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 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3206499 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 From the painting by G. F. Waiis in the National Portrait Gallery 
 
 {By pennission oj Mr. Frederick Hollyer) 
 
'The Poems of 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 1840-1867 
 
 With an Introduction hy 
 SIR A. T. QUILLER-COUCH 
 
 HUMPHREY MILFORD 
 
 OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 London New Tork Toronto 
 
This edition of Matthew Arnold' 8 Poems was 
 
 first published in 1909, and reprinted in 1913, 
 
 1920, 1922, 1926, 1930, 1937, and 1940. 
 
 PR 
 
 A 7"^ 2.1^,2 
 
 PEINTED IK GREAT BBITAIH AT THE OTTITERSITT PRESS. OXPOBD 
 BY JOHN JOHNSON, PKINTBIt TO THE UNIVEESITT 
 
 O.S.A. 
 
USTTRODUCTION 
 
 ' I do not hold up Joubert as a very astonisliing and 
 powerful genius, but rather as a delightful and edifying 
 genius. . . . He is the most prepossessing and convincing of 
 vsritnesses to the good of loving light. Because he sincerely 
 loved light, and did not prefer to it any little private dark- 
 ness of his ovsrn, he found light. . . . And because he was full 
 of light he v?as also full of happiness. . . . His life was as 
 charming as his thoughts. For certainly it is natural that 
 the love of light, which is already, in some measure, the 
 possession of light, should irradiate and beatify the whole 
 life of him who has it.' 
 
 Many a reader of Essays in Criticism must have 
 paused and in thought transferred to Matthew Arnold 
 these words of his in praise of Joubert, as well as the 
 fine passage in which he goes on to ask What, in 
 literature, we mean by fame ? Only two kinds of 
 authors (he tells us) are secure of fame : the first being 
 the Homers, Dantes, Shakespeares, 'the great abiding 
 fountains of truth,' whose praise is for ever and ever. 
 But beside these sacred personages stand certain elect 
 ones, less majestic, yet to be recognized as of the same 
 family and character with the greatest, 'exercising like 
 them an immortal function, and like them inspiring 
 a permanent interest.' The fame of these also is 
 assured. ' They will never, like the Shakespeares, 
 command the homage of the multitude ; but they are 
 safe ; the multitude will not trample them down.' 
 
 To this company Matthew Arnold belongs. We all 
 feel it, and some of us can give reasons for our con- 
 fidence ; but perhaps, if all our reasons were collected,' 
 a 2 
 
iv INTEODUCTION 
 
 the feeling would be found to reach deeper into cer- 
 tainty than any of them. He Avas never popular, and 
 never will be. Yet no one can say that, although at 
 one time he seemed to vie with the public in distrusting 
 it, his poetry missed its mark. On the other hand, 
 while his critical writings had swift and almost instan- 
 taneous eifect for good, the repute they brought him 
 was moderate, and largely made up of misconception. 
 For the mass of his countrymen he came somehow to 
 personify a number of things which their minds vaguely 
 associated with kid gloves, and by his ironical way of 
 playing with the misconception he did more than a 
 little to confirm it. But in truth Arnold was a serious 
 man who saw life as a serious business, and chiefly 
 relied, for making the best of it, upon a serene common 
 sense. He had elegance, to be sure, and was inclined 
 — at any rate, in controversy — to be conscious of it ; 
 but it was elegance of that plain Attic order to which 
 common sense gives the law and almost the inspiration. 
 The man and the style were one. Alike in his life and 
 his writings he observed and preached the golden mean, 
 with a mind which was none the less English and prac- 
 tical if, in expressing it, he deliberately and almost 
 defiantly avoided that emphasis which Englishmen 
 love to a fault. 
 
 Matthew Arnold, eldest son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, 
 the famous Head Master of Eugby, was born on Christ- 
 mas Eve, 1822, at Laleham on the Thames, where his 
 father at that time taught private pupils. The child 
 was barely six years old when the family removed to 
 Eugby, and at seven he returned to Laleham to be 
 taught by his uncle, the Eev. John Buckland. In 
 August, 1836, he proceeded to Winchester, but was 
 removed at the end of a year and entered Eugby, 
 where he remained until he went up to Balliol College, 
 
INTEODUOTION v 
 
 Oxford, in 1841, with an open scholarship. He had 
 written a prize poem at Eugby — the subject, Alaric at 
 Rome ; and on this performance he improved by taking 
 the Newdigate in 1843 — the subject, Cromwell. But 
 we need waste no time on these exercises. It is better 
 worth noting that the boy had been used to spending his 
 holidays, and now spent a great part of his vacations, 
 at Fox How, near Grasmere, a house which Dr. Arnold 
 had taken to refresh his eyes and his spirits after the 
 monotonous ridge and furrow, field and hedgerow, 
 around Kugby ; and that, as Mr. Herbert Paul puts 
 it, young Matthew ' thus grew up under the shadow . 
 of Wordsworth, whose brilliant and penetrating inter- 
 preter he was destined to become '. Genius collects 
 early, and afterwards distils from recollection ; and if 
 its spirit, like that of the licentiate Pedro Garcias, is to 
 be disinterred, he who would find Matthew Arnold's 
 must dig in and around Fox How and Oxford. 
 
 At Oxford, which he loved passionately, he ' missed 
 his first ', but atoned for this, three months later, by 
 winning a fellowship at Oriel. (This was in 1844-5. 
 His father had died in 1842.) He stayed up, however, 
 but a short while after taking his degree ; went back 
 to Eugby as an assistant master ; relinquished this in 
 1847 to become private secretary to Lord Lansdowne, 
 then President of the Council ; and was by him 
 appointed in 1851 to an Inspectorship of Schools, 
 which he retained for five-and-thirty years. In 1851, 
 too, he married Frances Lucy Wightman, daughter of 
 a Judge of the Queen's Bench; and so settled down 
 at the same time to domestic happiness and to daily 
 work which, if dull sometimes, was not altogether 
 ungrateful, as it was never less than conscientiously 
 performed. 
 
 Meanwhile, in 1849, he had put forth a thin volume, 
 
vi INTEODUCTION 
 
 The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems, hy A ; which 
 was followed in 1852 by Empedocles on Etna, and other 
 Poems, hy A. In 1858 he dropped anonymity and 
 under the title of Poems, ly Matthew Arnold repub- 
 lished the contents of these two volumes, omitting 
 Empedocles, with a few minor pieces, and adding some 
 priceless things, such as Sohrab and Eustum, The Church 
 o/Brou, Eeguiescat, and The Scholar Gipsy. 
 
 ' It was received, we believe, with general indifference,' 
 wrote Mr. Froude of the first volume, in the Westminster 
 Review, 1854. We need not trouble to explain the 
 fact, beyond saying that English criticism was just 
 then at about the lowest ebb it reached in the last cen- 
 tury, and that the few capable ears were occupied by 
 the far more confident voice of Tennyson and the far 
 more disconcerting one of Browning: but the fact — • 
 surprising when all allowance has been made — must 
 be noted, for it is important to remember that the most 
 and best of Arnold's poetry was written before he 
 gained the world's ear, and that he gained it not as 
 a poet but as a critic. In 1855 appeared Phems by 
 Matthew Arnold, Second Series, of which only Balder 
 Bead and Separation were new ; and in 1858 Merope 
 with its Preface : but in the interval between them he 
 had been elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford (May 
 1857). 
 
 The steps by which a reputation grows, the precise 
 moment at which it becomes established, are often 
 difficult to trace and fix. The poems, negligently 
 though they had been received at first, must have 
 helped : and, since men who improve an office are 
 themselves usually improved by it, assuredly the Pro- 
 fessorship helped too. The Lectures on Homer which 
 adorned Arnold's first tenure of the Chair strike a new 
 note of criticism, speak with a growing undertone of 
 
INTEODUCTION vii 
 
 authority beneath their modest professions, and would 
 suffice to explain — if mere custom did not even more 
 easily explain — why in 1862 he was re-elected for 
 another five years. But before 1865, no doubt, the 
 judicious who knew him had tested him by more than 
 his lectures, and were prepared for Essays in Criticism. 
 
 Although we are mainly concerned here with the 
 poems, a word must be said on Essays in Criticism, 
 which Mr. Paul pronounces to be * Mr. Arnold's most 
 important work in prose, the central book, so to speak, 
 of his life '. Mr. Saintsbury calls it ' the first full and 
 varied, and perhaps always the best, expression and 
 illustration of the author's critical attitude, the detailed 
 manifesto and exemplar of the new critical method, 
 and so one of the epoch-making books of the later 
 nineteenth century in English' — and on this subject 
 Mr. Saintsbury has a peculiar right to be heard. 
 
 Now for a book to be ' epoch-making ' it must bring 
 to its age something which its age conspicuously lacks : 
 and Essays in Criticism did this. No one remembering 
 what Dryden did, and Johnson, and Coleridge, and 
 Lamb, and Hazlitt, will pretend that Arnold invented 
 English Criticism, or that he did well what these men 
 had done ill. What he did, and they missed doing, 
 was to treat Criticism as a deliberate disinterested art, 
 with laws and methods of its own, a proper temper, 
 and certain standards or tomjhstones of right taste by 
 which the quality of any writing, as literature, could 
 be tested. In other words, he introduced authority and, 
 with authority, responsibility, into a business which 
 had hitherto been practised at the best by brilliant 
 nonconformists and at the worst by Quarterly Re- 
 viewers — who, taking for their motto ludex damnatur 
 cum nocens ahsolvitur, either forgot or never surmised 
 that to punish the guilty can be but a corollary of 
 
Viii INTEODUCTION 
 
 a higher obligation, to discover the truth. Nor can 
 any one now read the literature of that period without: 
 a sense that Arnold's teaching was indispensably 
 needed just then. A page of Macaulay or of Carlyle 
 dazzles us with its rhetoric ; strikes, arrests, excites us 
 with a nurdber of things tellingly put and in ways we 
 had scarcely guessed to be possible ; but it no longer 
 convinces. It does not even dispose us to be convinced, 
 since (to put it vulgarly) we feel that the author 'is 
 not out after ' truth ; that Macaulay's WUliam III is 
 a figure dressed up and adjusted to prove Macaulay's 
 thesis, and that the France of Carlyle's French Bevo- 
 lution not only never existed but, had it ever existed, 
 "would^ot^ France. Arnold helping us, we see these 
 failures — for surely that history is a failure which, like. 
 Cremorne, wiU not bear the daylight; — to be inevitable 
 in a republic of letters where laws are not and wherein 
 each author writes at the top of his own , bent, 
 indulging and exploiting his personal eccentricity . to 
 the fullest. It has probably been the salvation of our 
 literature that in the fourteenth century the Latin 
 prevailed over the Anglo-Saxon line of its descent, and 
 that ia the forming of our verse as- well as of our prose, 
 we had, at the critical moments, the literatures of 
 Latin races, Italian or French, for models and correc- 
 tives ; as it was the misfortune of the Victorian period 
 before 1865 that its men of genius wrote with eyes 
 turned inward upon themselves or, if outward, upon 
 that German literature which, for all its great qualities, 
 must ever be dangerous to Englishmen because it 
 flatters and encourages their speeiaL faults '. 
 
 Of Arnold from 1865 onward — of the books in 
 which he enforced rather than developed his critical 
 
 ' That Matthew Arnol(i Himself over-valued contemporaiy 
 German literature does not really affect our argument. 
 
INTEODUCTION ix 
 
 method (for all the gist of it may be found in JEssays 
 in Criticism) — of his incursions into the fields of politics 
 and theology — much might be written, but it would 
 not be germane to our purpose. New Poems, including 
 Bacchanalia, or the New Age, Dover Beach, and the 
 beautiful Thyrsis, appeared in 1867, and thenceforward 
 for the last twenty years of his life he wrote very little in 
 verse, though the fine Westminster Abbey ' proved that 
 the Muse had not died in him. He used his hold upon 
 the public ear to preach some sermons which, as a good 
 citizen, he thought the nation needed. In his hard- 
 working official life he rendered services which those of 
 us who engage in the work of English education are 
 constantly and gratefully recognizing in their effects. 
 as we still toil in the wake of his ideals. He retired 
 in November, 1886. He died on April 15th, 1888, of 
 heart-failure: he had gone to Liverpool to meet his 
 eldest daughter on her return from the United States, 
 and there, in running to catch a tram-car, he fell and 
 died in a moment. He was sixty-five, but in appearance 
 carried his years lightly. He looked, and was, a dis- 
 tinguished and agreeable man. Of good presence and 
 fine manners ; perfect in his domestic relations, genial 
 in company and radiating cheerfulness ; setting a high 
 aim to his official work yet ever conscientious in details ; 
 he stands (apart from his literary achievement) as an 
 example of the Englishman at his best. He cultivated 
 this best deliberately. His daily note-books were filled 
 with quotations, high thoughts characteristically chosen 
 and jotted down to be borne in mind ; and some of 
 these — such as Semper aliquid certi proponendum est 
 and Ecce labora et noli contristari! — recur again and 
 again. But the result owed its amiability also to that 
 ' timely relaxation ' counselled by Milton — 
 
 ^ Published in The Nineteenth Century, January, 1882- 
 
I INTEODUCTION 
 
 To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
 Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 
 For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, 
 And disapproves that care, though wise in show, 
 That with superfluous burden loads the day 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 
 
 To those, then, who tell us that Arnold's poetic period 
 was brief, and imply that it was therefore dis- 
 appointing, we might answer that this is but testi- 
 mony to the perfect development of a life which in 
 due season used poetry and at the due hour cast it 
 away, to proceed to things more practical. But this 
 would be to err almost as deeply as those who tell us 
 that Arnold, as he himself said of Gray, ' never spoke 
 out ' — whereas Arnold habitually spoke out, and now 
 and then even too insistently. Again it would be 
 a mistake for us to apply to him au pied de la lettre 
 the over-sad verses — 
 
 Youth rambles on life's arid mount, 
 And strikes the rock, and finds the vein. 
 
 And brings the water from the fount, 
 The fount which shall not flow again. 
 
 The man mature with labour chops 
 For the bright stream a channel grand, 
 
 And sees not that the sacred drops 
 Ran off and vanish'd out of hand. 
 
 And then the old man totters nigh 
 And feebly rakes among the stones. 
 
 The mount is mute, the channel dry ; 
 And down he lays his weary bones. 
 
 Yet it were stupid not to recognize that here is 
 contained a certain amount of general trath, and of 
 truth particularly applicable to Arnold. ' The poet,' 
 Mr. Saintsbury writes of him (and it sums up the 
 
INTEODUCTION xi 
 
 matter), 'has in him a vein, or, if the metaphor be pre- 
 ferred, a spring, of the most real and rarest poetry. But 
 the vein is constantly broken by faults, and never very 
 thick ; the spring is intermittent, and runs at times 
 by drops only.' Elsewhere Mr. Saintsbury speaks of 
 his 'elaborate assumption of the singing-robe', a phrase 
 very happily critical. Arnold felt — no man more 
 deeply — the majesty of the poet's function : he 
 solemnly attired himself to perform it : but the sing- 
 ing-robe was not his daily wear. The ample pall in 
 which Tennyson swept, his life through, as to the 
 manner born ; the stiffer skirts in which "Wordsworth 
 walked so complacently ; these would have intolerably 
 cumbered the man who protested that even the title 
 of Professor made him uneasy. Wordsworth and 
 Tennyson were bards, authentic and unashamed ; 
 whereas in Arnold, as Mr. Watson has noted, 
 
 Something of worldling mingled still 
 With bard and sage. 
 
 There was never a finer worldlingthanMatthew Arnold: 
 but the criticism is just. 
 
 The critics, while noting this, have missed something 
 which to us seems to explain much in Arnold's verse. 
 We said just now that English literature has been 
 fortunate in what it owes to the Latin races : we may 
 add that it has been most fortunate in going to Italy 
 for instruction in its verse, to France for instruction 
 in its prose. This will be denied by no one who has 
 studied Elizabethan poetry or the prose of the ' Augus- 
 tan ' age : and as little will any one who has studied 
 the structure of poetry deny that Italy is the natural, 
 France the imnatural, school for an English poet. The 
 reason is not that we understand Italian better than 
 French history and with more sympathy — though this, 
 
xii INTEODUCTION 
 
 too, scarcely admits of dispute ; nor again that the 
 past of Italy appeals to emotions of which poetry is the 
 consecrated language. It lies in the very structure 
 and play of the language ; so that an Englishman who 
 has but learnt how to pronounce the Italian vowels 
 can read Italian poetry passably. The accent comes 
 to him at once ; the lack of accent in French remains 
 foreign after many months of study. Now although 
 Arnold was no great admirer of French poetry (and 
 indeed had a particular dislike for the Alexandrine), 
 France was to him, among modern nations, the heir 
 of those classical qualities which differentiate the 
 Greek from the barbarian, and his poetry seems ever 
 to be striving to reproduce the Greek note through 
 verse subdued to a French flatness of tone, as though 
 (to borrow a metaphor from another art) its secret lay 
 in low relief. But an English poet fighting against 
 emphasis is as a man fighting water with a broom : 
 and an English poet, striving to be unemphatic, must 
 yet contrive to be various or he is naught. Successfully 
 as he managed his prose, when he desired it to be em- 
 phatic Arnold had, in default of our native methods of 
 emphasis, to fall back upon that simple repetition 
 which irritates so many readers. In his poetry the 
 devices are yet more clumsy. We suppose that no 
 English poet before or since has so overworked the 
 interjection ' Ah ! ' But far worse than any number 
 of ah ! s is Arnold's trick of italic type — 
 
 How I bewail you ! 
 We mortal millions live alone. 
 
 In the rustling night-air came the answer — 
 ' Wouldst thou he as these are ? lAve as they-' 
 
 — a device almost unpardonable in poetry. So when 
 he would give us variety, as in Tristram and Iseult, 
 
INTKODUCTION xiii 
 
 Arnold has no better resource than frequent change 
 of metre : and although every reader must have felt 
 the effect of that sudden fine outburst — 
 
 What voices are these on the clear night air ? 
 What lights in the court ? what steps on the stair ? 
 
 yet some must also have reflected that the great 
 masters, having to tell a story, choose their one metre 
 and, having chosen, so adapt and handle it that it tells 
 all. Sohrab and Eustum indeed tells itself perfectly, 
 from its first line to its noble close. But Sohrab and 
 Bustum is, and professes to be, an episode. Balder is 
 little more, and most readers find Balder, in spite of 
 its fine passages and general dignity, long enough. 
 Arnold — let it be repeated — was not a bard ; not 
 a Muse-intoxicated man. He had not the bardic, the 
 architectonic, gift. ' Something of worldling ' in him 
 forbade any such fervour as, sustained day after day 
 for years, gave the world Paradise Lost, and incidentally, 
 no doubt, made Milton's daughters regret at times that 
 their father was not as ordinary men. 
 
 Nor had Arnold an impeccable ear for rhyme (in The 
 New Sirens, for instance, he rhymes 'dawning' with 
 ' morning ') : and if we hesitate to follow the many 
 who have doubted his ear for rhythm, it is not for lack 
 of apparently good evidence, but because some of his 
 rhythms which used to give us pause have come, upon 
 longer acquaintance, to fascinate us : and the explana- , 
 tion may be, as we have hinted, that they follow the 
 French rather than the Italian use of accent, and are 
 strange to us rather than in themselves unmusical. 
 Certainly the critics who would have us believe that 
 The Strayed Reveller is an unmusical poem will not at 
 this time of day persuade us by the process of taking 
 a stanza or two and writing them down in the form of 
 prose. We could do the same with a dozen lines of 
 
xiv INTEODUCTION 
 
 The Tempest or Antony and Cleopatra, were it worth 
 doing, and prove just as much, or as little. 
 
 Something of Arnold's own theory of poetry may be 
 extracted from the prefaces, here reprinted, of 1853 
 and 1854. They contain, like the prefaces of Dryden 
 and of Wordsworth, much wisdom ; but the world, 
 perhaps even more wisely, refuses to judge a poet by 
 his theory, which (however admirable) seldom yields 
 up his secret. Yet Arnold had a considered view of 
 what the poet should attempt and what avoid ; and 
 that he followed it would remain certain although 
 much evidence were accumulated to prove that he 
 who denounced ' poetry's eternal enemy, Caprice ', 
 could himself be, on occasion, capricious. He leaves 
 the impression that he wrote with difficulty ; his rap- 
 tures, though he knew rapture, are infrequent. But 
 through all his work there runs a strain of serious 
 elevated thought, and on it all there rests an air of 
 composure equally serious and elevated — a trifle statu- 
 esque, perhaps, but by no means deficient in feeling. 
 No one can read, say, the closing lines of Mycerinus 
 and fail to perceive these qualities. No one can read 
 this volume from, cover to cover and deny that they 
 are characteristic. Nor, we think, can any one study 
 the poetry of 1850 and thereabouts without being 
 forced to admit that it wanted these qualities of 
 thoughtfulness and composure. Arnold has been criti- 
 cized for discovering in Tennyson a certain ' deficiency 
 in intellectual power '. But is he by this time alone 
 in that discovery ? And if no lack of thoughtfulness 
 can be charged against Browning — as it cannot — is not 
 Browning violent, unchastened, far too often energetic 
 for energy's sake ? Be it granted that Arnold in poetical 
 strength was no match for these champions : yet he 
 brought to literature, and in a happy hour, that which 
 
INTEODUCTION xv 
 
 they lacked, insisting by the example of his verse as 
 well as by the precepts of his criticism that before 
 anything becomes literature it must observe two con- 
 ditions — it must be worth saying, and it must be 
 worthily said. 
 
 _ Also he continued, if with a difference, that noble 
 Wordsworthian tradition which stood in some danger 
 of perishing — chiefly, we think, beneath the accumula- 
 tion of rubbish piled upon it by its own author during 
 his later years. That which Matthew Arnold disinterred 
 and re-polished may have been but a fragment. His 
 page has not, says Mr. Watson, ' the deep, authentic 
 mountain-thrill.' We grant that Arnold's feeling for 
 Nature has not the Wordsworthian depth ; but so far 
 as it penetrates it is genuine. Lines such as — 
 
 While the deep-bumish'd foliage overhead 
 Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon — 
 
 may owe their felicity to phrase rather than to feeling. 
 The Mediterranean landscape in A Southern Night may 
 seem almost too exquisitely elaborated. Yet who can 
 think of Arnold's poetry as a whole without feeling 
 that Nature is always behind it as a living background ? 
 — whether it be the storm of wind and rain shaking 
 Tintagel — 
 
 I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage. 
 Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair — 
 
 or the scent-laden water-meadows along Thames, or 
 the pine forests on the flank of Etna, or an English 
 garden in June, or Oxus, its mists and fens and 'the 
 hush'd Chorasmian waste '. If Arnold's love of natural 
 beauty have not those moments of piercing apprehension 
 which in his master's poetry seem to break through 
 dullness into the very heaven : if we have not that 
 secret which Wordsworth must have learnt upon the 
 
xvi INTEODUCTION 
 
 Cumbrian Mountains, from moments when the clouds 
 drift apart and the surprised climber sees all Winder- 
 mere, all Derwentwater, shining at his feet ; if on the 
 other hand his philosophy of life, rounded and com- 
 plete, seem none too hopeful, but call man back from 
 eager speculations which man will never resign ; if it 
 repress, where Browning encouraged, our quest after 
 
 Thoughts hardly to be packed 
 
 Into a narrow act, 
 
 Fancies that broke through language and escaped . . . 
 
 yet his sense of atmosphere, of background, of the 
 great stage on which man plays his part, gives Arnold's 
 teaching a wonderful comprehension, within its range. 
 'This,' we say, 'is poetry we can trust, not to flatter 
 ^us, but to sustain, console.' If the reader mistake it 
 for the last word on life his trust in it will be illusory. 
 It brings rather that 
 
 lull in the hot race 
 Wherein he doth for ever chase 
 That flying and elusive shadow, Rest. 
 An air of coolness plays upon his face ■ 
 And an unwonted calm pervades his breast ; 
 
 and then — if after protesting against italics in poetry 
 we may italicize where, for once, Arnold missed the 
 opportunity — 
 
 And then he thinks he knows 
 The Fills where his life rose. 
 And the Sea where it goes. 
 
 AETHUE T. QUILLEE-COUCH. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL 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, JEmpedocles on Etna 1852, Poems 1853, 
 Poems, Second Edition 1854, Poems, Second Series 1855, 
 Poems, Third Edition 1857, Merqpe 1858, Mw 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 The Forsaken 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 Home 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 
 
 PACJE 
 (of this edition) 
 
 Inteoduction 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 
 
 HoRATiAN Echo, 1847 34 
 
 Sonnet to the Hungarian Nation, 1849 . . 35 
 
 THE STRAYED REVELLER, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 By a. 1849. 
 
 Sonnet 36 
 
 Myceeinus 36 
 
 Sonnet. To a Friend 40 
 
 The Strayed Reveller 40 
 
 Fragment op an 'Antigone' .... 48 
 
 The Sice King in Bokhara .... 51 
 Sonnets : — 
 
 Shakespeare 58 
 
 To the 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 Cruikshank, 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 Fausta 74 
 
 Stagykus 75 
 
 Stanzas on a Gipsy Child by the Sea-shore, 
 
 Douglas, Isle op Man . . ' . . .77 
 
 The Hayswatee Boat 79 
 
 The Eorsaken Merman ... . . 80 
 
 The World and the Quietist. To Ceitias . 84 
 
 In utrumque paratus 85 
 
 Resignation. To Fausta 86 
 
 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 By A. 1852. 
 
 Empedocles on Etna 94 
 
 Poems : — 
 
 The Riyee 126 
 
 Excuse 127 
 
 Indifference . 128 
 
 Too Late 129 
 
 On the Rhine 129 
 
 Longing 130 
 
 The Lake 131 
 
 Parting 131 
 
 Absence 134 
 
 Destiny 134 
 
 To Marguerite 135 
 
 Human Life 135 
 
 Despondency 136 
 
 Sonnet . . 187 
 
 Self-Deception 187 
 
 Lines written by a Death-Bed . . .138 
 
 Tristram and Iseult 
 
 I. Tristram 139 
 
 II, Seeult of JrcIanJ) 150 
 
 III. Jseult ot JBrlttanB 156 
 
CONTENTS xxi 
 
 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, ETC., 1852 {continued):- page 
 Poems : — 
 
 Memorial Verses 162 
 
 Courage 164 
 
 Selp-Dependence 165 
 
 A Summer Night 166 
 
 The Buried Life 168 
 
 A Farewell 171 
 
 Stanzas in Memory of the Author op 
 
 ' Obermann ' 174 
 
 Consolation 180 
 
 Lines written in Kensington Gardens . 182 
 
 Sonnet 184 
 
 The Second Best 184 
 
 Revolutions 185 
 
 The Youth of 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 86 
 
 Sohrab and Rustum. An Episode . . . 198 
 
 |-Mycebinus 36 
 
 Cadmus and Hakmonia 112 
 
 Philomela 219 
 
 'i'THE Strayed Reveller 40 
 
 Thekla's Answer. (Prom Schiller) . . . 2,20 
 Tristram and Iseult 
 
 I. a;r(6tram 139 
 
 II- Jseiilt ot Jrelant) 150 
 
 in. Jscult of :ertttanB 156 
 
 The Church op Brou 
 
 1. Zbe Castle 221 
 
 IL Zbe Cbuccb 224 
 
 III. Cbe ttomb 225 
 
xxii CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS. A NEW EDITION, 1853 {continued) :— page 
 
 The Neckan 227 
 
 The Forsaken Mekman 80 
 
 Switzerland 
 
 I. To My Friends 63 
 
 II. The Lake 131 
 
 III. A Dream 228 
 
 IV. Parting 131 
 
 V. To Marguerite 135 
 
 VI. Absence 134 
 
 Richmond Hill 190 
 
 A Modern Sappho 65 
 
 Requiescat . 229 
 
 The Scholar Gipsy 230 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 I. To a Friend 40 
 
 II. Shakespeare 58 
 
 III. Written in Emerson's Essays ... 60 
 
 IV. To George Cruikshank, 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 of Youth 192 
 
 Morality 192 
 
 Self-Dependence . . .... 165 
 
 Consolation ; 180 
 
 The Future 195 
 
 POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. SECOND 
 EDITION. 1854 
 
 Preface (to Second Edition') 16 
 
 (Preface to First Edition) 1 
 
 Sonnet 36 
 
 Bohrab and Rustum. An Episode . . . 198 
 
CONTENTS xxiii 
 
 POEMS. SECOND EDITION, 1854 {continued) :— page 
 
 Myceeinus 36 
 
 Cadmus and Hakmonia 112 
 
 Philomela 219 
 
 The Strayed Revellek 40 
 
 Teisteam and Iseult 
 
 I. ITtistram 139 
 
 II. Jseult of JrelatiD 150 
 
 III. Jseult of JBrittanB 156 
 
 The Chukch op Beou 
 
 I. Zbe Castle 221 
 
 II. Xlbe Cbutcb 224 
 
 III. ttbe Comb 225 
 
 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. A Farewell 171 
 
 VI. To Marguerite 135 
 
 VII. Absence 134 
 
 The Scholar Gipsy 280 
 
 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 
 
 Requiescat 229 
 
 Morality 192 
 
 Selp-Dbpendence . . . . . , .165 
 
xxiv CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS. SECOND EDITION, 1854 {continued):- page 
 
 Consolation 180 
 
 The Putuee . 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 Habp-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 Stabs . . . 121 
 
 Desire 75 
 
 To a Gipsy Child by the Sea-Shore . . 77 
 
 Obermann 174 
 
 The Buried Life 168 
 
 The Touth of Nature 186 
 
 The Youth of Man 189 
 
 A Summer Night . 166 
 
CONTENTS XXV 
 
 TWO POEMS FROM MAGAZINES, 1855 page 
 
 Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse 
 
 (Fraser's Magazine, April, 1855) .... 270 
 
 Ha WORTH Churchyard, April, 1855 (Fraser's 
 
 Magazine, May, 1855) 276 
 
 POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. THIRD 
 EDITION. 1857 
 
 Advertisement to Second Edition ... 16 
 
 Preface 1 
 
 Sonnet 36 
 
 SoHRAB AND RusTUM. An Episode . . . 198 
 
 Mycekinus . . 36 
 
 Cadmus and Harmonia 112 
 
 Philomela 219 
 
 The Strayed Reveller 40 
 
 Tristan and Iseult 
 
 I. tTcistan 139 
 
 II. Jseult of Jrelant) 150 
 
 III. Jseult ot JBrittans 156 
 
 The Church of Brou 
 
 I. Zbz Caetle 221 
 
 II. Ube Cburcb 224 
 
 III. a;be ttomb 225 
 
 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. A Farewell 171 
 
 VI. To Marguerite 281 
 
 VII. Isolation 135 
 
 VIII. Absence 134 
 
 The Scholar Gipsy 230 
 
xxvi CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS. THIRD EDITION, 1857 (continued):— page 
 Sonnets 
 
 I. To a Friend 40 
 
 58 
 61 
 61 
 62 
 62 
 184 
 
 II. Shakespeare 
 
 III. To George Cruikshank, Esq. . 
 
 IV. To a Republican Friend. 1848. . 
 V. Continued 
 
 VI. Religious Isolation. To the Same 
 VII. The World's Triumphs . 
 
 Stanzas in Memory of the late Edward 
 
 QuiLLiNAN, Esq 237 
 
 Requiescat 229 
 
 Morality 192 
 
 Self-Dependence 165 
 
 Consolation 180 
 
 The Future 195 
 
 MEROPE. a tragedy, by MATTHEW 
 ARNOLD, 1858 
 
 Preface 283 
 
 Historical Introduction 310 
 
 Merope 315 
 
 POEMS FROM MAGAZINES, 1860-1866 
 
 Men oi Geniixs {Comhill Magazine, Jxily, 1860). . 379 
 
 St. Brandan (Fraser's Magazine, July, 1860) . . 380 
 
 A Southern Night {The Victoria Regia, 1861) . . 382 
 
 Thyrsis {Macmillan's Magazine, April, 1866) . 386 
 
 NEW POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD, 1867 
 
 (Though the Muse he gone away) .... 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) :— paoe 
 
 The Tekrace at Bekne 402 
 
 Stanzas composed at Caknac .... 404 
 
 A Southern Night 382 
 
 Tragment of Chorus of 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 411 
 
 Lines written in Kensington Gardens . . 182 
 
 The Second Best 184 
 
 A Caution to Poets 412 
 
 Pis-Aller 413 
 
 Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoon .... 418 
 
 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 
 
PEEFACE 
 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 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 which 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 sufficient reason. Neither have I done so lo 
 because I had, 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,Jiving 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 
 fanjiliar 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 ; modem 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. 
 
 AHNOLD B 
 
2 PEEFACE 
 
 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 poetic3,l 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^oetical 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 
 
 1 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, 
 
PEEFACE 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 why, 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 
 
 1 In The Spectator of April 2nd, 1853. Tho words quoted were 
 not used with reference to poems of mine. 1854 first 
 
 21 intelligent] apparently intelligent 1853 
 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 which is 
 great and passionate is eternally interesting ; and 
 
 20 interesting solely in proportion to its greatness and to 
 its passion. A great human action of a thousand years 
 ago is moie 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 them 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 
 
 *0 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 
 
PKEPACE 5 
 
 time ; yet ItearlesslyassertthatHermannand 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 past 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 beautj'. 
 
 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 
 
PKEPACE 7 
 
 among the dramas of Aeschylus, because it represented 
 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, iov 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 ielow, the sentence: 'But 
 for all kinds of poetry alike , . . careful construction of the poem,' 
 
8 PEEFACE 
 
 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 which 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 incominensui'9,ble,' 
 
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 lo 
 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 
 Eomeo and Juhet, or Othello : he had no theor}"^ 
 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 
 Architedonice 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, mats mdlheureusement il 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 formed in the school of Shake- 
 speare : of one whose exquisite genius and pathetic 
 death render him for ever interesting. I wiU 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 Fairy 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 
 
PEEFACE 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 Shakespeare, 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 many 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 plainly, 
 even when the press of the action demands the very 
 directest language, or its level character the very sim- 3C 
 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 
 power of saying a thing in a happier way than any 
 
12 PEEFACE 
 
 other man ; nevertheless, it is carried so fai- 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 conaes 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 bft 
 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 lo 
 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 20 
 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 
 to 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 — p^aXeTrov, as Pittacus said, xo^etov 40 
 ia-6\6v efjLfievai — 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 importance and greatness of 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 griindeur can with 
 difSculty supply such, and an age of spiritual discom- 
 fort with difficulty 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 
 Groethe 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 
 
 iO what is impeding and disabling such as he may safely 
 
 32-33 the two men . . . culture] the men of strongest head 
 and widest culture 1853, 18Si. 
 
PEEFACE 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 making any claim, for myself, 10 
 that Z 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 : Dii me terrent, et Jupiter Tiostis. 
 
 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 Preface 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 ISSi. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 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 imagination : 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 jseriod 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 so 
 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. 
 London, 
 
 t/tme 1, 1854. 
 
 3 Alcestis] Promethetis 1554:. 
 
ALAEIC AT ROME 
 
 [A prize poem recited in Eugby School, June 12, 1840. 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 IV 
 
 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. 
 
20 ALAEIC AT EOME 
 
 Is thine the laurel-crown that greatness wreathes 
 Eound 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. 
 
 VII 
 
 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. 
 
 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 : 
 
 IX 
 
 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. 
 
ALAEIC 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 
 
 Thy dead are kings, thy dust are palaces, 
 Relics 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, Rome, 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 ALAEIC AT EOME 
 
 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 Eome, oh ! cold were he 
 Who would not burst his bonds, and in his turn be free. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XVII 
 
 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? 
 
 XVIII 
 
 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. 
 
ALAEIC 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? 
 
 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 ALAEIC AT EOME 
 
 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 nc echo to the sound of home. 
 No shame that suns should rise to light a conquer'd 
 Eome. 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. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 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-daj' 
 Beheld him master of Imperial Eome, 
 Crowning his wildest hopes : perchance his eyes 
 As they looked sternly on, beheld new victories. 
 
ALAEICAT EOME 25 
 
 New dreams of wide dominion, mightier, higher, 
 Come floating up from the ahyss 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, 'All earthly things must 
 die.' 180 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxrii 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ALAEIC 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, Eome, with 
 thee ! 210 
 
 xxxvr 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 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 ! 
 
CROMWELL 
 
 [A prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, 
 June 28, 1843. First published by J. Vincent, Oxford, 1813. 
 Reprinted in Oxford Prize Poems, 1846, and separately in 1863.] 
 
 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 — Miltoii 
 — Charles the First — Cromwell on his death-bed — His 
 character — Dispersion of the vision — Conclusion. 
 
 Schrecklich ist es, deiner Wahrheit 
 Sterbliohes Gefass zu seyn. 
 
 SCHILLEK. 
 
 High fate is theirs, ye sleepless waves, whose ear 
 Learns rreedom's lesson from your voice of fear ; 
 Whose spell-bound sense from childhood's hour hath 
 
 known 
 Familiar liieanings 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 hill 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 ; iO 
 
 Or that mysterious 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 
 Deiep 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 plain ! 
 
 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, becalm'd or toss'd 
 On life's wild waves — the living and the lost. 
 Youth stain'd with follies : and the thoughts of ill 
 Crush'd, as they rose, by manhood's sterner will. 80 
 Eepentant prayers, that had been strong to save ; 
 And the iirst 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 between two sorrows, went and came • 
 
30 CEOMWELL 
 
 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 
 
 Wou.ld 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 cai'es 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 ; 
 
OEOMWELL 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, 
 
 Eang, 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 wave 
 
 Sonorous witness to his empire gave ! 
 
 What forms are these, that with complaining sound. 
 And slow, reluctant steps are gathering 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 Jrolded, 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 CKOMWELL 
 
 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 
 Cljildhood'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 follow'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 fac^s watch'd around him, and his breath 
 Came fgint 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 ! 
 Eent 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, 220 
 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 pkiend) 
 
 [Written in 1847. First published in The Century Guild Hobby 
 Borse, 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 shouldering herd. 
 
 Mourn will we not your closing hour, 10 
 
 Ye imbeciles in present power, 
 
 Doom'd, pompous, 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 takfe 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 85 
 
 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 JSxaminer, July 21, 1849 ; not re- 
 printed by the author.] 
 
 Not in sunk Spain's prolong'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 
 
 Afflicts 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 ! Eenew 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. 
 
THE STRAYED REVELLER 
 AND OTHER FOEMS, 1849 • 
 
 'a fxuKap, offTis i-qv Ketvov xp^^ov tSpi? aotS^s 
 Movaawu OepdwoJUj or' axeipaTos rjv en Xeiftwv 
 vvv S', ore iiavra SeSaa'Taif exovffi 5« veipaTa rix^^-^i 
 vararoi ihare bp6fiov KaTaKet-nufieO* — 
 
 SONNET 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 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 Eepose, 
 Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. 
 Yes, while on earth a thousand discords 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 publislied 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 1S49. 2 is] are lSi9. 
 
 3 Two blinding duties, h.irmonis'd in one, 1849. 
 6 still advance] one short hour 1S49, 7 Far noisier] Man's 
 
 noisy 18i9. 10 senseless uproar] weak complainings lSi9, 
 
 12 tasks] course 1849. 13 blaming] chiding 1849. 
 
MYCEEINUS 37 
 
 I will unfold my sentence and my crime. 
 
 My crime, that, rapt in reverential awe, 
 
 I sate obedient, in the iiery 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, 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. 30 
 
 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 1849. 
 
38 MYCEEINUS 
 
 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 ? 60 
 
 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.' 
 
MYOEEINUS 39 
 
 — So spake he, 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, 
 Girt 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 slumber, 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, 
 Eevealing 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, 110 
 
 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 MYCERINUS 
 
 No, nor grew dark when Autumn brought the clouds. 
 
 So six long years he revell'd, night and day ; 
 And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound 
 Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, 
 To tell his wondering people of their king ; 
 In the still night, across the steaming flats, 
 Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile. 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 [First published 1849. Eeprinted 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 Colonus, and its child. 
 
 THE STRAYED REVELLER 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 185.3, '54, '57.] 
 
 Tlie portico of Circe's Palace. Evening 
 
 A Youth. Circe 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 O Oirce, Goddess, 
 Let the wild, thronging train, 
 The bright procession 
 ' Of eddying forms. 
 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 Theportko of Circe's Palace. Evening'] First inserted in 1863. 
 
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. 
 
 ClECE 
 
 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 yoiider hill. 
 
 Quick I pass'd, following 40 
 
 The wood-cutters' cart-track 
 Down the dark valley ; — I saw 
 
42 THE STRAYED EEVELLEE 
 
 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. 
 
 ClKCE 
 
 Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? 
 
 Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? 
 
 Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows. 
 
 Through the delicate flush'd marble. 
 
 The red creaming liquor, 
 
 Strown with dark seeds ! 
 
 Drink, then ! I chide thee not. 
 
 Deny thee not my bowl. 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. 
 Taint — faint ! Ah me ! 
 4SiinJUtsejwegt.^Leeg. 
 
 Circe 
 
 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 STEAYED EEVELLEE 43 
 
 "Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 
 
 The young, languid-ey'd Ampelus, 
 
 lacchus' darling — 
 
 Or some youth belov'd of Pan, 80 
 
 Of Pan and the Nymphs ? 
 
 That he sits, bending downward 
 
 His Avhite, delicate neck 
 
 To the ivy-wreath'd marge 
 
 Of thy cup : — the bright, glancing vine-leaves 
 
 That crown his hair. 
 
 Falling 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 mortals ? 
 
 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 STEAYED KEVELLEE 
 
 Ulysses 
 I am Ulysses. 
 And thou, too, sleeper? 
 Thy voice is sweet. 
 It may be thou hast follo w'd 
 Through the is la nds some divine b ard. 
 By age taught many things, 
 Age and the Muses ; 120 
 
 And heard him delighting 
 The chiefs and people 
 In the tanquet, 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 hai l ! 
 
 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 
 
 Eevolving 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 
 
 Eear'd proudly, snuffing 
 
 The mountain wind. 150 
 
THE STEAYED EEVELLER 45 
 
 They see the Indian 
 
 Drifting, knife in hand, 
 
 His frail boat moor'd to 
 
 A floating isle thick matted 
 
 With large-leav'd, low-creeping melon-plants, 
 
 And the dark cucumher. 
 
 He reaps, and stows them, 
 
 Drifting — drifting : — round him, 
 
 Eound his green harvest-plot, 
 
 riow 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 mounds 
 
 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 STEAYED EEVELLEE 
 
 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 STRAYED EEVELLEE 47 
 
 Alcmena's dreadful son 
 Ply his bow : — such a price 
 The_ Gods exacf l or song ; - 
 To become wh at we sing. 
 
 They see the Indian 
 
 On his mountain lake : — but squalls 
 
 Make their skiff 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 tooT^^make them pale. 
 
 WEetEer^hfough 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, 260 
 
 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 Fauns 
 
 Down at the water side 
 
 Sprinkled and smooth'd 
 
 His drooping garland. 
 
 He told me these things. 
 
 238 In] I' 1849. 
 
48 THE STEAYED EEVELLEK 
 
 But I, Ulysses, 270 
 
 Sitting on the warm steps, 
 
 Looking over the valley, 
 
 All day long, have seen, 
 
 Without pain, without labour. 
 
 Sometimes a wild-hair'd Maenad ; 
 
 Sometimes a Faun M'ith 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 I 
 
 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. 290 
 
 The cup again ! 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 O Circe, Goddess, 
 
 Let the wild thronging train, 
 
 The bright procession 
 
 Of eddying forms. 
 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 FKAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853.] 
 
 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. 
 
FKAGMENT 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, 
 
 Eobbing 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 FEAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' 
 
 Haemon 
 
 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, 60 
 
 Ah me ! — honourest more than thy lover, 
 
 O Antigone, 
 A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse. 
 
 The Choeus 
 
 Nor was the love untrue 
 
 Which the Dawn-Goddess bore 
 
 To that fair youth she erst 
 
 Leaving the salt sea-beds 
 And coming ilush'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. 70 
 
 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 enthron'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 whelra'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 Spevcheius' vale, shaken with groans, lOO 
 
 And the rous'd Maliac gulph, 
 
 And scar'd Oetaean snows, 
 To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child. 
 
 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1855.] 
 Hussein 
 O MOST just Vizier, send away 
 The cloth-merchants, and let them be. 
 Them and their dues, this day : the King 
 Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. 
 
 The Vizier 
 O merchants, tarry yet a day 
 Here in Bokhara : but at noon 
 To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay 
 Each fortieth web of cloth to me, 
 As the law is, and go your way. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 THE SrCK KING IN BOKHAEA 
 
 O 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 Eegistkn ; 
 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 w^ilt, make haste 
 To speak in order what hath chanc'd. 
 
 The King 
 O Vizier, be it as 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, O King, and on myself ! 
 On this great sinner, who hath broke 
 The law, and by the law must die ! 
 Vengeance, O King ! ' 
 
 But the King spoke : 
 12 Ferdousi's] Ferclusi's lSi9. 
 
THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 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 path he took ; 
 
 My man comes running, fleck'd with blood 50 
 
 From yesterday, and falling down 
 Cries out most earnestly ; ' O King, 
 My lord, O King, do right, I pray ! 
 
 ' How canst thou, ere thou heai', discern 
 If I speak folly ? but a king. 
 Whether a thing be great or small. 
 Like Allah, hears and judges all. 
 
 ' Wherefore hear thou ! Thou know'st, how fierce 
 
 In these last days the sun hath burn'd : 
 
 That the green water in the tanks 60 
 
 Is to a putrid puddle turn'd : 
 
 And the canal, that from the stream 
 
 Of Samarcand is brought this way. 
 
 Wastes, and runs thinner every day. 
 
 ' Now I at nightfall had gone forth 
 
 Alone, and in a darksome place 
 
 Under some mulberiy trees I found 
 
 A little pool ; and in brief space 
 
 With all the water that was there 
 
 I fill'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 call'd 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 
 
 JBrake 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 1849. 
 
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 
 
 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 luerit 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 Orgunjfe. 
 
 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 1S49. 168 Orgunj6] Urghendje 1S49. 
 
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 frait 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 wUl. 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 oif all blood, set smooth each limb. 230 
 Then say ; ' He was not wholly vile. 
 Because a king shall bury him.' 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '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 immortal 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 BUTLER'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, I 
 
 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 EMEESON'S ESSAYS 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853.] 
 
 ' O MONSTKous, dead, unprofitable world, 
 That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way. 
 A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day, 
 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 by : 
 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 : lo 
 
 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 mockei-y ? 
 
 TO AN INDEPENDENT PEEACHER 
 
 WHO PBEACHED THAT WE SHOULD BE 'iN HARMONY 
 WITH NATURE ' 
 
 [First published 1849.] 
 
 ' In harmony with Nature ' ? Eestless 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 GEOKGE 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 REPUBLICAN FEIEND, 1848 
 
 [First publisiied 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 R-epublican Friend, 1848. Title\ date first inserted in 1SS3. 
 
62 
 
 TO A EEPUBLICAN FKIEND, 1848 
 
 Continued 
 [First published 1849. Keprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem 
 
 Rather to patience prompted, than that proud 
 
 Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud, 
 
 France, 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. 
 
 EELIGIOUS ISOLATION 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Children (as such forgive them) have I known. 
 Ever in their own eager pastime bent 
 To make the incurious bystander, intent 
 On his own swarming thoughts, an interest own ; 
 Too fearful or too fond to play alone. 
 Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul 
 (Not less thy boast) illuminates, control 
 Wishes unworthy of a man full-grown. 
 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 FKIENDS 
 
 WHO RIDICULED A TENDER LEAVE-TAKING 
 [First published 1849. Keprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Laugh, my Friends, and without blame ^ 
 
 Lightly quit what lightly came : 
 
 Rich to-morrow as to-day 
 
 Spend as madly as you may. 
 
 I, with little land to stir, 
 
 Am the exacter labourer. 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 But my Youth reminds me — ' Thou 
 
 Hast liv'd light as these live now : lo 
 
 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 'II 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 ? so 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 To my Friends, &c. Tills] Switzerland. I. To my friends who 
 ridiculed a tender leave-taking IS53, JS5i, iS57. 
 
 7, 15, 23, 31, 39, 47, 55, 71 hour go by] kisa be dry 1849, 1853, 18Si. 
 
64 TO MY FRIENDS 
 
 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 : 60 
 
 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 nothing 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 tabl«»ts, Memory ! 
 
65 
 A MODEEN SAPPHO 
 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1853.] 
 
 They are gone : all is still : Foolish heart, dost thou 
 
 quiver ? 
 Nothing moves on the lawn but the quick lilac shade. 
 Far up gleams the house, and beneath flovs^s 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 ? 10 
 
 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 once, 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. 
 Will be brought, thou poor heart ! how much nearer 
 to thee ! 
 
66 A MODEM SAPPaO 
 
 For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking 
 The strong band which beauty around him hath furl'd, 
 Disenchanted ay habit, and iiewly 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 
 
 Put deeper their voicie grow:s, and nobler their bearing, 
 Whose youth in the fireS of anguish hath died. 
 
 Then— to wait. But what notes down the ■v^ihd, hai-k ! 
 
 are driving ? 
 'Tis he ! tis the boat, shooting round by the trees ! 
 Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving ! 
 Ahi hope cannot long lighten torments like these. 
 
 Hast thou yet dealt him, O Life, thy full measure ■? 
 World, have thy children ^t bow'd -at his knee 1" 
 Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O Pleasure ? 
 Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me. 40 
 
 THE NEW SIRENS 
 
 A PALIN'OD'E 
 [First published 1849.] 
 
 In the cedkr shiadoiv sleeping. 
 Where bOo'l grass arid fragrant glooms 
 Oft at noon have lur'd me, creeping 
 From your daTken'd palace rooms : 
 I, who in your train at morning 
 StroU'd a%3 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 b,nd fret the storms ? 
 Who, when ships are that Vay 'tending, 
 Tropp across the flushing sands. 
 To allreefs and'harro'ws wending, 
 With blown tresses, and with beckobing'htods ? 
 
THE NEW SIEENS 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 mad sallies 
 Which the charm'd winds never drown ; 
 By faint music guided, ranging 
 The scar'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. 
 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 embraces : 
 And those whitening bone-mounds do not grow. 
 
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. 
 Eound 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 : 
 j 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 SIKENS 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 frame. 
 
 Yes — I muse : — And, if the dawning 
 Into daylight never grew — 
 If the glistering wings of morning 
 On the dry noon shook their dew — 
 If the fits of joy were longer — 
 Or the day were sooner done — 110 
 
 Or, perhaps, if Hope were stronger — 
 No weak nursling of an earthly sun . . . 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, 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 cedai-s 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 pleasure 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. 
 Shepherds 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. 150 
 
 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 ? 
 speak once ! and let my sadness, 
 And this sobbing Phrygian strain, 170 
 
 Sham'd and bafiled 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 hoarse winds blow. 
 Come, bind up those ringlet showers ! 
 Roses 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-stricken 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 ruflBed 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 mipej 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 : 
 0, loose hands, and let it be ! 
 Proudly, like a king bewailing, 
 O, let fall one tear, and set us free ! 
 
 All true speech and large avowal 
 Which the jealous soul concedes : 230 
 
 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 : 340 
 
 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, weeping Graces, 
 Sylvan Gods of this fair shade ! 
 Is there doubt on divine faces ? 
 Are the happy Gods dismay'd ? 
 Can men worship the wan features, 
 The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, 260 
 
 Of unspher'd discrowned creatures, 
 Souls as little godlike as their own ? 
 
THE NEW SIEENS 73 
 
 Come, loose hands ! The winged fleetness 
 Of immortal feet is gone. 
 And your scents have shed their sweetness, 
 And your flowers are overflown. 
 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, 
 Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand. 
 
 Strew no more red roses, maidens. 
 Leave the lilies in their dew : 270 
 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O 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 I 
 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 waters 
 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, 
 O 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 PAUSTA 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 M-e follow ? 
 
 DESIEE 
 
 [First published 18i9. 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 1849. 
 
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 ; 
 
 Fi-om 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. 
 O 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-SHOEE 
 
 DOUGLAS, ISLE OP 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, 
 iSits 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 ? 
 18*9. 
 
78 TO A GIPSY CHILp BY THE SEA-8H0EE 
 
 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 su ns shalt thou discern ? 
 
 Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, 
 Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 
 
 1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, 
 Have known too much — or else forgotten all. 
 
 The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil 
 
 Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps : 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 strenuous 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 ; 60 
 
 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-SHOKE 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 tlie author.] 
 
 A EEGiON desolate and wild, 
 Black, chafing water : and afloat. 
 And lonely as a truant child 
 In a waste wood, a single boat : 
 No mast, no sails are set thereon ; 
 It moves, but never moveth on : 
 And welters like a human thing 
 Amid the wild waves weltering. 
 
 Behind, a buri«d vale doth sleep. 
 
 Ear 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 overgrown : 
 
 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 beached 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 ni^ht 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 steer. 
 
 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 way, this way. 
 
 Call her 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 ear : 
 
 Children's voices, wild with pain. 
 
 Surely she will come again. 
 
 Call her once and come away. 
 
 This way, this way. 
 
 ' Mother dear, we cannot stay.' 20 
 
 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 MEEMAN 81 
 
 She will not come though you call all day. 
 Come away, come away. 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 36 
 
 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 ; 40 
 
 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, 60 
 
 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 
 
 And the youngest sate on her knee. 
 
 She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. 
 
 When down swung the sound of 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 ; 60 
 
 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.' 
 
 She smU'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 FOESAKEN MEKMAN 
 
 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 
 
 From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers. 
 
 But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
 
 We climb'd on the graves, on the stones, worn with 
 
 rains, 
 And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 
 She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
 ' 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 th^ depths of the sea. 
 She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Hark, what she sings ; ' joy, joy. 
 For the humming street, and the child with its toy. 90 
 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. 
 For the wheel where I spun, 
 And the blessed light of the sun.' 
 And so she sings her fill, 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Till the 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 MEEMAN 83 
 
 Come away, away children. 
 Come children, come down. 
 Tha hoarse wind blows colder ; lio 
 
 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 130 
 
 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, 14^ 
 
 But cruel is she. 
 She left lonely for ever 
 The kings of the sea.' 
 
 110 The salt tide rolls seaward 1849. 
 
 o 2 
 
84 
 
 THE WOELD AND THE QUIETIST 
 
 TO CEITIAS 
 [First published 1849. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 War, when tlie World's great mind 
 Hath finally inclin'd, 
 Why, you say, Critias, he debating still? 
 Why, with these mournful rhymes 
 Learn' d in more languid climes, 
 Blame our activity, 
 Wlio, ivith such passionate will. 
 Are, ivhat we mean to le ? 
 
 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 : 
 Felt the slow-rolling word 
 
 Swell his attentive soul. SO 
 
 Breath'd deeply as it died, 
 And drain'd his mighty bowl. 
 
85 
 IN UTEUMQUE PARATUS 
 
 [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 way : 
 
 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 ; 
 Rare the lone pastoral huts : marvel not thou ! 
 The solemn peaks but to the stars are known, 
 But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams : 
 Alone the sun arises, and alone 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, 
 Rocking her obscure body to and fro. 
 Ceases not from all time to heave and groan. 
 Unfruitful oft, and, at her happiest throe, 
 
 Forms, what she forms, alone : 
 
 O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bath'd head 
 
 Piercing the solemn cloud 30 
 
 Round thy still dreaming brother-world outspread ! 
 O man, whom Earth, thy long-vext mother, bare 
 Not without joy ; so radiant, so endow'd — 
 (Such happy issue crown'd her painful care) 
 Be not too proud ! 
 
86 IN UTEUMQUE PAKATUS 
 
 O when most self-exalted most alone, 
 
 Chief dreamer, own thy dream ! 
 Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown ; 
 Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part ; 
 Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. 40 
 what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart 
 
 ' I too but seem ! ' 
 
 EESIGNATION 
 
 TO FAUSTA 
 [First published 1849. Keprintea 1855.] 
 
 To die be given us, or attain ! 
 
 Fierce worlc it were, to do again. 
 
 So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd 
 
 At burning noon : so warriors said, 
 
 Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles 
 
 Of dust that wreath'd their struggling files 
 
 Down Lydian mountains : so, when snows 
 
 Eound Alpine summits eddying rose, 
 
 The Goth, bound Eome-wards : so the Hun, 
 
 Crouch'd on his saddle, when the sun 10 
 
 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, resign'd ; 
 
 These mourn not, that their goings pay 
 
 Obedience to the passing day : 
 
 These claim not every laughing Hour 30 
 
 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, Tausta, 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, SO 
 
 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 down : 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. — 
 
EESIGNATION 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 
 Kuns 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 yesterdaj' 
 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 fiery 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 vidth some errand of its own ; — 
 
 And does not say, I 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-drenoh'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 
 
KESIGNATION 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, 
 
 Whose secret is not joy, but peace ; 
 
 That Life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd 
 
 If birth proceeds, if things subsist : 
 
 The Life of plants, and stones, and rain : 
 
 The Life he craves ; if not in vain 
 
 Fate gave, what Chance shall not control, 
 
 His sad lucidity of soul. 
 
 You listen : — but that wandering smile, 
 Fausta, betrays you cold the while. 200 
 
 Your eyes pursue the bells of foam 
 Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. 
 Those Gipsies, so your thoughts I scan. 
 Are less, the Poet more, than man. 
 They feel not, though they move and see : 
 Deeply the Poet feels ; hut he 
 BreatJies, when he will, immortal air. 
 Where Orpheus and where Homer are. 
 In the day's life, whose iron round ^ 
 Hems us all in, he is not bound. 210 
 
 He escapes thence, tut we abide. 
 Not deep the Poet sees, but wide. 
 
 The "World in which we live and move 
 Outlasts aversion, outlasts love : 
 Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, 
 Kemorse, grief, joy : — and were the scope r 
 Of these affections wider made, 
 Man still would see, and see dismay'd. 
 Beyond his passion's widest range 
 Far regions of eternal change. 220 
 
 Nay, and since death, which wipes out man. 
 Finds him with many an unsolv'd plan, 
 With much unknown, and much untried. 
 Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried. 
 Still gazing on the ever full 
 Eternal mundane spectacle ; 
 This World in which we draw our breath, 
 In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. 
 
92 RESIGNATION 
 
 Blame thou not therefore him, who dares 
 Judge vain beforehand human cares. 230 
 
 Whose natural insight can discern 
 What through experience others learn. 
 Who needs not love and power, to know 
 Love transient, power an unreal show. 
 Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways : — 
 Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise. 
 Rather thyself for some aim pray 
 Nobler than this — to fill the day. 
 Rather, that heart, which burns in thee, 
 Ask, not to amuse, but to set free. 2i0 
 
 Be passionate hopes not ill resign'd 
 For quiet, and a fearless mind. 
 And though Fate grudge to thee and me 
 The Poet's rapt security, 
 Yet they, believe me, who await 
 No gifts from Chance, have conquer'd Fate. 
 They, winning room to see and hear, 
 And to men's business not too near. 
 Through clouds of individual strife 
 Draw homewards to the general Life. 250 
 
 Like leaves by suns not yet uncurl'd : 
 To the wise, foolish ; to the world. 
 Weak : yet not weak, I might reply, 
 Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye. 
 To whom each moment in its race, 
 Crowd as we will its neutral space, 
 Is but a quiet watershed 
 Whence, equally, the Seas of Life and Death are fed. 
 
 Enough, we live : — and if a life, 
 With large results so little rife, ' 260 
 
 Though bearable, seem hardly worth 
 This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth ; 
 Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread. 
 The solemn hills around lis spread, 
 This stream that falls incessantly. 
 The strange-scrawl'd rocks, the lonely sky, 
 
 255 Each moment as it flies, to whom 1S49. 
 
 256 space] room lSi9. 
 
EESIGNATION 93 
 
 If I might lend their life a voice, 
 
 Seem to bear rather than rejoice. 
 
 And even could the intemperate prayer 
 
 Man iterates, while these forbear, 279 
 
 For movement, for an ampler sphere, 
 
 Pierce Fate's impenetrable ear ; 
 
 Not milder is the general lot 
 
 Because our spirits have forgot, 
 
 In action's dizzying eddy whirl'd, 
 
 The something that infects the world. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS, 1852 
 
 XoipdiTarov xP^y^^' dvevptffKei '^cLp iravra. 
 
 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM 
 
 [First published 1852. Fragments reprinted 1853, '54, '55, '57. 
 Keprinted in complete form as below 1867.] 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 EMPEDOCLES. 
 
 Pausakias, u Physician. 
 Cali.icles, a young Harp-player. 
 
 The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna; at firslin the forest regien, 
 aftei-warcls on the summit of the mountain. 
 
 ACT I : SCENE I 
 
 A Pass in the forest region of Etna. Morning 
 
 Callicles 
 {Alone, resting on a roclc hy the path) 
 
 The mules, I think, will not be here this hour. 
 
 They feel the cool wet turf under their feet 
 
 By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes 
 
 In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, 
 
 And scarcely will they budge a yard, O Pan ! 
 
 How gracious is the mountain at this hour ! 
 
 A thousand times have I been here alone 
 
 Or with the revellers from the mountain towns. 
 
 But never on so fair a morn ; — the sun 
 
 Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests, 10 
 
 And on the highest pines : but further down 
 
 Here in the valley is in shade ; the sward 
 
 Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs ; 
 
 One sees one's foot-prints crush'd in the wet grass, 
 
 One's breath curls in the air ; and on these pines 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 95 
 
 That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts. 
 
 Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew. 
 
 Here will I stay till the slow litter comes. 
 
 I have my harp too — that is well. — Apollo ! 
 
 What mortal could be sick or sorry here ? 20 
 
 I know not in what mind Empedocles, 
 
 Whose mules I foUow'd, may be coming up, 
 
 But if, as most men say, he is half mad 
 
 With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, 
 
 Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him. 
 
 Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. 
 
 The mules must be below, far down. I hear 
 
 Their tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds, 
 
 Eise faintly to me — now it stops !— Who 's here ? 
 
 Pausanias ! and on foot ? alone ? 30 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 And thou, then ? 
 I left thee supping with Peisianax, 
 With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd. 
 Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee. 
 And prais'd and spoil'd by master and by guests 
 Almost as much as the new dancing girl. 
 Why hast thou follow'd us ? 
 
 Callicles 
 
 The night was hot, 
 And the teast past its prime ; so we slipp'd out, 
 Some of us, to the portico to breathe ; — 
 Peisianax, thou know'st, drinks late ; — and then, 
 As I was lifting my soil'd garland off, 49 
 
 I saw the mules and litter in the court, , 
 And in the litter sate Empedocles ; 
 Thou, too, wert with him. Straightway I sped home ; 
 I saddled my white mule, and all night long 
 Through the cool lovely country follow'd you, 
 Pass'd you a little since as morning dawn'd, 
 And have this hour sate by the torrent here. 
 Till the slow mules should climb iu sight again. 
 And now? 
 
 31 and throughout Peisianax] Pisianaz 1852, 
 
96 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 Patjsanias 
 
 And now, back to the town with speed ! 
 Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass'd ; 50 
 They do but halt, they will be here anon. 
 Thou must be viewless to Empedocles ; 
 Save mine, he must not meet a human eye. 
 One of his moods is on him that thou know'st, 
 I think, thou would'st not vex him. 
 
 Callicles 
 
 No— and yet 
 I would fain stay and help thee tend him ; once 
 He knew me well, and would oft notice me. 
 And still, I know not how, he draws me to him, 
 And I could watch him with his proud sad face, 
 His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow 60 
 
 And kingly gait, for ever ; such a spell 
 In his severe looks, such a majesty 
 As drew of old the people after him, 
 In Agrigentum and Olympia, 
 When his star reign'd, before his ba nishme nt, 
 Is potent still on me in his decline. 
 But oh, Pausanias, he is changed of late ! 
 There is a settled trouble in his air 
 Admits no momentary brightening now ; 
 And when he comes among his friends at feasts, 70 
 'Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. 
 Thou know'st of old he loved this harp of mine. 
 When first he sojourn'd with Peisianax ; 
 He is nov/ always moody, and I fear him. 
 But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could. 
 Dared one but try. 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 Thou wert a kind child ever. 
 He loves thee, but he must not see thee now. 
 Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp. 
 He loves that in thee, too ; there was a time 
 (But that is pass'd) he would have paid thy strain 80 
 With music to have drawn the stars from heaven. 
 He has his harp and laurel with him still, 
 But he has laid the use of music by. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 97 
 
 And all which might relax his settled gloom. 
 
 Yet thou may'st try thy playing if thou wilt, 
 
 But thou must keep unseen ; follow us on, 
 
 But at a distance ; in these solitudes, 
 
 In this clear mountain air, a voice will rise, 
 
 Though from afar, distinctly ; it may soothe him. 
 
 Play when we halt, and, when the evening comes 90 
 
 And I must leave him (for his pleasure is 
 
 To be left musing these soft nights alone 
 
 In the high unfrequented mountain spots), 
 
 Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far. 
 
 Sometimes to Etna's top, and to the cone ; 
 
 But hide thee in the rocks a great way down, 
 
 And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles, 
 
 With the sweet night to help thy harmony. 
 
 Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his. 
 
 Callicles 
 More than a day and night, Pausanias, 100 
 
 Of this fair summer weather, on these hills, 
 Would I bestow to help Empedocles. 
 That needs no thanks ; one is far better here ^^ 
 
 Than in the b roiling c ity in these heats,_ 
 But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him 
 In this his present fierce, man-hating mood, 
 To bring thee out with him alone on Etna ? 
 
 Paitsanias 
 Thou ha;st heard all men speaking of Pantheia, 
 The woman who at Agrigentum lay 
 Thirty long days in a cold trance of death, 110 
 
 And whom Empedocles call'd back to life. 
 Thou art too young to note it, but his power 
 Swells with the swelling evil of this time. 
 And holds men mute to see where it will rise. 
 He could stay swift diseases in old days, 
 Chain madmen by the music of his lyre. 
 Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of poisonous streams, 
 And in the mountain chinks inter the winds. 
 This he could do of old ; but now, since all 
 Clouds and gro\ys daily worse in Sicily, 120 
 
 Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm 
 108 Pantheia] Panthea lS5'iy and so thromjhoui. 
 
98 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 Of sophists has got empire in our schools 
 
 Where he was paramount, since he is banish'd, 
 
 And lives a lonely man in triple gloom, 
 
 He grasps the very reins of life and death. 
 
 I ask'd him of Pantheia yesterday. 
 
 When we were gather'd with Peisianax, 
 
 And he made answer, I should come at night, 
 
 On Etna here, and be alone with him, 
 
 And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend, 130 
 
 Who still was faithful, what might profit me ; 
 
 That is, the secret of this miracle. 
 
 Callicles 
 
 Bah! Thou a doctor? Thou art superstitious. 
 Simple Pausanias, 'twas no miracle ! 
 Pantheia, for I know her kinsmen well. 
 Was subject to these trances from a girl. 
 Empedocles would say so, did he deign ; 
 But he still lets the people, whom he scorns. 
 Gape and cry wizard at him, if they list. 
 But thou, thou art no company for him ; 140 
 
 Thou art as cross, as soured as himself. 
 Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens, 
 And then thy friend is banish'd, and on that, 
 Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times, 
 As if the sky was impious not to fall. 
 The sophists are no enemies of his ; 
 I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him. 
 As of his gifted master and once friend. 
 He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter. 
 'Tis not the times, 'tis not the sophists vex him ; 150 
 There is some root of suffering in himself, 
 Some secret and unfoUow'd vein of woe, 
 Which makes the time look black and sad to him. 
 Pester him not in this his sombre mood 
 With questionings about an idle tale, 
 But lead him through the lovely mountain paths, 
 And keep his mind from preying on itself, 
 And talk to him of things at hand and common, 
 Not miracles ; thou art a learned man, 
 But credulous of fables as a girl. 160 
 
 153 time] times 1SS2. 
 
EMPEDOOLES ON ETNA 99 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge, 
 
 And on whose lightness blame is thrown away. 
 
 Enough of this ! I see the litter wind 
 
 Up by the torrent-side, under the pines. 
 
 I must rejoin Empedoeles. Do thou 
 
 Crouch in the brush-wood till the mules have pass'd ; 
 
 Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night ! 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Noon. A Glen on the highest shirts of the woody 
 region of Etna 
 
 Empedocles. Pausanias 
 Pausanias 
 The noon is hot ; when we have cross'd the stream 
 We shall have left the woody tract, and come 
 Upon the open shoulder of the hill. ,# 
 
 See how the giant spires of yellow bloom 
 Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat. 
 Are shining on those naked slopes like flame ! 
 Let us rest here ; and now, Empedocles, 
 Pantheia's history. [A harp-note helmv is heard. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Hark ! what sound was that 
 Eose from below ? If it were possible, 
 And we were not so far from human haunt, 10 
 
 I should have said that some one touch'd a harp. 
 Hark ! there again ! 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 'Tis the boy Callicles, 
 The sweetest harp-player in Catana, 
 He is for ever coming on these hills, 
 In summer, to all country festivals, ■ 
 
 With a gay revelling band ; he breaks from them 
 Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. 
 But heed him not, he will not mount to us ; 
 I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore,' 
 Instruct me of Pantheia's story, Master, 2'> 
 
 As I have pray'd thee. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 That? and to what end? 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 It is enough that all men speak of it. 
 
 But I will also say, that when tjie Gods 
 
 Visit us as they do with sign and plague, 
 
 To know those spells of time that stay their hand 
 
 Were to live free from terror. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Spells ? Mistrust them. 
 Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven. 
 Man has a mind with which to plan his safety ; 
 Know that, and help thyself. 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 But thy own words ? 
 ' The wit and counsel of man was never clear, 30 
 
 Troubles confuse the little wit he has.' 
 Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, 
 To lead those false who trust it. 
 
 [27(c harp sounds again 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Hist ! once more ! 
 Listen, Pausanias ! — Aye, 'tis Callicles ! 
 I know those notes among a thousand. Hark ! 
 
 Callicles 
 
 [Sings unseen, from helotv. 
 The track winds down to the clear stream. 
 To cross the sparkling shallows ; there 
 The cattle love to gather, on their way 
 To the high mountain pastures, and to stay, 
 Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, 40 
 
 Knee-deep, in the cool ford ; for 'tis the last 
 Of all the woody, high, well-water'd dells 
 On Etna ; and the beam 
 Of noon is broken there by chestnut boughs 
 
 26 free] free'd 1852. 
 
 36-76 in 1855 as The harp-player on Etna. I. The Last Glen. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 101 
 
 Down its steep verdant sides ; the air 
 Is freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throws 
 Eternal showers of spray on the moss'd roots 
 Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots 
 Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells 
 Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies, 50 
 
 That muffle its wet banks ; but glade. 
 And stream, and sward, and chestnut trees, 
 End here ; Etna beyond, in the broad glare 
 Of the hot noon, without a shade, 
 Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare ; 
 The peak, round which the white clouds play. 
 In such a glen, on such a day, 
 On Pelion, on the grassy ground, 
 Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay, 
 The young Achilles standing by. 60 
 
 The Centaur taught him to explore 
 The mountains ; where the glens are dry. 
 And the tired Centaurs come to rest, 
 And where the soaking springs abound. 
 And the straight ashes grow for spears, 
 And where the hill-goats come to feed. 
 And the sea-eagles build their nest. 
 He show'd him Phthia far away, 
 And said : O boy, I taught this lore 
 To Peleus, in long distant years ! 70 
 
 He told him of the Gods, the stars. 
 The tides ; — and then of mortal wars. 
 And of the life which heroes lead 
 Before they reach the Elysian place 
 And rest in the immortal mead ; 
 And all the wisdom of his race. 
 
 [The music helow ceases, and Empedocles speaks, 
 accompanying himself in a solemn mminer 
 on his harp. 
 The out-spread world to span 
 A cord the Gods first slung. 
 And then the soul of man 
 
 There, like a mirror, hung, 80 
 
 And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy. 
 
 73 which] that 18S2, 1855. 
 
 77 out-spread world] howling void 18S2. 
 
102 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 Hither and thither spins 
 
 The wind-borne mirroring soul, 
 
 A thousand glimpses wins, 
 ■^^ And never sees a whole ; 
 
 Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last 
 employ. 
 
 The Gods laugh in their sleeve 
 To watch man doubt and fear, 
 Who knows not what to believe 
 Since he sees nothing clear, 90 
 
 And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing 
 sure. 
 
 Is this, Pausanias, so ? 
 And can our souls not strive, 
 But with the mnds must go, 
 And hurry where th'ey drive ? 
 Is Fate indeed so strong, man's strength indeed so poor ? 
 
 I will not judge ! that man, 
 Howbeit, I judge as lost, 
 Whose mind allows a plan 
 
 Which would degrade it most ; lOO 
 
 And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill. 
 
 Be not, then, fear's blind slave ! 
 Thou art my friend ; to thee. 
 All knowledge that I have. 
 All skill I wield, are free ; 
 Ask not the latest news of the last miracle, 
 
 Ask not what days and nights 
 In trance Pantheia lay. 
 But ask how thou such sights 
 May'st see without dismay ; 110 
 
 Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus ! 
 
 What ? hate, and awe, and shame 
 Fill thee to see our world ; 
 Thou feelest thy soul's frame 
 Shaken and rudely hurl'd. 
 What ? life and time go hard with thee too, as with us ; 
 
 90 Since] "Where 1852. 113 world] day 1853. 
 
 115 rudely hurl'd.] in dismay: 185S. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 103 
 
 Thy citizens, 'tis said, 
 Envy thee and oppress. 
 Thy goodness no men aid, 
 
 All strive to make it less ; 120 
 
 Tyranny, pride, and lust fill Sicily's abodes ; 
 
 Heaven is with earth at strife, 
 Signs make thy soul afraid, 
 The dead return to life, 
 Eivers are dried, winds stay'd ; 
 Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the 
 Gods ; 
 
 And we feel, day and night, 
 The burden of ourselves — 
 Well, then, the wiser wight 
 
 In his own bosom delves, 130 
 
 And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can. 
 
 The sophist sneers : Fool, take 
 Thy pleasure, right or wrong ! 
 The pious ..wail : Forsake 
 A world these sophists throng ! 
 Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man. 
 
 These hundred doctors try 
 To preach thee to their school. 
 We have the truth ! they cry. 
 And yet their oracle, 140 
 
 Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine. 
 
 Once read thy own breast-right, 
 And thou has^ done with fears 1 
 Man gets no other light, - 
 
 Search he a thousand years. / 
 
 Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine I / 
 
 What makes thee struggle and rave ? 
 Why are men ill at ease ? — 
 'Tis that the lot they have 
 
 Fails their owq. will to please ; IBO 
 
 For man would maK^o murmuring, were his will 
 obej^d. 
 
104 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 And why is it, that still 
 Man with his lot thus fights ? — 
 'Tis that he makes this wiU 
 The measure of his rights, 
 And believes Nature outraged if his will 's gainsaid. 
 
 Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn 
 How deep a fault is this ! 
 Couldst thou but once discern 
 Thou hast no right to bliss, 160 
 
 No title from the Gods to welfare and repose ; 
 
 Then thou wouldst look less mazed 
 Whene'er from bliss debarr'd. 
 Nor think the Gods were crazed 
 When thy own lot went hard. 
 But we are all the same —the fools of our own woes 1 
 
 For, from the first faint morn 
 Of life, the thirst for bliss 
 Deep in man's heart is born ; 
 And, sceptic as he is, 170 
 
 He fails not to judge clear if this be queneh'd or no. 
 
 Nor is that thirst to blame ! 
 Man errs not that he deems 
 His welfare his true aim. 
 He errs because he dreams 
 The world does but exist that welfare to bestow. 
 
 We mortals are no kings 
 For each of whom to sway 
 A new-made world up-springs 
 Meant merely for his play ; 180 
 
 No, we are strangers here ; the world is from of old. 
 
 In vain our pent wills fret, 
 And would the world subdue. 
 Limits we did not set 
 Condition all we do ; 
 Born into life we are, and life must be our mould. 
 
 171 be] islSBS. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 105 
 
 Born into life — man grows 
 Forth from his parents' stem, 
 And blends their bloods, as those 
 Of theirs are blent in them ; 190 
 
 So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time. 
 
 Born into life — we bring 
 A bias with us here, 
 And, when here, each new thing 
 Affects us we come near ; 
 To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime. 
 
 Born into life — in vain, 
 Opinions, those or these, 
 Unalter'd to retain 
 
 The obstinate mind decrees ; 200 
 
 Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in. 
 
 Born into life — who lists 
 May what is false hold dear. 
 And for himself make mists 
 Through which to see less clear ; 
 The world is what it is, for all our dust and din. 
 
 Born into life — 'tis we. 
 And not the world, are new. 
 Our cry for bliss, our plea, 
 
 Others have urged it too ; 210 
 
 Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before. 
 
 No eye could be too sound 
 To observe a world so vast, 
 No patience too profound 
 To sort what 's here amass'd ; 
 How man may here best live no care too great to explore. 
 
 But we — as some rude guest 
 Would change, where'er he roam, 
 The manners there profess'd 
 
 To those he brings from home — • 220 
 
 We mark not the world's course, but would have it take 
 ours. 
 
 1 87-1 96 first inserted in 1S67. ' 1 97-201 follow 202-206 »» 1862. 
 203 hold dear] maintain 185S. 205 clear] plain ISBS. 
 221 course . . . take] ways . . . learn 1S5S. 
 
106 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 The world's course proves the terms 
 On which man wins content ; 
 Reason the proof confirms ; 
 We spurn it, and invent 
 A false course for the world, and for ourselves, false 
 powers. 
 
 Riches we wish to get, 
 Yet remain spendthrifts still ; 
 We would have health, and yet 
 Still use our bodies ill ; 230 
 
 Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last 
 scenes. 
 
 We would have inward peace, 
 Yet will not look within ; 
 We would have misery cease, 
 Yet will not cease froni sin ; 
 We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means ; 
 
 We do not what we ought, 
 What we ought not, we do, 
 And lean upon the thought 
 
 That chance will bring us through ; 240 
 
 But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers. 
 
 Yet, even when man forsakes 
 ^Sir sin, — IS J list, is pure, , 
 Abandons all which makes 
 His welfare insecure — 
 Other existences there are, that clash with ours. 
 
 Like us, the lightning fires 
 Love to have scope and play ; 
 The stream, like us, desires 
 
 An unimpeded way ; 250 
 
 Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. 
 
 222 world's course proves] world proclaims 18SS. 224 the 
 
 proof] its voice 1S53. 225 it] them 1852. 226 A false 
 
 course for . . . for] False' weakness in , . . in 1852. 244 which] 
 thatJS5S. 246 that] which IS52. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 107 
 
 Streams will not curb their pride 
 The just man not to entomb, 
 Nor lightnings go aside 
 To leave his virtues room ; 
 Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man's 
 barge. 
 
 Nature, with equal mind, 
 Sees all her sons at play ; 
 Sees man control the wind, 
 
 The wind sweep man away ; 260 
 
 Allows the proudly-riding and the founder'd bark. 
 
 And, lastly, though of ours 
 No weakness spoil our lot, 
 Though the non-human powers 
 Of Nature harm us not, 
 Tlie ill-deeds of other men make often our life dark. 
 
 What were the wise man's plan ? — 
 Through this sharp, toil-set life, 
 To fight as best he can, 
 
 And win what 's won by strife. 270 
 
 But we an easier way to -cheat our pains have found. 
 
 Scratch'd by a fall, with moans 
 As children of weak age 
 Lend life to the dumb stones 
 Whereon to vent their rage, 
 And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground ; 
 
 So, loath to suffer mute , 
 
 Wgjpnphng the voifl air^ 
 
 Make Gods_ in wh"m t" imputp 
 
 TJTojllg wa niigTif. to bafl.r ; 280 
 
 With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily. 
 
 Yet grant — as sense long miss'd 
 Things that are now perceiv'd. 
 And much may still exist 
 Which is not yet believ'd — 
 Grant that the world were full of Gods we cannot see ; 
 
 256 that . . . which] the . . . that 1S52 
 
108 EMEEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 All things the world which fill 
 Of but one stuff are spun, 
 That we who rail are still, 
 
 With what we rail at, one ; 290 
 
 One with the o'er-labour'd Power that' through the 
 breadth and length 
 
 Of earth, and air, and sea, 
 In men, and plants, and stones. 
 Hath toil perpetually. 
 And struggles, pants, and moans ; 
 Fain would do all things well, but . sometimes fails in 
 strength. 
 
 And patiently exact 
 This universal God 
 Alike to any act 
 
 Proceeds at any nod, 300 
 
 And quietly declaims the cursings of himself. 
 
 This is not what man hates. 
 Yet he can curse but this. 
 Harsh Gods and hostile Fates 
 Are dreams ! this only is ; 
 Is. everywhere ; sustains the wise, the foolish elf. 
 
 Nor only, in the intent 
 To attach blame elsewhere. 
 Do we at will invent 
 
 Stern Powers who make their care 310 
 
 To embitter human life, malignant Deities ; 
 
 But, next, we would reverse 
 The scheme ourselves have spun. 
 And what we made to curse 
 We now would lean upon. 
 And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries. 
 
 Look, the world tempts our eye. 
 And we would know it all ! 
 We map the starry sky, 
 
 We mine this earthen ball, 320 
 
 We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands ; 
 
 287 which] that ISoS. 294 hath] has 1852. 
 
