University of Virginia Library

CANTO NINTH.

The countenance of one advanced in years,
The shape of one created to command,
The step of one accustom'd to be seen,
And follow'd with the reverence of all eyes,
Yet conscious here of utter solitude,
Came on me like an apparition,—whence
I knew not:—halfway down the vale already
Had he proceeded ere I caught his eye,
And, in that mirror of intelligence,
By the sure divination of mine art,
Read the mute history of his former life,
And all the untold secrets of his bosom.
He was a chieftain of renown; from youth
To green old age, the glory of his tribe,
The terror of their enemies: in war
An Alexander, and in peace an Alfred,
From morn till night he wont to wield the spear
With indefatigable arm, or watch
From eve till dawn in ambush for his quarry,
Human or brute; not less in chase than fight,
For strength, skill, prowess, enterprise, unrivall'd.
Fearless he grappled with the fell hyæna,
And held him strangling in the grasp of fate;
He seized the she-bear's whelps; and when the dam,
With miserable cries and insane rage,
Pursued to rescue them, would turn and strike
One blow, but one, to break her heart for ever:
From sling and bow he sent upon death-errands
The stone or arrow through the trackless air,
To overtake the fleetest foot, or lay
The loftiest pinion fluttering in the dust.
On the rough waves he eagerly embark'd,
Assail'd the stranded whale among the breakers,
Dart after dart with such sure aim implanting
In the huge carcass of the helpless victim,
That soon in blood and foam the monster breathed
His last, and lay a hulk upon the reef;
Thence floated by the rising tide, and tow'd
By a whole navy of canoes ashore.
But 'twas the hero's mind that made him great:
His eye, his lip, his hand, were clothed with thunder;
Thrones, crowns, and sceptres give not more ascendence,
Back'd with arm'd legions, fortified with towers,
Than this imperial savage, all alone,
From Nature's pure beneficence derived.
Yet, when the hey-day of hot youth was over,
His soul grew gentle as the halcyon breeze
Sent from the evening-sea to bless the shore
After the fervours of a tropic noon;
Nor less benign his influence than fresh showers
Upon the fainting wilderness, where bands
Of pilgrims bound for Mecca, with their camels,
Lie down to die together in despair,
When the deceitful mirage, that appear'd
A pool of water trembling in the sun,
Hath vanish'd from the bloodshot eye of thirst.
Firm in defence as valiant in the battle,
Assailing none, but all assaults repelling
With such determined chastisement, that foes
No longer dared to forage on his borders,
War shrunk from his dominions; simple laws,
Yet wise and equitable, he ordain'd
To rule a willing and obedient people.
Blood ceased to flow in sacrifice,—no more
The parents' hands were raised against their children,—
Children no longer slew their aged parents,—
Man prey'd not on his fellow-man,—within
The hallow'd circle of his patriarch-sway,
That seem'd, amidst barbarian clans around,
A garden in a waste of briar and hemlock.
Ere life's meridian, thus that chief had reach'd
The utmost pinnacle of savage grandeur,
And stood the envy of ignoble eyes.
The awe of humbler mortals, the example
Of youth's sublime ambition: but to him
It was not given to rest at any height;
The thoughts that travel to eternity
Already had begun their pilgrimage,
Which time, nor change, nor life, nor death, could stop.
All that he saw, heard, felt, or could conceive,
Open'd new scenes of mental enterprise,
Imposed new tasks for arduous contemplation.
On the steep eminence which he had scaled,
To rise or fall were sole alternatives;
He might not stand, and he disdain'd to fall:
Innate magnificence of mind upheld,
And buoyancy of genius bore him on.
Heaven, earth, and ocean, were to him familiar
In all their motions, aspects, changes; each
To him paid tribute of the knowledge hid
From uninquiring ignorance; to him
Their gradual secrets, though with slow reserve,
Yet sure accumulation, all reveal'd.
But whence they came, even more than what they were,
Awaken'd wonder, and defied conjecture:
Blank wonder could not satisfy his soul,
And resolute conjecture would not yield,
Though foil'd a thousand times, in speculation
On themes that open'd immortality.
The gods whom his deluded countrymen
Acknowledged, were no gods to him; he scorn'd
The impotence of skill that carved such figures,
And pitied the fatuity of those
Who saw not in the abortions of their hands
The abortions of their minds.—'Twas the Creator
He sought through every volume open to him,
From the small leaf that holds an insect's web,
From which ere long a colony shall issue
With wings and limbs as perfect as the eagle's,
To the stupendous ocean, that gives birth
And nourishment to everlasting millions
Of creatures, great and small, beyond the power
Of man to comprehend how they exist.
