Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
 |
 |
|
A Thousand Lines, etc.
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | Ballads for the Times |  |
150
A Thousand Lines, etc.
1845.
Sloth.
“A little more sleep, a little more slumber,
A little more folding the hands to sleep,”
For quick-footed dreams, without order or number,
Over my mind are beginning to creep,—
Rare is the happiness thus to be raptured
By your wild whispers, my Fanciful train,
And, like a linnet, be carelessly captured
In the soft nets of my beautiful brain!
A little more folding the hands to sleep,”
For quick-footed dreams, without order or number,
Over my mind are beginning to creep,—
Rare is the happiness thus to be raptured
By your wild whispers, my Fanciful train,
And, like a linnet, be carelessly captured
In the soft nets of my beautiful brain!
Touch not these curtains!—your hand will be tearing
Delicate tissues of thoughts and of things;—
Call me not!—your cruel voice will be scaring
Flocks of young visions on gossamer wings:
Leave me, O leave me,—for in your rude presence
Nothing of all my bright world can ramain,—
Thou art a blight to this garden of pleasance,
Thou art a blot on my beautiful brain!
Delicate tissues of thoughts and of things;—
Call me not!—your cruel voice will be scaring
Flocks of young visions on gossamer wings:
Leave me, O leave me,—for in your rude presence
Nothing of all my bright world can ramain,—
Thou art a blight to this garden of pleasance,
Thou art a blot on my beautiful brain!
Cease your dull lecture on cares and employment,
Let me forget awhile trouble and strife,
Leave me to peace,—let me husband enjoyment,—
This is the heart and the marrow of life!
For to my feeling the choicest of pleasures
Is to lie thus, without peril or pain,
Lazily listening the musical measures
Of the sweet voice in my beautiful brain!
Let me forget awhile trouble and strife,
Leave me to peace,—let me husband enjoyment,—
This is the heart and the marrow of life!
151
Is to lie thus, without peril or pain,
Lazily listening the musical measures
Of the sweet voice in my beautiful brain!
Hush,—for the halo of calmness is spreading
Over my spirit as mild as a dove;
Hush,—for the angel of comfort is shedding
Over my body his vial of love;
Hush,—for new slumbers are over me stealing,
Thus would I court them again and again,
Hush,—for my heart is intoxicate,—reeling
In the swift waltz of my beautiful brain!
Over my spirit as mild as a dove;
Hush,—for the angel of comfort is shedding
Over my body his vial of love;
Hush,—for new slumbers are over me stealing,
Thus would I court them again and again,
Hush,—for my heart is intoxicate,—reeling
In the swift waltz of my beautiful brain!
Activity.
Open the casement, and up with the Sun!
His gallant journey is just begun;
Over the hills his chariot is roll'd,
Banner'd with glory, and burnish'd with gold,—
Over the hills he comes sublime,
Bridegroom of Earth, and brother of Time!
His gallant journey is just begun;
Over the hills his chariot is roll'd,
Banner'd with glory, and burnish'd with gold,—
Over the hills he comes sublime,
Bridegroom of Earth, and brother of Time!
Day hath broken, joyous and fair;
Fragrant and fresh is the morning air,—
Beauteous and bright those orient hues,
Balmy and sweet these early dews;
O, there is health, and wealth, and bliss
In dawning Nature's motherly kiss!
Fragrant and fresh is the morning air,—
Beauteous and bright those orient hues,
Balmy and sweet these early dews;
O, there is health, and wealth, and bliss
In dawning Nature's motherly kiss!
152
Lo, the wondering world awakes,
With its rosy-tipp'd mountains and gleaming lakes,
With its fields and cities, deserts and trees,
Its calm old cliffs, and its sounding seas,
In all their gratitude blessing Him
Who dwelleth between the Cherubim!
With its rosy-tipp'd mountains and gleaming lakes,
With its fields and cities, deserts and trees,
Its calm old cliffs, and its sounding seas,
In all their gratitude blessing Him
Who dwelleth between the Cherubim!
Break away boldly from Sleep's leaden chain;
Seek not to forge that fetter again;
Rather with vigour and resolute nerve,
Up, up, to bless man, and thy Master to serve,
Thankful and hopeful, and happy to raise
The offering of prayer, and the incense of praise!
Seek not to forge that fetter again;
Rather with vigour and resolute nerve,
Up, up, to bless man, and thy Master to serve,
Thankful and hopeful, and happy to raise
The offering of prayer, and the incense of praise!
Gird thee, and do thy watching well,
Duty's Christian sentinel!
Sloth and Slumber never had part
In the warrior's will, or the patriot's heart;
Soldier of God on an enemy's shore!
Slumber and sloth thrall thee no more.
Duty's Christian sentinel!
Sloth and Slumber never had part
In the warrior's will, or the patriot's heart;
Soldier of God on an enemy's shore!
Slumber and sloth thrall thee no more.
Adventure.
How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land,
The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my hand,
A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side,
And, for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride!
The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my hand,
A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side,
And, for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride!
153
Alone, alone—yet not alone, for God is with me there,
The tender hand of Providence shall guide me everywhere,
While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm and mild,
Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of the wild!
The tender hand of Providence shall guide me everywhere,
While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm and mild,
Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of the wild!
Without a guide,—yet guided well,—young, buoyant, fresh, and free,
Without a road,—yet all the land a highway unto me,
Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain,
Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the plain!
Without a road,—yet all the land a highway unto me,
Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain,
Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the plain!
Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I start
The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison, or the hart,
And then,—with eager spur, to scour, away, away,
Nor stop,—until my dogs have brought the glorious brute to bay!
The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison, or the hart,
And then,—with eager spur, to scour, away, away,
Nor stop,—until my dogs have brought the glorious brute to bay!
Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my track,
I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back;
Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches shine,
A touch upon the trigger—and his spotted skin is mine!
I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back;
Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches shine,
A touch upon the trigger—and his spotted skin is mine!
And then the hunter's savoury fare at tranquil eventide,—
The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hill-side;
My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the water-course,
And plenty of sweet prairie-grass for thee, my noble horse.
The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hill-side;
My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the water-course,
And plenty of sweet prairie-grass for thee, my noble horse.
