Part 7

Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say, Thou silent Moon serene! At night thou dost proceed, Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest. Hast thou ne'er weary been Of repursuing the everlasting way? Untired as yet, still takest thou delight On earth to turn thy sight? Even as thy life on high, The shepherd's life doth fly. When dawn succeeds to night, He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze. He sees the grass and flowers, And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours, Nor other hope doth raise. Say, Moon, what boots his life To humble swain, or thy Divine existence unto thee on high? Where doth my life below, Thy course immortal go?

Even as an old man bent, Ragged and white of hair, Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear, O'er mountains and through vales, O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through marshes, A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat, To snow, to ice, to sleet, Still toils upon his way, Through sloughs and torrents goes, Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief, Without rest or relief, Footsore and suffering, until he arrives Where his long path did tend, Where all his weary wandering finds an end: A dread abyss profound Where dark oblivion grasps him as her prey: Thou virgin Moon, even so Is this our life below.

Man draws for toil his breath, And birth itself is on the verge of death. In pain and suffering dire His days begin, and in life's early morn His mother and his sire Try to console him that he e'er was born. As he in years doth grow, They help him onwards, and for ever strive, By action and by word, To keep his hope alive, And to console him for our fate below: Nor any way more kind Their fondness to display, can parents find. But why give to the light, Why with life animate A wretched spirit ever seeking balm? If heavy be our fate, Why do we bear its weight? O virgin Moon, even so Is this our life below. But thou in region calm Dost little heed upon my wail bestow.

Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way, Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray, Perchance to thee well known Are life and suffering and distressful moan; Thou knowest what is death, what the supreme Grey pallor of the face, The earth that leaveth not a mental trace, And the awakening from our life's deep dream. And thou, in truth, dost see The cause of things, and what the fruit may be Of morning and of night, And of Time's silent, never-ending flight. Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweet Spring with its buds doth greet, Why summer heats arise, and what device Brings winter with its ice. A thousand things unto thy soul are plain, Which are but riddles to the simple swain. Oft when I see thee shine In lonely sphere and solemn state divine Upon our waste that stretches to the skies; Or when my flock I lead And see thy radiance on my path proceed, And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes, Within my soul I say: "What means so many a ray? Where goes the wind? what booteth in the sky The endless space serene? What is the thought Of this vast solitude, and what am I?" Thus my amazement to express I sought, Nor of the proud abode, Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race, Nor of the labours and the powers that goad All things of earth and of the realms divine, Revolving without rest, To be again where they commenced their road: Of all I cannot trace The use or meaning. Surely thou art blest With deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine. I only know and feel, Of all the skies reveal, Of my frail life below, That unto me existence is but woe.

O thou, my flock that liest in repose! Thrice blessed thou, unconscious of distress! How much I envy thee! Nor merely that from woes Thy destiny is free, Nor that all things unkind, All sudden fears soon vanish from thy mind; But most because thou knowest not weariness. When lying on a grassy plot in shade, Thou art contented made. A long part of the year Thus flies by thee, and not a care is near. And I as well on grassy plot in shade My body oft have laid; But weariness lies heavy on my soul; And, seated, I am further from the goal Of peace and sweet repose. And yet I yearn for nought, Nor have I any reason for my woes. What makes thy happy state I cannot say; but thou art fortunate, And I have little joy, My flock; nor therein lies my whole annoy. If thou couldst speak, I'd ask Why, lying in calm shade, All beasts are happy made; But when I leisure know I am assailed by weariness and woe?

If wings perchance had I Above the clouds to fly, And one by one the radiant stars to count, Or like fierce thunder o'er the crags to roam, I should be happier, thou my gentle flock, I should be happier, virgin Moon on high. Or else, perchance, my thought By vagrant dreams is full of errors fraught; Perchance in every form That Nature may on everything bestow, The day of birth brings everlasting woe.

THE RULING THOUGHT.

Omnipotent and kind, Lord of the deep recesses of my mind; In terrors clad, yet dear Gift of the skies; so near In my gloom-darkened days, Thought upon which so oft I fix my gaze:

Thy nature unrevealed Who doth not contemplate? Who wears a shield Impervious to thy power? Though tongue of man must say What passion in his bosom beareth sway, All thou may'st utter seemeth new for aye.

How like a hermit lone Was this my spirit made Even from the time thou didst my mind invade! As rapidly as lightnings flash and die, My other thoughts did fade, Not one remaining. Like a strong tower, high On solitary plain, Thou, lonely giant, o'er my soul dost reign.

What to my visionary gaze became All things of earth, and all That life can give, alone excepting thee! How on my spirit pall The labours and the leisure, And vain desiring of still vainer pleasure, Compared unto that joy, That heavenly joy, which maketh thee my treasure!

