 | The poet's journal |  |
THE POET'S JOURNAL.
18
DARKNESS.
The thread I held has slipped from out my hand:
In this dark labyrinth, without a clew,
Groping for guidance, stricken blind, I stand,
A helpless child that knows not what to do.
In this dark labyrinth, without a clew,
Groping for guidance, stricken blind, I stand,
A helpless child that knows not what to do.
When all the glory of the morn was mine,
The sudden night surprised me unawares:
I see no pitying star above me shine,
I hear no voice in answer to my prayers.
The sudden night surprised me unawares:
I see no pitying star above me shine,
I hear no voice in answer to my prayers.
At every step, I stumble on the road;
Fain would I rest, the wild hours whirl me on;
What business have I in this blank abode,
Whence Love, and Hope, and even Faith, are gone?
Fain would I rest, the wild hours whirl me on;
What business have I in this blank abode,
Whence Love, and Hope, and even Faith, are gone?
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A child of summer, shivering in the cold,—
A son of light, by darkness overcome,—
A bird of air, my broken wings I fold,
A harp of joy, my shattered strings are dumb.
A son of light, by darkness overcome,—
A bird of air, my broken wings I fold,
A harp of joy, my shattered strings are dumb.
And every gift that Life to me had given
Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:
There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:
There is no pity in the heart of God.
Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:
There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:
There is no pity in the heart of God.
23
THE DEAD MARCH.
I.
The April sky with sunshine filled the street,And lightly fell the tread of pattering feet,
As on the last year's leaves the April rain.
The glaring houses wore a foreign grace;
A foreign sweetness shone on Labor's face,
And open lay, relaxed, the hand of Gain.
II.
My sorrow slept; I breathed the peace of Spring.One fledgeling hope outreached a timorous wing:
Concealed, at least, and sacred was my pain,—
When, suddenly, the dreadful trumpets blew,
And every wind my gloomy secret knew,
And all the echoes hurled it back again.
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III.
Before a stranger's corpse the trumpets criedSo bitterly, it seemed all love had died:
Then hollow horns took up the fatal strain,
Till tongues of fire went flashing through the air,
The myriad clamors of a sole despair,
The cry of grief that knows its cry is vain.
IV.
The dead was fortunate,—he could not hear:The mourners comforted, behind his bier:
Through happy crowds advanced the funeral train:
Mine was the sorrow, mine the deathlike pang,
And tears, that burned the eyelids as they sprang,
To hear the awful music of my pain.
38
INDIFFERENCE.
I.
We Fools! that meekly take the bitAnd drag the burden all our lives!
Poor, blinded steeds, we all submit,
Nor know our load, scarce seeing it,
Although with stinging lash Fate goads us as she drives.
II.
What does it help, the gold we bear,When we are worn, and halt, and lean?
No fresher tastes the dusty air
When Fame's triumphant trumpets blare,
And we the road would leave, to lie in pastures green.
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III.
Nor profits much a virtuous name,So short a time the crown we wear:
In fifty years 't will be the same
As if it were a crown of shame,
For none will know our lives, or, if they knew, would care.
IV.
Life came to me: why should I takeThe tasks I did not seek to do?
I did them for another's sake
In vain: and now the yoke I break,
And let the world roll on, regardless of its crew.
V.
Here, take my days, whatever FateThe worthless gift may choose to claim;
For I am weary of their weight:
Alike to me is love or hate:
Do with me as you please, all fortunes are the same.
86
QUESTIONS.
One thought sits brooding in my bosom,
As broodeth in her nest the dove;
A strange, delicious doubt o'ercomes me,—
But is it love?
As broodeth in her nest the dove;
A strange, delicious doubt o'ercomes me,—
But is it love?
I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:
My secret dreams around her move,
Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—
Can this be love?
My secret dreams around her move,
Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—
Can this be love?
Is 't love without his tender tumult?
Or passion purified from pain?
In calmer forms the old emotions
Returned again?
Or passion purified from pain?
In calmer forms the old emotions
Returned again?
So still the stream, towards her setting,
I whisper: Can it rise above
Her banks, and flood the guarded island
Where blooms her love?
I whisper: Can it rise above
Her banks, and flood the guarded island
Where blooms her love?
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Will she, to hear a voice so timid,
A shy and doubtful heart incline,
Though desperate hope and endless longing
Awake in mine?
A shy and doubtful heart incline,
Though desperate hope and endless longing
Awake in mine?
I breathe but peace when she is near me,—
A peace her absence takes away:
My heart commands her constant presence:
Will hers obey?
A peace her absence takes away:
My heart commands her constant presence:
Will hers obey?
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LOVE JUSTIFIED.
Within my heart 'tis clear at last:
The haunting doubt in peace is laid,
Of faithlessness towards the Past,
Which made reviving love afraid.