Hist! hist! I heard some prowler snarling in the wood;
I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we stood!
The Grizzly Bear came rushing on,—and, as he rush'd, he fell!
Hie at him, dogs! my rifle has done its duty well!
I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we stood!
The Grizzly Bear came rushing on,—and, as he rush'd, he fell!
Hie at him, dogs! my rifle has done its duty well!
154
Hie at him, dogs! one bullet cannot kill a foe so grim;
The God of battles nerve a Man to grapple now with him,—
And straight between his hugging arms I plunge my whetted knife,
Ha—ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life!
The God of battles nerve a Man to grapple now with him,—
And straight between his hugging arms I plunge my whetted knife,
Ha—ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life!
Frantic struggles—welling blood—the strife is almost o'er,—
The shaggy monster, feebly panting, wallows in his gore,—
Here, lap it hot, my gallant hounds,—the blood of foes is sweet;
Here, gild withal your dewlapp'd throats, and wash your brawny feet!
The shaggy monster, feebly panting, wallows in his gore,—
Here, lap it hot, my gallant hounds,—the blood of foes is sweet;
Here, gild withal your dewlapp'd throats, and wash your brawny feet!
So, shall we beard those tyrants in their dens another day,
Nor tamely wait, with slavish fear, their coming in the way;
And pleasant thoughts of peace and home shall fill our dreams to-night,
For lo, the God of battles has help'd us in the fight!
Nor tamely wait, with slavish fear, their coming in the way;
And pleasant thoughts of peace and home shall fill our dreams to-night,
For lo, the God of battles has help'd us in the fight!
The Song of Sixteen.
Who shall guess what I may be?
Who can tell my fortune to me?
For, bravest and brightest that ever was sung
May be—and shall be—the lot of the young!
Who can tell my fortune to me?
For, bravest and brightest that ever was sung
May be—and shall be—the lot of the young!
Hope, with her prizes and victories won,
Shines in the blaze of my morning sun,
Conquering Hope, with golden ray,
Blessing my landscape far away;
Shines in the blaze of my morning sun,
Conquering Hope, with golden ray,
Blessing my landscape far away;
155
All my meadows and hills are green,
And rippling waters glance between,—
All my skies are rosy bright,
Laughing in triumph at yester-night:
And rippling waters glance between,—
All my skies are rosy bright,
Laughing in triumph at yester-night:
My heart, my heart within me swells,
Panting, and stirring its hundred wells;—
For youth is a noble seed, that springs
Into the flower of heroes and kings!
Panting, and stirring its hundred wells;—
For youth is a noble seed, that springs
Into the flower of heroes and kings!
Rich in the present, though poor in the past,
I yearn for the future, vague and vast;
And lo! what treasure of glorious things
Giant Futurity sheds from his wings;
I yearn for the future, vague and vast;
And lo! what treasure of glorious things
Giant Futurity sheds from his wings;
Pleasures are there, like dropping balms,
And glory and honour with chaplets and palms,
And mind well at ease, and gladness, and health,
A river of peace, and a mine of wealth!
And glory and honour with chaplets and palms,
And mind well at ease, and gladness, and health,
A river of peace, and a mine of wealth!
Away with your counsels, and hinder me not,—
On, on let me press to my brilliant lot;
Young and strong, and sanguine and free,
How knowest thou what I may be?
On, on let me press to my brilliant lot;
Young and strong, and sanguine and free,
How knowest thou what I may be?
Forty.
Ah, poor youth! in pitiful truth,
Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth:
What thou shalt be well have I seen,—
Thou shalt be only what others have been.
Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth:
What thou shalt be well have I seen,—
Thou shalt be only what others have been.
156
Haply, within a few swift years,
A mind bow'd down with troubles and fears,
The commonest drudge of men and things,
Instead of your—conquering heroes and kings;
A mind bow'd down with troubles and fears,
The commonest drudge of men and things,
Instead of your—conquering heroes and kings;
Haply, to follies an early wreck,—
For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck,
And with a whelming, sudden sweep
The storm of temptation roars over the deep;
For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck,
And with a whelming, sudden sweep
The storm of temptation roars over the deep;
Lower the sails of pride, rash youth,—
Stand to the lowly tiller of truth;
Quick, or your limber bark shall be
The sport of the winds on a stormy sea.
Stand to the lowly tiller of truth;
Quick, or your limber bark shall be
The sport of the winds on a stormy sea.
Care and peril in lieu of joy,—
Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy:
Lo, thy mantling chalice of life
Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife;
Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy:
Lo, thy mantling chalice of life
Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife;
Cheated by pleasure, and sated with pain,—
Watching for honour, and watching in vain,—
Aching in heart, and ailing in head,
Wearily earning daily bread.
Watching for honour, and watching in vain,—
Aching in heart, and ailing in head,
Wearily earning daily bread.
—It is well. I discern a tear on thy cheek:
It is well,—thou art humbled, and silent, and meek:
Now,—courage again! and, with peril to cope,
Gird thee with vigour, and helm thee with hope!
It is well,—thou art humbled, and silent, and meek:
Now,—courage again! and, with peril to cope,
Gird thee with vigour, and helm thee with hope!
For life, good youth, hath never an ill
Which hope cannot scatter, and faith cannot kill;
And stubborn realities never shall bind
The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind.
Which hope cannot scatter, and faith cannot kill;
And stubborn realities never shall bind
The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind.
157
The Song of Seventy.
I am not old,—I cannot be old,
Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men:
Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men:
I am not old; though friends and foes
Alike have gone down to their graves,
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves:
Alike have gone down to their graves,
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves:
I am not old,—I cannot be old,
Though tottering, wrinkled, and grey;
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold
Call me not old to-day.
Though tottering, wrinkled, and grey;
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold
Call me not old to-day.
For, early memories round me throng,
Old times, and manners, and men,
As I look behind on my journey so long
Of threescore miles and ten;
Old times, and manners, and men,
As I look behind on my journey so long
Of threescore miles and ten;
I look behind, and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold,
And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they call'd me old.
Buoyant, and brave, and bold,
And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they call'd me old.