As from the naked peaks Of rugged Appenine, With longing gaze the weary pilgrim seeks The verdant meads that in the distance shine: Thus from the harsh and dry Scene of the world, to thee I gladly fly, As to a beauteous garden, and I find Thy fair abode unto my spirit kind.

I scarcely can believe That I this life and our ignoble world For years of weary length Without thee had the strength To bear. Hard to conceive It is that men aspire, Ignoring thee, to many a vain desire.

Ne'er from the hour when first Experience taught me what this life can be, Did fear of death bring terror to my heart; And now a jest to me Seems what the world so base At times extols, but never dares to face, The necessary end: If any peril falleth to my part, Before its threat my spirit doth not bend.

I always held in scorn The craven and the mean; Now every deed, of lowly baseness born, Doth move my spirit keen; My soul doth flash with ire When human vileness desolates my view. This haughty age untrue, Feeding itself on barren hopes and vain, To folly gentle, and to virtue dire, That asks for things of use, Nor sees by what abuse Our life becometh useless more and more, I loathe, arising o'er Its meanness. Human acts I ne'er esteem; The crowd that doth disdain Thy loveliness, in all I worthless deem.

What passion doth not yield To that inspired by thee? The one thou hast revealed Alone rules man in sovran majesty. Pride, hatred, avarice and fierce disdain, The zeal to shine and reign, What else than shadows vain Are they beside it? One affection lives Among our race below, By laws eternal sent To rule mankind, a lord omnipotent.

Life hath no meaning and not one delight Except from that which unto man is all, The sole excuse of Fate Who placed on earthly soil Our race to languish in such fruitless toil; Whereby alone at times, Not to the rabble, but the gentle heart, Life more than death appears the better part. To cull thy joys, O thought divinely sweet! The weight of human woes, Of life the weary chain, Were not endured in utter anguish vain; And I would even return, Versed as I am in every earthly ill, For such a goal to repursue the road. Of viper's sting and of the sands that burn I never felt the goad So much, that, coming unto thy relief, It gave no balm unto terrestrial grief.

What wondrous worlds, what new Immensities, what Paradise is there, Where oft thy wizard power my spirit drew In lofty flights, and where By other radiance than on earth e'er shined, I stray, nor to my mind My earthly state recall, nor truth unkind! Such are, methinks, the dreams Of the immortals. Ah! a dream, in sooth, Thou art, sweet thought, a garment to adorn Harsh and unlovely truth, An error palpable. But even of those Fair errors Nature shows, Thou art divine, because so strong and deep, That 'gainst the real thou thy ground dost keep; Thy power its equal seems, And only in death from mortal spirit goes.

And thou, indeed, my thought, unto my days Alone the vital breath, Thou cherished cause of infinite despair, With me shalt fall beneath the stroke of death: I gather from the signs my soul displays That thou shalt reign, eternal monarch, there. All other errors, sweet Disperse on pinions fleet At Truth's approach. And even the more I turn Upon her brow to gaze, Of whom with thee discoursing my days fly, The more the joyaunce grows, The frenzy wild whence my existence flows. Angelic loveliness! The fairest face that ever met mine eye, Methinks like image vain Attempts to rival thee. Thou art alone The fountain and the spring Of every charm that can enchantment bring.

From when I saw thee first, What other care did ever prompt my heart Than love of thee? How much of day doth part Without a thought of thine? In sleep immerst, When lay my weary soul By dreams unhaunted of thy sovran form? As beautiful as dreams Thy angel vision seems. On earth below or in the distant spheres: What hope to me appears Of finding aught more lovely than thine eyes, Or sweeter joyaunce than thy thought supplies?

LOVE AND DEATH.

"He dies in youth who to the gods is dear." MBNANDER.

Brethren at one time, Love and Death, did Fate Of yore ingenerate. Nought fairer here below

Hath this our world, nor have the stars, to show. Joys from the one do flow, The greatest joys that we Can in the ocean of existence see. The other every pain And every woe bids wane. A maiden fair of face, Sweet to behold, not such As doth imagine this our craven race, She likes to join full oft The youthful god of love, And both then fly aloft, The paths of earth above, Chief comfort of each wise and noble heart; Nor was a heart more wise Than when by love inspired; Nor in a braver mood This life of woe and anguish to despise, Nor for a lord more high Than this one is, each danger to defy: For where thou giv'st thine aid, Love, courage soon is made, Or doth revive; in noble actions wise And not, as it is wont, in idle mind, Becomes our humankind.

