, and from the eye-baffling height,
A loud dispersing fugue constrains
Thunder to music: as it wanes,
Thick gloom, which is a fiend, that brings
Its nameless self between its wings,
And clasps him—

Lo! the first faint streak
Of light the morning doth bespeak:
Unconscious of his piercing shriek,
Or how he came there, Jasper kneels
In the next chamber, and appeals
Before a crucifix:—the vision
Hath waken'd dread, but not contrition;

137

And the strong brain asunder rent,
Hath done its utmost, and is spent:
Dreams cannot make old sin repent.

JASPER'S EXPIATION.

The aged crone hath heard her master,
And, fearful of some wild disaster,
Calls Kirke, and hastens down the stair;
Old Jasper on his knees in prayer!
With white eyes and disorder'd hair!
“Lady of heaven!” with this, she cries
Loudly on Kirke, stamps with her feet,
Adjures her master to arise,
And strives to hale him to a seat.
Now Kirke is come, and with joint strength,
They lift him to his feet at length,
And thrust him in a chair:—“Go thou,”
Quoth Kirke, “fetch water for his brow;
I'll wring him by the nose, and strike

138

Upon his hands the while.”

“Belike
'Tis his death swoon,” says the old crone.
“I would it were,” quoth Kirke—“begone.”
“O thou vile wretch! is this thy plight,
Is this thy change since yesternight?
Thou hast been curs'd, as well as I.”
But Jasper's eyes unclose; a sigh
Comes forth, and stays Kirke's angry speech,
And each a moment stares on each.
“Kirke, is it thou, even as it seems;
Is 't thou, indeed? Hast thou had dreams?”

“No dream hath come to me this night,
Through the long darkness to the light,
Which rose at last in Hell's despite.
Thoughts have been things; strange life has crept
About me; through my pulses leapt:
Loud knockings at my heart and brain,
Quick worms meandering through each vein.

139

A thousand times the hoarded wealth
Thou got'st by murder or by stealth,
A thousand years of youth and health,
I'd scorn, ay, if quadrupled thrice,
Were such another night the price.
Thou hast done this; 'tis thou hast made
A terror of the sexton's spade;
Thou hast made death than living worse,
And thou who hast made life a curse.
And so I curse thee; from my soul,
Lost as it is, on thee I thrust
A curse, which down thy earthy hole
Shall go with thee, and rack thy dust;
And be a life within thy clay,
A horror, till the Judgment day!”
“Away,” cried Jasper, “hence—away;
'Tis vain for thee to talk, thy words
Are human, and thy voice affords
A comfort; yet speed hence, and stay

140

The death which now is on its way.
Proclaim all we have sworn, a lie.”
“And shall we save our lives thereby?”
Cried Kirke. “I saw both you and me,
Hanging upon the gallows tree;
This, in the darkness, did I see.
Shall we escape?”
“Thou may'st be sav'd;
My stone waits but to be engrav'd;
'Tis hewn and shap'd: my life is nought:
Stay! let a scrivener be brought:
Thou dost my bidding? be but true;
My will shall leave no cause to rue.”
Kirke did not hasten thence—he flew.
But he returns a different man;
Never was wretch so wild and wan.
The scrivener who first doth scan

141

His visage, is more struck with dread,
Than when, remov'd unto his bed,
Jasper confess'd his guilt, and bade
His deposition quick be made.
But Kirke comes not alone; he brings
A wayward thing, who mows and sings,
Peers through her fingers, and is pleas'd,
Then pouts, and will not be appeas'd.
Jasper beholds and swoons—I wis,
His dream was not more dread than this.
Soft! he revives. “Now hear me, Brooke,”
Said Kirke, and on his bosom strook,
“I saw him, and the sight hath dried
My blood, and now what may betide
I care not:—he is dead and gone;
Be this engraven on thy stone.
Poor knave! he died before his hour;
I bring his wife for a fresh dower.

142

The law comes for us; I can smell
The dogs are nigh, and hear their yell;
I go my journey—so farewell!”
He goes, and the poor witless girl
Draws up her lip in a proud curl,
And says, “Well done!” and with mock ire,
Commands the scrivener to admire,
Then pours such tales into his ear,
As almost craze the listener.
“All—all—in masses for my soul;
Dost hear me, Graves? I say the whole:
Straight pen it down, let it be sign'd:
O! what a weight is on my mind!”
Then Graves draws nigh—“Good Sir, my speech
A moment would your ear beseech—
The girl”—here Julia nodding smil'd—
“Spoke of the father of her child.”

143

“Do what thou wilt—do what thou wilt—
O God! what way to lessen guilt!
I tell thee, man, I must not die;
It is my flesh that fails, not I.”
The leech is come, but strives in vain
To soothe the fever of the brain.
Jasper dies raving:—close the scene—
'Tis fearful to behold, I ween,
But now he lies, as calm, as mild,
As silent as a sleeping child.
Now, when the scrivener and the leech,
Awe-stricken, leave the place of death,
What is the hideous thing that each
Beholds, down-looking far beneath?
The two descend, holding their breath,
Fearing, from death above they go,
To meet him once again below.
Nor are they wrong; 'tis even so.

144

Kirke, in a noose his hands had made,
Hangs from the lowest balustrade:—
His journey had not been delay'd.
There was a merchant, on whose face
A gravity of solemn grace
Dwelt ever; he was widely known,
Nor by the sons of wealth alone;
For the poor bless'd him, and the sad
Of heart were at his words made glad;
Such power o'er others' griefs he had.
And oft his pensive steps he bent
Towards a marble monument,
Whereat, when none were standing nigh,
He would oft pray, and with a sigh
Depart, and with a lingering look:—
The merchant's name was Philip Brooke.