 297 patiently] punctually 1852. 301 quietly] patiently 18B2. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 109 
 
 We scrutinize the dates 
 Of long-past human things, 
 The hounds of effac'd states, 
 The lines of deeeas'd kings ; 
 We search out dead men's words, and works of dead 
 men's hands ; 
 
 We shut our eyes, and muse 
 How our own minds are made. 
 What springs of thought they use. 
 How righten'd, how betray'd ; 330 
 
 And spend our wit to name what most employ unnam'd ; 
 
 But still, as we proceed, 
 The mass sw^ells more and more 
 Of volumes yet to read. 
 Of secrets yet to explore. 
 Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm'd, our heat is 
 tamed. 
 
 We rest our faculties. 
 And thus address the Gods : 
 ' True science if there is. 
 
 It stays in your abodes ; 340 
 
 Man's measures cannot mete the immeasurable All ; 
 
 ' You only can take in 
 The world's immense design, 
 Our desperate search was sin. 
 Which henceforth we resign, 
 Sure only that i/our lamd sees all things which befall ! ' 
 
 Fools ! that in man's brief term 
 He cannot all things view. 
 Affords no ground to affirm 
 
 That there are Gods who do ! 350 
 
 Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest ! 
 
 Again : our youthful blood 
 Claims rapture as its right ; 
 The world, a rolling flood 
 Of newness and delight, 
 Draws in the enamour'd gazer to its shining breast ; 
 
 341 mete . . . immeasurable] span . . . illimitable 185S. 
 
lip EMPEDOOLES ON ETNA 
 
 Pleasure to our hot grasp 
 Gives flowers after flowers, 
 With passionate warmth we clasp 
 Hand after hand in ours ; 360 
 
 Noi; do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent. 
 
 At once our eyes grow clear ; 
 We see in blank dismay 
 Year posting after year, _- 
 Sense after sense decay ; ( 
 Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent ; 
 
 Yet still, in spite of truth, 
 In spite of hopes entomb'd, 
 That longing of our youth 
 
 Burns ever unconsum'd, 370 
 
 Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare. 
 
 We pause ; we hush our heart, 
 And then address the Gods ; 
 ' The world hath fail'd to impart 
 The joy our youth forbodes, 
 Fail'd to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear. 
 
 ' Changeful till now, we still 
 Look'd on to something new ; 
 Let us, with changeless will, 
 
 Henceforth look on to you, 380 
 
 To find with you the joy we in vain here require ! ' 
 
 Fools ! that so often here 
 Happiness mock'd our prayer, 
 I think, might make us fear 
 A like event elsewhere ! 
 Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire I 
 
 And yet, for those who know 
 Themselves, who wisely take 
 Their way through life, and bow 
 To what they cannot break, 390 
 
 Why should I say that life need yield but moderate bliss? 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA lU 
 
 Shall we, with temper spoil'd, 
 Health sapp'd by living ill, 
 And judgement all embroil'd 
 By sadness and self-will, 
 Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is ? 
 
 Is it so small a thing i A /tJL 
 
 To have enjoy'd the sun, " if-j*^ ^ 
 To" have lived light m the spring, 
 To have loved, to have thought, to have don e ; 400 
 To h ave advanc'd true friends, and beat down baffling 
 foes ; 
 
 That we must feign a bliss 
 Of doubtful future date, 
 And, while we dream on this, 
 Lose all our present state. 
 And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose ? 
 
 Not much, I know, you prize 
 What pleasures may be had, 
 Who look on life with eyes 
 
 Estrang'd,<like mine; and sad ; ' 410 
 
 And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you, 
 
 Who 's loath to leave this life 
 Which to him little yields ; 
 His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, 
 His often-labour'd fields. 
 The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he 
 knew. 
 
 But thou, because thou hear'st 
 Men scoff at Heaven and Pate, 
 Because the Gods thou fear'st 
 Pail to make blest thy state, 420 
 
 Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are. 
 
 I say : Pear not ! Life still 
 Leaves human effort scope. 
 But, since life teems with ill, 
 Njii:sejia extravagant hope, ; )c V 
 
 Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then 
 despair ! 
 392 temper] tempers iS52. 396 true] high IS52. 
 
112 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 [A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a 
 harp below are again heard, and Callicles 
 
 Far, far from here, 
 The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay 
 Among the green lUyrian hills ; and there 
 The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, 430 
 
 And by the sea, and in the brakes. 
 The grass is cool, the sea-side air 
 Buoyant and fresh, the m.ountain flowers 
 As virginal and sweet as ours. 
 And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes. 
 Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, 
 Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore. 
 In breathless quiet, after all their ills. 
 Nor do they see their country, nor the place 
 Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, iiO 
 Nor the unhappy palace of their race, 
 Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. 
 
 There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes. 
 
 They, had stay'd long enough to see, 
 
 In Thebes, the billow of calamity 
 
 Over their own dear children roU'd, 
 
 Curse upon curse, pang upon pang. 
 
 For years, they sitting helpless in their home, 
 
 A grey old man and woman ; yet of old 
 
 The Gods had to their marriage come, 450 
 
 And at the banquet all the Muses sang. 
 
 Therefore they did not end their days 
 
 In sight of blood ; but were rapt, far away, 
 
 To where the west wind plays. 
 
 And murmurs of the Adriatic come 
 
 To those untrodden mountain lawns ; and there 
 
 Placed safely in changed forms, the Pair 
 
 Wholly forget their first, sad life, and home, 
 
 And all that Theban woe, and stray 
 
 For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. 460 
 
 427-460 in 1858, 1834, 1857 as Cadmus and Harmonia. 
 434.AS ... as] more . . than 18S3, lS5i, 1857. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 113 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 That was my harp-player again ! — where is he ? 
 Down by the stream? 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 Yes, Master, in the wood. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 He ever loved the Theban story well ! 
 But the daj' wears. Go now, Pausanias, 
 For I must be alone. Leave me one mule ; 
 Take down with thee the rest to Catana. 
 And for young Callicles, thank him from me ; 
 Tell him I never fail'd to love his lyre : 
 But he must follow me no more to-night. 
 
 Pausanias 
 Thou wilt return to-morrow to the pity 'i 470 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Either to-morrow or some other day, 
 In the sure revolutions of the world. 
 Good friend, I shall revisit Catana. 
 I have seen many cities in my time 
 Till my eyes ache with the long spectacle. 
 And I shall doubtless see them all again ; 
 Thou know'st me for a wanderer from of old. 
 Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias ! 
 [lie departs on his loay up the mountain. 
 
 Pausanias (alone) 
 
 I dare not urge him further ; he must go. 
 
 But he is strangely wrought ! — I will speed back 480 
 
 And bring Peisianax to him from the city, ; 
 
 His counsel could once soothe him. Butj Apollo ! 
 
 How his brow lighten'd as the music rose ! 
 
 Callicles must wait here, and play to him ; 
 
 I saw him through the chestnuts far below. 
 
 Just since, down at the stream. — Ho ! Callicles ! 
 
 \_He descends, calling. 
 
114 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Evening. The Summit of Etna 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Alone l^ 
 On this charr'd, blacken 'd,]SelancEbly waste, 
 Grown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth, 
 Round which the sullen vapour rolls — alone ! 
 Pausanias is far hence, and that is well, 
 For I must henceforth speak no more with man. 
 He has his lesson too, and that debt 's paid ; 
 And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man. 
 May bravelier front his life, and in himself 
 Find henceforth energy and heart ; but I, 10 
 
 The weary man, the banish'd citizen — 
 Whose banishment is not his greatest ill. 
 Whose weariness no energy can reach. 
 And for whose hurt courage is not the cure — 
 What should I do with life and living more ? 
 
 No, thou art come too late, Empedocles ! 
 
 And the world hath the day, and must break thee. 
 
 Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live, 
 
 Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine ; 
 
 And being lonely thou art miserable, 20 
 
 For something has impair'd thy spirit's strength, 
 
 And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy. 
 
 Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself — 
 
 Oh sage ! oh sage ! — Take then the onejway left ; 
 
 And turn thee to the elements, thy fxiends, 
 
 Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers, 
 
 And say : — Ye servants, hear Empedocles, 
 
 Who asks this final service at your hands I 
 
 Before the sophist brood hath overlaid 
 
 The last spark of man's consciousness with words — 30 
 
 Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world 
 
 Be disarray'd of their divinity — 
 
 Before the soul lose all her solemn joys. 
 
 And awe be dead, and hope impossible, 
 
 And the soul's deep eternal night come on. 
 
 Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me home I 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 115 
 
 [He advances io the edge of the crater. Smoke 
 and fire hrealc forth with a loud noise, and 
 Callicles is heard helow singing : — 
 
 The lyre's voice is lovely everjrvvhere ! 
 
 In the court of Gods, in the city of men, 
 
 And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain glen. 
 
 In the still mountain air. 40 
 
 Only to Typho it sounds hatefully ! 
 
 To Typho only, the rebel o'erthrown. 
 
 Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone. 
 
 To imbed them in the sea. 
 
 Wherefore dost thou groan so loud ? 
 
 Wherefore do thy nostrils flash, 
 
 Through the dark night, suddenly, 
 
 Typho, such red jets of flame ? — 
 
 Is thy tortur'd heart still proud ? 
 
 Is thy fire-scath'd arm still rash ? 60 
 
 Still alert thy stone-crush'd frame ? 
 
 Doth thy fierce soul still deplore 
 
 The ancient rout by the Cilician hills. 
 
 And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore ? 
 
 Do thy bloodshot eyes still see 
 
 The fight that crown'd thy ills. 
 
 Thy last defeat in this Sicilian sea '? 
 
 Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair, 
 
 Where erst the strong sea-currents suck'd thee down, 
 
 Never to cease to writhe, and try to sleep, 60 
 
 Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair ? 
 
 That thy groans, like thunder deep, 
 
 Begin to roll, and almost drown 
 
 The sweet notes, whose lulling spell 
 
 Gods and the race of mortals love so well, 
 
 When through thy caves thou hearest music swell ? 
 
 But an awful pleasure bland 
 Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face. 
 When the sound climbs near his seat, 
 The Olympian council sees ; 70 
 
 37-88 in 1855 as The harp-player on Etna. II. Typho. 
 42 To Typho only] Only to Typho, 185S, 1855. 52 Doth] Doe.s 
 1S52, 1855. 53 The] Thy 1852, 1855. by] in 1855. 
 
 I 2 
 
116 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 As he lets his lax right hand, 
 
 Which the lightnings doth embrace, 
 
 Sink upon his mighty knees. 
 
 And the eagle, at the beck 
 
 Of the appeasing gracious harmony, 
 
 Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feather'd neck, 
 
 Nestling nearer to Jove's feet ; 
 
 While o'er his sovereign eye 
 
 The curtains of the blue films slowly meet. 
 
 And the white Olympus peaks 80 
 
 Eosily brighten, and the sooth'd Gods smile 
 
 At one another from their golden chairs. 
 
 And no one round the charmed circle speaks. 
 
 Only the loved Hebe bears 
 
 The cup about, whose draughts beguile 
 
 Pain and care, with a dark store 
 
 Of fresh-pull'd violets wreath'd and nodding o'er ; 
 
 And her flush'd feet glow on the marble floor. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 He fables, yet speaks truth. 
 
 The brave impetuous heart yields everywhere 90 
 
 To the subtle, contriving head ; 
 
 Great qualities are trodden down. 
 
 And littleness_united 
 
 Is become invincible. 
 
 "These rumblings are not Typho's groans, I know ! 
 These angry smoke-bursts 
 Are not the passionate breath 
 Of the mountain-crush'd, tortur'd, intractable Titan 
 
 king! 
 But over all the world 
 
 What suffering is there not seen 100 
 
 Of plainness oppress'd by cunning. 
 As the well-counsell'd Zeus oppress'd 
 The self-helping son of earth ! 
 What anguish of greatness 
 Kail'd and hunted from the world, 
 Because its simplicity rebukes 
 
 90 heart] hand 1852. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 117 
 
 This envious, miserable age ! 
 
 I am weary of it ! — 
 
 Lie there, ye ensigns 
 
 Of my unloved pre-eminence HO 
 
 In an age like this ! 
 
 Among a people of children, 
 
 Who throng'd me in their cities, 
 
 Who worshipp'd me in their houses, 
 
 And ask'd, not wisdom, 
 
 But drugs to charm with, 
 
 But spells to mutter — 
 
 All the fool's-armoury of magic ! — Lie there. 
 
 My golden circlet ! 
 
 My purple robe ! 120 
 
 Callicles (from helow) 
 
 As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day, 
 And makes the mass'd clouds roll, 
 The music of the lyre blows away 
 The clouds that wrap the soul. 
 
 Oh, that Fate had let me see 
 
 That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre ! 
 
 That famous, final victory 
 
 When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire ! 
 
 When, from far Parnassus' side, 
 
 Young Apollo, all the pride 130 
 
 Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, 
 
 To the Phrygian highlands came ! 
 
 Where the long green reed-beds sway 
 
 In the rippled waters grey 
 
 Of that solitary lake 
 
 Where Maeander's springs are born ; 
 
 Where the ridg'd pine-wooded roots 
 
 Of Messogis westward break. 
 
 Mounting westward, high and higher. 
 
 There was held the famous strife ; 140 
 
 There the Phrygian brought his flutes. 
 
 And Apollo brought his lyre ; 
 
 121-190 in 1855 as The harp-player on Etna. III. Marsyas. 
 137 pine- wooded] pine-darken'd 1S52, pine-mufBed 1855. 
 
118 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 And, when now the westering sun 
 
 Touch 'd the hills, the strife was done, 
 
 And the attentive Muses said : 
 
 ' Marsyas ! thou art vanquished.' 
 
 Then Apollo's minister 
 
 Hang'd upon a branching fir 
 
 Marsyas, that unhappy Faun, 
 
 And began to whet his knife. 160 
 
 But the Maenads, who were there, 
 
 Left their friend, and with robes flowing 
 
 In the wind, and loose dark hair 
 
 O'er their polish 'd bosoms blov/ing, 
 
 Each her ribbon'd tambourine 
 
 Flinging on the mountain sod, 
 
 With a lovely frighten'd mien 
 
 Came about the youthful God. 
 
 But he turn'd his beauteous face 
 
 Haughtily another way, 160 
 
 From the grassy sun-warm'd place, 
 
 Where in proud repose he lay. 
 
 With one arm over his head. 
 
 Watching how the whetting sped. 
 
 But aloof, on the lake strand. 
 
 Did the young Olympus stand. 
 
 Weeping at his master's end ; 
 
 For the Faun had been his friend. 
 
 For he taught him how to sing, 
 
 And he taught him flute-playing. 17o 
 
 Many a morning had they gone 
 
 To the glimmering mountain lakes, 
 
 And had torn up by the roots 
 
 The tall crested water-reeds 
 
 With long plumes, and soft brown seeds, 
 
 And had carved them into flutes. 
 
 Sitting on a tabled stone 
 
 Where the shoreward ripple breaks. 
 
 And he taught him how to please 
 
 The red-snooded Phrygian girls, 180 
 
 Whom the summer evening sees 
 
 Flashing in the dance's whirls 
 
 Underneath the starlit trees 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 119 
 
 In the mountain villages. 
 
 Therefore now Olympus stands, 
 
 At his master's piteous cries 
 
 Pressing fast with hoth his hands 
 
 His white garment to his eyes, 
 
 Not to see Apollo's scorn ; 
 
 Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun ! ah, poor Faun ! 190 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 And lie thou there, 
 My laurel bough ! 
 
 Scornful Apollo's ensign, lie thou there ! 
 Though thou hast been my shade in the world's heat- 
 Though I have loved thee, lived in honouring thee — 
 Yet lie thou there. 
 My laurel bough ! 
 
 I am weary of thee ! 
 
 I am weary of the solitude 
 
 Where he who bears thee must abide ! 200 
 
 Of the rocks of Parnassus, 
 
 Of the gorge of Delphi, 
 
 Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves. 
 
 Thou guardest them, Apollo ! 
 
 Over the grave of the slain Pytho, 
 
 Though young, intolerably severe ; 
 
 Thou keepest aloof the profane. 
 
 But the solitude oppresses thy votary ! 
 
 The jars of men ]-eaeh him not in thy valley — 
 
 But can life reach him ? 210 
 
 Thou fencest him from the multitude — 
 
 Who will fence him from himself? 
 
 He. hears nothing but the cry of the torrents 
 
 And the beating of his own heart. 
 
 The air is thin, the veins swell — - 
 
 The temples tighten and throb there — 
 
 Air ! air ! 
 
 Take thy bough ; sfiti M fi'^^ from my soli tujU-1 
 I have been enough alone ! ~ 
 
 Where shall thy votary fly then? back to men? — 220 
 
 193;!?-si inserted in 1867. 
 
120 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 But they will gladly welcome him once more, 
 
 And help him to unbend his too tense thought, 
 
 And rid him of the presence of himself, 
 
 And keep their friendly chatter at his ear, 
 
 And haunt him, till the absence from himself, 
 
 That other torment, grow unbearable ; 
 
 And he will fly to solitude again. 
 
 And he will find its air too keen for him. 
 
 And so change back ; and many thousand times 
 
 Be miserably bandied to and fr o 230 
 
 Cike a se a- wave, be twixt^^TJ^worldand thee. 
 
 Thou young, implacable (Jod ! imd only death 
 
 Shall cut his oscillations short, and so 
 
 Bring him to poise. There is no other way. 
 
 And yet what days were those, Parmenides ! 
 
 When we were young, when we could number friends 
 
 In all the Italian cities like ourselves, 
 
 When with elated hearts we join'd your train. 
 
 Ye Sun-born Virgins ! on the road of truth. 
 
 Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought 240 
 
 Nor outward things were elos'd and dead to us, 
 
 But we receiv'd the shock of mighty thoughts 
 
 On simple minds with a pure natural joy ; 
 
 And if the sacred load oppress'd our brain, 
 
 We had the power to feel the pressure eased. 
 
 The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again. 
 
 In the delightful commerce of the world. 
 
 We_had not lost our_balaBce_then^nor grown 
 
 Thought^ ?i5X§§i_§Jli3eadToJ^^^n^ural'joy ! 
 
 The smallest thing could give us pfeaiure thenT" 250 
 
 The sports of the country people, 
 
 A flute-note from the woods. 
 
 Sunset over the sea ; 
 
 Seed-time and harvest. 
 
 The reapers in the corn. 
 
 The vinedresser in his vineyard, 
 
 The village-girl at her wheel ! 
 
 Fullness of life and power of feeling, ye 
 Are for the happy, for the souls at ease. 
 Who dwell on a firm basis of content ! — 260 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 121 
 
 But he, who has outliv'd his prosperous days, 
 
 But he, whose youth fell on a different world 
 
 From that on which his exiled age is thrown, 
 
 Whose mind was fed on other food, was train'd 
 
 By other rules than are in vogue to-day. 
 
 Whose habit of thought is fix'd, who will not change, 
 
 But in a world he loves not must subsist 
 
 In ceaseless opposition, be the guard 
 
 Of his own breast, fetter'd to what he guards, 
 
 That the world win no mastery over him ; 270 
 
 Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one ; 
 
 Who has no minute's breathing space allow'd 
 
 To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy — 
 
 Joy and the outjw3ir^iYfiEldjttElLdiSjto„hiH\i, 
 
 As'th'ey'arelBiead to me ! 
 
 JA longTpause, during wJiich Empedocles remains 
 motionless, plunged in thought. The night deepens. 
 He moves fonvard and gazes round him, and pro- 
 ceeds : — 
 
 And you, ye stars, 
 
 Who slowly begin to marshal, 
 
 As of old, in the fields of heaven. 
 
 Your distant, melancholy lines ! 
 
 Have you, too, survived yourselves ? 280 
 
 Are you, too, what I fear to become ? 
 
 You, too, once lived ! 
 
 You too moved joyfully 
 
 Among august companions 
 
 In an older world, peopled by Gods, 
 
 In a mightier order, 
 
 The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven I 
 
 But now, you kindle 
 
 Your lonely, cold-shining lights. 
 
 Unwilling lingerers 290 
 
 In the heavenly wilderness. 
 
 For a younger, ignoble world ; 
 
 And renew, by necessity, 
 
 Night after night your courses. 
 
 In echoing unnear'd silence. 
 
 Above a race you know not. 
 
 2T6-300 in 1855 as The Philosopherand the Stars. 
 
122 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 Uncaring and undelighted, 
 
 Without friend and without home ; 
 
 Weary like us, though not 
 
 Weary with our weariness. 300 
 
 No, no, ye stars ! there is no death with you, 
 No languor, no decay ! Languor and death, 
 They are with me, not you ! ye are alive ! 
 Ye and the pure dark ether where ye ride 
 Brilliant above me ! And thou, fiery world, 
 That sapp'st the vitals of this terrible mount 
 Upon whose charr'd and quaking crust I stand, 
 Thou, too, brimmest with life ! — the sea of cloud 
 That heaves its white and billowy vapours up 
 To moat this isle of ashes from the world, 310 
 
 Lives ! — and that other fainter sea, far down, 
 O'er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams leads 
 To Etna's LiparSan sister-fires 
 And the long dusky line of Italy — 
 That mild and luminous fioor of waters lives, 
 With held-in joy swelling its heart ! — I only. 
 Whose spring of hope is d ried, whose spirit has fail'd — 
 I, who have not, like these, in solitude 
 Maintain'd courage and force, and in myself 
 Nursed an immortal vigour — I alone 320 
 
 Am dead to life and joy ; therefore I read 
 In all things my own deadness. 
 
 ^A long silence. He continues : — 
 
 Oh that I could glow like this mountain ! 
 Oh that my heart bounded with the swell of the sea ! 
 Oh that my soul were full of light as the stars ! 
 Oh that it brooded over the world like the air ! 
 
 put no, this heart will glow no more ! thou art 
 /a living man no more, Empedocles ! 
 Nothing but a devouring flame of thought — 
 ^ut a naked, eternally restless mind ! 330 
 
 [After a pause : — 
 
 To the elements it came from 
 Everything will return. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 123 
 
 Our bodies to earth, 
 
 Our blood to water, 
 
 Heat to fire, 
 
 Breath to air. 
 
 They were well born, they will be well entomb'd ! 
 
 But mind ? . . . 
 
 And we might gladly share the fruitful stir 
 
 Down in our mother earth's miraculous womb ! 340 
 
 Well might it be 
 
 With what roll'd of us in the stormy main 1 
 
 We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air, 
 
 Or with the nimble radiant life of fire ! 
 
 But mind — but thought — 
 
 If these have been the master part of us — 
 
 Where will they find their parent element ? 
 
 What will receive them, who will call them home ? 
 
 But we shall still be in them, and they in us, 
 
 And we shall be the strangers of the world, 350 
 
 And they will be our lords, as they are now ; 
 
 And keep us prisoners of our consciousness, 
 
 And never let us clasp and feel the All 
 
 But through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils. 
 
 And we shall be unsatisfied as now. 
 
 And we shall feel the agony of thirst. 
 
 The ineffable longing for the life of life 
 
 Baffled for ever : and still thought and mind 
 
 Will hurry us with them on their homeless march, 
 
 Over the unallied unopening earth, 360 
 
 Over the unrecognizing sea ; while air 
 
 Will blow us fiercely back to sea and earth, 
 
 And fire repel us from its living waves. 
 
 And then we shall unwillingly return 
 
 Back to this meadow of calamity. 
 
 This uncongenial place, this human life ; 
 
 And in our individual human state 
 
 Go through the sad probation all again, 
 
 To see if we will poise bur life at last, ' - 
 
 To see if we will" now at last be true 370 
 
 341 might] would 18b2. 342 main] deep 1852. 
 
 343 might] should 1852. 344 nimble] active 1852. 
 
124 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 To our own only true,,deep-buried-selves, - - 
 
 Being one with which we are one with the whole world ; 
 
 Or whether we will once more fall away 
 
 Into some bondage of the flesh or mind, 
 
 Some slough of sense, or some fantastic maze 
 
 Porg'd by the imperious lonely thinking-power. 
 
 And each succeeding age in which we are born 
 
 Will have more peril for us than the last ; 
 
 Will goad our senses with a sharper spur. 
 
 Will fret our minds to an intenser play, 380 
 
 Will make ourselves harder to be discern'd. 
 
 And we shall struggle awhile, gasp and rebel ; 
 
 And we shall fly for refuge to past times. 
 
 Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness ; 
 
 And the reality will pluck us back. 
 
 Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature. 
 
 And we shall feel our powers of effort flag, 
 
 And rally them for one last fight, and fail ; 
 
 And we shall sink in the impossible strife. 
 
 And be astray for ever. 
 
 Slave of sense 390 
 
 I have in no wise been ; buS^ave of thought ? — 
 
 Arid who can say :^^I have been always free. 
 Lived ever in the light of my own soul ? — 
 I cannot ! I have lived in wrath and gloom, 
 Fierce, disputatious, ever at war v?ith man. 
 Far from my own soul, far from warmth and light. 
 But I have not grown easy in these bonds — 
 But I have not denied what bonds these were ! 
 Yea, I take myself to witness. 
 
 That I have loved no darkness, 400 
 
 Sophisticated no truth. 
 Nursed no delusion, 
 AUow'd no fear ! 
 
 And therefore, O ye elements, I know — 
 Ye know it too — it hath been granted me 
 Not to die wholly, not to be all enslav'd. 
 I feel it in this hour ! The numbing cloud 
 Mounts off my soul ; I feel it, I breathe free ! 
 
 Is it but for a moment ? 
 
 Ah ! boil up, ye vapours ! 410 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 125 
 
 Leap and roar, thou sea of fire ! 
 
 My soul glows to meet j^ou. 
 
 Ere it flag, ere the mists 
 
 Of despondency and gloom 
 
 Eush over it again, 
 
 Eeceive me ! Save me ! [He plunges into the crater. 
 
 Callicles (from beloiv) 
 
 Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, 
 
 Thick breaks the red flame ; 
 
 All Etna heaves flercely 
 
 Her forest-cloth'd frame. 420 
 
 Not here, Apollo ! 
 Are haunts meet for thee. 
 But, where Helicon breaks down 
 In cliff to the sea. 
 
 Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
 Send far their light voice 
 Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
 O speed, and rejoice ! 
 
 On the sward at the clifi^-top 
 
 Lie strewn the white flocks ; 430 
 
 On the cliff-side the pigeons 
 
 Eoost deep in the rocks. 
 
 In the moonlight the shepherds, 
 Soft lull'd by the rills. 
 Lie wrapt in their blankets. 
 Asleep on the hills. 
 
 — What forms are these coming 
 
 So white through the gloom ? 
 
 What garments out-glistening 
 
 The gold-flower'd broom ? 440 
 
 What sweet-breathing presence 
 Out-perfumes the thyme '? 
 What voices enrapture 
 The night's balmy prime ? — 
 
 in io 468 in 1855 as The harp-player on Etna. IV. Apollo. 
 
126 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 'Tis Apollo comes leading 
 His choir, the Nine. 
 — The leader is fairest, 
 But all are divine. 
 
 They are lost in the hollows I 
 
 They stream up again ! 450 
 
 What seeks on this mountain 
 
 The glorified train ? — 
 
 They bathe on this mountain, 
 In the spring by their road ; 
 Then on to Olympus, 
 Their endless abode ! 
 
 — Whose praise do they mention ? 
 
 Of what is it told ?— 
 
 What will be for ever ; 
 
 What was from of old. 460 
 
 First hymn they the Father 
 Of all things ; and then 
 The rest of immortals. 
 The action of men. 
 
 The day in his hotness, 
 The strife with the palm ; 
 The night in her silence, 
 The stars in their calm. 
 
 THE ElVEK 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 -^ Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat 
 VUnder the rustling poplars' shade ; 
 Silent the swans beside us float : 
 None speaks, none heeds — ah, turn thy head. 
 
 Let those arch eyes now softly shine, 
 That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland : 
 Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine ; 
 On mine let rest that lovely hand. 
 
 465 liis] its ISaZ, 185S. 467 her] its 1853, 1855. 
 
 The River Title] Faded Leaves. I. The River 1856. 
 
THE EIVEK 127 
 
 My pent-up tears oppress my brain, 
 My heart is swoln with love unsaid : 10 
 
 Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain. 
 And on thy shoulder rest my head. 
 
 Before I die, before the soul. 
 Which now is mine, must re-attain 
 Immunity from my control. 
 And -wander round the world again : 
 
 Before this teas'd o'erlabour'd heart 
 For ever leaves its vain employ. 
 Dead to its deep habitual smart, 
 And dead to hopes of future joy. 20 
 
 EXCUSE 
 
 [First published 1852. Keprinted 18B5.] 
 
 I TOO have sufifer'd : yet I know 
 She is not cold, though she seems so : 
 She is not cold, she is not light ; 
 But our ignoble souls lack might. 
 
 She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
 While we for hopeless passion die ; 
 Yet she could love, those eyes declare. 
 Were but men nobler than they are. 
 
 Eagerly once her gracious ken 
 Was turn'd upon the sons of men. 10 
 
 But light the serious visage grew — ■ 
 She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through. 
 
 Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
 Our labour'd puny passion-fits — 
 Ah, may she scorn them still, till ^ve 
 Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 
 
 Yet oh, that Fate would let her see 
 One of some worthier race than we ; 
 One for whose sake she once might prove 
 How deeply she who scorns can love. 20 
 
 Excuse] 18 worthier] better 18BS. 
 
128 EXCUSE 
 
 His eyes be like the starry lights — 
 His voice like sounds of summer nights — 
 In all his lovely mien let pierce 
 The magic of the universe. 
 
 And she to him will reach her hand, 
 And gazing in his eyes will stand, 
 And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
 And cry — Long, long I've look' d for thee. — 
 
 Then will she weep — with smiles, till then, 
 Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 30 
 
 Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
 Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 
 
 INDIPFEKENCE 
 
 [First published 1852. Eeprinted 1855.] 
 
 I MUST not say that thou wert true. 
 Yet let me say that thou wert fair. 
 And they that lovely face who view. 
 They will not ask if truth be there. 
 
 Truth — what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts 
 Wounded by men, by Fortune tried, 
 Outwearied with their lonely parts. 
 Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 
 
 The world to them was stern and drear ; 
 Their lot was but to weep and moan. 10 
 
 Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 
 For neither could subsist alone ! 
 
 But souls whom some benignant breath 
 Has charm'd at birth from gloom and care, 
 These ask no love — these plight no faith. 
 For they are happy as they are. 
 
 The world to them may homage make, 
 And garlands for their forehead weave. 
 And what the world can give, they take : 
 But they bring more than they receive. 29 
 
INDIFFEKENCE 129 
 
 They smile upon the world : their ears 
 To one demand alone are coy. 
 They will not give us love and tears — 
 They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. 
 
 It was not love that heav'd tliy breast, 
 Fair child ! it was the bliss within. 
 Adieu ! and say that one, at least. 
 Was just to what he did not win. 
 
 TOO LATE 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 Each on his own strict line we move, 
 And some find death ere they find love. 
 So far apart their lives are thrown 
 From the twin soul that halves their own. 
 
 And sometimes, by still harder fate, 
 Tlie lovers meet, but meet too late. 
 — Thy heart is mine ! — Tnie, true ! ah true! 
 — Then, love, thy hand I— Ah no! adieu! 
 
 ON THE EHINE 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 Vain is the effort to forget. 
 Some day I shall be cold, I know, 
 As is the eternal moon-lit snow 
 Of the high Alps, to which I go : 
 But ah, not yet ! not yet ! 
 
 Vain is the agony of grief. 
 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot 
 Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, 
 And were it snapt — thou lov'st me not I 
 But is despair relief ? 10 
 
 Too late TiUe'] Faded Leaves. II. Too late ISBB. 
 
 On the Rhine Title] Faded Leaves. IV. On the Rhine 1SB5. 
 
130 ON THE EHINE 
 
 Awhile let me with thought have done ; 
 And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Ehine 
 And that far purple mountain line 
 Lie sweetly in the look divine 
 Of the slow-sinking sun ; 
 
 So let me lie, and calm as they 
 Let beam upon my inward view 
 Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue — 
 Eyes too expressive to be blue, 
 Too lovely to be grey. 20 
 
 Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm ! 
 Those blue hills too, this river's ilow, 
 Were restless once, but long ago. 
 Tam'd is their turbulent youthful glow : 
 Their joy is in their calm. 
 
 LONGING 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then 
 By day I shall be well again. 
 Eor then the night will more than pay 
 The hopeless longing of the day. 
 
 Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
 A messenger from radiant climes. 
 And smile on thy new world, and be 
 As kind to others as to me. 
 
 Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, 
 Come now, and let me dream it truth. 10 
 
 And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
 And say — My love ! why sufferest thou ? 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then 
 By day I shall be well again. 
 For then the night will more than pay 
 The hopeless longing of the day. 
 
 Longing Title] Faded Leaves. V. Longing 1855. 
 8 to others as to me] to all the rest as me. 1852. 
 
131 
 
 THE LAKE 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Again I see my bliss at hand ; 
 The town, the lake are here. 
 My Marguerite smiles upon the strand 
 Unalter'd with the year. 
 
 I know that graceful figure fair, 
 That cheek of languid hue ; 
 I know that soft enkerchief 'd hair, 
 And those sweet eyes of blue. 
 
 Again I spring to make my choice ; 
 
 Again in tones of ire 10 
 
 I hear a God's tremendous voice— 
 
 ' Be counsell'd, and retire ! ' 
 
 Ye guiding Powers, who join and part, 
 What would ye have with me ? 
 Ah, warn some more ambitious heart. 
 And let the peaceful be ! 
 
 PAETING 
 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Ye storm-winds of Autumn 
 Who rush by, who shake 
 The window, and ruffle 
 The gleam-lighted lake ; 
 Who cross to the hill-side 
 Thin-sprinkled with farms, 
 Where the high woods strip sadly 
 Their yellowing arms ; — - 
 
 Ye are bound for the mountains — 
 Ah, with you let me go 10 
 
 Where your cold distant barrier, 
 The vast range of snow. 
 
 The Lake Title] Switzerland. II. The Lake 1SG3, 1854, 1857. 
 Parting TiOe] Switzerland. IV. Parting 1853, 1854, 1857. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 PAETING 
 
 Through the loose clouds lifts dimly 
 Its white peaks in air — 
 How deep is their stillness ! 
 Ah ! would I were there ! 
 
 But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, 
 Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear ? 
 Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn 
 Lent it the music of its trees at dawn ? 20 
 
 Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook 
 That the sweet voice its upland clearness took ? 
 
 Ah 1 it comes nearer — 
 
 Sweet notes, this way ! 
 
 Hark ! fast by the window 
 
 The rushing winds go, 
 
 To the ice-cumber'd gorges. 
 
 The vast seas of snow. 
 
 There the torrents drive upward 
 
 Their rock-strangled hum, so 
 
 There the avalanche thunders 
 
 The hoarse torrent dumb. 
 
 — I come, O ye mountains ! 
 
 Ye torrents, I come ! 
 
 But who is this, by the half-open'd door, 
 
 Whose figure easts a shadow on the floor ? 
 
 The sweet blue eyes — the soft, ash-colour'd hair — 
 
 The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear — 
 
 The lovely-lips, with their arch smile, that tells 
 
 The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells — 40 
 
 Ah ! they bend nearer — 
 
 Sweet lips, this way ! 
 
 Hark ! the wind rushes past us — 
 
 Ah ! with that let me go 
 
 To the clear waning hill-side 
 
 Unspotted by snow. 
 
 There to watch, o'er the sunk vale. 
 
 The frore mountain wall. 
 
 Where the nich'd snow-bed sprays down 
 
 Its powdery fall. 60 
 
 There its dusky blue clusters 
 
 The aconite spreads : 
 
PAKTING 133 
 
 There the pines slope, the cloud-strips 
 
 Hung soft in their heads. 
 
 No life but, at moments, 
 
 The mountain-bee's hum. 
 
 — I come, O ye mountains ! 
 
 Ye pine-woods, I come ! 
 
 Forgive me ! forgive me ! 
 
 Ah, Marguerite, fain 60 
 
 Would these arms reach to clasp thee : — 
 
 But see ! 'tis in vain. 
 
 In the void air towards thee 
 
 My strain'd arms are cast. 
 But a sea rolls between us — 
 
 Our different past. 
 
 To the lips, ah ! of others. 
 
 Those lips have been prest. 
 And others, ere I was, 
 
 Were clasp'd to that breast ; 70 
 
 Far, far from each other 
 
 Our spirits have grown. 
 And what heart knows another ? 
 
 Ah ! who knows his own ? 
 
 Blow, ye winds ! lift me with you ! 
 
 I come to the wild. 
 Fold closely, O Nature ! 
 
 Thine arms round thy child. 
 
 To thee only God granted 
 
 A heart ever new : 80 
 
 To all always open ; 
 
 To all always true. 
 
 Ah, calm me ! restore me ! 
 
 And dry up my tears 
 On thy high mountain platforms, 
 
 Where Morn first appears. 
 
 Where the white mists, for ever, 
 
 Are spread and upfurl'd ; 
 In the stir of the forces 
 
 Whence issued the world. 90 
 
134 
 
 ABSENCE 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1853, '54, 'ST.] 
 
 In this fair stranger's eyes of gi'ey 
 Thine eyes, my love, I see. 
 I shudder : for the passing day 
 Had borne nie far from thee. 
 
 This is the curse of life : that not 
 A nobler calmer train 
 Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot 
 Our passions from our brain ; 
 
 But each day brings its petty dust 
 
 Our soon-chok'd souls to fill, 10 
 
 And we forget because we must, 
 
 And not because we will. 
 
 I struggle towards the light ; and ye, 
 Once-long'd-for storms of love ! 
 If with the light ye cannot be, 
 I bear that ye remove. 
 
 I struggle towards the light ; but oh, 
 
 While yet the night is chill, 
 
 Upon Time's barren, stormy flow. 
 
 Stay with me, Marguerite, still ! Zft 
 
 DESTINY 
 
 [First published 1852. Not reprinted by the author.] 
 
 Why each is striving, from of old, 
 
 To love more deeply than he can ? 
 
 Still would be true, yet still grows cold ? 
 
 ■ — Ask of the Powers that sport with man ! 
 
 They yok'd in him, for endless strife, 
 A heart of ice, a soul of fire ; 
 And hurl'd him on the Field of Life, 
 An aimless unallay'd Desire. 
 
 Absence Tille] Switzerland. VI. Absence 1SB3. Switzerland. 
 VII. Absence 185i. Switzerland. VIII. Absence 1857. 
 
135 
 
 TO MARGUERITE, IN RETURNING A VOLUME 
 OF THE LETTERS OF ORTIS 
 
 [First published 1852. Keprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Yes : in the sea of life enisl'd, 
 With echoing straits between us thrown, 
 Dotting the shoreless watery wUd, 
 We mortal millions live alone. 
 
 The islands feel the enclasping flow. 
 And then their endless bounds they know. 
 
 But when the moon their hollows lights 
 And they are swept by balms of spring. 
 And in their glens, on starry nights, 
 The nightingales divinely sing ; 10 
 
 And lovely notes, from shore to shore, 
 Across the sounds and channels pour ; 
 
 Oh then a longing like despair 
 
 Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 
 
 For surely once, they feel, we were 
 
 Parts of a single continent. 
 
 Now round us spreads the watery plain — 
 
 Oh might our marges meet again ! 
 
 Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
 
 Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? 20 
 
 Who renders vain their deep desire ?-rz^ 
 
 A God, a God their severance rul'd ; 
 And bade betwixt their shores to be 
 The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE 
 
 L^irst published 1852. Reprinted 1867.] 
 
 What mortal, when he saw, 
 
 Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, 
 
 Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly : 
 
 ' I have kept uninfring'd my nature's law ; 
 
 The inly-written chart thou gavest me 
 
 To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end ' ? 
 
 To Marguerite Title] Switzerland. V. To Marguerite 1853. 
 Switzerland. VI. To Marguerite 1854. Switzerland. VII. Isola- 
 tion 1857 
 
136 HUMAN LIFE 
 
 Ah ! let us make no claim 
 
 On life's incognizable sea 
 
 To too exact a steering of our way ! 
 
 Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim 10 
 
 If some fair coast has lured us to make stay, 
 
 Or some friend hail'd us to keep company ! 
 
 Aye, we would each fain drive 
 
 At random, and not steer by rule ! 
 
 Weakness ! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain ! 
 
 Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive. 
 
 We rush by coasts where we had lief remain ; 
 
 Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool. 
 
 No ! as the foaming swathe 
 
 Of torn-up water, on the main, 20 
 
 Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar 
 
 On either side the black deep-furrow'd path 
 
 Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore, 
 
 And never touches the ship-side again ; 
 
 Even so we leave behind. 
 As, charter'd by some unknown Powers, 
 We stem across the sea of life by night, 
 : The joys which were not for our use design'd, i , ■, ^ 
 The friends to whom we had no narturalright, ' 
 The homes that were not destined^to be" ours. 30 
 
 DESPONDENCY 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 The thoughts that rain their steady glow 
 Like stars on life's cold sea. 
 Which others know, or say they know — 
 They never shone for me. 
 
 Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky. 
 But they will not remain. 
 They light me once, they huriy by. 
 And never come again. 
 
137 
 YOUTH'S AGITATIONS 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1867.] 
 
 When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, 
 
 From this poor present self which I am now ; 
 
 When youth has done its tedious vain expense 
 
 Of passions that for ever ebb and flow ; 
 
 Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind, 
 
 And breathe more happy in an even clime ? 
 
 Ah no ! for then I shall begin to find 
 
 A thousand virtues in this hated time. 
 
 Then I shall wish its agitations back, 
 
 And all its thwarting currents of desire ; 10 
 
 Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, 
 
 And call this hurrying fever, generous fire, 
 
 And sigh that one thing only has been lent 
 
 To youth and age in common — discontent. 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 Say, what blinds us, that we claim the glory 
 Of possessing powers not our share ? — 
 Since man woke on earth, he knows his story, 
 But, before we woke on earth, we were. 
 
 Long, long since, undower'd yet, our spirit 
 Eoam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God : 
 Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit ; 
 Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road. 
 
 Then, as now, this tremulous, eager Being 
 Strain'd, and long'd, and grasp'd each gift it saw. 10 
 Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeing 
 Stav'd us back, and gave our choice the law. 
 
 Ah, whose hand that day through heaven guided 
 Man's blank spirit, since it was not we ? 
 Ah, who sway'd our choice, and who decided 
 What our gifts, and what our wants should be ? 
 
 Youth's Agitations Tillel Sonnet 1852. 
 
 Self-Deception] 14 blank] new ISBS. IC our gifts] the 
 
 parts 1853. our wants] the whole 18BS. 
 
138 SELF-DECEPTION 
 
 For, alas ! he left us each retaming 
 Shreds of gifts which he refus'd in full. 
 Still these waste us with their hopeless straining — 
 Still the attempt to use them proves them null. 20 
 
 And on earth we wander, groping, reeling ; 
 Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. 
 Ah, and he, who placed our master-feeling, 
 Fail'd to place our master-feeling clear. 
 
 We but dream we have our wish'd-for powers. 
 Ends we seek we never shall attain. 
 Ah, some power exists there, which is ours ? 
 Some end is there, we indeed may gain ? 
 
 LINES WEITTEN BY A DEATH-BED 
 
 [First published 1852.] 
 
 Yes, now the longing is o'erpast. 
 
 Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame. 
 
 Shook her weak bosom day and night, 
 
 Consum'd her beauty like a flame. 
 
 And dimm'd it like the desert blast. 
 
 And though the curtains hide her face, 
 
 Yet were it lifted to the light 
 
 The sweet expression of her brow 
 
 Would charm the gazer, till his thought 
 
 Eras'd the ravages of time, 10 
 
 Fiird up the hollow cheek, and brought 
 
 A freshness back as of her prime — 
 
 So healing is her quiet now. 
 
 So perfectly the lines express 
 
 A placid, settled loveliness ; 
 
 Her youngest rival's freshest grace. 
 
 But ah, though peace indeed is here. 
 
 And ease from shame, and rest from fear ; 
 
 Though nothing can dismarble now 
 
 The smoothness of that limpid brow ; 20 
 
 24 our] that 1852. 
 
 Lines written by a death-bed] 17-41 were printed as a separate 
 poem in 186? under the title Youth and Calm. 17 'Tis death ! 
 
 and peace, indeed, is here, 1867. 19 Though] There's 1867. 
 
LINES WEITTEN BY A DEATH-BED 139 
 
 Yet is a calm like this, in truth, 
 
 The crowning end of life and youth ? 
 
 And when this boon rewards the dead. 
 
 Are all debts paid, has all been said ? 
 
 And is the heart of youth so light, 
 
 Its step so firm, its eye so bright, 
 
 Because on its hot brow there blows 
 
 A wind of promise and repose 
 
 From the far grave, to which it goes ? 
 
 Because it has the hope to come, 30 
 
 One day, to harbour in the tomb ? 
 
 Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one 
 
 For daylight, for the cheerful sun. 
 
 For feeling nerves and living breath — 
 
 Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. 
 
 It dreams a rest, if not more deep, 
 
 More grateful than this marble sleep. 
 
 It hears a voice within it teU — 
 
 * Calm 's not life's crown, though calm is well.' 
 
 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires : 40 
 
 But 'tis not what our youth desires. 
 
 TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 [First published 1862. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 I 
 
 TRISTEAM 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Is she not come ? The messenger was sure. 
 Prop me upon the pillows once again — 
 Raise me, my Page : this cannot long endure. 
 Christ ! what a night ! how the sleet whips the pane ! 
 What lights will those out to the northward be ? 
 
 The Page 
 
 The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. 
 
 21 Yet] But 1867. 
 
 Tristram and Iseult Title] Tristan and IseuH 1857. See notes at end. 
 
140 TKISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 Tkistram 
 Soft — who is that stands by the dying iire ? 
 
 The Page 
 Iseult. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Ah ! not the Iseult I desire. 
 
 What Knight is this so weak and pale, 
 
 Though the locks ai'e yet brown on his noble head, 10 
 
 Propt on pillows in his bed, 
 
 Gazing seawards for the light 
 
 Of some ship that fights the gale 
 
 On this wild December night ? 
 
 Over the sick man's feet is spread 
 
 A dark green forest dress. 
 
 A gold harp leans against the bed, 
 
 Euddy in the fire's light. 
 
 I know him by his harp of gold. 
 Famous in Arthur's court of old : 20 
 
 I know him by his forest dress. 
 
 The peerless hunter, harper, knight — 
 Tristram of Lyoness. 
 
 What Lady is this, whose silk attire 
 
 Gleams so I'ich in the light of the fire ? 
 
 The ringlets on her shoulders lying 
 
 In their flitting lustre vying 
 
 With the clasp of burnish'd gold 
 
 Which her heavy robe doth hold. 
 
 Her looks are mild, her fingers slight 30 
 
 As the driven snow are white ; 
 
 And her cheeks are sunk and pale. 
 
 Is it that the bleak sea-gale 
 Beating from the Atlantic sea 
 
 Beticeen 25 and 26 1852 reads 
 
 Never surely has been seen 
 
 So slight a form in so rich a dress. 
 
 30, 31 first inserted in 1853. 32 And] But 18B2. 
 
 33 bleak] black 1854. 
 
TEISTKAM AND ISEULT 141 
 
 On this coast of Brittany, 
 
 Nips too keenly the sweet Flower ? — 
 
 Is it that a deep fatigue 
 Hath come on her, a chilly fear, 
 Passing all her youthful hour 
 Spinning with her maidens here, 40 
 
 Listlessly through the window bars 
 Gazing seawards many a league 
 rrom her lonely shore-built tower, 
 While the knights are at the wars ? 
 
 Or, perhaps, has her young heart 
 Felt already some deeper smart. 
 Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive. 
 Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair ? — 
 
 Who is this snowdrop by the sea ? 
 I know her by her mildness rare, 50 
 
 Her snow-white hands, her golden hair ; 
 I know her by her rich silk dress. 
 And her fragile loveliness. 
 The sweetest Christian soul alive, 
 Iseult of Brittany. 
 
 Iseult of Brittany ? — but where 
 
 Is that other Iseult fair. 
 
 That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen? 
 
 She, whom Tristram's ship of yore 
 
 From Ireland to Cornwall bore, ~60 
 
 To Tyntagel, to the side 
 
 Of King Mare, to be his bride ? 
 
 She who, as they voyag'd, quaff'd 
 
 With Tristram that spic'd magic draught. 
 
 Which since then for ever rolls 
 
 Through their blood, and binds their souls. 
 
 Working love, but working teen ? — 
 There were two Iseults, who did sway 
 Each her hour of Tristram's day ; 
 But one possess'd his waning time, 70 
 
 The other his resplendent prime. 
 
 50 mildness rare] golden hair 18S3. 51 first inserted in 1853. 
 
 56-82 first inserted in 1SS3. 
 
 60, 61 To Tyntagil from Ireland bore, 
 
 To Cornwall's palace, to the side 1853, 1854. 
 
142 TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 Behold her here, the patient Flower, 
 Who possess'd his darker hour. 
 Iseult of the Snow-White Hand 
 
 Watches pale by Tristram's bed. — 
 She is here who had his gloom, 
 Where art thou who hadst his bloom ? 
 One such kiss as those of yore 
 Might thy dying knight restore — 
 
 Does the love-draught work no more ? 80 
 
 Art thou cold, or false, or dead, 
 
 Iseult of Ireland ? 
 
 Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain. 
 And the knight sinks back on his pillows again : 
 He is weak with fever and pain. 
 And his spirit is not clear. 
 Hark ! he mutters in his sleep, 
 As he wanders far from here, 
 Changes place and time of year. 
 And his closed eye doth sweep 90 
 
 O'er some fair unwintry sea. 
 Not this fierce Atlantic deep, 
 As he mutters brokenly — 
 
 Tristkam 
 
 The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails — 
 
 Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 
 
 And overhead the cloudless sky of May. — 
 
 ' Ah, would I were in those green fields at play, 
 
 Not pent on ship-hoard this delicious day. 
 
 Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, 
 
 Beach me my golden cup that stands hy thee, 100 
 
 And pledge me in it first for courtesy. — ' 
 
 Ha ! dost thou start ? are thy lips blanch'd like mine ? 
 
 Child, 'tis no water this, 'tis poison'd wine ! 
 
 Iseult ! . . . 
 
 Ah, sweet angels, let hijnjream I 
 Keep his eyelids ! let him seem 
 Not this fever-wasted wight 
 Thinn'd and pal'd before his time, 
 
TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 143 
 
 But the brilliant youthful knight 
 
 In the glory of his prime, 110 
 
 Sitting in the gilded barge, 
 
 At thy side, thou lovely charge ! 
 
 Bending gaily o'er thy hand, 
 
 Iseult of Ireland ! 
 
 And she too, that princess fair, 
 
 If her bloom be now less rare, 
 
 Let her have her youth again — 
 
 Let her be as she was then ! 
 Let her have her proud dark eyes. 
 And her petulant quick replies, 120 
 
 Let her sweep her dazzling hand 
 With its gesture of command, 
 And shake back her raven hair 
 With the old imperious air. 
 
 As of old, so let her be. 
 That first Iseult, princess bright. 
 Chatting with her youthful knight 
 As he steers her o'er the sea, 
 Quitting at her father's will 
 The green isle where she was bred, 130 
 
 And her bower in Ireland, 
 For the surge-beat Cornish strand, 
 Where the prince whom she must wed 
 Dwells on proud Tyntagel's hill, 
 Fast beside the sounding sea. 
 And that golden cup her mother 
 Gave her, that her future lord, 
 Gave her, that King Marc and she, 
 Might drink it on their marriage day, 
 And for ever love each other, 140 
 
 Let her, as she sits on board. 
 Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly, 
 See it shine, and take it up. 
 And to Tristram laughing say — 
 ' Sii' Tristram, of thy courtesy. 
 Pledge me in my golden cup ! ' 
 Let them drink it — let their hands 
 
 1 34 Keeps his court in Tynlagil, 1852, 1853, 185i. ] 37 future 
 lord] lord and she 185S. ISS first insertect in 18B3. 
 
144 TEISTEAM AlS^D ISEULT 
 
 Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, 
 
 As they feel the fatal bands 
 
 Of a love they dare not name, 150 
 
 With a wild delicious pain. 
 
 Twine about their hearts again. 
 Let the early summer be 
 Once more round them, and the sea 
 Blue, and o'er its mirror kind 
 Let the breath of the May wind, 
 Wandering through their drooping sails. 
 
 Die on the green fields of Wales. 
 Let a dream like this restore 
 What his eye must see no more. 160 
 
 Thisteam 
 
 Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce walks are drear. 
 Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here ? 
 Were feet like those made for so wild a way ? 
 The southern winter-parlour, by any fay. 
 Had been the likeliest try sting -place to-day. -:- 
 ' Tristram !—nay, nay — thou must not take my^haM — 
 Tristram— stoeet love — we are hetray'd — out-plann'd. 
 Fly— save thyself^ save me. I dare not stay.' — 
 One last kiss first ! — ' 'Tis vain — to Jiorse — away !' 
 
 Ah, sweet saints, his dream doth move 170 
 
 Faster surely than it should. 
 
 From the fever in his blood. 
 
 All the spring-time of his love 
 
 Is already gone and past, 
 
 And instead thereof is seen 
 
 Its winter, which endureth still — 
 
 Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, 
 
 The pleasaunce walks, the weeping queen. 
 
 The flying leaves, the straining blast. 
 
 And that long, wild kiss — their last. 180 
 
 And this rough December night 
 
 And his burning fever pain 
 
 177 The palace towers of Tyntagil, 18B2, lSG3,JS5i. 
 
TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 145 
 
 Mingle with his hurrying dream 
 
 Till they rule it, till he seem 
 
 The press'd fugitive again, 
 
 The love-desperate banish'd knight 
 
 With a fire in his brain 
 
 Flying o'er the stormy main. 
 
 Whither does he wander now '? 
 Haply in his dreams the wind 190 
 
 Wafts him here, and lets him find 
 The lovely Orphan Child again 
 In her castle by the coast, 
 The youngest, fairest chatelaine, 
 That this realm of France can boast. 
 
 Our Snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, 
 Iseult of Brittany. 
 And — for through the haggard air, 
 The stain'd arms, the matted hair 
 Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd, 200 
 
 Thei-e gleam'd something that recall'd 
 The Tristram who in better days 
 Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous G-ard — 
 Welcom'd here, and here install'd. 
 Tended of his fever here. 
 Haply he seems again to move 
 His young guardian's heart with love ; 
 
 In his exil'd loneliness, 
 In his stately deep distress. 
 Without a word, without a tear. — 2lfl 
 
 Ah, 'tis well he should retrace 
 His tranquil life in this lone place ; 
 His gentle bearing at the side 
 Of his timid youthful bride ; 
 His long rambles by the shore 
 On winter evenings, when the roar 
 Of the near waves came, sadly grand. 
 Through the dark, up the drown'd sand : 
 
 Or his endless reveries 
 In the woods, where the gleams play 220 
 
 On the grass under the trees. 
 Passing the long summer's day 
 Idle as a mossy stone 
 In the forest depths alone ; 
 
146 TKISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 The chase neglected, and his hound 
 Couch'd beside him on the ground. — 
 
 Ah, what trouble 's on his brow ? 
 Hither let him wander now, 
 Hither, to the quiet hours 
 Pass'd among these heaths of ours 230 
 
 By the grey Atlantic sea. 
 
 Hours, if not of ecstasy. 
 From violent anguish surely free. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 All red with blood the whirling river flows, 
 
 The wide plain rings, the daz'd air throbs with blows. 
 
 Upon us are the chivalry of Eome — 
 
 Their spears are down, their steeds are bath'd in foam. 
 
 ' Up, Tristram, up,' men cry, 'thou moonstruck knight ! 
 
 What foul fiend rides thee ? On into the fight ! ' — 
 
 Above the din her voice is in my ears — 240 
 
 I see her form glide through the crossing spears. — 
 
 Iseult ! . . . 
 
 Ah, he wanders forth again ; 
 
 We cannot keep him ; now as then 
 
 There 's a secret in his breast 
 
 That will never let him rest. 
 These musing fits in the green wood 
 They cloud the brain, they dull the blood. 
 
 His sword is sharp — his horse is good — 
 Beyond the mountains will he see 250 
 
 The famous towns of Italy, 
 And label with the blessed sign 
 The heathen Saxons on the Ehine. 
 At Arthur's side he fights once more 
 With the Eoman Emperor. 
 There 's many a gay knight where he goes 
 Will help him to forget his care. 
 The march — the leaguer — Heaven's blithe air^ 
 The neighing steeds — the ringing blows ; 
 
 Sick pining comes not where these are. 260 
 
 Ah, what boots it, that the jest 
 Lightens every other brow. 
 
TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 147 
 
 What, that every other breast 
 Dances as the trumpets blow, 
 If one's own heart beats not light 
 On the waves of the toss'd fight, 
 If oneself cannot get free 
 From the clog of misery ? 
 
 Thy lovely youthful Wife grows pale 
 Watching by the salt sea tide 270 
 
 With her children at her side 
 For the gleam of thy white sail. 
 Home, Tristram, to thy halls again ! 
 To our lonely sea complain. 
 
 To our forests tell thy pain. 
 
 Tristram 
 All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, 
 But it is moonlight in the open glade : 
 And in the bottom of the glade shine clear 
 The forest chapel and the fountain near. 
 
 I think, I have a fever in my blood : 280 
 
 Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, 
 Eide down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. 
 
 Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light. 
 God ! 'tis her face plays in the waters bright. — 
 ' Fair love,' she says, ' canst thou forget so soon. 
 At this soift hour, under this sweet moon ? ' — 
 Iseult ! . . . 
 
 Ah poor soul, if this be so, 
 
 Only death can balm thy woe. 
 
 The solitudes of the green wood 290 
 
 Had no medicine for thy mood. 
 
 The rushing battle clear'd thy blood 
 As little as did solitude. 
 
 Ah, his eyelids slowly break 
 Their hot seals, and let him wake. 
 What new change shall we now see ? 
 
 A happier ? Worse it cannot be. 
 
 Tristram 
 Is my Page here ? Come, turn me to the fire. 
 Upon the window panes the moon shines bright ; 
 266 On] In J85B. 
 L 2 
 
148 TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 The wind is down : but she'll not come to-night. 300 
 Ah no — she is asleep in Cornwall now, 
 Far hence — ^her dreams are fair — smooth is her brow. 
 Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. 
 
 I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my Page, 
 Would take a score years from a strong man's age," 
 And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear. 
 Scant leisure for a second messenger. 
 
 My Princess, art thou there ? Sweet, 'tis too late. 
 To bed, and sleep : my fever is gone by : 
 To-night my Page shall keep me company. 310 
 
 Where do the children sleep ? kiss them for me. 
 Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I : 
 This comes of nursing long and watching late. 
 To bed — good night ! 
 
 She left the gleam-lit fire-place, 
 
 She came to the bed-side. 
 She took his hands in hers : her tear." 
 Down on her slender fingers rain'd. 
 She rais'd her eyes upon his face — 
 Not with a look of wounded pride, 320 
 
 A look as if the heart complain'd : — • 
 
 Her look Avas like a sad embrace ; 
 The gaze of one who can divine 
 A grief, and sympathize. 
 Sweet Flower, thy children's eyes 
 
 Are not more innocent than thine. 
 
 But they sleep in shelter'd rest, 
 Like helpless birds in the warm nest, 
 On the Castle's southern side ; 
 Where feebly comes the mournful roar 330 
 
 Of buffeting wind and surging tide 
 Through many a room and corridor. 
 Full on their window the Moon's ray 
 Makes their chamber as bright as day ; 
 It shines upon the blank white walls, 
 And on the snowy pillow falls, 
 
 301 Cornwall now] Tyntagil 1S5S, 1863, 1SS4. 302 smooth is 
 her brow.] her sleep is still. 1852, 1853, 1854 303 my vain] 
 
 ot my laSS, 1853 
 
TEISTKAM AND ISEULT 149 
 
 And on two angel-heads doth play 
 Turn'd to each other : — the eyes clos'd — 
 
 The lashes on the cheeks repos'd. 
 Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 340 
 Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; 
 Through the soft-open'd lips the air 
 Scarcely moves the coverlet. 
 One little wandering arm is thrown 
 At random on the counterpane, 
 And often the fingers close in haste 
 As if their baby owner chas'd 
 The butterflies again. 
 This stir they have and this alone ; 
 But else they are so still. 350 
 
 Ah, tired madcaps, you lie still 
 But were you at the window now 
 To look forth on the fairy sight 
 Of your illumin'd haunts by night ; 
 To see the park-glades where you play 
 Far lovelier than they are by day : 
 To see the sparkle on the eaves, 
 And upon every giant bough 
 Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 
 Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain — 360 
 
 How would your voices run again ! 
 And far beyond the sparkling trees 
 Of the castle park one sees 
 The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 
 Moor behind moor, far, far away. 
 Into the heart of Brittany. 
 And here and there, lock'd by the land. 
 Long inlets of smooth glittering sea. 
 And many a stretch of watery sand 
 All shining in the white moon-beams. 370 
 
 But you see fairer in your dreams. 
 
 What voices are these on the clear night air ? 
 What lights in the court? what steps on the stair? 
 
150 TEISTKAM AND ISEULT 
 
 II 
 
 ISEULT OF lEELAND 
 Tristram 
 
 Eaise the light, my Page, that I may see her. — 
 Thou art come at last then, haughty Queen ! 
 
 Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever : 
 Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. 
 
 ISEULT 
 
 Blame me not, poor sufferer, that I tarried : 
 I vt^as bound, I could not break the band. 
 
 Chide not with the past, but feel the present : 
 I am here — we meet — I hold thy hand. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoin'd me ; 
 
 Thou hast dar'd it : but too late to save. 10 
 
 Fear not now that men should tax thy honour. 
 
 I am dying : build — (thou may'st) — my grave ! 
 
 ISEULT 
 
 Tristram, for the love of Heaven, speak kindly ! 
 
 What, I hear these bitter words from thee ? 
 Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel — 
 
 Take my hand — dear Tristram, look on me ! 
 
 Tristram 
 
 I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage. 
 
 Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. 
 But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult ! 
 
 And thy beauty never was more fair. 20 
 
 ISEULT 
 
 Ah, harsh flatterer ! let alone my beauty. 
 
 I, like thee, have left my youth afar. 
 Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers — 
 
 See my cheek and lips, how white they are. 
 
TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 151 
 
 Tristram 
 Thou art paler : — but thy sweet charm, Iseult ! 
 
 Would not fade with the dull years away. 
 Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight ! 
 
 I forgive thee, Iseult ! — thou wilt stay ? 
 
 Iseult 
 Fear me not, I will be always with thee ; 
 
 I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain ; SO 
 Sing thee tales of true long-parted lovers 
 
 Join'd at evening of their days again. 
 
 Tristram 
 No, thou shalt not speak ; I should be finding . 
 
 Something alter'd in thy courtly tone. 
 Sit — sit by me : I will think, we've liv'd so 
 
 In the greenwood, all our lives, alone. 
 
 Iseult 
 Alter'd, Tristram ? Not in courts, believe me. 
 
 Love like mine is alter'd in the breast. 
 Courtly life is light and cannot reach it. 
 
 Ah, it lives, because so deep suppress'd, 40 
 
 Eoyal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband — 
 That was bliss to make my sorrows flee ! 
 
 Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings — 
 Those were friends to make me false to thee I 
 
 What, thou think'st, men speak in courtly chambers 
 Words by which the wretched are consol'd ? 
 
 What, thou think'st, this aching brow was cooler, 
 Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold ? 
 
 Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanc'd, 
 
 Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown, BO 
 
 Thee, a weeping exile in thy forest — ■ 
 Me, a smiling queen upon my throne ? 
 
 Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd ; 
 
 Both have pass'd a youth constrain'd and sad ; 
 Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 
 
 And have now short space for being glad. 
 
 41-44 first inserted in 1853. 
 
152 TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 Join'd we are henceforth : nor will thy people, 
 
 Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, 
 That a former rival shares her office, 
 
 When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. 60 
 
 I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, 
 
 I, a statue on thy chapel floor, 
 Pour'd in grief before the Virgin Mother, 
 
 Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. 
 
 She will cry — 'Is this the foe I dreaded ? 
 
 This his idol ? this that royal bride ? 
 Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight : 
 
 Stay, pale queen ! for ever by my side.' 
 
 Hush, no words ! that smile, I see, forgives me. 
 
 I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 70 
 
 Close thine eyes — this flooding moonlight blinds 
 them — 
 
 Nay, all 's well again : thou must not weep. 
 
 Tkisteam 
 I am happy : yet I feel, there 's something 
 
 Swells my heart, and takes my breath away : 
 Through a mist I see thee : near ! — come nearer ! 
 
 Bend — bend down — I yet have much to say 
 
 Iseult 
 Heaven ! his head sinks back upon the pillow I — 
 
 Tristram ! Tristram ! let thy heart not fail. 
 Call on God and on the holy angels ! 
 
 What, love, courage !— Christ ! he is so pale. 80 
 
 Tristram 
 Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching. 
 
 This is what my mother said should be. 
 When the fierce pains took her in the forest. 
 
 The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. 
 
 ' Son,' she said, ' thy name shall be of sorrow ! 
 
 Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake ! ' 
 So she said, and died in the drear forest. 
 
 Grief since then his home with me doth make. 
 
 59 a former] an .incient lSu2, 18BS. 
 65 cry . . . foe] say . . . foi-m 1853. 
 
TEISTRAM AND ISEULT 153 
 
 I am dying. — Start not, nor look wildly ! 
 
 Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 90 
 
 But, since living we were ununited, 
 
 Go not far, O Iseult ! from my grave. 
 
 Rise, go hence, and seek the princess Iseult : 
 
 Speak her fair, she is of royal blood. 
 Say, I charg'd her, that ye live together : — 
 
 She will grant it — she is kind and good. 
 
 Now to sail tlie seas of Death I leave thee ; 
 One last kiss upon the living shore ! 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Tristram ! — Tristram ! — stay — receive me with thee ! 
 Iseult leaves thee, Tristram, never more. 100 
 
 You see them clear : the moon shines bright. 
 
 Slow — slow and softly, where she stood. 
 
 She sinks upon the ground : her hood 
 
 Had fallen back : her arms outspread 
 
 Still hold her lover's hands : her head 
 
 Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. 
 
 O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair 
 
 Lies in disorder'd streams ; and there. 
 
 Strung like white stars, the pearls still are. 
 
 And the golden bracelets heavy and rare J 10 
 
 Flash on her white arms still. 
 
 The very same which yesternight 
 
 Flash'd in the silver sconces' light. 
 
 When the feast was gay and the laughter loud 
 
 In Tyntagel's palace proud. 
 
 But then they deck'd a restless ghost 
 
 97-100 Now stand cle.ir before mo in the moonlight. 
 Fare, farewell, thou long, thou deeply lov'd ! 
 
 Iseult 
 Tristram ! — Tristram — stay — I come ! Ah Sorrow — 
 Fool ! thou missest — we are both unmov'd ! 1852. 
 114 gay . . . loud] loud . . . shrill 1862, 18C8, 1854. 115 In 
 
 the banquet-hall of Tyntagil. 1S5S, 1853, 1854. 
 
154 TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, 
 
 And quivering lips on which the tide 
 
 Of courtly speech abruptly died, 
 
 And a glance that over the crowded floor, 120 
 
 The dancers, and the festive host, 
 
 Flew ever to the door. 
 That the knights eyed her in surprise, 
 And the dames whisper'd scolRngly — 
 ' Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers I 
 But yesternight and she would be 
 As pale and still as wither'd flowers. 
 And now to-night she laughs and speaks 
 And has a colour in her cheeks. 
 
 Christ keep us from such fantasy ! ' — 130 
 
 The air of the December night 
 Steals coldly around the chamber bright, 
 Where those lifeless lovers be. 
 Swinging^ith'it, in the light 
 Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. 
 And on the arras wrought you see 
 A stately Huntsman, clad in green. 
 And round him a fresh forest scene. 
 On that clear forest knoll he stays 
 With his pack round him, and delays. 140 
 
 He stares and stares, with troubled face. 
 At this huge gleam-lit fireplace. 
 At the bright iron-figur'd door. 
 And those blown rushes on the floor. 
 
 130 Christ] Heaven 1852, 1853. 133 first inserted in 1853. 
 
 135 Flaps] Shines 185S. 136 on the arras wrought] there 
 
 upon the wall 185S. 189 On that clear forest knoll] 'Tis noon 
 with him, and yet 1852. After 140 1852 has these seven lines 
 
 peculiar to itself: — 
 
 As rooted to the earth, nor sounds 
 His lifted horn, nor cheers his hounds 
 Into the tangled glen below. 
 Yet in the sedgy bottom there 
 Where the deep forest stream creeps slow 
 Fring'd with dead leaves and mosses rare, 
 , The wild boar harbours close, and feeds. 
 
 and continues with lines 145, 146, 149-158, 141-144, 159-166 in 
 roman type with differences as noted on next page, and 167 to end as in 
 later editions, 142 this] the 1852. 144 those] the 1853. 
 
TKISTKAM AND ISEULT 155 
 
 He gazes down into the room 
 With heated cheeks and ilurried air, 
 And to himself he seems to say — 
 ' What place is this, and who are they? 
 Who is that kneeling Lady fair ? 
 And on his pillows that pale Knight iso 
 
 WJio seems of marhle on a tomb ? 
 How comes it here, this chamber bright 
 Through whose mullion'd windows clear 
 The castle court all wet with rain, 
 TJie drawbridge and the moat appear, 
 And then the beach, and, marVd with spray, 
 The sunken reefs, and far away 
 Hie unquiet bright Atlantic plain? — 
 
 What, has some glamour made me sleep, 
 And sent me with my dogs to sweep, leo 
 
 By night, with boisterous bugle peal, 
 Through some old, sea-side, knightly luxll. 
 Not in the free greenivood at all? 
 That Knight 's asleep, and at her prayer 
 That Lady by the bed doth kneel : 
 Then hush, thou boisterous bugle peal ! ' — 
 
 The wild boar rustles in his lair — 
 The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air — 
 But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 
 
 Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, 170 
 
 O Hunter ! and without a fear 
 Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, 
 And through the glades thy pastime take ! 
 
 For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here. 
 For these thou seest are unmov'd ; 
 Cold, cold as those who liv'd and lov'd 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 147-1 48 first inserted in 1S53. 1 69 What, has . . . me] Has then 
 . . him 1852. 160 me . . . mj/] him ... his 1852. 
 
156 TEISTKAM AND ISEULT 
 
 III 
 ISEULT OF BEITTANY 
 
 A YEAR had flown, and o'er the sea away, 
 
 In Cornwall, Tristram and queen Iseult lay ; 
 
 In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old : 
 
 There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. 
 
 The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, 
 
 Had wander'd forth : her children were at play 
 
 In a green circular hollow in the heath 
 
 Which borders the sea-shore ; a country path 
 
 Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. 
 
 The hollow's grassy banks are soft incUn'd, 10 
 
 And to one standing on them, far and near 
 
 The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear 
 
 Over the waste : — This cirque of open ground 
 
 Is light and green ; the heather, which all round 
 
 Creeps thickly, grows not here ; but the pale grass 
 
 Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass 
 
 Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there 
 
 Dotted with holly trees and juniper. 
 
 In the smooth centre of the opening stood 
 
 Three hollies side by side, and made a screen 20 
 
 Warm with the winter sun, of burnish'd green. 
 
 With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. 
 
 Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands 
 
 Watching her children play : their little hands 
 
 Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 
 
 Of stagshorn for their hats : anon, with screams 
 
 Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound 
 
 Among the holly clumps and broken ground, 
 
 Eacjng full speed, and startling in their rush 
 
 The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 30 
 
 Out of their glossy coverts : but when now 
 
 Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow 
 
 Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair 
 
 In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair — 
 
 1 o'er the sea away] in the chapel old 18B2. 2 Lay Tristram 
 
 and queen Iseult dead and cold. 1852. 3, 4 not in 1352. 
 
 3 At Tyntagil in King Mare's chapel old : 1853, 185i. 18 
 cirque] ring 18B2. 
 
TRISTEAM AND ISEULT 157 
 
 Then Iseult called them to her, and the three ' 
 
 Cluster'd under the holly screen, and she 
 Told them an old-world Breton history. 
 
 Warm in their mantles wrapt, the three stood there. 
 Under the hollies, in the clear still air — ■ 
 Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 40 
 
 Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. 
 Long they stayed still — then, pacing at their ease, 
 Mov'd up and down under the glossy trees ; 
 But still as they pursued their warni dry road 
 From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, A 
 And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes ' 
 Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise ; 
 Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side. 
 Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide. 
 Nor to the snow w hich, though 'twas all away 50 
 
 From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, 
 Nor to the shining sea-fowl that with screams 
 Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams. 
 Swooping to landward ; nor to where, quite clear, 
 The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 
 And they would still have listen'd, till dark night 
 Came keen and chill down on the heather bright ; 
 But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, 
 And the grey turrets of the castle old 
 Look'd sternly through the frosty evening air, — 60 
 Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair. 
 And brought her tale to an end, and found the path. 
 And led them home over the darkening heath. 
 
 And is she happy ? Does she see unmov'd 
 The days in which she might have liv'd and loy'd 
 Slip without bringing bliss slowly away. 
 One after one, to-morrow like to-day ? 
 Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will : — 
 Is it this thought that makes her mien so still, 
 Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 70 
 So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet 
 Her children's ? She moves slow : her voice alone 
 Has yet an infantine and silver tone. 
 But even that comes languidly : in truth, 
 She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 
 
158 TEISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 And now she will go home, and softly lay 
 
 Her laughing children in their beds, and play 
 
 Awhile with them before they sleep ; and then 
 
 She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen 
 
 Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, 80 
 
 Along this iron coast, know like a star, 
 
 And take her broidery frame, and there she'll sit 
 
 Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it, 
 
 Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind 
 
 Her children, or to listen to the wind. 
 
 And when the clock peals midnight, she will move 
 
 Her work away, and let her fingers rove 
 
 Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound 
 
 Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground : 
 
 Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 90 
 
 Fix'd, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap ; then rise, 
 
 And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told 
 
 Her rosary beads of ebony tipp'd with gold, 
 
 Then to her soft sleep : and to-morrow '11 be 
 
 To-day's exact repeated eifigy. 
 
 Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. 
 The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal. 
 Her women, and Sir Tristram's agfed hound. 
 Are there the sole companions to be found. 
 But these she loves ; and iioigi^jtiifejliaiufchis 100 
 
 She woiild fincQlHo bear, weakj^s_^ejs : 
 She has her childrenToo, and night and day 
 Is with them ; and the wide heaths where they play, 
 The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore. 
 The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, 
 These are to her dear as to them : the tales 
 With which this day the children she beguil'd 
 She glean'd from Breton grandames when a child 
 In every hut along this sea-coast wild. 
 She herself loves them still, and, when they are told. 
 Can forget all to hear them, as of old. ill 
 
 Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear. 
 Not suffering, that shuts up eye and ear 
 
 112-150 omitted in 1853, ISSi, reinserted in ISB?. 
 
TKISTEAM AND ISEULT 159 
 
 To all which has delighted them before, 
 
 And lets us be what we were once no more. 
 
 No ; we may suffer deeply, yet retain 
 
 Power to be mov'd and sooth'd, for all our pain, 
 
 By what of old pleas'd us, and will again. 
 
 No : 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, 
 
 In whdseTibt^ air our spirits are upcurl'd ' 120 
 
 Until they crumble, or .else grgw like steel^- 
 
 Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring — 
 
 Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, 
 
 But takes away the power — -this can avail, 
 
 By drying up our joy in everything, 
 
 To inake our former pleasures all seem stale. 
 
 This, or some tyrannous single thought,_some fit 
 
 Of passion, which subdues our souls" to it. 
 
 Till for its sake alone we live and move — 
 
 Call it ambition, or remorse, or love — 130 
 
 This too can change us wholly, and make seem 
 
 All that we did before, shadow and dream. 
 
 And yet, I swear, it an,gers_rne to see 
 How this.jfool,passion gulls men potently ; 
 Being, in truth, but a diseas'd liiirestV 
 And an unnatural overheat at best. 
 How they are full of languor and distress 
 Not having it ; which, when they do possess. 
 They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, 
 And spend their lives in posting here and there 140 
 Where this plague drives them ; and have little ease, 
 Are fretful with themselves, and hard to please. 
 Like that bold Caesar, the fam'd Eoman wight, 
 Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight 
 Who made a name at younger years than he : 
 Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, 
 Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son, 
 Who carried the great war from Macedon 
 Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on 
 To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 150 
 
 What tale did Iseult to the children say. 
 Under the hollies, that bright winter's day ? 
 
 142 Can never end their tasks, are hard to please. 1S5S. 
 US bold] bald 2852. 
 
160 TKISTEAM AND ISEULT 
 
 She told them of the fairy-haunted land 
 Away the other side of Brittany, 
 Beyond the heaths, edg'd by the lonely sea ; 
 Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, 
 Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine 
 
 creeps. 
 Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. 
 For here he came with the fay Vivian, 
 One April, when the warm days first began ; liiO 
 
 He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend. 
 On her white palfrey ; here he met his end. 
 In these lone sylvan glades, that April day. 
 This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay 
 Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear 
 Before the children's fancy him and her. 
 
 Blowing between the stems the forest air 
 Had loosen'd the brown curls of Vivian's hair, 
 Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes 
 Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 170 
 
 Her palfrey's flanks were mired and batli'd in sweat, 
 For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. 
 A brier in that tangled wilderness 
 Had scor'd her white right hand, which she allows 
 To rest unglov'd on her green riding-dress ; 
 The other warded off the drooping boughs. 
 But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes 
 Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize : 
 Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, 
 The spirit of the woods was in her face ; ISO 
 
 She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 
 Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight. 
 And he grew fond, and eager to obey 
 His mistress, use her empire as she may. 
 
 They came to where the brushwood ceas'd, and day 
 Peer'd 'twixt the stpms ; and the ground broke away 
 In a slop'd sward down to a brawling brook. 
 And up as high as where they stood to look 
 On the brook's further side was clear ; but then 
 The underwood and trees began again. 190 
 
TKISTKAM AND ISEULT 161 
 
 This open glen was studded thick with thorns 
 
 Then white with blossom ; and you saw the horns, 
 
 Through the green fern, of the shy fallow-deer 
 
 Which come at noon down to the water here. 
 
 You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 
 
 Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong 
 
 The blackbird whistled from the dingles near. 
 
 And the light chipping of the woodpecker 
 
 Rang lonelily and sharp : the sky was fair, 
 
 And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 200 
 
 Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow 
 
 To gaze on the green sea of leaf and bough 
 
 Which glistering lay all round them, lone and mild. 
 
 As if to itself the quiet forest smil'd. 
 
 Upon the brow-top grew a thorn ; and here 
 
 The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear 
 
 Across the hollow : white anemonies 
 
 Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses 
 
 Ean out from the dark underwood behind. 
 
 No fairer resting-place a man could find. 210 
 
 ' Here let us halt,' said Merlin then ; and she 
 
 Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. 
 
 They sate them down together, and a sleep 
 Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. 
 Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose. 
 And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, 
 And takes it in her hand, and waves it over 
 The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. 
 Nine times she wav'd the fluttering wimple round. 
 And made a little plot of magic ground. 220 
 
 And in that daisied circle, as men say. 
 Is Merlin prisoner till the judgement-day, 
 But she herself whither she will can rove, 
 For she was passing weary of his love. 
 
162 
 MEMOEIAL VEESES 
 
 APKIL, 1850 
 
 [First published in Fraser's Magazine, June, 1850. 
 Reprinted 1852, '55.] 
 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 But one such death remain'd to come. 
 The last poetic voice is dumb. 
 "What shall be said o'er Wordsworth's tomb ? 
 
 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
 He taught us little : but our soul 
 Had /eltj[iim like the thunder's roll. 
 WitliShivering heart the_strifiajffig_saw 10 
 
 Of PassimL^thJEternaLIiawL;_. 
 -^nd^et with reverential awe 
 We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
 Which serv'd for that Titanic strife. 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, we said — 
 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
 Physician of the Iron Age, 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 He took the suffering human race. 
 He read each wound, each weakness clear — 20 
 And struck his finger on the place 
 And said — Thou ailest here, and here. — 
 He look'd on Europe's dying hour 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
 His eye plung'd down the weltering strife. 
 The turmoil of expiring life ; 
 He said — The end Js- everywhere : 
 Art still haslruth, take refuge there. 
 
 April in Tille] April 27 Fraser. 5 We stolid to-day at 
 
 Wordsworth's tomb Fraser. 7 head] heads Fraser. 14 
 
 serv'd] flow'd Fraser. 15 Goethe's deatli was told] Goethe 
 
 pass'd away Fraser. 20 read . . . weakness clear — ] scann'd 
 . . . weakness, near, Fraser. 25 v/eltering] seething Fraser. 
 