When in the heart profound Ariseth young and A weary, languid longing for the grave Our bosom doth inspire: How, I know not; but such Of real love the first effect is found. Perchance our eyes we cast Upon the desert of the world aghast, And mortal man his habitation loathes Without that joy supreme Whereof his soul doth dream; But in his heart foreboding tempests wild From that same joy, he sighs for quiet mild And for a harbour's ease That should the storm appease, Of which he felt such wild emotions vast.

And when with vivid fire The passion burns the heart, And an imperishable empire gains: How many times, O Death, With an intense desire The lover prays thee to conclude his pains! How oft by night, how oft By day, impatient of his weary frame, He would have called his destiny divine, If he had ne'er arisen, Nor seen again the unpitying planets shine! And oft when tolled the deep funereal knell, And sang the dirge beside the sable hearse That bears the dead to their eternal night, With many burning sighs From deepest heart he envied the repose Of him who went among the tombs to dwell. Even they of low degree: The tiller of the soil, All strength ignoring that from wisdom flows. The tender maiden, full of fear and shame, Who at the very name Of Death was wont to quake: The gloomy horrors of the dreaded grave Oft overcome with fortitude most brave, Long thoughtful of the means That end all earthly woes, And in uncultured mind The wondrous beauty of expiring find. So much to death inclined The power of love appears; and many a time, To such a height the furious tempest risen That it breaks through the trammels of its prison, The body worn and frail Yields to the storm, and Death we see prevail Even in that guise through her fraternal power; Or Love so deeply stirs the heart to ire, That by their deed the rustic, void of guile, And tender maiden fair In agonised despair Their lives destroy when youth doth on them smile. The world doth mock their end, To whom may Heaven peace and old age send.

To fervent, to sublime, To daring souls august, May one or both of ye kind Fortune yield,

O friends and lords, and shield Of this our humankind, Ye to whose power no rival power we find Throughout the world, where we our eyes may cast, Unless in Fate, so terrible and vast. And thou, whom even from earliest days of yore I honour and implore, Thou beauteous Death, alone Of all the world to earthly woes benign! If e'er to thee I've shown My love in song, if to thy sway divine I tried to expiate Unthankful scorn and hate, Delay no more, incline To an unwonted prayer, Close from the light's harsh glare These tear-worn eyes, O sovereign of our fate! Me thou shalt find, whatever be the day When at my moan thou shalt thy wings display, With an undaunted brow, 'Gainst Fortune fortified, The ruthless hand that with my guileless gore Is crimsoned o'er and o'er. Not covering with praise, Not blessing, as the ways Of men dictate, whom ancient errors guide; All idle hopes that may console them now Like children in their grief, And every comfort brief I'll spurn: nought else than thee in any age Implore my woes to assuage; Hope but that day's relief When I, serene, my head can lay to rest Upon thy virgin breast.

TO HIMSELF.

Now shalt thou rest for aye, My weary heart. The final error dies Wherewith I nourished my divinest dreams. 'Tis gone. I feel in me for sweet delusions Not merely hope, but even desire, is dead. Rest for all time. Enough Hath been thine agitation. There is nought So precious, thou shouldst seek it; and the earth Deserveth not a sigh. But weary bitterness Is life, nought else, and ashes is the world. Be now at peace. Despair For the last time. Unto our race did Fate Give nought, save death. Now hold in scorn and hate Thyself and Nature and the power unknown, That reigns supreme unto the grief of all, And the vast vanity of this terrestrial ball.

ASPASIA.

Again at times appeareth to my thought Thy semblance, O Aspasia I either flashing Across my path amid the haunts of men In other forms; or 'mid deserted fields When shines the sun or tranquil host of stars, As by the sweetest harmony awoke, Arising in my soul which seems once more To yield unto that vision all superb, How much adored, O Heaven I of yore how fully The joyaunce and the halo of my life? I never meet the perfume of the gardens, Or of the flowers that cities may display, Without beholding thee as thou appearedst Upon that day, when in thy splendid rooms Which gave the perfume of the sweetest flowers Of recent Spring, arrayed in robes that bore The violet's hue, first thine angelic form Did meet my gaze as thou, reclining, layest On strange, white furs, and deep, voluptuous charm Seemed to be thine, whilst thou, a skilled enchantress Of loving hearts, upon the rosy lips Of thy fair children many a fervent kiss Imprintedst, bending down to them thy neck Of snowy beauty, and with lovely hand Their guileless forms, unconscious of thy wile, Clasping unto thy bosom, so desired, Though hidden. To the visions of my soul Another sky and more entrancing world And radiance as from heaven were revealed. Thus in my heart, though not unarmed, thy power Infixed the arrow which I wounded bore, Until that day when the revolving earth A second time her yearly course fulfilled.