One thought amidst the multitude within him
Press'd with perpetual, with increasing, weight;
And yet the elastic soul beneath its burden
Wax'd strong and stronger, was enlarged, exalted,
With the necessity of bearing up
Against annihilation,—for that seem'd
The only refuge were this hope foregone.
It was as though he wrestled with an angel,
And would not let him go without a blessing,
If not extort the secret of his name.
This was that thought, that hope:—dumb idols,
And the vain homage of their worshippers,
Were proofs to him, not less than sun and stars,
That there were beings mightier far than man,
Or man had never dream'd of aught above him.
'Twas clear to him as was his own existence,
In which he felt the fact personified,
That man himself was for this world too mighty,
Possessing powers which could not ripen here,
But ask'd infinity to bring them forth,
And find employ for their unbounded scope.
Tradition told him that, in ancient time,
Sky, sun, and sea, were all the universe:
The sun grew tired of gazing on the sea
Day after day; then, with descending beams,
Day after day he pierced the dark abyss
Till he had reach'd its diamantine floor,—
Whence he drew up an island; as a tree
Grows in the desert from some random seed
Dropt by a wild bird. Grain by grain it rose,
And touch'd at length the surface; there expanding
Beneath the fostering influence of his eye,
Prolific seasons, light, and showers, and dew,
Aided by earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanos,
(All agents of the universal sun,)
Conspired to form, advance, enrich, and break
The level reef, till hills and dales appear'd,
And the small isle became a continent,
Whose bounds his ancestors had never traced.
Thither in time, by means inscrutable,
Plants, animals, and man himself, were brought;
And with the idolaters the gods they served.
These tales tradition told him: he believed,
Though all were fables, yet they shadow'd truth;
That truth, with heart, soul, mind, and strength, he sought.
O 'twas a spectacle for angels, bound
On embassies of mercy to this earth,
To gaze on with compassion and delight,—
Yea, with desire that they might be his helpers,—
To see a dark endungeon'd spirit roused,
And struggling into glorious liberty,
Though Satan's legions watch'd at every portal,
And held him by ten thousand manacles!
Such was the being whom I here descried,
And fix'd my earnest expectation on him;
For now or never might my hope be proved,
How near, by searching, man might find out God.
Thus, while he walk'd along that peaceful valley,
Though rapt in meditation far above
The world which met his senses, but in vain
Would charm his spirit within its magic circle,
—Still with benign and meek simplicity
He hearken'd to the prattle of a babe,
Which he was leading by the hand; but scarce
Could he restrain its eagerness to break
Loose, and run wild with joy among the bushes.
It was his grandson, now the only stay
Of his bereaved affections; all his kin
Had fall'n before him, and his youngest daughter
Bequeath'd this infant with her dying lips:
“O take this child, my father! take this child,
And bring it up for me; so may it live
To be the latest blessing of thy life.”
He took the child; he brought it up for her:
It was the latest blessing of his life;
And while his soul explored immensity,
In search of something undefinedly great,
This infant was the link which bound that soul
To this poor world, where he had not a wish
Or hope, beyond the moment, for himself.
The little one was dancing at his side,
And dragging him with petty violence
Hither and thither from the onward path,
To find a bird's nest or to hunt a fly:
His feign'd resistance and unfeign'd reluctance
But made the boy more resolute to rule
The grandsire with his fond caprice. The sage,
Though dallying with the minion's wayward will,
His own premeditated course pursued,
And while, in tones of sportive tenderness,
He answer'd all its questions, and ask'd others
As simple as its own, yet wisely framed
To wake and prove an infant's faculties,—
As though its mind were some sweet instrument,
And he, with breath and touch, were finding out
What stops or keys would yield the richest music,—
All this was by-play to the scene within
The busy theatre of his own breast:
Keen and absorbing thoughts were working there,
And his heart travail'd with unutter'd pangs;
Sigh after sigh, escaping to his lips,
Was check'd or turn'd into some lively word,
To hide the bitter conflict from his child.
At length they struck into the woods, and thence
Climb'd the grey rocks aloof. There from his crag,
At their abrupt approach, the startled eagle
Took wing above their heads; the boy, alarm'd,—
Nor less delighted when no peril came,—
Follow'd its flight with eyes and hands upraised,
And, bounding forward on the verdant slope,
Watch'd it diminish, till a gnat, that cross'd
His sight, eclipsed it: when he look'd again
'Twas gone, and for an instant he felt sad,
Till some new object won his gay attention.
