Part 3

One star is shining in the crimson eve, And the thin texture of the faint blue sky Above is like a veil intensely drawn; Upon the spirit with a solemn weight The marvel and the mystery of eve Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm, By the vain stir and tumult of the day Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing, Like doves returning to their noted haunts. It is the solemn even-tide--the hour Of holy musings, and to us no less Of sweet refreshment for the bodily frame Than for the spirit, harassed both and worn With a long day of travel; and methinks It must have been an evening such as this, After a day of toilsome journeyings o’er, When looking out on Tiber, as we now Look out on this fair river flowing by, Together sat the saintly Monica[5], And with her, given unto her prayers, that son, The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youth Now first was running clear and bright and smooth, And solitary sitting in the niche Of a deep window held delightful talk-- Such as they never could have known before, While a deep chasm, deeper than natural love Could e’er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls-- Of what must be the glorious life in heaven. And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky, And on the golden west, that richest glow Of sunset to the uncreated light, Which must invest for ever those bright worlds, Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give, Its noblest pleasures, they with one consent Counted as vile, nor once to be compared-- Oh! rather say not worthy to be named With what is to be looked for there; and thus Leaving behind them all things which are seen, By many a stately stair they did ascend Above the earth and all created things, The sun and starry heavens--yea, and above The mind of man, until they did attain Where light no shadow has, and life no death, Where past or future are not, nor can be, But an eternal present, and the Lamb His people feeds from indeficient streams. Then pausing for a moment, as to taste That river of delights, at length they cried, Oh! to be thus for ever, and to hear Thus in the silence of the lower world, And in the silence of all thoughts that keep Vain stir within, unutterable words, And with the splendour of His majesty, Whose seat is in the middle of the throne, Thus to be fed for ever--this must be The beatific vision, the third heaven. What we have for these passing moments known, To know the same for ever--this would be That life whereof even now we held debate. When will it be? oh when?

These things they said, And for a season breathed immortal air, But then perforce returned to earth again: For the air on those first summits is too fine For our long breathing, while we yet have on Our gross investiture of mortal weeds.

Yet not for nothing had their spirits flown To those high regions, bringing back at once A reconcilement with the mean things here, And a more earnest longing for what there Of nobler was by partial glimpses thus Seen through the crannies of the prison house. And she, that mother--such entire content Possessed her bosom, and her Lord had filled The orb of her desires so round and full, Had answered all her prayers for her lost son With such an overmeasure of his grace, She had no more to ask, and did not know Why she should tarry any longer here, Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt, And to these thoughts which overflowed her heart Gave thankful utterance meet; nor many days After this vision and foretaste of joy, Inherited the substance of the things Which she had seen, and entered into peace.

SONNET.

TO MY CHILD--A FELLOW-TRAVELLER.

How of a sudden Sleep has laid on thee His heavy hand--on thee, for ever blest, Sleeping or waking, stirring or at rest: But now thou wert exulting merrily, And in the very middle of thy glee Thy head thou layedst on thy father’s breast, There seeming to have found a peacefuller nest Than one would think might in this loud world be. There were no need to fear thy worser mood, Striving in years to come against the good He would impart, if thou couldst keep in mind How many times, the while with anxious care He sought to screen thee from the chilling air, Upon his bosom thou hast slept reclined.

THE DESCENT OF THE RHONE.

Often when my thought has been Pondering on what solemn scene, Which of all the glorious shows Nature can at will disclose, Once beholden by the eye, Ever after would supply Most unto the musing heart Of memories which should not depart-- It has seemed no ampler dower Of her beauty or her power We could win, than night and day, An illimitable way, To sail down some mighty river, Sailing as we would sail for ever.

Lo! my wish is almost won, Broadly flows the stately Rhone, And we loosen from the shore Our light pinnace, long before The young East in gorgeous state Has unlocked his ruby gate, And our voyage is not done At the sinking of the sun; But for us the azure Night Feeds her golden flocks with light: Ours are all the hues of heaven, Sights and sounds of morn and even; In our view the day is born; First the stars of lustre shorn, Until Hesper, he who last Kept his splendour, now fades fast; A faint bloom over heaven is spread, And the clouds blush deeper red, Till from them the stream below Catches the same roseate glow; The pale east lightens into gold, And the west is with the fold Of the mantle of dim night Scarcely darkened or less bright-- Till, his way prepared, at length Rising up in golden strength, Tramples the victorious sun The dying stars out, one by one.