The haunting doubt in peace is laid,
Of faithlessness towards the Past,
Which made reviving love afraid.
For Love in abnegation lives;
His eye no sacrifice can dim;
He most is blessed when he gives
A greater bliss than comes to him;
His eye no sacrifice can dim;
He most is blessed when he gives
A greater bliss than comes to him;
And true to him is true to all
Whose brows are worth his crown to wear.
His chosen are not those who fall,
Through loss of him, to blank despair,
Whose brows are worth his crown to wear.
His chosen are not those who fall,
Through loss of him, to blank despair,
But those whom he has left awhile,
That in the dark their faith be tried,—
On whom his blessing yet shall smile,
If in the dark their faith abide.
That in the dark their faith be tried,—
On whom his blessing yet shall smile,
If in the dark their faith abide.
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No treason in my love I see,
For treason cannot dwell with truth
But later blossoms crown a tree
Too deeply set to die in youth.
For treason cannot dwell with truth
But later blossoms crown a tree
Too deeply set to die in youth.
The blighted promise of the old
In this new love is reconciled;
For, when my heart confessed its hold,
The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!
In this new love is reconciled;
For, when my heart confessed its hold,
The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!
It brightens backward through the Past
And gilds the gloomy path I trod,
And forward, till it fades at last
In light, before the feet of God,
And gilds the gloomy path I trod,
And forward, till it fades at last
In light, before the feet of God,
Where stands the saint, whose radiant brow
This solace beams, while I adore:
Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,
Thou never couldst have loved before!
This solace beams, while I adore:
Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,
Thou never couldst have loved before!
112
A WATCH OF THE NIGHT.
Blow, winds of midnight, blow!
The clouds, fast-flying, chase
Across the pallid face
Of yonder moon, and go!
The clouds, fast-flying, chase
Across the pallid face
Of yonder moon, and go!
Sweep, as ye list, the land:
Hurl down the heavy corn,
And wrench the trees forlorn
That struggle where they stand!
Hurl down the heavy corn,
And wrench the trees forlorn
That struggle where they stand!
Though mighty to destroy,
To me ye bring no fear;
But in your voice I hear
An echo of my joy.
To me ye bring no fear;
But in your voice I hear
An echo of my joy.
Life—life to me ye bring:
The precious soul, that takes
Its life from mine, awakes,
And soon will crown me king.
The precious soul, that takes
Its life from mine, awakes,
And soon will crown me king.
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I stand with silent breath,
To hear one little cry
Ring through the roaring sky,
And worlds of Life and Death.
To hear one little cry
Ring through the roaring sky,
And worlds of Life and Death.
Wake, timid soul, and be!
Two Fathers wait thy birth:
The love of Heaven and Earth
Stands by to welcome thee!
Two Fathers wait thy birth:
The love of Heaven and Earth
Stands by to welcome thee!
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THE FAMILY.
Dear Love, whatever fate
The flying years unfold,
There 's none can dissipate
The happiness we hold.
Whatever cloud may rise,
The very storms grow mild
Where bend the blissful skies
O'er Husband, Wife, and Child.
The flying years unfold,
There 's none can dissipate
The happiness we hold.
Whatever cloud may rise,
The very storms grow mild
Where bend the blissful skies
O'er Husband, Wife, and Child.
The errant dreams that failed,
The promises that fled,
The roseate hopes that paled,
The loves that now are dead,
The treason of the Past,—
All, all are reconciled:
Life's glory shines at last
On Father, Mother, Child!
The promises that fled,
The roseate hopes that paled,
The loves that now are dead,
The treason of the Past,—
All, all are reconciled:
Life's glory shines at last
On Father, Mother, Child!
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To meet the days and years,
With hands that never part;
To shed no secret tears,
To hide no lonely heart:
To know our longing stilled,
To feel that God has smiled:
These are the dreams fulfilled
In Husband, Wife, and Child,—
In Father, Mother, Child!
With hands that never part;
To shed no secret tears,
To hide no lonely heart:
To know our longing stilled,
To feel that God has smiled:
These are the dreams fulfilled
In Husband, Wife, and Child,—
In Father, Mother, Child!
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PASSING THE SIRENS.
ULYSSES.
The headlands pale, the long, far-pointing cliffs
Of Circe's isle, are fading on the sea.
Our oars are idle, for the rising wind,
Strong Auster, fills the sail: the galley's beak
From every billow tears the garland foam,
And trails the scattered sea-blooms in her wake.
We should be near the islands: look, my men,
You, Perimedes, look, whose hawk-eyes peer,
Deep-set, beneath their many-wrinkled lids,
Tell me if yon be shores which rather float
On the unburdened seas, the isles of heat,
Delusive vapor-lands that come and go,
Than rise from under, lifting solid fronts
To meet the turmoil of the changing tides.