I do not see her—the old wife there—
Shrivell'd, and haggard, and grey,
But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day:
Shrivell'd, and haggard, and grey,
But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day:
158
I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men,
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then:
In the likeness of women and men,
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then:
And, as my own grandson rides on my knee,
Or plays with his hoop or kite,
I can well recollect I was merry as he—
The bright-eyed little wight!
Or plays with his hoop or kite,
I can well recollect I was merry as he—
The bright-eyed little wight!
'Tis not long since,—it cannot be long,—
My years so soon were spent,
Since I was a boy, both straight and strong,
Yet now am I feeble and bent.
My years so soon were spent,
Since I was a boy, both straight and strong,
Yet now am I feeble and bent.
A dream, a dream,—it is all a dream!
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth:
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth:
Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old,
Is the heart, for ever young;
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old,
Is the heart, for ever young;
For ever young,—though life's old age
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, the heart is a heritage
That keeps the old man young!
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, the heart is a heritage
That keeps the old man young!
159
Nature's Nobleman.
Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill,
Where pleasure itself cannot please;
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still
Affects to be quite at its ease;
For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank,
The freest is first of the band,
And nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
Is a man with his heart in his hand!
Where pleasure itself cannot please;
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still
Affects to be quite at its ease;
For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank,
The freest is first of the band,
And nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
Is a man with his heart in his hand!
Fearless in honesty, gentle yet just,
He warmly can love,—and can hate,
Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust
To Fashion's intolerant state:
For best in good breeding, and highest in rank,
Though lowly or poor in the land,
Is nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
The man with his heart in his hand!
He warmly can love,—and can hate,
Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust
To Fashion's intolerant state:
For best in good breeding, and highest in rank,
Though lowly or poor in the land,
Is nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
The man with his heart in his hand!
His fashion is passion, sincere and intense,
His impulses, simple and true,
Yet temper'd by judgment, and taught by good sense,
And cordial with me, and with you:
For the finest in manners, as highest in rank,
It is you, man! or you, man! who stand
Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,—
A man with his heart in his hand!
His impulses, simple and true,
Yet temper'd by judgment, and taught by good sense,
And cordial with me, and with you:
For the finest in manners, as highest in rank,
It is you, man! or you, man! who stand
Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,—
A man with his heart in his hand!
160
Never give up!
Never give up! it is wiser and better
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care:
Never give up! or the burthen may sink you,—
Providence kindly has mingled the cup,
And in all trials or troubles, bethink you,
The watchword of life must be, Never give up!
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care:
Never give up! or the burthen may sink you,—
Providence kindly has mingled the cup,
And in all trials or troubles, bethink you,
The watchword of life must be, Never give up!
Never give up! there are chances and changes
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,
And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
Ever success,—if you'll only hope on:
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
Is the true watchword of Never give up!
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,
And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
Ever success,—if you'll only hope on:
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
Is the true watchword of Never give up!
Never give up!—though the grape-shot may rattle,
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,
Stand like a rock,—and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst:
Never give up!—if adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup,
And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of Never give up!
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,
Stand like a rock,—and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst:
Never give up!—if adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup,
And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of Never give up!
161
Forgive and Forget.
When streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung,—
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,
None, none but an angel or God can declare
“I now can forgive and forget.”
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung,—
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,
None, none but an angel or God can declare
“I now can forgive and forget.”
But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
And the lips are in penitence steep'd,
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heap'd;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still
At once to forgive and forget.
And the lips are in penitence steep'd,
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heap'd;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still
At once to forgive and forget.
To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,
However his heart may forgive,
To blot out all insults and evils behind,
And but for the future to live:
Then how shall it be? for at every turn
Recollection the spirit will fret,
And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.
However his heart may forgive,
To blot out all insults and evils behind,
And but for the future to live:
Then how shall it be? for at every turn
Recollection the spirit will fret,
And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.
164
Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
And mind shall be partner with heart,
While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art:
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and—thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!
Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times
Been swift to forgive and forget!
And mind shall be partner with heart,
While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art:
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and—thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!
Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times
Been swift to forgive and forget!
Brood not on insults or injuries old,
For thou art injurious too,—
Count not their sum till the total is told,
For thou art unkind and untrue:
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
Now mercy with justice is met,
Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,
Nor learn to forgive and forget?
For thou art injurious too,—
Count not their sum till the total is told,
For thou art unkind and untrue:
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
Now mercy with justice is met,
Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,
Nor learn to forgive and forget?
Yes, yes; let a man, when his enemy weeps,
Be quick to receive him a friend;
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps
Hot coals,—to refine and amend;
And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,
As a nurse on her innocent pet,
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,
And whisper, Forgive and forget.
Be quick to receive him a friend;
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps
Hot coals,—to refine and amend;
And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,
As a nurse on her innocent pet,
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,
And whisper, Forgive and forget.
165
“My Mind to me a Kingdom is.”
Eureka! this is truth sublime,
Defying change, outwrestling time—
Eureka! well that truth is told,
Wisely spake the bard of old—
Eureka! there is peace and praise
In this short and simple phrase,
A sea of comforts, wide and deep,
Wherein my conscious soul to steep,
A hoard of happy-making wealth
To doat on, miserly, by stealth,
Through Time my reason's ripest fruit,
For all eternity its root,
Earth's harvest, and the seed of heaven,
To me, to me, by mercy given!
Defying change, outwrestling time—
Eureka! well that truth is told,
Wisely spake the bard of old—
Eureka! there is peace and praise
In this short and simple phrase,
A sea of comforts, wide and deep,
Wherein my conscious soul to steep,
A hoard of happy-making wealth
To doat on, miserly, by stealth,
Through Time my reason's ripest fruit,
For all eternity its root,
Earth's harvest, and the seed of heaven,
To me, to me, by mercy given!
