Chapter 5

Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart, Beguiled thee of thy pain? Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope I ne’er shall see again.

Nature bestowed these impulses, And these illusions blest; Their inborn influence, in me, By suffering was suppressed;

But not annulled, not overcome By cruel blows of Fate; Nor by the inauspicious frown Of Truth, importunate!

I know she has no sympathy For fond imaginings; I know that Nature, too, is deaf, Nor heeds our sufferings;

That for our _good_ she nothing cares, Our _being_, only heeds; And with the sight of our distress Her wild caprices feeds.

I know the poor man pleads in vain, For others’ sympathy; That scornfully, or heedlessly, All from his presence flee;

That both for genius and for worth, This age has no respect; That all who cherish lofty aims Are left to cold neglect.

And you, ye eyes so tremulous With lustre all divine, I know how false your splendors are, Where no true love doth shine.

No love mysterious and profound Illumes you with its glow; Nor gleams one spark of genial fire Beneath that breast of snow.

Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn Another’s tender pain; The fervent flame of heavenly love To treat with cold disdain.

Yet I with thankfulness once more The old illusions greet, And feel, with shock of pleased surprise, The heart within me beat.

To thee alone this force renewed, This vital power I owe; From thee alone, my faithful heart, My only comforts flow.

I feel it is the destiny Of every noble mind, In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World, An enemy to find:

But while thou liv’st, nor yield’st to Fate, Contending without fear, I will not tax with cruelty The power that placed me here.

TO SYLVIA.

O Sylvia, dost thou remember still That period of thy mortal life, When beauty so bewildering Shone in thy laughing, glancing eyes, As thou, so merry, yet so wise, Youth’s threshold then wast entering?

How did the quiet rooms, And all the paths around, With thy perpetual song resound, As thou didst sit, on woman’s work intent, Abundantly content With the vague future, floating on thy mind! Thy custom thus to spend the day In that sweet time of youth and May!

How could I, then, at times, In those fair days of youth, The only happy days I ever knew, My hard tasks dropping, or my careless rhymes, My station take, on father’s balcony, And listen to thy voice’s melody, And watch thy hands, as they would deftly fly O’er thy embroidery! I gazed upon the heaven serene, The sun-lit paths, the orchards green, The distant mountain here, And there, the far-off sea. Ah, mortal tongue cannot express What then I felt of happiness!

What gentle thoughts, what hopes divine, What loving hearts, O Sylvia mine! In what bright colors then portrayed Were human life and fate! Oh, when I think of such fond hopes betrayed, A feeling seizes me Of bitterness and misery, And tenfold is my grief renewed! O Nature, why this treachery? Why thus, with broken promises, Thy children’s hearts delude?

Thou, ere the grass was touched with winter’s frost, By fell disease attacked and overcome, O tender plant, didst die! The flower of thy days thou ne’er didst see; Nor did thy soft heart move Now of thy raven locks the tender praise, Now of thy eyes, so loving and so shy; Nor with thee, on the holidays, Did thy companions talk of love.

So perished, too, erelong, My own sweet hope; So too, unto my years Did Fate their youth deny. Alas, alas the day, Lamented hope, companion dear, How hast thou passed away! Is _this_ that world? These the delights, The love, the labors, the events, Of which we once so fondly spoke? And must _all_ mortals wear this weary yoke? Ah, when the truth appeared, It better seemed to die! Cold death, the barren tomb, didst thou prefer To harsh reality.

RECOLLECTIONS.

Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think I should again be turning, as I used, To see you over father’s garden shine, And from the windows talk with you again Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt, And where I saw the end of all my joys. What charming images, what fables, once, The sight of you created in my thought, And of the lights that bear you company! Silent upon the verdant clod I sat, My evening thus consuming, as I gazed Upon the heavens, and listened to the chant Of frogs that in the distant marshes croaked; While o’er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed, And the green avenues and cypresses In yonder grove were murmuring to the wind; While in the house were heard, at intervals, The voices of the servants at their work. What thoughts immense in me the sight inspired Of that far sea, and of the mountains blue, That yonder I behold, and which I thought One day to cross, mysterious worlds and joys Mysterious in the future fancying! Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oft This sorrowful and barren life of mine I willingly would have for death exchanged!

