Chapter 6
Thy joys to gather, thou sweet thought, Long years of sorrow I endure, And bear of weary life the strain; But not in vain! And I would still return, In spite of all my sad experience, Towards such a goal, my course to recommence; For through the sands, and through the viper-brood Of this, our mortal wilderness, My steps I ne’er so wearily have dragged To thee, that all the danger and distress Were not repaid by such pure happiness.
O what a world, what new immensity, What paradise is that, To which, so oft, by thy stupendous charm Impelled, I seem to soar! Where I Beneath a brighter light am wandering, And my poor earthly state, And all life’s bitter truths forget! Such are, I ween, the dreams Of the Immortals. Ah, what _but_ a dream, Art thou, sweet thought, The truth, that thus embellished? A dream, an error manifest! But of a nature, still divine, An error brave and strong, That will with truth the fight prolong, And oft for truth doth compensate; Nor leave us e’er, till summoned hence by Fate. And surely thou, my thought, Thou sole sustainer of my days, The cause beloved of sorrows infinite, In Death alone wilt be extinguished quite; For by sure signs within my soul I feel Thy sovereign sway, perpetual. All other fancies sweet The aspect of the truth Hath weakened ever. But whene’er I turn To gaze again on her, of whom with thee To speak, is all I live for, ah, That great delight increases still, That frenzy fine, the breath of life, to me!
Angelic beauty! Every lovely face, On which I gaze, A phantom seems to me, That vainly strives to copy thee, Of all the graces that our souls inthral, Sole fount, divine original!
Since first I thee beheld, Of what most anxious care of mine, Hast thou not been the end and aim? What day has ever passed, what hour, When I thought not of thee? What dream of mine Has not been haunted by thy face divine? Angelic countenance, that we In dreams, alas, alone may see, What else on earth, what in the universe, Do I e’er ask, or hope for, more, Than those dear eyes forever to behold? Than thy sweet thought still in my heart to hold?
LOVE AND DEATH.
Children of Fate, in the same breath Created were they, Love and Death. Such fair creations ne’er were seen, Or here below, or in the heaven serene. The first, the source of happiness, The fount whence flows the greatest bliss That in the sea of being e’er is found; The last each sorrow gently lulls, Each harsh decree of Fate annuls. Fair child with beauty crowned, Sweet to behold, not such As cowards paint her in their fright, She in young Love’s companionship Doth often take delight, As they o’er mortal paths together fly, Chief comforters of every loyal heart. Nor ever is the heart more wise Than when Love smites it, nor defies More scornfully life’s misery, And for no other lord Will it all dangers face so readily. When thou thy aid dost lend, O Love, is courage born, or it revives; And wise in deeds the race of man becomes, And not, as it is prone, In fruitless thought alone.
And when first in our being’s depth This passion deep is born, Though happy, we are still forlorn; A languor strange doth o’er us steal; A strange desire of death we feel. I know not why, but such we ever prove The first effect of true and potent love. It may be, that this wilderness Then first appals our sight; And earth henceforth to us a dreary waste Appears, without that new, supreme delight, That in our thought is fondly traced; And yet our hearts, foreboding, feel the storm Within, that it may cause, the misery. We long for rest, we long to flee, Hoping some friendly haven may be found Of refuge from the fierce desire, That raging, roaring, darkens all around.
And when this formidable power Hath his whole soul possessed, And raging care will give his heart no rest, How many times implored With most intense desire, Art thou, O Death, by the poor wretch, forlorn! How oft at eve, how oft at dawn, His weary frame upon the couch he throws, Too happy, if he never rose, In hopeless conflict with his pain, Nor e’er beheld the bitter light again! And oft, at sound of funeral bell, And solemn chant, that guides Departed souls unto eternal rest, With sighs most ardent from his inmost breast, How hath he envied him, Who with the dead has gone to dwell! The very humblest of his kind, The simple, rustic hind, who knows No charm that knowledge gives; The lowliest country lass that lives, Who, at the very thought of death, Doth feel her hair in horror rise, Will calmly face its agonies, Upon the terrors of the tomb will gaze With fixed, undaunted look, Will o’er the steel and poison brood, In meditative mood, And in her narrow mind, The kindly charm of dying comprehend: So much the discipline of Love Hath unto Death all hearts inclined! Full often when this inward woe Such pass has reached as mortal strength No longer can endure, The feeble body yields at length, To its fierce blows, and timely, then, Benignant Death her friendly power doth show: Or else Love drives her hapless victims so, Alike the simple clown, And tender country lass, That on themselves their desperate hands they lay, And so are borne unto the shades below. The world but laughs at their distress, Whom heaven with peace and length of days doth bless. To fervid, happy, restless souls May fate the one or other still concede, Sweet sovereigns, friendly to our race, Whose power, throughout the universe, Such miracles hath wrought, As naught resembles, nor can aught, Save that of Fate itself, exceed. And thou, whom from my earliest years, Still honored I invoke, O lovely Death! the only friend Of sufferers in this vale of tears, If I have ever sought Thy princely state to vindicate From the affronts of the ungrateful crowd, Do not delay, incline thy ear Unto thy weary suppliant here! These sad eyes close forever to the light, And let me rest in peace serene, O thou, of all the ages Queen! Me surely wilt thou find, whate’er the hour, When thou thy wings unfoldest to my prayer, With front erect, the cruel power Defying still, of Fate; Nor will I praise, in fulsome mood, The scourging hand, that with my blood, The blood of innocence, is stained. Nor bless it, as the human race Is wont, through custom old and base: Each empty hope, with which the world Itself and children would beguile, I’ll cast aside, each comfort false and vile; In thee alone my hope I’ll place, Thou welcome minister of grace! In that sole thought supremely blest, That day, when my unconscious head May on thy virgin bosom rest.