Yes, Eureka,—I have found it,
And before the world will sound it;
This remains, and still shall stay
When life's gauds have past away,
This, of old my treasure-truth,
The bosom joy that warm'd my youth,
My happiness in manhood's prime,
My triumph down the stream of time,
Till death shall lull this heart in age,
And deathless glory crown my page,
My grace-born truth and treasure this,—
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
And before the world will sound it;
This remains, and still shall stay
When life's gauds have past away,
This, of old my treasure-truth,
The bosom joy that warm'd my youth,
My happiness in manhood's prime,
My triumph down the stream of time,
Till death shall lull this heart in age,
And deathless glory crown my page,
My grace-born truth and treasure this,—
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
166
Noble solace, true and strong,
Great reward for human wrong,
With an inward blessing still
To compensate all earthly ill,
To recompense for adverse fates,
Woes, or wants, or scorns, or hates,
To cherish, after man's neglect,
When foes deride, and friends suspect,
To soothe and bless the spirit bow'd
Down by the selfish and the proud,
To lift the soul above this scene
Of petty troubles trite and mean,
O there is moral might in this,—
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Great reward for human wrong,
With an inward blessing still
To compensate all earthly ill,
To recompense for adverse fates,
Woes, or wants, or scorns, or hates,
To cherish, after man's neglect,
When foes deride, and friends suspect,
To soothe and bless the spirit bow'd
Down by the selfish and the proud,
To lift the soul above this scene
Of petty troubles trite and mean,
O there is moral might in this,—
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Carve it deep, with letters bold,
In the imperishable gold,
Grave it on some primal rock
That hath stood the earthquake shock,
Make that word a citizen
Dwelling in the hearts of men,
Stamp it on the printed page,
Sound it in the ears of age,
Gladden sympathising youth
With the soft music of this truth,
This echo'd note of heavenly bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
In the imperishable gold,
Grave it on some primal rock
That hath stood the earthquake shock,
Make that word a citizen
Dwelling in the hearts of men,
Stamp it on the printed page,
Sound it in the ears of age,
Gladden sympathising youth
With the soft music of this truth,
This echo'd note of heavenly bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Aye, chide or scorn,—I will be proud,—
I am not of the common crowd;
No serf is here to outward things,—
He rules with chiefs! he reigns with kings!
Tell out thy secret joys, my mind,
Free and fearless as the wind,
And pour the triumphs of the soul
In words that like a river roll,
Foaming on with vital force
From their ever-gushing source,
Fountains of truth, that overwhelm
With swollen streams this royal realm,
And in Nilotic richness steep
My heart's Thebaid, rank and deep!
Or bolder, as my thoughts inspire,
Change that water into fire!
From the vext bowels of my soul
Lava currents roar and roll,
Bursting out in torrent wide
Through my crater's ragged side,
Rushing on from field to field
Till all with boiling stone is seal'd,
And my hot thoughts, in language pent,
Stand their own granite monument!
I am not of the common crowd;
No serf is here to outward things,—
He rules with chiefs! he reigns with kings!
167
Free and fearless as the wind,
And pour the triumphs of the soul
In words that like a river roll,
Foaming on with vital force
From their ever-gushing source,
Fountains of truth, that overwhelm
With swollen streams this royal realm,
And in Nilotic richness steep
My heart's Thebaid, rank and deep!
Or bolder, as my thoughts inspire,
Change that water into fire!
From the vext bowels of my soul
Lava currents roar and roll,
Bursting out in torrent wide
Through my crater's ragged side,
Rushing on from field to field
Till all with boiling stone is seal'd,
And my hot thoughts, in language pent,
Stand their own granite monument!
Yes! all the elements are mine,
To crush, create, dissolve, combine,—
All mine,—the confidence is just,
On God I ground my high-born trust
To stand, when pole is rent from pole,
Calm in my majesty of soul,
Watching the throes of this wreck'd world,
When from their thrones the Alps are hurl'd,
When fire consumes earth, sea and air,
To stand, unharm'd, undaunted there,
And grateful still to boast in this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
To crush, create, dissolve, combine,—
All mine,—the confidence is just,
On God I ground my high-born trust
To stand, when pole is rent from pole,
Calm in my majesty of soul,
Watching the throes of this wreck'd world,
When from their thrones the Alps are hurl'd,
When fire consumes earth, sea and air,
To stand, unharm'd, undaunted there,
168
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Brother poet, dead so long,
Heed these echoes to thy song,
And love me now, where'er thou art,
Yearning with magnetic heart
From thy throne in some bright sphere
On this poor brother, grovelling here:
For I too, I, can stoutly sing
I am every inch a king!
A king of Thought, a Potentate
Of glorious spiritual state,
A king of Thought, a king of Mind,
Realms unmapp'd and undefined,—
A King! beneath no Man's control,
Invested with a royal soul,
Crown'd by God's imperial hand
Before Him as a King to stand,
And by His wisdom train'd and taught
To rule my realms as King of Thought.
Heed these echoes to thy song,
And love me now, where'er thou art,
Yearning with magnetic heart
From thy throne in some bright sphere
On this poor brother, grovelling here:
For I too, I, can stoutly sing
I am every inch a king!
A king of Thought, a Potentate
Of glorious spiritual state,
A king of Thought, a king of Mind,
Realms unmapp'd and undefined,—
A King! beneath no Man's control,
Invested with a royal soul,
Crown'd by God's imperial hand
Before Him as a King to stand,
And by His wisdom train'd and taught
To rule my realms as King of Thought.
O thoughts,—how ill my fellow-men,
O thoughts,—how scantly my poor pen
Can guess or tell the myriad host
Wherewith you crowd my kingdom's coast!
For I am hemm'd and throng'd about
With your triumphant rabble-rout,
Hurried along by that mad flood,
The joy-excited multitude,
A conqueror, borne upon the foam
Of his great people's gladness home,
A monarch in his grandest state,
On whom a thousand thousand wait!
Lo! they come—my Tribes of Thought,
Fierce and flush'd and fever-fraught!
From the horizon all around
I hear with pride their coming sound;
See! their banners circling near,—
Glittering groves of shield and spear,
Flying clouds of troopers gay,
Serried lines in dark array,
Veterans calm with temper'd sword,
And a dishevell'd frantic horde,—
On they come with furious force,
Tramping foot, and thundering horse,
On they come, converging loud,
With clanging arms, a glorious crowd,
Shouting impatient, fierce and free,
For me their Monarch, yea, for me!
