^ ■ POEMS By MATTHEW ARNOLD N£W AND COMPLETE EDITION IN ONE VOLUME $tfa fork MACMILLAN AND CO. MDCCCLXXXIX REPLACING CONTENTS. EARLY POEMS. ^53 JONNETS 1— QUIET WORK . . TO A FRIKND .... i/SHAKSPEARE .... Written in emerson's essays written in butler's sermons to the duke of wellington l/*tn harmony with nature to george cruikshank . /to a republican friend, i ^/continued religious isolation 'mycerinus the church of brou : — 1. the castle . 2. the church 3. THE TOMB . A MODERN SAPPHO . 1/ REQUIESCAT YOUTH AND CALM A MEMORY-PICTURE THE NEW SIRENS I 2 3 3 4 5 5 6 7 7 12 16 18 19 21 22 23 as : M283344 IV CONTENTS. PAGH THE VOICE 34 youth's agitations y . . . . . .36 THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS 36 STAGIRIUS . . . . . # . .37 HUMAN LIFE 39 TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEASHORE ... 40 : A QUESTION 43 IN UTRLMQUE PARATUS 43 THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST \ ■ . . .45 THE SECOND BEST ....... # 46 CONSOLATION . i 47 RESIGNATION .... .... 49 NARRATIVE POEMS. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 59 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA . . . . .86 BALDER DEAD: — 1. SENDING . . . . . . .94 2. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD . . . .104 3. FUNERAL II4 \S TRISTRAM AND ISEULT : — 1. TRISTRAM 131 2. ISEULT OF IRELAND 1 43 3. ISEULT OF BRITTANY 150 SAINT BRANDAN 1 57 THE NECKAN ........ 159 O THE FORSAKEN MERMAN . . . . . . l6l SONNETS. AUSTERITY OF POETRY . . . . . .167 \ PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD . . . . . 167 RACHEL: 1, II, III . .? . . . . . l68 CONTEXTS. \ fyS PACE * WORLDLY PLACE . , , . , . .170 /XEAST LONDON I7 t^WEST LONDON 171 EAST AND WEST . 171 I THE BETTER PART . 1 72 THE DIVINITY 172 IX IMMORTALITY • 173 THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID . . .173 MONICA'S LAST PRAYER 1 74 LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS. SWITZERLAND :— 1. MEETING 175 \J2. PARTING 176 3. A FAREWELL 1 79 \/4. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE . . .182 {y5. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED . . . 183 6. ABSENCE 184 7. THE TERRACE AT BERNE . . . .185 (/'THE STRAYED REVELLER 1 87 FRAGMENT OF AN ' ANTIGONE ' . . . .197 FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A ' DEJANEIRA ' . . 20T EARLY DEATH AND FAME * 202 V PHILOMELA • 202 URANIA 204 EUPHROSYNE 205 CALAIS SANDS , . 206 FADED LEAVES:— 1. THE RIVER . . . . . • . 207 2. TOO LATE 208 3. SEPARATION 208 4. ON THE RHINE 209 \Xh. LONGING 209 vi CONTENTS, S~ PAGH {^DESPONDENCY . . . 2JC i^SELF-DECEPTiON ••••••• 2I£^ t^ DOVER BEACH /2 1 1 GROWING OLD 21 3 U^HE PROGRESS OF POESY 2 1- UPIS-ALLER 214 THE LAST WORD . >v 215 A NAMELESS EPITAPH . • . . . .215 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA . y 216 BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE . . . .254 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON ] . . .258 PERSISTENCY OF POETRY , • • • .264 A CAUTION TO POETS 264 VXTHE YOUTH OF NATURE 265 THE YOUTH OF MAN 269 ^PALLADIUM 273 PROGRESS . • • • • • • .273 REVOLUTIONS ..275 SELF-DEPENDENCE . • . • • . .276 \y MORALITY 277 A SUMMER NIGHT . . ' 278 THE BURIED LIFE 28 1 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS . . 284 A WISH 286 [^THE FUTURE 288 ELEGIAC POEMS. ^ THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 29 1 w/THYRSIS . . . ._ . . .299 *Jf MEMORIAL VERSES . K 307 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN . 3TC STANZAS FROM CARNAC . . . » » , 311 CONTENTS. vii NOTES PACK 312 317 321 321 A SOUTHERN NIGHT t/HAWORTH CHURCHYARD EPILOGUE -[t'rugby CHAPEL ...... U^EINE'S GRAVE , 28 " VSTANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE . . 335 7/STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF 'OBER- MANN' i/OBERMANN ONCE MORE „ . 342 34» J6l EARLY POEMS. SONNETS. Quiet Work. One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at one Though the loud world proclaim their enmity — Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity; Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil, Still do thy quiet ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone SONNETS. To a Friend. Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind?— He much, the old man, who, clearest-soul'd of men Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen, 1 And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, That halting slave, who in Nicopolis Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son Clear' d Rome of what most shamed him. But be hig My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, From first youth tested up to extreme old age, Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole; The mellow glory of the Attic stage, Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. \j Shakspe^ are. Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his stedfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality; SONNETS. 3 And thou who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — .Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. Written in Emersoris Essays. 'O monstrous, dead, unprofitable world, That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way 1 A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day, To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd ; Hast thou no lip for welcome?'— So T said. Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by ; A smile of wistful incredulity As though one spake of life unto the dead — Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free; Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful; The seeds of godlike power are in us still ; Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will I— Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ? Written in Butler s Sermons. Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control—- So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole, Rend ir. a thousand shreds this life of ours. B 2 > < SONNE TS. Vain labour ! Deep and broad, where none may see. Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne Where man's one nature, queen-like, sits alone, Centred in a majestic unity ; And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen Linking their coral arms under the sea, Or cluster' d peaks with plunging gulfs between Spann'd by ae'rial arches all of gold, Whereo'er the chariot wheels of life are roll'd In cloudy circles to eternity. To the Duke of Wellington. ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED. Because thou hast believed, the wheels of life Stand never idle, but go always round ; Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, Moved only ; but by genius, in the strife Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, Urged ; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand. The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand ; And, in this vision of the general law, Hast labour'd, but with purpose ; hast become Laborious, persevering, serious, firm — For this, thy track, across the fretful foam Of vehement actions without scope or term, Call'd history, keeps a splendour; due to wit, Which saw one clue to life, and follow'd it, SONNETS. In Harmony with Nature. \ TO A PREACHER. 'In harmony with Nature?' Restless fool, Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee, When true, the last impossibility — To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool! flada^t-iM fa Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more, And in that more lie all his hopes of good. Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood ; Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore ; Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest; Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave; Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends; Nature and man can never be fast friends. Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave! To George Cruikshank. ON SEEING, IN THE COUNTRY, HIS PICTURE OF 'THE BOTTLE.' Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born, 6 SONNETS. Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn — Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude Like comets on the heavenly solitude? Shall breathless glades, cheer'd by shy Dian's horn, Cold-bubbling springs, or caves ? — Not so ! The soul Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says: 1 Why tremble ? True, the nobleness of man May be by man effaced; man can control To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. Know thou the worst ! So much, not more, he can! To a Republican Friend, 1848. God knows it, I am with you. If to prize Those virtues, prized and practised by too few, But prized, but loved, but eminent in you, Man's fundamental life ; if to despise The barren optimistic sophistries Of comfortable moles, whom what they do Teaches the limit of the just and true (And for such doing they require not eyes); If sadness at the long heart-wasting show Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted; If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow The armies of the homeless and unfed — If these are yours, if this is what you are, Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share„ SONNETS. Continued. Vet, when I muse on what life is, I seem Rather to patience prompted, than that proud Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud- France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme; Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream, Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity, Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, When, bursting through the network superposed By selfish occupation — plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man, All difference with his fellow-mortal closed, Shall be left standing face to face with God. Religious Isolation. TO THE SAME FRIEND. Children (as such forgive them) have I known, Ever in their own eager pastime bent To make the incurious bystander, intent On his own swarming thoughts, an interest own- Too fearful or to fond to play alone. Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul (Not less thy boast) illuminates, control Wishes unworthy of a man full-grown. ? MYCERINUS. What though the holy secret, which moulds thee, Moulds not the solid earth ? though never winds Have whisper'd it to th complaining sea, Nature's great law, and law of all men's minds?- To its own impulse every creature stirs; Live by thy light, and earth will live by hers! ^MYCERINUS. 2 I Not by the justice that my father spurn'd, Not for the thousands whom my father slew, Altars unfed and temples overturn'd, Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks are due ; Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie, Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny. I I will unfold my sentence and my crime. My crime — that, rapt in reverential awe, I sate obedient, in the fiery prime Of youth, self-govern'd, at the feet of Law; Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings, By contemplation of diviner things. * My father loved injustice, and lived long ; Crown'd with grey hairs he died, and full of sway, I loved the good he scorn'd, and hated wrong — The Gods declare my recorffpence to-day. I look'd for life more lasting, rule more high; And when six years are measured, lo, I die ! MYCERINUS. g *Yet surely, O my people, did I deem Man's justice from the all-just Gods was given ; A light that from some upper fount did beam, Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven; A light that, shining from the blest abodes, Did shadow somewhat of the life of Gods. 'Mere phantoms of man's self-tormenting heart, Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed ! Vain^dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart When the duped soul, self-master'd, claims its meed ; When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows, Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close 1 1 Seems it so light a thing then, austere Powers, To spurn man's common lure, life's pleasant things? Seems there no joy in dances crown'd with flowers, Love, free to range, and regal banquetings? Bend ye on these, indeed, an unmoved eye, Not Gods but ghosts, in frozen apathy ? 1 Or is it that some Force, loo stern, too strong, Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile, Bears earth, and heaven, and men, and gods along, Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile? And the great powers we serve, themselves may be Slaves of a tyrannous necessity? 'Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars, Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight, And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars, Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night? Or in deaf ease, on throng of dazzling sheen, Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene ? io MYCERINUS. ' Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be, Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream ? Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see, Blind divinations of a will supreme ; Lost^ labour ! when the circumambient gloorn But hides, if Gods, Gods careless of our doom? * The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak, My sand runs short ; and — as yon star- shot i ay, Hemm'd by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak, Now, as the barrier closes, dies away — Even so do past and future intertwine, Blotting this six years' space, which yet is mine. 'Six years — six little years— six drops of time 1 Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane, And old men die, and young men pass their prime. And languid pleasure fade and flower again, And the dull Gods behold, ere these are flown, Revels more deep, joy keener than their own. 'Into the silence of the groves and woods I will go forth ; though something would I say — Something — yet what, I know not; for the Gods The doom they pass revoke not, nor delay; And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all And the night waxes, and the shadows fall. ' Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king ! I go, and I return not. But the will Of the great Gods is plain,; and ye must bring 111 deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfil Their pleasure, to their feet; and reap their prais*\ The praise of Gods, rich boon I and length of days.' MYCERINUS. 1 1 — So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn; And one loud cry of grief and of amaze Broke from his sorrowing people; so he spake, And turning, left them there ; and with brief pause, Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way To the cool region of the groves he loved. There by the river-banks he wander'd on, From palm-grove on to palm -grove, happy trees, Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneath Burying their unsunn'd stems in grass and flowers ; Where in one dream the feverish time of youth Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy Might wander all day long and never tire. Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn, Rose-crown'd ; and ever, when the sun went down, A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom, From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove, Revealing all the tumult of the feast — Flush' d guests, and. golden goblets foam'd with wine; While the deep-burnish'd foliage overhead Splinter' d the silver arrows of the moon. It may be that sometimes his wondering sou! From the loud joyful laughter of his lips Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man Who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape, Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems, Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl, Whispering: A little space, and thou art mine I It may be on that joyless feast his eye Dwelt with mere outward seeming ; he, within, Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength, And by that silent knowledge, day by day, Was calm'd, ennobled, comforted, sustain'd. It may be; but not less his brow was smooth, r2 THE CHURCH OF BROU. And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom, And his mirth quail'd not at the mild reproof Sigh'd out by winter's sad tranquillity ; Nor, pall'd with its own fulness, ebb'd and died In the rich languor of long summer-days; Nor wither'd when the palm-tree plumes, that roof'd With their mild dark h's grassy banquet-hall, Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring ; No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds. So six long years he revell'd, night and day. And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, To tell his wondering people of their king; In the still night, across the steaming flats, Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile. THE CHURCH OF BROU. I. Ww Castle. Down the Savoy valleys sounding 1 , Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain- chalets Hark ! what bell for church is toll'd ? In the bright October^morning Savoy's Duke had left his bride. From the castle, past the drawbridge, Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. /. THE CASTLE. Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. Gay, her smiling lord to greet, From her mullion'd chamber-casement Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. From Vienna, by the Danube, Here she came, a bride, in spring. Now the autumn crisps the forest; Hunters gather, bugles ring. Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. Off!-— They sweep the marshy forests, Westward on the side of France. Hark ! the game 's on foot ; they scatter 1- Down the forest-ridings lone, Furious, single horsemen gallop. — Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! Pale and breathless, came the hunters— On the turf dead lies the boar. God ! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him, Senseless, weltering in his gore. In the dull October evening, Down ihe leaf-strewn forest-road, To the castle, past the drawbridge, Came the hunters with their load. In the hall, with sconces blazing, Ladies waiting round her seat, Clothed in smiles, beneath the dai's Sate the Duchess Marguerite. 1 4 THE CHURCH OF BROU. Hark! below the gates unbarring! Tramp of men and quick commands ! ' — 'Tis my lord come back from hunting.'- And the Duchess claps her hands. Slow and tired, came the hunters; Stopp'd in darkness in the court. 1 — Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters! To the hall! What sport, what sport?'— Slow they enter'd with their master; In the hall they laid him down. On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown. Dead her princely youthful husband Lay before his youthful wife, Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces — And the sight froze all her life. In Vienna, by the Danube, Kings hold revel, gallants meet. Gay of old amid the gayest Was the Duchess Marguerite. In Vienna, by the Danube, Feast and dance her youth beguiled Till that hour she never sorrow'd; But from then she never smiled. 'Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys Far from town or haunt of man, Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, Which the Duchess Maud began ; /. THE CASTLE. 15 Old, that Duchess stern began it, In grey age, with palsied hands; But she died while it was building, And the Church unfinish'd stands — Stands as erst the builders left it, When she sank into her grave ; Mountain greensward paves the chancel; Harebells flower in the nave. • — I n my castle all is sorrow,' Said the Duchess Marguerite then; 'Guide me, some one, to the mountain! We will build the Church again/ — Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, Austrian knights from Syria came. 4 — Austrian wanderers bring, O warders! Homage to your Austrian dame.' — From the gate the warders answer'd : ' — Gone, O knights, is she you knew ! Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess. Seek her at the Church of Brou!' — Austrian knights and march-worn palmen Climb thj winding mountain- way ; Reach ihe valley, where the fabric Rises higher day by day. Stones are sawing, hammers ringing — On the work the bright sun shines; In the Savoy mountain- meadows, By the stream, below the pines. 1 6 THE CHURCH OF BR OCT. On her palfrey white the Duchess Sate and watch'd her working train — Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, German masons, smiths from Spain. Clad in black, on her white palfrey, Her old architect beside — There they found her in the mountains, Morn and noon and eventide. There she sate, and watch'd the builders. Till the Church was roof'd and done. Last of all, the builders rear'd her In the nave a tomb of stone. On the tomb two forms they sculptured, Lifelike in the marble pale — One, the Duke in helm and armour; One, the Duchess in her veil. Round the tomb the carved stone fret-work Was at Easter-tide put on. Then the Duchess closed her labours; And she died at the St. John. . II. 2®e ODfiurcfi. Upon the glistening leaden roof Of the new pile, the sunlight shines; The stream goes leaping by. The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; //. THE CHURCH. 17 'Mid bright green fields, below the pines, Stands the Church on high. What Church is this, from men aloof? — Tis the Church of Brou. At sunrise, from their dewy lair Crossing the stream, the kine are seen Round the wall to stray — The churchyard wall that clips the square Of open hill-sward fresh and green Where last year they lay. But all things now are order'd fair Round the Church of Brou. On Sundays, at the matin-chime, The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray ; Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Ride out to church from Chambery, Dight with mantles gay. But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou. On Sundays, too, a priest doth come From the wall'd town beyond the pass, Down the mountain-way ; And then you hear the organ's hum, You hear the white-robed priest say mass, And the people pray. But else the woods and fields are dumb Round the Church of Brou. And after church, when mass is done, The people to the nave repair Round the tomb to stray; And marvel at the forms of stone, c iS THE CHURCH OF BROU. And praise the chisell'd broideries rare Then they drop away. The princely pair are left alone In the Church of Brou. III. So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair! In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air, Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come. Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb From the rich painted windows of the nave On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave; Where thou, young Prince, shalt never more arise From the fringed rmttress where thy Duchess lies, On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds, And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve; And thou* O Princess, shalt no more receive, Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, Coming benighted to the castle-gate. So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair! Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair On the carved western front a flood of light Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave, In the vast western window of the nave; And on the pavement round the tomb there glints A chequer- work of glowing sapphire -tints, A MODERN SAPPHO. 19 And amethyst, and ruby— then unclose Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads, And rise upon your cold white marble beds; And looking down on the warm rosy tints Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints, Say : What is this ? zve are in bliss— forgiven — Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven I Or let it be on autumn-nights, when rain Doth rustlingly above your heads complain On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls Shedding her pensive light at intervals The moon through the clere-story windows shines, And the wind washes through the mountain-pines ; — Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, Hush, ye will say, it is eternity ! This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these The columns of the heavenly palaces. And in the sweeping of the wind your ear The passage of the Angels' wings will hear, And on the lichen-crusted leads above The rustle of the eternal rain of love. A MODERN SAPPHO. They are gone — all is still ! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver? Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac- shade. C 2 2 o A MODERN SAPPHO. Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river — Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade! Ere he come — ere the boat by the shining-bra nch'd border Of dark elms ?hoot round, dropping down the proud stream, Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order, Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam. Last night we stood earnestly talking together; She enter'd — that moment his eyes turn'd from me ! Fasten'd on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather — As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be. Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger, Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn. They must love — while they must! but the hearts that love longer Are rare— ah! most loves but flow once, and return. I shall suffer- but they will outlive their affection; I shall weep— but their love will be cooling; and he, A5* he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee ! For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking The strong band which passion around him hath furl'd, KEQUIESCAT. %\ Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking, Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world. Through that gloom he will see but a shadow ap- pearing, Perceive but a voice as I come to his side ; — But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing, Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. So, to wait ! But what notes down the wind, hark ! are driving ? 'Tis he ! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees ! ■ — Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving! Ah ! hope cannot long lighten torments like these. Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure? World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee ? Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O pleasure ? — Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me. REQUIESCAT. Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew ! In quiet she reposes ; Ah! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required ; She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. YOUTH AND CALM. Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound; But for peace her soul was yearn Yg, And now peace laps her round. Her eabin'd, ample spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath; To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of death. YOUTH AND CALM. Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is here, And ease from shame, and rest from fear, There's nothing can dismarble now The smoothness of that limpid brow. But is a calm like this, in truth, The crowning end of life and youth, And when this boon rewards the dead, Are all debts paid, has all been said ? And is the heart of youth so light, Its step so firm, its eye so bright, Because on its hot brow there blows A wind of promise and repose From the far grave, to which it goes; Because it has the hope to come, One day, to harbour in the tomb? Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one For daylight, for the cheerful sun, For feeling nerves and living breath - Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. A MEMORY- PICTURE. %$ It dreams a rest, if not more deep, More grateful than this marble sleep ; It hears a voice within it tell: Calm 's not life's crown, though calm is we!L A 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, (y / But 'tis not what our youth desires. A MEMORY -PICTURE. Laugh, my friends, and without blame Lightly quit what lightly came; Rich to-morrow as to-day, Spend as madly as you may ! I, with little land to stir, Am the exacter labourer. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Once I said: 'A face is gone If too hotly mused upon; And our best impressions are Those that do themselves repair.' Many a face I so let flee, Ah ! is faded utterly. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Marguerite says : ' As last year wcnt^ So the coming year '11 be spent ; Some day next year, I shall be, Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee;' 24 A MEMORY-PICTURE. Ah, I hope ! — yet, once away, What may chain us, who can say/ Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory Paint that lilac kerchief, bound Her soft face, her hair around; Tied under the archest chin Mockery ever ambush'd in. Let the fluttering fringes streak All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory! Paint that figure's pliant grace As she toward me lean'd her face, Half refused and half resign'd, Murmuring : ' Art thou still unkind V Many a broken promise then Was new made — to break again. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, Eager tell-tales of her mind ; Paint, with their impetuous stress Of enquiring tenderness, Those frank eyes, where deep doth b« An angelic gravity. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory! What, my friends, these feeble line3 Shew, you say, my love declines ? THE NEW SIRENS. a 5 To paint ill as I have done. Proves forgetfulness begun ? Time's gay minicns, pleased you see, Time, your master, governs me ; Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry: * Quick, thy tablets, Memory!' Ah, too true ! Time's current strong Leaves us true to nothing long. Yet, if little stays with man, Ah, retain we all we can ! If the clear impression dies, Ah, the dim remembrance prize I Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! THE NEW SIRENS. 'O' In the cedar-shadow sleeping Where cool grass and fragrant glooms Late at eve had lured me, creeping From your darken'd palace rooms — I, who in your train at morning Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind, Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning ; Saw the hoarse boughs labour in the wind. Who are they, O pensive Graces, — For I dream'd they wore your forms— Who on shores and sea-wash'd places Scoop the shelves and fret the storms? i6 THE NEW SIRENS. Who, when ships are that way tending, Troop across the flushing sands, To all reefs and narrows wending, With blown tresses, and with beckoning Lands ? Yet I see, the howling levels Of the deep are not your lair; And your tragic-vaunted revels Are less lonely than they were. Like those Kings with treasure steering From the jewell'd lands of dawn, Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing, Stream all day through your enchanted lawn. And we too, from upland valleys, Where some Muse with half-curved frown Leans her ear to your mad sallies Which the charm'd winds never drown ; By faint music guided, ranging The scared glens, we wander'd on, Left our awful laurels hanging, And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne. From the dragon-warder* d fountains Where the springs of knowledge are, From the watchers on the mountains, And the bright and morning star; We are exiles, we are falling, We have lost them at your call — • O ye false ones, at your calling Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall! Are the accents of your luring More melodious than of yore? Are those frail forms more enduring Than the charms Ulysses bore? THE NEW SIRENS. 2? That we sought you with rejoicings, Till at evening we descry At a pause of Siren voicings These vext branches and this howling sky? Oh, your pardon ! The uncouthness Of that primal age is gone, And the skin of dazzling smoothness Screens not now a heart of stone. Love has flush'd those cruel faces ; And those slacken'd arms forgo The delight of death-embraces, And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow. 'Ah/ you say; 'the large appearance Of man's labour is but vain, And we plead as staunch adherence Due to pleasure as to pain.' Pointing to earth's careworn creatures, 'Come,' you murmur with a sigh: 1 Ah ! we own diviner features, Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye. 'Come/ you say, 'the hours were dreary j Life without love does but fade ; Vain it wastes, and we grew weary In the slumbrous cedarn shade. Round our hearts with long caresses, With low sighings, Silence stole, And her load of steaming tresses Weigh' d, like Ossa, on the aery souL 2 8 THE NEW SIRENS. 'Come/ you say, 'the soul is fainting Till she search and learn her own, And the wisdom of man's painting Leaves her riddle half unknown. Come/ you say, 'the brain is seeking, While the princely heart is dead ; Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking, Rarer secrets than the toiling head. 'Come/ you say, 'opinion trembles, Judgment shifts, convictions go; Life dries up, the heart dissembles — Only, what we feel, we know. Hath your wisdom known emotions ? Will it weep our burning tears ? Hath it drunk of our love-potions Crowning moments with the weight of years?' I am dumb. Alas, too soon all Man's grave reasons disappear! Yet, I think, at God's tribunal Some large answer you shall hear. But for me, my thoughts are straying Where at sunrise, through your vines, On these lawns I saw you playing, Hanging garlands on your odorous pines; When your showering locks enwound you, And your heavenly eyes shone through ; When the pine-boughs yielded round you, And your brows were starr'd with dew; And immortal forms, to meet you, Down the statued alleys tame, And through golden horns, to greet you, Blew such music as a God may frame. THE NEW SIRENS. ,9 Yes, I muse ! And if the dawning Into daylight never grew, If the glistering wings of morning On the dry noon shook their dew, If the fits of joy were longer, Or the day were sooner done, Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger, No weak nursling of an earthly sun . . . Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk the hall with yew J For a bound was set to meetings, And the sombre day dragg'd on; And the burst of joyful greetings, And the joyful dawn, were gone. For the eye grows fill'd with gazing, And on raptures follow calms ; And those warm locks men were praising, Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms. Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys, And made all your cedars frown; Leaves were whirling in the alleys Which your lovers wander'd down. — Sitting cheerless in your bowers, The hands propping the sunk head, Do they gall you, the long hours, And the hungry thought, that must be fed? Is the pleasure that is tasted Patient of a long review? «o THE NEW SIRENS. Will the fire joy hath wasted, Mused on, warm the heart anew ? — Or, are those old thoughts returning, Guests the dull sense never knew, Stars, set deep, yet inly burning, Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew ? Once, like us, you took your station Watchers for a purer fire; But you droop'd in expectation, And you wearied in desire. When the first rose flush was steeping All the frore peak's awful crown, Shepherds say, they found you sleeping In some windless valley, farther down. Then you wept, and slowly raising Your dozed eyelids, sought again, Half in doubt, they say, and gazing Sadly back, the seats of men — Snatch' d a turbid inspiration From some transient earthly sun, And proclaim'd your vain ovation For those mimic raptures you had won. . With a sad, majestic motion, With a stately, slow surprise, From their earthward-bound devotion Lifting up your languid eyes — Would you freeze my louder boldness, Dumbly smiling as you go, One faint frown of distant coldness Flitting fast across each marble brow? THE NEW SIRENS. 31 Do I brighten at your sorrow, O sweet Pleaders ? — doth my lot Find assurance in to-morrow Of one joy, which you have not ? O, speak once, and shame my sadness ! Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain, Mock'd and baffled by your gladness, Mar the music of your feasts in vain! Scent, and song, and light, and flo wers I Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow — Come, bind up those ringlet showers ! Roses for that dreaming brow 1 Come, once more that ancient lightness, Glancing feet, and eager eyes ! Let your broad lamps flash the brightness Which the sorrow-stricken day denies ! Through black depths of serried shadows, Up cold aisles of buried glade ; In the mist of river-meadows Where the looming deer are laid; From your dazzled windows streaming, * From your humming festal room, Deep and far, a broken gleaming Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom. Where I stand, the grass is glowing; Doubtless you are passing fair ! But I hear the north wind blowing, And I feel the cold night-air. 3 » THE NEW SIRENS. Can I look on your sweet faces, And your proud heads backward thrown. From this dusk of leaf-strewn places With the dumb woods and the night alone > Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses- Mad delight, and frozen calms — Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses, And to-morrow — folded palms ; Is this all ? this balanced measure ? Could life run no happier way ? Joyous, at the height of pleasure, Passive, at the nadir of dismay? But indeed, this proud possession* This far-reaching, magic chain, Linking in a mad succession Fits of joy and fits of pain — Have you seen it at the closing ? Have you track'd its clouded ways? Can your eyes, while fools are dozing. Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days? When a dreary light is wading Through this waste of sunless greens, When the flashing lights are fading On the peerless cheek of queens, When the mean shall no more sorrow, And the proudest no more smile; While the dawning of the morrow Widens slowly westward all that while ? Then, when change itself is over, When the slow tide sets one way, Shall you find the radiant lover, Even by moments, of to-day ? THE NEW SIRENS. The eye wander*, faith is failing — O, loose hands, and led it be I Proudly, like a king bewailing, O, let fall one tear, and set us free! All true speech and large avowal Which the jealous soul concedes ; All man's heart which brooks bestowal, All frank faith which passion breeds^- These we had, and we gave truly; Doubt not, what we had, we gave! False we were not, nor unruly; Lodgers in the forest and the cave. Long we wander'd with you, feeding Our rapt souls on your replies, In a wistful silence reading All the meaning of your eyes. By moss-border'd statues sitting, By well-heads, in summer days. But we turn, our eyes are flitting — See, the white east, and the morning-rays! And you too, O worshipp'd Graces, Sylvan Gods of this fair shade ! Is there doubt on divine faces? Are the blessed Gods dismay'd? Can men worship the wan features, The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, Of unsphered, discrowned creatures, Souls as little godlike as their own? Come, loose hands ! The winged fleetness Of immortal feet is gone; And vour scents have shed their sweetness, And your flowers are overblown. D 33 34 THE VOICE. And your jewell'd gauds surrender Half their glories to the day ; Freely did they flash their splendour, Freely gave it — but it dies away. In the pines the thrush is waking — Lo, yon orient hill in flames ! Scores of true love knots are breaking At divorce which it proclaims. When the lamps are paled at morning, Heart quits heart and hand quits hand. Cold in that unlovely dawning, Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand! Pluck no more red roses, maidens, Leave the lilies in their dew — Pluck, pluck cy press, O pale maidens, Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew ! — Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, Her I loved at eventide ? Shall I ask, what faded mourner Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side? Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens 1 Dusk the hall with yew I THE VOICE. As the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear, Which the bright moon lances From her tranquil sphere At the sleepless waters "" Of a lonely mere, On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully Shiver and die. THE VOICE, I: As the tears of sorrow Mothers have shed — ■ Prayers that to-morrow Shall in vain be sped When the flower they flow for Lies frozen and dead — Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast Bringing no rest. Like bright waves that fall With a lifelike motion On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean; A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall — A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall — Strains of glad music at a funeral — So sad, and with so wild a start To this deep-sober'd heart, So anxiously and painfully, So drearily and doubtfully. And oh, with such intolerable change Of thought, such contrast strange, O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, Like wanderers from the world's extremity, Unto their ancient home! In vain, all, all in vain, They beat upon mine ear again, Those melancholy tones so sweet and still. Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year Did steal into mine ear — Blew such a thrilling summons to my will, Yet could not shake it; Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill, Yet could not break it. D 2 ^6 THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS, YOUTH'S AGITATIONS. When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, From this poor present self which I am now; When youth has done its tedious vain expense Of passions that for ever ebb and flow ; Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind. And breathe more happy in an even clime? — Ah no, for then I shall begin to find A thousand virtues in this hated time! Then I shall wish its agitations back, And all its thwarting currents of desire ; Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, And call this hurrying fever, generous fire ; And sigh that one thing only has been lent To youth and age in common — discontent. THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS. So far as I conceive the world's rebuke To him address'd who would recast her new, Not from herself her fame of strength she took, But from their weakness who would work her rue. 'Bcrnld/ she cries, 'so many rages lull'd, So mmy fiery spirits quite cool'd down; Look how so many valours, long undull'd, After short commerce with me, fear my frDwnl STAGIRIUS. 37 Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry, Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!' — The world speaks well; yet might her foe reply; ' Are wills so weak ? — then let not mine wait long ! Hast thou so rare a poison? — let me be Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me I" STAGIRIUS. 3 Thou, who dost dwell alone — Thou, who dost know thine own- Thou, to whom all are known From the cradle to the grave- Save, oh ! save. From the world's temptations, From tribulations, From that fierce anguish Wherein we languish, From that torpor deep Wherein we lie asleep, Heavy as death, cold as the grave, Save, oh ! save. When the soul, growing clearer, Sees God no nearer; When the soul, mounting higher, To God comes no nigher; But the arch-fiend Pride Mounts at her side, Foiling her high emprise, Sealing her eagle eyes, And, when she fain would soar, Makes idols to adore, 38 STAG1RIUS. Changing the pure emotion Of her high devotion. To a skin-deep sense Of her own eloquence ; Strong to deceive, strong to enslave— Save, oh ! save. From the ingrain'd fashion Of this earthly nature That mars thy creature ; From grief that is but passion, From mirth that is but feigning, From tears that bring no healing, From wild and weak complaining, Thine old strength revealing, Save, oh ' save. From doubt, where all is double; Where wise men are not strong, Where comfort turns to trouble, Where just men sufllr wrong; Where sorrow treads on joy, Where sweet things soonest cloy, Where faiths are built on dust, Where love is half mistrust, Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sca- Oh ! set us free. O let the false dream fly, Where our sick souls do lie Tossing continually ! O where thy voice doth come Let all doubts be du.r b, Let all words be- mild, All strifes be reconciled, All pains beguiled! HUMAN LIFE. 39 Light bring no blindness, Love no unkindness, Knowledge no ruin, Fear no undoing ! From the cradle to the grave, Save, oh ! save. HUMAN LIFE. What mortal, when he saw, Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly: 'I have kept uninfringed my nature's law; The inly-written chart thou gavest me, To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end'? Ah ! let us make no claim, On life's incognisable sea, To too exact a steering of our way ; Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim, If some fair coast has lured us to make slay, Or some friend hail'd us' to keep company. Ay ! we would each fain drive At random, and not steer by rule. Weakness ! ar.d worse, weakness bestow'd in vain ! Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive, We rush by coasts where we had lief remain; Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool. No ! as the foaming swath Of torn-up water, on the main, Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar 4 o TO A GIPSY CHILD On either side the black deep-furrow'd pat'.i Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore, And never touches the ship-side again; Even so we leave behind, As, charter'd by some unknown Powers, We stem across the sea of life by night, The joys which were not for our use design' d ; The friends to whom we had no natural right, The homes that were not destined to be ours. TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHORE, DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. ) Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes? Who hid such import in an infant's gloom? Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise? Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom ? Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone; The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier. Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. But thou, whom superfluity of joy Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy — Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain; BY THE SEA-SHORE. 4 , Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averse From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee ; With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst con- verse, And that soul-searching vision fell on me. Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known: Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own: Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below ? — Ah ! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad? Some angel's, in an alien planet born? — No exile's dream was ever half so sad, Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore; But in disdainful silence turn away, Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? Or do I wait, to hear some grey-hair'd king Unravel all his many-colour'd lore; Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more? Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope, Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give. — Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope s Foreseen thy harvest, vet proceed'st to live. 4» TO A GIPSY CHILD. meek anticipant of that sure pain Whose sureness grey-hair'd scholars hardly learn! What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain? What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou discern ? Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, Have known too much or else forgotten all. The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps; Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps. Ah ! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, Not daily labour's dull. Lcthsean spring, Oblivion in lost angels can infuse Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing ; And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may, In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife ; And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray, Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the cloud That sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone ; Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud To halve a lodging that was all her own — Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern, Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain! Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, And wear this majesty of grief again. IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS. 43 A QUESTION. TO FAUSTA. Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows Like the wave ; Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men, Love lends life a little grace, A few sad smiles ; and then, Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave. Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die Like .spring flowers; Our vaunted life is one long funeral. Men dig graves with bitter tears For their dead hopes ; and all, Mazed with doubts and sick with fears, Count the hours. We count the hours ! These dreams of ours, False and hollow, Do we go hence and find they are not dead? Joys we dimly apprehend, Faces that smiled and fled, Hopes born here, ami born to end, Shall we follow? IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS. If, in the silent mind of One all-pure, At first imagined lay The sacred world; and by procession sure 44 IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS. From those still deeps, in form and colour drest, Seasons alternating, and night and day, The long-mused thought to north, south, east^ and west, Took then its all-seen way; O waking on a world which thus-wise springs \ Whether it needs thee count Betwixt thy waking and tne birth of things Ages or hours — O waking on life's stream! By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount (Only by this thou canst) the colour'd dream Of life remount! Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow, And faint the city gleams ; Rare the lone pastoral huts — marvel not thou! The solemn peaks but to the stars are known, But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams; Alone the sun arises, and alone Spring the great streams. But, if the wild unfather'd mass no birth In divine seats hath known; In the blank, echoing solitude if Earth, Rocking her obscure body to and fro, Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throe Forms, what she forms, alone; O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed head Piercing the solemn cloud Round thy still dreaming brother-world outspread ! O man, whom Earth, thy long-vext mother, bare Not without joy — so radiant, so endow'd (Such happy issue crown'd her painful care) — Be not too proud! THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST. 45 O when most self-exalted most alone, Chief dreamer, own thy dream ! Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown; Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part — ■ Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart I '/, too, but seem.' THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST. TO CRITIAS. 'Why, when the world's great mind Hath finally inclined, Why,' you say, Critias, ' be debating still ? Why, with these mournful rhymes Learn'd in more languid climes, Blame our activity Who, with such passionate will, Are what we mean to be?' Critias, long since, I know (For Fate decreed it so), Long since the world hath set its heart to live; Long since, with credulous zeal It turns life's mighty wheel, Still doth for labourers send Who still their labour give, And still expects an end. Yet, as the wheel flies round, With no ungrateful sound Dc adverse voices fall on the world's ear, Deafen'd by his own stir The rugged labourer 46 THE SECOND BEST. Caught not till then a sense So glowing and so near Of his omnipotence. So, when the feast grew loud In Susa's palace proud, A white-robed slave stole to the Great King's side. He spake — the Great King heard ; Felt the slow-rolling word Swell his attentive soul; Breathed deeply as it died, And drain' d his mighty bowl. THE SECOND BEST. Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, Quiet living, strict-kept measure Both in suffering and in pleasure— 'Tis for this thy nature yearns. But so many books thou readest, But so many schemes thou breedest, But so many wishes feedest, That thy poor head almost turns. And (the world's so madly jangled, Human things so fast entangled) Nature's wish must now be strangled For that best which she discerns. So it must be ! yet, while leading A strain'd life, while overfeeding, Like the rest, his wit with reading, No small profit that man earns, CONSOLATION, Who through all he meets can steer him, Can reject what cannot clear him, Cling to what can truly cheer him; Who each day more surely learns That an impulse, from the distance Of his deepest, best existence, To the m ords, ' Hope, Light, Persistence/ Strongly sets and truly burns. CONSOLATION. Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul. Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings Pass countless moods. Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth con vent- roofs, On the gold terraces, Ot holy Lassa, Bright shines the sun. Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses ; In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair. 4» CONSOLA TION. Strange unloved uproar* Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm. Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms. No bolder robber Erst abode ambush'd Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight Spied prey afar. Saharan sand-winds Sear'd his keen eyeballs ; Spent is the spoil he won. For him the present Holds only pain. Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June- wind. Fresh from the summer fields, Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy. With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes brimming : ' Ah/ they cry, ' Destiny, Prolong the present! Time, stand still here!' * Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849? RESIGNATION. 49 The prompt stern Goddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives hf hour-glass Its due reversal; Their hour is gone. With weak indulgence Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen' d also Distress elsewhere. The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end. The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pass'd by others In warmth, light, joy. Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours. RESIGNATION. TO FAUSTA. To die be given us, or attain f Fierce ivork J were, to do again* 5 o RESIGNA TZOtf. So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd At burning noon ; so warriors said, Scarf d with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, while the s'm Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine; — so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall* Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close goal which, gain'd, may give repose. So pray they; and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain ; Pain to thread back and to renew Past straits, and currents long steer'd through. But milder natures, and more free — Whom an unblamed serenity Hath freed from passions, and the state Of struggle these necessitate; Whom schooling of the stubborn mind Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd — These mourn not, that their goings pay Obedience to the passing day. These claim not every laughing Hour For handmaid to their striding power; Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, To await their march ; and when appear'd, Through the cold gloom, with measured race, To usher for a destined space RESIGNATION. 5 i (Her own sweet errands all forgone) The too imperious traveller on. These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou, Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now 1 We left, just ten years since, you say, That w ayside in n we left to-day. 4 Our jovial host, as forth we fare, Shouts greeting from his easy chair. High on a bank our leader stands, Reviews and ranks his motley bands, Makes clear our goal to every eye — The valley's western boundary. A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road. The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun ; And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge. Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past; Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores — All past ! and through the trees we glide Emerging on the green hill-side. There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colour'd line; There winds, upstream ing slowly still Over the summit of the hill. And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread! Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells. Some two hours' march, with serious air, Through the deep noontide heats we fare; £ 2 5* RESIGNATION, The red-grouse, springing at our sound, Skims, now and then, the shining ground; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes. joy ! again the farms appear. Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; There springs the brook will guide us down, Bright comrade, to the noisy town. Lingering, we follow down; we gain The town, the highway, and the plain. And many a mile of dusty way, Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day; But, Fausta, I remember well, That as the balmy darkness fell We bathed our hands with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering sea. ! Once more we tread this self-same road, Fausta, which ten years since we trod; Alone we tread it, you and I, Ghosts of that boisterous company. Here, where the brook shines, near its head, In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed; Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town; Here sit we, and again unroll, Though slowly, the familiar whole. The solemn wastes of heathy hill , Sleep in the July sunshine still; The self-same shadows now, as then, Play through this grassy upland glen; The loose dark stones on the green way Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay; On this mild bank above the stream, (You crush them !) the blue gentians gleam. RESIGNATION. 53 Still this wild brook, the rushes cool, The sailing foam, the shining pool ! These are not changed; and we, you say, Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they. The gipsies, whom we met below, They, too, have long roam'd to and fro; They ramble, leaving, where they pass, Their fragments on the cumber' d grass. And often to some kindly place Chance guides the migratory race, Where, though long wanderings intervene, They recognise a former scene. The dingy tents are pitch'd; the fires Give to the wind their wavering spires ; In dark knots crouch round the wild flame Their children, as when first they came; They see their shackled beasts again Move, browsing, up the grey-wall'd lane. Signs are not wanting, which might raise The ghost in them of former days — Signs are not wanting, if they would; Suggestions to disquietude. For them, for all, time's busy touch, While it mends little, troubles much. Their joints grow stifFer — but the year Runs his old round of dubious cheer; Chilly they grow — yet winds in March, Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch ; They must live still - and yet, God knows, Crowded and keen the country grows; It seems as if, in their decay, The law grew stronger every day. So might they reason, so compare, Fausta, times past with times that are; B4 RESIGNATION. But no! — they rubb'd through yesterday In their hereditary way, And they will rub through, if they can, To-morrow on the self-same plan, Till death arrive to supersede, For them, vicissitude and need. The_poet, to whose mighty heart Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, / Subdues that energy to scan Not his own course, but that of man. J Though he move mountains, though his daj Be pass'd on the proud heights of sway, Though he hath loosed a thousand chains, Though he hath borne immortal pains, Action and suffering though he know — He hath not lived, if he lives* so. He sees, in some great-historied land, A ruler of the people stand, Sees his strong thought in fiery flood Roll through the heaving multitude, Exults — yet for no moment's space Envies the all-regarded place. Beautiful eyes meet his — and he Bears to admire uncravingly; They pass — he, mingled with the crowd, Is in their far-off triumphs proud. From some high station he looks down, At sunset, on a populous town ; Surveys each happy group, which fleets, Toil ended, through the shining streets, Each with some errand of its own — And does not say : / am alone. He sees the gentle stir of birth When morning purifies the earth ; RESIGNA TION. y z He leans upon a gate, and sees The pasiares, and the quiet trees. Low, woody hill, with gracious boun-1, Folds the still valley almost round ; The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn, Is answer'd from the depth of dawn ; In the hedge straggling to the stream, Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam; But, where the farther side slopes down, He sees the drowsy new-waked clown In his white quaint-embroider'd frock Make, whistling, toward his mist- wreathed flock — Slowly, behind his heavy tread, The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head. Lean'd on his gate, he gazes— - tears Are in his eyes, and in his ears The murmur of a thousand years. Before him he sees life unroll, A placid and continuous whole — - That general life, which does not cease, Whose secret is not joy, but peace; * That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd If birth proceeds, if things subsist ; The life of plants, and stones, and rain, The life he craves — if not in vain Fate gave, what chance shall not control, His sad lucidity of soul. You listen — but that wandering smile, Fausta, betrays you cold the while ! Your eyes pursue the bells of foam Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. Those gipsies, so your thoughts I scan, Are less, the poet more, than man. St- RESIGNA TION. They feel not, though they move and tee i Deeper the poet feels ; but he Breathes, when he will, immorial air, Where Orpheus and where Homer are. In the days life, ivhose iron round Hems us all in, he is not bound ; He leaves his kind, derleaps their pen, And flees the common life of men. He escapes thence, but zve abide — Not deep the poet sees, but wide. The world in which we live and move Outlasts aversion, outlasts love, Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, Remorse, grief, joy; — and were the scope Of these affections wider made, Man still would see, and see dismay'd, Beyond his passion's widest range, \J Far regions of eternal change. Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, Finds him with many an unsolved plan, With much unknown, and much untried, Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried, Still gazing on the ever full Eternal mundane spectacle — This world in which we draw our breath, In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares ^dr Judge vain beforehand human cares; Whose natural insight can discern What through experience otheis learn; Who needs not love and po\vv.r, to know Love transient, power an unreal show; RESIGNATION. n Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways — Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise 1 Rather thyself for some aim pray Nobler than this, to fill the day; Rather that heart, which burns in thee, Ask, not to amuse, but to set free; Be passionate hopes not ill resign'd For quiet, and a fearless mind. And though fate grudge to thee and me The poet's rapt security, Yet they, believe me, who await No gifis from chance, have conquer' d fate. They, winning room to see and hear, And to men's business not too near, a>uo tV^ If I might lend their life a voice, Seem to bear rather than rejoice. And even could the intemperate prajer Man iterates, while these forbear, For movement, for an ampler sphere, Tierce Fate's impenetrable ear; Not milder is the general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In action's dizzying eddy whit I'd, The something that infects the world NARRATIVE POEMS. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 6 An Episode. And the first grey of morning fill'd the east, And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. But all the Tartar camp along the stream Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep ; Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night long He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, And went abroad into the cold wet fog, Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere; Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand, And to a hillock came, a little back From the stream's brink — the spot where first a boat, Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. The men of former times had crown'd the top With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now 60 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tenl A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were s^. jmX. And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood Upon the thick piled carpets in ihe tent, And found the old man sleeping on his bed Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. And Peran-Wisa heard him, thougt the step Was dull'd ; for he slept light, an Ad man's sleep ; And he rose quickly on one arm and said: — 1 Who art thou ? for it is not ) «rt clear dawn. Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?' But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said: — 4 Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, before the army march'd; And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first I came among the Tartars and bore arms, I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, At my boy's years, the courage of a man. This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, And beat the Persians back on every field, I seek, one man, one man, and one alone — Rustum, my father; who I hoped shculd greet, Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field His not unworthy, not inglorious son. So I long hoped, but him I never find. Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I SOU RAD AND RUSTUM. 61 Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords To meet me, man to man; if I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin Dim. is the rumour of a common fight, Where host meets host, and many names are sunk : But of a single combat fame speaks clear.' He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said: — 1 O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle's common chance with us Who love thee, but must press for ever first, In single fight incurring single risk, To find a father thou hast never seen ? That were far best, my son. to stay with us Unmurmuring ; in our tents, while it is war, And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. But, if this one desire indeed rules all. To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ! Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! But far hence seek him, for he is not here. For now it is not as when I was young, When Rustum was in front of every fray : But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, In Seistan, with Zal, his father old, Whether that his own mighty strength at last Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age ; Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. There go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes Danger or death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 6a S0I1RAB AND RUSTtJM. To seek thy father,, not seek single fights In vain; — but who can keep the lion's cub From ravening, and who govern Rustum's son? Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.' So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and left His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat. He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, And threw a white cloak round him, and he took In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword; And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, Black, glossy, curl' d, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd His herald to his side, and went abroad. The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed Into the open plain; so Haman bade — Hainan, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled The host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd ; As when some grey November morn the files, In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, Or some frore Caspian reed- bed, southward bound For the warm Persian sea-board — so they stream'd. The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara come And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, The Tukas, and the lances of Salore SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 6j And those from Atlruck and the Caspian sands ; Light men and on light steeds, who only drink The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came From far, and a more doubtful service own'd; The Tartars of Ferghan.i, from the banks Of, the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere — ■ These all filed out from camp into the plain. And on the other side the Persians form'd ; — First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd, The Ilyats of Khorassan; and behind, The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, Marshaird battalions bright in burnish'd steel. But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, He took his spear, and to the front he came, And checked his ranks, and fix'd them where they s'.ood. And the old Tartar came upon the sand Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said: — • 1 Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. But choose a champion from the Persian lords To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man/ As, in the country, on a morn in June, When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 64 SOIIRAB AND RUS'IUM. A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. But as a troop of pe liars, from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow ; Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries— In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snows— So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up To counsel ; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host Second, and was the uncle of the King; These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz said : — 'Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, Yet champion have we none to match this youth. He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart. Him will I seek, and carry to his ear The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name; Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.' So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and cried : — - 1 Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said ! Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.' He spake ; and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strodo SOHRAD AND RUSTUM, 6* Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. But through the anxious Persians GuJurz ran, And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach' d, Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the midst Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. Ard Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found Rustum ; his morning meal was done, but still The table stood before him, charged with food — A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, And play'd with it; but Gudurz came and stood Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him stand, And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said: — ' Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. What news ? but sit .down first, and eat and drink.' But Gudurz stood i$ the tent-door, and said : — 1 Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink, But not to-day; to-day has other needs. The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; For from the Tartars is a challenge brought To pick a champion from the Persian lords To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name — Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart ; And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose ! ' He spoke; but Rustum answer'd with a smile: — F 66 SOUR A B AND RUSTUM. 'Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I Am older; if the young are weak, ihe Kins Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosi .., Himself is young, and honours younger men, And lets the aged moulder to their graves. Rustum he loves no more, but loves the youngs The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. For what care I, though all speak Sok/ub ? s fameir For would that I myself had such a Lon, And not that one slight helpless girl I have — ' A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, And I to tarry with the snow-hair' d Zal, My Hither, whom the robber Afghans vex. And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, And he has none to guaru his weak old age. There would I go, and hang my armour up, And with my great name fence that weak old man, And spend the goodly treasures I have got, And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no- more.' He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply: — . ''What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, Hidest thy face ? Take heed lest men should say ; Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame, And shims to peril it with younger men? And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply : — ' O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou" say such words ? Thou knowest better words than this to say. What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, SOH RAD AND RUSTUM. 67 Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? Are not they mortal, am not I myself? But who for men of nought would do great deeds? Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame 1 But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms; Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'd In single fight with any mortal man.' He spoke, and frown' d ; and Gudurz turn'd, and ran Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. But Rustum strode to Irs tent-door, and call'd His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, And clad himself in steel; tha arms lie chose Were plain, and on his shield was no device, Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse, Follow'd him like a faithful hound at heel — Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once Did in Bokhara by the river find A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts Hail'd; but the Tartars knew not who he was. And dear as the wet diver to the eyes F 2 53 S0I1RAD AND RUSTUM. Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, Having made up his tale of precious pearls, Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, And Sohrab arm'd in Hainan's tent, and came. And as afield the reapers cut a swath Down through the middle of a rich man's corn. And on each side are squares of standing corn, And in the midst a stubble, short and bare — So on each side were squares of men, with spears Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire — At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, When the frost flowers the whiten'd window- panes — And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum eyed The unknown adventurous Youth, who from afar Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth Ml the most valiant chiefs; long he perused His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd ; Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, Which in a queen's secluded garden throws Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, SOHRAD AND RUSTUM, 69 By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul As he beheld him coming; and he stood, And beckon'd to him with his 'hand, and said: — 'O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, And warm, and pleasant ; but the g : ave is cold ! Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron, - And tried ; and I have stood on many a field Of blood, and 1 have fought with many a foe — Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and come To Iran, and be as my son to me, And fight beneath my banner till I die ! There are no youths in Iran brave as thou/ So he spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his voice, The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw His giant figure planted on the sand, Sole, like some single tower, which a chief Hath builded on the waste in former years Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, Streak'd with its first grey hairs; — hope fill'd his soul, And he ran forward and embraced his knees, And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said : — ' Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?' But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul : — 'Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean I False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks, And hide it not, but say: Rustum is here! 70 S0I1RAB AND RUSTUM. He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: " I challenged once, when the two armies camp'd Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in s ; ngle fight; but they Shrank, only Rustum dared ; then he and I Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away." So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud; Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.' And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud: — 1 Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call'd By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or yield' Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? Rash boy, men look on Rusium's face and flee! For well I know, that did great Rustum stand Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd, There would be then no talk of fighting more. But being what I am, I tell thee this — Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, Oxus in summer wash them all away/ He spoke; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet: — 1 Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so ! I am no girl, to be made pale by words. Yet this thou hast said well, did^Rustum stand Here on this field, there were no fighting then. But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. SOUR A B AND RUSTUM. 71 Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I, And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, PoisejLon the,top of_a huge wave of fat e, Which hamyg^nnrgrtnin tn Avjiichjiide to Jail. And whether it will heave us up to land, Or whether it will roll us out to sea, Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, We know not, and no search will make us know ; Only the event will teach us in its hour.' He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'd His spear; down from the shoulder, down it came, As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, That long has tower'd in the airy clouds, Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand, Which it sent flying wide; — then Sohrab threw In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield; sharp rang, The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge, Still rough — like those which men in treeless plains To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so huge The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 71 S0I1RAB AND RUSTUM, Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum** hand. And Ruslum follow'd his own blow, and fell To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand ; And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — 1 Thou strik'st too hard ! that club of thine will float Upon the summer-flooJs, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I; No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou say'st, thou art not Ruslum ; be it so ! Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. And heard their hollow roar of dying men; But never was my heart thus touch'd before. Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host, Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront thy spearl But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!' He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his club He left to lie, but had regain'd rhis spear, Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, SOUR A B AND RUSTUM. n The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way : — 'Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands 1 CuiTd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! Remember all thy valour; try thy feints And cunning! all the pity I had is gone; Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles/ He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword ; at once they rush'd Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One fro n the east, one from the west ; their shields Dash'd with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 74 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And labouring breath ; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to re.ich the skin, And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum' s helm, Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; And Rustum bow'd his head; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, ihe horse, Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry; — No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day Has irail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand — The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, And struck again ; and again Rustum bow'd His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shou.ed : Rustum ! — Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed: back he fecoil'd one step, And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing form; And then he stood bewilder'd, and he dropp'd SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 75 His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground ; And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair; — Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began \— * Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied: — 'Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man 1 No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I match'd with ten such men as thee, And I were that which till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there. But that beloved name unnerved my arm — That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear; The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! 76 SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!' As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And follow'd her to find her where she fell Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back From hunting, and a great way off descries His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers — never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — V /As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, / So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood I Over his dying son, and knew him not. v^And, with a cold, incredulous voice, he said: — 1 What prate is this of fathers and revenge? The mighty Rustum never had a son.' And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied: — 1 Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. Surely the news will one day reach his ear, Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 7; Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen! Yet him I Dity not so much, but her, My mo:her, who in Ader-baijan dwells With that old king, her father, who grows grey With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honour, when the war is done. But a dark rumour will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; But that in battle with a nameless foe, By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.' He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought. Nor diu he yet believe it was his son Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew ; For he had hid sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; Or that men gave it hi:n, to swell his fame. So deem'd he ; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought ; And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the brigh rocking Ocean sets to shore At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his eyes ; For he remember'd his own early youth, And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, The shepherd from his mountain-lodge" descries 78 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom; And that old king, her fa'.her, who loved well His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, They three, in that long-distant summer-time — The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt And hound, and morn on those delightful hills In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, Of age and looks to be his own dear son, Piteous and lovely, l ving_ on the ^jsand, Like some rich hyachuh-wliichby the scythe Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said: — 'O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved I Yet here thou errcst, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false — thou art not Ructum's son. For Rustum had no son ; one child he had — But one — a girl; who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, no~ war/ But Sohrab answer' d him in wrath ; for now The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel. And let the blood flow free, and so to die — But first he would convince his"stubborn foe; And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: — 'Man, who art thou who dost deny my words r SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. yg Trulh sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore/ • He spoke ; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks, And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud ; And to his heart he press' d the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — 1 Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie ! If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son/ Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points Prick'd ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear procelain vase, An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, which of old rear^d_Zal i ^^ Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks; Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved — ■ Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes, And then he touch'd it with his . hand and said : — • How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?' He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood So SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. Speechless; and then he utter'd one sharp cry: boy— thy father ! — and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissM lis lips, And with fond faltering fingers stroked his checks, Trying to call him back to life; and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, — His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, And his sobs choked him ; and he clutch'd his sword, To draw it, and for ever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, And with a soothing voice he spake, and said : — 1 Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day The doom which at my birth was written down In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, 1 know it! but fate tro d those p r ompt ings down Under its iron heel ; "late, fate engaged The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. But let us speak no more of this ! I find My father, let me feel that I have found! Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, jmd say: My son t Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my sands of life, And swift; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away — SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. Si Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind ; But it was writ in Haven that this should be/ So said he, and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts. When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, With his head bowing to the ground and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one then to the other moved His head, as if enquiring what their grief Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: — * Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should then have r >tted on their nimble joints, When first they boie thy master to this field!' But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said : — 'Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in p.ist days, . My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said, That I should one day find thy lord and thee. Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane 1 O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; For thou hast gone where I shall never go, And snuff d the breezes of my father's home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, And said: Ruksh! bear Rustum well! — but I Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 6 -°2 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd: — 'Oh, that its waves were flowing over me 1 Oh. that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head !' But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied: — * Desire not that, my father! thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live, As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, \^nd reap a second glory in thine age; Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come ! thou seest this great host of men Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! Let me intreat for them ; what have they done ? They follow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place m? on a bed, and mourn for me, Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that. lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above my bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all. That so the passing horseman en the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and cry: SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. P3 Sohrah, the mighly Rustums son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill I And I be not forgotten in my grave.' And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : — 'Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seistan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all, And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go! Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace I What should I do with slaying any more? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, And they who were call'd champions in their time, And through whose death I won that fame I have — And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou ; And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; And say : O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou mefst thine end! But now in blood and battles was my youth, &nd full of blood and battles is my age, G 2 84 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. And I shall never end this life of blood/ Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — 1 A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, When thou shalt sail in a high-mas:ed ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea, From laying t K y dear master in his grave.' And Rusium gazed in Sohrab's face, and said : — ' Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea 1 Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure/ He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious angui h ; but the b'ood Came welling from the open gash, and life Flow'd with the stream ; — all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, Like the soil'd tissue of white violets Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, By children whom their nurses call with haste Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head droop'd low, His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps, Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them, And fix'd them feebly on his father's face; Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs / Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left, i And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. ^ So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead; And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 8: As those black granite pillars, once high-rear' d By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now mid their broken flights of steps Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — So in the sand lay Rus'.um by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and fires Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; The Persians took it on the open sands Southward, the Tartars by the river marge ; And Rustum and his son were left alone. But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon ; — he flow'd Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foil'd circuitous wanderer— till at last The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 86 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. Hussein, O most Just Vizier, send away The cloth-merchants, and let them be, Them and their dues, this day ! the King Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. The Vizier. O merchants, tarry yet a day Here in Bokhara! but at noon, To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay Each fortieth web of cloth to me, As the law is, and go your way. O Hussein, lead me to the King ! Thou teller of sweet tales, thine owl*, Ferdousi's, and the others', leadl How is it with my lord ? Hussein. Alone, Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, O Vizier! without lying down, In the great window of the gate, Looking into the Registan, Where through the sellers' booths the slaves Are this way bringing the dead man. — O Vizier, 'here is the King's door 1 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 8j The King. O Vizier, I may bury him ? The Vizier. O King, thou know'st, I have been sick These many days, and heard no thing (For Allah shut my ears and mind), Not even what thou dost, O King ! Wherefore, that I may counsel thee, Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste To speak in order what hath chanced. The King. O Vizier, be it as thou say'stl Hussein. Three days since, at the time of prayer, A certain Moollah, with his robe All rent, and dust upon his hair, Watch'd my lord's coming forth, and push'd The golden mace-bearers aside, And fell at the King's feet, and cried: 'Justice, O King, and on myself! On this great sinner, who did break The law, and by the law must die 1 Vengeance, O King I' But the King spake: 'What fool is this, that hurts our ears With folly ? or what drunken slave ? My guards, what, prick him with your spears J Prick me the fellow from the path V 88 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. As the King said, so was it done, And to the mosque my lord pass'd on. But on the morrow, when the King Went forth again, the holy book Carried before him, as is right, And through the square his way he took; My man comes running, fleck'd with blood From yesterday, and falling down Cries out most earnestly : ' O King, My lord, O King, do right, I pray I 1 How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern If I speak folly? but a king, Whether a thing be great or small, Like Allah, hears and judges all. * Wherefore hear thou ! Thou know'st, how fierce In these last days the sun hath burn'd; That the green water in the tanks Is to a putrid puddle turn'd ; And the canal, that from the stream Of Samarcand is brought this way, Wastes, and runs thinner every day. 1 Now I at nightfall had gone forth Alone, and in a darksome place Under some mulberry-trees I found A lit le pool ; and in short space With all the water that was there I fill'd my pitcher, and stole home Unseen ; and having drink to spare, I hid the can behind the door, And went up on the roof to sleep. THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA, 89 'But in the night, which was with wind And burning dust, again I creep Down, having fever, for a drink. 1 Now meanwhile Jiad my brethren found The water-pitcher, where it stood Behind the door upon the ground, And call'd my mother; and they all, As they were thirsty, and the night Most sultry, drain'd the pitcher there ; That they sate with it, in my sight, Their lips still wet, when I came down. • Now mark ! I, being fever'd, sick (Most unblest also), at that sight Brake forth, and cursed them — dost thou hear ?— One was my mother Now, do right 1' But my lord mused a space, and said: * Send him away, Sirs, and make on 1 It is some madman!' the King said. As the King bade, so was it done. The morrow, at the self- same hour, In the King's path, behold, the man, Not kneeling, sternly fix'd ! he stood Right opposite, and thus began, Frowning grim down : ' Thou wicked King, Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear 1 What, must I howl in the next world, Because thou wilt not listen here? 1 What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, And all grace shall to me be grudged ? Nay but, I swear, from this thy path I will not stir till I be judged 1' THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. Then they who stood about the King Drew close together and conferr'd; Till that the King stood forth and said : c Before the priests thou s-halt be heard.' But when the Ulemas were met, And the thing heard, they doubted not ; But sentenced him, as the law is, To die by stoning on the spot. Now the King charged us secretly: * Stoned must he be, the law stands so. Yet, if he seek to fly, give way; Hinder him not, but let him go/ So saying, the King took a stone, And cast it sofdy ; — but the man, With a great joy upon his face, Kneel'd down, and cried not, neither ran. So they, whose lot it was, cast stones, That they flew thick and bruised him sore But he praised Allah with loud voice, And remain'd kneeling as before. My lord had cover'd up his face; But when one told him, ' He is dead,' Turning him quickly to go in, 1 Bring thou to me his corpse/ he said. And truly, while I speak, O King, I hear the bearers on thef stair; Wilt thou they straightway bring him in ? — Ho! enter ye who tarry there I THE SICK KTNG IN BOKHARA, qi The Vizier. O King, in this I praise thee not ! Now must I call thy grief not wise. Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, To find such favour in thine eyes? Nay, were he thine own mother's son, Still, thou art king, and the law stands. It were not meet the balance swerved, The sword were broken in thy hands. But being nothing, as he is, Why for no cause make sad thy face? — Lo, I am old ! three kings, ere thee, Have I seen reigning in this place. But who, through all this length of time, Could bear the burden of his years, If he for strangers pain'd his heart Not less than those who merit tears ? Fathers we must have, wife and child, And grievous is the grief for these; This pain alone, which must be borne, Makes the head white, and bows the knees. But other loads than this his own One man is not well made to bear. Besides, to each are his own friends, To mourn with him, and shew him care. Look, this is but one single place, Though it be great; all the earth round, If a man bear to have it so, Things which might vex him shall be found. 9? T:iE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. Upon the Russian frontier, where The watchers of two armies stand Near one another, many a man, Seeking a prey unto his hand, Hath snatch'd a little fair-hair'd slave; They snatch also, towards Merve, The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep, And up from thence to Orgunje. And these all, labouring for a lord, Eat not the truit of. their own hands ; Which is the heaviest of all plagues, To that man's mind, who understands. The kaffirs also (whom God curse !) Vex one another, night and day ; There are the lepers, and all sick ; There are the poor, who faint alway. All these have sorrow, and keep still, Whilst other men make cheer, and sing, Wilt thou have pity on all these? No, nor on this dead dog, O King! The King. O Vizier, thou art old, I young! Clear in these things I cannot scs. My head is burning, and a heat Is in my skin which angers me. But hear ye this, ye sons of men I They that bear rule, and are obey'd, Unto a rule more strong than theirs Are in their turn obedient made. THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 93 In vain therefore, with wistful eyes Gazing up hither, the poor man, Who loiters by the high-heap'd booths, Below there, in the Registan, Says : ' Happy he, who lodges there ! With silken raiment, store of rice, And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, Grape-syrup, squares of colour'd ice, 1 With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow.' In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enamell'd mosques ; And to make orchard-closes, rill'd With curious fruit-trees brought from far; With cisterns for the winter-rain, And, in the desert, spacious inns In divers places — if that pain Is not more lighten'd, which he feels, If his will be not satisfied ; And that it be not, from all time The law is planted, to abide. Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man ! Thou wast athirst; and didst not see, That, though we take what we desire, We must not snatch it eagerly. And I have meat and drink at will, And rooms of treasures, not a few. But I am sick, nor heed I th^se; And what I would, I cannot do. q4 BALDER DEAD. Even the great honour which I have, When I am dead, will soon grow still; So have I neither joy, nor fame. But what I can do, that I will. I have a fretted brick-work tomb Upon a hill on the right hand, Hard by a close of apricots, Upon the road of Samarcand; Thither, O Vizier, will I bear This man my pity could not save, And, plucking up the marble flags, There lay his body in my grave. Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls ! Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb ! Then say : ' He was not wholly vile, Because a king shall bury him.' BALDER DEAD. 6 1. SENDING. So on the floor lay Balder dead ; and round Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove ; But in his breast stood fixt the. fatal bough Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw — 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. BALDER DEAD, 9£ And all the Gods and all the Heroes came, And stood round Balder on the bloody floor, Weeping and wailing; and Val halla rang Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries ; And on the tables stood the untaxed meats, And in the horns and gold-rimm'd sculls the wine. And now would night have fall'n, and found them yet Wailing ; but otherwise was Odin's will. And thus the father of the ages spake : — ' Enough of tears, ye Gods, enough of wail ! Not to lament in was Valhalla made. If any here might weep for Balder's death, I most might weep, his father; such a son I lose to-day, so bright, so loved a God. But he has met that doom, which long ago The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun, And fate set seal, that so his end must be. Balder has met his death, and ye survive — Weep him an hour, but what can grief avail? For ye yourselves, ye Gods, shall meet your doom, All ye who hear me, and inhabit Heaven, And I too, Odin too, the Lord of all. But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes, With women's tears and weak complaining cries — Why should we meet another's portion so? Rather it fits you, having wept your hour, With cold dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern, To live, as erst, your daily life in Heaven. By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok, The foe, the accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day. Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns, Bring wood to the seashore to Balder's ship, And on the deck build high a funeral pile, 96 BALDER DEAD. And on the top lay Balder's corpse, and put Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea To burn; for that is what the dead desire/ So spake the King of Gods, and straightway rose, And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode; And from the hall of Heaven he rode away To Lidskial f, and sate upon his thron e. T he mount, from whence his eye surveys fo p wnrlH And far from Heaven he turn'd his shining orbs To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men . And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze Whom antler'd reindeer pull over the snow; And on tri2 Finns, the gentlest of mankind, Fair men, who live in holes under the ground; Nor did he look once more to Ida's plain, Nor toward Valhalla, and the sorrowing Gods; For well he knew the Gods would heed his word, And cease to mourn, and think of Balder's pyre. But in Valhalla all the Gods went back From around Balder, all the Heroes went; And left his body stretched upon the floor. And on their golden chairs they sale again. Beside the tables, in the hall of Heaven ; And before each the cooks who served them placed New messes of the boar Serimner's flesh T And the Valkyries crown'd their horns with mead. So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes, Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank, While twilight fell, and sacred night came on. But the blind Hoder left the feasting Gods In Odin's hall, and went through Asgard streets, And past the haven where the Gods have moor'd Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall ; Though sightless, yet his own mind led the God. BALDER DEAD, 9, Down to the margin of the roaring sea He came, and sadly went along the sand, Between the waves and black o'erhanging cliffs Where in and out the screaming seafowl fly; Until he came to where a gully breaks Through the cliff-wall, and a fresh stream runs down From the high moors behind, and meets the sea. There, in the glen, Fensaler stands, the hous e Of Frea, honour' d mother of the Go ds, And shews its lighted windows to the main. There he went up, and pass'd the opan doors; And in the hall he fouid those women old, The prophetesses, who by rite eterne On Frea's hearth feed high the sacred fire Both night and day ; and by the inner wall Upon her golden chair the Mother sate . With folded hands, revolving things to com e. To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said : — 1 Mother, a child of bale thou bar'st in me ! For, first, thou barest me with blinded eves, Sighdess and helpless, wandering weak in Heaven; And, after that, of ignorant witless mind Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul; That I alone must take the branch from Lok, The foe, the accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, And cast it at the dear-loved Balder's breast At whom the Gods in sport their weapons threw — 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly, For who will bear my hateful sight in Heaven? Can I, mother, bring them Balder back? Or — for thou know'st the fates, and things allow'd— Can I with Hela's power a compact strike, And make exchange, and give my life for his?' H 98 BALDER DEAD, He spoke; the mother of the Gods replied:— * Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son, Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these? T hat on e, lon g portion'd with his doom of dea th. Should change his lot, and fill another's lif e, And Hela yield to this, and let him go ! On Bald er Death hath laid her hand, not thee; Nor do ttTshe count this li f e a price for th at. tor many Gods in Heaven, not thou alone, Would freely die to purchase Balder back, And wend themselves to Hela's gloomy realm. For not so gladsome is that life in Heaven Which Gods and heroes lead, in feast and fray, Waiting the darkness of the final times, That one should grudge its loss for Balder's sake, Balder their joy, so bright, so loved a God. But fate withstands, and laws forbid this way. • Yet in my secret mind one way I know, Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail; But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.' And the blind Hoder answer'd her, and said: — 'What way is this, O mother, that thou shew'st? Is it a matter which a God might try?' And straight the mother of the Gods replied: — 'There is a way which leads to Hela's realm, Untrodden, lonely, far from light and Heaven. Who goes that way must take no other horse To ride, but Sleipner, Odin's horse, alone. Nor must he choose that common path of Gods Which every day they come and go in Heaven, O'er the bridge Bifrost, where^is Heimdall's watch, Past Midgard fortress, down to earth and men. But he must tread a dark untravell'd road Which branches from the north of Heaven, and ride BALDER DEAD, 09 Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, Through valleys deep-engulph'd, with roaring streams. And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, Not Bifrost, but that bridge a damsel keeps, Who tells the passing troops of dead their way To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela's realm. And she will bid him northward steer his course. Then he will journey through no lighted land, Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set; But he must ever watch the northern bear, Who from her frozen height with jealous eye Confronts the dog and hunter in the south, And is alone not dipt in Ocean's stream. And straight he will come down to Ocean's strand^ O cean, whose watery ring enfolds the world, And oiTwnose marp;e the a ncient giants dwell. But he will reach its unknown northern shore, Far, far beyond the outmost giant's home, At the chink'd fields of ice, the waste of snow. And he must fare across the dismal ice Northward, until he meets a stretching wall Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. But then he must dismount, and on the ice Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin's horse, And make him leap the grate, and come within. And he will see stretch round him Hela's realm, The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, Ar.r| hear the rnari no- of the streams of Hell. And he will see the feeble, shadowy tribes, And Balder sitting crown'd, and Hela's throne. Then must he not regard the wailful ghosts Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around; But he must straight accost their solemn queen, h a ioo BALDER DEAD. And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers, Telling her all that grief they have in Heaven For Balder, whom she holds by right below. If haply he may melt her heart with words, And make her yield, and give him Balder back.' She spoke ; but Hoder an^wer'd her and said :— 1 Mother, a dreadful way is this thou shew'st. No journey for a sightless God to go !' And straight the mother of the Gods replied: — ■ Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son. But he whom first thou meetest when thou com'st To Asgard, and declar'st this hidden way, Shall go; and I will be his guide unseen/ She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil, And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. But at the central hearth those women old, Who while the Mother spake had ceased their toil, Began again to heap the sacred fire. And Hoder turn'd, and left his mother's house, Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea; And came again down to the roaring waves, And back along the beach to Asgard went, Pondering on that which Frea said should be. But night came down, and darken'd Asgard streets. Then from their loathed feast the Gods arose, And lighted torches, and took up the corpse Of Balder from the floor of Odin's hall, And laid it on a bier, and bare him home Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house .Bieidablik, on whose columns Balder graved i\The enchantments that recall the dead to life. I tor wise he was, and many curious arts, I Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew; Unhappy ! but that art he did not know, BALDER DEAD. i^, To keep his own life safe, and see the sun. There to his hall the Gods brought Balder home, And each bespake him as he laid him down: — 'Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borne Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin. So thou might'st live, and still delight the Gods ! ' They spake ; and each went home to his own house. But there was one, the first of all the Gods For speed , and Hermod was his name in Heaven; Most fleet he was, but now he went the last, Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell, Against the harbour, by the city-wall. Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up From the sea cityward, and knew his step ; Nor yet could Hermod see his brother's face, For it grew dark; but Hoder touch'd his arm. And as a spray of honeysuckle flowers Brushes across a tired traveller's face Who shuffles through the deep dew-moisten'd dust, On a May evening, in the darken'd lanes, And starts him, that he things a g]?ost went by — So Hoder brush'd by JJermod's side, and said : — 1 Take Sleioner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn To Ilela's kingdom, to ask Balder back; y And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.' He spake, and brush'd soft by* and disappear'd. And Hermod gazed into the night,. and said: — / / / ■/ / ' } 'Wno is it utters through- the dark^his hest So quickly, and will wait .for no reply ? / The voice was Hire the unhappy Hoder's voice. Howbeit J. will see, ^nd do his hdst; , For there rang note divine in that command/ So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came / / / ' / 102 BALDER DEAD. Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house; And all the Gods lay down in their own homes. And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief, Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other Gods ; And he went in, and shut the door, and fixt His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose, The throne, from which his eye surveys the world; And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven, High over Asgard, to light home the King. But fiercely Odin gallop'd, moved in heart; And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came. And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets, And the Gods trembled on their golden beds Hearing the wrathful Father coming home — For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came. And to Valhalla's gate he rode, and left Sleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall; And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder's wife, Came with the Goddesses who wrought her will, And stood by Balder lying on his bier. And at his head and feet she station'd Scalds Who in their lives were famous for their song; These o'er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain, A dirge — and Nanna and her train replied. And far into the night they wail'd their dirge; But when their souls were satisfied with wail, They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went Into an upper chamber, and lay down ; And Frea seal'd her tired lids with sleep. And 'twas when night is bordering hard on dawn, BALDER DEAD. 103 When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low; Then Balder's spirit through the gloom drew near, In garb, in form, in feature as he was, Alive ; an d still the rays w ere round his head Which were his pr ion ons mark; in Heaven; he stood Over against the curtain of the bed, And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake : — * Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett'st thy woe I Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes, Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek ; but thou, Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep. Sleep on ; I watch thee, and am here to aid. Alive I kept not f^- from thee, dear soul! Neither do 1 :neg]- thee now, though dead. For with to-morrows dawn the Gods prepare To gather wood, and build a funeral-pile Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire, That sad, sole honour of the dead; and thee They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth, With me, for thus ordains the common rite. But it shall not be so; but mild, but swift, But painless shall a stroke from Frea come, To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul, And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee. And well I know that by no stroke of death, Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die, So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side, Whom thou so well hast loved; but I can smoothe Thy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail. Yes, and 1 fain would altogether ward Death from thy head, and with the Gods in Heaven Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired — But right bars this, not only thy desire. Vet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead 104 BALDER DEAD. In that dim world, in Hela's mouldering realm ' And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead, Whom Hela with austere control presides. For of the race of Gods is no one there, Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen ; F or all the nobler souls of mortal m en O n battle-field have met their death, and no w F east in Valhalla, in my father's hall ; O nly the inglorious sort are there belo w, The old, the cowards, and the weak are th e re — Men spent by sickness, or obscure dec ay. But even there, O Nanna, we might find Some solace in each other's look and speech, Wandering together through that gloomy world, And talking of the life we led in Heaven, While we yet lived, among the other Gods.' He spake, and straight his lineaments began To fade ; and Nanna in her sleep stretch'd out Her arms towards him with a cry -but he Mournfully shook his head, and disappear'd. jAnd as the woodman sees a little smoke Hang in the air, afield, and disappear, So Balder faded in the night away. And Nanna on her bed sank back ; but then Frea, the mother of the Gods, with stroke Painless and swift, set free her airy soul, Which took, on Balder's track, the way below ; And instantly the sacred morn appear' d. 2. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD. Forth from the east, up the ascent of Heaven. Day drove his courser with the shining mane ; BALDER DEAD. 10: And in. Valhalla, from his gable-perch, The golden-crested cock bega n to crow. Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night, With shrill and dismal c ries that bird shall ciow, Warning the Gods that foesj iraw nigh to Heaven; But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note, To wake the Gods and Heroes to their tasks. And all the Gods, and all the Heroes, woke. And from their beds the Heroes rose, and donn' d T heir arms, and le d their h orses f rom the^sfall, A nd mounted them, and in Valhalla's cp u r t Were ranged; and then the daily fray b egan. A nd all day long they there are hark 'd and hewn 'Mid dnsr 7 and groans, and limbs lopp'd off, and hlnnd ; - B ut all at night re turn to Odin's hall Woundless and fresh ; suc h lot is theirs in Heaven. And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth Toward earth and fights of men; and at their side Sknlrbk f he youngest of the Nornies, rode; ,nd over Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch, fast-Midgard fortress, down t o earth they came; There throu gh some battle- field, where men fall fast, Their horses f etlock-deep in blood, they ride, And pick the br avest warrior s out for death, Who m they bring back wj lhj.hem at night to Heaven, To glad the Gods ^prirl fa*** in Odin's hall. But the Gods went not now, as otherwhile, Into the tilt-yard, where the Heroes fought, To feast their eyes with looking on the fray; Nor di d they to their judgment-pl ace repair By the ash Igdr asil, in Ida's pl ain, Where ihe y hold council and giv e laws for men. ^"ut tnev went, Odin first, the rest behind, io6 BALDER DEAD. To the hall Gladheim, which is bu ilt of gold; Where are in circle ranged twelve golden chairs, An d in the midst one hig her, Odin's throne. There all the Gods in silence sate them down; And thus the Father of the ages spake : — 1 Go quickly, Gods, bring wood to the seashore, With all, which it beseems the dead to have, And make a funeral-pile on Balder's ship; On the twelfth day the Gods shall burn his corpse. But Hermod, thou, take Sleipner, and ride down To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back.' So said he; and the Gods arose, and took Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor, Shouldering his hammer, whiih ttie gian ts know. Forth wended they, and drave their steeds before. And up the dewy mountain-tracks they fared To the dark forests, in the early dawn; And up and down, and side and slant they roam'd. And from the glens all day an echo came Of crashing falls; for with his hammer Thor Smote 'mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines, And burst fheir roots, while to their tops the Gods Made fast the woven ropes, and haled them down, And lopp'd their boughs, and clove them on the sward, And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw, And drave them homeward; and the snorting steeds Went straining through the crackling brushwood down, And by the darkling forest-paths the Gods Follow'd, and on their shoulders carried boughs. And they came out upon the plain, and pass'd Asgard, and led their horses^to the beach, And loosed them of their loads on the seashore, And ranged the wood in stacks by Balder's ship ; And every God went home to his own house. BALDER DEAD. 107 But when the Gods were to the forest gone, Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth And saddled him ; before that, Sleipner brook'd No meaner hand than Odin's on his mane, On his broad back no lesser rider bore; Yet docile now he stood at Hermod's side, Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode, Knowing the God they went to seek, how dear. But Hermod mounted him, and sadly fared In silence up the dark untravell'd road Which branches from the north of Heaven, and went All day; and daylight waned, and night came on. And all that night he rode, and journuy'd so, Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, Through valleys deep-engulph'd, by roaring streams. And on the tenih morn he beheld the bridge Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, And on the bridge a damsel watching arm'd, In the strait passage, at the further end, Where the road issues between walling rocks. Scant space that warder left for passers by; — B ut as when cowherds in October drive Their kine across a snowy mountain-pass To winter-p asture on the southern side, A nd on the ridg e a waggon chokes the way, Wedged in thg __s.now; then painfully the hinds With goad and sh outing urge their cattle past, Plunging through .d eep untrodden banks of snow To right and left, and warm steam fills the air — - So on the bridge th at damsel block' d the way, And question'd- Hermod as he came, and said: — 'Who art thou on thy/black ajjd fiery horse Under whose hoofs the Bridge o'er Giall's stream Rumbles and shakes ? Tell me thy race and home. io8 BALDER DEAD. But yestermorn, five troops of dead pass'd by, Bound on their way below to Hela's realm, Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone. And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks, Like men who live, and draw the vital air; Nor look'st thou pale and wan, like men deceased, Souls bound below, my dally passers here.' And the fleet-footed Hermod answer'd her: — ■ damsel, Hermod am I call'd, the son Of Odin; and my high-roof 'd house is built Far hence, in Asgard, in the city of Gods ; And Sleipner, Odin's horse, is this I ride. And I come, sent this road on Balder's track; Say then, if he hath cross'd thy bridge or no?' He spake ; the warder of the bridge replied : — «0 Hermod, rarely do the feet of Gods Or of the horses of the Gods resound Upon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know. Balder hath gone this way, and ta'en the road Below there, to the north, toward Hela's realm. From here the cold white mist can be discern'd, Not lit with sun, but through the darksome air By the dim vapour-blotted light of stars, Which hangs over the ice where lies the road. For in that ice are lost those northern streams, Freezing and ridging in their onward flow, W hich from the fo untain, pf Vermel mer run. Th e spring that bubbles up by Hela's throne . There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts, Hela's pale swarms; and there was Balder bound. Ride on! pass free! but he by this is there.' She spake, and stepp'd aside, and left him room And Hermod greeted her, and gallop'd by Across the bridge; then she took post again. BALDER DEAD. ioc But northward Hermod rode, the way below; And o'er a darksome tract, which knows no sun, But by the blotted light of stars, he fared. And he came down to Ocean's northern strand, At the drear ice, beyond the giants' home. Thence on he journey 'd o'er the fields of ice Still north, until he met a stretching wall Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths, On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin's horse, And made him leap the grate, and came within. And he beheld spread round him Hela's realm, The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, And heard the thunder of the strea ms of Hell. F or near the wall the river ot koaring flows, Outm ost ; the others near the centre run — The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and t he Pain, TKese flow by Hela's throne, and near their spring. And from the dark ■ flock' d up the shadowy tribes; — ■ And as the swallows cro wd the bulrush-beds Of some cle ar river, iss uing from a lake, On autu mn-d ays, before they cross the sea; And to each bulr ush-crest a swallow hangs Swinging, and others skim the river-streams, Arid their quick twittermgfills the banks and shores — ■ S o around Hermod swarm'd the twittering ghosts. Women, and infants, and young men who died Too soon for fame, with white ungraven shields; And old men, known to glory, but their star Be tray 'd them, and of wasting age they died, Not wounds ; yet, dying, they their armour wore, And now have chief regard in Hela's realm. Behind flock'd wrangling up a piteous crew, Greeted of none, disfeatured and forlorn— no BALDER DEAD. Coward s, who were in sloughs inte rred alive; And round them still the wattled hurdle s hung Wherewith they stamp'd them down, and trod them deep. T o hide their shameful memory from men. But all he pass'd unhail'd, and reach'd the throne Of Hela, and saw, near it, Balder crown'd, And Hela set thereon, with countenance stern; And thus bespake him first the solemn queen : — 'Unhappy, how hast thou endured to leave The light, and journey to the cheerless land Where idly flit about the feeble shades? How didst thou cross the bridge o'er Giall's stream, Being alive, and come to Ocean's shore? Or how o'erleap the grate that bars the wall?' She spake : but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang, And fell before ner feet, and clasp'd her knees; And spake, and mild entreated her, and said: — 'O Hela, wherefore should the Gods declare Their errands to each other, or the ways They go? the errand and the way is known. Thou know'st, thou know'st, what grief we have in Heaven For Balder, whom thou hold'st by right below. Restore him ! for what part fulfils he here ? Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless^ seats, And touch the apathetic ghosts witlr joy ? — Not for such end, O queen, thou hold'st thy realm. For Heaven was Balder born, the city of Gods And Heroes, where they live in light and joy. Thither restore him, for his^place is there!' He spoke ; and grave replied the solemn queen : — 'Hermod, for he thou art, thou son of Heaven! A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine. BALDER DEAD. in Do the Gods send to me to make them blest? Sm all bliss my race hath of the Gods obtain'd. Three mighty childre n to my fathe r Lok Did An gerbode , the giantess, bring forth — Fenris IKe wolf, the serpent huge, and me. Of these the serpent in the sea ye cast, Who since in your despite hath wax'd amain, And now wiih gleaming ring enfo lds the world; Me on th is cheerless nether world ye threw, And gaveme nine unlighted realms to rule; While on his island in the lake afar , Made fast to the bored crag, by wile not strength Subdued, with limber chains lives Fenris bound. Lok still subsists in Heaven, our f ather wise, Y our mate, though loathed, and feast s in Odin's hall ; But him too foes await, and net ted snares, And in a cave a bed of needle- rocks. And o'e r his visage serpents droppi ng gall. Yet he shall o ne day rise, and bu rst his bonds, A nd with himself set us his offs pring free, When he guides Muspel's children to their bourne. T ill then in peril or in pain we live, Wro ught by the Gods — and ask the G ods our aid? Howbeit. we abide our day: t ill then, yWe do not as some feebler haters do- — beek to afflict our foes with petty pangs, ^lelpless to better us, or ruin them. Come then ! if Balder was so dear beloved, And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven's — Hear, how to Heaven may Balder be restored. Show me through all the world the signs of grief! Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops 1 Let all that lives and moves upon the earth Weep him, and all that is without life weep; Mf BALDER DEAD. Let Gods, men, brutes, heweep him; plants and stones I So shall I know the lost was dear indeed, And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven.' She spake; and Hermod answer'd her, and said: — ' Hela, such as thou say'st, the terms shall be. But come, declare me this, and truly tell: May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail, Or is it here withheld to greet the dead?' He spake; and straightway Hela answered him:— ' Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and hold Converse; his speech remains, though he bs dead.' And straight to Balder Hermod turn'd, and spake :— ■ 'Even in the abode of death, O Balder, hail! Thou hear'st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine, The terms of thy releasement hence to Heaven; Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfill'd. For not unmindful of thee are the Gods, Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell j Even here they seek thee out, in Hela's realm. s % And sure of all the happiest far art thou Who ever have been known in earth or Heaven; Alive, thou wast of Gods the most beloved, And now thou sittest crown'd by Hela's side, Here, and hast honour among all the dead/ He spake ; and Balder utter'd him reply, But feebly, as a voice far off; he said : — 'Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death! Better to live a serf, a captured man, Who scatters rushes in a master's hall, Than be a crown'd king here, and rule the dead. And now I count not of these_terms as safe To be fulfiird, nor my return as sure, Though I be loved, and many mourn my death; For double-minded ever was the seed BALDER DEAD. 113 Of Lok, and double are the gifts they give. Howbeit, report thy message ; and therewith, To Odin, to my father, take this ring , Memorial of me , whether saved or no ; And tell the Heaven-born Gods how thou hast seen Me sitting here below by Hela's side.. Crown'd, having honour among all the dead.' He spake, and raised his hand, and gave the ring. And with inscrutable regard the queen Of Hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb. But Hermod took the ring, and yet once more Kneel'd and did homage to the solemn queen ; Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to ride Back, through the astonish'd tribes of dead, to Heaven, And to the wall he came, and found the grate Lifted, and issued on the fields of ice. And o'er the ice he fared to Ocean's strand, And up from thence, a wet and misty road, To the arm'd damsel's bridge, and Giall's stream. Worse was. that way to go than to return, For him ; — for others all return is barr'd. Nine days he took to go, two to return, And on the twelfth morn saw the light of Heaven. A ad-as. a traveller in th e early dawn To the steep edge of some great valley comes, Through which a river fl ows, and sees, beneath, Clouds of white rolling vapours fill the vale, But o'er them, o n the _ farther slope, descries Vineyards, a nd crofts, an d pastures, bright with sun— So Hermod, o'er the fog between, saw Heaven. And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the air Of Heaven ; and mightily, as wing'd, he flew. And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise; And he drew near, and heard no living voice I U4 BALDER DEAD. In Asga-d ; and the golden halls were dumb. Then Hermod knew what labour held the Gods; And through the empty streets he rode, and pass'd Under the gate-house to the sands, and found The Gods on the seashore by Balder's ship. 2. FUNERAL. The Gods held talk together, group'd in knots, Round Balder's corpse, which they had thither borne; And Hermod came down towards them from the gate. And Lok, the father of the serpent, first Beheld him come, and to his neighbour spake : — ' See, here is Hermod, who comes single back From Hell; and shall I tell thee how he seems? Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog, . Some morn, at market, in a crowded town — I Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain, / And follows this man after that, for hours ; And, late at ev ening, spent and panting, falls Before a stranger's threshold, not his home, With flanks ^a- tremble, and his slender tongue Hangs quiveri ng out between his dust-smear'd jaws, And piteouslv he eyes the passers by; But home his master comes to his own farm, Far in the country, wondering where he is — So Hermod comes to-day unfollow'd home.' And straight his neighbour, moved with wrath, replied : — * Deceiver ! fair in form, but false in heart ! Enemy, mocker, whom, though Gods, we hate — Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe I BALDER DEAD, n S Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand, And bind thy carcase, like a bale, with cords, And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim ! If clear from plotting Balder's death, to swim; But deep, if thou dcvisedst it, to drown, And perish, against fate, before thy day.' So they two soft to one another spake. But Odin look'd toward the land, and saw His messenger; and he stood forth, and cried. And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down, And in his father's hand put Sleipner's rein, And greeted Odin and the Gods, and said : — 1 Odin, my father, and ye, Gods of Heaven ! Lo, home, having perform'd your will, I come. Into the joyless kingdom have I been, Below, and look'd upon the shadowy tribes Of ghosts, and communed with their sclemn queen; And to your prayer she sends you this reply : Show her through all the world the signs of grief ! Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder slops I Let Gods, men, brutes, be weep him; plan's and stones! So shall she know your loss was dear indeed, And bend her heart, and give you Balder back! He spoke ; and all the Gods to Odin look'd ; And straight the Father of the ages said : — 1 Ye Gods, these terms may keep another day. But now, put on your arms, and mount your steeds, And in procession all come near, and weep Balder; for that is what the dead desire. When ye enough have wept, then build a pile Of the heap'd wood, and burn his corpse with fire Out of our sight ; that we may turn from grief, And lead, as erst, our daily life in Heaven.' He spoke, and the Gods arm'd ; and Odin donn'd 1 2 (9 C3> 1 1«5 BALDER DEAD. His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold, And led the way on Sleipner; and the rest Follow'd, in tears, their father and their king. And thrice in arms around the dead they rode, Weeping ; the sands were wetted, and their arms, With their thick-falling tears — so good a friend They mourn'd that day, so bright, so loved a God. And Odin came, and laid his kingly hands On Balder's breast, and thus began the wail : — * Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son I In that great day, the twilight of the Gods, When Muspel's children shall beleaguer Heav en. Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy a rm.' Thou earnest near the next, O warrior Thor ! Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot drawn, Swaying t he long-hair' d goa ts with silver'd rein; And over Balder's corpse these words didst say : — 1 Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land, And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts, Now, and I know not how they prize thee there — But here, I know, thou wilt be miss'd and mourn'd For haughty spirits and high wraths are rife Among the Gods and Heroes here in Heaven, As among those whose joy and work is war; And daily strifes arise, and angry words. But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day, Heard no one ever an injurious word To God or Hero, but thou keptest back The others, la bouring to compose their braw ls. Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind ! Fo r we lose him, w^n pjnnnthprl q|] [af-pfe i n Heaven; He spake, and all the Gods assenting wail'd. And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears; The loveliest Goddess she in Heaven, by all f BALDER DEAD, Most honour' d after Frea, Odin's wife. Her Ions: ago the wandering Oder took 117 To mate, but left her to roam distant lands ; Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold . Names hath she many ; Vanadis on earth They call her, Freya is her name in Heaven ; She in her hands took Balder's head, and spake :— 1 Balder, my brother, thou art gone a road Unknown and long, and haply on that way My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met, For in the piths of Heaven he is not found. Oh, if it be so, tell him what thou wast To his neglected wife, and what he is, And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word! For he, my husband, left me here to pine, Not long a wife, when hi s unquiet heart Fi rst drove him from me into distant land s; Si nce then I vainly s eek him through the world, And weep from shore to shore my golden tears, But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain. T hou only, Balder, wast for ev er kind, To take my hand, and wipe my tears, a nd say : \ u Weep not, Freya, weep no golden tears / One day the wandering Oder will r eturn, O r thou wilt find him in thy faithf ul search On some great road, or res ting in an inn, Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree. So Balder said; — but Oder, well I know, M y truant Oder I shall see no more To the world's end; and Balder now is gone, And I am left uncomforted in Heaven.' ~ She spake ; and all the Goddesses bewail'd. Last from among the Heroes one came near,, No God, but of the hero-troop the chief— ti8 BALDER DEAD, Regncr, who swept the northern sea with fleets, And ruled o'er Denmark and the heathy isles, Living; but Ella cap urcd him and slew; — A king, whose fame then fill'd the vast of Heaven, Now time obscures it, and men's later deeds. He last approach'd the corpse, and spake, and said :— 1 Balder, there yet are many Scalds in Heaven Still left, and that c hief Scald, thy brother Brage , Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone. And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear, After the feast is done, in Odin's hall; But they harp ever on one string, and wake Remembrance in our soul of wars alone, Such as on earth we valiantly have waged, And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death. But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strike Anot her note, and, like a b ird in sprin g. Thy voice of joyance minded us. and y outh. A nd wife, and children, an d our ancient home. Yes, and I, too, remember'd then no more My dungeon, where the s erpents stung me dead, Nor~Ella J s victory on the English coast — But I heard Thora laugh in G othland Isle, An d saw my shepherde ss, Aslauga, tend Her flock along the w hite Norwegian beach. Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy. Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead/ So Regner spake, and all the Heroes groan'd. But now the sun had pass'd the height of Heaven, And soon had all that day been spent in wail; But then the Father of the ages_ said : — { Ye Gods, there well may be too much of wail! Bring now the gather'd wood to Balder's ship ; Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre/ BALDER DEAD. 119 But when the Gods and Heroes heard, they brought The wood to Balder's ship, and built a pile, Full the deck's breadth, and lofty; then the corpse Of Balder on the highest top they laid, With Nanna on his right, and on his left Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew. And they set jars of wine and oil to lean Against the bodies, and stuck torches near, Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with turpentine; And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff, And slew the dogs who at his table fed, And his horse, Balder's horse, whom most he loved, And threw them on the pyre, and Odin threw A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring. The mast they fixt, and hoisted up the sails, Then they put fire to the wood; and Thor Set his stout shoulder hard against the stern To push the ship through the thick sand £— sparks flew From the deep trench she plough'd, so strong a Go d Furrow' d it; and the water gurgled in. And the ship floated on the waves, and rock'd. But in the hills a strong east-wind arose, And came down moaning to the sea; first squalls Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady rush'd The breeze, and fill'd the sails, and blew the fire. And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea. Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire, And the pile crackled; and between the logs Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt, Curling and darting, higher, until they lick'd The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast, And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still the ship Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire. And the Gods stood upon the beach, and gazed. [20 BALDER DEAD, And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on. Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm ; But through the dark they watch'd the burning ship Still carried o'er the distant waters on, Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. And long, in the far dark, blazed Bidder's pile; But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared ; The bodLs were consumed, ash choked the pile. And as . in a decaying winter-fire, Acharr'd log, falling, makes a shower of sparks — SowTFh a shower of sparks the pile fell in, Reclclening the sea around; and all was dark. But the Gods went by starlight up the shore To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall At table, and the funeral-feast began. All night they ate the boar Serimner's flesh, And from their horns, with silver rimm'd, drank mead, Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. And morning over all the world was spread. Then from their loathe'd feast the Gods arose, And took their horses, and set forth to ride HVr ihp bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch, To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida's plain. ^ Thor en me on foot, the rest on horseback rode. And they found Mimir sitting by his fount Of wisdo m, which beneath the ashtree springs; And saw the Nornies watering the roots Of tha t world-shadowing tree with honey-dew. There came the Gods, and sate them down on stones ; And thus the Father of the ages_ said : — 'Ye Gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought. Accept them or reject them ! both have grounds. BALDER DEAD. tai Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfiU'd, To leave for ever Balder in the grave, An unrecover'd prisoner, s hade w ith shades. But how, ye say, should the fulfilment- fail ? — Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfill'd ; For dear-beloved was Balder while he lived In Heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears? But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come, These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud. Bethink ye, Gods, is there no other way? — Speak, were not this a way, the way for Gods? If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms, Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior Thor Drawn in his car beside me, and my sons, All the strong brood of Heaven, to swell my train. Should make irruption into Hela's realm, And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light, And bring in triumph Balder b/.ck to Heaven V He spake, and his fierce sons applauded loud. But Frea,. mother of the Gods, arose, Daughter and wife of Odin ; thus she said : — 1 Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this ! Thou thr eatenest what transcends thy might, even thine For of all powers the mightiest far art thou, Lord over men on earth, and Gods in Heaven ; Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheld One thin g — to undo what thou thyself hast ruled. For all which hath been fixt, was fixt by thee. \ Tn the beginning, ere the Gods were bora, ( v" Before the Heavens were builded, thou didst slay The giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth, Thousand thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor, And ca st his trunk to choke the abysmal void. But of his flesh and members thou didst build 121 BALDER DEAD. The earth and Ocean, and above them Heaven. . And fr om the flaming world, where Muspel reigns, Thou^ sent'st and fetched'st fire, and madest lights, Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in Heaven, Pividing clear the paths of night and day. AndAsgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort; Then me thou mad'st ; of us the Gods were born. Last, w alking by the sea, thou foundest spars J3f wood , and framed'st men, who till the earth, Or on th e sea, the field of pirates, sail. And all t he race of Ymir thou didst drown, Save one, Bergelmer; — he on shipboard fled Thy delu ge, and from him the giants sprang. JQutall that brood thou hast removed far off, -And set hv Ocean's utmost marge to dwell. £ut__He]a into Niflheim thou threw'st, , And g av'st her nine unlighted worlds to rule, _A quee n, and empire over all the dead. That empire wilt thou now invade, light up J3£L_darkness, from her grasp a subject tear? — Try it; but I, for one, will not applaud. Nor do I merit, Odin, thou should'st slight Me and my words, though thou be first in Heaven ; For I too am a Goddess, born of thee, Thine eldest, and of me the Gods are sprung; And all that is to come I know, but lock I n mine own breast, and have to none reveal'd. Come then! since Hela holds by right her prey, But offers terms for his release to Heaven, Accept the chance ; thou canst no more obtain. Send through the world thy messengers; entreat A.U living and unliving things to weep For Balder; if thou haply thus may'st melt BALDER DEAD. 123 Hela, and win the loved one back to Heaven/ She spake, and on her face let fall her veil, And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word; Straightway he spake, and thus addrcss'd the Gods 1 'Go quickly forth through all the world, and pray All living and unliving things to weep Balder, if haply he may thus be won/ When the Gods heard, they straight arose, and took Their horses, and rode forth through all the world. North, south, east, west, they struck, and roam'd the world, Entreating all things to weep Bakler's death; And all that lived, and all without life, wept And as in winter, when the frost breaks up, At winter's end, before the spring begins, And a wa rm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in- After an hour a dripping sound is heard In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow Under t he trees is dibbled thick with holes, And from the boughs the snowloads shuffle down; .And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plots Of grass p eep out amid surrounding snow, And wide n, and the peasant's heart is glad — .So throu gh the world was heard a dripping noise Of all things weeping to bring Balder back; And there fell joy upon the Gods to hear. But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he took To show him spits and beaches of the sea Far off, where some unwarn'd might fail to weep— Niord. the God of storms, whom fishers know; lot- bnrn in Hea ven — he was in Vanheim rear'd, With men, but lives a hostage with the Gods; He knows each frith, and every rocky creek ia4 BALDER DEAD. Fringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream ; — They two scour'd every coast, and all things wept. And they rode home together, through the wood Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron; There in the wood before a cave they came, Where sate, in the cave's mouth, a skinny hag, Toothless and old; she gibes the passers by. Thok is she call'd, but now Lok wore her shape ; She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, and said: — ' Ye Gods, good lack, is it so dull in Heaven, That ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron wood? Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites. Look, a s in some boor's yard a sweet-breathed cow, . Sliose manger is stuff 'd full of good fresh hay, Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head ^T o che w the straw, her litter, at her feet — So ye g row squeamish, Gods, and sniff at Heaven!' She spake ; but Hermod answer'd her and said: — . 'Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears. Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, But will restore, if all things give him tears. Begrudge not thine ! to all was Balder dear/ Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied : — 'Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears? Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre. Weep him all other things, if weep they will — I weep him not ! let Hela keep her prey/ She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled, Mocking; and Hermod knewjJieir toil was vain. 4ndas seafaring men, who long have wrought In th e great deep for gain, at last come home, And towards evening see the headlands rise BALDER DEAD. 125 Of their dear country, and can plain descry A tire o f wither' d furze which boys have lit Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds Out of a till'd field inland; — then the wind Catche s them, and drives out again to sea; And th ey go long days tossing up and down O yer t he grey sea-ridges, and the glimpse Of jp ort they had makes bitterer far their toil — ^So_L h^ .Gods' cross was b.tterer for their joy. Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake: — * It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all ! Ride back, and tell in Heaven this heavy news; I must again below, to Hela's realm.' He spoke; and Niord set forth back to Heaven, But northward Hermod rode, the way below, The way he knew; and traversed Giall's stream, And down to Ocean groped, and cross'd the ice, And came beneath the wall, and found the grate Still lifted; well was his return foreknown. And once more Hermod saw around him spread The joyless plains, and heard the streams of Hell. But as he enter'd, on the extremest bound Of Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near, Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid — Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew. And Hermod look'd, and knew his brother's ghost, And call'd him by his name, and sternly said: — * Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes ! Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulph Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here, In twilight, on the lonely verge of Hell, Far from the other ghosts, and Hela's throne? Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder's voice, Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.' £26 BALDER DEAD, He spoke ; but Hoder answer'd him, and said : — 1 Hcrmod the nimble, dost thou still pursue The unhappy with reproach, even in the grave? For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom, Not daily to endure abhorring Gods, Nor with a hateful presence cumber Heaven; And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by? No less than Balder have I lost the light Of Heaven, and communion with my kin ; I too had once a wife, and once a child, And substance, and a golden house in Heaven — But all I left of my own act, and fled Below, and dost thou hate me even here? Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at al l, Though he has cause, have any cause ; but he, When that with downcast looks I hither came, Stretch'd forth h is hand, and with benignant voice, WplmniP^ \\e snid, if there be welcome h ere. Brother and fellow- st>ort of Lok with m e I And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to force My hated converse on thee, came I up From the deep gloom, where I will now return; But earnestly I long'd to hover near, Not too far off, when that thou earnest by; To feel the presence of a brother God, And hear the passage of a horse of Heaven, For the last time— for here thou com'st no more.' He spake, and turn'd to go to the inner gloom. But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, and said : — 'Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind! Truly thou say'st, the planning^guilty mind j Was Lok's ; the unwitting hand alone was thine. But Gods are like the sons of men in this — When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause, BALDER DEAD. 127 Howbeit stay, and be appeased ! and tell : Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side, Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd dead?* And the blind Hoder answer'd him and spake : — 'His place of state remains by Hela's side, But empty ; for his wife, for Nanna came Lately below, and join'd him ; and the pair Frequent the still recesses of the realm Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb'd. J£ut^ they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balm .Which floats before a visitant from Heaven, And h ave drawn upward to this verge of Hell.' He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of wind Roll'd heavily the leaden mist aside Round where they stood, and they beheld two forms Make toward them o'er the stretching cloudy plain. And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were, Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said: — 1 Balder , too truly thou foresaw'st a snare ! Lok tri umphs still, and Hela keeps her prey. No m ore to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge In thy own house, Breidablik, nor enjoy The lo ve all bear toward thee, nor train up Forset , thy son, to be beloved like thee. ffere m ust thou lie, and wait an endless age. Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!' He spake ; and Balder answer'd him, and said : — ' Hail and farewell ! for here thou com'st no more. Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt'st In Heaven, nor let the other Gods lament, As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn. For Nanna hath rejoin'd me, who, of old, In Heaven, was seldom parted from my side; And still the acceptance follows me, which crown'd 128 BALDER DEAD. My former life, and cheers me even here. The iron frown of Mela is relax'd When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead Love me, and gladly bring for my award TjieiL_ineffectual feuds and feeble hates— ^Shadows of hates, but they distress them still/ And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply: — * Thou hast then all the solace death allows, Esteem and Junction ; and so tar is well. Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground, Rusting for ever; and the years roll on, The generations pass, the ages grow, And bring us nearer to the final day jVhen from the south shall march the fiery band JLo4£ross the bridge of Heaven, with Lok for guide, AndJFenris at his heel with broken chain; While fro m the east the giant Rymer steers . His ship, and the great serpent makes to land; And all are marshall'd in one flaming square Ao-ninst th e Gods, upon the plains of Heaven. I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.' He spake ; but Balder answer' d him, and said :— ' Mourn not for me 1 Mourn, Hermod, for the Gods ; Mourn for the men on earth, the Gods in Heaven, Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day! The day will come, when fall shall Asgard's towers, And Odin, and his sons, the seed of Heaven ; But what were I, to save them in that hour? If strength might save them, could not Odin save, My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor, Vidar the silent, the impetuous^Tyr ? — I, what were I, when these can nought avail? Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, And the two hosts are marshall'd. and in Heaven BALDER DEAD. 129 The golden-crested cock shall sound alarm, And his black brother-bird from hence reply, And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour — Longing will stir within my breast, though vain. But not to me so grievous, as, I know, To other Gods it were, is my enforced Absence from fields where I could nothing aid; For I am long since weary of your storm Qf car nage, and find, Hermod, in your life Something too much of war and broils, which make Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. Mine~e yes are dizzy with the arrowy hail ; Mine ears are stunnd with blows, and sick for calm. Inactive th erefore let me lie, in gloom, Unarm'd. i nglorious ; I attend the course Of ages, and my late return to light, less alien to a spirit mild, In new-rec over'd seats, the happier day.' He spake ; and the fleet Hermod thus replied : — * Brother, what seats are these, what happier day ? Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.' ^And th e ray-crowned Balder answer* d him : — r 'Jar to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads Another H eaven, the boundless — no one yet Hnth , renrh 'ri it; there hereafter shall arise / The seco nd Asgard, with another name. Thither, w hen o'er this present earth and Heavens The tempest of the latter days hath swept, A nd they from sight have disappear'd, and sunk, Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair ; Hoder and I shall join them from the grave. There re-assembling we shall see emerge From the bright Ocean at our feet an earth More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits I 130 BALDER DEAD, Self- springing, and a seed of man preserved, Who then shall live in peace, as now in war, But we in Heaven shall find again with joy The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of old; Re-enter them with wonder, never fill Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears. And we shall tread once more the well-known plain Of Ida, and among the grass shall find The golden dice wherewith we play'd of yore; And that will bring to mind the former life And pastime of the Gods, the wise discourse Of Odin, the delights of other days. Hermod, pray that thou may'st join us then ! Such for the future is my hope ; meanwhile, 1 rest the thrall of Hela, and endure Death, and the gloom which round me even now Thickens, and to its inner gulph recalls. Farewell, for longer speech is not allow'd!' He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his hand To Nanna; and she gave their brother blind Her hand, in turn, for guidance; and the three Departed o'er the cloudy plain, and soon Faded from sight into the interior gloom. But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, Mute, gazing after them in tears; and fain, Fain had he follow' d their receding steps, Though they to death were bound, and he to Heaven, Then : _ but a power he could not break withheld. And as a stork which idle boys, have trapp'd, And ti ed him in a yard, at autumn sees JHocks o f his kind pass flying o'er his head To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the £un;^ y\y^ TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 131 He strains to join their flight, and from his shed Follows them with a long complaining cry — §0 Hermo d gazed, and yearn'd to join his kin. At last he sigh'd, and set forth back to Heaven. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.* I. ^Tristram. Tristram. Is she not come ? The messenger was sure. Prop me upon the pillows once again — Raise me, my page ! this cannot long endure. — Christ, what a night ! how the sleet whips the pane ! What lights will those out to the northward be? The Page. The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. Tristram. Soft — who is that, stands by the dying fire? The Page. Iseult (^ VIO 01 ^ Tristram. not the Iseult I desire j^- ^^ What Knight is this so weak and pale, Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head. Propt on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward for the light Of some ship that fights the gale On this wild December night? K 2 132 TRISTRAM AND TSEULT. Over the sick man's feet is spread A dark green forest-dress ; A gold harp leans against the bed, Ruddy in the fire's light. I know him by his harp of gold, Famous in Arthur's court of old ; I know him by his forest-dress — The peerless hunter, harper, knight, Tristram of Lyoness. What Lady is this, whose silk attire Gleams so rich in the light of the fire ? The ringlets on her shoulders lying In their flitting lustre vying With the clasp of burnish'd gold Which her heavy robe doth hold. Her looks are mild, her fingers slight As the driven snow are white; But her cheeks are sunk and pale. Is it that the bleak sea-gale Beating from the Atlantic sea On this coast of Brittany, Nips too keenly the sweet flower? Is it that a deep fatigue Hath come on her, a chilly fear, Passing all her youthful hour Spinning with her maidens here, Listlessly through the window-bars Gazing seawards many a league From her lonely shore-built tower, While the knights are at *he wars ? Or, perhaps, has her young heart Felt already some deeper smart, Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair? Who is this snowdrop by the sea? — I know her by her mildness rare, Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; I know her by her rich silk dress, And her fragile loveliness — The sweetest Christian soul alive, Iseult of Brittany. Iseult of Brittany? — but where Is that other Iseult fair, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen? She, whom Tristram's ship of yore From Ireland to Cornwall bore, To Tyntagel, to the side Of King Marc, to be his bride? She who, as they voyaged, quaff'd With Tristram th at sp jced magic draught Which since then for ever rolls Through their blood, and binds their sou.s, Working love, but working teen? — There were two Iseults who did sway Each her hour of Tristram's day; But one possess'd his waning time, The other his resplendent prime. Behold her here, the patient flower, Who possess'd his darker hour ! Iseult of the Snow- White Hand Watches pale by Tristram's bed. She is here who had his gloom, Where are thou who hadst his bloom? One such kiss as those of yore Might thy dying knight restore! Does the love-draught work no more? 134 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Art thou cold, or false, or dead, Iseult of Ireland? Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, And the knight sinks back on his pillows again ; He is weak with fever and pain, And his spirit is not clear. Hark ! he mutters in his sleep, As he wanders far from here, Changes place and time of year, And his closed eye doth sweep O'er some fair unwintry sea, Not this fierce Atlantic deep, While he mutters brokenly :— Tristram. The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails; Before us are~~trie sweet green fields of Wales, And overhead the cloudless sky of May. — 1 Ah, would I were in those green fields at play. Not pent on ship board this delicious day I Iris tram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, Reach me my goldc?i cup that stands by thee, But pledge me in it first for courtesy. — ' Ha ! dost thou start ? are thy lips blanch'd like mine ? Child, 'tis no water this, 'tis j)oison'd wine ! Iseult! .... * * * • Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! Keep his eyelids! let him seem Not this fever-wasted wight Thinn'd and paled before his time, But the brilliant youthful knight In the glory of his prime, ft* o^ 1 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. \ >? Sitting in the gilded barge, At thy side, thou lovely charge, Bending gaily o'er thy hand, Iseult of Ireland! And she too, that princess fair, If her bloom be now less rare, Let her have her youth again^ Let her be as she was then ! Let her have her proud dark eyes, And her petulant quick replies — Let her sweep her dazzling hand With its gesiure of command, And shake back her raven h ir With the old imperious airl As of old, so let her be, That first Iseult, princess bright, Chatting with her youthful knight As he steers her o'er the sea, Quitting at her father's will The green isle where she was bred, And her bower in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strand; Where the prince whom she must wed Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill, High above the sounding sea. And that golden cup her mother Gave her, that her future lord, Gave her, that King Marc and she, Might drink it on their marriage-day, And for ever love each other — Let her, as she sits on board, Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly 1 See it shine, and take it up, And to Tristram laughing say: 06 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 'Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, Pledge me in my golden cup!' • Let them drink it — let their hands Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, j As they feel the fatal bands \ Of a love they dare not name, With a wild delicious pain, Twine about their hearts again! Let the early summer be Once more round them, and the sea Blue, and o'er its mirror kind Let the bieath of the May-wind, • Wandering through their drooping sails, Die on the green fields of Wales 1 Let a dream like this restore What his eye must see no more! Tristram. Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear- Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here? Were feet like those made for so wild a way? The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day! — ' Tristram I — nay, nay — thou must not take my hand ! — Tristram ! — sweet love ! — zve are betray d — out-planted. Fly— save thyself— save me I — / dare not stay! — One last kiss first! — l 'Tis vain — to horse — away T # * * * Ah ! sweet saints, his dream doth move Faster surely than it should, From the fever in his blood ! All the spring-time of his love Is already gone and past, And instead thereof is seen TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 137 Its winter, which endureth still — Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queea, The flying leaves, the straining blast, And that long, wild kiss— their last. And this rough December-night, And his burning fever-pain, Mingle with his hurrying dream, . Till they rule it, till he seem The press'd fugitive again, The love-desperate banish'd knight With a fire in his brain Flying o'er the stormy main. — Whither does he wander now ? Haply in his dreams the wind Wafts him here, and lets him find The lovely orphan child again In her castle by the coast ; The youngest, fairest chatelaine, That this realm of France can boast, Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, Iseult of Brittany. And— for through the haggard air, The stain' d arms, the matted hair Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd, There gleam'd something, which recall'd The Tristram who in better days Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard— Welcomed here, and here install'd, Tended of his fever here, Haply he seems again to move His young guardian's heart with love; In his exiled loneliness, In his stately, deep distress, i?8 TRISTRAM AND 1SEULT. Without a word, without a tear. . — Ah ! 'tis well he should retrace His tranquil life in this lone place; His gentle bearing at the side Of his timid youthful bride ; His long rambles by the shore On winter-evenings, when the roar Of the near waves came, sadly grand, Through the dark, up the drown'd sand Or his endless reveries In the woods, where the gleams play On the grass under the trees, Passing the long summer's day Idle as a mossy stone In the forest-depths alone, The chase neglected, and his hound Couch'd beside him on the ground. —Ah! what trouble's on his brow? Hither let him wander now; Hither, to the quiet hours Pass'd among these heaths of ours By the grey Adantic sea; Hours, if not of ecstasy, From violent anguish surely free ! Tristram. All red with blood the whirling river flows, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. Upon us are the chivalry of Rome — Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. ' Up, Tristram, up,' men cry, ' thou moonstruck knight ! What foul fiend rides thee ? _On into the fight 1' — Above the din her voice is in my ears; I see her form glide through the crossing spears.— Iseultl .... TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 139 * * « * Ah ! he wanders forth again ; We cannot keep him ; now, as then, There 's a secret in his breast Which will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green wood, They cloud the brain, they dull the blood ! — His sword is sharp, his horse is good; Beyond the mountains will he see The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur's side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor. There 's many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care ; The march, the leaguer, Heaven's blithe air, The neighing steeds, the ringing blows — Sick pining comes not where these are. — Ah ! what boots it, that the jest Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow, If one's own heart beats not light On the waves of the toss'd fight, If oneself cannot get free From the clog of misery? Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale Watching by the salt sea- tide With her children at her side For the gleam of thy white sail. Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain ! i 4 o TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Tristram. All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, But it is moonlight in the open glade; And in the bottom of the glade shine clear The forest-chapel and the fountain near. — I think, I have a fever in my blood ; Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. — Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light God! 'tis her face plays in the waters bright. ' Fair love/ she says, • canst thou forget so soon, At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?' — Iseult! .... * * * o Ah, poor soul ! if this be so, Only death can balm thy woe. The solitudes of the green wood Had no medicine for thy mood ; The rushing battle clear'd thy blood As little as did solitude. — Ah! his eyelids slowly break Their hot seals, and let him wake ; What new change shall we now see ? A happier? Worse it cannot be. Tristram. Is my page here ? Come, turn me to the fire ! Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright; The wind is down — but she'll not come to-night Ah i>o ! she is asleep in Cornwall now, Far hence ; her dreams are fair^— smooth is her brow. Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. — I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, Wou-M take a score years from a strong man's age ; TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 141 And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, Scant leisure for a second messenger. —My princess, art thou there ? Sweet, 'tis too late ! To bed, and sleep ! my fever is gone by ; To-night my page shall keep me company. Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me! Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I ; This comes of nursing 'long and watching late. To bed — good night! * * * « She left the gleam-lit fire-place, She came to the bed-side ; She took his hands in hers — her tears Down on her slender fingers rain'd. She raised her eyes upon his face — Not with a look of wounded pride, A look as if the heart complain'd — Her look was like a sad embrace ; The gaze of one who can divine A grief, and sympathise. Sweet flower ! thy children's eyes Are not more innocent than thine. But they sleep in shelter'd rest, Like helpless birds in the warm nest, On the castle's southern side; Where feebly comes the mournful roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor. — Full on their window the moon's ray Makes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walls, And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel-heads doth play i 4 s TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Turn'd to each other — the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed. Round eacb sweet brow the cap close-set Hardly lets peep the golden hair; Through the soft-open'd lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby- owner chased The butterflies again. This stir they have, and this alone; But else they are so still ! — Ah, tired madcaps ! you lie still ; But were you at the window now, To look forth on the fairy sight Of your illumined haunts by night, To see the park-glades where you play Far lovelier than they are by day, To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant-bough Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain — How would your voices run again I And far beyond the sparkling trees Of the castle-park one sees The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, Moor behind moor, far, far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there, lock'd by the land, Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, And many a stretch of watery sand All shining in the white moon-beams'— But you see fairer in your dreams I TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 143 What voices are these on the clear night air? What lights in the court— what steps on the stair? TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. II. foscult of Ireland Tristram. Raise the light, my page ! that I may see her. — Thou art come at last then, haughty Queen ! Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever; Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. Iseult. Blame me not, poor sufferer ! that I tarried ; Bound I was, I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present 1 I am here — we meet — I hold thy hand. Tristram. Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoin* d me ; Thou hast dared it — but too late to save. Fear not now that men should tax thine honour! I am dying ; build — (thou may'st) — my grave I Iseult. Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly! \J What, I hear these bitter words from thee ? Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel — Take my hand— dear Tristram, look on me 1 Tristram. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyages- Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. But thy dark eyes .are not dimm'd, proud Iseult ! And thy beauty never was more fair. 144 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Iseult. Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty! I, like thee, have left my youth afar. Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers- See my cheek and lips, how white they are I Tristram. Thou art paler — but thy sweet charm, Iseult ! Would not fade with the dull years away. Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight ! I forgive thee, Iseult ! - thou wilt stay ? Iseult. Fear me not, I will be always with thee; I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, Join'd at evening of their days again. Tristram. No, thou shalt not speak ! I should be finding Something alter'd in thy courtly tone. Sit — sit by me! I will think, we've lived so In the green wood, all our lives, alone. Iseult. Alter' d, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, Love like mine is alter'd in ihe breast; Courtly life is light and cannot reach it — Ah ! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd ! What, thou think'st men speak-in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled? What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 145 Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband- That was bliss to make my sorrows flee ! Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings — Those were friends to make me false to thee ! Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown — Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon my throne? Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd, Both have pass'd a youth repress'd and sad, Both have brought their anxious day to evening, And have now short space for being glad ! Join'd we are henceforth; nor will thy people, Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, That a former rival shares her office, When she sees her humbled, pale, and still, I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. She will cry: 'Is this the foe I dreaded? This his idol ? this that royal bride ? Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight! Stay, pale queen ! for ever by my side.' Hush, no words ! that smile, I see, forgives me. I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. Close thine eyes — this flooding moonlight blinda them ! — Nay, all's well again! thou must not weep. L M6 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Tristram. I am happy ! yet I feel, there 's something Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. Through a mist I see thee; near — come nearer! Bend — bend down! — I yet have much to say. Iseult. Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow — Tristram ! Tristram ! let thy heart not fail ! | Call on God and on the holy angels ! J What, love, courage !— Christ ! he is so pale. Tristram. Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching! This is what my mother said should be, When the fierce pains took her in the forest, The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. 