145

THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

A gloom hangs over London and portends
Tempest:—the thunderous clouds are pale as lead,
And from the chimneys the white smoke ascends,
Straight as a spirit from the newly dead;
And pigeons, for a moment duskly shown,
Revolve one lower circle and are flown.

The ghastly welkin heaves with fitful glare,
Till antic lightnings rend the clouds in twain,
And run at large through the constricted air.
Hark! 'tis a summons to the headlong rain,
Which in small watery columns spins around,
In vaporous smoke along the hissing ground.

146

That room should be deserted—no—alone,
A youth through the dim twilight I behold;
As mute and motionless and pale as stone,
As like to death as life—as still and cold.
Hands clench'd, eyes clos'd, he sits, but not in sleep;
Hands never wont to pray, or eyes to weep.

And yet, though grief with her gaunt fingers' touch,
Has wasted those wan features, marking there
Untimely furrows, still do they avouch
Something of that they have been used to wear.
Pride lingers on the lip, and even now
Scorn paramount sits on the squalid brow.

He stirs and gazes round—his lips unclose:—
“Full sixty hours, and yet he does not come;
Give me the covert malice of my foes,
Not smiling friends who drive the dagger home,
Who count the throbbing pulse as it recedes,
And probe the wound, and wonder that it bleeds.

147

Why live? what answer will my heart supply?
Yes—suited for the cattle is the road,
The burden for the beast; but what am I,
That I should feel the spur or bear the goad,
And grovel through the desultory day
Till sleep or death—'tis fate, and I obey.”

Then thoughts of those arose upon his mind,
Whose fortunes fame shall evermore repeat,
Of Milton, old, neglected, scorn'd, and blind;
Of Otway famish'd in the casual street;
Of Lee in madness plotting some vast scene
Of Babylon and the Assyrian Queen.

And then of those who not in vain have sung
He meditates—who late the ascent have won,
Yet all too soon for envy's venom'd tongue,
Which hates the light she cannot gaze upon;
But sees the ground before her darken'd quite
By her own shadow, hateful as the light.

148

Weak thoughts—vain fears! When heaven shall grant a boon
To owls, and quenches day, they may possess
Safely the air; when wolves can bay the moon
Out of her orb, envy may hope no less.
Take heart, dear boy, and strive: a knock—no more—
A woman enters at the opening door.

“I come—” her voice is diffident and low—
“To offer what our slender means afford;
Three days you have not tasted aught, we know,
And hunger pierces sharper than a sword.
Ah, well a day!” her simple speech she ends
Gladly, and to the youth the food extends.

He cannot speak. He strives, but cannot speak;
A hollow sound forth from his throat proceeds;
He waves her thence—a flush is on his cheek—
Her heart recoils and trembles while it bleeds;
And murmuring words, half wonder and half prayer,
Angry and grieved she seeks the narrow stair.

149

The woman's kindness smites him to the ground;
A groan of anguish rushes from his breast;—
One human creature in the world is found,
At last to pity—pity! death were best.
But gentler feelings to his bosom creep,
And will not thence awhile—oh, could he weep!

Unbidden, softly pleading thoughts of home,
Breathe through his stubborn heart their sacred power,
And all he loves and all who love him come,
And kneel beside him in that fearful hour;
The organ yearns from Redcliffe's ancient pile,
And youthful voices thrill along the aisle.

They cry unto his soul—but oh, in vain.
Preserve him, Heaven! and holier thoughts inspire!
Base Walpole's insult flashes through his brain—
Safe insult borrow'd from a worthless sire.
Not slighted love, or thwarted hate defied,
Works on the heart, soul, brain, like outrag'd pride.

150

With sudden start he rises to his knees,
But not to pray. The phial in his grasp
He raises, drinking, to the sluggish lees,
A poison fatal as the cureless asp:—
“Oh death, receive me of thy ghastly band!”
'Tis done! He flings the phial from his hand.

The woman hears it strike upon the floor,
And listens for a moment where she sits;
Then opens cunningly her creaking door—
“'Twas nothing, sure; God bless these crazy wits!”
And yet the doubt is present, and is gone:—
“Well, well! the wilful boy will be alone.”

Yet blame her not—poor common soul untaught:
She heeds not that which we so falsely deem
Our noble pride, and never questions aught,
Still judging all things simply as they seem;
Knows sorrow by the water in the eyes,
Joy by its smiles, and anguish by its cries.

151

The night is past; a lovely morn resumes
The heavens, and the glad compensating sun
With purer light each glittering spire illumes,
And Thames's ripples kindle as they run.
And noon is gone, and now a sickening dread
Falls on the woman's heart—the boy is dead.

Awe-stricken, trembling to the chamber climbs
The aged woman, breathless as she goes:
She shrieks, but cannot flee—constrain'd betimes
By that pale visage—can it be repose?
That face which, in proud courtesy declin'd,
Had often left its shadow on her mind.

For she had borne a son—but he was gone,
So many—scarce she knew how many—years,
And now in death, they look, forsooth, as one;—
How like the dead unto the dead appears!
On her unused knees she falls, and prays
A prayer remember'd of forgotten days.

152

No more!—with paupers was the poet laid—
Nor moral warmth nor vain regrets be mine—
Who can the tresses of the meteor braid
And hang it in the heaven for a sign?
Or bid the torrent, as it dashes by,
Reflect the glory of the steadfast sky?

Blest boy, whose doom, when I was young as thou,
Drew my rash love towards thee, and controll'd
My better reason; why is it that now
Thou risest like a vision, as of old;
And bringest with thee one of dearer name,
More hapless—dying ere he spoke to fame?