A ray divine unto my thought appeared, Lady, thy beauty. Similar effects Beauty and music's harmony produce, Revealing both the mysteries sublime Of unknown Eden. Thence the loving soul, Though injured in his love, adores the birth Of his fond mind, the amorous idea That doth include Olympus in its range, And seems in face, in manner, and in speech Like unto her whom the enchanted lover Fancies alone to cherish and admire. Not her, but that sweet image, he doth clasp Even in the raptures of a fond embrace, At last his error and the objects changed Perceiving, wrath invades him, and he oft Wrongly accuses her he thought he loved. The mind of woman to that lofty height Rarely ascends, and what her charms inspire She little thinks and seldom understands. So frail a mind can harbour no such thought; In vain doth man, deluded by the light Of those enthralling eyes, indulge in hope; In vain he asks for deep and hidden thoughts, Transcending mortal ken, of her to whom Hath Nature's laws a lesser rank assigned, For as her frame less strength than man's received, So too her mind less energy and depth.?

Nor thou as yet what inspirations vast Within my thought thy loveliness aroused, Aspasia, could'st conceive. Thou little knowest What love unmeasured and what woes intense, What frenzy wild and feelings without name, Thou didst within me move, nor shall the time Appear when thou canst know it. Equally The skilled performer ignorant remains Of what with hand or voice he doth arouse Within his hearers. That Aspasia now Is dead, whom I so worshipped. She lies low For evermore, once idol of my life: Unless at times, a cherished shade, she rises, Ere long to vanish. Thou art still alive, Not merely lovely, but of such perfection That, as I think, thou dost eclipse the rest. But now the ardour, born of thee, is spent: Because I loved not thee, but that fair goddess Who had her dwelling in me, now her grave. Her long I worshipped, and so was I pleased By her celestial loveliness, that I, Even from the first full conscious and aware Of what thou art, so wily and so false, Beholding in thine eyes the light of hers, Fondly pursued thee while she lived in me; Not dazzled or deluded; but induced By the enjoyment of that sweet resemblance, A long and bitter slavery to bear.

Now boast, for well thou may'st; say that alone Of all thy sex art thou to whom I bent My haughty head, to whom I gladly gave My heart in homage. Say that thou wert first And last, I truly hope, to see mine eyes' Imploring gaze, and me before thee stand Timid and fearful (as I write, I burn With wrath and shame); me of myself deprived, Each look of thine, each gesture and each word Observing meekly; at thy haughty freaks Pale and subdued; then radiant with delight At any sign of favour; changing hue At every glance of thine. The charm is gone; And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke, Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me, Yet after such delirium and long thraldom, Gladly my freedom I again embrace, And my unshackled mind. For if a life Void of affections and of errors sweet, Be like a starless night in winter's depth, Revenge sufficient and sufficient balm It is to me that here upon the grass Leisurely lying and unmoved, I gaze On sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile.

ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO RILIEVO

REPRESENTING A MAIDEN TAKING LEAVE OF HER FRIENDS.

Where goest thou, and what imperious voice Calls thee away from love, Thou maiden fair of face? Why, lonely wanderer, from thy native place Dost thou depart before thy days are old? Say, wilt thou ne'er return? No more rejoice Whom round thee now thou dost in tears behold?

Thou weepest not, and dauntless is thy brow, Though sadness on thy features leaves a trace. If life hath pleasing or unjoyous been, If dark with gloom or bright with joy the place To which thou hurriest now, Is by no sign upon thy features seen. Alas! I cannot find Solution of the problem in my mind: Nor can our race below With full assurance know If Heaven to thee doth gentle favour show, Or unrelenting ire, Or if thy doom be fortunate or dire.

Death summons thee. The dawning of thy days Beholds their early close. The home thy footsteps leave Shall ne'er again thy beauteous form receive. On thy fond parents thou no more shalt gaze; Beneath the earth thy future home is laid, Where for all time thy dwelling shall be made. It may be, thou art blest: but on thy doom Who meditates, must sigh in bitter gloom.

The light ne'er to have seen, Methinks would be the best. But, being born, When beauty first begins to reign, a queen, And the fair form to adorn, And meets eternal praise, And many a fervent and adoring gaze; When Hope her fragrant buds begins to show, And ere the beauteous land and sky around Unpitying Truth in darkness doth confound: To find, like vaporous and ethereal clouds That in frail shapes on the horizon play, The future fly, as though unheralded, The joys of times desired Beneath the silent tombstone lying dead: If in this doom the mind Some happiness can find, Even sternest heart with pity must be fired.

Thou mother feared and wept By mortal races from their earliest days, Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise, Who givest life in order to destroy! If agony be kept Alive by early and untimely death, Why on the innocent thy wrath employ? And if it give relief, Why of all woes the chief, Why make the parting so disconsolate To him who still draws breath, To him whom Death's eternal realms await?