Of Circe's isle, are fading on the sea.
Our oars are idle, for the rising wind,
Strong Auster, fills the sail: the galley's beak
From every billow tears the garland foam,
And trails the scattered sea-blooms in her wake.
We should be near the islands: look, my men,
You, Perimedes, look, whose hawk-eyes peer,
Deep-set, beneath their many-wrinkled lids,
Tell me if yon be shores which rather float
On the unburdened seas, the isles of heat,
Delusive vapor-lands that come and go,
Than rise from under, lifting solid fronts
To meet the turmoil of the changing tides.
A steady helm, my pilot! yonder lies
The broader channel: look not on the shores
That glimmering change from purple into green,
But mark the burning highway of the sun,
Now to his bath descending,—follow that,
Straight through, and out on waters unexplored,
Ay, though we reach the Thunder's awful house,
The caverned hell of storms, than once touch keel
In these smooth harbors. Turn away your eyes,
My sailors, from the fair, fast-rising isles,
That drug the winds with many a musky flower
To sleep, that smooth the waters as with oil,
And open bowery laps of sunny coves,
To tempt your tempest-battered frames. And me,
Who never gave ye toils I did not share,
Or tasted pleasures I denied ye,—who
In Chian ports the flaccid wine-skin filled,
And in the arms of soft Ionian girls
Ye after storms long anchorage allowed,—
Me bind ye fast, here, at the mainmast's foot,
And stop my ears with wool, lest I should lose
The settled will that drives my purpose on,
And falter with slack sails, the shame of all,
Of ye, my men, and all who honored me,
Heroes and demigods, in Troy. For I,
Wiser than ye in scheming, stronger proved
In much endurance, have the keener sense
Of all delights and all indulgences,
The more temptation to forbidden lusts.
Let me not hear the singing from the isles,
Or see the Sirens, naked in the shade,
Spread their alluring couches!
The broader channel: look not on the shores
That glimmering change from purple into green,
But mark the burning highway of the sun,
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Straight through, and out on waters unexplored,
Ay, though we reach the Thunder's awful house,
The caverned hell of storms, than once touch keel
In these smooth harbors. Turn away your eyes,
My sailors, from the fair, fast-rising isles,
That drug the winds with many a musky flower
To sleep, that smooth the waters as with oil,
And open bowery laps of sunny coves,
To tempt your tempest-battered frames. And me,
Who never gave ye toils I did not share,
Or tasted pleasures I denied ye,—who
In Chian ports the flaccid wine-skin filled,
And in the arms of soft Ionian girls
Ye after storms long anchorage allowed,—
Me bind ye fast, here, at the mainmast's foot,
And stop my ears with wool, lest I should lose
The settled will that drives my purpose on,
And falter with slack sails, the shame of all,
Of ye, my men, and all who honored me,
Heroes and demigods, in Troy. For I,
Wiser than ye in scheming, stronger proved
In much endurance, have the keener sense
Of all delights and all indulgences,
The more temptation to forbidden lusts.
Let me not hear the singing from the isles,
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Spread their alluring couches!
Ye, who toiled
With me, whom now from Circe's sty I saved,
Whose fate and mine is one, hear these my words:
Brail up the slackened mainsail to the yard:
Strong Auster fails: in order sit ye down,
Each on his bench, within the hollow ship,
And smite the billows of the hoary sea!
Let the white blades of fir keep even time,
Rattling together,—nor the helmsman fall
A hair's breadth from his course. It comes at last!
Whate'er you hear, the tasks I set perform
In order! Press the stoppers of my ears:
Nay, stop your own,—your faces grow too keen,—
Your eyes are full of wild and hungry light.
Now, by Poseidon! my right arm is free,
Look shoreward, and I slay you! Orpheus, there,
Tightens the loose chords of his lyre: he leans
Against the spray-wet altar on the prow,
Gazing straight forward, as his soul were dropt
Into the ocean of the golden sky.
Ay, sing, and overtake it with your song,
And if the Sirens not more rugged be
Than pines of Thessaly, that left the hills
To hear your music, they will quit their isles,
Shorn of their spells, your captives, following us
In dumb subjection through the barren seas.
With me, whom now from Circe's sty I saved,
Whose fate and mine is one, hear these my words:
Brail up the slackened mainsail to the yard:
Strong Auster fails: in order sit ye down,
Each on his bench, within the hollow ship,
And smite the billows of the hoary sea!
Let the white blades of fir keep even time,
Rattling together,—nor the helmsman fall
A hair's breadth from his course. It comes at last!