Ye come together—yet ye stand apart;
And like as brothers, twins of heaven ye seem,
And mingled love and sorrow fill my heart;—
Ye vanish—for ye met but in a dream.
I wake!—alike except in death, farewell!
One in my mind—one in my heart—to dwell.

153

ODE TO A RIVER.

I

Bright glittering river, that dost run,
From thy cool crystal chamber freed,
A green-hair'd darling of the sun,
Through glowing plain and scented mead;
With silent motion flowing still,
Thou calm'st the west-wind to thy will,
And woo'st the summer for thy bride,
Who, with her hoarded lap, is smiling by thy side.

154

II

In thy translucent wave is seen
The restless sunbeam glancing bright,
And flowers hang o'er thy margin green,
Like gems of many-colour'd light;
And where the deepest shade is spread,
Birds sing above thine umber'd head;
Each swells his overflowing throat,
And makes thy waters thrill with his redundant note.

III

But when, upon the mountain top,
The clouds shall lay their burden down,
And linger darkly where they drop,
Until the unprison'd winds are blown;
With headlong strength's resistless force,
The rushing torrent tears thy source;—
Down, down its loaded weight is driven;
Thy bed is chok'd with earth, and tree-trunks thunder-riven.

155

IV

Where is thy summer glory now,
Thy light, thy beauty, where are they?
No leaf on the o'erhanging bough,
No bird sings on the naked spray;
The Summer flowers that kiss'd thee on
Thy happy course, with Summer gone;
And Autumn's sobbing grief that flows,
Augments the usurping stream that through thy channel goes.

V

But, in Norwegian forest hid,
December, who so long hath lain,
Opens at length his torpid lid,
And shakes him into life again;
Parting the hoar locks from his eyes,
He stares with indolent surprise,
And, his long passive vigour found,
With slow and sluggish motion rises from the ground.

156

VI

A yellow fog around him thrown,
A pine torch burning in his hand,
Whose dim blaze scarcely lights him on,
He travels far o'er sea and land;
Drawn by a hundred clouds' array,
He slowly journeys on his way,
And sullen-sad, and frowning stern,
Strikes with a passing touch thine unexhausted urn

VII

Forth nimble frost in antic guise,
Runs swiftly to thy margin's edge,
And with capricious finger plies
His quaint work round thy crisped sedge;
And whispering o'er thy middle stream,
Lulls it to stillness like a dream:
Thy distant waters feel the shock,
Coil'd in the sudden clasp's inextricable lock.

157

VIII

Bright river! like thy gentlest flow,
My youth's first joyous stream began,
And friendship came with florid show,
To drink its freshness as it ran;
Till left in silence and alone,
Before the swallow well was gone,
Deserted was its verdant brink,
Ere the abundant tide had yet begun to sink.

IX

Yet, Wisdom, let nor hate nor rage
Disturb me on my later course;
Though on a lonelier pilgrimage,
The way the same, the same the source;
And should Adversity impede,
Or strive to check my torrent speed,
Teach me, with strong and wiser mind,
To shoulder the rough foe, and leave his wrath behind.

158

X

And grant, when Winter comes at last,
To chill my channel with his breath,
Though o'er its breast his chains be cast,
It yet may warmly flow beneath:
And though no more thy noontide beam
Be broken on its dancing stream,
In many a ray of frolic fire,
Still may its frozen flood reflect thy sun entire.

159

THE RIDDLE OF LIFE.

Come, thou sage philosopher,
Thou who never yet did'st err,
Who, with power almost divine,
Bid'st reluctant truth be thine,
And, unaided, canst unfold
All this cunning earth doth hold;
If any praise to thee be due,
If thou and thy report be true,
Incline thine ear, contract thy brow,
And summon all thy wisdom now;
And henceforth be thy fame enhanc'd:
Solve me this riddle,—if thou canst.

160

First, let thy mental vision see
An infant on his mother's knee;
Nestled in softness, watch'd with care,
And hush'd by love's unconscious prayer;
Not yet responsive to the smile,
The fingers' play, or tender wile;
Not yet acquainted with the skies,
Or light even of its mother's eyes;
Thoughtless of heaven, though newly thence;
Ungifted by each finer sense,
Imperfect, perfect Innocence.

The bud into a blossom blown,
Next view him into boyhood grown.
Bright golden locks his brows adorn,
His brave brows that outshine the morn.
Clear honour glows upon his face,
And strength about him strives with grace;
Virtue is portion of his blood,
And health instructs him to be good;

161

All nature to his heart appeals,
And every thing he sees, he feels.
Her scenes committed to his mind,
A smooth transparent surface find,
Nor from the brittle mirror pass;
So, pictures painted upon glass.
All things to him are as they seem;
We doubt, nor wonder in a dream.

Behold this rich and festive hall,
Where daylight struggles to the wall,
Through gorgeous hangings closely drawn,
That would, but cannot, hide the dawn.
He sits alone,—by pleasure stung,
The empty goblet from him flung;
A busy fever in the vein,
A silent throbbing in the brain,
Madness at work and reason slain.
A portrait hangs above his head,
It lives in art, but she is dead.

162

Say, shall I o'er that moral dwell?
No, 'twere too long a tale to tell.
Poor pleasure's child is passion's slave,
Bound in the rosy chains she gave.
He too enjoys his hour; too late
Comes wisdom, when it comes with fate.

Now mark the man of middle age,
Virtue his foe, and scorn his gage;
And well doth he the conflict wage.
See him, in conscious power secure,
Dispense injustice to the poor;
Hear how he doeth ill by stealth,
And from the needy draws his wealth,
With hand of grasping avarice,
That gives not once, and taketh twice;
Moved by a tiger soul within,
Spotted like the tiger's skin;
Hear from his lips the damning lie,
And see the villain in his eye.

