Part 4

For tho’ not then indifferent to me Nature or art, yea rather tho’ from these I drew whatever lightened for a while The burden of our life and weary load; Yet seldom could I summon heart enough, With all their marvels round me, to go forth In quest of any. But some lonely spot, Some ridge of ruin fringed with cypresses, Such as have everywhere loved well to make Their chosen home above all other trees, ’Mid the fal’n palaces of ancient Rome, Me did such haunt please better, or I loved, With others whom the like disquietude, At the like crisis of their lives, now kept Restless, with them to question to and fro And to debate the evil of the world, As tho’ we bore no portion of that ill, As tho’ with subtle phrases we could spin A woof to screen us from its undelight: Such talk sometimes prolonging into night, As being loth to separate, and find Each in his solitude how vain are words, When that they have opposed to them is more.

I would not live that time again for much, Full as it was of long and weary days, Full of rebellious askings, for what end, And by what power, without our own consent, We were placed here, to suffer and to sin, To be in misery and know not why. But so it was with me, a sojourner, Five years ago, beneath these mouldering walls As I am now: and, trusted friend, to thee I have not doubted to reveal my soul, For thou hast known, if I may read aright The pages of thy past existence, thou Hast known the dreary sickness of the soul, That falls upon us in our lonely youth, The fear of all bright visions leaving us, The sense of emptiness, without the sense Of an abiding fulness anywhere, When all the generations of mankind, With all their purposes, their hopes and fears, Seem nothing truer than those wandering shapes Cast by a trick of light upon a wall, And nothing different from these, except In their capacity for suffering; What time we have the sense of sin, and none Of expiation. Our own life seemed then But as an arrow flying in the dark Without an aim, a most unwelcome gift, Which we might not put by. But now, what God Intended as a blessing and a boon We have received as such, and we can say A solemn yet a joyful thing is life, Which, being full of duties, is for this Of gladness full, and full of lofty hopes.

And He has taught us what reply to make, Or secretly in spirit, or in words, If there be need, when sorrowing men complain The fair illusions of their youth depart, All things are going from them, and to-day Is emptier of delights than yesterday, Even as to-morrow will be barer yet; We have been taught to feel this need not be, This is not life’s inevitable law,-- But that the gladness we are called to know, Is an increasing gladness, that the soil Of the human heart, tilled rightly, will become Richer and deeper, fitter to bear fruit Of an immortal growth, from day to day, Fruit of love life and indeficient joy.

Oh! not for baneful self-complacency, Not for the setting up our present selves To triumph o’er our past (worst pride of all), May we compare this present with that past; But to provoke renewed acknowledgments, But to incite unto an earnest hope For all our brethren. And how should I fear To own to thee that this is in my heart-- This longing, that it leads me home to-day, Glad even while I turn my back on Rome, Yet half unseen--its arts, its memories, Its glorious fellowship of living men; Glad in the hope to tread the soil again Of England, where our place of duty lies: Not as altho’ we thought we could do much, Or claimed large sphere of action for ourselves; Not in this thought--since rather be it ours, Both thine and mine, to cultivate that frame Of spirit, when we know and deeply feel How little we can do, and yet do that.

TASSO’S DUNGEON, FERRARA.

How might the goaded sufferer in this cell, With nothing upon which his eyes might fall, Except this vacant court, that dreary wall, How might he live? I asked. Here doomed to dwell, I marvel how at all he could repel Thoughts which to madness and despair would call. Enter this vault--the bare sight will appal Thy spirit, even as mine within me fell, Until I learned that wall not always there Had stood--’twas something that this iron grate Once had looked out upon a garden fair. There must have been then here, to calm his brain, Green leaves, and flowers, and sunshine--and a weight Fell from me, and my heart revived again.

SONNET.

It may be that our homeward longings made That other lands were judged with partial eyes; But fairer in my sight the mottled skies, With pleasant interchange of sun and shade, And more desired the meadow and deep glade Of sylvan England, green with frequent showers, Than all the beauty which the vaunted bowers Of the parched South have in mine eyes displayed; Fairer and more desired--this well might be: For let the South have beauty’s utmost dower, And yet my heart might well have turned to thee, My home, my country, when a delicate flower Within thy pleasant borders was for me Tended, and growing up thro’ sun and shower.

