ODE
ON HAVING COMPLETED
THE REVISION OF THE POEM,
(5 July, 1852.)
I.
Bird of Doubt,
Let the stream run out;
The stream deep, and strong,
Of the river of song,
Whose spring is thy heart;
That fountain divine,
Whence with wildness, and art,
It flows into mine.
I hear it—I hear it—
Most beautiful Spirit,
All the Night long,
That stream deep, and strong,
Of the river of song.—
Bird of Doubt,
How shall we name thy sob, and thy shout?
II.
Is thy song of Triumph, or Sorrow?
—Idiots we;—what terms we borrow—
For what, if to Grief
It give relief;
Is there not a Joy in Grief?
And what, if Joy
Its numbers employ?
In sighs, and tears,
Oft Joy appears—
Ay, Sorrow hath laughed, and Triumph hath wept;
And Smiles, and Tears, with both have kept.—
So, whether thou sob, or whether thou shout;
How may thy song be named, Bird of Doubt?
All rapture—all sadness—
All gladness—all madness—
Be it named of Ecstasy,
Profound as Hell, than Heaven more high.
Of the Shadow of Death this Earth is the Vale—
Sing on—sing thou on—mystic Nightingale.
III.
This Song of mine might have been sung by thee;
And, darkling, has been sung by me—
Midst boyhood's hopes, midst manhood's fears;
With too few smiles, and many tears;
And, in a region all obscure
Of time, wherein was nothing sure:
And hence have I, with sad intention,
Of thee made honourable mention,
As meet, thyself a mystery,
Of Mythic Muse the Bard to be.
I heard thy numbers in the dreamèd tone
Of Plato's image, language all thine own,
By the Pellèan conqueror heard;
Prophetic group, well-carved in stone
By Japhet;
—thine was every word
Of Truth, and Wisdom; thou, a Philosophic Bird.
IV.
What Grief, what Passion, what Anxiety,
Have tempted me whilere; to live or die,
Unknowing which to chuse—
O thankless Man; if not, O thankless Muse.
With these Temptations I have battled now;
Victor, or vanquished? God, that knowest Thou.
V.
My Spirit has experienced many phases,
Since, the first time, I thought to thread the mazes
Of this great theme.
I am not what I was; nay, I
Have nothing of my own identity,
Save in this dream:
Yet difference, even here, I apprehend—
And now her travail cometh to an end,
I feel no triumph; rather shame, and sorrow,
Offspring of sin; and Hope of Death to-morrow,
So that the Waters o'er my soul may pass,
And wash it—from the Ark shut out, alas,
Entrance wherein I wished, but wanted strength
Of Faith to reach. Well—Once set free, at length,
The Ark of Hades waits; where even the Drowned
Find refuge late, and are of Mercy found.