163

Long has his heart been hard, and long,
Though base, ere 'twas impell'd to wrong;
But now, a new refinement found,
Ground into keenness, it can wound;
It feels not, but makes others feel—
The iron is refin'd to steel.

One scene, the last is yet untold—
This infant, boy, and man, grown old;
Decrepitude his sole defence,
Grey hairs that claim no reverence;
All vice remember'd, good forgot,
A fear to live, a dread to rot,
A horror of he knows not what.
So long was virtue out of call,
Vice is become habitual.
Custom so strong of doing ill,
It never asks the leave of will,
But acts,—still shifting the until.
And now Time bids him to begone,

164

And not that hoary power alone;
The dust begins her prey to crave,
The worm cries to him from the grave;
The dead accuse him from the tomb,—
The child rebukes him from the womb;
The past, the present, the to-come,
Point to his dark and silent home.
What refuge now? what compromise
Will now avail? what truth,—what lies?
What huddled penitence?—He dies!

Honour to him who largely lends,—
His good name is the loan of friends;
Praise be to all where'er 'tis due,
The quarry lends its marble too;
And praise to earth, whose mother's care
Has call'd him hence, and keeps him there.

Now then, thou sage philosopher,
If to the infant we recur,

165

And trace him through each onward stage,
To the long journey's end of age;
What by philosophy is found,
That reason may admit? expound.—
Tell me, was this unsullied child
From infancy to age beguil'd?
Cozen'd by counters falsely play'd,
And to his dying hour betray'd;
The book of virtue interleav'd,
And by the gloss of vice deceiv'd?
Was this, or that, or what you will,
The active cause, the impulse still?
Say, is there some external sin,
That works into the heart within;
Did outward influence control,
Or was the bias in the bowl?

Why ponder? thou perhaps canst show
More than to me was given to know;
Thou may'st unwind the stubborn mesh

166

That holds alike the soul and flesh;
Thou may'st with nicest skill define
What error is, and what design;
And how, when virtues stagnant brood,
Evil is formed from weaker good,
As petrified by water, wood.

Enough: the problem is advanc'd,
Solve me this riddle, if thou canst.

167

SONNETS.

I. [A type of human life this forest old]

A type of human life this forest old;
All leafy, wither'd, blooming, teeming, blasted;
Bloom that the reign of summer hath outlasted,
And early sere, and blight that flaunts in gold;
And grass, like sorrow, springing from the mould,
Choking the wholesome tree; and verdure wasted,
Like peace; and berries, like our bliss, untasted;
And thorns, like adverse chances, uncontroll'd.
These flowers are joy that ne'er shall form a wreath;
These lilies are unsure affection crown'd
Above neglect, the water; underneath,
Reeds, which are hope, still sadly standing, drown'd
This hoary sedge is age of noteless years,
This pool, epitome of human tears!

168

II. [As yonder lamp, in my vacated room]

As yonder lamp, in my vacated room,
With arduous flame disputes the darksome night,
And can, with its involuntary light,
But lifeless things that near it stand, illume;
Yet all the while it doth itself consume;
And, ere the sun begin his heavenly height
With courier beams that meet the shepherd's sight,
There, whence its life arose, shall be its tomb.
So wastes my light away. Perforce confin'd
To common things, a limit to its sphere,
It shines on worthless trifles undesign'd,
With fainter ray each hour imprison'd here.
Alas! to know that the consuming mind
Shall leave its lamp cold, ere the sun appear!

169

III. [Oft when I lie me down to rest at night]

Oft when I lie me down to rest at night,
My wakeful heart by sorrow is betray'd,
To thoughts of friendship, broken, or decay'd,—
Of pain to others caus'd, to me of slight,—
Of dreams of hate interpreted aright,—
Of bootless vows, of vows that should be made,—
Of fear too prompt, of hope too long delay'd,
Of present woe, of ever-gone delight.
O God! what am I then? If weak for good,
Teach me at least to bear with others' ill;
If hitherto thy law not understood,
Still let me bear thy wrath, to learn thy will;
But, if my soul has thy paternal care,
Oh! teach me what to be, and how to bear!

170

IV. [My gentle friend, last refuge of a soul]

My gentle friend, last refuge of a soul
From which the world too soon hath turn'd away,
Take thy long silent lute, and softly play
Some air which childhood from oblivion stole;
That heavenly dew shall melt without controul,
My sullen griefs, that rule with stubborn sway;
That strain all harsher feelings shall allay,
And fuse my heart into one tender whole.
Then pause upon the strings, and with thy voice,
Lure from the silent deep a radiant form,
Of earlier days and happier hours the choice,
Ere yet my troubled spirit felt the storm;
And having call'd it into being, cease;
And crown it with a smile, and name it Peace.

171

V. [When first my heart by sorrow was o'ertaken]

When first my heart by sorrow was o'ertaken,
And every blossom of my youth destroy'd;
Wherefore, thought I, should hope my breast avoid,
And why my heart of the fresh spring forsaken?
Then old philosophy did I awaken,
And moral truths by error unalloy'd,
And ancient maxims, evergreens, employ'd,
To guard my heart, that should no more be shaken.
O vanity! the worst that e'er befel!
What use, with ceaseless labour, to commit
A golden bucket to an empty well,
Or for heaven's wisdom seek in human wit?
I planted strength that flourish'd not, and why?
The fount that should have water'd it was dry.

172

VI. [Yes, to be strong and bold, thyself to know,—]

Yes, to be strong and bold, thyself to know,—
Daunted by nought the hostile world may urge,—
Contesting every inch unto the verge,—
And greatly resolute when dashed below;—
'Tis well:—but man unto himself doth owe
A better wisdom, ere he can emerge
From the wide water and the boiling surge,
Which his strong arms in vain behind him throw.
—That inward strength which Heaven so freely grants.
'Tis not to bear, but,—be not made to bear;—
Refer to Heaven our more immortal wants,
All else the world withholds ourselves can spare.
Thus, Earth hath not an ill to be withstood,—
Nor need we the slave's virtue, Fortitude.

173

VII. [Methought, upon a sullen ocean toss'd]

Methought, upon a sullen ocean toss'd,
The batter'd hull of an old vessel lay,
Drifting to rearward darkness far away;
Till, presently, a gallant shallop cross'd
The horizon's line, and at a moment's cost,
Shot to the wreck with streaming pennons gay;
Some left it and were sav'd, while others, gray
With sorrow, clung to ruin, and were lost.
'Tis good, quoth I, awaking, as the bell
Fill'd with a merry peal the morning clear,
This vanish'd dream of mine should surely tell
The fortunes of the old and coming year.
Our joys are on another voyage bound,
And with the last year's wreck our sorrows drown'd.

174

EVENING.

I lean'd upon the terrace wall,
In weariness and pensive mood,
And mark'd the thronging sunmotes fall
Before me, as I stood.
Slowly into the lake they dropt,
Whose tranquil waters never flow,
Like Hope's young blossoms, newly cropt,
O'er Lethe's pool below.

And on the floor of heaven above,
Reflected in its watery glass,
With heavenly smiles and looks of love,
Beauty's fair daughters pass.

175

And from the lightly-finger'd string,
Stream sounds, like strains of fairy elves,
And soft Italian voices sing
Words—music of themselves.

But, like a monarch once caress'd,
Down sinks, depos'd, the weary day;
The regal purple of the west
Is chang'd to russet grey;
And every sight, and every sound,
That minister'd to my delight,
Above, beneath, beside, around,
Are fading into night.

And hush'd and still the music's tone—
The voice—the song—are heard no more;
Ev'n their remotest sound is gone,
Unheard the splashing oar—
And night is floating on the lake,
And sprinkling darkness everywhere,

176

Save on the glow-worm in the brake,
The fire-fly in the air.

And thus, methought, the forms have pass'd
Once wont my visions to employ;
A summer brightness round them cast,
Deck'd in the garb of joy.
And round them music seem'd to float,
As the gay phantoms sail'd along,
And out of the enchanted boat
Arose the voice of song.

And now that they have pass'd away,
Darkness were in this heart of mine,
Save for the glow-worm's grateful ray,
The fire-fly's light to shine.
For, though all else beside depart,
Joy, surely, has not died in vain;
If truth still glow within the heart,
And fancy fire the brain.

177

OPHELIA.

A DIRGE.

Softly to the earth restore
One whom for an hour she gave;
With gentle steps, as though ye bore
Virtue's self unto the grave;
In this darkness cold and deep,
Lay her silently to sleep.

Pilgrims to a vacant shrine,
O'er the desert slow we toil;
Busy workers in a mine,
Reaping but the barren soil:
Care and grief besiege the breast,
Motion ever—never rest.

178

But this fairest girl hath won
Sleep that breeds no troubled dream,
And the earth we heap upon
Her virgin bosom, ne'er shall teem,
However bright before it fade,
With sweeter flower than here is laid.

Water blind and brooding ooze,
Which in silent death conceive,
Yielded back what now we lose,
In the dumb chill ground to leave;—
Never more while Time shall be,
Earth, must she be rais'd from thee!

All the pleasure thou can'st give,—
All the bliss thou tak'st away;
Springs still flowing while we live,
Lie frozen in that heart to-day.
Cold and dry may be their bed,
Yet warm as sunshine to the dead.

179

For virtue shall the mould perfume
With odours of her sacrifice,
And love shall shed his softest bloom
On the verdure where she lies,—
And peace, the child of hope and prayer,
Shall bend the knee, and worship there.

180

IPPOLITO.

A CHIMERA IN RHYME.

I.

“This is the night—the very night—
Have I not read the stars aright?”
With an eye of fear and a brow of pain,
Ippolito gaz'd on his books again,
And clos'd them—'twas in vain!

Two vessels stood on the table:—
Ippolito to him the vessels drew;
One was fill'd with honey-dew,
One with hemlock sable.
Steadily as he was able,

181

Of poison he pour'd a single drop,
On the honey-dew it fell,
Still as water in a well,
And it floated on the top.

“Hast thou not bitten the moon-grown plant?”
Ippolito lifted the cover of lead,
The toad was shrunk with eager want,
For it never would be fed.
It lifted its eyes like a human thing;—
“Poor wretch!” he mutter'd, “it pines and pines,
And cries to my soul with its piteous signs;
Eftsoons,”—and with a hasty fling,
Down he shut the box of lead,
“To-night it will be dead!”

“Every token tells me true:
The poison rests on the honey-dew,
And the toad is dying too.

182

I took it as it sat alone,
Drawing the coldness out of a stone,
And I pluck'd the shrieking mandrake's root,
And the plant beneath its slimy foot.
Of all the stars that in Heaven are,
Was it not under the very star?
And know I not, by that star in the sky,
When it dies that she must die?”

He lean'd his brow upon his hand;
The youth was weary with his woe,
And his brain was dry as sand;
For never a loosen'd tear would flow,
Since he had sought to understand
What mortals must not know.
But the air was through the casement fann'd,
And with it wafted a melody,
A passing strain—a murmur'd song—
Which a voice from a gondola gliding along,
Breath'd, as it floated by.

