Chapter 3

Thou first the day, and thou the shining lights Of the revolving stars didst see, the fields, And their new flocks and herds, O leader old And father of the human family! The wandering air that o’er the meadows played, When smote the rocks, and the deserted vales, The torrent, rustling headlong from the Alps, With sound, till then, unheard; and o’er the sites Of future nations, noisy cities, yet unknown To fame, a peace profound, mysterious reigned; And o’er the unploughed hills, in silence, rose The ray of Phoebus, and the golden moon. O world, how happy in thy loneliness, Of crimes and of disasters ignorant! Oh, how much wretchedness Fate had in store For thy poor race, unhappy father, what A series vast of terrible events! Behold, the fields, scarce tilled, with blood are stained, A brother’s blood, in sudden frenzy shed; And now, alas, first hears the gentle air The whirring of the fearful wings of Death. The trembling fratricide, a fugitive, The lonely shades avoids; in every blast That sweeps the groves, a voice of wrath he hears. _He_ the first city builds, abode and realm Of wasting cares; repentance desperate, Heart-sick, and groaning, thus unites and binds Together blind and sinful souls, and first A refuge offers unto mutual guilt. The wicked hand now scorns the crooked plough; The sweat of honest labor is despised; Now sloth possession of the threshold takes; The sluggish frames their native vigor lose; The minds in hopeless indolence are sunk; And slavery, the crowning curse of all, Degrades and crushes poor humanity.

And thou from heaven’s wrath, and ocean’s waves, That bellowed round the cloud-capped mountain-tops, The sinful brood didst save; thou, unto whom, From the dark air and wave-encumbered hills, The white dove brought the sign of hope renewed, And sinking in the west, the shipwrecked sun, His bright rays darting through the angry clouds, The dark sky painted with the lovely bow. The race restored, to earth returned, begins anew The same career of wickedness and lust, With their attendant ills. Audacious man Defies the threats of the avenging sea, And to new shores and to new stars repeats The same sad tale of infamy and woe.

And now of thee I think, the just and brave, The Father of the faithful, and the sons Thy honored name that bore. Of thee I speak, Whom, sitting, thoughtful, in the noontide shade, Before thy humble cottage, near the banks, That gave thy flocks both rest and nourishment, The minds ethereal of celestial guests With blessings greeted; and of thee, O son Of wise Rebecca, how at eventide, In Aran’s valley sweet, and by the well, Where happy swains in friendly converse met, Thou didst with Laban’s daughter fall in love; Love, that to exile long, and suffering, And to the odious yoke of servitude, Thy patient soul a willing martyr led.

Oh, surely once,—for not with idle tales And shadows, the Aonian song, and voice Of Fame, the eager list’ners feed,—once was This wretched earth more friendly to our race, Was more beloved and dear, and golden flew The days, that now so laden are with care. Not that the milk, in waves of purest white, Gushed from the rocks, and flowed along the vales; Or that the tigers mingled with the sheep, To the same fold were led; or shepherd-boys With playful wolves would frolic at the spring; But of its own lot ignorant, and all The sufferings that were in store, devoid Of care it lived: a soft, illusive veil Of error hid the stern realities, The cruel laws of heaven and of fate. Life glided on, with cheerful hope content; And tranquil, sought the haven of its rest.

So lives, in California’s forests vast, A happy race, whose life-blood is not drained By pallid care, whose limbs are not by fierce Disease consumed: the woods their food, their homes The hollow rock, the streamlet of the vale Its waters furnishes, and, unforeseen, Dark death upon them steals. Ah, how unarmed, Wise Nature’s happy votaries, are ye, Against our impious audacity! Our fierce, indomitable love of gain Your shores, your caves, your quiet woods invades; Your minds corrupts, your bodies enervates; And happiness, a naked fugitive, Before it drives, to earth’s remotest bounds.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray Of the declining moon; and thou, that o’er The rock appearest, ’mid the silent grove, The messenger of day; how dear ye were, And how delightful to these eyes, while yet Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now, No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul. Then, only, can forgotten joy revive, When through the air, and o’er the trembling fields The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust; And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove, Omnipotent, high-thundering o’er our heads, A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky. Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly Along the cliffs, along the valleys deep, The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch, Or hear, upon some swollen river’s shore The angry billows’ loud, triumphant roar.