TO HIMSELF.
Nor wilt thou rest forever, weary heart. The last illusion is destroyed, That I eternal thought. Destroyed! I feel all hope and all desire depart, For life and its deceitful joys. Forever rest! Enough! Thy throbbings cease! Naught can requite thy miseries; Nor is earth worthy of thy sighs. Life is a bitter, weary load, The world a slough. And now, repose! Despair no more, but find in Death The only boon Fate on our race bestows! Still, Nature, art thou doomed to fall, The victim scorned of that blind, brutal power That rules and ruins all.
ASPASIA.
At times thy image to my mind returns, Aspasia. In the crowded streets it gleams Upon me, for an instant, as I pass, In other faces; or in lonely fields, At noon-tide bright, beneath the silent stars, With sudden and with startling vividness, As if awakened by sweet harmony, The splendid vision rises in my soul. How worshipped once, ye gods, what a delight To me, what torture, too! Nor do I e’er The odor of the flowery fields inhale, Or perfume of the gardens of the town, That I recall thee not, as on that day, When in thy sumptuous rooms, so redolent Of all the fragrant flowers of the spring, Arrayed in robe of violet hue, thy form Angelic I beheld, as it reclined On dainty cushions languidly, and by An atmosphere voluptuous surrounded; When thou, a skilful Syren, didst imprint Upon thy children’s round and rosy lips Resounding, fervent kisses, stretching forth Thy neck of snow, and with thy lovely hand, The little, unsuspecting innocents Didst to thy hidden, tempting bosom press. The earth, the heavens transfigured seemed to me, A ray divine to penetrate my soul. Then in my side, not unprotected quite, Deep driven by thy hand, the shaft I bore, Lamenting sore; and not to be removed, Till twice the sun his annual round had made.
A ray divine, O lady! to my thought Thy beauty seemed. A like effect is oft By beauty caused, and harmony, that seem The mystery of Elysium to reveal. The stricken mortal fondly worships, then, His own ideal, creature of his mind, Which of his heaven the greater part contains. Alike in looks, in manners, and in speech, The real and ideal seem to him, In his confused and passion-guided soul. But not the woman, but the dream it is, That in his fond caresses, he adores. At last his error finding, and the sad exchange, He is enraged, and most unjustly, oft, The woman chides. For rarely does the mind Of woman to that high ideal rise; And that which her own beauty oft inspires In generous lovers, she imagines not, Nor could she comprehend. Those narrow brows, Cannot such great conceptions hold. The man, Deceived, builds false hopes on those lustrous eyes, And feelings deep, ineffable, nay, more Than manly, vainly seeks in her, who is By nature so inferior to man. For as her limbs more soft and slender are, So is her mind less capable and strong.
Nor hast thou ever known, Aspasia, Or couldst thou comprehend the thoughts that once Thou didst inspire in me. Thou knowest not What boundless love, what sufferings intense, What ravings wild, what savage impulses, Thou didst arouse in me; nor will the time E’er come when thou could’st understand them. So, Musicians, too, are often ignorant Of the effects they with the hand and voice Produce on him that listens. Dead is _that_ Aspasia, that I so loved, aye, dead Forever, who was once sole object of My life; save as a phantom, ever dear, That comes from time to time, and disappears. Thou livest still, not only beautiful, But in thy beauty still surpassing all; But oh, the flame thou didst enkindle once, Long since has been extinguished; _thee_, indeed, I never loved, but that Divinity, Once living, buried now within my heart. Her, long time, I adored; and was so pleased With her celestial beauty, that, although I from the first thy nature knew full well, And all thy artful and coquettish ways, Yet _her_ fair eyes beholding still in _thine_, I followed thee, delighted, while she lived; Deceived? Ah, no! But by the pleasure led, Of that sweet likeness, that allured me so, A long and heavy servitude to bear.