Whate'er you hear, the tasks I set perform
In order! Press the stoppers of my ears:
Nay, stop your own,—your faces grow too keen,—
Your eyes are full of wild and hungry light.
Now, by Poseidon! my right arm is free,
Look shoreward, and I slay you! Orpheus, there,
Tightens the loose chords of his lyre: he leans
Against the spray-wet altar on the prow,
Gazing straight forward, as his soul were dropt
Into the ocean of the golden sky.
Ay, sing, and overtake it with your song,
And if the Sirens not more rugged be
Than pines of Thessaly, that left the hills
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Shorn of their spells, your captives, following us
In dumb subjection through the barren seas.
THE SIRENS.
They are rough with the salt of the sea,
They are brown with the brand of the sun:
They are weary, weary of the sea;
They are weary of the sun.
Tug at the heavy oar;
Heave at the stubborn sail,—
Tossed in the mid-sea gale,
Wrecked on the fatal shore!
They are brown with the brand of the sun:
They are weary, weary of the sea;
They are weary of the sun.
Tug at the heavy oar;
Heave at the stubborn sail,—
Tossed in the mid-sea gale,
Wrecked on the fatal shore!
Here in our isles is rest,
Here there is rest alone:
Sweet is rest, ah, sweet is rest,
White the arms and warm the breast,—
Naught beyond but the unknown West,
Naught but the waves unknown!
Here there is rest alone:
Sweet is rest, ah, sweet is rest,
White the arms and warm the breast,—
Naught beyond but the unknown West,
Naught but the waves unknown!
From their foreheads wipe the brine,
Round their brows the poppies twine:
Lay them on couches of balmy thyme,
Deep in the shade of the bee-loved lime!
Let them sleep: the restless deep
Here no more compels to keep
The weary watches that baffle sleep:
Toil is here a thing unknown,
Peril is a stranger here;
Sweetest rest, and rest alone,
Waits the weary mariner.
Round their brows the poppies twine:
Lay them on couches of balmy thyme,
Deep in the shade of the bee-loved lime!
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Here no more compels to keep
The weary watches that baffle sleep:
Toil is here a thing unknown,
Peril is a stranger here;
Sweetest rest, and rest alone,
Waits the weary mariner.
ORPHEUS.
You sit serene upon your golden seats,
In the bright climate of eternal calm.
No pain can touch you, and the tumult raised
By foolish men dies in this lower air:
But Song—when from the Poet's perfect lips
Divinest song is shed—finds entrance there,
And bears his message even to your board.
Great Zeus lifts up his awful brow: his beard
Drops from its knotted coils, and sweeps his knees;
The thunder's edge grows keener in his grasp.
And the grave pleasure seated in his eyes
Brightens Olympian ether. Pallas hears;
Her brow's chill adamant is less severe:
And large-eyed Herè lifts the violet lids,
Shading the languid fountains of her eyes,
To look the joy her indolence makes dumb.
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I see thee, whom in Delos I adored,
And unto whom, beyond the Thracian strait,
I built an altar on the windy isle
Beside the Tauric seas. Thy splendid hair,
Spread by the swiftness of thy chariot-wheels,
Rays with celestial gold thy forehead's arch,
And thine immortal lips, too sweet for man,
Too eloquent for woman, half unclose,
Unuttered consolation in their smile,—
Unspoken promises, whence hope is born
Of something happier, somewhere in the spheres.
THE SIRENS.
You have toiled enough, mariners!
Labor no more:
Lower the canvas,
Leave the oar:
Over our island
Storms cannot come:
Winds are in slumber:
Thunder is dumb.
Only the nightingale
Sings in her nest:
Balmy our couches,
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Roses shall garland you,
Arms shall encircle you,
Lips shall be pressed!
Wine in the goblets
Shines ruby and gold,—
Strength to the weary,
Warmth to the cold,
Blood to the wasted,
Youth to the old!
Ah, and the rapture
Thousandfold dearer,
Ne'er to be told:
Learn ye the secret,—
Taste ye the sweetness,—
Beauty's possession
Belongs to the bold!
ORPHEUS.
Not Minos, iron judge, alone shall speak
Our final sentence; but the balance hangs,
Even while we live, in sight of all the Gods.
Our fates are weighed, and less unequal seem
To calm Olympian eyes, than ours, obscured
By films inseparate from this cloudy earth.
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Sees not the rosy splendor of the sail
At morning, when, a planet of the sea,
It shines afar to dwellers on the land;
So we the later radiance of our lives,
Now shining, see not. We have toiled, 't is true:
Stared Danger's lion boldly in the face
Until he turned: borne wounds and racking pains;
The frosts of Colchian winters, and the fire
That darts from Cancer on the Libyan shore:
Brief joy, brief rest, stern labor, suffering,
Are ours,—yet have we kept, as heroes should,
The steady cheerfulness of temperate hearts,
Courage, and mutual trust. We shall not leave
The vapid dust of idlers in our urns:
Behind our lives shall burn the shining tracks
Of splendid deeds, and men long after us
Shall build the steadfast mansion of our fame.