O thoughts,—how scantly my poor pen
Can guess or tell the myriad host
Wherewith you crowd my kingdom's coast!
For I am hemm'd and throng'd about
With your triumphant rabble-rout,
Hurried along by that mad flood,
The joy-excited multitude,
A conqueror, borne upon the foam
Of his great people's gladness home,
169
On whom a thousand thousand wait!
Lo! they come—my Tribes of Thought,
Fierce and flush'd and fever-fraught!
From the horizon all around
I hear with pride their coming sound;
See! their banners circling near,—
Glittering groves of shield and spear,
Flying clouds of troopers gay,
Serried lines in dark array,
Veterans calm with temper'd sword,
And a dishevell'd frantic horde,—
On they come with furious force,
Tramping foot, and thundering horse,
On they come, converging loud,
With clanging arms, a glorious crowd,
Shouting impatient, fierce and free,
For me their Monarch, yea, for me!
Then, in my majesty and power,
I quell the madness of the hour,
Bid that tumultuous turmoil cease,
And frown my multitudes to peace.
Each to his peril and his post!
All hush'd throughout my mighty host:
Courage clear, and duty stern,—
Heads that freeze and hearts that burn;
Marshall'd straight in order due,
Legions! pass in swift review,
Bending to my blazon'd Will,
Loyal to that standard still,
And hailing me with homage then
King of Thoughts—and thus, of Men!
I quell the madness of the hour,
Bid that tumultuous turmoil cease,
And frown my multitudes to peace.
Each to his peril and his post!
All hush'd throughout my mighty host:
Courage clear, and duty stern,—
Heads that freeze and hearts that burn;
Marshall'd straight in order due,
Legions! pass in swift review,
Bending to my blazon'd Will,
Loyal to that standard still,
170
King of Thoughts—and thus, of Men!
What? am I powerless to control
Nations, by my single soul?
What? have I not made thousands thrill
By the mere impulse of my will,
When the strong Thought goes forth, and binds
Captive a wondering herd of minds?
And is not this to reign alone
More than the ermine and the throne,
The jewell'd state, the gilded rooms,
The mindless jay in peacock plumes?
Yes,—if the inmate soul outweighs
Its dull clay house in power and praise,
Yes,—if Eternity be true,
And Time both false and fleeting too,
Then, humbler kings, my boast be this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Nations, by my single soul?
What? have I not made thousands thrill
By the mere impulse of my will,
When the strong Thought goes forth, and binds
Captive a wondering herd of minds?
And is not this to reign alone
More than the ermine and the throne,
The jewell'd state, the gilded rooms,
The mindless jay in peacock plumes?
Yes,—if the inmate soul outweighs
Its dull clay house in power and praise,
Yes,—if Eternity be true,
And Time both false and fleeting too,
Then, humbler kings, my boast be this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
And what, though weak and slow of speech,
Ill to comfort, dull to teach?
What, though hiding from the ken
Of my small prying fellow-men,—
Still within my musing mind
Wisdom's secret stores I find,
And, little noticed, sweetly feed
On hidden manna, meat indeed,
Blessed thoughts I never told
Unconsider'd, uncontroll'd,
Rushing by as thick and fast
As autumn leaves upon the blast,
Or better like the gracious rain
Dropping on some thirsty plain.
And is not this to be a king,
To carry in my heart a spring
Of ceaseless pleasures, deep and pure,
Wealth cannot buy, nor power procure?
Yea,—by the poet's artless art,
And the sweet searchings of his heart,
By his unknown unheeded bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Ill to comfort, dull to teach?
What, though hiding from the ken
Of my small prying fellow-men,—
Still within my musing mind
Wisdom's secret stores I find,
And, little noticed, sweetly feed
On hidden manna, meat indeed,
Blessed thoughts I never told
Unconsider'd, uncontroll'd,
Rushing by as thick and fast
As autumn leaves upon the blast,
171
Dropping on some thirsty plain.
And is not this to be a king,
To carry in my heart a spring
Of ceaseless pleasures, deep and pure,
Wealth cannot buy, nor power procure?
Yea,—by the poet's artless art,
And the sweet searchings of his heart,
By his unknown unheeded bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Place me on some desert shore
Foot of man ne'er wander'd o'er;
Lock me in a lonely cell
Beneath some prison citadel;
Still, here or there, within I find
My quiet kingdom of the Mind:
Nay,—mid the tempest fierce and dark,
Float me on peril's frailest bark,
My quenchless soul could sit and think
And smile at danger's dizziest brink:
And wherefore?—God, my God, is still
King of kings in good and ill,
And where He dwelleth—everywhere—
Safety supreme and peace are there;
And where He reigneth—all around—
Wisdom, and love, and power are found,
And reconciled to Him and bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Foot of man ne'er wander'd o'er;
Lock me in a lonely cell
Beneath some prison citadel;
Still, here or there, within I find
My quiet kingdom of the Mind:
Nay,—mid the tempest fierce and dark,
Float me on peril's frailest bark,
My quenchless soul could sit and think
And smile at danger's dizziest brink:
And wherefore?—God, my God, is still
King of kings in good and ill,
And where He dwelleth—everywhere—
Safety supreme and peace are there;
And where He reigneth—all around—
Wisdom, and love, and power are found,
And reconciled to Him and bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
Thus for my days; each waking hour
Grand with majesty and power,
Every minute rich in treasure,
Gems of peace, and pearls of pleasure.
And for my nights—those wondrous nights!
How manifold my Mind's delights,
When the young truant, gladly caught
In its own labyrinths of thought,
Finds there another realm to range,
The dynasties of Chance and Change.
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
Their name, their very essence, seems
A tender light, not dark nor clear,
A sad sweet mystery wild and dear,
A dull soft feeling unexplain'd,
A lie half true, a truth half feign'd:
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
When Reason, with inebriate gleams,
Looses from his wise control
The prancing Fancies of the soul,
And sober Judgment, slumbering still,
Sets free Caprice to guide the Will.
Within one night have I not spent
Years of adventurous banishment,
Strangely groping like the blind
In the dark caverns of my mind?