MEMOEIAL VEESES 163 
 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 
 Causes of things, and far below 30 
 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 
 Of terror, and insane distress, 
 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth !— -Ah, pale Ghosts, rejoice ! 
 For never has suchC^soothipg- voice 
 Been to your shadoWy'world convey'd, 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
 "Wordsworth has gone from us- — and ye, 40 
 
 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we. 
 He too upon a wintry clime 
 Had fallen — on this iron time 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 He found us when the age had bound 
 Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
 He spoke, and loos'd our heart in tears. 
 Ho laid us as we lay at birth 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth ; 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease. .50 
 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again : 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 Our youth return'd : for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been dead. 
 Spirits dried up and closely-furl'd, 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 
 Ah, since dark days still bring to light 
 Man's prudence and man's fiery might. 
 Time may restore us in his course CO 
 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force : 
 
 40 lias] is Frasa; 1853. 43 H.-id . . . this] Was ... the 
 
 Fraser. ii first inserted in 1S52. 46 Our spirits in a 
 
 brazen round Fraser, Between 47 and 48 Fraser reads : — 
 He tore us from the prison-eell 
 Of festering thoughts and personal fears, 
 Where we had long been doom'd to dwell. 
 .54 return'd] came back Frasei: 56 dried up] deep-crush'd, 
 FrasfT. 60 his] its Fraser. 
 
 m2 
 
164 MEMORIAL VERSES 
 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power ? 
 Others will teach us how to dare, 
 And against fear our breast to steel : 
 Others will strengthen us to bear — 
 , But who, ah who, will make us feel ? 
 The cloud of mortal destiny, 
 Others will front it fearlessly — 
 But who, like him, will put it by ? 70 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
 O Rotha ! with thy living wave. 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
 COURAGE 
 
 [First published 1852. Not reprinted by the author.] 
 
 Tkue, we must tame our rebel will : 
 True, we must bow to Nature's law : 
 Must bear in silence many an ill ; 
 Must learn to wait, renounce, withdraw. 
 
 Yet now, when boldest wills give place, 
 When Fate and Circumstance are strong, 
 And in their rush the human race 
 Are swept, like huddling sheep, along ; 
 
 Those sterner spirits let me prize, 
 
 Who, though the tendence of the whole 10 
 
 They less than us might recognize. 
 
 Kept, more than us, their strength of soul. 
 
 Yes, be the second Cato prais'd ! 
 Not that he took the course to die — 
 But that, when 'gainst himself he rais'd 
 His arm, he rais'd it dauntlessly. 
 
 And, Byron ! let us dare admire. 
 
 If not thy fierce and turbid song. 
 
 Yet that, in anguish, doubt, desire. 
 
 Thy fiery courage still was strong. 20 
 
 62 will] shall Fraser. 
 
COUEAGE 165 
 
 The sun that on thy tossing pain 
 Did with such cold derision shine, 
 He crush'd thee not with his disdain — 
 He had his glow, and thou hadst thine. 
 
 Our bane, disguise it as we may. 
 Is weakness, is a faltering course. 
 Oh that past times could give our day, 
 Join'd to its clearness, of their force ! 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE 
 
 [First published 1852. Kcprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 Weaky of myself, and sick of asking 
 What I am, and what I ought to be. 
 At the vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
 Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 
 
 And a look of passionate desire 
 
 O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 
 
 ' Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, 
 
 Calmune, ah, compose me to the end. jjt/j 
 
 'Ah, once more,' I cried, 'ye Stars, ye Waters, 
 On my heart your mighty charm renew : 10 
 
 Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
 Feel my soul becoming,^ vast like you.' 
 
 From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
 
 Over the lit sea's vinquiet way, 
 
 In the rustling night-air came the answer — 
 
 ' Wguldst thou lie as these are ? Live as they.^ 
 
 ' Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
 Undistracted by the sights they see, 
 These demand not that the things without them 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 20 
 
 ' And with joy the stars perform their shining. 
 And the_sea its long moon-silver'd roll. 
 
 1 ForjaJen^ they live, nor pine with noting^ 
 
 \ AirtHe fever of some differjng-soul. 
 
166 SELF-DEPENDENCE 
 
 ' Bounded by themselves, and unobservant 
 In what state God's other works may be, 
 In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
 These attain the mighty life you see.' 
 
 O air-born Voice ! long since, severely clear, 
 , I A cry like thine in my own heart I hear. 30 
 
 \' Eesolve^tp be thyself: and know, that li£ 
 jWjBo finds^himself, loses his niisary^' 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 In the deserted moon-blaneh'd street 
 How lonely rings the echo of my feet ! 
 Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, 
 Silent and white, unopening down, 
 Repellent as theworld ; — but see ! 
 A BreaFJuetweeiflhe housSfops shows 
 Theliioon, and, lost behind her, fading dim 
 Into the dewy dark obscurity 
 Down at the far horizon's rim, 
 
 Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose, 10 
 
 And to my mind the thought 
 Is on a sudden brought 
 Of a past night, and a far different scene. 
 Headlands stood out into the moon-lit deep 
 As clearly as at noon ; 
 The spring-tide's brimming flow 
 Heav'd dazzlingly between ; 
 Houses with long white sweep 
 Girdled the glistening bay : 
 
 Behind, through the soft air, 20 
 
 The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away. 
 
 That night was far more fair ; 
 But the same restless pacings to and fro. 
 And the same vainly-throbbing heart was there, 
 And the same bright calm moon. 
 
 24 vainly-throbbing] agitated 1852. 
 
A SUMMEK NIGHT 167 
 
 And the calm moonlight 'seems to say — 
 Ilast thou then still the old unquiet hreast 
 That neither deadens into rest 
 Nor ever feels the fiery glow 
 
 That whirls the spirit from itself atvai/, 30 
 
 But fluctuates to and fro 
 
 NiMrJjLMSSM^Mmkjiamsifi' 
 
 A^dmvcrjuite_Mmm!M.Ji)fJh(UWzML^Mi^!l.?^ 
 And I, Tknow not if to pray 
 Still to be what I am, or yield, and be 
 Like all the other men I see. 
 
 For most men in a brazen prison live, 
 Where in the sun's hot eye, 
 With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly 
 Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 40 
 
 Dreaming of naught beyond their prison wall. 
 And as, year after year, 
 Fresh products of their barren labour fall 
 From their tired hands, and rest 
 Never yet comes more near, 
 Gloom settles slowly down over their breast. 
 And while they try to stem 
 
 The waves of mournful thought by which they are presi, 
 Death in their prison reaches them 
 \Unfreed, having seen nothing, still uiiblest.J 50 
 
 And the rest,/ a few. 
 Escape their priStJn, and depart 
 On the wide Ocean of Life anew. 
 There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart 
 Listeth, will sail ; 
 
 Nor does he know how there prevail. 
 Despotic on life's sea. 
 Trade-winds that cross it from eternity. 
 
 Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd 
 By thwarting signs, and braves 60 
 
 The freshening wind and blackening waves. 
 And then the tempest strikes him, and between 
 The lightning bursts is seen 
 Only a driving wreck, 
 And the pale Master on his spar-strewn deck 
 
168 A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 With anguish 'd face and flying hair 
 
 Grasping the rudder hard, 
 
 Still bent to make some port he knows not where, 
 
 Still standing for some false impossible shore. 
 
 And sterner conies the roar 70 
 
 Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom 
 Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom, 
 And he too disappears, and comes no more. 
 
 Is. there no life, Jbut. these alone ? 
 Madman or slave, must man be one ? 
 
 Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain ! 
 Clearness divine ! 
 
 Ye Heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign 
 Of languor, though so calm, and though so great 
 Are yet untroubled and unpassionate : 80 
 
 Who though so noble share in the world's toil, 
 And though so task'd keep free from dust and soil : 
 I will not say that your mild deeps retain 
 A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain 
 Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain ; 
 But I will rather say that you remain 
 A world j^j£e.-man's head, to let him see 
 
 ' How bouhdless^mi^t his soul's horizons be, 
 How vast, yet of what clear transparency. 
 
 I How it were good to sink there, and breathe free. 90 
 
 i H ow fair a lot to fill 
 Is left to each man still. 
 
 THE BUEIED LIFE 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, 
 Beholf], with tears my eyes are wet. 
 I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 
 
 Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, 
 We know, we know that we can smile ; 
 Eutjhere 's asomethin g in this breast . 
 To wKich tliyTTiELjSiada-bnn gjo rest^ 
 
 91 fair] high 1S52. 
 
THE BUEIED LIFE 169 
 
 And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 
 
 Grive me thy hand, and hush awhile, 
 And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 10 
 
 And let me read there, love, thy inmost soul. 
 
 Alas, is even Love too weak 
 To unlock the heart, and let it sjjeak ? 
 Are even lovers. powejrlessjto reveal 
 To one another what indeed theyTeel ? 
 I knew the mass of men conceaFd 
 Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 
 They would by other men be met 
 With blank indifference, or with blame reprov'd : 
 I knew they liv'd and mov'd 20 
 
 Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 
 Of men, and alien to themselves — and yet 
 The same heart beats in every human breast. 
 
 But we, my love — does a like spell benumb 
 Our hearts — our voices? — must we too be dumb? 
 
 Ah, well for us, if even we, 
 Even for a moment, can get free 
 Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd : 
 For that which seals them hath been deep ordain'd. 
 
 Fate, which foresaw 30 
 
 How frivolous a baby man would be, 
 By what distractions he would be possess'd, 
 How he would pour himself in every strife, 
 And well-nigh change his own identity ; 
 That it might keep from his capricious play 
 His genuine self, and force him to obey. 
 Even in his own despite, his being's law. 
 Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 
 The unregarded Eiver of our Life 
 Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; ■}(> 
 
 And that we should not see 
 The buried stream, and seem to be 
 Eddying about in blind uncertainty. 
 Though driving on with it eternally. 
 
 23 The same heart beats] There beats one heart 18S3. 
 
170 THE BUEIED LIFE 
 
 ''~ But often, in the world's most crowded streets, 
 But often, in the din of strife. 
 There rises-an unspeakable desire 
 After the knowledge of our buried_life,_ 
 -A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
 In tracking out our true, original course ; 50 
 
 A longing to inquire 
 Into the mystery of this heart that beats 
 So wild, so deep in us, to know 
 Whence our thoughts come and where they go. 
 And many a man in his own breast then delves. 
 But deep enough, alas, none ever mines : 
 And we have been on many thousand lines. 
 And we have shown on each talent and power. 
 But hardly have we, for one little hour. 
 Been on our own line, have we been^ureelves ; GO 
 
 Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
 The nameless feelings that course through our breast. 
 But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
 And long we try in vain to speak and act 
 Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
 Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis notjtrue: 
 And then we will no more K^fa«E'3 
 With inward striving, and demand 
 Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
 Their stupefying power ; 70 
 
 Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call : 
 Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn. 
 From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 
 As from an infinitely distant land, 
 Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 
 A melancholy into all our day. 
 
 Only — but this is rare^ 
 When a beloved hand is laid in ours, 
 When, jaded with the rush and glare 
 Of the interminable hours, 80 
 
 Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear. 
 When our world-deafen'd ear 
 Is by the tones of a lov'd voice caress'd, — 
 
 A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast 
 
THE BUKIED LIFE 171 
 
 And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again : 
 
 The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 
 
 And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we 
 
 know. 
 A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
 And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 
 The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze, j 90 
 
 And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
 Wherein he doth for ever chase „ 
 That flying and elusive shadowvEest^? 
 lAii air of coolness plays upon his "face, 
 And an unwonted calm pervades his breast, 
 
 And then he 4;h.inl5s^he knows "~ 
 The Hills whereTTiSTife rose. 
 And the Sea where it goes. 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 [First published 1852. Kepruited 1854, '67.] 
 
 Mv horse's feet beside the lake, 
 
 Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay. 
 
 Sent echoes through the night to wake 
 
 Each glistening strand, each heath-fring'd bay. 
 
 The poplar avenue was pass'd. 
 
 And the roof d bridge that spans the stream. 
 
 Up the steep street I hurried fast. 
 
 Led by thy taper's starlike beam. 
 
 I came ; I saw thee rise :■ — the blood 
 
 Came flushing to thy languid cheek. 10 
 
 Lock'd in each other's arms we stood. 
 
 In tears, with hearts too full to speak. 
 
 Days flew : ah, soon I could discern 
 
 A trouble in thine alter'd air. 
 
 Thy hand lay languidly in mine — 
 
 Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. 
 
 A Farewell Title] Switzerland. V. A Farewell ISai, 1SG7. 
 8 Led] Lit 18B2. 10 flushing] flooding 1852. 
 
172 A FAREWELL 
 
 I blame thee net: — this heart, I know. 
 To be long Iqv'd was never fo|rm'd_; 
 For sbiinetfiing in it s depths doth glow 
 Troo~slfangi[]^o_ restless, too untam'd. 20 
 
 And women — things that live and move 
 Min'd by the fever of the soul — 
 They seek to find in those they love 
 Stern strength, and promise of control. 
 
 They ask not kindness, gentle ways ; 
 
 These they themselves have tried and known : 
 
 They ask a soul that never sways 
 
 With the blind gusts which shake their own. 
 
 I too have felt the load I bore 
 
 In a too strong emotion's sway ; 30 
 
 I too have wish'd, no woman more, 
 
 This starting, feverish heart, away : 
 
 I too have long'd for trenchant force 
 And will like a dividing spear ; 
 Have prais'd the keen, unscrupulous course. 
 Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear. 
 
 But in the world I learnt, what there 
 
 Thou too wilt surely one day prove. 
 
 That will, that energy, though rare, 
 
 Are yet far, far less rare than love. 40 
 
 Go then ! till Time and Fate impress 
 This truth on thee, be mine no more ! 
 They will : for thou, I feel, no less 
 Than I, wert destin'd to this lore. 
 
 We school our manners, act our parts : 
 But He, who sees us through and through, 
 Knows that the bent of both our hearts 
 Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. 
 
 And though we wear out life, alas, 
 
 Distracted as a homeless wind, 60 
 
 In beating where we must not pass, 
 
 In seeking what we shall not find ; 
 
A FAEEWELL 173 
 
 Yet we shall one day gain, life past, 
 Clear prospect o'er our being's whole ; 
 Shall see ourselves, and learn at last 
 Our true affinities of soul. 
 
 We shall not then deny a course 
 
 To every thought the mass ignore ; 
 
 We shall not then call hardness force. 
 
 Nor lightness wisdom any more. 60 
 
 Then, in the eternal Father's smile. 
 Our sooth'd, encourag'd souls will dare 
 To seem as free from pride and guile, 
 As good, as generous, as they are. 
 
 Then we shall know our friends : though much 
 Will have been lost — the help in strife ; 
 The thousand sweet still joys of such 
 As hand in hand face earthly life ;- — 
 
 Though these be lost, there will be yet 
 
 A sympathy august and pure ; 70 
 
 Ennobled by a vast regret, 
 
 And by contrition seal'd thrice sure. 
 
 And we, whose ways were unlike here. 
 May then more neighbouring courses ply ; 
 May to each other be brought near. 
 And greet across infinity. 
 
 How sweet, unreach'd by earthly jars. 
 
 My sister ! to behold with thee 
 
 Tlie hush among the shining stars. 
 
 The calm upon the moonlit sea. 80 
 
 How sweet to feel, on the boon air, 
 All our unquiet pulses cease ; 
 To feel that nothing can impair 
 The gentleness, the thirst for j)eace — 
 
 The gentleness too rudely hurl'd 
 On this wild earth of hate and fear : 
 The thirst for peace a raving world 
 Would never let us satiate here. 
 
174 
 OBEEMANN 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 In front the awful Alpine track 
 Crawls up its rocky stair ; 
 The autumn storm-winds drive the rack 
 Close o'er it, in the air. 
 
 Behind are the abandon'd baths 
 Mute in their meadows lone ; 
 The leaves are on the valley paths ; 
 The mists are on the Bhone — 
 
 The white mists rolling like a sea. 
 I hear the torrents roar. 10 
 
 — Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee ! 
 I feel thee near once more. 
 
 I turn thy leaves : I feel their breath 
 Once more upon me roll ; 
 That air of languor, cold, and death. 
 Which brooded o'er thy soul. 
 
 riy hence, poor Wretch, whoe'er thou art, 
 Condemn'd to cast about, 
 All shipwreck in thy own weak heart. 
 For comfort from without : 20 
 
 A fever in thesepages burns 
 
 y{pponth tVio pQlTn-ITi"py Inign ; 
 
 A wounded human spirit turns 
 Here, on its bed of pain. 
 
 Yes, though the virgin mountain air 
 Fresh through these pages blows, 
 Though to these leaves the glaciers spare 
 The soul of their white snows, 
 
 Obern:ann Tiile\ Stanzas in memory of the autlior of ' Ober- 
 mann 'IS52. 28 white] mute 7S52. 
 
OBEEMANN 175 
 
 Though here a mountain murmur swells 
 Of many a dark-bough'd pine, 30 
 
 Though, as you read, you hear the bells 
 Of the high-pasturing kine — ' 
 
 Yet; through the hum of torrent lone , 
 Arid" brooding mountain, bee, 
 There sobs I know.]ix9i..wlial^ftun(Jjboi^ 
 Ofhuman agony. 
 
 Is it for jd^,_bejeause_the_souiid 
 IsTraughfjtoo dee p with pa in, 
 
 ThalTTTBermanii nhe woTTd around 
 
 So littTe loves "ffiy"strainT~ 40 
 
 Some secrets may the poet tell, 
 For the world loves new ways. 
 To tell too deep ones is not well ; 
 It knows not what he says. 
 
 Yet of the spirits who have reign'd 
 In this our troubled day, 
 I know but two, who have attain'd. 
 Save thee, to see their way. 
 
 By England's lakes, in grey old age, 
 His quiet home one keeps ; ' £0 
 
 And one, the strong much-toiling Sage, 
 In German Weimar sleeps. 
 
 But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken f» 
 From hairof hum an fa te ;— ^jffa^<~"^''"' 
 AnirGfoilKi?s~coursefew sons of men 
 May ffifnk fo'ei^ 
 
 For he pursued a lonely road. 
 His eyes on Nature's plan ; 
 Neither made_nian too much a God, 
 Nor God too mucK~a manr" ~ 60 
 
 ' Written in November, 1849. 
 
176 OBEKMANN 
 
 Strong was he, wjUi j,_sjyrit_free_ 
 From mists, and saiie,^jiifiLclfiax ; 
 Cfearer, how much ! than ours : yet we 
 Have a worse coui-se to steer. 
 
 For though his manhood bore the blast 
 Of Europe's stormiest time, 
 Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd 
 . His tenderer youthful prime. 
 
 But we^^broiight fortJijjidxeM^djiLh^ 
 Of change, alarm, surprise — 70 
 
 "WTTaTsHelter to grow ripe is ours ? 
 What leisure to grow wise ? 
 
 Like children bathing on the shore. 
 Buried a wave beneath, 
 The second wave succeeds, before 
 We have had time to breathe. 
 
 Too fast we live, too mucharetried, 
 
 Too'"Eai-a"s?grto altain "^ 
 
 WordswoHFs]sweeFcaJmj_pr..Gpe , 
 
 Ana^IummousjdeKj.9_gain. - SO 
 
 And then we turn, thou sadder Sage ! 
 To thee : we feel thy spell. 
 The hopeless tangle of our age — 
 Thou too hast scann'd it well. 
 
 Immovable thou sittest ; still 
 As death ; compos'd to bear. 
 Th^ headjsdearjthy foehng^chill;— 
 And icy thy despair. 
 
 Yes, as the Son of Thetis said. 
 One hears thee saying now — 90 
 
 Greater ly far than thou are dead ; 
 Strive not : die also tJiou. — 
 
 66 Europe's stormiest] a tremendous 1852. 
 
OBEEMANN 177 
 
 Ah I IVo desires toss j,bout 
 The^poet's feverish bloo3. 
 One drives him to the world without, 
 Arid one to solitude. 
 
 Tlie glow, he cries, the thrill of life — 
 Where, where do tJiese abound ? — 
 Not in the world, not in the strife 
 Of men, shall they be found. 100 
 
 He who hath watch'd, not shar'd, the strife, 
 Knows how the day hath gone ; 
 He only lives with the world's life 
 Wh o hath renounc'd Jhis o wh! 
 
 To thee we come, then. Clouds are roll'd 
 Where thou, Seer, art set ; 
 Thy realm of thought is drear and cold — 
 The world is colder yet ! 
 
 And thou hast pleasures too to share 
 With those who come to thee : 110 
 
 Balms floating on thy mountain air, 
 And healing sights to see. 
 
 How often, where the slopes are green 
 On Jaman, hast thou sate 
 By some high chalet door, and seen 
 The summer day grow late, 
 
 And darkness steal o'er the wet grass 
 With the pale crocus starr'd, 
 And reach that glimmering sheet of glass 
 Beneath the piny sward, 120 
 
 Lake Leman's waters, far below : 
 And watch'd the rosy light 
 Fade from the distant peaks of snow : 
 And on the air of night 
 
 97 The glow of thought, the thrill of life— 1852. 
 
 ARKOLI. N 
 
178 OBEEMANN 
 
 Heard accents of the eternal tongue 
 Through the pine branches play : - 
 Listen'd, and felt thyself grow young ; 
 Listen'd, and wept Away ! 
 
 Away the dreams .that but.deceiyej 
 An3Thou, sad Guide^ adieu ! 130 
 
 I go ; Fate drives me: but I leay.e_ 
 HalFpf my life with you. 
 
 We, in somfi-unknown-Eowee^s-emplay , 
 M^ve on arigprougjine : 
 Can neither, jffihenjBeejjaUr.enj.oy^ 
 "RoTj when we willj_r^igni_ 
 
 IJn the world must live : — but thou, 
 Tfiou melancholy Shade ! 
 Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, 
 Condemn me, nor upbraid. UB 
 
 For thou art gone away from earth. 
 And place with those dost claim. 
 The Children of the Second Birth„ 
 Wliom the world could not tame :' 
 
 And with that small transfigur'd Band, 
 Whom many a different way 
 Conducted to their_co]maciL.Iaad, 
 Thou learn'st'^fo 'think as they. 
 
 Christian and pagan, king and slave. 
 Soldier and anchorite, 150 
 
 Distinctions we esteem so grave, 
 Are nothing in their sight. 
 
 They do not ask, who pin'd unseen, 
 Who was on action hurl'd. 
 Whose one bond is that all h ave bee n 
 Unspotted by the world. 
 
OBEEMANN 179 
 
 There without anger thou wilt see 
 Him who obeys thy spell 
 No more, so he but rest, like thee, 
 Unsoil'd : — and so, Farewell ! 160 
 
 Farewell ! — Whether thou now liest near 
 That much -lov'd inland sea, i'- 
 
 The ripples of whose blue" waves cheer 
 Vevey and Meillerie, 
 
 And in that gracious region bland, 
 Where with clear-rustling wave 
 The scented pines of Switzerland 
 Stand dark round thy green grave. 
 
 Between the dusty vineyard walls 
 Issuing on that green place 170 
 
 The early peasant still recalls 
 The pensive stranger's face, 
 
 And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date 
 Ere he plods on again; — 
 Or whether, by maligner Fate, 
 Among the swarms of men. 
 
 Where between granite terraces 
 The blue Seine rolls her wave, 
 The Capital of Pleasure sees 
 Thy hardly-heard-of grave — ISO 
 
 Farewell ! Under the sky we part. 
 In this stern Alpine dell. .. - 
 
 O unstrung will ! O broken heart ! 
 A last, a last farewell ! 
 
 178 blue Seine rolls] Seine conducts 1852, 
 
 n2 
 
180 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1853, '54. '57.] 
 
 Mist clogs the sunshine, 
 
 Smoky dwarf houses 
 
 Hem me round everywhere. 
 
 A vague dejection 
 Weighs down my soul. 
 
 Yet, while I languish, 
 Everywhere, countless 
 Prospects unroll themselves, 
 
 And countless beings 
 Pass countless moods. 10 
 
 Far hence, in Asia, 
 
 On the smooth convent-roofs. 
 
 On the gold terraces 
 
 Of holy Lassa, 
 Bright shines the sun. 
 
 Grey time-worn marbles 
 Hold the pure Muses. 
 In their cool gallery, 
 
 By yellow Tiber, 
 They still look fair. 2C 
 
 Strange unlov'd uproar ' 
 Shrills round their portal. 
 Yet not on Helicon 
 
 Kept they more cloudless 
 Their noble calm. 
 
 Written during the siege of Rome by the French [1849]. 
 
 Consolation] In 1S53 and ISoi the following lines are printed as 
 a motto to the poem : — 
 
 The wide earth is still 
 Wider than one man's passion : there's no mood, 
 No meditation, no delight, no sorrow, 
 Cas'd in one man's dimensions, can distil 
 Such pregnant and infectious quality. 
 Six yards round shall not ring it. — 
 
CONSOLATION 181 
 
 Through sun-proof alleys 
 In a lone, sand-hemm'd 
 City of Africa, 
 
 A blind, led beggar, 
 Age-bow'd, asks alms. 30 
 
 No bolder Eobber 
 Erst abode ambush'd 
 Deep in the sandy waste : 
 
 No clearer eyesight 
 Spied prey afar. 
 
 Saharan sand-winds 
 Sear'd his keen eyeballs. 
 Spent is the spoil he won. 
 
 For him the present 
 Holds only pain. 40 
 
 Two young, fair lovers. 
 Where the warm June wind, 
 Fresh from the summer fields, 
 
 Plays fondly round thena, 
 Stand, tranc'd in joy. 
 
 With sweet, join'd voices, 
 And with eyes brimming — 
 ' Ah,' they cry, ' Destiny ! 
 
 Prolong the present ! 
 Time ! stand still here ! ' 60 
 
 The prompt stern Goddess 
 Shakes her head, frowning. 
 Time gives his hour-glass 
 
 Its due reversal. 
 Their hour is gone. 
 
 With weak indulgence 
 Did the just Goddess 
 Lengthen their happiness, 
 
 She lengthen'd also 
 Distress elsewhere. 30 
 
182 CONSOLATION 
 
 The hour, whose happy 
 Unalloy'd moments 
 I would eternalize, 
 
 Ten thousand mourners 
 Well pleas'd see end. 
 
 The bleak stern hour, 
 Whose severe moments 
 I would annihilate, 
 
 Is pass'd by others 
 In warmth, light, joy. 70 
 
 Time, so complain'd of. 
 Who to no one man 
 Shows partiality, 
 
 Brings round to all men 
 Some undimm'd hours. 
 
 LINES WKITTEN 
 IN KENSINGTON GAEDENS 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1867.] 
 
 In this lone open glade I lie, 
 
 Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand ; 
 
 And at its head, to stay the eye. 
 
 Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand. 
 
 Birds here make song, each bird has his. 
 Across the girdling city's hum. 
 How green under the boughs it is ! 
 How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come ! 
 
 Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
 
 To take his nurse his broken toy ; 10 
 
 Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 
 
 Deep in her unknown day's employ. 
 
 2 deep boughs] dark trees 1852. i blaek-crowii'd] black- 
 
 topp'd 18IJ2. Between. 4 and 5 1SB2 reads : — 
 
 The clouded sky is still iiud grey, 
 Through silken rifts soft peers the sun. 
 Light tho gi-een-foliag'd chestnuts play, 
 The darker elms stand grave and dun. 
 6 Th3 birds sing sweetly in these trees 1S52. 
 
KENSINGTON GAEDENS 183 
 
 Here at my feet what wonders pass, 
 What endless, active life is here ! 
 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! 
 An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. 
 
 Scarce fresher is the mountain sod 
 
 Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, 
 
 And, eased of basket and of rod, 
 
 Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout, 20 
 
 In the huge world which roars hard by 
 
 Be others happy, if they can ! 
 
 But in my helpless cradle I 
 
 Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 
 
 I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 
 Think often, as I hear them rave, 
 That peace has left the upper world. 
 And now keeps only in the grave. 
 
 Yet here is peace for ever new ! 
 
 When I, who watch them, am away, 30 
 
 Still all things in this glade go through 
 
 The changes of their quiet day. 
 
 Then to their happy rest they pass ; 
 The flowers close, the birds are fed, 
 The night comes down upon the grass. 
 The child sleeps warmly in his bed. 
 
 Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
 
 To feel, amid the city's jar. 
 
 That there abides a peace of thine, 
 
 Man did not naake, and cannot mar ! 40 
 
 The will to neither strive nor cry. 
 The power to feel with others give ! 
 CalmjjEalm.me more Ijaor let me_dje 
 Before I have_begmi_to_live. 
 
 21-24, first inserted in 1867. 26 often] sometimes JSS2. 
 
184 
 THE WOELD'S TEIUMPHS 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted in 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 So far as I conceive the World's rebuke 
 To him address'd who would recast her new, 
 Not from herself her fame of strength she took, 
 But from their weakness, who would work her rue. 
 
 'Behold,' she cries, ' so many rages luU'd, 
 So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down : 
 Look how so many valours, long unduU'd, 
 After short commerce with me, fear my frown. 
 Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry, 
 Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue.' — 10 
 
 The World speaks well : yet might her foe reply — 
 
 ' Are wills so weak ? then let not mine wait long. 
 Hast thou so rare a poison? let me be 
 Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me.' 
 
 THE SECOND BEST 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1867.] 
 
 Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, 
 Quiet living, strict-kept measure 
 Both in suffering and in pleasure — 
 'Tis for this thy nature yearns. 
 
 But so many books thou readest, 
 But so many schemes thou breedest, 
 But so many wishes feedest. 
 
 That thy poor head almost turns. 
 
 And (the world 's so madly jangled. 
 Human things so fast entangled) 10 
 
 Nature's wish must now be strangled 
 For that best which she discerns. 
 
 TheWorld's Triumphs ri«e] Sonnet 7S52. Sonnets. VIII. The 
 World's Triumphs iS5.3. Sonnets. YII. The World's Triumphs 
 1854, 1857. 
 
THE SECOND BEST 185 
 
 So it must be ! yet, while leading 
 A strain'd life, while overfeeding, 
 Like the rest, his wit with reading, 
 No small profit that man earns. 
 
 Who through all he meets can steer him. 
 Can reject what cannot clear him, 
 Cling to what can truly cheer him ! 
 
 Who each day more surely learns 20 
 
 That an impulse, from the distance 
 Of his deepest, best existence. 
 To the words 'Hope, Light, Persistence,' 
 Strongly stirs and truly burns ! 
 
 EEVOLUTIONS 
 
 [First published 1852. Keprinted 1855.] 
 
 Before Man parted for this earthly strand, 
 While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, 
 God put a heap of letters in his hand, 
 And bade him make with them what word he could. 
 
 And Man has tum'd them many times : made Greece, 
 Rome, England, Prance : — yes, nor in vain essay'd 
 Way after way, changes that never cease. 
 The letters have combin'd : something was made. 
 
 But ah, an inextinguishable sense 
 Haunts him that he has not made what he should. 10 
 That he has still, though old, to recommence, 
 Since he has not yet found the word God would. 
 
 And Empire after Empire, at their height 
 Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on. 
 Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, 
 And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne. 
 
 One day, thou say'st, there will at last appear 
 The word, the order, which God meant should be. — 
 Ah, we shall know that well when it comes near : 19 
 The band will quit Man's heart ; — he yyiW bvep,the free. 
 
186 
 
 . THE YOUTH OF NATUEE 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1855.] 
 
 Rais'd are the dripping oars — 
 Silent the boat : the lake, 
 Lovely and soft as a dream, 
 Swims in the sheen of the moon. 
 The mountains stand at its head 
 Clear in the pure June night, 
 But the valleys are flooded vs^ith haze. 
 Eydal and Fairfield are there ; 
 In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. 
 So it is, so it will be for aye. 10 
 
 Naturejs fresh as of old, 
 IsIbveTy : a mortal is dead. 
 
 The spots which recall him sui-vive, 
 For he lent a new life to these hills. 
 The Pillar still broods o'er the fields 
 Which border Ennerdale Lake, 
 And Egremont sleeps by the sea. 
 The gleam of The Evening Star 
 Twinkles on Grasmere no more, 
 But ruin'd and solemn and grey 20 
 
 The sheepfold of Michael survives, 
 And far to the south, the heath 
 Still blows in the Quantock coombs. 
 
 By the favourite waters of Euth. 
 These survive : yet not without pain, 
 Pain and dejection to-night, 
 Can I feel that their Poet is gone. 
 
 He grew old in an age he condemn'd. 
 He look'd on the rushing decay 
 Of the times which had shelter'd his youth. 30 
 Pelt the dissolving throes 
 Of a social order he lov'd. 
 Outliv'd his brethren, his peers. 
 And, like the Theban seer. 
 
 Died in his enemies' day, 
 
 16 Which] That 1852. 
 
THE YOUTH OF NATUKE 187 
 
 Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, 
 Copais lay bright in the moon ; 
 Helicon glass'd in the lake 
 Its firs, and afar, rose the peaks 
 Of Parnassus, snowily clear : 40 
 
 Thebes was behind him in flames, 
 And the clang of arms in his ear. 
 When his awe-struck captors led 
 The Theban seer to the spring. 
 
 Tiresias drank and died. | 
 Nor did reviving Thebes / 
 
 See such a prophet again. J 
 
 Well may we mourn, when the head 
 Of a sacred poet lies low 
 
 In an age which can rear them no more. /^ 50 
 The complaming^nulTions of men 
 Darken in labour and pain ; 
 But he was a priest to us all 
 Of the wonder and bloom of the world, 
 Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad. 
 
 He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day 
 Of his race is past on the earth ; 
 And darkness returns to our eyes. 
 
 For oh, is it you, is it you. 
 Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, 60 
 
 And mountains, that fill us with joy. 
 Or the Poet who sings you so well ? 
 Is it you, O Beauty, Grace, 
 O Charm, O Eomance, that we feel. 
 Or the voice which reveals what you are ? 
 Are ye, like daylight and sun, 
 Shar'd and rejoic'd in by all ? 
 Or are ye immers'd in the mass ""^ 
 Of matter, and hard to extract, I 
 Or sunk at the core of the world ] 70 
 
 Too deep for the most to discern '?-.; 
 
 Like stars in the deep of the sky, 
 Which arise on the glass of the sage, 
 But are lost when their watcher is gone. 
 
188 THE YOUTH OF NATUEE 
 
 They are here ' — I heard, as men heard 
 In Mysian Ida the voice 
 Of the Mighty Mother, or Crete, 
 The murmur of Nature reply — 
 ' Loveliness, Magic, and Grace, 
 They are here — they are set in the world — 
 They abide — and tlie finest of souls 
 Has not been thrill'd by them all, 
 Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. 
 The poet who sings them may die. 
 But they are immortal, and live. 
 For they are the life of the world. 
 Will ye not learn it, and know, 
 Wher^ ye mourn that a poet is dead, 
 Thay the singer was less than his tliemes»i 
 
 Lrfe, and Emotion, ancyT'?. 
 
 Ijc."\^-^ 
 
 90 
 
 ' More than the singer are these. 
 Weak is the tremor of pain 
 That thrills in his mournfuUest chord 
 To that which once ran through his soul. 
 Cold the elation of joy 
 In his gladdest, airiest song. 
 To that which of old in his youth 
 Fill'd him and made hini divine. 
 Hardly his voice at its best 
 
 Gives us a sense of the awe, 100 
 
 The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom 
 Of the unlit gulph of himself. 
 
 ' Ye know not yourselves — and your bards, 
 The clearest, the best, who have read 
 Most in themselves, have beheld 
 Less than they left unreve^l'd. 
 Ye express not yourselves — can j-e make 
 With marble, with colour, with Avord, 
 What charm 'd you in others re-live ? 
 Can thy pencil, O Artist, restore 110 
 
 The figure, the bloom of thy love, 
 As she was in her morning of spring ? 
 Canst thou paint the ineffable smile 
 Of her eyes as they rested on thine ? 
 
THE YOUTH OF NATUEE 189 
 
 Can the image of life have the glow^ 
 nre'motronorii fe itself? 
 
 'Yourselves and your fellows ye know not— and me 
 The Mateless, the One, will ye know ? 
 Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell 
 Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, 120 
 
 My longing, my sadness, my joy ? 
 Will ye claim for your great ones the gift 
 To have render'd the gleam of my skies, 
 To have echoed the moan of my seas, 
 Utter'd the voice of my hills ? 
 When your great ones depart, will ye say — 
 All things have suffer'd a loss — 
 Nature is hid in their grave ? 
 
 'Race after race, man after man, 
 Have dream'd that my secret was theirs, 130 
 
 Have thought that I liv'd but for them. 
 That they were my glory and joy. — 
 'Diey are dust, _they..,are chaug'.d,JJifiy.Me.gongi;— 
 Tremam..' 
 
 THE YOUTH OF MAN 
 
 [First published 1852. Two fragments 1853. Reprinted in its 
 complete form, as below, 1855.] 
 
 We, Nature, depart : 
 Thou survivest us : this, 
 This, I know, is the law. 
 Yes, but more than this. 
 Thou who seest us die 
 Seest us change while we live ; 
 Seest our dreams one by one, 
 Seest our errors depart : 
 
 Watchest us, Nature, throughout, 
 Mild and inscrutably calm. 10 
 
 Well for us that we change ! ' 
 Well for us that the Power 
 Which in our morning prime 
 Saw the mistakes of our youth. 
 Sweet, and forgiving, and good, 
 Sees the contrition of age ! 
 
190 THE YOUTH OF MAN 
 
 Behold, Nature, this pair ! 
 
 See them to-night where they stand, 
 
 Not with the halo of youth 
 
 Crowning their brows with its light, 20 
 
 Not with the sunshine of hope, 
 
 Not with the rapture of spring, 
 
 Which they had of old, when they stood 
 
 Years ago at my side 
 
 In this self-same garden, and said ; — 
 
 ' We are young, and the world is ours. 
 
 Tor man is the king of the world. 
 
 Fools that these mystics are 
 
 Who prate of Nature ! but she 
 
 Has neither beauty, nor warmth, 30 
 
 Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. 
 
 But Man has a thousand gifts, 
 
 And the generous dreamer invests 
 ^, The senseless world with them all. 
 
 ■ Nature is nothing ! her charm 
 
 Lives in our eyes which can paint, 
 Jjives in our hearts which can feel ! ' 
 
 Thou, O Nature, wert mute. 
 Mute as of old : days flew. 
 
 Days and years ; and Time 40 
 
 With the ceaseless stroke of his wings 
 Brush'd off the bloom from their soul. 
 Clouded and dim grew their eye ; 
 Languid their heart ; for Youth 
 Quicken'd its pulses no more. 
 Slowly within the walls 
 Of an ever-narrowing world 
 They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old. 
 Thee and their Youth in thee. 
 Nature, they saw no more. 50 
 
 Murmur of living ! 
 Stir of existence ! 
 Soul of the world ! 
 Make, oh make yourselves felt 
 To the dying spirit of Youth. 
 
 51-60 were printed as u, separata poem in 1853 under the title 
 Bichmond Hill. 
 
THE YOUTH OP MAN 191 
 
 Come, like the breath of the spring. 
 
 Leave not a human soul 
 
 To grow old in darkness and pain. 
 
 Only the living can feel you : 
 But-lear\'e us not while'we live. 60 
 
 Here they stand to-night — 
 Here, where this grey balustrade 
 Crowns the still valley : behind 
 Is the castled house with its woods 
 Which shelter'd their childhood, the sun 
 On its ivied windows : a scent 
 From the grey-wall'd gardens, a breath 
 Of the fragrant stock and the pink, 
 Perfumes the evening air. 
 
 Their children play on the lawns. 70 
 
 They stand and listen : they hear 
 The children's shouts, and, at times. 
 Faintly, the bark of a dog 
 From a distant farm in the hills : — 
 Nothing besides : in front 
 The wide, wide valley outspreads 
 To the dim horizon, repos'd 
 In the twilight, and bath'd in dew, 
 
 Corn-field and hamlet and copse 
 Darkening fast ; but a light, so 
 
 Far off, a glory of day. 
 Still plays on the city spires : 
 And there in the dusk by the walls. 
 With the grey mist marjsing its course 
 Through the silent flowery land. 
 
 On, to the plains, to the sea^ 
 Floats the Imperial Streajoj. 
 
 Well I know what they feel. 
 They gaze, and the evening wind 
 Plays on their faces : they gaze ; 90 
 
 Airs from the Eden of Youth 
 Awake and stir in their soul : 
 The Past returns ; they feel 
 What they are, alas ! what they were. 
 They, not Nature, are chang'd.-^ 
 Weill know what they feel. .P^' 
 
192 THE YOUTH OF MAN 
 
 Hush ! for tears 
 Begin to steal to their eyos. 
 Hush ! for fruit 
 Grows from such sorrow as theirs. 100 
 
 And they remember 
 With piercing untold anguish 
 The proud boasting of their youth. 
 
 And they feel how Nature was fair. 
 And the mists of delusion, 
 And the scales of habit, 
 Fall away from their eyes. 
 And they see, for a moment. 
 Stretching out, like the Desert 
 In its weary, unprofitable length, 110 
 
 Their faded, ignoble lives. 
 
 While the locks are yet brown on thy head, 
 While the soul still looks through thine eyes. 
 While the heart still pours 
 The mantling blood to thy cheek, 
 
 Sink, O Youth, in thy soul ! 
 Yearn to the greatness of Nature ! 
 Eally the good in the depths of thyself ! 
 
 MORALITY 
 
 [First published 1852. Reprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 We cannot kindle when we will 
 The fire that in the heart resides, 
 The spirit bloweth and is still, 
 In mystery our soul abides : 
 
 But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
 Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. 
 
 With aching hands and bleeding feet 
 
 We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 
 
 We bear the burden and the heat 
 
 Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 10 
 
 Not till the hours of light return 
 All we have built do we discern. 
 
 112-118 were printed as u, separate poem in 1853 under ike title 
 Power of Youtii. 
 
MOEALITY 193 
 
 Then, when the clouds are off the soul, 
 When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, 
 Ask, how site view'd thy self-contr ol, 
 Thys truggling t ask'd morality. 
 
 Kaiure, whose free, light, cheerful air, 
 Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. 
 
 And she, whose censure thou dost dread. 
 Whose eye thou wert afraid to seek, 20 
 
 See, on her face a glow is spread, 
 A strong emotion on her cheek. 
 
 'Ah child,' she cries, 'that strife divine — 
 Whence was it, for it is not mine ? 
 
 ' There is no effort on my brow — ■ 
 I do not strive, I do not weep. 
 I rush with the swift spheres, and glow 
 In joy, and, when I will, I sleep. — 
 Yet that severe, that earnest air, 
 I saw, I felt it once — but where ? 30 
 
 ' I knew not yet the gauge of Time, 
 Nor wore the manacles of Space. 
 I felt it in some other clime — 
 I saw it in some other place. 
 
 ■ — 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod. 
 And lay upon the breast of God.'_ 
 
 PEOGEESS 
 [First published 1852. Eeprinted 1867.] 
 
 The Master stood upon the mount, and taught. 
 
 He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes ; 
 
 'The old law,' they said, 'is wholly come to naught! 
 
 Behold the new world rise ! ' 
 'Was it,' the Lord then said, ' with scorn ye saw 
 The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees ? 
 I say unto you, see ye keep that law 
 
 More faithfully than these ! 
 ' Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! 
 Think not that I to annul the law have will'd ; 10 
 
 No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass. 
 
 Till all hath been fulfill'd.' 
 
 12 hath been] shall be 1852. 
 
 ARNOLD Q 
 
194 PEOGEESS 
 
 So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. 
 And what then shall be said to those to-day 
 Who cry aloud to lay the old world low 
 To clear the new world's way ? 
 
 ' Eeligious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! 
 
 Hence, hence,' they cry, ' ye do but keep man blind ! 
 
 But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied, 
 
 And lame the active mind.' 20 
 
 Ah ! from the old world let some one answer give : 
 ' Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares ? 
 I say unto you, see that your souls live 
 A deeper life than theirs. 
 
 ' Say ye : The spirit of man has found new roads. 
 And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein? — 
 Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods. 
 But guard the fire within ! 
 
 ' Bright, else, and fast the stream of life may roll. 
 And no man may the other's hurt behold ; 30 
 
 Yet each will have one anguish — his own soul 
 Which perishes of cold.' 
 
 Here let that voice make end ! then let a strain 
 From a far lonelier distance, like the wind 
 Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again 
 These men's profoundest mind : 
 
 ' Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye 
 For ever doth accompany mankind, 
 Hath look'd on no religion scornfully 
 
 That man did ever find. 40 
 
 27, 28 Quench then the altar fires of your old Gods ! 
 
 Quench not the fire within ! 1S52. 
 88-40 Ever accompanies the march of man, 
 
 Hath without pain seen no religion die. 
 Since first the world began. 1852. 
 Between 40 and 41 1853 reads : — 
 
 That man must still to some new worship press 
 Hath in his eye ever but serv'd to show 
 The depth of that consuming restlessness 
 Whicli makes man's greatest woe. 
 
PEOGEESS 195 
 
 ' Which has not taught weak wills how much they can, 
 Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain, 
 Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : 
 Thou must te born again ! 
 
 ' Children of men ! not that your age excel 45 
 
 In pride of life the ages of your sires. 
 But that you think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well. 
 The Friend of man desires.' 
 
 THE FUTUEE - 
 
 [First published 1852. Eeprinted 1853, '54, '57.] 
 
 A WANDEREB is m aT^frn^Jii'g hi"rt|l, 
 
 He. was hnrn in a stii'p 
 On the breast of the River of T'lie-^ 
 Bi'imming with wonder and joy 
 He spreads out his arms to the light, 
 Eivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 
 
 , As jEhat-he.sees is, so have his thoughts been. ; 
 Whether he wakes 
 Where the snowy mountainous pass 
 Echoing the screams of the eagles 10 
 
 Hems in its gorges the bed 
 
 Of the new-born clear-flowing stream : 
 Whether he first sees light 
 Where the river in gleaming rings 
 
 Sluggishly winds through the plain : 
 Whether in sound of the swallowing sea : — 
 
 As is the world on the banks 
 So is the mind of the man. 
 
 47 you thinlc clear, feel deep] you too feel deeply 1852. 
 
 The Future] In 1853 and 1854 the following lines were printed as a 
 motto to the poem : — 
 
 For Nature hath long kept this inn, the Earth, 
 And many a guest hath she therein received— 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE FUTUEE 
 
 Vainly does each as he glides 
 Fable and dream 20 
 
 Of the lands which the Siver of Time 
 Had left ere he woke on its breast, 
 Or shall reach when his eyes have been clos'd. 
 Only tbjfijvrflp.t yrhere ha sails 
 IIe-Hats.of_L._QnlY_the_th oughts, 
 Eais'd by the objects he pas ses, are his. 
 
 Who can see the green Earth any more 
 As she was by the sources^of Tiijie ? 
 Who imagines Ker fields as they lay 
 In the sunshine, unworn by the plough ? 30 
 
 Who thinks as they thought, 
 The tribes who then roam'd on her breast. 
 
 Her vigorous primitive sons ? 
 
 What girl 
 
 Now reads in her bosom as clear 
 
 As Eebekah read, when she sate 
 
 At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 
 
 Who guards in her breast 
 
 As deep, as pellucid a spring 
 
 Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 40 
 
 What Bard, 
 
 At the height of his vision, can deem 
 
 Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
 
 With a plainness as near. 
 
 As ilashing as Moses felt. 
 
 When he lay in the night by his flock 
 
 On the starlit Arabian waste ? 
 
 Can rise and obey 
 
 The beck of the Spirit like him ? 
 
 This tract which the Eiver of Time 50 
 
 Now flows through with us, is the Plain. 
 Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 
 Border'd by cities and hoarse 
 With a thousand cries is its stream. 
 And we on its breast, our minds 
 Are confus'd as the cries which we hear. 
 
 Changing and shot as the sights which we see. 
 32 roam'd] liv'd 1S5S, 185S, 18B4. 
 
THE FUTUEE 197 
 
 And we say that repose has fled 
 For ever the course of the Eiver of Time. 
 That cities will crowd to its edge 60 
 
 In a blacker incessanter line ; 
 That the din will be more on its banks, 
 Denser the trade on its stream, 
 Flatter the plain where it flows, 
 
 Fiercer the sun overhead. 
 That never will those on its breast 
 See an ennobling sight, 
 Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 
 
 But what was before us we know not, 
 And we know not what shall succeed. 70 
 
 Haply,_ the Kiver of Time, 
 As it grows, as the towns on its marge 
 Fling their wavering lights 
 On a wider statelier stream — 
 May acquire, if not the calm 
 Of its early mountainous shore, 
 
 Yet a solemn peace of its own. 
 
 And the width of the/waters, the hush 
 Of the grey expanse where he floats, 
 Freshening its currentand spotted with foam 83 
 As it draws to the(C>c^nJraay strike 
 Peace to the soul oftKetman on its breast : 
 
 As the pale Waste widens around him — 
 As the banks fade dimmer away — 
 As the stars come out, and the night-wind 
 Brings up the stream ' 
 
 Murmurs and scents of <the infinite Sea,, 
 
POEMS; A NEW EDITION, 1853 
 SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 AN EPISODE 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 And the first gi'ey of morning fiU'd the east, 
 
 And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
 
 ]5ut all the Tartar camp along the stream 
 
 Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep : 
 
 Sohrab alonej_he slept not : all night long 
 
 He had lain wakefuIT^ssing on his bed ; 
 
 But when the grey dawn stole into his tent. 
 
 He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 
 
 And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, 
 
 And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 10 
 
 Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 
 
 Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood 
 Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
 Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow 
 When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere : 
 Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand, 
 And to a hillock came, a little back 
 From the stream's brink, the spot where first a boat. 
 Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
 The men of former times had crown'd the top 20 
 
 With a clay fort : but that was fall'n ; and now 
 The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
 A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. 
 And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
 Upon the thick-pil'd carpets in the tent, 
 And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
 Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 
 And Peran-Wisa heard him, though thie step 
 Was duU'd ; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; 
 And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — 30 
 
 ' Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
 Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? ' 
 
SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 199 
 
 But Solirab came to the bedside, and said : — 
 ' Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa : it is I. 
 The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
 Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie 
 Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
 For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
 Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
 In Samarcand, before the army march'd ; 40 
 
 And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
 Thou knqw^st if, since from Ader-baijan first 
 I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, 
 I have still serv'd Afrasiab well, and shown. 
 At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
 This too thou know'st, that, while I still bear on 
 The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world. 
 And beat the Persians back on every field, 
 I seek one man , one man, and one alone — 
 Eustum, my fatheF7~wEo7l hop'd, should greet, 50 
 Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field. 
 His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
 So I long hop'd, but him I never find. 
 Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
 Let the two armies rest to-day : but I 
 
 "WiUclmllenge forth JheJgayMtJEMS&n^^ 
 
 To meef me, man to man : if Xpievidl, 
 
 llustum will surely hear it ; if I fall-— 
 
 Old rnan, the dead need no one,daim mjjtin. 
 
 Dim IS the rumour of a common fight, 60 
 
 Where host meets host, and many names are sunk : 
 
 But of a single combat Fame speaks clear.' 
 
 He spoke : and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
 Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said : — 
 
 ' Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
 Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs. 
 And share the battle's common chance with us 
 Who love thee, but must press for ever first. 
 In single fight incurring single risk. 
 To find a father thou hast never seen ? 70 
 
 That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
 Unmurmuring ; in our tents, while it is war, 
 
 42 know'st] knowest 1853, 1854. II-IZ first inserted in 185i. 
 
200 SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 
 
 But, if this one desire indeed rules all. 
 
 To seek out Eustum — seek him_nojt,thio,ugh-fight-; 
 
 Seek him in peace, and^carry to his arms, 
 
 Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
 
 But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
 
 For now it is not as when I was young. 
 
 When Eustum was in front of every fray : 80 
 
 But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 
 
 In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 
 
 Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
 
 Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age ; 
 
 Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
 
 There go : — Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes 
 
 Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
 
 Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 
 
 To us : fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 
 
 To seek thy father, not seek single fights 90 
 
 In vain : — but who can keep the lion's cub 
 
 From ravening ? and who govern Eustum's son ? 
 
 Go : I will grant thee what thy heart desires.' 
 
 So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and left 
 His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay, 
 And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
 He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, 
 And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
 In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; 
 And on his head he plac'd his sheep-skin cap, 100 
 
 Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
 And rais'd the curtain of his tent, and call'd 
 His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
 
 The sun, by this, hadrisen^^ and clear'd the fog 
 From the broad OxusancTnie glittering sands : 
 And from their tents the Tartar horsemen fil'd 
 Into the open plain ; so Haman bade ; 
 Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa rul'd 
 The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
 From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd : 
 As when, some grey November morn, the files, ill 
 
 • In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes 
 
 74 But, if this one desire indeed] Or, if indeed this one desire iS53. 
 
SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 201 
 
 Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes 
 
 Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 
 
 Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound 
 
 For the warm Persian sea-board : so they stream'd 
 
 The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard. 
 
 First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; 
 
 Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara come 
 
 And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 120 
 
 Next the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south. 
 
 The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 
 
 And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; 
 
 Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink 
 
 The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
 
 And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 
 
 From far, and a more doubtful service own'd ; 
 
 The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
 
 Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
 
 And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes 130 
 
 Who roam o'er Kipohak and the northern waste, 
 
 Kalmuks and unkemp'd Kuzzaks, tribes who stray 
 
 Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
 
 Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere. 
 
 These allfil'd out from camp into the plain. 
 
 And on the other side the Persians form'd : 
 
 First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd, 
 
 The Ilyats of Khorassan : and behind. 
 
 The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
 
 Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 140 
 
 But Peran-Wisa with his herald came 
 
 Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front. 
 
 And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 
 
 And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
 
 That PeraCiffiisa.kept the Tartars back. 
 
 He tookhis spear, and to the front he came. 
 
 And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them where they stood. 
 
 And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
 
 Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — 
 
 ' Ferood, and ye, Persians and 'Tartars, hear ! loO 
 Let there be tru £e-betMiaen.ihg..hQatB-to-daY-. 
 But choose a c hanicigrLirom the .P_ej:sian^ord s 
 To_fight,nu,r r.ha.mpion-SehTafo, man to-manr 
 
 As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
 
202 SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
 A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
 So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
 A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
 Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they lov'd. 
 
 But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 160 
 
 Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
 That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow ; 
 Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass 
 Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, 
 Chok'd by the air, and scarce can they themselves 
 Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries—^ 
 In single file they move, and stop their breath. 
 For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snows — 
 So the pale Persians held their breath with f^jg^r. _ 
 ~~ And to ferooJTus brother Chiefs came up 170 
 
 To counsel : Gudurz and Zoarrah came. 
 And Feraburz, who rul'd the Persian host 
 Second, and was the uncle of the King : 
 These came and counsell'd ; and then Gudurz said : — 
 
 ' Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up. 
 Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 
 "He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
 But Eustum came last night ; aloof he sits 
 And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart : 
 Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 180 
 
 The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. 
 Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
 Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.' 
 
 So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and said : — 
 ' Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. 
 Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strode 
 Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
 But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
 And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach'd, 
 Out on the sands beyond it, Eustum's tents. 191 
 
 Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay. 
 Just pitch'd : the high pavilion in the midst 
 Was Eustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. 
 And Gudurz enter'd Eustum's tent, and found 
 Eustum : his morning meal was done, but still 
 
SOHKAB AND EUSTUM 203 
 
 The table stood beside hiiu, charg'd with food ; 
 A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, 
 And dark green melons ; and there Eustum sate 
 Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 200 
 
 And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came and stood 
 Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him stand ; 
 And with a cry sprang up, and dropp'd the bird, 
 And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said : — 
 
 ' Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 
 What news ? but sit down first, and eat and drink.' 
 
 But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and said : — 
 ' Not now : a time will come to eat and drink, 
 But not to-day : to-day has other needs. 
 The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze : 210 
 
 For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
 To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
 To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name — 
 Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
 O Eustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
 And he is young, and Iran's Chiefs are old. 
 Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
 Come down and help us, Eustum, or we lose.' 
 
 He spoke : but Eustum answer'd with a smile :— 
 ' Go to ! if Iran's Chiefs are old, then I 221 
 
 Am older : if the young are weak, the King 
 Errs strangely : for the King, for Kai-Khosroo, 
 Himself is young, and honours younger men. 
 And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
 Eustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
 The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
 For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame ? 
 For would that I myself had such a son. 
 And not that one slight helpless girl I have, 230 
 
 A son so fam'd, so brave, to send to war. 
 And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
 My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, 
 And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
 And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
 There would I go, and hang my armour up. 
 And with my great name fence that weak old man, 
 And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
 
204 SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, 
 And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, 240 
 And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no 
 more.' 
 
 He spoke, and smil'd ; and Gudurz made reply : — 
 ' What then, O Eustum, will men say to this, 
 When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
 Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 
 Hidest thy face ? Take heed, lest men should say. 
 Like some old miser, Bustum Jwards his fame, 
 And shims to peril it with younger men.' 
 
 And, greatly mov'd, then Eustum made reply : — 
 ' O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words ? 
 Thou knowest better words than this to say. 251 
 
 What is one more, one less, obscure or fam'd, 
 Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 
 Are not they mortal, am not I myself? 
 But who for men of naught would do great deeds ? 
 Come, thou shalt see how Eustum hoards his fame. 
 But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms ; 
 Let not men say of Kustum, he was match'd 
 In single fight with^ny^iortal marn:' ' 
 
 "He spokeTaiiSr frown'd'; aiid'Gudurz turn'd, and ran 
 Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy, 261 
 Fear at his wrath, but joy that Eustum came. 
 But Eustum strode to his tent door, and call'd 
 His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
 And clad himself in steel : the arms he chose 
 Were plain, and on his shield was no device. 
 Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
 And from the fluted spine atop a plume 
 Of horsehair wav'd, a scarlet horsehair plume. 
 So arm'd he issued forth ; and Euksh, his horse, 270 
 FoUow'd him, like a faithful hound, at heel, 
 Euksh, whose renown was nois'd through all the earth, 
 The horse, whom Eustum on a foray once 
 Did in Bokhara by the river find 
 A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home. 
 And rear'd him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest ; 
 Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green 
 Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd 
 All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know : 
 
SOHRAB AND EUSTUM 205 
 
 So follow'd, Eustum left his tents, and cross'd 280 
 
 The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. 
 
 And all the Persians knew him, and wi th shouts. 
 
 HaJjWj_butJ]i£.Ta£taTS_kB£35LiiQt_wJ^ 
 
 And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
 
 Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
 
 By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
 
 Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night. 
 
 Having made up his tale of precious pearls, 
 
 Eejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
 
 So dear to the pale Persians Eustum came. 290 
 
 And Eustum to the Persian front advanc'd, 
 And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. 
 And as afield the reapers cut a swathe 
 Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, 
 And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
 And in the midst a stubble, short and bare ; 
 So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
 Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
 And Eus tum came upon the_§and»_and cast 
 ffis^jesjW'aris_the_TaTtar_tents, and saw 300 
 
 Sohraij come forth, and ey^hjinjs_hg„came.. 
 
 As some rich woman^' on a winter's morn. 
 Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
 Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire — • 
 At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn. 
 When the frost flowers the whiten'd window panes — 
 And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 
 Of that poor drudge may be ; so_^ustum ey'd 
 The unknown adventurous. Youth, who from afar 
 Carne^seekiag, B-WStjimt. and, defying, forth 310 
 
 AU_thg_most valiant chiefs : long he perus'd 
 His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. 
 For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd ; 
 Like some young cyi^ress, tall, and dark, and straight. 
 Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
 Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 
 By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
 Sg_slenderSohrab seem'd, so softly_reartl. 
 And a_deep_pi|y^ enter'3' Eustum^s^soul 
 As he beheld him coming ; and he s^obd, 320 
 
 And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said : — 
 
206 SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 ' thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, 
 And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold. 
 Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
 Behold me : I am vast, and clad in iron. 
 And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
 Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe : 
 Never was that field lost, or that foe sav'd. 
 0_Sohrah:^Kh£Jcefpi"e_wilt_ttK)ji_ru^^ 
 Be govern'd : qu i t the Tartar host^jiid come 330 
 
 ToTraiLTanHnBeaF^ 
 ■ And tighFBeneaflfi my banner till I die. 
 There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.' 
 
 So he spake, mildly : gohrab heard his voice, 
 The mighty voice of Eustum ; and he saw 
 His giant figure planted on the sand, 
 Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
 Has builded on the waste in former years 
 Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, 
 Streak'd with its first grey hairs : ho]3e^,fiil^^.his soul ; 
 And he ran forwards and embrac'dhS^ knees, 341 
 
 And clasp'd his hand within his own and said ittt 
 
 "'Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! 
 Art thou not Eustum ? Speak ! art thou not he ? ' 
 
 But Eustum ey'd askance the kneeling youth, 
 And turn'd away, and spoke to his own soul : — 
 
 ' Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean. 
 False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
 For if I now confess this thing he asks. 
 And hide it not, but say — Eustum is here — ■ 350 
 
 He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, ^ 
 But he will find some pretext not to fight, 
 And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, 
 A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
 And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall. 
 In Samarcand, he will arise and cry — 
 " I challeng'd once, when the two armies eamp'd 
 Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
 To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
 Shrank ; only Eustum dar'd : then he and I 360 
 
 Chang'd gifts, and went on equal terms away." 
 
 355 feast-tide] feast day 1S53, 1S54. 
 
SOHKAB AND EUSTUM 207 
 
 So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud. 
 Then were the chiefs of Iran sham'd through me.' 
 
 And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud : — 
 ' Else ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 
 Of Eustum ? I am here, whom thou hast call'd 
 By challenge forth : make good thy vaunt, or yield. 
 Is it with Eustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
 Eash boy, men look on Eustum's face and flee. 
 For well I know, that did great Eustum stand 370 
 
 Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd. 
 There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
 But being what I am, I tell thee this ; 
 Do thou record it in thine inniost soul : 
 Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield ; 
 Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
 Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, 
 Oxus in summer wash them all away.' 
 
 He spoke : and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet : — 
 ' Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so. 
 I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 381 
 
 Yet this thou hast said well, did Eustum stand 
 Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
 But Eustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
 Begin : thou art more vast, more dread than I, 
 And thou art prov'd, I know, and I am youngs 
 But yet Success sways with the breath of Heaven. 
 And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
 Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
 For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 390 
 
 Pois'd on the top of a huge wave of Fate, 
 Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 
 And whether it will heave us up to land. 
 Or whether it will roll us out to sea. 
 Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death. 
 We know not, and no search will make us know : 
 Only the event will teach us in its hour.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Eustum answer'd not, but hurl'd 
 His spear : down from the shoulder, down it came, 
 As on some partridge in the corn a hawk 400 
 
 That long has tower'd in the airy clouds 
 Drops like a plummet : Sohrab saw it come. 
 And sprang aside, quick as a flash : the spear 
 
208 „ SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand, 
 Which it sent flying wide : — tlien Sohrab threw 
 In turn, and full struck Eustum's shield : sharp rang, 
 The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. 
 And Eustum seiz'd his club, which none but he 
 Could wield : an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge. 
 Still rough ; like those which men in treeless plains 
 To buUd them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 411 
 Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
 By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
 Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, 
 And strewn the channels with torn boughs ; so huge 
 The club which Eustum lifted now, and struck 
 One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside 
 Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
 Thundering to earth, and leapt from Eustum's hand. 
 And Rustum foUow'd his own blow, and fell 420 
 
 To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand : 
 And now might Sohrab have unsheath'd his sword. 
 And pierc'd the mighty Eustum while he lay 
 Dizzy, and on his knees, and chok'd with sand : 
 But he look'd on, and smil'd, nor bar'd his sword, 
 But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — 
 
 ' Thou strik'st too hard : that club of thine will float 
 Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. 
 But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I : 
 No, when I see thee, ^aoaJJiJQrsaJtegjnx.goul- «30 
 
 Thou say*st, thou art not Eustum : be it^sOj^ 
 ^WEoTjr'ffiOTTlren7'tKarca^sTso touch my soul ? 
 Sgyraas I ^mp l have seen battles too ; 
 Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. 
 And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
 But never was my heart thus t ouch'd before. 
 Are they from Heaven, these softenings oTThe heart ? 
 O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
 Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears. 
 And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 440 
 
 And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 
 And thou shalt talk to me of Eustum's deeds. 
 There are enough foes in the Persian^host 
 ■Whom I may meet, and strike,. and- feieLim,pang; 
 Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
 
SOHRAB AND EUSTUM 209 
 
 Mayst fight ; fight them, when they confront thy spear. 
 BuL-oluJietJhgrebe peace _'l\vixt thee and me ! ' 
 
 He ceas'd : but while he spake, Eustum had risen. 
 And stood erect, trembling with rage : his club 
 He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear, 450 
 
 Whose fiery point now in his niail'd right-hand 
 Blaz'd bright and baleful, like that autumn Star, 
 The baleful sign of fevers : dust had soil'd 
 His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. 
 His breast heav'd ; his lips foam'd ; and twice his voice 
 Was chok'd with rage: at last these words broke way : — 
 
 ' Girl Lnimblfi with thy feet, not with thy hands ! '^ 
 Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
 Fight ; let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
 Tliou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460 
 
 With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance ; 
 But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance 
 Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
 Of war : I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
 Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! 
 Eemember all thy valour : try thy feints , 
 And cunning : ..an_the_2ityJLhad2S_goriie : )"-• 
 Because thou hast sham'd me beforebofh the hosts 
 With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 470 
 And he too drew his sword : at once they rush'd 
 Together, as two eagles on one prey 
 Come rushing down together from the clouds. 
 One from the east, one from the west : their shields 
 Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
 Eose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
 Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 
 Of hewing axes, crashing trees : such blows 
 Eustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
 And you would say that sun and stars took part 480 
 In that unnatural conflict ; :^_a_dQUd- 
 fi-rew suddenly in TTeaven, ansLdarkldJJie-SUn 
 
 0.ver_the.figh,tai:a!_heads ; and a. wind rose 
 Under their feet, and moaning swept the plaiu, 
 AnHTn a sandy"whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 
 In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone ; 
 For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
 
210 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 
 
 Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
 
 And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. '489 
 
 But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes > 
 
 And labouring breath ; first Eustum struck the shield\ 
 
 Which Sohrab held stiff out : the steel-spik'd spear 
 
 Eent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin, 
 
 And Eustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. 
 
 Then Sohrab with his sword smote Eustum's helm, 
 
 Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all tire crest 
 
 He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume 
 
 TTever till now defil'd, sunk to the dust ; 
 
 And Eustum bow'd his head ; but then the gloom 
 
 Grew blacker : thunder rumbled in the air, 500 
 
 And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Euksh, the horse, 
 
 Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry : 
 
 No horse's cry was that, most like the rour 
 
 Of some pain'd desert lion, who all day 
 
 Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side. 
 
 And comes at night to die upon the sand : — 
 
 The two hosts heard that cry, and quak'd for fear, 
 
 And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 
 
 But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, 
 
 And struck again ; and aga in Eu stum bow'd 510 
 
 His head ; but this' tims all'the blade, like ^ass. 
 
 Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm. 
 
 And in his hand the hilt remain'd alone. 
 
 Then Eustujm J3is'd.his head : his dreadful ej^es 
 
 Glar'dj and he §liookj?n high.hig menacing .^pear, 
 
 And 'shouied,_Emtum ! Sohrab heard that shout. 
 
 And sHrahk amaz'd : back he recoil'd one step. 
 
 And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing Form : 
 
 And then he stood bewilder'd ; and he dropp'd 
 
 His covering shield, and the spear pierc'd his side. 620 
 
 He reel'd, and staggering back, sunk to the ground. 
 
 And then the gloom dispers'd, and the wind fell. 
 
 And Ijhe bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
 
 The cloud ; and the tw o armies sa\y _tha4)air ; 
 
 Saj2_Eustum standmg,__^fe upon his feet. 
 
 And So hrab. s^punded^on the^bloodj^and. 
 
 Then, with a bitter smile, Rusfumbegan : — 
 ' Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
 A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 211 
 
 And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 530 
 
 Or else that the great Eustum would come down 
 
 Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
 
 His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
 
 And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
 
 Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
 
 To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
 
 Fool ! thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
 
 Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be. 
 
 Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' 
 
 And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — 540 
 ' Unljnown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
 Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
 No ! Eustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
 Tor were I match'd with ten such men as thou. 
 And I were he who till to-day I was, 
 They should be lying here, I standing there. 
 But that beloved_mimeunnerVd my arm — 
 That name,'an3''something, I confess,jjj..the^, 
 'V'STiicinErouTDles all my heart, and made my shield 
 Fall ; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 650 
 
 And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
 But hear thou this, fierce Man, tremble to hear ! 
 The mighty Eustum shall avenge my death ! 
 My father, whom I seek through all the world. 
 He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! ' 
 
 As when some hunter in the spring hath found , 
 A breeding eagle sitting on her nest. 
 Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake. 
 And pierc'd her with an arrow as she rose. 
 And follow'd her to find her where she fell 5€0 
 
 Far off ; — anon her mate comes winging back 
 From hunting, and a great way off descries 
 His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks 
 His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
 Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
 Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
 Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 
 In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
 A heap of fluttering feathers ; never more 
 Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 570 
 
 Never the black and dripping precipices 
 
 p 2 
 
212 SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 Echo her stormy scream as she sails by : — 
 
 As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss — 
 
 So Bustum knew not his own loss, bl't atnod 
 
 But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said : — 
 ' What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? 
 The mighty Eustum never had a son.' 
 
 And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — 
 ' Ah yes, he had I and that lost son am I. 680 
 
 Surely the news will one day reach his ear, 
 Eeach Eustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 
 Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here ; 
 And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
 To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
 Fierce Man, bethink thee, for an only son ! 
 What will that grief, what will that vengeance be ! 
 Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen ! 
 Yet him I pity not so much, but her. 
 My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells. 590 
 
 With that old King, her father, who grows grey 
 With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
 Her most I pity, who no more will see 
 Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 
 With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
 But a dark rumour will be bruited up. 
 From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
 And then will that defenceless woman learn 
 That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; 
 But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600 
 
 By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.' 
 
 He spoke ; and as he ceas'd he wept aloud, 
 Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
 He spoke ; but Eustum listen'd, plung'd in thought. 
 Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
 Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew ;, 
 For he had had sure tidings that the babe. 
 Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. 
 Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : 
 So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
 Eustum should take the boy, to train in arms ; 
 And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, 
 By a false boast, the style of Eustum's son ; 
 
SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 213 
 
 Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
 
 So deem'd he ; yet he listen'd, plung'd in thought ; 
 
 And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
 
 Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
 
 At the full moon : tears gather'd in his eyes ; 
 
 For he remember'd his own early youth. 
 
 And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn, 620 
 
 The Shepherd from his mountain lodge descries 
 
 A far bright City, smitten by the sun. 
 
 Through many rolling clouds ;— j;aflJiua±uax,.aa:ff 
 
 Hia-yauth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; 
 
 And thatoI3 King, lierlather, wholov'd well 
 
 His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
 
 With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. 
 
 They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
 
 The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
 
 And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 630 
 
 In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 
 
 Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 
 
 Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
 
 Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe 
 
 Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 
 
 Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 
 
 And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
 
 On the mown, dying grass ; — so Sohrab lay. 
 
 Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
 
 And Kustum gaz'd on him with grief, and said : — 640 
 
 ' Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
 Whom Eustum, wert thou his, might well have lov'd I 
 Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
 Have told thee false ; — th£Ul.a];tjiotEustum^_soa.^ 
 For Kustum had no son : one chuoTie had=— 
 BuFone— a girl : who" wiUTher mother now 
 Tliei some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
 Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.' 
 
 But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; for now 
 The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 650 
 
 And he desired to draw forth the steel. 
 And let the blood flow free, and so to die ; 
 But first he would convince his stubborn foe — 
 And, rising sternly on one arm, he said :— 
 
 ' Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? 
 
2U SOHKAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 
 
 And Falsehood, while I liv'd, was far from mine. 
 
 I tell thee .._Brick'd upon this. arm. I bear 
 
 That seal which Rustum to niymother_gave, 
 
 iTiat sEe~m .Ight PTici^JLtlonlheTmEe°!3iab.Qjge,' 660 
 
 He spoke : and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks ; 
 And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand 
 Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 
 That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud : 
 And to his heart he press'd the other hand. 
 And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — 
 
 ' Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. 
 If thou shew this, then art thou Eustum's son.' 
 
 Th^n^jvithjweaJ£jiafsty^fi«ge-E%.. SohcabJjoos'd 
 His belt; and near the shoulder bar'd his arm, 670 
 
 .ffH3"s!iew'd a sign in faint j;;ennilion pointg 
 PricE'H : as a cunhmg workman, in Pekin, 
 Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. 
 An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, 
 And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 
 Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands : — 
 So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
 On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Eustum's seal, 
 It was that Griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, 
 Eustum's great father, whom they left to die, 680 
 
 A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. 
 Him that kind Creature found, and rear'd, and lov'd — 
 Then Eustum took it for his glorious sign. 
 And Sohrab bar'd that figure on his arm, 
 And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes. 
 And then he touch'd it with his hand and said : — 
 
 ' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign 
 Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's ? ' 
 
 He spoke : but Eustum gaz'd, and gaz'd, and stood 
 SjiftenhlgsH ■ and then be utter-'d one .sharp er y^ 690 
 O^Moy^i^J^/^aihad. — and his voice chok'd there. 
 And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, 
 And his head swam, and he sunk down to earth. 
 But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast 
 His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 
 And with fond faltering fingers strok'd his cheeks:, 
 Trying to call him back to life : and life 
 
SOHRAB AND EUSTUM 215 
 
 Came back to Eustum, and he op'd his eyes, 
 
 And they stood wide with horror ; and he seiz'd 
 
 In both his hands the dust whicli lay around, 700 
 
 And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, 
 
 His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms : 
 
 And strong_convulsiye groanings_shopk his liceiist, 
 
 ABgTiis '^obs~cho]£d hiinj^andj;tfi_cl u.tch'dJu§-§3EQr,d, 
 
 To' draw it, and for ever let life out. 
 
 But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, 
 
 And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said : — 
 
 ' Father, forbear : for I but meet to-day 
 The doom that at my birth was written down 
 In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. 
 %l£ely^ my heart cried flut.that it,was thou, 711 
 
 When first I saw thee ;' and thy JlgarLsjiakftiao,. 
 I_kn o w i t : b ut Fatetrod those^jajoaptjxiga-dftwn 
 TTnder"7ts irbjiJmeIJ TaterF ate_e ngg,g' d 
 The st rife, and hurl'd me on my fatlier's spear . 
 Bunerus"speak no more of this : I find 
 My father ; let me feel that I have found. 
 Gome, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
 My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 
 And wash them with thy tears, and say. My Son ! 720 
 Quick ! quick ! for numbor'd are my sands of life, 
 And swift ; for like the lightning to this field 
 I came, and like the wind I go away — 
 Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
 But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.' 
 
 So said he : and his voice releas'd the heart 
 Of Eustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
 His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud. 
 And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts 
 When they saw Eustum's grief : and Euksh, the horse, 
 With his head bowing to the ground, and mane 731 
 Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 
 First to the one then to the other mov'd 
 His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
 Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 
 The big warm tears roll'd down, and cak'd the sand. 
 But Eustum chid him with stern voice, and said : — 
 
 ' Euksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Euksh, thy feet 
 8K-QuldJhiEnhaye~TOtted'on"niy'n'im joints, ■ ■ — 
 
216 SOHKAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 Whenjirst^ they bore thj Master jo^thjg field.' 740 
 
 But ^liraB lopTi'd iipfllL.tJie horse and said : — 
 ' Is'this then Euksh ? How often, in pasTctays, 
 llylmother told' me' of thee, thou brave Steed ! 
 My terrible father's terrible horse ; and said, 
 That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
 Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. 
 O Buksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
 For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 
 And snuif'd the breezes of my father's home. 
 And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
 And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake 
 Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
 Has often strok'd thy neck, and given thee food, 
 _Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, 
 And said — " O Euksh ! bear Eustum well ! " — but I 
 Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face. 
 Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
 Nor slak'd my thirst at the clear Helmund stream : 
 But lodg'd among my father's foes, and seen 
 Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 760 
 
 Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste. 
 And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk 
 The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
 Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, 
 The northern Sir ; and this great Oxus stream — 
 The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' 
 
 And, with a heavy groan, Eugtum-xeplied.: — 
 ' Oh that its waves wjgj£LflQwingoYerme ! 
 
 Oh that i saw its grains of yellow silt 
 
 Eoll tumbling in the current o'er my h«ad ! ' 770 
 
 And, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied : — 
 ' Desire not that, my father ; thou must live. 
 For some are born to do great deeds, and live. 
 As some are born to be obscur'd, and die. 
 Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. 
 And reap a second glory in thine ago. 
 Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
 But come : thou seest this great host of men 
 Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these : 
 Let me entreat for them : what have they done ? 780 
 They foUow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
 
SOHEAB AND EUSTUM 217 
 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
 
 But me thou niust bear hence, not send with them, 
 
 But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
 
 And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, 
 
 Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends. 
 
 And thou niust lay me in that lovely earth, 
 
 And heap a stately mound above my bones, \ , . ! 
 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all : ' \ 
 
 That so the passing horseman on the waste 790 
 
 May see my tomb a great way off, and say — 
 
 Sohrab, the mighty Sustum's soil, lies there, 
 
 Whom his great father did in ignorance Mil — 
 
 And I be not forgotten in my grave.' 
 
 And, with a mournful voice, Eustum replied : — 
 ' Fear not ; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son. 
 So shall it be : for I will burn my tents, 
 And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. 
 And carry thee away to Seistan, 
 
 And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 800 
 
 With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
 And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
 And heap a stately mound above thy bones. 
 And plant a far-seen jjillar over all : 
 And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
 And I will spare thy host : yea, let them go : 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
 What should I do with slaying any more ? 
 For would that all whom I have ever slain 
 Might be once more alive ; my bitterest foes, 810 
 
 And they who were call'd champions in their time. 
 And through whose death I won that fame I have ; 
 And I were nothing but a common man, 
 A poor, mean soldier, and without renown , 
 So thou mightest live too, my Son, my Son ! 
 Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
 Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
 Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. 
 Not thou of mine ; and I might die, not thou ; 
 And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 820 
 
 And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; 
 And say — son, I weep thee not too sore, 
 For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end. — 
 
218 SOHRAB AND EUSTUM 
 
 But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
 And full of blood and battles is my age ; 
 And I shall never end this life of blood.' 
 
 Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — 
 ' A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful Man ! 
 But thou shalt yet have peace r'only not now : 
 Not yet : but thou shalt have it on that day, 830 
 
 When thou shalt sail in a high-masted Ship, 
 Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, 
 Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
 Prom laying thy dear Master in his grave.' 
 
 And Eustum gaz'd on Sohrab's face, and said : — 
 ' Soon be that day, my Son, and deep that sea ! 
 Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab smil'd on him, and took 
 The spear, and drew it from his side, and eas'd 
 His wound's imperious anguish : but the blood 840 
 Came welling from the open gash, and life 
 Flow'd with the stream : all down his cold white side 
 The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soil'd, 
 Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 
 Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 
 By romping children, whom their nurses call 
 From the hot fields at noon : his head droop'd low, 
 His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — 
 White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps. 
 Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, 
 Convuls'd him back to life, he open'd them, 851 
 
 And fix'd them feebly on his father's face : 
 Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs 
 Unwillingly the spirit fled away. 
 Regretting the warm mansion which it left. 
 And youth and bloom, and this delightful world. 
 
 So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. 
 And the great Eustum drew his horseman's cloak 
 Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
 As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 860 
 
 By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
 His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, 
 Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — 
 
 843 ran] pour'd JS5S. 
 
SOHKAB AND KUSTUM 219 
 
 So in the sand lay Kustum by his son. 
 
 And night came down over the solemn waste, 
 And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
 And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with night. 
 Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
 As of a great assembly loos'd, and fires 
 Began to twinkle through the fog : for now 870 
 
 Both armies mov'd to camp, and took their meal : 
 The Persians took it on the open sands 
 Southward ; the Tartars by the river marge : 
 And Eustum and his son were left alone. 
 
 But the majestic Eiver floated on. 
 Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
 Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd, 
 Eejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste. 
 Under the solitary naoon : he flow'd 
 Eight for the Polar Star, past Orgunje, 880 
 
 Brimming, and bright, and large : then sands begin 
 To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, 
 And split his currents ; that for many a league 
 The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along 
 Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
 Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
 In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, 
 A foil'd circuitous wanderer : — till at last 
 The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
 His luminous home of waters opens, bright 890 
 
 And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath'd stars 
 Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 
 
 PHILOMELA 
 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 Haek ! ah, the Nightingale ! 
 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 
 Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 
 
 WVinf triiirr^pb I Viflrk — what pain ! 
 
 O Wanderer from a Grecian shore. 
 Still, after many years, in distant lands, 
 
220 PHILOMELA 
 
 Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain — 
 
 Say, will it never heal ? 
 And can this fragrant lawn 10 
 
 With its cool trees, and night. 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 And moonshine, and the dew. 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold 
 Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 
 Dost thou again peruse 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 20 
 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's shame ? 
 
 Dost thou once more assay 
 Thy flight, and feel come over thee. 
 Poor Fugitive, the feathery change 
 Once more, and once more seem to make resound 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ? 
 
 Listen, Eugenia — 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through the 
 leaves ! 
 
 Again — thou hearest ! 30 
 
 E ternal Passion 1 
 Eterna l Pain ! 
 
 THEKLA'S ANSWER 
 
 {From Schiller.) 
 [First published 1853. Not reprinted by the author.] 
 
 Where I am, thou ask'st, and where I wended 
 When my fleeting shadow pass'd from thee ? — 
 
 Am I not concluded now, and ended ? 
 Have not life and love been granted me ? 
 
 Ask, where now those nightingales are singing, 
 Who, of late, on the soft nights of May, 
 
 Set thine ears with soul-fraught music ringing — 
 Only, while their love liv'd, lasted they. 
 
THEKLA'S ANSWEE 221 
 
 Find I him, from whom I had to sever ?— 
 
 Doubt it not, we met, and we are one. 10 
 
 There, where what is join'd, is join'd for ever, 
 There, where tears are never more to run. 
 
 There thou too shalt live with us together. 
 When thou too hast borne the love we bore : 
 
 There, from sin deliver'd, dwells my Father, 
 Traok'd by Murder's bloody sword no more. 
 