His grandsire stepp'd to take the eagle's stand,
And gaze at freedom on the boundless prospect,
But started back, and held his breath with awe,
So suddenly, so gloriously, it broke
From heaven, earth, sea, and air, at once upon him.
The tranquil ocean roll'd beneath his feet;
The shores on each hand lessen'd from the view;
The landscape glow'd with tropical luxuriance;
The sky was fleck'd with gold and crimson clouds,
That seem'd to emanate from nothing there,
Born in the blue and infinite expanse,
Where just before the eye might seek in vain
An evening shadow as a daylight star.
There stood the patriarch amidst a scene
Of splendour and beatitude, himself
A diadem of glory o'er the whole;
For none but he could comprehend the beauty,
The bliss, diffused throughout the universe:
Yet holier beauty, higher bliss, he sought,
Of which that universe was but the veil,
Wrought with inexplicable hieroglyphics.
Here then he stood, alone, but not forsaken
Of Him without whose leave a sparrow falls not.
Wide open lay the Book of Deity;
The page was Providence: but none, alas!
Had taught him letters; when he look'd, he wept
To feel himself forbidden to peruse it.
—“O for a messenger of mercy now,
Like Philip when he join'd the Eunuch's chariot!
O for the privilege to burst upon him,
And show the blind, the dead, the light of life!”
I hush'd the exclamation, for he seem'd
To hear it; turn'd his head, and look'd all round,
As if an eye invisible beheld him,
A voice had spoken out of solitude:
—Yea, such an eye beheld him, such a voice
Had spoken; but they were not mine: his life
He would have yielded on the spot to see
That eye, to hear that voice, and understand it:
It was the eye of God, the voice of Nature.
All in a moment on his knees he fell;
And, with imploring arms outstretch'd to heaven,
And eyes no longer wet with hopeless tears,
But beaming forth sublime intelligence,
In words through which his heart's pulsation throbb'd,
And made mine tremble to their accents, pray'd:
—“Oh! if there be a Power above all power,
A Light above all light, a Name above
All other names, in heaven and earth; that Power,
That Light, that Name, I call upon!”—He paused,
Bow'd his hoar head with reverence, closed his eyes,
And, with clasp'd hands upon his breast, began
In under tones, that rose in fervency,
Like incense kindled on a holy altar,
Till his whole soul became one tongue of fire,
Of which these words were faint and poor expressions:
—“Oh! if Thou art, Thou knowest that I am:
Behold me, hear me, pity me, despise not
The prayer which—if Thou art—Thou hast inspired,
Or wherefore seek I now a God unknown?
And feel for Thee, if haply I may find
In whom I live and move and have my being?
Reveal Thyself to me; reveal thy power,
Thy light, thy name,—that I may fear, adore,
Obey,—and, oh! that I might love Thee too!
For, if Thou art—it must be—Thou art good;
And I would be the creature of thy goodness:
Oh! hear and answer:—let me know Thou hearest!
—Know that, as surely as Thou art, so surely
My prayer and supplication are accepted!”
He waited silently; there came no answer:
The roaring of the tide beneath, the gale
Rustling the forest-leaves, the notes of birds,
And hum of insects,—these were all the sounds
That met familiarly around his ear.
He look'd abroad: there shone no light from heaven
But that of sunset; and no shapes appear'd
But glistering clouds, which melted through the sky
As imperceptibly as they had come;
While all terrestrial objects seem'd the same
As he had ever known them;—still he look'd
And listen'd, till a cold sick feeling sunk
Into his heart, and blighted every hope.
Anon faint accents, from the sloping lawn
Beneath the crag where he was kneeling, rose
Like supernatural echoes of his prayer:
—“A Name above all names—I call upon.—
Thou art—Thou knowest that I am:—Reveal
Thyself to me;—but, oh! that I may love Thee!
For if Thou art, Thou must be good:—Oh! hear,
And let me know Thou hearest!”—Memory fail'd
The child; for 'twas his grandchild, though he knew not,—
In the deep transport of his mind, he knew not
That voice, to him the sweetest of ten thousand,
And known the best because the best beloved.
Again it cried:—“Thou art—Thou must be good:—Oh! hear,
And let me know Thou hearest.”—Memory fail'd
The child; but feeling fail'd not: tears of light
Slid down his cheek; he too was on his knees,
Clasping his little hands upon his heart,
Unconscious why, yet doing what he saw
His grandsire do, and saying what he said.