What here we lose, shall be our portion there
Among the Happy Fields,—divine repose
Eternally prolonged, and blameless joy.
We in that larger freedom of the blest
Heroic shades, shall find our chosen seats.
This restless life beneath the hollow sky,
And looking o'er the edges of the world
Far from the anchored shores, the tongues of air,
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Where gods abide, dim whispers, teaching us,
God-like, the secrets of the elements,
Have smoothed our entrance to the ample realms
Where Youth returns, and Joy, so timorous now,
Drops, like a weary dove, to fly no more.
THE SIRENS.
Listen, ye mariners! hark to our promises!
Prouder than pleasure the gifts we confer:
Though unto passion the Siren gives passion,
He who seeks power receives it from her!
Prouder than pleasure the gifts we confer:
Though unto passion the Siren gives passion,
He who seeks power receives it from her!
Labor no longer, confronting the turbulent
Elements, ever opposing your will:
Secrets we know, knowing all things, immortal,—
Equal with gods your desires to fulfil.
Elements, ever opposing your will:
Secrets we know, knowing all things, immortal,—
Equal with gods your desires to fulfil.
Secrets that chain in his caverns the Thunder,
Fetter the winds when they eagerest are:
Loosen the stream from its urns in the mountain,
Ay, and the vaults of the earthquake unbar!
Fetter the winds when they eagerest are:
Loosen the stream from its urns in the mountain,
Ay, and the vaults of the earthquake unbar!
Come, and the delicate spell shall be spoken,
Subtly to seize, and securely to bind,—
Wisdom and eloquence, honeyed persuasion,
Giving ye mastery over your kind.
Subtly to seize, and securely to bind,—
Wisdom and eloquence, honeyed persuasion,
Giving ye mastery over your kind.
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Men shall adore ye, and even Immortals
Stoop from their thrones in Olympian flame:
All that have conquered and triumphed before ye
Dust shall become at the feet of your fame!
Stoop from their thrones in Olympian flame:
All that have conquered and triumphed before ye
Dust shall become at the feet of your fame!
ULYSSES.
It cleaves the muffled sense; it penetrates
The guarded porches of the brain, no lance
Hurled from a giant's arm more sure: it hums
And stings within me, as the brown bee hums,
Shut in the folded heart of some rich flower,
Drinking its drop of honey,—so it creeps
Within the purple blossom of my heart,
That music: and the very thrills of fear
To hide the secret honey of my lust,
Aid the seduction and betray the spoil.
You see me tremble: will it never cease?
It follows, follows, clearer as we pass
The channel's throat, the final isles abeam,
And sweeter, keener, more alluring still,
From looking on the unfriendly seas. My men,
Sing me your loudest songs—the yo-heave-O!
Of Aulis, or the coarse carousal-glees
Of Tenedos and Troy! What? are ye dumb,
With eyes that burn like half-extinguished brands,
Fanned with desires new-blown, and mutinous
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Yell with the rage of disappointed lust,
The spite of thwarted opportunity,
The frenzy which an unrelenting Fate
Smiles at, and so increases! Curse your chief,
Even me, Ulysses,—lash yourselves to wrath,
Like Satyrs when the Bacchic madness takes
Autumnal hills, so ye but overcome
That still-pursuing music! Bravely done!
My heart is tougher for that brawny roar,
Which, in the old time heard, could always turn
The battle's doubtful scale.
A fresher wind
Foreruns the presence of the rearward night;
Salt scud flies over us, and pale sea-fire
Flashes around the rudder. Set me free:
I am your captain,—you are still my men;
My sailors, whose obedience makes me strong,
My comrades, whom I love. See! yonder sinks
The glimmering beach astern: the songs are still;
The lovely Treachery withdraws at last
Its baffled spells. Now, whatsoever waits
For us, of new adventure, hostile winds,
Deceitful reefs, leagues of unharbored shore,
Or combats with strange tribes, gigantic forms
Cyclopean, or of bestial shape abhorred,
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Strong to resist, where mere resistance counts
Above all courage to confront the shocks
Whereon true manly steel but rings unharmed;
But this assails us from the softer side,
Melting the hero's marrow. Wherefore, now,
Broach we that skin of amber Cretan wine,
First pouring, as is meet, libations large
To Pallas, and Poseidon, and to Zeus.
Ho, Orpheus! Are you dreaming on the prow?