Nor did my heart e’er tell me, I should be Condemned the flower of my youth to spend In this wild native region, and amongst A wretched, clownish crew, to whom the names Of wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds, Or arguments of laughter and of scorn; Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no; For they do not esteem me better than Themselves, but fancy that I, in my heart, That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed, No token of such feeling to display. And here I pass my years, abandoned, lost, Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce, ’Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones, My pity and my courtesy I lose, And I become a scorner of my race, By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, fly The precious hours of youth, more precious far Than fame, or laurel, or the light of day, Or breath of life: thus uselessly, without One joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode, Whose only guests are care and suffering, O thou, the only flower of barren life!

The wind now from the tower of the town The deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh, What comfort was that sound to me, a child, When in my dark and silent room I lay, Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn! Whate’er I see or hear, recalls to mind Some vivid image, recollection sweet; Sweet in itself, but O how bitter made By painful sense of present suffering, By idle longing for the past, though sad, And by the still recurring thought, “_I was_”! Yon gallery that looks upon the west; Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sun Just rising o’er the solitary plain, My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled, While busy Fancy, at my side, still spread Her bright illusions, wheresoe’er I went. In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without, And round these ample windows howled the wind, My sports resounded, and my merry words, In those bright days, when all the mysteries And miseries of things an aspect wear, So full of sweetness; when the ardent youth Sees in his untried life a world of charms, And, like an unexperienced lover, dotes On heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!

O hopes, illusions of my early days!— Of you I still must speak, to you return; For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts, Or feelings, can efface you from my mind. Full well I know that honor and renown Are phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream; That life, a useless misery, has not One solid fruit to show; and though my days Are empty, wearisome, my mortal state Obscure and desolate, I clearly see That Fortune robs me but of little. Yet, Alas! as often as I dwell on you, Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy’s dreams, And then look at the blank reality, A life of ennui and of wretchedness; And think, that of so vast a fund of hope, Death is, to-day, the only relic left, I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myself Of every comfort utterly bereft. And when the death, that I have long invoked, Shall be at hand, the end be reached of all My sufferings; when this vale of tears shall be To me a stranger, and the future fade, Fade from sight forever; even then, shall I Recall you; and your images will make Me sigh; the thought of having lived in vain, Will then intrude, with bitterness to taint The sweetness of that day of destiny.

Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth, With all its joys, desires, and sufferings, I often called on death, and long would sit By yonder fountain, longing, in its waves To put an end alike to hope and grief. And afterwards, by lingering sickness brought Unto the borders of the grave, I wept O’er my lost youth, the flower of my days, So prematurely fading; often, too, At late hours sitting on my conscious bed, Composing, by the dim light of the lamp, I with the silence and the night would moan O’er my departing soul, and to myself In languid tones would sing my funeral-song.

Who can remember you without a sigh, First entrance into manhood, O ye days Bewitching, inexpressible, when first On the enchanted mortal smiles the maid, And all things round in emulation smile; And envy holds its peace, not yet awake, Or else in a benignant mood; and when, —O marvel rare!—the world a helping hand To him extends, his faults excuses, greets His entrance into life, with bows and smiles Acknowledges his claims to its respect? O fleeting days! How like the lightning’s flash, They vanish! And what mortal can escape Unhappiness, who has already passed That golden period, his own _good_ time, That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?