'Son,' she said, 'thy name shall be of sorrow; ■ | Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake/ So she said, and died in the drear forest — Grief since then his home with me doth make, I am dying. — Start not, nor look wildly! Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. But, since living we were ununited, Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave. Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult; Speak her fair, she is of royal blood! Say, I charged her, that thou stay beside me — She will grant it; she is kind and good. Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee — One last kiss upon the living shore! TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 147 Iseult. Tristram I— Tristram !— stay — receive me with thee! Iseult leaves thee, Tristram ! never more. You see them clear — the moon shines bright. Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground;— her hood Had fallen back, her arms outspread Still hold her lover's hands; her head Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair Lies in disorder' d streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, Flash on her white arms still. The very same which yesternight Flash'd in the silver sconces' light, When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel's palace proud. But then they deck'd a restless ghost With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door. That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly: ' Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers ! But yesternight and she would be \s pale and still as wither' d flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaks L 2 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. And has a colour in her cheeks • Christ keep us from such fantasy!'—- Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame c Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. And though the curtains hide her face, Yet were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought Erased the ravages of time, Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought A freshness back as of her prime^ So healing is her quiet now. So perfectly the lines express A tranquil, settled loveliness, Her younger rival's purest grace. The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber blight, Where those lifeless lovers be. Swinging with it, in the light Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A stately Huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest-scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays, With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face^ At this huge, gleam-lit fireplaee, At that bright, iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. He gazes down into the roora TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. U g •49 With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say: ' What place is this, and who are they ? Who is that kneeling Lady fair ? And on his pillows that pale Knight Who seems of mar bit on a tomb ? How comes it here, this chamber bright, Through whose mulliond windows clear The castle-court all ivet ivith rain, The drawbridge and the moat appear, And then the beach, and, markd ivith spray, The sunken reefs, and far away The unquiet bright Atlantic plain? — What, has some glamour made me sleep, And sent me with my dogs to sweep, By night, with boisterous bugle peal, Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, Not in the free green wood at all? That Knight's asleep, and at her prayer That Lady by the bed doth kneel — Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal /' — The wild boar rustles in his lair; The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air; But lord and hounds keep rooted there. Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, O Hunter ! and without a fear Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, And through the glades thy pastime take-— ■ For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here ! For these thou seest are unmoved ; Cold, cold as those who lived and loved A thousand years ago. # ■*-vT i !i 150 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. III. Iseult of JUrtttang. A year had flown, and o'er the sea away, In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay; In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old — There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the sea-shore - a country path Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear Over the waste. This cirque of open ground Is light and green ; the heather, which all round Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass Is strewn with rocks and many a shiver'd mass Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. In the smooth centre of the opening stood Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, Warm with *the winter-sun, of burnish'd green With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play ; their little hands Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. ijl Racing full speed, and startling in their rush The fell- fares and the speckled missel-thrush Out of their glossy coverts; — but when now Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair — Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she Told them an old-world Breton history. Warm in their mantles wrapt, the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air — Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stay'd still — then, pacing at their ease. Moved up and down under the glossy trees; But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise ; Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. And they would still have listen'd, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, And the grey turrets of the castle old Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, ir,t TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. And brought her tale to an end, and found the path And led them home over the darkening heath. And is she happy? Does she see unmoved The days in which she might have lived and loved Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day? Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will — Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly ; in truth, L She seems one dying in a mask of youth. And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play Awhile with them before they sleep; and then She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, Along this iron coast, know like a star, And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it ; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind. And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes Fix'd, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise, And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold; Then to her soft sleep — and to-morrow '11 be To-day's exact repeated effigy. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 155 V Fes, it is lonely for her in her hall. vThe children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal, <^v Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, 0^* Are there the sole companions to be found. But these she loves; and noisier life than this J>^ She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children, too, and night and day Is with them ; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, These are to her dear as to them ; the tales With which this day the children she beguiled She gleaned from Breton grandames, when 'a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild ; She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, Can rorget all to hear them, as of old. Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear To all that has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more. ] No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, By what of old pleased us, and will again. No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air our spirits are upcuiTd Until they crumble, or else grow like steel — Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring — Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power— this can avail, By drying up our joy in everything, To make our former pleasures all seem stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, »54 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. *<* Till for its sake alone we live and move- Call it ambition, or remorse, or love — This too can change us wholly, and make seem All which we did before, shadow and dream. And yet, I swear, it angers me to see How this fool passion gulls men potently; Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, And an unnatural overheat at best. How they are full of languor and distress Not having it ; which when they do possess, They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, And spend their lives in posting here and there Where this plague drives them ; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to pleasct Like that bald Caesar, the famed Roman wight, Who wept at readings of a Grecian knight Who made a name at younger years than he; Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son, Who carried the great war from Macedon Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on To die at thirty-five in Babylon. What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright winter's day? She told them of the fairy-haunted land Away the other side of Brittany, Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea ; Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps, _ Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. For here he came with the fay Vivian, One April, when the warm days first began. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 155 He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, On her white palfrey; here he met his end, In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear Before the children's fancy him and her. Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. A briar in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; The other warded off the drooping boughs. But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face ; She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight, And he grew fond, and eager to obey His mistress, use her empire as she may. They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day Peer'd 'twixt the stems ; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook. And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook's farther side was clear; but then The underwood and trees began again. This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom; and you saw the hornSt 156 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here. You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear Across the hollow; white anemonies Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind. No fairer resting-place a man could find. * Here let us halt,' said Merlin then ; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. They sate them down together,; and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, And made a little plot of magic ground. And in that daisied circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day; But she herself whither she will can rove— - For she was passing weary of his love. SAINT BRANDAN. '55 SAINT BRANDAN. Saint Brandan sails the northern main ; The brotherhoods of saints are glad. He greets them once, he sails again; So late 1 — such storms 1 — The Saint is ma.l ! He heard, across the howling seas, Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; He saw, on spray -swept Hebrides, Twinkle the monastery-lights ; But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd- And now no bells, no convents more ! The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, The sea without a human shore. At last — (it was the Christmas night ; Stars shone after a day of storm) — He sees float past an iceberg white, And on it — Christ! — a living form. That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red and tufted fell It is — Oh, where shall Brandan fly? — The traitor Judas, out of hell 1 Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; The moon was bright, the iceberg near. He hears a voice sigh humbly : ' Wait ! By high permission I am here. ' One moment wait, thou holy man ! On earth my crime, my death, they knew ; My name is under all men's ban — Ah, tell them of my respite too! i 5 8 SAINT B RANDAN. 'Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night— (It was the first after I came, Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, To rue my guilt in endless flame) — 'I felt, as I in torment lay 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, An angel touch mine arm, and say : Go hence, and cool thyself an hour I '"Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?" I said. The Leper recollect, said he, Who ask'd the passers-by for aid, In foppa, and thy charily. 'Then I remember'd how I went, In Joppa, through the public street, One morn when the sirocco spent Its storms of dust with burning heat; 'And in the street a leper sate, Shivering with fever, naked, old; Sand raked his sores from heel to pate The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. ' He gazed upon me as I pass'd, And murmur'd : Help me, or I die!— To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, Saw him look eased, and hurried by. 4 Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine, What blessing must full goodness shower. When fragment of it small, like mine, Hath such inestimable power ! 'Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I Did that chance act of good, that one ' Then went my way to kill and lie — Forgot my good as soon as done. THE NEC KAN, 139 'That germ of kindness, in the womb Of mercy caught, did not expire ; Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom, And friends me in the pit of fire. 'Once every year, when carols wake, On earth, the Christmas-night's repose, Arising from the sinner's lake, I journey to these healing snows. 'I stanch with ice my burning breast, With silence balm my whirling brain. O Brandan ! to this hour of rest That Joppan leper's ease was pain.' Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes; He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer — Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies! The iceberg, and no Judas there! THE NECKAN. In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song. Green rolls beneath the headlands, Green rolls the Baltic Sea; And there, below the Neckan's feet, His wife and children be. He sings not of the ocean, Its shells and roses pale ; Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale. i6o THE NECKAN. He sits upon the headlands, And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and fell on earth, Far from the kind sea-wave. Sings how, a knight, he wander'd By castle, field, and town — But eanh'y knights have harder hearts Than the sea-children own. Sings of his earthly bridal — Priest, knights, and ladies gay. < — And who art t^ou,' the priest began, 'Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?' — 1 — I am no knight,' he answered; 'From the sea-waves I come.' — The knights drew sword, the ladies scream'd The surpliced priest stood dumb. He sings how from the chapel He vanish'd with his bride, And bore her down to the sea-halls, Beneath the salt sea-tide. He sings how she sits weeping 'Mid shells that round her lie. * — False Neckan shares my bed/ she weeps ; 1 No Christian mate have I.' — He sings how through the billows He rose to earth again, And sought a priest to sign the cross, That Neckan Heaven might gain. He sings how, on an evening, Beneath the birch-trees cool, He sate and play'd his harp of goM, Beside the river-pool. THE NEC KAN. 101 Beside the pool sate Neckan — Tears fill'd his mild blue eye. On his white mule, across the bridge, A cassock'd priest rode by. < — Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, And play'st thy harp of gold? Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, Than thou shalt Heaven behold.' — But, lo, the staff,* it budded ! It green'd, it branch'd, it waved. ' — O ruth of God/ the priest cried out, v •This lost sea-creature saved!' The cassock'd priest rode onwards, And vanish'd with his mule; But Neckan in the twilight grey Wept by the river-pool. He wept : * The earth hath kindness, The sea, the starry poles; Earth, sea, and sky, and God above — But, ah, not human souls F In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings this plaintive song. THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below ! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; M rfa THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away ! This way, this way ! Call her once before you go- Call once yet ! In a voice that she will know: ' Margaret ! Margaret !' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain — Surely she will come again ! Call her once and come away; This way, this way ! 'Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret/ Margaret ! Margaret ! Come, dear children, come away down ; Call no more ! One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come though you call all day; Come away, come away ! Children dear, was it yesterday * We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where ftie winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, THE FORSAKEN MERMAN, 163 Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea ; She said : ' I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. "Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here with thee/ I said : * Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! ' She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, were we long alone? 'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers/ 1 said, 'in the world they say; Come ! ' I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town ; Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. m a 164 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 1 Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! Dear heart/ I said, 'we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no morel Come away, come down, call no more! Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings : ' O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy 1 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!' And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, THE FORSAKEN MERMAN, 165 And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away children; Come children, come down! The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing : ' Here came a mortal, But faithless was she ! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea/ But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight. When spring-tides are low ; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sanis a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, x66 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town ; At the church on the hill-side — And then come back down. Singing: 'There dwells a loved one, But cruel is shel She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.' SONNETS. A us 'ferity of Poetry. That son of Italy who tried to blow, 8 Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong — Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way 1 crash fell a platform ! lo, Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off — and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside ; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within. A Picture at Newstead. What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?- 'Tw.as not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony; It was the sight of that Lord Arundel 168 SONNETS. Who struck, in beat, his child he loved so well, And his child's reason flicker'd, and did die. Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery They hang; the picture doth the story tell. Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand! The little fair hair 'd son, with vacant gaze. Where no more lights of sense or knowledge arel Methinks the woe, which made that father sLuid Baring his dumb remorse to future days, Was woe than Byron's woe more tragic far. RacJieL I. In Paris all look'd hot and like to fade; Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries, Sere with September, droop'd the chestnut-trees; 'Twas dawn, a brougham roll'd through the streets and made Halt at the white and silent colonnade Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease, Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease, Sate in the brougham and those blank walls survey'd. She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine; Why stops she by this empty play-house drear? Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led, All spots, match'd with that spot, are less divine; And Rachel's Switzerland, her Rhine, is herel SONNETS. i6q II. Unto a lonely villa, in a dell Above the fragrant warm Provencal shore, The dying Rachel in a chair they bore Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle, And laid her in a stately room, where fell The shadow of a marble Muse of yore, The rose-crown'd queen of legendary lore, Polymnia, full on her death-bed. — '"Twas well! The fret and misery of our northern towns, In this her life's last day, our poor, our pain, Our jangle of false wits, our climate's frowns, Do for this radiant Greek-soul'd artist cease; Sole object of her dying eyes remain The beauty and the glorious art of Greece. III. Sprung from the blood of Israel's scatter' d race, At a mean inn in German Aarau born, To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn, Trick'd out with a Parisian speech and face, Imparting life renew'd, old classic grace ; Then, soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn, A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn, While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place — Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece alone She had — one power, which made her breast its home 1 In her, like us, there clash'd, contending powers, Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome. The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours; Her genius and her glory are her own. ijo SONNETS. Worldly Place. Even in a palace, life may be led well! So spake the imperial sage, pure t of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken Who rates us if we peer outside our pen — Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? Even in a palace I On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say : ' There were no succour here The aids to noble life are all within/ East Lo7idon, 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. I met a preacher there I knew, and said: '111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?'— - 1 Bravely ! ' said he ; ' for I of late have been Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread! O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light, Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam- Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. SGN NETS. 171 West London, Crouch'd on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. A babe was in her arms, and at her side A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, Pass'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hied Across, and begg'd, and came back satisfied. The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. Thought I : * Above her state this spirit towers ; She will not ask of aliens, but of friends, Of sharers in a common human fate. She turns from that cold succour, which attends The unknown little from the unknowing great, And points us to a better time than ours/ East and West. In the bare midst of Anglesey they show Two springs which close by one another play; And, ■ Thirteen hundred years agone,' they say, 'Two saints met often where those waters flow. One came from Penmon westward, and a glow Whiten'd his face from the sun's fronting ray; Eastward the other, from the dying day, And he with unsunn'd face did always go/ Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark I men said. The seer from the East was then in light, The seer from the West was then in shade. Ah! now 'tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright The man of the .bold West now comes array'd ; He of the mystic East is touch'd with night. 173 SONNETS. The Better Part. Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! 1 Christ/ some one says, ' was human as we are ; No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan ; We live no more, when we have done our span.'-- 'Well, then, for Christ,' thou answerest, 'who can carer From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes our life without a plan!' So answerest thou; but why not rather say: 4 Hath man no second life ? — Pitch this o?ie high I Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? — More strictly, then, the inward judge obey! Was Christ a man like us? — Ah t let us try If we then, loo, can be such men as he J* The Divinity. 'Yes, write it in the rock/ Saint Bernard said, 'Grave it on brass with adamantine pen! 'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when God's wisdom and God's goodness are display'd, For God of these his attributes is made.' — Well spake the impetuous Saint, and bore of men The suffrage captive; now, not one in ten Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd. 9 God's wisdom and God's goodness I — Ay, but fools Mis-define thee? till God knows them no more. Wisdom and goodness, they are God/ — what schools Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore? This no Saint preaches, and this no Church rules; Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. SONNETS. 173 Immortality. Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn, We leave the brutal world to take its way, And, Patience! in another life, we say, The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they, Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervours of the heavenly morn? No, no! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing — only he, His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. The Good Shepherd with the Kid. He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried : 10 1 Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave/ — So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd, The infant Church ! of love she felt the tide Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. And then she smiled ; and in the Catacombs, With eye suffused but heart inspired true, On those walls subterranean, where she hid Her head 'mid ignominy, death, and tombs, She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew— A.nd on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. 174 SONNETS. Monicds Last Prayer. 11 'Ah could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!'— Care not for that, and lay me where I fall! Everyivhere heard will be the judgment- call ; But at God's altar, oh ! remember me. Thus Monica, and died in Italy. Yet fervent had her longing been, through all Her course, for home at last, and burial With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. Had been! but at the end, to her pure soul All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap, And union before God the only care. Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole. Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep, Keep by this : Life in God, and union there I LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS. SWITZERLAND 1. Meeting, Again I see my bliss at hand, The town, the lake are here; My Marguerite smiles upon the strand," Unalter'd with the year. I know that graceful figure fair, That cheek of languid hue; I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair, And those sweet eyes of blue. Again I spring to make my choice; Again in tones of ire 1 hear a God's tremendous voice: ' Be counsell'd, and retire.' Ye guiding Powers who join and part, What would ye have with me? Ah, warn some more ambitious heart, And let the peaceful be I 176 SWITZERLAND. 2. Parting. Ye storm-winds of Autumn 1 Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hill-side Thin- sprinkled with farms, Where the high woods strip sadly Their yellowing arms — Ye are bound for the mountains! Ah ! with you let me go Where your cold, distant barrier, The vast range of snow, , Through the loose clouds lifts dirolv Its white peaks in air — How deep is their stillness! Ah, would I were there 1 But on the stairs what voice is this I hear. Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn? Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? Ah ! it comes nearer — Sweet notes, th.s way! Hark! fast by the window The rushing winds go, To the ice-cumber'd gorges, The vast seas of snow ! There the torrents drive upward Their rock-strangled hum; SWITZERLAND. 177 There the avalanche thunders The hoarse torrent dumb. — I come, O ye mountains! Ye torrents, I come ! But who is this, by the half-open' d door, Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor? The sweet blue eyes — the soft, ash-colour'd hair — The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear — ■ The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells— Ah ! they bend nearer — ■ Sweet lips, this wayl Hark! the wind rushes past us! Ah ! with that let me go To the clear, waning hill-side, Unspotted by snow, There to watch, o'er the sunk vale, The frore mountain-wall, Where the niched snow-bed sprays down Its powdery fall. There its dusky blue clusters The aconite spreads; There the pines slope, the cloud-strips Hung soft in their heads. No life but, at moments, The mountain-bee's hum. — I come, O ye mountains! Ye pine-woods, I cornel Forgive me 1 forgive me ! Ah, Marguerite, fain Would these arms reach to clasp thee! But seel 'tis in vain. N 178 SWITZERLAND. In the void air, towards thee, My stretch'd arms are cast; But a sea rolls between us — Our different past! To the lips, ah! of others Those lips have been prest, And others, ere I was, Were strain'd to that breast; Far, far from each other Our spirits have grown. And what heart knows another? Ah! who knows his own? Blow, ye winds! lift me with you£ I come to the wild. Fold closely, O Nature! Thine arms round thy child. To thee only God granted A heart ever new — To all always open, To alt always true. Ah ! calm me, restore me; And dry up my tears On thy high mountain-platforms, Where morn first appears; Where the white mists, for ever, Are spread and upfurl'd — In the stir of the forces^- Whence issued the world. SWITZERLAND. 179 3. A Farewell. My horse's feet beside the lake, Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay, Sent echoes through the night to wake Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay. The poplar avenue was pass'd, And the roof'd bridge that spans the stream; Up the steep street I hurried fast, Led by thy taper's starlike beam. I came 1 I saw thee rise ! — the blood Pour'd flushing to thy languid cheek. Lock'd in each other's arms we stood, In tears, with hearts too full to speak. Days flew; — ah, soon I could discern A trouble in thine alter'd air ! Thy hand lay languidly in mine, Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. I blame thee not! — this heart, I know, To De long loved was never framed; For something in its depths doth glow Too strange, too restless, too untamed. And women — things that live and move Mined by the fever of the soul — They seek to find in those they love Stern strength, and promise of control. They ask not kindness, gentle ways; These they themselves have tried and known; They ask a soul which never sways With the blind gusts that shake their own, N 2 180 SWITZERLAND. I too have felt the load I bore In a too strong emotion's sway; I too have wish'd, no woman more, This starting, feverish heart away. I too have long'd for trenchant force, And will like a dividing spear; Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course, Which knows no doubt, which feals no feat, But in the world I learnt, what there Thou too wilt surely one day prove, That will, that energy, though rare, Are yet far, far less rare than love. Go, then ! — till time and fate impress This truth on thee, be mine no more t They will! — for thou, I feel, not less Than I, wast destined to this lqtfe. T We school our manners, act our parts — But He, who sees us through and through. Knows that the bent of both our hearts Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. And though we wear out life, alasl Distracted as a homeless wind, In beating where we must not pass, In seeking what we shall not find ; Yet we shall one day gain, life past, Clear prospect o'er our being's whole; Shall see ourselves, and learn at last Our true affinities of soul. We shall not then deny a course To every thought the mass ignore; We shall not then call hardness force, Nor lightness wisdom any more. SWITZERLAND. 18 Then, in the eternal Father's smile, Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare To seem as free from pride and guile, As good, as generous, as they are. Then we shall know our friends! — though much Will have been lost — the help in strife, The thousand sweet, still joys of such As hand in hand face earthly life — Though these be lost, there will be yet A sympathy august and pure; Ennobled by a vast regret, And by contrition seal'd thrice sure. And we, whose ways were unlike here, May then more neighbouring courses ply; May to each other be brought near, And greet across infinity. How sweet, unreach'd by earthly jars, My sister! to maintain with thee The hush among the shining stars, The calm upon the moonlit seal How sweet to feel, on the boon air, All our unquiet pulses cease ! To feel that nothing can impair The gentleness, the thirst for peace — The gentleness too rudely hurl'd On this wild earth of hate and fear; The thirst for peace a raving world Would never let us satiate here. 182 SWITZERLAND, 4. Isolation. To Marguerit: We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be. I bade it keep the world away, And grow a home for only thee; Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, Like mine, each day, more tried, more true The fault was grave ! I might have known, What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd— The heart can bind itself alone, And faith may oft be unreturn-'d. Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — Thou lov'st no more; — Farewell 1 Farewell 1 Farewell!— and thou, thou lonely heart, Which never yet without remorse Even for a moment didst depart From thy remote and sphered course To haunt the place where passions reign- Back to thy solitude again 1 Back! with the conscious thrill of shame Which Luna felt, that summer-night, Flash through her pure immortal frame, When she forsook the starry height To hang over Endymion's sleep Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved HQw_vain a thing is mortal love, Wandering in Heaven, far removed; But thou hast long had place to prove This truth — to prove, and make thine own: 'Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone/ SWITZERLAND. 183 Or, if not quite alone, yet they Which touch thee are unmating things- Ocean and clouds and night and day; Lorn autumns and triumphant springs; And life, and others' joy and pain, And love, if love, of happier men. Of happier men — for they, at least, Have dreairid two human hearts might blend In one, and were through faith released From isolation without end Prolong'd; nor knew, although not less Alone than thou, their loneliness. 5. To Marguerite. Continued. Yes ! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We_ mortal millions live atone. __ The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing ; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour — Oh ! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent ! Now round us spreads the watery plain— Oh might our marges meet again I 184 SWITZERLAND. Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renders vain their deep desire? — A God, a God their, severance ruled! ?|And bade betwixt their shores to be { The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 6. Absence. In this fair stranger's eyes of grey Thine eyes, my love ! I see. I shiver; for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life! that not A nobler, calmer train Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot Our passions from our brain ; But each day brings its petty dust Our soon-choked souls to fill, And we forget because we must And not because we will. I struggle towards the light; and ye # Once-long'd-for storms of love 1 If with the light ye cannot be, I bear that ye remove. I struggle towards the light — but oh, While yet the night is chill, Upon time's barren, stormy flow, Stay with me, Marguerite, still! SWITZERLAND. 185 7. The Terrace at Berne. (composed ten years after the preceding.) Ten years! — and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream 1 — and do I linger here ? The clouds are on the Oberland, The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar, And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the church-yard fair; And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, The house!— and is my Marguerite there? Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, Anc\ clap thy hands, and cry: 'Tis thou! Or hast thou long since wander'd back, Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come ? Doth riotous laughter now replace Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair? Or is it over? — art thou dead? — Dead' — and no warning shiver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread Of life was cut, and closed thy span I 186 SWITZERLAND, Could from earth's ways that figure slight Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so? Of that fresh voice the gay delight Fail from earth's air, and I not know? Or shall I find thee still, but changed, But not the Marguerite of thy prime? With all thy being re-arranged, — Pass'd through the crucible of time; With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned, And hardly yet a glance, a tone, A gesture— anything — retain'd Of all that was my Marguerite's own? I will not know! For wherefore try, To things by mortal course that live, A shadowy durability, For which they were not meant, to give? Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain, So on the sea of life, alas ! Man meets man— meets, and quits again. I knew it when my life was young; I feel it still now youth is o'er. — The mists are on the mountain hung, And Marguerite I shall see no more. THE STRAYED REVELLER, 187 THE STRAYED REVELLER. THE PORTICO OF CIRCE's PALACE. EVENING. A Youth. Circe, The Youth. Faster, faster, Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! Thou standest, smiling Down on me I thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column then, Props thy soft cheek; Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy- cinctured, 1 held but now. Is it then evening So soon? I see, the night-dews, Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe 1 THE STRAYED REVELLER. Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. When the white dawn first Through the rough fir- planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess ! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door. I snatchLd up my vine-crown, my J&r-stafF, All drench'd in dew — Came sw ft down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, Iacchus' white fane On yonder hill. Quick I pass'd, following The wood- cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley ; — I saw On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty ! Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl. -r. I drank, Goddess ! And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico. THE STRAYED REVELLER, iCg Circe. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Thou lovest it, then, my wine? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, then ! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — sol Drink — drink again ! The Youth. Thanks, gracious one! Ah, the sweet fumes again I More soft, ah me, More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music ! Faint — faint ! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep! Circe. Hist! Thou — within there! Come forth, Ulysses ! Art tired with hunting? While we range the woodland, See what the day brings. Ulysses. Ever new magic! Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 190 THE STRAYED REVELLER. Iacchus' darling — Or some youth beloved of Pan, Of Pan and the Nymphs? That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants — His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess, — what guest Of Gods or mortals? Circe. Histl he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him 1 '17ie Youth. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within? How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare! — Art thou not he, whom fame THE STRAYED REVELLER, 191 This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves \ Art thou he, stranger? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son? Ulysses. I am Ulysses. And thou, too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast followM Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses ; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts, And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the grey sea — If so, then hafll I honour and welcome thee. The Youth, The Gods are happy. They turn on all sides Their shining eyes, And see below them The earth and men. They see Tiresias Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus bank, 1 9a THE STRAYED REVELLER. His robe drawn over His old, sightless head, Revolving inly The doom of Thebes. They see the Centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams, Where red-berried- ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind. They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moor'd to A floating isle thick-matted With large-leaved, low- creeping melon-planU, And the dark cucumber. He reaps, and stows them, Drifting — drifting;— round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake- waves, The mountains ring them. They see the Scythian On the wide stepp, unharnessing His wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal — Mares' milk, and bread Baked on the embers; — all around The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock And flag leaved iris-flowers. THE STRAYED REVELLER, 193 Sitting in his cart He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards, And the springing bustard-fowl, The track, a straight black line, Furrows ihe rich soil; here and there Clusters of lonely mounds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Grey, rain-blear' d statues, overpeer The sunny waste. They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden Lone Chorasmian stream; — thereon, With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm-harness'd by the mane; a chief, With shout and shaken spear, Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern The cowering merchants in long robes Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, Jasper and chalcedony, And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. The loaded boat swings groaning In the yellow eddies ; The Gods behold them. They see the Heroes Sitting in the dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving, o 194 THE STRAYED REVELLER. Violet sea, At sunset nearing The Happy Islands. These things, Ulysses, The wise bards also Behold and sing. But oh, what labour I O prince, what pain! They too can see Tiresias; — but the Gods, Who give them vision, Added this law : That they should bear too His groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs; Bear Hera's anger Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages. They see the Centaurs On Pelion ; — then they feel, They too, the maddening wine Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain They feel the biting spears Of the grim Lapitha?, and Theseus, drive, Drive crashing through their bones; they feel High on a jutting rock in the red stream Alcmena's dreadful son Ply his bow;— such a price The Gods exact for song: To become what we sing. They see the Indian On his mountain lake; — but squalls THE STRAYED REVELLER. i 95 Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart. — They see The Scythian; — but long frosts Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring. They see the merchants On the Oxus stream; — but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, Crush' d them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home. They see the Heroes Near harbour; — but they share Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; Or where the echoing oars Of Argo first Startled the unknown sea. The old Silenus Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way, at noon. Sitting by me, while his Fauns Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His drooping garland, He told me these things. o a 196 THE STRAYED REVELLER. But I, Ulysses, Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labour, Sometimes a wild-hair' d Maenad— Sometimes a Faun with torches — • And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stems Flowing-robed, the beloved, The desired, the divine, Beloved Iacchus. Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-murmur, Dreaming woods ! Ah, golden- hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — The cup again ! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul I FRAGMENT OF AN * ANTIGONE.' 197 FRAGMENT OF AN ANTIGONE. The Chorus. Well hath he done who hath seized happiness 1 For little do the all-containing hours, Though opulent, freely give. Who, weighing that life well Fortune presents unpray'd, Declines her ministry, and carves his own ; And, justice not infringed, Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law. He does well too, who keeps that clue the mild Birth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave. For from the day when these Bring him, a weeping child, First to the light, and mark A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home, Unguided he remains, Till the Fates come again, this time with death. In little companies, And, our own place once left, Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid, By city and household group'd, we live; and many shocks Our order heaven-ordain'd Must every day endure : Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars. 198 FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE* Besides what waste he makes, The all-hated, order-breaking, Without friend, city, or home, Death, who dissevers all. Him then I praise, who dares To self-selected good Prefer obedience to the primal law, Which consecrates the ties of blood; for these, indeed, Are to the Gods a care; That touches but himself. For every day man may be link'd and loosed With strangers; but the bond Original, deep-inwound, Of blood, can he not bind, Nor, if Fate binds, not bear. But hush! Haemon, whom Antigone, Robbing herself of life in burying, Against Creon's law, Polynices, Robs of a loved bride — pale, imploring, Waiting her passage, Forth from the palace hitherward comes. Hcemon. No, no, old men, Creon I curse not I I weep, Thebans, One than Creon crueller far! For he, he, at least, by slaying her, August laws doth mightily vindicate; But thou, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless J FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE* 199 Ah me !— honourest more than thy lover, O Antigone! A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse. The Chorus. Nor was the love untrue Which the Dawn- Goddess bore To that fair youth she erst, Leaving the salt sea-beds And coming flush'd over the stormy frith Of loud Euripus, saw — Saw and snatch'd, wild with love, From the pine-dotted spurs Of Parnes, where thy waves, Asopus! gleam rock-hemm'd — The Hunter of the Tanagrsean Field. 1 * But him, in his sweet prime, By severance immature, By Artemis' soft shafts, She, though a Goddess born, Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die. Such end o'ertook that love. For she. desired to make Immortal mortal man, And blend his happy life, Far from the Gods, with hers; To him postponing an eternal law. Hcemon. But like me, she, wroth, complaining, Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods; And, her beautiful arms unclasping, Her fair youth unwillingly gave. ioo FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE* The Chorus. Nor, though enthroned too high To fear assault of envious Gods, His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retain From his appointed end In this our Thebes; but when His flying steeds came near To cross the steep Ismenian glen, The broad earth open'd, and whelm'd them and him, And through the void air sang At large his enemy's spear. And fain would Zeus have saved his tired son Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand O'er the sun-redden'd western straits, 1 * Or at his work in that dim lower world. Fain would he have recall' d The fraudulent oath which bound To a much feebler wight the heroic man. But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire. Nor did there need less than the burning pile Under the towering Trachis crags, And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans, And the roused Maliac gulph, And scared CEtsean snows, To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child! CHORUS OF A ' DEJANEIRA* FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A DEJANEIRA. frivolous m'nd of man, Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts ! Though man bewails you not, How / bewail you ! Little in your prosperity Do you seek counsel of the Gods. Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone. In profound silence stern, Among their savage gorges and cold springs, Unvisited remain The great oracular shrines. Thither in your adversity Do you betake yourselves for light, But strangely misinterpret all you hear. For you will not put on New hearts with the enquirer's holy robe, And purged, considerate minds. And him on whom, at the end Of toil and dolour untold, The Gods have said that repose At last shall descend undisturb'd — Him you expect to behold In an easy old age, in a happy home ; No end but this you praise. But him, on whom, in the prime Of life, with vigour undimm'd, With unspent mind, and a soul Unworn, undebased, undecay'd, 2 EARLY DEATH AND FAME. Mournfully grating, the gates Of the city of death have for ever closed — Him, I count him, well-starr'd. EARLY DEATH AND FAME. For him who must see many years, I praise the life which slips away Out of the light and mutely; which avoids Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife, Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal, Insincere praises; which descends The quiet mossy track to age. But, when immature death Beckons too early the guest From the half-tried banquet of life, Young, in the bloom of his days; Leaves no leisure to press, Slow and surely, the sweets Of a tranquil life in the shade — Fuller for him be the hours ! Give him emotion, though pain! Let him live, let him feel : / have lived. Heap up his moments with life I Triple his pulses with fame I PHILOMELA. Hark! ah, the nightingale^ The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph ! hark ! — what pain I PHILOMELA. 203 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain- Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no balm? Dost thou to-night behold, * Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis. and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia — ■ How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves ! Again — thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain! 2o 4 URANIA. URANIA She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, While we for hopeless passion die; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are. Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turn'd upon the sons of men; But light the serious visage grew — She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labour'd, puny passion-fits — Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she ! Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, One of some worthier race than ours ! One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love. His eyes be like the starry lights — His voice like sounds of summer nights — In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe 1 And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend, and weep for glee, And cry: Long, long I've look'd for thee. Then will she weep ; with smiles, till then, Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then, her lovely eves maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. EUPHROSYNE. 205 EUPHROSYNE. I must not say that she was true, Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there. Truth — what is truth? Two bleeding hearts, Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear, Their lot was but to weep and moan ; Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, For neither could subsist alone ! But souls whom some benignant breath Hath charm'd at birth from gloom and care, These ask no love, these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave; And what the world can give, they take — But they bring more than they receive. They shine Upon the world— Their ears To one demand alone are coy; They will not give us love and tears, They bring us light and warmth and joy. On one she smiled, and he was blest; She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! But 'twas not love which heaved her breast, Fair child! — it was the bliss within. 2o6 CALAIS SANDS. CALAIS SANDS. A thousand knights have rein'd their steeds To watch this line of sand-hills run, Along the never-silent strait, To Calais glittering in the sun; To look toward Ardres' Golden Field Across this wide aerial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again. Oh, that to share this famous scene, I saw, upon the open sand, Thy lovely presence at my side, Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand! How exquisite thy voice would come, My darling, on this lonely air! How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze Shake loose some band of soft brown hair! Yet now my glance but once hath roved O'er Calais and its famous plain ; To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd, O'er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. Thou comest ! Yes ! the vessel's cloud Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine, To win one instant's glimpse of thee! I must not spring to grasp thf-hand, To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; But I may stand far off, and gaze, And watch thee pass unconscious by, FADED LEAVES. *>/ And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, Mixt with the idlers on the pier — Ah, might I always rest unseen, So I might have thee always near! To-morrow hurry through the fields Of Flanders to the storied Rhine! To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine. FADED LEAVES. 1. The River. Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat Under the rustling poplars' shade; Silent the swans beside us float — None speaks, none heeds ; ah, turn thy head Let those arch eyes now softly shine, That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland \ Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine ! On mine let rest that lovely hand! My pent-up tears oppress my brain, My heart is swoln with love unsaid. Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain, And on thy shoulder rest my head! Before I die — before the soul, Which now is mine, must re-attain Immunity from my control, And wander round the world again; 2c8 FADED LEAVES. Before this teased o'erlabour'd heart For ever leaves its vain employ, Dead to its deep habitual smart, And dead to hopes of future joy. 2. Too Late. Each on his own strict line we move, And ^ome find death ere they find love ; So far apart their lives are thrown From the twin soul that halves their own. And sometimes, by still harder fate, The lovers meet, but meet too late. — Thy heart is mine! — True, true! ah, IrueS —Then, love, thy hand ! — Ah no I adieu i 3. Separation. Stop!— not to me, at this bitter departing, Speak of the sure consolations of time ! Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting, So but thy image endure in its prime 1 But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature Wills that remembrance should always decay — If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd feature Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away— Me let no half-effaced memories cumber 1 Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee! Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber — Dead be the past and its phantoms to me! Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me, Scanning my face and the changes wrought there : Who, let me say, it this stranger regards me, With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair? FADED LEAVES. 209 4. On the Rhine. Vain is the effort to forget. Some day I shall be cold, I know, As is the eternal moon-lit snow Of the high Alps, to which I go- But ah, not yet, not yet ! Vain is the agony of grief. 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, And were it snapt — thou lov'st me noti But is despair relief? Awhile let me with thought have done. And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine, And that far purple mountain-line, Lie sweetly in the look divine Of the slow-sinking sun; So let me lie, and, calm as they, Let beam upon my inward view Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue — Eyes too expressive to be blue, Too lovely to be grey. Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm! Those blue hills too, this river's flow, Were restless once, but long ago. Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow; Their joy is in their calm. 5. Longing. Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day. P SELF-DE CEPTION. Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes, And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me ! Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, Come now, and let me dream it truth; And part my hair, and kiss my brow, And say: My love 1 why suffer est thou? Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day. DESPONDENCY. The thoughts that rain their steady glow Like stars on life's cold sea, Which others know, or say they know — They never shone for me. Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky, But they will not remain. They light me once, they hurry by; And never come again. SELF-DECEPTION. Say, what blinds us, that we claim the glory Of possessing powers not our share? — Since man woke on earth, he knows his story, But, before we woke on earth, we were. DOVER BEACH. X Long, long since, undower'd yet, our spirit Roam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God; Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit, Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road. Then, as now, this tremulous, eager being Strain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift it saw ; Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeing Staved us back, and gave our choice the law. Ah, whose hand that day through Heaven guided Man's new spirit, since it was not we? Ah, who sway'd our choice, and who decided What our gifts, and what our wants should be? For, alas ! he left us each retaining Shreds of gifts which he refused in full; Still these waste us with their hopeless straining, Still the attempt to use them proves them null. And on earth we wander, groping, reeling ; Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. Ah ! and he, who placed our master-feeling, Fail'd to place that master-feeling clear. We but dream we have our wish'd-for powers, Ends we seek we never shall attain. Ah! some power exists there, which is ours? Some end is there, we indeed may gain? DOVER BEACH. The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. P 2 213 DOVER BEACH. ^°iie to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd sand, Listen ! yo u hear the gratimr -foaf Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, ' Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the JEgaean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of hu man misery ; w e Find also in the s ound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. I Ah, love, let us be t rue r^r^o one another ! tor the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, CHath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain [\i Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, \ •■ Where ig noran tarmies clash by night. GROWING OLD. a 13 GROWING OLD. What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forgo her wreath? — Yes, but not this alone. Is it to feel our strength — Not our bloom only, but our strength — decay? Is it t ojfffl ftarh I'mb Grow ^tiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung? Yes, this, and more ; but not, Ah ! 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be, 'Tis not to have our life Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset-glow, A golden day's decline. 'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirr'd; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more. It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young; It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion — none. 214 PIS-ALLER. It is — last stage of ail- When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost. -^ Which blamed the living man. ^yju'/C ' .« ° THE PROGRESS OF POESY. A Variation. Youth rambles on life's arid mount, And strikes the rock, and finds the vein, And brings the water from the fount, The fount which shall not flow again. The man mature with labour chops For the bright stream a channel grand, And sees not that the sacred drops Ran off and vanished out of hand. And then the old man totters nigh, And feebly rakes among the stones. The mount is mute, the channel dry; And down he lays his weary bones. PIS ALLER. ' Man is blind because of sin, Revelation makes him sure; Without that, who looks within, Looks in vain, for all 's obscure.' Nay, look closer into man!- Tell me, can you find indeed Nothing sure, no moral plan Clear prescribed, without your creed? A NAMELESS EPITAPH. 315 1 No, I nothing can perceive ! Without that, all 's dark for men. That, or nothing, I believe.' — For God's sake, believe it then! THE LAST WORD. Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said! Vain thy onset ! all stands fast. Thou thyself must break at last. Let the long contention cease ! Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will ! Thou art tired; best be still. They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, Hotly charged — and sank at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall! A NAMELESS EPITAPH. Ask not my name, O friend! That Being only, which hath known each man From the beginning, can Remember each unto the end. EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. A DRAMATIC POEM. PERSONS. Empedocles. Fausanias, a Physician. Callicles, a young- Harp-player. The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna ; at first in the forest region, afterwards on the summit of the mountain. ACT I, SCENE I. Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna. Callicles. {Alone, resting on a reck by the path.) The mules, I think, will not be here this hour; They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, How gracious is the mountain at this hour ! A thousand times have I been here alone Or with the revellers from the mountain-towns, But never on so fair a morn; — the sun Is shining on the brilliant mountain-crests, And on the highest pines ; but farther down. Here in the valley, is in shade^f the sward Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; One sees one's foot-prints crush'd in the wet grass, EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 217 One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts:, Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew. Here will I stay till the slow litter comes I have my harp too — that is well. — Apollo! What mortal could be sick or sorry here ? I know not in what mind Empedocles, Whose mules I follow'd, may be coming up, But if, as most men say, he is half mad With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. The mules must be below, far down. I hear Their tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds, Rise faintly to me — now it stops! — Who's here? Pausanias! and on foot? alone? Pausanias. And thou, then? I left thee supping with Peisianax, With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd, Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee, And praised and spoil'd by master and by guests Almost as much as the new dancing-girl. Why hast thou follow'd us? Callicles. The night was hot, And the feast past its prime; so we slipp'd out, Some of us, to the portico to breathe; — Peisianax,' thou know'st, drinks late; — and then, As I was lifting my soil'd garland off, I saw the mules and litter in the court, And in the litter sate Empedocles; Thou, too, wast with him. Straightway I sped home , 218 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, T saddled my white mule, and all night long Through the cool lovely country follow'd you, Pass'd you a little since as morning dawn'd, And have this hour sate by the torrent here, Till the slow mules should climb in sight again. And now? Pausanias. And now, back to the town with speed! Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass'd j They do but halt, they will be here anon. Thou must be viewless to Empedocles ; Save mine, he must not meet a human eye. One of his moods is on him that thou know'st; I think, thou wouldst not vex him. Callicles. No — and yet I would fain stay, and help thee tend him. Once He knew me well, and would oft notice me; And still, I know not how, he draws me to him, And I could watch him with his proud sad face, His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow And kingly gait, for ever; such a spell In his severe looks, such a majesty As drew of old the people after him, In Agrigentum and Olympia, When his star reign'd, before his banishment, Is potent still on me in his decline. But oh ! Pausanias, he is changed of late ; There is a settled trouble in his air Admits no momentary brightening now, And when he comes among his friends at feasts, 'Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. Thou know'st of old he loved this harp of mine, EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 2 ig When first he sojourn'd with Peisianax; He is now always moody, and I fear him; But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, Dared one but try. Pausanias. Thou wast a kind child ever! He loves thee, but he must not see thee now. Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp, He loves that in thee, too; — there was a time (But that is pass'd), he would have paid thy strain With music to have drawn the stars from heaven. He has his harp and laurel with him still, But he has laid the use of music by, And all which might relax his settled gloom. Yet thou may'st try thy playing, if thou wilt — But thou must keep unseen ; follow us. on, But at a distance ! in these solitudes, In this clear mountain-air, a voice will rise, Though from afar, distinctly; it may soothe him. Play when we halt, and, when the evening comes And I must leave him (for his pleasure is To be left musing these soft nights alone In the high unfrequented mountain-spots), Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far, Sometimes to Etna's top, and to the cone; But hide thee in the rocks a great way down, And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles, With the sweet night to help thy harmony! Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his. Callicles. More than a day and night, Pausanias, Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills, Would I bestow to help Empedocles. 2 20 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. That needs no thanks; one is far better here Than in the broiling city in these heats. But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him In this his present fierce, man-hating mood, To bring thee out' with him alone on Etna? Pausanias. Thou hast heard all men 'speaking of Pantheia, The woman who at Agrigentum lay Thirty long days in a cold trance of death, And whom Empedocles call'd back to life. Tnou art too young to note it, but his power Swells with the swelling evil of this time, And holds men mute to see where it will rise. He could stay swift diseases in old days, Chain madmen by the music of his lyre, Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of poisonous streams, And in the mountain-chinks inter the winds. This he could do of old; but now, since all Clouds and grows daily worse in Sicily, Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm Of sophists has got empire in our schools Where he was paramount, since he is banish'd, And lives a lonely man in triple gloom — He grasps the very reins of life and death. I ask'd him of Pantheia yesterday, When we were gather'd with Peisianax, And he made answer, I should come at night On Etna here, and be alone with him, And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend, Who still was faithful, what might profit me; That is, the secret of this miracle. Callicles. Bah ! Thou a doctor ! Thou art superstitious. Simple Pausanias, 'twas no miracle! EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. *2i Pantheia. for I know her kinsmen well, Was subject to these trances from a girl. Empedocles would say so, did he deign; But he still lets the people, w'.iom he scorns, Gape and cry wizard at him, if they list. But thou, thou art no company for him ! Thou art as cross, as soured as himself! Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens, And then thy friend is banish'd, and on that, Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times, As if the sky was impious not to fall. The sophists are no enemies of his; I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him, As of his gifted master, and once friend. He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter. 'Tis not the times, 'tis not the sophists vex him; There is some root of suffering in himself, Some secret and unfollow'd vein of woe, Which makes the time look black and sad to him. Pester him not in this his sombre mood With questionings about an idle tale, But lead him through the lovely mountain-paths, And keep his mind from preying on itself, And talk to him of things at hand and common, Not miracles! thou art a learned man, But credulous of fables as a girl. Pausanias. And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge, And on whose lightness blame is thrown away. Enough of this! I see the litter wind Up by the torrent-side, under the pines. I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass'd; Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night! z?a EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. SCENE II. Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of Etna. Empedocles. Pausanias. Pausanias. The noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream, We shall have left the woody tract, and come Upon the open shoulder of the hill. See how the giant spires of yellow bloom Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat, 16 Are shining on those naked slopes like flame! Let us rest here ; and now, Empedocles, Pantheia's history 1 [A harp-note below is heard. Empedocles. Harkl what sound was that Rose from below? If it were possible, And we were not so far from human haunt, I should have said that some one touch'd a harp. Hark 1 there again ! Pausanias. 'Tis the boy Callicles, The sweetest harp-player in Catana. He is for ever coming on these hills, In summer, to all country-festivals, With a gay revelling band; he breaks from them Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. But heed him not, he will notTmount to us; I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore, Instruct me of Pantheia's story, Master, As I have pray'd thee. v' EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 223 Empedocles. That? and to what end? Pausanias. It is enough that all men speak of it. But I will also say, that when the Gods Visit us as they do with sign and plague, To know those spells of thine which stay their hand Were to live free from terror. Empedocles. Spells? Mistrust them! Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven; Man has a mind with which to plan his safety — Know that, and help thyselfl Pausanias. But thine own words? ^ ' The wit and counsel of man was never clear, Troubles confound the little wit he has.' Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, To lead those false who trust -it. \The harp sounds again. Empedocles. Hist! once more! Listen, Pausanias!— Ay, 'tis Callicles; I know those notes among a thousand. Hark ! Callicles. {Sings unseen, from below!) The track winds down to the clear stream, To cross the sparkling shallows; there The cattle love to gather, on their way To the high mountain-pastures, and to stay, 224 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, Knee-deep in the cool ford; for 'tis the last Of all the woody, high, well-water' d dells On Etna; and the beam Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs Down its steep verdant sides; the air Is freshen' d by the leaping stream, which throws Eternal showers of spray on the moss'd roots Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies, That muffle its wet banks; but glade, And stream, and sward, and chestnut-trees, End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare Of the hot noon, without a shade, Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare; The peak, round which the white clouds play. In such a. glen, on such a day, On Pelion, on the grassy ground, Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay, The young Achilles standing by. The Centaur taught him to explore The mountains; where the glens are dry And the tired Centaurs come to rest, And where the soaking springs abound And the straight ashes grow for spears, And where the hill-goats come to feed And the sea-eagles build their nest He show'd him Phthia far away, And said : O boy, I taught this lore To Peleus, in long distant years ! He told him of the Gods, the stars, The tides; — and then of mortal wars, EMPEDOCLES ON" ETNA. a 25 And of the life which heroes lead Before they reach the Elysian place And rest in the immortal mead; And all the wisdom of his race. The music below ceases, and Empedocles sptaks % accompanying himself in a solemn manner on his harp. The out-spread world to span A cord the Gods first slung, And then the soul of man There, like a mirror, hung, And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy. Hither and thither spins The wind-borne, mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole; Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ. The Gods laugh in their sleeve To watch man doubt and fear, Who knows not what to believe Since he sees nothing clear, And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing sure. Is this, Pausanias, so? And can our souls not strive, But with the winds must go, And hurry where they drive? Is Fate indeed so strong, man's strength indeed so poor ? Q ■ 126 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. I will not judge. That man, Howbeit, I judge as lost, Whose mind allows a plan, Which would degrade it most; And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill. Be not, then, fear's blind slave ! Thou art my friend ; to thee, All knowledge that I have, All skill I wield, are free. Ask not the latest news of the last miracle, Ask not what days and nights In trance Pantheia lay, But ask how thou such sights May'st see without dismay; Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus ! What? hate, and awe, and shame Fill thee to see our time; Thou feelest thy soul's frame Shaken and out of chime? What ? life and chance go hard with thee too, as with us; Thy citizens, 'tis said, Envy thee and oppress, Thy goodness no men aid, All strive to make it less ; Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's abodes; Heaven is with earth at strife, Signs make thy soul afraid, The dead return to life, __ Rivers are dried, winds stay'd ; Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the Gods; EMPRDOCLES ON ETNA. hi And we feel, day and night, The burden of ourselves — Well, then, the wiser wight In his own bosom delves, And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can. The sophist sneers: Fool, take Thy pleasure, right or wrong. The pious wail : Forsake A world these sophists throng. Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man! These hundred doctors try To preach thee to their school. We have the truth! they cry; And yet their oracle, Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine. Once read thy own breast right, And thou hast done with fears ; • Man gets no other light, Search he a thousand years. Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine. What makes thee struggle and rave? Why are men ill at ease? — 'Tis that the lot they have Fails their own will to please ; For man would make no murmuring, were his will obey'd. And why is it, that still Man with his lot thus fights? — 'Tis that he makes this will The measure of his rights, And believes Nature outraged if his will's gainsaid. Q 2 228 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn How deep a fault is this ; Couldst thou but once discern Thou hast no right to bliss, No title from the Gods to welfare and repose; Then thou wouldst look less mazed Whene'er of bliss debarr'd, Nor think the Gods were crazed When thy own lot went hard. But we are all the same — the fools of our own woes ! For, from the first faint morn Of life, the thirst for bliss Deep in man's heart is born; And, sceptic as he is, He fails not to judge clear if this be quench'd or no. Nor is that thirst to blame. Man errs not that he deems His welfare his true aim, He errs because he dreams The world does but exist that welfare to bestow. We mortals are no kings For each of whom to sway A new-made world up-springs, Meant merely for his play; No, we are strangers here ; the world is from of old. H In vain our pent wills fret, And would the world subdue. Limits we did not set Condition all we do ; Born into life we are, and life must be our mould. EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. a 29 Born into life! — man grows Forth from his parents' stem, And blends their bloods, as those Of theirs are blent in them ; So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time. Born into life! — we bring A bias with us here, And, when here, each new thing Affects us we come near; To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime, Born into life ! — in vain, Opinions, those or these, Unaller'd to retain The obstinate mind decrees; Experience, like a sea, soaks all -effacing in. Born into life ! — who lists May what is false hold dear, And for himself make mists Through which to see less clear; The world is what it is, for all our dust and din. Born into life ! — 'tis we, And not the world, are new; Our cry for bliss, our plea, Others have urged it too — Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before. No eye could be too sound To observe a world so vast, No patience too p-ofound To sort what 's here amass'd ; How man may here best live no care too great to explore. 230 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. But we — as some rude guest Would change, where'er he roam, The manners there profess'd To those he brings from home — We mark not the world's course, but would have it take ours. The world's course proves the terms On which man wins content; Reason the proof confirms — We spurn it, and invent A. false course for the world, and for ourselves, false powers. Riches we wish to get, Yet remain spendthrifts still; We would have health, and yet Still use our bodies ill; Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last scenes. We would have inward peace, Yet will not look within ; We would have misery cease, Yet will not cease from sin; We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means ; We do not what we ought, What we ought not, we do, And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through; But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers. Yet, even when man forsakes All sin, — is just, is pure, ^ Abandons all which makes His welfare insecure, — Other existences there are, that clash with ours EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 231 Like us, the lightning-fires Love to have scope and play; The stream, like us, desires An unimpeded way ; Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. Streams will not curb their pride The just man not to entomb, Nor lightnings go aside To give his virtues room; Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man's barge. Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play; Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away ; Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark. And, lastly, though of ours No weakness spoil our lot, Though the non-human powers Of Nature harm us not, The ill deeds of other men make often our life dark. What were the wise man's plan? — Through this sharp, toil-set life, To fight as best he can, And win what 's won by strife. — But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found. Scratch'd by a fall, with moans As children of weak age Lend life to the dumb stones Whereon to vent their rage, And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground; 2*1 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. So, loath to suffer mute, We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear; With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily. Yet grant — as sense long miss'd Things that are now perceived, And much may still exist Which is not yet believed — Grant that the world weie full of Gods we cannot see; All things the world which fill Of but one stuff are spun, That we who rail are still, With what we rail at, one; One with the o'er-labour'd Power that through the breadth and length Of earth, and air, and sea, In men, and plants, and stones, Hath toil perpetually, And travails, pants, and moans; Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength. And patiently exact This universal God Alike to any act Proceeds at any nod, And quietly declaims the cursings of himself. This is not what man hates, Yet he can curse but this^_ Harsh Gods and hostile Fates Are dreams ! this only is — Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf. EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. a W Nor only, in the intent To attach blame elsewhere, Do we at will invent Stern Powers who make their care To embitter human life, malignant Deities; But, next, we would reverse The scheme ourselves have spun, And what we made to curse We now would lean upon, And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries. Look, the world tempts our eye, And we would know it all 1 We map the starry sky, We mine this earthen ball, We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands ; We scrutinise the dates Of long-past human things, The bounds of effaced states, The lines of deceased kings ; We search out dead men's words, and works of dead men's hands ; We shut our eyes, and muse How our own minds are made, What springs of thought they use, How righten'd, how betray'd — And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed. j But still, as we proceed, The mass swells more and more Of volumes yet to read, Of secrets yet to explore. Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm'd, our heat is tamed; 234 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. We rest our faculties, And thus address the Gods: ' True science if there is, It stays in your abodes ! Man's measures cannot mete the immeasurable All. 'You only can take in The world's immense design; Our desperate search was sin, Which henceforth we resign, Sure only that your mind sees all things which befal.' Fools! That in man's brief term He cannot all things view, Affords no ground to affirm That there are Gods who do; Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest Again. — Our youthful blood Claims rapture as its right; The world, a rolling flood Of newness and delight, Draws in the enamour'd gazer to its shining breast; Pleasure, to our hot grasp, Gives flowers after flowers; With passionate warmth we clasp Hand after hand in ours; Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent, At once our eyes grow clear! We see, in blank dismay, Year posting afier year, Sense after sense decay; Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent; EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 235 Yet still, in spite of truth, In spite of hopes entomb'd, That longing of our youth Burns ever unconsumed, Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare. We pause ; we hush our heart, And thus address the Gods : 1 The world hath fail'd to impart The joy our youth forebodes, Fail'd to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear. 1 Changeful till now, we still Look'd on to something new ; Let us, with changeless will, Henceforth look on to you, To find with you the joy we in vain here require!' Fools ! That so often here Happiness mock'd our prayer, I think, might make us fear A like event elsewhere; Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire. And yet, for those who know Themselves, who wisely take Their way through life, and bow To what they cannot break, Why should I say that life need yield but moderate bliss ? Shall we, with temper spoil'd, Health sapp'd by living ill, And judgment all embroil'd By sadness and self-will, Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is? 236 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes — That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date, And, while we dream on this, Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad; And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you, Who's loath to leave this life Which to him little yields — His hard-task' d sunburnt wife, His often-labour'd fields, The boors with whom he talk'd, the country-spots he knew. Eut thou, because thou hear'st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate, Because the Gods thou fear'st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are 1 I say: Fear not! Life still Leaves human effort scope. But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope; Because thou must not dream, thou necd'st not then despair 1 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 337 A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a harp below are again heard, and Callicles sings: — Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills; and there The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, And by the sea, and in the brakes. The grass is cool, the sea-side air Buoyant and fresh, the mountain-flowers More virginal and sweet than ours. And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, In breathless quiet, after all their ills; Nor do they see their country, nor the place Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, Nor the. unhappy palace of their race, Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes! They had stay'd long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children roll'd, Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A grey old man and woman; yet of old The Gods had to their marriage come, And at the banquet all the Muses sang. Therefore they did not end their days In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away, To where the west- wind plays, And murmurs of the Adriatic come To those untrodden mountain-lawns ; and there Placed safely in changed forms, the pair ? 3 8 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, And all that Theban woe, and stray For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. Empedocles. That was my harp-player again! — where is he? Down by the stream? Pausanias. Yes, Master, in the wood. Empedocles. He ever loved the Theban story well ! But the day wears Go now, Pausanias, For 1 must be alone. Leave me one mule; Take down with thee the rest to Catana. And for young Callicles, thank him from me ; Tell him, I never fail'd to love his lyre; But he must follow me no more to-night Pausanias. Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city? Empedocles. Either to-morrow or some other day, In the sure revolutions of the world, Good friend, I shall revisit Catana. I have seen many cities in my time, Till mine eyes ache with the long spectacle, . And I shall doubtless see them all again; Thou know'st me for a wanderer from of old. Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias ! He departs on his way up the mountain, Pausanias {alone). I dare not urge him further — he must go ; But he is strangely wrought 1 — I will speed back EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 239 And bring Peisianax to him from the city; His counsel could once soothe him. But, Apollo ! How his brow lighten'd as the music rose ! Callicles must wait here, and play to him ; I saw him through the chestnuts far below, Just since, down at the stream. — Ho ! Callicles ! He descends, calling. ACT II. Evening. The Summit of Etna. Empedocles. Alone! — On this charr'd, blacken'd, melancholy waste, Crown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth, Round which the sullen vapour rolls — alone ! Pausanias is far hence, and that is well, For I must henceforth speak no more with man. ^ He has his lesson too, and that debt 's paid ; And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man, May bravelier front his life, and in himself Find henceforth energy and heart. But I, — The weary man, the banish'd citizen — Whose banishment is not his greatest ill, Whose weariness no energy can reach, And for whose hurt courage is not the cure— What should I do with life and living more? No, thou art come too late, Empedocles! And the world hath the day, and must break thee, Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live, Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine; And being lonely thou art miserable, 240 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. For something has impair'd thy spirit's strength, And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy. Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself — O sage! O sage! — Take then the one way left; And turn thee to the elements, thy friends, Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers, And say : Ye servants, hear Empedocles, Who asks this final service at your hands! Before the sophist-brood hath overlaid The last spark of man's consciousness with words; Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world Be disarray'd of their divinity; Before the soul lose all her solemn joys, And awe be dead, and hope impossible, And the soul's deep eternal night come on — Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me home! He advances to the edge of the crater. Smoke. and fire break forth with a loud noise, and Callicles is heard below singing : — The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere; In the court of Gods, in the city of men, And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen, In the still mountain air. Only to Typho it sounds hatefully; To Typho only, the rebel o'er thrown, Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone, To imbed them in the sea. Wherefore dost thou groan so loud ? Wherefore do thy nostrils flash, Through the dark night, suddenly, Typho, such red jets of flame ? — - Is thy tortured heart still proud? Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash? EMFEDOCLES ON ETNA. 241 Still alert thy stone-crush'd frame? Doth thy fierce soul still deplore Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills, And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore? Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep The fight which crown'd thine ills, Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep? Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair, Where erst the strong sea-currents suck'd thee down. Never to cease to writhe, and try to rest, Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair? That thy groans, like thunder prest, Begin to roll, and almost drown The sweet notes whose lulling spell Gods and the race of mortals love so well, When through thy caves thou hearest music swell? But an awful pleasure bland Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face, When the sound climbs near his seat, The Olympian council sees ; As he lets his lax right hand, Which the lightnings doth embrace, Sink upon his mighty knees. And the eagle, at the beck Of the appeasing, gracious harmony, Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feather'd neck, Nestling nearer to Jove's feet ; While o'er his sovran eye The curtains of the blue films slowly meet. And the white Olympus-peaks Rosily brighten, and the soothed Gods smile At one another from their golden chairs, And no one round the charmed circle speaks. R a 4 2 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Only the loved Hebe bears The cup about, whose draughts beguile Pain and care, with a dark store Of fresh-puird violets wreathed and nodding o'er; And her flush' d feet glow on the marble floor. Empedodes. He fables, yet speaks truth ! The brave impetuous heart yields everywhere To the subtle, contriving head; Great qualities are troJden down, And littleness united Is become invincible. These rumblings are not Typho's groans, I know! These angry smoke-bursts Are not the passionate breath Of the mountain-crush'd, tortured, intractable Titan king- But over all the world What suffering is there not seen Of plainness oppress'd by cunning, As the well-counsell'd Zeus oppress'd That self-helping son of earth! What anguish of greatness, Rail'd and hunted from the world, Because its simplicity rebukes This envious, miserable age ! I am weary of it. — Lie there, ye ensigns Of my unloved preeminence In an age like this ! ^ Among a people of children, Who throng'd me in their cities, Who woibhipp'd me in their houses, EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 143 And ask'd, not wisdom, But drugs to charm with, But spells to mutter — All the fool's-armoury of magic ! — Lie there, My golden circlet, My purple robe ! Callicles {from below). As the sky-brightening south -wind clears the day. And makes the mass'd clouds roll, The music of the lyre blows away The clouds which wrap the soul. Oh! that Fate had let me see That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, That famous, final victory When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire; When, from far Parnassus' side, Young Apollo, all the pride Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, To the Phrygian highlands came; Where the long green reed-beds sway In the rippled waters grey Of that solitary lake Where Mseander's springs are born; Where the ridged pine-wooded roots Of Messogis westward break, Mounting westward, high and higher. There was held the famous strife; There the Phrygian brought his flutes, And Apollo brought his lyre; And, when now the westering sun Touch'd the hills, the strife was done, And the attentive Muses said : 'Marsyas, thou art vanquished I' R 3 344 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Then Apollo's minister Hang'd upon a branching fir Marsyas, that unhappy Faun, And began to whet his knife. But the Msenads, who were there, Left their fiiend, and with robes flowing In the wind, and loose dark hair O'er their polish'd bosoms blowing, Each her ribbon'd tambourine Flinging on the mountain-sod, With a lovely frighten'd mien Came about the youthful God. But he turn'd his beauteous face Haughtily another way, From the grassy sun-warm'd place Where in proud repose he lay, With one arm over his head, Watching how the whetting sped. But aloof, on the lake-strand, Did the young Olympus stand, Weeping at his master's end; For the Faun had been his friend. For he taught him how to sing, And he taught him flute-playing. Many a morning had they gone To the glimmering mountain-lakes, And had torn up by the roots The tall crested water-reeds With long plumes and soft brown seeds, And had carved them into flutes, Sitting on a tabled stone " Where the shoreward ripple breaks. And he taught him how to please EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 145 The red-snooded Phrygian girls, Whom the summer-evening sees Flashing in the dance's whirls Underneath the starlit trees In the mountain-villages. Therefore now Olympus stands, At his master's piteous cries Pressing fast with both his hands His white garment to his eyes, Not to see Apollo's scorn; — Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun ! ah, poor Faun ! Empedocles. And lie thou there, My laurel bough! Scornful Apollo's ensign, lie thou there ! Though thou hast been my shade in the world's heat — Though I have loved thee, lived in honouring thee — Yet lie thou there, My laurel bough I I am weary of thee. I am weary of the solitude Where he who bears thee must abide — Of the rocks of Parnassus, Of the gorge of Delphi, Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves. Thou guardest them, Apollo ! Over the grave of the slain Pytho, Though young, intolerably severe ! Thou keepest aloof the profane, But the solitude oppresses thy votary! The jars of men reach him not in thy valley — • But can life reach him? Thou fencest him from the multitude — 246 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Who will fence him from himself? He hears nothing 1 but the cry of the torrent3, And the beating of his own heart ; The air is thin, the veins swell, The temples tighten and throb there — Air ! air 1 Take thy bough, set me free from my solitude; I have been enough alone ! Where shall thy votary fly then ? back to men ?— But they will gladly welcome him once more, And help him to unbend his too tense thought, And rid him of the presence of himself, And keep their friendly chatter at his ear, And haunt him, till the absence from himself, That other torment, grow unbearable; And he will fly to solitude again, And he will find its air too keen for him, And so change back; and many thousand times Be miserably bandied to and fro Like a sea-wave, betwixt the world and thee, Thou young, implacable God ! and only death Shall cut his oscillations short, and so Bring him to poise. There is no other way. And yet what days were those, Parmenides! When we were young, when we could number friends In all the Italian cities like ourselves, When with elated hearts we join'd your train, Ye Sun-born Virgins 1 on the road of truth. 18 Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought Nor outward things were closed and dead to us ; But we received the shock of mighty thoughts On simple minds with a pure natural joy; EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. S47 And if the sacred loa r l oppress'd our brain, We had the power to feel the pressure eased, The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again, In the delightful commerce of the world. We had not lost our balance then, nor grown Thought's slaves and dead to every natural joy. The smallest thing could give us pleasure then — The sports of the country-people, A flute-note from the woods, Sunset over the sea ; Seed-time and harvest, The reapers in the corn, The vinedresser in his vineyard, The village-girl at her wheel. Fulness of life and power of feeling, ye Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, Who dwell on a firm basis of content! But he, who has outlived his prosperous days— But he, whose youth fell on a different world From that on which his exiled age is thrown — Whose mind was fed on other food, was train'd By other rules than are in vogue to-day — Whose habit of thought is fix'd, who will not change, But, in a world he loves not, must subsist In ceaseless opposition, be the guard Of his own breast, fetter'd to what he guards, That the world win no mastery over him — Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one; Who has no minute's breathing-space allow'd To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy — Joy and the outward world must die to him, As they are dead to me. 248 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. A long pause, during which Empedocles re- mains motionless, plunged in thought. The night deepens. He moves forward and gazes round him, and proceeds ; — And you, ye stars, Who slowly begin to marshal, As of old, in the fields of heaven, Your distant, melancholy lines ! Have you, too, survived yourselves? Are you, too, what I fear to become? You, too, once lived; You too moved joyfully, Among august companions, In an older world, peopled by Gods, In a mightier order, The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven. But now, ye kindle Your lonely, cold-shining lights, Unwilling lingerers In the heavenly wilderness, For a younger, ignoble world; And renew, by necessity, Night after night your courses, In echoing, unnear'd silence, Above a race you know not — Uncaring and undelighted, Without friend and without home; Weary like us, though not Weary with our weariness. No, no, ye stars ! there is no Ueath with you, No languor, no decay! languor and death, They are with me, not you ! ye are alive — Ye, and the pure dark ether where ye ride EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 349 Brilliant above me! And thou, fiery world, That sapp'st the vitals of this terrible mount Upon whose charr'd and quaking crust I stand — Thou, too, brimmest with life ! — the sea of cloud, That heaves its white and billowy vapours up To moat this isle of ashes from the worLl, Lives; and that other fainter sea, far down, O'er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams leads To Etna's Liparean sister-fires And the long dusky line of Italy — That mild and luminous floor of waters lives, With held-in joy swelling its heart; I only, Whose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit has fail'd, I, who have not, like these, in solitude Maintain'd courage and force, and in myself Nursed an immortal vigour — I alone Am dead to life and joy, therefore I read In all things my own deadness. \ A long silence. He continues:^ Oh, that I could glow like this mountain ! Oh, that my heart bounded with the swell of the sea 1 Oh, that my soul were full of light as the stars! Oh, that it brooded over the world like the air 1 But no, this heart will glow no more ; thou art A living man no more, Empedocles ! Nothing but a devouring flame of thought — ■ But a naked, eternally restless mind! After a pause: — - To the elements it came from Everything will return — Our bodies to earth, Our blood to water. 250 EMPEDQCLES ON ETNA, Heat to fire, Breath to air. They were well born, they will be well entomb'd — ■ But mind ? . . . And we might gladly share the fruitful stir Down in our mother earth's miraculous womb; Well would it be With what roll'd of us in the stormy main; We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air, Or with the nimble, radiant life of fire. But mind, but thought, If these have been the master part of us — Where will they find their parent element? What will receive them, who will call them home? But we shall still be in them, and they in us, And we shall be the strangers of the world, And they will be our lords, as they are now ; And keep us prisoners of our consciousness, And never let us clasp and feel the All But through their forms, and modes, and stifling vens And we shall be unsatisfied as now; And we shall feel the agony of thirst, The ineffable longing for the life of life Baffled for ever; and still thought and mind Will hurry us with them on their homeless march. Over the unallied unopening earth, Over the unrecognising sea ; while air Will blow us fiercely back to sea and earth, And fire repel us from its living waves. And then we shall unwillingly return Back to this meadow of calamity, This uncongenial place, this human life; EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 251 And in our individual human state Go through the sad probation all again, To see if we will poise our life at last, To see if we will now at last be true To our own only true, deep-buried selves, Being one with which we are one with the whole world ; Or whether we will once more fall away Into some bondage of the flesh or mind, Some slough of sense, or some fantastic maze Forged by the imperious lonely thinking-power. And each succeeding age in which we are born Will have more peril for us than the last ; Will goad our senses with a sharper spur, Will fret our minds to an intenser play, Will make ourselves harder to be discern'd. And we shall struggle awhile, gasp and rebel — And we shall fly for refuge to past times, Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness ; And the reality will pluck us back, Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature. And we shall feel our powers of effort flag, And rally them for one last fight — and fail; And we shall sink in the impossible strife, And be astray for ever. Slave of sense I have in no wise been; but slave of thought? — ■ And who can say : I have been always free, Lived ever in the light of my own soul? — I cannot; I have lived in wrath and gloom, Fierce, disputatious, ever at war with man, Far from my own soul, far from warmth and ligr* ., But I have not grown easy in these bonds — But I have not denied what bonds these were. 25J EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. Yea, I take myself to witness, y'That I have loved no darkness, ' Sophisticated no truth, >^Nurs'ed no delusion, Allow'd no fear! And therefore, O ye elements! I know — > Ye know it too — it hath been granted me Not to die wholly, not to be all enslaved. I feel it in this hour. The numbing cloud Mounts off my soul; I feel it, I breathe free. Is it but for a moment? — Ah, boil up, ye vapours! Leap and roar, thou sea of fire! My soul glows to meet you. Ere it flag, ere the mists Of despondency and gloom Rush over it again, Receive me, save me I He plunges into the crater, Callicles [from below). Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame; All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame. Not here, O Apollo I Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea, Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe— O speed, and rejoice 1 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks ; On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks. In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lull'd by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets Asleep on the hills. —What forms are these coming: So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flower'd broom? What sweet-breathing presence Out-perfumes the thyme? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime?— 'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine. — The leader is fairest, But all are divine. They are lost in the hollows! They stream up again ! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train? — They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road ; Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode. — Whose praise do they mention? Of what is it told ? — What will be for ever; What was from of old. »54 BACCHANALIA; OR, 7 HE NEW AGE* First hymn they the Father Of all things ; — and then, The rest of immortals, The action of men. The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm. BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE. I. The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wain, The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, All housed within -the sleeping farms! The business of the day is done, The last-left haymaker is gone. And from the thyme upon the height, And from the elder-blossom white And pale dog-roses in the hedge, And from the mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night-air blows The perfume which the day forgoes. And on the pure horizon-far, See, pulsing with the first-born star, The liquid sky above the hill ! The evening comes, the fields are still. BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE. 255 Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds — Flickering and circling In files and in rounds — Gaily their pine-staff green Tossing in air, Loose o'er their shoulders white Showering their hair — See ! the wild Maenads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood. See! through the quiet land Rioting they pass — Fling the fresh heaps about, Trample the grass. Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize; Fill with their sports the field, Fill with their cries. Shepherd, what ails thee, then? Shepherd, why mute ? Forth with thy joyous song! Forth with thy flute! Tempts not the revel blithe? Lure not their cries? Glow not their shoulders smooth? Melt not their eyes ? Is not, on cheeks like those, Lovely the flush? —^4/2, so the quiet was! So was the hush! 2 5 6 BACCHANALIA) OR, THE NEW AGE. II. The epoch ends, the world is still. The age has talk'd and work'd its fill — The famous orators have shone, The famous poets sung and gone, The famous men of war have fought, The famous speculators thought, The famous players, sculptors, wrought, The famous painters fill'd their wall, The famous critics judged it all. The combatants are parted now — Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. And in the after-silence sweet, Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, Ascending pure, the bell-like fame Of this or that down-trodden name, Delicate spirits, push'd away In the hot press of the noon-day. And o'er the plain, where the dead age Did its now silent warfare wage — O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, Where many a splendour finds its tomb, Many spent fames and fallen nights — ■ The one or two immortal lights Rise slowly up into the sky To shine there everlastingly, Like stars over the bounding hill. The epoch ends, the world is stUl. Thundering and bursting In torrents, in waves — 8 A CCHA NALTA ; OR, THE NE IV AGE. 357 Carolling and shouting Over tombs, amid graves — See ! on the cumber'd plain Clearing a stage, Scattering the past about, Comes the new age. Bards make new poems, Thinkers new schools, Statesmen new systems, Critics new rules. All things begin again; Life is their prize ; Earth with their deeds they fill, Fill with their cries. Poet, what ails thee, then? Say, why so mute? Forth with thy praising voice I Forth with thy flute! Loiterer ! why sittest thou Sunk in thy dream? Tempts not the bright new age? Shines not its stream? Look, ah, what genius, Art, science, wit! Soldiers like Caesar, Statesmen like Pittl Sculptors like Phidias, Raphaels in shoals, Poets like Shakspeare — Beautiful souls ! See, on their glowing cheeki Heavenly the flush! — Ah, so the silence was / So was the hush! 8 ?& EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAO COON. The world but feels the present's spell, The poet feels the past as well ; Whatever men have done, might do, Whatever thought, might think it too. EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON, One morn' as through Hyde Park we waik'd, My friend and I, by chance we talk'd Of Lessing's famed Laocoon; And after we awhile had gone In Lessing's track, and tried to see What painting is, what poetry — Diverging to another thought, 'Ah/ cries my friend, 'but who hath taught Why music and the other arts Oftener perform aright their parts Than poetry? why she, than they, Fewer fine successes can display? 'For 'tis so, surely 1 Even in Greece, Where best the poet framed his piece Even in that Phcebus-guarded ground Pausanias on his travels found Good poems, if he look'd, more rare (Though many) than good statues were — For these, in truth, were everywhere. Of bards full many a stroke divine In Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's line, The land of Ariosto showed ; And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd With triumphs, a yet ampler brood, Of Raphael and his brotherhood. EPILOGUE TO LESST\ T G*S LAOCOON. 359 And nobly perfect, in our day Of haste, half-work, and disarray, Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song; Yet even I (and none will bow Deeper to these) must needs allow, They yield us not, to soothe our pains, Such multitude of heavenly strains As from the kings of sound are blown, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn/ While thus my friend discoursed, we pass Out of the path, and take the grass. The grass had still the green of May, And still the unblacken'd elms were gay; The kine were resting in the shade, The flies a summer-murmur made. Bright was the morn and south the air; The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair As those which pastured by the sea, That old-world morn, in Sicily, When on the beach the Cyclops lay, And Galatea from the bay Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay. 'Behold,' I said, 'the painter's sphere! The limits of his art appear. The passing group, the summer-morn, The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn — Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise, Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes — These, or much greater things, but caught Like these, and in one aspect brought 1 In outward semblance he must give A. moment's life of things that live; s a j6o epilogue to lessing's laocoon. Then let him choose his moment well, With power divine its story tell/ Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood, And now upon the bridge we stood. Full of sweet breathings was the air, Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze Came rustling from the garden-trees And on the sparkling waters play'd; Light-plashing waves an answer made, And mimic boats their haven near'd, Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd — < By mist and chimneys unconfined, Free to the sweep of light and wind; While through' their earth-moor' d nave below Another breath of wind doth blow, Sound as of wandering breeze — but sound In laws by human artists bound. * The world of music ! ' I exclaim'd — 'This breeze that rustles by, that famed Abbey recall it! what a sphere, Large and profound, hath genius here ! The inspired musician what a range, What power of passion, wealth of change 1 Some source of feeling he must choose And its lock'd fount of beauty use, And through the stream of music tell Its else unutterable spell; To choose it rightly is his part, And press into its inmost heart. • Miserere, D omine I The words are utter'd, and they flee EPILOGUE TO LESSZA'G'S LAOCOON. 261 Deep is their penitential moan, Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone. They have declared the spirit's sore Sore load, and words can do no more. Beethoven takes them then — those two Poor, bounded words — and makes them new; Infinite makes them, makes them young; Transplants them to another tongue, Where they can now, without constraint, Pour all the soul of their complaint, And roll adown a channel large The wealth divine they have in charge. Page after page of music turn, And still they live and still they burn, Eternal, passion-fraught, and free — Miserere, D amine /' Onward we moved, and reach' d the ride Where gaily flows the human tide. Afar, in rest the cattle lay ; We heard, afar, faint music play; But agitated, brisk, and near, Men, with their stream of life, were here. Some hang upon the rails, and some On foot behind them go and come. This through the ride upon his steed Goes slowly by, and this at speed. The young, the happy, and the fair, The old, the sad, the worn, were there; Some vacant, and some musing went, And some in talk and merriment. Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells! And now and then, perhaps, there swells A sigh, a tear — but in the throng All changes fast, and hies along. 262 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON. Hies, ah, f:om whence, what native ground? And to what goal, what ending, bound? •Behold at last the poet's sphere I But who/ I said, 'suffices here? 'For, ah! so much he has to do; Be painter and musician tool The aspect of the moment show, The feeling of the moment know! The aspect not, I grant, express Clear as the painter's art can dress; The feeling not, I grant, explore So deep as the musician's lore — But clear as words can make revealing, And deep as words can follow feeling. But, ah ! then comes his sorest spell Of toil — he must life's movement tell! The thread which binds it all in one, And not its separate parts alone. The movement he must tell of life, Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife; His eye must travel down, at full, The long, unpausing spectacle; With faithful unrelaxing force Attend it from its primal source, From change to change and year to year Attend it of its mid career, Attend it to the last repose And solemn silence of its close. 'The cattle rising from the grass His thought must follow where they pass; The penitent with anguish bow'd His thought must follow through the crowd Yes! all this eddying, motley thiong EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAO COON, 363 That sparkles in the sun along, Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold, Master and servant, young and old, Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife, He follows home, and lives their life. 'And many, many are the souls Life's movement fascinates, controls. It draws them on, they cannot save Their feet from its alluring wave; They cannot leave it, they must go With its unconquerable flow. But ah! how few, of all that try This mighty march, do aught but die! For ill-endow'd for such a way, Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they. They faint, they stagger to and fro, And wandering from the stream they go; In pain, in terror, in distress, They see, all round, a wilderness. Sometimes a momentary gleam They catch of the mysterious stream; Sometimes, a second's space, their ear The murmur of its waves doth hear; That transient glimpse in song they say, But not as painter can pourtray — That transient sound in song they tell, But not, as the musician, well. And when at last their snatches cease, And they are silent and at peace, The stream of life's majestic whole Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul, 'Only a few the life-stream's shore With safe unwandering feet explore; 264 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAO COON. Untired its movement bright attend, Follow its windings to the end. Then from its brimming waves their eye Drinks up delighted ecstasy, And its deep- toned, melodious voice For ever makes their ear rejoice. They speak 1 the happiness divine They feel, runs o'er in every line; Its spell is round them like a shower — It gives them pathos, gives them power. No painter yet hath such a way, Nor no musician made, as they, And gather'd on immortal knolls Such lovely flowers for cheering souls. Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach The charm which Homer, Shakspeare, teach- To these, to these, their thankful race Gives, then, the first, the fairest place; And brightest is their glory's sheen, For greatest hath their labour been/ PERSISTENCY OF POETRY. Though the Muse be gone away, Though she move not earth to-day, Souls, erewhile who caught her word, Ah! still harp on what they heard. A CAUTION TO POETS. What poets feel not, when they make, A pleasure in creating,^ The world, in its turn, will not take Pleasure in contemplating, THE YOUTH OF NATURE. 265 THE YOUTH OF NATURE. Raised are the dripping oars, Silent the boat! the lake, Lovely and soft as a dream, Swims in the sheen of the moon. The mountains stand at its head Clear in the pure June-night, But the valleys are flooded with haze. Rydal and Fairfield are there; In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. So it is, so it will be for aye. Nature is fresh as of old, Is lovely; a mortal is dead. The spots which recall him survive, For he lent a new life to these hills. The Pillar still broods o'er the fields Which border Ennerdale Lake, And Egremont sleeps by the sea. The gleam of The Evening Star Twinkles on Grasmere no more, But ruin'd and solemn and grey The sheepfold of Michael survives; And, far to the south, the heath Still blows in the Quantock coombs, By the. favourite waters of Ruth. These survive ! — yet not without pain, Pain and dejection to-night, Can I feel that their poet is gone. He grew old in an age he condemn'd. He look'd on the rushing decay Of the times which had shelter'd his youth- Felt the dissolving throes 366 THE YOUTH OF NATURE. Of a social order he loved — Outlived his brethren, his peers; And, like the Theban seer, Died in his enemies' day. Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, Copais lay bright in the moon, Helicon glass' d in the lake Its firs, and afar rose the peaks Of Parnassus, snowily clear; Thebes was behind him in flames, And the clang of arms in his ear, When his awe-struck captors led The Theban seer to the spring. Tiresias drank and died. Nor did reviving Thebes See such a prophet again. Well may we mourn, when the head Of a sacred poet lies low In an age which can rear them no more ! The complaining millions of men Darken in labour and pain ; But he was a priest to us all Of the wonder and bloom of the world, Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad. He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day Of his race is past on the earth; And darkness returns to our eyes. For, oh ! is it you, is it you, Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, And mountains, that filfus with joy, Or the poet who sings you so well? Is it you, O beauty, O grace, THE YOUTH OF NATURE. 267 charm, O romance, that we feel, Or the voice which reveals what you are? Are ye, like daylight and sun, Shared and rejoiced in by all? Or are ye immersed in the mass Of matter, and hard to extract, Or sunk at the core of the world Too deep for the most to discern? Like stars in the deep of the sky, Which arise on the glass of the sage, But are lost when their watcher is gone. 'They are here' — I heard, as men heard In Mysian Ida the voice Of the Mighty Mother, or Crete, The murmur of Nature reply — ' Loveliness, magic, grace, They are here ! they are set in the world, They abide; and the finest of souls Hath not been thrill'd by them all, Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. The poet who sings them may die, But they are immortal and live, For they are the life of the world. Will ye not learn it, and know, When ye mourn that a poet is dead, That the singer was less than his themes, Life, and emotion, and I? 1 More than the singer are these. Weak is the tremor of pain That thrills in his mournfullest chord To that which once ran through his soul. Cold the elation of joy 268 THE YOUTH OF NATURE. [n his gladdest, airiest song, To that which of old in his youth Fill'd him and made him divine Hardly his voice at its best Gives us a sense of the awe, The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom Of the unlit gulph of himself. 'Ye know not yourselves; and your bards — The clearest, the best, who have read Most in themselves — have beheld Less than they left unreveal'd. Ye express not yourselves; — can ye make With marble, with colour, with word, What charm'd you in others re-live? Can thy pencil, O artist! restore The figure, the bloom of thy love, As she was in her morning of spring? Canst thou paint the ineffable smile Of her eyes as they rested on thine? Can the image of life have the glow, The motion of life itself? 1 Yourselves and your fellows ye know not ; and me, The mateless, t'.ie one, will ye know? Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, My longing, my sadness, my joy? Will ye claim for your great ones the gift To have render'd the gleam of my skies, To have echoed the moan of my seas, Utter'd the voice of my hills? When your great ones depart,^will )e say: All things have suffer' d a loss, Nature is hid in their grave? THE YOUTH OF MAN, 269 'Race after race, man after man, Have thought that my secret was theirs, Have dream' d that I lived but for them, That they were my glory and joy. — They are dust, they are changed, they are gone ! I remain/ THE YOUTH OF MAN. We, O Nature, depart, Thou survivest us! this, This, I know, is the law. Yes ! but, more than this, Thou who seest us die Seest us change while we live; Seest our dreams, one by one, Seest our errors depart; Watchest us, Nature ! throughout Mild and inscrutably calm. Well for us that we change 1 Well for us that the power Which in our morning-prime Saw the mistakes of our youth, Sweet, and forgiving, and good, Sees the contrition of age 1 Behold, O Nature, this pair! See them to-night where they stand. Not with the halo of youth Crowning their brows with its light, Not with the sunshine of hope, Not with the rapture of spring, 270 THE YOUTH OF MAN. Which they had of old, when they stood Years ago at my side In this self-same garden, and said: 1 We are young, and the world is ours ; Man, man is the king of the world I Fools that these mystics are Who prate of Nature ! but she Hath neither beauty, nor warmth, Nor life, nor emoiion, nor power. But man has a thousand gifts, And the generous dreamer invests The senseless world with them all. Nature is nothing; her charm Lives in our eyes which can paint, Lives in our hearts which can feel/ Thou, O Nature, wast mute, Mute as of old ! days flew, Days and years; and Time With the ceaseless stroke of his wings Brush' d off the bloom from their soul. Clouded and dim grew their eye, Languid their heart — for youth Quicken'd its pulses no more. Slowly, within the walls Of an ever-narrowing world, They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old. Thee and their youth in thee, Nature ! they saw no more. Murmur of living, Stir of existence, Soul of the world! Make, oh, make yourselves felt THE YOUTH OF MAAT. To the dying spirit of youth ! Come, like the breath of the spring! Leave not a human soul To grow old in darkness and pain! Only the living can feel you, But leave us not while we live! Here they stand to-night— Here, where this grey balustrade Crowns the still valley; behind In the castled house with its woods Which shelter'd their childhood — the sun On its ivied windows; a scent From the grey-wall'd gardens, a breath Of the fragrant stock and the pink, Perfumes the evening air. Their children play on the lawns. They stand and listen; they hear The children's shouts, and at times, Faintly, the bark of a dog From a distant farm in the hills. Nothing besides! in front The wide, wide valley outspreads To the dim horizon, reposed In the twilight, and bathed in dew, Corn-field and hamlet and copse Darkening fast; but a light, Far off, a glory of day, Still plays on the city-spires; And there in the dusk by the walls, With the grey mist marking its course Through the silent, flowery land, On, to the plains, to the sea, Floats the imperial stream. 37a THE YOUTH OF MANi Well I know what they feel! They gaze, and the evening wind Plays on their faces ; they gaze — Airs from the Eden of youth Awake and stir in their soul; The past returns — they feel What they are, alas ! what they were. They, not Nature, are changed. Well I know what they feell Hush, for tears Begin to steal to their eyes! Hush, for fruit Grows from such sorrow as theirs! And they remember, With piercing, untold anguish, The proud boasting of their youth. And they feel how Nature was fair. And the mists of delusion, And the scales of habit, Fall away from their eyes; And they see, for a moment, Stretching out, like the desert In its weary, unprofitable length, Their faded, ignoble lives. While the locks are yet brown on thy head. While the soul still looks through thine eyes, While the heart still pours The mantling blood to thy cheek, Sink, O youth, in thy souM Yearn to the greatness of Nature ; Rally the good in the depths of thyself! PROGRESS. §73 PALLADIUM. Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood ; And Hector was in Ilium, far below, And fought, and saw it not — but there it stood ! It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight Round Troy — but while this stood, Troy could not fall So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll; We visit it by moments, ah, too rare! Men will renew the battle in the plain To-morrow;— red with blood will Xanthus be; Hector and Ajax will be there again, Helen will come upon the wall to see. Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, And fancy that we put forth all our life, And never know how with the soul it fares. Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send; And when it fails, fight as we will, we die, And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. PROGRESS. The Master stood upon the mount, and taught. He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes; * The old law,' they said, ' is wholly come to nought. Behold the new world rise!' T 274 PROGRESS. 'Was it,' the Lord then said, 'with scorn ye saw The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees? I say unto you, see ye keep that law More faithfully than these! ' Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! Think not that I to annul the law have will'd; No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass, Till all have been fulfill'd.' So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. And what then shall be said to those to-day, Who cry aloud to lay the old world low To clear the new world's way? ' Religious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! Hence, hence,' they cry, ' ye do but keep man blind I But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied, And lame the active mind! Ah ! from the old world let some one answer give : ' Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares ? I say unto you, see \X\2X your souls live A deeper life than theirs! ' Say ye : " The spirit of man has found new roads, And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein?" — Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods, But guard the fire within ! ' Bright, else, and fast the stream of life may roll, And no man may the other's hurt behold; Yet each will have one anguish— his own soul Which perishes of cold.' Here let that voice make end^-then, let a strain, From a far lonelier distance, like the. wind Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again These men's profoundest mind: REVOLUTIONS. 275 ' Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye For ever doth accompany mankind, Hath look'd on no religion scornfully That men did ever find. 1 Which has not taught weak wills how much they can ? Which has not- fall'n on the dry heart like rain ? Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : Thou must be bor?i again I 1 Children of men! not that your age excel In pride of life the ages of your sires, But that ye think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, The Friend of man desires/ REVOLUTIONS. Before man parted for this earthly strand, While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, God put a heap of letters in his hand, And bade him make with them what word he could. And man has turn'd them many times ; made Greece, Rome, England, France;— yes, nor in vain essay'd Way after way, changes that never cease! The letters have combined, something was made. But ah! an inextinguishable sense Haunts him that he has not made what he should ; That he has still, though old, to recommence, Since he has not yet found the word God would. And empire after empire, at their height Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on; Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne. T 2 276 SELF-DEPENDENCE. One day, thou say'st, there will at last appear The word, the order, which God meant should be. — Ah! we shall know that well when it comes near; The band will quit man's heart, he will breathe free. SELF-DEPENDENCE. Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er 'the starlit sea. And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 'Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! Ah, once more,' I cried, c ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! - From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer: 'Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. \ Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without, them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. /JV Uft&fl ^]f^ 'And with joy the stars perform- their shining, And the sea its long moon silver'd roll: For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. MORALITY, 377 'Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see.' O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : * Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he Who finds himself, loses his misery 1' MORALITY. We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides ; The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight will'd Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, Ask, how she view'd thy self-control, Thy struggling, task'd morality — Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 278 A SUMMER NIGHT. See, on tier face a glow is spread, A strong- emotion on her cheek ! * Ah, child!' she cries, ' that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine? 'There is no effort on my brow — I do not strive, I do not weep; I rush with the swift spheres and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once — but where? 'I knew not yet the gauge of time, Nor wore the manacles of space ; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God/ A SUMMER NIGHT. In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street, How lonely rings the echo of my feet! Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world; — but see, A break between the housetops shows The moon ! and, lost behind her, fading dim Into the dewy dark obscurity Down at the far horizon's rim, Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose I And to my mind the thougTit Is on a sudden brought Of a past night, and a far different scene. A SUMMER NIGHT. 279 Headlands stood out into the moon- lit deep As clearly as at noon; The spring- tide's brimming flow Heaved dazzlingly between; Houses, with long white sweep, Girdled the glistening bay; Behind, through the soft air, The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away. That night was far more fair — But the same restless pacings to and fro, And the same vainly throbbing heart was there; And the same bright, calm moon. And the calm moonlight seems to say: Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast, Which neither deadens into rest, Nor ever feels the fiery glow That whirls the spirit from itself away, But fluctuates to and fro, Never by passion quite possessed And never quite benumb 'd by the world's sway ? — And I, I know not if to pray Still to be what I am, or yield, and be Like all the other men I see. For most men in a brazen prison live, Where, in the sun's hot eye, With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, Dreaming of nought beyond their prison- -wall, And as, year after year, Fresh products of their barren labour fall From their tired hands, and rest Never yet comes more near, viloom settles slowly down over their breast. aSo A SUMMER NIGHT. And while they try to stem The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest Death in their prison reaches them, Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest. And the rest, a few, Escape their prison and depart On the wide ocean of life anew. There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart Listeth, will sail; Nor doth he know how there prevail, Despotic on that sea, Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd "By thwarting signs, and braves The freshening wind and blackening waves. And then the tempest strikes him; and between The lightning-bursts is seen Only a driving wreck, And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck With anguish'd face and flying hair Grasping the rudder hard, Still bent to make some port he knows not where, Still standing for some false, impossible shore. And sterner comes the roar Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom, And he too disappears, and comes no more. Is there no life, but these alone? Madman or slave, must man be one ? Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain I Clearness divine ! Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign THE BURIED LIFE. 381 Of languor, though so calm, and though so great Are yet untroubled and unpassionale ; Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil, And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil ! I will not say that your mild deeps retain A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain — ■ But I will rather say that you remain A world above man's head, to let him see How boundless might his soul's horizons be, How vast, yet of what clea) transparency ! How it were good to live there, and breathe free; How fair a lot to fill Is left to each man still! THE BURIED LIFE. Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears rnine eyes are wet! t I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile 1 cL But there 's a something in this breast, c- To which thy light words bring no rest/' And thy gay smiles no anodyne; - Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, &L And turn those limpid eyes on mine, €. And let me read there, love ! thy inmost soul. Alas ! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? *U 28* THE BURIED LIFE. I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; I knew they lived and moved Trick' d in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves — and yet The same heart beats in every human breast! But we, my love!— doth a like spell benumb Our hearts, our voices? — must we too be dumb? Ah ! well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; For that which seals them hath been deep- ordain' d ! -Eaje, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be — By what distractions he would be possessed, How he would pour himself in every strife, And well-nigh change his own identity — That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey Even in his own despite his being's law, Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded river of our life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; And that we should not see The-buried stream, and seem to be Eddyin g at large in blind uncertainty, Though^driving on with it eternal ly. But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind. Servants of God!— or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost — Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died! See ! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line. • ft RUGBY CHAPEL, 32; Where are they tending? — A God Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. — Ah, but the way is so long ! Years they have been in the wild! Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, Rising all round, overawe ; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. — Ah, keep, keep them combined! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray ; on the rocks Batter for ever in vain, Die one by one in the waste. Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardour divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, 3*8 HEINE'S GRAVE. Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. HEINE'S GRAVE. 1 Henri Heine ' 'tis here ! The black tombstone, the name Carved there — no more! and the smooth, Swarded alleys, the limes Touch'd with yellow by hot Summer, but under them still, In September's bright afternoon, Shadow, and verdure, and cool. Trim Montmartre ! the faint Murmur of Paris outside; Crisp everlasting- flowers, Yellow and black, on the graves. Half blind, palsied, in pain, Hither to come, from the streets' Uproar, surely not loath Wast thou, Heine! — to lie Quiet, to ask for closed Shutters, and darken'd room, And cool drinks, and an eased Posture, and opium, no more; Hither to come, and to sleep Under the wings of Renown. Ah! not little, when pain Is most quelling, and man HEINE'S GRAVE. 329 Easily quell'd, and the fine Temper of genius so soon Thrills at each smart, is the praire, Not to have yielded to painl No small boast, for a weak Son of mankind, to the earth Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear His bolt-scathed front to the stars; And, undaunted, retort 'Gainst thick-crashing, insane, Tyrannous tempests of bale, Arrowy lightnings of soul. Hark! through the alley resounds Mocking laughter! A film Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze Ruffles the warm afternoon, Saddens my soul with its chill. Gibing of spirits in scorn Shakes every leaf of the grove, Mars the benignant repose Of this amiable home of the dead. Bitter spirits, ye claim Heine? Alas, he is yours! Only a moment I long'd Here in the quiet to snatch From such mates the outworn Poet, and steep him in calm. Only a moment ! I knew Whose he was who is here Buried — I knew he was yours! Ah, I knew that I saw Here no sepulchre built In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue 33« HEINE'S GRAVE. Naples bay, for a sweet Tender Virgil! no tomb On Ravenna sands, in the shade Of Ravenna pines, for a high Austere Dante I no grave By the Avon side, in the bright Stratford meadows, for thee, Shakspeare ! loveliest of souls, Peerless in radiance, in joy 1 What, then, so harsh and malign, Heine ! distils from thy life ? Poisons the peace of thy grave ? I chide with thee not, that thy sharp Upbraidings often assaifd England, my country — for we, Heavy and sad, for her sons, Long since, deep in our hearts, Echo the blame of her foes. We, too, sigh that she flags; We, too, say that she now — Scarce comprehending the voice Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sona Of a former age any more— Stupidly travels her round Of mechanic business, and lets Slow die out of her life Glory, and genius, and joy. So thou arraign'st her, her foe; So we arraign her, her sons. iTes, we arraign her! but she, The weary Titan, with deaf HEINE'S GRAVE. 331 Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes, Regarding neither to right Nor left, goes passively by, Staggering on to her goal; Bearing on shoulders immense, Atlantean, the load, Wellnigh not to be borne, Of the too vast orb of her fate. But was it thou — I think Surely it was ! — that bard Unnamed, who, Goethe said, Had every other gift, but wanted love ; Love, without which the tongue Even of angels sounds amiss ? Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine, Love is the fountain of charm. How without charm wilt thou draw, Poet ! the world to thy way ? Not by the lightnings of wit — Not by the thunder of scorn ! These to the world, too, are given; Wit it possesses, and scorn — Charm is the poet's alone. Hollow and dull are the great, And artists envious, and the mob pro/am, We know all this, we know ! Cam'st thou from heaven, O child Of light ! but this to declare ? Alas, to help us forget Such barren knowledge awhile, God gave the poet his song ! 33* HEINE'S GRAVE. Therefore a secret unrest Tortured thee, brilliant and bold! Therefore triumph itself Tasted amiss to thy soul. Therefore, with blood of thy foes, Trickled in silence thine own. Therefore the victor's heart Broke on the field of his fame. Ah ! as of old, from the pomp Of Italian Milan, the fair Flower of marble of white Southern palaces — steps Border'd by statues, and walks Terraced, and orange-bowers Heavy with fragrance — the blond German Kaiser full oft Long'd himself back to the fields, Rivers, and high-roof'd towns Of his native Germany; so, So, how often ! from hot Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps Blazing, and brilliant crowds, Starr' d and jewell'd, of men Famous, of women the queens Of dazzling converse — from fumes Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain That mount, that madden — how oft Heine's spirit outworn Long'd itself out of the din, Back to the tranquil, the cool Far German home of hre youth! See! in the May-afternoon, O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz, HEINE'S GRAVE. 333 A youth, with the foot of youth, Heine ! thou climbest again ! Up, through the tall dark firs Warming their heads in the sun, Chequering the grass with their shade — Up, by the stream, with its huge Moss-hung boulders, and thin Musical water, half-hid — Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, With the sinking sun, and the air Chill, and the shadows now Long on the grey hill-side— To the stone-roof d hut at the topi Or, yet later, in watch On the roof of the Brocken-tower Thou standest, gazing ! — to see The broad red sun, over field, Forest, and city, and spire, And mist-track'd stream of the wide Wide German land, going down In a bank of vapours again Standest, at nightfall, alone 1 Or, next morning, with limbs Rested by slumber, and heart Freshen'd and light with the May, O'er the gracious spurs coming down Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks And beechen coverts, and copse Of hazels green in whose depth Use, the fairy transform'd, In a thousand water-breaks light Pours her petulant youth — Climbing the rock which juts 334 HEINE'S GRAVE. O'er the valley — the dizzily perch'd Rock — to its iron cross Once more thou cling'st ; to the Cross Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh! Goethe, too, had been there. 25 In the long-past winter he came To the frozen Hartz, with his soul Passionate, eager — his youth All in ferment! — but he Destined to work and to live Left it, and thou, alas! Only to laugh and to die. But something prompts me : Not thus Take leave of Heine ! not thus Speak the last word at his grave! Not in pity, and not With half censure — with awe Hail, as it passes from earth Scattering lightnings, that soul! The Spirit of the world, Beholding the absurdity of men— Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile, For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. That smile was Heine! — for its earthly hour The strange guest sparkled ; now 'tis pass'd away, That was Heine ! and we, Myriads who live, who have lived, What are we all, but a mood, A single mood, of the life Of the Spirit in whom we exist, Who alone is all things in one? THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. 33: Spirit, who fillest us all! Spirit, who interest in each New-coming son of mankind Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt I O thou, one of whose moods, Bitter and strange, was the life Of Heine — his strange, alas, His bitter life!— may a life Other and milder be mine! May'st thou a mood more serene, Happier, have utter'd in mine! May'st thou the rapture of peace Deep have embreathed at its core; Made it a ray of thy thought, Made it a beat of thy joy I STANZAS FROM ' THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused With rain, where thick the crocus blows, Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, Through forest, up the mountain-side. The autumnal evening darkens round, The wind is up, and drives the rain; While, hark! far down, with strangled sound Doth the Dead Guiers stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods, Over his boiling cauldron broods. 336 STANZAS FROM Swift rush the spectral vapours white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing — then blotting from our sight! — Halt — through the cloud-drift something shines/ High in the valley, wet and drear, The huts of Courrerie appear. Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher Mounts up the stony forest-way. At last the encircling trees retire ; Look ! through the showery twilight grey What pointed loofs are these advance?— A palace of the Kings of France? Approach, for what we seek is here ! Alight, and sparely sup, and wait For rest in this outbuilding near; Then cross the sward and reach that gate; Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come To the Carthusians' world-famed home. The silent courts, where night and day Into their stone-carved basins cold The splashing icy fountains play — The humid corridors behold, Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white I The chapel, where no organ's peal Invests the stern and naked prayer! — With penitential cries they kneel And wrestle; rising then, with bare And white uplifted faces stand, Passing the Host from hand to hand; Each takes, and then his visage wan Is buried in his cowl once more. THE GRAND CHARTREUSE. 33} The cells! — the suffering Son of Man Upon the wall — the knee-worn floor — And where they sleep, that wooden bed, Which shall their coffin be, when dead! The library, where tract and tome Not to feed priestly pride are there, To hymn the conquering march of Rome, Nor yet to amuse, as ours are! They paint of souls the inner strife, Their drops of blood, their death in life. The garden, overgrown — yet mild, See, fragrant herbs are flowering there 1 Strong children of the Alpine wild Whose culture is the brethren's care; Of human tasks their only one, And cheerful works beneath the sun. Those halls, too, destined to contain Each its own pilgrim-host of old, From England, Germany, or Spain — All are before me! I behold The House, the Brotherhood austere! — And what am I, that I am here? For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Shew'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom; What dost thou in this living tomb? Forgive me, masters of the mind! At whose behest I long ago So much unlearnt, so much resign'd— I come not here to be your foe! z 333 STANZAS FROM I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, To curse and to deny your truth ; Not as their friend, or child, I speak ! But as, on some far northern strand, Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek In pity and mournful awe might stand Before some fallen Runic stone — For both were faiths, and both are gone. Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. Their faith, my tears, the world deride — I come to shed them at their side. >^v)h, hide me in your gloom profound, Ye solemn seats of holy pain ! Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me roundj Till I possess my soul again; Till free my thoughts before me roll, Not chafed by hourly false control! For the world cries your faith is now But a dead time's exploded dream; My melancholy, sciolists say, Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme. — As if the world had ever had A faith, or sciolists been sadl Ah if it be pass'd, take away, At least, the restlessness, the pain! Be man henceforth no more a prey To these out-dated stings again! The nobleness of grief is gone — Ah, leave us not the fret alone I THE GRAND CHARTREUSE, 339 But — if you cannot give us ease — Last of the race of them who grieve Here leave us to die out with these Last of the people who believe! Silent, while years engrave the brow; Silent — the best are silent now. Achilles ponders in his tent, The kings of modern thought are dumb; Silent they are, though not content, And wait to see the future come. They have the grief men had of yore, But they contend and cry no more. Our fathers water' d with their tears This sea of time whereon we sail; Their voices were in all men's ears Who pass'd within their puissant hail. Still the same ocean round us raves, But we stand mute, and watch the waves. For what avail'd it, all the noise And outcry of the former men? — Say, have their sons achieved more joys, Say, is life lighter now than then? The sufferers died, they left their pain— The pangs which tortured them remain. What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Eur pe to the JEtolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe male his woe her own? What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze Carried thy lovely wail away, z 2 340 STANZAS FROM Musical through Italian trees Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? Inheritors of thy distress Have restless hearts one throb the less? Or are we easier, to have read, O Obirmann ! the sad, stern page, Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head From the fierce tempest of thine age In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, Or chalets near the Alpine snow? Ye slumber in your silent grave ! — The world, which for an idle day Grace to your mood of sadness gave, Long since hath flung her weeds away. The eternal trifler breaks your spell; But we — we learnt your lore too well! Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas! than we, Which without hardness will be sage, An J gay without frivolity. Sons of the world, oh, speed those years ; But, while we wait, allow our tears ! Allow them! We admire with awe The exulting thunder of your race; You give the universe your law, You triumph over time and space! Your pride of life, your tireless powers, We praise them, but they are not ours, W T e are like children rear'djn shade Beneath some old-world abbey wall, Forgotten in a forest-glade, And secret from the eyes of alL THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. 341 Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, Their abbey, and its close of graves ! But, where the road runs near the stream, Oft through the trees they catch a glance Of passing troops in the sun's beam — Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance! Forth to the world those soldiers fare, To life, to cities, and to war ! And through the woods, another way, Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, Round some old forest-lodge at morn. Gay dames are there, in sylvan green ; Laughter and cries — those notes between! The banners flashing through the trees Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; That bugle-music on the breeze Arrests them with a charm' d surprise. Banner by turns and bugle woo : Ye shy recluses, follow too / O children, what do ye reply? — 'Action and pleasure, will ye roam Through these secluded dells to cry And call us? — but too late ye come! Too late for us your call ye blow, Whose bent was taken long ago. * Long since we pace this shadow'd nave ; We watch those yellow tapers shine, Emblems of hope over the grave, In the high altar's depth divine. The organ carries to our ear Its accents of another sphere. 34a STANZAS IN MEMORY OF 'Fenced early in this cloistral round Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, How should we grow in other ground ? How can we flower in foreign air? — Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; And leave our desert to its peace!' STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN™ November, 1849. In front the awful Alpine track Crawls up its rocky stair; The autumn storm -winds drive the rack, Close o'er it, in the air. Behind are the abandon'd baths 27 Mute in their meadows lone; The leaves are on the valley- paths, The mists are on the Rhone — The white mists rolling like a sea! I hear the torrents roar. — Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee; I feel thee near once more ! I turn thy leaves! I feel their breath Once more upon me rohV That air of languor, cold, and death, Which brooded o'er thy souL THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANM. 34; Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, Condemn'd to cast about, All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, For comfort from without! A fever in these pages burns Beneath the calm they feign; A wounded human spirit turns, Here, on its bed of pain. Yes, though the virgin mountain-air Fresh through these pages blows ; Though to these leaves the glaciers spare The soul of their mute snows; Though here a mountain-murmur swells Of many a dark-bough'd pine; Though, as you read, you hear the bells Of the high-pasturing kine — Yet, through the hum of torrent lone, And brooding mountain-bee, There sobs I know not what ground-touc Of human agony. Is it for this, because the sound Is fraught too deep with pain, That, Obermann ! the world around So little loves thy strain? Some secrets may the poet tell, For the world loves new ways; To Jell too deep ones is not well — It knows not what he says. Yet, of the spirits who have reign'd In this our troubled day, I know but two, who have attain'd, Save thee, to see their way. 344 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF By England's lakes, in grey old age, His quiet home one keeps; And one, the strong much-toiling sage, In German Weimar sleeps. But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken From half of human fate ; And Goethe's course few sons of men May think to emulate. For he pursued a lonely road, His eyes on Nature's plan ; Neither made man too much a God, Nor God too much a man. Strong was he, with a spirit free From mists, and sane, and clear; Clearer, how much! than ours — yet we Have a worse course to steer. For though his manhood bore the blast Of a tremendous time, Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd His tenderer youthful prime. But we, brought forth and rear'd in houn Of change, alarm, surprise — What shelter to grow ripe is ours? What leisure to grow wise? Like children bathing on the shore, Buried a wave beneath, The second wave succeeds, before We have had time to breathe. Too fast we live, too much are tried, Too harass'd, to attain Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide And luminous view to gain. THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN. 345 And then we turn, thou sadder sage, To theel we feel thy spell! — The hopeless tangle of our age, Thou too hast scann'd it well ! Immoveable thou sittest, still As death, composed to bear! Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill, And icy thy despair. Yes, as the son of Thetis said, I hear thee saying now: Greater by far than thou are dead; Strive not ! die aiso thou ! Ah ! two desires toss about The poet's feverish blood; One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude. The glow, he cries, the thrill of life, Where, where do these abound? — Not in the world, not in the strife Of men, shall they be found. He who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife, Knows how the day hath gone. He only lives with the world's life, Who hath renounced his own. To thee we come, then ! Clouds are roll'd Where thou, O seer! art set; Thy realm of thought is drear and cold— The world is colder yet ! And thou hast pleasures, too, to share With those who come to thee — Balms floating on thy mountain-air, And healing sights to see. 346 STANZAS IN MEMOR Y OF *• How often, where the slopes are green On Jaman, hast thou sate By some high chalet-door, and seen The summer-day grow late; And darkness steal o'er the wet grass With the pale crocus starr'd, And reach that glimmering sheet of glass Beneath the piny sward, Lake Leman's waters, far below! And watch'd the rosy light Fade from the distant peaks of snow; And on the air of night Heard accents of the eternal tongue Through the pine branches play — Listen'd, and felt thyself grow younj! Listen'd, and wept Away ! Away the dreams that but deceive! And thou, sad guide, adieu! I go, fate drives me; but I leave Half of my life with you. 1 We, in some unknown Power's employ, Move on a rigorous line ; Can neither, when we will, enjoy, Nor, when we will, resign. v I in the world must live; — but thou, Thou melancholy shade ! Wilt not, if thou can'st see me now, Condemn me, nor upbraid. For thou art gone away from earth, And place with those dost claim, The Children of the Second Birth, Whom the world could not tame ; THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN. 347 And with that small, transfigured band, Whom many a different way Conducted to their common land, Thou learn'st to think as they. Christian and pagan, king and slave, Soldier and anchorite, Distinctions we esteem so grave, Are nothing in their sight. They do not ask, who pined unseen, Who was on action hurl'd, Whose one bond is, that all have been Unspotted by the world. There without anger thou wilt see Him who obeys thy spell No more, so he but rest, like thee, Unsoil'd ; — and so, farewell S Farewell ! — Whether thou now liest near That much-loved inland sea, The ripples of whose blue waves cheer Vevey and Meillerie ; And in that gracious region bland, Where with clear-ru-tling wave The scented pines of Switzerland S and dark round thy green grave, Between the dusty vineyard-walls Issuing on that green place The early peasant still recalls The pensive stranger's face, And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date Ere he plods on again ; — Or whether, by maligner fate, Among the swarms of men, 348 OB ER MANN ONCE MORE, Where between granite terraces The blue Seine rolls her wave, The Capital of Pleasure sees Thy hardly-heard-of grave ;— Farewell! Under the sky we part, In this stern Alpine dell. unstrung will ! broken heart ! A last, a last farewell! OBERMANN ONCE MORE. (COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.) Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un niondej Obermann. Glion? Ah, twenty years, it cuts 28 All meaning from a name ! White houses prank where once were huts ; Glion, but not the same ! And yet I know not! All unchanged The turf, the pines, the sky! The hills in their old order ranged ; The lake, with Chillon by! And, 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiif And stony mounts the way, The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if I left them yesterday ! Across the valley, on that slope, The huts of Avant shine ! Its pines, under their branches, ope Ways for the pasturing kine. OBERMANN OACE MORE. 349 Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, Invite to rest the traveller there Before he climb the pass — The gentian-flower'd pass, its crown 29 With yellow spires aflame ; Whence drops the path to Alliere down, And walls were Byron came, 30 By their green river, who doth change His birth-name just below; Orchard, and croft, and full-stored grange Nursed by his pastoral flow. But stop 1 — to fetch back thought's that stray Beyond this gracious bound, The cone of Jaman, pale and grey, See, in the blue profound ! Ah, Jaman 1 delicately tall Above his sun-warm'd firs — ■ What thoughts to me his rocks recall, What memories he stirs ! And who but thou must be, in truth, Obermann ! with me here ? Thou master of my wandering youth, But left this many a year ! Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, Its warfare waged with pain ! An eremite with thee, in thought Once more I slip my chain, And to thy mountain-chalet come, And lie beside its door, And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, And thy sad, tranquil lorel 350 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. Again I feel the words inspire Their mournful calm ; serene, Yet tinged with infinite desire For all that might have been — The harmony from which man swerved Made his life's rule once more! The universal order served, Earth happier than before! — While thus I mused, night gently ran Down over hill and wood. Then, still and sudden, Obermann On the grass near me stood. Those pensive features well I knew, On my mind, years before, Imaged so oft, imaged so true! — A shepherd's garb he wore; A mountain-flower was in his hand, A book was in his breast. Bent on my face, with gaze which scann'd My soul, his eyes did rest. 'And is it thou/ he cried, 'so long Held by the world which we Loved not, who turnest from the throng Back to thy youth and me? 1 And from thy world, with heart opprest, Choosest thou now to turn? — Ah me ! we anchorites read things best, Clearest their course discern! 'Thou fledst me when the ungenial ear'h, Man's work-place, lay in gloom. Return'st thou in her hour of birth, Of hopes and hearts in bloom? OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 351 'Perceiv'st thou not the change of day? — Ah ! Carry back thy ken, What, some two thousand years! Survey The world as it was then! 'Like ours it look'd in outward air. Its head was clear and true, Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare, No pause its action knew; 1 Stout was its arm, each thew and bor.e Seem'd puissant and alive — Put, ah ! its heart, its heart was stone, And so it could not thrive ! 'On that hard Pagan world disgust And secret loathing fell. Deep weariness and sated lust Made human life a hell. ' In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman noble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian way. 1 He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown'd his hair with flowers — No easier nor no quicker pass'd The impracticable hours. 'The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world. The Roman tempest swell'd and swell' d, And on her head was hurl'd. * The East bow'd low before the blast In patient, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again. 353 OBERMANN ONCE MORE, ' So well she mused, a morning broke Across her spirit grey. A conquering, new-born joy awoke, And fill'd her life with day. '"Poor world," she cried, "so deep accurst, That runn'st from pole to pole To seek a draught to slake thy thirst — Go, seek it in thy soul!" 1 She heard it, the victorious West, In crown and sword array'd! She felt the void which mined her breast, She shiver'd and obey'd. 'She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her sword, And laid her sceptre down; Her stately purple she abhorr'd, And her imperial crown. 'She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her sports. Her artists could not please. She tore her books, she shut her courts, She fled her palaces. 'Lust of the eye and pride of life She left it all behind, And hurried, torn with inward strife, The wilderness to find. ' Tears wash'd the trouble from her face ! She changed into a child ! 'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood — a place Of ruin — but she smiled ! 'Oh, had I lived in that_great day, How had its glory new Fill'd earth and heaven, and caught away My ravish'd spirit too! OBERMANN ONCE MORE, 353 'No thoughts that to the world belong Had stood against the wave Of love which set so deep and strong From Christ's then open grave. * No cloister-floor of humid stone Had been too cold for me ; For me no Eastern desert lone Had been too far to flee. 'No lonely life had pass'd too slow, When I could hourly scan Upon his Cross, with head sunk low, That nail'd, thorn-crowned Man ! 'Could see the Mother with the Child Whose tender winning arts Have to his little arms beguiled So many wounded hearts ! 'And centuries came and ran their course, And unspent all that time Still, still went forth that Child's dear force, And still was at its prime. 'Ay, ages long endured his span Of life — 'tis true received — That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd Man! — He lived while we believed. 'While we believed, on earth he went, And open stood his grave. Men call'd from chamber, church, and tent, And Christ was by to save. 'Now he is dead! Far hence he lies In the lorn Syrian town; And on his grave, with shining eye3, The Syrian stars look down. A a 354 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 'In vain men still, with hoping new, Regard his death-place dumb, And say the stone is not yet to, And wait for words to come. ' Ah, from that silent sacred land, Of sun, and arid stone, And crumbling wall, and sultry sand, Comes now one word alone I 'From David's lips that word did roll, 'Tis true and living yet: No man can save his brother's soul, Nor pay his brother s debt. 'Alone, self-poised, henceforward man Must labour! — must resign His all too human creeds, and scan Simply the way divine 1 'But slow that tide of common thought, Which bathed our life, retired. Slow, slow the old world wore to nought, And pulse by pulse expired. 'Its frame yet stood without a breach When blood and warmth were fled ; And still it spake its wonted speech — But every word was dead. 'And oh, we cried, that on this corss Might fall a freshening storm! Rive its dry bones, and with new force A new-sprung world inform 1 1 — Down came the storm IjD'er France il pj.^d In sheets of scathing fire. All Europe felt that fiery blast, And shook as it rush'd by her. OISERMANN ONCE MORE. 35. * Down came the storm ! In ruins fell The worn-out world we knew. It pass'd, that elemental swell — Again appear'd the blue; 'The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky. • — And what from heaven saw he? Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, Float on a rolling sea! 'Upon them plies the race of man All it before endeavour'd; "Ye live," I cried, "ye work and plan, And know not ye are sever'd ! 1 " Poor fragments of a broken world Whereon men pitch their tent! Why were ye too to death not hurl'il When your world's day was spent? '"That glow of central fire is done Which with its fusing flame Knit all your parts, and kept you one; — But ye, ye are the same! '"The past, its mask of union on, Had ceased to live and thrive. The past, its mask of union gone, Say, is it more alive? '"Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead. Your social order too ! Where tarries he, the Power who said: See, I make all things new? '"The millions suffer still, and grieve. And what can helpers heal With old-world cures men half believe For woes they wholly feel? a a a 356 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. ' " And yet men have such need of joy i But joy whose grounds are true; And joy that should all hearts employ As when the past was new. ' " Ah, not the emotion of that past, Its common hope, were vain ! Some new such hope must dawn at last, Or man must toss in pain. '"But now the old is out of date, The new is not yet born. And who can be alone elate, While the world lies forlorn?" 'Then to the wilderness I fled. — There among Alpine snows And pastoral huts I hid my head, And sought and iuund repose. 'It was not yet the appointed hour. Sad, patient, and resign'd, I watch'd the crocus fade and flower, I felt the sun and wind. 1 The day I lived in was not mine ; Man gets no second day. In dreams I saw the future shine — But ah ! I could not stay ! 'Action I had not, followers, fame. I pass'd obscure, alone. The after-world forgets my name, Nor do I wish it known. * Composed to bear, I lived, and died. And knew my life was vain. With fate I murmur not, nor chide. At Sevres by the Seine OB ER MANN ONCE MORE. 353 ■ (If Paris that brief flight allow) My humble tomb explore ! It bears : Eternity, be thou My refuge / and no more. 'But thou, whom fellowship of mood Did make from haunts of strife Come to my mountain-solitude, And learn my frustrate life; 'O thou, who, ere thy flying span Was past of cheerful youth, Didst find the solitary man And love his cheerless truth — 'Despair not thou as I despair'd, Nor be cold gloom thy prison! Forward the gracious hours have fared, And see ! the sun is risen ! 1 He breaks the winter of the past ; A green, new earth appears. Millions, whose life in ice lay fast, Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. 'What though there still need effort, strife? Though much be still unwon? Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life Death's frozen hour is done ! 'The world's great order dawns in sheen After long darkness rude, Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, With happier zeal pursued. 'With hope extinct and brow composed I mark'd the present die; Its term of life was nearly closed, Yet it had more than I. 358 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. * But thou, though to the world's new hour Thou come with aspect marr'd, Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power, Which best befits its bard — 1 Though more than half thy years be past, And spent thy youthful prime ; Though, round thy firmer manhood cast, Hang weeds of our sad time ' Whereof thy youth felt all the spell, And traversed all the shade — Though late, though dimm'd, though weak, yet tell Hope to a world new-made 1 * Help it to fill that deep desire, The want which crazed our brain, Consumed our soul with thirst like fire, Immedicable pain; * Which to the wilderness drove out Our life, to Alpine snow, And palsied all our word with doubt, And all our work with woe — 'What still of strength is left, employ, This end to help attain: One common wave of thought and joy Lifiing mankind again I ' — The vision ended. I awoke As out of sleep, and no Voice moved;— only the torrent broke The silence, far below. | Soft darkness on the turf 4id lie ; Solemn, o'er hut and wood, In the yet star-sown nightly sky, The peak of Jaman stood. OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 3^9 Still in my soul the voice I heard Of Obermann! away I turned; by some vague impulse stiir'd, Along the rocks of Naye Past Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze And the blanch'd summit bare Of Malatrait, to where in haze The Valais opens fair, And the domed Velan, with his snows, Behind the upcrowding hills, Doth all the heavenly opening close Which the Rhone's murmur fills — - And glorious there, without a sound, Across the glimmering lake, High in the Valais-depth profound, I saw the marnin? break. NOTES. NOTE I, PAGE 3. Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen. The name Europe (EupSnr], the wide prospect) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy- fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Maeander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them. NOTE 2, page 8. Mycerinus. 'After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He abhorred his father's courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done. — To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in the seventh year from that time.'— Herodotus. NOTE 3, PAGE 37. Stagirius. Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom's works. NOTE 4, PAGE 51. That wayside inn paT(i vvktos, (Is (pdos NOTE 17, PAGE 291. The Scholar-Gipsy. 'There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who wis by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating sub- tilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly leen of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among fU e gipsies ; and he gave them an account of the necess ty which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with werc- not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.' — Glanvil's Vanity of Dogmatizing, 1 6 6 r . NOTE 18, PAGE 299. Thyrsis. Throughout this poem there is reference to the pre* ceding piece, The Scholar-Gipsy. NOTES. 3 G; NOTE 19, PAGE 305. Young Daphnis with his silver 'voice doth sing. Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea. who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping coi n, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon him- self the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradi- tion was, like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to Heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. — See Ser- vius, Comment, in Virgil. Bucol., v. 20, and viii. 68. NOTE 20, PAGE 312. Ah, where is he, who should have come. The author's brother, William Delafield Arnold, Di- rector ot Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author ot Oakficid, or Fellowship in the East, died at Gibraltar on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859. NOTE 21, PAGE 3 1 3. . So moonlit, saw me once of y ore. See the poem, A Summer Night, p. 278. NOTE 2 2, PAGE 313. My brother I and thine early loU Sec Note 20. 368 NOTES. NOTE 23, PAGE 317. / saw the meeting of two Gifted women. Charlotte Bionte and Harriet Martineau. NOTE 24, PAGE 320. Whose too bold dying song. See the last lines written by Emily Bronte in Poems bj Currer f Ellis, and Acton Bell. NOTE 25, PAGE 334. Goethe, too, had been there. See Har%reise im Winter, in Goethe's Gedichte. NOTE 26, PAGE 342. The author of Obermann, Etienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country ; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inward- ness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work, Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the' most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest. Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the Seminary of St. Sulpice ; broke away from the Seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married ; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only: Eternite, deiuens monasilel The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day, — Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael,— are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent NOTES. 369 personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and though Obermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them ; of all writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinising. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces, by which modern life is and has been impelled, lives in the letters of Obermann ; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world which our own time is but now fully bringing to light, — all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high. Besides Obermann there is one other of Senancour's works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting ; its title is, Litres Meditations d'un Solitaire lnconnu. NOTE 27, PAGE 342. Behind are the abandoned baths. The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, in the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the Rhone. NOTE 28, PAGE 348. Glion?— Ah, twenty years, it cuts. Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva, will recollect Glion, the mountain-village above the castle of Chillon. Glion now has hotels, pensions, and viilas ; but twenty years ago it was hardly more than the huts of Avant opposite to it, — huts through which goes that beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, followed by so many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to the Sinunenthal and Thun. Bb 37© NOTES. NOTE 29, PAGE 349. The gentian-flower' d pass, its crown. See Note 15. NOTE 30, PAGE 349. And walls where Byron came. Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in his Works, vol. iii, p. 258. The river Saane becomes the Saiine below Mont« bovon. MATTHEW ARNOLD'S WORKS. PUBLISHED BY MACMILLAN & CO. PROSE WRITINGS. LIBRARY EDITION. in Nine Volumes. Globe 8vo, each, $1.50. (Uniform with the Eversley Edition of Charles Kingsley's Novels.) CONTENTS OF THE VOLUMES : Vol. 6. God and the Bible. Vol. 7. St. Paul and Protestantism — Last Essays on Church and Religion. Vol. 8. 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