Or have the Sirens through your trancèd ears
Rapt forth your soul? You cannot hear them now:
Come down: our hearts need festal music. Sing
As when we skirted Delos, and the white
Uplifted temple shone like morning snow,
'Twixt the blue hemispheres of sky and sea!
ORPHEUS.
I looked on him whose marble mansion gleams
High over Delos,—did the Sirens sing?
Who hears their music, sitting in the light
Of his immortal features, breathing balm
Shook from the rich confusion of his curls?
He gave me entrance to the happy meads
Beyond the rainbow's span: I breathed, with him,
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I heard the piercing sweetness of his lyre
Strike harmony through all the shuddering heart
Of Chaos, while from blissful stars that slid,
Sparkling, around him, in their crystal grooves,
Sweet noises came, responsive. I beheld
His music shape the world's eternal law.
Immortal Justice there was justified:
Fate span an equal thread: more vile became
Rebellion to the gods, obedience light,
Complaint unworthy. They the soonest reach
The shining fields where shades of heroes walk,
Who, spurning passion, rise with even souls
O'er this, your madness, as an eagle hangs
Above the thunder, in the sunshine poised.
Your voices call me from my lofty dream,
Yet think not that my spirit stoops to share
Your noisy gladness! Rather let me breathe
This pulse of music throbbing at my heart,
Until the speaking wires shall give me back
Some fragments of the voices of the Gods.
THE SAILORS.
No doubt you know the language of the Gods,
You, Orpheus, with your eyes that look afar,
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But you, our Captain, know the hearts of men.
Here, pour this cup of amber wine to Zeus,
This, to Poseidon,—this, to Pallas,—this
Drink, shipmates, to Ulysses, from your hearts!
Sing, Orpheus, if you like: we do not want
Your Samothracian songs that cheat our ears
Like wind among the pines,—but lusty staves,
“Down with the Dardans!” or “The Girl of Cos,”
Songs that our captain loves: we sing with him.
Who knows us, suffers with us, feels for us,
Stands at the post of peril at our head,
Strong to subdue our hot, rebellious blood,
Free to forgive the easy vice, because
He feels it tugging at his heart the same,—
Him will we follow, though ten thousand isles
Of Sirens tempted, to the utmost verge
Where Earth falls sheer away, and under where
The great sun rolls, and the stars hide at dawn.
Drink with us, Captain! strike hands once again!
We swear anew the obedient oath we took
When first you shipped us, wild, wayfaring knaves,
Among the scattered isles. The watch is set;
The night is fortunate; the wind is fair;
Our hearts are happy,—let our compact hold!
163
VARIOUS POEMS.
164
MY MISSION.
Every spirit has its mission, say the transcendental crew:
“This is mine,” they cry; “Eureka! this the purpose I pursue;
For, behold, a god hath called me, and his service I shall do!
“This is mine,” they cry; “Eureka! this the purpose I pursue;
For, behold, a god hath called me, and his service I shall do!
“Brother, seek thy calling likewise, thou wert destined for the same;
Sloth is sin, and toil is worship, and the soul demands an aim:
Who neglects the ordination, he shall not escape the blame.”
Sloth is sin, and toil is worship, and the soul demands an aim:
Who neglects the ordination, he shall not escape the blame.”
O my ears are dinned and wearied with the clatter of the school:
Life to them is geometric, and they act by line and rule—
If there be no other wisdom, better far to be a fool!
Life to them is geometric, and they act by line and rule—
If there be no other wisdom, better far to be a fool!
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Better far the honest nature, in its narrow path content,
Taking, with a child's acceptance, whatsoever may be sent,
Than the introverted vision, seeing Self pre-eminent.
Taking, with a child's acceptance, whatsoever may be sent,
Than the introverted vision, seeing Self pre-eminent.
For the spirit's proper freedom by itself may be destroyed,
Wasting, like the young Narcissus, o'er its image in the void:
Even virtue is not virtue, when too consciously enjoyed.
Wasting, like the young Narcissus, o'er its image in the void:
Even virtue is not virtue, when too consciously enjoyed.
I am sick of canting prophets, self-elected kings that reign
Over herds of silly subjects, of their new allegiance vain:
Preaching labor, preaching duty, preaching love with lips profane.
Over herds of silly subjects, of their new allegiance vain:
Preaching labor, preaching duty, preaching love with lips profane.
With the holiest things they tamper, and the noblest they degrade,—
Making Life an institution, making Destiny a trade;
But the honest vice is better than the saintship they parade.
Making Life an institution, making Destiny a trade;
But the honest vice is better than the saintship they parade.
Native goodness is unconscious, asks not to be recognized;
But its baser affectation is a thing to be despised.
Only when the man is loyal to himself shall he be prized.
But its baser affectation is a thing to be despised.