How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine, And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no part Of all this beauty infinite, the gods And cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave! To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor, Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come; To all thy varied forms of loveliness, My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain. The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me, Nor radiant morning light at heaven’s gate; The birds no longer greet me with their songs, Nor whispering trees with gracious messages; And where, beneath the bending willows’ shade, The limpid stream its bosom pure displays, As I, with trembling and uncertain foot, Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause, The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain, And urge their flight along the flowery plain.

What fearful crime, what hideous excess Have so defiled me, e’en before my birth, That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus? Wherein have I offended, as a child, When we of evil deeds are ignorant, That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youth Bereft, my little thread of life has from The spindle of the unrelenting Fate Been drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words! Mysterious counsels all events control, And all, except our grief, is mystery. Deserted children, we were born to weep; But why, is known to those above, alone. O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years! To idle shows Jove gives eternal sway O’er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed, All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song, Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng.

I die! This wretched veil to earth I cast, And for my naked soul a refuge seek Below, and for the cruel faults atone Of gods, the blind dispensers of events. And thou, to whom I have been bound so long, By hopeless love, and lasting faith, and by The frenzy vain of unappeased desire, Live, live, and if thou canst, be happy here! My cup o’erflows with bitterness, and Jove Has from his vase no drop of sweetness shed, For all my childhood’s hopes and dreams have fled. The happiest day the soonest fades away; And then succeed disease, old age, the shade Of icy death. Behold, alas! Of all My longed-for laurels, my illusions dear, The end,—the gulf of hell! My spirit proud Must to the realm of Proserpine descend, The Stygian shore, the night that knows no end.

FIRST LOVE.

Ah, well can I the day recall, when first The conflict fierce of love I felt, and said: If _this_ be love, how hard it is to bear!

With eyes still fixed intent upon the ground, I saw but _her_, whose artless innocence, Triumphant took possession of this heart.

Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me! Why should affection so sincere and pure, Bring with it such desire, such suffering?

Why not serene, and full, and free from guile But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore, Should joy so great into my heart descend?

O tell me, tender heart, that sufferest so, Why with that thought such anguish should be blent, Compared with which, all other thoughts were naught?

That thought, that ever present in the day, That in the night more vivid still appeared, When all things round in sweet sleep seemed to rest:

Thou, restless, both with joy and misery Didst with thy constant throbbings weary so My breast, as panting in my bed I lay.

And when worn out with grief and weariness, In sleep my eyes I closed, ah, no relief It gave, so broken and so feverish!

How brightly from the depths of darkness, then, The lovely image rose, and my closed eyes, Beneath their lids, their gaze upon it fed!

O what delicious impulses, diffused, My weary frame with sweet emotion filled! What myriad thoughts, unstable and confused,

Were floating in my mind! As through the leaves Of some old grove, the west wind, wandering, A long, mysterious murmur leaves behind.

And as I, silent, to their influence yield, What saidst thou, heart, when she departed, who Had caused thee all thy throbs, and suffering?

No sooner had I felt within, the heat Of love’s first flame, than with it flew away The gentle breeze, that fanned it into life.

Sleepless I lay, until the dawn of day; The steeds, that were to leave me desolate, Their hoofs were beating at my father’s gate.

And I, in mute suspense, poor timid fool, With eye that vainly would the darkness pierce, And eager ear intent, lay, listening,

That voice to hear, if, for the last time, I Might catch the accents from those lovely lips; The voice alone; all else forever lost!

How many vulgar tones my doubtful ear Would smite, with deep disgust inspiring me, With doubt tormented, holding hard my breath!

And when, at last, that voice into my heart Descended, passing sweet, and when the sound Of horses and of wheels had died away;

In utter desolation, then, my head I in my pillow buried, closed my eyes, And pressed my hand against my heart, and sighed.

Then, listlessly, my trembling knees across The silent chamber dragging, I exclaimed, “Nothing on earth can interest me more!”

The bitter recollection cherishing Within my breast, to every voice my heart, To every face, insensible remained.

Long I remained in hopeless sorrow drowned; As when the heavens far and wide their showers Incessant pour upon the fields around.

Nor had I, Love, thy cruel power known, A boy of eighteen summers flown, until That day, when I thy bitter lesson learned;

When I each pleasure held in scorn, nor cared The shining stars to see, or meadows green, Or felt the charm of holy morning light;

The love of glory, too, no longer found An echo in my irresponsive breast, That, once, the love of beauty with it shared.

My favorite studies I neglected quite; And those things vain appeared, compared with which, I used to think all other pleasures vain.

Ah! how could I have changed so utterly? How could one passion all the rest destroy? Indeed, what helpless mortals are we all!

My heart my only comfort was, and with That heart, in conference perpetual, A constant watch upon my grief to keep.

My eye still sought the ground, or in itself Absorbed, shrank from encountering the glance Of lovely or unlovely countenance;

The stainless image fearing to disturb, So faithfully reflected in my breast; As winds disturb the mirror of the lake.

And that regret, that I could not enjoy Such happiness, which weighs upon the mind, And turns to poison pleasure that has passed,

Did still its thorn within my bosom lodge, As I the past recalled; but shame, indeed, Left not its cruel sting within this heart.

To heaven, to you, ye gentle souls, I swear, No base desire intruded on my thought; But with a pure and sacred flame I burned.

That flame still lives, and that affection pure; Still in my thought that lovely image breathes, From which, save heavenly, I no other joy,

Have ever known; my only comfort, now!

THE LONELY SPARROW.

Thou from the top of yonder antique tower, O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone, Thy song repeating till the day is done, And through this valley strays the harmony. How Spring rejoices in the fields around, And fills the air with light, So that the heart is melted at the sight! Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds! In sweet content, the other birds Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel, In pure enjoyment of their happy time: Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart, Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round; Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart; And with thy plaintive music, dost consume Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.

Alas, how much my ways Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport, That fill with glee our youthful days, And thee, O love, who art youth’s brother still, Too oft the bitter sigh of later years, I care not for; I know not why, But from them ever distant fly: Here in my native place, As if of alien race, My spring of life I like a hermit pass. This day, that to the evening now gives way, Is in our town an ancient holiday. Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell, While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound, Reverberated from the hills around. In festal robes arrayed, The neighboring youth, Their houses leaving, o’er the roads are spread; They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot, Along the country wandering, Postpone all pleasure and delight To some more genial time: meanwhile, As through the sunny air around I gaze, My brow is smitten by his rays, As after such a day serene, Dropping behind yon distant hills, He vanishes, and seems to say, That thus all happy youth must pass away.

Thou, lonely little bird, when thou Hast reached the evening of the days Thy stars assign to thee, Wilt surely not regret thy ways; For all thy wishes are Obedient to Nature’s law. But ah! If I, in spite of all my prayers, Am doomed the hateful threshold of old age To cross, when these dull eyes will give No response to another’s heart, The world to them a void will be, Each day become more full of misery, How then, will this, my wish appear In those dark hours, that dungeon drear? My blighted youth, my sore distress, Alas, will _then_ seem happiness!

THE INFINITE.

This lonely hill to me was ever dear, This hedge, which shuts from view so large a part Of the remote horizon. As I sit And gaze, absorbed, I in my thought conceive The boundless spaces that beyond it range, The silence supernatural, and rest Profound; and for a moment I am calm. And as I listen to the wind, that through These trees is murmuring, its plaintive voice I with that infinite compare; And things eternal I recall, and all The seasons dead, and this, that round me lives, And utters its complaint. Thus wandering My thought in this immensity is drowned; And sweet to me is shipwreck on this sea.

THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.

The night is mild and clear, and without wind, And o’er the roofs, and o’er the gardens round The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine, Hushed now is every path, and few and dim The lamps that glimmer through the balconies. Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart Consumes; and little dost thou know or think, How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made. Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn, That seems to greet me with a loving smile, And to that Nature old, omnipotent, That doomed me still to suffer. “I to thee All hope deny,” she said, “e’en hope; nor may Those eyes of thine e’er shine, save through their tears.”

