The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Story of Justin Martyr, and Other Poems This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Story of Justin Martyr, and Other Poems Author: Richard Chenevix Trench Release date: September 8, 2017 [eBook #55507] Language: English Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF JUSTIN MARTYR, AND OTHER POEMS *** Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net POEMS. THE STORY OF JUSTIN MARTYR, AND OTHER POEMS. BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, PERPETUAL CURATE OF CURDRIDGE CHAPEL, HANTS. LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXXXV. LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. CONTENTS. PAGE Dedicatory Lines 1 The Story of Justin Martyr 9 Sonnet 27 To ---- 28 To the same 29 To the same 30 To the same 31 To the same 32 A Legend of Alhambra 33 England 38 The Island of Madeira 39 Gibraltar 40 England 41 Poland 42 To Nicholas, Emperor of Russia, on his reported Conduct towards the Poles 43 On the Results of the last French Revolution 44 To England 45 Sonnet 46 Sonnet to Silvio Pellico 47 To the Same 48 From the Spanish 49 Lines 52 To a Friend entering the Ministry 53 To a Child Playing 57 The Herring-Fishers of Lochfyne 59 In the Isle of Mull 60 The same 61 At Sea 62 An Evening in France 63 Sonnet. To my Child, a Fellow-traveller 68 The Descent of the Rhone 69 On the Perseus and Medusa of Benvenuto Cellini 80 Lines written at the Village of Passignano, on the Lake of Thrasymene 81 Vesuvius, as seen from Capri 84 Vesuvius 85 The same continued 86 To England. Written after a visit to Sorrento 87 Lines written after hearing some beautiful singing in a Convent Church at Rome. 88 On a Picture of the Assumption by Murillo 92 An Incident versified 95 Address on leaving Rome to a Friend residing in that City 98 Tasso’s Dungeon, Ferrara 105 Sonnet 106 At Brunecken, in the Tyrol 107 Sonnet 108 Lines written in an Inn 109 To E ---- 114 To ----, on the Morning of her Baptism 119 To a Lady singing 122 The same continued 123 The same continued 124 The same continued 125 The same continued 126 Sonnet 127 Sonnet 128 Sonnet 129 Despondency 130 Ode to Sleep 133 Atlantis 139 Sais 143 Sonnet 144 Recollections of Burgos 145 To a Friend 148 To the Constitutional Exiles of 1823 151 To the same 152 Sonnet 153 On an early Death 154 Sonnet 160 Sonnet 161 New Year’s Eve 162 To my Child 163 Sonnet 164 Sonnet. In a Pass between the Walchen and the Waldensee 165 Sonnet 166 Sonnet 167 To my God-Child, on the Day of his Baptism 168 The Monk and Bird 172 ERRATA. [Corrected in this etext] Page 9, line 6, _for_ look _read_ looks. ... 26, ... 3, _for_ flonrish _read_ flourish. ... 137, ... 6, _for_ starerd _read_ starred. DEDICATORY LINES. TO ---- If, Lady, at thy bidding, I have strung As on one thread these few unvalued beads, I cannot ask the world to count them pearls, Or to esteem them better than they are: But thou, I know, wilt prize them, for by thee Solicited, I have beguiled with these The enforcèd leisure of the present time, And dedicate of right my little book To thee, beloved--sure at least of this That if my verse has aught of good or true, It will not lack the answer of one heart-- And if herein it may be thou shalt find Some notes of jarring discord, some that speak A spirit ill at ease, unharmonised, Yet ’twere a wrong unto thyself to deem These are the utterance of my present heart, My present mood--but of long years ago, When neither in the light of thy calm eyes, Nor in the pure joys of an innocent home, Nor in the happy laughter of these babes, Had I as yet found comfort, peace, or joy. But all is changèd now, and could I weave A lay of power, it should not now be wrung From miserable moods of sullen sin, Chewing the bitter ashes of the fruit Itself had gathered; rather would I speak Of light from darkness, good from evil brought By an almighty power, and how all things, If we will not refuse the good they bring, Are messages of an almighty love, And full of blessings. Oh! be sure of this-- All things are mercies while we count them so; And this believing, not keen poverty Nor wasting years of pain or slow disease, Nor death, which in a moment might lay low Our pleasant plants,--not these, if they should come, Shall ever drift our bark of faith ashore, Whose stedfast anchor is securely cast Within the veil, the veil of things unseen, Which now we know not, but shall know hereafter. Yet wherefore this? for we have not been called To interpret the dark ways of Providence, But that unsleeping eye that wakes for us, Has kept from hurt, and harm, and blind mischance, Our happy home till now. Yet not for this Can we escape our share of human fears And dim forebodings, chiefly when we think Under what hostile influence malign They may grow up, for whom their life is cast Now to begin in this unhappy age, When all, that by a solemn majesty And an enduring being once rebuked And put to shame the sordid thoughts of man, Must be no more permitted to affront Him and his littleness, or bid him back Unto the higher tasks and nobler cares For which he lives, for which his life is lent. Yet what though all things must be common now, And nothing sacred, nothing set apart, But each enclosure by rude hands laid waste, That did fence in from the world’s wilderness Some spot of holy ground, wherein might grow The tender slips, the planting of the Lord; Within the precincts of which holy spots, With awful ordinances fencèd round, They might grow up in beauty and in peace, In season due to be transplanted thence Into the garden of God,--what though all these May perish, there will yet remain to us One citadel, one ark, which hands profane Will scarce invade, or lay unholy touch Upon the sanctities inviolate, And pure religion of our sacred homes. And here the culture may proceed, and here Heaven may distil its rich and silent dews, When all around is parched as desert heath. For this may come, the withering and the drought, The laying waste of every holy hedge May come, how soon we know not, but may fear; Since nations walk, no less than men, by faith, As seeing that which is invisible Unto the sealèd eye of sensual men: And where this vision is not, or the seers Are lightly counted of, the people perish. And woe unto our country, if indeed She has left off this wisdom, or esteems This for her higher wisdom--to despise All spiritual purpose, all far-looking aim, And all that cannot be exchanged for gold-- Woe unto her, and turbulent unrest Unto ourselves, who cannot hope or wish In her disquiet to lead quiet lives, Or to withdraw out of the stormy press And tumult--to withdraw and keep the latch Close fastened of our little world apart, A peaceful island in a stormy sea, A patch of sunshine amid shadows lying; This must not be, we were not called to this. And all the peace we know must be within, And from within--from that glad river fed, Whose springs lie deeper than that heat or cold, Or the vicissitudes earth’s surface knows Can reach to harm them. Mayest thou know well What are these springing waters, wells of life, By the great Father dug for us at first, And which, when sin had stopped them, love anew Has opened, and has given them their old names And former virtue[1]; and from these refreshed, Mayest thou pass onward through the wilderness, And knowing what of ill is imminent, And may descend upon us, evermore Strengthen with faith and prayer, with lofty thought And effort, and it may be in some part With soul-sustaining verse, the citadel Of courage and heroic fortitude, Which in the centre of a woman’s heart Is stablished, whatsoever outwardly Of doubt or womanly weak fear prevail. POEMS, &c. THE STORY OF JUSTIN MARTYR. (SEE JUSTIN MARTYR’S FIRST DIALOGUE WITH TRYPHO.) It seems to me like yesterday, The morning when I took my way Upon the shore--in solitude; For in that miserable mood It was relief to quit the ken And the inquiring looks of men-- The looks of love and gentleness, And pity, that would fain express Its only purpose was to know, That, knowing, it might soothe my woe: But when I felt that I was free From searching gaze, it was to me Like ending of a dreary task, Or putting off a cumbrous mask. I wandered forth upon the shore, Wishing this lie of life was o’er; What was beyond I could not guess, I thought it might be quietness, And now I had no dream of bliss, No thought, no other hope but this-- To be at rest--for all that fed The dream of my proud youth had fled, My dream of youth, that I would be Happy and glorious, wise and free, In mine own right, and keep my state, And would repel the heavy weight, The load that crushed unto the ground The servile multitude around; The purpose of my life had failed, The heavenly heights I would have scaled, Seemed more than ever out of sight, Further beyond my feeble flight. The beauty of the universe Was lying on me like a curse; Only the lone surge at my feet Uttered a soothing murmur sweet, As every broken weary wave Sunk gently to a quiet grave, Dying on the bosom of the sea-- And death grew beautiful to me, Until it seemed a mother mild, And I like some too happy child; A happy child, that tired with play, Through a long summer holiday, Runs to his mother’s arms to weep His little weariness asleep. Rest--rest--all passion that once stirred My heart, had ended in one word-- My one desire to be at rest, To lay my head on any breast, Where there was hope that I might keep A dreamless and unbroken sleep; And the lulled ocean seemed to say, “With me is quiet,--come away.” There is a tale that oft has stirred My bosom deeply: you have heard How that the treacherous sea-maid’s art With song inveigles the lost heart Of some lone fisher, that has stood For days beside the glimmering flood; And when has grown upon him there The mystery of earth and air, He cannot find with whom to part The burden lying at his heart; So when the mermaid bids him come, And summons to her peaceful home, He hears--he leaps into the wave, To find a home, and not a grave. Anon I said I would not die; I loathed to live--I feared to die-- So I went forward, till I stood Amid a marble solitude, A ruined town of ancient day. I rested where some steps away From other work of human hand Two solitary pillars stand, Two pillars on a wild hill side, Like sea-marks of a shrunken tide: Their shafts were by the sea-breeze worn, Beneath them waved the verdant corn; But a few paces from the crown Of that green summit, farther down, A fallen pillar on the plain, Slow sinking in the earth again, Bedding itself in dark black mould, Lay moveless, where it first had rolled. It once had been a pillar high, And pointing to the starry sky; But now lay prostrate, its own weight Now serving but to fix its state, To sink it in its earthy bed; I gazed, and to myself I said, “This pillar lying on the plain The hand of man might raise again, And set it as in former days; But the fall’n spirit who shall raise, What power on earth? what power in heaven?” How quickly was an answer given Unto this voice of my despair! But now I sat in silence there, I thought upon the vanished time, And my irrevocable prime, My baffled purpose, wasted years, My sin, my misery--and my tears Fell thick and fast upon the sands; I hid my face within my hands, For tears are strange that find their way Under the open eye of day, Under the broad and glorious sun, Full in the heavens, as mine have done, And as upon that day they did, Unnoticed, unrestrained, unchid. How long I might have felt them flow Without a check, I do not know, But presently, while yet I kept That attitude of woe, and wept, A mild voice sounded in mine ears-- “You cannot wash your heart with tears!” I quickly turned--and, vexed to be Seen in my spirit’s agony, In anger had almost replied-- An aged man was at my side; I think that since my life began, I never saw an older man, Than he who stood beside me then, And with mild accents said again: “You cannot cleanse your heart with tears, Though you should weep as many years As our great Father, when he sat Uncomforted on Ararat-- This would not help you, and the tear Which does not heal, will scald and sear. What is your sorrow?” Until now I never had unveiled my woe-- Not that I shunned sweet sympathies, Man’s words, or woman’s pitying eyes; But that I felt they were in vain, And could not help me--for the pain, The wound which I was doomed to feel, Man gave not, and he could not heal. But in this old man’s speech and tone Was something that allured me on: I told him all--I did not hide My sin, my sorrow, or my pride: I told him how, when I began First to verge upward to a man, These thoughts were mine--to dwell alone, My spirit on its lordly throne, Hating the vain stir, fierce and loud, The din of the tumultuous crowd; And how I thought to arm my soul, And stablish it in self-controul; And said I would obey the right, And would be strong in wisdom’s might, And bow unto mine own heart’s law, And keep my heart from speck or flaw, That in its mirror I might find A reflex of the Eternal mind, A glass to give me back the truth-- And how before me from my youth A phantom ever on the wing, Appearing now, now vanishing, Had flitted, looking out from shrine, From painting, or from work divine Of poet’s, or of sculptor’s art; And how I feared it might depart, That beauty which alone could shed Light on my life--and then I said, I would beneath its shadow dwell, And would all lovely things compel, All that was beautiful or fair In art or nature, earth or air, To be as ministers to me, To keep me pure, to keep me free From worldly service, from the chain Of custom, and from earthly stain; And how they kept me for a while, And did my foolish heart