Have I not dwelt, from eve till morn,
Lifetimes in length for praise or scorn,
With fancied joys, ideal woes,
And all sensation's warmest glows,
Wondrously thus expanding Life
Through seeming scenes of peace or strife,
Until I verily reign sublime,
A great creative king of Time?
And there are people, things, and places,
Usual themes, familiar faces,
A second life, that looks as real
As this dull world's own unideal,
Another life of dreams by night,
That, still forgotten, wanes in light,
Yet seems itself to wake and sleep,
And in that sleep dreams doubly deep,
While those same dreams may dream anon,
Tangled mazes wandering on!
Yes, I have often, weak and worn,
Feebly waked at earliest morn,
As a shipwreck'd sailor, tost
By the wild waves on some rough coast,
Of perils past remembering nought
But some dim cataracts of thought,
And only roused betimes to know
That yesterday seems years ago!
And I can apprehend full well
What old Pythagoras could tell
Of other scenes, and other climes,
And other Selfs in other times;
For, oft my consciousness has reel'd
With scores of “Richmonds in the field,”
As, multiform, with no surprise,
I see myself in other guise,
And wonderless walk side by side
With mine own soul, self-multiplied!
If it be royal then to reign
Over an infinite domain,
If it be more than monarch can
To lengthen out the life of man,
Yea, if a godlike thing it be
To revel in ubiquity,
Is there but empty boast in this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is?”
Grand with majesty and power,
172
Gems of peace, and pearls of pleasure.
And for my nights—those wondrous nights!
How manifold my Mind's delights,
When the young truant, gladly caught
In its own labyrinths of thought,
Finds there another realm to range,
The dynasties of Chance and Change.
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
Their name, their very essence, seems
A tender light, not dark nor clear,
A sad sweet mystery wild and dear,
A dull soft feeling unexplain'd,
A lie half true, a truth half feign'd:
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
When Reason, with inebriate gleams,
Looses from his wise control
The prancing Fancies of the soul,
And sober Judgment, slumbering still,
Sets free Caprice to guide the Will.
Within one night have I not spent
Years of adventurous banishment,
Strangely groping like the blind
In the dark caverns of my mind?
Have I not dwelt, from eve till morn,
Lifetimes in length for praise or scorn,
With fancied joys, ideal woes,
And all sensation's warmest glows,
Wondrously thus expanding Life
Through seeming scenes of peace or strife,
Until I verily reign sublime,
A great creative king of Time?
173
Usual themes, familiar faces,
A second life, that looks as real
As this dull world's own unideal,
Another life of dreams by night,
That, still forgotten, wanes in light,
Yet seems itself to wake and sleep,
And in that sleep dreams doubly deep,
While those same dreams may dream anon,
Tangled mazes wandering on!
Yes, I have often, weak and worn,
Feebly waked at earliest morn,
As a shipwreck'd sailor, tost
By the wild waves on some rough coast,
Of perils past remembering nought
But some dim cataracts of thought,
And only roused betimes to know
That yesterday seems years ago!
And I can apprehend full well
What old Pythagoras could tell
Of other scenes, and other climes,
And other Selfs in other times;
For, oft my consciousness has reel'd
With scores of “Richmonds in the field,”
As, multiform, with no surprise,
I see myself in other guise,
And wonderless walk side by side
With mine own soul, self-multiplied!
If it be royal then to reign
Over an infinite domain,
If it be more than monarch can
To lengthen out the life of man,
174
To revel in ubiquity,
Is there but empty boast in this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is?”
—Peace, rash fool; be proud no more,
Count thy faults and follies o'er,
Turn aside, and note within
Thy secret charnel-house of Sin,
Thy bitter heart, thy covetous mind,
Evil thoughts, and words unkind:
Can so foul and mean a thing
Reign a spiritual King?
Art thou not—yea thou, myself,
In hope a slave to pride and pelf?
Art thou not,—yea thou, my mind,
Weak and naked, poor and blind?
Yea, be humble; yea, be still;
Meekly bow that rebel Will;
Seek not selfishly for praise;
Go more softly all thy days;
For to thee belongs no power,
Wretched insect of an hour,—
And if God, in bounteous dole,
Hath grafted life upon thy soul,
Know thou, there is out of Him
Nor light in mind, nor might in limb;
And, but for One, who from the grave
Of sin and death stood forth to save,
Thy mind, that royal mind, of thine,
So great, ambitious, and divine,
Would but a root of anguish be,
A madness and a misery,
A bitter fear, a hideous care
All too terrible to bear,
Kingly,—but king of pains and woes,
The sceptred slave to throbs and throes!
Justly then, my God, to Thee,
My royal soul shall bend the knee,
My royal soul, Thy glorious breath,
By Thee set free from guilt and death,
Before Thy majesty bows down,
Offering the homage of her crown,
Well pleased to sing in better bliss,
“My God to me a kingdom is.”
Count thy faults and follies o'er,
Turn aside, and note within
Thy secret charnel-house of Sin,
Thy bitter heart, thy covetous mind,
Evil thoughts, and words unkind:
Can so foul and mean a thing
Reign a spiritual King?
Art thou not—yea thou, myself,
In hope a slave to pride and pelf?
Art thou not,—yea thou, my mind,
Weak and naked, poor and blind?
Yea, be humble; yea, be still;
Meekly bow that rebel Will;
Seek not selfishly for praise;
Go more softly all thy days;
For to thee belongs no power,
Wretched insect of an hour,—
And if God, in bounteous dole,
Hath grafted life upon thy soul,
Know thou, there is out of Him
Nor light in mind, nor might in limb;
And, but for One, who from the grave
Of sin and death stood forth to save,
Thy mind, that royal mind, of thine,
So great, ambitious, and divine,
175
A madness and a misery,
A bitter fear, a hideous care
All too terrible to bear,
Kingly,—but king of pains and woes,
The sceptred slave to throbs and throes!
Justly then, my God, to Thee,
My royal soul shall bend the knee,
My royal soul, Thy glorious breath,
By Thee set free from guilt and death,
Before Thy majesty bows down,
Offering the homage of her crown,
Well pleased to sing in better bliss,
“My God to me a kingdom is.”