 There he feels, it was no dream deceiving 
 Lur'd him starwards to uplift his eye : 
 
 God doth match his gifts to man's believing ; 
 
 Believe, and thou shalt find the Holy nigh. 20 
 
 All thou augurest here of lovely seeming 
 There shall find fulfilment in its day : 
 
 Dare, O Friend, be wandering, dare be dreaming ; 
 Lofty thought lies oft in childish play. 
 
 THE CHUECH OF BEOU 
 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 I 
 
 THE CASTLE 
 
 Down the Savoy valleys sounding. 
 Echoing round this castle old, 
 
 'Mid the distant mountain chalets 
 Hark ! what bell for church is toll'd ? 
 
 In the bright October morning 
 
 Savoy's Duke had left his bride. 
 From the Castle, past the drawbridge, 
 
 Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. 
 
 Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. 
 
 Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 10 
 
 From her mullion'd chamber casement 
 
 Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. 
 
 From Vienna by the Danube 
 
 Here she came, a bride, in spring. 
 Now the autumn crisps the forest ; 
 
 Hunters gather, bugles ring. 
 
222 THE CHURCH OF BEOU 
 
 Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, 
 Horses fret, and boar-spears glance : 
 
 Oif ! — They sweep the marshy forests. 
 
 Westward, on the side of France. 20 
 
 Hark ! the game 's on foot ; they scatter : — 
 
 Down the forest ridings lone, 
 Furious, single horsemen gallop. 
 
 Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! 
 
 Pale and breathless, came the hunters. 
 
 On the turf dead lies the boar. 
 God ! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him— 
 
 Senseless, weltering in his gore. 
 
 In the dull October evening, 
 
 Down the leaf-strewn forest road, 30 
 
 To the Castle, past the drawbridge. 
 
 Came the hunters with their load. 
 
 In the hall, with sconces blazing, 
 
 Ladies waiting round her seat, 
 Cloth'd in smiles, beneath the daYs, 
 
 Sate the Duchess Marguerite. 
 
 Hark ! below the gates unbarring ! 
 
 Tramp of men and quick commands ! 
 ' — 'Tis my lord come back from hunting. ' — 
 
 And the Duchess claps her hands. 40 
 
 Slow and tired, came the hunters ; 
 
 Stopp'd in darkness in the court. 
 ' — Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters ! 
 
 To the hall ! What sport, what sport ? '— 
 
 Slow they enter'd with their Master ; 
 
 In the hall they laid him down. 
 On his coat were leaves and blood-stains : 
 
 On his brow an angry frown. 
 
 Dead her princely youthful husband 
 
 Lay before his youthful wife ; 58 
 
 Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces : 
 
 And the sight froze all her life. 
 
THE CHUKCH OF BEOU 223 
 
 In Vienna by the Danube 
 
 Kings hold revel, gallants meet. 
 Gay of old amid the gayest 
 
 Was the Duchess Marguerite. 
 
 In Vienna by the Danube 
 
 Feast and dance her youth beguil'd. 
 
 Till that hour she never sorrow'd ; 
 
 But from then she never smil'd. 60 
 
 'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys 
 
 Far from town or haunt of man, 
 Stands a lonely Church, unfinisli'd, 
 
 Which the Duchess Maud began : \ 
 
 Old, that Duchess stern began it ; 
 
 In grey age, with palsied hands. 
 But she died while it was building, 
 
 And the Church unfinish'd stands •, 
 
 Stards as erst the builders left it, 
 
 When she sunk into her grave. 70 
 
 Mountain greensward paves the chancel ; 
 
 Harebells flower in the nave. 
 
 ' In my Castle all is sorrow,' — 
 
 Said the Duchess Marguerite then. 
 ' Guide me, vassals, to the mountains I 
 
 We will build the Church again.' — 
 
 Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, 
 
 Austrian knights from Syria came. 
 'Austrian wanderers bring, O warders, 
 
 Homage to your Austrian dame.' — • 80 
 
 From the gate the warders answer'd ; 
 
 ' Gone, O knights, is she you knew. 
 Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess. 
 
 Seek her at the Church of Brou.' — 
 
 Austrian knights and march-worn palmers 
 
 Climb the winding mountain way. 
 Eeach the valley, where the Fabric 
 
 Eises higher day by day. 
 
 67 while] as 1853, 1854. 
 
224 THE CHUECH OF BEOU 
 
 Stones are sawing, hammers ringing ; 
 
 On the work the bright sun shines : 90 
 
 In the Savoy mountain meadows, 
 
 By the stream, below the pines. 
 
 On her palfrey white the Duchess 
 Sate and watch 'd her working train ; 
 
 Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
 German masons, smiths from Spain. 
 
 Clad in black, on her white palfrey ; 
 
 Her old architect beside — 
 There they found her in the mountains, 
 
 Morn and noon and eventide. :oo 
 
 There she sate, and watch'd the builders, 
 Till the Church was roof 'd and done. 
 
 Last of all, the builders rear'd her 
 In the nave a tomb of stone. 
 
 On the tomb two Forms they seulptur'd, 
 
 Lifelike in the marble pale. 
 One, the Duke in helm and armour ; 
 
 One, the Duchess in her veil. 
 
 Round the tomb the carv'd stone fretwork 
 
 Was at Easter tide put on. 110 
 
 Then the Duchess clos'd her labours ; 
 And she died at the St. John. 
 
 II 
 
 THE CHUKCH 
 
 Upon the glistening leaden roof 
 
 Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines. 
 
 The stream goes leaping by. 
 The hills are cloth'd with pines sun-proof. 
 Mid bright green fields, below the pines, 
 
 Stands the Church on high. 
 What Church is this, from men aloof? 
 'Tis the Church of Brou. 
 
THE CHUKCH OF BEOU 225 
 
 At sunrise, from their dewy lair 
 
 Crossing the stream, the kine are seen 10 
 
 Eound the wall to stray ; 
 The churchyard wall that clips the square 
 Of shaven hill-sward trim and green 
 
 Where last year they lay. 
 But all things now are order'd fair 
 Eound the Church of Brou. 
 
 On Sundays, at the matin chime. 
 The Alpine peasants, two and three, 
 
 Climb up here to pray. 
 Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, 20 
 
 Eide out to church from Chambery, 
 
 Dight with mantles gay. 
 But else it is a lonely time 
 Kound the Church of Brou. 
 
 On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 
 From the wall'd town beyond the pass, 
 
 Down the mountain way. 
 And then you hear the organ's hum, 
 You hear the white-rob'd priest say mass. 
 
 And the people pray. 30 
 
 But else the woods and fields are dumb 
 Eound the Church of Brou. 
 
 And after church, when mass is done. 
 The people to the nave repair 
 
 Eound the Tomb to stray. 
 And marvel at the Forms of stone, 
 And praise the chisell'd broideries rare. 
 
 Then they drop away. 
 The Princely Pair are left alone 
 In the Church of Brou. 40 
 
 III 
 
 THE TOMB 
 
 So rest, for ever rest, O Princely Pair ! 
 In your high Church, 'mid the still mountain air. 
 Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come. 
 Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb 
 From the rich painted windows of the nave 
 On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave: 
 
226 THE CHUECH OF BKOU 
 
 Where thou, young Prince, shalt never more arise 
 From the fring'd mattress where thy Duchess lies, 
 On autumn mornings, when the bugle sounds. 
 And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 10 
 To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve. 
 And thou, Princess, shalt no more receive. 
 Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, 
 The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, 
 'Coming benighted to the castle gate. 
 
 So sleep, for ever sleep, Marble Pair ! 
 Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair 
 On the carv'd Western Front a flood of light 
 Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright 
 Prophets, transfigur'd Saints, and Martyrs brave, 20 
 In the vast western window of the nave ; 
 And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints 
 A chequer-work of glowing sapphire tints, 
 And amethyst, and ruby; — then unclose 
 Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose. 
 And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads. 
 And rise upon your cold white marble beds ; 
 And looking down on the warm rosy tints 
 That chequer, at your feet, the illumin'd flints. 
 Say — ' What is this? ive are in bliss^forgiven — 30 
 
 Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!' — 
 Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain 
 Doth rustlingly above your heads complain 
 On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls 
 Shedding her pensive light at intervals 
 The Moon through the clere-story windows shines. 
 And the wind wails among the mountain pines. 
 Then, gazing up through the dim pillars high, 
 The foliag'd marble forest where ye lie, 
 ' Hush ' — ye will say — ' it is eternity. 40 
 
 This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these 
 Tlie columns of the Heavenly Palaces.' — 
 And in the sweeping of the wind your ear 
 The passage of the Angels' wings will hear. 
 And on the lichen-crusted leads above 
 The rustle of the eternal rain of Love. 
 
 37 wails among] washes in 1853. 
 
227 
 
 THE NECKAN 
 
 [I'irst published 1853. Reprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 In summer, on the headlands, 
 
 The Baltic Sea along, 
 Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, 
 
 And sings his plaintive song. 
 
 Green rolls beneath the headlands. 
 
 Green rolls the Baltic Sea. 
 And there, below the Neckan's feet, 
 
 His wife and children be. 
 
 He sings not of the ocean. 
 
 Its shells and roses pale. 10 
 
 Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings ; 
 
 He hath no other tale. 
 
 He sits upon the headlands. 
 
 And sings a mournful stave 
 Of all he saw and felt on earth. 
 
 Ear from the green sea wave. 
 
 Sings how, a knight, he wander'd 
 
 By castle, field, and town. — 
 But earthly knights have harder hearts 
 
 Than the Sea Children own. 20 
 
 Sings of his earthly bridal — 
 
 Priest, knights, and ladies gay. 
 'And who art thou,' the priest began, 
 
 ' Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day ? ' — 
 
 ' I am no knight,' he answer'd ; 
 
 'From the sea waves I. come.' — 
 The knights drew sword, the ladies scream'd, 
 
 The surplic'd priest stood dumb. 
 
 He sings how from the chapel 
 
 He vanish'd with his bride, 30 
 
 And bore her down to the sea halls, 
 
 Beneath the cold sea tide. 
 
 32 cold] salt 1353, 1854. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE NECKAN 
 
 He sings how she sits weeping 
 
 'Mid shells that round her lie. 
 ' False Neckan shares my bed,' she weeps ; 
 
 ' No Christian mate have I.' — 
 
 He sings how through the billows 
 
 He rose to earth again, 
 And sought a priest to sign the cross, 
 
 That Neckan Heaven might gain. 40 
 
 He sings how, on an evening. 
 
 Beneath the birch trees cool. 
 He sate and play d his harp of gold, 
 
 Beside the river pool. 
 
 Beside the pool sate Neckan — 
 
 Tears fill'd his cold blue eye. 
 On his white mule, across the bridge, 
 
 A cassock'd priest rode by. 
 
 ' Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, 
 
 And play'st thy harp of gold? 6£> 
 
 Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves. 
 Than thou shalt Heaven behold.' — 
 
 The cassock'd priest rode onwards, 
 
 And vanish 'd with his mule. 
 And Neckan in the twilight grey 
 
 Wept by the river pool. 
 
 In summer, on the headlands. 
 
 The Baltic Sea along, 
 Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, 
 
 And sings this plaintive song. 60 
 
 A DEEAM 
 
 [First published 1853. Reprintecl 1854, '57.] 
 
 Was it a dream ? We saU'd, I thought we sail'd, 
 Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream. 
 Under o'erhanging pines ; the morning sun.. 
 On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops, 
 
 A Dream Tiael Switzerland. III. A Dream 18S8, 18oi, 1857. 
 
A DKEAM 229 
 
 On the red pinings of their forest floor, 
 Drew a warm scent abroad ; behind the pines 
 The mountain skirts, with all their sylvan change 
 Of bright-leaf 'd chestnuts, and moss'd walnut-trees, 
 And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began. 
 Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes, 10 
 
 And from some swarded shelf high up, there came 
 Notes of wild pastoral music : over all 
 Eang'd, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow. 
 Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge, 
 Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood. 
 Bright in the sun ; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves 
 Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof 
 Lay the warm golden gourds ; golden, within, 
 Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn. 
 We shot beneath the cottage with the stream. 20 
 
 On the brown rude-carv'd balcony two Forms 
 Came forth — Olivia's, Marguerite ! and thine. 
 Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast ; 
 Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue 
 Which wav'd, and on their shoulders fluttering play'd. 
 They saw us, they conferr'd ; their bosoms heav'd. 
 And more than mortal impulse fiU'd their eyes. 
 Their lips mov'd ; their white arms, wav'd eagerly, 
 Flash'd once, like falling streams : — we rose, we gaz'd : 
 One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat 30 
 
 Hung pois'd — and then the darting Eiver of Life, 
 Loud thundering, bore us by : swift, swift it foam'd ; 
 Black under cliffs it rac'd, round headlands shone. 
 Soon the plank'd cottage 'mid tha sun-warm'd pines 
 Faded, the moss, the rocks ; us burning Plains 
 Bristled with cities, us the Sea receiv'd. 
 
 EEQUIESCAT 
 
 [First published 1853. Keprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 Stkew on her roses, roses. 
 And never a spray of yew. 
 
 In quiet she reposes : 
 
 Ah ! would that I did too. 
 
 23 breast] breasts 18S3. 
 
230 KEQUIESCAT 
 
 Her mirth the world required : 
 She bath'd it in smiles of glee. 
 
 But her heart was tired, tired, 
 And now they let her be. 
 
 Her life was turning, turning, 
 
 In mazes of heat and sound. 10 
 
 But for peace her soul was yearning. 
 
 And now peace laps her round. 
 
 Her cabin'd, ample Spirit, 
 
 It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. 
 
 To-night it doth inherit 
 The vasty Hall of Death. 
 
 THE SCHOLAK GIPSY 
 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 Go, for they call you. Shepherd, from the hill ; 
 Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes : 
 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. 
 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats. 
 Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head. 
 But when the fields are still. 
 And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, 
 And only the white sheep are sometimes seen 
 Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green ; 
 Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest. 
 
 Here, where the reaper was at work of late, 11 
 
 In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves 
 
 His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise. 
 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves. 
 Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use ; 
 Here will I sit and wait, 
 While to my ear from uplands far away 
 The bleating of the folded flocks is borne. 
 With distant cries of reapers in the corn — 
 
 All the live murmur of a summer's day. 20 
 
THE SCHOLAE GIPSY 231 
 
 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, 
 And here till sun-down, Shepherd, will I be. 
 
 Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep. 
 And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see 
 Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep : 
 And air-swept lindens yield 
 Their scent, and rustle down their perfum'd showers 
 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid. 
 And bower me from the August sun with shade ; 
 And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers: 
 
 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — • 31 
 
 Come, let me read the oft-read tale again, 
 The story of that Oxford scholar poor 
 Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, 
 Who, tir'd of knocking at Preferment's door. 
 One summer morn forsook 
 His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore. 
 And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, 
 And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, 
 But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 
 
 But once, years after, in the country lanes, 41 
 
 Two scholars whom at college erst he knew 
 
 Met him, and of his way of life inquir'd. 
 Whereat he answer'd, that the Gipsy crew, 
 His mates, had arts to rule as they desir'd 
 The workings of men's brains ; 
 And they can bind them to what thoughts they will : 
 ' And I,' he said, ' the secret nf i}\eh- art, ) 
 
 When fully learn 'd^wTTl tnihc wni-ld impart: 49 j 
 But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.' I 
 
 This said, he left them, and return'd no more. 
 But rumours hung about the country side 
 
 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray. 
 Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied. 
 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 
 The same the Gipsies wore. 
 Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring ; 
 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, 
 On the warm ingle bench, the smock-frock'd boors 
 Had found him seated at their entering, 60 
 
 21 is] 1804, 1857 misprint in. 50 heaven-sent] happy 18B3. 
 
232 THE SCHOLAE GIPSY 
 
 But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly : 
 And I myself seem half to know thy looks. 
 
 And put the shepherds. Wanderer, on thy trace ; 
 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks 
 I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place ; 
 Or in my boat I lie 
 Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats. 
 Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, 
 And watch the warm green-muffled Cumner hills, 
 And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 
 
 Tor most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. 71 
 
 Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, 
 
 Eeturning home on summer nights, have met 
 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock -hithe, 
 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 
 As the slow punt swings round : 
 And leaning backwards in a pensive dream. 
 And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
 Pluck'din shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, 
 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream : 
 
 And then they land, and thou art seen no more. 81 
 Maidens who from the distant hamlets come 
 To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 
 Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam. 
 Or cross a stile into the public way. 
 Oft thou hast given them store 
 Of flowers — the frail-leaf 'd , white anemone — 
 
 Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer 
 
 eves — 
 And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
 
 But none has words she can report of thee. 90 
 
 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here 
 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, 
 
 Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass 
 Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering 
 Thames, 
 To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass. 
 Have often pass'd thee near 
 
 79 Wychwood] woodland 1S3S, 18S4. 
 
THE SCHOLAK GIPSY 233 
 
 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown : 
 
 Mark'd thy outlandish garb, thy figure spare, 
 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air ; 
 But, when they came from bathing, thou wert 
 gone. 100 
 
 At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, 
 Where at her open door the housev\rife darns. 
 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 
 To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
 
 Children, who early range these slopes and late 
 For cresses from the rills, 
 Have known thee watching, all an April day, 
 The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; 
 And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and 
 shine, 109 
 
 Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 
 
 In Autumn, on the skirts of Bagley wood. 
 
 Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edg'd way 
 
 Pitch their smok'd tents, and every bush you see 
 With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey, 
 Above the forest ground call'd Thessaly — 
 The blackbird picking food 
 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all ; 
 So often has he known thee past him stray 
 Eapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, 119 
 And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. 
 
 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 
 
 Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, 
 
 Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge 
 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. 
 Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? 
 And thou hast climb'd the hill 
 And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range, 
 Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes 
 
 fall. 
 The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall — 
 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd 
 grange. 130 
 
234 THE SCHOLAE GIPSY 
 
 But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are flown 
 ^ince Erst thy story ran through Oxford halls, 
 And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
 That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls 
 To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe : 
 And thou from earth art gone 
 Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid ; 
 Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave 
 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave — 
 Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 140 
 
 — NojjiOjJhaii-ha.'it noLfelfc thfi...lapse-o£.lxQU£S- 
 For what wears out the li fe of m orta l men ? 
 
 "'TIS ffial from change to change their being rolls : 
 'Tis~tha1i repeatecrsliocEsTagaTn, again. 
 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, 
 And numb the elastic powers. 
 Till having us'd our nerves with bliss and teen, 
 And tir'd upon a thousand schemes our wit. 
 To the just-pausing Genius we remit 149 
 
 Our worn-out life, and are — what we have been. 
 
 Thou hast not liv'd, why should'st thou perish, so ? 
 Thou hadst one aim^ one busmess, owe"desife':~~" 
 Elge wert thou long since number'Sf with the 
 
 dead— " "" 
 
 Else hadst thou spent, like otherjaen, thy fire. 
 The generations of thy peers are Bed, 
 And we ourselves shall go ; 
 But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
 And we imagine thee exempt from age 
 And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, 159 
 Because thou hadst — what we, alas, have not ! 
 
 For e^rlyjdidst thou leaye,.tlifi_H:Qlld, with..powers 
 Fresh, undivertedjto_tJie_WOTld_withou^^ 
 "Trfm toTheir mark, not spent on other things ; 
 Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. 
 Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, 
 brings. 
 Life unlike to ours ! 
 
THE SCHOLAK GIPSY 235 
 
 Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, 
 
 Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he 
 strives, 168 
 
 And each half lives a hundred different lives ; 
 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 
 
 Thou waitest for thespark from JHeaven:. and. w:e, 
 ^ague half-believers of_ourjcasual_creed§^. 
 Who never"dee£ljr^|Bltj_nor cleariy^jKJliy, 
 ' Whose TrisigRT never has borne fruit in deeds, 
 
 Whose Aveak resolves never have been fulfill'd ; 
 Tor whom each year we see 
 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new ; 
 Who hesitate and falter life away. 
 And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — 
 Ah, do not we. Wanderer, await. itJtoo?. 180 
 
 Yes, we await it, but it still delays. 
 
 And then we suffer ; and amongst us One, 
 Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly 
 His seat upon the intellectual throne ; i 
 
 And all his store of sad experience he 
 Lays bare of wretched days ; 
 Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs. 
 And how the dying spark of hope was fed, 
 And how the breast was sooth'd, and how the 
 head. 
 And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 
 
 This for our wisest : and we others pine. 
 
 And wish the long unhappy dream would end. 
 And waive all claim to bliss, and trj*^ to bear. 
 With close-lipp'd Patience for our only friend, 
 Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair : 
 But none has hope like thine. 
 Thou through the fields and through the woods dost 
 stray, 
 Eoaming the country side, a truant boy. 
 Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, 199 
 
 And every doubt long blown by time away. 
 
 172 Vague] Light 1853, 18B4. 175 weak] vague 18B3, 1854. 
 
236 THE SCHOLAK GIPSY 
 
 O born in days when wits wer e fresh and clear . 
 And life ran gailx as the^^arklin g Thames ; 
 
 iJefoire tEs strang edisease of mo dern life, '»'- 
 "With its sic£ hurrx, jts_diyijieji.aiin,s, 
 ~Tfs^Kea3s_o'ertax [d, its palsied hearts , was rife- 
 Fly h^nce, o ur cont act .fear ! 
 Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood ! 
 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
 From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, 
 Wave us awsy,..,ajidj£E&pjli^:^.alitude^ 2i0 
 
 Still nursing the unconquerable hope. 
 Still clutching the inviolable shade. 
 
 With a free onward impulse brushing through, 
 By night, the silver'd branches of the glade — 
 Far on the forest skirts, where none pursue, 
 On some mild pastoral slope 
 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, 
 Freshen thy flowers, as in former years, 
 With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 
 From the dark dingles, to the nightingales. 
 
 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! 221 
 
 For strong the infection of our mental strife. 
 
 Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest ; 
 And we should win thee from thy own fair life, 
 Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
 Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers. 
 And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made : 
 And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, 
 Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 
 
 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! 
 — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, 232 
 
 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
 Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily. 
 The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
 Among the Aegean isles ; 
 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 
 
 Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, 
 Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine ; 
 And knew the intruders on his ancient home. 
 
THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 237 
 
 The young light-hearted Masters of the waves ; 241 
 
 And snatch 'd his rudder, and shook out more sail, 
 
 And day and night held on indignantly 
 O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 
 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
 To where the Atlantic raves 
 Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails 
 
 There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets 
 
 of foam, 
 Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; 
 
 And on the beach undid his corded bales. 250 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THE LATE EDWARD QUILLINAN, ESQ. 
 [First published 1853. Reprinted 1854, '57.] 
 
 I SAW him sensitive in frame, 
 
 I knew his spirits low ; 
 And wish'd him health, success, and fame : 
 
 I do not wish it now. 
 
 For these are all their own reward. 
 
 And leave no good behind ; 
 They try us, oftenest make us hard, 
 
 Less modest, pure, and kind. 
 
 Alas ! Yet to the suffering man. 
 
 In this his mortal state, 10 
 
 Friends could not give what Fortune can — 
 
 Health, ease, a heart elate. 
 
 But he is now by Fortune foil'd 
 
 No more ; and we retain 
 The memory of a man unspoil'd, 
 
 Sweet, generous, and humane ; 
 
 With all the fortunate have not — 
 
 With gentle voice and brow. 
 Alive, we would have chang'd his lot: 
 
 We would not change it now. 20 
 
POEMS, SECOND SERIES, 1855 
 BALDER DEAD 
 
 AN EPISODE 
 [First published 1855.] 
 
 I 
 
 SENDING 
 
 So on the floor lay Balder dead ; and round 
 Lay thickly strewn swords axes darts and spears 
 Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown 
 At Balder, whom no weapon pierc'd or clove : 
 But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough 
 Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave 
 To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw: 
 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 
 And all the Gods and all the Heroes came 
 And stood round Balder on the bloody floor lo 
 
 Weeping and wailing ; and Valhalla rang 
 Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries : 
 And on the tables stood the untasted meats, 
 And in the horns and gold-rimm'd skulls the wine : 
 And now would Night have fall'n, and found them yet 
 Wailing ; but otherwise was Odin's will : 
 And thus the Father of the Ages spake : — 
 
 ' Enough of tears, ye Gods, enough of wail ! 
 Not to lament in was Valhalla made. 
 If any here might weep for Balder's death 20 
 
 I most might weep, his Father ; such a son 
 I lose to-day, so bright, so lov'd a God. 
 But he has met that doom which long ago 
 The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun. 
 And Fate set seal, that so his end .must be. 
 Balder has met his death, and ye survive : 
 Weep him an hour ; but what can grief avail ? 
 For you yourselves, ye Gods, shall meet your doom. 
 All ye who hear me, and inhabit Heaven, 
 And I too, Odin too, the Lord of all ; 30 
 
BALDER DEAD 239 
 
 But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes, 
 
 With woman's tears and weak complaining cries — 
 
 Why should we meet another's portion so ? 
 
 Rather it fits you, having wept your hour, 
 
 With cold dry eyes, and hearts compos'd and stern, 
 
 To live, as erst, your daily life in Heaven : 
 
 By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok, 
 
 The Foe, the Accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, 
 
 Be strictly car'd for, in the appointed day. 39 
 
 Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns. 
 
 Bring wood to the seashore to Balder's ship. 
 
 And on the deck build high a funeral pile. 
 
 And on the top lay Balder's corpse, and put 
 
 Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea 
 
 To burn ; for that is what the dead desire.' 
 
 So having spoke, the King of Gods arose 
 And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode. 
 And from the hall of Heaven he rode away 
 To Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne, 49 
 
 The Mount, from whence his eye surveys the world. 
 And far from Heaven he turn'd his shining orbs 
 To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men : 
 And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze 
 Whom antler'd reindeer pull over the snow ; 
 And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind. 
 Fair men, who live in holes under the ground : 
 Nor did he look once more to Ida's plain. 
 Nor towards Valhalla, and the sorrowing Gods ; 
 For well he knew the Gods would heed his word, 
 And cease to mourn, and think of Balder's pyre. 60 
 
 But in Valhalla all the Gods went back 
 From around Balder, all the Heroes went ; 
 And left his body stretch'd upon the floor. 
 And on their golden chairs they sate again, 
 Beside the tables, in the hall of Heaven ; 
 And before each the cooks who serv'd them plac'd 
 New messes of the boar Serimner's flesh. 
 And the Valkyries crown'd their horns with mead. 
 So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes, 
 Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank, 70 
 
 While Twilight fell, and sacred Night came on. 
 
240 BALDER DEAD 
 
 But the blind Hoder left the feasting Gods 
 In Odin's hall, and went through Asgard streets, 
 And past the haven where the Gods have moor'd 
 Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall. 
 Though sightless, yet his own mind led the God. 
 Down to the margin of the roaring sea 
 He came, and sadly went along the sand 
 Between the waves and black o'erhanging cliffs 
 "Where in and out the screaming seaf owl fly ; 89 
 
 Until he came to where a gully breaks 
 Through the cliff wall, and a fresh stream runs down 
 From the high moors behind, and meets the sea. 
 There in the glen Eensaler stands, the house 
 Of Frea, honour'd Mother of the Gods, 
 And shows its lighted windows to the main. 
 There he went up, and pass'd the open doors : 
 And iii the hall he found those women old. 
 The Prophetesses, who by rite eterne 
 On Frea's hearth feed high the sacred fire 90 
 
 Both night and day ; and by the inner wall 
 Upon her golden chair the Mother sate. 
 With folded hands, revolving things to come : 
 To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said : — 
 
 ' Mother, a child of bale thou bar'st in me. 
 For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes, 
 Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in Heaven ; 
 And, after that, of ignorant witless mind 
 Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul : 
 That I alone must take the branch from Lok, 100 
 
 The Foe, the Accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, 
 And cast it at the dear-lov'd Balder's breast 
 At whom the Gods in sport their weapons threw — 
 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 
 Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly ? 
 For who will bear my hateful sight in Heaven ? — 
 Can I, O Mother, bring them Balder back ? 
 Or — for thou know'st the Fates, and things allow'd — 
 Can I with Hela's power a compact strike. 
 And make exchange, and give my life for his ? ' 110 
 
 He spoke : the Mother of the Gods replied : — 
 ' Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son, 
 
BALDEE DEAD 241 
 
 Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these ? 
 
 That one, long portion'd with his doom of death. 
 
 Should change his lot, and fill another's life, 
 
 And Hela yield to this, and let him go ! 
 
 On Balder Death hath laid her hand, not thee ; 
 
 Nor doth she count this life a price for that. 
 
 For many Gods in Heaven, not thou alone, 
 
 Would freely die to purchase Balder back, 120 
 
 And wend themselves to Hela's gloomy realm. 
 
 For not so gladsome is that life in Heaven 
 
 Which Gods and Heroes lead, in feast and fray. 
 
 Waiting the darkness of the final times, 
 
 That one should grudge its loss for Balder's sake. 
 
 Balder their joy, so bright, so lov'd a God. 
 
 But Fate withstands, and laws forbid this way. 
 
 Yet in my secret mind one way I know, 
 
 Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail : 129 
 
 But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.' 
 
 And the blind Hoder answer'd her, and said : — 
 ' What way is this, O Mother, that thou show'st ? 
 Is it a matter which a God might try ? ' 
 
 And straight the Mother of the Gods replied : — 
 ' There is a way which leads to Hela's realm. 
 Untrodden, lonely, far from light and Heaven. 
 Who goes that way must take no other horse 
 To ride, but Sleipner, Odin's horse, alone. 
 Nor must he choose that common path of Gods 
 Which every day they come and go in Heaven, 140 
 O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch. 
 Past Midgard Fortress, down to Earth and men ; 
 But he must tread a dark untravell'd road 
 Which branches from the north of Heaven, and ride 
 Nine days, nine nights, towards the northern ice. 
 Through valleys deep-engulph'd, with roaring streams. 
 And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge 
 Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, 
 Not Bifrost, but that bridge a Damsel keeps. 
 Who tells the passing troops of dead their way 160 
 To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela's realm. 
 And she will bid him northward steer his course : 
 Then he will journey through no lighted land, 
 
242 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set ; 
 
 But he must ever watch the northern Bear 
 
 Who from her frozen height with jealous eye 
 
 Confronts the Dog and Hunter in the south, 
 
 And is alone not dipt in Ocean's stream. 
 
 And straight he will come down to Ocean's strand ; 
 
 Ocean, whose watery ring enfolds the world, 160 
 
 And on whose marge the ancient Giants dwell. 
 
 But he will reach its unknown northern shore, 
 
 Far, far beyond the outmost Giant's home. 
 
 At the chink'd fields of ice, the waste of snow: 
 
 And he will fare across the dismal ice 
 
 Northward, until he meets a stretching wall 
 
 Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. 
 
 But then he must dismount, and on the ice 
 
 Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin's horse, 
 
 And make him leap the grate, and come within, 170 
 
 And he will see stretch round him Hela's realm. 
 
 The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead. 
 
 And hear the roaring of the streams of Hell. 
 
 And he will see the feeble shadowy tribes, 
 
 And Balder sitting crown'd, and Hela's throne. 
 
 Then he must not regard the wailful ghosts 
 
 Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around ; 
 
 But he must straight accost their solemn Queen, 
 
 And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers, 
 
 Telling her all that grief they have in Heaven 180 
 
 For Balder, whom she holds by right below : 
 
 If haply he may melt her heart with words. 
 
 And make her yield, and give him Balder laack.' 
 
 She spoke : but Hoder answer'd her and said : — 
 ' Mothei', a dreadful way is this thou show'st. 
 No journey for a sightless God to go.' 
 
 And straight the Mother of the Gods replied : — 
 ' Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son. 
 But he whom first thou meetest when thou com'st 
 To Asgard, and declar'st this hidden way, 190 
 
 Shall go, and I will be his guide unseen.' 
 
 She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil, 
 And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. 
 
BALDEE DEAD 243 
 
 But at the central hearth those Women old, 
 
 Who while the Mother spake had ceased their toil, 
 
 Began again to heap the sacred iire : 
 
 And Hoder turn'd, and left his mother's house, 
 
 Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea ; 
 
 And came again down to the roaring waves. 
 
 And back along the beach to Asgard went, 200 
 
 Pondering on that which Frea said should be. 
 
 But Night came down, and darken'd Asgard streets. 
 Then from their loathfed feast the Gods arose, 
 And lighted torches, and took up the corpse 
 Of Balder from the floor of Odin's hall. 
 And laid it on a bier, and bare him home 
 Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house 
 Breidablik, on whose columns Balder grav'd 
 The enchantments, that recall the dead to life : 
 For wise he was, and many curious arts, 210 
 
 Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew ; 
 Unhappy : but that art he did not know 
 To keep his own life safe, and see the sun : — 
 There to his hall the Gods brought Balder home, 
 And each bespake him as he laid him down : — 
 
 ' Would that ourselves, Balder, we were borne 
 Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin. 
 So thou might'st live, and still delight the Gods.' 
 
 They spake : and each went home to his own house. 
 But there was one, the first of all the Gods 220 
 
 For speed, and Hermod was his name in Heaven ; 
 Most fleet he was, but now he went the last, 
 Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house 
 Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell. 
 Against the harbour, by the city wall : 
 Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up 
 From the sea cityward, and knew his step ; 
 Nor yet could Hermod see his brother's face, 
 For it grew dark ; but Hoder touch'd his arm : 
 And as a spray of honeysuckle flowers 230 
 
 Brushes across a tired traveller's face 
 Who shuffles through the deep dew-moisten'd dust, 
 On a May evening, in the darken'd lanes. 
 And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by — 
 R 2 
 
244 BALDER DEAD 
 
 So Hoder brush'd by Hermod's side, and said : — 
 
 ' Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn 
 To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back ; 
 And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.' 
 
 He spake, and brush'd soft bj"^, and disappear'd. 
 And Hermod gaz'd into the night, and said : — 240 
 
 ' Who is it utters through the dark his hest 
 So quickly, and will wait for no reply ? 
 The voice was like the unhappy Hoder's voice. 
 Howbeit I will see, and do his hest ; 
 For there rang note divine in that command.' 
 
 So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came 
 Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house, 
 And all the Gods lay down in their own homes. 
 And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief, 
 Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other Gods : 2B0 
 
 And he went in, and shut the door, and fixt 
 His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. 
 
 But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose, 
 The throne, from which his eye surveys the world ; 
 And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode 
 To Asgard. And the stars came out in Heaven, 
 High over Asgard, to light home the King. 
 But fiercely Odin gallop'd, mov'd in heart ; 
 And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came • 
 And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang 260 
 
 Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets ; 
 And the Gods trembled on their golden beds 
 Hearing the wrathful Father coming home ; 
 For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came : 
 And to Valhalla's gate he rode, and left 
 Sleipner ; and Sleipner went to his own stall : 
 And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. 
 
 But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder's wife, 
 Came with the Goddesses who wrought her will, 
 And stood round Balder lying on his bier : 2/0 
 
 And at his head and feet she station'd Scalds 
 Who in their lives were famous for their song ; 
 These o'er the corpse inton'd a plaintive strain, 
 
BALDER DEAD 245 
 
 A dirge ; and Nanna and her train replied. 
 And far into the night they wail'd their dirge : 
 But when their souls were satisfied with wail, 
 They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went 
 Into an upper chamber, and lay down ; 
 And Frea seal'd her tired lids with sleep. 
 
 And twas when Night is bordering hard on Dawn, 
 When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low, 281 
 
 Then Balder's spirit through the gloom drew near, 
 In garb, in form, in feature as he was 
 Alive, and still the rays were round his head 
 Which were his glorious mark in Heaven ; he stood 
 Over against the curtain of the bed, 
 And gaz'd on Nanna as she slept, and spake : — 
 
 ' Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett'st thy woe. 
 Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes, 
 Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek ; but thou, 290 
 
 Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep. 
 Sleep on : I watch thee, and am here to aid. 
 Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul. 
 Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead. 
 For with to-morrow's dawn the Gods prepare 
 To gather wood, and build a funeral pile 
 Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire, 
 That sad, sole honour of the dead ; and thee 
 They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth, 
 With me, for thus ordains the common rite : 3C0 
 
 But it shall not be so : but mild, but swift, 
 But painless shall a stroke from Frea come, 
 To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul. 
 And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee. 
 And well I know that by no stroke of death. 
 Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die. 
 So it restor'd thee, Nanna, to my side, 
 Whom thou so well hast lov'd ; but I can smooth 
 Thy way, and this at least my prayers avail. 
 Yes, and I fain would altogether ward 310 
 
 Death from thy head, and with the Gods in Heaven 
 Prolong thy life, though not by thee desir'd: 
 But Eight bars this, not only thy desire. 
 Yet dreary. Nanna, is the life they lead 
 
246 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 In that dim world, in Hela's mouldering realm ; 
 
 And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead, 
 
 Whom Hela with austere control presides ; 
 
 For of the race of Gods is no one there 
 
 Save me alone, and Hela, solemn Queen : 
 
 And all the nobler souls of mortal men 320 
 
 On battle-field have met their death, and now 
 
 Feast in Valhalla, in my Father's hall ; 
 
 Only the inglorious sort are there below, 
 
 The old, the cowards, and the weak are there. 
 
 Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay. 
 
 But even there, O Nanna, we might find 
 
 Some solace in each other's look and speech. 
 
 Wandering together through that gloomy world. 
 
 And talking of the life we led in Heaven, 
 
 While we yet liv'd, among the other Gods.' 330 
 
 He spake, and straight his lineaments began 
 To fade : and Nanna in her sleep stretch'd out 
 Her arms towards him with a cry ; but he 
 Mournfully shook his head, and disappear'd. 
 And as the woodman sees a little smoke 
 Hang in the air, afield, and disappear — 
 So Balder faded in the night away. 
 And Nanna on her bed sunk back : but then 
 Frea, the Mother of the Gods, with stroke 
 Painless and swift, set free her airy soul, 340 
 
 Which took, on Balder's track, the way below : 
 And instantly the sacred Morn appear'd. 
 
 II 
 
 JOURNEY TO THE DEAD 
 
 Forth from the East, up the ascent of Heaven, 
 Day drove his courser with the Shining Mane ; 
 And in Valhalla, from his gable perch, 
 The golden-crested Cock began to crow : 
 Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night, 
 With shrill and dismal cries that Bird shall crow, 
 Warning the Gods that foes draw nigh to Heaven ; 
 But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note, 
 To wake the Gods and Heroes to their tasks. 
 And all the Gods, and all the Heroes, woke. 10 
 
BALDER DEAD 247 
 
 And from their beds the Heroes rose, and donn'd 
 
 Their arms, and led their horses from the stall, 
 
 And mounted them, and in Valhalla's court 
 
 Were rang'd ; and then the daily fray began. 
 
 And all day long they there are hack'd and hewn 
 
 'Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopp'd off, and blood ; 
 
 But all at night return to Odin's hall 
 
 Woundless and fresh : such lot is theirs in Heaven. 
 
 And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth 
 
 Toward Earth and fights of men ; and at their side ^0 
 
 Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode : 
 
 And over Bifrost, where is Heinidall's watch, 
 
 Past Midgard Portress, down to Earth they came : 
 
 There through some battle-field, where men fall fast, 
 
 Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride. 
 
 And pick the bravest warriors out for death. 
 
 Whom they bring back with them at night to Heaven, 
 
 To glad the Gods, and feast in Odin's hall. 
 
 But the Gods went not now, as otherwhile, 
 Into the Tilt- Yard, where the Heroes fought, 30 
 
 To feast their eyes with looking on the fray : 
 Nor did they to their Judgement-Place repair 
 By the ash Igdrasil, in Ida's plain, 
 Where they hold council, and give laws for men : 
 But they went, Odin first, the rest behind, 
 To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold ; 
 Where are in circle rang'd twelve golden chairs, 
 And in the midst one higher, Odin's throne : 
 There all the Gods in silence sate them down ; 
 And thus the Father of the Ages spake : — 40 
 
 Go quickly, Gods, bring wood to the seashore, 
 With all, which it beseems the dead to have 
 And make a funeral pile on Balder's ship. 
 On the twelfth day the Gods shall burn his corpse. 
 But Hermod, thou, take Sleipner, and ride down 
 To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back.' 
 
 So said he ; and the Gods arose, and took 
 Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor, 
 Shouldering his Hammer, which the Giants know : 
 Forth wended they, and drove their steeds before : 60 
 
248 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 And up the dewy mountain tracks they far'd 
 To the dark forests, in the early dawn ; 
 And up and down and side and slant they roam'd : 
 And from the glens all day an echo came 
 Of crashing falls ; for with his hammer Thor 
 Smote 'mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines 
 And burst their roots ; while to their tops the Gods 
 Made fast the woven ropes, and hal'd them down, 
 And lopp'd their boughs, and clove them on the sward, 
 And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw, 60 
 And drove them homeward ; and the snorting steeds 
 Went straining through the crackling brushwood down, 
 And by the darkling forest paths the Gods 
 Eollow'd, and on their shoulders carried boughs. 
 And they came out upon the plain, and pass'd 
 Asgard, and led their horses to the beach. 
 And loos'd them of their loads on the seashore, 
 And rang'd the wood in stacks by Balder's ship ; 
 And every God went home to his own house. 
 
 But when the Gods were to the forest gone 70 
 
 Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth 
 And saddled him ; before that, Sleipner brook'd 
 No meaner hand than Odin's on his mane. 
 On his broad back no lesser rider bore : 
 Yet docile now he stood at Hermod's side. 
 Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode. 
 Knowing the God they went to seek, how dear. 
 But Hermod mounted him, and sadly far'd. 
 In silence, up the dark untravell'd road 
 Which branches from the north of Heaven, and went 
 All day ; and Daylight wan'd, and Night came on. 81 
 And all that night he rode, and journey'd so. 
 Nine days, nine nights, towards the northern ice, 
 Through valleys deep-engulph'd, by roaring streams : 
 And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridge 
 Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, 
 And on the bridge a Damsel watching arm'd. 
 In the strait passage, at the further end. 
 Where the road issues between walling rocks. 
 Scant space that Warder left for passers by ; 90 
 
 But, as when cowherds in October drive 
 
BALDEK DEAD 249 
 
 Their kine across a snowy mountain pass 
 To winter pasture on the southern side, 
 And on the ridge a wagon chokes the way, 
 Wedg'd in the snow ; then painfully the hinds 
 With goad and shouting urge their cattle past, 
 Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snow 
 To right and left, and warm steam fills the air — 
 So on the bridge that Damsel block'd the way. 
 And question'd Hermod as he came, and said : — 100 
 
 ' Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse 
 Under whose hoofs the bridge o'er Giall's stream 
 Rumbles and shakes ? Tell me thy race and home. 
 But yestermorn five troops of dead pass'd by 
 Bound on their way below to Hela's realm, 
 Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone. 
 And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks 
 Like men who live and draw the vital air ; 
 Nor look'st thou pale and wan, like men deceas'd, 
 Souls bound below, my daily passers here.' 110 
 
 And the fleet-footed Hermod answer 'd her : — 
 ' Damsel, Hermod am I call'd, the son 
 Of Odin ; and my higli-roof'd house is built 
 Far hence, in Asgard, in the City of Gods : 
 And Sleipner, Odin's horse, is this I ride. 
 And I come, sent this road on Balder's track : 
 Say then, if he hath cross'd thy bridge or no ? ' 
 
 He spake ; the Warder of the bridge replied : — 
 ' Hermod, rarely do the feet of Gods 
 Or of the horses of the Gods resound 120 
 
 Upon my bridge ; and, when they cross, I know. 
 Balder hath gone this way, and ta'en the road 
 Below there, to the north, toward Hela's realm. 
 From here the cold white mist can be discern'd, 
 Not lit with sun, but through the darksome air 
 By the dim vapour-blotted light of stars. 
 Which hangs over the ice where lies the road. 
 For in that ice are lost those northern streams 
 Freezing and ridging in their onward flow. 
 Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run, 130 
 
 The spring that bubbles up by Hela's throne. 
 
250 BALDER DEAD 
 
 There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts, 
 Hela's pale swarms ; and there was Balder bound. 
 Ride on ; pass free : but he by this is there. ' 
 
 She spake, and stepp'd aside, and left him room. 
 And Hermod greeted her, and gallop 'd by 
 Across the bridge ; then she took post again. 
 But northward Hermod rode, the way below : 
 And o'er a darksome tract, which knows no sun, 
 But by the blotted light of stars, he far'd ; 140 
 
 And he came down to Ocean's northern strand 
 At the drear ice, beyond the Giants' home : 
 Thence on he journey'd o'er the fields of ice 
 Still north, until he met a stretching wall 
 Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. 
 Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths, 
 On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin's horse. 
 And made him leap the grate, and came within. 
 And he beheld spread round him Hela's realm. 
 The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, 150 
 
 And heard the thunder of the streams of Hell. 
 For near the wall the river of Roaring flows, 
 Outmost : the others near the centre run — 
 The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain : 
 These flow by Hela's throne, and near their spring. 
 And from the dark flock'd up the shadowy tribes : 
 And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-beds 
 Of some clear river, issuing from a lake, 
 On autumn days, before they cross the sea ; 
 And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangs 160 
 
 Swinging, and others skim the river streams. 
 And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores — 
 So around Hermod swarm'd the twittering ghosts. 
 Women, and infants, and young men who died 
 Too soon for fame, with white ungraven shields ; 
 And old men, known to Glory, but their star 
 Betray'd them, and of wasting age they died, 
 Not wounds : yet, dying, they their armour wore. 
 And now have chief regard in Hela's realm. 
 Behind fiock'd wrangling up a piteous crew, 170 
 
 Greeted of jione, disfeatur'd and forlorn — 
 Cowards, who were in sloughs interr'd alive : 
 
BALDEE DEAD 251 
 
 And round them still the wattled hurdles hung 
 
 Wherewith theystamp'd them down, and trodthem deep, 
 
 To hide their shameful memory from men. 
 
 But all he pass'd unhail'd, and reach'd the throne 
 
 Of Hela, and saw, near it, Balder crown'd. 
 
 And Hela sat thereon, with countenance stern ; 
 
 And thus bespake him first the solemn Queen : — - 
 
 ' Unhappy, how hast thou endur'd to leave 180 
 
 The light, and journey to the cheerless land 
 Where idly flit about the feeble shades ? 
 How didst thou cross the bridge o'er Giall's stream, 
 Being alive, and come to Ocean's shore ? 
 Or how o'erleap the grate that bars the wall ? ' 
 
 She spake : but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang, 
 And fell before her feet, and clasp'd her knees ; 
 And spake, and mild entreated her, and said : — 
 
 ' Hela, wherefore should the Gods declare 
 Their errands to each other, or the ways 190 
 
 They go ? the errand and the way is known. 
 Thou know'st, thou know'st, what grief we have in 
 
 Heaven 
 For Balder, whom thou hold'st by right below : 
 Eestore him, for what part fulfils he here ? 
 Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats. 
 And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy ? 
 Not for such end, O Queen, thou hold'st thy realm. 
 For Heaven was Balder born, the City of Gods 
 And Heroes, where they live in light and joy : 
 Thither restore him, for his place is there.' 200 
 
 He spoke ; and grave replied the solemn Queen :-^ 
 ' Hermod, for he thou art, thou Son of Heaven ! 
 A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine. 
 Do the Gods send to me to make them blest ? 
 Small bliss my race hath of the Gods obtain'd. 
 Three mighty children to my Father Lok 
 Did Angerbode, the Giantess, bring forth — 
 Fenris the Wolf, the Serpent huge, and Me : 
 Of these the Serpent in the sea ye cast, 
 Who since in your despite hath wax'd amain, 210 
 
252 BALDEK DEAD 
 
 And now with gleaming ring enfolds the world : 
 
 Me on this cheerless nether world ye threw 
 
 And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule : 
 
 "While on his island in the lake, afar, 
 
 Made fast to the bor'd crag, by wile not strength 
 
 Subdu'd, with limber chains lives Fenris bound. 
 
 Lok still subsists in Heaven, our Father wise, 
 
 Your mate, though loath'd, and feasts in Odin's hall ; 
 
 But him. too foes await, and netted snares, 
 
 And in a cave a bed of needle rocks, 220 
 
 And o'er his visage serpents dropping gall. 
 
 Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds, 
 
 And with himself set us liis offspring free, 
 
 When he guides Muspel's children to their bourne. 
 
 Till then in peril or in pain we live, 
 
 Wrought by the Gods : and ask the Gods our aid ? 
 
 Howbeit we abide our day : till then, 
 
 We do not as some feebler haters do. 
 
 Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs, 
 
 Helpless to better us, or ruin them. 230 
 
 Come then ; if Balder was so dear belov'd, 
 
 And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven's — 
 
 Hear, how to Heaven may Balder be restor'd. 
 
 Show me through all the world the signs of grief : 
 
 Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops : 
 
 Let all that lives and moves upon the earth 
 
 Weep him, and all that is without life weep : 
 
 Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him ; plants and stones. 
 
 So shall I know the lost was dear indeed, 239 
 
 And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven.' 
 
 She spake ; and Hermod answer'd her, and said : — 
 ' Hela, such as thou say'st, the terms shall be. 
 But come, declare me this, and truly tell : 
 May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail ? 
 Or is it here withheld to greet the dead ? ' 
 
 He spake ; and straightway Hela answer'd him : — 
 ' Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and hold 
 Converse : his speech remains, though he be dead.' 
 
 And straight to Balder Hermod turn'd, and spake : — 
 ' Even in the abode of Death, O Balder, hail ! 250 
 
BALDEE DEAD 253 
 
 Thou hear'st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine, 
 
 The terms of thy releasement hence to Heaven : 
 
 Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfill'd. 
 
 Eor not unmindful of thee are the Gods 
 
 Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell ; 
 
 Even here they seek thee out, in Hela's realm. 
 
 And sure of all the happiest far art thou 
 
 Who ever have been known in Earth or Heaven : 
 
 Alive, thou wert of Gods the most belov'd : 
 
 And now thou sittest crown'd by Hela's side, 260 
 
 Here, and hast honour among all the dead.' 
 
 He spake ; and Balder utter'd him reply, 
 But feebly, as a voice far off ; he said : — 
 
 ' Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death. 
 Better to live a slave, a captur'd man. 
 Who scatters rushes in a master's hall. 
 Than be a crown'd king here, and rule the dead. 
 And now I count not of these terms as safe 
 To be fulfill'd, nor my return as sure, 
 Though I be lov'd, and many mourn my death : 270 
 For double-minded ever was the seed 
 Of Lok, and double are the gifts they give. 
 Howbeit, report thy message ; and therewith, 
 To Odin, to my Father, take this ring, 
 Memorial of me, whether sav'd or no : 
 And tell the Heaven-born Gods how thou hast seen 
 Me sitting here below by Hela's side, 
 Crown'd, having honour among all the dead.' 
 
 He spake, and rais'd his hand, and gave the ring. 
 And with inscrutable regard the Queen 280 
 
 Of Hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb. 
 But Hermod took the ring, and yet once more 
 Kneel'd and did homage to the solemn Queen ; 
 Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to ride 
 Back, through the astonish'd tribes of dead, to Heaven. 
 And to the wall he came, and found the grate 
 Lifted, and issued on the fields of ice ; 
 And o'er the ice he far'd to Ocean's strand, 
 And up from thence, a wet and misty road, 
 To the arm'd Damsel's bridge, and Giall's stream. 290 
 
254 BALDER DEAD 
 
 Worse was that way to go than to return, 
 
 For him : for others all return is barr'd. 
 
 Nine days he took to go, two to return ; 
 
 And on the twelfth morn saw the light of Heaven. 
 
 And as a traveller in the early dawn 
 
 To the steep edge of some great valley comes 
 
 Through which a river flows, and sees beneath 
 
 Clouds of white rolling vapours fill the vale. 
 
 But o'er them, on the farther slope, descries 299 
 
 Vineyards, and crofts, and pastures, bright with sun — 
 
 So Hermod, o'er the fog between, saw Heaven. 
 
 And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the air 
 
 Of Heaven : and mightily, as wing'd, he flew. 
 
 And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise : 
 
 And he drew near, and heard no living voice 
 
 In Asgard ; and the golden halls were dumb. 
 
 Then Hermod knew what labour held the Gods : 
 
 And through the empty streets he rode, and pass'd 
 
 Under the gate-house to the sands, and found 
 
 The Gods on the seashore by Balder's ship. 310 
 
 III 
 
 FUNERAL 
 
 The Gods held talk together, group'd in knots, 
 Round Balder's corpse, which they had thither borne ; 
 And Hermod came down towards them from the gate. 
 And Lok, the Father of the Serpent, first 
 Beheld him come, and to his neighbour spake : — 
 
 ' See, here is Hermod, who comes single back 
 From Hell ; and shall I tell thee how he seems '? 
 Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog. 
 Some morn, at market, in a crowded town — 
 Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain, 10 
 And follows this man after that, for hours ; 
 And, late at evening, spent and panting, falls 
 Before a stranger's threshold, not his home. 
 With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongue 
 Hangs quivering out between his dust-smear'd jaws, 
 And piteously he eyes the passers by : 
 But home his master comes to his own farm, 
 Far in the country, wondering where he is — 
 So Hermod comes to-day unfollow'd home.' 
 
BALDEE DEAD 256 
 
 And straight his neighbour, mov'd with wrath, 
 replied ; — 20 
 
 ' Deceiver, fair in form, but false in heart, 
 Enemy, Mocker, whom, though Gods, we hate — 
 Peace, lest our Father Odin hear thee gibe. 
 Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand. 
 And bind thy carcase, like a bale, with cords. 
 And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim. 
 If clear from plotting Balder's death, to swim ; 
 But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown, 
 And perish, against fate, before thy day ! ' 
 
 So they two soft to one another spake. 30 
 
 But Odin look'd toward the land, and saw 
 His messenger ; and he stood forth, and cried : 
 And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down, 
 And in his Father's hand put Sleipner's rein. 
 And greeted Odin and the Gods, and said : — 
 
 ' Odin, my Father, and ye, Gods of Heaven ! 
 Lo, home, having perform'd your will, I come. 
 Into the joyless kingdom have I been, 
 Below, and look'd upon the shadowy tribes 
 Of ghosts, and commun'd with their solemn Queen ; 40 
 And to your prayer she sends you this reply : — 
 Show iter through all the world the signs of grief : 
 Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder stops. 
 Let Gods, men, hrutes, beweep him, plants and stones. 
 So shall she hnotv your loss was dear indeed. 
 And bend her heart, and give you Balder back.' 
 
 He spoke ; and all the Gods to Odin look'd : 
 And straight the Father of the Ages said : — 
 
 ' Ye Gods, these terms may keep another day. 
 But now, put on your arms, and mount your steeds, 60 
 And in procession all come near, and weep 
 Balder ; for that is what the dead desire. 
 When ye enough have wept, then build a pile 
 Of the heap'd wood, and burn his corpse with fire 
 Out of our sight ; that we may turn from grief, 
 And lead, as erst, our daily life in Heaven.' 
 
266 BALDER DEAD 
 
 He spoke ; and the Gods arm'd : and Odin donn'd 
 His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold, 
 And led the way on Sleipner : and the rest 
 Follow'd, in tears, their Father and their King. 60 
 
 And thrice in arms around the dead they rode, 
 Weeping ; the sands were wetted, and their arms, 
 With their thick-falling tears : so good a friend 
 They mourn'd that day, so bright, so lov'd a God. 
 And Odin came, and laid his kingly hands 
 On Balder 's breast, and thus began the wail : — 
 
 ' Farewell, O Balder, bright and lov'd, my Son ! 
 In that great day, the Twilight of the Gods, 
 When Muspel's children shall beleaguer Heaven, 
 Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm.' 70 
 
 Thou earnest near the next, O Warrior Thor ! 
 Shouldering thy Hammer, in thy chariot drawn, 
 Swaying the long-hair'd Goats with silver'd rein ; 
 And over Balder's corpse these words didst say : — 
 
 ' Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land. 
 And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts. 
 Now, and I know not how they prize thee there. 
 But here, I know, thou wilt be miss'd and mourn'd. 
 For haughty spirits and high wraths are rife 
 Among the Gods and Heroes here in Heaven, 80 
 
 As among those, whose joy and work is war : 
 And daily strifes arise, and angry words : 
 But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day, 
 Heard no one ever an injurious word 
 To God or Hero, but thou keptest back 
 The others, labouring to compose their brawls. 
 Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind : 
 For we lose him, who smooth'd all strife in Heaven.' 
 
 He spake : and all the Gods assenting wail'd. 
 And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears : 90 
 
 The loveliest Goddess she in Heaven, by all 
 Most honour'd after Frea, Odin's wife : 
 Her long ago the wandering Oder took 
 To mate, but left her to roam distant lands ; 
 Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold : 
 Names hath she many ; Vanadis on earth 
 
BALDER DEAD 257 
 
 They call her ; Preya is her name in Heaven : 
 She in her hands took Balder's head, and spake : — 
 
 ' Balder, my brother, thou art gone a road 
 Unknown and long, and haply on that way 100 
 
 My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met, 
 For in the paths of Heaven he is not found. 
 Oh, if it be so, tell him what thou wert 
 To his neglected wife, and what he is, 
 And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word. 
 For he, my husband, left me here to pine, 
 Not long a wife, when his unquiet heart 
 First drove him from me into distant lands. 
 Since then I vainly seek him through the world, 
 And weep from shore to shore my golden tears, no 
 But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain. 
 Thou only. Balder, wert for ever kind. 
 To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say : — 
 Weep not, Freya, weep no golden tears ! 
 One day the wandering Oder will return, 
 Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search 
 On some great road, or resting in an inn, 
 Or at a ford, or sleeping hy a tree. — 
 So Balder said ; but Oder, well I know, 
 My truant Oder I shall see no more 120 
 
 To the world's end ; and Balder now is gone ; 
 And I am left uncomforted in Heaven.' 
 
 She spake ; and all the Goddesses bewail'd. 
 Last, from among the Heroes one came near, 
 No God, but of the Hero -troop the chief — 
 Eegner, who swept the northern sea with fleets. 
 And rul'd o'er Denmark and the heathy isles, 
 Living ; but Ella captur'd him and slew : 
 A king, whose fame then fill'd the vast of Heaven, 
 Now time obscures it, and men's later deeds : 130 
 
 He last approach'd the corpse, and spake, and said : — 
 
 ' Balder, there yet are many Scalds in Heaven 
 Still left, and that chief Scald, thy brother Brage, 
 Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone : 
 And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear. 
 After the feast is done, in Odin's hall : 
 
258 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 But they harp ever on one string, and wake 
 
 Remembrance in our soul of wars alone, 
 
 Such as on earth we valiantly have wag'd, 
 
 And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death : UO 
 
 But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strike 
 
 Another note, and, like a bird in spring, 
 
 Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth, 
 
 And wife, and children, and our ancient home. 
 
 Yes, and I too remember'd then no more 
 
 My dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead, 
 
 Nor Ella's victory on the English coast ; 
 
 But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle ; 
 
 And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tend 
 
 Her flock along the white Norwegian beach : 150 
 
 Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy : 
 
 Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead.' 
 
 So Eegner spake, and all the Heroes groan'd. 
 But now the sun had pass'd the height of Heaven, 
 And soon had all that day been spent in wail ; 
 But then the Father of the Ages said : — 
 
 ' Ye Gods, there well may be too much of wail. 
 Bring now the gather'd wood to Balder's ship ; 
 Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre.' 159 
 
 But when the Gods and Heroes heard, they brought 
 The wood to Balder's ship, and built a pile. 
 Full ths deck's breadth, and lofty ; then the corpse 
 Of Balder on the highest top they laid. 
 With Nanna on his right, and on his left 
 Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew. 
 And they set jars of wine and oil to lean 
 Against the bodies, and stuck torches near. 
 Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with turpentine ; 
 And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff, 
 And slew the dogs which at his table fed, 170 
 
 And his horse, Balder's horse, whom most he lov'd, 
 And threw them on the pyre, and Odin threw 
 A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring. 
 They fixt the mast, and hoisted up the sails, 
 Then they put fire to the wood ; and Thor 
 
BALDEE DEAD 259 
 
 Set his stout shoulder hard against the stern 
 
 To push the ship through the thick sand : sparks flew 
 
 From the deep trench she plough'd — so strong a God 
 
 Furrow'd it- — and the water gurgled in. 
 
 And the Ship floated on the waves, and rock'd : 180 
 
 But in the hills a strong East-Wind arose, 
 
 And came down moaning to the sea ; first squalls 
 
 Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady rush'd 
 
 The breeze, and fill'd the sails, and blew the fire. 
 
 And, wreath'd in smoke, the Ship stood out to sea. 
 
 Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire, 
 
 And the pile crackled ; and between the logs 
 
 Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt. 
 
 Curling and darting, higher, until they lick'd 
 
 The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast, 190 
 
 And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still the Ship 
 
 Drove on, ablaze, above her hull, with fire. 
 
 And the Gods stood upon the beach, and gaz'd : 
 
 And, while they gaz'd, the Sun went lurid down 
 
 Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and Night came on. 
 
 Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm. 
 
 But through the dark they watch'd the burning Ship 
 
 Still carried o'er the distant waters on 
 
 Farther and farther, like an Eye of Fire. 
 
 And as in the dark night a travelling man 200 
 
 Who bivouacs in a forest 'mid the hills. 
 
 Sees suddenly a spire of flame shoot up 
 
 Out of the black waste forest, far below. 
 
 Which woodcutters have lighted near their lodge 
 
 Against the wolves ; and all night long it flares : — 
 
 So flar'd, in the far darkness, Balder's pyre. 
 
 But fainter, as the stars rose high, it burn'd ; 
 
 The bodies were consum'd, ash chok'd the pile : 
 
 And as in a decaying winter fire 209 
 
 A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of sparks— 
 
 So, with a shower of sparks, the pile fell in. 
 
 Reddening the sea around ; and all was dark. 
 
 But the Gods went by starlight up the shore 
 To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall 
 At table, and the funeral-feast began. 
 All night they ate the boar Serimner's fiesh, 
 s 2 
 
260 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 And from their horns, with silver rimm'd, drank mead, 
 Silent, and waited for the sacred Morn. 
 
 And Morning over all the world was spread. 
 Then from their loathfed feast the Gods arose, 220 
 
 And took their horses, and set forth to ride 
 O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch. 
 To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida's plain : 
 Thor came on foot ; the rest on horseback rode. 
 And they found Mimir sitting by his Fount 
 Of Wisdom, which beneath the ashtree springs ; 
 And saw the Nornies watering the roots 
 Of that world-shadowing tree with Honey-dew : 
 There came the Gods, and sate them down on stones : 
 And thus the Father of the Ages said : — 230 
 
 'Ye Gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought. 
 Accept them or reject them ; both have grounds. 
 Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfiU'd, 
 To leave for ever Balder in the grave. 
 An unrecover'd prisoner, shade with shades. 
 But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail ? — 
 Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfiU'd ; 
 For dear-belov'd was Balder while he liv'd 
 In Heaven and Earth, and who would grudge him tears? 
 But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come, 240 
 These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud. 
 Bethink ye, Gods, is there no other way ? — 
 Speak, were not this a way, the way for Gods ? 
 If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms, 
 Mounted on Sleipner, with the Warrior Thor 
 Drawn in his car beside me, and my sons. 
 All the strong brood of Heaven, to swell my train. 
 Should make irruption into Hela's realm, 
 And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light, 
 And bring in triumph Balder back to Heaven ? ' 260 
 
 He spake ; and his fierce sons applauded loud. 
 But Frea, Mother of the Gods, arose. 
 Daughter and wife of Odin ; thus she said : — 
 
 ' Odin, thou Whirlwind, what a threat is this I 
 Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine. 
 
BALDER DEAD 261 
 
 For of all powers the mightiest far art thou, 
 
 Lord over men on Earth, and Gods in Heaven ; 
 
 Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheld 
 
 One thing ; to undo what thou thyself hast rul'd. 
 
 For all which hath been fixt, was fixt by thee : 260 
 
 In the beginning, ere the Gods were born, 
 
 Before the Heavens were builded, thou didst slay 
 
 The Giant Ymir, whom the Abyss brought forth, 
 
 Thou and thy brethren fierce, the Sons of Bor, 
 
 And threw his trunk to choke the abysmal void : 
 
 But of his flesh and members thou didst build 
 
 The Earth and Ocean, and above them Heaven : 
 
 And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns. 
 
 Thou sent'st and fetched'st fire, and madest lights, 
 
 Sun Moon and Stars, which thou hast hung in Heaven, 
 
 Dividing clear the paths of night and day : 271 
 
 And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard Fort : 
 
 Then me thou mad'st ; of us the Gods were born : 
 
 Then, walking by the sea, thou foundest spars 
 
 Of wood, and framed'st men, who till the earth. 
 
 Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail : 
 
 And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown, 
 
 Save one, Bergelmer ; he on shipboard fled 
 
 Thy deluge, and from him the Giants sprang ; 
 
 But all that brood thou hast remov'd far off, 280 
 
 And set by Ocean's utmost marge to dwell : 
 
 But Hela into Niflheim thou threw'st. 
 
 And gav'st her nine unlighted worlds to rule, 
 
 A Queen, and empire over all the dead. 
 
 That empire wilt thou now invade, light up 
 
 Her darkness, from her grasp a subject tear ? — 
 
 Try it ; but I, for one, will not applaud. 
 
 Nor do I merit, Odin, thou should'st slight 
 
 Me and my words, though thou be first in Heaven : 
 
 For I too am a Goddess, born of thee, 290 
 
 Thine eldest, and of me the Gods are sprung ; 
 
 And all that is to come I know, but lock 
 
 In my own breast, and have to none reveal'd. 
 
 Come then ; since Hela holds by right her prey. 
 
 But offers terms for his release to Heaven, 
 
 Accept the chance ; — thou canst no more obtain. 
 
 Send through the world thy messengers : entreat 
 
262 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 All living and unliving things to weep 
 
 For Balder ; if thou haply thus may'st melt 
 
 Hela, and win the lov'd one back to Heaven.' 300 
 
 She spake, and on her face let fall her veil, 
 And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. 
 Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word ; 
 Straightway he spake, and thus address'd the Gods : 
 
 ' Go quickly forth through all the world, and pray 
 All living and unliving things to weep 
 Balder, if haply he may thus be won. ' 
 
 When the Gods heard, they straight arose, and took 
 Their horses, and rode forth through all the world. 
 North south east west they struck, and roam'd the 
 world, 310 
 
 Entreating all things to weep Balder's death : 
 And all that liv'd, and all without life, wept. 
 And as in winter, when the frost breaks up, 
 At winter's end, before the spring begins. 
 And a warm west wind blows, and thaw sets in — 
 After an hour a dripping sound is heard 
 In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow 
 Under the trees is dibbled thick with holes. 
 And from the boughs the snowloads shuffle down ; 
 And in fields sloping to the south dark plots 320 
 
 Of grass peep out amid surrounding snow, 
 And widen, and the peasant's heart is glad — 
 So through the world was heard a dripping noise 
 Of all things weeping to bring Balder back : 
 And there fell joy upon the Gods to hear. 
 
 But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he took 
 To show him spits and beaches of the sea 
 Far off, where some unwarn'd might fail to weep — 
 Niord, the God of storms, whom fishers know : 
 Not born in Heaven ; he was in Vanheim rear'd, 330 
 With men, but lives a hostage with the Gods : 
 He knows each frith, and every rocky creek 
 Fring'd with dark pines, and sands where seafowl 
 
 scream : — 
 They two scour'd every coast, and all things wept. 
 And they rode home together, through the wood 
 
BALDEE DEAD 263 
 
 Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies 
 Bordering the Giants, where the trees are iron ; 
 There in the wood before a cave they came 
 Where sate, in the cave's mouth, a skinny Hag, 
 Toothless and old ; she gibes the passers by : 340 
 
 Thok is she call'd ; but now Lok wore her shape : 
 She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, and said : — 
 
 ' Ye Gods, good lack, is it so dull in Heaven, 
 That ye come pleasuring to Thok's Iron Wood ? 
 Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites. 
 Look, as in some boor's yard a sweet-breath'd cow 
 Whose manger is stuff 'd full of good fresh hay 
 Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head 
 To chew the straw, her litter, at her feet — ■ 349 
 
 So ye grow squeamish, Gods, and sniff at Heaven.' 
 
 She spake ; but Hermod answer'd her and said :— 
 ' Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears. 
 Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, 
 But will restore, if all things give him tears. 
 Begrudge not thine ; to all was Balder dear.' 
 
 But, with a louder laugh, the Hag replied : — 
 'Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears? 
 Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre. 
 Weep him all other things, if weep they will— 
 I weep him not : let Hela keep her prey ! ' 360 
 
 She spake ; and to the cavern's depth she fled, 
 Mocking : and Hermod knew their toil was vain. 
 And as seafaring men, who long have wrought 
 In the great deep for gain, at last come home. 
 And towards evening see the headlands rise 
 Of their own country, and can clear descry 
 A fire of wither'd furze which boys have lit 
 Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds 
 Out of a till'd field inland ; — then the wind 
 Catches them, and drives out again to sea : 370 
 
 And they go long days tossing up and down 
 Over the grey sea ridges ; and the glimpse 
 Of port they had makes bitterer far their toil — 
 So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their joy. 
 
264 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake : — 
 ' It is the Accuser Lok, who flouts us all. 
 Ride back, and tell in Heaven this heavy news. 
 I must again below, to Hela's realm.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Niord set forth back to Heaven. 
 But northward Hermod rode, the way below ; 380 
 
 The way he knew : and travers'd Giall's stream. 
 And down to Ocean grop'd, and cross'd the ice, 
 And came beneath the wall, and found the grate 
 Still lifted ; well was his return foreknown. 
 And once more Hermod saw around him spread 
 The joyless plains, and heard the streams of Hell. 
 But as he enter'd, on the extremest bound 
 Of Niflheim, he saw one Ghost come near, 
 Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid ; 
 Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew : 390 
 And Hermod look'd, and knew liis brother's ghost. 
 And call'd him by his name, and sternly said : — 
 
 ' Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes ! 
 Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulph 
 Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here. 
 In twilight, on the lonely verge of Hell, 
 Far from the other ghosts, and Hela's throne ? 
 Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder's voice. 
 Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.' 
 
 He spoke ; but Hoder answer'd him, and said : — 
 ' Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursue 401 
 
 The unhappy with reproach, even in the grave ? 
 For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom. 
 Not daily to endure abhorring Gods, 
 Nor with a hateful presence cumber Heaven — 
 And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying bj'? 
 No less than Balder have I lost the light 
 Of Heaven, and communion with my kin : 
 I too had once a wife, and once a child, 
 And substance, and a golden house in Heaven : 410 
 But all I left oif my own act, and fled 
 Below, and dost thou hate me even here ? 
 Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all. 
 Though he has cause, have any cause ; but he, 
 
BALDER DEAD 265 
 
 When that with downcast looks I hither came, 
 
 Stretch'd forth his hand, and, with benignant voice. 
 
 Welcome, he said, if there be welcome lierc, 
 
 Brother and fellow-sport of Loh with me. 
 
 And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to force 
 
 My hated converse on tliee, came I up 420 
 
 From the deep gloom, where I will now return ; 
 
 But earnestly I long'd to hover near. 
 
 Not too far off, when that thou earnest by, 
 
 To feel the presence of a brother God, 
 
 And hear the passage of a horse of Heaven, 
 
 For the last time : for here thou com'st no more.' 
 
 He spake, and turn'd to go to the inner gloom. 
 But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, and said : — 
 
 ' Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind. 
 Truly thou say'st, the planning guilty mind 430 
 
 Was Lok's ; the unwitting hand alone was thine. 
 But Gods are like the sons of men in this — 
 When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause. 
 Howbeit stay, and be appeas'd ; and tell — 
 Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side. 
 Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd dead ? ' 
 
 And the blind Hoder answer'd him and spake : — 
 ' His place of state remains by Hela's side. 
 But empty : for his wife, for Naiina came 
 Lately below, and join'd him ; and the Pair 440 
 
 Frequent the still recesses of the realm 
 Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb'd. 
 But they too doubtless, will have breath'd the balm 
 Which floats before a visitant from Heaven, 
 And have drawn upwards to this verge of Hell.' 
 
 He spake ; and, as he ceas'd, a puff of wind 
 Eoll'd heavily the leaden mist aside 
 Round where they stood, and they beheld Two Forms 
 Make towards them o'er the stretching cloudy plain. 
 And Hermod straight perceiv'd them, who they were. 
 Balder and Nanna ; and to Balder said : — 451 
 
 ' Balder, too truly thou foresaw'st a snare. 
 Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey. 
 
266 BALDEK DEAD 
 
 No more to Asgard shalfc thou come, nor lodge 
 In thy own house, Breidablik, nor enjoy 
 The love all bear towards thee, nor train up 
 Forset, thy son, to be belov'd like thee. 
 Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age. 
 Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail ! ' 459 
 
 He spake ; and Balder answer'd him and said : — 
 ' Hail and farewell, for here thou com'st no more. 
 Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt'st 
 In Heaven, nor let the other Gods lament. 
 As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn : 
 For Nanna hath rejoin'd me, who, of old, 
 In Heaven, was seldom parted from my side ; 
 And still the acceptance follows me, which crown'd 
 My former life, and cheers me even here. 
 The iron frown of Hela is relax'd 
 
 When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead 470 
 
 Trust me, and gladly bring for my award 
 Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates, 
 Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.' 
 
 And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply : — 
 ' Thou hast then all the solace death allows, 
 Esteem and function : and so far is well. 
 Yet here thou liest. Balder, underground. 
 Busting for ever : and the years roll on, 
 The generations pass, the ages grow. 
 And bring us nearer to the final day 480 
 
 When from the south shall march the Fiery Band 
 And cross the Bridge of Heaven, with Lok for guide. 
 And Penris at his heel with broken chain : 
 While from the east the Giant Eymer steers 
 His ship, and the great Serpent makes to land ; 
 And all are marshall'd in one flaming square 
 Against the Gods, upon the plains of Heaven. 
 I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.' 488 
 
 He spake ; but Balder answer'd him and said : — • 
 ' Mourn not for me : Mourn, Hermod, for the Gods : 
 Mourn for the men on Earth, the Gods in Heaven, 
 Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day. 
 The day will come, when Asgard's towers shall fall, 
 
BALDER DEAD 267 
 
 And Odin, and his Sons, the seed of Heaven : 
 
 But what were I, to save them in that hour ? 
 
 If strength could save them, could not Odin save. 
 
 My Father, and his pride, the Warrior Thor, 
 
 Vidar the Silent, the Impetuous Tyr ? 
 
 I, what were I, when these can naught avail '? 
 
 Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, 503 
 
 And the two Hosts are marshall'd, and in Heaven 
 
 The golden-crested Cock shall sound alarm. 
 
 And his black Brother-Bird from hence reply. 
 
 And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour — 
 
 Longing will stir within my breast, though vain. 
 
 But not to me so grievous, as, I know, 
 
 To other Gods it were, is my enforc'd 
 
 Absence from fields where I could nothing aid : 
 
 For I am long since weary of your storm 
 
 Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your life 610 
 
 Something too much of war and broils, which make 
 
 Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. 
 
 Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail ; 
 
 Mine ears are stunn'd with blows, and sick for calm. 
 
 Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 
 
 Unarm'd, inglorious : I attend the course 
 
 Of ages, and my late return to light. 
 
 In times less alien to a spirit mild, 
 
 In new-recover'd seats, the happier day.' 519 
 
 He spake ; and the fleet Hermod thus replied : — 
 ' Brother, what seats are these, what happier day ? 
 Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.' 
 
 And the ray-crowned Balder answer'd him : — 
 'Far to the south, beyond The Blue, there spreads 
 Another Heaven, The Boundless : no one yet 
 Hath reach'd it : there hereafter shall arise 
 The second Asgard, with another name. 
 Thither, when o'er this present Earth and Heavens 
 The tempest of the latter days hath swept, 629 
 
 And they from sight have disappear'd, and sunk, 
 Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair : 
 Hoder and I shall join them from the grave. 
 There re-assembling we shall see emerge 
 
268 BALDEE DEAD 
 
 From the bright Ocean at our feet an Earth 
 
 More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits 
 
 Self-springing, and a seed of man preserv'd, 
 
 Who then shall live in peace, as now in war. 
 
 But we in Heaven shall find again with joy 
 
 The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats 
 
 Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of old ; 540 
 
 Re-enter them with wonder, never fill 
 
 Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears. 
 
 And we shall tread once more the well-known plain 
 
 Of Ida, and among the grass shall find 
 
 The golden dice with which we play'd of yore ; 
 
 And that will bring to mind the former life 
 
 And pastime of the Gods, the wise discourse 
 
 Of Odin, the delights of other days. 
 
 Hermod, pray that thou mayst join us then ! 
 Such for the future is my hope : meanwhile, 050 
 
 1 rest the thrall of Hela, and endure 
 
 Death, and the gloom which round me even now 
 Thickens, and to its inner gulph recalls. 
 Farewell, for longer speech is not allow'd." 
 
 He spoke, and wav'd farewell, and gave his hand 
 To Nanna ; and she gave their brother blind 
 Her hand, in turn, for guidance ; and The Three 
 Departed o'er the cloudy plain, and soon 
 Faded from sight into the interior gloom. 
 But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, 660 
 
 Mute, gazing after them in tears : and fain, 
 Fain had he foUow'd their receding steps. 
 Though they to Death were bound, and he to Heaven, 
 Then ; but a Power he could not break withheld. 
 And as a stork which idle boys have trapp'd. 
 And tied him in a yard, at autumn sees 
 Flocks of his kind pass flying o'er his head 
 To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun ; 
 He strains to join their flight, and, from his shed. 
 Follows them with a long complaining cry — 570 
 
 So Hermod gaz'd, and yearn'd to join his kin. 
 
 At last he sigh'd, and set forth back to Heaven. 
 
269 
 
 SEPARATION 
 
 [First published 1855.] 
 
 Sxop^-Not to me, at this bitter departing, 
 Speak of the sure consolations of Time. 
 
 Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting, 
 So but thy image endure in its prime. 
 
 But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature 
 Wills that remembrance should always decay ; 
 
 If the lov'd form and the deep-cherish'd feature 
 Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away — 
 
 Me let no half-effae'd memories cumber ! 
 
 Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee — 10 
 
 Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber — 
 
 Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me ! 
 
 Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me, 
 Scanning my face and the changes wrought there, — 
 
 Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me, 
 With the grey eyes, and the lovely Irotvn hair? 
 
 Separation — Title] Faded Leaves. III. Separation 1855. 
 
TWO POEMS FROM MAGAZINES, 1855 
 
 STANZAS FEOM THE GEANDE CHAETREUSE 
 
 [First published in Fraser's Magazine, April, lSfi5. 
 Reprinted 1867.] 
 
 Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused 
 With rain, where thick the crocus blows, 
 Past the dark forges long disused, 
 The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. 
 The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride. 
 Through forest, up the mountain-side. 
 
 The autumnal evening darkens round, 
 
 The wind is up, and drives the rain ; 
 
 While hark ! far down, with strangled sound 
 
 Doth the Dead Gruiers' stream complain, lo 
 
 Where that wet smoke among the woods 
 
 Over his boiling cauldron broods. 
 
 Swift rush the spectral vapours white 
 
 Past limestone scars with ragged pines, 
 
 Showing — then blotting from our sight. 
 
 Halt ! through the cloud-drift something shines ! 
 
 High in the valley, wet and drear. 
 
 The huts of Courrerie appear. 
 
 StriJce leftward ! cries our guide ; and higher 
 
 Mounts up the stony forest-way. 20 
 
 At last the encircling trees retire ; 
 
 Look ! through the showery twilight grey 
 
 What pointed roofs are these advance ? 
 
 A palace of the Kings of France ? 
 
 Ap proach.- for -whatwe aeek-jsJj^re. 
 Alight and sparely sup and wait 
 For rest in this outbuilding near ; 
 Then cross the sward and reach that gate ; 
 
 13 Swift] Fast Fraser 1S5G. 
 
THE GKANDE CHAETEEUSE 271 
 
 Knock ; pass the wicket ! Thou art come 
 
 To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 30 
 
 The silent courts, where night and day 
 
 Into their stone-carved basins cold 
 
 The splashing icy fountains play, 
 
 The humid corridors behold, 
 
 Where ghostlike in the deepening night 
 
 Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white. 
 
 The chapel, where no organ's peal 
 
 Invests the stern and naked prayer. 
 
 With penitential cries they kneel 
 
 And wrestle ; rising then, with bare 40 
 
 And white uplifted faces stand. 
 
 Passing the Host from hand to hand ; 
 
 Each takes ; and then his visage wan 
 Is buried in his cowl once more. 
 The cells — the suffering Son of Man 
 Upon the wall ! the knee-worn floor ! 
 And, where they sleep, that- wooden bed, 
 Which shall their coffin be, when dead. 
 
 The library, where tract and tome 
 
 Not to feed priestly pride are there, EG 
 
 To hymn the conquering march of Eome, 
 
 Nor yet to amuse, as ours are ; 
 
 They paint of souls the inner strife, 
 
 Their drops of blood, their death in life. 
 
 The garden, overgrown — yet mild 
 
 Those fragrant herbs are flowering there ! 
 
 Strong children of the Alpine wild 
 
 Whose culture is the brethren's care ; 
 
 Of human tasks their only one, 
 
 And cheerful works beneath the sun. 60 
 
 Those halls too, destined to contain 
 Each its own pilgrim host of old, 
 From England, Germany, or Spain — 
 All are before me ! I behold 
 The House, the Brotherhood austere I 
 And what am I, that I am here ? 
 
272 STANZAS FROM THE 
 
 For rigorous teachers seized my youth. 
 
 And purged its Mth^jmdjWmmMiW 
 
 Show'd me the high white star oFTruIh,' 
 
 There .bade xae..ga.2&,.M£lAiheve_as;^ire ; " 70 
 
 Even now their whispers pierce the gloom : 
 
 What dost thou in this living tomb ? 
 
 Forgive me, masters of the mind ! 
 
 At whose behest I long ago 
 
 So much unlearnt, so much resign'd ! 
 
 I come not here to be your foe. 
 
 I seek these anchorites, not in ruth. 
 
 To curse and to deny your truth ; 
 
 Not as their friend or child I speak ! 
 
 But as on some far northern strand, 80 
 
 Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek 
 
 In pity and mournful awe might stand 
 
 Before some fallen Runic stone — 
 
 For both were faiths, and both are gone. 
 
 Wand ering be tw een two worlds, one dead, 
 
 The other powerless to be born. 
 
 With nowhere yet to rest my bead. 
 
 Like th ese, on earth I wait forlorn. 
 
 Their faith, my tears, the world deride ; 
 
 I come to shed them at their side. 90 
 
 Oh, hide me in 3'our gloom profound, 
 
 Ye solemn seats of holy pain ! 
 
 Take me, cowl'd forms, andjgaceL.mp, rx>iind,_ 
 
 Tiil 1 posses my soul again ! 
 
 Till free my thoughtsTeTori" me roll. 
 
 Not chafed by hourly false control. 
 
 For the world cries your faith is now 
 
 But a dead time's exploded dream ; 
 
 My melanc_h£ly,_sciolists.^a.y. 
 
 Is a pass*3 mode, an outworn theme — 100 
 
 As if the wof IdTiad"ever''Iiad 
 
 A faith, or sciolists been sad. 
 
 68 purged . . . trimm'd] prun'd . . . quencli'd Fraser 1855. 
 
 69 high white] pale cold Fraser 1855. 
 
 93 Invest me, steep me, fold me round, Fraser 1855. 
 101 ever] ever Fraser 1855, 
 
GRANDE CHARTREUSE 273 
 
 Ah, if it ie pass'd, take away, 
 At least, the restlessness — the pain ! 
 Be man henceforth no more a prey- 
 To these out-dated stings again ! 
 The nqWeness_ of gi'iefis gone — 
 Ah, leave usjiotjhe fret alone ! 
 
 But, if you cannot give us ease. 
 
 Last of the race of them who grieve 110 
 
 Here leave us to die out with these 
 
 Last of the people who believe ! 
 
 Silent, while years engrave the brow ; 
 
 Silent — the best are silent now. 
 
 Achilles ponders in his ten t, 
 
 Th e kings of modern thoughj)_a£g.,dunib ; 
 
 Silent they are, though not content. 
 
 And wait to see the future come. 
 
 Thgy have the grief men ha d_ojrvore. 
 
 But they^cpnteniand jery_no in^^^^ 120 
 
 Our fathers water'd with their tears 
 This sea of time whereon we sail ; 
 Their voices were in all men's ears 
 Who pass'd within their puissant hail. 
 Still the same Ocean round us raves, 
 But we stand mute and watch the waves. 
 
 For what avail'd it, all the noise 
 
 And pjutcrylof the former men? 
 
 Say, have their sons obtain'd more joys ? 
 
 Say, is life lighter now than then ? 130 
 
 The sufferers died, they left their pain ; 
 
 The pangs which tortured them remain. 
 
 'Whai-haLps..il.jia\v,.,tlxat Byron bore, 
 
 With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart. 
 
 Through Europe to the Aetolian shore 
 
 The pageax!.t__ofhis_bleeding heart ? 
 
 That thousands counted every^-oan, 
 
 And Europe made his woe her own '? 
 
 108 fret] -pang Fraser laSB. 121 Our'] Their Fraser 18B5. 
 
 126 we] they Fraser 1855. 129 obtain'd] aehiev'd i^raser iS55. 
 
274 STANZAS FEOM THE 
 
 What boots it, Shelley ! that the breeze 
 
 Carried thy lovely wail away, liO 
 
 Musical through Italian trees 
 
 That fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay '? 
 
 Inheritors of thy distress 
 
 Have restless hearts one throb the less ? 
 
 Or are we easier, to have read, 
 
 O Oberm ann ! the sad, stern page, 
 
 Which tells^us how thou hidd'st thy head 
 
 From the fierce tempest of thine age 
 
 In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, 
 
 Or chalets near the Alpine snow ? 150 
 
 Ye slumber in your silent grave ! 
 The world, which for an idle day 
 Grace to your mood of sadness gave, 
 Long since hath flung her weeds away. 
 Theeternal trifler breaks _y our spell ; 
 But w'e'^^we learnt your lore too well ! 
 
 There may, perhaps, yet dawn an age. 
 
 More fortunate, alas ! than we. 
 
 Which without hardness will be sage, 
 
 And gay without frivolity. 160 
 
 Sons of the world, oh, haste those years ; 
 
 But, till they rise, allow our tears ! 
 
 Allow them ! We admire with awe 
 The exulting thunder of your race ; 
 You give the universe your law. 
 You triumph over time and space. 
 Your pride of life, your tireless powers. 
 We mark them, but they are not ours. 
 
 We are like children rear'd in shade 
 
 Beneath some old-world abbey wall 170 
 
 Forgotten in a forest-glade 
 
 And secret from the eyes of all ; 
 
 Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves. 
 
 Their abbey, and its close of graves. 
 
 142 soft] dark Fraser 1S5S. 151 Ye . . . your] They . . . 
 
 their Fraser 18BB. 153, 155, 156 your] their Fraser 1855. 154 
 flung] thrown Fraser 1855. 168 We mark them] They awe 
 
 us Fraser 1856. 
 
GEANDE CHAETEEUSE 275 
 
 But whei-e the road runs near the stream, 
 
 Oft through the trees they catch a glance 
 
 Of passing troops in the sun's beam — 
 
 Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance ! 
 
 Forth to the world those soldiers fare. 
 
 To life, to cities, and to war. 180 
 
 And through the woods, another way, 
 Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, 
 Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, 
 Bound some old forest-lodge at morn ; 
 Gay dames are there in sylvan green, 
 Laughter and cries — those notes between ! 
 
 The banners flashing through the trees 
 
 Make their blood dance and chain their eyes ; 
 
 That bugle-music on the breeze 
 
 Arrests them with a charm'd surprise. 190 
 
 Banner by turns and bugle woo : 
 
 Ye shy recluses, follow too ! 
 
 O children, what do ye reply ? — 
 ' Action and pleasure, will ye roam 
 Through these secluded dells to cry 
 And call us ? but too late ye come ! 
 Too late for us your call ye blow 
 Whose bent was taken long ago. 
 
 ' Long since we pace this shadow'd nave ; 
 
 We watch those yellow tapers shine, 200 
 
 Emblems of hope over the grave, 
 
 In the high altar's depth divine ; 
 
 The organ carries to our ear 
 
 Its accents of another sphere. 
 
 ' Fenced early in this cloistral round 
 
 Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, 
 
 How should we grow in other ground ? 
 
 How should we flower in foreign air ? 
 
 Pass, baiiners, pass, and bugles, ceass ! ^v,^g^ 
 
 And leave our desert to ferpeaiSHt*"' .<*^*^210 
 
 — /{-on/ 
 
 179 t.he world those soldiers] the mighty world they Fraser 
 
 18B6. 201 hope over] light above Pi-aser 1855. 210 desert] 
 
 forest Fraser 1S55. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 HAWOETH CHUECHYAED 
 
 APRIL, 1855 
 
 [First published in Fraser's Magazine, May, 1855. J 
 
 Where, under Loughrigg, the stream 
 Of Eotha sparkles, the fields 
 Are green, in the house of one 
 Friendly and gentle, now dead, 
 Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend — 
 Four years since, on a mark'd 
 Evening, a meeting I saw. 
 
 Two friends met there, two fam'd 
 Gifted women. The one. 
 
 Brilliant with recent renown, 10 
 
 Young, unpractis'd, had told 
 With a Master's accent her feign'd 
 Story of passionate life : 
 The other, maturer in fame, 
 Earning, she too, her praise 
 First in Fiction, had since 
 Widen'd her sweep, and survey'd 
 History, Politics, Mind. 
 
 They met, held converse : they wrote 
 In a book which of glorious souls 20 
 
 Held memorial : Bard, 
 Warrior, Statesman, had left 
 Their names : — chief treasure of all, 
 Scott had consign'd there his last 
 Breathings of song, with a pen 
 Tottering, a death-stricken hand. 
 
 I beheld ; the obscure 
 Saw the famous. Alas ! 
 Years in number, it seem'd. 
 
 Lay before both, and a fame SO 
 
 Heighten'd, and multiplied power. 
 Behold ! The elder, to-day, 
 Lies expecting from Death, 
 In mortal weakness, a last 
 Summons : the younger is dead. 
 
HAWORTH CHUECHYAED 277 
 
 First to the living we pay 
 Mournful homage : the Muse 
 Gains not an earth-deafen'd ear. 
 
 Hail to the steadfast soul, 
 Which, unflinching and keen, 40 
 
 Wrought to erase from its depth 
 Mist, and illusion, and fear ! 
 Hail to the spirit which dar'd 
 Trust its own thoughts, before yet 
 Echoed her back by the crowd ! 
 Hail to the courage which gave 
 Voice to its creed, ere the creed 
 Won consecration from Time ! 
 
 Turn, Death, on the vile, 
 Turn on the foolish the stroke 60 
 
 Hanging now o'er a head 
 Active, beneficent, pure ! 
 But, if the prayer be in vain — 
 But, if the stroke must fall — 
 Her, whom we cannot save, 
 What might we say to console ? 
 
 She will not see her country lose 
 Its greatness, nor the reign of fools prolong'd. 
 She will behold no more 
 
 This ignominious spectacle, 60 
 
 Power dropping from the hand 
 Of paralytic factions, and no soul 
 To snatch and wield it : will not see 
 Her fellow people sit 
 Helplessly gazing on their own decline. 
 
 Myrtle and rose fit the young, 
 Laurel and oak the mature. 
 Private affections, for these, 
 Have run their circle, and left 
 Space for things far from themselves, 70 
 
 Thoughts of the general weal, 
 Country, and public cares : 
 Public cares, which move 
 Seldom and faintly the depth 
 
278 HAWOETH CHUECHYAKD 
 
 Of younger passionate souls 
 Plung'd in themselves, who demand 
 Only to live by the heart, 
 Only to love and be lov'd. 
 
 How shall we honour the young, 
 The ardent, the gifted ? how mourn ? 80 
 
 Console we cannot ; her ear 
 Is deaf. Far northward from here. 
 In a churchyard high mid the moors 
 Of Yorkshire, a little earth 
 Stops it for ever to praise. 
 
 Where, behind Keighley, the road 
 Up to the heart of the moors 
 Between heath-clad showery hills 
 Euns, and colliers' carts 
 
 Poach the deep ways coming down, 90 
 
 And a rough, grim'd race have their homes — 
 There, on its slope, is built 
 The moorland town. But the church 
 Stands on the crest of the hill. 
 Lonely and bleak ; at its side 
 The parsonage-house and the graves. 
 
 See ! in the desolate house 
 The childless father ! Alas — 
 Age, whom the most of us chide, 
 Chide, and put back, and delay — 100 
 
 Come, unupbraided for once ! 
 Lay thy benumbing hand, 
 Gratefully cold, on this brow ! 
 Shut out the grief, the despair ! 
 Weaken the sense of his loss ! 
 Deaden the infinite pain ! 
 
 Another grief I see, 
 Younger: but this the Muse, 
 In pity and silent awe 
 
 Severing what she cannot soothe, 110 
 
 With veil'd face and bow'd head. 
 Salutes, and passes by. 
 
HAWOETH CHUECirraED 279 
 
 Strew with roses the gi-ave 
 Of the early-dying. Alas ! 
 Early she goes on the path 
 To the Silent Country, and leaves 
 Half her laurels unwon, 
 Dying too soon : yet green 
 Laurels she had, and a course 
 Short, but redoubled by Fame. 120 
 
 For him who must live many years 
 That life is best which slips away 
 Out of the light, and mutely ; which avoids 
 Fame, and her less-fair followers, Envy, Strife, 
 Stupid Detraction, Jealousy, Cabal, 
 Insincere Praises : — which descends 
 The mossy quiet track to Age. 
 
 But, when immature Death 
 Beckons too early the guest 
 
 From the half-tried Banquet of Life, 130 
 
 Young, in the bloom of his days ; 
 Leaves no leisure to press, 
 Slow and surely, the sweet 
 Of a tranquil life in the shade — 
 Fuller for him be the hours ! 
 Give him emotion, though pain ! 
 Let him live, let him feel, I have liv'd. 
 Heap up his moments with life ! 
 Quicken his pulses with Fame ! 
 
 And not friendless, nor yet 140 
 
 Only with strangers to meet. 
 Faces ungreeting and cold, 
 Thou, O Mourn'd One, to-day 
 Enterest the House of the Grave. 
 Those of thy blood, whom thou lov'dst, 
 Have preceded thee ; young, 
 Loving, a sisterly band : 
 Some in gift, some in art 
 Inferior ; all in fame. 
 
 They, like friends, shall receive 150 
 
 This comer, greet her with joy ; 
 Welcome the Sister, the Friend ; 
 Hear with delight of thy fame. 
 
280 HAWORTH CHURCHYARD 
 
 Round thee they lie ; the grass 
 Blows from their graves toward thine. 
 She, whose genius, though not 
 Puissant like thine, was yet 
 Sweet and graceful : and She — 
 (How shall I sing her ?) — whose soul 
 Knew no fellow for might, 160 
 
 Passion, vehemence, grief, 
 Daring, since Byron died, 
 That world-fam'd Son of Fire ; She, who sank 
 Baifled, unknown, self-consum'd ; 
 Whose too bold dying song 
 Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul. 
 
 Of one too I have heard, 
 A Brother — sleeps he here '? — 
 Of all his gifted race 
 
 Not the least gifted ; young, 170 
 
 Unhappy, beautiful ; the cause 
 Of many hopes, of many tears. 
 O Boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well I 
 On thee too did the Muse 
 Bright in thy cradle smile : 
 But some dark Shadow came 
 (I know not what) and interpos'd. 
 
 Sleep, cluster of friends. 
 Sleep ! or only, when May, 
 
 Brought by the West Wind, returns 180 
 
 Back to your native heaths. 
 And the plover is heard on the moors. 
 Yearly awake, to behold 
 The opening summer, the sky. 
 The shining moorland ; to hear 
 The drowsy bee, as of old. 
 Hum o'er the thyme, the grouse 
 Call from the heather in bloom : 
 
 Sleep : or only for this 
 Break your united repose. 190 
 
POEMS, TEIRD EDITION, 1857 
 TO MAEGUEEITE 
 
 [First published 1857.] 
 
 We were apart : yet, day by day, 
 
 I bade my heart more constant be ; 
 
 I bade it keep the world away, 
 
 And grow a home for only thee : 
 
 Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew. 
 
 Like mine, each day more tried, more true. 
 
 The fault was grave : I might have known. 
 
 What far too soon, alas, I learn'd — 
 
 The heart can bind itself alone. 
 
 And faith is often unreturn'd. — 10 
 
 Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell : 
 Thou lov'st no more : Farewell ! Farewell I 
 
 Farewell ! and thou, thou lonely lieart, 
 Which never yet without remorse 
 Even for a moment did'st depart 
 From thy remote and sphered course 
 To haunt the place where passions reign. 
 Back to thy solitude again ! 
 
 Back, with the conscious thrill of shame 
 
 Which Luna felt, that summer night, 20 
 
 Flash through her pure immortal frame. 
 
 When she forsook the starry height 
 
 To hang over Endymion's sleep 
 
 Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep ; — 
 
 Yet she, chaste Queen, had never prov'd 
 How vain a thing is mortal love, 
 Wandering in Heaven, far remov'd. 
 But thou hast long had place to prove 
 This truth — to prove, and make thine own : 
 Thou hast heen, shalt he, art, alone. so 
 
 To Marguerite Title] Switzerland. YI. To Marguerite 1S57. 
 
282 TO MAEGUEKITE 
 
 Or, if not quite alone, yet they 
 "Which touch thee are unmating things — 
 Ocean, and Clouds, and Night, and Day ; 
 Lorn Autumns and triumphant Springs ; 
 And life, and others' joy and pain. 
 And love, if love, of happier men. 
 
 Of happier men — for they, at least, 
 
 Have dream! d two human hearts might blend 
 
 In one, and were through faith releas'd 
 
 From isolation without end 40 
 
 Prolong'd, nor knew, although not less 
 
 Alone than thou, their loneliness. 
 
MEROPE. A TRAGEDY. 1858 
 
 [First published 1858.] 
 
 PKEPACE 
 
 I AM not about to defend myself for having taken the 
 story of the following tragedy from classical antiquity. 
 On this subject I have already said all which appears 
 to me to be necessary. For those readers to whom my 
 tragedy will give pleasure, no argument on such a 
 matter is required : one critic, whose fine intelligence 
 it would have been an honour to convince, lives, alas ! 
 no longer : there are others, upon whom no arguments 
 which I could possibly use would produce any im- 
 pression. The Athenians fined Phrynichus for repre- ic 
 senting to them their own sufferings : there are critics 
 who would fine us for representing to them any- 
 thing else. 
 
 But, as often as it has happened to me to be blamed 
 or praised for my supposed addiction to the classical 
 school in poetry, I have thought, with real humilia- 
 tion, how little any works of mine were entitled to 
 rank among the genuine works of that school ; how 
 little they were calculated to give, to readers unac- 
 quainted with the great creations of classical antiquity, 20 
 any adequate impression of their form or of their spirit. 
 And yet, whatever the critics may say, there exists, 
 I am convinced, even in England, even in this strong- 
 hold of the romantic school, a wide though an ill- 
 informed curiosity on thesubject of the so-called classical 
 school, meriting a more complete satisfaction than it 
 has hitherto obtained. Greek art — the antique — clas- 
 sical beauty — a nameless hope and interest attaches, 
 I can often see, to these words, even in the minds of 
 those who have been brought up among the productions 30 
 of the romantic school ; of those who have been taught 
 
284 MEKOPE 
 
 to consider claasicalism as inseparable from coldness, 
 and the antique as another phrase for the unreal. So 
 immortal, so indestructible is the power of true beauty, 
 of consummate form : it may be submerged, but the 
 tradition of it survives : nations arise which know it 
 not, which hardly believe in the rejport of it ; but they, 
 too, are haunted with an indefinable interest in its 
 name, with an inexplicable curiosity as to its nature. 
 
 But however the case may be with regard to the 
 
 10 curiosity of the public, I have long had the strongest 
 desire to attempt, for my own satisfaction, to come 
 to closer quarters with the form which produces such 
 grand effects in the hands of the Greek masters ; to try 
 to obtain, through the medium of a living, familiar 
 language, a fuller and more intense feeling of that 
 beauty, which, even when apprehended through the 
 medium of a dead language, so powerfully affected me. 
 In his delightful Life of Goethe, Mr. Lewes has most 
 truly observed that Goethe's Iphigeneia enjoys an ines- 
 
 20 timable advantage in being written in a language which, 
 being a modern language, is in some sort our own. Not 
 only is it vain to expect that the vast maj ority of mankind 
 will ever undertake the toil of mastering a dead language, 
 above all, a dead language so difficult as the Greek ; 
 but it may be doubted whether even those, whose en- 
 thusiasm shrinks from no toil, can ever so thoroughly 
 press into the intimate feeling of Avorks composed in a 
 dead language as their enthusiasm would desire. 
 
 I desired to try, therefore, how much of the effec- 
 
 80 tiveness of the Greek poetical forms I could retain in 
 an English poem constructed under the conditions of 
 those forms ; of those forms, too, in their severest 
 and most definite expression, in their application to 
 dramatic poetry. 
 
 I thought at first that I might accomplish my ob- 
 ject by a translation of one of the great works of 
 Aeschylus or Sophocles. But a translation is a work 
 not only inferior to the original by the whole dif- 
 ference of talent between the first composer and his 
 
 40 translator : it is even inferior to the best which the 
 translator could do under more inspiring circum- 
 
PEEFACE 285 
 
 stances. No man can do his best with a subject which 
 does not penetrate him : no man can be penetrated by a 
 subject which he does not conceive independently. 
 
 Should I take some subject on which we have an 
 extant work by one of the great Greek poets, and treat 
 it independently ? Something was to be said for such 
 a course : in antiquity, the same tragic stories were 
 handled by all the tragic poets : Voltaire says truly 
 that to see the same materials differently treated by 
 different poets is most interesting; accordingly, weio 
 have an Oedipus of Corneille, an Oedipus of Voltaire : 
 innumerable are the Agamemnons, the Mectras, the 
 Antigones, of the French and Italian poets from the 
 sixteenth to the nineteenth century. But the same 
 disadvantage which we have in translating clings to us 
 in our attempt to treat these subjects independently : 
 their treatment by the ancient masters is so over- 
 whelmingly great and powerful that we can hence- 
 forth conceive them only as they are there treated : an 
 independent conception of them has become impossible 20 
 for us : in working upon them we are still, therefore, 
 subject to conditions under which no man can do his 
 best. 
 
 It remained to select a subject from among those 
 which had been considered to possess the true requi- 
 sites of good tragic subjects ; on which great works 
 had been composed, but had not survived to chill 
 emulation by their grandeur. Of such subjects there 
 is, fortunately, no lack. In the writings of Hyginus, 
 a Latin mythographer of uncertain date, we possess a 30 
 large stock of them. The heroic stories in Hyginus, 
 Maffei, the reformer of the Italian theatre, imagined 
 rightly or wrongly to be the actual summaries of lost 
 Greek dramas: they are, at any rate, subjects on 
 which lost dramas were founded. Maffei counsels 
 the poets of his nation to turn from the inferior sub- 
 jects on which they vv^ere employing themselves, to 
 this ' miniera di tragici argomenti,' this rich mine of 
 subjects for tragedy. Lessing, the great German critic, 
 echoes Maffei's counsel, but adds a warning. ' Yes,' he 40 
 cries, ' the great subjects are there, but they await an 
 intelligent eye to regard them : they can be handled. 
 
286 MEEOPE 
 
 not by the great majority of poets, but only by the 
 small minority.' 
 
 Among these subjects presented in the collection 
 of Hyginus, there is one which has long attracted my 
 interest, from the testimony of the ancients to its 
 excellence, and from the results which that testimony 
 has called forth from the emulation of the moderns. 
 That subject is the story of Merope. To the effec- 
 tiveness of the situations which this story offered, 
 
 10 Aristotle and Plutarch have borne witness : a cele- 
 brated tragedy upon it, probably by Euripides, existed 
 in antiquity. ' The Cresphontes of Euripides is lost,' 
 exclaims the reviewer of Voltaire's Merope, a Jesuit, 
 and not unwilling to conciliate the terrible pupil of 
 his order; 'the Cresphontes of Euripides is lost: 
 M. de Voltaire has restored it to us.' 'Aristotle,' says 
 Voltaire, ' Aristotle, in his immortal work on Poetry, 
 does not hesitate to affirm that the recognition between 
 Merope and her son was the most interesting moment 
 
 20 of the Greek stage.' Aristotle affirms no such thing ; 
 but he does say that the story of Merope, like the 
 stories of Iphigeneia and Antiope, supplies an example 
 of a recognition of the most affecting kind. And 
 Plutarch says ; 'Look at Merope in the tragedy, lifting 
 up the axe against her own son as being the murderer 
 of her own son, and crying — 
 
 6fftQrr€pav 5^ TfjvS* t'yoi SiScafii aoi 
 irKriyiiv 
 
 A more just stroke than that thou gav'st my son, 
 30 '^ake 
 
 What an agitation she makes in the theatre ! how she 
 fills the spectators with terror lest she should be too 
 quick for the old man who is trying to stop her, and 
 should strike the lad ! ' 
 
 It is singular that neither Aristotle nor Plutarch 
 names the author of the tragedy : scholiasts and other 
 late writers quote from it as from a work of Euripides ; 
 but the only writer of authority who names him as 
 its author is Cicero. About fifty lines of it have come 
 40 down to us: the most important of these remains are 
 the passage just quoted, and a choral address to Peace ; 
 
PKEFACE 287 
 
 of these I have made use in my tragedy, translating the 
 former, and of the latter adopting the general thought, 
 that of rejoicing at the return of peace : the other 
 fragments consist chiefly of detached moral sentences, 
 of which I have not made any use. 
 
 It may be interesting to give some account of the 
 more celebrated of those modern works which have 
 been founded upon this subject. But before I proceed 
 to do this, I will state what accounts we have of the 
 story itself. 10 
 
 These proceed from three sources — Apollodorus, 
 Pausanias, and Hyginus. Of their accounts that of 
 Apollodorus is the most ancient, that of Pausanias the 
 most historically valuable, and that of Hyginus the 
 fullest. I will begin with the last-named writer. 
 
 Hyginus says : — 
 
 ' Merope sent away and concealed her infant son. 
 Polyphontes sought for him everywhere, and promised 
 gold to whoever should slay him. He, when he grew 
 up, laid a plan to avenge the murder of his father and 20 
 brothers. In pursuance of this plan he came to king 
 Polyphontes and asked for the promised gold, saying 
 that he had slain the son of Cresphontes and Merope. 
 The king ordered him to be hospitably entertained, 
 intending to inquire further of him. He, being very 
 tired, went to sleep, and an old man, who was the 
 channel through whom the mother and son used to 
 communicate, arrives at this moment in tears, bringing 
 word to Merope that her son had disappeared from his 
 protector's house. Merope, believing that the sleeping 30 
 stranger is the murderer of her son, comes into the 
 guest-chamber with an axe, not knowing that he 
 whom she would slay was her son : the old man 
 recognized him, and withheld Merope from slaying 
 him. After the recognition had taken place, Merope, 
 to prepare the way for her vengeance, affected to be 
 reconciled with Polyphontes. The king, overjoyed, 
 celebrated a sacrifice : his guest, pretending to strike 
 the sacrificial victim, slew the king, and so got back 
 his father's kingdom.' 40 
 
 Apollodorus says : — 
 
 ' Cresphontes had not reigned long in Messenia when 
 
288 MEROPE 
 
 he was murdered together with two of his sons. And 
 Polyphonies reigned in his stead, he, too, being of the 
 family of Hercules ; and he had for his wife, against 
 her will, Merope, the widow of the murdered king. 
 But Merope had borne to Cresphontes a third son, 
 called Aepytus : him she gave to her own father to 
 brijig up. He, when he came to man's estate, returned 
 secretly to Messenia, and slew Polyphontes and the 
 other murderers of his father.' 
 
 10 Pausanias adds nothing to the facts told by Apol- 
 lodorus, except that he records the proceedings of 
 Cresphontes which had provoked the resentment of 
 his Dorian nobles, and led to his murder. His state- 
 ments on this point will be found in the Historical 
 Introduction which follows this Preface. 
 
 The account of the modern fortunes of the story of 
 Merope is a curious chapter in literary history. In the 
 early age of the French theatre this subject attracted 
 the notice of a great man, if not a great poet, the 
 
 20 cardinal Richelieu. At his theatre, in the Palais 
 Royal, was brought out, in 1641, a tragedy under the 
 title of Teldphonte, the name given by Hyginus to the 
 surviving son of Merope. This piece is said by 
 Voltaire to have contained about a, hundred lines by 
 the great cardinal, who had, as is well known, more 
 bent than genius for dramatic composition. There his 
 vein appears to have dried up, and the rest is by an 
 undistinguished hand. This tragedy was followed 
 by another on the same subject from the resident 
 
 30 minister, at Paris, of the celebrated Christina of 
 Sweden. Two pieces with the title of Merope, besides 
 others on the same story, but with different names, 
 were brought out at Paris before the Merope of Voltaire 
 appeared. It seems that none of them created any 
 memorable impression. 
 
 The first eminent success was in Italy. There too, 
 as in France, more than one Merope was early pro- 
 duced : one of them in the sixteenth century, by a 
 Count Torelli, composed with choruses : but the first 
 
 iO success was achieved by Maffei. Scipio Maffei, called 
 by Voltaire the Sophocles and Varro of Verona, was 
 a noble and cultivated person. He became in middle 
 
PEEFACE 289 
 
 life the historian of his native place, Verona ; and 
 may claim the honour of having jpartly anticipated 
 Niebuhr in his famous discovery, in the Capitular 
 library of that city, of the lost works of Gains, the 
 Eoman lawyer. He visited France and England, and 
 received an honorary degree at Oxford. But in earlier 
 life he signalized himself as the reviver of the study 
 of Greek literature in Italy ; and with the aim 
 to promote that study, and to rescue the Italian 
 theatre from the debasement into which it had fallen, 10 
 he brought out at Modena, in 1713, his tragedy of 
 Mero23e. 
 
 The effect was immense. 'Let the Greek and 
 Eoman writers give place : here is a greater pro- 
 duction than the Oedipus ! ' wrote, in Latin verse, an 
 enthusiastic admirer. In the winter following its 
 appearance, the tragedy kept constant possession of 
 the stage in Italy ; and its reputation travelled into 
 France and England. In England a play was produced 
 in 1731, by a writer called Jeffreys, professedly taken 20 
 from the Merope of Maffei. But at this period a love- 
 intrigue was considered indispensable in a tragedy : 
 Voltaire was even compelled by the actors to introduce 
 one in his Oedipus : and although in Maffei's work 
 there is no love-intrigue, the English adapter felt 
 himself bound to supply the deficiency. Accordingly 
 he makes, if we may trust Voltaire, the unknown son 
 of Merope in love with one of her maids of honour : 
 he is brought before his mother as his own supposed 
 murderer : she gives him the choice of death by the 30 
 dagger or by poison : he chooses the latter, drinks off 
 the poison and falls insensible : but reappears at the 
 end of the tragedy safe and sound, a friend of the 
 maid of honour having substituted a sleeping-draught 
 for the poison. Such is Voltaire's account of this 
 English Merope, of which I have not been able to 
 obtain sight. Voltaire is apt to exaggerate ; but the 
 work was, without doubt, sufficiently absurd. A better 
 English translation, by Ayre, appeared in 1740. I have 
 taken from Maffei a line in my tragedy — 40 
 
 Tyrants think, him they murder not, they spare. 
 
 AUKOLD U 
 
290 ^ MEEOPE 
 
 Maffei has— 
 
 Ecoo il don dei tiranni : a lor rassembra, 
 Morte non dando altrui, di dar la vita. 
 
 Maifei makes some important changes in the story 
 as told by its ancient relaters. In his tragedy the 
 unknown prince, Merope's son, is called Egisto: Merope 
 herself is not, as the ancients represented her, at the 
 time of her son's return the wife of Polyphontes, but 
 is repelling the importunate offer of his hand by her 
 
 10 husband's murderer : Egisto does not, like Orestes, 
 know his own parentage, and return secretly to his 
 own lK)me in order to wreak vengeance, in concert 
 with his mother, upon his father's murderer: he 
 imagines himself the son of Messenian parents, but 
 of a rank not royal, entrusted to an old man, Polidoro, 
 to be brought up ; and is driven by curiosity to quit 
 his protector and visit his native land. He enters 
 Messenia, and is attacked by a robber, whom he kills. 
 The blood upon his dress attracts the notice of some 
 
 20 soldiers of Polyphontes whom he falls in with ; he is 
 seized and brought to the royal palace. On hearing 
 his story, a suspicion seizes Merope, who has heard 
 from Polidoro that her son has quitted him, that the 
 slain person must have been her own son. The sus- 
 picion is confirmed by the sight of a ring on the finger 
 of Egisto, which had belonged to Cresphontes, and 
 which Merope supposes the unknown stranger to have 
 taken from her murdered son : she twice attempts his 
 life : the arrival of Polidoro at last clears up the 
 
 30 mystery for her ; but at the very moment when she 
 recognizes Egisto, they are separated, and no interview 
 of recognition takes place between the mother and 
 son. Finally, the prince is made acquainted with his 
 origin, and kills Polyphontes in the manner described 
 by Hyginus. 
 
 This is an outline of the story as arranged by Maffei. 
 This arrangement has been followed, in the main, by 
 all his successors. His treatment of the subject has, 
 I think, some grave defects, which I shall presently 
 
 40 notice : but his work has much nobleness and feeling ; 
 it seems to me to possess, on the whole, more merit 
 
PEEFACE 291 
 
 of a strictly poetical kind than any of the subsequent 
 works upon the same subject. 
 
 Voltaire's curiosity, which never slumbered, was 
 attracted by the success of Maffei. It was not until 
 1736, however, when his interest in Maffei's tragedy 
 had been increased by a personal acquaintance with 
 its author, that his own Merope was composed. It 
 was not brought out upon the stage until 1743. It 
 was received, like its Italian predecessor, with an 
 enthusiasm which, assuredly, the English Merope will 10 
 not excite. From its exhibition dates the practice of 
 calling for a successful author to appear at the close 
 of his piece : the audience were so much enchanted 
 with Voltaire's tragedy, that they insisted on seeing 
 the man who had given them such delight. To Cor- 
 neille had been paid the honour of reserving for him 
 the same seat in the theatre at all representations ; but 
 neither he nor Eacine were ever 'called for.' 
 
 Voltaire, in a long complimentary letter, dedicated 
 his tragedy to Maffei. He had at first intended, he 20 
 says, merely to translate the Merope of his predecessor, 
 which he so greatly admired : he still admired it ; 
 above all, he admired it because it possessed simplicity ; 
 that simplicity which is, he says, his own idol. But 
 he has to deal with a Parisian audience, with an 
 audience who have been glutted with masteipieces until 
 their delicacy has become excessive ; until they can 
 no longer support the simple and rustic air, the details 
 of country life, which Maffei had imitated from the 
 Greek theatre. The audience of Paris, of that city in 30 
 which some thirty thousand spectators daily witnessed 
 theatrical performances, and thus acquired, by con- 
 stant practice, a severity of taste, to which the ten 
 thousand Athenians who saw tragedies but four times 
 a year could not pretend — of that terrible city, in 
 which 
 
 Et pueri nasum rhinoeerotis habeut : 
 
 this audience loved simplicity, indeed, but not the 
 same simplicity which was loved at Athens and imi- 
 tated by Maffei. ' I regret this,' says Voltaire, ' for 40 
 how fond I am of simple nature ! but, ilfaut seplier au 
 
 V 2 
 
292 MEEOPE 
 
 gout cl'tine nation, one must accommodate oneself to the 
 taste of one's countrymen. ' 
 
 He does himself less than justice. When he objects, 
 indeed, to that in Maffei's work which is truly 'naif et 
 rustique,' to that which is truly in a Greek spirit, he 
 is wrong. His objection, for instance, to the passage 
 in which the old retainer of Cresphontes describes, in 
 the language of a man of his class, the rejoicings which 
 celebrated his master's accession, is, in my opinion, 
 
 10 perfectly groundless. But the wonderful penetration 
 and clear sense of Voltaire seizes, in general, upon 
 really weak points in Maffei's work : upon points 
 which, to an Athenian, would have seemed as weak 
 as they seemed to Voltaire. A French audience, he 
 says, would not have borne to witness Polyphontes 
 making love to Merope, whose husband he had 
 murdered : neither would an Athenian audience have 
 borne it. To hear Polyphontes say to Merope ' lo 
 t'amo,' even though he is but feigning, for state pur- 
 
 20 poses, a love which he has not really, shocks the 
 natural feeling of mankind. Our usages, says 
 Voltaire, would not permit that Merojje should twice 
 rush upon her son to slay him, once with a javelin, 
 the next time with an axe. The French dramatic 
 usages, then, would on this point have perfectly agreed 
 with the laws of reason and good taste : this repetition 
 of the same incident is tasteless and vmmeaning. It 
 is a grave fault of art, says Voltaire, that, at the critical 
 moment of recognition, not a word passes between 
 
 30 Merope and her son. He is right ; a noble opportunity 
 is thus thrown away. He objects to Maffei's excessive 
 introduction of conversations between subaltern per- 
 sonages: these conversations are, no doubt, tiresome. 
 Other points there are, with respect to which we may 
 say that Voltaire's objections would have been perfectly 
 sound had Maffei really done what is imputed to him : 
 but he has not. Voltaire has a talent for misrepresen- 
 tation, and he often uses it unscrupulously. 
 
 He never used it more unscrupulously than on this 
 
 40 occasion. The French public, it appears, took Vol- 
 taire's expressions of obligation to Maffei somewhat 
 more literally than Voltaire liked : they imagined 
 
PEEFACE 293 
 
 that the French Merope was rather a successful adapta- 
 tion of the Italian Merope than an original work. It 
 was necessary to undeceive them. A letter appeared, 
 addressed by a M. de La Lindelle to Voltaire, in which 
 Voltaire is reproached for his excessive praises of 
 Maffei's tragedy, in which that work is rigorously 
 analysed, its faults remorselessly displayed. No merit 
 is allowed to it : it is a thoroughly bad piece on 
 a thoroughly good subject. Lessing, who, in 1768, in 
 his Hamburgisclie Dramaturgie, reviewed Voltaire's 1" 
 Merope at great length, evidently has divined, what is 
 the truth, that M. de La Lindelle and Voltaire are one 
 and the same person. It required indeed but little of 
 the great Lessing's sagacity to divine that. An unknown 
 M. de La Lindelle does not write one letter in that 
 style of unmatched incisiveness and animation, that 
 style compared to which the style of Lord Macaulay is 
 tame, and the style of Isocrates is obscure, and then 
 pass for ever from the human stage. M. de La Lindelle 
 is Voltaire ; but that does not hinder Voltaire from 20 
 replying to him with perfect gravitj'. ' You terrify 
 me ! ' he exclaims to his correspondent — that is, to 
 himself : ' you terrify me ! you are as hypercritical as 
 Scaliger. Why not fix your attention rather on the 
 beauties of M. Maffei's work, than on its undoubted 
 defects ? It is my sincere opinion that, in some points, 
 M. Maffei's Merope is superior to my own. ' The trans- 
 action is one of the most signal instances of literary 
 sharp practice on record. To this day, in the ordinary 
 editions of Voltaire, M. de La Lindelle's letter figures, 30 
 in the correspondence prefixed to the tragedy of Mercpe, 
 as the letter of an authentic person ; although the true 
 history of the proceeding has long been well known, 
 and Voltaire's conduct in it was severely blamed by 
 La Harpe. 
 
 Voltaire had said that his Merope was occasioned by 
 that of Maffei. ' Occasioned,' says Lessing, ' is too 
 weak a word : M. de Voltaire's tragedy owes everything 
 to that of M. Maffei.' This is not just. We have seen 
 the faults in Maffei's work pointed out by Voltaire. 40 
 Some of these faults he avoids : at the same time he 
 discerns, with masterly clearness, the true difficulties 
 
294 MEEOPE 
 
 of the subject. ' Comment se prendre,' he says, ' pour 
 faire penser a Merope que son fils est I'assassin de son 
 fils meme ? ' That is one problem ; here is another : 
 ' Comment trouver des motifs necessaires pour que 
 Polyphonte veuille epouser Merope ? ' Let us see 
 which of Maffei's faults Voltaire avoids : let us see 
 how far he solves the problems which he himself has 
 enunciated. 
 
 The story, in its main outline, is the same with 
 
 10 Voltaire as with Maffei ; but in some particulars it is 
 altered, so as to have more probability. Like Maffei's 
 Egisto, Voltaire's Egisthe does not know his own 
 origin : like him, youthful curiosity drives him to 
 quit his aged protector, and to re-enter Messenia. 
 Like him he has an encounter with a stranger, whom 
 he slays, and whose blood, staining his clothes, leads 
 to his apprehension. But this stranger is an emissary 
 of Polyphontes, sent to effect the young prince's 
 murder. This is an improvement upon the robber of 
 
 20 Maifei, who has no connexion whatever with the 
 action of the piece. Suspicion falls upon Egisthe on 
 the same grounds as those on which it fell upon 
 Egisto. The suspicion is confirmed in Egisthe's case 
 by the appearance of a coat of armour, as, in Egisto's 
 case, it was confirmed by the appearance of a ring. 
 In neither case does Merope seem to have sufiicient 
 cause to believe the unknown youth to be her son's 
 murderer. In Voltaire's tragedy, Merope is ignorant 
 until the end of the third act that Polyphontes is her 
 
 30 husband's murderer; nay, she believes that Cresphontes, 
 murdered by the brigands of Pylos, has been avenged 
 by Polyphontes, who claims her gratitude on that 
 ground. He desires to marry her in order to strengthen 
 his ijosition. ' Of interests in the state,' he says, 
 
 ' II ne leste aujourd'hui que le votre et le mien : 
 Nous devons I'un a I'autre un mutuel soutien.' 
 
 Voltaire thus departs widely from the tradition ; but 
 he can represent Merope as entertaining and discuss- 
 ing the tyrant's offer of marriage without shocking 
 40 our feelings. The style, however, in which Voltaire 
 makes Polyphontes urge his addresses, . would some- 
 
PEEFACE 295 
 
 times, I think, have wounded a Greek's taste as much 
 as Maffei's lo t'amo — 
 
 Je sais que vos appas, encor dans le printemps, 
 Pourraient s'eifaroucher de I'hiver de mes ans. 
 
 What an address from a stern, care-haunted ruler to 
 a widowed queen, the mother of a grown-up son ! 
 The tragedy proceeds ; and Merope is about to slay 
 her son, when his aged guardian arrives and makes 
 known to her who the youth is. This is as in Maifei's 
 piece ; but Voltaire avoids the absurdity of the double 10 
 attempt by Merope on her son's life. Yet he, too, 
 permits Egisthe to leave the stage without exchanging 
 a word with his mother : the very fault which he 
 justly censures in Maffei. Egisthe, indeed, does not 
 even learn, on this occasion, that Merope is his mo- 
 ther : the recognition is thus cut in half. The second 
 half of it comes afterwards, in the presence of Poly- 
 phontes ; and his presence imposes, of cohrse, a re- 
 straint upon the mother and son. Merope is driven, 
 by fear for her son's safety, to consent to marry 20 
 Polyphontes, although his full guilt is now revealed 
 to her ; but she is saved by her son, who slays 
 the tyrant in the manner told in the tradition and 
 followed by Maffei. 
 
 What is the real merit of Voltaire's tragedy ? We 
 must forget the rhymed Alexandrines ; that metre, 
 faulty not so much because it is disagreeable in itself, 
 as because it has in it something which is essentially 
 unsuited to perfect tragedy ; that metre which is so 
 indefensible, and which Voltaire has so ingeniously 30 
 laboured to defend. He takes a noble passage from 
 Eacine's Phedre, alters words so as to remove the 
 rhyme, and asks if the passage now produces as good 
 an effect as before. But a fine passage which we are 
 used to we like in the form in which we are used to it, 
 with all its faults. Prose is, undoubtedly, a less 
 noble vehicle for tragedy than verse ; yet we should 
 not like the fine passages in Goethe's prose tragedy of 
 Egmont the better for having them turned into verse. 
 Besides, it is not clear that the unrhymed Alexandrine 40 
 is a better tragic metre than the rhymed. Voltaire 
 
296 MEROPE 
 
 says that usage has now established the metre in 
 France, and that the dramatic poet has no escape from 
 it. For him and his contemporaries this is a valid 
 plea ; but how much one regrets that the poetical 
 feeling of the French nation did not, at a period when 
 such an alteration was still possible, change for a better 
 this unsuitable tragic metre, as the Greeks, in the 
 early period of their tragic art, changed for the more 
 fitting iambus their trochaic tetrameter. 
 10 To return to Voltaire's Merope. It is admirably 
 constructed, and must have been most effective on the 
 stage. One feels, as one reads it, that a poet gains 
 something by living amongst a population who have 
 the nose of the rhinoceros : his ingenuity becomes 
 sharpened. This work has, besides, that stamp of 
 a prodigious talent which none of Voltaire's works 
 are without ; it has vigour, clearness, rapid movement ; 
 it has lines which are models of terse observation — 
 
 Le premier qui fut roi fut un soldat heureux : 
 20 Qui sert bien son pays n'a pas besoin d'aieux. 
 
 It has lines which are models of powerful, animated 
 rhetoric — 
 
 MiSEOPE 
 
 Courons a Polyphonte — implorons son appiii. 
 
 NARBAS 
 
 N'implorez que les dieux, et ne craignez que lui. 
 
 What it wants is a charm of poetical feeling, which 
 Eacine's tragedies possess, and which has given to 
 them the decisive superiority over those of Voltaire. 
 
 30 He has managed his story with great adroitness ; but 
 he has departed from the original tradition yet further 
 than Maffei. He has avoided several of Maffei's 
 faults : why has he not avoided his fault of omitting 
 to introduce, at the moment of recognition, a scene 
 between the mother and son? Lessing thinks that 
 he wanted the double recognition in order to enable 
 him to fill his prescribed space, that terrible 'carriere 
 de cinq actes ' of which he so grievously cofhplains. 
 I believe, rather, that he cut the recognition in two, in 
 
 40 order to produce for his audience two distinct shocks 
 of surprise : for to inspire surprise, Voltaire considered 
 
PEEFACE 297 
 
 the dramatic poet's true aim ; an opinion which, as 
 we shall hereafter see, sometimes led him astray. 
 
 Voltaire's Meropc was adapted for the English stage 
 by Aaron Hill, a singular man ; by turns, poet, soldier, 
 theatrical manager, and Lord Peterborough's private 
 secretary ; but always, and above all, an indefatigable 
 projector. He originated a beech-oil company, a Scotch 
 timber company, and a plan to colonize Florida. He 
 published Essays on Keducing the Price of Coals, on 
 Eepairing Dagenham Breach, and on English Grape 10 
 Wines ; an epic poem on Gideon, a tragedy called 
 The Fatal Vision, or Fall of Siam, and a translation of 
 Voltaire's Zaire. His Merope was his last work. It 
 appeared in 1749 witha dedication to Lord Bolingbroke ; 
 it was brought on the stage with great success, Garrick 
 acting in it ; and Hill, who was at this time in poverty, 
 and who died soon after, received a considerable sum 
 from his benefit nights. I have not seen this work, 
 which is not included in the Inchbald collection of 
 acted plays. Warton calls Aaron Hill an affected and 20 
 fustian writer, and this seems to have been his reputa- 
 tion among his contemporaries. His Zara, which I 
 have seen, has the fault of so much of English literature 
 of the second class — an incurable defect of style. 
 
 One other Merope remains to be noticed — the Iferope 
 of Alfieri. In this tragedy, which appeared in 1783, 
 Alfieri has entirely followed Maffei and Voltaire. He 
 seems to have followed Maffei in the first half of it ; 
 Voltaire in the second. His Polyphontes, however, 
 does not make love to Merope : desiring to obtain her 30 
 hand, in order by this marriage to make the Messenians 
 forget their attachment to Cresphontes, he appeals to 
 her self-interest. 'You are miserable,' he says; 'but 
 a throne is a great consolation. A throne is — 
 
 la sola 
 Non yile ammenda, che al fallir mio rest!.' 
 
 Egisto, in Alfieri's piece, falls under suspicion from the 
 blood left on his clothes in a struggle with a stranger, 
 whom he kills and throws into the river Pamisus. 
 The suspicion is confirmed by the appearance of a 40 
 girdle recognized b}' Merope as having belonged to her 
 son ; as it was confirmed in Maffei's piece b}' the 
 
298 MEKOPE 
 
 appearance of a ling, in Voltaire's, by that of a coat of 
 armour. The rest is, in the main, as with Voltaire, 
 except that Alfieri makes Polyphonies perish upon the 
 stage, under circumstances of considerable improba- 
 bility. 
 
 This work of Alfieri has the characteristic merit, 
 and the characteristic fault, of Alfieri's tragedies : it 
 has the merit of elevation, and the fault of narrowness. 
 Narrow elevation ; that seems to me exactly to express 
 
 10 the quality of Alfieri's poetry: he is a noble-minded, 
 deeply interesting man, but a monotonous poet. 
 
 A mistake, a grave mistake it seems to me, in the 
 treatment of their subject, is common to Maffei, 
 Voltaire, and Alfieri. They have abandoned the tra- 
 dition where they had better have followed it ; they 
 have followed it, where they had better have aban- 
 doned it. 
 
 • The tradition is a great matter to a poet ; it is an 
 unspeakable support ; it gives him the feeling that he 
 
 20 is treading on solid ground. Aristotle tells the tragic 
 poet that he must not destroy the received stories. 
 A noble and accomplished living poet, M. Manzoni, 
 has, in an admirable dissertation, developed this 
 thesis of the importance to the poet of a basis of 
 tradition. Its importance I feel so strongly, that, where 
 driven to invent in the false story told by Merope's son, 
 as by Orestes in the Electra, of his own death, I could 
 not satisfy myself until I discovered in Pausanias a 
 tradition, which I took for my basis, of an Arcadian 
 
 30 hunter drowned in the lake Stymphalus, down one of 
 those singular Katabothra, or chasms in the limestone 
 rock, so well known in Greece, in a manner similar to 
 that in which Aepytus is represented to have perished. 
 Maffei did right, I think, in altering the ancient 
 tradition where it represents Merope as actually the 
 wife of Polyphontes. It revolts our feeling to consider 
 her as married to her husband's murderer ; and it is no 
 great departure from the tradition to represent her as 
 sought in marriage by him, but not yet obtained. 
 
 40 But why did Malfei (for he, it will be remembered, 
 gave the story its modern arrangement, which Voltaire 
 and Alfieri have, in all its leading points, followed), 
 
PEEFACE 299 
 
 why did Maffei abandon that part of the tradition 
 which represents Aepytus, the Messenian prince, as 
 acquainted with his own origin ? Why did he and his 
 followers prefer to attribute to curiosity a return 
 which the tradition attributed to a far more tragic 
 motive ? Why did they compel themselves to invent a 
 machinery of robbers, assassins, guards, rings, girdles, 
 and I know not what, to effect that which the tradition 
 effects in a far simpler manner, to place Aepytus before 
 his mother as his own murderer ? Lessing imagines 10 
 that Maifei, who wished to depict, above all, the 
 maternal anxiety of Merope, conceived that this anxiety 
 would be more naturally and powerfully awakened by 
 the thought of her child reared in hardship and 
 obscurity as a poor man's son, than by the thought of 
 him reared in splendour as a prince in the palace of her 
 own father. But what a conception of the sorrow of a 
 queen, whose husband has been murdered, and whose 
 son is an exile from his inheritance, to suppose that such 
 a sorrow is enhanced by the thought that her child is 20 
 rudely housed and plainly fed ; to assume that it 
 would take a less tragic complexion if she knew that 
 he lived in luxury ! No ; the true tragic motive of 
 Merope's sorrow is elsewhere : the tradition amply 
 supplied it. 
 
 Here, then, the moderns have invented amiss, be- 
 cause they have invented needlessly ; because, on this 
 point, the tradition, as it stood, afforded perfect ma- 
 terials to the tragic poet : and, by Maffei's change, not 
 a higher tragic complication, but merely a greater 30 
 puzzle and intricacy is produced. I come now to a 
 point on which the tradition might with advantage, as 
 I think, have been set aside ; and that is, the character 
 of Polyphontes. 
 
 Yet, on this point, to speak of setting aside the tradition 
 is to speak too strongly ; for the tradition is here not 
 complete. Neither Pausanias nor Apollodorus mention 
 circumstances which definitely fix the character of 
 Polyphontes ; Hyginus, no doubt, represents him as a 
 villain, and, if Hyginus follows Euripides, Euripides 40 
 also thus represented him. Euripides may possibly 
 have done so ; yet a purer tragic feeling, it seems to me. 
 
300 MEEOPE 
 
 is produced, if Polyphontes is represented as not 
 wholly black and inexcusable, than if he is represented 
 as a mere monster of cruelty and hypocrisy. Aristotle's 
 profound remark is well known, that the tragic person- 
 age whose ruin is represented, should be a personage 
 neither eminently good, nor yet one brought to 
 ruin by sheer iniquity ; nay, that his character should 
 incline rather to good than to bad, but that he should 
 have some fault which impels him to his fall. For, as 
 
 10 he explains, the two grand tragic feelings, pity and 
 terror, which it is the business of tragedy to excit«, 
 will not be excited by the spectacle of the ruin of a mere 
 villain ; since pity is for those who suffer undeservedly, 
 and such a man suffers deservedly : terror is excited 
 by the fall of one of like nature with ourselves, and we 
 feel that the mere villain is not as ourselves. Aristotle, 
 no doubt, is here speaking, above all, of the Prota- 
 gonist, or principal personage of the drama ; but the 
 noblest tragic poets of Greece rightly extended their 
 
 20 application of the truth on which his remark is based 
 to all the personages of the drama : neither the Creon 
 of Sophocles, nor the Clytemnestra of Aeschylus, are 
 wholly inexcusable ; in none of the extant dramas of 
 Aeschylus or Sophocles is there a character which is 
 entirely bad. For such a character we must go to 
 Euripides ; we must go to an art — wonderful indeed, 
 for I entirely dissent from the unreserved disparagers 
 of this great poet — but an art of less moral significance 
 than the art of Sophocles and Aeschylus ; we must go to 
 
 30 tragedies like the Hecuba, for villains like Polymestor. 
 What is the main dramatic difficulty of the story of 
 Merope, as usually treated? It is, as Alfieri rightly 
 saw, that the interest naturally declines from the 
 moment of Merope's recognition of her son ; that the 
 destruction of the tyrant is not, after this, matter of 
 interest enough to affect us deeply. This is true, if 
 Polyphontes is a mere villain. It is not true, if he is 
 one for the ruin of whom we may, in spite of his 
 crime, feel a profound compassion. Then our interest 
 
 40 in the story lasts to the end : for to the very end we 
 are inspired with the powerful tragic emotions of com- 
 miseration and awe. Pausanias states circumstances 
 
PEEFACE 301 
 
 which suggest the possibiHty of representing Poly- 
 phontes, not as a mere cruel and selfish tyrant, but as 
 a man whose crime was a truly tragic fault, the error 
 of a noble nature. Assume such a nature in him, and 
 the turn of circumstances in the drama takes a new 
 aspect : Merope and her son triumph, but the fall of 
 their foe leaves us awestruck and compassionate : the 
 story issues tragically, as Aristotle has truly said that 
 the best tragic stories ought to issue. 
 
 Neither Maffei, nor Voltaire, nor Alfieri have drawn 10 
 Polyphontes with a character to inspire any feeling 
 but aversion, with any traits of nobleness to mitigate 
 our satisfaction at his death. His character being 
 such, it is difficult to render his anxiety to obtain 
 Merope's hand intelligible, for Merope's situation is 
 not such as to make her enmity really dangerous to 
 Polyphontes ; he has, therefore, no sufficient motive of 
 self-interest, and the nobler motives of reparation and 
 pacification could have exercised, on such a character, 
 no force. Voltaire accordingly, whose keen eye no 20 
 weak place of this kind escaped, felt his difficulty. 
 ' Neither M. Maifei nor I,' he confesses, 'have assigned 
 any sufficient motives for the desire of Polyphontes to 
 marry Merope.' 
 
 To criticize is easier than to create ; and if I have 
 been led, in this review of the fortunes of my story, to 
 find fault with the works of others, I do not on that 
 account assume that I have myself produced a work 
 which is not a thousand times more faulty. 
 
 It reniains to say something, for those who are not 30 
 familiar with the Greek dramatic forms, of the form 
 in which this tragedy is cast. Greek tragedy, as is 
 well known, took its origin from the songs of a chorus, 
 and the stamp of its origin remained for ever impressed 
 upon it. A chorus, or band of dancers, moving around 
 the altar of Bacchus, sang the adventures of the god. 
 To this band Thespis joined an actor, who held 
 dialogue with the chorus, and who was called iiroKpiT^s, 
 the ansiverer, because he answered the songs of the 
 chorus. The drama thus commenced ; for the dia- 40 
 logue of this aotor with the chorus brought before 
 the audience some action of Bacchus, or of one of the 
 
302 MEROPE 
 
 heroes ; this action, narrated by the actor, was com- 
 mented on in song, at certain intervals, by the chorus 
 alone. Aeschylus added a second actor, thus making 
 the character of the representation more dramatic, for 
 the chorus was never itself so much an actor as a hearer 
 and observer of the actor : Sophocles added a third. 
 These three actors might successively personate several 
 characters in the same piece ; but to three actors and 
 a chorus the dramatic poet limited himself: only in 
 
 10 a single piece of Sophocles, not brought out until after 
 his death, was the employment of a fourth actor, it 
 appears, necessary. 
 
 The chorus consisted, in the time of Sophocles, of 
 fifteen persons. After their first entrance they re- 
 mained before the spectators, without withdrawing, 
 until the end of the piece. Their place was in the 
 orchestra ; that of the actors was upon the stage. The 
 orchestra was a circular space, like the pit of our 
 theatres: the chorus arrived in it by side-entrances, 
 
 20 and not by the stage. In the centre of the orchestra 
 was the altar of Bacchus, around which the chorus 
 originally danced ; but in dramatic representations 
 their place was between this altar and the stage : here 
 they stood, a little lower than the persons on the stage, 
 but looking towards them, and holding, through their 
 leaders, conversation with them : then, at pauses in 
 the action, the united chorus sang songs expressing 
 their feelings at what was happening upon the stage, 
 making, as they sang, certain measured stately move- 
 
 30 ments between the stage and the altar, and occasionally 
 standing stUl. Steps led from the orchestra to the 
 stage, and the chorus, or some members of it, might 
 thus, if necessary, join the actors on the stage; but 
 this seldom happened, the proper place for the chorus 
 was the orchestra. The dialogue of the chorus with 
 the actors on the stage passed generally in the ordinary 
 form of dramatic dialogue ; but, on occasions where 
 strong feeling was excited, the dialogue took a lyrical 
 form. Long dialogues of this kind sometimes took 
 
 40 place between the leaders of the chorus and one of the 
 actors upon the stage, their burden being a lamentation 
 for the dead. 
 
PKEFACE 303 
 
 The Greek theatres were vast, and open to the sky ; 
 the actors, masked, and in a somewhat stiff tragic 
 costume, were to be regarded from a considerable 
 distance : a solemn, clearly marked style of gesture, 
 a sustained tone of declamation, were thus rendered 
 necessary. Under these conditions, intricate by-play, 
 rapid variations in the action, requiring great mobility, 
 ever-changing shades of tone and gesture in the actor, 
 were impossible. Broad and simple effects were, under 
 these conditions, above all to be aimed at ; a profound 10 
 and clear impression was to be effected. Unity of plan 
 in the action, and symmetry in the treatment of it, 
 were indispensable. The action represented, therefore, 
 was to be a single, rigorously developed action ; the 
 masses of the composition were to be balanced, each 
 bringing out the other into stronger and distincter 
 relief. In the best tragedies, not only do the divisions 
 of the full choral songs accurately correspond to one 
 another, but the divisions of the lyrical dialogue, nay, 
 even the divisions of the regular dramatic dialogue, 20 
 form corresponding members, of which one member 
 is the answer, the counter-stroke to the other ; and 
 an indescribable sense of distinctness and depth of 
 impression is thus produced. 
 
 From what has been said, the reader will see that 
 the Greek tragic forms were not chosen as being, in 
 the nature of things, the best tragic forms ; such 
 would be a wholly false conception of them. They 
 are an adaptation to dramatic purposes, under certain 
 theatrical conditions, of forms previously existing for so 
 other purposes ; that adaptation at which the Greeks, 
 after several stages of improvement, finally rested. 
 The laws of Greek tragic art, therefore, are not exclusive ; 
 they are for Greek dramatic art itself, but they do not 
 pronounce other modes of dramatic art unlawful ; they 
 are, at most, prophecies of the improhabilitii of dramatic 
 success under other conditions. ' Tragedy, ' says Aristotle, 
 in a remarkable passage, ' after going through many 
 changes, got the nature which suited it, and there 
 it stopped. Whether or no the kinds of tragedy are io 
 yet exhausted,' he presently adds, 'tragedy being 
 considered either in itself, or in respect to the stage. 
 
304 MEEOPE 
 
 I shall not now inquire.' Travelling in a certain path, 
 the spirit of man arrived at Greek tragedy ; travelling 
 in other paths, it may arrive at other kinds of tragedy. 
 But it cannot be denied that the Greek tragic forms, 
 although not the only possible tragic forms, satisfy, in 
 the most perfect manner, some of the most urgent 
 demands of the human spirit. If, on the one hand, 
 the human spirit demands variety and the widest 
 possible range, it equally demands, on the other hand, 
 
 10 depth and concentration in its impressions. Powerful 
 thought and emotion, flowing in strongly marked 
 channels, make a stronger impression : this is the 
 main reason why a metrical form is a more effective 
 vehicle for them than prose : in prose there is more 
 freedom, but, in the metrical form, the very limit gives 
 a sense of precision and emphasis. This sense of 
 emphatic distinctness in our impressions rises, as the 
 thought and emotion swell higher and higher without 
 overflowing their boundaries, to a lofty sense of the 
 
 20 mastery of the human spirit over its own stormiest 
 agitations ; and this, again, conducts us to a state of 
 feeling which it is the highest aim of tragedy to pro- 
 duce, to a sentiment of sublime acquiescence in the course 
 of fate, and in the dispensations of human life. 
 
 What has been said explains, I think, the reason of 
 the effectiveness of the severe forms of Greek tragedy, 
 with its strongly marked boundaries, with its recur- 
 rence, even in the most agitating situations, of mutually 
 replying masses of metrical arrangement. Sometimes 
 
 30 the agitation becomes overwhelming, and the corre- 
 spondence is for a time lost, the torrent of feeling 
 flows for a space without check: this disorder amid 
 the general order produces a powerful effect ; but the 
 balance is restored before the tragedy closes : the final 
 sentiment in the mind must be one not of trouble, but 
 of acquiescence. 
 
 This sentiment of acquiescence is, no doubt, a sen- 
 timent of repose ; and, therefore, I cannot agree with 
 Mr. Lewes when he says, in his remarks on Goethe's 
 
 40 Iphigeneia, that ' the Greek Drama is distinguished by 
 its absence of repose ; by the currents of passion being 
 for ever kept in agitation.' I entirely agree, however, 
 
PEEPACE 305 
 
 in his criticism of Goethe's tragedy ; of that noble 
 poem which Schiller so exactly characterized when he 
 said that it was ' full of soul ' : I entirely agree with 
 him when lie says that ' the tragic situation in the 
 story of Iphigeneia is not touched by Goethe ; that his 
 tragedy addresses the conscience rather than the 
 emotions.' But Goethe does not err from Greek 
 ideas when he thinks that there is repose in tragedy : 
 he errs from Greek practice in the mode in which he 
 strives to produce that repose. Sophocles does not 10 
 produce the sentiment of repose, of acquiescence, by 
 inculcating it, by avoiding agitating circumstances : he 
 produces it by exhibiting to us the most agitating 
 matter under the conditions of the severest form. 
 Goethe has truly recognized that this sentiment is the 
 grand final effect of Greek tragedy : but he produces 
 it, not in the manner of Sophocles, but, as Mr. Lewes 
 has most ably pointed out, in a manner of his own ; 
 he produces it by inculcating it ; by avoiding agitating 
 matter ; by keeping himself in the domain of the soul 20 
 and conscience, not in that of the passions. 
 
 I have now to speak of the chorus ; for of this, as of 
 the other forms of Greek tragedy, it is not enough, 
 considering how Greek tragedy arose, to show that the 
 Greeks used it ; it is necessary to show that it is 
 effective. Johnson says, that 'it could only be by 
 long prejudice and the bigotry of learning that Milton 
 could prefer the ancient tragedies, with their encum- 
 brance of a chorus, to the exhibitions of the Prench 
 and English stages : ' and his tragedy of Irene suffi- 30 
 ciently proves that he himself, in his practice, adopted 
 Greek art as arranged at Paris, by those 
 
 Juges plus ^claires que ceux qui dans Atliene 
 Firent naitre ct fleurir les lois de Melpomene ; 
 
 as Voltaire calls them in the prologue to his JEri/phile. 
 Johnson merely calls the chorus an encumbrance. 
 Voltaire, who, in his Oedipus, had made use of the 
 chorus in a singular manner, argued, at a later period, 
 against its introduction. Voltaire is always worth 
 listening to, because his keenness of remark is always 40 
 suggestive. ' In an interesting piece the intrigue 
 
306 MEEOPE 
 
 generally requires,' says Voltaire, ' that the principal 
 actors should have secrets to tell one another — Eh ! le 
 moyen de dire son secret a tout tin pmple. And, if the 
 songs of the chorus allude to what has already hap- 
 pened, they must,' he says, 'be tiresome; if they 
 allude to what is about to happen, their effect will 
 be to deroher le plaisir de la surprise.' How ingenious, 
 and how entirely in Voltaire's manner ! The sense to 
 be appealed to in tragedy is curiosity ; the impression 
 
 10 to be awakened in us is surprise. But the Greeks 
 thought differently. For them, the aim of tragedy 
 was profound moral impression : and the ideal spectator, 
 as Schlegel and Miiller have called the chorus, was 
 designed to enable the actual spectator to feel his own 
 impressions more distinctly and more deeply. The 
 chorus was, at each stage in the action, to collect and 
 weigh the impressions which the action would at that 
 stage naturally make on a pious and thoughtful mind ; 
 and was at last, at the end of the tragedy, when the 
 
 20 issue of the action appeared, to strike the final balance. 
 If the feeling wica which the actual spectator regarded 
 the course of the tragedy could be deepened by remind- 
 ing him of what was past, or by indicating to hitn 
 what was to come, it was the province of the ideal 
 spectator so to deepen it. To combine, to harmonize, 
 to deepen for the spectator the feelings naturally 
 excited in him by the sight of what was passing upon 
 the stage — this is one grand effect produced by the 
 chorus in Greek tragedy. 
 
 30 There is another. Coleridge observes that Shake- 
 speare, after one of his grandest scenes, often plunges, 
 as if to relax and relieve himself, into a scene of 
 buffoonery. After tragic situations of the greatest 
 intensity, a desire for relief and relaxation is no 
 doubt natural, both to the poet and to the spectator ; 
 but the finer feeling of the Greeks found this relief, 
 not in buffoonery, but in lyrical song. The noble and 
 niatural relief from the emotion produced by tragic 
 events is in the transition to the emotion produced by 
 
 io lyric poetry, not in the contrast and shock of a totally 
 opposite order of feelings. The relief afforded to ex- 
 cited feeling by lyrical song every one has experienced 
 
PEEFACE 307 
 
 at the opera: the delight and facility of this relief 
 renders so universal the popularity of the opera, of 
 this ' beau monstre,' which still, as in Voltaire's time, 
 ^ etouffe Melpomene' But in the opera, the lyrical 
 element, the element of feeling and relaxation, is in 
 excess : the dramatic element, the element of intellect 
 and labour, is in defect. In the best Greek tragedy, 
 the lyrical element occupies its true place ; it is the 
 relief and solace in the stress and conflict of the 
 action ; it is not the substantive business. i" 
 
 Few can have read the Samson Agonistes of Milton 
 without feeling that the chorus imparts a peculiar and 
 noble effect to that poem ; but I regret that Milton 
 determined, induced probably by his preference for 
 Euripides, to adopt, in the' songs of the chorus, ' the 
 measure,' as he himself says, ' called by the Greeks 
 Monostrophic, or rather Apolelymenon, without regard 
 had to Strophe, Antistrophe, or Epode.' In this 
 relaxed form of the later Greek tragedy, the means 
 are sacrificed by which the chorus could produce, 20 
 within the limits of a single choric song, the same 
 effect which it was their business, as we have seen, to 
 produce in the tragedy as a whole. The regular 
 correspondence of part with part, the antithesis, in 
 answering stanzas, of thought to thought, feeling to 
 feeling, with the balance of the whole struck in one 
 independent final stanza or epode, is lost ; something 
 of the peculiar distinctness and symmetry, which con- 
 stitute the vital force of the Greek tragic forms, is thus 
 forfeited. The story of Samson, although it has no 30 
 mystery or complication, to inspire, like tragic stories 
 of the most perfect kind, a foreboding and anxious 
 gloom in the mind of him who hears it, is yet a truly 
 dramatic and noble one ; but the forms of Greek tra- 
 gedy, which are founded on Greek manners, on the 
 practice of chorus-dancing, and on the ancient habitual 
 transaction of affairs in the open air in front of the 
 dwellings of kings, are better adapted to Greek stories 
 than to Hebrew or any other. These reserves being 
 made, it is impossible to praise the Samson Agonistes i& 
 too highly : it is great with all the greatness of Milton. 
 Goethe might well say to Eckermann, after re-reading 
 
 X 2 
 
308 MEEOPE 
 
 it, that hardly any work had been composed so entirely 
 in the spirit of the ancients. 
 
 Milton's drama has the true oratorical flow of ancient 
 tragedy, produced mainly, I think, by his making it, 
 as the Greeks made it, the rule, not the exception, to 
 put the pause at the end of the line, not in the middle. 
 Shakespeare has some noble passages, particularly in 
 his Eichard the Third, constructed with this, the true 
 oratorical rhythm ; indeed, that wonderful poet, who 
 
 10 has so much besides rhetoric, is also the greatest 
 poetical rhetorician since Euripides : still, it is to the 
 Elizabethan poets that we owe the bad habit, in dra- 
 matic poetry, of perpetually dividing the line in the 
 middle. Italian tragedy has the same habit : in 
 Alfieri's plays it is intolerable. The constant occur- 
 rence of such lines produces, not a sense of variety, 
 but a sense of perpetual interruption. 
 
 Some of the measures used in the choric songs of 
 my tragedy are ordinary measures of English verse : 
 
 20 others are not so ; but it must not be supposed that 
 these last are the reproduction of any Greek choric 
 measures. So to adapt Greek measures to English 
 verse is impossible : what I have done is to try to 
 follow rhythms which produced on my own feeling 
 a similar impression to that produced on it by the 
 rhythms of Greek choric poetry. In such an endeavour, 
 when the ear is guided solely by its own feeling, there 
 is, I know, a continual risk of failure and of offence. 
 I believe, however, that there are no existing English 
 
 30 measures which produce the same eifect on the ear, 
 and therefore on the mind, as that produced by many 
 measures indispensable to the nature of Greek lyric 
 poetry. He, therefore, who would obtain certain effects 
 obtained by that poetry, is driven to invent new 
 measures, whether he will or no. 
 
 Pope and Dryden felt this. Pope composed two 
 choruses for the Duke of Buckingham's Brutus, a 
 tragedy altered from. Shakespeare, and performed at 
 Buckingham House. A short specimen will show what 
 
 40 these choruses were — 
 
 Love's purer flames the Gods approve : 
 The Gods and Brutus bend to love : 
 
PEEFACE 309 
 
 Brutus for absent Portia sighs, 
 
 And sterner Cassius melts at Junta's eyes. 
 
 In this style he proceeds for eight lines more, and 
 then the antistrophe duly follows. Pope felt that the 
 peculiar effects of Greek lyric poetry were here missed ; 
 the measure in itself makes them impossible : in his 
 ode on St. Cecilia's day, accordingly, he tries to come 
 nearer to the Greeks. Here is a portion of his fourth 
 stanza ; of one of those stanzas in which Johnson 
 thinks that ' we have all that can be performed by 10 
 sweetness of diction, or elegance of versification : ' — 
 
 Dreadful gleams, 
 
 Dismal screams. 
 
 Fires that glow, 
 
 Shrieks of woe, 
 
 Sullen moans. 
 
 Hollow groans. 
 
 And cries of tortured ghosts. 
 
 Horrible ! yet how dire must have been the necessity, 
 how strong the feeling of the inadequacy of existing 20 
 metres to produce effects demanded, which could drive 
 a man of Pope's taste to such prodigies of invention ! 
 Dryden in his Alexander's Feast deviates less from 
 ordinary English measures ; but to deviate from them 
 in some degree he was compelled. My admiration for 
 Dryden's genius is warm : my delight in this in- 
 comparable ode, the mighty son of his old age, is 
 unbounded : but it seems to me that in only one 
 stanza and chorus of the Alexander's Feast, the fourth, 
 does the rhythm from first to last completely satisfy 30 
 the ear. 
 
 I must have wearied my reader's patience : but I 
 was desirous, in laying before him my tragedy, that 
 it should not lose what benefit it can derive from the 
 foregoing explanations. To his favourable reception 
 of it there will still be obstacles enough, in its un- 
 familiar form, and in the incapacity of its author. 
 
 How much do I regret that the many poets of the 
 present day who possess that capacity which I have 
 not, should not have forestalled me in an endeavour 40 
 far beyond my powers ! How gladly should I have 
 applauded their better success in the attempt to enrich 
 
310 MEEOPE 
 
 with what, in the forms of the most pei-fectly-formed 
 literature in the world, is most perfect, our noble 
 English literature ; to extend its boundaries in the 
 one direction, in which, with all its force and variety, 
 it has not yet advanced ! They would have lost 
 nothing by such an attempt, and English literature 
 would have gained much. 
 
 Only their silence could have emboldened to under- 
 take it one with inadequate time, inadequate know- 
 10 ledge, and a talent, alas ! still more inadequate : one 
 who brings to the task none of the requisite qualifica- 
 tions of genius or learning : nothing but a passion 
 for the great Masters, and an effort to study them 
 without fancifulness. 
 
 London : December, 1857. 
 
 HISTOEICAL INTEODUCTION 
 
 In the foregoing Preface the story of Merope is detailed : what 
 is here added may serve to explain allusions which occur in the 
 course of the tragedy, and to illustrate the situation of its chief 
 
 20 personages at the moment when it commences. 
 
 The events on which the action turns belong to the period 
 of transition from the heroic and fabulous to the human and 
 historic age of Greece. The hero Hercules, the ancestor of the 
 Messenian Aepytus, belongs to fable : but the invasion of Pelo- 
 ponnesus by the Dorians under chiefs claiming to be descended 
 from Hercules, and their settlement in Ai-gos, JLacedaemon, and 
 Messenia, belong to history. Aepytus is descended on the 
 father's side from Hercules, Perseus, and the kings of Argos : 
 on the mother's side from Pelasgus, and the aboriginal kings 
 
 30 of Arcadia. Callisto, the daughter of the vficked Lycaon, and 
 the motlier, by Zeus, of Areas, from whom the Arcadians took 
 their name, was the grand-daughter of Pelasgus. The birth 
 of Areas brought upon Callisto the anger of the virgin-Goddess 
 Artemis, whose service she followed : she was changed into 
 a she-bear, and in this form was chased by her own son, grown 
 to manhood. At the critical moment Zeus Interposed, and the 
 mother and son were removed from the earth, and placed 
 among the stars : Callisto became the famous constellation of 
 the Great Bear ; her son became Arcturus, Arctophylax, or 
 
HISTOEICAL INTEODUCTION 311 
 
 BoBtes. From him, Cypselus, the maternal grandfather of 
 Aepytus, and the children of Cypselus, Laias and Meropo, were 
 lineally descended. 
 
 The events of the life of Hercules, the paternal ancestor of 
 Aepytus, are so well known that it is hardly necessary to record 
 them. It is sufficient to remind the reader, that, although 
 entitled to the throne of Argos by right of descent from Perseus 
 and Danaus, and to the thrones of Sparta and Messenia by 
 right of conquest, he yet passed his life in labours and wan- 
 derings, subjected by the decree of fate to the commands of his 10 
 far inferior kinsman, the feeble and malignant Eurystheus. 
 Hercules, who is represented with the violence as well as the 
 virtues of an adventurous ever-warring hero, attacked and slew 
 Eurytus, an Euboean king, with whom he had a quarrel, and 
 carried off the daughter of Eurytus, the beautiful lole. The 
 wife of Hercules, Deianeii-a, seized with jealous anxiety, re- 
 membered that long ago the centaur Nessus, dying by the 
 poisoned arrows of Hercules, had assured her that the blood 
 flowing from his mortal wound would prove an infallible love- 
 charm to win back the affections of her husband, if she should 20 
 ever lose them. With this philtre Deianeira now anointed 
 a robe of triumph, which she sent to her victorious husband : 
 he received it when about to offer public sacrifice, and im- 
 mediately put it on : but the sun's rays called into activity the 
 poisoned blood with which the robe was smeared : it clung 
 to the flesh of the hero and consumed it. In dreadful agonies 
 Hercules caused himself to be transported from Euboea to 
 Mount Oeta : there, under the crags of Trachis, an immense 
 funeral pile was constructed. Eecognizing the divine will in 
 the fate which had overtaken him, tlis hero ascended the pile, 30 
 and called on his children and followers to set it on fire. They 
 refused ; but the office was performed by Poeas, the father of 
 Philoctetes, who, passing near, was attracted by the concourse 
 round the pile, and who received the bow and arrows of 
 Hercules for his reward. The flames arose, and the apotheosis 
 of Hercules was consummated. 
 
 He bequeathed to his offsprijjg, the Heracleidae, his own 
 claims to the kingdoms of Peloponnesus, and to the persecution 
 of Eurystheus. They at first sought shelter with Ceyx, king of 
 Trachis : he was too weak to protect them ; and they then 40 
 took refuge at Athens. The Athenians refused to deliver them 
 up at the demand of Eurystheus : he invaded Attica, and 
 a battle was fought near Marathon, in which, after Macaria, 
 a daughter of Hercules, had devoted herself for the preserv.<(- 
 tion of her house, Eurystheus fell, and tho Heracleidae and 
 their Athenian protectors were victorious. The memory of 
 Macaria's self-sacrifice was perpetuated by the name of a spring 
 of water on the plain of Marathon, the spring Macaria. The 
 Heracleidae then endeavoured to effect their return to Pelopon- 
 nesus. Hyllus, the eldest of them, inquired of the oracle at 60 
 Delphi respecting their return ; he was told to return by the 
 narrow passage, and in the third harvest. Accordingly, in the 
 
312 MEEOPE 
 
 third year from that time, Hyllus led an army to the Isthmus 
 of Corinth ; but there he was encountered by an army of 
 Achaians and Arcadians, and fell in single combat with 
 Eohemus, king of Tegea. Upon this defeat the Heracleidae 
 retired to Northern Greece : there, after much wandering, 
 they finally took refuge with Aegimius, king of the Dorians, 
 who appears to have been the fastest friend of their house, and 
 whose Dorian warriors formed the army wliich at last achieved 
 their return. But, for a hundred years from the date of their 
 
 10 first attempt, the Heracleidae were defeated in their successive 
 invasions of Peloponnesus. Cleolaus and Aristomachus, the 
 son and grandson of Hyllus, fell in unsuccessful expeditions. 
 At length the sons of Aristomachus, Temenus, Cresphontes, 
 and Aristodemus, when grown up, repaired to Delphi and 
 taxed the oracle with the non-fulfilment of the promise made 
 to their ancestor Hyllus. But Apollo replied that his oiacle 
 had been misunderstood ; for that by the third harvest he had 
 meant the third generation, and by the nairow passage he had 
 meant the straits of the Corinthian Gulf. After this explana- 
 
 20 tion the sons of Aristomachus built a fleet at Naupactus ; and 
 finally, in the hundredth year from the death of Hyllus, and 
 the eightieth from the fall of Troy, the invasion was again 
 attempted, and was this time successful. The son of Orestes, 
 Tisamenus, who ruled both Argos and Lacedaemon, fell in 
 battle ; many of his vanquished subjects left tlieir homes and 
 retired to Achaia. 
 
 The spoil was now to be divided among the conquerors. 
 Aristodemus, the youngest of tlje sons of Aristomachus, did 
 not survive to enjoy his share. He was slain at Delphi by 
 
 30 tlie sons of Pylades and Electra, the kinsmen of the house of 
 Agamemnon, that house whicli the Heracleidae with their 
 Dorian army dispossessed. The claims of Aristodemus de- 
 scended to his two sons, Procles and Eurysthenes, children 
 under the guardianship of their maternal uncle, Theras. 
 Temenus, the eldest of the sons of Aristomachus, took tho 
 kingdom of Argos ; for the two remaining kingdoms, that of 
 Sparta and tliat of Messenia, his two nephews, who were to 
 rule jointly, and their uncle Cresphontes, were to cast lots. 
 Cresphontes wished to have the fertile Messenia, and induced 
 
 ■10 his brother to acquiesce in a trick which secured it to him. 
 The lot of Cresphontes and that of his two nephews were to 
 be placed in a water-jar, and thrown out. Messenia was to 
 belong to him whose lot came out first. With the connivance 
 of Temenus, Cresphontes marked as his own lot a pellet com- 
 posed of baked clay ; as the lot of his nephews, a pellet of 
 unbaked clay : the unbaked pellet was of course dissolved in 
 the water, while the brick pellet fell out alone. Messenia, 
 therefore, was assigned to Cresphontes. 
 
 Messenia was at this time ruled by Melanthus, a descendant 
 
 50 of Neleus. This ancestor, a prince of the great house of Aeolus, 
 had come from Thessaly, and succeeded to the Messenian 
 throne on the failure of the previous dynasty. Melanthus and 
 
HISTORICAL INTEODUCTION 313 
 
 his race were thus foreigners in Messenia, and were unpopular. 
 His subjects offered little or no opposition to tlie invading 
 Dorians : Melanthus abandoned his kingdom to Cresphontes, 
 and retired to Athens. 
 