Fairer scene the opening eye Of the day can scarce descry-- Fairer sight he looks not on Than the pleasant banks of Rhone; Where in terraces and ranks, On those undulating banks, Rise by many a hilly stair Sloping tiers of vines, where’er From the steep and stony soil Has been won by careful toil, And with long laborious pains Fenced against the washing rains, Fenced and anxiously walled round, A little patch of garden ground. Higher still some place of power, Or a solitary tower, Ruined now, is looking down On some quiet little town In a sheltered glen beneath, Where the smoke’s unbroken wreath, Mounting in the windless air, Rests, dissolving slowly there, O’er the housetops like a cloud, Or a thinnest vapourous shroud.

Morn has been, and lo! how soon Has arrived the middle noon, And the broad sun’s rays do rest On some naked mountain’s breast, Where alone relieve the eye Massive shadows, as they lie In the hollows motionless; Still our boat doth onward press. Now a peaceful current wide Bears it on an ample tide, Now the hills retire, and then Their broad fronts advance again, Till the rocks have closed us round, And would seem our course to bound, But anon a way appears, And our vessel onward steers, Darting swiftly as between Narrow walls of a ravine.

Morn has been and noon--and now Evening falls about our prow: But the sunken sunset still Burns behind the western hill; Lo! the starry troop again Gather on the ethereal plain; Even now and there were none, And a moment since but one; And anon we lift our head, And all heaven is overspread With a still assembling crowd, With a silent multitude-- Venus, first and brightest set In the night’s pale coronet, Armed Orion’s belted pride, And the Seven that by the side Of the Titan nightly weave Dances in the mystic eve, Sisters linked in love and light; ’Twere in truth a solemn sight, Were we sailing now as they, Who upon their western way To the isles of spice and gold, Nightly watching, might behold These our constellations dip, And the great sign of the Ship Rise upon the other hand, With the Cross that seems to stand In the vault of heaven upright, Marking the middle hour of night-- Or with them whose keels first prest The mighty rivers of the west, Who the first with bold intent Down the Orellana went,[6] Or a dangerous progress won On the mighty Amazon, By whose ocean-streams they tell How yet the warrior-maidens dwell.

But the Fancy may not roam; Thou wilt keep it nearer home, Friend, of earthly friends the best, Who on this fair river’s breast Sailest with me fleet and fast, As the unremitting blast With a steady breath and strong Urges our light boat along. We this day have found delight In each pleasant sound and sight Of this river bright and fair, And in things which flowing are Like a stream, yet without blame These my passing song may claim, Or thy hearing may beguile, If we not forget the while, That we are from childhood’s morn On a mightier river borne, Which is rolling evermore To a sea without a shore, Life the river, and the sea That we seek--eternity. We may sometimes sport and play, And in thought keep holiday, So we ever own a law, Living in habitual awe, And beneath the constant stress Of a solemn thoughtfulness, Weighing whither this life tends, For what high and holy ends It was lent us, whence it flows, And its current whither goes.

There is ample matter here For as much of thought and fear, As will solemnize our souls-- Thought of how this river rolls Over millions wrecked before They could reach that happy shore, Where we have not anchored yet; Of the dangers which beset Our own way, of hidden shoal, Waters smoothest where they roll Over point of sunken rock, Treacherous calm, and sudden shock Of the storm, which can assail No boat than ours more weak or frail-- Matter not alone of sadness, But no less of thankful gladness, That, whichever way we turn, There are steady lights that burn On the shore, and lamps of love In the gloomiest sky above, Which will guide our bark aright Through the darkness of our night-- Many a fixed unblinking star Unto them that wandering are Through this blindly-weltering sea. Themes of high and thoughtful glee, When we think we are not left, Of all solaces bereft, Each to hold, companionless, Through a watery wilderness, Unaccompanied our way, As we can--this I may say, Whatsoever else betide, With thee sitting at my side, And this happy cherub sweet, Playing, laughing at my feet.

ON THE PERSEUS AND MEDUSA OF BENVENUTO CELLINI.

In what fierce spasms upgathered, on the plain Medusa’s headless corpse has quivering sunk, While all the limbs of that undying trunk To their extremest joint with torture strain; But the calm visage has resumed again Its beauty,--the orbed eyelids are let down, As though a living sleep might once more crown Their placid circlets, guiltless of all pain. And Thou--is thine the spirit’s swift recoil, Which follows every deed of acted wrath, That holding in thine hand this lovely spoil, Thou dost not triumph, feeling that the breath Of life is sacred, whether it inform, Loathly or beauteous, man or beast or worm?

