University of Virginia Library

MIST.

One day I walk'd through mist and haze of cloud;
I could not see the sunshine in the sky;
I heard a mountain torrent pealing loud,
But could not see it, though I knew 'twas nigh;
I wander'd on the sullen ocean-shore,
But could not see the wrinkles on its face,
And only knew 'twas ocean by its roar,
So dense the vapour lay on all the place.
Heavily on hill and plain
Hung moisture, neither dew nor rain;
The birds were silent in the darkling bowers,
And not a shadow fell to mark the hours;
Ghost-like paced about the men,
Through ghostly alleys, speaking low;
And every object on my ken
Was vague, and colourless, and slow.
I ask'd a native what the land might be.
“The land,” he said, “of heavenly Poesy.”
“And who are these that wander up and down?”
“Poets,” he said, “of great and high renown.”
“And art thou of them?” “No—not so,” he sigh'd;
“I'm but a critic.” “Tell me,” I replied,
“What kind of poesy these poets make.
If they be makers, as true poets are,
And whether from the clouds their hue they take,
And sing without the light of sun or star.”
“We want no sunshine here,” the critic said,
“Nor wholesome light, nor shape too well defined;
There needs no radiance for the drowsy head,
Nor vulgar common sense for sleepy mind.
Our nerves are very finely strung,
And much emotion would destroy them quite;
And if a meaning start to page or tongue
Of our great poets, when they speak or write,
They swathe and swaddle it in pompous rhyme,
And darken counsel with vain words;
And girls, green-sickly, children of the clime,
Proclaim it lovely as the chant of birds,
And write it in their albums, or rehearse,
With lisping chatter, the delightful verse.
Sickly—sickly are our bards;—
The rose-tree gall is surely fair,
Ay, fairer to our faint and dim regards
Than healthy roses flaunting in the air.
Most lovely is our daily languishment,
Our sweet half-consciousness, our listless ease,
Our inchoate discourse magniloquent,
Through which we see the surging mysteries
Of Time and Life, Eternity and Death;
Or think we see them; is it not the same?
Death is a mist, and Life is but a breath,
And Love a cloudy, ever-flickering flame.”
“Then,” I rejoin'd, “the poets of this land,
Misty and mystic, hard to understand,
Do not desire, like Shakspeare of old days,
To reach the popular heart through open ways;
To speak for all men; to be wise and true,
Bright as the noon-time, clear as morning dew,
And wholesome in the spirit and the form?”
“Shakspeare!” he answer'd, “may his name endure!
But what is he to us? Our veins are warm
With other blood than his, perchance as pure.
Each for his time!—our time is one of mist,
And we are misty,—love us those who list.”
He said, and disappear'd; and I took ship,
And left that cloudy land; and sailing forth,
I felt the free breeze sporting at my lip,
And saw the Pole-star in the clear blue North,
And all the pomp of Heaven. Right glad was I,
Bareheaded to the glory of the sky.