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289

MELANCHOLIA.

AFTER ALBERT DÜRER.

I.

Not in lone wastes, nor by the desert sea,
But aye in sound of ceaseless human moan,
By populous shores where wealthy cities be,
The deep-eyed Melancholy dwells alone:
Her elbow large is based on her broad knee;
An iron-claspèd volume hath she thrown
Athwart her hollow ample lap; but she
Doth neither read, nor even look, therein;
Whose eyes with innermost intensity
Burn outward; her shut hand props her upslanted chin.

II.

Her vesture vast, of watchet hue, the mould
Of her strong limbs from lap to foot doth heap
In many a massive fall, and rigid fold;
And all unmov'd the mighty hem doth sleep
Flat on the chilly floor. Her hair down roll'd,
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With unregarded curl, doth thinly creep
O'er her stoop'd shoulder. Heavy from the hold
Of her firm girdle hang full many keys:
For she to Power is porteress, and doth keep
The lock'd and guarded gates of mightiest monarchies.

III.

Crownèd she is with the first-budded leaves
Of Spring, that putteth forth delightful things;
But her knit brow beneath her garland grieves:
Folded about her back with eagle wings
Half spread for flight; but her strong body cleaves
Unto the toilful earth. The wealth of kings
Is at her feet, but of her eye receives
No notice: it is hers: she heeds it not.
Her labour lieth around her; measurings,
Plans, shapes, globe, solid, plank, adze, plane, and melting-pot.

IV.

Her foot is on the hammer and the saw:
Her hand is on the compass; and she waits.
Who knoweth what mighty circle she will draw?
What calculation vast she meditates?
A lean wolf-hound, hard-by, with doubled paw,
Snores on the flint; her creature tired, that sates,
(Stretching at her firm foot his shaggy jaw)
In slumber deep, deep animal weariness.
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But never his great Spirit-Queen abates
Her intellectual watch, and strenuous sleeplessness.

V.

Because this Melancholy is, indeed,
The mightiest maker underneath the sun.
Yet never shall be satisfied the need
Of her deep heart, nor her long tasks be done.
Sorrow and strength are hers: and she doth feed
With infinite labour infinite longing. None
That know her ever shall from toil be freed.
Rest is not hers to give: but in her hand
Dominion hangs, and sorrows, that have won
Great battles, harness'd wait upon her stern command.

VI.

And some, beholding her with woeful eyes,
Have said, “This is Our Lady of Desire
That, feeding earth, doth hunger for the skies,
Full-fatal is her kiss, and fraught with fire.
Know her not.” Others, “Nay, but she is wise,
Strong, patient, and of toil doth never tire.
Sad is she, certes; but her inmost sighs
Are the strong souls of deeds. She is her own
Employer, and doth nothing serve for hire.
Therefore this Melancholy is most worthy to be known.”
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VII.

Above, a hollow bell doth hang i' the beam;
Therefrom a rope. O'er one of her large wings
Upon the shadowy wall a sullen scheme
Is faintly traced of careful numberings.
Near which, above the other wing, doth gleam
A livid hourglass that, unmark'd down flings
His measured sands in small monotonous stream.
Death creeps, and peeps into her deep Endeavour;
Time, mocking, saith “Thou makest glorious things
For my unmaking.” She, not answering, museth ever.

VIII.

And on an old millstone that leans hard by
The head of the unmindful Melancholy,
With little wings, the Cherub Infancy
Sits conning her great lesson, meek and lowly;
Across whose small upgather'd knees doth lie
An open tablet that is cover'd wholly
With his first lore. There hangeth from on high
A brazen balance. Slowly stealeth down
The night wherein can no man work, and slowly
The seas and skies grow dark about the distant town.

IX.

There, heavily, across the troubled night
A warning comet trails her hideous hair,
And underneath, the wroth sea waves are white.
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The city soundeth, girt with dreadful glare.
The cataract cloud spouts storm. With faintest light,
Athwart the seething dark suspended fair,
A wan moon-rainbow wavers on the height.
A thing of darkness and of shapelessness
Half-bat, half-serpent, flitteth outward, there;
Much like the sadness struggling under stress
Of a strong purpose vex'd, not baffled, by despair.

X.

This is a mystery. And methinks 'twere worth
Much thought to know what things it would express.
Dürer, the drawer of dread things, drew forth
The image of it, and the marvellousness,
Out of the angry labour of the North,
Whose child he was: to be (if I can guess
Aright) man's protest against death, and dust,
Sad time, sick sloth, and wretched-heartedness,
And shame, and miserable self-mistrust,
And wicked fears that do full oft men's souls distress.
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