And thou, Nerina, does not every spot Thy memory recall? And couldst thou e’er Be absent from my thought? Where art thou gone, That here I find the memory alone, Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native place Beholds no more; that window, whence thou oft Wouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflects The light of yonder stars, is desolate. Where art thou, that I can no longer hear Thy gentle voice, as in those days of old, When every faintest accent from thy lips Was wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone. They _have been_, my sweet love! And thou with them Hast passed. To others now it is assigned To journey to and fro upon the earth, And others dwell amid these fragrant hills. How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was like A dream. While dancing there, joy on thy brow Resplendent shone, anticipations bright Shone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when Fate Extinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie. Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns. If I at times still go unto some feast, Or social gathering, unto myself I say: “Nerina, thou no more to feast Dost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn.” If May returns, when lovers offerings Of flowers and of songs to maidens bring, I say: “Nerina mine, to thee spring ne’er Returns, and love no more its tribute brings.” Each pleasant day, each flowery field that I Behold, each pleasure that I taste, the thought Suggest: “Nerina pleasure knows no more, The face of heaven and earth no more beholds.” Ah, thou hast passed, for whom I ever sigh! Hast passed; and still the memory of thee Remains, and with each thought and fancy blends Each varying emotion of the heart; And _will_ remain, so bitter, yet so sweet!

NIGHT SONG OF A WANDERING SHEPHERD IN ASIA.

What doest thou in heaven, O moon? Say, silent moon, what doest thou? Thou risest in the evening; thoughtfully Thou wanderest o’er the plain, Then sinkest to thy rest again. And art thou never satisfied With going o’er and o’er the selfsame ways? Art never wearied? Dost thou still Upon these valleys love to gaze? How much thy life is like The shepherd’s life, forlorn! He rises in the early dawn, He moves his flock along the plain; The selfsame flocks, and streams, and herbs He sees again; Then drops to rest, the day’s work o’er; And hopes for nothing more. Tell me, O moon, what signifies his life To him, thy life to thee? Say, whither tend My weary, short-lived pilgrimage, Thy course, that knows no end?

And old man, gray, infirm, Half-clad, and barefoot, he, Beneath his burden bending wearily, O’er mountain and o’er vale, Sharp rocks, and briars, and burning sand, In wind, and storm, alike in sultry heat And in the winter’s cold, His constant course doth hold; On, on, he, panting, goes, Nor pause, nor rest he knows; Through rushing torrents, over watery wastes; He falls, gets up again, And ever more and more he hastes, Torn, bleeding, and arrives at last Where ends the path, Where all his troubles end; A vast abyss and horrible, Where plunging headlong, he forgets them all. Such scene of suffering, and of strife, O moon, is this our mortal life. In travail man is born; His birth too oft the cause of death, And with his earliest breath He pain and torment feels: e’en from the first, His parents fondly strive To comfort him in his distress; And if he lives and grows, They struggle hard, as best they may, With pleasant words and deeds to cheer him up, And seek with kindly care, To strengthen him his cruel lot to bear. This is the best that they can do For the poor child, however fond and true. But wherefore give him life? Why bring him up at all, If _this_ be all? If life is nought but pain and care, Why, why should we the burden bear? O spotless moon, such _is_ Our mortal life, indeed; But thou immortal art, Nor wilt, perhaps, unto my words give heed.

Yet thou, eternal, lonely wanderer, Who, thoughtful, lookest on this earthly scene, Must surely understand What all our sighs and sufferings mean; What means this death, This color from our cheeks that fades, This passing from the earth, and losing sight Of every dear, familiar scene. Well must thou comprehend The reason of these things; must see The good the morning and the evening bring: Thou knowest, thou, what love it is That brings sweet smiles unto the face of spring; The meaning of the Summer’s glow, And of the Winter’s frost and snow, And of the silent, endless flight of Time. A thousand things to thee their secrets yield, That from the simple shepherd are concealed. Oft as I gaze at thee, In silence resting o’er the desert plain, Which in the distance borders on the sky, Or following me, as I, by slow degrees, My flocks before me drive; And when I gaze upon the stars at night, In thought I ask myself, “Why all these torches bright? What mean these depths of air, This vast, this silent sky, This nightly solitude? And what am I?” Thus to myself I talk; and of this grand, Magnificent expanse, And its untold inhabitants, And all this mighty motion, and this stir Of things above, and things below, No rest that ever know, But as they still revolve, must still return Unto the place from which they came,— Of this, alas, I find nor end nor aim! But thou, immortal, surely knowest all. _This_ I well know, and feel; From these eternal rounds, And from my being frail, Others, perchance, may pleasure, profit gain; To _me_ life is but pain.