This was a holiday; its pleasures o’er, Thou seek’st repose; and happy in thy dreams Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day, And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,— I hoped it not,—unto thy thoughts occur. Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains To me; and on the earth I cast myself, And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days, And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear, Not far away, the solitary song Of workman, who returns at this late hour, In merry mood, unto his humble home; And in my heart a cruel pang I feel, At thought, how all things earthly pass away, And leave no trace behind. This festal day Hath fled; a working-day now follows it, And all, alike, are swept away by Time. Where is the glory of the antique nations now? Where now the fame of our great ancestors? The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms? Now all is peace and silence, all the world At rest; their very names are heard no more. E’en from my earliest years, when we Expect so eagerly a holiday, The moment it was past, I sought my couch, Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour, When I the song heard of some passer-by, That slowly in the distance died away, The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.

TO THE MOON.

O lovely moon, how well do I recall The time,—’tis just a year—when up this hill I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee: And thou suspended wast o’er yonder grove, As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill. But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared Thy countenance to me, because my eyes Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed; For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome, And _is_ so still, unchanged, belovèd moon! And yet this recollection pleases me, This computation of my sorrow’s age. How pleasant is it, in the days of youth, When hope a long career before it hath, And memories are few, upon the past To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!

THE DREAM.

It was the morning; through the shutters closed, Along the balcony, the earliest rays Of sunlight my dark room were entering; When, at the time that sleep upon our eyes Its softest and most grateful shadows casts, There stood beside me, looking in my face, The image dear of her, who taught me first To love, then left me to lament her loss. To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with such A countenance as the unhappy wear. Her right hand near my head she sighing placed; “Dost thou still live,” she said to me, “and dost Thou still remember what we _were_ and are?” And I replied: “Whence comest thou, and how, Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how I Have grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I think Thou e’er couldst know it more; and oh, that thought My sorrow rendered more disconsolate! But art thou now again to leave me? I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee? Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?” “Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleep Envelops them,” she answered; “I am dead, And many months have passed, since last we met.” What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard! And she continued: “In the flower of youth Cut off, when life is sweetest, and before The heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt, The utter vanity of human hope! The sick man may e’en covet, as a boon, That which withdraws him from all suffering; But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate; And hard the fate of hope, that in the grave Is quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is, That Nature from the inexperienced hides! And a blind sorrow is to be preferred To wisdom premature!”—“Hush, hush!” I cried, “Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushed With these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed, O my beloved? and am I still alive? And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this, Thy tender body the last damps of death Should feel, and my poor, wretched frame remain Unharmed? Oh, often, often as I think That thou no longer livest, and that I Shall never see thee on the earth again, Incredible it seems! Alas, alas! What _is_ this thing, that they call death? Oh, would That I, this day, the mystery could solve, And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate’s Relentless hate! I still am young, and still Feel all the blight and misery of age, Which I so dread; and distant far it seems; But, ah, how little different from age, The flower of my years!”—“We both were born,” She said, “to weep; unhappy were our lives, And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings.” “Oh if my eyes with tears,” I added, “then, My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for loss Of thee, and anguish weighing on my heart; Tell me, was any spark of pity or of love For the poor lover kindled in thy heart, While thou didst live? I, then, between my hope And my despair, passed weary nights and days; And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed. Oh if but once compassion smote thee for My darkened life, conceal it not from me, I pray thee; let the memory console me, Since of their future our young days were robbed!” And she: “Be comforted, unhappy one! I was not churlish of my pity whilst I lived, and am not now, myself so wretched! Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!” “By all our sufferings, and by the love Which preys upon me,” I exclaimed, “and by Our youth, and by the hope that faded from Our lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!” And sweetly, sadly, she extended it. And while I covered it with kisses, while With sorrow and with rapture quivering, I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it, With fervent passion glowed my face and breast, My trembling voice refused its utterance, And all things swam before my sight; when she, Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied: “And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that I Am of my beauty utterly deprived? And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yield To passion’s transports. Now, a last farewell! Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too, Eternally are parted. Thou to me No longer livest, nevermore shall live. Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn.” Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cry Aloud, convulsed, my eyes o’erflowing with The tears of utter, helpless misery, I started from my sleep. The image still Was seen, and in the sun’s uncertain light Above my couch she seemed to linger still.

THE LONELY LIFE.