 Cresphontes married Merope, whose native country, Arcadia, 
 was not affected by the Dorian invasion. This marriage, the 
 issue of which was three sons, connected him with the native 
 population of Peloponnesus. He built a new capital of Messenia, 
 Stenyclaros, and transferred thither, from Pylos, the seat of 
 government : he at first proposed, it is said by Pausanias, to 10 
 divide Messenia into five states, and to confer on the native 
 Messenians equal privileges with tlieir Dorian conquerors. 
 Tlio Dorians complained that his administration unduly 
 favoured the vanquished people : his chief magnates, headed 
 by Polyphonies, himself a descendant of Hercules, formed 
 a cabal against him, in which he was slain with his two eldest 
 sons. The youngest son of Cresphontes, Aepytus, then an 
 infant, was saved by his mother, who sent him to her father, 
 Cypselus, the king of Arcadia, under whose protection he was 
 brought up. 20 
 
 The drama begins at the moment when Aepytus, grown to 
 manhood, returns secretly to Messenia to take vengeance on his 
 father's murderers. At this period Temenus was no longer 
 reigning at Argos : he had been murdered by his sons, jealous 
 of their brother-in-law, Deiphontes : the sons of Aristodemus, 
 Prooles and Eurysthenes, at variance with their guardian, 
 were reigning at Sparta. 
 
314 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 
 
 Laias, uncle of Aepytus, hroiher of Meeope. 
 
 Aepytus, son of Merope and Chesphontes. 
 
 POLYPHONTES, king of Messenia. 
 
 Merope, widow of Cresphoktes, the murdered king of Messenia. 
 
 The Chorus, of Messenian maidens, 
 
 Arcas, an old man of Merope's household. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Guards, Attendants, &c. 
 
 The Scene is before the royal palace in Stenyci.aros, the capital of 
 Messenia. In the foreground is the tomb of Cresphontes. TIte 
 action commences at day-break. 
 
315 
 MEEOPE 
 
 LAIAS. AEPYTUS 
 
 Laias 
 
 Son of Oresphontes, we have reach'd the goal 
 
 Of our night-journey, and thou see'st thy home. 
 
 Behold thy heritage, thy father's realm ! 
 
 This is that fruitful, fam'd Messenian laiid. 
 
 Wealthy in corn and flocks, which, when at last 
 
 The late-relenting Gods with victory brought 
 
 The Heracleidae back to Pelops' isle, 
 
 Fell to thy father's lot, the second prize. 
 
 Before thy feet this recent city spreads 
 
 Of Stenyclaros, which he built, and made 10 
 
 Of his fresh-conquer'd realm the royal seat. 
 
 Degrading Pylos from its ancient rule. 
 
 There stands the temple of thine ancestor, 
 
 Great Hercules ; and, in that public place, 
 
 Zeus hath his altar, where thy father fell. 
 
 Thence to the south, behold those snowy j)eaks, 
 
 Taygetus, Laconia's border-wall : 
 
 And, on this side, those confluent streams which make 
 
 Pamisus watering the Messenian plain : 
 
 Then to the north, Lycaeus and the hills 20 
 
 Of pastoral Arcadia, where, a babe 
 
 Snatch 'd from the slaughter of thy father's house, 
 
 Thy mother's kin receiv'd thee, and rear'd up. — 
 
 Our journey is well made, the work remains 
 
 Which to perform we made it ; means for that 
 
 Let us consult, before this palace sends 
 
 Its inmates on their daily tasks abroad. 
 
 Haste and advise, for day comes on apace. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 brother of my mother, guardian true, 
 
 And second father from that hour when first 30 
 
 My mother's faithful servant laid me down, 
 
 An infant, at the hearth of Cypselus, 
 
 My grandfather, the good Arcadian king — 
 
316 MEKOPE 
 
 Thy part it were to advise, and mine to obey. 
 But let us keep that purpose, which, at home, 
 We judg'd the best ; chance finds no better way. 
 Go thou into the city, and seek out 
 Whate'er in the Messenian city stirs 
 Of faithful fondness towards their former king 
 Or hatred to their present ; in this last 40 
 
 "Will lie, my grandsire said, our fairest chance. 
 Tor tyrants make man good beyond himself ; 
 Hate to their rule, which else would die awav. 
 Their daily-practis'd chafings keep alive. 
 Seek this ; revive, unite it, give it hope ; 
 Bid it rise boldly at the signal given. 
 Meanwhile within my father's palace I, 
 An unknown guest, will enter, bringing word 
 Of iny own death ; but, Laias, well I hope 
 Through that pretended death to live and reign. 50 
 
 [The Chokus comes forth. 
 
 Softly, stand back ! — see, tow'rd the palace gates 
 What black procession slowly makes approach ? — 
 Sad-chanting maidens clad in mourning robes, 
 With pitchers in their hands, and fresh-pull'd flowers : 
 Doubtless, they bear them to my father's tomb. — 
 
 [Merope comes forth. 
 
 And see, to meet them, that one, grief-plung'd Form, 
 Severer, paler, statelier than they all, 
 A golden circlet on her queenly brow. — 
 O Laias, Laias, let the heart speak here ! 
 Shall I not greet her ? shall I not leap forth ? 60 
 
 [PoLYPHONTEs comes fovth, following Meeope. 
 
 Laias 
 
 Not so : thy heart would pay its moment's speech 
 By silence ever after ; for, behold ! 
 The King (I know him, even through many years) 
 Follows the issuing Queen, who stops, as call'd. 
 No lingering now ! straight to the city I : 
 Do thou, till for thine entrance to this house 
 The happy moment comes, lurk here unseen 
 Behind the shelter of thy father's tomb : 
 Eemove yet further off, if aught comes near. 
 
MEEOPE 317 
 
 But, here while harbouring, on its margin lay, 70 
 
 Solo offering that thou hast, locks from thy head : 
 And fill thy leisure with an earnest prayer 
 To his avenging Shade, and to the Gods 
 Who under earth watch guilty deeds of men, 
 To guide our effort to a prosperous close. 
 
 [Laias goes out. Polyphontes, Merope, and The 
 Chorus conie forward. As they advance, Aepytus, 
 tcho. at first conceals himself behind the iomh, moves 
 off the stage. 
 
 Polyphontes (To The Chorus) 
 
 Set down your pitchers, maidens ! and fall back ; 
 
 Suspend your melancholy rites awhile : 
 
 Shortly ye shall resume them with your Queen. — 
 
 {To Merope) 
 
 I sought thee, Merope ; I find thee thus, 
 
 As I have ever found thee ; bent to keep, 80 
 
 By sad observances and public grief, 
 
 A mournful feud alive, which else would die. 
 
 I blame thee not, I do thy heart no wrong : 
 
 Thy deep seclusion, thine unyielding gloom, 
 
 Thine attitude of cold, estrang'd reproach. 
 
 These punctual funeral honours, year by year 
 
 Kepeated, are in thee, I well believe. 
 
 Courageous, faithful actions, nobly dar'd. 
 
 But, Merope, the eyes of other men 
 
 Read in these actions, innocent in thee, 90 
 
 Perpetual promptings to rebellious hope. 
 
 War-cries to faction, year by year renew'd. 
 
 Beacons of vengeance, not to be let die. 
 
 And me, believe it, wise men gravely blame. 
 
 And ignorant men despise me, that I stand 
 
 Passive, permitting thee what course thou wilt. 
 
 Yes, the crowd mutters that remorseful fear 
 
 And paralysing conscience stop my arm, 
 
 When it should pluck thee from thy hostile way. 
 
 All this I bear, for, what I seek, I know ; 100 
 
 Peace, peace is what I seek, and public calm : 
 
 Endless extinction of unhappy hates : 
 
 Union cemented for this nation's weal. 
 
318 MEROPE 
 
 And even now, if to behold me here, 
 
 This day, amid these rites, this black-rob'd train, 
 
 Wakens, Queen ! remembrance in thy heart 
 
 Too wide at variance with the peace I seek — 
 
 I will not violate thy noble grief. 
 
 The prayer I came to urge I will defer. 
 
 Merope 
 
 This day, to-morrow, yesterday, alike 110 
 
 I am, I shall be, have been, in my mind 
 Tow'rds thee ; towards thy silence as thy speech. 
 Speak, therefore, or keep silence, which thou wilt. 
 
 POLYPHONTES 
 
 Hear me, then, speak ; and let this mournful day, 
 
 The twentieth anniversary of strife, 
 
 Henceforth be honour'd as the date of peace. 
 
 Yes, twenty years ago this day beheld 
 
 The king Cresphontes, thy great husband, fall : 
 
 It needs no yearly offerings at his tomb 
 
 To keep alive that memory in my heart ; 120 
 
 It lives, and, while I see the light, will live. 
 
 For we were kinsmen — more than kinsmen — friends : 
 
 Together we had sprung, together liv'd ; 
 
 Together to this isle, of Pelops came 
 
 To take the inheritance of Hercules ; 
 
 Together won this fair Messenian land — 
 
 Alas, that, how to rule it, was our broil ! 
 
 He had his counsel, party, friends — I mine ; 
 
 He stood by what he wish'd for — I the same ; 
 
 I smote him, when our wishes clash'd in arms ; 130 
 
 He had smit me, had he been swift as I. 
 
 But while I smote him, Queen, I honour'd him ; 
 
 Me, too, had he prevail'd, he had not scorn'd. 
 
 Enough of this ! — since then, I have maintain'd 
 
 The sceptre — not remissly let it fall — 
 
 And I am seated on a prosperous throne : 
 
 Yet still, for I conceal it not, ferments 
 
 In the Messenian people what remains 
 
 Of thy dead husband's faction ; vigorous once> 
 
 Now crush'd but not quite lifeless by his fall. 140 
 
 And these men look to thee, and from thy griefs— 
 
MEEOPE 319 
 
 Something too studiously, forgive me, shown — • 
 
 Infer thee their accomplice ; and they say 
 
 That thou in secret nurturest up thy son. 
 
 Him whom thou hiddest when thy husband fell, 
 
 To avenge that fall, and bring them back to power. 
 
 Such are their hopes — I ask not if by thee 
 
 Willingly fed or no — their most vain hopes ; 
 
 For I have kept conspiracy fast-chain'd 
 
 Till now, and I have strength to chain it still. 150 
 
 But, Merope, the years advance ; — I stand 
 
 Upon the threshold of old age, alone, 
 
 Always in arms, always in face of foes. 
 
 The long repressive attitude of rule 
 
 Leaves me austerer, sterner, than I would ; 
 
 Old age is more suspicious than the free 
 
 And valiant heart of youth, or manhood's firm. 
 
 Unclouded reason ; I would not decline 
 
 Into a jealous tyrant, scourg'd with fears. 
 
 Closing, in blood and gloom, his sullen reign. 160 
 
 The cares which might in nie with time, I feel. 
 
 Beget a cruel temper, help me quell ; 
 
 The breach between our parties help me close ; 
 
 Assist me to rule mildly : let us join 
 
 Our hands in solemn union, making friends 
 
 Our factions with the friendship of their chiefs. 
 
 Let us in marriage. King and Queen, unite 
 
 Claims ever hostile else ; and set thy son — 
 
 No more an exile fed on empty hopes, 
 
 And to an unsubstantial title heir, 170 
 
 But prince adopted by the will of power. 
 
 And future king — before this people's eyes. 
 
 Consider him ; consider not old hates : 
 
 Consider, too, this people, who were dear 
 
 To their dead king, thy husband- — yea, too dear, 
 
 For that destroy'd him. Give them peace ; thou 
 
 can'st. 
 Merope, how many noble thoughts, 
 How many precious feelings of man's heart. 
 How many loves, how many gratitudes, 
 Do twenty years wear out, and see expire ! 180 
 
 Shall they not wear one hatred out as well ? 
 
320 MEKOPE 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou hast forgot, then, who I am who hear, 
 
 And \Yho thou art who speakest to me ? I 
 
 Am Merope, thy murder'd master's wife . . . 
 
 And thou art Polyphontes, first his friend. 
 
 And then . . . his murdei'er. These offending tears 
 
 That murder draws . . . this breach that thou would'st 
 
 close 
 Was by that murder open'd . . . that one child 
 (If still, indeed, he lives) whom thou would'st seat 
 Upon a throne not thine to give, is heir 190 
 
 Because thou slew'st his brothers with their father. . . 
 Who can patch union here ? . . . What can there be 
 But everlasting horror 'twixt us two. 
 Gulfs of estranging blood ? . . . Across that chasm 
 Who can extend their hands ? . . . Maidens, take back 
 These offerings home ! our rites are spoil'd to-day. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Not so : let these Messenian maidens mark 
 The fear'd and blacken'd ruler of their race, 
 Albeit with lips unapt to self-excuse, 
 Blow off the spot of murder from his name. — 200 
 
 Murder ! — but what is murder ? When a wretch 
 For private gain or hatred takes a life. 
 We call it murder, crush him, brand his name : 
 But when, for some great public cause, an arm 
 Is, without love or hate, austerely rais'd 
 Against a Power exempt from common checks. 
 Dangerous to all, to be but thus annuU'd — 
 Banks any man with murder such an act ? 
 With giievous deeds, perhaps ; with murder— no I 
 Find then such cause, the charge of murder falls : 
 Be judge thyself if it abound not here. — 211 
 
 All know how weak the Eagle, Hercules, 
 Soaring from his death-pile on Oeta, left 
 His puny, callow Eaglets ; and what trials — 
 Infirm protectors, dubious oracles 
 Construed awry, misplann'd invasions — us'd 
 Two generations of his offspring up ; 
 Hardly the third, with grievous loss, regain'd 
 Their fathers' realm, this isle, from Pelops nam'd. — 
 
MEKOPE 321 
 
 Who made that triumph, though deferr'd, secure? 
 
 Who, but the kinsmen of the royal brood 221 
 
 Of Hercules, scarce Heracleidae less 
 
 Than they ? these, and the Dorian lords, whose king 
 
 Aegimius gave our outcast house a home 
 
 When Thebes, when Athens dar'd not ; who in arms 
 
 Thrice issued with us from their pastoral vales. 
 
 And shed their blood like water in our cause ? — 
 
 Such were the dispossessors : of what stamp 
 
 Were they we dispossessed ? — of us I speak. 
 
 Who to Messenia with thy husband came — 230 
 
 I speak not now of Argos, where his brother, 
 
 Not now of Sparta, where his nephews reign'd : — 
 
 What we found here were tribes of fame obscure, 
 
 Much turbulence, and little constancy. 
 
 Precariously rul'd by foreign lords 
 
 From the Aeolian stock of Neleus sprung, 
 
 A house once great, now dwindling in its sons. 
 
 Such were the conquer'd, such the conquerors : who 
 
 Had most thy husband's confidence ? Consult 
 
 His acts ; the wife he chose was — full of virtues — 
 
 But an Arcadian princess, more akin 241 
 
 To his new subjects than to us ; his friends 
 
 Were the Messenian chiefs ; the laws he fram'd 
 
 Were aim'd at their promotion, our decline ; 
 
 And, finally, this land, then half-subdued, 
 
 Which from one central city's guarded seat 
 
 As from a fastness in the rocks our scant 
 
 Handful of Dorian conquerors might have curb'd, 
 
 He parcell'd out in five confederate states. 
 
 Sowing his victors thinly through them all, 250 
 
 Mere prisoners, meant or not, among our foes. 
 
 If this was fear of them, it sham'd the king : 
 
 If jealousy of us, it sham'd the man. — 
 
 Long we refrain'd ourselves, submitted long, 
 
 Construed his acts indulgently, rever'd. 
 
 Though found perverse, the blood of Hercules : 
 
 Eeluctantly the rest ; but, against all. 
 
 One voice preach'd patience, and that voice was mine. 
 
 At last it reach'd us, that he, still mistrustful, 
 
 Deeming, as tyrants deem, our silence hate, 260 
 
 Unadulating grief conspiracy, 
 
322 MEEOPE 
 
 Had to this city, Stenyclaros, call'd 
 
 A general assemblage of the realm, 
 
 With compact in that concourse to deliver, 
 
 For death, his ancient to his new-made friends. 
 
 Patience was thenceforth self-destruction. I, 
 
 I his chief kinsman, I his pioneer 
 
 And champion to the throne, I honouring most 
 
 Of men the line of Heroules, preferr'd 
 
 The many of that lineage to the one : 270 
 
 What his foes dar'd not, I, his lover, dar'd : 
 
 I, at that altar, where mid shouting crowds 
 
 He sacrific'd, our ruin in his heart, 
 
 To Zeus, before he struck his blow, struck mine : 
 
 Struck once, and aw'd his mob, and sav'd this realm. 
 
 Murder let others call this, if they will ; 
 
 I, self-defence and righteous execution. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Alas, how fair a colour can his tongue, 
 
 Who self-exculpates, lend to foulest deeds. 
 
 Thy trusting lord didst thou, his servant, slay ; 280 
 
 Kinsman, thou slew'st thy kinsman; friend, thy friend; 
 
 This were enough ; but let me tell thee, too, 
 
 Thou hadst no cause, as feign'd, in his misrule. 
 
 For ask at Argos, ask in Lacedaemon, 
 
 Whose people, when the Heracleidae came, 
 
 Were hunted out, and to Achaia fled,. 
 
 Whether is better, to abide alone, 
 
 A wolfish band, in a dispeopled realm, 
 
 Or conquerors with conquer'd to unite 
 
 Into one puissant folk, as he design'd ? 290 
 
 These sturdy and unworn Messenian tribes, 
 
 Who shook the fierce Neleidae on their throne, 
 
 Who to the invading Dorians stretch'd a hand. 
 
 And half bestow'd, half yielded up their soil — 
 
 He would not let his savage chiefs alight, 
 
 A cloud of vultures, on this vigorous race ; 
 
 Eavin a little while in spoil and blood, 
 
 Then, gorg'd and helpless, be assail'd and slain. 
 
 He would have sav'd you from your furious selves, 
 
 Not in abhorr'd estrangement let you stand ;, 30ft 
 
 He would have mix'd you with your friendly foes, 
 
MEEOPE 323 
 
 Foes dazzled with your prowess, well inclin'd 
 
 To reverence your lineage, more, to obey : 
 
 So would have built you, in a few short years, 
 
 A just, therefore a safe, supremacy. 
 
 For well he knew, what you, his chiefs, did not — 
 
 How of all human rules the over-tense 
 
 Are apt to snap ; the easy-stretch'd endure. — 
 
 gentle wisdom, little understood ! 
 
 arts, above the vulgar tyrant's reach ! 310 
 
 policy too subtle far for sense 
 
 Of heady, masterful, injurious men ! 
 
 This good he meant you, and for this he died. 
 
 Yet not for this— else might thy crime in part 
 
 Be error deem'd — but that pretence is vain. 
 
 For, if ye slew him for suppos'd misrule. 
 
 Injustice to his kin and Dorian friends, 
 
 Why with the offending father did ye slay 
 
 Two unoffending babes, his innocent sons ? 
 
 Why not on them have plac'd the forfeit crown, 320 
 
 Eul'd in their name, and train'd them to your will ? 
 
 Had tliey misrul'd ? had they forgot their friends ? 
 
 Forsworn their blood ? ungratefully had tMy 
 
 Preferr'd Messenian serfs to Dorian lords ? 
 
 No : but to thy ambition their poor lives 
 
 Were bar ; and this, too, was their father's crime. 
 
 That thou might'st reign he died, not for his fault 
 
 Even fancied ; and his death thou wroughtest chief. 
 
 For, if the other lords desir'd his fall 
 
 Hotlier than thou, and were by thee kept back, 330 
 
 Why dost thou only profit by his death ? 
 
 Thy crown condemns thee, while thy tongue absolves. 
 
 And now to me thou tenderest friendly league, 
 
 And to my son reversion to thy throne : 
 
 Short answer is sufficient ; league with thee. 
 
 For me I deem such impious ; and for him. 
 
 Exile abroad more safe than heirship here. 
 
 POLYPHON 
 
 TES 
 
 I ask thee not to approve thy husband's death, 
 
 No, nor expect thee to admit the grounds. 
 
 In reason good, which justified my deed : 340 
 
 With women the heart argues, not the mind. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 MEEOPE 
 
 But, for thy children's death, I stand assoil'd : 
 I sav'd them, meant them, honour : but thy friends 
 Kose, and with fire and sword assailed my house 
 By night ; in that blind tumult they were slain. 
 To chance impute their deaths, then, not to me. 
 
 Merope 
 Such chance as kill'd the father, kill'd the sons. 
 
 POLYPHONTES 
 
 One son at least I spar'd, for still he lives. 
 
 Merope 
 Tyrants think him they murder not they spare. 
 
 PoLYPHONTES 
 
 Not much a tyrant thy free speech displays me. 350 
 
 Merope 
 Thy shame secures my freedom, not thy will. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Shame rarely checks the genuine tyrant's will. 
 
 Merope 
 One merit, then, thou hast : exult in that. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Thou standest out, I see, repellest peace. 
 
 Merope 
 Thy sword repell'd it long ago, not I, 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Doubtless thou reckonest on the hope of friends. 
 
 Merope 
 Not help of men, although, perhaps, of Gods. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 What Gods ? the Gods of concord, civil weal ? 
 
 Merope 
 No : the avenging Gods, who punish crime. 
 
MEROPE 325 
 
 POLYPHONTES 
 
 Beware ! from thee upbraidings I receive 360 
 
 With pity, nay, with reverence ; yet, beware ! 
 
 I know, I know how hard it is to think 
 
 That right, that conscience pointed to a deed, 
 
 Where interest seems to have enjoin'd it too. 
 
 Most men are led by interest ; and the few 
 
 Who are not, expiate the general sm, 
 
 Involv'd in one suspicion with the base. 
 
 Dizzy the path and perilous the way 
 
 Which in a deed like mine a just man treads. 
 
 But it is sometimes trodden, oh ! believe it. 370 
 
 Yet how canst thou believe it ? therefore thou 
 
 Hast all impunity. Yet, lest thy friends, 
 
 Embolden'd by my lenience, think it fear. 
 
 And count on like impunity, and rise. 
 
 And have to thank thee for a fall, beware ! 
 
 To rule this kingdom I intend : with sway 
 
 Clement, if may be, but to rule it : there 
 
 Expect no wavering, no retreat, no change. — 
 
 And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem'd 
 
 Pious, but impious, surely, if their scope 380 
 
 Be to foment old memories of wrath. 
 
 Priiy, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb, 
 
 To be delivered from thy foster'd hate, 
 
 Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear. 
 
 [PoLYPHONTEs ffocs ifito file polacB. The Chorus and 
 Merope approach the tomb with their offerings. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Draw, draw near to the tomb. strophe. 
 
 Lay honey-cakes on its marge. 
 
 Pour the libation of milk. 
 
 Deck it with garlands of flowers. 
 
 Tears fall thickly the while ! 
 
 Behold, O King, from the dark 390 
 
 House of the grave, what we do. 
 
 O Arcadian hills, antistrophe. 
 
 Send us the Youth whom ye hide, 
 Girt with his coat for the chase. 
 With the low broad hat of the tann'd 
 
326 MEKOPE 
 
 Huntei' o'ershadowing his brow : 
 Grasping firm, in his hand 
 Advanc'd, two javelins, not now 
 Dangerous alone to the deer. 
 
 Merope 
 
 What shall I bear, lost str. 1. 400 
 
 Husband and King, to thy grave? — 
 
 Pure libations, and fresh 
 
 Flowers ? But thou, in the gloom. 
 
 Discontented, perhaps, 
 
 Demandest vengeance, not grief? 
 
 Sternly requirest a man, 
 
 Light to spring up to thy race ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Vengeance, O Queen, is his due, sir. 2. 
 
 His most just prayer: yet his race — 
 
 If that might soothe him below — 410 
 
 Prosperous, mighty, came back 
 
 In the third generation, the way 
 
 Order'd by Fate, to their home. 
 
 And now, glorious, secure, 
 
 Fill the wealth-giving thrones 
 
 Of their heritage, Pelops' isle. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Suffering sent them, Death ant. 1. 
 
 March'd with them. Hatred and Strife 
 
 Met them entering their halls. 
 
 For from the day when the first 420 
 
 Heracleidae receiv'd 
 
 That Delphic hest to return, 
 
 What hath involv'd them but blind 
 
 Error on error, and blood ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Truly I hear of a Maid ant. 2. 
 
 Of that stock born, who bestow'd 
 
 Her blood that so she might make 
 
 Victory sure to her race, 
 
 When the fight hung in doubt : but she now, 
 
MEEOPE 327 
 
 Honour'd and sung of by all, 430 
 
 Far on Marathon plain 
 Gives her name to the spring 
 Macaria, blessed Child. 
 
 Meeope 
 
 She led the way of death. str. 3. 
 
 And the plain of Tegea, 
 
 And the grave of Orestes — 
 
 Where, in secret seclusion 
 
 Of his unreveal'd tomb. 
 
 Sleeps Agamemnon's unhappy, 
 
 Matricidal, vs'orld-fam'd, 440 
 
 Seven-cubit-statur'd son — 
 
 Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king, 
 
 By whose hand, at the Isthmus, 
 
 At the Fate-denied Straits, 
 
 Fell the eldest of the sons of Hercules, 
 
 Hyllus, the chief of his house. — 
 
 Brother fbllow'd sister 
 
 The all-vsrept way. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Yes ; but his son's seed, wiser-counsell'd, 149 
 
 Sail'd by the Fate-meant Gulf to their conquest ; 
 Slew their enemies' king, Tisamenus. 
 Wherefore accept that happier omen ! 
 Yet shall restorers appear to the race. 
 
 Meeope 
 
 Three brothers won the field, ant. 3. 
 
 And to two did Destiny 
 
 Give the thrones that they conquor'd. 
 
 But the third, what delays him 
 
 From his unattain'd crown ? . . . 
 
 Ah Pylades and Electra, 
 
 Ever faithful, untir'd, 460 
 
 Jealous, blood -exacting friends ! 
 
 Ye lie watching for the foe of your kin, 
 
 In the passes of Delphi, 
 
 In the temple-built gorge. — 
 
328 MEEOPE 
 
 There the youngest of the band of conquerors 
 Perish'd, in sight of the goal. 
 Grandson follow'd sire 
 The all-wept way. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Thou tellest the fate of the last str. 4. 
 
 Of the three Heracleidae. 470 
 
 Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared'st the lot. 
 A king, a king was he while he liv'd. 
 Swaying the sceptre with predestin'd hand. 
 And now, minister lov'd, 
 
 Holds rule 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ah me . . . Ah . . . 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 For the awful Monarchs below. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou touchest the worst of my ills. str, 5. 
 
 Oh had he fallen of old 
 
 At the Isthmus, in fight with his foes, 
 
 By Achaian, Arcadian spear ! 480 
 
 Then had his sepulchre risen 
 
 On the high sea-bank, in the sight 
 
 Of either Gulf, and remain'd 
 
 All-regarded afar, 
 
 Noble memorial of worth 
 
 Of a valiant Chief, to his own. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 There rose up a cry in the streets ant. 4. 
 
 From the terrifi.ed people. 
 
 From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail. 
 A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell, 490 
 
 S^iilying his garment with dark-streaming blood : 
 While stood o'er him a Form — 
 
 Some Form 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ah me . • . Ah . . 
 
MEEOPE 329 
 
 The Chorus 
 Of a dreadful Presence of fear. 
 
 Merope 
 More piercing the second cry rang, ant 5. 
 
 Wail'd from the palace within, 
 From the Children. , . . The Fury to them, 
 Fresh from their father, draws near. 
 Ah bloody axe ! dizzy blows ! 
 
 In these ears, they thunder, they ring, 600 
 
 These poor ears, still : — and these eyes 
 Night and day see them fall, 
 Fiery phantoms of death, 
 On the fair, curl'd heads of my sons. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Not to thee only hath come sfr. 6. 
 
 Sorrow, O Queen, of mankind. 
 Had not Electra to haunt 
 A palace defil'd by a death unaveng'd. 
 For years, in silence, devouring her heart ? 
 But her nursling, her hope, came at last. 510 
 
 Thou, too, rearest in joy, 
 Far 'mid Arcadian hills. 
 Somewhere, in safety, a nursling, a light. 
 Yet, yet shall Zeus bring him home ! 
 Yet shall he dawn on this land ! 
 
 Merope 
 Him in secret, in tears, sir. 7. 
 
 Month after month, through the slow-dragging year, 
 Longing, listening, I wait, I implore. 
 But he comes not. What dell, 
 
 Erymanthus ! from sight 620 
 
 Of his mother, which of thy glades, 
 O Lycaeus ! conceals 
 The happy hunter ? He basks 
 In youth's pure morning, nor thinks 
 On the blood-stain 'd home of his birth. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Give not thy heart to despair. ant. 6. 
 
 No lamentation can loose 
 
330 MEEOPE 
 
 Prisoners of death from the grave : 
 
 But Zeus, who accounteth thy quarrel his own, 
 
 Still rules, still watches, and numbers the hours 530 
 
 Till the sinner, the vengeance, be ripe. 
 
 Still, by Acheron stream. 
 
 Terrible Deities thron'd 
 
 Sit, and make ready the serpent, the scourge. 
 
 Still, still the Dorian boy, 
 
 Exil'd, remembers his home. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Him if high-ruling Zeus ant. 7. 
 
 Bring to his mother, the rest I commit. 
 
 Willing, patient, to Zeus, to his care. 
 
 Blood I ask not. Enough 540 
 
 Sated, and more than enough, 
 
 Are mine eyes with blood. But if this, 
 
 O my comforters ! strays 
 
 Amiss from Justice, the Gods 
 
 Forgive my folly, and work 
 
 What they will ! — but to me give my son I 
 
 The Chorus 
 Hear us and help us. Shade of our King ! str. 8. 
 
 Merope 
 A return, O Father ! give to thy boy ! str. 9. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Send an avenger, Gods of the dead ! ant. 8. 
 
 Merope 
 An avenger I ask not : send me my son ! ant. 9. 650 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 O Queen, for an avenger to appear, 
 Thinking that so I pray'd aright, I pray'd : 
 If I pray'd wrongly, I revoke the prayer. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Forgive me, maidens, if I seem too slack 
 In calling vengeance on a murderer's head. 
 
MEEOPE 331 
 
 Impious I deem the alliance which he asks ; 
 
 Kequite him words severe, for seeming kind ; 
 
 And righteous, if he falls, I count his fall. 
 
 With this, to those unbrib'd inquisitors, 
 
 Who in man's inmost bosom sit and judge, 660 
 
 The true avengers these, I leave his deed. 
 
 By him shown fair, but, I believe, most foul. 
 
 If these condemn him, let them pass his doom ! 
 
 That doom, obtain effect, from Gods or men ! 
 
 So be it ! yet will that more solace bring 
 
 To the chaf 'd heart of Justice than to mine. — 
 
 To hear another tumult in these streets. 
 
 To have another murder in these halls, 
 
 To see another mighty victim bleed — 
 
 There is small comfort for a woman here. 670 
 
 A woman, O my friends, has one desire — 
 
 To see secure, to live with, those she loves. 
 
 Can Vengeance give me back the murdered ? no ! 
 
 Can it bring home my child ? Ah, if it can, 
 
 I pray the Furies' ever-restless band. 
 
 And pray the Gods, and pray the all-seeing Sun — 
 
 ' Sun, who careerest through the height of Heaven, 
 
 When o'er the Arcadian forests thou art come. 
 
 And seest my stripling hunter there afield. 
 
 Put tightness in thy gold-embossfed rein, 580 
 
 And check thy fiery steeds, and, leaning back, 
 
 Throw him a pealing word of summons down, 
 
 To come, a late avenger, to the aid 
 
 Of this poor soul who bore him, and his sire.' 
 
 If this will bring him back, be this my prayer ! — 
 
 But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way. 
 
 Double of issue, full of pits and snares 
 
 For all who pass, pursuers and pursued — 
 
 That way is dubious for a mother's prayer. 
 
 Eather on thee I call, Husband belov'd ! — 690 
 
 May Hermes, herald of the dead, convey 
 
 My words below to thee, and make thee hear. — 
 
 Bring back our son ! if may be, without blood ! 
 
 Install him in thy throne, still without blood ! 
 
 Grant him to reign there wise and just like thee, 
 
 More fortunate than thee, more fairly judg'd ! 
 
 This for our son : and for myself I pray, 
 
332 MEEOPE 
 
 Soon, having once beheld him, to descend 
 
 Into the quiet gloom, where thou art now. 
 
 These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife, 60O 
 
 I send, and these libations pour the while. 
 
 [They make their offerings at the tomb. Merope 
 tJien goes towards the palace. 
 
 The Chokus 
 
 The dead hath now his offerings duly paid. 
 But whither go'st thou hence, O Queen, away ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 To receive Areas, who to-day should come, 
 Bringing me of my boy the annual news. 
 
 The Chorus 
 No certain news if like the rest it run. 
 
 Merope 
 Certain in this, that 'tis uncertain still. 
 
 The Chorus 
 What keeps him in Arcadia from return ? 
 
 Merope 
 His grandsire and his uncles fear the risk. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Of what ? it lies with them to make risk none. 610 
 
 Merope 
 Discovery of a visit made by stealth. 
 
 The Chorus 
 With arms then they should send him, not by stealth. 
 
 Merope 
 With arms they dare not, and by stealth they fear. 
 
 The Chorus 
 I doubt their caution little suits their ward. 
 
 Merope 
 The heart of youth I know ; that most I fear. 
 
MEEOPE 333 
 
 The Chorus 
 I augur thou wilt hear some bold resolve. 
 
 Merope 
 
 I dare not wish it ; but, at least, to hear 
 
 That my son still survives, in health, in bloom ; 
 
 To hear that still he loves, still longs for, me ; 
 
 Yet, with a light unoareworn spirit, turns 620 
 
 Quick from distressful thought, and floats in joy — 
 
 Thus much from Areas, my old servant true. 
 
 Who sav'd him from these murderous halls a babe, 
 
 And since has fondly watch'd him night and day 
 
 Save for this annual charge, I hope to hear. 
 
 If this be all, I know not ; but I know. 
 
 These many years I live for this alone. 
 
 [Mehope goes in. 
 The Chorus 
 
 Much is there which the Sea str. 1, 
 
 Conceals from man, who cannot plumb its depths. 
 Air to his unwing'd form denies a way, 630 
 
 And keeps its liquid solitudes unscal'd. 
 Even Earth, whereon he treads. 
 So feeble is his march, so slow, 
 Holds countless tracts untrod. 
 
 But, more than all unplumb'd, ant. 1. 
 
 Unscal'd, untrodden, is the heart of Man. 
 
 More than all secrets hid, the way it keeps. 
 
 Nor any of our organs so obtuse. 
 
 Inaccurate, and frail. 
 
 As those with which we try to test 640, 
 
 Feelings and motives there. 
 
 Yea, and not only have we not explor'd str. 2. 
 
 That wide and various world, the heart of others, 
 But even our own heart, that narrow world 
 Bounded in our own breast, we hardly know. 
 Of our own actions dimly trace the causes. 
 Whether a natural obscureness, hiding 
 That region in perpetual cloud, 
 Or our own want of effort, be the bar. 
 
834 MEROPE 
 
 Therefore — while acts are from their motives judg'd, 
 
 ant. 2. 650 
 And to one act many most unlike motives, 
 This pure, that guilty, may have each impell'd — 
 Power fails us to try clearly if that cause 
 Assign'd us by the actor be the true one : 
 Power fails the man himself to fix distinctly 
 The cause which drew him to his deed, 
 And stamp himself, thereafter, bad or good. 
 
 Tlie most are had, wise men have said. str. 3. 
 
 Let the lest rule, they say again. 
 
 The best, then, to dominion have the right. 660 
 
 Rights unconceded and denied. 
 
 Surely, if rights, may be by force asserted — 
 
 May be, nay should, if for the general weal. 
 
 The best, then, to the throne may carve his way, 
 
 And hew opposers down, 
 
 Free from all guilt of lawlessness. 
 
 Or selfish lust of personal power : 
 
 Bent only to serve Virtue, 
 
 Bent to diminish wrong. 
 
 And truly, in this ill-rul'd world, ant. 3. 670 
 
 Well sometimes may the good desire 
 
 To give to Virtue her dominion due. 
 
 Well may they long to interrupt 
 
 The reign of Polly, usurpation ever, 
 
 Though fenc'd by sanction of a thousand years. 
 
 Well thirst to drag the wrongful ruler down. 
 
 Well purpose to pen back 
 
 Into the narrow path of right. 
 
 The ignorant, headlong multitude, 
 
 Who blindly follow ever 680 
 
 Blind leaders, to their bane. 
 
 But who can say, without a fear, str. 4. 
 
 Tliat best, who ought to rule, am I ; 
 
 The mob, who ought to obey, are these ; 
 
 I the one righteous, they the many bad ? — 
 
 Who, without check of conscience, can aver 
 
 That he to power makes way by arms. 
 
MEEOPE 335 
 
 Sheds blood, imprisons, banishes, attaints, 
 Commits all deeds the guilty oftenest do, 
 Without a single guilty thought, 690 
 
 Arm'd for right only, and the general good ? 
 
 Therefore, with censure unallay'd, ant. 4. 
 
 Therefore, with unexcepting ban, 
 
 Zeus and pure-thoughted Justice brand 
 
 Imperious self-asserting Violence. 
 
 Sternly condemn the too bold man, who dares 
 
 Elect himself Heaven's destin'd arm. 
 
 And, knowing well man's inmost heart infirm, 
 
 However noble the committer be. 
 
 His grounds however specious shown, 700 
 
 Turn with averted eyes from deeds of blood. 
 
 Thus, though a woman, I was school'd epode. 
 
 By those whom I revere. 
 
 Whether I learnt their lessons well. 
 
 Or, having learnt them, well apply 
 
 To what hath in this house befall'n, 
 
 If in the event be any proof. 
 
 The event will quickly show. 
 
 [Aepytus comes in. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Maidens, assure me if they told me true 
 
 Who told me that the royal house was here. 710 
 
 Thk Chorus 
 Eightly they told thee, and thou art arriv'd. 
 
 Aepytus 
 Here, then, it is, where Polyphontes dwells ? 
 
 The Choeus 
 He doth : thou hast both house and master right. 
 
 Aepytus 
 Might some one straight inform him he is sought ? 
 
 The Chokus 
 Inform him that thyself, for here ho comes. 
 
336 MEEOPE 
 
 [PoLYPHONTES comcs fortli, with Attendants 
 
 and Guards. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 O King, all hail ! I come with weighty news : 
 Most likely, grateful ; but, in all case, sure. 
 
 PoLYPHONTES 
 
 Speak them, that I may judge their kind myself. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Accept them in one word, for good or bad : 
 
 Aepytus, the Messenian prince, is dead ! 720 
 
 PoLYPHONTES 
 
 Dead! — and when died he? where? and by what 
 
 hand ? 
 And who art thou, who bringest me such news ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 He perish'd in Arcadia, where he liv'd 
 With Cypselus ; and two days since he died. 
 One of the train of Cypselus am I. 
 
 PoLYPHONTES 
 
 Instruct me of the manner of his death. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 That will I do, and to this end I came. 
 
 For, being of like age, of birth not mean. 
 
 The son of an Arcadian noble, I 
 
 Was chosen his companion from a boy ; 730 
 
 And on the hunting-rambles which his heart, 
 
 Unquiet, drove him ever to pursue. 
 
 Through all the lordships of the Arcadian dales, 
 
 From chief to chief, I wander'd at his side. 
 
 The captain of his squires, and his guard. 
 
 On such a hunting-journey, three morns since. 
 
 With beaters, hounds, and huntsnien, he and I 
 
 Set forth from Tegea, the royal town. 
 
 The prince at start seem'd sad, but his regard 
 
 Clear'd with blithe travel and the morning air. 740 
 
 We rode from Tegea, through the woods of oaks, 
 
MEEOPE 337 
 
 Past Arne spring, where Rhea gave the babe 
 
 Poseidon to the shepherd-boys to hide 
 
 From Saturn's search among the new-yean'd lambs, 
 
 To Mantinea, with its unbak'd walls ; 
 
 Thence, by the Sea-God's Sanctuary, and the tomb 
 
 Whither from wintry Maenalus were brought 
 
 The bones of Areas, whence our race is nam'd. 
 
 On, to the mstrshy Orchomenian plain, 
 
 And the Stone Coffins ; — then, by Caphyae Cliffs, 750 
 
 To Pheneos with its craggy citadel. 
 
 There, with the chief of that hill-town, we lodg'd 
 
 One night ; and the next day, at dawn, far'd on 
 
 By the Three Fountains and the Adder's Hill 
 
 To the Stymphalian Lake, our journey's end. 
 
 To draw the coverts on Cyllene's side. 
 
 There, on a grassy spur which bathes its root 
 
 Far in the liquid lake, we sate, and drew 
 
 Gates from our hunters' pouch. Arcadian fare. 
 
 Sweet chestnuts, barley-cakes, and boar's-flesh dried : 
 
 And as we ate, and rested there, we talk'd 761 
 
 Of places we had pass'd, sport we had had. 
 
 Of beasts of chase that haunt the Arcadian hills, 
 
 Wild hog, and bear, and mountain-deer, and roe : 
 
 Last, of our quarters with the Arcadian chiefs. 
 
 For courteous entertainment, welcome warm. 
 
 Sad, reverential homage, had our prince 
 
 From all, for his great lineage and his woes : 
 
 All which he own'd, and prais'd with grateful mind. 
 
 But still over his speech a gloom there hung, 770 
 
 As of one shadow'd by impending death ; 
 
 And strangely, as we talk'd, he would apply 
 
 The story of spots mention'd to his own : 
 
 Telling us, Arne minded him, he too 
 
 Was sav'd a babe, but to a life obscure. 
 
 Which he, the seed of Hercules, dragg'd on 
 
 Inglorious, and should drop at last unknown. 
 
 Even as those dead unepitaph'd, who lie 
 
 In the stone coffins at Orchomenus. 
 
 And, then, he bade remember how we pass'd 780 
 
 The Mantinean Sanctuary, forbid 
 
 To foot of mortal, where his ancestor, 
 
 Nam'd Aepytus like him, having gone in. 
 
338 MEEOPE 
 
 Was blinded by the outgushing springs of brine. 
 
 Then, turning westward to the Adder's Hill — 
 
 Another ancestor, nam'cl, too, like me, 
 
 Died of a snake-bite, said he, on that Irow : 
 
 Still at his mountain tomb men marvel, built 
 
 Wliere, as life ebb'd, his bearers laid him down. 
 
 So he play'd on ; then ended, with a smile — 790 
 
 This region is not happy for my race. 
 
 We cheer'd him ; but, that moment, from the copse 
 
 By the lake-edge, broke the sharp cry of hounds ; 
 
 The prickers shouted that the stag was gone : 
 
 We sprang upon our feet, we snatch'd our spears, 
 
 We bounded down the swarded slope, we plung'd 
 
 Through the dense ilex-thickets to the dogs. 
 
 Far in the woods ahead their music rang ; 
 
 And many times that morn we cours'd in ring 
 
 The forests round which belt Cyllene's side ; 800 
 
 Till I, thrown out and tired, came to halt 
 
 On the same spur where we had sate at morn. 
 
 And resting there to breathe, I saw below 
 
 Eare, straggling hunters, foil'd by brake and crag, 
 
 And the prince, single, pressing on the rear 
 
 Of that unflagging quarry and the hounds. 
 
 Now, in the woods far down, I saw them cross 
 
 An open glade ; now he was high aloft 
 
 On some tall scar fring'd with dark feathery pines. 
 
 Peering to spy a goat-track down the cliff, 810 
 
 Cheering with hand, and voice, and horn his dogs. 
 
 At last the cry drew to the water's edge — 
 
 And through the brushwood, to the pebbly strand. 
 
 Broke, black with sweat, the antler'd mountain stag. 
 
 And took the lake : two hounds alone pursued ; 
 
 Then came the prince — he shouted and plung'd in. — 
 
 There is a chasm rifted in the base 
 
 Of that unfooted precipice, whose rock 
 
 Walls on one side the deep Stymphalian Lake : 
 
 There the lake-waters, which in ages gone 820 
 
 Wash'd, as the marks upon the hills still show. 
 
 All the Stymphalian plain, are now suck'd down. 
 
 A headland, with one agfed plane-tree crown'd. 
 
 Parts from the cave-pierc'd cliff the shelving bay 
 
 Where first the chase plung'd in : the bay is smooth, 
 
MEKOPE 339 
 
 But round the headland's point a current sets, 
 Strong, black, tempestuous, to the cavern-niouth. 
 Stoutly, under the headland's lee, they swam : 
 But when they came abreast the point, the race 
 Caught them, as wind takes feathers, whirl'd them 
 round 830 
 
 Struggling in vain to cross it, swept them on. 
 Stag, dogs, and hunter, to the yawning gulph. 
 All this, King, not piecemeal, as to thee 
 Now told, but in one flashing instant pass'd : 
 While from the turf whereon I lay I sprang. 
 And took three strides, quarry and dogs were gone ; 
 A moment more — I saw the prince turn round 
 Once in the black and arrowy race, and cast 
 One arm aloft for help ; then sweep beneath 
 The low-brow'd cavern-arch, and disappear. 840 
 
 And what I could, I did — to call by cries 
 Some straggling hunters to my aid, to rouse 
 Fishers who live on the lake-side, to launch 
 Boats, and approach, near as we dar'd, the chasm. 
 But of the prince nothing remain'd, save this. 
 His boar-spear's broken shaft, back on the lake 
 Cast by the rumbling subterranean stream ; 
 And this, at landing spied by us and sav'd. 
 His broad-brimm'd hunter's hat, which, in the bay. 
 Where first the stag took water, floated still. 850 
 
 And I across the mountains brought with haste 
 To Cypselus, at Basilis, this news : 
 Basilis, his new city, which he now 
 Near Lycosura builds, Lycaon's town. 
 First city founded on the earth by men. 
 He to thee sends me on, in one thing glad 
 While all else grieves him, that his grandchild's death 
 Extinguishes distrust 'twixt him and thee. 
 But I from our deplor'd mischance learn this — 
 The man who to untimely death is doom'd, 860 
 
 Vainly you hedge him from the assault of harm ; 
 He bears the seed of ruin in himself. 
 
 The Chokus 
 
 So dies the last shoot of our royal tree ! 
 Who shall tell Merope this heavy news ? 
 
 z 2 
 
340 MEEOPE 
 
 POLYPHONTES 
 
 Stranger, the news thou bringest is too great 
 
 For instant comment, having many sides 
 
 Of import, and in silence best receiv'd, 
 
 Whether it turn at last to joy or woe. 
 
 But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no part 
 
 In what it has of painful, whether now, 870 
 
 First heard, or in its future issue shown. 
 
 Thou for thy labour hast deserv'd our best 
 
 Eefreshment, needed by thee, as I judge. 
 
 With mountain-travel and night-watching spent. — 
 
 To the guest-chamber lead him, some one ! give 
 
 All entertainment which a traveller needs, 
 
 And such as fits a royal house to show : 
 
 To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause. 
 
 [Attendants conduct Aepytus within the palace. 
 
 The Chorus 
 The youth is gone within ; alas ! he bears 
 A presence sad for some one through those doors. 880 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Admire then, maidens, how in one short hour 
 The schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years. 
 Are by a stroke, though undesir'd, complete, 
 Crown'd with success, not in my way, but Heaven's ! 
 This at a moment, too, when I had urg'd 
 A last, long-cherish'd project, in my aim 
 Of concord, and been baffled with disdain. 
 Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule, 
 I offer'd to my foes, and they refus'd : 
 Worse terms than mine they have obtain'd from 
 Heaven. 890 
 
 Dire is this blow for Merope ; and I 
 Wish'd, truly wish'd, solution to our broil 
 Other than by this death : but it hath come ! 
 I speak no word of boast, but this I say, 
 A private loss here founds a nation's peace. 
 
 [Polyphonies goes out. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Peace, who tarriest too long ; strophe. 
 
 Peace, with Delight in thy train ; 
 
MEEOPE 341 
 
 Come, come back to our prayer ! 
 
 Then shall the revel again 
 
 Visit our streets, and the sound SCK) 
 
 Of the harp be heard with the pipe. 
 
 When the flashing torches appear 
 
 In the marriage-train coming on, 
 
 With dancing maidens and boys : 
 
 While the matrons come to the doors, 
 
 And the old men rise from their bench, 
 
 When the youths bring home the bride. 
 
 Not decried by my voice antistrqphe. 
 
 He who restores thee shall be. 
 
 Not unfavour'd by Heaven, 910 
 
 Surely no sinner the man, 
 
 Dread though his acts, to whose hand 
 
 Such a boon to bring hath been given. 
 
 Let her come, fair Peace ! let her come ! 
 
 But the demons long nourish'd here, 
 
 Murder, Discord, and Hate, 
 
 In the stormy desolate waves 
 
 Of the Thracian Sea let her leave. 
 
 Or the howling outermost Main. 
 
 [Mekope comes forth. 
 Merope 
 
 A whisper through the palace flies of one 920 
 
 Arriv'd from Tegea with weighty news ; 
 
 And I came, thinking to find Areas here. 
 
 Ye have not left this gate, which he must pass; 
 
 Tell me — hath one not come? or, worse mischance, 
 
 Come, but been intercepted by the King ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 A messenger, sent from Arcadia here, 
 Arriv'd, and of the King had speech but now. 
 
 Meeope 
 Ah me ! the wrong expectant got his news. 
 
 The Chorus 
 The message brought was for the King design'd. 
 
 Merope 
 How so ? was Areas not the messenger ? 930 
 
342 MEEOPE 
 
 The Chorus 
 A younger man, and of a different name. 
 
 Mekope 
 And what Arcadian news had he to tell ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 Learn that from other lips, Queen, than mine. 
 
 Mekope 
 He kept his tale, then, for the King alone ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 His tale was meeter for that ear than thine. 
 
 Mekope 
 Why dost thou falter, and make half reply ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 O thrice unhappy, how I groan thy fate ! 
 
 Mekope 
 Thou frightenest and confound'st me by thy words. 
 were but Areas come, all would be well ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 If so, all 's well : for look, the old man speeds 940 
 
 Up from the city tow'rds this gated hill. 
 
 [Arcas comes in. 
 Me ROPE 
 Not with the failing breath and foot of age 
 My faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend ! 
 
 Arcas 
 Faithful, not welcome, when my tale is told. 
 O that my over-speed and bursting grief 
 Had on the journey chok'd my labouring breath, 
 And lock'd my speech for ever in my breast ! 
 Yet then another man would bring this news. — 
 O honour'd Queen, thy son, my charge, is gone. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Too suddenly thou teUest such a loss. 950 
 
 Look up, O Queen ! look up, O mistress dear ! 
 Look up, and see thy friends who comfort thee. 
 
MEEOPE 343 
 
 Meeope 
 Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah me ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 And I, too, say, ah me ! 
 
 Arcas 
 Forgive, forgive the bringer of such news ! 
 
 Merope 
 Better from thine than from an enemy's tongue. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 And yet no enemy did this, O Queen : 
 
 But the wit-baffling will and hand of Heaven, 
 
 Arcas 
 
 No enemy ! and what hast thou, then, heard? 
 Swift as I came, hath Falsehood been before ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 A youth arriv'd but now, the son, he said, 860 
 
 Of an Arcadian lord, our prince's friend, 
 
 Jaded with travel, clad in hunter's garb. 
 
 He brought report that his own eyes had seen 
 
 The prince, in chase after a swimming stag. 
 
 Swept down a chasm broken in the cliff 
 
 Which hangs o'er the Stymphalian Lake, and drown'd. 
 
 Arcas 
 Ah me ! with what a foot doth Treason post. 
 While Loyalty, with all her speed, is slow ! 
 Another tale, I trow, thy messenger 
 For the King's private ear reserves, like this 970 
 
 In one thing only, that the prince is dead. 
 
 The Chorus 
 And how then runs this true and private tale ? 
 
 Arcas 
 
 As much to the King's wish, more to his shame. 
 This young Arcadian noble, guard and mate 
 
344 MEEOPE 
 
 To Aepytus, the king seduc'd with gold, 
 
 And had him at the prince's side in leash, 
 
 Keady to slip on his unconscious prey. 
 
 He on a hunting party three days since, 
 
 Among the forests on Cyllene's side, 
 
 Perform'd good service for his bloody wage ; 980 
 
 The prince, his uncle Laias, whom his ward 
 
 Had in a father's place, he basely murder'd. 
 
 Take this for true, the other tale for feign'd. 
 
 The Chorus 
 And this perfidious murder who reveal'd ? 
 
 Arcas 
 The faithless murderer's own, no other tongue. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Did conscience goad him to denounce himself ? 
 
 Arcas 
 
 To Cypselus at Easilis he brought 
 
 This strange unlikely tale, the prince was drown'd. 
 
 The Chorus 
 But not a word appears of murder here. 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Examin'd close, he own'd this story false. 990 
 
 Then evidence came — his comrades of the hunt. 
 Who saw the prince and Laias last with him, 
 Never again in life — next, agents, fee'd 
 To ply 'twixt the Messenian king and him. 
 Spoke, and reveal'd that traffic, and the traitor. 
 So charg'd, he stood dumb-founder'd : Cypselus, 
 On this suspicion, cast him into chains. 
 Thence lie escap'd — and next I find him here. 
 
 The Chorus 
 His presence with the King, thou mean'st, implies 
 
 Arcas 
 He comes to tell his prompter he hath sped. 1000 
 
MEEOPE 345 
 
 The Chorus 
 Still he repeats the drowning story here. 
 
 Aecas 
 To thee — that needs no Oedipus to explain. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Interpret, then ; for we, it seems, are dull. 
 Aecas 
 
 Your King desir'd the profit of his death, 
 Not the black credit of his murderer. 
 That stern word ' murder ' had too dread a sound 
 For the Messenian hearts, who lov'd the prince. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Suspicion grave I see, but no clear proof. 1008 
 
 Mekope 
 Peace! peace! all's clear. — The wicked watch and work 
 While the good sleep : the workers have the day. 
 He who was sent hath sped, and now comes back, 
 To chuckle with his sender o'er the game 
 Which foolish innocence plays with subtle guilt. 
 Ah ! now I comprehend the liberal grace 
 Of this far-scheming tyrant, and his boon 
 Of heirship to his kingdom for my son : 
 He had his murderer ready, and the sword 
 Lifted, and that unwish'd-for heirship void — 
 A tale, meanwhile, forg'd for his subjects' ears : 
 And me, henceforth sole rival with himself 1020 
 
 In their allegiance, me, in my son's death-hour. 
 When all turn'd tow'rds me, me he would have shown 
 To my Messenians, dup'd, disarm'd, despis'd. 
 The willing sharer of his guilty rule, 
 All claim to succour forfeit, to myself 
 Hateful, by each Messenian heart abhorr'd. — 
 His offers I repelled — but what of that ? 
 If with no rage, no fire of righteous hate. 
 Such as ere now hath spurr'd to fearful deeds 
 Weak women with a thousandth part my wrongs, 
 But calm, but unresentful, I endur'd 1031 
 
 His offers, coldly heard them, cold repell'd ? 
 
346 MEEOPE 
 
 While all this time I bear to linger on 
 
 In this blood-delug'd palace, in whose halls 
 
 Either a vengeful Fury I should stalk, 
 
 Or else not live at all — but here I haunt, 
 
 A pale, unmeaning ghost, powerless to fright 
 
 Or harm, and nurse my longing for my son, 
 
 A helpless one, I know it : — but the Gods 
 
 Have temper'd me e'en thus ; and, in some souls, 
 
 Misery, which rouses others, breaks the spring. 1041 
 
 And even now, my son, ah me ! my son. 
 
 Fain would I fade away, as I have liv'd. 
 
 Without a cry, a struggle, or a blow, 
 
 All vengeance unattempted, and descend 
 
 To the invisible plains, to roam with thee, 
 
 Fit denizen, the lampless under-world 
 
 But with what eyes should I encounter there 
 
 My husband, wandering with his stern compeers, 
 
 Amphiaraos, or Mycehae's king, 1050 
 
 Who led the Greeks to Ilium, Agamemnon, 
 
 Betray'd like him, but, not like him, aveng'd ? 
 
 Or with what voice shall I the questions meet 
 
 Of my two elder sons, slain long ago. 
 
 Who sadly ask me, what, if not revenge. 
 
 Kept me, their mother, from their side so long ? 
 
 Or how reply to thee, my child, last-born, 
 
 Last-murder'd, who reproachfully wilt say — 
 
 Mother, I tvell bcliev'd thou lived'st on 
 
 In the detested palace of thy foe, 1060 
 
 With patience on thy face, death in thy heart, 
 
 Counting, till I grew up, the laggard years. 
 
 That our joint hands might then together pay 
 
 To one unhappy house the debt we mve. 
 
 My death makes my debt void, and. doubles thine — 
 
 But down thou fleest here, and leav'st our scourge 
 
 Triumphant, and condemnest all our race 
 
 To lie in gloom for ever unappeas'd. 
 
 What shall I have to answer to such words ? — 
 
 No, something must be dar'd ; and, great as erst 
 
 Our dastard patience, be our daring now ! 1071 
 
 Come, ye swift Furies, who to him ye haunt 
 
 Permit no peace till your behests are done ; 
 
 Come Hermes, who dost watch the unjustly kill'd. 
 
MEEOPE 347 
 
 And can'st teach simple ones to plot and feign ; 
 
 Come, lightning Passion, that with foot of fire 
 
 Advancest to the middle of a deed 
 
 Almost before 'tis plann'd ; come, glowing Hate ; 
 
 Come, baneful Mischief, from thy murky den 
 
 Under the dripping black Tartarean cliff 1080 
 
 Which Styx's awful waters trickle down — 
 
 Inspire this coward heart, this flagging arm ! 
 
 How say ye, maidens, do ye know these prayers ? 
 
 Are these words Merope's— is this voice mine ? 
 
 Old man, old man, thou had'st my boy in charge, 
 
 And he is lost, and thou hast that to atone. 
 
 Fly, find me on the instant where confer 
 
 The murderer and his impious setter-on : 
 
 And ye, keep faithful silence, friends, and mark 
 
 What one weak woman can achieve alone. 1090 
 
 Abcas 
 
 mistress, by the Gods, do nothing rash ! 
 
 Mekope 
 Unfaithful servant, dost thou, too, desert me ? 
 Aecas 
 
 1 go ! I go ! — yet. Queen, take this one word : 
 Attempting deeds beyond thy power to do. 
 Thou nothing profitest thy friends, but mak'st 
 Our misery more, and thine own ruin sure. 
 
 [Aecas goP,s out. 
 The Chorus 
 
 I have heard, Queen, how a prince, sir. 1. 
 
 Agamemnon's son, in Mycenae, 
 
 Orestes, died but in name, 
 
 Liv'd for the death of his foes. 1100 
 
 Meeope 
 Peace \ 
 
 The Choeus 
 
 What is it? 
 
 Meeoi-e 
 
 AJas, 
 Thou destroyest me ! 
 
348 MEROPE 
 
 The Chokus 
 How? 
 
 Merope 
 
 Whispering hope of a life 
 Which no stranger unknown, 
 But the faithful servant and guard, 
 Whose tears warrant his truth, 
 Bears sad witness is lost. 
 
 The Choeus 
 
 Wheresoe'er men are, there is grief. ant. 1. 
 
 In a thousand countries, a thousand 
 Homes, e'en now is there wail ; 1110 
 
 Mothers lamenting their sons. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Yes 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Thou knowest it ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 This, 
 Who lives, witnesses. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 True. 
 
 Merope 
 But, is it only a fate 
 Sure, all-common, to lose 
 In a land of friends, by a friend, 
 One last, murder-sav'd child ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 All me ! str. 2. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou confessest the prize 
 
 In the rushing, thundering, mad, 1120 
 
 Cloud-envelop'd, obscure, 
 
 Unapplauded, unsung 
 
 Eace of calamity, mine ? 
 
MEEOPE 349 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 None can truly claim that 
 Mournful pre-eminence, not 
 Thou. 
 
 Merope 
 Fate gives it, ah me ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Not, above all, in the doubts, 
 Double and clashing, that hang 
 
 Merope 
 What then ? ant. 2. 
 
 Seems it lighter, my loss, 1130 
 
 If, perhaps, unpierc'd by the sword. 
 My child lies in a jagg'd 
 Sunless prison of rocks. 
 On the black wave borne to and fro ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Worse, far worse, if his friend, 
 If the Arcadian within. 
 
 If 
 
 Merope (with a start) 
 
 How say'st thou ? within ? , . , 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 He in the guest-chamber now. 
 Faithlessly murder'd his friend. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ye, too, ye, too, join to betray, then, lUO 
 
 Your Queen ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 What is this ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 false friends ! into what 
 Haven the murderer had dropp'd ? 
 Ye kept silence ? 
 
 Ye knew, 
 
350 MEEOPE 
 
 The Chorus 
 In fear, 
 
 lov'd mistress ! in fear, 
 Dreading thine over-wrought mood. 
 What I knew, I conceal'd. 
 
 Mekope 
 Swear by the Gods henceforth to obey me I 
 
 The Choeus 
 Unhappy one, what deed 
 Purposes thy despair ? 1150 
 
 1 promise ; but I fear. 
 
 Mekope 
 From the altar, the unaveng'd tomb. 
 
 Fetch me the sacrifice-axe ! 
 
 [The Chorus goes towards tJie tonib of Cres- 
 PHONTEs, and their leader brings hack the axe. 
 
 O Husband, cloth'd 
 With the grave's everlasting. 
 All-covering darkness ! O King, 
 Well mourn'd, but ill-aveng'd ! 
 
 Approv'st thou thy wife now ? 
 
 The axe ! — who brings it ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 'Tis here I 
 But thy gesture, thy look, H60 
 
 Appals me, shakes me with awe. 
 
 Merope 
 Thrust back now the bolt of that door ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 Alas ! alas ! — 
 
 Behold the fastenings withdrawn 
 Of the guest-chamber door ! — 
 Ah ! I beseech thee — with tears 
 
 Mekope 
 Throw the door open ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 'Tis done ! . . . 
 
MEROPE 351 
 
 [27(6 door of the house is thrown open : the interim" 
 of the guest-chamber is discovered, with 
 Aepytus asleep on a couch. 
 
 Meeope 
 
 He sleeps — sleeps calm. O ye all-seeing Gods ! 
 
 Thus peacefully do ye let sinners sleep, 
 
 While troubled innocents toss, and lie awake ? 1170 
 
 What sweeter sleep than this could I desire 
 
 For thee, my child, if thou wert yet alive ? 
 
 How often have I dream 'd of thee like this, 
 
 With thy soil'd hunting-coat, and sandals torn, 
 
 Asleep in the Arcadian glens at noon, 
 
 Thy head droop'd softly, and the golden curls 
 
 Clustering o'er thy white forehead, like a girl's ; 
 
 The short proud lip showing thy race, thy cheeks 
 
 Brown'd with thine open-air, free, hunter's life. 
 
 Ah me ! . . . 1180 
 
 And where dost thou sleep now, my innocent boy ? — 
 
 In some dark fir-tree's shadow, amid rocks 
 
 Untrodden, on Cyllene's desolate side ; 
 
 Where travellers never pass, where only come 
 
 Wild beasts, and vultures sailing overhead. 
 
 There, there thou liest now, my hapless child ! 
 
 Stretch'd among briers and stones, the slow, black gore 
 
 Oozing through thy soak'd hunting-shirt, with limbs 
 
 Yet stark from the death-struggle, tight-clench'd hands, 
 
 And eyeballs staring for revenge in vain. 1190 
 
 Ah miserable ! . . . 
 
 And thou, thou fair-skinn'd Serpent ! thou art laid 
 
 In a rich chamber, on a happy bed, 
 
 In a king's house, thy victim's heritage ; 
 
 And drink'st untroubled Blumber, to sleep off 
 
 The toils of thy foul service, till thou wake 
 
 Eefresh'd, and claim thy master's thanks and gold. — 
 
 Wake up in hell from thine unhallow'd sleep. 
 
 Thou smiling Fiend, and claim thy guerdon there ! 
 
 Wake amid gloom, and howling, and the noise 1200 
 
 Of sinners pinion'd on the torturing wheel, 
 
 And the stanch Furies' never-silent scourge. 
 
 And bid the chief-tormentors there provide 
 
 For a grand culprit shortly coming down. 
 
352 MEROPE 
 
 Go thou the first, and usher in thy lord ! 
 
 A more just stroke than that thou gav'st my son, 
 
 Take 
 
 [Merope advances towards the sleeping Aepytus, 
 
 icith the axe uplifted. At the same moment 
 
 Arcas returns. 
 
 Arcas (to the Chorus) 
 
 Not with him to council did the King 
 Carry his messenger, but left him here. 
 
 {Sees Merope and Aepytus. 
 O Gods ! . . . 
 
 Merope 
 Foolish old man, thou spoil'st my blow ! 
 
 Arcas 
 What do I see ? . . . 
 
 Merope 
 
 A murderer at death's door. 1210 
 Therefore no words ! 
 
 Arcas 
 A murderer ? . . . 
 
 Merope 
 
 And a captive 
 To the dear next-of-kin of him he murder'd. 
 Stand, and let vengeance pass ! 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Hold, O Queen, hold! 
 Thou know'st not whom thou strik'st. . . . 
 
 Merope 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Unhappy one ! thou strik'st 
 
 Merope 
 
 Arcas 
 No, by the Gods, thou slay'st — 
 
 I know his crime. 
 
 A most just blow. 
 
MEKOPE 353 
 
 Meeope 
 
 Stand off ! 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Thy son ! 
 Mebope 
 Ah ! . . . [She lets the axe drop, and falls insensible. 
 
 Aepytus [awaking) 
 
 Who are these ? What shrill, ear-piercing scream 
 Wakes me thus kindly from the perilous sleep 
 Wherewith fatigue and youth had bound mine eyes, 
 Even in the deadly palace of my foe ? — 1220 
 
 Arcas ! Thou here ? 
 
 Arcas {embracing him) 
 
 my dear master ! 
 My child, my charge belov'd, welcome to life ! 
 As dead we held thee, mourn'd for thee as dead. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 ] 
 But who are these ? 
 
 In word I died, that I in deed might live. 
 
 Arcas 
 Messenian maidens, friends. 
 
 Aepytus 
 And, Areas ! — but I tremble ! 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Boldly ask. 
 
 Aepytus 
 That black-rob'd, swooning figure ? . . . 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Aepytus 
 mother ! mother ! 
 
 Meeope 
 
 Merope. 
 
 Who upbraids me ? Ah ! . . . 
 
 [seeing tJie axe. 
 A a 
 
354 MEEOPE 
 
 Aepytus 
 Upbraids thee ? no one. 
 
 Merope 
 Thou dost well : but take . . . 
 
 Aepytus 
 What wav'st thou off? 
 
 Merope 
 That murderous axe away ! 
 Aepytus 
 Thy son is here. 
 
 Merope 
 One said so, sure, but now. 1231 
 
 Aepytus 
 Here, here thou hast him ! 
 
 Merope 
 Slaughter'd by this hand ! . . . 
 
 Aepytus 
 No, by the Gods, alive and like to live ! 
 
 Merope 
 What, thou ? — I dream 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 May'st thou dream ever so ! 
 Merope [advancing towards him) 
 My child ? unhurt ? . . . 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Only by over joy. 
 
 Merope 
 Art thou, then, come ? . . . 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Never to part again. 
 [They fall into one another's arms. Then Merope, 
 holdmg Aepytus by the hand, turns to The 
 Chorus. 
 
MEEOPE 355 
 
 Merope 
 kind Messeniaii maidens, O my friends, 
 Bear witness, see, mark well, on what a head 
 My first stroke of revenge had nearly fallen ! 
 
 The Choeus 
 We see, dear mistress : and we say, the Gods, 1240 
 
 As hitherto they kept him, keep him now. 
 
 Merope 
 
 my son ! strophe. 
 
 1 have, I have thee .... the years 
 Fly back, my child ! and thou seem'st 
 Ne'er to have gone from these eyes. 
 Never been torn from this breast. 
 
 Aepytus 
 Mother, my heart runs over : but the time 
 Presses me, chides me, will not let me weep. 
 
 Merope 
 Pearest thou now ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 I fear not, but I think on my design. 1260 
 
 Merope 
 At the undried fount of this breast, 
 A babe, thou smilest again. 
 Thy brothers play at my feet. 
 Early-slain innocents ! near, 
 Thy kind-speaking father stands. 
 
 Aepytus 
 Eemember, to revenge his death I come I 
 
 Merope 
 Ah . . . revenge ! antistrophe. 
 
 That word ! it kills me ! I see 
 Once more roll back on my house. 
 Never to ebb, the accurs'd 1260 
 
 All-flooding ocean of blood. 
 
 Aepytus 
 Mother, sometimes the justice of the Gods 
 Appoints the way to peace through shedding blood. 
 A a 2 
 
356 MEEOPE 
 
 Meeope 
 Sorrowful peace !. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 And yet the only peace to us allow'd, 
 Merope 
 
 From the first-wrought vengeance is born 
 
 A long succession of crimes. 
 
 Fresh blood flows, calling for blood : 
 
 Fathers, sons, grandsons, are all 
 
 One death-dealing vengeful train. 1270 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Mother, thy fears are idle : for I come 
 
 To close an old wound, not to open new. 
 
 In all else willing to be taught, in this 
 
 Instruct me not ; I have my lesson clear. — 
 
 Areas, seek out my uncle Laias, now 
 
 Concerting in the city with our friends ; 
 
 Here bring him, ere the king come back from council : 
 
 That, how to accomplish what the Gods enjoin, 
 
 And the slow-ripening time at last prepares, 
 
 We two with thee, my mother, may consult : 1280 
 
 For whose help dare I count on if not thine ? 
 
 Mebope 
 Approves my brother Laias this design ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 Yes, and alone is with me here to share. 
 
 Meeope 
 
 And what of thine Arcadian mate, who bears 
 Suspicion from thy grandsire of thy death. 
 For whom, as I suppose, thou passest here ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Sworn to our plot he is : but, that surmise 
 Fix'd him the author of my death, I knew not. 
 
 Meeope 
 Proof, not surmise, shows him in commerce close 
 
MEEOPE 357 
 
 Aepytus 
 With this Messenian tyrant — that I know. 1290 
 
 Mekope 
 And entertain'st thou, child, such dangerous friends ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 This commerce for my best behoof he plies. 
 
 Mekope 
 That thou may'st read thine enemy's counsel plain ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 Too dear his secret wiles have cost our house. 
 
 Merope 
 And of his unsure agent what demands he V 
 
 Aepytus 
 News of my business, pastime, temper, friends, 
 
 Merope 
 His messages, then, point not to thy murder ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 Not yet ; though such, no doubt, his final aim. 
 
 Merope 
 And what Arcadian helpers bring'st thou here ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 Laias alone ; no errand mine for crowds. 1300 
 
 Merope 
 On what relying, to crush such a foe ? 
 
 Aepytus 
 One sudden stroke, and the Messenians' love. 
 
 Merope 
 
 thou long-lost, long seen in dreams alone, 
 But now seen face to face, my only child ! 
 Why wilt thou fly to lose as soon as found 
 My new- won treasure, thy beloved life ? 
 Or how expectest not to lose, who com'st 
 
358 MEEOPE 
 
 With such slight means to cope with such a foe ? 
 
 Thine enemy thou know'st not, nor his strength. 
 
 The stroke thou purposest is desperate, rash — 1310 
 
 Yet grant that it succeeds ; — thou hast behind 
 
 The stricken king a second enemy 
 
 Scarce dangerous less than him, the Dorian lords. 
 
 These are not now the savage band who erst 
 
 Follow'd thy father from their northern hills, 
 
 Mere ruthless and uncounsell'd tools of war, 
 
 Good to obey, without a leader naught. 
 
 Their chief hath train'd them, made them like himself, 
 
 Sagacious, men of iron, watchful, firm. 
 
 Against surprise and sudden panic proof: 1320 
 
 Their master fall'n, these will not flinch, but band 
 
 To keep their master's power : thou wilt find 
 
 Behind his corpse their hedge of serried spears. 
 
 But, to match these, thou hast the people's love ? 
 
 On what a reed, my child, thou leanest there ! 
 
 Knowest thou not how timorous, how unsure. 
 
 How useless an ally a people is 
 
 Against the one and certain arm of power ? 
 
 Thy father perish'd in this people's cause, 
 
 Perish'd before their eyes, yet no man stirr'd : 1330 
 
 For years, his widow, in their sight I stand, 
 
 A never-changing index to revenge — 
 
 What help, what vengeance, at their hands have I ? — 
 
 At least, if thou wilt trust them, try them first : 
 
 Against the King himself array the host 
 
 Thou countest on to back thee 'gainst his lords : 
 
 First rally the Messenians to thy cause, 
 
 Give them cohesion, purpose, and resolve, 
 
 Marshal them to an army — then advance. 
 
 Then try the issue ; and not, rushing on 1840 
 
 Single and friendless, throw to certain death 
 
 That dear-belov'd, that young, that gracious head. 
 
 Be guided, my son ! spurn counsel not : 
 
 For know thou this, a violent heart hath been 
 
 Fatal to all the race of Hercules. 
 
 The Chorus 
 With sage experience she speaks ; and thou, 
 O Aepytus, weigh well her counsel given. 
 
MEEOPE 359 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 111 counsel, in my judgement, gives she here, 
 
 Maidens, and reads experience much amiss ; 
 
 Discrediting the succour which our cause 1350 
 
 Might from the people draw, if rightly us'd : 
 
 Advising us a course which would, indeed, 
 
 If followed, make their succour slack and null. 
 
 A people is no army, train'd to fight, 
 
 A passive engine, at their general's will ; 
 
 And, if so us'd, proves, as thou say'st, unsure. 
 
 A people, like a common man, is dull, 
 
 Is lifeless, while its heart remains untouch'd ; 
 
 A fool can drive it, and a fly may scare : 
 
 When it admires and loves, its heart awakes ; 1360 
 
 Then irresistibly it lives, it works : 
 
 A people, then, is an ally indeed ; 
 
 It is ten thousand fiery wills in one. 
 
 Now I, if I invite them to run risk 
 
 Of life for my advantage, and myself, 
 
 Who chiefly profit, run no more than they — 
 
 How shall I rouse their love, their ardour so ? 
 
 But, if some signal, unassisted stroke. 
 
 Dealt at my own sole risk, before their eyes, 
 
 Announces me their rightful prince return'd — 
 
 The undegenerate blood of Hercules — 1371 
 
 The daring claimant of a perilous throne — 
 
 How might not such a sight as this revive 
 
 Their loyal passion tow'rd my father's house ? 
 
 Electrify their hearts ? make them no more 
 
 A craven mob, but a devouring fire ? 
 
 Then might I use them, then, for one who thus 
 
 Spares not himself, themselves they will not spare. 
 
 Haply, had but one daring soul stood forth 
 
 To rally them and lead them to revenge, 1380 
 
 When my great father fell, they had replied : — 
 
 Alas ! our foe alone stood forward then. 
 
 And thou, my mother, hadst thou made a sign — 
 
 Hadst thou, from thy forlorn and captive state 
 
 Of widowhood in these polluted halls. 
 
 Thy prison-house, rais'd one imploring cry — 
 
 Who knows but that avengers thou hadst found ? 
 
360 MEROPE 
 
 But mute thou sat'st, and each Messenian heart 
 
 In thy despondency desponded too. 
 
 Enough of this ! — though not a finger stir 1390 
 
 To succour me in my extremest need ; 
 
 Though all free spirits in this land be dead, 
 
 And only slaves and tyrants left alive — 
 
 Yet for me, mother, I had liefer die 
 
 On native ground, than drag the tedious hours 
 
 Of a protected exile any more. 
 
 Hate, duty, interest, passion call one way : 
 
 Here stand I now, and the attempt shall be. 
 
 The Chokus 
 
 Prudence is on the other side ; but deeds 
 Condemn'd by prudence have sometimes gone well. 
 
 Mebope 
 
 Not till the ways of prudence all are tried, 1401 
 
 And tried in vain, the turn of rashness comes. 
 Thou leapest to thy deed, and hast not ask'd 
 Thy kinsfolk and thy father's friends for aid. 
 
 Aepytus 
 And to what friends should I for aid apj)ly ? 
 
 Merope 
 The royal race of Temenus, in Argos 
 
 Aepytus 
 That house, like ours, intestine murder maims. 
 
 Merope 
 Thy Spartan cousins, Procles and his brother 
 
 Aepytus 
 Love a won cause, but not a cause to win. 
 
 Merope 
 My father, then, and his Arcadian chiefs 1410 
 
 Aepytus 
 Mean still to keep aloof from Dorian broil. 
 
MEEOPE 361 
 
 Mebope 
 Wait, then, until sufficient help appears. 
 
 Aepytus 
 Orestes in Mycenae had no more. 
 
 Mekope 
 He to fulfil an order rais'd his hand. 
 
 Aepytus 
 What order more precise had he than I ? 
 
 Mekope 
 Apollo peal'd it from his Delphian cave. 
 
 Aepytus 
 A mother's murder needed hest divine, 
 
 Merope 
 He had a hest, at least, and thou hast none. 
 
 Aepytus 
 The Gods command not where the heart speaks clear. 
 
 Meeope 
 
 Thou wilt destroy, I see, thyself and us. 1420 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 suffering ! calamity ! how ten, 
 
 How twentyfold worse are ye, when your blows 
 
 Not only wound the sense, but kill the soul, 
 
 The noble thought, which is alone the man ! 
 
 That I, to-day returning, find myself 
 
 Orphan'd of both my parents — by his foes 
 
 My father, by your strokes my mother slain ! — 
 
 For this is not my mother, who dissuades. 
 
 At the dread altar of her husband's tomb. 
 
 His son from vengeance on his murderer ; 1430 
 
 And not alone dissuades him, but compares 
 
 His just revenge to an unnatural deed, 
 
 A deed so awful, that the general tongue 
 
 Fluent of horrors, falters to relate it — 
 
 Of darkness so tremendous, that its author, 
 
862 MEEOPE 
 
 Though to his act empower'd, nay, impell'd, 
 
 By the oracular sentence of the Gods, 
 
 Fled, for years after, o'er the face of earth, 
 
 A frenzied wanderer, a God-driven man, 1439 
 
 And hardly yet, some say, hath found a grave — 
 
 With such a deed as this thou matchest mine, 
 
 Which Nature sanctions, which the innocent blood 
 
 Clamours to find fulfill'd, which good men praise, 
 
 And only bad men joy to see undone ? 
 
 O honour'd father ! hide thee in thy grave 
 
 Deep as thou canst, for hence no succour comes ; 
 
 Since from thy faithful subjects what revenge 
 
 Canst thouj expect, when thus thy widow fails ? 
 
 Alas ! an adamantine strength indeed, 
 
 Past expectation, hath thy murderer built : 1450 
 
 For this is the true strength of guilty kings. 
 
 When they corrupt the souls of those they rule. 
 
 The Chobus 
 Zeal makes him most unjust : but, in good time, 
 Here, as I guess, the noble Laias comes. 
 
 Laias 
 Break off, break off your talking, and depart 
 Each to his post, where the occasion calls ; 
 Lest from the council-chamber presently 
 The King return, and find you prating here. 
 A time will come for greetings ; but to-day 
 The hour for words is gone, is come for deeds. 1460 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 princely Laias ! to what purpose calls 
 The occasion, if our chief confederate fails ? 
 My mother stands aloof, and blames our deed. 
 
 Laias 
 My royal sister ? . . . but, without some cause, 
 
 1 know, she honours not the dead so ill. 
 
 Meeope 
 Brother, it seems thy sister must present. 
 At this first meeting after absence long. 
 Not welcome, exculpation to her kin : 
 
MEEOPE 363 
 
 Yet exculpation needs it, if I seek, 
 A woman and a mother, to avert 1470 
 
 Eisk from my new-restor'd, my only son ? — 
 Sometimes, when he was gone, I wish'd him back, 
 Eisk what he might ; now that I have him here, 
 Now that I feed mine eyes on that young face, 
 Hear that fresh voice, and clasp that gold-lock'd head, 
 I shudder, Laias, to commit my child 
 To Murder's dread arena, where I saw 
 His father and his ill-starr'd brethren fall : 
 I loathe for him the slippery way of blood ; 
 I ask if bloodless means may gain his end. 1480 
 
 In me the fever of revengeful hate, 
 Passion's first furious longing to imbrue 
 Our own right hand in the detested blood 
 Of enemies, and count their dying groans — 
 If in this feeble bosom such a fire 
 Did ever burn — is long by time allay'd, 
 And I would now have Justice strike, not me. 
 Besides — for from my brother and my son 
 I hide not even this — the reverence deep, 
 Eemorseful, tow'rd my hostile solitude, 1490 
 
 By Polyphontes never fail'd-in once 
 Through twenty years ; his mournful anxious zeal 
 To efface in me the memory of his crime — 
 Though it efface not that, yet makes me wish 
 His death a public, not a personal act. 
 Treacherously plotted 'twixt my son and me ; 
 To whom this day he came to proffer peace, 
 Treaty, and to this kingdom for my son 
 Heirship, with fair intent, as I believe : — 
 For that he plots thy death, account it false ; 1500 
 
 [to Aepytus. 
 Number it with the thousand rumours vain. 
 Figments of plots, wherewith intriguers fill 
 The enforced leisure of an exile's ear : — 
 Immers'd in serious state-craft is the King, 
 Bent above all to pacify, to rule, 
 Eigidly, yet in settled calm, this realm ; 
 Not prone, all say, to useless bloodshed now. — 
 So much is due to truth, even tow'rds our foe. 
 