177
Counsel.
FOR MUSIC.
There is a time for praising,
And a better time for pray'r,—
The heart its anthem raising,
Or uttering its care:
One minute is for smiling,
Another for the tear,—
Hope, by turns, beguiling,
Or her haggard brother, Fear.
And a better time for pray'r,—
The heart its anthem raising,
Or uttering its care:
One minute is for smiling,
Another for the tear,—
Hope, by turns, beguiling,
Or her haggard brother, Fear.
But, if in joy thou praisest
The generous Hand that gave,—
And if in woe thou raisest
The pray'r that He may save;
Thy griefs shall seem all pleasure
As the chidings of a Friend,
And thy joy's ecstatic measure
A beginning without end!
The generous Hand that gave,—
And if in woe thou raisest
The pray'r that He may save;
Thy griefs shall seem all pleasure
As the chidings of a Friend,
And thy joy's ecstatic measure
A beginning without end!
Home.
FOR MUSIC.
I never left the place that knew me,
And may never know me more,
Where the cords of kindness drew me,
And have gladden'd me of yore,
But my secret soul has smarted
With a feeling full of gloom
For the days that are departed
And the place I call'd my Home.
And may never know me more,
Where the cords of kindness drew me,
And have gladden'd me of yore,
But my secret soul has smarted
With a feeling full of gloom
For the days that are departed
And the place I call'd my Home.
179
I am not of those who wander
Unaffection'd here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of my sites of joy or care;
And I point sad memory's finger
(Though my faithless foot may roam)
Where I've most been made to linger
In the place I call'd my Home.
Unaffection'd here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of my sites of joy or care;
And I point sad memory's finger
(Though my faithless foot may roam)
Where I've most been made to linger
In the place I call'd my Home.
Byegones.
FOR MUSIC.
“Let byegones be byegones,”—they foolishly say,
And bid me be wise and forget them;
But old recollections are active to-day,
And I can do nought but regret them:
Though the present be pleasant, all joyous and gay,
And promising well for the morrow,
I love to look back on the years past away,
Embalming my byegones in sorrow.
And bid me be wise and forget them;
But old recollections are active to-day,
And I can do nought but regret them:
Though the present be pleasant, all joyous and gay,
And promising well for the morrow,
I love to look back on the years past away,
Embalming my byegones in sorrow.
If the morning of life has a mantle of grey,
Its noon will be blyther and brighter;
If March has its storm, there is sunshine in May,
And light out of darkness is lighter:
Thus the present is pleasant, a cheerful to-day,
With a wiser, a soberer gladness,
Because it is tinged with the mellowing ray
Of a yesterday's sunset of sadness.
Its noon will be blyther and brighter;
If March has its storm, there is sunshine in May,
And light out of darkness is lighter:
Thus the present is pleasant, a cheerful to-day,
With a wiser, a soberer gladness,
Because it is tinged with the mellowing ray
Of a yesterday's sunset of sadness.
180
Rule, Britannia!
A STIRRING SONG FOR PATRIOTS, IN THE YEAR 1860.
Rise! ye gallant youth of Britain,
Gather to your country's call,
On your hearts her name is written,
Rise to help her, one and all!
Cast away each feud and faction,
Brood not over wrong nor ill,—
Rouse your virtues into action,
For we love our country still,—
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Raise that thrilling shout once more,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia,
Conqueror over sea and shore!
Gather to your country's call,
On your hearts her name is written,
Rise to help her, one and all!
Cast away each feud and faction,
Brood not over wrong nor ill,—
Rouse your virtues into action,
For we love our country still,—
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Raise that thrilling shout once more,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia,
Conqueror over sea and shore!
France is coming, full of bluster,
Hot to wipe away her stain,
Therefore, brothers, here we muster
Just to give it her again!
And if foemen, blind with fury,
Dare to cross our ocean-gulf,
Wait not then for judge nor jury,—
Shoot them as you would a wolf!
For Britannia, just Britannia,
Claims our chorus as before,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.
Hot to wipe away her stain,
Therefore, brothers, here we muster
Just to give it her again!
And if foemen, blind with fury,
Dare to cross our ocean-gulf,
Wait not then for judge nor jury,—
Shoot them as you would a wolf!
For Britannia, just Britannia,
Claims our chorus as before,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.
181
They may writhe, for we have gall'd them
With our guns in every clime,—
They may hate us, for we call'd them
Serfs and subjects in old time!
Boasting Gaul, we calmly scorn you
As old Æsop's bull the frogs,
Come and welcome! for, we warn you,
We shall fling you to our dogs!
For Britannia, our Britannia,
Thunders with a lion's roar,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.
With our guns in every clime,—
They may hate us, for we call'd them
Serfs and subjects in old time!
Boasting Gaul, we calmly scorn you
As old Æsop's bull the frogs,
Come and welcome! for, we warn you,
We shall fling you to our dogs!
For Britannia, our Britannia,
Thunders with a lion's roar,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.
See, uprear'd our holy standard!
Crowd around it, gallant hearts!
What? should Britain's fame be slander'd
As by fault on our parts?
Let the rabid Frenchman threaten,
Let the mad invader come,
We will hunt them out of Britain,
Or can die for hearth and home!
For Britannia, dear Britannia
Wakes our chorus evermore,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.
Crowd around it, gallant hearts!
What? should Britain's fame be slander'd
As by fault on our parts?
Let the rabid Frenchman threaten,
Let the mad invader come,
We will hunt them out of Britain,
Or can die for hearth and home!
For Britannia, dear Britannia
Wakes our chorus evermore,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.
Rise then, patriots! name endearing,
Flock from Scotland's moors and dales,
From the green glad fields of Erin,
From the mountain homes of Wales,—
Rise! for sister England calls you,
Rise! our commonweal to serve,
Rise! while now the song enthralls you,
Thrilling every vein and nerve,
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Conquer, as thou didst of yore!
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Over every sea and shore.
Flock from Scotland's moors and dales,
From the green glad fields of Erin,
From the mountain homes of Wales,—
182
Rise! our commonweal to serve,
Rise! while now the song enthralls you,
Thrilling every vein and nerve,
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Conquer, as thou didst of yore!