Now boast; thou can’st! Say, that to thee alone Of all thy sex, my haughty head I bowed, To thee alone, of my unconquered heart An offering made. Say, that thou wast the first— And surely wast the last—that in my eye A suppliant look beheld, and me before Thee stand, timid and trembling (how I blush, In saying it, with anger and with shame), Of my own self deprived, thy every wish, Thy every word submissively observing, At every proud caprice becoming pale, At every sign of favor brightening, And changing color at each look of thine. The charm is over, and, with it, the yoke Lies broken, scattered on the ground; and I Rejoice. ’Tis true my days are laden with Ennui; yet after such long servitude, And such infatuation, I am glad My judgment, freedom to resume. For though A life bereft of love’s illusions sweet, Is like a starless night, in winter’s midst, Yet some revenge, some comfort can I find For my hard fate, that here upon the grass, Outstretched in indolence I lie, and gaze Upon the earth and sea and sky, and smile.
ON AN OLD SEPULCHRAL BAS-RELIEF.
WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING, TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.
Where goest thou? Who calls Thee from my dear ones far away? Most lovely maiden, say! Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave Thy father’s roof so soon? Wilt thou unto its threshold e’er return? Wilt thou make glad one day, Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn?
Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act; And yet thou, too, art sad. If pleasant or unpleasant be the road, If gay or gloomy be the new abode, To which thou journeyest, indeed, In that grave face, how difficult to read! Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed; Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood, If thou beloved, or hated by the gods, If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed.
Death calls thee; in thy morn of life, Its latest breath. Unto the nest Thou leavest, thou wilt ne’er return; wilt ne’er The faces of thy kindred more behold; And under ground, The place to which thou goest will be found; And for all time will be thy sojourn there. Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny.
Ne’er to have seen the light, e’en at the time, I think; but, born, e’en at the time, When regal beauty all her charms displays, Alike in form and face, And at her feet the admiring world Its distant homage pays; When every hope is in its flower, Long, long ere dreary winter flash His baleful gleams against the joyous brow; Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud, That melting in the evening sky is seen To disappear, as if one ne’er had been; And to exchange the brilliant days to come, For the dark silence of the tomb; The intellect, indeed, May call this, happiness; but still It may the stoutest breasts with pity fill.
Thou mother, dreaded and deplored From birth, by all the world that lives, Nature, ungracious miracle, That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill, If death untimely be an evil thing, Why on these innocent heads Wilt thou that evil bring? If good, why, why, Beyond all other misery, To him who goes, to him who must remain, Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain?
Wretched, where’er we look, Whichever way we turn, Thy suffering children are! Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope Should ever be by life beguiled; The current of our years with woes be filled, And death against all ills the only shield: And this inevitable seal, And this immutable decree, Hast thou assigned to human destiny, Why, after such a painful race, Should not the goal, at least, Present to us a cheerful face? Why that, which we in constant view, Must, while we live, forever bear, Sole comfort in our hour of need, Thus dress in weeds of woe, And gird with shadows so, And make the friendly port to us appear More frightful than the tempest drear?
If death, indeed, be a calamity, Which thou intendest for us all, Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will, Hast forced to draw this mortal breath, Then, surely, he who dies, A lot more enviable hath Then he who feels his loved one’s death. But, if the truth it be, As I most firmly think, That life is the calamity, And death the boon, alas! who ever _could_, What yet he _should_, Desire the dying day of those so dear, That he may linger here, Of his best self deprived, May see across his threshold borne, The form beloved of her, With whom so many years he lived, And say to her farewell, Without the hope of meeting here again; And then alone on earth to dwell, And, looking round, the hours and places all, Of lost companionship recall?
Ah, Nature! how, how _couldst_ thou have the heart, From the friend’s arms the friend to tear, The brother from the brother part, The father from the child, The lover from his love, And, killing one, the other keep alive? What dire necessity Compels such misery That lover should the loved one e’er survive? But Nature in her cruel dealings still, Pays little heed unto our good or ill.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, CARVED ON HER MONUMENT.
Such _wast_ thou: now in earth below, Dust and a skeleton thou art. Above thy bones and clay, Here vainly placed by loving hands, Sole guardian of memory and woe, The image of departed beauty stands. Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gaze To watch the flight of the departing days. That gentle look, that, wheresoe’er it fell, As now it seems to fall, Held fast the gazer with its magic spell; That lip, from which as from some copious urn, Redundant pleasure seems to overflow; That neck, on which love once so fondly hung; That loving hand, whose tender pressure still The hand it clasped, with trembling joy would thrill; That bosom, whose transparent loveliness The color from the gazer’s cheek would steal; All these _have been_; and now remains alone A wretched heap of bones and clay, Concealed from sight by this benignant stone.