beguile; Yet all at last did faithless prove, And, late or soon, betrayed my love; How they had failed me one by one, Till now, when youth was scarcely done, My heart, which I had thought to steep In hues of beauty, and to keep Its consecrated home and fane, That heart was soiled with many a stain, Which from without and from within Had gathered there, till all was sin, Till now I only drew my breath, I lived but in the hope of death. While my last words were giving place To my heart’s anguish, o’er his face A shadow of displeasure past, But vanished then again as fast As the breeze-shadow from the brook; And with mild words and pitying look He gently said-- “Ah me, my son, A weary course your life has run; And yet it need not be in vain, That you have suffered all this pain; And, if mine years might make me bold To speak, methinks I could unfold Why in such efforts you could meet But only misery and defeat. Yet deem not of us as at strife, Because you set before your life A purpose and a loftier aim, Than the blind lives of men may claim For the most part--or that you sought, By fixed resolve and solemn thought, To lift your being’s calm estate Out of the range of time and fate. Glad am I that a thing unseen, A spiritual Presence, this has been Your worship, this your young heart stirred-- But yet herein you proudly erred, Here may the source of woe be found, You thought to fling, yourself around, The atmosphere of light and love In which it was your joy to move-- You thought by efforts of your own To take at last each jarring tone Out of your life, till all should meet In one majestic music sweet-- Deeming that in our own heart’s ground The root of good was to be found, And that by careful watering And earnest tendance we might bring The bud, the blossom, and the fruit To grow and flourish from that root-- You deemed we needed nothing more Than skill and courage to explore Deep down enough in our own heart, To where the well-head lay apart, Which must the springs of being feed, And that these fountains did but need The soil that choked them moved away, To bubble in the open day. But, thanks to heaven, it is not so, That root a richer soil doth know Than our poor hearts could e’er supply, That stream is from a source more high, From God it came, to God returns, Not nourished from our scanty urns, But fed from his unfailing river, Which runs and will run on for ever.” When now he came to heavenly things And spake of them, his spirit had wings, His words seemed not his own, but given-- I could have deemed one spake from heaven Of hope and joy, of life and death, And immortality through faith, Of that great change commenced within, The blood that cleanses from all sin, That can wash out the inward stain, And consecrate the heart again, The voice that clearer and more clear Doth speak unto the purgèd ear, The gracious influences given In a continued stream from heaven, The balm that can the soul’s hurt heal, The Spirit’s witness and its seal. I listened, for unto mine ear The Word, which I had longed to hear, Was come at last, the lifeful word Which I had often almost heard In some deep silence of my breast-- For with a sense of dim unrest That word unborn had often wrought, And struggled in the womb of thought, As from beneath the smothering earth The seed strives upward to a birth: And lo! it now was born indeed-- Here was the answer to my need. But now we parted, never more To meet upon that lone sea-shore. We have not met on earth again, And scarcely shall--there doth remain A time, a place where we shall meet, And have the stars beneath our feet. Since then I many times have sought Who this might be, and sometimes thought It must have been an angel sent To be a special instrument And minister of grace to me, Or deemed again it might be He, Of whom some say he shall not die, Till he have seen with mortal eye The glory of his Lord again: But this is a weak thought and vain. We parted, each upon our way-- I homeward, where my glad course lay Beside those ruins where I sate On the same morning--desolate,-- With scarcely strength enough to grieve: And now it was a marvellous eve, The waters at my feet were bright, And breaking into isles of light: The misty sunset did enfold A thousand floating motes of gold; The red light seemed to penetrate Through the worn stone, and re-create The old, to glorify anew; And steeping all things through and through A rich dissolving splendour poured Through rent and fissure, and restored The fall’n, the falling and decayed, Filling the rifts which time had made, Till the rent masses seemed to meet, The pillar stand upon its feet, And tower and cornice, roof and stair Hung self-upheld in the magic air. Transfigured thus those temples stood Upon the margin of the flood, All glorious as they rose of yore, There standing, as not ever more They could be harmed by touch of time, But still, as in that perfect prime, Must flourish unremoved and free, Or as they then appeared to me, A newer and more glorious birth, A city of that other earth, That Earth which is to be. SONNET. What good soever in thy heart or mind Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own Than thine own self, nor bow to other throne-- Suspect and fear--although therein thou find High purpose to go forth and bless thy kind, Or in the awful temple of thy soul To worship what is loveliest, and controul The ill within, and by strong laws to bind. Good is of God--and none is therefore sure That has dared wander from its source away: Laws without sanction will not long endure, Love will grow faint and fainter day by day, And Beauty from the straight path will allure, And weakening first, will afterwards betray. TO ---- What maiden gathers flowers, who does not love[2]? And some have said, that none in summer bowers, Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers: O lady, of a purpose dost thou move Through garden walks, as willing to disprove This gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand, Hast culled a thousand thus at my command, Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove. There is no meaning in a thousand flowers-- _One_ lily from its green stalk wouldst thou part, Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold, One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers, Upgathering closely to its virgin heart An undivulgèd hoard of central gold. TO THE SAME. Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright, And how it seems to drink the golden light Of evening--you would think that it had won A splendour of its own: but lo! anon You shall behold a dark mass float away, Emptied of light and radiance, from the day, Its glory faded utterly and gone. And doubt not we should suffer the same loss As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem Translucent and made pure of all its dross, If, having shared the light, we should misdeem That light our own, or count we hold in fee That which we must receive continually. TO THE SAME. We live not in our moments or our years-- The Present we fling from us like the rind Of some sweet Future, which we after find Bitter to taste, or bind _that_ in with fears, And water it beforehand with our tears-- Vain tears for that which never may arrive: Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live Neglected or unheeded disappears. Wiser it were to welcome and make ours Whate’er of good, though small, the present brings-- Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers, With a child’s pure delight in little things; And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, Knowing that mercy ever will endure. TO THE SAME. If sorrow came not near us, and the lore Which wisdom-working sorrow best imparts, Found never time of entrance to our hearts, If we had won already a safe shore, Or if our changes were already o’er, Our pilgrim being we might quite forget, Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set, Where there shall be no sorrow any more. Therefore we will not be unwise to ask This, nor secure exemption from our share Of mortal suffering, and life’s drearier task-- Not this, but grace our portion so to bear, That we may rest, when grief and pain are over, “With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover.” TO THE SAME. O dowered with a searching glance to see Quite through the hollow masks, wherewith the bare And worthless shows of greatness vizored are, This lore thou hast, because all things to thee Are proven by the absolute decree Of duty, and whatever will not square With that “prime wisdom,” though of seeming fair Or stately, thou rejectest faithfully. Till chidden in thy strength, each random aim Of good, whose aspect heavenward does not turn, Shrinks self-rebuked--thou looking kindliest blame From the calm region of thine eyes, that burn With tempered but continuous flashes bright, Like the mild lightnings of a tropic night. A LEGEND OF ALHAMBRA. The tradition on which the following Ballad is founded is an existing one, and exactly as it is here recounted was narrated to the author during his stay at Granada. O hymned in many a poet’s strain, Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand Exalted on this throne of Spain, A marvel of the land, The last of thy imperial race, Alhambra, when he overstept Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face-- He turned his face and wept. In sooth it was a thing to weep, If then, as now, the level plain Beneath was spreading like the deep, The broad unruffled main: If, like a watch-tower of the sun, Above the Alpujarras rose, Streaked, when the dying day was done, With evening’s roseate snows. Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound, And the twelve lions, couchant yet, Sustain their ponderous burthen, round The marble basin set. But never, when the moon is bright O’er hill and golden-sanded stream, And thy square turrets in the light And taper columns gleam, Will village maiden dare to fill Her pitcher from that basin wide, But rather seeks a niggard rill Far down the steep hill-side! It was an Andalusian maid, With rose and pink-enwoven hair, Who told me what the fear that stayed Their footsteps from that stair: How, rising from that watery floor, A Moorish maiden, in the gleam Of the wan moonlight, stands before The stirrer of the stream: And mournfully she begs the grace, That they would speak the words divine, And sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign. And whosoe’er will grant this boon, Returning with the morrow’s light, Shall find the fountain pavement strewn With gold and jewels bright: A regal gift--for once, they say, Her father ruled this broad domain, The last who kept beneath his sway This pleasant place of Spain. It surely is a fearful doom, That one so beautiful should have No present quiet in her tomb, No hope beyond the grave. It must be, that some amulet Doth make all human pity vain, Or that upon her brow is set The silent seal of pain, Which none can meet--else long ago, Since many gentle hearts are there, Some spirit, touched by joy or woe, Had answered to her prayer. But so it is, that till this hour That mournful child beneath the moon Still rises from her watery bower, To urge this simple boon-- To beg, as all have need of grace, That they would speak the words divine, And, sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign. ENGLAND. Peace, Freedom, Happiness, have loved to wait On the fair islands, fenced by circling seas, And ever of such favoured spots as these Have the wise dreamers dreamed, that would create That perfect model of a happy state, Which the world never saw. Oceana, Utopia such, and Plato’s isle that lay Westward of Gades and the Great Sea’s gate. Dreams are they all, which yet have helped to make That underneath fair polities we dwell, Though marred in part by envy, faction, hate-- Dreams which are dear, dear England, for thy sake, Who art indeed that sea-girt citadel, And nearest image of that perfect state. THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. Though never axe until a later day Assailed thy forests’ huge antiquity, Yet elder Fame had many tales of thee-- Whether Phœnician shipman far astray Had brought uncertain notices away Of islands dreaming in the middle sea; Or that man’s heart, which struggles to be free From the old worn-out world, had never stay Till, for a place to rest on, it had found A region out of ken, that happier isle, Which the mild ocean breezes blow around, Where they who thrice upon this mortal stage Had kept their hands from wrong, their hearts from guile, Should come at length, and live a tearless age. GIBRALTAR. England, we love thee better than we know-- And this I learned, when after wanderings long ’Mid people of another stock and tongue, I heard again thy martial music blow, And saw thy gallant children to and fro Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, Which like twin giants watch the Herculean straits: When first I came in sight of that brave show, It made my very heart within me dance, To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance Forward so far into the mighty sea; Joy was it and exultation to behold Thine ancient standard’s rich emblazonry, A glorious picture by the wind unrolled. ENGLAND. We look for, and have promise to behold A better country, such as earth has none-- Yet, England, am I still thy duteous son, And never will this heart be dead or cold At the relation of thy glories old, Or of what newer triumphs thou hast won, Where thou as with a mighty arm hast done The work of God, quelling the tyrants bold. Elect of nations, for the whole world’s good Thou wert exalted to a doom so high-- To outbrave Rome’s “triple tyrant,” to confound Every oppressor, that with impious flood Would drown the landmarks of humanity, The limits God hath set to nations and their bound[3]. POLAND, 1831. The nations may not be trod out, and quite Obliterated from the world’s great page-- The nations, that have filled from age to age Their place in story. They who in despite Of this, a people’s first and holiest right, In lust of unchecked power or brutal rage, Against a people’s life such warfare wage, With man no more, but with the Eternal fight. They who break down the barriers He hath set, Break down what would another time defend And shelter their own selves: they who forget (For the indulgence of the present will) The lasting ordinances, in the end Will rue their work, when ill shall sanction ill. TO NICHOLAS, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. ON HIS REPORTED CONDUCT TOWARDS THE POLES. What would it help to call thee what thou art? When all is spoken, thou remainest still With the same power and the same evil will To crush a nation’s life out, to dispart All holiest ties, to turn awry and thwart All courses that kind nature keeps, to spill The blood of noblest veins, to maim, or kill With torture of slow pain the aching heart. When our weak hands hang useless, and we feel Deeds cannot be, who then would ease his breast With the impotence of words? But our appeal Is unto Him, who counts a nation’s tears, With whom are the oppressor and opprest, And vengeance, and the recompensing years. ON THE RESULTS OF THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION. How long shall weary nations toil in blood, How often roll the still returning stone Up the sharp painful height, ere they will own That on the base of individual good, Of virtue, manners, and pure homes endued With household graces--that on this alone Shall social freedom stand--where these are gone, There is a nation doomed to servitude? O suffering, toiling France, thy toil is vain! The irreversible decree stands sure, Where men are selfish, covetous of gain, Heady and fierce, unholy and impure, Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain; They cannot build a work which shall endure. TO ENGLAND. A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. Thy duteous loving children fear for thee In one thing chiefly--for thy pure abodes And thy undesecrated household Gods, Thou most religious, and for this most free, Of all the nations. Oh! look out and see The injuries which she, who in the name Of liberty thy fellowship would claim, Has done to virtue and to liberty; Whose philtres have corrupted everywhere The living springs men drink of, all save thine. Oh! then of her and of her love beware! Better again eight hundred years of strife, Than give her leave to sap and undermine The deep foundations of thy moral life. SONNET. You say we love not freedom, honoured friend; Yea, doubtless, we can lend to scheme like yours Small love. Yet not for this--that it assures Too much to man--this would not me offend: But for I know that all such schemes will end With leaving him too little,--will deprive Of that free energy by which we live: For of such plots the final act attend-- See them who loathed the very name of king, Emulous in slavery, bow their souls before The new-coined title of some meaner thing Than ever crown of king or emperor wore; For such in God’s and Nature’s righteousness, The weakness which avenges all excess. SONNET TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF HIS IMPRISONMENT. Ah! who may guess, who yet was never tried How fearful the temptation to reply With wrong for wrong, yea fiercely to defy In spirit, even when action is denied? Therefore praise waits on thee, not drawn aside By this strong lure of hell--on thee whose eye Being formed by love, could every where descry Love, or some workings unto love allied-- And benediction on the grace that dealt So with thy soul--and prayer, more earnest prayer, Intenser longing than before we felt For all that in dark places lying are, For captives in strange lands, for them who pine In depth of dungeon, or in sunless mine[4]. TO THE SAME. Songs of deliverance compassed thee about, Long ere thy prison doors were backward flung: When first thy heart to gentle thoughts was strung, A song arose in heaven, an angel shout For one delivered from the hideous rout, That with defiance and fierce mutual hate Do each the other’s griefs exasperate. Thou, loving, from thy grief hadst taken out Its worst--for who is captive or a slave But He, who from that dungeon and foul grave, His own dark soul, refuses to come forth Into the light and liberty above? Or whom may we call wretched on this earth Save only him who has left off to love? FROM THE SPANISH. Who ever such adventure yet, Or a like delight has known, To that which Count Arnaldo met On the morning of St. John? He had gone forth beside the sea, With his falcon on his hand, And saw a pinnace fast and free, That was making to the land. And he that by the rudder stood As he went was singing still, “My galley, oh my galley good, Heaven protect thee from all ill; “From all the dangers and the woe That on ocean’s waters wait, Almeria’s reefs and shallows low, And Gibraltar’s stormy strait. “From Venice and its shallow way, From the shoals of Flanders’ coast, And from the gulf of broad Biscay, Where the dangers are the most.” Then Count Arnaldo spoke aloud, You might hear his accents well-- “Those words, thou mariner, I would Unto me that thou wouldst tell.” To him that mariner replied In a courteous tone, but free-- “I never sing that song,” he cried, “Save to one who sails with me.” LINES. Not thou from us, O Lord, but we Withdraw ourselves from thee. When we are dark and dead, And Thou art covered with a cloud, Hanging before Thee, like a shroud, So that our prayer can find no way, Oh! teach us that we do not say, “Where is _thy_ brightness fled?” But that we search and try What in ourselves has wrought this blame; For thou remainest still the same; But earth’s own vapours earth may fill With darkness and thick clouds, while still The sun is in the sky. TO A FRIEND ENTERING THE MINISTRY. I. High thoughts at first, and visions high Are ours of easy victory; The word we bear seems so divine, So framed for Adam’s guilty line, That none, unto ourselves we say, Of all his sinning suffering race, Will hear that word, so full of grace, And coldly turn away. II. But soon a sadder mood comes round-- High hopes have fallen to the ground, And the ambassadors of peace Go weeping, that men will not cease To strive with heaven--they weep and mourn, That suffering men will not be blest, That weary men refuse to rest, And wanderers to return. III. Well is it, if has not ensued Another and a worser mood, When all unfaithful thoughts have way, When we hang down our hands, and say, Alas! it is a weary pain, To seek with toil and fruitless strife To chafe the numbed limbs into life, That will not live again. IV. Then if Spring odours on the wind Float by, they bring into our mind That it were wiser done, to give Our hearts to Nature, and to live For her--or in the student’s bower To search into her hidden things, And seek in books the wondrous springs Of knowledge and of power. V. Or if we dare not thus draw back, Yet oh! to shun the crowded track And the rude throng of men! to dwell In hermitage or lonely cell, Feeding all longings that aspire Like incense heavenward, and with care And lonely vigil nursing there Faith’s solitary pyre. VI. Oh! let not us this thought allow-- The heat, the dust upon our brow, Signs of the contest, we may wear: Yet thus we shall appear more fair In our Almighty Master’s eye, Than if in fear to lose the bloom, Or ruffle the soul’s lightest plume, We from the strife should fly. VII. And for the rest, in weariness, In disappointment, or distress, When strength decays, or hope grows dim, We ever may recur to Him, Who has the golden oil divine, Wherewith to feed our failing urns, Who watches every lamp that burns Before his sacred shrine. TO A CHILD, PLAYING. Dear boy, thy momentary laughter rings Sincerely out, and that spontaneous glee, Seeming to need no hint from outward things, Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free. From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow, That borrows nothing from the world around? Its springs must deeper lie than we can know, A well whose springs lie safely underground. So be it ever--and thou happy boy, When Time, that takes these wild delights away, Gives thee a measure of sedater joy, Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;-- Then may that joy, like this, to outward things Owe nothing--but lie safe beneath the sod, A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs, From the glad-making river of our God. THE HERRING-FISHERS OF LOCHFYNE. Deem not these fishers idle, though by day You hear the snatches of their lazy song, And see them listlessly the sunlight long Strew the curved beach of this indented bay: So deemed I, till I viewed their trim array Of boats last night,--a busy armament, With sails as dark as ever Theseus bent Upon his fatal rigging, take their way. Rising betimes, I could not choose but look For their return, and when along the lake The morning mists were curling, saw them make Homeward, returning toward their quiet nook, With draggled nets down hanging to the tide, Weary, and leaning o’er their vessels’ side. IN THE ISLE OF MULL. The clouds are gathering in their western dome, Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew, While I with baffled effort still pursue And track these waters toward their mountain home, In vain--though cataract, and mimic foam, And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw Its sister arms, which joyed to meet anew, Have lured me on, and won me still to roam; Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass, Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass-- And I, thy founts unvisited, return. Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers? Or dost thou feed a solitary urn, Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears? THE SAME. Sweet Water-nymph, more shy than Arethuse, Why wilt thou hide from me thy green retreat, Where duly Thou with silver-sandalled feet, And every Naiad, her green locks profuse, Welcome with dance sad evening, or unloose, To share your revel, an oak-cinctured throng, Oread and Dryad, who the daylight long By rock, or cave, or antique forest, use To shun the Wood-god and his rabble bold? Such comes not now, or who with impious strife Would seek to untenant meadow stream and plain Of that indwelling power, which is the life And which sustaineth each, which poets old As god and goddess thus have loved to feign. AT SEA. The sea is like a mirror far and near, And ours a prosperous voyage, safe from harms; And yet the sense that everlasting arms Are round us and about us, is as dear Now when no sight of danger doth appear, As though our vessel did its blind way urge ’Mid the long weltering of the dreariest surge, Through which a perishing bark did ever steer. Lord of the calm and tempest, be it ours, Poor mariners! to pay due vows to thee, Though not a cloud on all the horizon lowers Of all our life--for even so shall we Have greater boldness towards thee, when indeed The storm is up, and there is earnest need. AN EVENING IN FRANCE. One star is shining in the crimson eve, And the thin texture of the faint blue sky Above is like a veil intensely drawn; Upon the spirit with a solemn weight The marvel and the mystery of eve Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm, By the vain stir and tumult of the day Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing, Like doves returning to their noted haunts. It is the solemn even-tide--the hour Of holy musings, and to us no less Of sweet refreshment for the bodily frame Than for the spirit, harassed both and worn With a long day of travel; and methinks It must have been an evening such as this, After a day of toilsome journeyings o’er, When looking out on Tiber, as we now Look out on this fair river flowing by, Together sat the saintly Monica[5], And with her, given unto her prayers, that son, The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youth Now first was running clear and bright and smooth, And solitary sitting in the niche Of a deep window held delightful talk-- Such as they never could have known before, While a deep chasm, deeper than natural love Could e’er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls-- Of what must be the glorious life in heaven. And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky, And on the golden west, that richest glow Of sunset to the uncreated light, Which must invest for ever those bright worlds, Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give, Its noblest pleasures, they with one consent Counted as vile, nor once to be compared-- Oh! rather say not worthy to be named With what is to be looked for there; and thus Leaving behind them all things which are seen, By many a stately stair they did ascend Above the earth and all created things, The sun and starry heavens--yea, and above The mind of man, until they did attain Where light no shadow has, and life no death, Where past or future are not, nor can be, But an eternal present, and the Lamb His people feeds from indeficient streams. Then pausing for a moment, as to taste That river of delights, at length they cried, Oh! to be thus for ever, and to hear Thus in the silence of the lower world, And in the silence of all thoughts that keep Vain stir within, unutterable words, And with the splendour of His majesty, Whose seat is in the middle of the throne, Thus to be fed for ever--this must be The beatific vision, the