LINES.

WRITTEN AT THE VILLAGE OF PASSIGNANO, ON THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE.

The mountains stand about the quiet lake, That not a breath its azure calm may break; No leaf of these sere olive trees is stirred, In the near silence far-off sounds are heard; The tiny bat is flitting overhead, The hawthorn doth its richest odours shed Into the dewy air; and over all Veil after veil the evening shadows fall, And one by one withdraw each glimmering height, The far, and then the nearer, from our sight-- No sign surviving in this tranquil scene; That strife and savage tumult here have been.

But if the pilgrim to the latest plain Of carnage, where the blood like summer rain Fell but the other day; if in his mind He marvels much and oftentimes to find With what success has Nature each sad trace Of man’s red footmarks laboured to efface-- What wonder is it, if this spot appears Guiltless of strife, when now two thousand years Of daily reparation have gone by, Since it resumed its own tranquillity. This calm has nothing strange, yet not the less This holy evening’s solemn quietness, The perfect beauty of this windless lake, This stillness which no harsher murmurs break Than the frogs croaking from the distant sedge, These vineyards drest unto the water’s edge, This hind that homeward driving the slow steer, Tells that man’s daily work goes forward here, Have each a power upon me, while I drink The influence of the placid time, and think How gladly that sweet Mother once again Resumes her sceptre and benignant reign, But for a few short instants scared away By the mad game, the cruel impious fray Of her distempered children--how comes back, And leads them in the customary track Of blessing once again; to order brings Anew the dislocated frame of things, And covers up, and out of sight conceals What they have wrought of ill, or gently heals.

VESUVIUS, AS SEEN FROM CAPRI.

A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky, In quiet adoration, silently-- Till the faint currents of the upper air Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there, The dome, as of a palace, hung on high Over the mountain--underneath it lie Vineyards and hays and cities white and fair. Might we not hope this beauty would engage All living things unto one pure delight? A vain belief!--for here, our records tell, Rome’s understanding tyrant from men’s sight Hid, as within a guilty citadel, The shame of his dishonourable age.

VESUVIUS.

As when unto a mother, having chid Her child in anger, there have straight ensued Repentings for her quick and angry mood, That she would fain see all its traces hid Quite out of sight--even so has Nature bid Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has strewed, To blossom, and called up the taller wood To cover what she ruined and undid. Oh! and her mood of anger did not last More than an instant, but her work of peace, Restoring and repairing, comforting The earth, her stricken child, will never cease; For that was her strange work, and quickly past, To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring.

THE SAME, CONTINUED.

That her destroying fury was with noise And sudden uproar--but far otherwise, With silent and with secret ministries, Her skill of renovation she employs: For Nature, only loud when she destroys, Is silent when she fashions. She will crowd The work of her destruction, transient, loud, Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys. Yea, every power that fashions and upholds Works silently--all things whose life is sure, Their life is calm--silent the light that moulds And colours all things; and without debate The stars, which are for ever to endure, Assume their thrones and their unquestioned state.

TO ENGLAND.

WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO SORRENTO.

They are but selfish visions at the best, Which tempt us to desire that we were free From the dear ties that bind us unto Thee, That so we might take up our lasting rest, Where some delightful spot, some hidden nest In brighter lands has pleased our phantasy: And might such vows at once accomplished be, We should not in the accomplishment be blest, But oh! most miserable, if it be true Peace only waits upon us, while we do Heaven’s work and will: for what is it we ask, When we would fain have leave to linger here, But to abandon our appointed task, Our place of duty and our natural sphere?

LINES.

WRITTEN AFTER HEARING SOME BEAUTIFUL SINGING IN A CONVENT CHURCH AT ROME.

Sweet voices! seldom mortal ear Strains of such potency might hear; My soul, that listened, seemed quite gone, Dissolved in sweetness, and anon I was borne upward, till I trod Among the hierarchy of God. And when they ceased, as time must bring An end to every sweetest thing, With what reluctancy came back My spirits to their wonted track, And how I loathed the common life, The daily and recurring strife With petty sins, the lowly road And being’s ordinary load. Why after such a solemn mood Should any meaner thought intrude? Why will not heaven hereafter give, That we for evermore may live Thus at our spirit’s topmost bent? This said I in my discontent.