My flock, now resting there, how happy thou, That knowest not, I think, thy misery! O how I envy thee! Not only that from suffering Thou seemingly art free; That every trouble, every loss, Each sudden fear, thou canst so soon forget; But more because thou sufferest No weariness of mind. When in the shade, upon the grass reclined, Thou seemest happy and content, And great part of the year by thee In sweet release from care is spent. But when _I_ sit upon the grass And in the friendly shade, upon my mind A weight I feel, a sense of weariness, That, as I sit, doth still increase And rob me of all rest and peace. And yet I wish for nought, And have, till now, no reason to complain. What joy, how much I cannot say; But thou _some_ pleasure dost obtain. My joys are few enough; But not for that do I lament. Ah, couldst thou speak, I would inquire: Tell me, dear flock, the reason why Each weary breast can rest at ease, While all things round him seem to please; And yet, if _I_ lie down to rest, I am by anxious thoughts oppressed?

Perhaps, if I had wings Above the clouds to fly, And could the stars all number, one by one, Or like the lightning leap from rock to rock, I might be happier, my dear flock, I might be happier, gentle moon! Perhaps my thought still wanders from the truth, When I at others’ fortunes look: Perhaps in every state beneath the sun, Or high, or low, in cradle or in stall, The day of birth is fatal to us all.

CALM AFTER STORM.

The storm hath passed; I hear the birds rejoice; the hen, Returned into the road again, Her cheerful notes repeats. The sky serene Is, in the west, upon the mountain seen: The country smiles; bright runs the silver stream. Each heart is cheered; on every side revive The sounds, the labors of the busy hive. The workman gazes at the watery sky, As standing at the door he sings, His work in hand; the little wife goes forth, And in her pail the gathered rain-drops brings; The vendor of his wares, from lane to lane, Begins his daily cry again. The sun returns, and with his smile illumes The villas on the neighboring hills; Through open terraces and balconies, The genial light pervades the cheerful rooms; And, on the highway, from afar are heard The tinkling of the bells, the creaking wheels Of waggoner, his journey who resumes.

Cheered is each heart. Whene’er, as now, doth life appear A thing so pleasant and so dear? When, with such love, Does man unto his books or work return? Or on himself new tasks impose? When is he less regardful of his woes? O pleasure, born of pain! O idle joy, and vain, Fruit of the fear just passed, which shook The wretch who life abhorred, yet dreaded death! With which each neighbor held his breath, Silent, and cold, and wan, Affrighted sore to see The lightnings, clouds, and winds arrayed, To do us injury!

O Nature courteous! These are thy boons to us, These the delights to mortals given! Escape from pain, best gift of heaven! Thou scatterest sorrows with a bounteous hand; Grief springs spontaneous; If, by some monstrous growth, miraculous, Pleasure at times is born of pain, It is a precious gain! O human race, unto the gods so dear! Too happy, in a respite brief From any grief! Then only blessed, When Death releases thee unto thy rest!

THE VILLAGE SATURDAY NIGHT.

