The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery Collected and Revised by the Author |
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LONELINESS. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
LONELINESS.
“We are not happy, sweet; our state
Is strange, and full of doubt and fear;
[OMITTED]
Hiding from many a careless eye
The scorned load of agony.”
Is strange, and full of doubt and fear;
[OMITTED]
Hiding from many a careless eye
The scorned load of agony.”
Lost in the peopled desert of the world,
Cheer'd by no heart which echoes back our own,
How feverish all the pomp and play of Life!
A solitude there is which lifts the mind
To lofty things,—seclusion from the rush
And stir of that unfeeling Crowd, whose days
Reap scarce a thought to sanctify their flight.
Far from the city-din, may Wisdom haunt
Her veil'd retreats, and yet not live alone;
For, is there not the fellowship of books
Divine, a company of gracious thoughts,
And all which Nature yields a grateful mind?
Such is not loneliness!—Around to look
Life's crowded world, and 'mong its myriad-hearts
No sympathies to find, our own to nurse,
Oh, this makes loneliness! that solitude
Of mind, which bids the world a desert seem.
What is the guerdon of ambition worth,
Of common lips the cold applause, the crown
Of genius, or the envied wreath of Fame,
Graced by no smile from some congenial soul?
For, when the heart is full, an overflow
Of bliss, by being shared, is sweeter still:
The bashful flowers which in the May-breeze shake,
Bloom out together: and belated Stars
Of night walk not yon pathless heavens alone,
But twinkle, though unseen, in blissful play
Of sympathetic beams; all beauteous Things
Hold mystic fellowship; and fine-toned hearts
Without responding hearts,—how bleak and bare!
In sorrow lone, in happiness the same.
Cheer'd by no heart which echoes back our own,
How feverish all the pomp and play of Life!
A solitude there is which lifts the mind
621
And stir of that unfeeling Crowd, whose days
Reap scarce a thought to sanctify their flight.
Far from the city-din, may Wisdom haunt
Her veil'd retreats, and yet not live alone;
For, is there not the fellowship of books
Divine, a company of gracious thoughts,
And all which Nature yields a grateful mind?
Such is not loneliness!—Around to look
Life's crowded world, and 'mong its myriad-hearts
No sympathies to find, our own to nurse,
Oh, this makes loneliness! that solitude
Of mind, which bids the world a desert seem.
What is the guerdon of ambition worth,
Of common lips the cold applause, the crown
Of genius, or the envied wreath of Fame,
Graced by no smile from some congenial soul?
For, when the heart is full, an overflow
Of bliss, by being shared, is sweeter still:
The bashful flowers which in the May-breeze shake,
Bloom out together: and belated Stars
Of night walk not yon pathless heavens alone,
But twinkle, though unseen, in blissful play
Of sympathetic beams; all beauteous Things
Hold mystic fellowship; and fine-toned hearts
Without responding hearts,—how bleak and bare!
In sorrow lone, in happiness the same.
A man I knew, in mind and fame supreme
And yet, not happy, though by happiest ones
Admired. A loftiness of feeling sprung
From centuries dead and ancestors unknown,
Together with a soul-born pride, which soar'd
Far o'er the varied scene of vulgar life,
In childhood fill'd him with a thirst of fame.
High fancies, from the hills and mountains caught;
And inspiration born of lovely streams,
And silence-loving woods; and all the rays'
Of beauty which creative mind attracts
From scenes by Contemplation sought,—awoke
His genius into glorious play; the lyre
He struck; a World admired, and wreathed his brow
With the green laurels of a lofty fame;
For him a thousand tongues grew eloquent!
A thousand eyes would sparkle forth his praise;
And, when amid the brilliant throng he sat
A gay-tongued hypocrite, the hour to charm,
And not obstruct the flow of joy, the dreams
Of young Ambition brighten'd at his praise;
Alas, how often his unecho'd mind
Clothed its mute anguish with concealing smiles!
That soul within a secret blank remain'd
Which admiration could not fill. Alone;
No trusting heart, no gentle voice of love,
No happy faces round his evening-hearth
Were his to love; and what was brief renown?
A shade! and he?—a soul in solitude.
And yet, not happy, though by happiest ones
Admired. A loftiness of feeling sprung
From centuries dead and ancestors unknown,
Together with a soul-born pride, which soar'd
Far o'er the varied scene of vulgar life,
In childhood fill'd him with a thirst of fame.
High fancies, from the hills and mountains caught;
And inspiration born of lovely streams,
And silence-loving woods; and all the rays'
Of beauty which creative mind attracts
From scenes by Contemplation sought,—awoke
His genius into glorious play; the lyre
He struck; a World admired, and wreathed his brow
With the green laurels of a lofty fame;
For him a thousand tongues grew eloquent!
A thousand eyes would sparkle forth his praise;
And, when amid the brilliant throng he sat
A gay-tongued hypocrite, the hour to charm,
And not obstruct the flow of joy, the dreams
Of young Ambition brighten'd at his praise;
Alas, how often his unecho'd mind
Clothed its mute anguish with concealing smiles!
That soul within a secret blank remain'd
Which admiration could not fill. Alone;
No trusting heart, no gentle voice of love,
No happy faces round his evening-hearth
Were his to love; and what was brief renown?
A shade! and he?—a soul in solitude.
Epsom, October, 18th, 1828.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |