§mm\l Hmvmitg pbatj THE GIFT OF J XrcsX^Ji^ %ijyrsjjp^ ( kzs^'h'^nz ...:..:.:,. -..^....a 1 1 vi.|sr.J. V 6896-2 Poems, 1840-1867. 3 1924 013 206 465 The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013206465 MATTHEW ARNOLD Fyo/u the piiiniing hy G. h\ \l'atts in the National Portrait Galkry {.KypcrnuiSL^ii of Mr. Firderi.t f/Mnr) OXFORD EDITION THE POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD 1 840- 1 867 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY A. T. QUILLER-COUCH HENRY FROWDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE 1909 OXFORD : HORACE HART PRINTER TO THE UNrVEBSITY BIBLlOGRAiPHICAL NOTE This volume contains all the poems that Matthew Arnold published between 1840 and 1867. They are printed in chronological order, and when more than one version of any poem is available the latest version is printed in the text, and all earlier verbal variations are noted at the bottom of the page. Pp. xix to xxvii give the contents of the ten published volumes (Alaric 1840, Cromwell 1843, The Strayed Reveller 1849, Empedodes on Etna 1852, Poems 1853, Poems, Second Edition 1854, Poems, Second Series 1855, Poems, Third Edition 1857, Merope 1858, New Poems 1867) in order, giving also under their several dates the poems which appeared in various magazines before publication in volume form. The order of the poems in this edition being chrono- logical, the reader should remember that the text of (for example) the 1849 version' of Tlie ForsaJcen Merman must be reconstructed from the footnotes, the text as here printed being that of the latest available edition, viz., for this poem, 1857. Arnold's own notes are printed at the end of the book, and a few others have been added, some textual, others giving brief explanations of allusions in the text or references for passages quoted. Mr. T. J. Wise has kindly given permission for his privately printed edition (1893) of Alaric at Some to be used as the basis of the present reprint of the poem, no copy of the original issue (1840) being accessible ; and the Horatian Echo is included by kind permission of the Eev. Arthur Galton, to whom the poem was given in 1886 for publication in The Century Guild Hobby Horse. H. S. M. CONTENTS PAGE (of this edition) Introduction iii Bibliographical Note xvii Author's Preface, 1853 ' 1 Advertisement to the Second Edition, 1854 . 16 Alaric at Rome. A Prize Poem, 1840 . . 19 Cromwell : A Prize Poem, 1843 .... 27 HoRAXiAN Echo, 1847 34 Sonnet to the Hungarian Nation, 1849 . . 35 THE STRAYED REVELLER, AND OTHER POEMS. By a. 1849. Sonnet ... 36 , Mycerinus . . ..... 36 Sonnet. To a Friend ...... 40 5 The Strayed Reveller . ... 40 Fragment op an ' Antigone ' . . . .48 The Sick King in Bokhara .... 51 Sonnets : — Shakespeare .58 To tlie Duke of Wellington, on hearing him mis- praised 59 Written in Butler's Sermons . . . . 59 Written in Emerson's Essays .... 60 To an Independent Preacher, who preached that we should be ' in Harmony with Nature ' . .60 To George Cruikahank, Esq., on seeing for the first time his picture of ' The Bottle ', in the Country 61 To a Republican Friend 61 Continued 62 Religious Isolation. To the same .... 62 To my Friends, who ridiculed a tender Leave-taking 63 b 2 XX CONTENTS THE STRAYED REVELLER, ETC., 1849 (continued):— PAGE A Modern Sappho 65 , The New Sieens. A Palinode .... 66 The Voice .... . . 73 » To Pausta ... ... 74 Stagyrus 75 %TANZAS ON A GrIPSY CHILD BY THE SeA-SHOEE, Douglas, Isle of Man 77 The Hayswateb Boat ... . . 79 The Forsaken Merman 80 The World and the Quietist. To Critias 84 In utrumque paratus 85 Resignation. To Fausta 86 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, AND OTHER POEMS, By A. 1852. Empedocles on Etna .... Poems : — The River . Excuse . Indifference Too Late On the Rhine Longing The Lake . Parting Absence Destiny To Marguerite Human Life Despondency Sonnet . Self-Deception Lines written by a Death-Bed Tristram and Iseult I. ttriBtram .... 11. Jseult of 5relan& III. Jscult of ffirittanB 94 126 127 128 129 129 130 131 131 134 134 185 135 136 137 137 138 139 150 156 CONTENTS xxi EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, ETC., 1852 {continued):- page Poems : — , Memorial Verses 162' Courage ... . . . 164 Selp-Dependence 165 A StTMMER Night 166 The Buried Life .... 168 A Farewell 171 Stanzas in Memory op the Author of ' Obermann ' 174 Consolation . . .... 180 Lines written in Kensington Gardens . 182 Sonnet ... ... . 184 The Second Best . . 184 Revolutions ... . . 185 The Youth op Nature . . . 186 The Youth of Man . .... 189 Morality 192 Progress 193 The Future 195 POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. A NEW EDITION. 1853 Preface 1 Sonnet .36 Sohrab and Rustum. An Episode . . . 198 Mycerinus .36 Cadmus and Harmonia ... .112 Philomela ... . 219 The Strayed Reveller . . , . 40 Thekla's Answer. (From SehiUei-.i . 220 Tristram and Iseult I. XErtstram ... ... 139 IL Jseult of 5relan0 . .150 III. 5seult of JBrittans • 156 The Church op Brou L Zbe Caetle ... .221 II. Z\ic Cburcb .... .224 III. ibe Zoxnb 225 XXll CONTENTS POEMS. A NEW EDITION, 1853 {continued):— page The Neckan 227 The Forsaken Merman ... .80 Switzerland I. To My Friends ... 63 II. The Lake .... .131 III. A Dream 228 IV. Parting 131 V. To Marguerite . ... IB.j VI. Absence ........ 134 Richmond Hill 190 A Modern Sappho . .... 65 Eequiescat 229 The Scholar Gipsy 230 Sonnets I. To a Friend 40 II. Shakespeare 58 III. Written in Emerson's Essays ... 60 IV. To George Oruikshank, Esq. . . 61 V. To a Republican Friend. 1848. ... 61 VI. Continued .62 VII. Religious Isolation. To the Same. . . 62 VIII. The World's Triumphs . . . .184 Stanzas in Memory op the late Edward QuiLLiNAN, Esq 237 Power op Youth 192 Morality 192 self-dependence 165 Consolation 180 The Future 195 POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. SECOND EDITION. 1854 Peepace (to Second Edition} . . . . 16 {Preface to First Edition} . ■ -1 Sonnet 36 Sohrab and Rustum. An Episode . . • 198 CONTENTS xxiii POEMS. SECOND EDITION, 1854 {continued) :- page Myceeinus 36 Cadmus and Haemonia . .112 Philomela 219 The Strayed Reveller ... .40 Tristram and Iseult I. ttriatram 139 II. Jseult of 3velan& . . . . 150 III. Sseiilt of JBrlttaiiB 156 The Church of Brou I. Zhc Caetle 221 II. ttbe Cburcb 224 III. Zhe ;romb 225 The Neckan . 227 The Forsaken Merman 80 Switzerland I. To My Friends ... .63 II. The Lake 181 III. A Dream . 228 IV. Parting . . 131 V. A Farewell .171 VI. To Marguerite . . ... 135 Nil. Absence . 134 The Scholar GtIpsy 230 Sonnets I. To a Friend 40 II. Shakespeare 58 III. To George Cruikshank, Esq. ... 61 IV. To a Republican Friend. 1848. ... 61 V. Continued .... . . 62 VI. Religious Isolation. To the Same . . 62 VII. The World's Triumphs 184 Stanzas in Memory of the late Edward QuiLLiNAN, Esq. . . . . . . 237 Requiescat 229 Morality 192 Selp-Dependence 166 xxiv CONTENTS POEMS. SECOND EDITION, 1854 {continued) :— page Consolation 180 The Future 195 POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. SECOND SERIES. 1855 Balder Dead. An Episode I. Sending 238 II. Journey to The Dead 246 III. Funeral 254 The Sick King in Bokhara .... 51 The Harp-Player on Etna I. The Last Glen .... .100 II. Typho 115 III. Marsyas .... ... 117 IV. Apollo .... ... 125 Fragment op an 'Antigone' ... 48 Memorial Verses 162 Revolutions 185 The World and the Quietist ... 84 Faded Leaves I. The River 126 II. Too Late 129 III. Separation 269 IV. On the Rhine 129 V. Longing ........ 130 Self-Deception 137 Excuse 127 Indifference 128 Resignation 86 Despondency 136 The Philosopher and the Stars . . 121 Desire 75 To a Gipsy Child by the Sea-Shore . . 77 Obermann . 174 The Buried Life .... 168 The Youth op Nature . . . . 186 The Youth of Man 189 A Summer Night . 166 CONTENTS XXV TWO POEMS FROM MAGAZINES, 1855 page Stanzas fkom the Geande Chaktkeuse (Fraser's Magazine, April, 1855) .... 270 Hawobth Chuechyard, Apeil, 1855 {Eraser's Magazine, May, 1855) 276 POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. THIRD EDITION. 1857 Adveetisement to Second Edition ... 16 Peeface 1 Sonnet 36 SoHEAB AND RusTUM. An Episode . . . 198 Myceeinus 36 Cadmus and Hakmonia 112 Philomela 219 The Steayed Revellee 40 Teistan and Iseult I. Tristan 139 II. Jseult ot JrclanS 150 III. 5seult ot asrlttans 156 The Chuech of Beou I. ITbe Castle 221 II. Woe Cburcb 224 III. XTbe Zoxnb 225 The Neckan 227 The Foesaken Meeman 80 switzeeland I. To My Friends 63 II. The Lake 131 III. A Dream 228 IV. Parting 131 V. A Farewell 171 VI. To Marguerite 281 VIL Isolation 135 VIII. Absence 134 The Scholae Gipsy 230 xxvi CONTENTS POEMS. THIRD EDITION, 1857 (fo»ife-««e«?):— page Sonnets I. To a Friend . .... 40 II. Shakespeare ... . 58 III. To George Cruikshank, Esq. . . 61 IV. To a Republican Friend. 1848. . 61 V. Continued .... . . 62 VI. Religious Isolation. To the Same 62 VII. The World's Triumphs . . 184 Stanzas in Memory op the late Edward QuiLLiNAN, Esq 237 Rbquiescat 229 Morality . . . 192 self-dependence . 165 Consolation . . . 180 The Future . . ... 195 MBROPE. a tragedy, by MATTHEW ARNOLD, 1858 Preface 283 Historical Introduction . .... 310 Merope 315 POEMS FROM MAGAZINES, 1860-1866 Men ot Genius {Comhill Magazine, July, 1S60) . . 379 St. Brandan (^Fraser's Magazine, July, 1860) . 380 A Southern Night {The Victoria Eegia, 1861) . . 382 Thyrsis {Macmillan's Magazine, April, 1866) 386 NEW POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD, 1867 (^nough the Muse be gone awa^y .... 393 Empedocles on Etna 94 Thyrsis 386 Saint Brandan ... ... 380 Sonnets 393-400 Calais Sands 400 Dover Beach 401 CONTENTS xxvii NEW POEMS, 1867 {continued) :— page The Terrace at Berne . . . 402 Stanzas composed at Caenac .... 404 A Southern Night 382 Fragment of Chorus op a Dejaneira . . 405 Palladium 406 Human Life 135 Early Death and Fame . ... 407 Youth and Calm 408 Youth's Agitations 137 Growing Old . 408 The Progress of Poesy 409 Epitaphs 410 The Last Word 410 A Wish 4ll Lines written in Kensington Gardens . . 182 The Second Best 184 A Caution to Poets 412 Pis-Allee 413 Epilogue to Lessing's LaocoOn. . . . 413 Bacchanalia 418 Progress . . 193 Rugby Chapel 422 Heine's Grave 427 Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse . . 270 Obermann once more 433 NOTES 443 INDEX OF TITLES 455 INDEX OF FIRST LINES . . . .458 PEEPACE [First published 1853. Eeprinted 1854 and 1857.] In two small volumes of Poems, published anony- mously, one in 1849, the other in 1852, many of the Poems which compose the present volume have already appeared. The rest are now published for the first time. I have, in the present collection, omitted the Poem from vfhich the volume published in 1852 took its title. I have done so, not because the subject of it was a Sicilian Greek born between two and three thousand years ago, although many persons would think this a sulficient reason. Neither have I done so lo because I bad, in my own opinion, failed in the deline- ation which I intended to effect. I intended to deline- ate the feelings of one of the last of the Greek religious philosophers, one of the family of Orpheus and Musaeus, having survived his fellows, living on into a time when the habits of Greek thought and feeling had begun fast to change, character to dwindle, the influence of the Sophists to prevail. Into the feelings of a man so situated there entered much that we are accustomed to consider as exclusively modern ; how much, the frag- 20 ments of Empedocles himself which remain to us are sufficient at least to indicate. What those who are familiar only with the great monuments of early Greek genius suppose to be its exclusive characteristics, have disappeared ; the calm, the cheerfulness, the disinter- ested objectivity have disappeared : the dialogue of the mind with itself has commenced ; modern problems have presented themselves ; we hear already the doubts, we witness the discouragement, of Hamlet and of Faust. The representation of such a man's feelings must be 30 interesting, if consistently drawn. We all naturally take pleasure, says Aristotle, in any imitation or repre- sentation whatever : this is the basis of our love of Preface, Title] Preface to the First Edition 1854. 1-1(1 ARNOLD B 2 PREFACE Poetry : and we take pleasure in them, he adds, be- cause all knowledge is naturally agreeable to us ; not to the philosopher only, but to mankind at large. Every representation therefore which is consistently drawn may be supposed to be interesting, inasmuch as it gratifies this natural interest in knowledge of all kinds. What is not interesting, is that which does not add to our knowledge of any kind ; that which is vaguely conceived and loosely drawn ; a representation 10 which is general, indeterminate, and faint, instead of being particular, precise, and firm. Any accurate representation may therefore be ex- pected to be interesting ; but, if the representation be a poetical one, more than this is demanded. It is demanded, not only that it shall interest, but also that it shall inspirit and rejoice the reader : that it shall convey a charm, and infuse delight. For the Muses, as Hesiod says, were born that they might be ' a for- getfulness of evils, and a truce from cares ' : and it is 20 not enough that the Poet should add to the knowledge of men, it is required of him also that he should add to their happiness. ' All Art,' says Schiller, ' is dedi- cated to Joy, and there is no higher and no more serious problem, than how to make men happy. The right Art is that alone, which creates the highest enjoyment. A poetical work, therefore, is not yet justified when it has been shown to be an accurate, and therefore interesting representation ; it has to be shown also that it is a representation from which men can derive en- 30 joyment. In presence of the most tragic circumstances, represented in a work of Art, the feeling of enjoyment, as is well known, may still subsist : the representation of the most utter calamity, of the liveliest anguish, is not sufficient to destroy it : the more tragic the situa- tion, the deeper becomes the enjoyment ; and the situation is more tragic in proportion as it becomes more terrible. What then are the situations, from, the representa- tion of which, though accurate, no poetical enjoyment 40 can be derived ? They are those in which the suffer- ing finds no vent in action ; in which a continuous state of mental distress is prolonged, unrelieved by incident. PREFACE 3 hope, or resistance ; in which there is everything to be endured, nothing to be done. In such situations there is inevitably something morbid, in the descrip- tion of them something monotonous. When they occur in actual life, they are painful, not tragic; the representation of them in poetry is painful also. To this class of situations, poetically faulty as it appears to me, that of Empedocles, as I have endea- voured to represent him, belongs ; and I have there- fore excluded the Poem from the present collection. 10 And vi^hy, it may be asked, have I entered into this explanation respecting a matter so unimportant as the admission or exclusion of the Poem in question ? I have done so, because I was anxious to avow that the sole reason for its exclusion was that which has been stated above ; and that it has not been excluded in deference to the opinion which many critics of the present day appear to entertain against subjects chosen from distant times and countries : against the choice, in short, of any subjects but modern ones. 20 'The Poet,' it is said,'^ and by an intelligent critic, 'the Poet who would really fix the public attention must leave the exhausted past, and draw his subjects from matters of present import, and therefore both of interest and novelty.' Now this view I believe to be completely false. It is worth examining, inasmuch as it is a fair sample of a class of critical dicta everywhere current at the present day, having a philosophical form and air, but no real basis in fact ; and which are calculated to 30 vitiate the judgement of readers of poetry, while they exert, so far as they are adopted, a misleading influence on the practice of those who write it. What are the eternal objects of Poetry, among all nations and at all times ? They are actions ; human actions ; possessing an inherent interest in themselves, and which are to be communicated in an interesting manner by the art of the Poet. Vainly will the latter ^ In The Spectator of April 2nd, 1853. Tlio words quoted were not used with reference to poems of mine. ISM first 21 intelligent] apparently intelligent 18S3 B 2 4 PEEPACE imagine that he has everything in his own power ; that he can make an intrinsically inferior action equally delightful with a more excellent one by his treatment of it ; he may indeed compel us to admire his skill, but his work will possess, within itself, an incurable defect. The Poet, then, has in the first place to select an excellent action ; and what actions are the most excel- lent ? Those, certainly, which most powerfully appeal 10 to the great primary human affections : to those ele- mentary feelings which subsist permanently in the race, and which are independent of time. These feelings are permanent and the same ; that which interests them is permanent and the same also. The modern- ness or antiquity of an action, therefore, has nothing to do with its fitness for poetical representation ; this depends upon its inherent qualities. To the elemen- tary part of our nature, to our passions, that Avhich is great and passionate is eternally interesting ; and 1:0 interesting solely in proportion to its greatness and to its passion. A great human action of a thousand years ago is more interesting to it than a smaller human action of to-day, even though upon the representation of this last the most consummate skill may have been expended, and though it has the advantage of appeal- ing by its modern language, familiar manners, and contemporary allusions, to all our transient feelings and interests. These, however, have no right to demand of a poetical work that it shall satisfy them ; their 30 claims are to be directed elsewhere. Poetical works belong to the domain of our permanent passions : let them interest these, and the voice of all subordinate claims upon theni is at once silenced. Achilles, Prometheus, Clytemnestra, Dido — what modern poem presents personages as interesting, even to us moderns, as these personages of an 'exhausted past ' ? We have the domestic epic dealing with the details of modern life which pass daily under our eyes ; we have poems representing modern personages in 40 contact with the problems of modern life, moral, in- tellectual, and social ; these works have been produced by poets the most distinguished of their nation and PEEFACE • 5 time ; yet IfearlesslyassertthatHermannand Dorothea, Childe Harold, Jocelyn, The Excursion, leave the reader cold in comparison with the effect produced upon him by the latter books of the Iliad, by the Orestea, or by the episode of Dido. And why is this? Simply because in the three latter cases the action is greater, the personages nobler, the situations more intense : and this is the true basis of the interest in a poetical work, and this alone. It may be urged, however, that past actions may be 10 interesting in themselves, but that they are not to be adopted by the modern Poet, because it is impossible for him to have them clearly present to his own mind, and he cannot therefore feel them deeply, nor repre- sent them forcibly. But this is not necessarily the case. The externals of a jDast action, indeed, he cannot know with the precision of a contemporary ; but his business is with its essentials. The outward man of Oedipus or of Macbeth, the houses in which they lived, the ceremonies of their courts, he cannot accurately 20 figure to himself ; but neither do they essentially con- cern him. His business is with their inward man ; with their feelings and behaviour in certain tragic situations, which engage their passions as men ; these have in them nothing local and casual ; they are as accessible to the modern Poet as to a contemporary. The date of an action, then, signifies nothing : the action itself, its selection and construction, this is what is all-important. This the Greeks understood far more clearly than we do. The radical difference between 30 their poetical theory and .ours consists, as it appears to me, in this : that, with them, the poetical character of the action in itself, and the conduct of it, was the first consideration ; with us, attention is fixed mainly on the value of the separate thoughts and images which occur in the treatment of an action. They regarded the whole ; we regard the parts. With them, the action predominated over the expression of it ; with us, the expression predominates over the action. Not that they failed in expression, or were inattentive to it ; 40 on the contrary, they are the highest models of expres- sion, the unapproached masters of the grand style : but 6 PEEFACE their expression is so excellent because it is so admir- ably kept in its right degree of prominence ; because it is so simple and so well subordinated ; because it draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the matter which it conveys. For what reason was the Greek tragic poet confined to so limited a range of subjects ? Because there are so few actions which unite in themselves, in the highest degree, the conditions of excellence : and it was not thought that on any but 10 an excellent subject could an excellent Poem be con- structed. A few actions, therefore, eminently adapted for tragedy, maintained almost exclusive possession of the Greek tragic stage ; their significance appeared inexhaustible ; they were as permanent problems, perpetually offered to the genius of every fresh poet. This too is the reason of what appears to us moderns a certain baldness of expression in Greek tragedy ; of the triviality with which we often reproach the remarks of the chorus, where it takes part in the dialogue : that 20 the action itself, the situation of Orestes, or Merope, or Alcmaeon, was to stand the central point of interest, unforgotten, absorbing, principal ; that no accessories were for a moment to distract the spectator's attention from this ; that the tone of the parts was to be perpetu- ally kept down, in order not to impair the grandiose effect of the whole. The terrible old mythic story on which the drama was founded stood, before he entered the theatre, traced in its bare outlines upon the specta- tor's mind ; it stood in his memory, as a group of statu- 30 ary, faintly seen, at the end of a long and dark vista : then came the Poet, embodying outlines, developing situations, not a word wasted, not a sentiment caprici- ously thrown in : stroke upon stroke, the drama pro- ceeded : the light deepened upon the group ; more and more it revealed itself to the rivetted gaze of the spec- tator : until at last, when the final words were spoken, it stood before him in broad sunlight, a model of immortal beauty. This was what a Greek critic demanded ; this was 40 what a Greek poet endeavoured to effect. It signified nothing to what time an action belonged ; we do not find that the Persae occupied a particularly high rank PEEFACE 7 among the dramas of Aeschylus, because it repre'sented a matter of contemporary interest : this was not what a cultivated Athenian required ; he required that the permanent elements of his nature should be moved ; and dramas of which the action, though taken from a long-distant mythic time, yet was calculated to accom- plish this in a higher degree than that of the Persae, stood higher in his estimation accordingly. The Greeks felt, no doubt, with their exquisite sagacity of taste, that an action of present times was too near them, too 10 much mixed up with what was accidental and passing, to form a sufficiently grand, detached, and self-subsis- tent object for a tragic poem : such objects belonged to the domain of the comic poet, and of the lighter kinds of poetry. For the more serious kinds, for prag- matic poetry, to use an excellent expression of Polybius, they were more difficult and severe in the range of subjects which they permitted. Their theory and practice alike, the admirable treatise of Aristotle, and the unrivalled works of their poets, exclaim with a 20 thousand tongues — ^'All depends upon the subject ; choose a fitting action, penetrate yourself with the feeling of its situations ; this done, everything else will follow.' But for all kinds of poetry alike there was one point on which they were rigidly exacting ; the adaptability of the subject to the kind of poetry selected, and the careful construction of the poem. How different a way of thinking from, this is ours ! We can hardly at the present day understand what 30 Menander meant, when he told a man who inquired as to the progress of his comedy that he had finished it, not having yet written a single line, because he had constructed the action of it in his mind. A modern critic would have assured him that the merit of his piece depended on the brilliant things which arose under his pen as he went along. We have poems which seem to exist merely for the sake of single lines and passages ; not for the sake of producing any total- impression. We have critics who seem to direct their 40. 18 18B3 inserts after permitted, and omits below, the sentence: 'But for all kinds of poetry alike . . . careful construction of the poem,' 8 PREFACE attention merely to detached expressions, to the language about the action, not to the action itself. I verily think that the majority of them do not in their hearts believe that there is such a thing as a total- impression to be derived from a poem at all, or to be demanded from a poet ; they think the term a common- place of metaphysical criticism. They will permit the Poet to select any action he pleases, and to suffer that action to go as it will, provided he gratifies them with 10 occasional bursts of fine writing, and with a shower of isolated thoughts and images. That is, they permit him to leave their poetical sense ungratified, provided that he gratifies their rhetorical sense and their curiosity. Of his neglecting to gratify these, there is little danger ; he needs rather to be warned against the danger of attempting to gratify these alone ; he needs rather to be perpetually reminded to prefer his action to every- thing else ,• so to treat this, as to permit its inherent excellences to develop themselves, without interruption 20 from the intrusion of his personal peculiarities : most fortunate, when he most entirely succeeds in effacing himself, and in enabling a noble action to subsist as it did in nature. But the modern critic not only permits a false practice ; he absolutely prescribes false aims. — ' A true allegory of the state of one's own mind in a repre- sentative history,' the Poet is told, 'is perhaps the highest thing that one can attempt in the way of poetry.' — And accordingly he attempts it. An allegory of the 30 state of one's own mind, the highest problem of an art which imitates actions ! No assuredly, it is not, it never can be so : no great poetical work has ever been produced with such an aim. Faust itself, in which something of the kind is attempted, wonderful passages as it contains, and in spite of the unsurpassed beauty of the scenes w^hich relate to Margaret, Faust itself, judged as a whole, and judged strictly as a poetical work, is defective : its illustrious author, the greatest poet of modern times, the greatest critic of all times, 40 would have been the first to acknowledge it ; he only defended his work, indeed, by asserting it to be ' some- thing incommensurable.' PEEFACE 9 The confusion of the present times is great, the multitude of voices counselling different things be- wildering, the number of existing works capable of attracting a young writer's attention and of becoming his models, immense : what he wants is a hand to guide him through the confusion, a voice to prescribe to him the aim which he should keep in view, and to explain to him that the value of the literary works which offer themselves to his attention is relative to their power of helping him forward on his road towards 10 this aim. Such a guide the English writer at the present day will nowhere find. Failing this, all that can be looked for, all indeed that can be desired, is, that his attention should be fixed on excellent models ; that he may reproduce, at any rate, something of their excellence, by penetrating himself with their works and by catching their spirit, if he cannot be taught to pro- duce what is excellent independently. Foremost among these models for the English writer stands Shakespeare : a name the greatest perhaps of all 20 poetical names ; a name never to be mentioned with- out reverence. I will venture, however, to express a doubt, whether the influence of his works, excellent and fruitful for the readers of poetry, for the great majority, has been of unmixed advantage to the writers of it. Shakespeare indeed chose excellent subjects ; the world could afford no better than Macbeth, or Romeo and Juliet, or Othello : he had no theory respecting the necessity of choosing subjects of present import, or the paramount interest attaching to allegories 30 of the state of one's own mind ; like all great poets, he knew well what constituted a poetical action; like them, wherever he found such an action, he took it ; like them, too, he found his best in past times. But to these general characteristics of all great poets he added a special one of his own ; a gift, namely, of happy, abundant, and ingenious expression, eminent and unrivalled : so eminent as irresistibly to strike the attention first in him, and even to throw into compara- tive shade his other excellences as a poet. Here has 40 been the mischief. These other excellences were his fundamental excellences as a poet ; what distinguishes 10 PEEFACE the artist from the mere amateur, says Goethe, is ArcMtectonice in the highest sense ; that power of execution, which creates, forms, and constitutes : not the profoundness of single thoughts, not the richness of imagery, not the abundance of illustration. But these attractive accessories of a poetical work being more easily seized than the spirit of the whole, and these accessories being possessed by Shakespeare in an unequalled degree, a young writer having recourse to 10 Shakespeare as his model runs great risk of being van- quished and absorbed by them, and, in consequence, of reproducing, according to the measure of his power, these, and these alone. Of this preponderating quality of Shakespeare's genius, accordingly, almost the whole of modern English poetry has, it appears to me, felt the influence. To the exclusive attention on the part of his imitators to this it is in a great degree owing, that of the majority of modern poetical works the details alone are valuable, the composition worthless. 20 In reading them one is perpetually reminded of that terrible sentence on a modern French poet — il dit tout ce qu'il veut, mais mdUieureusement U n'a rien a dire. Let me give an instance of what I mean. I will take it from the works of the very chief among those who seem to have been fornied in the school of Shake- speare : of one whose exquisite genius and pathetic death render him for ever interesting. I will take the poem of Isabella, or the Pot of Basil, by Keats. I choose this rather than the Endymion, because the 30 latter work (which a modern critic has classed with the Faijy Queen !), although undoubtedly there blows through it the breath of genius, is yet as a whole so utterly incoherent, as not strictly to merit the name of a poem at all. The poem of Isabella, then, is a perfect treasure-house of graceful and felicitous words and images : almost in every stanza there occurs one of those vivid and picturesque turns of expression, by which the object is made to flash upon the eye of the mind, and which thrill the reader with a sudden delight. 40 This one short poem contains, perhaps, a greater number of happy single expressions which one could quote than all the extant tragedies of Sophocles. But PREFACE 11 the action, the story ? The action in itself is an excellent one ; but so feebly is it conceived by the Poet, so loosely constructed, that the effect produced by it, in and for itself, is absolutely null. Let the reader, after he has finished the poem of Keats, turn to the same story in the Decameron : he will then feel how preg- nant and interesting the same action has become in the hands of a great artist, who above all things delineates his object ; who subordinates expression to that which it is designed to express. 10 I have said that the imitators of Shalcespeare, fixing their attention on his wonderful gift of expression, have directed their imitation to this, neglecting his other excellences. These excellences, the funda- mental excellences of poetical art, Shakespeare no doubt possessed them— possessed raany of them in a splendid degree ; but it may perhaps be doubted whether even he himself did not sometimes give scope to his faculty of expression to the prejudice of a higher poetical duty. For we must never forget that Shake- 20 speare is the great poet he is from his skill in discerning and firmly conceiving an excellent action, from his power of intensely feeling a situation, of intimately associating himself with a character ; not from his gift of expression, which rather even leads him astray, de- generating sometimes into a fondness for curiosity of expression, into an irritability of fancy, which seems to make it impossible for him to say a thing plaiialy, oven when the press of the action demands the very directest language, or its level character the very sim- 30 plest. Mr. HaUam, than whom it is impossible to find a saner and more judicious critic, has had the courage (for at the present day it needs courage) to remark, how extremely and faultily difficult Shakespeare's lan- guage often is. It is so : you may find main scenes in some of his greatest tragedies, King Lear for instance, where the language is so artificial, so curiously tortured, and so difficult, that every speech has to be read two or three times before its meaning can be comprehended. This over-curiousness of expression is indeed but the 40 excessive employment of a wonderful gift — of the ]30wer of saying a thing in a happier way than any 12 PKEFACE other man ; nevertheless, it is carried so far that one understands what M. Guizot meant, when he said that Shakespeare appears in his language to have tried all styles except that of simplicity. He has not the severe and scrupulous self-restraint of the ancients, partly no doubt, because he had a far less cultivated and exacting audience : he has indeed a far wider range than they had, a far richer fertility of thought ; in this respect he rises above them : in his strong conception of his 10 subject, in the genuine way in which he is penetrated with it, he resembles them, and is unlike the moderns : but in the accurate limitation of it, the conscientious rejection of superfluities, the simple and rigorous development of it from the first line of his work to the last, he falls below them, and comes nearer to the moderns. In his chief works, besides what he has of his own, he has the elementary soundness of the ancients ; he has their important action and their large and broad manner : but he has not their purity 20 of method. He is therefore a less safe model ; for what he has of his own is personal, and inseparable from his own rich nature ; it may be imitated and exaggerated, it cannot be learned or applied as an art ; he is above all suggestive ; more valuable, therefore, to young writers as men than as artists. But clearness of arrange- ment, rigour of development, simplicity of style — these may to a certain extent be learned : and these may, I am convinced, be learned best from the ancients, who al- though infinitely less suggestive than Shakespeare, are 30 thus, to the artist, more instructive. What, then, it will be asked, are the ancients to be our sole models ? the ancients with their comparatively narrow range of experience, and their widely different circumstances ? Not, certainly, 'that which is narrow in the ancients, nor that in which we can no longer sympathize. An action like the action of the Antigone of Sophocles, which turns upon the conflict between the heroine's duty to her brother's corpse and that to the laws of her country, is no longer one in which 40 it is possible that we should feel a deep interest. I am speaking too, it will be remembered, not of the best sources of intellectual stimulus for the general PKEFACE 13 reader, but- of the best models of instruction for the individual writer. This last may certainly learn of the ancients, better than anywhere else, three things which it is vitally important for him to know : — the all-im- portance of the choice of a subject ; the necessity of accurate construction ; and the subordinate character of expression. He will learn from them how unspeak- ably superior is the effect of the one moral impression left by a great action treated as a whole, to the effect produced by the most striking single thought or by the 10 happiest image. As he penetrates into the spirit of the great classical works, as he becomes gradually aware of their intense significance, their noble simplicity, and their calm pathos, he will be convinced that it is this effect, unity and profoundness of moral impression, at which the ancient Poets aimed ; that it is this which constitutes the grandeur of their works, and which makes them immortal. He will desire to direct his own efforts towards producing the same effect. Above all, he will deliver himself from the jargon of modern 2a criticism, and escape the danger of producing poetical works conceived in the spirit of the passing time, and which partake of its transitoriness. The present age makes great claims upon us : we owe it service, it will not be satisfied without our admiration. I know not how it is, but their commerce with the ancients appears to me to produce, in those who constantly practise it, a steadying and composing effect upon their judgement, not of literary works only, but of men and events in general. They are like 30 persons who have had a very weighty and impressive experience : they are more truly than others under the empire of facts, and more independent of the language current among those with whom they live. They wish neither to applaud nor to revile their age : they wish lo know what it is, what it can give them, and whether this is what they want. What they want, they know very well ; they want to educe and cultivate what is best and noblest in themselves : they know, too, that this is no easy task — ;^aX€7roi', as Pittacus said, xa-A-cTrov 40 io-dXov 1/x.jiievat — and they ask themselves sincerely whether their age and its literature can assist them in U PEEFACE the attempt. If they are endeavouring to practise any art, they remember the plain and simple proceedings of the old artists, who attained their grand results by penetrating themselves with some noble and significant action, not by inflating themselves with a belief in the pre-eminent importanceandgreatnessof their own times. They do not talk of their mission, nor of interpreting their age, nor of the coming Poet ; all this, they know, is the mere delirium of vanity ; their business is not to 10 praise their age, but to afford to the men who live in it the highest pleasure which they are capable of feeling. If asked to afford this by means of subjects drawn from the age itself, they ask what special fitness the present age has for supplying them : they are told that it is an era of progress, an age commissioned to carry out the great ideas of industrial development and social amelioration. They reply that with all this they can do nothing ; that the elements they need for the exercise of their art are great actions, calculated power- 20 fully and delightfully to affect what is permanent in the human soul ; that so far as the present age can supply such actions, they will gladly make use of them ; but that an age wanting in moral grandeur can with difficulty supply such, and an age of spiritual discom- fort with difiiculty be powerfully and delightfully affected by them. A host of voices will indignantly rejoin that the pre- sent age is inferior to the past neither in moral gran- deur nor in spiritual health. He who possesses the 30 discipline I speak of will content himself with remem- bering the judgements passed upon the present age, in this respect, by the two men, the one of strongest head, the other of widest culture, whom it has produced ; by Goethe and by Niebuhr. It will be sufficient for him that he knows the opinions held by these two great men respecting the present age and its literature ; and that he feels assured in his own mind that their aims and demands upon life were such as he would wish, at any rate, his own to be ; and their judgement as to 40 what is impeding and disabling such as he may safely 32-33 the two men . . . culture] the men of strongest head and widest culture 186S, 1854. PREFACE 15 follow. He will not, however, maintain a hostile atti- tude towards the false pretensions of his age ; he will content himself with not being overwhelmed by them. He will esteem himself fortunate if he can succeed in banishing from his mind all feelings of contradiction, and irritation, and impatience ; in order to delight himself with the contemplation of some noble action of a heroic time, and to enable others, through his repre- sentation of it, to delight in it also. I am far indeed from maldng any claim, for myself, 10 that I possess this discipline ; or for the following Poems, that they breathe its spirit. But I say, that in the sincere endeavour to learn and practise, amid the bewildering confusion of our times, what is sound and true in poetical art, I seemed to myself to find the only sure guidance, the only solid footing, among the ancients. They, at any rate, knew what they wanted in Art, and we do not. It is this uncertainty which is disheartening, and not hostile criticism. How often have I felt this when reading words of disparagement 20 or of cavil : that it is the uncertainty as to what is really to be aimed at which makes our difficulty, not the dissatisfaction of the critic, who himself suffers from the same uncertainty. Non me tua fervida terrent Dicta : Bii me terrent, et Jupiter hostis. Two kinds of dilettanti, says Goethe, there are in poetry : he who neglects the indispensable mechanical part, and thinks he has done enough if he shows spirituality and feeling ; and he who seeks to arrive at poetry merely by mechanism, in which he can acquire 30 an artisan's readiness, and is without soul and matter. And he adds, that the first does most harm to Art, and the last to himself. If we must be dilettanti: if it is impossible for us, under the circumstances amidst which we live, to think clearly, to feel nobly, and to delineate firmly : if we cannot attain to the mastery of the great artists — let us, at least, have so much respect for our Art as to prefer it to ourselves : let us not be- wilder our successors : let us transmit to them the practice of Poetry, with its boundaries and wholesome 40 regulative laws, under which excellent works may again, perhaps, at some future time, be produced, not 16 PEEFACE yet fallen into oblivion through our neglect, not yet condemned and cancelled by the influence of their eternal enemy, Caprice. Fox How, Ambleside, October 1, 1853. ADVEETISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION [First published 1854. Reprinted 1857.] I HAVE allowed the Prefece to the former edition of these Poems to stand almost without change, because I still believe it to be, in the main, true. I must not, however, be supposed insensible to the force of much 10 that has been alleged against portions of it, or unaware that it contains many things incompletely stated, many things which need limitation . It leaves, too, untouched the question, how far, and in what manner, the opinions there expressed respecting the choice of sub- jects apply to lyric poetry ; that region of the poetical field which is chiefly cultivated at present. But neither have I time now to supply these deficiencies, nor is this the proper place for attempting it : on one or two points alone I wish to offer, in the briefest 20 possible way, some explanation. An objection has been ably urged to the classing to- gether, as subjects equally belonging to a past time, Oedipus and Macbeth. And it is no doubt true that to Shakespeare, standing on the verge of the middle ages, the epoch of Macbeth was more familiar than that of Oedipus. But I was speaking of actions as they presented themselves to us moderns : and it will hardly be said that the European mind, since Voltaire, has much more affinity with the times of Macbeth than 30 with those of Oedipus. As moderns, it seems to me, we have no longer any direct affinity with the circum- stances and feelings of either ; as individuals, we are attracted towards this or that personage, we have a capacity for imagining him, irrespective of his times, solely according to a law of personal sympathy ; and Advertisement, &c. Title] Preface lSo4. ADVEETISEMENT TO SECOND EDITION 17 those subjects for which we feel this personal attrac- tion most strongly, we may hope to treat successfully. Alcestis or Joan of Arc, Charlemagne or Agamemnon — one of these is not really nearer to us now than another ; each can be made present only by an act of poetic imiagination : but this man's imagination has an affinity for one of them, and that man's for another. It has been said that I wish to limit the Poet in his choice of subjects to the period of Greek and Eoman antiquity : but it is not so : I only counsel him to 10 choose for his subjects great actions, without regarding to what time they belong. Nor do I deny that the poetic faculty can and does manifest itself in treating the most trifling action, the most hopeless subject. But it is a pity that power should be wasted ; and that the Poet should be compelled to impart interest and force to his subject, instead of receiving them from it, and thereby doubling his impressiveness. There is, it has been excellently said, an immortal strength in the stories of great actions : the most gifted poet, then, 20 may well be glad to supplement with it that mortal weakness, which, in presence of the vast spectacle of life and the world, he must for ever feel to be his individual portion. Again, with respect to the study of the classical writers of antiquity : it has been said that we should emulate rather than imitate them. I make no objection : all I say is, let us study them. They can help to cure us of what is, it seems to me, the great vice of our intellect, manifesting itself in our incredible vagaries 30 in literature, in art, in religion, in morals ; namely, that it is fantastic, and wants sanity. Sanity — that is the great virtue of the ancient literature : the want of that is the great defect of the modern, in spite of all its variety and power. It is impossible to read care- fully the great ancients, without losing something of our caprice and eccentricity • and to emulate them we must at least read them. LOKDON, June 1, 1854. 3 Alcestis] Prometheus ISoi. ALAEIC AT KOME [A prize poem recited in Rugby School, June 12, 18i0. Pub- lished at Rugby the same year.] Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, for here There is such matter for all feeling. Childe Harold. I Unwelcome shroud of the forgotten dead, Oblivion's dreary fountain, where art thou : Why speed'st thou not thy deathlike wave to shed O'er humbled pride, and self-reproaching woe : Or time's stern hand, why blots it not away The saddening tale that tells of sorrow and decay ? II There are, whose glory passeth not away — Even in the grave their fragrance cannot fade : Others there are as deathless full as they, Who for themselves a monument have made 10 By their own crimes — a lesson to all eyes — Of wonder to the fool— of warning to the wise. Ill Yes, there are stories registered on high. Yes, there are stains time's fingers cannot blot. Deeds that shall live when they who did them, die ; Things that may cease, but never be forgot : Yet some there are, their very lives would give To be remembered thus, and yet they cannot live. But thou, imperial City ! that hast stood In greatness once, in sackcloth now and tears, 20 A mighty name, for evil or for good. Even in the loneness of thy widowed years : Thou that hast gazed, as the world hurried by. Upon its headlong course with sad prophetic eye. c 2 20 ALAEIC AT EOME Is thine the laurel-crown that greatness wreathes Round the wan temples of the hallowed dead — Is it the blighting taint dishonour breathes In fires undying o'er the guilty head, Or the brief splendour of that meteor light That for a moment gleams, and all again is night ? 30 Fain would we deem that thou hast risen so high Thy dazzling light an eagle's gaze should tire ; No meteor brightness to be seen and die, No passing pageant, born but to expire. But full and deathless as the deep dark hue Of ocean's sleeping face, or heaven's unbroken blue. vri Yet stains there are to blot thy brightest page. And wither half the laurels on thy tomb ; A glorious manhood, yet a dim old age, And years of crime, and nothingness, and gloom : And then that mightiest crash, that giant fall, 41 Ambition's boldest dream, might sober and appal. viir Thou wondrous chaos, where together dwell Present and past, the living and the dead. Thou shattered mass, whose glorious ruins tell The vanisht might of that discrowned head : Where all we see, or do, or hear, or say, Seems strangely echoed back by tones of yesterday : Thou solemn grave, where every step we tread Treads on the slumbering dust of other years ; 50 The while there sleeps within thy precincts dread What once had human passions, hopes, and fears ; And memory's gushing tide swells deep and full And makes thy very ruin fresh and beautiful. ALARIC AT EOME 21 Alas, no common sepulchre art thou, No habitation for the nameless dead, Green turf above, and crumbling dust below, Perchance some mute memorial at their head, But one vast fane where all unconscious sleep Earth's old heroic forms in peaceful slumbers deep. 60 XI Thy dead are kings, thy dust are palaces, Eelics of nations thy memorial-stones : And the dim glories of departed days Fold like a shroud around thy withered bones : And o'er thy towers the wind's half-uttered sigh Whispers, in mournful tones, thy silent elegy. Yes, in such eloquent silence didst thou lie When the Goth stooped upon his stricken prey, And the deep hues of an Italian sky Flasht on the rude barbarian's wild array : 70 While full and ceaseless as the ocean roll, Horde after horde streamed up thy frowning Capitol. Twice, ere that day of shame, the embattled foe Had gazed in wonder on that glorious sight ; Twice had the eternal city bowed her low In sullen homage to the invader's might : Twice had the pageant of that vast array Swept, from thy walls, Eome, on its triumphant way. XIV Twice, from without thy bulwarks, hath the din Of Gothic clarion smote thy startled ear ; 80 Anger, and strife, and sickness are within. Famine and sorrow are no strangers here : Twice hath the cloud hung o'er thee, twice been stayed Even in the act to burst, twice threatened, twice delayed. 22 ALAKIC AT KOME XV Yet once again, stern Chief, yet once again, Pour forth the foaming vials of thy wrath : There lies thy goal, to miss or to attain, Gird thee, and on upon thy fateful path. The world hath bowed to Rome, oh ! cold were he . Who would not burst his bonds, and in his turn be free. XVI Therefore arise and arm thee ! lo, the world 91 Looks on in fear ! and when the seal is set. The doom pronounced, the battle-flag unfurled. Scourge of the nations, wouldst thou linger yet ? Arise and arm thee ! spread thy banners forth. Pour from a thousand hills thy warriors of the north ! Hast thou not marked on a wild autumn day When the wind slumbereth in a sudden lull, What deathlike stillness o'er the landscape lay. How calmly sad, how sadly beautiful ; 100 How each bright tint of tree, and flower, and heath Were minglingwiththe sere and withered hues of death? And thus, beneath the clear, calm vault of heaven In mournful loveliness that city lay. And thus, amid the glorious hues of even That city told of languor and decay : Till what at morning's hour lookt warm and bright "Was cold and sad beneath that breathless, voiceless night. Soon was that stillness broken : like the cry Of the hoarse onset of the surging wave, 110 Or louder rush of whirlwinds sweeping by Was the wild shout those Gothic myriads gave, As towered on high, above their moonlit road. Scenes where a Caesar triumpht, or a Scipio trod. ALARIC AT EOME 23 XX Think ye it strikes too slow, the sword of fate, Think ye the avenger loiters on his way, That your own hands must open wide the gate, And your own voice{s) guide him to his prey ; Alas, it needs not ; is it hard to know Fate's threat'nings are not vain, the spoiler comes not slow ? 120 And were there none, to stand and weep alone, And as the pageant swept before their eyes To hear a dim and long forgotten tone Tell of old times, and holiest memories, Till fanciful regret and dreamy woe Peopled night's voiceless shades with forms of long Ago? XXII Oh yes ! if fancy feels, beyond to-day. Thoughts of the past and of the future time. How should that mightiest city pass away And not bethink her of her glorious prime, 130 Whilst every chord that thrills at thoughts of home Jarr'd with the bursting shout, ,' they come, the Goth, they come ! ' XXIII The trumpet swells yet louder : they are here ! Yea, on your fathers' bones the avengers tread. Not this the time to weep upon the bier That holds the ashes of your hero-dead, If wreaths may twine for you, or laurels wave, They shall not deck your life, but sanctify your grave. Alas ! no wreaths are here. Despair may teach Cowards to conquer and the weak to die ; 140 Nor tongue of man, nor fear, nor shame can preach So stern a lesson as necessity. Yet here it speaks not. Yea, though all around Unhallowed feet are trampling on this haunted ground,. 24 ALAEIG AT KOME XXV Though every holiest feeling, every tie That binds the heart of man with mightiest power, All natural love, all human sympathy Be crusht, and outraged in this bitter hour, Here is no echo to the sound of home. No shame that suns should rise to light a conquer'd Kome. 150 XXVI That troublous night is over : on the brow Of thy stern hill, thou mighty Capitol, One form stands gazing : silently below The morning mists from tower and temple roll. And lo ! the eternal city, as they rise, Bursts, in majestic beauty, on her conqueror's eyes. Yes, there he stood, upon that silent hill, And there beneath his feet his conquest lay : Unlike that ocean-city, gazing still Smilingly forth upon her sunny bay, 160 But o'er her vanisht might and humbled pride Mourning, as widowed Venice o'er her Adrian tide. XXVIII Breathe there not spirits on the peopled air ? Float there not voices on the murmuring wind ? Oh ! sound there not some strains of sadness there, To touch with sorrow even a victor's mind, And wrest one tear from joy ! Oh ! who shall pen The thoughts that toucht thy breast, thou lonely conqueror, then ? Perchance his wandering heart was far away. Lost in dim memories of his early home, 170 And his young dreams of conquest ; how to-day Beheld him master of Imperial Rome, Crowning his wildest hopes : perchance his ej'es As the)' looked sternly on, beheld new victories. ALARICAT EOME 25 XXX New dreams of wide dominion, mightier, higher. Come floating up from the abyss of years ; Perchance that solemn sight might quench the fire Even of that ardent spirit ; hopes and fears Might well be mingling at that murmured sigh, Whispering from all around, 'AH earthly things must die.' 180 XXXI Perchance that wondrous city was to him But as one voiceless blank ; a place of graves, And recollections indistinct and dim, Whose sons were conquerors once, and now were slaves : It may be in that desolate sight his eye Saw but another step to climb to victory ! Alas ! that fiery spirit little knew The change of life, the nothingness of power, How both were hastening, as they flowered and grew. Nearer and nearer to their closing hour : 190 How every birth of time's miraculous womb Swept off the withered leaves that hide the naked tomb. XXXIII One little year ; that restless soul shall rest, That frame of vigour shall be crumbling clay, And tranquilly, above that troubled breast. The sunny waters hold their joyous way : And gently shall the murmuring ripples flow. Nor wake the weary soul that slumbers on below. XXXIV Alas ! far other thoughts might well be ours And dash our holiest raptures while we gaze : 200 Energies wasted, unimproved hours, The saddening visions of departed days : And while they rise here might we stand alone, And mingle with thy ruins somewhat of our own. 26 ALARIC AT EOME XXXV Beautiful city ! If departed things Ever again put earthly likeness on, Here should a thousand forms on fancy's wings Float up to tell of ages that are gone : Yea, though hand touch thee not, nor eye should see, Still should the spirit hold communion, Rome, with thee ! 210 XXXVI O ! it is bitter, that each fairest dream Should fleet before us but to melt away ; That wildest visions still should loveliest seem And soonest fade in the broad glare of day : That while we feel the world is dull and low, Gazing on thee, we wake to find it is not so. XXXVII A little while, alas ! a little while. And the same world has tongue, and ear, and eye, The careless glance, the cold unmeaning smile. The thoughtless word, the lack of sympathy ! 220 Who would not turn him from the barren sea And rest his weary eyes on the green land and thee ! So pass we on. But oh ! to harp aright The vanisht glories of thine early day. There needs a minstrel of diviner might, A holier incense than this feeble lay ; To chant thy requiem with more passionate breath, And twine with bolder hand thy last memorial wreath I CEOMWELL [A prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, June 28, 1843. First published by J. Vincent, Oxford, 1843. Reprinted in Oxford Prise Poems, 1846, and separately in 1868.] SYNOPSIS Introduction — The mountains and the sea the cradles of Freedom — contrasted with the birth-place of Cromwell — His childhood and youth — The germs of his future character probably formed during his life of inaction — Cromwell at the moment of his intended embarkation — Retrospect of his past life and pro- fligate youth — Temptations held out by the prospect of a life of rest in America — How far such rest was allowable — Vision of his future life — Different persons represented in it — Charles the First — Cromwell himself— His victories and maritime glory — Pym — Strafford — Laud — Hampden — Falkland — Milton — Charles the First — Cromwell on his death-bed — His character — Dispersion of the vision — Conclusion. Schrecklich ist es, deiner Wahrheit Sterbliches Gefdss zu seyn. Schiller. High fate is theirs, ye sleepless waves, whose ear Learns Freedom's lesson from your voice of fear ; Whose spell-bound sense from childhood's hour hath known Familiar meanings in your mystic tone : Sounds of deep import — voices that beguile Age of its tears and childhood of its smile, To yearn with speechless impulse to the free And gladsome greetings of the buoyant sea ! High fate is theirs, who where the silent sky- Stoops to the soaring mountains, live and die; 10 Who scale the cloud-capt height, or sink to rest In the deep stillness of its shelt'ring breast ; — Around whose feet the exulting waves have sung, The eternal hills their giant shadows flung. No wonders nurs'd thy childhood ; not for thee Did the waves chant their song of liberty ! 28 CEOMWELL Thine was no mountain home, where Freedom's form Abides enthron'd amid the mist and storm, And whispers to the listening winds, that swell With solemn cadence round her citadel ! 20 These had no sound for thee : that cold calm eye Lit with no rapture as the storm swept by, To mark with shiver'd crest the reeling wave Hide his torn head beneath his sunless cave ; Or hear, 'mid circling crags, the impatient cry Of the pent winds, that scream in agony ! Yet all high sounds that mountain children hear Flash'd from thy soul upon thine inward ear ; All Freedom's mystic language — storms that roar By hni or wave, the mountain or the shore, — 30 All these had stirr'd thy spirit, and thine eye In common sights read secret sympathy ; Till all bright thoughts that hills or waves can yield, Deck'd the dull waste, and the familiar field ; Or wondrous sounds from tranquil skies were borne Far o'er the glistening sheets of windy corn : Skies — that unbound by clasp of mountain chain, Slope stately down, and melt into the plain ; Sounds — such as erst the lone wayfaring man Caught, as he journeyed, from the lips of Pan ; 40 Or that naysterious cry, that smote with fear, Like sounds from other worlds, the Spartan's ear, While o'er the dusty plain, the murmurous throng Of Heaven's embattled myriads swept along. Say not such dreams are idle : for the man Still toils to perfect what the child began ; And thoughts, that were but outlines, time engraves Deep on his life ; and childhood's baby waves. Made rough with care, become the changeful sea, Stemm'd by the strength of manhood fearlessly ; 50 And fleeting thoughts, that on the lonely wild Swept o'er the fancy of that heedless child. Perchance had quicken'd with a living truth The cold dull soil of his unfruitful youth ; Till, with his daily life, a life, that threw Its shadows o'er the future, flower'd and grew'^, With common cares unmingling, and apart, CEOMWELL 29 Haunting the shrouded chambers of his heart ; Till life, unstirr'd by action, life became Threaded and lighten'd by a track of flame ; 60 An inward light, that, with its streaming ray, On the dark current of his changeless day Bound all his being with a silver chain — Like a swift river through a silent j)lain ! High thoughts were his, when by the gleaming flood, With heart new strung, and stern resolve, he stood ; "Where rode the tall dark ships, whose loosen'd sail All idly flutter'd in the eastern gale ; High thoughts were his ; — but Memory's glance the while Fell on the cherish'd past with tearful smile ; 70 And peaceful joys and gentler thoughts swept by, Like summer lightnings o'er a darken'd sky. The peace of childhood, and the thoughts that roam. Like loving shadows, round that childhood's home ; Joys that had come and vanish'd, half unknown, Then slowly brighten'd, as the days had flown ; Years that were sweet or sad, beealm'd or toss'd On life's wild waves — the living and the lost. Youth stain'd with follies : and the thoughts of iU Crush'd, as they rose, by manhood's sterner will. 80 Eepentant prayers, that had been strong to save ; And the first sorrow, which is childhood's grave ! All shapes that haunt remembrance — ^soft and fair, Like a green land at sunset, all were there ! Eyes that he knew, old faces, unforgot, Gaz'd sadly down on his unrestful lot, And Memory's calm clear voice, and mournful eye, Chill'd every buoyant hope that floated by ; Like frozen winds on southern vales that blow From a far land — the children of the snow — 90 O'er flowering plain and blossom'd meadow fling The cold dull shadow of their icy wing. Then Fancy's roving visions, bold and free, A moment dispossess'd reality. All airy hopes that idle hearts can frame, Like dreams betweeii two sorrows, went and came : 30 CKOMWELL Fond hearts that fain would clothe the unwelcome truth Of toilsome manhood in the dreams of youth, To bend in rapture at some idle throne, Some lifeless soulless phantom of their own ; 100 Some shadowy vision of a tranquil life, Of joys unclouded, years unstirr'd by strife ; Of sleep unshadow'd by a dream of woe ; Of many a lawny hill, and streams with silver flow ; Of giant mountains by the western main, The sunless forest, and the sea-like plain ; Those lingering hopes of coward hearts, that still Would play the traitor to the steadfast will. One moment's space, perchance, might charm his eye From the stern future, and the years gone by. 110 One moment's space might waft him far away To western shores — the death-place of the day ! Might paint the calm, sweet peace — the rest of home, Far o'er the pathless waste of labouring foam — Peace, that recall'd his childish hours anew. More calm, more deep, than childhood ever knew ! Green happy places— like a flowery lea Between the barren mountains and the stormy sea. O pleasant rest, if once the race were run ! O happy slumber, if the day were done ! 120 Dreams that were sweet at eve, at morn were sin ; With cares to conquer, and a goal to win ! His were no tranquil years — no languid sleep — No life of dreams — no home beyond the deep — No softening ray — no visions false and wild — No glittering hopes on life's grey distance smiled — Like isles of sunlight on a mountain's brow. Lit by a wandering gleam, we know not how, Far on the dim horizon, when the sky With glooming clouds broods dark and heavily. 130 Then his eye slumber 'd, and the chain was broke That bound his spirit, and his heart awoke ; Then — like a kingly river — swift and strong, The future roll'd its gathering tides along ! The shout of onset and the shriek of fear Smote, like the rush of waters, on his ear ; CKOMWELL 31 And his eye kindled with the kindling fray, The surging battle and the mail'd array ! All wondrous deeds the coming days should see, And the long Vision of the years to be. 140 Pale phantom hosts, like shadows, faint and far, Councils, and armies, and the pomp of war ! And one sway'd all, who wore a kingly crown, Until another rose and smote him down : A form that tower'd above his brother men ; A form he knew — but it was shrouded then ! With stern, slow steps — unseen — yet still the same, By leaguer'd tower and tented field it came ; By Naseby's hill, o'er Marston's heathy waste, By Worcester's field the warrior-vision pass'd ! 150 From their deep base, thy beetling cliffs, Dunbar, Rang, as he trode them, with the voice of war ! The soldier kindled at his words of fire ; The statesman quail'd before his glance of ire ! Worn was his brow with cares no thought could scan, His step was loftier than the steps of man ; And the winds told his glory, and the Avave Sonorous witness to his empire gave ! What forms are these, that with complaining sound, And slow, reluctant steps are gatliering round ? 160 Forms that with him shall tread life's changing stage. Cross his lone path, or share his pilgrimage. There, as he gazed, a wondrous band — they came, Pym's look of hate, and Strafford's glance of flame. There Laud, with noiseless steps and glittering eye, In priestly garb, a frail old man, went by ; His drooping head bowed meekly on his breast ; His hands were folded, like a saint at rest ! There Hampden bent him o'er his saddle bow. And death's cold dews bedimm'd his earnest brow ; 170 Still turn'd to watch the battle— still forgot Himself, his sufferings, in his country's lot ! There Falkland eyed the strife that would not cease, Shook back his tangled locks, and murmur'd — 'Peace!' With feet that spurn'd the ground, lo ! Milton there Stood like a statue ; and his face was fair — 32 CROMWELL Fair beyond human beauty ; and his eye, That knew not earth, soar'd upwards to the sky ! He, too, was there — it was the princely boy. The child-companion of his childish joy ! 180 But oh ! how chang'd — those deathlike features wore Childhood's bright glance, and sunny smile no more ! That brow so sad, so pale, so full of care — What trace of careless childhood linger'd there ? What spring of youth in that majestic mien. So sadly calm, so kingly, so serene ? No — all was chang'd — the monarch wept alone, Between a ruin'd church and shatter'd throne ! Friendless and hopeless — like a lonely tree, On some bare headland, straining mournfully, 190 That all night long its weary moan doth make To the vex'd waters of a mountain lake ! Still, as he gaz'd, the phantom's mournful glance Shook the deep slumber of his deathlike trance ; Like some forgotten strain that haunts us still. That calm eye foUow'd, turn him where he will ; Till the pale monarch, and the long array, Pass'd, like a morning mist, in tears away ! Then all his dream was troubled, and his soul Thrill'd with a dread no slumber could control ; 200 On that dark form his eyes had gaz'd before, Nor known it then ; — but it was veil'd no more ! In broad clear light the ghastly vision shone, — That form was his, — those features were his own ! The night of terrors, and the day of care. The years of toil, all, all were written there ! Sad faces watch'd around him, and his breath Came faint and feeble in the embrace of death. The gathering tempest, with its voice of fear. His latest loftiest music, smote his ear ! 210 That day of boundless hope and promise high, That day that hail'd his triumphs, saw him die ! Then from those whitening lips, as death drew near, The imprisoning chains fell off, and all was clear ! Like lowering clouds, that at the close of day, Bath'd in a blaze of sunset, melt away ; CEOMWELL 33 And with its clear calm tones, that dying prayer Cheer'd all the failing hearts that sorrow'd there ! A life — whose ways no human thought could scan ; A life — that was not as the life of man ; 220 A life — that wrote its purpose with a sword, Moulding itself in action, not in word ! Rent with tumultuous thoughts, whose conflict rung Deep thro' his soul, and chok'd his faltering tongue ; A heart that reck'd not of the countless dead That strew'd the blood-stain'd path where Empire led ; A daring hand, that shrunk not to fulfil The thought that spurr'd it ; and a dauntless will. Bold action's parent ; and a piercing ken Through the dark chambers of the hearts of men, 230 To read each thought, and teach that master-mind The fears and hopes and passions of mankind ; All these were thine — Oh thought of fear ! — and thou Stretch'd on that bed of death, art nothing now. Then all his vision faded, and his soul Sprang from its sleep ! and lo, the waters roll Once more beneath him ; and the fluttering sail, Where the dark ships rode proudly, woo'd the gale ; And the wind murmur'd round him, and he stood Once more alone beside the gleaming flood. 240 34 HOEATIAN ECHO (to an ambitious friend) [Written in 1847. First published in Tlic Century Guild HoVby Horse, 1887.] Omit, omit, my simple friend, Still to inquire how parties tend. Or what we fix with foreign powers. If France and we are really friends, And what the Eussian Czar intends. Is no concern of ours. Us not the daily quickening race Of the invading populace Shall draw to swell that shjouldering herd. Mourn will we not your closing hour, 10 Ye imbeciles in present power, Doom'd, ijompous, and absurd ! And let us bear, that they debate Of all the engine-work of state, Of commerce, laws, and policy. The secrets of the world's machine. And what the rights of man may mean. With readier tongue than we. Only, that with no finer art They cloak the troubles of the heart 20 With pleasant smile, let us take care ; Nor with a lighter hand dispose Fresh garlands of this dewy rose, To crown Eugenia's hair. Of little threads our life is spun, And he spins ill, who misses one. But is thy fair Eugenia cold ? Yet Helen had an equal grace. And Juliet's was as fair a face. And now their years are told. 30 HOEATIAN ECHO 35 The day approaches, when we must Be crumbling bones and windy dust ; And scorn us as our mistress may, Her beauty will no better be Than the poor face she slights in thee. When dawns that day, that day. SONNET TO THE HUNGARIAN NATION [First published in The Examiner, July 21, 1849 ; not re- printed by the author.] Not in sunk Spain's prolpng'd death agony ; Not in rich England, bent but to make pour The flood of the world's commerce on her shore ; Not in that madhouse, France, from whence the cry AiHicts grave Heaven with its long senseless roar ; Not in American vulgarity, Nor wordy German imbecility — Lies any hope of heroism more. Hungarians ! Save the world ! Renew the stories Of men who against hope repell'd the chain, 10 And make the world's dead spirit leap again ! On land renew that Greek exploit, whose glories Hallow the Salaminian promontories. And the Armada flung to the fierce main. D 2 THE STRAYED REVELLER AND OTHER FOEMS, 1849 ^A fiixapj offTts €T}v KeTvov ■)(^p6vov tSpis aoioij^ Movffdojv Oep&rrojv, or' oLKeipaTOS ^v ert Xetfiwv vvv S'j 0T€ TTCLvra StSaffTat^ €X°^^^ ^^ ireipaTa Te'x^ai, vffTarot wffT€ Spofiov icardK€fn6p.€d* — SONNET [First published 1849. Keprinted 1853, '54, '57.] One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee. One lesson that in every wind is blown. One lesson of two duties serv'd in one, Though the loud world proclaim their enmity — Of Toil unsever'd from Tranquillity : Of Labour, that in still advance outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in Repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand (Jiscords ring, Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil, 10 Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting : Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil ; Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone. MYCERINUS [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] ' Not by the justice that my father spurn'd. Not for the thousands whom my father slew, Altars unfed and temples overturn'd, Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks were due ; Fell this late voice from lips that cannot lie, Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny. 1, 2 One lesson] Two lessons ISiO. 2 is] are 1S49. 3 Two blending duties, harmonis'd in one, ISiO. 6 still advance] one short hour 1S49. 7 Par noisier] Man's noisy lSi9. 10 senseless uproar] weak complainings lSi9. 12 tasks] course lSi9. 13 blaming] chiding lSi9. MYCEEINUS 37 I will unfold my sentence and my crime. My crime, that, rapt in reverential awe, I sate obedient, in the fiery prime Of youth, self-govern'd, at the feet of Law ; 10 Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings. By contemplation of diviner things. My father lov'd injustice, and liv'd long ; Crown'd with grey hairs he died, and full of sway. I lov'd the good he scorn'd, and hated wrong : The Gods declare my recompense to-day. I look'd for life more lasting, rule more high ; And when six years are measur'd, lo, I die ! Yet surely, O my people, did I deem Man's justice from the all-just Gods was given : 20 A light that from some upper fount did beam. Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven ; A light that, shining from the blest abodes, Did shadow somewhat of the life of Gods. Mere phantoms of man's self-tormenting heart. Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed : Vain dreams, that quench our pleasures, then depart. When the dup'd soul, self-master'd, claims its meed : When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows, Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close. £0 Seems it so light a thing then, austere Powers, To spurn man's common lure, life's pleasant things ? Seems there no joy in dances crown'd with flowers, Love, free to range, and regal banquetings ? Bend ye on these, indeed, an unmov'd eye, Not Gods but ghosts, in frozen apathy ? Or is it that some Power, too wise, too strong, Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile, Whirls earth, and heaven, and men, and gods along, Like the broad rushing of the insurged Nile ? 40 And the great powers we serve, themselves may be Slaves of a tyrannous Necessity ? 40 insurged] column'd 18i0. 38 MYCEKINUS Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars. Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight, And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars, Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night ? Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen. Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene ? Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be. Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream ? 50 Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see. Blind divinations of a will supreme ; Lost labour : when the circumambient gloom But hides, if Gods, Gods careless of our doom ? The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak My sand runs short ; and as yon star-shot ray, Hemm'd by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak, Now, as the barrier closes, dies away ; Even so do past and future intertwine, Blotting this six years' space, which yet is mine. 60 Six years — six little years — six drops of time — Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane, And old men die, and young men pass their prime. And languid Pleasure fade and flower again ; And the dull Gods behold, ere these are flown. Revels more deep, joy keener than their own. Into the silence of the groves and woods I will go forth ; but something would I say — Something — yet what I know not : for the Gods The doom they pass revoke not, nor delay ; 70 And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all, And the night waxes, and the shadows fall. Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king. I go, and I return not. But the will Of the great Gods is plain ; and ye must bring 111 deeds, ill passions,, zealous to fulfil Their pleasure, to their feet ; and reap their praise, The praise of Gods, rich boon ! and length of days.' MYCEEINUS 39 — So spake Le, half in anger, half in scorn ; And one loud cry of grief and of amaze 80 Broke from his sorrowing people : so he spake ; And turning, left them there ; and with brief pause, Grirt with a throng of revellers, bent his way To the cool region of the groves he lov'd. There by the river banks he wander'd on, From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees. Their smooth tops shining Sunwards, and beneath Burying their unsunn'd stems in grass and flowers : Where in one dream the feverish time of Youth Might fade in slum!ber, and the feet of Joy 90 Might wander all day long and never tire : Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn, Eose-crown'd ; and ever, when the sun went down, A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom. From tree to tree, all through the twinkling grove. Revealing all the tumult of the feast, Flush'd guests, and golden goblets, foam'd with wine ; While the deep-burnish'd foliage overhead Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon. It may be that sometimes his wondering soul 100 From the loud joyful laughter of his lips Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man Who wrestles with his dream -^ as some pale Shape, Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems, Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl. Whispering, 'A little space, and thou art mine.' It may be on that joyless feast his eye Dwelt with mere outward seeming ; he, within, Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength, And by that silent knowledge, day by day, HO Was calm'd, ennobled, comforted, sustain'd. It may be ; but not less his brow was smooth, And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom. And his mirth quail'd not at the mild reproof Sigh'd out by Winter's sad tranquillity ; Nor, pall'd with its own fullness, ebb'd and died In the rich languor of long summer days ; Nor wither'd, when the palm-tree plumes that roof 'd With their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall. Bent to the cold winds of the showerless Spring ; 120 40 MYCEEINUS No, nor grew dark when Autumn brought the clouds. So six long years he revell'd, night and day ; And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, To tell his wondering people of their king ; In the still night, across the steaming ilats, Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile. TO A FEIEND [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind ? He much, the old man, who, clearest -soul'd of men, Saw The Wide Prospect, ' and the Asian Fen, And Tmolus' hill, and Smyrna's bay, though blind. Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, That halting slave, who in Nicopolis Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son Clear'd Rome of what most sham'd him. But be his My special thanks, whose even-balanc'd soul. From first youth tested up to extreme old age, lo Business could not make dull, nor Passion wild : Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole : The mellow glory of the Attic stage ; Singer of sweet Col onus, and its child. ^ 'Eipanrj. THE STEAYED EEVELLER [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] TheiMrtico of Circe's Palace. Evening A Youth. Circe The Youth Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul ! Tkeportico of Circe's Palace. Evening} First inserted in 1S53. THE STEAYED EEVELLEE 41 Thou standest, smiling Down on me ; thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek ; 10 Thy left holds, hanging loosely. The deep cup, ivy-cinctur'd, I held but now. Is it then evening So soon ? I see, the night dews, Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder. The cool night-wind, too. Blows through the portico, 20 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe. Circe Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess, I sprang up, I threw round nie My dappled fawn-skin : 30 Passing out, from the wet turf. Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff. All drench'd in dew : Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, lacchus' white fane On yonder hill. Quick I pass'd, following 40 The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley ; — I saw 42 THE STKAYED REVELLER On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty : Trembling, I enter'd ; beheld The court all silent. The lions sleeping ; On the altar, this bowl. I drank. Goddess — 50 And sunk down here, sleeping. On the steps of thy portico. Circe Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows, Through the delicate ilush'd marble. The red creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds ! Drink, then ! I chide thee not. Deny thee not my bowl. 60 Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so, — Drink, drink again ! The Youth Thanks, gracious One ! Ah, the sweet fumes again ! More soft, ah me ! More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music. Faint — faint ! Ah me ! Again the sweet sleep. ClKCE Hist ! Thou — within there ! 70 Come forth, Ulysses ! Art tired with hunting ? While we range the woodland, See what the day brings. Ulysses Ever new magic ! Hast thou then lur'd hither, THE STRAYED EEVELLEK 43 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-ey'd Ampelus, lacohus' darling — Or some youth belov'd of Pan, 80 Of Pan and the Nymphs ? That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreath'd marge Of thy cup : — the bright, glancing vine-leaves' That crown his hair. Palling forwards, mingling With the dark ivy-plants. His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains ? Who is he, 90 That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep. So late, in thy portico ? What youth, Goddess, — what guest Of Gods or inortals ? Circe Hist ! he wakes ! I lur'd him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him ! The Youth Who speaks ? Ah ! Who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within ? 100 How shall I name him ? This spare, dark-featur'd, Quick-ey'd stranger ? Ah ! and I see too His sailor's bonnet. His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare. — Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves ? 110 Art thou he, stranger ? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son ? 44 THE STKAYED EEVELLER Ulysses I am Ulysses. And thou, too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast follow'd Through the islands some divine bard. By age taught many things, Age and the Muses ; 120 And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts. And peopled cities Inland, or built By the grey sea. — If so, then hail ! I honour and welcome thee. The Youth The Gods are happy. 130 They turn on all sides Their shining eyes : And see, below them, The Earth, and men. They see Tiresias Sitting, staff' in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus' bank : His robe drawn over His old, sightless head : 140 Revolving inly The doom of Thebes. They see the Centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams, Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools ; With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind. 150 THE STKAYED EEVELLEE 45 They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat nioor'd to A floating isle thick matted With large-leav'd, low-creeping melon-plants, And the dark cucumber. He reaps, and stows them, Drifting — drifting: — round him. Bound his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves : 160 The mountains ring them. They see the Scythian On the wide Stepp, unharnessing His wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal, Mares' milk, and bread Bak'd on the embers : — all around The boundless waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock And flag-leav'd iris flowers. 170 Sitting in his cart He makes his meal : before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards, And the springing bustard fowl. The track, a straight black line, Furrows the rich soil : here and there Clusters of lonely moimds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer The sunny Waste. 180 They see the Ferry On the broad, clay-laden Lone Chorasmian stream : thereon With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm-harness'd by the mane : — a Chief, With shout and shaken spear Stands at the prow, and guides them : but astern, 190 The cowering Merchants, in long robes, 46 THE STKAYED KEVELLEK Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, Jasper and chalcedony, And milk-barr'd onyx stones. The loaded boat swings groaning In the yellow eddies. The Gods behold them. 200 They see the Heroes Sitting in the. dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving, Violet sea: At sunset nearing The Happy Islands. These things, Ulysses, The wise Bards also Behold and sing. But oh, what labour ! 210 O Prince, what pain ! They too can see Tiresias : — but the Gods, Who give them vision. Added this law : That they should bear too His groping blindness. His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs ; Bear Hera's anger 220 Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages. They see the Centaurs On Pelion : — then they feel, They too, the maddening wine Swell their large veins to bursting : in wild pain They feel the biting spears Of the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive, Drive crashing through their bones : they feel High on a jutting rock in the red stream 230 THE STKAYED REVELLER 47 Alcmena's dreadful son Ply his bow : — such a price The Gods exact for song ; To become what we sing. They see the Indian On his mountain lake :— but squalls Make their skiif reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnaw'd Their melon-harvest to the heart : They see The Scythian : — but long frosts 240 Parch them in winter-time on the bare Stepp, Till they too fade like grass : they crawl Like shadows forth in spring. They see the Merchants On the Oxus' stream : — but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse has burst Upon their caravan : or greedy kings. In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 250 Crush'd them with tolls : or fever-airs, On some great river's marge. Mown them down, far from home. They see the Heroes Near harbour : — but they share Their lives, and former violent toil, in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy : Or where the echoing oars Of Argo, first. Startled the unknown Sea. 260 The old Silenus Came, lolling in the sunshine. From the dewy forest coverts. This way, at noon. Sitting, by me, while his Fajins Down at the water side Sprinkled and smogth'd His drooping garlq.ud, He told me these things. 238 Inl I' 1849. 48 THE STEAYED EEVELLEE But I, Ulysses, 270 Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, vs^ithout labour. Sometimes a wild-hair'd Maenad ; Sometimes a Faun with torches ; And sometimes, for a moment. Passing through the dark stems Flowing-rob'd — the belov'd, The desir'd, the divine, 280 Belov'd lacchus. Ah cool night-wind, tremulous stars 1 Ah glimmering water — Fitful earth-murmur — Dreaming woods ! Ah golden-hair'd, strangely-smiling Goddess, And thou, prov'd, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! Who can stand still ? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me. 2fl0 The cup again ! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul ! FEAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' [First published 1849. Reprinted 1855.] The Chorus Well hath he done who hath seiz'd happiness. For little do the all-containing Hours, Though opulent, freely give. Who, weighing that life well Fortune presents unpray'd. Declines her ministry, and carves his own : And, justice not infring'd. Makes his own welfare his unswerv'd-from law. FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' 49 He does well too, who keeps that clue the mild Birth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave. 10 For from the day when these Bring him, a weeping child, First to the light, and mark A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home, Unguided he remains, Till the Fates come again, alone, with death. In little companies. And, our own place once left. Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid. By city and household group'd, we live : and many shocks 20 Our order heaven-ordain'd Must every day endure. Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars. Besides what waste He makes, The all-hated, order-breaking. Without friend^ city, or home, Death, who dissevers all. Him then I praise, who dares To self-selected good Prefer obedience to the primal law, 30 "Which consecrates the ties of blood : for these, indeed. Are to the Gods a care : That touches but himself. For every day man may be link'd and loos'd With strangers : but the bond Original, deep-in wound, Of blood, can he not bind : Nor, if Fate binds, not bear. ' But hush ! Haemon, whom Antigone, Robbing herself of life in burying, 40 Against Creon's law, Polynices, Eobs of a lov'd bride ; pale, imploring, Waiting her passage. Forth from the palace hitherward comes. 50 FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' Haemok No, no, old men, Creon I curse not. I weep, Thebans, One than Creon crueller far. For he, he, at least, by slaying her, August, laws doth mightily vindicate : But thou, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless, 63 Ah me ! — honourest more than thy lover, Antigone, A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse. The Chokus Nor was the love untrue Which the Dawn-Goddess bore To that fair youth she erst Leaving the salt sea-beds And coming flush'd over the stormy frith Of loud Euripus, saw : Saw and snatch'd, wild with love, 60 From the pine-dotted spurs Of Parnes, where thy waves, Asopus, gleam rock-hemm'd ; The Hunter of the Tanagraean Field. But him, in his sweet prime. By severance immature. By Artemis' soft shafts. She, though a Goddess born. Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die. Such end o'ertook that love. TO For she desir'd to make Immortal mortal man, And blend his happy life, Far from the Gods, with hers : To him postponing an eternal law. Haemon But, like me, she, wroth, complaining, Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods : And, her beautiful arms unclasping. Her fair Youth unwillingly gave. FEAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' 51 The Chorus Nor, though enthroh'd too high 80 To fear assault of envious Gods, His belov'd Argive Seer would Zeus retain From his appointed end In this our Thebes : but when His flying steeds came near To cross the steep Ismenian glen, The broad Earth open'd and whelm'd them and him ; And through the void air sang At large his enemy's spear. And fain would Zeus have sav'd his tired son 90 Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand O'er the sun-redden'd Western Straits : Or at his work in that dim lower world. Fain would he have recall'd The fraudulent oath which bound To a much feebler wight the heroic man : But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire. Nor did there need less than the burning pile Under the towering Trachis crags. And the Spercheius' vale, shaken with groans, lou And the rous'd Maliac gulph, And scar'd Oetaean snows, To achieve his son's deliverance, my child. THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA [First published 1849. Reimnted 1855.] Hussein MOST just Vizier, send away The cloth-merchants, and let them be, Them and their dues, this day : the King Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. The Viziek merchants, tarry yet a day Here in Bokhara : but at noon To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay Each fortieth web of cloth to me. As the law is, and go your way. 52 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA Hussein, lead me to the King. 10 Thou teller of sWeet tales, thine own, Ferdousi's, and the others', lead. How is it with my lord ? Hussein Alone, Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, O Vizier, without lying down, In the great window of the gate, Looking into the Registan ; Where through the sellers' booths the slaves Are this way bringing the dead man. O Vizier, here is the King's door. 20 The King O Vizier, I may bury him ? The Vizier O King, thou know'st, I have been sick These many days, and heard no thing (For Allah shut my ears and mind). Not even what thou dost, O King. Wherefore, that I may counsel thee. Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste To speak in order what hath chanc'd. The King O Vizier, be it 4S thou say'st. Hussein Three days since, at the time of prayer, 30 A certain Moollah, with his robe All rent, and dust upon his hair, Watch'd my lord's coming forth, and push'd The golden mace-bearers aside, And fell at the King's feet, and cried ; 'Justice, King, and on myself ! On tliis great sinner, who hath broke The law, and by the law must die ! Vengeance, O King ! ' But the King spoke : 12 Ferdousi's] Perdusi's lSi9. THE SICK KING IN BOKHAEA 53 'What fool is this, that hurts our ears 40 With folly ? or what drunken slave ? My guards, what, prick him with your spears ! Prick me the fellow from the path ! ' As the King said, so was it done, And to the mosque my lord pass'd on. But on the morrow, when the King Went forth again, the holy book Carried before him, as is right. And through the square his patlx he took ; Mj'' man comes running, fleck 'd with blood 50 From yesterday, and failing down Cries out most earnestly ; ' O King, My lord, O King, do right, I pray ! * How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern If I speak folly ? but a king, Whether a thing be great or small. Like Allah, hears and judges all. 'Wherefore hear thou ! Thou know'st, how fierce In these last days the sun hiath burn'd : That the green water in the tanks 60 Is to a putrid puddle tum'd : And the canal, that from the stream Of Samarcand is brought this way. Wastes, and runs thinner every day. ' Now I at nightfall had gone forth Alone, and in a darksome place Under some mulberry trees I found A little pool ; and in brief space With all the water that was there I fiU'd my pitcher, and stole home 70 Unseen : and having drink to spare, I hid the can behind the door. And went up on the roof to sleep. ' But in the night, which was with wind And burning dust, again I creep Down, having fever, for a drink. 54 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA ' Now meanwhile had my brethren found The water-pitcher, where it stood Behind the door upon the ground, And caird my mother : and they all, 80 As they were thirsty, and the night Most sultry, drain'd the pitcher there ; That they sate with it, in my sight, Their lips still wet, when I came down. ' Now mark ! I, being fever'd, sick, (Most unblest also) at that sight Brake forth, and curs'd them — dost thou hear? — One was my mother — Now, do right ! ' But my lord mus'd a space, and said : ' Send him away. Sirs, and make on. 90 It is some madman,' the King said : As the King said, so was it done. The morrow at the self-same hour In the King's path, behold, the man, Not kneeling, sternly fix'd : he stood Eight opposite, and thus began, Frowning grim down : — ' Thou wicked King, Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear ! What, must I howl in the next world, Because thou wilt not listen here ? 100 'What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, And all grace shall to me be grudg'd ? Nay but, I swear, from this thy path I will not stir till I be judg'd.' Then they who stood about the King Drew close together and conferr'd : Till that the King stood forth and said, 'Before the priests thou shalt be heard.' But when the Ulemas were met And the thing heard, they doubted not ; 110 But sentenc'd him, as the law is. To die by stoning on the spot. 109 Ulemas] Ulema 1S49. THE SICK KING IN BOKHAEA 55 Now the King charg'd us secretly : ' Ston'd must he be, the law stands so : Yet, if he seek to fly, give way : Forbid him not, but let him go.' So saying, the King took a stone, And cast it softly : but the man, With a great joy upon his face, Kneel'd down, and cried not, neither ran. 120 So they, whose lot it was, cast stones ; That they flew thick and bruis'd him sore : But he prais'd Allah with loud voice, And remain'd kneeling as before. My lord had cover'd up his face : . But when one told him, ' He is dead,' Turning him quickly to go in, ' Bring thou to me his corpse,' he said. And truly, while I speak, O King, I hear the bearers on the stair. 130 Wilt thou they straightway bring him in ? — Ho ! enter ye who tarry there ! The Vizier O King, in this I praise thee not. Now must I call thy grief not wise. Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, To find such favour in thine eyes ? Nay, were he thine own mother's son, Still, thou art king, and the Law stands. It were not meet the balance swerv'd. The sword were broken in thy hands. 140 But being nothing, as he is. Why for no cause make sad thy face ? Lo, I am old : three kings, ere thee. Have I seen reigning in this place. But who, through all this length of time, Could bear the burden of his years, If he for strangers pain'd his heart Not less than those who merit tears ? 56 THE SICK KING IN BOKHAEA Fathers we must have, wife and child ; And grievous is the grief for these : 150 This pain alone, which must be borne, Makes the head white, and bows the knees. But other loads than this his own One man is not well made to bear. Besides, to each are his own friends, To mourn with him, and show him care. Look, this is but one single place. Though it be great: all the earth round, If a man bear to have it so, Things which might vex him shall be found. 160 Upon the Russian frontier, where The watchers of two armies stand Near one another, many a man, Seeking a prey unto his hand. Hath snatch 'd a little fair-hair'd slave : They snatch also, towards Merve, The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep. And up from thence to Orgunje. And these all, labouring for a lord. Eat not the fruit of their own hands : 170 Which is the heaviest of all plagues. To that man's mind, who understands. The kaffirs also (whom God curse ! ) Vex one another, night and day : There are the lepers, and all sick : There are the poor, who faint alway. All these have sorrow, and. keep still, Whilst other men make cheer, and sing. Wilt thou have pity on all these ? No, nor on this dead dog, O King ! ISO The King O Vizier, thou art old, I young. Clear in these things I cannot see. My head is burning ; and a heat Is in my skin which angers me. 161 Russian] northern JS49. 168 Ocgunje] Urghendje lSi9. THE SICK KING IN BOKHAEA 57 But hear ye this, ye sons of men ! They that bear rule, and are obey'd, Unto a rule more strong than theirs Are in their turn obedient made. In vain therefore, with wistful eyes Gazing up hither, the poor man, 190 Who loiters by the high-heap'd booths. Below there, in the Eegistan, Says, ' Happy he, who lodges there ! With silken raiment, store of rice. And for this drought, all kinds of fruits. Grape syrup, squares of colour'd ice, ' With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow.' In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enamell'd mosques ; And to make orchard closes, fill'd 200 With curious fruit trees, bought from far ; With cisterns for the winter rain ; And in the desert, spacious inns In divers places ; — if that pain Is not more lighten'd, which he feels. If his will be not satisfied : And that it be not, from all time The Law is planted, to abide. Thou wert a sinner, thou poor man ! Thou wert athirst ; and didst not see, 210 That, though we snatch what we desire. We must not snatch it eagerly. And I have meat and drink at will, And rooms of treasures, not a few. But I am sick, nor heed I these : And what I would, I cannot do. Even the great honour which I have. When I am dead, will soon grow still. So have I neither joy, nor fame. But what I can do, that I will. 220 58 THE SICK KING IN BOKHAEA I have a fretted brick-work tomb Upon a hill on the right hand, Hard by a close of apricots, Upon the road of Samarcand : Thither, Vizier, will I bear This man my pity could not save ; And, plucking up the marble flags. There lay his body in my grave. Bring water, nard, and linen rolls. Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb. 230 Then say ; ' He was not wholly vile. Because a king shall bury him.' SHAKESPEAEE [First published 1849. Reprinted 3853, '54, '57.] Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask : Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty. Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea. Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling-place. Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality : And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 10 Didst walk on Earth unguess'd at. Better so ! All pains the imniortal spirit must endure. All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow. Find their sole voice in that victorious brow. 227 plucking] tearing lSi9. 59 TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED [First published 184:9.] Because thou hast believ'd, the wheels of life Stand never idle, but go always round : Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, Mov'd only ; but by genius, in the strife Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, Urg'd ; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand. The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand : And, in this vision of the general law, Hast labour'd with the foremost, hast become Laborious, persevering, serious, firm ; 10 For this, thy track, across the fretful foam Of vehement actions without scope or term, Call'd History, keeps a splendour : due to wit. Which saw one clue to life, and follow'd it WEITTEN IN BUTLEE'S SERMONS [First published 1849.] Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control — So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole, Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. Vain labour ! Deep and broad, where none may see, Spring the foundations of the shadowy throne Where man's one Nature, queen-like, sits alone, Centred in a majestic unity ; And rays her powers, like sister islands, seen Linking their coral arms under the sea : 10 Or cluster'd peaks, with plunging gulfs between Spann'd by aerial arches, all of gold ; Whereo'er the chariot wheels of Life are roll'd In cloudy circles, to eternity. 60 WEITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853.] ' O MONSTRorrs, dead, unprofitable world, That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way. A voice oracular hath peal'd to-daj-. To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd. Hast thou no lip for welcome ? ' So I said. Man after man, the world smil'd and pass'd bj' : A smile of wistful incredulity As though one spake of noise unto the dead : Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful ; and full Of bitter knowledge. Yet the Will is free : 10 Strong is the Soul, and wise, and beautiful : The seeds of godlike power are in us still : Gods are we, Bards, Saints, Heroes, if we will. — Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ? TO AN INDEPENDENT PREACHER WHO PREACHED THAT WE SHOULD iBE 'iX HARMONY WITH NATURE ' [First published 1849.] ' In harmony with Nature ' ? Restless fool, "Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee. When true, the last impossibility ; To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool : — Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more. And in that more lie all his hopes of good. Nature is cruel ; man is sick of blood : Nature is stubborn ; man would fain adore : Nature is fickle ; man hath need of rest : Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave ; 10 Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest. Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends ; Nature and man can never be fast friends. Pool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave ! 61- TO GEOEGE CEUIKSHANK, ESQ. ON SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME HIS PICTURE OF ' THE BOTTLE ', IN THE COUNTRY [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf : and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born, Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn : Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude, Like comets on the heavenly solitude ? Shall breathless glades, cheer'd by shy Dian's horn, Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so ! The Soul Breasts her own griefs : and, urg'd too fiercely, says : ' Why tremble ? True, the nobleness of man 11 May be by man effac'd : man can control To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. Know thou the worst. So much, not more, he can.' TO A EEPUBLICAN FEIEND, 1848 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] God knows it, I am with you. If to prize Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few, But priz'd, but lov'd, but eminent in you, Man's fundamental life : if to despise The barren optimistic sophistries Of comfortable moles, whom what they do Teaches the limit of the just and true — And for such doing have no need of eyes : If sadness at the long heart-wasting show Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted : 10 If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow The armies of the homeless and unfed : — If these are yours, if this is what you are. Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share. To a Republican Friend, 1848. Tide] dale first inserted in 1S33. 62 TO A EEPUBLICAN FKIEND, 1848 Continued [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem Kather to patience prompted, than that proud Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud, France, fam'd in all great arts, in none supreme. Seeing this Vale, this Earth, whereon we dream, Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity, Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, When, bursting through the network superpos'd 10 By selfish occupation — plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man, All difference with his fellow man compos'd. Shall be left standing face to face with God. KELIGIOUS ISOLATION TO THE SAME [First ptiblished 1849. Reprinted 1853, '51, '57.] Childeen (as such forgive them) have I known, Ever in their own eager pastime bent To make the incurious bystander, intent On his own swarming thoughts, an interest own ; Too fearful or too fond to play alone. Do thou, whoni light in thine own inniost soul (Not less thy boast) illuminates, control Wishes unworthy of a man full-grown. What though the holy secret which moulds thee Moulds not the solid Earth ? though never Winds 10 Have whisper'd it to the complaining Sea, Nature's great law, and law of all men's minds ? To its own impulse every creature stirs : Live by thy light, and Earth will live by hers. TO MY FEIENDS WHO RIDICULED A TENDER LEAVE-TAKING [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] Laugh, my Friends, and without blame Lightly quit what lightly came : Kich to-moiTow as to-day Spend as madly as you may. I, with little land to stir. Am the exacter labourer. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! But my Youth reminds me — ' Thou Hast liv'd light as these live now : 10 As these are, thou too wert such : Much hast had, hast squander 'd much.' Fortune's now less frequent heir. Ah ! I husband what 's grown rare. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! Young, I said : ' A face is gone If too hotly mus'd upon : And our best impressions are Those that do themselves repair.' 20 Many a face I then let by. Ah ! is faded utterly. Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! Marguerite says : ' As last year went, So the coming year '11 be spent : Some day next year, I shall be, Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee.' Ah ! I hope—yet, once away. What may chain us, who can say ? £0 Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! To my Friends, &c. Title] Switzerland. I. To my friends who ridiculed a tender leave-taking 2853, 1S54, 1837. 7, 15, 23, 31, 39,^47, 55, 71 hour go by] kiss be dry 1849, ISDS, ISoi. 64 TO MY FEIENDS Paint that lilac kerchief, bound Her soft face, her hair around : Tied under the archest chin Mockery ever ambush'd in. Let the fluttering fringes streak All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 40 Paint that figure's pliant grace As she towards me lean'd her face. Half refus'd and half resign'd. Murmuring, ' Art thou still unkind ? ' Many a broken promise then Was new made — to break again. Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, Eager tell-tales of her mind : 50 Paint, with their impetuous stress Of inquiring tenderness. Those frank eyes, where deep doth lie An angelic gravity. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! What, my Friends, these feeble lines Show, you say, my love declines ? To paint ill as I have done. Proves forgetfulness begun ? 60 Time's gay minions, pleas'd you see, Time, your master, governs me. Pleas'd, you mock the fruitless cry ' Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! ' Ah ! too true. Time's current strong Leaves us true to n'othing long. Yet, if little stays with man. Ah ! retain we all we can ! If the clear impression dies. Ah ! the dim remembrance prize ! 70 Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablf^ts. Memory ! 65 A MODERN SAPPHO [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853.] They are gone : all is still : Foolish heart, dost thou qui'ver ? Nothing moves on the lawn but the quick lilac shade. Far up gleams the house, and beneath flows the river. Here lean, my head, on this cool balustrade'. Ere he come : ere the boat, by the shining-branch'd border Of dark elms come round, dropping down the proud stream ; Let me pause, let me strive, in myself find some order. Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam. Is it hope makes me linger ? the dim thought, that sorrow Means parting ? that only in absence lies pain ? lu It was well with me once if I saw him : to-morrow May bring one of the old happy moments again. Last night we stood earnestly talking together — She enter'd — that moment his eyes turn'd from me. Fasten'd on her dark hair and her wreath of white heather — As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be. Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet , stronger. Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn : They must love — while they must : But the hearts that love longer Are rare : ah ! most loves but flow pnce, and return. 20 I shall suffer ; but they will outlive their affection : I shall weep ; but their love- will be cooling: and he, As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, WUl be brought, thou poor heart ! how much nearer to thee ! 66 A MODERN SAPPHO For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking The strong band which beauty around him hath furl'd, Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking, Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world. Through that gloom, he will see but a shadow appearing, ■ Perceive but a voice as I come to his side : 30 But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing, Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. Then — to wait. But what notes down the wind, hark ! are driving ? 'Tis he ! 'tis the boat, shooting round by the trees ! Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving ! Ah ! hope cannot long lighten torments like these. Hast thou yet dealt him, O Life, thy full measure ? World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee ? Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O Pleasure ? Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me. 40 THE NEW SIRENS A PALINODE [First published 1849.] In the cedar shadow sleeping, Where cool grass and fragrant glooms Oft at noon have lur'd me, creeping Prom your darken'd palace rooms : I, who in your train at morning Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind, Heard, at evening, sounds of warning ; Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind. Who are they, O pensive Graces, — For I dream'd they wore your forms — 10 Who on shores and sea-wash'd places Scoop the shelves and fret the storms ? Who, when ships are that way tending, Troop across the flushing sands. To all reefs and narrows wending, With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands ? THE NEW SIKENS 67 Yet I see, the howling levels Of the deep are not your lair ; And your tragic-vaunted revels Are less lonely than they were. 20 In a Tyrian galley steering From the golden springs of dawn, Troops, like Eastern kings, appearing. Stream all day through your enchanted lawn. And we too, from upland valleys. Where some Muse, with half-curv'd frown. Leans her ear to your rnad sallies Which the charm'd winds never drown ; By faint music guided, ranging The soar'd' glens, we wander'd on : 30 Left our awful laurels hanging. And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne. From' the dragon-warder'd fountains Where the springs of knowledge are : From the watchers on the mountains, And the bright and morning star : We are exiles, we are falling, We have lost them at your call. O ye false ones, at your calling Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace hall. 40 Are the accents of your luring More melodious than of yore ? Are those frail forms more enduring Than the charms Ulysses bore ? That we sought you with rejoicings Till at evening we descry At a pause of Siren voicings These vext branches and this howling sky ? Oh ! your pardon. The uncouthness Of that primal age is gone : 50 And the skin of dazzling smoothness Screens not now a heart of stone. Love has flush'd those cruel faces ; . And your slacken'd arms forego The delight of fierce enibraces : And those whitening bone-mounds do not grow, r 2 68 THE NEW SIEENS ' Come,' you say ; ' the large appearance Of man's labour is but vain : And we plead as firm adherence Due to pleasure as to pain.' 60 Pointing to some world-worn creatures, ' Come,' you murmur with a sigh: ' Ah ! we own diviner features, Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye. ' Come,' you say, ' the hours are dreary : Life is long, and will not fade : Time is lame, and we grow weary In this slumbrous cedarn shade. Round our hearts, with long caresses, With low sighs hath Silence stole ; 70 And her load of steaming tresses Weighs, like Ossa, on the aery soul. ' Come,' you say, ' the Soul is fainting Till she search, and learn her own : And the wisdom of man's painting Leaves her riddle half unknown. Come,' you say, ' the brain is seeking, When the princely heart is dead : Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking, Earer secrets than the toiling head. 80 ' Come, ' you say, ' opinion trembles. Judgement shifts, convictions go : Life dries up, the heart dissembles : Only, what we feel, we know. Hath your wisdom known emotions ? Will it weep our burning tears ? Hath it drunk of our love-potions Crowning moments with the weight of years '? ' I am dumb. Alas ! too soon, all Man's grave reasons disappear : 90 Yet, I think, at God's tribunal Some large answer you shall hear. But for me, my thoughts are straying Where at sunrise, through the vines. On these lawns I saw you playing. Hanging garlands on the odorous pines. THE NEW SIEENS 69 When your showering locks enwound you, And your heavenly eyes shone through : When the pine-boughs yielded round you, And your brows were starr'd with dew : 100 And immortal forms to meet you Down the statued alleys came : And through golden horns, to greet you, Blew such music as a God may fram.e. Yes — I muse : — And, if the dawning Into daylight never grew — If the glistering wings of moroing On the dry noon shook their dew — If the fits of joy were longer — Or the day were sooner done — 110 Or, perhaps, if Hope were stronger — No weak nursling of an earthly sun . . . Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk the hall with yew ! But a bound was set to meetings, And the sombre day dragg'd on : And the burst of joyful greetings. And the joyful dawn, were gone : For the eye was fill'd with gazing. And on raptures follow calms : — 120 And those warm locks men were praising Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms. Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys, And made all your cedars frown ; Leaves are whirling in the alleys Which your lovers wander'd down. — Sitting cheerless in your bowers, The hands propping the sunk head. Do they gall you, the long hours ? And the hungry thought, that must be fed ? 130 Is the pleastire that is tasted Patient of a long review ? Will the fire joy hath wasted, Mus'd on, warm the heart anew ? 70 THE NEW SIEENS — Or, are those old thoughts returning, Guests the dull sense never knew. Stars, set deep, yet inly burning, Germs, your untrimm'd Passion overgrew? Once, like me, you took your station Watchers for a purer fire : 140 But you droop'd in expectation. And you wearied in desire. When the first rose flush was steeping All the frore peak's awful crown, Shepherd^ say, they found you sleeping In a windless valley, further down. Then you wept, and slowly raising Your doz'd eyelids, sought again. Half in doubt, they say, and gazing Sadly back, the seats of men. IBO Snatch'd an earthly inspiration From some transient human Sun, And proclaim'd your vain ovation For the mimic raptures you had won. Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk the hall with yew ! With a sad, majestic motion — With a stately, slow surprise — From their earthward-bound devotion Lifting up your languid eyes : 160 Would you freeze my louder boldness Dumbly smiling as you go ? One faint frown of distant coldness Flitting fast across each marble brow ? Do I brighten at your sorrow O sweet Pleaders ? doth my lot Find assurance in to-morrow Of one joy, which you have not ? O speak once ! and let my sadness, And this sobbing Phrygian strain, 170 Sham'd and baffled by your gladness, Blame the music of your feasts in vain. THE NEW SIRENS 71 Scent, and song, and light, and flowers — Gust on gust, the hoarfee winds blow. Come, bind up those ringlet showers ! Eoses for that dreaming brow ! Come, once more that ancient lightness, Glancing feet, and eager eyes ! Let your broad lamps flash the brightness Which the sorrow-strieken day denies ! 180 Through black depths of serried shadows. Up cold aisles of buried glade ; In the mist of river meadows Where the looming kine are laid ; From your dazzled windows streaming. From the humming festal room. Deep and far, a broken gleaming Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom. Where I stand, the grass is glowing : Doubtless, you are passing fair : 190 But I hear the north wind blowing ; And I feel the cold night-air. Can I look on your sweet faces. And your proud heads backward thrown. From this dusk of leaf-strewn places With the dumb woods and the night alone ? But, indeed, this flux of guesses — Mad delight, and frozen calms — Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses, And to-morrow — folded palms — 200 Is this all ? this balanc'd measure ? Could life run no easier way ? Happy at the noon of pleasure, Passive, at the midnight of dismay ? But, indeed, this proud possession — This far-reaching magic chain, Linking in a mad succession Fits of joy and fits of pain : Have you seen it at the closing ? Have you track'd its clouded ways ? 210 Can your eyes, while fools are dozing, Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days ? 72 THE NEW SIEENS When a dreary light is wading Through this waste of sunless greens — When the flashing' lights are fading On the peerless cheek of queens — When the mean shall no more sorrow And the proudest no more smile — • While the daWning of the morrow Widens slowly westward all that while ? 220 • Then, when change itself is over, When the slow tide sets one way, Shall you find the radiant lover. Even by moments, of to-day ? The eye wanders, faith is failing : O, loose hands, and let it be ! Proudly, like a king bewailing, 0, let fall one tear, and set us free ! All true speech and large avowal Which the jealous soul concedes : ^30 All man's heart — which brooks bestowal : All frank faith — which passion breeds : These we had, .and we gave truly : Doubt not, what we had, we gave : False we were not, nor unruly : Lodgers in the forest and the cave. Long we wander'd with you, feeding Our sad souls on your replies : In a wistful silence reading All the meaning of your eyes : 240 By moss-border'd statues sitting,' By well-heads, in summer days. But we turn, our eyes are flitting. See, the white east, and the morning rays ! And you too, O weeping Graces, Sylvan Gods of this fair shade ! Is there doubt on divine faces ? Are the happy Gods dismayed ? Can men worship the wan features, The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, 250 Of unspher'd discrowned creatures, Souls as little godlike as their own ? THE NEW SIEENS 73 Come, loose hands ! The winged fleetriess Of immortal feet is gone. And your scents have shed theii" sweetness, And your flowers are overblown. And your jewell'd gauds surrender Half their glories to the day : Freely did they flash their splendour, Freely gave it — but it dies away. 260 In the pines the thrush is waking — Lo, yon orient, hill in flames : Scores of true love knots are breaking At divorce which it proclaims. When- the lamps are pal'd at morning. Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand. — Cold in that unlovely dawning, LovelcjSS, rayless, joyless you shall stand. Strew no more red roses, maidens. Leave the lilies in their dew : £70 Pluck, pluck cypress, pale maidens I Dusk, O dusk the hall with yew I — Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, Her I lov'd at eventide ? Shall I ask, what faded mourner Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side? Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens 1 Dusk the hall with yew ! THE VOICE [First published 1849.] As the kindling glances. Queen-like and clear. Which the bright moon lances From her tranquil sphere At the sleepless wafers Of a lonely mere. On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully. Shiver and die. 74 THE VOICE As the tears of sorrow Mothers have shed — 10 Prayers that to-morrow Shall in vain be sped When the flower they flow for Lies frozen and dead — Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast, Bringing no rest. Like bright waves that fall With a lifelike motion On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean : — A wild rose climbing up a mould'ring wall — 20 A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall — Strains of glad music at a funeral : — So sad, and with so wild a start To this long sober'd heart, So anxiously and painfully, So drearily and doubtfully And, oh, with such intolerable change Of thought, such contrast strange, unforgotten Voice, thy whispers come, Like wanderers from the world's extremity, 30 Unto their ancient home. In vain, all, all in vain, They beat upon mine ear again. Those melancholy tones so sweet and still ; Those lute-like tones which in long distant years Did steal into mine ears : Blew such a thrilling summons to my will Yet could not shake it : Drain'd all the life my full heart had to spill ; Yet could not break it. 40 TO FAUSTA [First published 1849.] Joy comes and goes : hope ebbs and flows, Like the wave. Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. Love lends life a little grace, A few sad smiles : and then. Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave. TO FAUSTA 75 Dreams dawn and fly : friends smile and die, Like spring flowers. Our vaunted life is one long funeral. 10 Men dig graves, with bitter tears, For their dead hopes ; and all, Maz'd with doubts, and sick with fears. Count the hours. We count the hours : these dreams of ours, False and hollow, Shall we go hence and find they are not dead ? Joys we dimly apprehend. Faces that smil'd and fled, Hopes born here, and born to end, 20 Shall we follow ? DESIRE [First published 1849. Reprinted 1855.] Thou, who dost dwell alone — Thou, who dost know thine own — Thou, to whom all are known From the cradle to the grave — Save, oh, save. From the world's temptations, From tribulations ; From that fierce anguish Wherein we languish ; From that torpor deep 10 Wherein we lie asleep, Heavy as death, cold as the grave ; Save, oh, save. When the Soul, growing clearer, Sees God no nearer : When the Soul, mounting higher, To God comes no nigher : But the arch-fiend Pride Mounts at her side. Foiling her high emprize, 20 Sealing her eagle eyes. Desire Title] Stagyrus ISiO. 76 DESIRE And, when she fain would soar, Makes idols to adore ; Changing the pure emotion Of her high devotion, To a skin-deep sense Of her own eloquence : Strong to deceive, strong to enslave- — - Save, oh, save. From the ingrain'd fashion 30 Of this earthly nature That mars thy creature. From grief, that is but passion ; From mirth, that is but feigning ; From tears, that bring no healing ; From wild and weak complaining ; Thine old strength revealing. Save, oh, save. From doubt, where all is double : Where wise men are not strong : 40 Where comfort turns to trouble : Where just men suffer wrong : Where sorrow treads on joy : Where sweet things soonest cloy : Where faiths are built on dust : Where Love is half mistrust. Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea ; Oh, set us free. let the false dream fly Where our sick souls do lie 50 Tossing continually. where thy voice doth come Let all doubts be dumb : Let all words be mild : All strifes be reconcil'd : All pains beguil'd. Light bring no blindness ; Love no unkindness ; Knowledge no ruin ; Fear no undoing. 60 From the cradle to the grave. Save, oh, save. • 77 TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHOKE DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN [First published 1849. Reprinted 1855.] Who taught this pleading to unpractis'd eyes ? Who hid such import in an infant's gloom ? Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise ? What clouds thy forehead, and fore-dates thy doom ? Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone ; The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier. Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. But thou, whom superfluity of joy Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy ; 11 Eemaining in thy hunger and thy pain : Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee ; With eyes that sought thine eyes thou didst converse. And that soul-searching vision fell on me. Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known : Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own : Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. 20 What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? — His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below ? — Ah ! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. What exile's, changing bitter thoughts with glad ? What seraph's, in some alien planet born? — No exile's dream was ever half so sad, Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. i Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom ? lSi9. 78 TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHOEE Is the calm, thine of stoic souls, who weigh Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore : 30 But in disdainful silence turn away, Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more ? Or do I wait, to hear some grey-hair'd king Unravel all his many-colour'd lore : Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, Mus'd much, lov'd life a little, loath'd it more ? Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope , Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give — Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope. Foreseen thy harvest — yet proceed'st to live. 40 meek anticipant of that sure pain Whose sureness grey-hair'd scholars hardly learn ! What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain ? What heavens, what earth, what suns shaltthou discern? Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far. Have known too much — or else forgotten all. The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps : 50 Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale Of grief, and eas'd us with a thousand sleeps. Ah ! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, Not daily labour's dull, Lethaean spring, Oblivion in lost angels can infuse Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing ; And though thou glean, what sti'enuous gleaners may, In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife ; And though the just sun gild, as all men pray, Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; 6D Though that blank sunshine blind thee : though the cloud That sever'd the world's march and thine, is gone : Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud To halve a lodging that was all her own : TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHOEE 79 Once, ere the day decline, thou shalt discern, ' Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain. Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, And wear this majesty of grief again. THE HAYSWATEE BOAT [First published 1849. Not reprinted by the author.] A BEGiON desolate and wild, Black, chafing water: and afloat. And lonely as a truant child In a waste wood, a single boat : No mast, no saUs are set thereon ; It moves, but never moveth on : And welters like a human thing Amid the wild waves weltering. Behind, a buried vale doth sleep, Far down the torrent cleaves its way : 10 In front the dumb rock rises steep, A fretted wall of blue and grey ; Of shooting cliff and crumbled stone With many a wild weed overgi-own : All else, black water : and afloat, One rood from shore, that single boat. Last night the wind was up and strong ; The grey-streak'd waters labour still : The strong blast brought a pigmy throng From that mild hollow in the hill ; 20 From those twin brooks, that beachfed strand So featly strewn with drifted sand ; From those weird domes of mounded green That spot the solitary scene. This boat they found against the shore : The glossy rushes nodded by. One rood from land they push'd, no more ; Then rested, listening silently. The loud rains lash'd the mountain's, crown, The grating shingle straggled down : 30 All night they sate ; then stole away, And left it rocking in the bay. 80 THE HAYSWATEE BOAT Last night '? — I look'd, the sky was clear. The boat was old, a batter'd boat. In sooth, it seems a hundred year Since that strange crew did ride afloat. The boat hath drifted in the bay — The oars have moulder'd as they lay — The rudder swings — yet none doth st-eer. What living hand hath brought it here ? 40 THE FOESAKEN MEEMAN [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] Come, dear children, let us away ; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay ; Now the great winds shorewards blow ; Now the salt tides seawards flow ; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This waj', this way. Caliber once before you go. 10 Call once yet. In a voice that she will know : ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's eai- : Children's voices, wild with pain. Surely she -mil come again. Call her once and come away. This way, this way. ' Mother dear, we cannot stay.' 10 The wild white horses foam and fret. Margaret ! Margaret ! Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the windy shore. Then come down. '■ . THE FOESAKEN MERMAN 81 She will not come though you call all day. Come away, come away. Children dear, was it yesterday 30 "We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? In the caverns where we lay. Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell ? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep. Where the winds are all asleep ; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam ; Where the salt weed sways in the stream ; Where the sea-beasts rang'd all round Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; iO Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye ? When did music come this way ? Children dear, was it yesterday ? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away ? Once she sate with you and me, 50 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. And the youngest sate on her knee. Sh6.comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea. She said ; ' I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me I And I lose my poor soul) Merman, here with thee. I said ; ' Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 6(5 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.' She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday ? Children dear, were we long alone ? ' The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. Long prayers,' I said, ' in the world they say. . Come,' I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. 82 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town. Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. 71 Prom the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones, worn with rains. And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear i ' Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here. Dear heart,' I said, '.we are long alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. ' But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. ' Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door.' Come away, children, call no more. Come away, come down, call no more. Down, down, down. Down to the depths of the sea. She sits at her wheel in the humming town. Singing most joyfully. Hark, what she sings ; ' joy, O joy. For the humiiiing street, and the child with its toy. 90 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. For. the wheel where I spun, t And the blessed light of the sun. ' And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, . Till the shuttle falls from her hand. And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand ; "And over the sand at the sea ; And her eyes are set in a stare ; 100 And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear. From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh, For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair. THE FOESAKEN MEKMAN 83 Come away, away children. Come children, come down. The hoarse wind blows colder ; 110 Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door ; She will hear the winds howling, "Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, ' Here came a mortal, 120 But faithless was she. And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.' But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow ; When clear falls. the moonlight ; When spring-tides are low : When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom ; And high rocks throw mildly KO On the blanch'd sands a gloom : Up the still, glistening beaches. Up the creeks we will hie ; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. , We will gaze, from the sand-hills. At the white, sleeping town ; At the church on the hill-side — And then come back down. Singing, ' There dwells a lov'd one, 140 But cruel is she. She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.' 110 The salt tide rolls seaward ISiO. 84 THE WOELD AND THE QUIETIST TO CRITIAS [First published 1849. Reprinted 1855.] Wiir, ivhen the World's great mind Hath finallij inclin'd, Why, you say, Critias, be debating still? Why, with these mournful rhymes Learn'd in more languid clknes, Blame our activity, Wlio, with such passionate vnl{, Are, wliat ive mean to be ? Critias, long since, I know, (For Fate decreed it so,) 10 Long since the World hath set its heart to live. Long since with credulous zeal It turns Life's mighty wheel ; Still doth for labourers send, Who still their labour give ; And still expects an end. Yet, as the wheel flies round, With no ungrateful sound Do adverse voices fall on the World's ear. Deafen'd by his own stir 20 The rugged Labourer Caught not till then a sense So glowing and so near Of his omnipotence. So, when the feast grew loud In Susa's palace proud, A white-rob'd slave stole to the Monarch's side. He spoke : the Monarch heard : Pelt the slow-rolling word Swell his attentive soul. 30 Breath'd deeply as it died, And drain'd his mighty bowl. 85 IN UTEUMQUE PAEATUS [First published 1849.] If, in the silent mind of One all-pure, At first imagin'd lay The sacred world ; and by procession sure From those still deeps, in form and colour drest, Seasons alternating, and night and day. The long-mus'd thought to north south east and west Took then its all-seen w^ay : waking on a world which thus-wise springs ! Whether it needs thee count Betwixt thy waking and the birth of things 10 Ages or hours : O waking on Life's stream ! By lonely pureness to the all-pure Fount (Only by this thou canst) the colour'd dream Of Life remount. Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow ; And faint the city gleams ; Bare the lone pastoral huts : marvel not thou ! The solemn peaks but to the stars are known. But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams : Alone the sun arises, and alone 20 Spring the great streams. But, if the wild unfather'd mass no birth In divine seats hath known : In the blank, echoing solitude, if Earth, Eocking her obscui'e body to and fro. Ceases not from all time to heave and groan. Unfruitful oft, and, at her happiest throe. Forms, what she forms, alone : O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bath'd head Piercing the solemn cloud 30 Bound thy still dreaming brother-world outspread ! O man, whom Earth, thy iong-vext mother, bare Not without joy ; so radiant, so endow'd — (Such happy issue crown'd her painful care) Be not too proud ! 86 IN UTEUMQUE PAKATUS when most self-exalted most alone, Chief dreamer, own thy dream ! Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown ; who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part ; Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. 40 what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart ' / too but seem ! ' EESIGNATION TO FAUSTA [First published 1849. Eeprintea 1855.] To die he given us, or attain ! Fierce work it were, to do again. So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, nray'd At burning noon : so warriors said, Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust that wreath'd their struggling files Down Lydian mountains : so, when snows Bound Alpine summits eddying rose. The Goth, bound Eome-wards : so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, when the sun lo Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine : so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall ; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. So pray they : and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain ; Pain to thread back and to renew 20 Past straits, and currents long steer'd through. But milder natures, and more free ; Whom an unblam'd serenity Hath freed from passions, and the state Of struggle these necessitate ; EESIGNATION 87. Whom schooling of the stubborn mind Hath made, or birth hath found, resiga'd ; These mourn not, that their goings pay Obedience to the passing day : These claim not every laughing Hour SO For handmaid to their striding power ; Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, To await their march ; and when appear'd, Through the cold gloom, with measur'd race. To usher for a destin'd space, (Her own sweet errands all foregone) The too imperious Traveller on. These, Fausta, ask not this : nor thou, Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now. We left, just ten years since, you say, 40 That wayside inn we left to-day : Our jovial host, as forth we fare. Shouts greeting from his easy chair ; High on a bank our leader stands, Eeviews and ranks his motley bands ; Makes clear our goal to every eye, The valley's western boundary. A gate swings to : our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road. The valley pastures, one by one, fO Are threaded, quiet in the sun : And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge. Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past ; Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores : All past : and through the trees we glide Emerging on the green hill-side. There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, 60 Our wavering, many-colour'd line ; There winds, upstreaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill. And now, in front, behold outspread ' Those upper regions we must tread ; 56 Cool] Lone 1849. 88 EESIGNATION Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells. Some two hours' march, with serious air. Through the deep noontide heats we fare : The red-grouse, springing at our sound, 70 Skims, now and then, the shining ground ; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes. O joy ! again the farms appear ; Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer : There springs the brook will guide us down, Bright comrade, to the noisy town. Lingering, we follow dow^n : we gain The town, the highway, and the plain. And many a mile of dusty way, 80 Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day ; But, Fausta, I remember well That, as the balmy darkness fell, We bath'd our hands, with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering Sea. Once more we tread this self-same road Fausta, which ten years since we trod : Alone we tread it, you and I ; Ghosts of that boisterous company. Here, where the brook shines, near its head, 90 In its clear, shallow, turf-fring'd bed ; Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town ; Here sit we, and again unroll. Though slowly, the familiar whole. The solemn wastes of heathy hill Sleep in the July sunshine still : The self-same shadows now, as then, Play through this grassy upland glen : The loose dark stones on the green way 100 Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay : On this mild bank above the stream, (You crush them) the blue gentians gleam. Still this wild brook, the rushes cool, The sailing foam, the shining pool. — RESIGNATION 89 These are not chang'd : and we, you say, Are scarce more chang'd, in truth, than they. The Gipsies, whom we met below, They too have long roam'd to and fro. They ramble, leaving, where they pass, 110 Their fragments on the cumber'd grass. And often to some kindly place, Chance guides the migratory race Where, though long wanderings intervene. They recognize a former scene. The dingy tents are pitch'd : the fires Give to the wind their wavering spires ; In dark knots crouch round the wild flame Their children, as when first they came ; They see their shackled beasts again 120 Move, browsing, up the grey-wall'd lane. Signs are not wanting, which might raise The ghosts in them of former days : Signs are not wanting, if they would ; Suggestions to disquietude. For them, for all, Time's busy touch. While it mends little, troubles much : Their joints grow stiffer ; but the year Euns his old round of dubious cheer : Chilly they grow ; yet winds in March, 130 Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch : They must live still ; and yet, God knows, Crowded and keen the country grows : It seems as if, in their decay. The Law grew stronger every day. So might they reason ; so compare, Fausta, times past with times that are. But no : — they rubb'd through yesterday In their hereditary way ; , And they will rub through, if they can, 140 To-morrow on the self-same plan ; Till death arrives to supersede. For them, vicissitude and need. The Poet, to whose mighty heart Heaven doth a quicker -pulse impart, 90 EESIGNATION Subdues that energy to scan Not his own course, but that of Man. Though he move mountains ; though his day Be pass'd on the proud heights of sway ; Though he hath loos'd a thousand chains ; 150 Though he hath borne immortal pains ; Action and suffering though he know ; — He hath not liv'd, if he lives so. He sees, in some great-historied land, A ruler of the people stand ; Sees his strong thought in fieiy flood Eoll through the heaving multitude ; Exults : yet for no moment's space Envies the all-regarded place. Beautiful eyes meet his ; and he 160 Bears to admire uncravingly : They pass ; he, mingled with the crowd, Is in their far-off triumphs proud. From some high station he looks down. At sunset, on a populous town ; Surveys each happy group that fleets, Toil ended, through the shining streets, Each with some errand of its own ; — And does not say, / am alone. He sees the gentle stir of birth 170 When Morning purifies the earth ; He leans upon a gate, and sees The pastures, and the quiet trees. Low woody hill, with gracious bound, Folds the still valley almost round ; The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn. Is answer'd from the depth of dawn ; In the hedge straggling to the stream. Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam : But where the further side slopes down 180 He sees the drowsy new-wak'd clown In his white quaint-embroider'd frock Make, whistling, towards his mist-wreath 'd flock ; Slowly, behind the heavy tread. The wet flower'd grass heaves up its head. — Lean'd on his gate, he gazes : tears Are in his eyes, and in his ears EESIGNATION 91 The murmur of a thousand years : Before him he sees Life unroll, A placid and continuous whole ; 190 That general Life, which does not cease, Wl-io«a gprrpf i