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103
THE WANDERING JEW.
O Earth, I am heart-sick with weariness!Thy times and seasons are alike in pain.
I hate the mocking sunshine, and no less
These high cold-staring stars. The enormous chain
Must all be thus unwinded, link by link,
And I must, drop by drop, thus slowly drink
My ocean-cup of misery to the lees.
All places are alike, and yet, as though
I had some hope of finding change, I go
Through cities, forests, deserts, mountains, seas.
Everywhere like a wandering wind I roam.
O Earth! in all thy bounds I only crave
A place of rest—in all thy lands, one grave.
Earth, Earth, O take me home!
Thou that wast guilty of my birth,
Hast thou no pity, O harsh mother Earth!
104
Groans forth in oft-repeated words of woe:
But I am never mad, even when I tear
This wretched flesh; I never cease to know
The stinging truth, the sharp reality,
Of all that was, and is, and is to be;
The mind doth calmly judge the senses' strife—
And that is ceaseless; for no hour may bring
A moment's lull to my disease of Life.
Sleep's dew that falls on every living thing
With comfortable balm, leaves only me,
Like Gideon's fleece, unwet; this awful lamp,
Burning for ages 'mid sepulchral damp,
Needs no fresh oil nor trimming; on my way
No resting-places stand. I gasp, and pray
For peace, though all in vain until the appointed day.
Hear now the real burden of my woe.
I have gone round and round about the Earth,
Across the halves of morning and of night,
Urged like the planet's breathing satellite;
And searched and sifted all that man can know
Of matter—from the inorganic birth,
Through all the upward workings of its life,
By infusion of the element of strife—
Death ever moving (save in me); the might
That makes, by hurrying to destruction each
Successive atom, as a fire keeps bright.
Fold after fold was drawn within my reach
Of Nature's veil, and when I raised at last
The farthest corner, I despised the past
And future of this world.
I have gone round and round about the Earth,
Across the halves of morning and of night,
Urged like the planet's breathing satellite;
And searched and sifted all that man can know
Of matter—from the inorganic birth,
Through all the upward workings of its life,
105
Death ever moving (save in me); the might
That makes, by hurrying to destruction each
Successive atom, as a fire keeps bright.
Fold after fold was drawn within my reach
Of Nature's veil, and when I raised at last
The farthest corner, I despised the past
And future of this world.
The inner life
Is noway better: generations run
In the old ruts; the toys are now the same
That mocked forgotten children, and the game
Is ever recommenced and never won.
It made my soul with deepest loathing burn,
While 'twas yet warm enough to loathe and spurn,
Beneath these idiots' feet who mount elate
A palace-stair to upper rooms of state,
To see the vile old treadmill turn and turn.
Is noway better: generations run
In the old ruts; the toys are now the same
That mocked forgotten children, and the game
Is ever recommenced and never won.
It made my soul with deepest loathing burn,
While 'twas yet warm enough to loathe and spurn,
Beneath these idiots' feet who mount elate
A palace-stair to upper rooms of state,
To see the vile old treadmill turn and turn.
Be thankful, grumbler at thy shortened span,
There is not giv'n, save to one wretched Man,
Time to exhaust his earth-life, and, mature,
Foolish unlovely childhood long endure!
The simple first-born people lingered slow,
The movement quickens as the ages grow,
Till one year teaches more than ancient ten,
And in proportion shrinks the life of men.
The Age that views its World with piercing ken,
Dooms it.
There is not giv'n, save to one wretched Man,
Time to exhaust his earth-life, and, mature,
Foolish unlovely childhood long endure!
The simple first-born people lingered slow,
106
Till one year teaches more than ancient ten,
And in proportion shrinks the life of men.
The Age that views its World with piercing ken,
Dooms it.
But stiffened in the cramp unscope,
I have, methinks, grown weary ev'n of Hope;
Of what a future world may have in store
Half-tired in prospect, be it worst or best.
I see no good in anything but rest;
Silence and dreamless rest for evermore.
I have, methinks, grown weary ev'n of Hope;
Of what a future world may have in store
Half-tired in prospect, be it worst or best.
I see no good in anything but rest;
Silence and dreamless rest for evermore.
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