183

“My Isabella,—I dream of thee!
My sweet one sang that song to me,
When, by these sheltering hands caress'd,
Her dear head nestled on my breast:
Oh dove within a vulture's nest!”

With heavy heart the youth arose,
And from the casement pour'd his gaze,
Where, stretch'd beneath, the city glows
In the sun's declining rays;
And a thought of happier days,
Soothing his spirit to repose,
Like a saint within him prays;
And his lips are softly mov'd,
As he speaks of his belov'd.

“Venice, since first thy glory rose,
Scorn first, then terror of thy foes,
Since first thy youthful arm began
To scourge the insulting Ottoman;

184

Encircled in thine azure zone,
Like Venus risen from the sea,
Thy daughters, Venice, fair as she,
Were ever beauteous known.
Yet, ne'er within those marble halls,
Whose richly variegated walls,
Display in oriental work,
Thy trophies wrested from the Turk,
Where the fierce thunders of thine ire,
Rous'd the reclining Mussulman,
And with a bolt of vengeance dire,
Flung 'mid the panic-struck Divan,
Obscur'd the crescent's horns of fire:—
Ne'er in those halls has beauty shone,
Which Venice might be proud to own,
Nor where her daughters most resort,
Or gallants, waiting, pay their court,
In gondola soft-gliding, or
In the bright-burnish'd Bucentaur,
With Isabella can compare,

185

Or e'er beside on earth was seen,
So like an angel's is her air,
So heavenly her mien.

“A fairy creature, young and good,
Her pure heart beating at her side,
With feelings yet scarce understood,
She seems too lovely to be woo'd,
Yet soft and gentle as a bride:
Enough of heaven for heaven above,
Enough of earth on earth to love.
A vase wherein the amaranth grows,
The virgin lily, and the rose,
Entwin'd in such implicit ties,
They seem from the same stem to rise;
So, in my love appear alone,
Virtue and sweetness perfect grown,
With white-leav'd innocence, in one.

“Oh bitter grief! and must it be?
The ripe fruit falleth from the tree,

186

And the river runs to the sea;—
But the river bides the tide,
And summer is not to the fruit denied—
And the spindle of the sisters three
Is of an hour-glass made;—
And spin as fast as spin they may,
The thread endures to the very day,
Its time is never stay'd.”

Ippolito gnash'd his teeth with rage;
“Well, there is neither youth nor age,
Which child or grandam ever wore,
That human power may not restore!”
And he smil'd, and the pale fire burnt in his eye,
“What is life but a mockery?”

“Paint me a picture—happiness
Shall be the unexhausted theme,
Nor be the shadows more or less,
Nor the tints brighter than they seem:

187

Is it not a sorry dream?
A vision fancy hath endow'd,
A day-dream painted on a cloud!
Draw ye these colours from the sky,
From fountains of the orient day,
Behold! the very flood is dry,
Not faster, but as soon as they.
To-morrow shall those tints renew,
Will it re-touch these colours too!”

“Paint me a torrent in its pride,
Seething in its tempestuous stress,
And call it life;—and paint beside,
A feather borne upon the tide,
And call that feather—Happiness!”

He turn'd away:—the day was gone;
Sounds sank to silence one by one,
Till the prison'd toad alone,
Plied its piteous moan.

188

The footstep of the youth was heard,
As he to the table drew,
And the drop on the honey-dew
Was for a moment stirr'd;—
But straight again the sable drop
Rested on the top.

II.

Softly the gondola glides along,
Softly the gondolier his song
Murmurs at intervals,
And the oar's soft splash, as it falls,
Makes the dying strain
Like whispering winds in rain.
Beauteous is the night;—
The stars are watching, and the moon,
Pois'd in her transcendant noon,
An orb of yellow light,
Sees her face in the lagoon,
Like a spirit,—still and white.

189

But Ippolito is cold
As one who has given his blood away,
To nourish the veins of a pilgrim old,
And sees him sitting by mountain gray,
Weaving his spells in the moonlight ray,
A wizard—to darkness sold!
Gently Ippolito glides along;—
But splash of oar, nor murmur'd song,
Nor the sound of the tinkling guitar,
O'er the waters heard afar—
Silver, fancy might believe,
Shaken through a silver sieve,
Reaches his torpid ear, or moves his fixed eye,
But he sits like friendless apathy,
That never shed a tear.

He stands upon the marble stair,
The very silence is at prayer,
A sacred stillness every where.
“Holy Virgin! is it now

190

Her blessed spirit seeks the skies?”
And he press'd his aching brow,
O'er his aching eyes;—
“Oh Heaven! will no atoning vow
Avert this dreadful sacrifice?”

Up the steps he goes like one
Whose heart is drawn by fear alone,
As steel by the magnetic stone
One lamp is burning drowsily,
The oil within is nearly dry,
A crucifix is standing by.
Ippolito a moment knelt,
And cross'd his hands upon his breast,
And strove to feel—perchance, he felt,
The cup of bitterness is best.
But soon he started to his feet,
And mutter'd words it were not meet
Unshriven to repeat.

191

Gently, gently, ye that spread
Ashes on a youthful head,
Powers, that do His bidding just,
Raise his spirit from the dust:
Leave him not in Hell, but lift
His soul by the Almighty's gift
Of grace and voluntary shrift!
For oh! how shall he bear the sight
That grows and grows before his eyes,
His dream interpreted aright?
On a couch in purest white,
His Isabella lies.

The sweetness of that angel face,
Even to death might not give place,
Who plied his work without delay;
For well, I ween, by that pale skin,
Death is without, and death within,
Toiling for his prey,

192

And, certes, he is sure to win,
Who labours every day!