third heaven. What we have for these passing moments known, To know the same for ever--this would be That life whereof even now we held debate. When will it be? oh when? These things they said, And for a season breathed immortal air, But then perforce returned to earth again: For the air on those first summits is too fine For our long breathing, while we yet have on Our gross investiture of mortal weeds. Yet not for nothing had their spirits flown To those high regions, bringing back at once A reconcilement with the mean things here, And a more earnest longing for what there Of nobler was by partial glimpses thus Seen through the crannies of the prison house. And she, that mother--such entire content Possessed her bosom, and her Lord had filled The orb of her desires so round and full, Had answered all her prayers for her lost son With such an overmeasure of his grace, She had no more to ask, and did not know Why she should tarry any longer here, Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt, And to these thoughts which overflowed her heart Gave thankful utterance meet; nor many days After this vision and foretaste of joy, Inherited the substance of the things Which she had seen, and entered into peace. SONNET. TO MY CHILD--A FELLOW-TRAVELLER. How of a sudden Sleep has laid on thee His heavy hand--on thee, for ever blest, Sleeping or waking, stirring or at rest: But now thou wert exulting merrily, And in the very middle of thy glee Thy head thou layedst on thy father’s breast, There seeming to have found a peacefuller nest Than one would think might in this loud world be. There were no need to fear thy worser mood, Striving in years to come against the good He would impart, if thou couldst keep in mind How many times, the while with anxious care He sought to screen thee from the chilling air, Upon his bosom thou hast slept reclined. THE DESCENT OF THE RHONE. Often when my thought has been Pondering on what solemn scene, Which of all the glorious shows Nature can at will disclose, Once beholden by the eye, Ever after would supply Most unto the musing heart Of memories which should not depart-- It has seemed no ampler dower Of her beauty or her power We could win, than night and day, An illimitable way, To sail down some mighty river, Sailing as we would sail for ever. Lo! my wish is almost won, Broadly flows the stately Rhone, And we loosen from the shore Our light pinnace, long before The young East in gorgeous state Has unlocked his ruby gate, And our voyage is not done At the sinking of the sun; But for us the azure Night Feeds her golden flocks with light: Ours are all the hues of heaven, Sights and sounds of morn and even; In our view the day is born; First the stars of lustre shorn, Until Hesper, he who last Kept his splendour, now fades fast; A faint bloom over heaven is spread, And the clouds blush deeper red, Till from them the stream below Catches the same roseate glow; The pale east lightens into gold, And the west is with the fold Of the mantle of dim night Scarcely darkened or less bright-- Till, his way prepared, at length Rising up in golden strength, Tramples the victorious sun The dying stars out, one by one. Fairer scene the opening eye Of the day can scarce descry-- Fairer sight he looks not on Than the pleasant banks of Rhone; Where in terraces and ranks, On those undulating banks, Rise by many a hilly stair Sloping tiers of vines, where’er From the steep and stony soil Has been won by careful toil, And with long laborious pains Fenced against the washing rains, Fenced and anxiously walled round, A little patch of garden ground. Higher still some place of power, Or a solitary tower, Ruined now, is looking down On some quiet little town In a sheltered glen beneath, Where the smoke’s unbroken wreath, Mounting in the windless air, Rests, dissolving slowly there, O’er the housetops like a cloud, Or a thinnest vapourous shroud. Morn has been, and lo! how soon Has arrived the middle noon, And the broad sun’s rays do rest On some naked mountain’s breast, Where alone relieve the eye Massive shadows, as they lie In the hollows motionless; Still our boat doth onward press. Now a peaceful current wide Bears it on an ample tide, Now the hills retire, and then Their broad fronts advance again, Till the rocks have closed us round, And would seem our course to bound, But anon a way appears, And our vessel onward steers, Darting swiftly as between Narrow walls of a ravine. Morn has been and noon--and now Evening falls about our prow: But the sunken sunset still Burns behind the western hill; Lo! the starry troop again Gather on the ethereal plain; Even now and there were none, And a moment since but one; And anon we lift our head, And all heaven is overspread With a still assembling crowd, With a silent multitude-- Venus, first and brightest set In the night’s pale coronet, Armed Orion’s belted pride, And the Seven that by the side Of the Titan nightly weave Dances in the mystic eve, Sisters linked in love and light; ’Twere in truth a solemn sight, Were we sailing now as they, Who upon their western way To the isles of spice and gold, Nightly watching, might behold These our constellations dip, And the great sign of the Ship Rise upon the other hand, With the Cross that seems to stand In the vault of heaven upright, Marking the middle hour of night-- Or with them whose keels first prest The mighty rivers of the west, Who the first with bold intent Down the Orellana went,[6] Or a dangerous progress won On the mighty Amazon, By whose ocean-streams they tell How yet the warrior-maidens dwell. But the Fancy may not roam; Thou wilt keep it nearer home, Friend, of earthly friends the best, Who on this fair river’s breast Sailest with me fleet and fast, As the unremitting blast With a steady breath and strong Urges our light boat along. We this day have found delight In each pleasant sound and sight Of this river bright and fair, And in things which flowing are Like a stream, yet without blame These my passing song may claim, Or thy hearing may beguile, If we not forget the while, That we are from childhood’s morn On a mightier river borne, Which is rolling evermore To a sea without a shore, Life the river, and the sea That we seek--eternity. We may sometimes sport and play, And in thought keep holiday, So we ever own a law, Living in habitual awe, And beneath the constant stress Of a solemn thoughtfulness, Weighing whither this life tends, For what high and holy ends It was lent us, whence it flows, And its current whither goes. There is ample matter here For as much of thought and fear, As will solemnize our souls-- Thought of how this river rolls Over millions wrecked before They could reach that happy shore, Where we have not anchored yet; Of the dangers which beset Our own way, of hidden shoal, Waters smoothest where they roll Over point of sunken rock, Treacherous calm, and sudden shock Of the storm, which can assail No boat than ours more weak or frail-- Matter not alone of sadness, But no less of thankful gladness, That, whichever way we turn, There are steady lights that burn On the shore, and lamps of love In the gloomiest sky above, Which will guide our bark aright Through the darkness of our night-- Many a fixed unblinking star Unto them that wandering are Through this blindly-weltering sea. Themes of high and thoughtful glee, When we think we are not left, Of all solaces bereft, Each to hold, companionless, Through a watery wilderness, Unaccompanied our way, As we can--this I may say, Whatsoever else betide, With thee sitting at my side, And this happy cherub sweet, Playing, laughing at my feet. ON THE PERSEUS AND MEDUSA OF BENVENUTO CELLINI. In what fierce spasms upgathered, on the plain Medusa’s headless corpse has quivering sunk, While all the limbs of that undying trunk To their extremest joint with torture strain; But the calm visage has resumed again Its beauty,--the orbed eyelids are let down, As though a living sleep might once more crown Their placid circlets, guiltless of all pain. And Thou--is thine the spirit’s swift recoil, Which follows every deed of acted wrath, That holding in thine hand this lovely spoil, Thou dost not triumph, feeling that the breath Of life is sacred, whether it inform, Loathly or beauteous, man or beast or worm? LINES. WRITTEN AT THE VILLAGE OF PASSIGNANO, ON THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. The mountains stand about the quiet lake, That not a breath its azure calm may break; No leaf of these sere olive trees is stirred, In the near silence far-off sounds are heard; The tiny bat is flitting overhead, The hawthorn doth its richest odours shed Into the dewy air; and over all Veil after veil the evening shadows fall, And one by one withdraw each glimmering height, The far, and then the nearer, from our sight-- No sign surviving in this tranquil scene; That strife and savage tumult here have been. But if the pilgrim to the latest plain Of carnage, where the blood like summer rain Fell but the other day; if in his mind He marvels much and oftentimes to find With what success has Nature each sad trace Of man’s red footmarks laboured to efface-- What wonder is it, if this spot appears Guiltless of strife, when now two thousand years Of daily reparation have gone by, Since it resumed its own tranquillity. This calm has nothing strange, yet not the less This holy evening’s solemn quietness, The perfect beauty of this windless lake, This stillness which no harsher murmurs break Than the frogs croaking from the distant sedge, These vineyards drest unto the water’s edge, This hind that homeward driving the slow steer, Tells that man’s daily work goes forward here, Have each a power upon me, while I drink The influence of the placid time, and think How gladly that sweet Mother once again Resumes her sceptre and benignant reign, But for a few short instants scared away By the mad game, the cruel impious fray Of her distempered children--how comes back, And leads them in the customary track Of blessing once again; to order brings Anew the dislocated frame of things, And covers up, and out of sight conceals What they have wrought of ill, or gently heals. VESUVIUS, AS SEEN FROM CAPRI. A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky, In quiet adoration, silently-- Till the faint currents of the upper air Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there, The dome, as of a palace, hung on high Over the mountain--underneath it lie Vineyards and hays and cities white and fair. Might we not hope this beauty would engage All living things unto one pure delight? A vain belief!--for here, our records tell, Rome’s understanding tyrant from men’s sight Hid, as within a guilty citadel, The shame of his dishonourable age. VESUVIUS. As when unto a mother, having chid Her child in anger, there have straight ensued Repentings for her quick and angry mood, That she would fain see all its traces hid Quite out of sight--even so has Nature bid Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has strewed, To blossom, and called up the taller wood To cover what she ruined and undid. Oh! and her mood of anger did not last More than an instant, but her work of peace, Restoring and repairing, comforting The earth, her stricken child, will never cease; For that was her strange work, and quickly past, To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring. THE SAME, CONTINUED. That her destroying fury was with noise And sudden uproar--but far otherwise, With silent and with secret ministries, Her skill of renovation she employs: For Nature, only loud when she destroys, Is silent when she fashions. She will crowd The work of her destruction, transient, loud, Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys. Yea, every power that fashions and upholds Works silently--all things whose life is sure, Their life is calm--silent the light that moulds And colours all things; and without debate The stars, which are for ever to endure, Assume their thrones and their unquestioned state. TO ENGLAND. WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO SORRENTO. They are but selfish visions at the best, Which tempt us to desire that we were free From the dear ties that bind us unto Thee, That so we might take up our lasting rest, Where some delightful spot, some hidden nest In brighter lands has pleased our phantasy: And might such vows at once accomplished be, We should not in the accomplishment be blest, But oh! most miserable, if it be true Peace only waits upon us, while we do Heaven’s work and will: for what is it we ask, When we would fain have leave to linger here, But to abandon our appointed task, Our place of duty and our natural sphere? LINES. WRITTEN AFTER HEARING SOME BEAUTIFUL SINGING IN A CONVENT CHURCH AT ROME. Sweet voices! seldom mortal ear Strains of such potency might hear; My soul, that listened, seemed quite gone, Dissolved in sweetness, and anon I was borne upward, till I trod Among the hierarchy of God. And when they ceased, as time must bring An end to every sweetest thing, With what reluctancy came back My spirits to their wonted track, And how I loathed the common life, The daily and recurring strife With petty sins, the lowly road And being’s ordinary load. Why after such a solemn mood Should any meaner thought intrude? Why will not heaven hereafter give, That we for evermore may live Thus at our spirit’s topmost bent? This said I in my discontent. But give me, Lord, a wiser heart; These seasons come, and they depart, These seasons, and those higher still, When we are given to have our fill Of strength and life and joy with thee, And brightness of thy face to see. They come, or we could never guess Of heaven’s sublimer blessedness; They