For while he gather'd buds and flowers to twine
A garland for the old gray hairs, whose locks
Were lovelier in his sight than all the blooms
On which the bees and butterflies were feasting,
The Patriarch's agony of spirit caught
His eye, his ear, his heart; he dropp'd the flowers,
And, kneeling down among them, wept and pray'd
Like him, with whom he felt such strange emotions
As rapt his infant-soul to heavenly heights;
Though whence they sprang, and what they meant, he knew not:
But they were good, and that was all to him,
Who wonder'd why it was so sweet to weep;
Nor would he quit his humble attitude,
Nor cease repeating fragments of that lesson,
Thus learnt spontaneously from lips whose words
Were almost dearer to him than their kisses,
When on his lap the old man dandled him,
And told him simple stories of his mother.
Recovering thought, the venerable sire
Beheld, and recognised, his darling boy,
Thus beautiful and innocent, engaged
In the same worship with himself. His heart
Leap'd at the sight: he flung away despondence,
While joy unspeakable and full of glory
Broke through the pagan darkness of his soul.
He ran and snatch'd the infant in his arms,
Embraced him passionately, wept aloud,
And cried, scarce knowing what he said,—“My son!
My son! there is a God! there is a God!”—
“And, oh! that I may love Thee too!” rejoin'd
The child, whose tongue could find no other words
Than prayer;—“for if Thou art, Thou must be good.”—
“He is! He is! and we will love him too!
Yea, and be like Him,—good, for He is good!”
Replied the ancient father in amazement.
They ceased; then went rejoicing down the mountains,
Through the cool glen, where not a sound was heard,
Amidst the dark solemnity of eve,
But the loud purling of the little brook,
And the low murmur of the distant ocean.
Thence to their home beyond the hills in peace
They walk'd; and, when they reach'd their humble threshold,
The glittering firmament was full of stars.
—He died that night; his grandchild lived to see
The Patriarch's prayer and prophecy fulfill'd.
Here end my song; here ended not the vision:
I heard seven thunders uttering their voices,
And wrote what they did utter; but 'tis seal'd
Within the volume of my heart, where thoughts,
Unbodied yet in vocal words, await
The quickening warmth of poesy to bring
Their forms to light,—like secret characters,
Invisible till open'd to the fire;
Or like the potter's paintings, colourless
Till they have pass'd to glory through the flames.
Changes more wonderful than those gone by,
More beautiful, transporting, and sublime,
To all the frail affections of our nature,
To all the immortal faculties of man:
Such changes did I witness; not alone
In one poor Pelican Island, nor on one
Barbarian continent, where man himself
Could scarcely soar above the Pelican:
—The world as it hath been in ages past,
The world as now it is, the world to come,
Far as the eye of prophecy can pierce;—
These I beheld, and still in memory's rolls
They have their pages and their pictures: these,
Another day, a nobler song may show.
Vain boast! another day may not be given;
This song may be my last; for I have reach'd
That slippery descent, whence man looks back
With melancholy joy on all he cherish'd,
Around with love unfeign'd on all he's losing,
Forward with hope that trembles while it turns
To the dim point where all our knowledge ends.
I am but one among the living; one
Among the dead I soon shall be, and one
Among unnumber'd millions yet unborn;
The sum of Adam's mortal progeny,
From Nature's birthday to her dissolution:
—Lost in infinitude, my atom-life
Seems but a sparkle of the smallest star
Amidst the scintillations of ten thousand,
Twinkling incessantly; no ray returning
To shine a second moment where it shone
Once, and no more for ever:—so I pass.
The world grows darker, lonelier, and more silent,
As I go down into the vale of years;
For the grave's shadows lengthen in advance,
And the grave's loneliness appals my spirit,
And the grave's silence sinks into my heart,
Till I forget existence in the thought
Of non-existence, buried for a while
In the still sepulchre of my own mind,
Itself imperishable:—ah! that word,
Like the archangel's trumpet, wakes me up
To deathless resurrection. Heaven and earth
Shall pass away,—but that which thinks within me,
Must think for ever; that which feels, must feel:
—I am, and I can never cease to be.
O thou that readest! take this parable
Home to thy bosom; think as I have thought,
And feel as I have felt, through all the changes
Which Time, Life, Death, the world's great actors, wrought,
While centuries swept like morning dreams before me,
And thou shalt find this moral to my song:
—Thou art, and thou canst never cease to be:
What then are time, life, death, the world to thee?
I may not answer; ask Eternity.