Part 2

We parted, each upon our way-- I homeward, where my glad course lay Beside those ruins where I sate On the same morning--desolate,-- With scarcely strength enough to grieve: And now it was a marvellous eve, The waters at my feet were bright, And breaking into isles of light: The misty sunset did enfold A thousand floating motes of gold; The red light seemed to penetrate Through the worn stone, and re-create The old, to glorify anew; And steeping all things through and through A rich dissolving splendour poured Through rent and fissure, and restored The fall’n, the falling and decayed, Filling the rifts which time had made, Till the rent masses seemed to meet, The pillar stand upon its feet, And tower and cornice, roof and stair Hung self-upheld in the magic air. Transfigured thus those temples stood Upon the margin of the flood, All glorious as they rose of yore, There standing, as not ever more They could be harmed by touch of time, But still, as in that perfect prime, Must flourish unremoved and free, Or as they then appeared to me, A newer and more glorious birth, A city of that other earth, That Earth which is to be.

SONNET.

What good soever in thy heart or mind Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own Than thine own self, nor bow to other throne-- Suspect and fear--although therein thou find High purpose to go forth and bless thy kind, Or in the awful temple of thy soul To worship what is loveliest, and controul The ill within, and by strong laws to bind. Good is of God--and none is therefore sure That has dared wander from its source away: Laws without sanction will not long endure, Love will grow faint and fainter day by day, And Beauty from the straight path will allure, And weakening first, will afterwards betray.

TO ----

What maiden gathers flowers, who does not love[2]? And some have said, that none in summer bowers, Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers: O lady, of a purpose dost thou move Through garden walks, as willing to disprove This gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand, Hast culled a thousand thus at my command, Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove. There is no meaning in a thousand flowers-- _One_ lily from its green stalk wouldst thou part, Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold, One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers, Upgathering closely to its virgin heart An undivulgèd hoard of central gold.

TO THE SAME.

Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright, And how it seems to drink the golden light Of evening--you would think that it had won A splendour of its own: but lo! anon You shall behold a dark mass float away, Emptied of light and radiance, from the day, Its glory faded utterly and gone. And doubt not we should suffer the same loss As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem Translucent and made pure of all its dross, If, having shared the light, we should misdeem That light our own, or count we hold in fee That which we must receive continually.

TO THE SAME.

We live not in our moments or our years-- The Present we fling from us like the rind Of some sweet Future, which we after find Bitter to taste, or bind _that_ in with fears, And water it beforehand with our tears-- Vain tears for that which never may arrive: Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live Neglected or unheeded disappears. Wiser it were to welcome and make ours Whate’er of good, though small, the present brings-- Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers, With a child’s pure delight in little things; And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, Knowing that mercy ever will endure.

TO THE SAME.

If sorrow came not near us, and the lore Which wisdom-working sorrow best imparts, Found never time of entrance to our hearts, If we had won already a safe shore, Or if our changes were already o’er, Our pilgrim being we might quite forget, Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set, Where there shall be no sorrow any more. Therefore we will not be unwise to ask This, nor secure exemption from our share Of mortal suffering, and life’s drearier task-- Not this, but grace our portion so to bear, That we may rest, when grief and pain are over, “With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover.”

TO THE SAME.

O dowered with a searching glance to see Quite through the hollow masks, wherewith the bare And worthless shows of greatness vizored are, This lore thou hast, because all things to thee Are proven by the absolute decree Of duty, and whatever will not square With that “prime wisdom,” though of seeming fair Or stately, thou rejectest faithfully. Till chidden in thy strength, each random aim Of good, whose aspect heavenward does not turn, Shrinks self-rebuked--thou looking kindliest blame From the calm region of thine eyes, that burn With tempered but continuous flashes bright, Like the mild lightnings of a tropic night.

A LEGEND OF ALHAMBRA.

The tradition on which the following Ballad is founded is an existing one, and exactly as it is here recounted was narrated to the author during his stay at Granada.

O hymned in many a poet’s strain, Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand Exalted on this throne of Spain, A marvel of the land,

The last of thy imperial race, Alhambra, when he overstept Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face-- He turned his face and wept.

In sooth it was a thing to weep, If then, as now, the level plain Beneath was spreading like the deep, The broad unruffled main:

If, like a watch-tower of the sun, Above the Alpujarras rose, Streaked, when the dying day was done, With evening’s roseate snows.

Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound, And the twelve lions, couchant yet, Sustain their ponderous burthen, round The marble basin set.

But never, when the moon is bright O’er hill and golden-sanded stream, And thy square turrets in the light And taper columns gleam,

Will village maiden dare to fill Her pitcher from that basin wide, But rather seeks a niggard rill Far down the steep hill-side!

It was an Andalusian maid, With rose and pink-enwoven hair, Who told me what the fear that stayed Their footsteps from that stair:

How, rising from that watery floor, A Moorish maiden, in the gleam Of the wan moonlight, stands before The stirrer of the stream:

And mournfully she begs the grace, That they would speak the words divine, And sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign.

And whosoe’er will grant this boon, Returning with the morrow’s light, Shall find the fountain pavement strewn With gold and jewels bright:

A regal gift--for once, they say, Her father ruled this broad domain, The last who kept beneath his sway This pleasant place of Spain.

It surely is a fearful doom, That one so beautiful should have No present quiet in her tomb, No hope beyond the grave.

It must be, that some amulet Doth make all human pity vain, Or that upon her brow is set The silent seal of pain,

Which none can meet--else long ago, Since many gentle hearts are there, Some spirit, touched by joy or woe, Had answered to her prayer.

But so it is, that till this hour That mournful child beneath the moon Still rises from her watery bower, To urge this simple boon--

To beg, as all have need of grace, That they would speak the words divine, And, sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign.

ENGLAND.

Peace, Freedom, Happiness, have loved to wait On the fair islands, fenced by circling seas, And ever of such favoured spots as these Have the wise dreamers dreamed, that would create That perfect model of a happy state, Which the world never saw. Oceana, Utopia such, and Plato’s isle that lay Westward of Gades and the Great Sea’s gate. Dreams are they all, which yet have helped to make That underneath fair polities we dwell, Though marred in part by envy, faction, hate-- Dreams which are dear, dear England, for thy sake, Who art indeed that sea-girt citadel, And nearest image of that perfect state.

THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.

Though never axe until a later day Assailed thy forests’ huge antiquity, Yet elder Fame had many tales of thee-- Whether Phœnician shipman far astray Had brought uncertain notices away Of islands dreaming in the middle sea; Or that man’s heart, which struggles to be free From the old worn-out world, had never stay Till, for a place to rest on, it had found A region out of ken, that happier isle, Which the mild ocean breezes blow around, Where they who thrice upon this mortal stage Had kept their hands from wrong, their hearts from guile, Should come at length, and live a tearless age.

GIBRALTAR.

England, we love thee better than we know-- And this I learned, when after wanderings long ’Mid people of another stock and tongue, I heard again thy martial music blow, And saw thy gallant children to and fro Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, Which like twin giants watch the Herculean straits: When first I came in sight of that brave show, It made my very heart within me dance, To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance Forward so far into the mighty sea; Joy was it and exultation to behold Thine ancient standard’s rich emblazonry, A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.

ENGLAND.

We look for, and have promise to behold A better country, such as earth has none-- Yet, England, am I still thy duteous son, And never will this heart be dead or cold At the relation of thy glories old, Or of what newer triumphs thou hast won, Where thou as with a mighty arm hast done The work of God, quelling the tyrants bold. Elect of nations, for the whole world’s good Thou wert exalted to a doom so high-- To outbrave Rome’s “triple tyrant,” to confound Every oppressor, that with impious flood Would drown the landmarks of humanity, The limits God hath set to nations and their bound[3].

POLAND, 1831.

The nations may not be trod out, and quite Obliterated from the world’s great page-- The nations, that have filled from age to age Their place in story. They who in despite Of this, a people’s first and holiest right, In lust of unchecked power or brutal rage, Against a people’s life such warfare wage, With man no more, but with the Eternal fight. They who break down the barriers He hath set, Break down what would another time defend And shelter their own selves: they who forget (For the indulgence of the present will) The lasting ordinances, in the end Will rue their work, when ill shall sanction ill.

TO NICHOLAS, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA.

ON HIS REPORTED CONDUCT TOWARDS THE POLES.

What would it help to call thee what thou art? When all is spoken, thou remainest still With the same power and the same evil will To crush a nation’s life out, to dispart All holiest ties, to turn awry and thwart All courses that kind nature keeps, to spill The blood of noblest veins, to maim, or kill With torture of slow pain the aching heart. When our weak hands hang useless, and we feel Deeds cannot be, who then would ease his breast With the impotence of words? But our appeal Is unto Him, who counts a nation’s tears, With whom are the oppressor and opprest, And vengeance, and the recompensing years.