come, to be our strength and cheer In other times, in doubt or fear, Or should our solitary way Lie through the desert many a day. They go, they leave us blank and dead, That we may learn, when they are fled, We are but vapours which have won A moment’s brightness from the sun, And which it may at pleasure fill With splendour, or unclothe at will. Well for us they do not abide, Or we should lose ourselves in pride, And be as angels--but as they Who on the battlements of day Walked, gazing on their power and might, Till they grew giddy in their height. Then welcome every nobler time, When, out of reach of earth’s dull chime, ’Tis ours to drink with purgèd ears The music of the solemn spheres, Or in the desert to have sight Of those enchanted cities bright, Which sensual eye can never see: Thrice welcome may such seasons be. But welcome too the common way, The lowly duties of the day, And all which makes and keeps us low, Which teaches us ourselves to know, That we, who do our lineage high Draw from beyond the starry sky, Are yet upon the other side To earth and to its dust allied. ON A PICTURE OF THE ASSUMPTION BY MURILLO. With what calm power thou risest on the wind-- Mak’st thou a pinion of those locks unshorn? Or of that dark blue robe which floats behind In ample fold? or art thou cloud-upborne? A crescent moon is bent beneath thy feet, Above the heavens expand, and tier o’er tier With heavenly garlands thy advance to greet, The cloudy throng of cherubim appear. There is a glory round thee, and mine eyes Are dazzled, for I know not whence it came, Since never in the light of western skies The island clouds burned with so pure a flame: Nor were those flowers of our dull common mould, But nurtured on some amaranthine bed, Nearer the sun, remote from storms and cold, By purer dews and warmer breezes fed. Well may we be perplexed and sadly wrought, That we can guess so ill what dreams were thine, Ere from the chambers of thy silent thought That face looked out on thee, Painter divine. What innocence, what love, what loveliness, What purity must have familiar been Unto thy soul, before it could express The holy beauty in that visage seen. And so, if we would understand thee right, And the diviner portion of thine art, We must exalt our spirits to thine height, Nor wilt thou else the mystery impart. AN INCIDENT VERSIFIED. Far in the south there is a jutting ledge Of rocks, scarce peering o’er the water’s edge, Where earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales, That in their course have filled a thousand sails, And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep, Till now they make the nimble spirit leap Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath, And stir it like the ocean depths beneath. Two that were strangers to that sunny land, And to each other, met upon this strand; One seemed to keep so slight a hold of life, That when he willed, without the spirit’s strife, He might let go--a flower upon a ledge Of verdant meadow by a river’s edge, Which ever loosens with its treacherous flow In gradual lapse the moistened soil below; While to the last in beauty and in bloom That flower is scattering incense o’er its tomb, And with the dews upon it, and the breath Of the fresh morning round it, sinks to death. They met the following day, and many more They paced together this low ridge of shore, Till one fair eve, the other with intent To lure him out, unto his chamber went; But straight retired again with noiseless pace, For with a subtle gauze flung o’er his face Upon his bed he lay, serene and still And quiet, even as one who takes his fill Of a delight he does not fear to lose. So blest he seemed, the other could not choose To wake him, but went down the narrow stair; And when he met an aged attendant there, She ceased her work to tell him, when he said, Her patient then on happy slumber fed, But that anon he would return once more,-- Her inmate had expired an hour before. ------ I know not by what chance he thus was thrown On a far shore, untended and alone, To live or die; for, as I after learned, There were in England many hearts that yearned To know his safety, and such tears were shed For him as grace the living and the dead. ADDRESSED ON LEAVING ROME TO A FRIEND RESIDING IN THAT CITY. O lately written in the roll of friends, O written late, not last, three pleasant months Under the shadow of the Capitol, A pleasant time, made pleasanter by thee, It has been mine to pass--three months of spring, Which pleasant in themselves and for thy sake, Had yet this higher, that they stirred in the heart The motions of continual thankfulness To me, considering by what gracious paths I had been guided, by what paths of love, Since I was last a dweller in these gates. That meditation could not prove to me But as a spring that ever bubbles up, Sparkling in the face of heaven, when every day Reminded me how little gladness then I gathered from these things, but now how much. For tho’ not then indifferent to me Nature or art, yea rather tho’ from these I drew whatever lightened for a while The burden of our life and weary load; Yet seldom could I summon heart enough, With all their marvels round me, to go forth In quest of any. But some lonely spot, Some ridge of ruin fringed with cypresses, Such as have everywhere loved well to make Their chosen home above all other trees, ’Mid the fal’n palaces of ancient Rome, Me did such haunt please better, or I loved, With others whom the like disquietude, At the like crisis of their lives, now kept Restless, with them to question to and fro And to debate the evil of the world, As tho’ we bore no portion of that ill, As tho’ with subtle phrases we could spin A woof to screen us from its undelight: Such talk sometimes prolonging into night, As being loth to separate, and find Each in his solitude how vain are words, When that they have opposed to them is more. I would not live that time again for much, Full as it was of long and weary days, Full of rebellious askings, for what end, And by what power, without our own consent, We were placed here, to suffer and to sin, To be in misery and know not why. But so it was with me, a sojourner, Five years ago, beneath these mouldering walls As I am now: and, trusted friend, to thee I have not doubted to reveal my soul, For thou hast known, if I may read aright The pages of thy past existence, thou Hast known the dreary sickness of the soul, That falls upon us in our lonely youth, The fear of all bright visions leaving us, The sense of emptiness, without the sense Of an abiding fulness anywhere, When all the generations of mankind, With all their purposes, their hopes and fears, Seem nothing truer than those wandering shapes Cast by a trick of light upon a wall, And nothing different from these, except In their capacity for suffering; What time we have the sense of sin, and none Of expiation. Our own life seemed then But as an arrow flying in the dark Without an aim, a most unwelcome gift, Which we might not put by. But now, what God Intended as a blessing and a boon We have received as such, and we can say A solemn yet a joyful thing is life, Which, being full of duties, is for this Of gladness full, and full of lofty hopes. And He has taught us what reply to make, Or secretly in spirit, or in words, If there be need, when sorrowing men complain The fair illusions of their youth depart, All things are going from them, and to-day Is emptier of delights than yesterday, Even as to-morrow will be barer yet; We have been taught to feel this need not be, This is not life’s inevitable law,-- But that the gladness we are called to know, Is an increasing gladness, that the soil Of the human heart, tilled rightly, will become Richer and deeper, fitter to bear fruit Of an immortal growth, from day to day, Fruit of love life and indeficient joy. Oh! not for baneful self-complacency, Not for the setting up our present selves To triumph o’er our past (worst pride of all), May we compare this present with that past; But to provoke renewed acknowledgments, But to incite unto an earnest hope For all our brethren. And how should I fear To own to thee that this is in my heart-- This longing, that it leads me home to-day, Glad even while I turn my back on Rome, Yet half unseen--its arts, its memories, Its glorious fellowship of living men; Glad in the hope to tread the soil again Of England, where our place of duty lies: Not as altho’ we thought we could do much, Or claimed large sphere of action for ourselves; Not in this thought--since rather be it ours, Both thine and mine, to cultivate that frame Of spirit, when we know and deeply feel How little we can do, and yet do that. TASSO’S DUNGEON, FERRARA. How might the goaded sufferer in this cell, With nothing upon which his eyes might fall, Except this vacant court, that dreary wall, How might he live? I asked. Here doomed to dwell, I marvel how at all he could repel Thoughts which to madness and despair would call. Enter this vault--the bare sight will appal Thy spirit, even as mine within me fell, Until I learned that wall not always there Had stood--’twas something that this iron grate Once had looked out upon a garden fair. There must have been then here, to calm his brain, Green leaves, and flowers, and sunshine--and a weight Fell from me, and my heart revived again. SONNET. It may be that our homeward longings made That other lands were judged with partial eyes; But fairer in my sight the mottled skies, With pleasant interchange of sun and shade, And more desired the meadow and deep glade Of sylvan England, green with frequent showers, Than all the beauty which the vaunted bowers Of the parched South have in mine eyes displayed; Fairer and more desired--this well might be: For let the South have beauty’s utmost dower, And yet my heart might well have turned to thee, My home, my country, when a delicate flower Within thy pleasant borders was for me Tended, and growing up thro’ sun and shower. AT BRUNECKEN, IN THE TYROL. The men who for this earthly life would claim Well nigh the whole, and if the work of heaven Be relegated to one day in seven, Account the other six may without blame, Unsanctified by one diviner aim, To self to mammon and the world be given, These scanty worshippers might nigh be driven, Were they but here, to profitable shame. This eve, the closing of no festal day, This common work-day eve, in the open street Seen have I groups of happy people meet, Putting for this their toil and tasks away, Men, women, boys, at one rude shrine to pray, And there their fervent litanies repeat. SONNET. To leave unseen so many a glorious sight, To leave so many lands unvisited, To leave so many worthiest books unread, Unrealized so many visions bright;-- Oh! wretched yet inevitable spite Of our short span, and we must yield our breath, And wrap us in the lazy coil of death, So much remaining of unproved delight. But hush, my soul, and, vain regrets, be stilled Find rest in Him who is the complement Of whatsoe’er transcends your mortal doom, Of broken hope and frustrated intent; In the clear vision and aspèct of whom All wishes and all longings are fulfilled. LINES WRITTEN IN AN INN. A dreary lot is his who roams “Homeless among a thousand homes;” A dreary thing it is to stray, As I have sometimes heard men say, And of myself have partly known, A passing stranger and alone In some great city: harder there, With life about us everywhere, Than in the desert to restrain A sense of solitary pain. We wander thro’ the busy street, And think how every one we meet Has parents sister friend or wife, With whom to share the load of life. We wander on, for little care Have we turn our footsteps there, Where we are but a nameless guest, One who may claim no interest In any heart--a passing face, That comes and goes, and leaves no trace; Where service waits us, prompt but cold, A loveless service, bought and sold. Yet hard it is not to sustain A time like this, if there remain True greetings for us, hand and heart, Wherein we claim the chiefest part, Although divided now they be By many a tract of land and sea. If we can fly to thoughts like these, Fall back on such sure sympathies, This were sufficient to repress That transient sense of loneliness. Yet better if, where’er we roam, Another country, truer home, Is in our hearts; if there we find The word of power, that from the mind All sad and drear thoughts shall repel, All solitary broodings quell; If in the joy of heav’n we live, Nor only on what earth can give, Tho’ pure and high--so we may learn Unto the soul’s great good to turn What things soever best engage Our thoughts towàrd our pilgrimage, Which teach us this is not our rest, That here we are but as a guest. As doubtless ’twas no other thought That in his holy bosom wrought, Who not alone content to win In life the shelter of an inn, Was fain to finish the last stage There of his mortal pilgrimage[7] We too, if we are wise, may be Pleased for a season to be free From the encumbrances which love-- Affection hallowed from above, But earthly yet, has power to fling About the spirit’s heav’nward wing; Pleased if we feel that God is nigh, Both where we live and where we die, Whether among true kindred thrown, Or seeming outwardly alone, That whether this or that befal, He watches and has care of all. TO E ----. Much have we to support us in our strife With things which else would crush us, nor alone Secret refreshings of the inward life, But many a flower of sweetest scent is strown Upon our outward and our open way; None sweeter than are at some seasons known To them who dwell for many a prosperous day Under one roof, and have, as they would hope, One purpose for their lives, one aim, one