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

The Solitary, and other poems

With The Cavalier, a play. By Charles Whitehead

Whitehead, Charles (1804-1862)

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THE SOLITARY.

THE STORY OF JASPER BROOKE.

THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

ODE TO A RIVER.

THE RIDDLE OF LIFE.

SONNETS.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

EVENING.

OPHELIA.

IPPOLITO.

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THE SOLITARY.

I. PART I.

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!