The damsel from the field returns, The sun is sinking in the west; Her bundle on her head she sets, And in her hand she bears A bunch of roses and of violets. To-morrow is a holiday, And she, as usual, must them wear Upon her bodice, in her hair. The old crone sits among her mates, Upon the stairs, and spins; And, looking at the fading light, Of good old-fashioned times she prates, When she, too, dressed for holidays, And with light heart, and limb as light, Would dance at night With the companions of her merry days. The twilight shades around us close, The sky to deepest blue is turned; From hills and roofs the shadows fall, And the new moon her face of silver shows. And now the cheerful bell Proclaims the coming festival. By its familiar voice How every heart is cheered! The children all in troops, Around the little square Go, leaping here and there, And make a joyful sound. Meanwhile the ploughman, whistling, returns Unto his humble nest, And thinks with pleasure of his day of rest.

Then, when all other lights are out, And all is silent round, The hammer’s stroke we hear, We hear the saw of carpenter, Who with closed doors his vigil keeps, Toils o’er his lamp and strives so hard, His work to finish ere the dawn appear.

The dearest day of all the week Is this, of hope and joy so full; To-morrow, sad and dull, The hours will bring, for each must in his thought His customary task-work seek.

Thou little, sportive boy, This blooming age of thine Is like to-day, so full of joy; And is the day, indeed, That must the sabbath of thy life precede.

Enjoy, it, then, my darling child, Nor speed the flying hours! I say to thee no more: Alas, in this sad world of ours, How far exceeds the holiday, The day that goes before!

THE RULING THOUGHT.

Most sweet, most powerful, Controller of my inmost soul; The terrible, yet precious gift Of heaven, companion kind Of all my days of misery, O thought, that ever dost recur to me;

Of thy mysterious power Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt Its subtle influence? Yet, when one is by feeling deep impelled Its secret joys and sorrows to unfold, The theme seems ever new however old.

How isolated is my mind, Since thou in it hast come to dwell! As by some magic spell, My other thoughts have all, Like lightning, disappeared; And thou, alone, like some huge tower, In a deserted plain, Gigantic, solitary, dost remain.

How worthless quite, Save but for thee, have in my sight All earthly things, and life itself become! How wearisome its days; And all its works, and all its plays, A vain pursuit of pleasures vain, Compared with the felicity, The heavenly joy, that springs from thee!

As from the naked rocks Of the rough Apennine, The weary pilgrim turns his longing eyes To the bright plain that in the distance lies; So from the rough and barren intercourse Of worldly men, to thee I gladly turn, As to a Paradise, my weary mind, And sweet refreshment for my senses find.

It seems to me incredible, that I This dreary world, this wretched life, So full of folly and of strife, Without thy aid, could have so long endured; Nor can I well conceive, How one’s desires _could_ cling To other joys than those which thou dost bring.

Never, since first I knew By hard experience what life is, Could fear of death my soul subdue. To-day, a jest to me appears, That which the silly world, Praising at times, yet ever hates and fears, The last extremity! If danger comes, I, with undaunted mien, Its threats encounter with a smile serene.

I always hated coward souls, And meanness held in scorn. _Now_, each unworthy act At once through all my senses thrills; Each instance vile of human worthlessness, My soul with holy anger fills. This arrogant, this foolish age, Which feeds itself on empty hopes, Absorbed in trifles, virtue’s enemy, Which idly clamors for utility, And has not sense enough to see How _useless_ all life thenceforth must become, I feel _beneath_ me, and its judgments laugh To scorn. The motley crew, The foes of every lofty thought, Who laugh at _thee_, I trample under foot.

To that, which thee inspires, What passion yieldeth not? What other, save this one, Controls our hearts’ desires? Ambition, avarice, disdain, and hate, The love of power, love of fame, What are they but an empty name, Compared with it? And this, The source, the spring of all, That sovereign reigns within the breast, Eternal laws have on our hearts impressed.

Life hath no value, meaning hath, Save but for thee, our only hope and stay; The sole excuse for Fate, That cruelly hath placed us here, To undergo such useless misery; For thee alone, the wise man, not the fool, To life still fondly clings, Nor calls on death to end his sufferings.