 [to Laias. 
 
364 MEKOPE 
 
 Do I, then, give to usurpation grace, 
 
 And from his natural rights my son debar ? 1510 
 
 Not so : let him — and none shall be more prompt 
 
 Than I to help — raise his Messenian friends ; 
 
 Let him fetch succours from Arcadia, gain 
 
 His Argive or his Spartan cousins' aid ; 
 
 Let him do this, do aught but recommence 
 
 Murder's uncertain, secret, perilous game — 
 
 And I, when to his righteous standard down 
 
 Flies Victory wing'd, and Justice raises then 
 
 Her sword, will be the first to bid it fall. 
 
 If, haply, at this moment, such attempt 1520 
 
 Promise not fair, let him a little while 
 
 Have faith, and trust the future and the Gods. 
 
 He may — for never did the Gods allow 
 
 Fast permanence to an ill-gotten throne. — 
 
 These are but woman's words ; — yet, Laias, thou 
 
 Despise them not ! for, brother, thou, like me, 
 
 Wert not among the feuds of warrior-chiefs, 
 
 Each sovereign for his dear-bought hour, born ; 
 
 But in the pastoral Arcadia rear'd. 
 
 With Cypselus our father, where we saw 1530 
 
 The simple patriarchal state of kings. 
 
 Where sire to son transmits the unquestion'd crown, 
 
 Unhack'd, unsmirch'd, unbloodied, and hast learnt 
 
 That spotless hands unshaken sceptres hold. 
 
 Having learnt this, then, use thy knowledge now. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Which way to lean I know not : bloody strokes 
 Are never free from doubt, though sometimes due. 
 
 Laias 
 
 O Merope, the common heart of man 
 
 Agrees to deem some deeds so horrible. 
 
 That neither gratitude, nor tie of race, 15iO 
 
 Womanly pity, nor maternal fear. 
 
 Nor any pleader else, shall be indulg'd 
 
 To breathe a syllable to bar revenge. 
 
 All this, no doubt, thou to thyself hast urg'd — 
 
 Time presses, so that theme forbear I now : 
 
 Direct to thy dissuasions I reply. 
 
MEEOPE 365 
 
 Blood-founded thrones, thou say'st, are insecure ; 
 
 Our father's kingdom, because pure, is safe. 
 
 True ; but what cause to our Arcadia gives 
 
 Its privileg'd immunity from blood, 1550 
 
 But that, since iirst the black and fruitful Earth 
 
 In the primeval mountain-forests bore 
 
 Pelasgus, our forefather and mankind's. 
 
 Legitimately sire to son, with us. 
 
 Bequeaths the allegiance of our shepherd-tribes, 
 
 More loyal, as our line continues more ? — 
 
 How can your Heracleidan chiefs inspire 
 
 This awe which guards our earth-sprung, lineal kings ? 
 
 What permanence, what stability like ours. 
 
 Whether blood flows or no, can yet invest 1560 
 
 The broken order of your Dorian thrones, 
 
 Eix'd yesterday, and ten times chang'd since then ? — 
 
 Two brothers, and their orphan nephews, strove 
 
 For the three conquer'd kingdoms of this isle : 
 
 The eldest, mightiest brother, Temenus, took 
 
 Argos : a juggle to Cresphontes gave 
 
 Messenia : to those helpless Boys, the lot 
 
 Worst of the three, the stony Sparta, fell. 
 
 August, indeed, was the foundation here ! 
 
 What followed ? — His most trusted kinsman slew 
 
 Cresphontes in Messenia ; Temenus 1571 
 
 Perish'd in Argos by his jealous sons ; 
 
 The Spartan Brothers with their guardian strive : — 
 
 Can houses thus ill-seated — thus embroU'd — 
 
 Thus little founded in their subjects' love, 
 
 Practise the indulgent, bloodless policy 
 
 Of dynasties long-fix'd, and honour'd long ? 
 
 No ! Vigour and severity must chain 
 
 Popular reverence to these recent lines ; 
 
 If their first-founded order be maintain'd — 1580 
 
 Their murder'd rulers terribly aveng'd — 
 
 Euthlessly thqir rebellious subjects crush'd. — 
 
 Since policy bids thus, what fouler death 
 
 Than thine illustrious husband's to avenge 
 
 Shall we select '? — than Polyphonies, what 
 
 More daring and more grand offender find ? 
 
 Justice, my sister, long demands this blow. 
 
 And Wisdom, now thou see'st, demands it too : 
 
366 MEROPE 
 
 To strike it, then, dissuade thy son no more ; 
 
 For to live disobedient to these two, 1590 
 
 Justice and Wisdom, is no life at all. 
 
 The Chorus 
 The Gods, O mistress dear ! the hard-soul'd man, 
 Who spar'd not others, bid not us to spare. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Alas ! against my brother, son, and friends. 
 One, and a woman, how can I prevail ? — 
 O brother ! thou hast conquer'd ; yet, I fear. . . . 
 Son ! with a doubting heart thy mother yields . . . 
 May it turn happier than my doubts portend ! 
 
 Laias 
 
 Meantime on thee the task of silence only 
 Shall be impos'd ; to us shall be the deed. 1600 
 
 Now, not another word, but to our act ! 
 Nephew ! thy friends are sounded, and prove true : 
 Thy father's murderer, in the public place, 
 Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice : 
 Go with him — choose the moment — strike thy blow ! 
 If prudence counsels thee to go unarm'd. 
 The sacrificer's axe will serve thy turn. 
 To me and the Messenians leave the rest. 
 With the Gods' aid — and, if they give but aid 
 As our just cause deserves, I do not fear. 1610 
 
 [Aepytus, Laias, and Arcas go out. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 O Son and Mother, str. 1. 
 
 Whom the Gods o'ershadow, 
 
 In dangerous trial, 
 
 With certainty of favour ! 
 
 As erst they shadow'd 
 
 Your race's founders 
 
 From irretrievable woe : 
 
 When the seed of Lycaon 
 
 Lay forlorn, lay outcast, 
 
 Callisto and her Boy. 1620 
 
 What deep-grass'd meadow ant. 1. 
 
 At the meeting valleys — 
 
MEEOPE 367 
 
 Where clear-flowing Ladon, 
 
 Most beautiful of waters, 
 
 Eeceives the river 
 
 Whose trout are vocal, 
 
 The Aroanian stream — 
 
 Without home, without mother. 
 
 Hid the babe, hid Areas, 
 
 The nursling of the deUs ? 1630 
 
 But the sweet-smelling myrtle, str, 2. 
 
 And the pink-ilower'd oleander, 
 
 And the green agnus-castus. 
 
 To the West- Wind's murmur, 
 
 Eustled round his cradle ; 
 
 And Maia rear'd him. 
 
 Then, a boy, he startled 
 
 In the snow-fiU'd hollows 
 
 Of high Cyllene 
 
 The white mountain-birds ; 1640 
 
 Or surpris'd, in the glens. 
 
 The basking tortoises, 
 
 Whose strip'd shell founded 
 
 In the hand of Hermes 
 
 The glory of the lyre. 
 
 But his mother, Callisto, ant. 2. 
 
 In her hiding-place of the thickets 
 
 Of the lentisk and ilex. 
 
 In her rough form, fearing 
 
 The hunter on the outlook, 1650 
 
 Poor changeling ! trembled. 
 
 Or the children, plucking 
 
 In the thorn-chok'd gullies 
 
 Wild gooseberries, scar'd her, 
 
 The shy mountain-bear. 
 
 Or the shepherds, on slopes 
 
 With pale-spik'd lavender 
 
 And crisp thyme tufted. 
 
 Came upon her, stealing 
 
 At day-break through the dew. 1660 
 
 Once, 'mid the gorges, str, 3, 
 
 Spray-drizzled, lonely, 
 Unclimb'd by man — 
 
368 MEEOPE 
 
 O'er whose cliffs the townsmen 
 
 Of crag-perch'd Nonacris 
 
 Behold in summer 
 
 The slender torrent 
 
 Of Styx come dancing, 
 
 A wind-blown thread — 
 
 By the precipices of Khelmos, 1670 
 
 'The fleet , desperate hunter, 
 
 The youthful Areas, born of Zeus, 
 
 His fleeing mother, 
 
 Transform'd Callisto, 
 
 Unwitting foUow'd — 
 
 And rais'd his spear. 
 
 Turning, with piteous unt. 3. 
 
 Distressful longing, 
 
 Sad, eager eyes, 
 
 Mutely she regarded 1680 
 
 Her well-known enemy. 
 
 Low moans half utter'd 
 
 What speech refus'd her ; 
 
 Tears cours'd, tears human, 
 
 Down those disfigur'd 
 
 Once human cheeks. 
 
 With unutterable foreboding 
 
 Her son, heart-stricken, ey'd her. 
 
 The Gods had pity, made them Stars. 
 
 Stars now they sparkle 1690 
 
 In the northern Heaven ; 
 
 The guard Arctunis, 
 
 The guard -watch'd Bear. 
 
 So, o'er thee and thy child, epode. 
 
 Some God, Merope, now, 
 
 In dangerous hour, stretches his hand. 
 
 So, like a star, dawns thy son, 
 
 Eadiant with fortune and joy. 
 
 [PoLYPHoNTEs comcs in. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 Merope, the trouble on thy face 
 
 Tells me enough thou know'st the news which all 
 
 Messenia speaks: the prince, thy son, is dead. 1701 
 
MEEOPE 369 
 
 Not from my lips should consolation fall : 
 
 To offer that, I came not ; but to urge, 
 
 Even after news of this sad death, our league. 
 
 Yes, once again I come ; I will not take 
 
 This morning's angry answer for thy last : 
 
 To the Messenian kingdom thou and I 
 
 Are the sole claimants left ; what cause of strife 
 
 Lay in thy son is buried in his grave. 
 
 Most honoura,bly I meant, I call the Gods 1710 
 
 To witness, offering him return and power : 
 
 Yet, had he liv'd, suspicion, jealousy. 
 
 Inevitably had surg'd up, perhaps, 
 
 'Twixt thee and me ; suspicion, that I nurs'd 
 
 Some ill design against him ; jealousy. 
 
 That he enjoy'd but part, being heir to all. 
 
 And he himself, with the impetuous heart 
 
 Of youth, 'tis like, had never quite forgone 
 
 The thought of vengeance on me, never quite 
 
 Unclos'd his itching fingers from his sword. 1720 
 
 But thou, O Merope, though deeply wrong'd. 
 
 Though injur'd past forgiveness, as men deem, 
 
 Yet hast been long at school with thoughtful Time, 
 
 And from that teacher may'st have learn'd, like me. 
 
 That all may be endur'd, and all forgiv'n ; 
 
 Have learn'd that we niust sacrifice the thirst 
 
 Of personal vengeance to the public weal ; 
 
 Have learn'd, that there are guilty deeds, which leave 
 
 The hand that does them guiltless ; in a word, 
 
 That kings live for their peoples, not themselves. 
 
 This having learn'd, let us a union found 1731 
 
 (For the last time I ask, ask earnestly) 
 
 Bas'd on pure public welfare ; let us be — • 
 
 Not Merope and Polyphontes, foes 
 
 Blood-sever'd — but Messenia's King and Queen: 
 
 Let us forget ourselves for those we rule. 
 
 Speak : I go hence to offer sacrifice 
 
 To the Preserver Zeus ; let me return 
 
 Thanks to him for our amity as well. 
 
 Mebope 
 
 Oh had'st thou, Polyphontes, still but kept 1740 
 
 The silence thou hast kept for twenty years ! 
 
 ARNOLD B b 
 
370 MEKOPE 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Henceforth, if what I urge displease, I may : 
 But fair proposal merits fair reply. 
 
 Merope 
 And thou shalt have it ! Yes, because thou hast 
 For twenty years forborne to interrupt 
 The solitude of her whom thou hast wrong'd — 
 That scanty grace shall earn thee this reply. — 
 First, for our union. Trust me, 'twixt us two 
 The brazen-footed Fury ever stalks, 
 Waving her hundred hands, a torch in each, 1750 
 
 Aglow with angry fire, to keep us twain. 
 Now, for thyself. Thou com'st with well-cloak'd joy, 
 To announce the ruin of my husband's house, 
 To sound thy triumph in his widow's ears, 
 To bid her share thine unendanger'd throne : — 
 To this thou would'st have answer. — Take it : Fly I 
 Cut short thy triumph, seeming at its height ; 
 Fling off thy crown, suppos'd at last secure ; 
 Forsake this ample, proud Messenian realm : 
 To some small, humble, and unnoted strand, 1760 
 
 Some rock more lonely than that Lemnian isle 
 Where Philoctetes pin'd, take ship and flee : 
 Some solitude more inaccessible 
 Than the ice-bastion'd Caucasean Mount, 
 Chosen a prison for Prometheus, climb : 
 There in unvoic'd oblivion hide thy name. 
 And bid the sun, thine only visitant. 
 Divulge not to the far-off world of men 
 What once-fam'd wretch he hath seen lurking there. 
 There nurse a late remorse, and thank the Gods, 1770 
 And thank thy bitterest foe, that, having lost 
 All things but life, thou lose not life as well. 
 
 POLYPHONTES 
 
 What mad bewilderment of grief is this ? 
 
 Meroi'e 
 Thou art bewilder'd : the sane head is mine. 
 
 PoLYPHONTES 
 
 I pity thee, and wish thee calmer mind. 
 
MEEOPE 371 
 
 Mekope 
 Pity thyself ; none needs compassion move. 
 
 POLYPHONTES 
 
 Yet, oh ! could'st thou but act as reason bids ! 
 
 Merope 
 And in my turn I wish the same for thee. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 All I could do to soothe thee has been tried, 
 
 Mekope 
 For that, in this my warning, thou art paid. 1780 
 
 Polyphontes 
 
 Know'st thou then aught, that thus thou sound'st the 
 alarm ? 
 
 Mekope 
 
 Thy crime : that were enough to make one fear. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 My deed is of old date, and long aton'd. 
 
 Merope 
 Aton'd this very day, perhaps, it is. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 My final victory proves the Gods appeas'd. 
 
 Merope 
 victor, victor, trip not at the goal ! 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Hatred and passionate Envy blind thine eyes. 
 
 Merope 
 Heaven-abandon'd wretch, that envies thee ! 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Thou hold'st so cheap, then, the Messenian crown ? 
 B b 2 
 
372 MEEOPE 
 
 Merope 
 I think on what the future hath in store. 1790 
 
 Polyphonies 
 To-day I reign : the rest I leave to Fate. 
 
 Merope 
 For Fate thou wait'st not long ; since, in this hour 
 
 Polyphonies 
 What? for so far she hath not prov'd my foe — - 
 
 Merope 
 Fate seals my lips, and drags to ruin thee. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 Enough ! enough ! I will no longer hear 
 
 The ill-boding note which frantic Envy sounds 
 
 To affright a fortune which the Gods secure. 
 
 Once more my friendship thou rejectest : well ! 
 
 More for this land's sake grieve I, than mine own. 
 
 I chafe not with thee, that thy hate endures, 1800 
 
 Nor bend myself too low, to make it yield. 
 
 What I have done is done ; by my o-\vn deed, 
 
 Neither exulting nor asham'd, I stand. 
 
 Why should this heart of mine set mighty store 
 
 By the construction and report of men ? 
 
 Not men's good-word hath made me what I am. 
 
 Alone I master'd power ; and alone. 
 
 Since so thou wilt, I will maintain it still. 
 
 [Polyphonies goes out. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Did I then waver str. 1. 
 
 (O woman's judgement !) 1810 
 
 Misled by seeming 
 
 Success of crime ? 
 
 And ask, if sometimes 
 
 The Gods, perhaps, allow'd you, 
 
 O lawless daring of the strong, 
 
 O self-will recklessly indulg'd ? 
 
MEROPE 373 
 
 Not time, not lightning, ant. 1. 
 
 Not rain, not thunder, 
 
 Efface the endless 
 
 Decrees of Heaven — 1820 
 
 Make Justice alter, 
 
 Revoke, assuage her sentence, 
 
 Which dooms dread ends to dreadful deeds. 
 
 And violent deaths to violent men. 
 
 But the signal example str. 2. 
 
 Of in variableness of justice 
 
 Our glorious founder 
 
 Hercules gave us, 
 
 Son lov'd of Zeus his father : for he err'd. 
 
 And the strand of Euboea, ant. 2. 1830 
 
 And the promontory of Cenaeuni, 
 
 His painful, solemn 
 
 Punishment witness'd, 
 
 Beheld his expiation : for he died. 
 
 O villages of Oeta str. 3. 
 
 With hedges of the wild rose ! 
 
 pastures of the mountain. 
 
 Of short grass, beaded with dew. 
 
 Between the pine-woods and the cliffs ! 
 
 cliffs, left by the eagles, 1840 
 
 On that morn, when the smoke-cloud 
 
 From the oak -built, fiercely-burning pyre. 
 
 Up the precipices of Trachis, 
 
 Drove them screaming from their ejrries ! 
 
 A willing, a willing sacrifice on that day 
 
 Ye witness'd, ye mountain lawns. 
 
 When the shirt-wrapt, poison-blister'd Hero 
 
 Ascended, with undaunted heart, 
 
 Living, his own funeral-pile. 
 
 And stood, shouting for a fieiy torch ; 1850 
 
 And the kind, chance-arriv'd Wanderer, 
 
 The inheritor of the bow, 
 
 Coming swiftly through the sad Trachinians, 
 
 Put the torch to the pile : 
 
 That the flame tower'd on high to the Heaven 
 
 Bearing with it, to Olympus, 
 
374 MEKOPE 
 
 To the side of Hebe, 
 To immortal delight, 
 The labour-releas'd Hero. 
 
 O heritage of Neleus, ant. 3. 1860 
 
 Ill-kept by his infirm heirs ! 
 
 O kingdom of Messene, 
 
 Of rich soil, chosen by craft, 
 
 Possess'd in hatred, lost in Islood ! 
 
 O town, high Stenyclaros, 
 
 With new walls, which the victors 
 
 From the four-town'd, mountain-shadow'd Doris, 
 
 For their Hercules-issu'd princes 
 
 Built in strength against the vanquish'd ! 
 
 Another, another sacrifice on this day 1870 
 
 Ye witness, ye new-built towers ! 
 
 When the white-rob'd, garland-crowned Monarch 
 
 Approaches, with undoubting heart, 
 
 Living, his own sacrifice-block, 
 
 And stands, shouting for a slaughterous axe ; 
 
 And the stern. Destiny-brought Stranger, 
 
 The inheritor of the realm. 
 
 Coming swiftly through the jocund Dorians, 
 
 Drives the axe to its goal : 
 
 That the blood rushes in streams to the dust ; 1880 
 
 Bearing with it, to Erinnys, 
 
 To the Gods of Hades, 
 
 To the dead unaveng'd. 
 
 The fiercely-requir'd Victim. 
 
 Knowing he did it, unknowing pays for it. \epode. 
 
 Unknowing, unknowing. 
 
 Thinking aton'd-for 
 
 Deeds unatonable, 
 
 Thinking appeas'd 
 
 Gods unappeasable, 1890 
 
 Lo, the Ill-fated One, 
 
 Standing for harbour, 
 
 Eight at the harbour-mouth. 
 
 Strikes, with all sail set, 
 
 Full on the sharp-pointed 
 
 Needle of ruin ! 
 
 [JL Messenger comes in. 
 
MEEOPE 376 
 
 Messenger 
 
 honour'd Queen, O faithful followers 
 
 Of your dead master's line, I bring you news 
 To make the gates of this long-mournful house 
 Leap, and fly open of themselves for joy ! 1900 
 
 [noise and slioutmg heard. 
 Hark how the shouting crowds tramp hitherward 
 With glad acclaim ! Ere they forestall my news, 
 Accept it : — Polyphontes is no more. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Is my son safe ? that question bounds my care. 
 
 Messenger 
 
 He is, and by the people hail'd for king. 
 
 Merope 
 
 The rest to me is little : yet, since that 
 
 Must from some mouth be heard, relate it thou. 
 
 Messenger 
 
 Not little, if thou saw'st what love, what zeal, 
 At thy dead husband's name the people show. 
 For when this morning in the public square 1910 
 
 1 took my stand, and saw the unarm'd crowds 
 Of citizens in holiday attire. 
 
 Women and children intermix'd ; and then, 
 
 Group'd around Zeus's altar, all in arms. 
 
 Serried and grim, the ring of Dorian lords — 
 
 I trembled for our prince and his attempt. 
 
 Silence and expectation held us all : 
 
 Till presently the King came forth, in robe 
 
 Of sacrifice, his guards clearing the way 
 
 Before him — at his side, the prince, thy son, 1920 
 
 Unarm'd and travel-soil'd, just as he was : 
 
 With him conferring the King slowly reach 'd 
 
 The altar in the middle of the square. 
 
 Where, by the sacrificing minister, 
 
 The flower-dress'd victim stood, a milk-white bull, 
 
 Swaying from side to side his massy head 
 
 With short impatient lowings : there he stopp'd. 
 
 And seem'd to muse awhile, then rais'd his eyes 
 
376 MEEOPE 
 
 To Heaven, and laid his hand upon the steer, 
 
 And cried — Zeus, let what Mood-guiltiness 1930 
 
 Yet stains our land be hy this Wood wash'd out, 
 
 And grant henceforth to the Messenians peace ! 
 
 That moment, while with upturn'd eyes he pray'd, 
 
 The prince snatch'd from the sacrificer's hand 
 
 The axe, and on the forehead of the King, 
 
 Where twines the chaplet, dealt a mighty blow 
 
 Which fell'd him to the earth, and o'er him stood, 
 
 And shouted — Since ly thee defilement came, 
 
 WJiat blood so meet as thine to wash it out ? 
 
 What hand to strike thee meet as mine, the hand 1940 
 
 Of Aepytus, thy murder' d master's son? — 
 
 But, gazing at him from the ground, the King . . . 
 
 Is it, then, thou ? he murmur'd ; and with that. 
 
 He bow'd his head, and deeply groan'd, and died. 
 
 Till then we all seem'd stone : but then a cry 
 
 Broke from the Dorian lords : forward they rush'd 
 
 To circle the prince round : when suddenly 
 
 Laias in arms sprang to his nephew's side, 
 
 Crying — ye Messenians, will ye leave 
 
 The son to perish as ye left the sire ? 1950 
 
 And from that moment I saw nothing clear : 
 
 For from all sides a deluge, as it seem'd, 
 
 Burst o'er the altar and the Dorian lords, 
 
 Of holiday-clad citizens transform 'd 
 
 To armfed warriors : I heard vengeful cries ; 
 
 I heard the clash of weapons ; then I saw 
 
 The Dorians lying dead, thy son hail'd king. 
 
 And, truly, one who sees, what seem'd so strong, 
 
 The power of this tyrant and his lords, 
 
 Melt like a passing smoke, a nightly dream, 1960 
 
 At one bold word, one enterprising blow — 
 
 Might ask, why we endur'd their yoke so long : 
 
 But that we know how every perilous feat 
 
 Of daring, easy as it seems when done. 
 
 Is easy at no moment but the right. 
 
 The Chokus 
 
 Thou speakest well ; but here, to give our eyes 
 Authentic proof of what thou tell'st our ears. 
 The conquerors, with the King's dead body, come. 
 
MEEOPE 377 
 
 [Aepytus, Laias, and Arcas come in with tlie 
 dead hody of Polyphontes, followed hij a 
 crowd of the Messenians.] 
 
 Laias 
 
 Sister, from this day forth thou art no more 
 
 The widow of a husband unaveng'd, 1970 
 
 The anxious mother of an exil'd son. 
 
 Thine enemy is slain, thy son is king ! 
 
 Kejoice with us ! and trust me, he who wish'd 
 
 Welfare to the Messenian state, and calm. 
 
 Could find no way to found them sure as this. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 Mother, all these approve me : but if thou 
 Approve not too, I have but half my joy. 
 
 Meeope 
 
 Aepytus, my son, behold, behold 
 This iron man, my enemy and thine. 
 
 This politic sovereign, lying at our feet, 1980 
 
 With blood-bespatter'd robes, and chaplet shorn ! 
 
 Inscrutable as ever, see, it keeps 
 
 Its sombre aspect of majestic care. 
 
 Of solitary thought, unshar'd resolve. 
 
 Even in death, that countenance austere. 
 
 So look'd he, when to Stenyclaros first, 
 
 A new-made wife, I from Arcadia came, 
 
 And found him at my husband's side, his friend, 
 
 His kinsman, his right hand in peace and war ; 
 
 Unsparing in his service of his toil, 1990 
 
 His blood ; to me, for I confess it, kind : 
 
 So look'd he in that dreadful day of death : 
 
 So, when he pleaded for our league but now. 
 
 What meantest thou, O Polyphontes, what 
 
 Desired'st thou, what truly spurr'd thee on '? 
 
 Was pplicy of state, the ascendancy 
 
 Of the Heracleidan conquerors, as thou said'st. 
 
 Indeed thy lifelong passion and sole aim ? 
 
 Or did'st thou but, as cautious schemers use, 
 
 Cloak thine ambition with these specious words ? 
 
 1 know not ; just, in either case, the stroke 2001 
 
378 MEEOPE 
 
 Which laid thee low, for blood requires blood : 
 
 But yet, not knowing this, I triumph not 
 
 Over thy corpse, triumph not, neither mourn ; 
 
 For I find worth in thee, and badness too. 
 
 What mood of spirit, therefore, shall we call 
 
 The true one of a man — what way of life 
 
 His fix'd condition and perpetual walk ? 
 
 None, since a twofold colour reigns in all. 
 
 But thou, my son, study to make prevail 2010 
 
 One colour in thy life, the hue of truth : 
 
 That Justice, that sage Order, not alone 
 
 Natural Vengeance, may maintain thine act. 
 
 And make it stand indeed the will of Heaven. 
 
 Thy father's passion was this people's ease, 
 
 This people's anarchy, thy foe's pretence ; 
 
 As the chiefs rule, indeed, the people are : 
 
 Unhappy people, where the chiefs themselves 
 
 Are, like the mob, vicious and ignorant ! 
 
 So rule, that even thine enemies may fail 2020 
 
 To find in thee a fault whereon to found, 
 
 Of tyrannous harshness, or remissness weak : 
 
 So rule, that as thy father thou be lov'd ; 
 
 So rule, that as thy foe thou be obey'd. 
 
 Take these, my son, over thine enemy's corpse 
 
 Thy mother's prayers : and this prayer last of all, 
 
 That even in thy victory thou show, 
 
 Mortal, the moderation of a man. 
 
 Aepytus 
 
 O mother, my best diligence shall be 
 
 In all by thy experience to be rul'd 2030 
 
 Where my own youth falls short. But, Laias, now, 
 
 First work after such victory, let us go 
 
 To render to my true Messenians thanks, 
 
 To the Gods grateful sacrifice ; and then, 
 
 Assume the ensigns of my father's power. 
 
 The Chokus 
 
 Son of Cresphontes, past what perils 
 Com'st thou, guided safe, to thy home i 
 What things daring ! what enduring ! 
 And all this by the will of the Gods. 
 
POEMS FROM MAGAZINES, 1860-1866 
 
 MEN OF GENIUS 
 
 [First published in the Comhill Magazine, July, I860.] 
 
 Silent, the Lord of the world 
 Eyes from the heavenly height. 
 Girt by his far-shining train, 
 Us, who with banners unfurl'd 
 Fight life's many-chano'd fight 
 Madly below, in the plain. 
 
 Then saith the Lord to his own : — 
 ' See ye the battle below ? 
 Turmoil of death and of birth ! 
 Too long let we them groan. 10 
 
 Haste, arise ye, and go ; 
 
 Carry my peace upon earth.' 
 
 Gladly they rise at his call ; 
 
 Gladly they take his command ; 
 Gladly descend to the plain. 
 Alas ! How few of them all — 
 
 Those willing servants — shall stand 
 In their Master's presence again ! 
 
 Some in the tumult are lost : 
 
 Baffled, bewilder'd, they stray. 20 
 
 Some as prisoners draw breath. 
 Others — the bravest — are cross'd. 
 
 On the height of their bold-follow'd way, 
 By the swift-rushing missile of Death. 
 
 Hardly, hardly shall one 
 
 Come, with countenance bright. 
 
 O'er the cloud-wrapt, perilous plain : 
 His Master's errand well done. 
 
 Safe through the smoke of the fight, 
 
 Back to his Master again. 30 
 
380 
 
 SAINT BKANDAN 
 
 [First published in Fraser's Magazine, July, 1860. Reprinted 
 separately 1867, also in New Poems, 1867.] 
 
 Saint Brandan sails the northern main ; 
 
 The brotherhoods of saints are glad. 
 
 He greets them once, he sails again. 
 
 So late ! — such storms ! — The Saint is mad ! 
 
 He heard across the howling seas 
 Chime convent bells on wintry nights, 
 He saw on spray-swept Hebrides 
 Twinkle the monastery lights ; 
 
 But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd ; 
 And now no bells, no convents more ! 10 
 
 The hurtling Polar lights are near'd. 
 The sea without a hunian shore. 
 
 At last — (it was the Christmas night. 
 Stars shone after a day of storm) — 
 He sees float past an iceberg white. 
 And on it — Christ ! — a living form ! 
 
 That furtive mien, that scowling eye, 
 
 Of hair that red and tufted fell 
 
 It is — Oh, where shall Brandan fly? — • 
 
 The traitor Judas, out of hell ! 20 
 
 Palsied with terror, Brandan sate ; 
 The moon was bright, the iceberg near. 
 He hears a voice sigh humbly : ' Wait ! 
 By high permission I am here. 
 
 ' One moment wait, thou holy man ! 
 On earth my crime, my death, they knew ; 
 My name is under aU men's ban ; 
 Ah, tell them of my respite too ! 
 
 ' Tell them, one blessed Christmas night— 
 
 (It was the first after I came, 30 
 
 Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, 
 
 To rue my guilt in endless flame) — 
 
 15 past] near- 1860. 18 red] black 18S0. 
 
SAINT BKANDAJN 381 
 
 'I felt, as I in torment lay 
 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, 
 An angel touch mine arm, and say : 
 Go hence, and cool thyself an hour ! 
 
 ' "Ah, whence this mercy, Lord ? " I said. 
 
 The Leper recoiled, said he. 
 
 Who aslc'd the passers-hy for aid, 
 
 In Joppa, and thy charity. 40 
 
 'Then I remember'd how I went. 
 In Joppa, through the public street. 
 One morn, when the sirocco spent 
 Its storms of dust, with burning heat ; 
 
 ' And in the street a Leper sate, 
 Shivering with fever, naked, old ; 
 Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, 
 The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. 
 
 ' He gazed upon me as I pass'd. 
 
 And murmur'd : Help me, or I die ! — EO 
 
 To the poor wretch my cloak I cast. 
 
 Saw him look eased, and hurried by. 
 
 ' Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine. 
 What blessing must true goodness shower. 
 If semblance of it faint, like mine. 
 Hath such inestimable power ! 
 
 'Well-fed, well-clothed, well -friended, I 
 
 Did that chance act of good, that one ! 
 
 Then went my way to kill and lie — ■ 
 
 Forgot my good as soon as done. 60 
 
 ' That germ of kindness, in the womb 
 Of mercy caught, did not expire ; 
 Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom, 
 And friends me in the pit of fire. 
 
 ' Once every year, when carols wake. 
 On earth, the Christmas night's repose, 
 Arising from the sinners' lake, 
 I journey to these healing snows. 
 
 55 If] When 1860. 56 inestimable] inalienable 1860. 
 
 «0 good] deed 1860. 
 
382 SAINT BRANDAN 
 
 ' I stanch with ice my burning breast, 
 With silence bairn my whirling brain. 
 O Brandan ! to this hour of rest, 
 That Joppan leper's ease was pain ! ' — 
 
 Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes ; 
 He bow'd his head ; he breathed a prayer. 
 When he look'd up — tenantless lies 
 The iceberg in the frosty air ! 
 
 A SOUTHERN NIGHT 
 
 [First published in The Vicloria Regia, 1861. Reprinted 1867.] 
 
 The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes, 
 
 Melt into open, moonlit sea ; 
 The soft Mediterranean breaks 
 At my feet, free. 
 
 Dotting the fields of corn and vine 
 
 Like ghosts, the huge, gnarl'd olives stand ; 
 Behind, that lovely mountain-line ! 
 While by the strand 
 
 Cette, with its glistening houses white, 
 
 Curves with the curving beach away 10 
 
 To where the lighthouse beacons bright 
 Far in the bay. 
 
 Ah, such a night, so soft, so lone, 
 
 So moonlit, saw me once of yore 
 Wander unquiet, and my own 
 . I Vext heart deplore ! 
 
 But now that trouble isiargpt ; 
 
 Thy memory, thy pain, to-night, 
 My brother J and thine early lot. 
 
 Possess me quite. 20 
 
 The murmur of this Midland deep 
 
 Is heard to-night around _thj_grave 
 There where Gibraltar's cannoiva steep 
 O'erfrowns the wave. 
 
A SOUTHERN NIGHT 383 
 
 For there, with bodily anguish keen, 
 With Indian heats at last fordone, 
 With public toil and private teen, 
 Thou sank'st, alone. , / 
 
 Slow to a stop, at morning grey, 
 
 I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come ; 30 
 
 Slow round her paddles dies away 
 The seething foam. 
 
 A boat is lower'd from her side ; 
 
 Ah, gently place him on the bench ! 
 That spirit — if all have not yet died — • 
 A breath might quench. 
 
 Is this the eye, the footstep fast. 
 
 The mien of youth we used to see. 
 Poor, gallant boy ! — for such thou wast. 
 
 Still art, to me. 40 
 
 The limbs their wonted tasks refuse. 
 
 The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak ; 
 And whiter than thy white burnous 
 That wasted cheek ! 
 
 Enough ! The boat, with quiet shock, 
 
 Unto its haven coming nigh, 
 
 Touches, and on Gibraltar's rock 
 
 Lands thee, to die. 
 
 Ah me ! Gibraltar's strand is far. 
 
 But farther yet across the brine 50 
 
 Thy dear wife's ashes buried are, 
 Eemote from thine. 
 
 For there where Morning's sacred fount 
 
 Its golden rain on earth confers. 
 The snowy Himalayan Mount 
 O'ei-shadows hers. 
 
 Strange irony of Fate, alas. 
 
 Which for two jadg^ English saves, 
 When from their dusiy life they pass, 
 
 Such peaceful graves ! - 60 
 
 26 heats] suns IS61. 37 footstep fast] form alert 1S61. 
 
 39 wast] wert 18B1. 
 
384 A SOUTHEEN NIGHT 
 
 In cities should we English lie, 
 
 Where cries are rising ever new, 
 And men's incessant stream goes by ; 
 We who pursue 
 
 Our business with unslackening stride. 
 
 Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast, 
 The soft Mediterranean side, 
 The Nile, the East, 
 
 And see all sights from pole to pole, 
 
 And glance, and nod, and bustle by ; 70 
 
 And never oncej)ossess our soul 
 Before we ^e. ~ 
 
 Not by those hoary Indian hills, 
 
 Not by this gracious Midland sea 
 Whose -floor to-night sweet moonshine fills, 
 Should our graves be ! 
 
 Some sage, to whom the world was dead, 
 " And men were specks, and life a'play ; 
 Who made the roots of Jrees his bed, 
 
 And once a day 80 
 
 With staff and gourd his way did bend 
 
 To villages and homes of man. 
 For food to keep him till he end 
 His mortal span. 
 
 And the j)ure goal of Being reach ; 
 
 Grey-headed, wrinkled, clad in white, 
 Without companion, without speech. 
 By day and night 
 
 Pondering God's mysteries untold, 
 
 And tranquil as the glacier snows — 80 
 
 He by those Indian inountajns_old _ 
 Might well repose ! 
 
 Some grey crusading knight austere 
 
 Who bore Saint Louis company 
 And came home hurt to death and here 
 Landed to die ; 
 
 82 homes] haunts 1861. 96 Landed] Touch'd shore 1861. 
 
A SOUTHERN NIGHT 385 
 
 So me yo uthful troubadour whose tongue 
 I'iird Jtiurdpe^once with his love-pain, 
 Who here outwearied sunk, and sung 
 
 His dying strain ; 100 
 
 ^''iH£_SiEL^-'^o here from castle-bower, 
 
 WithTurtive step and cheek of flame, 
 'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower 
 By moonlight came 
 
 To meet her pirate-lover's ship, 
 
 And from the Avave-kiss'd marble stair 
 Beckon'd him on, with quivering lip 
 And unbound hair, 
 
 And lived some moons in happy trance, 
 
 Then learnt his death, and pined away — ■ 110 
 Such by these waters of romance 
 'Twas meet to lay ! 
 
 But,yQU.=;a_grave for knight or sage, 
 Eomantic, solitary, still, 
 
 spent ones of a work-day age ! 
 
 B^ts^you ill. -"^ " 
 
 So sang I ; JiutJ;he midnight breeze 
 
 Down to the brimm'd moon-charmed main 
 Comes softly through the olive-trees. 
 
 And checks my strain. 120 
 
 1 think of her, whose gentle tongue 
 
 All plaint in her own cause controll'd ; 
 Of thee I think, my brother ! young 
 In heart, high-soul'd ; 
 
 That comely face, that cluster'd brow. 
 That cordial hand, that bearing free, 
 I see them still, I see them now, 
 Shall always see ! 
 
 And what but gentleness untired, 
 
 And what but noble feeling warm, 
 Wherever shown, howe'er attired. 
 
 Is grace, is charm ? / 
 
 100 His] A 1S61. 101 castle-bower] palace-bower 1S61. 
 
 108 unbound] floating 1S61. 113 knight] Girl 1862. 
 
 ARNOLD (J (» 
 
386 A SOUTHEEN NIGHT 
 
 What else is all these waters are, 
 
 What else is steep'd in lucid sheen, 
 What else is bright, what else is fair, 
 What else serene ? 
 
 Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine ! 
 
 Gently by his, ye waters, glide ! 
 To that in you which is divine 
 
 They were allied. 140 
 
 THYESIS 
 
 A Monody, to commemorate the author's friend, Arthur 
 Hugh Clough, who died at Florence, 1861 
 
 [First published in MacmiUan's Magazine, April, 1866. 
 Eeprinted 1867.] 
 
 Thus yesterday, to-day, to-morrow come. 
 They bustle one another and they pass ; 
 But all our hustling morrows only make 
 The smooth to-day of God. 
 
 From Lucretius, an unpublished Tragedy. 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills ! 
 In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same ; 
 
 The village-street its haunted mansion lacks, 
 And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name. 
 
 And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks ; 
 Are ye too changed, ye hills ? 
 See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
 
 To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays 
 
 Here came I often, often, in old days ; 
 Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. 
 
 Euns it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, 
 Up past the wood, to where the elm-tree crowns 
 
 The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames ? 
 The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 
 
 The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful 
 Thames?— 
 This winter- eve is warm, 
 
 135 bright] good 1861. 
 Thyrsis] Uotlo first inserted in 1867. 
 
THYESIS 387 
 
 Humid the air ; leafless, yet soft as spring, 
 The tender purple spray on copse and briers ; 
 And that sweet City with her dreaming spires, 
 
 She needs not June for beauty's heightening, 20 
 
 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night ! 
 Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 
 
 Befalls me wandering through this upland dim ; 
 Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour. 
 
 Now seldom come I, since I came with him. 
 That single elm-tree bright 
 Against the west — I miss it ! is it gone ? 
 
 We prized it dearly ; while it stood, we said , 
 
 Our friend, the Scholar-Gigsyj was not dea dj 
 "While the tree ITye^Tie in These fields lived on. 30 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here ! 
 
 But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick ; 
 
 And with the country-folk acquaintance made 
 By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 
 
 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. 
 Ah me ! this many a year 
 My pipe is lost, my shepherd's-holiday ! 
 
 Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart 
 
 Into the world and wave of men depart ; 
 ButJThjrsis of hi s own will went away. 40 
 
 It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
 He loved each simple joy the country yields. 
 
 He loved his mates ; but yet he could not keep. 
 For that a shadow lower'd on the fields. 
 
 Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and fiU'd his head. 
 
 He went ; hispi ping took a t rmihled ^^""d 
 
 Of storms tTJatrage out side our happy g round ; 
 HeJ co'urd"ngt"Wmt~their pissT hg.-lie is dead! 50 
 
 So, some tempestuous morn in early June, 
 
 When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er. 
 
 Before the roses and the longest day — 
 When garden-walks, and all the grassy floor. 
 With blossoms, red and white, of fallen May, 
 And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
 
888 THYESIS 
 
 So have I heard thajaickoc fe. partin g ; crv. 
 
 Jj'rom the wetfield, through the vext garden-trees, 
 Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : 
 
 The blqomis gone, and with theMo om go I. 60 
 
 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go ? 
 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, 
 
 Soon will the musk carnations break and swell. 
 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, 
 
 Sweet-William with its homely cottage-smell. 
 And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
 Roses that down the alleys shine afar, 
 
 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, 
 
 And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, 
 And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 70 
 
 He hearkens not ! light comer, he is flown ! 
 What matters it ? next year he will return, 
 
 And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days. 
 With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern. 
 
 And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways. 
 And scent of hay new-mown. 
 But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see ! 
 
 See him come back, and cut a smoother reed. 
 
 And blow a strain the world at last shall heed — 
 For Time^ not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee. 80 
 
 Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! — 
 
 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate. 
 
 Some good sui-vivor with his fl.ute would go. 
 Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate. 
 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow. 
 And relax Pluto's brow. 
 And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 
 
 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 
 
 Are flowers, first open'd on Sicilian air, 
 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. 
 
 easy access to the hearer's grace 91 
 
 When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine ! 
 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, 
 
 71 flown] gone 1S66. 86 relax] unbend 1S66. 
 
THYESIS 389 
 
 She knew each lily white which Enna yields, 
 Each rose with blushing face ; 
 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 
 
 But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard ! 
 
 Her foot the Cuinner cowslips never stirr'd ! 99 
 And we should tease her with our plaint in vain. 
 
 Well ! wind-dispers'd and vain the words will be, 
 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 
 
 In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill ! 
 "Who, if not I, for questing here hath power ? 
 
 I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
 I know the Fyfield tree, 
 I know what white, what purple fritillaries 
 
 The grassy harvest of the river-fields, 108 
 
 Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields. 
 And what sedg'd brooks are Thames's tributaries ; 
 
 I know these slopes ; who knows them if not I ? — 
 But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, 
 
 With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd 
 trees, 
 Where thick the cowslips grew, and, far descried, 
 High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 
 Hath since our day put by 
 The coronals of that forgotten time. 
 
 Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's 
 
 team, 
 And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
 Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 120 
 
 Where is the girl, who, by the boatman's door, 
 Above the locks, above the boating throng, 
 
 Unmoor'd our skiff, when, through the Wytham 
 flats, 
 Ecd loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among. 
 And darting swallows, and light water-gnats. 
 We track'd the shy Thames shore ? 
 Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 
 Of our boat passing heav'd the river-grass, 
 Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass ? — 
 They all are gone, and thou art gone as well. 130 
 
390 THYESIS 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too the night 
 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with 
 grey; 
 I feel her finger light 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; 
 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew. 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new, 139 
 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. 
 
 And long the way appears, which seem'd so short 
 To the unpractis'd eye of sanguine youth ; 
 
 And high the m.ountain-tops, in cloudy air, 
 The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, 
 
 Tops in life's mornmg-sun so bright and bare ! 
 Unbreachable the fort 
 Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall. 
 
 And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, 
 
 And near and real the charm of thy repose, 
 And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 150 
 
 But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss 
 Of quiet ; — Look ! adown the dusk hill-side, 
 
 A troop of Oxford hunters going home, 
 As in old days, jovial and talking, ride ! 
 
 From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they 
 come — 
 jjuick, let me fly. a,nd cross 
 Into yon further fiel d ! — 'Tis done ; and see, 
 Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 
 The orange and pale violet evening-sky. 
 Bare on its lonely ridge, the_Tj:£aJLifee_TreeJ 160 
 
 I take the omen ! Eve lets down her veU, 
 
 The white fog creeps from bush to bush about. 
 
 The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, 
 And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. 
 I cannot reach the Signal-Tree to-night, 
 Yet, happy omen, hail '. 
 
THYRSIS 391 
 
 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno vale 
 
 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep 
 The morningless and unawakening sleep 
 
 Under the flowery oleanders pale), 170 
 
 gear jt, (IThyjsis, gt ill our Tre e.iaJherej— 
 
 Ah, vaip ! These English fields, this upland dim, 
 
 These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, 
 That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him. 
 
 To a boon southern country he is fled. 
 And now in happier air, 
 Wandering with the great Mother's train divine 
 
 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 
 
 I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see !) 
 Within a folding of the Apennine, 180 
 
 Thou hearest the immortal strains of old. 
 Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 
 
 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king. 
 For thee the Lityerses song again 
 
 Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing ; 
 Sings his Sicilian fold. 
 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes ; 
 
 And how a call celestial round him rang 
 
 Andheavenward fromthefountain-brinkhe sprang, 
 And all the marvel of the golden skies. 190 
 
 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
 Sole in these fields ; yet will I not despair ; 
 
 Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
 'Neath the soft canopy of English air 
 
 That lonely Tree against the western sky. 
 Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee ! 
 
 Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, 
 
 Woods with anemonies in flower till May, 
 Know him a wanderer still ; then why not me ? 
 
 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 201 
 
 Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 
 
 This does not come with houses or with gold, 
 With place, with honour, and a flattering crew ; 
 198 soft] the me. 
 
392 THYKSIS 
 
 'Tis not in the world's naarket bought and sold. 
 But the smooth-slipping weeks 
 
 Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired ; 
 Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, 
 He wends unfoUow'd, he must house alone ; 
 
 Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 210 
 
 Thou too, Thyrsis, on like quest wert bound. 
 Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour ; 
 
 Men gave thee nothing, but this happy quest, 
 If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, 
 
 If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 
 And this rude Cumner ground, 
 Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, 
 
 Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, 
 
 Here was thineheightof strength, thy golden prime ; 
 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 220 
 
 What thou gh the music of thy ru stic flute 
 Kept not i:oi '_i ong its liappy, country tone , 
 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormynote 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 
 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy 
 throat — 
 It fail'd, and thou wast mute ; 
 YgLhad st~thou alway visions of our light, 
 
 And long with men o t car_e_ thou,, coul fist not stay ,. 
 And SQQi uthv foot resumed its wan dering wa^ 
 
 T,p£L-luiTnftn hannf, .OTiH on alone till nign t. 2:30 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here ! 
 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, 
 
 Thyrsis, in reach of sheep-bells is my home ! 
 Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying 
 roar. 
 Let in thy voice a whisper often come. 
 To chase fatigue and fear : 
 Why faintest thou ? I wander' d till I died. 
 ^Mgam on ! the light M&-SQug]]iSs sliining_sWX. 
 
 Dost thou ask proof? Our Tree yet crownsllie hill, 
 Our Sclwlar travels yet the loved hillside. 2i0 
 
 308 he is] is he 1806, 226 wast] wert J8G6, 
 
NEW POEMS 
 
 1867 
 
 TJiough the Muse le gone away, 
 TJiough she move not earth to-day, 
 Souls, ereioMle who caught her word. 
 All ! still harp on what tliey heard. 
 
 A PICTUEE AT NEWSTEAD 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 What made my heart, at NewsteacI, fullest swell? — 
 'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry 
 Stormily sweet, his Titan agony ; 
 It was the sight of that Lord Arundel 
 
 Who struck, in heat, the child he loved so well. 
 And the child's reason flickered, and did die. 
 Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery 
 They hang ; the picture doth the stoiy tell. 
 
 Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand ! 
 
 The little fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze, 10 
 
 Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are ! 
 
 Methinks the woe which made that father stand 
 Baring his dumb remorse to future days, 
 Was woe than Byron's woe more tragic far. 
 
394 
 
 EACHEL 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 I 
 
 In Paris all look'd hot and like to fade. 
 Brown in the garden of the Tuileries, 
 Brown with September, droop'd the chestnut-trees. 
 'Twas dawn ; a brougham roU'd through the streets, 
 and made 
 
 Halt at the white and silent colonnade 
 
 Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease, 
 
 Eachel, with eyes no gazing can appease, 
 
 Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls survey'd. 
 
 She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled 
 To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Ehine ; 10 
 
 Why stops she by this empty play-house drear ? 
 
 Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led, 
 AH spots, match'd with that spot, are less divine ; 
 And Eachel's Switzerland, her Ehine, is here ! 
 
 II 
 
 Unto a lonely villa in a dell 
 
 Above the fragrant warm Provengal shore 
 
 The dying Eachel in a chair they bore 
 
 Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle, 
 
 And laid her in a stately rooni, where fell 
 The shadow of a marble Muse of yore — 
 The rose-crown'd queen of legendary lore, 
 Polymnia — full on her death-bed. 'Twas well ! 
 
 The fret and misery of our northern towns, 
 
 In this her life's last day, our poor, our pain, 10 
 
 Our jangle of false wits, our climate's frowns, 
 
 Do for this radiant Greek-soul'd artist cease ; 
 Sole object of her dying eyes remain 
 The beauty and the glorious art of Greece, 
 
EACHEL 395 
 
 III 
 
 Sprung from the blood of Israel's scatter'd race, 
 At a mean inn in German Aarau born, 
 To forms from antique Greece and Eome uptorn, 
 Trick'd out with a Parisian speech and face, 
 
 Imparting life renew'd, old classic grace ; 
 Then soothing with chy Christian strain forlorn, 
 A-Kempis ! her departing soul outworn, 
 While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place— 
 
 Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece alone 9 
 
 She had — one power, which made her breast its home ! 
 In her, like us, there clash'd, contending powers, 
 
 Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Kome. 
 The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours ; 
 Her genius and her gloiy are her own. 
 
 EAST LONDON 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 'TwAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited ; 
 
 I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
 
 ' 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene ? ' 
 
 ' Bravely ! ' said he ; ' for I of late have been 
 
 Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, tJie living Iread.' 
 
 human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 10 
 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam, 
 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! 
 
 Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. 
 
396 
 
 WEST LONDON 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Crouch'd on the pavement close by Belgrave Square 
 
 A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied ; 
 
 A babe was in her arms, and at her side 
 
 A girl ; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. 
 
 Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, 
 Pass'd opposite ; she touch'd her girl, who hied 
 Across, and begg'd, and came back satisfied. 
 The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. 
 
 Thought I : Above her state this spirit towers ; 
 
 She will not ask of aliens, but of friends, 10 
 
 Of sharers in a commion human fate. 
 
 She turns from that cold succour, which attends 
 The unknown little from the unknowing great, 
 And points us to a better time than ours. 
 
 ANTI-DESPEEATION 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, 
 How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! 
 Christ, some one says, was human as we are ; 
 No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan ; 
 
 We live no more, when we have done our span. 
 
 ' Well, then, for Christ,' thou answerest, ' who can 
 
 care ? 
 ' Erom sin, which heaven records not, why forbear ? 
 ' Live we like brutes our life without a plan ! ' 
 
 So answerest thou ; but why not rather say : 
 
 ' Hath man no second life ? — Pitch this one high ! 10 
 
 ' Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see ? — 
 
 ' More strictly, then, the inward judge obey ! 
 ' Was Christ a man like us ? — Ah ! let us try 
 'If we then, too, can be such men as he ! ' 
 
397 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn, 
 We leave the brutal world to take its way, 
 And, Patience ! in anotJier life, we say, 
 The world shall le thrust dotvn, and we up-liorne ! 
 
 And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
 The world's poor, routed leavings ; or will they, 
 Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day. 
 Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 
 
 No, no ! the energy of life may be 
 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 10 
 
 And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife. 
 
 From strength to strength advancing — only he. 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
 Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 
 
 WORLDLY PLACE 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Efsn in a palace, life may he led well ! 
 
 So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men, 
 
 Marcus Aurelius. — But the stifling den 
 
 Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell. 
 
 Our freedom for a little bread we sell. 
 And drudge under some foolish master's ken, 
 Who rates us, if we peer outside our pen — 
 Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell ? 
 
 Even in a palace ! On his truth sincere. 
 
 Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came ; iO 
 
 And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 
 
 Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 
 
 I'll stop, and say : ' There were no succour here 1 
 
 ' The aids to noble life are all within.' 
 
398 
 THE DIVINITY 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 ' Yes, write it in the rock ! ' Saint Bernard said, 
 ' Grave it on brass with adamantine pen ! 
 ' 'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when 
 ' God's wisdom and God's goodness are display'd, 
 
 ' For God of these his attributes is made.' — 
 Well spake the impetuous Saint, and bore of men 
 The suffrage captive ; now, not one in ten 
 Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd. 
 
 God's wisdom and God's goodness! — Ay, but fools 
 Mis-define these till God knows them no more. 10 
 
 Wisdom and goodness, they are God ! — what schools 
 
 Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore ? 
 This no Saint preaches, and this no Church rules ; 
 'Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save ! 
 So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side 
 Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried : 
 ' Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, 
 
 ' Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave ! ' 
 So spake the fierce TertuUian. But she sigh'd, 
 The infant Church ; of love she felt the tide 
 Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. 
 
 And then she smiled, and in the Catacombs, 
 
 With eye suffused but heart inspired true, 10 
 
 On those walls subterranean, where she hid 
 
 Her head in ignominy, death, and tombs. 
 She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew ; 
 And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. 
 
399 
 AUSTEEITY OF POETRY 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 That son of Italy who tried to blow, 
 Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song. 
 In his light youth amid a festal throng 
 Sate with his bride to see a public show. 
 
 Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 
 Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong, 
 Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. 
 A prop gave way ! crash fell a platform ! lo, 
 
 Mid struggling sufferers, hui't to death, she lay ! 
 Shuddering they drew her garments off — and found 
 A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. 11 
 
 Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! young, gay, 
 Radiant, adorn'd outside ; a hidden ground 
 Of thought and of austerity within. 
 
 EAST AND WEST 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 In the bare midst of Anglesey they show 
 Two springs which close by one another play, 
 And, ' Thirteen hundred years agone,' they say, 
 ' Two saints met often where those waters flow. 
 
 ' One came from Penmon, westward, and a glow 
 ' Whiten'd his face from the sun's fronting ray. 
 ' Eastward the other, from the dying day ; 
 ' And he with unsunn'd face did always go.' 
 
 Seiriol the Bright, Kyhi the Dark, men said. 
 
 The Seer from the East was then in light, 10 
 
 The Se6r from the West was then in shade. 
 
 Ah ! now 'tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright 
 The man of the bold West now comes array'd ; 
 He of the mystic East is touch'd with night. 
 
400 
 MONICA'S LAST PEAYER 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 • Oh could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be ! ' — 
 Care not for that, and lay me where I fall. 
 Everyivhere heard mil he the judgment-call. 
 But at God's altar, oh ! remember me. 
 
 Thus Monica, and died in Italy. 
 Yet fervent had her longing been, through all 
 Her course, for home at last, and burial 
 With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. 
 
 Had been ; but at the end, to her pure soul 
 
 All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap, 10 
 
 And union before God the only care. 
 
 Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole ; 
 Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep. 
 Keep by this : Life in God, and union there ! 
 
 CALAIS SANDS 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 A THOUSAND knights have rein'd their st«eds 
 To watch this line of sand-hills run, 
 Along the never silent Strait, 
 To Calais glittering in the sun : 
 
 To look toward Ardres' Golden Field 
 Across this wide aerial plain. 
 Which glows as if the Middle Age 
 Were gorgeous upon earth again. 
 
 Oh, that to share this famous scene 
 
 I saw, upon the open sand, 10 
 
 Thy lovely presence at my side, 
 
 Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand ! 
 
CALAIS SANDS 401 
 
 How exquisite thy voice would come, 
 My darling, on this lonely air ! 
 Plow sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze 
 Shake loose some lock of soft brown hair ! 
 
 But now my glance but once hath roved 
 
 O'er Calais and its famous plain ; 
 
 To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd. 
 
 O'er the blue Strait mine eyes I strain. 20 
 
 Thou comest ! Yes, the vessel's cloud 
 Hangs dark upon the rolling sea ! — 
 Oh that yon seabird's wings were mine 
 To win one instant's glimpse of thee ! 
 
 I niust not spring to grasp thy hand, 
 To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye ; 
 But I may stand far off, and gaze. 
 And 'watch thee pass unconscious by, 
 
 And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, 
 Mixt with the idlers on the pier. — 30 
 
 Ah, might I always rest unseen. 
 So I might have thee always near ! 
 
 To-morrow hurry through the fields 
 Of Flanders to the storied Ehine ! 
 To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close 
 Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine. 
 
 DOVER BEACH 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 The sea is calm to-night. 
 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 
 Upon the Straits ; — on the French coast, the light 
 
 Gleams, and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand, 
 
 61im.mering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 
 
 Come to the window, sweet is the night air ! 
 
 Only, from the long line of spray 
 
 Where the ebb meets the nioon-blaneh'd sand, 
 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 
 AlIKOLD D d 
 
i02 DOVEK BEACH 
 
 Of pebbles which the waves suck back,. and fling, 10 
 At their return, up the high strand. 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 The eternal note of sadness in. 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 Heard it on the Aegaean, and it brought 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 Of human misery ; we 
 Find also in the sound a thought, 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20 
 
 The sea of faith 
 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd ; 
 
 But now I only hear 
 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
 
 Eetreating to the breath 
 
 Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear 
 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 
 To one another ! for the world, which seems 30 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams. 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new, 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 
 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 
 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. 
 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night. 
 
 THE TEERACE AT BEENE 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 
 Once more the roofs of Berne appeal' ; 
 The rocky banks, the terrace high. 
 The stream — and do I linger here ? 
 
 The clouds are on the Oberland, 
 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; 
 But bright are those green fields at hand, 
 And through those fields comes down the Aar, 
 
THE TEREACE AT BERNE 403 
 
 And from the blue twin lakes it comes, 
 
 Plows by the town, the church-yard fair, 10 
 
 And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, 
 
 The house — and is my Marguerite there ? 
 
 Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush 
 Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, 
 Quick through the oleanders brush, 
 And clap thy hands, and cry : 'Tis thou ! 
 
 Or hast thou long since wander'd back. 
 Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; 
 And flitted down the flowery track 
 Where feet like thine too lightly come '? 20 
 
 Doth riotous laughter now replace 
 Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare. 
 Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace 
 The kerchief that enwound thy hair "? 
 
 Or is it over ? — art thou dead ? — 
 Dead ? — and no warning shiver ran 
 Across my heart, to say thy thread 
 Of life was cut, and closed thy span ! 
 
 Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
 
 Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so ? so 
 
 Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
 
 Fail from earth's air, and I not know ? 
 
 Or shall I find thee still, but changed, 
 But not the Marguerite of thy prime '? 
 With all thy being re-arranged, 
 Pass'd through the crucible of time ; 
 
 With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned, 
 
 And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 
 
 A gesture — anything — retain'd 
 
 Of all that was my Marguerite's own ? 40 
 
 I will not know ! — for wherefore try 
 To things by mortal course that live 
 A shadowy durability 
 For which they were not meant, to give ? 
 
 D d 2 
 
404 THE TEREACE AT BEENE 
 
 Like driftwood spars which meet and pass 
 
 Upon the boundless ocean-plain, 
 
 So on the sea of life, alas ! 
 
 Man nears man, meets, and leaves again. 
 
 I knew it when my life was young, 
 
 I feel it still, now youth is o'er ! 50 
 
 The mists are on the mountains hung. 
 
 And Marguerite I shall see no more. 
 
 STANZAS COMPOSED AT CARNAC 
 
 May 6, 1859 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Fab on its rocky knoll descried 
 Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky. 
 I climb'd ; — beneath me, bright and wide, 
 Lay the lone coast of Brittany. 
 
 Bright in the sunset, weird and still, 
 It lay beside the Atlantic wave, 
 As if the wizard Merlin's will 
 Yet charm'd it from his forest grave. 
 
 Behind me on their grassy sweep. 
 
 Bearded with lichen, scrawl'd and grey, 10 
 
 The giant stones of Carnac sleep. 
 
 In the mild evening of the May. 
 
 No priestly stern procession now 
 
 Streams through their rows of pillars old ; 
 
 No victims bleed, no Druids bow ; 
 
 Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold. 
 
 Prom bush to bush the cuckoo flies. 
 
 The orchis red gleams everywhere ; 
 
 Gold broom with furze in blossom vies. 
 
 The blue-bells perfume all the air. 20 
 
 And o'er the glistening, lonely land, 
 Else up, all round, the Christian spires. 
 The church of Carnac, by the strand, 
 Catches the westering sun's last fires. 
 
STANZAS COMPOSED AT CAENAO 405 
 
 And there across the watery way, 
 See, low above the tide at flood, 
 The sickle-sweep of Quiberon bay 
 Whose beach once ran with loyal blood ! 
 
 And beyond that, the Atlantic wide ! — 
 
 All round, no soul, no boat, no hail ! 30 
 
 But, on the horizon's verge descried, 
 
 Hangs, touch'd with light, one snowy sail I 
 
 Ah, where is he, who should have come 
 Where that far sail is passing now, 
 Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam 
 Of Finistere's unquiet brow, 
 
 Home, round into the English wave ? — 
 
 He tarries where the Eock of Spain 
 
 Mediterranean waters lave ; 
 
 He enters not the Atlantic main. 40 
 
 Oh, could he once have reach'd this air 
 Freshen'd by plunging tides, by showers ! 
 Have felt this breath he loved, of fair 
 Cool northern fields, and grass, and flowers ! 
 
 He long'd for it — press'd on ! — In vain. 
 At the Straits fail'd that spirit brave. 
 The South was parent of his pain, 
 The South is mistress of his grave. 
 
 FEAGMENT OF CHOEUS OF A DSJANEIEA 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 O FRIVOLOUS mind of man. 
 
 Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts, 
 
 Though man bewails you not, 
 
 How I bewail you ! 
 
 Little in your prosperity 
 
 Do you seek counsel of the Gods. 
 
 Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone. 
 
 In profound silence stern 
 
 Among their savage gorges and cold springs 
 
 Unvisited remain 10 
 
 The great oracular shrines. 
 
406 PEAGMENT OF CHOEUS OP A BEJANEIEA 
 
 Thither in your adversity 
 
 Do you betake yourselves for light, 
 
 But strangely misinterpret all you hear. 
 
 For you will not put on 
 
 Nevr hearts vyith the inquirer's holy robe, 
 
 And purged, considerate minds. 
 
 And him on whom, at the end 
 
 Of toil and dolour untold, 
 
 The Gods have said that repose 20 
 
 At last shall descend undisturb'd. 
 
 Him you expect to behold 
 
 In an easy old age, in a happy home ; 
 
 No end but this you praise. 
 
 But him, on whom, in the prime 
 
 Of life, with vigour undimm'd. 
 
 With unspent mind, and a soul 
 
 Unworn, undebased, undecay'd, 
 
 Mournfully grating, the gates 
 
 Of the city of death have for ever closed— 30 
 
 Him, I count Mm, well-starr'd. 
 
 PALLADIUM 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Set where the upper streams of Simois flow 
 Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood ; 
 And Hector was in Ilium, far below, 
 And fought, and saw it not, but there it stood. 
 
 It stood ; and sun and moonshine rain'd their light 
 On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. 
 Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight 
 Bound Troy ; Jj^ whi le this stood. Troy cQaJd-jcmt. 
 ialh 
 
 So, in its lovely- moonlight, lives the sou l 
 Hounlains surround it, and sweet virgin air ; 10 
 
 Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll ; 
 We v isit it by moments, ah ! too rare. 
 
PALLADIUM 407 
 
 Men will renew the battle in the plain 
 "fo-morrow • red with bie6"d"win'"Xanthus be ; 
 Hector and Ajax will be thereagaini"'; 
 Helen will'corhe liponTh^ wlDOTO^"^^^^ 
 
 Then we shall rusti n sha de, or shine in strife, 
 ArnSfTuctuate 'twixt blind hopes an^1blind_c[espairs, 
 An J fancy tTiaFwe puOSrtF all _our life, 
 And never know how with the souTit fares. 20 
 
 Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, 
 Upon our life a ruling effluence send ; 
 An.4jwli6n.it fejlSjjfijgh t_ as we will; we die. 
 And while it lasts, we cannot wholly eiid. 
 
 EAELY DEATH AND FAME 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Fob him who must see many yeai-s, 
 
 I praise the life which slips away 
 
 Out of the light and mutely ; which avoids 
 
 Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife, 
 
 Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal, 
 
 Insincere praises ; which descends 
 
 The quiet mossy track to age. 
 
 But, when immature death 
 
 Beckons too early the guest 
 
 From the half-tried banquet of life, 10 
 
 Young, in the bloom of his days ; 
 
 Leaves no leisure to press, 
 
 Slow and surely, the sweets 
 
 Of a tranquil life in the shade ; 
 
 Fuller for him be the hours ! 
 
 Give him emotion, though pain ! 
 
 Let him live, let him feel : I have lived ! 
 
 Heap up his moments with life, 
 
 Triple his pulses with fame ! 
 
408 
 YOUTH AND CALM 
 
 [First published in this form 1867.] 
 
 Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is here, 
 
 And ease from shame, and rest from fear. 
 
 There 's nothing can dismarble now 
 
 The smoothness of that limpid brow. 
 
 But is a calm like this, in truth. 
 
 The crowning end of life and youth. 
 
 And when this boon rewards the dead. 
 
 Are all debts paid, has all been said ? 
 
 And is the heart of youth so light. 
 
 Its step so firm, its eye so bright, 10 
 
 Because on its hot brow there blows 
 
 A wind of promise and repose 
 
 Prom the far grave, to which it goes ; 
 
 Because it has the hope to come, 
 
 One day, to harbour in the tomb '? 
 
 Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one 
 
 For daylight, for the cheerful sun. 
 
 For feeling nerves and living breath — 
 
 Youth dreams a bliss on this side death ! 
 
 It dreams a rest, if not more deep, 20 
 
 More grateful than this marble sleep. 
 
 It hears a voice within it tell : 
 
 Calm 's not life's crown, though calm is well. 
 
 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires. 
 
 But 'tis not what our youth desires. 
 
 GEOWING OLD 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 What is it to grow old ? 
 
 Is it to lose the glory of the form. 
 
 The lustre of the eye ? 
 
 Is it for beauty to forgo her wreath ? 
 
 Yes, but not this alone. 
 
 Youth and Ca\.ra = ll. 17-41 o/ Lines written by a Death -bed, 
 7S52. [See pp. 1S8, 139.'] 
 
 1 'Tis death ! and] But ah, though 1S52. 3 There 's] 
 
 Tliough 1SB2. 5 But] Yet 1S52. 
 
GEOWING OLD 409 
 
 Is it to feel our strength — 
 
 Not our bloom only, but our strength — decay "? 
 
 Is it to feel each limb 
 
 Grow stiffer, every function less exact, 
 
 Each nerve more weakly strung ? 10 
 
 Yes, this, and more ! but not, 
 
 Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be ! 
 
 'Tis not to have our life 
 
 Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset glow, 
 
 A golden day's decline ! 
 
 'Tis not to see the world 
 
 As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, 
 
 And heart profoundly stirr'd ; 
 
 And weep, and feel the fullness of the past. 
 
 The years that are no more ! 20 
 
 It is to spend long days 
 
 And not once feel that we were ever young. 
 
 It is to add, immured 
 
 In the hot prison of the present, month 
 
 To month with weary pain. 
 
 It is to suffer this, 
 
 And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. 
 
 Deep in our hidden heart 
 
 Festers the dull remembrance of a change, 
 
 But no emotion — none. SO 
 
 It is — last stage of ail- 
 When we are frozen up within, and quite 
 The phantom of ourselves, 
 To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost 
 Which blamed the living man. 
 
 THE PEOGEESS OF POESY 
 A Variation 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 Youth rambles on life's arid mount. 
 And strikes the rock, and finds the vein, 
 And brings the water from the fount, 
 The fount which shall not flow again. 
 
410 THE PEOGRESS OF POESY 
 
 The man mature with labour chops 
 For the bright stream a channel grand, 
 And sees not that the sacred drops 
 Ran oif and vanish'd out of hand. 
 
 . And then the old man totters nigh 
 
 And feebly rakes among the stones. 10 
 
 The mount is mute, the channel dry ; 
 And down he lays his weary bones. 
 
 A NAMELESS EPITAPH 
 
 [First published] 867.] 
 
 This sentence have I left behind : 
 
 An aching body, and a mind 
 
 Not wholly clear, nor wholly blind. 
 
 Too keen to rest, too weak to find, 
 
 That travails sore, and brings forth wind. 
 
 Are God's worst portion to mankind. 
 
 Anotlicr 
 
 Ask not my name, friend ! 
 
 That Being only, which hath known each man 
 
 From the beginning, can 
 
 Remember each unto the end. 
 
 THE LAST WORD 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Creep into thy narrow bed, 
 Creep, and let no more be said ! 
 Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 
 Thou thyself must break at last. 
 
 Let the long contention cease ! 
 Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
 Let them have it how they will ! 
 Thou art tired ; best be still ! 
 
THE LAST WORD 411 
 
 They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee. 
 Better men fared thus before thee ; 10 
 
 Fired their ringing shot and pass'd. 
 Hotly charged — and broke at last. 
 
 Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
 Let the victors, when they conie, 
 When the forts of folly fall, 
 rind thy body by the wall. 
 
 A WISH 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 I ASK not that my bed of death 
 From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 
 For these besiege the latest breath 
 Of fortune's favour'd sons, not me. 
 
 I ask not each kind soul to keep 
 Tearless, when of my death he hears ; 
 Let those who will, if any, weep ! 
 There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 
 
 I ask but that my death may find 
 
 The freedom to my life denied ; 10 
 
 Ask but the folly of mankind. 
 
 Then, then at last, to quit my side. 
 
 Spare me the whispering, crowded room. 
 The friends who come, and gape, and go ; 
 The ceremonious air of gloom — 
 All, that makes death a hideous show ! 
 
 Nor bring, to see me cease to live, 
 
 Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 
 
 To shake his sapient head and give 
 
 The ill he cannot cure a name. 20 
 
 Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll 
 Of the poor sinner bound for death, 
 His brother doctor of the soul, 
 To canvass with official breath 
 
412 A WISH 
 
 The future and its viewless things — 
 
 That undiscover'd mystery 
 
 Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 
 
 Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 
 
 Bring none of these ! but let me be, 
 
 While all around in silence lies, 30 
 
 Moved to the window near, and see 
 
 Once more before my dying eyes 
 
 Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
 The wide aerial landscape spread — 
 The world which was ere I was born, 
 The world which lasts when I am dead. 
 
 Which never was the friend of one, 
 
 Nor promised love it could not give. 
 
 But lit for all its generous sun, 
 
 And lived itself, and made us live. 40 
 
 There let me gaze, till I become 
 In soul with what I gaze on wed ! 
 To feel the universe my home ; 
 To have before miy mind — instead 
 
 Of the sick-room, the mortal strife, 
 The turmoil for a little breath — 
 The pure eternal course of life, 
 Not human combatings with death. 
 
 Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow 
 
 Compos'd, refresh'd, ennobled, clear ; 60 
 
 Then willing let my spirit go 
 
 To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 
 
 A CAUTION TO POETS 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 What jjoets feel not, when they make, 
 
 A j)leasure in creating. 
 The world, in its turn, will not take 
 
 Pleasure in contemplating. 
 
413 
 PIS-ALLER 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 'Man is Idind because of sin ; 
 ' Revelation makes him sure. 
 ' Without that, who looks within, 
 ' Looks in vain, for all 's obscure.' 
 
 Nay, look closer into man ! 
 
 Tell me, can you find indeed 
 
 Nothing sure, no moral jilan 
 
 Clear prescribed, without your creed ? 
 
 ' No, I nothing can perceive ; 
 
 ' Without that, all 's dark for men. 10 
 
 'That, or nothing, I believe.' — 
 
 For God's sake, believe it then ! 
 
 EPILOGUE TO LESSING-S LAOCOON 
 
 [First publislied 1867.] 
 
 One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd 
 
 My friend and I, by chance we talk'd 
 
 Of Lessing's famed LaocoOn ; 
 
 And after we awhile had gone 
 
 In Lessing's track, and tried to see 
 
 What painting is, what poetry — 
 
 Diverging to another thought, 
 
 'Ah,' cries my friend, 'but who .hath taught 
 
 Why music and the other arts 
 
 Oftener perform aright their parts 10 
 
 Than poetry ? why she, than they. 
 
 Fewer real successes can display ? 
 
 ' For 'tis so, surely ! Even in Greece 
 Where best the poet framed his piece, 
 Even in that Phoebus-guarded ground 
 Pausanias on his travels found 
 Good poems, if he look'd, more rare 
 (Though many) than good statues were— 
 For these, in truth, were everywhere ! 
 
414 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 
 
 Of bards full many a stroke divine 20 
 
 In Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's lino. 
 
 The land of Ariosto show'd ; 
 
 And yet, e'en there, the canvas glowr'd 
 
 With triumphs, a yet ampler brood, 
 
 Of Raphael and his brotherhood. 
 
 And nobly perfect, in our day 
 
 Of haste, half-work, and disarray. 
 
 Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, 
 
 Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song ; 
 
 Yet even I (and none will bow 30 
 
 Deeper to these !) must needs allow. 
 
 They yield us not, to soothe our pains, 
 
 Such multitude of heavenly strains 
 
 As from the kings of sound are blown, 
 
 Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn.' 
 
 While thus my friend discoursed, we pass 
 Out of the path, and take the grass. 
 The grass had still the green of May, 
 And still the unblaeken'd elms were gay ; 
 The kine were resting in the shade, 40 
 
 The flies a summer murmur made ; 
 Bright was the morn and south the air. 
 The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair 
 As those that pastured by the sea, 
 That old-world morn, in Sicily, 
 When on the beach the Cyclops lay. 
 And Galatea from the bay 
 Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay. 
 ' Behold,' I said, ' the painter's sphere ! 
 The limits of his art appear ! 50 
 
 The passing group, the summer morn. 
 The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn ; 
 Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise, 
 Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes ; 
 These, or much greater things, but caught 
 Like these, and in one aspect brought. 
 In outward semblance he must give 
 A moment's life of things that live ; 
 Then let him choose his moment well. 
 With power divine its story tell ! ' 60 
 
EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 415 
 
 Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood, 
 
 And now upon the Bridge we stood. 
 
 Full of sweet breathings was the air. 
 
 Of sudden stirs and pauses fair ; 
 
 Down o'er the stately Bridge the breeze 
 
 Came rustling from the garden trees 
 
 And on the sparkling waters play'd. 
 
 Light-plashing waves an answer made, 
 
 And mimic boats their haven near'd. 
 
 Beyond, the Abbey towers appear'd, 70 
 
 By mist and chimneys unconfined, 
 
 Tree to the sweep of light and wind ; 
 
 While, through the earth-moor'd nave below, 
 
 Another breath of wind doth blow, 
 
 Sound as of wandering breeze — but sound 
 
 In laws by human artists bound. 
 
 ' The world of music ! ' I exclaim'd, 
 
 ' This breeze that rustles by, that famed 
 
 Abbey recall it ! what a sphere, 
 
 Large and profound, hath genius here ! 80 
 
 Th' inspired musician what a range. 
 
 What power of passion, wealth of change ! 
 
 Some pulse of feeling he must choose 
 
 And its lock'd fount of beauty use, 
 
 And through the stream of music tell 
 
 Its else unutterable spell ; 
 
 To choose it rightly is his part, 
 
 And press into its inmost heart. 
 
 ' Miserere, Bomine ! 
 
 The words are utter'd, and they flee. 90 
 
 Deep is their penitential moan. 
 
 Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone ! 
 
 They have declared the spirit's sore 
 
 Sore load, and words can do no more. 
 
 Beethoven takes them then — those two 
 
 Poor, bounded words — and makes them new ; 
 
 Infinite miakes them, makes them young. 
 
 Transplants them to another tongue 
 
 Where they can now, without constraint, 
 
 Pour all the soul of their complaint, 100 
 
416 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 
 
 And roll adown a channel large 
 
 The wealth divine they have in charge. 
 
 Page after page of music turn, 
 
 And still they live and still they burn, 
 
 Eternal, passion-fraught and free — 
 
 Miserere, Domine ! ' 
 
 Onward we moved, and reach'd the Eide 
 
 Where gaily flows the human tide. 
 
 Afar, in rest the cattle lay. 
 
 We heard, afar, faint music play ; 110 
 
 But agitated, brisk, and near, 
 
 Men, with their stream of life, were here. 
 
 Some hang upon the rails, and some, 
 
 On foot, behind them, go and come. 
 
 This through the Eide upon his steed 
 
 Goes slowly by, and this at speed ; 
 
 The young, the happy, and the fair. 
 
 The old, the sad, the worn were there ; 
 
 Some vacant, and some musing went, 
 
 And some in talk and merriment. 120 
 
 Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells ! 
 
 And now and then, perhaps, there swells 
 
 A sigh, a tear — but in the throng 
 
 All changes fast, and hies along ; 
 
 Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground ? 
 
 And to what goal, what ending, bound ? 
 
 ' Behold at last the poet's sphere ! 
 
 But who,' I said, ' suffices here ? 
 
 ' For, ah ! so much he has to do ! 
 
 Be painter and musician too ! 130 
 
 The aspect of the moment show, 
 
 The feeling of the moment know ! 
 
 The aspect not, I grant, express 
 
 Clear as the painter's art can dress, 
 
 The feeling not, I grant, explore 
 
 So deep as the musician's lore — 
 
 But clear as words can make revealing, 
 
 And deep as words can follow feeling. 
 
 But, ah, then comes his sorest spell 
 
 Of toil ! he must life's movement tell ! lio 
 
EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 417 
 
 The thread which binds it all in one, 
 
 And not its separate parts alone ! 
 
 The movement he must tell of life, 
 
 Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife ; 
 
 His eye must travel down, at full, 
 
 The long, unpausing spectacle ; 
 
 With faithful unrelaxing force 
 
 Attend it from its primal source, 
 
 Erom change to change and year to year 
 
 Attend it of its mid career, 150 
 
 Attend it to the last repose 
 
 And solemn silence of its close. 
 
 ' The cattle rising from the grass 
 His thought must follow where they pass ; 
 The penitent with anguish bow'd 
 His thought must follow through the crowd. 
 Yes, all this eddying, motley throng 
 That sparkles in the sun along, 
 Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold. 
 Master and servant, young and old, 160 
 
 Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife, 
 He follows home, and lives their life ! 
 
 ' And many, many are the souls 
 
 Life's movement fascinates, controls. 
 
 It draws them on, they cannot save 
 
 Their feet from its alluring wave ; 
 
 They cannot leave it, they must go 
 
 With its unconquerable flow. 
 
 But, ah, how few of all that try 
 
 This mighty march, do aught but die ! 170 
 
 For ill prepared for such a way, 
 
 111 found in strength, in wits, are they ! 
 
 They faint, they stagger to and fro. 
 
 And wandering from the stream they go ; 
 
 In pain, in terror, in distress, 
 
 They see, all round, a wilderness. 
 
 Sometimes a momentary gleam 
 
 They catch of the mysterious stream ; 
 
 Sometimes, a second's space, their ear 
 
 The murmur of its waves doth hear. 180 
 
418 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 
 
 That transient glimpse in song they say, 
 But not as painter can pourtray ! 
 That transient sound in song they tell, 
 But not, as the musician, well ! 
 And when at last these snatches cease, 
 And they are silent and at peace. 
 The stream of life's majestic whole 
 Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul. 
 
 'Only a few the life-stream's shore 
 
 With safe unwandering feet explore, 190 
 
 Untired its movement bright attend. 
 
 Follow its windings to the end. 
 
 Then from its brimming waves their eye 
 
 Drinks up delighted ecstasy, 
 
 And its deep-toned, melodious voice, 
 
 For ever makes their ear rejoice. 
 
 They speak ! the happiness divine 
 
 They feel, runs o'er in every line. 
 
 Its spell is round them like a shower ; 
 
 It gives them pathos, gives them power. 200 
 
 No painter yet hath such a way 
 
 Nor no musician made, as they ; 
 
 And gather'd on immortal knolls 
 
 Such lovely flowers for cheering souls ! 
 
 Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach 
 
 The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach. 
 
 To these, to these, their thankful race 
 
 Gives, then, the first, the fairest place ! 
 
 And brightest is their glory's sheen 
 
 For greatest has their labour been.' 210 
 
 BACCHANALIA ; OE, THE NEW AGE 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 I 
 
 The evening comes, the field is still. 
 The tinkle of the thirsty rill. 
 Unheard all day, ascends again ; 
 Deserted is the new-reap'd grain, 
 
BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE 419 
 
 Silent the sheaves ! the ringing wain, 
 
 The reaper's cry, the dogs' alarms, 
 
 All housed within the sleeping farms ! 
 
 The business of the day is done. 
 
 The last belated gleaner gone. 
 
 And from the thyme upon the height, 10 
 
 And from the elder-blossom white 
 
 And pale dog-roses in the hedge. 
 
 And from the mint-plant in the sedge, 
 
 In puffs of balm the night-air blows 
 
 The perfume which the day forgoes. 
 
 And on the pure horizon far, 
 
 See, pulsing with the first-born star, 
 
 The liquid sky above the hill ! 
 
 The evening comes, the field is still. 
 