Only when the man is loyal to himself shall he be prized.
166
Take the current of your nature, make it stagnant if you will:
Dam it up to drudge forever, at the service of your mill:
Mine the rapture and the freedom of the torrent on the hill!
Dam it up to drudge forever, at the service of your mill:
Mine the rapture and the freedom of the torrent on the hill!
Straighten out your wavy borders: make a tow-path at the side:
Be the dull canal your channel, where the heavy barges glide,—
Lo, the muddy bed is tranquil, not a rapid breaks the tide!
Be the dull canal your channel, where the heavy barges glide,—
Lo, the muddy bed is tranquil, not a rapid breaks the tide!
I shall wander o'er the meadows where the fairest blossoms call:
Though the ledges seize and fling me headlong from the rocky wall,
I shall leave a rainbow hanging o'er the ruins of my fall!
Though the ledges seize and fling me headlong from the rocky wall,
I shall leave a rainbow hanging o'er the ruins of my fall!
I shall lead a glad existence, as I broaden down the vales,
Brimming past the regal cities, whitened with the seaward sails—
Feel the mighty pulse of ocean ere I mingle with its gales!
Brimming past the regal cities, whitened with the seaward sails—
Feel the mighty pulse of ocean ere I mingle with its gales!
Vex me not with weary questions: seek no moral to deduce:
With the Present I am busy, with the Future hold a truce:
If I live the life He gave me, God will turn it to His use.
With the Present I am busy, with the Future hold a truce:
If I live the life He gave me, God will turn it to His use.
168
RENUNCIATION.
I.
Words are but headstones o'er the grave of thought.When some gigantic passion grasps the heart
Until its powers, to utmost tension brought,
Tug at the roots of life, no speech may start
The spell of silence. Deepest moods are dumb,
Nor song, nor picture, nor the spells of sound
Fathom their dark profound,
The secret of their language overcome.
But farthest, subtlest, most elusive still
Are those dim shapes that haunt the Poet's brain,
Beyond all wish, or any grasp of will,
That come unsought—and, sought, retreat again:
The independent fantasies that fall
As meteors fall in clear November nights,
Sometimes a showery burst of wayward lights,
Or singly trailing gold celestial,
Or in auroral blushes fused afar,
Drowning the steady torch of every star!
169
II.
There was a time when, like a child, I dreamedThe gold lay hidden where the meteor fell:
When some divine interpretation seemed
Unto the speech of Poets possible:
When Nature's face a mask of brightness wore,
Beyond the brightness of the moon or sun:
The hills I knew, their skyey temples bore;
I heard the streams to other music run.
I saw a fairer morn within the morn,
And would have painted it for other eyes;
I heard the harmonies of twilight skies,
The rippling idylls of the harvest corn.
The gray old mountains many a rainbow spanned,
And trumpets clamored on the ocean-sand:
The summer valleys sang a minor strain,
Dying away in far, aerial blue,
Until, divinely saddened through and through,
I tried their song to echo, but in vain!
Why speak of that for which there is no speech?
Why sing of light to those who cannot see?
All that the Poet's noblest song may reach
Is the regret for what unsung must be.
170
III.
I gave to Nature more than she gave back:The dreams that, vanished once, return no more;
Passion that left her colder than before,
And the warm soul her stubborn features lack.
It was an echo of my heart I heard
Sing in the sky, and chant along the sea:
My life the affluence of her own conferred,
And gave her seeming sympathy with me.
O stars! whose light was dimmed with tears of mine!
O sun, that smiled with more than May-day joy!
Ye do not sit upon your thrones divine
To feed the tender fancies of a boy.
Ye see the stern eyes weep, the strong heart break,
The courage conquered by a fate unkind,
In your own brightness blind,
Unmoved, unchanged for any creature's sake.
The voices which encouraged me, are dumb;
The Soul I recognized in Earth is fled;
I wait for answers which have ceased to come:
I press the pulse of Nature: she is dead.
The early reverence I gave her fails,
To know her apathy for human ills;
I only see the bleak, unpitying hills,
The drear, indifferent vales,
171
The stolid sky in cold serenity,—
Cold as the ceilings are of palace-halls,
Above their painted walls,
To some hot life, that beats in passion there,
Barred in alone, with eyes all wet and blind,
Which in the splendid frescoes only find
The staring mockery of their own despair!
IV.
Earth is our palace, and her zoned arrayOf forms and colors its adornments are:
She gives the soul its garments of display;
She draws the wheels of its triumphal car.
But does the victor kiss the threshold-stone,
Or clasp the heartless pillar at his door?
And does the bush whereon his bays have grown,
Shine with a glossier emerald than before?