scope-- To labour upward on the path to heaven. Full of refreshment these occasions are, Like seasonable resting-places given To pilgrim feet; for tho’, alas! too rare, Yet the sweet memories they supply, will give The food on which affection’s heart may live In after times; since it were sad indeed If all more intimate knowledge did not breed More trust in one another and more love, More faith that each is seeking to attain With humble earnest effort, not in vain, The happy rest of God. And so they part On their divided ways with cheerful heart, Knowing that in all places they will call On the same God and Father over all; And part not wholly, since they meet whose prayer Meets at the throne of grace; one life divine Through all the branches of the mystical vine Flows ever, even as the same breath of air Lifts every leaflet of a mighty grove. And from our meeting we shall reap a share Of a yet higher good, if we have won Hereby the strengthening of one weak desire, The fanning of one faint spark to a fire, The stirring of one prayer, that we may prove Stedfast and faithful till our work be done, Until the course appointed us be run. We know not whither our frail barks are borne, To quiet haven, or on stormy shore; Nor need we seek to know it, while above The tempest and the waters’ angriest roar Are heard the voices of Almighty love-- So we shall find none dreary nor forlorn. Whither we go we know not, but we know That if we keep our faces surely set Towàrd new Zion, we shall reach at last, When every danger, every woe is past, The city where the sealèd tribes are met, Whither the nations of the savèd flow, The city with its heav’n-descended halls, The city builded round with diamond walls. Then how should we feel sorrow or dim fear At any parting now, if there to meet; How should our hearts with sadder pulses beat, When thou art going where kind hearts will greet And welcome thy return, and there as here Thou still wilt find thine own appointed sphere, To fill the measure up of gentle deeds, Even as we have learnèd that in these, That in the holy Christian charities, And the suppliance of the lowliest needs Of the most lowly, our true greatness is. Therefore we will not seek to win thy stay, Nor ask but this--that thou shouldst bear away Kind memories of us, and only claim What of thyself thou wilt be prompt to give, That in thy heart’s affections he may live, To whom thou bearest that most holy name Of spiritual mother. O beloved friend, It is a cheering thought, if I should be Where I can no more watch for him nor tend His infant years--there where I cannot see What good, what evil wait upon his way, That yet thy love thy counsel and thy cares He will not lack, a child of faithful prayers. TO ----. ON THE MORNING OF HER BAPTISM. This will we name thy better birth-day, child, O born already to a sin-worn world, But now unto a kingdom undefiled, Where over thee love’s banner is unfurled. Lo! on the morning of this Sabbath day I lay aside the weight of human fears, Which I had for thee, and without dismay Look through the avenue of coming years. I see thee passing without mortal harm Thro’ ranks of foes against thy safety met; I see thee passing--thy defence and charm, The seal of God upon thy forehead set. From this time forth thou often shalt hear say Of what immortal City thou wert given The rights and full immunities to-day, And of the hope laid up for thee in heaven. From this time forward thou shalt not believe That thou art earthly, or that aught of earth, Or aught that hell can threaten, shall receive Power on the children of the second birth. O risen out of death into the day Of an immortal life, we bid thee hail, And will not kiss the waterdrops away, The dew that rests upon thy forehead pale. And if the seed of better life lie long, As in a wintry hiddenness and death, Then calling back this day, we will be strong To wait in hope for heaven’s reviving breath; To water, if there should be such sad need, The undiscernèd germ with sorrowing tears, To wait until from that undying seed Out of the earth a heavenly plant appears; The growth and produce of a fairer land, And thence transplanted to a barren soil, It needs the tendance of a careful hand, Of love, that is not weary with long toil. And thou, dear child, whose very helplessness Is as a bond upon us and a claim, Mayest thou have this of us, as we no less Have daily from our Father known the same. TO A LADY SINGING. How like a swan, cleaving the azure sky, The voice upsoars of thy triumphant song, That whirled awhile resistlessly along By the great sweep of threatening harmony, Seemed, overmatched, to struggle helplessly With that impetuous music, yet ere long Escaping from the current fierce and strong, Pierces the clear crystàlline vault on high. And I too am upborne with thee together In circles ever narrowing, round and round, Over the clouds and sunshine--who erewhile, Like a blest bird of charmèd summer-weather In the blue shadow of some foamless isle, Was floating on the billows of sweet sound. THE SAME CONTINUED. When the mute voice returns from whence it came, The silence of a momentary awe, A brief submission to the eternal law Of beauty doth to every heart proclaim A Spirit has been summoned; yea, the same Whose dwelling is the inmost human heart, Which will not from that home and haunt depart, Which nothing can quite vanquish or make tame. It is the noblest gift beneath the moon, The power, this awful presence to compel Out of the lurking places where it lies Deep-hidden and removed from human eyes: Oh! reverence thou in fear and cherish well This privilege of few, this rarest boon. THE SAME CONTINUED. Look! for a season (ah, too brief a space), While yet the spell is strong upon the rout, With something of still fear all move about, As though a breath or motion might displace The Spirit, which had come of heavenly grace Among them, for a moment to redeem Their thoughts and passions from the selfish dream Of earthly life, and its inglorious race. If we might keep this awe upon us still, If we might walk for ever in the power And in the shadow of the mystery, Which has been spread around us at this hour, This might suffice to guard us from much ill, This might go far to keep us pure and free. THE SAME CONTINUED. But the spell fails--and of the many here, Who have been won to brief forgetfulness Of all that would degrade them and oppress, Who have been carried out of their dim sphere Of being, to realms brighter and more clear, How few to-morrow will retain a trace, Which the world’s business shall not soon efface, Of this high mood, this time of reverent fear. In these high raptures there is nothing sure, Nothing that we can rest on, to sustain The spirit long, or arm it to endure Against temptation weariness or pain, And if they promise to preserve it pure From earthly taint, the promise is in vain. THE SAME CONTINUED. Yet proof is here of men’s unquenched desire That the procession of their life might be More equable majestic pure and free; That there are times when all would fain aspire, And gladly use the helps, to lift them higher, Which music, poesy, or Nature brings, And think to mount upon these waxen wings, Not deeming that their strength shall ever tire. But who indeed shall his high flights sustain, Who soar aloft and sink not? He alone Who has laid hold upon that golden chain Of love, fast linked to God’s eternal throne,-- The golden chain from heav’n to earth let down, That we might rise by it, nor fear to sink again. SONNET. A counsellor well fitted to advise In daily life and at whose lips no less Men may inquire or nations, when distress Of sudden doubtful danger may arise, Who, though his head be hidden in the skies, Plants his firm foot upon our common earth, Dealing with thoughts which everywhere have birth,-- This is the poet, true of heart and wise: No dweller in a baseless world of dream, Which is not earth nor heav’n: his words have past Into man’s common thought and week-day phrase; This is the poet, and his verse will last. Such was our Shakspeare once, and such doth seem One who redeems our later gloomier days. SONNET. Me rather may to tears unbidden move The meanest print that on a cottage wall Some ancient deed heroic doth recal, Or loving act of His, whose life was love, Than that my heart should be too proud to prove Emotions and sweet sympathies, until The magic of some mighty master’s skill Called hues and shapes of wonder from above: Since if we do no idle homage pay To what in art most beautiful is found, We shall have learned to feel in that same hour With man’s most rude and most unskilled essay To win the beauty that is floating round Into abiding forms of grace and power. SONNET, CONNECTED WITH THE FOREGOING. Yes, and not otherwise, if we in deed And with pure hearts are seeking what is fair In Nature, then believe we shall not need Long anxious quests, exploring earth and air Ere we shall find wherewith our hearts to feed: The beauty which is scattered everywhere Will in our souls such deep contentment breed, We shall not pine for aught remote or rare; We shall not ask from some transcendant height To gaze on such rare scenes, as may surpass Earth’s common shows, ere we will own delight: We shall not need in quest of these to roam, While sunshine lies upon our English grass, And dewdrops glitter on green fields at home. DESPONDENCY[8]. I. It is a weary hill Of moving sand that still Shifts, struggle as we will, Beneath our tread: Of those who went before, And tracked the desert o’er, The footmarks are no more, But gone and fled. II. We stray to either side, We wander far and wide, We fall to sleep and slide Far down again: As thro’ the sand we wade, We do not seek to aid Our fellows, but upbraid Each others’ pain. III. I gaze on that bright band Who on the summit stand, To order and command, Like stars on high: Yet with despairing pace My way I could retrace, Or on this desert place Sink down and die. IV. As we who toil and weep, And with our weeping steep The path o’er which we creep, They had not striven; They must have taken flight To that serenest height, And won it by the might Of wings from heaven. V. Alack! I have no wing, My spirit lacks that spring, And Nature will not bring Her help to me. From her I have no aid, But light-enwoven shade, And stream and star upbraid Our misery. ODE TO SLEEP. I. I cannot veil mine eyelids from the light; I cannot turn away From this insulting and importunate day, That momently grows fiercer and more bright, And wakes the hideous hum of monstrous flies In my vexed ear, and beats On the broad panes, and like a furnace heats The chamber of my rest, and bids me rise. II. I cannot follow thy departing track, Nor tell in what far meadows, gentle Sleep, Thou art delaying. I would win thee back, Were mine some drowsy potion, or dull spell, Or charmèd girdle, mighty to compel Thy heavy grace; for I have heard it said, Thou art no flatterer, that dost only keep In kingly haunts, leaving unvisited The poor man’s lowlier shed; And when the day is joyless, and its task Unprofitable, I were fain to ask, Why thou wilt give it such an ample space, Why thou wilt leave us such a weary scope For memory, and for that which men call hope, Nor wind in one embrace Sad eve and night forlorn And undelightful morn. III. If with the joyous were thine only home, I would not so far wrong thee, as to ask This boon, or summon thee from happier task. But no,--for then thou wouldst too often roam And find no rest; for me, I cannot tell What tearless lids there are, where thou mightst dwell. I know not any, unenthralled of sorrow, I know not one, to whom this joyous morrow, So full of living motion new and bright, Will be a summons to secure delight. And thus I shall not harm thee, though I claim Awhile thy presence--O mysterious Sleep. Some call thee shadow of a mightier Name, And whisper how that nightly thou dost keep A roll and count for him.