ON THE RESULTS OF THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

How long shall weary nations toil in blood, How often roll the still returning stone Up the sharp painful height, ere they will own That on the base of individual good, Of virtue, manners, and pure homes endued With household graces--that on this alone Shall social freedom stand--where these are gone, There is a nation doomed to servitude? O suffering, toiling France, thy toil is vain! The irreversible decree stands sure, Where men are selfish, covetous of gain, Heady and fierce, unholy and impure, Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain; They cannot build a work which shall endure.

TO ENGLAND.

A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING.

Thy duteous loving children fear for thee In one thing chiefly--for thy pure abodes And thy undesecrated household Gods, Thou most religious, and for this most free, Of all the nations. Oh! look out and see The injuries which she, who in the name Of liberty thy fellowship would claim, Has done to virtue and to liberty; Whose philtres have corrupted everywhere The living springs men drink of, all save thine. Oh! then of her and of her love beware! Better again eight hundred years of strife, Than give her leave to sap and undermine The deep foundations of thy moral life.

SONNET.

You say we love not freedom, honoured friend; Yea, doubtless, we can lend to scheme like yours Small love. Yet not for this--that it assures Too much to man--this would not me offend: But for I know that all such schemes will end With leaving him too little,--will deprive Of that free energy by which we live: For of such plots the final act attend-- See them who loathed the very name of king, Emulous in slavery, bow their souls before The new-coined title of some meaner thing Than ever crown of king or emperor wore; For such in God’s and Nature’s righteousness, The weakness which avenges all excess.

SONNET TO SILVIO PELLICO,

ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF HIS IMPRISONMENT.

Ah! who may guess, who yet was never tried How fearful the temptation to reply With wrong for wrong, yea fiercely to defy In spirit, even when action is denied? Therefore praise waits on thee, not drawn aside By this strong lure of hell--on thee whose eye Being formed by love, could every where descry Love, or some workings unto love allied-- And benediction on the grace that dealt So with thy soul--and prayer, more earnest prayer, Intenser longing than before we felt For all that in dark places lying are, For captives in strange lands, for them who pine In depth of dungeon, or in sunless mine[4].

TO THE SAME.

Songs of deliverance compassed thee about, Long ere thy prison doors were backward flung: When first thy heart to gentle thoughts was strung, A song arose in heaven, an angel shout For one delivered from the hideous rout, That with defiance and fierce mutual hate Do each the other’s griefs exasperate. Thou, loving, from thy grief hadst taken out Its worst--for who is captive or a slave But He, who from that dungeon and foul grave, His own dark soul, refuses to come forth Into the light and liberty above? Or whom may we call wretched on this earth Save only him who has left off to love?

FROM THE SPANISH.

Who ever such adventure yet, Or a like delight has known, To that which Count Arnaldo met On the morning of St. John?

He had gone forth beside the sea, With his falcon on his hand, And saw a pinnace fast and free, That was making to the land.

And he that by the rudder stood As he went was singing still, “My galley, oh my galley good, Heaven protect thee from all ill;

“From all the dangers and the woe That on ocean’s waters wait, Almeria’s reefs and shallows low, And Gibraltar’s stormy strait.

“From Venice and its shallow way, From the shoals of Flanders’ coast, And from the gulf of broad Biscay, Where the dangers are the most.”

Then Count Arnaldo spoke aloud, You might hear his accents well-- “Those words, thou mariner, I would Unto me that thou wouldst tell.”

To him that mariner replied In a courteous tone, but free-- “I never sing that song,” he cried, “Save to one who sails with me.”

LINES.

Not thou from us, O Lord, but we Withdraw ourselves from thee.

When we are dark and dead, And Thou art covered with a cloud, Hanging before Thee, like a shroud, So that our prayer can find no way, Oh! teach us that we do not say, “Where is _thy_ brightness fled?”

But that we search and try What in ourselves has wrought this blame; For thou remainest still the same; But earth’s own vapours earth may fill With darkness and thick clouds, while still The sun is in the sky.

TO A FRIEND ENTERING THE MINISTRY.

I.