No—no! His sun is risen in kindred eyes;
His morn, the brighter flush of friendly cheeks:
The music of his day of triumph speaks
In human voices, and the sullen skies,
When, palm to palm, beloved pulses kiss,
Beam with the splendid sunshine of his bliss!
172
The vanquished gives her his defeat and shame:
Her chimes, to different fates, at once proclaim
The bridal pæan and the burial hymn!
V.
O, not to know, the sunny mist that gildsThe mountain tops, my breath had thither blown!
O, not to feel that loftiest Beauty builds
In Man her temple, and in Man alone!
Henceforward I renounce the vain pursuit
To find without the secret hid within,—
To chase a phantom thin,
Masked in our own divinest attribute,
While rosy life, the beating Heart of God,
The dayspring of the glory of the earth,
Supplies the Poet's dearth,
If o'er its fountains move his wizard rod.
The spirit of the mountains, sought in vain,
Sits on the forehead of the mountaineer;
The forest's voice is heard in every strain
Of hunters' bugles, and the restless main
Sings in the sailor-songs it loves to hear.
173
Stands, the completed beauty of the wild;
The sweet-brier blooms not with so sweet a balm
Beside the cottage, as the cotter's child.
The whirls of windy fire, on desert sands,
But faintly Man's infuriate wrath express;
The desolation of the Arctic lands
Is warm beside his icy selfishness.
Love, passion, rapture, terror, grief, repose,
Through him alone the face of Nature knows:
There is no aspect of the changing zones
But springs from something deeper in the heart:
Then, let me touch its chords with tender art,
And cease to chant in wind-harp monotones!
185
ANASTASIA.
Too pure thy lips for passion's kiss;
Too fair thy cheek love's rose to be:
The brightest dream of Beauty's bliss
Is dark beside the dream of thee.
Thine eyes were lit from other skies;
Thy limbs are made of purer clay;
And wandering airs of Paradise
Before thee breathe the mists away.
Too fair thy cheek love's rose to be:
The brightest dream of Beauty's bliss
Is dark beside the dream of thee.
Thine eyes were lit from other skies;
Thy limbs are made of purer clay;
And wandering airs of Paradise
Before thee breathe the mists away.
Go, Angel! on thy path serene,
The lily-garland in thy hair:
I shall not crown thee as my queen,
Or vex thee with my hopeless prayer.
Love follows those whose dancing feet
Like rose-leaves warm the summer sod:
Thy brow foretells the winding-sheet;
The coffin waits thee, and the clod.
The lily-garland in thy hair:
I shall not crown thee as my queen,
Or vex thee with my hopeless prayer.
Love follows those whose dancing feet
Like rose-leaves warm the summer sod:
Thy brow foretells the winding-sheet;
The coffin waits thee, and the clod.
186
OVER-POSSESSION.
With beating heart and crowded brain,
I wait the touch of song in vain.
The coy, capricious Muse retires
Before the flame herself inspires,
And for a calmer, colder hour,
Reserves her passion and her power.
I wait the touch of song in vain.
The coy, capricious Muse retires
Before the flame herself inspires,
And for a calmer, colder hour,
Reserves her passion and her power.
The sweetness of the autumn skies,
The light that on the landscape lies,
Where yonder sloping wood-side nods
The sunshine of the golden-rods,
The noise of children at their play,
The crickets chirping out the day,
The music breathing from the Past,
The Future's pictures, vague and vast;
The beauty men but rarely seek,
The secret truths they never speak;
The double life,—the outward show,
The hell and heaven that hide below;
The hopeless whirl of woe and wrong;
Eternal Wisdom's under-song,—
All these, by turns, possess my mind,
Yet none of these mine art can bind:
For she, my goddess, will be wooed
Alone in calm and solitude.
The light that on the landscape lies,
Where yonder sloping wood-side nods
The sunshine of the golden-rods,
The noise of children at their play,
The crickets chirping out the day,
The music breathing from the Past,
The Future's pictures, vague and vast;
The beauty men but rarely seek,
The secret truths they never speak;
187
The hell and heaven that hide below;
The hopeless whirl of woe and wrong;
Eternal Wisdom's under-song,—
All these, by turns, possess my mind,
Yet none of these mine art can bind:
For she, my goddess, will be wooed
Alone in calm and solitude.
So, cheerfully, the weight I bear
Of hot emotions which outwear
The crowded brain, and dim the eye
Of single-sighted Poesy.
She, when the throngs around her hum,
Stands in the centre, blind and dumb;
But to the One unveils her charms,
And clasps him in immortal arms.
Of hot emotions which outwear
The crowded brain, and dim the eye
Of single-sighted Poesy.
She, when the throngs around her hum,
Stands in the centre, blind and dumb;
But to the One unveils her charms,
And clasps him in immortal arms.
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