-- Then be thou on my spirit like his presence dim. IV. Yet if my limbs were heavy with sweet toil, I had not needed to have wooed thy might, But till thy timely flight Had lain securely in thy peaceful coil. Or if my heart were lighter, long ago Had crushed the dewy morn upon the sod, Darkening where I trod, As was my pleasure once, but now it is not so. V. And therefore am I seeking to entwine A coronal of poppies for my head, Or wreathe it with a wreath engarlanded By Lethe’s slumberous waters. Oh! that mine Were some dim chamber turning to the north, With latticed casement, bedded deep in leaves, That opening with sweet murmur might look forth On quiet fields from broad o’erhanging eaves, And ever when the Spring her garland weaves, Were darkened with encroaching ivy-trail And jaggèd vine-leaves’ shade; And all its pavement starred with blossoms pale Of jasmine, when the wind’s least stir was made; Where the sun-beam were verdurous-cool, before It wound into that quiet nook, to paint With interspace of light and colour faint That tesselated floor. How pleasant were it there in dim recess, In some close-curtained haunt of quietness, To hear no tones of human pain and care, Our own or others, little heeding there, If morn or noon or night Pursued their weary flight, But musing what an easy thing it were To mix our opiates in a larger cup, And drink, and not perceive Sleep deepening lead his truer kinsman up, Like undistinguished Night, darkening the skirts of Eve. ATLANTIS. I. I could loose my boat, And could bid it float Where the idlest wind should pilot, So its glad course lay From this earth away, Towards any untrodden islet. II. For this earth is old, And its heart is cold, And the palsy of age has bound it; And my spirit frets For the viewless nets Which are hourly clinging round it. III. And with joyful glee We have heard of thee, Thou Isle in mid ocean sleeping; And thy records old, Which the Sage has told, How the Memphian tombs are keeping. IV. But we know not where, ’Neath the desert air, To look for the pleasant places Of the youth of Time, Whose austerer prime The haunts of his childhood effaces. V. Like the golden flowers Of the western bowers, Have waned their immortal shadows; And no harp may tell Where the asphodel Clad in light those Elysian meadows. VI. And thou, fairest Isle In the daylight’s smile, Hast thou sunk in the boiling ocean, While beyond thy strand Rose a mightier land From the wave in alternate motion? VII. Are the isles that stud The Atlantic flood, But the peaks of thy tallest mountains, While repose below The great water’s flow Thy towns and thy towers and fountains? VIII. Have the Ocean powers Made their quiet bowers, In thy fanes and thy dim recesses? Or in haunts of thine Do the sea-maids twine Coral wreaths for their dewy tresses? IX. Or does foot not fall In deserted hall, Choked with wrecks that ne’er won their haven, By the ebb trailed o’er Thy untrampled floor, Which their sunken wealth has paven? X. Oh, appear! appear! Not as when thy spear Ruled as far as the broad Egean, But in Love’s own might, And in Freedom’s right, Till the nations uplift their Pæan, XI. Who now watch and weep, And their vigil keep, Till they faint for expectation; Till their dim eyes shape Temple tower and cape From the cloud and the exhalation. SAIS. An awful statue, by a veil half-hid, At Sais stands. One came, to whom was known All lore committed to Etruscan stone, And all sweet voices, that dull time has chid To silence now, by antique Pyramid, Skirting the desert, heard; and what the deep May in its dimly-lighted chambers keep, Where Genii groan beneath the seal-bound lid. He dared to raise that yet unlifted veil With hands not pure, but never might unfold What there he saw--madness, the shadow, fell On his few days, ere yet he went to dwell With night’s eternal people, and his tale Has thus remained, and will remain, untold. SONNET. I stood beside a pool, from whence ascended, Mounting the platforms of the cloudy wind, A stately hern--its soaring I attended, Till it grew dim, and I with watching blind-- When, lo! a shaft of arrowy light descended Upon its darkness and its dim attire: It straightway kindled then, and was afire, And with the unconsuming radiance blended. A bird, a cloud, flecking the sunny air, It had its golden dwelling mid the lightning Of those empyreal domes, and it might there Have dwelt for ever, glorified and brightning, But that its wings were weak--so it became A dusky speck again, that _was_ a wingèd flame. RECOLLECTIONS OF BURGOS. Most like some agèd king it seemed to me, Who had survived his old regality, Poor and deposed, but keeping still his state, In all he had before of truly great; With no vain wishes and no vain regret, But his enforcèd leisure soothing yet With meditation calm and books and prayer; For all was sober and majestic there-- The old Castilian, with close finger tips Pressing his folded mantle to his lips; The dim cathedral’s cross-surmounted pile, With carved recess, and cool and shadowy aisle, And had not from dark hoods peered darker eyes, All fitted well for meditation wise-- The walks of poplar by the river’s side, That wound by many a straggling channel wide; And seats of stone, where one might sit and weave Visions, till well-nigh tempted to believe That life had few things better to be done, And many worse, than resting in the sun To lose the hours, and wilfully to dim Our half-shut eyes, and veil them till might swim The pageant by us, smoothly as the stream And unremembered pageant of a dream. A castle crowned a neighbouring hillock’s crest, But now the moat was level with the rest; And all was fallen of this place of power, All heaped with formless stone, save one round tower, And here and there a gateway low and old, Figured with antique shape of warrior bold. And then behind this eminence the sun Would drop serenely, long ere day was done; And one who climbed that height might see again A second setting o’er the fertile plain Beyond the town, and glittering in his beam, Wind far away that poplar-skirted stream. TO A FRIEND. Thou that hast travelled far away, In lands beyond the sea, Wilt understand me, when I say What there has come to me. In chambers dim thou wilt have wrought, With no one by, to cheer, And trod the downward paths of thought, In solitude and fear; Nor till the weary day was o’er, Into the air have fled From thought which could delight no more, From books whose power was dead; What time perchance the drooping day With burning vapour fills The deep recesses far away Of all the golden hills: Or later, when the twilight blends All hues, or when the moon Into the ocean depths descends, A wavering column, down. Then hast not thou in spirit leapt, Emerging from thy gloom, Like one who unawares o’erstept The barriers of a tomb. And in thine exultation cried-- Of gladness having fill, And in it being glorified-- “The world is beauteous still!” TO THE CONSTITUTIONAL EXILES OF 1823. [WRITTEN IN 1829.] Wise are ye in a wisdom vainly sought Thro’ all the records of the historic page; It is not to be learned by lengthened age, Scarce by deep musings of unaided thought: By suffering and endurance ye have bought A knowledge of the thousand links that bind The highest with the lowest of our kind, And how the indissoluble chain is wrought. Ye fell by your own mercy once--beware, When your lots leap again from fortune’s urn, An heavier error--to be pardoned less. Yours be it to the nations to declare That years of pain and disappointment turn Weak hearts to gall, but wise to gentleness. TO THE SAME. Like nightly watchers from a palace tower, In hope and faith and patience strong to wait The beacons on the hills, which should relate How some fenced city of deceit and power Had fallen--ye have stood for many an hour, Till your first hope’s high movements must be dead, And if with new ye have not cheered and fed Your bosoms, dim despair may be your dower. Yet not for all--tho’ yet no fire may crest The mountains, or light up their beacons sere-- Your eminent commission so far wrong, Or so much flatter the oppressors’ rest, As to give o’er your watching, for so long As ye shall hope, ’tis reason they must fear. SONNET. The moments that we rescue and redeem From the bare desert and the waste of years, To fertilize, it may be with our tears, Yet so that for time after they shall teem With better than rank weeds, and wear a gleam Of visionary light, and on the wind Fling odours from the fields long left behind, These and their fruit to us can never seem Indifferent things, and therefore do I look Not without gentle sadness upon thee, And liken thy outgoing, O my book, To the impatience of a little brook, Which might with flowers have lingered pleasantly, Yet toils to perish in the mighty sea. ON AN EARLY DEATH. I. Ah me! of them from whom the good have hope, Of them whom virtue for her liegemen claims, How many the world tames, That with its evil they quite cease to cope, And their first fealty sworn to beauty and truth Break early; and amid their sinful youth Make shipwreck of all high and glorious aims. How few the fierce and fiery trial stand, To be as weapons tempered and approved For an almighty hand. How few of all the streamlets that were moved, Do ever unto clearness run again, And therefore is it marvellous to us, When of these weapons one is broken thus, When of these fountains one would seem in vain Renewed in clearness, and is staunched before It has had leave to spread fresh streams the desert o’er. II. Ah me! that by so frail and feeble thread Our life is holden--that not life alone, But all that life has won May in an hour be gathered to the dead; The slow additions that build up the mind, The skill that by temptation we have bought And suffering, and whatever has been taught By lengthened years and converse with our kind, That all may cease together--and the tree Reared to its height by many a slow degree, And by the dews the sunshine and the showers Of many springs, an instant may lay low, With all its living towers, And all the fruit mature of growth and slow, Which on the trees of wisdom leisurely must grow. III. Alas! it is another thing to wail, That when the foremost runners sink and fail, They cannot pass their torch or forward place To them that are behind them in their race, But their extinguished torches must be laid Together with them in the dust of death: That when the wise and the true-hearted fade, So little of themselves they can bequeath To us, who yet are in the race of life, For labour and for toil, for weariness and strife. IV. But from behind the veil, Where they are entered who have gone before, A solemn voice arrests my feeble wail-- “And has thy life such worthier aims, O man, That thou shouldst grudge to give its little span To truth and knowledge, and faith’s holy lore, Because the places for the exercise Of these may be withdrawn from mortal eyes. Win truth, win goodness--for which man was made, And fear not thou of these to be bereft, Fear not that these shall in the dust be laid, Or in corruption left, Or be the grave-worm’s food. Nothing is left or lost--nothing of good, Or lovely; but whatever its first springs Has drawn from God, returns to him again; That only which ’twere misery to retain Is taken from you, which to keep were loss; Only the scum the refuse and the dross Are borne away unto the grave of things, Meanwhile whatever gifts from heav’n descend Thither again have flowed, To the receptacle of all things good, From whom they come and unto whom they tend, Who is the First and Last, the Author and the End. V. And fear to sorrow with increase of grief, When they who go before Go furnished--or because their span was brief, When in the acquist of what is life’s true gage, Truth, knowledge, and that other worthiest lore, They had fulfilled already a long age. For doubt not but that in the worlds above There must be other offices of love, That other tasks and ministries there are, Since it is promised that His servants, there Shall serve him still. Therefore be strong, be strong, Ye that remain, nor fruitlessly revolve, Darkling, the riddles which ye cannot solve, But do the works that unto you belong, Believing that for every mystery, For all the death the darkness and the curse Of this dim universe, Needs a solution full of love must be: And that the way whereby ye may attain Nearest to this, is not thro’ broodings vain And half-rebellious--questionings of God, But by a patient seeking to fulfil The purpose of his everlasting will, Treading the way which lowly men have trod. Since it is ever they who are too proud For this, that are the foremost and most loud To judge his hidden judgments, these are still The most perplexed and mazed at his mysterious will.” SONNET. When I have sometimes read of precious things, The precious things of earth, which yet are vile, Together heaped into the graves of kings, Or wasted with them on their funeral pile, Steeds arms and costly vestments and the dross Which men call gold, feeding one ravenous pyre, I have been little moved at all the loss Of all the treasure which fond men admire. But when I hear of some too early doom, Snatching wit wisdom valour grace away, Or our own loss has taught me what the tomb May cover from us, then I feel and say That earth has things whereon the grave may feed, And feeding may make poor the world indeed. SONNET. What is the greatness of a fallen king? This--that his fall avails not to abate His spirit to a level with his fate, Or inward fall along with it to bring; That he disdains to stoop his former wing, But keeps in exile and in want the law Of kingship yet, and counts it scorn to draw Comfort indign from any meaner thing. Soul, that art fallen from thine ancient place, Mayest thou in this mean world find nothing great, Nor aught that shall the memories efface Of that true greatness which was once thine own, As knowing thou must keep thy kingly state, If thou wouldst reascend thy kingly throne. NEW YEAR’S EVE. The strong in spiritual action need not look Upon the new-found year as on a scroll, The which their hands lack cunning to unroll, But in it read, as in an open book, All they are seeking--high resolve unshook By circumstance’s unforeseen control, Successful striving, and whate’er the soul Has recognised for duty, not forsook. But they whom many failures have made tame, Question the future with that reverent fear, Which best their need of heav’nly aid may shew. Will it have purer thought, and loftier aim Pursued more loftily? That a man might know What thou wilt bring him, thou advancing year! TO MY CHILD. Thy gladness makes me thankful every way, To look upon thy gladness makes me glad; While yet in part it well might render sad Us thinking that we too might sport and play, And keep like thee continual holiday, If we retained the things which once we had, If we like happy Neophytes were clad Still in baptismal stoles of white array. And yet the gladness of the innocent child Has not more matter for our thankful glee Than the dim sorrows of the man defiled; Since both in sealing one blest truth agree-- Joy is of God, but heaviness and care Of our own hearts and what has harboured there. SONNET. An open wound that has been healed anew; A stream dried up, that once again is fed With waters making green its grassy bed; A tree that withered was, but to the dew Puts forth young leaves and blossoms fresh of hue, Even from the branches which had seemed most dead; A sea