 Loitering and leaping, 20 
 
 With saunter, with bounds — 
 
 Flickering and circling 
 
 In files and in rounds — 
 
 Gaily their pine-staff green 
 
 Tossing in air, 
 
 Loose o'er their shoulders white 
 
 Showering their hair — 
 
 See ! the wild Maenads 
 
 Break from the wood. 
 
 Youth and lacchus 80 
 
 Maddening their blood ! 
 
 See ! through the quiet corn 
 
 Rioting they pass — 
 
 Fling the piled sheaves about. 
 
 Trample the grass ! 
 
 Tear from the rifled hedge 
 
 Garlands, their prize ; 
 
 Fill with their sports the field, 
 
 Fill with their cries ! 
 
 Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 40 
 
 Shepherd, why mute ? 
 Forth with thy joyous song ! 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 Tempts not the revel blithe ? 
 
 Ee 2 
 
420 BACCHANALIA; OE, THE NEW AGE 
 
 Lure not their cries ? 
 
 Glow not their shoulders smooth ? 
 
 Melt not their eyes ? 
 
 Is not, on cheeks like those, 
 
 Lovely the flush ? — 
 
 Ah, so the quiet was ! £0 
 
 So tvas the hush ! 
 
 II 
 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. 
 The age has talk'd and work'd its fill — 
 The famous orators have done. 
 The famous poets sung and gone. 
 The famous men of war have fought. 
 The famous speculators thought, 
 The famous players, sculptors, wrought. 
 The famous painters fill'd their wall, 
 The famous critics judged it all. 
 The combatants are parted now, 10 
 
 Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, 
 The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low ! 
 And in the after-silence sweet. 
 Now strife is hush'd, our ears doth meet, 
 Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 
 Of this or that down-trodden name. 
 Delicate spirits, push'd away 
 In the hot press of the noon-day. 
 And o'er the plain, where the dead age 
 Did its now silent warfare wage — 20 
 
 O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, 
 Where many a splendour finds its tomb. 
 Many spent fames and fallen mights — 
 The one or two immortal lights 
 Eise slowly up into the sky 
 To shine there everlastingly, 
 Like stars over the bounding hill. 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. 
 
 Thundering and bursting 
 
 In torrents, in waves — 30 
 
 Carolling and shouting 
 
 Over tombs, amid graves — 
 
BACCHANALIA; OK, THE NEW AGE 421 
 
 See ! on the cumber'd plain 
 
 Clearing a stage, 
 
 Scattering the past about, 
 
 Comes the new age ! 
 
 Bards make new poems, 
 
 Thinkers new schools, 
 
 Statesmen new systems, 
 
 Critics new rules ! 60 
 
 All things begin again ; 
 
 Life is their prize ; 
 
 Earth with their deeds they fill, 
 
 Fill with their cries ! 
 
 Poet, what ails thee, then ? 
 
 Say, why so mute ? 
 
 Forth with thy praising voice ! 
 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 
 Loiterer ! why sittest thou 
 
 Sunk in thy dream ? 60 
 
 Tempts not the bright new age ? 
 
 Shines not its stream ? 
 
 Look, ah, what genius, 
 
 Art, science, wit ! 
 
 Soldiers like Caesar, 
 
 Statesmen like Pitt ! 
 
 Sculptors like Phidias, 
 
 Raphaels in shoals, 
 
 Poets like Shakespeare — 
 
 Beautiful souls ! 60 
 
 See, on their glowing cheeks 
 
 Heavenly the flush ! 
 
 Ah, so the silence was ! 
 So was the hush ! 
 
 The world but feels the present's spell, , 
 The poet feels the past as well ; 
 Whatever men have done, might do, 
 Whatever thought, might think it too. 
 
422 
 
 EUGBY CHAPEL 
 
 November, 1857 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Coldly, sadly descends 
 
 The autumn evening. The Field 
 
 Strewn vv^ith its dank yellow drifts 
 
 Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, 
 
 Fade into dimness apace. 
 
 Silent ; — hardly a shout 
 
 Prom a few boys late at their play ! 
 
 The lights come out in the street, 
 
 In the school-room windows ; but cold. 
 
 Solemn, unl ighted, au stere, 10 
 
 Thro ugh the fathering darkness, arise 
 
 The Chape l walls, in whose bound 
 
 Tho u, my father ! art laid. 
 
 There thou dost lie, in the gloom 
 Of the autumn evening. But ah ! 
 That word, gloom, to my mind 
 Brings thee back in the light 
 Of thy radiant vigour again ! 
 In the gloom of November we pass'd 
 Days not of gloom at thy side ; 20 
 
 Seasons impair'd not the ray 
 Of thine even cheerfulness clear. 
 Such thou wast ; and_I staad 
 In the autumn evenin g, and think 
 ijf T3ygj3ne_aaitunms withjt^ 
 
 Wfteen vears have gone round 
 
 Since thou arosest to tread. 
 
 In the summer morning, the road 
 
 Of death, at a call unforeseen, 
 
 Sudden. For fifteen years, 30 
 
 We who till then in thy shade 
 
 Rested as under the boughs 
 
 Of a mighty oak, have e ndure d 
 
 Sunshine and rain a£jwe S^tit, 
 
 iBafeTunihadedTaTone, 
 
 IiaeKmg"the"sfiglter of thee. 
 
EUGBY CHAPEL 423 
 
 O strong soul, by what shore 
 
 Tarriest thou now ? For that force, 
 
 Surely, has not been left vain ! 
 
 Som ewhere, surely, afar, 40 
 
 QFlaeing, is practis eiTthat strength, 
 ZealouS; beneficent, tirin ! 
 
 Yes, in some far-shining sphere. 
 
 Conscious or not of the past. 
 
 Still thou performest the word 
 
 Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, 
 
 Prompt, unwearied, as here ! 
 
 Still thou upraisest with zeal 
 
 The humble good from the ground, 50 
 
 Sternly repressest the bad. 
 
 Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
 
 Those who with half-open eyes 
 
 Tread the border-land dim 
 
 'Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, 
 
 Succourest ; — this was thy work, 
 
 This was thy life upon earth. 
 
 What is the course of the life 
 
 Of mortal men on the earth ? — 
 
 Most men eddy about 60 
 
 Here and there — eat and drink. 
 
 Chatter and love and hate. 
 
 Gather and squander, are raised 
 
 Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust. 
 
 Striving blindly, achieving 
 
 Nothing ; and, then they die — 
 
 Perish ; and no one asks 
 
 Who or what they have been, 
 
 More than he asks what waves 
 
 In the moonlit solitudes mild 70 
 
 Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 
 
 Poam'd for a moment, and gone. 
 
 And there are some, whom a thirst 
 Ardent, unquenchable, fires, 
 
424 EUGBY CHAPEL 
 
 Not with the crowd to be spent, 
 Not without aim to go round 
 In an eddy of purposeless dust, 
 Effort unmeaning and vain. 
 A h yes, some of us strive 
 
 Not without a ction to die 80 
 
 -' Fi-uitles'§7 but~s omethin g to snatch 
 From dull ohii vion, nor all 
 Glut the devouringgraye ! 
 We, we Tiave chosen our"path — 
 Path to a clear-purposed goal, 
 Path of advance ! but it leads 
 A long, steep journey, through sunk 
 Gorges, o'er mountains in snow ! 
 Cheerful, with friends, we set forth ; 
 Then, on the height, comes the storm ! 90 
 
 Thunder crashes from rock 
 To rock, the cataracts reply ; 
 Lightnings dazzle our eyes ; 
 Soaring torrents have breach'd 
 The track, the stream-bed descends 
 In the place where the wayfarer once 
 Planted his footstep — the spray 
 Boils o'er its borders ; aloft. 
 The unseen snow-beds dislodge 
 Their hanging ruin ; — alas, 100 
 
 Havoc is made in our train ! 
 Fri end£whQ ^sgt forth at our side 
 " FSterTare Jo st inihe st oHnT 
 Wei_vve. jinljc,.araie£t ! 
 With frowning foreheads, with lips 
 Sternly compress'd, we strain on, 
 On — and at nightfall, at last. 
 Come to the end of our way, 
 To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; 
 Where the gaunt and taciturn Host no 
 
 Stands on the threshold, the wind 
 Shaking his thin white hairs — 
 Holds his lantern to scan 
 Our storm-beat figures, and asks : 
 Whom in our party we bring? 
 Whom we have left in the snow ? 
 
RUGBY CHAPEL 425 
 
 Sadly we answer : We bring 
 
 Only ourselves ; we lost 
 
 Sight of the rest in the storm. 
 
 Hardly ourselves we fought through, 120 
 
 Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 
 
 Friends, companions, and train 
 
 The avalanche swept from our side. 
 
 But thou would'st not alone 
 
 Be saved, my father ! alone 
 
 Conquer and come to thy goal, 
 
 Leaving the rest in the wild. 
 
 We were weary, and we 
 
 Fearful, and we, in our march, 
 
 Fain to drop down and to die. 130 
 
 Still tho u turnedst, and st ill 
 
 Beckonedst_the_trenibler, and_still 
 
 GavesFTHejvearjT^^EniSr P 
 
 IjpTn tEepaths of the~worTd, 
 
 Stones might have wounded thy feet. 
 
 Toil or dejection have tried 
 
 Thy spirit, of that we saw 
 
 Nothing ! to us thou wert still 
 
 Cheerful, and helpful, and firm. 
 
 Therefore to thee^it jw^^^ivfin 140 
 
 Many to save with thyself ; 
 
 And, at the encf oFffiy day, 
 
 O faithful shepherd ! to come, 
 
 Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 
 
 And through thee I believe 
 
 In the npMe and^^tjwEo.are.gonej 
 
 Pure souls honour'd and blest 
 
 By former ages, who else — 
 
 Such, so soulless, so poor, 
 
 Is the race of men whom I see — 160 
 
 Seem'd but a dream of the heart, 
 
 Seem'd but a cry of desire. 
 
 YesJ„I bd^ieye_that there^ lived 
 
 Others like thee iiTtHe past, 
 
 Not'IiKe themen.of the crowd 
 
 WEo..all round -me- to■^day 
 
 Bluster or. PJ;ingey.and,makeJife_. 
 
426 EUGBY CHAPEL 
 
 Hideous, and arid, andjdle ; 
 
 But souls temper'd with fire, 
 
 Fei^ent, lieTOKj;2Sd^^ 160 
 
 Helpers and friends of mankind. 
 
 Servants of God ! — or sons 
 
 Shall I not call you ? because 
 
 Not as servants ye knew 
 
 Your Father's innermost mind, 
 
 His, who unwillingly sees 
 
 One of his little ones lost — 
 
 Yours is the praise, if mankind 
 
 Hath not as yet in its march 
 
 Fainted, and fallen, and died ! 170 
 
 See ! in the rocks of the world 
 
 Marches the host of mankind, 
 
 A feeble, wavering line. 
 
 Where are they tending? — A God 
 
 Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. — 
 
 Ah, but the way is so long ! 
 
 Years they have been in the wi ld ! 
 
 S'ore thirst plague s them ; the rocks. 
 
 Rising all round, overawe. 
 
 Factioiia-di2idfiJJiem4_tlieir_host 180 
 
 T hreatens to b rea k, to dis s olve . 
 
 Ah. keep..ke£p.lhe m comTaiipLed ! 
 
 Else, of the myriads who fill 
 
 That army, not one shall arrive ! 
 
 Sole they shall stray ; in the rocks 
 
 Labour for ever in vain. 
 
 Die one by one in the waste. 
 
 Then, in such hour of need 
 
 Of your fainting, dispirited race, 
 
 Ye, like angels, appear, 190 
 
 Eadiant with ardour divine. 
 
 Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 
 
 Languor is not in your heart, 
 
 Weakness is not in your word. 
 
 Weariness not on your brow. 
 
KUGBY CHAPEL 427 
 
 Ye alight in our van ; at your voice, 
 
 Panic, despair, flee away. 
 
 Ye move through the ranks, recall 
 
 The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 
 
 Praise, re-inspire the brave. 200 
 
 Order, courage, return. 
 
 Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 
 
 Follow your steps as ye go. 
 
 Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 
 
 Strengthen the wavering line, 
 
 Stablish, continue our march, 
 
 On, to the bound of the waste, 
 
 oh, to the Uity of God. 
 
 HEINE'S GEAVE 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 'Henri Heine' 'tis here ! 
 
 The black tombstone, the name 
 
 Carved there — no more ! and the smooth, 
 
 Swarded alleys, the limes 
 
 Touch'd with yellow by hot 
 
 Summer, but under them still 
 
 In September's bright afternoon 
 
 Shadow, and verdure, and cool ! 
 
 Trim Montmartre ! the faint 
 
 Murmur of Paris outside ; 10 
 
 Crisp everlasting-flowers, 
 
 Yellow and black, on the graves. 
 
 Half blind, palsied, in pain, 
 
 Hither to come, from the streets' 
 
 Uproar, surely not loath 
 
 Wast thou, Heine ! — to lie 
 
 Quiet ! to ask for closed 
 
 Shutters, and darken'd room, 
 
 And cool drinks, and an eased 
 
 Posture, and opium, no more ! 20 
 
 Hither to come, and to sleep 
 
 Under the wings of Eenown. 
 
428 HEINE'S GRAVE 
 
 Ah ! not little, when pain 
 
 Is most quelling, and man 
 
 Easily quell'd, and the fine 
 
 Temper of genius alive 
 
 Quickest to ill, is the praise 
 
 Not to have yielded to pain ! 
 
 No small boast, for a weak 
 
 Son of mankind, to the earth 30 
 
 Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear 
 
 His bolt-scathed front to the stars ; 
 
 And, undaunted, retort 
 
 'Gainst thick-crashing, insane. 
 
 Tyrannous tempests of bale, 
 
 Arrowy lightnings of soul ! 
 
 Hark ! through the alley resounds 
 
 Mocking laughter ! A film 
 
 Creeps o'er the sunshine ; a breeze 
 
 Eufiles the warm afternoon, 40 
 
 Saddens my soul with its chill. 
 
 Gibing of spirits in scorn 
 
 Shakes every leaf of the grove. 
 
 Mars the benignant repose 
 
 Of this amiable home of the dead. 
 
 Bitter spirits ! ye claim 
 
 Heine ? — Alas, he is yours ! 
 
 Only a moment I long'd 
 
 Here in the quiet to snatch 
 
 From such mates the outworn 60 
 
 Poet, and steep him in calm. 
 
 Only a moment ! I knew 
 
 "Whose he was who is here 
 
 Buried, I knew he was yours ! 
 
 Ah, I knew that I saw 
 
 Here no sepulchre built 
 
 In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue 
 
 Naples bay, for a sweet 
 
 Tender Virgil ! no tomb 
 
 On Eavenna sands, in the shade 60 
 
 Of Eavenna pines, for a high 
 
 Austere Dante ! no grave 
 
HEINE'S GEAVE 429 
 
 By the Avon side, in the bright 
 Stratford meadows, for thee, 
 Shakespeare ! loveliest of souls, 
 Peerless in radiance, in joy. 
 
 What so harsh and malign, 
 Heine ! distils from thy life. 
 Poisons the peace of thy grave ? 
 
 I chide with thee not, that thy sharp 70 
 
 Upbraidings often assail'd 
 England, my country ; for we, 
 Fearful and sad, for her sons, 
 Long since, deep in our hearts. 
 Echo the blame of her foes. 
 We, too, sigh that she flags ; 
 We, too, say that she now, 
 Scarce comprehending the voice 
 Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons 
 Of a former age any more, 80 
 
 Stupidly travels her round 
 Of mechanic business, and lets 
 Slow die out of her life 
 Glory, and genius, and joy. 
 
 So thou arraign'st her, her foe ; 
 So we arraign her, her sons. 
 
 Yes, we arraign her ! but she. 
 
 The weary Titan ! with deaf 
 
 Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes, 
 
 Regarding neither to right 90 
 
 Nor left, goes passively by. 
 
 Staggering on to her goal ; 
 
 Bearing on shoulders immense, 
 
 Atlantean, the load, 
 
 Wellnigh not to be borne. 
 
 Of the too vast orb of her fate. 
 
 But was it thou — I think 
 
 Surely it was — that bard 
 
 Unnamed, who, Goethe said, 
 
 Had every other gift, hut wanted love ; 100 
 
 Love, without which the tongue 
 
 Even of angels sounds amiss? 
 
430 HEINE'S GRAVE 
 
 Charm is the glory which makes 
 
 Song of the poet divine ; 
 
 Love is the fountain of charm. 
 
 How without charm wilt thou draw, 
 
 Poet ! the world to thy way ? 
 
 Not by the lightnings of wit ! 
 
 Not by the thunder of scorn ! 
 
 These to the world, too, are given ; 110 
 
 Wit it possesses, and scorn — 
 
 Charm. is^lhe_Eoet^s_alone._ 
 
 IToltbio and dull are the great, 
 
 And artists envious, and the mob profane. 
 
 We know all this, we know ! 
 
 Cam'st thou from heaven, child 
 
 Of light ! but this to declare ? 
 
 Alas ! to help us forget 
 
 Such barren knowledge awhile, 
 
 God gave the poet his song. 120 
 
 Therefore a secretjiiirest 
 Tortured thee, .^hrilliajaJLanibold I 
 Therefore triumph itself 
 Tasted amiss to thy soul. 
 Therefore, with blood of thy foes, 
 Trickled in silence thine own. 
 Therefore the victor's heart 
 Broke on the field of his fame. 
 
 Ah ! as of old, from the pomA 
 
 Of Italian Milan, the fair 130 
 
 MoAver of marble of white 
 
 Southern palaces — steps , 
 
 Border'd by statues, and walks 
 
 Terraced, and orange bowers 
 
 Heavy with fragrance— the blond 
 
 German Kaiser full oft 
 
 Long'd himself back to the fields, 
 
 Elvers, and high-roof'd towns 
 
 Of his native Germany ; so, 
 
 So, how often ! from hot 140 
 
 Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps 
 
 Blazing, and brilliant crowds, 
 
HEINE'S GEAVE 431 
 
 Starr'd and jewell'd, of men 
 
 Famous, of women the queens 
 
 Of dazzling converse, and fumes 
 
 Of praise — ^hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain 
 
 That mount, that madden ! — how oft 
 
 Heine's spirit outworn 
 
 Long'd itself out of the din 
 
 Back to the tranquil, the cool 150 
 
 Tar German home of his youth ! 
 
 See ! in the May afternoon. 
 
 O'er the fresh short turf of the Hartz, 
 
 A youth, with the foot of youth, 
 
 Heine ! thou climbest again. 
 
 Up, through the tall dark firs 
 
 Warming their heads in the sun. 
 
 Chequering the grass with their shade — 
 
 Up, by the stream with its huge 
 
 Moss-hung boulders and thin IS) 
 
 Musical water half-hid — 
 
 Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, 
 
 With the sinking sun, and the air 
 
 Chill, and the shadows now 
 
 Long on the grey hill-side — 
 
 To the stone-roof'd hut at the top. 
 
 Or, yet later, in watch 
 
 On the roof of the Brocken tower 
 
 Thou standest, gazing ! to see 
 
 The broad red sun, over field 170 
 
 Forest and city and spire 
 
 And mist-track'd stream of the wide 
 
 Wide German land, going down 
 
 In a bank of vapours again 
 
 Standest ! at nightfall, alone. 
 
 Or, next morning, with limbs 
 
 Eested by slumber, and heart 
 
 Freshen'd and light with the May, 
 
 O'er the gracious spurs coming down 
 
 Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks, 180 
 
 And beechen coverts, and copse 
 
 Of hazels green in whose depth 
 
432 HEINE'S GEAVE 
 
 Use, the fairy transform'd, 
 
 In a thousand water-breaks light 
 
 Pours her petulant youth — 
 
 Climbing the rock which juts 
 
 O'er the valley, the dizzily perch'd 
 
 Rock ! to its Iron Cross 
 
 Once more thou cling'st ; to the Cross 
 
 Clingest ! with smiles, with a sigh. 190 
 
 Goethe, too, had been there. 
 In the long-past winter he came 
 To the frozen Hartz, with his soul 
 Passionate, eager, his youth 
 All in ferment ; — ^but he 
 Destined to work and to live 
 Left it, and thou, alas ! 
 Only to laugh and to die. 
 
 But something prompts me : Not thus 
 
 Take leave of Heine, not thus 200 
 
 Speak the last word at his grave ! 
 
 Not in pity and not 
 
 With half censure — with awe 
 
 Hail, as it passes from earth 
 
 Scattering lightnings, that soul ! 
 
 The spirit of the world 
 
 Beholding the absurdity of men — 
 
 Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile 
 
 For one short moment wander o'er his lips. ~ 
 
 That fj pi.ilp. max TJeine ! for its earthly hour" 210 
 
 The Stra n g? guest sp arklpd ; now 'tis pass'd away. 
 
 That was Heine ! and we. 
 Myria ds wlio liye ,~wi ro have lived, 
 "What ar e we all, but a mo gd;_ 
 A single mood, of the life ~ 
 Of^^iejjeing in whom we ex ist, 
 "Who alonelsaTi th ings in one. 
 
 Spirit, who fillest us all ! 
 Spirit who utterest in each 
 
 New-coming son of mankind 220 
 
 Such of thy thoughts as thou wUt ! 
 
HEINE'S GRAVE 433 
 
 O t hou, one of wh ogemoods, 
 
 Sitter and s trange, ' was the l ife 
 
 O THem e^ his strange, al as^l 
 
 His_WttetJife::::;maj_aJife 
 
 Other and milder be min e ! 
 
 May'st thou a mood more serene, 
 
 Happier, have utter'd in mine ! 
 
 May'st thou the rapture of peace 
 
 Deep have embreathed at its core ! 230 
 
 Made it a ray of thy thought ! 
 
 Made it a beat of thy joy ! 
 
 OBERMANN ONCE MORE 
 
 [First published 1867.] 
 
 Savez-vous qitelcjue hien qui console da regret cCuyi monde ? 
 
 Obermans. 
 
 Glion ? Ah, twenty years, it cuts 
 
 All meaning from a name ! 
 
 "White houses prank where once were huts ! 
 
 Glion ! but not the same. 
 
 And yet I know not. All unchanged 
 The turf, the pines, the sky ! 
 The hills in their old order ranged ! 
 The lake, with Ghillon by ! 
 
 And 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff 
 And stony mounts the way, 10 
 
 Their crackling husk-heaps burn, as if 
 I left them yesterday. 
 
 Across the valley, on that slope. 
 The huts of Avant shine — 
 Its pines under their branches ope 
 Ways for the tinkling kine. 
 
 Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, 
 
 Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, • 
 
 Invite to rest the traveller there 
 
 Before he climb the pass — 20 
 
434 OBERMANN ONCE MOKE 
 
 The gentian-flower'd pass, its crown 
 With yellow spires aflame, 
 Whence drops the path to AUiere down 
 And walls where Byron came, 
 
 By their green river who doth change 
 His birth-name just below — 
 Orchard, and croft, and full-stored grange 
 Nursed by his pastoral flow. 
 
 But stop ! — to fetch back thoughts that stray 
 Beyond this gracious bound, 80 
 
 The cone of Jaman, pale and grey, 
 See, in the blue profound ! 
 
 Ah, Jaman ! delicately tall 
 
 Above his sun-warm'd firs — 
 
 What thoughts to me his rocks recall ! 
 
 What memories he stirs ! 
 
 And who but thou must be, in truth, 
 
 Obermann I with me here ? 
 
 Thou master o f my wandering y o uth, 
 
 But ieftHqs jnany a year ! 40 
 
 Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, 
 Its warfare waged with pain ! 
 An eremite with thee, in thought 
 Once more I slip my chain 
 
 And to thy mountain-chalet come 
 And lie beside its door 
 And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum 
 And thy sad, tranquU lore. 
 
 I Again I feel its words inspire 
 
 Their mournful calm — serene, 60 
 
 I Yet tinged with infinite desire 
 ' For all that might have been, 
 
 The harmony from which man swerved 
 Mader his life's rule once more I 
 The universal order served ! 
 Earth happier than before I 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MOEE 435 
 
 While thus I mused, night gently ran 
 
 Down over hill and wood. 
 
 Then, still and sudden, Obermann 
 
 On the grass near me stood. 60 
 
 Those pensive features well I knew. 
 On my mind, years before. 
 Imaged so oft, imaged so true ! 
 A shepherd's garb he wore, 
 
 A mountain-flower was in his hand, 
 A book was in his breast ; 
 Bent on my face, with gaze that scann'd 
 My soul, his eyes did rest. 
 
 'And is it thou,' he cried, ' so long 
 
 Held by the world which we 70 
 
 Loved not, who turnest from the throng 
 
 Back to thy youth and me ? 
 
 ' And from thy world, with heart opprest, 
 Choosest thou now to turn ? — 
 Ah me, we anchorites knew it best ! 
 Best can its course discern ! 
 
 ' Thou fledd'st me when the ungenial earth, 
 
 Thou soughtest, lay in gloom. 
 
 Eeturn'st thou in her hour of birth, 
 
 Of hopes and hearts in bloom "? 80 
 
 ' Wellnigh two thousand years have brought 
 Their load, and gone away. 
 Since last on earth there lived and wrought 
 A world like ours to-day. 
 
 ' Like ours it look'd in outward air ! 
 Its head was clear and true. 
 Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare, 
 No pause its action knew ; 
 
 ' Stout was its arm, each pulse and bone 
 Seem'd puissant and alive — 90 
 
 But, ah, its heart, its heart was stone. 
 And so it could not thrive ! 
 
 Ff 2 
 
436 OBEEMANN ONCE MOEE 
 
 ' On that hard Pagan world disgust 
 And secret loathing fell. 
 Deep weariness and sated lust 
 Made human life a hell. 
 
 ' In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, 
 
 The Koman noble lay ; 
 
 He drove abroad, in furious guise, 
 
 Along the Appian way ; 100 
 
 ' He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, 
 And crown'd his hair with flowers- 
 No easier nor no quicker pass'd 
 The impracticable hours. 
 
 ' The brooding East with awe beheld 
 Her impious younger world ; 
 The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd, 
 And on her head was hurl'd. 
 
 ' The East bow'd low before the blast, 
 
 In patient, deep disdain. 110 
 
 She let the legions thunder past, 
 
 And plunged in thought again. 
 
 ' So well she mused, a morning broke 
 Across her spirit grey. 
 A conquering, new-born joy awoke, 
 And fill'd her life with day. 
 
 ' " Poor world," she cried, " so deep accurst ! 
 
 That runn'st from pole to pole 
 
 To seek a draught to slake thy thirst — 
 
 Go, seek it in thy soul ! " 120 
 
 ' She heard it, the victorious West ! 
 In crown and sword array'd. 
 She felt the void which mined her breast. 
 She shiver'd and obey'd. 
 
 ' She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her sword, 
 And laid her sceptre down ; 
 Her stately purple she abhorr'd, 
 And her imperial crown ; 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MOEE 437 
 
 ' She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her sports, 
 Her artists could not please ] 130 
 
 She tore her books, she shut her courts. 
 She fled her palaces ; 
 
 ' Lust of the eye and pride of life 
 She left it all behind, 
 And hurried, torn with inward strife. 
 The wilderness to find. 
 
 ' Tears wash'd the trouble from her face ! 
 
 She changed into a child. 
 
 'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood — a place 
 
 Of ruin — but she smiled ! 1^0 
 
 ' Oh, had I lived in that great day, 
 How had its glory new 
 Fill'd earth and heaven, and caught away 
 My ravish'd spirit too ! 
 
 ' No cloister-floor of humid stone 
 Had been too cold for me ; 
 For me no Eastern desert lone 
 Had been too far to flee. 
 
 ' No thoughts that to the world belong 
 
 Had stood against the wave 150 
 
 Of love which set so deep and strong 
 
 From Ch rist's_ thea- fipen grave . 
 
 ' No lonely life had pass'd too slow 
 
 When I could hourly see 
 
 That wan, nail'd Form, with head droop'd low. 
 
 Upon the bitter tree ; 
 
 ' Could see the Mother with the Child 
 
 "Whose tender winning arts 
 
 Have to his little arms beguiled 
 
 So many wounded hearts ! 160 
 
 ' And centuries came, and ran their course. 
 And unspent all that time 
 Still, still went forth that Child's dear force, 
 And still was at its prime. 
 
438 OBEEMANN ONCE MOKE 
 
 ' Ay, ages long endured his span 
 
 Of life, 'tis true received, 
 
 That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd Man ! 
 
 He lived while we believed. 
 
 ' While we believed, on earth he went, 
 And open stood his grave. 170 
 
 Men call'd from chamber, church, and tent, 
 And Christ was by to save. 
 
 ' Now he is dead. Far hence he lies 
 In the lorn Syrian town. 
 And on his grave, with shining eyes. 
 The Syrian stars look down. 
 
 ' In vain men still, with hoping new, 
 
 Eegard his death-place dumb. 
 
 And say the stone is not yet to, 
 
 And wait for words to come. 180 
 
 ' Ah, from that silent sacred land. 
 Of sun, and arid stone, 
 And crumbling wall, and sultry sand, 
 Comes now one word alone ! 
 
 ' From David's lips this word did roll, 
 'Tis true and living yet : 
 No man can save his broilier's soul, 
 Nor pap his brother's debt. 
 
 'Alone, self-poised, henceforward man 
 
 Must labour ; must resign 190 
 
 His all too human creeds, and scan 
 
 Simply the way divine. 
 
 ' But slow that tide of common thought. 
 Which bathed our life, retired. 
 Slow, slow the old world wore to naught. 
 And pulse by pulse expired. 
 
 ' Its frame yet stood without a breach 
 
 When blood and warmth were fled ; 
 
 And still it spake its wonted speech — 
 
 But every word was dead. 200 
 
OBEEMANN ONCE MORE 439 
 
 * And oh, we cried, that on this corse 
 Might fall a freshening storm ! 
 Rive its dry bones, and with new force 
 A new-sprung world inform ! 
 
 ' Down came the storm ! In ruin fell 
 The outworn world we knew. 
 It pass'd, that elemental swell ! 
 Again appear'd the blue. 
 
 ' The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky — 
 
 And what from heaven saw he ? 210 
 
 Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, 
 
 Float in a rolling sea. 
 
 ' Upon them ply the race of man 
 All they before endeavour'd ; 
 They come and go, they work and plan, 
 And know not they are sever'd. 
 
 ' Poor fragnents of a broke n world 
 
 WEere on wepitcITour tentl 
 
 Why were ye too to death not hurl'd 
 
 WEiih your world's day was spent ? 220 
 
 ' The glow of central fire is done 
 Which with its fusing flame 
 Knit all your parts, and kept you one ; — 
 But ye, ye are the same ! 
 
 ' The past, its mask of union on, 
 Had ceased to live and thrive. 
 The past, its mask of union gone, 
 Say, is it more alive ? 
 
 ' Your creeds are dead, your rites ayo i^gnj^ 
 
 Vmjr gnpial nrHpr triiT! 230 
 
 Where tarries he. the pow ^r whr* «»'''^ ° 
 See, I make all things new ? 
 
 ' The millions suffer still, and grieve ; 
 And what can helpers heal 
 With old-world cures men half believe 
 For woes they wholly feel ? 
 
440 OBEEMANN ONCE MORE 
 
 ' And yet they have such need of joy ! 
 
 And joy whose grounds are true ! 
 
 And joy that should all hearts employ 
 
 As when the past was new ! 240 
 
 'Ah, not the emotion of that past, 
 Its common hope, were vain ! 
 A new such hope must dawn at last, 
 Or man must toss in pain. 
 
 ' But now the past is out of date, 
 The future not yet born — 
 And who can be alone elate, 
 While the world lies forlorn ? 
 
 ' Then to the wilderness I fled. 
 
 There among Alpine snows 250 
 
 And pastoral huts I hid my head. 
 
 And sought and found repose. 
 
 ' It was not yet the appointed hour. 
 Sad, patient, and resign'd, 
 I watch'd the crocus fade and flower, 
 I felt the sun and wind. 
 
 ' The day I lived in was not mine — 
 
 Man gets no second day. 
 
 In dreams I saw the future shine, 
 
 But ah, I could not stay ! 260 
 
 ' Action I had not, followers, fame. 
 I pass'd obscure, alone. 
 The after-world forgets my name. 
 Nor do I wish it known. 
 
 ' Gloom-wrapt within, I lived and died. 
 And knew my life was vain. 
 With fate I murmur not, nor chide ; 
 At Sevres by the Seine 
 
 ' (If Paris that brief flight allow) 
 
 My humble tomb explore ; 270 
 
 It bears : Eternity, he thou 
 
 My refuge ! and no more. 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 441 
 
 ' But thou, whom fellowship of mood 
 Did make from haunts of strife 
 Come to my mountain solitude 
 And learn my frustrate life ; 
 
 ' O thou, who, ere thy flying span 
 
 Was past of cheerful youth, 
 
 Didst seek the solitary man 
 
 And love his cheerless truth — 280 
 
 ' Despair not thou as I despair'd. 
 Nor be cold gloom thy prison ! 
 Forward the gracious hours have fared, 
 And see ! the sun is risen. 
 
 ' He melts the icebergs of the past, 
 A green, new earth appears. 
 Millions, whose life in ice lay fast. 
 Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. 
 
 ' The world's great order dawns in slieen 
 After long darkness rude, 290 
 
 Divinelier imaged, clearer seen. 
 With happier zeal pursued. 
 
 ' With hope extinct and brow composed 
 I mark'd the present die ; 
 Its term of life was nearly closed, 
 Yet it had more than I. 
 
 ' But thou, though to the world's new hour 
 
 Thou come with aspect marr'd, 
 
 Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power. 
 
 Which best beseem its bard ; 300 
 
 ' Though more than half thy years be past, 
 And spent thy youthful prime ; 
 Though, round thy firmer manhood cast. 
 Hang weeds of our sad time, 
 
 ' Whereof thy youth felt all the spell. 
 
 And traversed all the shade — 
 
 Though late, though dimm'd, though weak, yet tell 
 
 Hope to a world new-made ! 
 
442 OBEEMANN ONCE MOEE 
 
 ' Help it to reach our deep desire, 
 The dream which fill'd our brain, 310 
 
 rix'd in our soul a thirst like fire 
 Immedicable pain ! 
 
 ' Which to the wilderness drove out 
 Our life, to Alpine snow ; 
 And palsied all our deed with doiibt 
 And all our word with woe — 
 
 ' What still of strength is left, employ. 
 
 That end to help men gain s 
 
 One mighty loave of thought and joy 
 
 Lifting mankind amain ! ' 320 
 
 The vision ended ; I awoke 
 
 As out of sleep, and no 
 
 Voice moved— only the torrent broke 
 
 The silence, far below. 
 
 Soft darkness on the turf did lie ; 
 Solemn, o'er hut and wood. 
 In the yet star-sown nightly sky, 
 The peak of Jaraan stood. 
 
 StUl in my soul the voice I heard 
 Of Obermann — away 330 
 
 I turn'd ; by some vague impulse stirr'd, 
 Along the rocks of Naye 
 
 And Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze 
 And the blanch'd summit bare 
 Of Malatrait, to where in haze 
 The Valais opens fair, 
 
 And the domed Velan with his snows 
 
 Behind the upcrowding hills 
 
 Doth all the heavenly opening close 
 
 Which the Ehone's murmur fills — S40 
 
 And glorious there, without a sound. 
 Across the glimmering lake, 
 Jfi gh in t hflValaia depth profound, 
 I saw theTnoi'hiitii; break. 
 
NOTES 
 
 [Arnold's own notes are signed [A] ; unsigned notes are by the 
 present editor.] 
 
 Preface. Page 5, II. 1, 2. Poems by Goethe, Byron, Lamartine, 
 and Wordsworth respectively. 
 
 1. 42. the grand style : cp. Arnold's On Translating Homer (first 
 published in 1861), passim, for a full discussion of the grand style. 
 
 7, 1. 15. pragmatic poetry: pragmatic in this sense means 
 treating the facts of history systematically, in their connexion 
 with each other as cause and effect, and omitting the merely 
 accidental and circumstantial. 
 
 10, 1. 21. a modern French poet : ThSophile Gautier. 
 
 15, 1. 24. Non me . , . hostis : see Virgil, Aeneid, xii, 11. 894-5. 
 
 36. Mycekinus. 
 
 ' After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over 
 Egypt. He abhorred his father's courses, and judged his 
 subjects more justly than any of their kings had done. — 
 To him there came an oracle from the city of Bute, to the 
 effect, that he was to live but six years longer, and to die 
 in the seventh year from that time.' — Hekodotus. [A.] 
 
 [Note first inserted in 1853. The 1849 edition gives only 
 the reference ' Herodotus, ii. 133 ' In a footnote.] 
 
 40. To A Fkiend. The three referred to are Homer, Epiotetus, 
 and Sophocles. Vespasian's brutal son (I. 7) is Domitian. 
 
 47, 1. 231. Alcmena's dreadful son : Hercules. 
 
 50, 51. the Davm-Goddess (1. 55) is Aurora, the fair youth 
 (1. 56), Orion ; the Argive Seer (1. 82) is Tiresias, Zeus's tired 
 son (1. 90), Hercules, and the/ee6to- wight (1. 96), Eurystheus. 
 
 61. To A Republican Ekiend : i. e. A. H. Clough. 
 
 66. The New Sikens. In 1869 Arnold writes : ' Swinburne 
 writes to iirge me to reprint the " New Sirens ", but I think that 
 had better wait for a posthumous collection.' He relented, 
 however, and reprinted the poem in Macmillan's Magazine for 
 Dec. 1876 with a note giving Swinburne's repeated requests as 
 the main reason for republication 'after a disappearance of more 
 than twenty-five years '. 
 
 75. Desire (Stagyeus 1849}, Stagirius was a monk to whom 
 St. Chrysostom addressed three books. 
 
 77. To a Gipsy Child, I. 4 : Arnold in later editions reverted 
 to the 1849 form of this line. In a letter dated June 26, 1869, 
 he writes : 'I suppose I must change back the "Gipsy Child" 
 to its old form, as no one seems to like the new one.' 
 
Ui NOTES 
 
 87, 1. 41. Thai wayside inn : at Wythburn in the Lake District. 
 
 94. Empedocles on Etka. I cannot deny myself the pleasure 
 of saying that I reprint (I cannot say republish, for it was with- 
 drawn from circulation before fifty copies wei-e sold) this poem 
 at the request of a man of genius, whom it had the honour and 
 the good fortune to interest, — Mr. Robert Browning. [A. 1867.] 
 
 115, 1. 41. Typho : a giant whom Zeus slew with a thunderbolt 
 and buried beneath Etna. The Mount of Gore (1. 54) is Mt. Haemus. 
 
 117, 1. 128. The Faun Marsyas at Pan's instigation challenged 
 Apollo to a contest in music ; Apollo, having been adjudged 
 victor by the Muses, had Marsyas seized and flayed alive. 
 
 119, 1. 205. Pytho : the great serpent produced from the mud 
 left on the earth after Deucalion's flood. 
 
 120, 1. 239. Ye Sun-horn Virgins! on the road of truth. 
 See the Fragments of Parmenides : 
 
 .... Kovpai 5' oSuv ^ycfiovevoVf 
 y?uaS€S Kovpatj irpo\lirovffai S^fiara vvktos, 
 (Is <pdos .... [A.] 
 
 126. The River. In this edition the poems are printed in the 
 order of their first publication. (See A'ofe, p. xvii.) In re- 
 printing them in later editions of hi^ poems Arnold rearranged 
 several in two groups under the headings 'Switzerland' and 
 ' Faded Leaves ', varying the number of poems thus grouped 
 and the constitution of the groups from time to time. The 
 critical notes below each poem give full information about these 
 changes of title, and the contents of the diiferent editions, 
 given on pp. xix to xxvii, show the changing constitution of the 
 groups ; for convenient reference the final arrangement is 
 given here : — 
 
 SWIIZEBLAND (1885) : 
 
 I. Meeting (TJie Lake), p. 131. 
 II. Parting, p. 131. 
 
 III. A Fai-ewell, p. 171. 
 
 IV. Isolation. To Marguerite (To Margiterile), p. 281. 
 
 v. To Marguerite— Continued {To Marguerite, in returning a 
 volume of the Letters ofOrtis), p. 135. 
 VI. Absence, p. 134. 
 VII. The Terrace at Berne, p. 402. 
 
 Faded Leaves (1855) : 
 
 L The River, p. 126. 
 II. Too Late, p. 129. 
 III. Separation, p. 269. 
 IV. On the Rhine, p. 129. 
 V. Longing, p. 130. 
 
 To my Friends who ridiculed a tender leave-taking (p. 63) and 
 A Dream (p. 228) are in the final arrangement not included among 
 the ' Switzerland ' poems, though they appear in this group in 
 the 1854 and 1857 editions. 
 
NOTES 445 
 
 127. Excuse. The title was alterea to Crania in 1869. 
 
 1 28. Indifference. The title was altered to Eupkros'ifne in 1869. 
 
 139. Tristram and Iseult. In 1857 Arnold called his hero 
 Tristan ; but as in 1869 and all later editions he reverted to the 
 spelling Tristram, which he had used in the first three editions 
 of the poem, that spelling has been followed here, although the 
 text printed is otherwise that of 1857. 
 
 ' In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, 
 who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram 
 became expert in all knightly exercises. — The king of Ireland, 
 at Tristram's solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter 
 Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave 
 to her daughter's confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be 
 administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage 
 Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately 
 partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, 
 regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers. — 
 
 ' After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and 
 the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the 
 romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure seci'et 
 interviews. — Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account 
 of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived 
 Iseult with the White Hands. — He married her — more out of 
 gratitude than love. — Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions 
 of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits. 
 
 ' Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, 
 and to his long-neglected \vife. There, being wounded and sick, 
 he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he 
 dispatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he 
 could induce her to accompany him to Brittany,' &c. — Dunlop's 
 History of Fiction [A.]. Vol. I. pp. 260 et seqq. (ed. 1816). 
 
 [Note first inserted in 1853. 'Tyntagel' (2857) is 'Tyntagil' 
 in ISaa, 1853, 1854.} 
 
 162. Memorial Verses. Goethe died in 1832, Byron at 
 Missolonghi in 1824. 
 
 163, 11. 29-33 : almost a translation of Virgil, Georgics, ii. 490-2. 
 
 164, 1. 13. Cato : who committed suicide at Utica rather than 
 yield to Julius Caesar. 
 
 174. Obeemann : Senancour (1770-1846) was the author of 
 Obermann, ' a collection of letters from Switzerland treating 
 almost entirely of nature and of the human soul' [A.]. He also 
 wrote Blveries sur la Nature primitive de V Homme and Libres Midita- 
 tions d'un Solitaire Inconnu. 
 
 176, 11. 89-91. Son of ThHis : Achilles. The reference is to 
 Achilles' words to Lycaon in Iliad, xxi. 106 et seqq. 
 
446 NOTES 
 
 186, H. 18-24. The references are to two poems by Words- 
 worth, Michael and Buth. The Evening Star was the name given 
 to Michael's solitary house from the ' constant light ' of his lamp, 
 ' so regular and so far seen.' 
 
 188, 1. 77. the Mighty Mother : Rliea, the mother of the gods. 
 
 198. SOHKAB AND RuSTUM. 
 
 The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm's 
 History of Persia, as follows : — 
 
 ' The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum's early 
 amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame under the 
 tanners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded, and soon 
 obtained a renown beyond that of all contemporary heroes but 
 his father. He had carried death and dismay into the ranks 
 of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that 
 country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that 
 hero resolved to do, under a feigned name. They met three 
 times. The first time they parted by mutual consent, though 
 Sohrab had the advantage. The second, the youth obtained 
 a victory, but granted life to his unknown father. The third 
 was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, 
 warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by 
 parental woes, and badn him dread the rage of the mighty 
 Riistum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. 
 These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero ; and 
 when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for 
 proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth 
 tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his 
 mother had placed on his arm when she discovered to him the 
 secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. The sight of 
 his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic : he cursed him- 
 self, attempted to put an end to his existence, and was only 
 prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's 
 death, he burnt his tents, and all his goods, and carried the 
 corpse to Seistan, where it was interred. The army of Turan 
 was, agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross 
 the Oxus unmolested. It was commanded by Haman : and 
 Zoarrah attended, on the part of Rustum, to see that this 
 engagement was respected by the Pei-sians. To reconcile us to 
 the improbability of this tale we are informed that Rustum 
 could have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of 
 Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing to 
 lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth ; and Rustum, 
 as before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not 
 uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days.' 
 
 M. Sainte-Beuve, also, that most delightful of critics, in a 
 notice of an edition of Ferdousi's great poem by M. Mohl now 
 in course of publication at Paris, containing the original text 
 and a prose translation, gives an analysis of this episode, with 
 extracts from M. Mohl's translation, which I will quote at 
 length : commencing from the point where Rustum leaves 
 Tehmimeh, the future mother of Sohrab, before the birth of her 
 
NOTES 447 
 
 child; having given her an onyx with instructions to le!t the 
 child wear it in her hair, if a girl, and on his arm, if a hoy. 
 Of. M. Mohl's book itself I have not been able to obtain sight, 
 
 ' La-dessus Koustem part au matin, montS sur son eheval 
 Eaksch ; il s'en retourne vers I'lran, et, durant des ann^s, il n'a 
 plus que de vagues nouvelles de la belle Tehmimeh et du fils 
 qui lui est ne ; car c'est un fils et non une fille. Ce fils est beau 
 et au visage brillant ; on I'appelle Sohrab. " Quand il eut un 
 mois, il ^tait comrae un enfant d'un an ; quand il eut trois ans, 
 il s'exer^ait au jeu des armes, et h cinq ans il avaifcla coeurd'un 
 lion. Quand il eut atteint I'age de dix ans, peraonne dans son 
 pays n'osait lutter centre lui." II se distinguait, h premifere vue, 
 de tons les Turcs d'alentour ; il devenait manifesto qu'il 6tait 
 issu d'une autre race. L'enfant, sentant sa force, alia fiferement 
 demander h sa mire le nora de son pfere, et, quand il Je sut, il 
 n'eut plus de cesse qu'il n'eilt assemble une arm^e pour aller 
 combattre les Iranians et se faire reconnaitre du glorioux Bous- 
 tem a ses exploits et a sa bravoure. 
 
 ' Sohrab choisit un eheval assez fort pour le portej", un 
 eheval fort eomme un 6Uphant ; il assemble une arm^e et se 
 met en marche, non pour combattre son p6re, mais pour 
 combattre et d^trOner le souverain dont Boustem est le feuda- 
 taire, et afin de mettre la race valllante de Boustem h la place 
 de ce roi d6jk faineant. C'est ioi que Taction commence a se 
 nouer avec un art et une habilete qui appartiennent au po6te. 
 La solution fatale est a la fois entrevue et retardfie moyennant 
 des gradations qui vont la rendre plus dramatique. Boustem, 
 mande en toute hftte par le roi effray^, ne s'empresse point 
 d'accourir. A cette nouvelle d'une arm^e de Turcs commandee 
 par un jeune homme si vaillant et si hfiroique, il.a I'idee d'abord 
 que ce pourrait bien 6tre son fils ; mais non : ce rejeton de sa 
 race est trop enfant, se dit-il, " et ses 16vres sentent encore le 
 lait." Eoustenx arrive pourtant; mais, mal accueilli par le roi, 
 il entr« dans une colore d'Achille, et il est tout pi'et a s'en 
 retourner dans sa tente. On ne le fl^chit qu'en lui repr^sentant 
 que s'abstenir en une telle rencontre, ce serait paraitre recujer 
 devant le jeune h^ros. Cependant les armies sont en prfeence. 
 Boustem, dSguisfi en Turc, s'introduit dans un chateau qu'occupe 
 I'ennemi, pour juger de tout par lui-meme. II voit son fils assis 
 a un festin ; il I'admire, il le compare, pour la force et la beauty, 
 a sa propre race ; on dirait, h un moment, que le sang au-dedans 
 va parlor ot lui crier : Cest lui 1 Le jeune Sohrab, de son cote, 
 quand vient le matin, en presence de cette arm^e dont le camp 
 se ddploie devant lui, est avide de savoir si son noble p^re, n'en 
 est pas. Montd sur Tin lieu 4lev6, il se fait nommer par unprisoQ- 
 niertous les cbefs illustres dont il voit se derouler les ^tendards. 
 Le prisonnier les dnumSre avec complaisance et les lui nomme 
 tous, tous exeepte un seul, excepte celui, pr^ciseiuent, qui 
 I'intgvesse. Le prisonnier fait semblant de croire que Boustem 
 n'est pas venu, car il craint que ce jeune orgueilleux, dans sa 
 force indomptable, ne veuille se signaler en s'attaquant de pre- 
 ference Ji ce chef illustre, et qu'il ne cause un grand malheur. 
 
448 NOTES 
 
 Sohrab insisto et trouve etonnant qu'entre tant de chefs, le 
 vaillant Koustem, le premier de tous, ait manque cette fois 
 a I'appel ; il presse de questions le prisonnier, qui lutte de ruse, 
 et qui s'obstine, surce point, a lui cacher la verity ; " Sans doute, 
 replique celui-ci, le heros sera all^ dans le Zaboulistan, car c'est 
 le temps des fetes dans les jardins de roses." A quoi Sohrab, 
 sentant bouillonner son sang, repond : " Ne pnrle pas ainsi, car 
 le front de Roustem se tourne toujours vers le combat." Mais 
 Sohrab a beau vouloir forcer le secret, la fatalite I'emporte : 
 "Comment veux-tu gouverner ce monde que gouverne Dieu?" 
 s'^crie le poSte. "C'est le Createur qui a determine d'avanee 
 toutes choses. Le sort a ^crit autrement que tu n'aurais voulu, 
 et, commo il te mene, il faut que tu suives." 
 
 ' Sohrab engage le combat ; tout plie devant lui. Jamais 
 Jios vieux romans de chevalerie n'ont retenti de pareils coups 
 d'epee. Les plus vaillants chefs reculent. Roustem est appele; 
 il arrive, il se trouve seul en presence de son fils, et le duel va 
 s'entamer. La pitie, tout a coup, saisit le vieux chef, en voyant 
 CO jeune guerrier si fier et si beau : 
 
 ' "0 jeune homme si tendre ! " lui dit-il, "la terre est seche 
 et froide, I'air est doux et chaud. Je suis vieux ; j'ai vu 
 maint champ de bataille, j'ai detruit mainte armee, et je n'ai 
 jamais 6te battu . . . Mais j'ai pitie de toi et ne voudrais pas 
 t'arraoher la vie. Ne reste pas avec les Turcs ; je ne connais 
 personne dans I'lran qui ait des epaules et des bras comme toi." 
 
 ' En entendaut ces paroles qui semblent sortir d'une ame amie, 
 le cceur de Sohrab s' glance, il a un pressentiment soudain ; il 
 demande ing^nument au guerrier s'il n'est pas celui qu'il 
 cherche, s'il n'est pas I'illustre Roustem. Mais le vieux chef, 
 qui ne veut pas donner h, ce jouvenceau trop d'orgueil, repond 
 avec ruse qu'il n'est pas Roustem, et le coeur de Sohrab se 
 resserre aussitot; le nuage qui venait de s'entr'ouvrir se 
 referme, et la destinee se poursuit. 
 
 ' Le duel commence : il n'est pas sans vicissitudes et sans 
 peripeties slngulieres ; il dure deux jours. Des le premier choc, 
 les epees des combattants se brisent en eclats sous leurs coups : 
 " Quels coups ! on eut dit qu'ils amenaient la Resurrection ! " 
 Le combat continue a coups de massue ; nous sommes en plein 
 age heroique. Le premier jour, le duel n'a pas de resultat. 
 Apres une lutte acharnee, les deux chefs s'eloignent, se donuant 
 rendez-vous pour le lendemain. Roustem s'6tonne d'avoir 
 rencontre pour la premifere fois son ggal, presque son maitre, 
 et de sentir son coeur defaillir sans savoir pourquoi. Le second 
 jour, au moment de reprendre la lutte, Sohrab a un mouvemeiit 
 de tendresse, et la natu re, pres de succomber, fait en lui comme 
 un supreftne effort. En abordant ie vieux chef, il s'adresse 
 a lui le sourire sur les levres et comme s'ils avaient passe la 
 nuit amiealement ensemble : 
 
 '" Comment as- tu dormi ? " lui demande-t-il, " comment t'es- 
 tu lev6 ce matin ? Pourquoi as-tu prepare ton coeur pour la 
 lutte ? Jette cette massue et cette ep^e de la vengeance, jette 
 tout cet appareil d'un combat impie, Asseyons-nous tous deux 
 
NOTES 449 
 
 h terre, et adoucissons avec au vin nos regards courroucfe. 
 Faisons un traits en invoquant Dieu,et repentons-nous dans 
 notre coeur de cetto inimiti& Attends qu'un autre se pr^sente 
 pour le combat, et apprete avec moi une fete. Mon coeur te 
 communiquera aon amour, et je ferai couler de tes yeux des 
 larmes de honte. Puisque tu es n6 d'une noble race, fais-moi 
 connaitre ton origine ; ne me cache pas ton nom, puisque tu 
 vas me combattre : ne aerais-tu pas Eoustem ? " 
 
 ' Roustem, par sentiment d'orgueil, et soup9onnant toujours 
 une feinte de la part d'un jeune homme avide de gloire, 
 dissimule une dernifere fois, et, dfes ce moment, le sort n'a 
 plus de treve. Toutes les ruses de Eoustem (et j'en supprime 
 encore) tournent centre lui ; il finit par plonger un poignard 
 dans la poitrine de son fils, et ne le reconnait que dans I'instant 
 supreme. Le jeune homme meurt avec resignation, avec dou- 
 ceur, en pensant a sa mfere, k ses amis, en recommandant 
 qu'on ^pargne apres lui cette arm^e qu'il a engag^e dans une 
 entreprise t^m^raire : 
 
 ' "Pendant bien des jours, je leuraidonn^ de belles paroles, 
 je leur ai donne I'espoir de tout obtenir ; car comment pouvais- 
 je savoir, h6ros illustre, que je perirais de la main de mon 
 pere ? . . . Je voyais les signes que ma mere m'avait indiques, 
 mais je n'on croyais pas mes yeux. Mon sort 6tait ^crit au- 
 dessus de ma tete, et je devais mourir de la main de mon p6re. 
 Je suis venu comme la foudre, je m'en vais comme le vent ; 
 peut-6tre que je te retrouverai heureux dans le ciel ! " 
 
 ' Ainai parle en expirant cot autre Hippolyte, immole ici de 
 la main de ThSsee.' 
 
 A writer in the Christian Remembrancer (of the general tenor 
 of whose remarks I have, assuredly, no right to complain) having 
 made the discovery of this notice by M. Sainte-Beuve, has 
 pointed out the passages in which I have made use of the ex- 
 tracts from M. Molil's translation which it contains ; hasobsei-ved, 
 apparently with blame, that I ' have not thought fit to offer a 
 single syllable of acknowledgment to an author to whom I have 
 been manifestly very largely indebted ; ' has complained of being 
 ' under some embarrassment from not being sure how much of 
 the treatment is Mr. Arnold's own ; ' and, finally, has suggested 
 that ' the whole work of M. Mohl may have been used through- 
 out, and the study of antiquity carried so far as simply to 
 reproduce an ancient poem as well as an ancient subject.' 
 
 It would have been more charitable, perhaps, had the re- 
 viewer, before making this goodnatured suggestion, ascertained, 
 by reference to M. Mohl's work, how far it was confirmed by 
 the fact. 
 
 The reader, however, is now in possession of the whole of the 
 sources from which I have drawn the story of Sohrab and 
 Rustum, and can determine, if he pleases, the exact amount of 
 my obligation to M. Mohl. But I hope that it will not in future 
 be supposed, if I am silent as to the sources from which a 
 poem has been derived, that I am trying to conceal obligations, 
 or to claim an absolute originality for all parts of it. V/heii 
 
 ARNOLD Q, g 
 
450 NOTES 
 
 any man endeavours to ' remunier et reinventer a sa maniere ' a great 
 story, which, as M. Sainte-Beuve says of that of Sohrab and Bustum, 
 has ' couru le monde ', it may be considered quite certain that 
 he has not drawn all the details of his work out of his own 
 head. The reader is not, I think, concerned to ask, from what 
 sources these have been drawn ; but only how the whole work, 
 as it stands, aifeots him. Real plagiarism, such as the borrowing 
 without acknowledgment of passages from other English poets — 
 real dishonesty, such as the endeavouring to pass off the mere 
 translation of a poem as an original work — are always certain 
 enough to be discovered. 
 
 I must not be led on, from defending the morality of my 
 imitation, to defend at length its aesthetics ; but I cannot 
 forbear adding, that it would be a most unfortunate scruple 
 which should restrain an author, treating matter of history or 
 tradition, from placing, where he can, in the mouths of his 
 personages the very words of the old chronicle, or romance, or 
 poem (when the poem embodies, as that of Ferdousi, the 
 tradition of a people) ; and which should lead him to substitute 
 for these any ' eigene grosseln] Erflndungen '. For my part, I only 
 regret that I could not meet with a translation from Ferdousi's 
 poem of the whole of the episode of Sohrab and Buslum : with 
 a prose translation, that is : for in a verse translation no original 
 work is any longer recognizable. I should certainly have made 
 all the use I could of it. The use of the tradition, above 
 everything else, gives to a work that naivete, that flavour of 
 reality and truth, which is the very life of poetry. [A.] 
 [Note first inserted in 1854, omitted in 1857.2 
 
 202, 1. 166. sugar'd mulberries : Arnold says in a letter that 
 his authority for this statement was Burnes (James Burnes, 
 1801-62, author o{ Narrative of a Visit to Scinde, 1830). 
 
 219. Philomela : one of the two daughters of Pandion, king 
 of Attica ; Tereus seduced her, feigning that her sister Procne, 
 whom he had married, was dead. The dumb sister (1. 21) is 
 Procne, whose tongue Tereus had cut out. The two sisters 
 revenged themselves by killing Tereus's son Itys ; they then 
 fled and, being overtaken, were changed by the gods into birds, 
 Procne becoming a swallow, Philomela a nightingale. (This is 
 the form of the story chosen by Arnold ; another version 
 changes the parts assigned to the two sisters.) 
 
 230. The Scholar Gipsy. 
 
 'There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, 
 who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there ; and 
 at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among 
 these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his 
 carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as 
 that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been 
 a pretty while well exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride 
 by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquain- 
 tance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the 
 gipsies ; and he gave them an account of the necessity which 
 
NOTES 451 
 
 drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he 
 went with were not such impostors as tliey were talien for, but 
 that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and 
 could do wondei-s by the power of imagination, their fancy 
 binding that of others : that himself had learned much of their 
 art, and when he had compassed the Avliole secret, he intended, 
 he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account 
 of what he had learned.' — Glanvil's Vanity of Dogmatizing, 1661. 
 [A.] 
 235, 11. 182-190. These lines perhaps refer to Carlyle. 
 
 237. Stanzas. Edward Qiiillinan married Wordsworth's 
 daughter Dora. Ho died in 1851 (see p. 276, 11. 4, 5). 
 
 238. Balder Dead. 
 
 ' Baldur the Good having been tormented with terrible 
 dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated 
 them to the assembled Aesir, who resolved to conjure all things 
 to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted 
 an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, as 
 well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and 
 creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to 
 Baldur. When this was done, it became a favourite pastime of 
 the Aesir, at their meetings, to get Baldur to stand up and 
 serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at liim, some stones, 
 while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes, 
 for do what they would, none of them could harm him, and 
 this was regarded by all as a great honour shown to Baldur. 
 But when Loki, the son of Laufey, beheld the scene, he was 
 sorely vexed that Baldur was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, 
 the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of 
 Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, 
 inquired of her if she knew what the Aesir were doing at their 
 meetings. She replied, that they were thi-owing darts and 
 stones at Baldur without being able to hurt him. 
 
 ' " Ay," said Frigga, " neither metal nor wood can hurt 
 Baldur, for I have exacted an oath from all of them." 
 
 ' " What I " exclaimed the woman, " have all things sworn 
 to spare Baldur?" 
 
 ' " All things,'' replied Frigga, " except one little shrub that 
 grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, 
 and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from." 
 
 ' As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and, resuming 
 his natural shape, cut off the Mistletoe, and repaired to the 
 place where the gods were assembled. 'There he found Hodur 
 standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of 
 his blindness, and, going up to him, said, " Why dost thou not also 
 throw something at Baldur 1 " 
 
 '"Because I am blind," answered Hodur, "and see not 
 where Baldur is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.'' 
 
 ' " Come then," said Loki, " do like the rest, and show 
 honour to Baldur by throwing this twig at him, and I will 
 direct thy arm toward the place where he stands." 
 
 gr2 
 
452 NOTES 
 
 ' HSdur then took the mistletoe, and, under the gaidance 
 of Loki, darted it at Baldur, who, pierced through and through, 
 fell down lifeless. . . . When Baldur fell the Aesir were struck 
 speechless with horror, and then they looked at each other, and 
 all were of one mind to lay hands on him who had done the 
 deed, but they were obliged to delay their vengeance out of 
 respect for the sacred place (Peace-stead) where they were 
 assembled. They at length gave vent to their grief by loud 
 lamentations, though not one of them could find words to 
 express the poignancy of his feelings. Odin, especially, was 
 more sensible than the others of the loss they had suffered, 
 for he foresaw what a detriment Baldur's death would be to the 
 Aesir. When the gods came to themselves, Frigga asked who 
 among them wished to gain all her love and good will ; " For 
 this," said she, "shall he have who will ride to Hel and try to 
 find Baldur, and offer Hela a ransom if she will let him return 
 to Asgard" ; whereupon Hermod, surnamed the Nimble, the son 
 of Odin, offered to undertake the journey. Odin's horse Sleipner 
 was then led forth, on which Hermod mounted, and galloped 
 away on his mission. 
 
 ' The Aesir then took the dead body and bore it to the sea- 
 shore, where stood Baldur's ship Hvinghorn, which passed for 
 the largest in the world. But when they wanted to launch it 
 in order to make Baldur's funeral pile on it, they were unable 
 to make it stir. In this conjuncture they sent to Jotnnheim 
 for a certain giantess named Hyrrokin, who came mounted on 
 a wolf, having twisted serpents for a bridle. . . . Hyrrokin then 
 went to the ship, and with a single push set it afloat, but the 
 motion was so violent that fire sparkled from the rollers, and 
 the earth shook all round. Thor, enraged at the sight, grasped 
 his mallet, and but for the interference of the Aesir would have 
 broken the woman's skull. Baldur's body was then borne to 
 the funeral pile on board the ship, and this ceremony had such 
 an effect on Nanna, the daughter of Nep, that her heart broke 
 with grief, and her body was burnt on the same pile with her 
 husband's : . . There was a vast concourse of various kinds of 
 people at Baldur's obsequies. First came Odin, accompanied 
 by Frigga, the Valkyrjor and his ravens ; then Frey in his car 
 drawn by the boar named GuUinbursti or Slidrugtanni ; 
 Heimdall rode his horse called GuUtop, and Freyja drove in 
 her chariot drawn by cats. There were also a great many 
 Frost-giants and giants of the mountains present. Odin laid on 
 the pile the gold ring called Draupnir, which afterwards acquired 
 the property of producing every ninth night eight rings of equal 
 weight. Baldur's horse was led to the pile fiiUy caparisoned, 
 and consumed in the same flames on the body of his master. 
 
 ' Meanwhile, Hermod was proceeding on his mission. For 
 the space of nine days, and as many nights, he rode through 
 deep glens so dark that he could not discern anything until he 
 arrived at the river GjSll, which he passed over on a bridge 
 covered with glittering gold. Modgudur, the maiden who 
 kept the bridge, asked him his name and lineage, telling him 
 
NOTES 458 
 
 that the day before five bands of dead persons had ridden over 
 the bridge, and did not shake it so much as he alone. " But," 
 she added, " thou hast not death's hue on thee, why then ridest 
 thou here on the way to Hel ?" 
 
 ' " I ride to Hel," answered Hermod, " to seek Baldur. 
 Hast thou perchance seen him pass this way ? " 
 
 '"Baldur," she replied, "hath ridden over GjOll's bridge, 
 but there below, towards the north, lies the way to the abodes 
 of death." 
 
 ' Hermod then pursued his journey until he came to the 
 barred gates of Hel. Here he alighted, girthed his saddle 
 tighter, and remounting, clapped both spurs to his horse, who 
 cleared the gate by a tremendous leap without touching it. 
 Hermod then rode on to the palace, where he found his brother 
 Baldur occupying the most distinguished seat in the hall, and 
 passed the night in his company. The next morning he besought 
 Hela (Death) to let Baldur ride home with him, assuring her 
 that nothing but lamentations were to be heard among the 
 gods. Hela answered that it should now be tried whether 
 Baldur was so beloved as he was said to be. 
 
 ' " If therefore," she added, " all things in the world, both 
 living and lifeless, weep for him, then shall he return to the 
 Aesir, but if any one thing speak against him or refuse to weep, 
 he shall be kept in Hel." 
 
 ' Hermod then rose, and Baldur led him out of the hall 
 and gave him the ring Draupnir, to present as a keepsake to 
 Odin. Nanna also sent Frigga a linen cassock and other gifts, 
 and to Fulla a gold finger-ring. Hermod then rode back to 
 Asgard, and gave an account of all he had heard and witnessed. 
 
 'The gods upon this dispatched messengers throughout 
 the world, to beg everything to weep, in order that Baldur 
 might be delivered from Hel. All things very willingly 
 complied with this request, both men and every other living 
 being, as well as earths and stones, and trees and metals, just 
 as thou must have seen these things weep when they are brought 
 from a cold place into a hot one. As the messengers were return- 
 ing with the conviction that their mission had been quite success- 
 ful, they found an old hag named Thaukt sitflng in a cavern, and 
 begged her to weep Baldur out of Hel. But she answered, 
 ' " Thaukt will wail 
 With arid tears 
 Baldur's bale fire. 
 Naught, quick or dead, 
 By man's son gain I, 
 Let Hela hold what's hers." 
 It was strongly suspected that this hag was no other than Loki 
 
 himself, who never ceased to work evil among the Ae.sir.' The 
 
 Prose or Younger Edda, commonly ascribed to Snorri Sturleson, 
 translated by J. A. Blackwell. Contained in P. H. Mallet's 
 Northern Antiquilies. Bohn'a edition, 1847. 
 
 276, 11. 8, 9. Two friends met there, two fam'd: Gifted women. 
 Charlotte Bronte and Harriet Martineau. [A.] 
 
454 NOTES 
 
 280, 11. 156, 158. Anne and Emily Bronte. 
 
 1. 168. Branwell Bronte. 
 
 283. Mekope. In a letter dated Feb. 3, 1858, Arnold explains 
 that everybody seems to think that Merape betrays a design to 
 substitute tragedies a la grecjue for all other kinds of poetry, and 
 he continues : ' What I meant them to see in it was a specimen 
 of the work created by the Greek imagination.' 
 
 In a later letter (May 17, 1865) he writes to Professor 
 Conington : ' The chorus-rhythms are unsatisfactory, I admit, 
 but I cannot yet feel that rhyme would do.' 
 
 291, 1. 37. Elpueri, &e. : Martial, I. iii. 6. 
 
 373, 1. 1851. the kind, chance-arm d Wanderer : Poias, father of 
 Philoetetes. 
 
 382, ]. 19. My brother! and thine early lot. The Author's brother, 
 William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public Instruction in 
 the Punjab, and author of Oakfleld, or Fellowship in the East, died 
 at Gibraltar, on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859. 
 [A.] 
 
 386. THVRsrs. Throughout this Poem there is reference to 
 another piece, The Scholar Gipsy, printed in the first volume of 
 the Author's Poems IPoems, a new edition, 1853]. [A.] 
 
 388, 1. 80. Corydon and Thyrsis contend against one another 
 in song in Virgil's sixth Eclogue ; Thyrsis is defeated. 
 
 391, 11. 181-91. Daphnis, a Greek shepherd, was blinded by 
 a nymph whose love ho would not return ; he afterwards had 
 his sight restored and was carried up to heaven by Hermes. 
 Another Daphnis was rescued by Hercules from Lityerses, a 
 Phrygian king, who made all travellers enter into a reaping- 
 match with him and killed those whom he vanquished. The 
 'Lityerses song' was a dirge sung over the dead bodies of the 
 unfortunate travellers. Arnold has apparently blended these 
 two stories. 
 
 398. The Divinity, 1. 8. Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh' d. 
 Gilbert de la Porree, at the Council of Rheims, in 1148. [A.] 
 
 The Good Shepherd, 1. 4. The Phrygian sect : the Montanists. 
 
 399. Austerity of Poetry, 1.1. That son of Italy who tried to blow. 
 Giacopone di Todi. [A.] 
 
 400. Monica's Last Prayer ; Monica was the mother of 
 Augustine. 
 
 405, 1. 38. He tarries where the Rock of Spain. See note to p. 382 
 above. [A.] 
 
 432, 1. 191. Goethe, too, had been there. See Harsreise im Winter, 
 in Goetlie's Gedichte. [A] 
 
 434, 1. 21. The gentian-Jlower'd pass, its crown. The Gentiana lulea 
 of the Alps. [A.] 
 
 1. 24. And walls where Byron came. Montbovon. See Byron's 
 Journal, in his Works, vol. iii, p. 258. The river Saane becomes 
 the Sarine below Montbovon. [A.] 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Absence, 134. 
 Alaric at Rome, 19. 
 Anti-Desperation, 396. 
 'Antigone', Fragment of an, 
 
 48. 
 Apollo (Tlie Harp-player on 
 
 Etna. IV.), 125. 
 Austerity of Poetry, 399. 
 
 Bacchanalia ; or, the New Age, 
 
 41S. 
 Balder Dead, 238. 
 Buried Life, The, 168. 
 Butler's Sermons, Written in, 
 
 59. 
 
 Cadmus and Harmonia, 112. 
 
 Calais Sands, 400. 
 
 Carnac, Stanzas composed at, 
 
 404. 
 Caution to Poets, A, 412. 
 Church of Brou, The, 221. 
 Consolation, 180. 
 Courage, 164. 
 Cromwell, 27. 
 Cruikshank, To George, 61. 
 
 Death-bed, Lines written by a, 
 
 138. 
 Dejaneira, Fragment of Chorus 
 
 of a, 405. 
 Desire, 75. 
 Despondency, 136. 
 Destiny, 134. 
 Divinity, The, 398. 
 Dover Beach, 401. 
 Dream, A, 228. 
 Duke of Wellington, To the, 
 
 59. 
 
 Early Death and Fame, 407. 
 East and West, 399. 
 , East London, 395. 
 
 Emerson's Essays, Written 
 
 in, 60. 
 Empedocles on Etna, 94. 
 Epilogue to Lessing's LaocoOn, 
 
 413. 
 Epitaphs, 410. 
 Excuse, 127. 
 
 Faded Leaves, 126, 129, 130, 
 
 269. 
 Farewell, A, 171. 
 Fausta, To, 74. 
 Forsaken Merman, The, 80. 
 Fragment of an 'Antigone ',48. 
 Fragment of Chorus of a 
 
 Dejaneira, 405. 
 Friend, To a, 40. 
 Future, The, 195. 
 
 Good Shepherd with the Kid, 
 
 The, 398. 
 Grande Chartreuse, Stanzas 
 
 from the, 270. 
 Growing Old, 408. 
 Gypsy Child by the Sea-shore, 
 
 To a, 77. 
 
 Harp-player on Etna, The, 100, 
 
 115, 117, 125. 
 Hayswater Boat, The, 79. 
 Haworth Churchyard, 276. 
 Heine's Grave, 427. 
 Horatian Echo, 34. 
 Human Life, 185. 
 Hungarian Nation, Sonnet to, 
 
 35. 
 
 Immortality, 397. 
 
 In Utrumque Paratus, 85. 
 
 Independent Preacher, To an, 
 
 60. 
 Indifference, 128. 
 Isolation, 135. 
 
456 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Kensington Gardens, Lines 
 written in, 182. 
 
 Lake, The, 131. 
 
 Last Glen, The (The Harp- 
 player on Etna. I.) , 100. 
 
 Last Word, The, 410. 
 
 Lessing's Laoeobn, Epilogue to, 
 413. 
 
 Lines written by a Death-bed, 
 138. 
 
 Lines written in Kensington 
 Gardens, 182. 
 
 London, East, 395. 
 
 London, West, 396. 
 
 Longing, 130. 
 
 Marguerite, To, 135, 281. 
 Marsyas (Tlie Hai-p-player on 
 
 Etna. III.), 117. 
 .Memorial Verses, April 1850, 
 
 162. 
 Men of Genius, 379. 
 Merope, 283. 
 Modern Sappho, A, 65. 
 Monica's Last Prayer, 400. 
 Morality, 192. 
 Mycerinus, 36. 
 
 Nameless Epitaph, A, 410. 
 Neokan, The, 227. 
 New Sirens, The, 66. 
 
 Obermann [Stanzas in Mem- 
 ory of the Author of), 174. 
 Obermann Once More, 433. 
 On the Rhine, 129. 
 
 Palladium, 406. 
 
 Parting, 131. 
 
 Philomela, 219. 
 
 Philosopher and the Stars, 
 
 The, 121. 
 Picture at Newstead, A, 393. 
 Pis-aller, 413. 
 Poetry, Austerity of, 399- 
 Poets, A Caution to, 412. 
 Power of Youth, 192. 
 Preacher, To an Independent, 
 
 60. 
 Progress, 193. 
 Progress of Poesy, The, 409. 
 
 Quillinan, Edward, Stanzas in 
 Memory of, 237. 
 
 Rachel, 394, 395. 
 Religious Isolation, 62. 
 Republican Friend, To a, 61, 
 
 62. 
 Requiescat, 229. 
 Resignation, 86. 
 Revolutions, 185. 
 Rhine, On the, 129. 
 Richmond Hill, 190. 
 River, The, 126. 
 Rugby Chapel, 422. 
 
 Saint Brandan, 380. 
 Scholar Gipsy, The, 230. 
 Second Best, The, 184. 
 Self-Deoeption, 137. 
 Self-Dependence, 165. 
 Separation, 269. 
 Shakespeare, 58. 
 Sick King in Bokhara, The, 
 
 51. 
 Sohrab and Rustum, 198. 
 Sonnet, 36, 137, 184. 
 Sonnet to the Hungarian 
 
 Nation, 35. 
 Southern Night, A, 382. 
 Stagyrus, 75. 
 Stanzas composed at Carnac, 
 
 404. 
 Stanzas from the Grande 
 
 Chartreuse, 270. 
 Stanzas in Memory of tlie 
 
 Author of ' Obermann ', 174. 
 Stanzas in Memory of the late 
 
 EdwardQuillinan, Esq., 237, 
 Strayed Reveller, The, 40. 
 Summer Night, A, 166. 
 Switzerland, 63, 131, 134, 135, 
 
 171, 228, 281. 
 
 Terrace at Berne, The, 402. 
 
 Thekla's Answer, 220. 
 
 Though the Miise he gone away, 
 393. 
 
 Thyrsis, 386. 
 
 To a Friend, 40. 
 
 To a Gypsy Child by the Sea- 
 shore, 77. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 457 
 
 To a Republican Friend, 1848, 
 
 61, 62. 
 To an Independent Preacher, 
 
 60. 
 To Critias, 84. 
 To Pauata, 74, 86. 
 To George Cruikshank, 61. 
 To Marguerite, 281. 
 To Marguerite, in returning 
 
 a volume of tiie Letters of 
 
 Ortis, 135. 
 To my Friends, who ridiculed 
 
 a tender leave-taking, 63. 
 To the Duke of Wellington, 59. 
 Too Late, 129. 
 Tristram and Iseult, 139. 
 Typho (The Harp-player on 
 
 Etna. IL), 115. 
 
 Voice, The, 73. 
 
 Wellington, To the Duke of, 
 
 59. 
 West London, 396. 
 Wish, A, 411. 
 World and the Quietist, The, 
 
 84. 
 -Worldly Place, 897. 
 World's Triumphs, The, 184. 
 Written in Butler's Sermons, 
 
 59. 
 Written in Emerson's Essays, 
 
 60. 
 
 Youth and Calm, 408. 
 Youth of Man, 189. 
 Youth of Nature, 186. 
 Youth's Agitations, 137. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A region desolate and wild .... 
 
 A thousand knights have rein'd their steeds 
 A wanderer is man from his birth 
 Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers 
 Again I see my bliss at hand .... 
 And the first grey of morning fill'd the east 
 
 And you, ye stars 
 
 Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn 
 As the kindling glances ..... 
 As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day 
 Ask not my name, friend .... 
 
 Because thou hast believ'd, the wheels of life 
 Before Man parted for this earthly strand . 
 
 Children (as such forgive them) have I known . 
 
 Coldly, sadly descends 
 
 Come, dear children, let us away 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then . 
 
 Creep into thy narrow bed 
 
 Crouch'd on the pavement close by Belgrave Square 
 
 Down the Savoy valleys sounding 
 
 Each on his own strict line we move . 
 
 Even in a palace, life may he led tcell .... 
 
 Far, far from here 
 
 Far on its rocky knoll descried .... 
 
 Faster, faster 
 
 Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn . 
 For him who must see many years 
 
 Glion? — Ah, twenty years, it cuts 
 Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill . 
 God knows it, I am with you. If to prize . 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece 
 
 Hark ! ah, the Nightingale 
 
 He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save 
 
 ' Henri Heine ' — 'tis here 
 
 High fate is theirs, ye sleepless waves, whose ear 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills 
 
 I ask not that my bed of death . 
 I must not say that thou wert true 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 459 
 
 I saw him sensitive in frame 
 
 I too have suffer'd : yet I know . 
 
 If, in the silent mind of One all-pure . 
 
 In front the awful Alpine track . 
 
 ' In harmony with Nature ' ? Restless fool 
 
 In Paris all look'd hot^and like to fade 
 
 In summer, on the headlands 
 
 In the bare midst of Anglesey they show . 
 
 In the cedar shadow sleeping 
 
 In the deserted moon-blanoh'd street 
 
 In this fair stranger's eyes of grey 
 
 In this lone open glade I lie 
 
 Is she not come ? The messenger was sure 
 
 Joy comes and goes : hope ebbs and flows . 
 
 Laugh, my Friends, and without blame 
 Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet 
 Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man 
 
 * Man is blind because of sin ' . . . 
 Mist clogs the sunshine .... 
 Moderate tasks and moderate leisure . 
 My horse's feet beside the lake , 
 
 ' Not by the justice that my father spurn'd ' 
 Not in sunk Spain's prolong'd death agony 
 
 frivolous mind of man .... 
 
 ' monstrous, dead, unprofitable world' . 
 
 most just Vizier, send away . 
 
 ' Oh could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be ' 
 
 Omit, omit, my simple friend 
 
 One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee 
 
 One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art free . 
 
 Rais'd are the dripping oars 
 
 Saint Brandan sails the northern main 
 
 Say, what blinds us, that we claim the glory 
 
 Set where the upper streams of Simois flow 
 
 Silent, the Lord of the world 
 
 So far as I conceive the World's rebuke 
 
 So on the floor lay Balder dead ; and round 
 
 Son of Cresphontes, we have reach'd the goal 
 
 Sprung from the blood of Israel's scatter'd race 
 
 Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat 
 
 Stop ! — Not to me, at this bitter departing 
 
 Strew oa her roses, roses . , . , 
 
460 
 
 INDEX OP FIEST LINES 
 
 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye . 
 That son of Italy who tried to blow . 
 The evening comes, the field is still . 
 The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere 
 The Master stood upon the mount, and taught 
 The mules, I think, will not he here this hour 
 The sandy spits, the shore-look'd lakes 
 The sea is calm to-night .... 
 
 The thoughts that rain their steady glow . 
 The track winds down to the clear stream 
 They are gone: all is still; Foolish heart, 
 quiver ...... 
 
 This sentence have I left behind 
 
 Thou, who dost dwell alone 
 
 Though the Muse be gone away , 
 
 Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused 
 
 Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts 
 
 'Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is here 
 
 To die be given us, or attain ! . 
 
 True, we must tame our rebel will 
 
 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 
 Unto a lonely villa in a dell 
 
 Unwelcome shroud of the forgotten dead . 
 
 FAce 
 402: 
 399 
 418 
 115 
 193 
 94 
 382 
 401 
 136 
 100 
 
 dost 
 
 thou 
 
 Vain is the effort to forget 
 
 Was it a dream ? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd 
 
 We cannot kindle when we will 
 
 We, Nature, depart ...... 
 
 We were apart : yet, day by day 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking . 
 
 Well hath he done who hath seiz'd happiness . 
 
 What is it to grow old 
 
 What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell 
 
 What mortal, when he saw .... 
 
 What poets feel not, when they make 
 
 When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence 
 
 Where I am, thou ask'st, and where I wended . 
 
 Where, under Loughrigg, the stream . 
 
 Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind 
 
 Who taught this pleading to unpractis'd eyes . 
 
 Why each is striving, from of old 
 
 Why, when the World's great mind .... 
 
 Ye storm-winds of Autumn .... 
 Yes : in the sea of life enisl'd .... 
 Yes, now the longing is o'erpast .... 
 ' Yes, write it in the rock I ' Saint Bernard said 
 Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem . 
 Youth rambles on life's arid mount , , , 
 
 409 
 
Cornell University Library 
 ,020.A25 1909a 
 
 Poems: 1840-1867;