Ippolito knelt beside the girl:
Oh! how beautiful she was!
Though her eye was the blue of glass,
Though her brow was the white of pearl;
On her shoulders her golden hair
Had fallen in many a waving curl,
And her small cold hands so fair,
Were palm to palm on her breast in prayer.

“Wilt thou not be mine, my bride,
Though death our bosoms may divide,
Or whatever else betide?
Wheresoe'er our souls repair,
Wheresoe'er our bodies are,
Soul to soul, and heart to heart,
Dearest, we must never part.”

193

Gently he press'd his lips to hers,
The breath beneath them scarcely stirs,
Softly and gently his hand he press'd
On her soft and gentle breast;
And every throb in strength decreas'd:—
Gracious Heaven! hath it ceas'd?
Perchance, before her inward eye,
Her happy youth was passing by,
Or whence that short but heavy sigh?
'Twas but a momentary check,
To hopes that other mansions seek,
'Twas the last billow o'er the wreck,
Ere the horizon's gilded streak.
She felt her arms around his neck,
And drew his lips unto her cheek,
And in his bosom, like a bride,
Laid her head at peace, and died.

As some sweet flower that doth confer
(Growing by the hallow'd tomb

194

Of the Holy Sepulchre)
Its precious odour and its bloom
On every air that doth presume
To wander by that sacred place;
Though grown beside that awful spot,
Yet is it absolved not
From the fate of nature's race,
But in due time shall rot.
So Isabella grew beside
The Sepulchre of Him who died
For all who in that faith abide;
And look'd to Heaven with earnest eye,
From the Mount of Calvary:—
Yet well it was that she must die.

Fair Virgin! it is well to die—
The grave hath claim'd thee for the sky;
The weary grief that time affords,
The woe that life, the miser, hoards,
Shall prey on that dear flesh no more:
Thy day of pain is o'er.

195

To flow thy circling blood shall cease,
Thy dust shall tend to earth's increase,
But thou shalt sleep in peace!

Ippolito waked from out his swoon;
His face look'd ghastly in the moon,
And his brain began to whirl:—
Madness, I deem, had been a boon,
When he saw that lovely girl,
Resting cold and calmly dead,
His sheltering arm beneath her head:
And his lips were parch'd and dry,
As earth beneath an August sky;
And with hollow moan he said,—
“Ere twice the sun with cleaving edge
Sink below the ocean sedge,
I will claim thee for mine own:
Ha! ha! the reaper comes at last,
To gather in what he has sown:
Time's precious, till 'tis past.”

196

He gaz'd beside him and around—
The very silence seem'd a sound,
Speaking with a voice profound:
“Look not on the newly-dead,
The panting soul hath scarcely fled;
Let the mortal flesh subside:—”
From his arm the drooping head
Of his death-betrothed bride,
Cold and still and deaf as stone,
Sank down:—Ippolito is gone:—
Silence and Death are left alone.

III.

Once the sun with cleaving edge,
Hath sunk beneath the ocean sedge,
And again with disk supine,
Descends into the hoary brine.

Ippolito sits in the ancient chair,
Before him many a mystic sign

197

Of earth, of water, of fire, of air,—
Each hath of potency a share:
Well he portion'd by his art,
To each element a part.

Ippolito lifted the cover of lead:
Forty hours the toad had been dead,
The wither'd mandrake was its bed.
“Thou hast serv'd thy turn full well;
Thou told'st me what the stars could tell.”
From the casement he let it fall,
Far below in the canal;—
He listen'd as it fell.
Next with anxious care he drew
The vessel fill'd with honey-dew:
The poison-drop had fallen through,
Down the crystal clear, and lay
Like earth beneath the liquid day.

“This is well—I see at last,
The bitterness of death is past:

198

Three score hours, five, and seven,
Ere mortal flesh be mortal leaven;
Three nights the pining soul doth come
To watch beside its recent home,
Ere it rise to Heaven.
The blood shall trickle in the vein,
The mind shall re-assume the brain,
The soul shall move the heart again.”

Ippolito a powder threw,
Swiftly into the honey-dew:
It creams, it scintillates, it glows;
Crimson, orange, amber, blue,
Pure, vivid sparkles rose.

Ippolito smote his hands with glee:
“Auspicious sign! my thanks to thee,
That bring'st such tidings unto me.
My Isabella, rest awhile,
No taint of death shall thee defile:

199

Like a pestilential air,
Traversing a plain of snow,
Gathering pureness it shall go
O'er thy bosom fair.
Soon, oh Nature! in thy name,
Death's gross earthly power to tame,
My Isabella will I claim.”

By this, the day was sunk in gloom,
Utter darkness fill'd the room,
Woven from the Stygian loom:
For, well I wis, so black a night,
Earth's inmost centre could not hold,
Shutting out the lingering light
With such a triple fold.

Ippolito on his couch was lying;
But he could not sleep a wink,
Thought indistinct to thought replying;
As two upon the opposing brink

200

Of a headlong waterfall,
Who to each other vainly call;—
So turbid frenzy roll'd between,
And would not let him think.
Oh! it were pitiful, I ween,
The youth that moment to have seen.

Hark! what present form is near?
Is it fancy? or is it fear?
The air is still, and thick as slime,
And a voice is in his ear,
Unbreath'd, untongued, but close and clear,
“List, Ippolito, 'tis time!”

He sprang from his couch like a deer from its lair,
He felt with his hands, but nought was nigh:
Darkness, darkness, every where:—
Hark! hark!—'tis but his bristling hair,
And his tongue that crackled dry.
His very self was a dread to him,

201

Silence beside, before, around,
Molten lead in every limb,
Hideous silence in his mind!