To this hath Fate reduced The form, that, when with life it beamed, To us heaven’s liveliest image seemed. O Nature’s endless mystery! To-day, of grand and lofty thoughts the source, And feelings not to be described, Beauty rules all, and seems, Like some mysterious splendor from on high Forth-darted to illuminate This dreary wilderness; Of superhuman fate, Of fortunate realms, and golden worlds, A token, and a hope secure To give our mortal state; To-morrow, for some trivial cause, Loathsome to sight, abominable, base Becomes, what but a little time before Wore such an angel face; And from our minds, in the same breath, The grand conception it inspired, Swift vanishes and leaves no trace. What infinite desires, What visions grand and high, In our exalted thought, With magic power creates, true harmony! O’er a delicious and mysterious sea, The exulting spirit glides, As some bold swimmer sports in Ocean’s tides: But oh, the mischief that is wrought, If but one accent out of tune Assaults the ear! Alas, how soon Our paradise is turned to naught!
O human nature, why is this? If frail and vile throughout, If shadow, dust thou art, say, why Hast thou such fancies, aspirations high? And yet, if framed for nobler ends, Alas, why are we doomed To see our highest motives, truest thoughts, By such base causes kindled, and consumed?
PALINODIA.
TO THE MARQUIS GINO CAPPONI.
I was mistaken, my dear Gino. Long And greatly have I erred. I fancied life A vain and wretched thing, and this, our age, Now passing, vainest, silliest of all. Intolerable seemed, and _was_, such talk Unto the happy race of mortals, if, Indeed, man ought or could be mortal called. ’Twixt anger and surprise, the lofty creatures laughed Forth from the fragrant Eden where they dwell; Neglected, or unfortunate, they called me; Of joy incapable, or ignorant, To think my lot the common lot of all, Mankind, the partner in my misery. At length, amid the odor of cigars, The crackling sound of dainty pastry, and The orders loud for ices and for drinks, ’Midst clinking glasses, and ’midst brandished spoons, The daily light of the gazettes flashed full On my dim eyes. I saw and recognized The public joy, and the felicity Of human destiny. The lofty state I saw, and value of all human things; Our mortal pathway strewed with flowers; I saw How naught displeasing here below endures. Nor less I saw the studies and the works Stupendous, wisdom, virtue, knowledge deep Of this our age. From far Morocco to Cathay, and from the Poles unto the Nile, From Boston unto Goa, on the track Of flying Fortune, emulously panting, The empires, kingdoms, dukedoms of the earth I saw, now clinging to her waving locks, Now to the end of her encircling boa. Beholding this, and o’er the ample sheets Profoundly meditating, I became Of my sad blunder, and myself, ashamed.
The age of gold the spindles of the Fates, O Gino, are evolving. Every sheet, In each variety of speech and type, The splendid promise to the world proclaims, From every quarter. Universal love, And iron roads, and commerce manifold, Steam, types, and cholera, remotest lands, Most distant nations will together bind; Nor need we wonder if the pine or oak Yield milk and honey, or together dance Unto the music of the waltz. So much The force already hath increased, both of Alembics, and retorts, and of machines, That vie with heaven in working miracles, And will increase, in times that are to come: For, evermore, from better unto best, Without a pause, as in the past, the race Of Shem, and Ham, and Japhet will progress.
And yet, on acorns men will never feed, Unless compelled by hunger; never will Hard iron lay aside. Full oft, indeed, They gold and silver will despise, bills of Exchange preferring. Often, too, the race Its generous hands with brothers’ blood will stain, With fields of carnage filling Europe, and The other shore of the Atlantic sea, The new world, that the old still nourishes, As often as it sends its rival bands Of armed adventurers, in eager quest Of pepper, cinnamon, or other spice, Or sugar-cane, aught that ministers Unto the universal thirst for gold. True worth and virtue, modesty and faith, And love of justice, in whatever land, From public business will be still estranged, Or utterly humiliated and O’erthrown; condemned by Nature still, To sink unto the bottom. Insolence And fraud, with mediocrity combined, Will to the surface ever rise, and reign. Authority and strength, howe’er diffused, However concentrated, will be still Abused, beneath whatever name concealed, By him who wields them; this the law by Fate And nature written first, in adamant: Nor can a Volta with his lightnings, nor A Davy cancel it, nor England with Her vast machinery, nor this our age With all its floods of Leading Articles. The good man ever will be sad, the wretch Will keep perpetual holiday; against All lofty souls both worlds will still be armed Conspirators; true honor be assailed By calumny, and hate, and envy; still The weak will be the victim of the strong; The hungry man upon the rich will fawn, Beneath whatever form of government, Alike at the Equator and the Poles; So will it be, while man on earth abides, And while the sun still lights him on his way.