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Over every sea and shore.
The Emigrant Ship.
FOR MUSIC.
Far away, far away,
The emigrant ship must sail to-day:
Cruel ship,—to look so gay
Bearing the exiles far away.
The emigrant ship must sail to-day:
Cruel ship,—to look so gay
Bearing the exiles far away.
Sad and sore, sad and sore,
Many a fond heart bleeds at the core:
Cruel dread,—to meet no more,
Bitter sorrow, sad and sore.
Many a fond heart bleeds at the core:
Cruel dread,—to meet no more,
Bitter sorrow, sad and sore.
Many years, many years
At best will they battle with perils and fears:
Cruel pilot,—for he steers
The exiles away for many years.
At best will they battle with perils and fears:
Cruel pilot,—for he steers
The exiles away for many years.
183
Long ago, long ago!
For the days that are gone their tears shall flow:
Cruel hour,—to tear them so
From all they cherish'd long ago.
For the days that are gone their tears shall flow:
Cruel hour,—to tear them so
From all they cherish'd long ago.
Fare ye well, fare ye well!
To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell:
Cruel tale it were to tell
How the exile sighs farewell.
To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell:
Cruel tale it were to tell
How the exile sighs farewell.
Far away, far away!
Is there indeed no hope to-day?
Cruel and false it were to say
There are no pleasures far away.
Is there indeed no hope to-day?
Cruel and false it were to say
There are no pleasures far away.
Far away, far away!
Every night and every day
Kind and wise it were to pray,
God be with them far away!
Every night and every day
Kind and wise it were to pray,
God be with them far away!
The Assurance of Horace.
I have achieved a tower of fame
More durable than gold,
And loftier than the royal frame
Of Pyramids of old,—
Which none inclemencies of clime,
Nor fiercest winds that blow,
Nor endless change, nor lapse of time,
Shall ever overthrow!
More durable than gold,
And loftier than the royal frame
Of Pyramids of old,—
Which none inclemencies of clime,
Nor fiercest winds that blow,
Nor endless change, nor lapse of time,
Shall ever overthrow!
184
I cannot perish utterly:
The brighter part of me
Must live—and live—and never die,
But baffle Death's decree!
For I shall always grow, and spread
My new-blown honours still,
Long as the priest and vestal tread
The Capitolian hill.
The brighter part of me
Must live—and live—and never die,
But baffle Death's decree!
For I shall always grow, and spread
My new-blown honours still,
Long as the priest and vestal tread
The Capitolian hill.
I shall be sung, where thy rough waves,
My native river, foam,—
And where old Daunus scantly laves
And rules his rustic home;
As chief and first I shall be sung,
Though lowly, great in might
To tune my country's heart and tongue,
And tune them both aright.
My native river, foam,—
And where old Daunus scantly laves
And rules his rustic home;
As chief and first I shall be sung,
Though lowly, great in might
To tune my country's heart and tongue,
And tune them both aright.
Thou then, my soul, assume thy state,
And take thine honours due;
Be proud, as thy deserts are great,—
To thine own praise be true!
Thou too, celestial Muse, come down,
And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown
To weave thy Poet's hair.
And take thine honours due;
Be proud, as thy deserts are great,—
To thine own praise be true!
Thou too, celestial Muse, come down,
And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown
To weave thy Poet's hair.
185
The Assurance of Ovid.
Now have I done my work!—which not Jove's ireCan make undone, nor sword, nor time, nor fire.
Whene'er that day, whose only powers extend
Against this body, my brief life shall end,
Still in my better portion evermore
Above the stars undying shall I soar!
My name shall never die: but through all time,
Wherever Rome shall reach a conquer'd clime,
There, in that people's tongue, shall this my page
Be read and glorified from age to age;—
Yea, if the bodings of my spirit give
True note of inspiration, I shall live!
Post-Letters.
Lottery tickets every day,—
And ever drawn a blank:
Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank:
Morn by morn, and week by week,
They cheat us, or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek
Some stirring daily news.
And ever drawn a blank:
Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank:
Morn by morn, and week by week,
They cheat us, or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek
Some stirring daily news.
The heedless postman on his path
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
I never note him trudging near
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
186
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!
I hope—what hope I not?—vague things
Of wondrous possible good;
I dread—as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:
Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews
May now be hovering o'er,—
Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!
Of wondrous possible good;
I dread—as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:
Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews
May now be hovering o'er,—
Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!
O Mystery, master-key to life,
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,
And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe
Is travailing in birth!
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,
And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe
Is travailing in birth!
See, on my neighbour's threshold stands
Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands
—My Being's alter'd plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,
Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distill'd from Gideon's fleece!
Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands
—My Being's alter'd plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,
Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distill'd from Gideon's fleece!
187
Who knoweth? may not loves be dead,—
Or those we loved laid low,—
Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled,
And all the world my foe?
Or who can tell if Fortune's hour
(Which once on all doth shine)
Be not within this morning's dower,
A prosperous morn of mine?
Or those we loved laid low,—
Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled,
And all the world my foe?
Or who can tell if Fortune's hour
(Which once on all doth shine)
Be not within this morning's dower,
A prosperous morn of mine?
Ah, cold Reality!—in spite
Of hopes, and endless chance,
That bitter postman, ruthless wight,
Has cheated poor Romance:
No letters! O the dreary phrase:
Another day forlorn:—
And thus I wend upon my ways
To watch another morn.
Of hopes, and endless chance,
That bitter postman, ruthless wight,
Has cheated poor Romance:
No letters! O the dreary phrase:
Another day forlorn:—
And thus I wend upon my ways
To watch another morn.
Cease, babbler!—let those doubtings cease:
What? should a son of heaven
With the pure manna of his Peace
Mix up this faithless leaven?
Not so!—for in the hands of God,
And in none earthly will,
Abides alike my staff, and rod,
My good, and seeming ill.
What? should a son of heaven
With the pure manna of his Peace
Mix up this faithless leaven?
Not so!—for in the hands of God,
And in none earthly will,
Abides alike my staff, and rod,
My good, and seeming ill.
| Ballads for the Times | |