Down he sank upon his chair,
His body with ghastly dew o'erspread,
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his hair,
Such as bathes the dead;
Nature's reply that none remain
Of tears—which ne'er shall flow again.
“I was a fool,” at length he said,
“'Twas but a voice by fancy made,
To the outward ear convey'd.
'Tis time my work should be begun
Midway between sun and sun.”

He struck the flint, and in its flash
His face gleam'd whiter than the ash:
Welcome was the taper's ray;
He would have pray'd, but could not pray.

202

Black and frowning as a pall,
His giant shadow on the wall,
Did the light portray;
And every mystic form around,
Skeleton or reptile strange,
A huge and darken'd likeness found,
With fantastic change.
Closely wrapt, like guilt, he went,
His step was heard in his descent,
And again with thickest gloom,
Darkness fill'd the room.

IV.

Ippolito stood at the mouth of the vault;
The rust-grown key is in the door;
What is it that makes him halt?
The very mother that him bore,
Shakes her loose ashes in her shroud,
Her memory is in his heart full sore,
And her voice is crying loud,

203

“Touch not the dead!” He takes no heed:
'Twere well his work were done with speed.

Darkness fled from his garish lamp:
In the corner of the vault it lay,
Licking the fermented damp
From the forehead of decay.
The coffin was lying upon the ground,
Four planks together loosely bound:
Speedily a knife undid
The slender fastenings of the lid,
And in her death-clothes closely wound,
Sleeping till the Judgment-day,
An inert weight of passive clay,
Dissolving silently away,
Down into her parent earth,
Into dust from whence her birth,
Young Isabella lay.

The tender rose was on her cheek,
Ruddy as Aurora's streak;

204

And in her pure and lovely eyes,
Under their curtain'd canopies,
A light still linger'd, mild and weak.

Ippolito kiss'd her forehead pale,
And murmur'd soft in her listless ear,
Vain words, as a summer's softest gale,
When the autumn leaf is sere.

What is it lieth at her head?
Is it a yellow and mottled stone,
Brought hither from its mossy bed?
No, no—he knew it by its moan,
And its golden eye that sparkling glow'd;
It was the same, the speckled toad,
Which from his casement he had thrown;
Full of life as it could hold:
He shriek'd as he met its eye of gold.

Holy Virgin! that shriek allay!
Ave Maria! his spirit shrive!

205

Oh! it is too late to pray,
Each hair is quick horror alive,
That scarce upon his flesh will stay.
Central thunder wrapt in cloud,
Roll'd about him round and round,
In rapid circles, booming loud;
And yet, I wis, no mortal sound
Did the ear of silence wound.

A light is from the coffin beaming,
And a white vapour slowly rose,
Like an exhalation steaming
From dissolving snows.
Faintly on the air impress'd,
A figure, clad in white, is seen,
The hands are cross'd upon the breast,
A crucifix between.
Gathering substance as it stood—
Sure 'tis flesh—and in a gush,
Mantling with a sudden flush,
Through the veins is throbbing blood.

206

Ippolito leapt with a cry of joy:
“My Isabella, I know thee now;
I knew my art would save my vow;
Never shall death that form destroy!
Come, let us from this dreadful spot—”

He snatch'd her to his breast and fled
From the long and newly dead,
The past, the passing, the forgot,
And Echo, as he clos'd the door,
In the aisle of the altar spoke once more.

“Thou art mine own,—my dearest one,
For whom I make this sacrifice,
Open thy lips and speak to me.”
Cold she was as the cold grave-stone,
When the swift river is lock'd in ice,
And the rime is on the tree.
The livid lips are swiftly stirr'd,
Yet not a voice or a sound is heard

207

He laid the head upon his breast,
It oft had been her place of rest,
When both were innocent and blest.
He chaf'd the hands, but they are grown
Colder and colder in his own:

Soft!—it speaks: nay, doth it speak?
A gibbering sound from the throat arose,
And a smile is growing on the cheek,
And the rigid eyes unclose.
Oh Heaven! no soul in human guise,
Is looking through those stony eyes!

“Wilt thou not be mine, my love,
I have rais'd thee from the tomb,
Against the will of Heaven above,
Against the cry of doom.
Here unknown, unsought we'll live,
Life hath yet her joys to give!”

208

Ippolito shrank, he knew not why,
From that ghastly, glassy eye!

Its fingers play with his flowing hair,
And its lips are drawn to his,
Sure, never yet so cold a pair,
Exchang'd the plighting kiss;
There was mortality, I wis,
And hell in that hideous stare!

“Ippolito, dearest, I am thine,
And our fates, like blood with blood, shall mix;”
It sign'd his forehead with a sign,
And it rais'd the crucifix:
“Here, break thy half, and let us both,
Together plight eternal troth!”

The crucifix is rent asunder,
But Ippolito brake not half;

209

The creature look'd with a gaze of wonder,
And laugh'd with a quiet laugh:
“Canst thou divert the bolt of thunder
With a beldame's staff?”

He leapt from the chair with a cry of fear,
His very soul was like to freeze,
“Holy One! thy servant hear,”
And he sank upon his knees:
“Oh! let the ransom that thou hold'st dear,
Thy vengeance, just, appease!”

The fiend hath heard the holy word;
The fiend hath heard the name abhorr'd:—
Faint and fading more and more,
Without a look, without a sound,
It pass'd away from the steadfast floor,
And silence clos'd around.

The sun has risen from his bed:—
Ippolito is cold and dead.

210

Look ye to that vault of death?
No mystic power of mortal breath
That virgin hath disquieted,
Since with holy chant and prayer,
Her earthly part hath rested there.
Nor is Ippolito denied,
To lie close resting by his bride.
Peace be with the hapless pair,
And the joys of Heaven beside!