High thoughts at first, and visions high Are ours of easy victory; The word we bear seems so divine, So framed for Adam’s guilty line, That none, unto ourselves we say, Of all his sinning suffering race, Will hear that word, so full of grace, And coldly turn away.

II.

But soon a sadder mood comes round-- High hopes have fallen to the ground, And the ambassadors of peace Go weeping, that men will not cease To strive with heaven--they weep and mourn, That suffering men will not be blest, That weary men refuse to rest, And wanderers to return.

III.

Well is it, if has not ensued Another and a worser mood, When all unfaithful thoughts have way, When we hang down our hands, and say, Alas! it is a weary pain, To seek with toil and fruitless strife To chafe the numbed limbs into life, That will not live again.

IV.

Then if Spring odours on the wind Float by, they bring into our mind That it were wiser done, to give Our hearts to Nature, and to live For her--or in the student’s bower To search into her hidden things, And seek in books the wondrous springs Of knowledge and of power.

V.

Or if we dare not thus draw back, Yet oh! to shun the crowded track And the rude throng of men! to dwell In hermitage or lonely cell, Feeding all longings that aspire Like incense heavenward, and with care And lonely vigil nursing there Faith’s solitary pyre.

VI.

Oh! let not us this thought allow-- The heat, the dust upon our brow, Signs of the contest, we may wear: Yet thus we shall appear more fair In our Almighty Master’s eye, Than if in fear to lose the bloom, Or ruffle the soul’s lightest plume, We from the strife should fly.

VII.

And for the rest, in weariness, In disappointment, or distress, When strength decays, or hope grows dim, We ever may recur to Him, Who has the golden oil divine, Wherewith to feed our failing urns, Who watches every lamp that burns Before his sacred shrine.

TO A CHILD, PLAYING.

Dear boy, thy momentary laughter rings Sincerely out, and that spontaneous glee, Seeming to need no hint from outward things, Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.

From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow, That borrows nothing from the world around? Its springs must deeper lie than we can know, A well whose springs lie safely underground.

So be it ever--and thou happy boy, When Time, that takes these wild delights away, Gives thee a measure of sedater joy, Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;--

Then may that joy, like this, to outward things Owe nothing--but lie safe beneath the sod, A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs, From the glad-making river of our God.

THE HERRING-FISHERS OF LOCHFYNE.

Deem not these fishers idle, though by day You hear the snatches of their lazy song, And see them listlessly the sunlight long Strew the curved beach of this indented bay: So deemed I, till I viewed their trim array Of boats last night,--a busy armament, With sails as dark as ever Theseus bent Upon his fatal rigging, take their way. Rising betimes, I could not choose but look For their return, and when along the lake The morning mists were curling, saw them make Homeward, returning toward their quiet nook, With draggled nets down hanging to the tide, Weary, and leaning o’er their vessels’ side.

IN THE ISLE OF MULL.

The clouds are gathering in their western dome, Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew, While I with baffled effort still pursue And track these waters toward their mountain home, In vain--though cataract, and mimic foam, And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw Its sister arms, which joyed to meet anew, Have lured me on, and won me still to roam; Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass, Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass-- And I, thy founts unvisited, return. Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers? Or dost thou feed a solitary urn, Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?

THE SAME.

Sweet Water-nymph, more shy than Arethuse, Why wilt thou hide from me thy green retreat, Where duly Thou with silver-sandalled feet, And every Naiad, her green locks profuse, Welcome with dance sad evening, or unloose, To share your revel, an oak-cinctured throng, Oread and Dryad, who the daylight long By rock, or cave, or antique forest, use To shun the Wood-god and his rabble bold? Such comes not now, or who with impious strife Would seek to untenant meadow stream and plain Of that indwelling power, which is the life And which sustaineth each, which poets old As god and goddess thus have loved to feign.

AT SEA.

The sea is like a mirror far and near, And ours a prosperous voyage, safe from harms; And yet the sense that everlasting arms Are round us and about us, is as dear Now when no sight of danger doth appear, As though our vessel did its blind way urge ’Mid the long weltering of the dreariest surge, Through which a perishing bark did ever steer. Lord of the calm and tempest, be it ours, Poor mariners! to pay due vows to thee, Though not a cloud on all the horizon lowers Of all our life--for even so shall we Have greater boldness towards thee, when indeed The storm is up, and there is earnest need.

AN EVENING IN FRANCE.