But give me, Lord, a wiser heart; These seasons come, and they depart, These seasons, and those higher still, When we are given to have our fill Of strength and life and joy with thee, And brightness of thy face to see. They come, or we could never guess Of heaven’s sublimer blessedness; They come, to be our strength and cheer In other times, in doubt or fear, Or should our solitary way Lie through the desert many a day. They go, they leave us blank and dead, That we may learn, when they are fled, We are but vapours which have won A moment’s brightness from the sun, And which it may at pleasure fill With splendour, or unclothe at will. Well for us they do not abide, Or we should lose ourselves in pride, And be as angels--but as they Who on the battlements of day Walked, gazing on their power and might, Till they grew giddy in their height.

Then welcome every nobler time, When, out of reach of earth’s dull chime, ’Tis ours to drink with purgèd ears The music of the solemn spheres, Or in the desert to have sight Of those enchanted cities bright, Which sensual eye can never see: Thrice welcome may such seasons be. But welcome too the common way, The lowly duties of the day, And all which makes and keeps us low, Which teaches us ourselves to know, That we, who do our lineage high Draw from beyond the starry sky, Are yet upon the other side To earth and to its dust allied.

ON A PICTURE OF THE ASSUMPTION BY MURILLO.

With what calm power thou risest on the wind-- Mak’st thou a pinion of those locks unshorn? Or of that dark blue robe which floats behind In ample fold? or art thou cloud-upborne?

A crescent moon is bent beneath thy feet, Above the heavens expand, and tier o’er tier With heavenly garlands thy advance to greet, The cloudy throng of cherubim appear.

There is a glory round thee, and mine eyes Are dazzled, for I know not whence it came, Since never in the light of western skies The island clouds burned with so pure a flame:

Nor were those flowers of our dull common mould, But nurtured on some amaranthine bed, Nearer the sun, remote from storms and cold, By purer dews and warmer breezes fed.

Well may we be perplexed and sadly wrought, That we can guess so ill what dreams were thine, Ere from the chambers of thy silent thought That face looked out on thee, Painter divine.

What innocence, what love, what loveliness, What purity must have familiar been Unto thy soul, before it could express The holy beauty in that visage seen.

And so, if we would understand thee right, And the diviner portion of thine art, We must exalt our spirits to thine height, Nor wilt thou else the mystery impart.

AN INCIDENT VERSIFIED.

Far in the south there is a jutting ledge Of rocks, scarce peering o’er the water’s edge, Where earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales, That in their course have filled a thousand sails, And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep, Till now they make the nimble spirit leap Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath, And stir it like the ocean depths beneath. Two that were strangers to that sunny land, And to each other, met upon this strand; One seemed to keep so slight a hold of life, That when he willed, without the spirit’s strife, He might let go--a flower upon a ledge Of verdant meadow by a river’s edge, Which ever loosens with its treacherous flow In gradual lapse the moistened soil below; While to the last in beauty and in bloom That flower is scattering incense o’er its tomb, And with the dews upon it, and the breath Of the fresh morning round it, sinks to death.

They met the following day, and many more They paced together this low ridge of shore, Till one fair eve, the other with intent To lure him out, unto his chamber went; But straight retired again with noiseless pace, For with a subtle gauze flung o’er his face Upon his bed he lay, serene and still And quiet, even as one who takes his fill Of a delight he does not fear to lose. So blest he seemed, the other could not choose To wake him, but went down the narrow stair; And when he met an aged attendant there, She ceased her work to tell him, when he said, Her patient then on happy slumber fed, But that anon he would return once more,-- Her inmate had expired an hour before.

I know not by what chance he thus was thrown On a far shore, untended and alone, To live or die; for, as I after learned, There were in England many hearts that yearned To know his safety, and such tears were shed For him as grace the living and the dead.

ADDRESSED ON LEAVING ROME TO A FRIEND RESIDING IN THAT CITY.

O lately written in the roll of friends, O written late, not last, three pleasant months Under the shadow of the Capitol, A pleasant time, made pleasanter by thee, It has been mine to pass--three months of spring, Which pleasant in themselves and for thy sake, Had yet this higher, that they stirred in the heart The motions of continual thankfulness To me, considering by what gracious paths I had been guided, by what paths of love, Since I was last a dweller in these gates. That meditation could not prove to me But as a spring that ever bubbles up, Sparkling in the face of heaven, when every day Reminded me how little gladness then I gathered from these things, but now how much.