which having been disquieted, Now stretches like a mirror calm and blue,-- Our hearts to each of these were likened well. But Thou wert the physician and the balm; Thou, Lord, the fountain, whence anew was filled Their parchèd channel; Thou the dew that fell On their dead branches; ’twas thy voice that stilled The storm within--Thou didst command the calm. SONNET. IN A PASS OF BAVARIA BETWEEN THE WALCHEN AND THE WALDENSEE. “His voice was as the sound of many waters.” A sound of many waters--now I know To what was likened the large utterance sent By Him who ’mid the golden lampads went: Innumerable streams, above, below, Some seen, some heard alone, with headlong flow Come rushing; some with smooth and sheer descent, Some dashed to foam and whiteness, but all blent Into one mighty music. As I go, The tumult of a boundless gladness fills My bosom, and my spirit leaps and sings: Sounds and sights are there of the ancient hills, The eagle’s cry, or when the mountain flings Mists from its brow, but none of all these things Like the one voice of multitudinous rills. SONNET. What is thy worship but a vain pretence, Spirit of Beauty, and a servile trade, A poor and an unworthy traffic made With the most sacred gifts of soul and sense; If they who tend thine altars, gathering thence No strength, no purity, may still remain Selfish and dark, and from Life’s sordid stain Find in their ministrations no defence? Thus many times I ask, when aught of mean Or sensual has been brought unto mine ear, Of them whose calling high is to insphere Eternal Beauty in forms of human art-- Vexed that my soul should ever moved have been By that which has such feigning at the heart. SONNET. Thou cam’st not to thy place by accident, It is the very place God meant for thee; And shouldst thou there small scope for action see, Do not for this give room to discontent; Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent In idly dreaming how thou mightest be, In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free From outward hindrance or impediment. For presently this hindrance thou shalt find That without which all goodness were a task So slight, that Virtue never could grow strong: And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind, The Imposer’s--over-burdened thou shalt ask, And own thy need of grace to help, ere long. TO MY GOD-CHILD, ON THE DAY OF HIS BAPTISM. No harsh transitions Nature knows, No dreary spaces intervene; Her work in silence forward goes, And rather felt than seen. For where the watcher, that with eye Turned eastward, yet could ever say When the faint glooming in the sky First lightened into day? Or maiden, by an opening flower That many a summer morn has stood, Could fix upon the very hour It ceased to be a bud? The rainbow colours mix and blend Each with the other, until none Can tell where fainter hues had end, And deeper tints begun. But only doth this much appear-- That the pale hues are deeper grown; The day has broken bright and clear; The bud is fully blown. Dear child, and happy shalt thou be, If from this hour, with just increase All good things shall grow up in thee, By such unmarked degrees. If there shall be no dreary space Between thy present self and past, No dreary miserable place With spectral shapes aghast; But the full graces of thy prime Shall, in their weak beginnings, be Lost in an unremembered time Of holy infancy. This blessing is the first and best; Yet has not prayer been made in vain For them, tho’ not so amply blest, The lost and found again. And shouldest thou, alas! forbear To choose the better, nobler lot, Yet may we not esteem our prayer Unheard or heeded not; If after many a wandering, And many a devious pathway trod; If having known that bitter thing, To leave the Lord thy God, It yet shall be, that thou at last, Altho’ thy noon be lost, return To bind life’s eve in union fast To this, its blessed morn. THE MONK AND BIRD. I. As he who finds one flower sharp thorns among, Plucks it, and highly prizes, though before Careless regard on thousands he has flung, As fair as this or more; II. Not otherwise perhaps this argument Won from me, where I found it, such regard, That I esteemed no labour thereon spent As wearisome or hard. III. In huge and antique volume did it lie, That by two solemn clasps was duly bound, As neither to be opened or laid by But with due thought profound. IV. There fixèd thought to questions did I lend, Which hover on the bounds of mortal ken, And have perplexed, and will unto the end Perplex the brains of men; V. Of what is time, and what eternity, Of all that seems and is not--forms of things-- Till my tired spirit followed painfully On flagging weary wings. VI. So that I welcomed this one resting-place, Pleased as a bird, that when its forces fail, Lights panting in the ocean’s middle space Upon a sunny sail. VII. And now the grace of fiction, which has power To render things impossible believed, And win them with the credence of an hour To be for truths received-- VIII. That grace must help me, as it only can, Winning such transient credence, while I tell What to a cloistered solitary man In ancient times befel. IX. Him little might our earthly grandeur feed, Who to the uttermost was vowed to be A follower of his Master’s barest need, In holy poverty. X. Nor might he know the gentle mutual strife Of home affections, which can more or less Temper with sweet the bitter of our life, And lighten its distress. XI. Yet we should err to deem that he was left To bear alone our being’s lonely weight, Or that his soul was vacant and bereft Of pomp and inward state: XII. Morn, when before the sun his orb unshrouds, Swift as a beacon torch the light has sped, Kindling the dusky summits of the clouds Each to a fiery red-- XIII. The slanted columns of the noonday light, Let down into the bosom of the hills, Or sunset, that with golden vapour bright The purple mountains fills-- XIV. These made him say,--if God has so arrayed A fading world that quickly passes by, Such rich provision of delight was made For every human eye, XV. What shall the eyes that wait for him survey, Where his own presence gloriously appears In worlds that were not founded for a day, But for eternal years? XVI. And if at seasons this world’s undelight Oppressed him, or the hollow at its heart, One glance at those enduring mansions bright Made gloomier thoughts depart; XVII. Till many times the sweetness of the thought Of an eternal country--where it lies Removed from care and mortal anguish, brought Sweet tears into his eyes. XVIII. Thus, not unsolaced, he longwhile abode, Filling all dreary melancholy time, And empty spaces of the heart with God, And with this hope sublime: XIX. Even thus he lived, with little joy or pain, Drawn thro’ the channels by which men receive-- Most men receive the things which for the main Make them rejoice or grieve. XX. But for delight--on spiritual gladness fed, And obvious to temptations of like kind; One such, from out his very gladness bred, It was his lot to find. XXI. When first it came, he lightly put it by, But it returned again to him ere long, And ever having got some new ally, And every time more strong-- XXII. A little worm that gnawed the life away Of a tall plant, the canker of its root, Or like as when, from some small speck, decay Spreads o’er a beauteous fruit. XXIII. For still the doubt came back--can God provide For the large heart of man what shall not pall, Nor thro’ eternal ages’ endless tide On tired spirits fall. XXIV. Here but one look tow’rd heavèn will repress The crushing weight of undelightful care; But what were there beyond, if weariness Should ever enter there? XXV. Yet do not sweetest things here soonest cloy? Satiety the life of joy would kill, If sweet with bitter, pleasure with annoy Were not attempered still. XXVI. This mood endured, till every act of love, Vigils of praise and prayer, and midnight choir, All shadows of the service done above, And which, while his desire, XXVII. And while his hope was heav’nward, he had loved, As helps to disengage him from the chain That fastens unto earth--all these now proved Most burdensome and vain. XXVIII. What must have been the issue of that mood It were a thing to fear--but that one day, Upon the limits of an ancient wood, His thoughts him led astray. XXIX. Darkling he went, nor once applied his ear, On a loud sea of agitations thrown, Nature’s low tones and harmonies to hear, Heard by the calm alone. XXX. The merry chirrup of the grasshopper, Sporting among the roots of withered grass, The dry leaf rustling to the wind’s light stir Did each unnoted pass: XXXI. He, walking in a trance of selfish care, Not once observed the beauty shed around, The blue above, the music in the air, The flowers upon the ground; XXXII. Till from the centre of that forest dim Came to him such sweet singing of a bird, As sweet in very truth, then seemed to him The sweetest ever heard. XXXIII. That lodestar drew him onward inward still, Deeper than where the village children stray, Deeper than where the woodman’s glittering bill Lops the large boughs away-- XXXIV. Into a central space of glimmering shade, Where hardly might the struggling sunbeams pass, Which a faint lattice-work of light had made Upon the long lank grass. XXXV. He did not sit, but stood and listened there, And to him listening the time seemed not long, While that sweet bird above him filled the air With its melodious song. XXXVI. He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside, Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain, Save the full flowing and the ample tide Of that celestial strain. XXXVII. As tho’ a bird of Paradise should light A moment on a twig of this bleak earth, And singing songs of Paradise invite All hearts to holy mirth, XXXVIII. And then take wing to Paradise again, Leaving all listening spirits raised above The toil of earth the trouble and the pain, And melted all in love: XXXIX. Such spiritual might, such power was in the sound, But when it ceased sweet music to unlock, The spell that held him sense and spirit-bound Dissolved with a slight shock. XL. All things around were as they were before-- The trees and the blue sky, and sunshine bright, Painting the pale and leafstrewn forest-floor With patches of faint light. XLI. But as when music doth no longer thrill, Light shudderings yet along the chords will run, Or the heart vibrates tremulously still, After its prayer be done, XLII. So his heart fluttered all the way he went, Listening each moment for the vesper bell; For a long hour he deemed he must have spent In that untrodden dell. XLIII. And once it seemed that something new or strange Had passed upon the flowers the trees the ground, Some slight but unintelligible change On every thing around: XLIV. Such change, where all things undisturbed remain, As only to the eye of him appears, Who absent long, at length returns again-- The silent work of years. XLV. And ever grew upon him more and more Fresh marvel--for, unrecognised of all, He stood a stranger at the convent door-- New faces filled the hall. XLVI. Yet was it long ere he received the whole Of that strange wonder--how, while he had stood Lost in deep gladness of his inmost soul, Far hidden in that wood, XLVII. A generation had gone down unseen Under the thin partition which is spread-- The thin partition of thin earth--between The living and the dead. XLVIII. Nor did he many days to earth belong, For like a pent-up stream, released again, The years arrested by the strength of song, Came down on him amain; XLIX. Sudden as a dissolving thaw in spring; Gentle as when upon the first warm day, Which sunny April in its train may bring, The snow melts all away. L. They placed him in his former cell, and there Watched him departing; what few words he said Were of calm peace and gladness, with one care Mingled--one only dread-- LI. Lest an eternity should not suffice To take the measure and the breadth and height Of what there is reserved in Paradise-- Its ever-new delight. LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. FOOTNOTES: [1] See Gen. xxvi. 18. [2] Qual es la niña Que coge las flores Si no tiene amores? SPANISH BALLAD. [3] Eusebius thus speaks of the Antichristian power:--Τον θεο μαχου ... τας πρας τον Υψιστου τοις αγγελοις παραδοθεισας των εθνων ‘οροθεσιας και συγχειν απειλουντος. [4] Some of the old Litanies specially included these last:--’Pro navigantibus, iter agentibus, in carceribus, in vinculis, _in metallis_, in exiliis constitutis, precamur Te. [5] See Augustine’s Confessions, B. 9, C. 10. [6] See Garcilasso’s Conquest of Peru. [7] “He [Archbishop Leighton] used often to say, that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn; it looks like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this world was all as an inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion in it. He added that the officious care and tenderness of friends was an entanglement to a dying man, and that the unconcerned attendance of those that could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance, and he obtained what he desired.”--_Burnet’s History of his own Time._ [8] The poems which follow, from this page to p. 153 inclusive, as also some scattered in other parts of the volume, were written many years ago. I mention this here, and indeed only mention it at all, because some of those that follow are the expression of states of mind, in which I would not now ask others to sympathise, and from which I am thankful myself to have been delivered. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF JUSTIN MARTYR, AND OTHER POEMS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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