AT BRUNECKEN, IN THE TYROL.

The men who for this earthly life would claim Well nigh the whole, and if the work of heaven Be relegated to one day in seven, Account the other six may without blame, Unsanctified by one diviner aim, To self to mammon and the world be given, These scanty worshippers might nigh be driven, Were they but here, to profitable shame. This eve, the closing of no festal day, This common work-day eve, in the open street Seen have I groups of happy people meet, Putting for this their toil and tasks away, Men, women, boys, at one rude shrine to pray, And there their fervent litanies repeat.

SONNET.

To leave unseen so many a glorious sight, To leave so many lands unvisited, To leave so many worthiest books unread, Unrealized so many visions bright;-- Oh! wretched yet inevitable spite Of our short span, and we must yield our breath, And wrap us in the lazy coil of death, So much remaining of unproved delight. But hush, my soul, and, vain regrets, be stilled Find rest in Him who is the complement Of whatsoe’er transcends your mortal doom, Of broken hope and frustrated intent; In the clear vision and aspèct of whom All wishes and all longings are fulfilled.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN INN.

A dreary lot is his who roams “Homeless among a thousand homes;” A dreary thing it is to stray, As I have sometimes heard men say, And of myself have partly known, A passing stranger and alone In some great city: harder there, With life about us everywhere, Than in the desert to restrain A sense of solitary pain. We wander thro’ the busy street, And think how every one we meet Has parents sister friend or wife, With whom to share the load of life. We wander on, for little care Have we turn our footsteps there, Where we are but a nameless guest, One who may claim no interest In any heart--a passing face, That comes and goes, and leaves no trace; Where service waits us, prompt but cold, A loveless service, bought and sold.

Yet hard it is not to sustain A time like this, if there remain True greetings for us, hand and heart, Wherein we claim the chiefest part, Although divided now they be By many a tract of land and sea. If we can fly to thoughts like these, Fall back on such sure sympathies, This were sufficient to repress That transient sense of loneliness.

Yet better if, where’er we roam, Another country, truer home, Is in our hearts; if there we find The word of power, that from the mind All sad and drear thoughts shall repel, All solitary broodings quell; If in the joy of heav’n we live, Nor only on what earth can give, Tho’ pure and high--so we may learn Unto the soul’s great good to turn What things soever best engage Our thoughts towàrd our pilgrimage, Which teach us this is not our rest, That here we are but as a guest. As doubtless ’twas no other thought That in his holy bosom wrought, Who not alone content to win In life the shelter of an inn, Was fain to finish the last stage There of his mortal pilgrimage[7]

We too, if we are wise, may be Pleased for a season to be free From the encumbrances which love-- Affection hallowed from above, But earthly yet, has power to fling About the spirit’s heav’nward wing; Pleased if we feel that God is nigh, Both where we live and where we die, Whether among true kindred thrown, Or seeming outwardly alone, That whether this or that befal, He watches and has care of all.

TO E ----.

Much have we to support us in our strife With things which else would crush us, nor alone Secret refreshings of the inward life, But many a flower of sweetest scent is strown Upon our outward and our open way; None sweeter than are at some seasons known To them who dwell for many a prosperous day Under one roof, and have, as they would hope, One purpose for their lives, one aim, one scope-- To labour upward on the path to heaven. Full of refreshment these occasions are, Like seasonable resting-places given To pilgrim feet; for tho’, alas! too rare, Yet the sweet memories they supply, will give The food on which affection’s heart may live In after times; since it were sad indeed If all more intimate knowledge did not breed More trust in one another and more love, More faith that each is seeking to attain With humble earnest effort, not in vain, The happy rest of God. And so they part On their divided ways with cheerful heart, Knowing that in all places they will call On the same God and Father over all; And part not wholly, since they meet whose prayer Meets at the throne of grace; one life divine Through all the branches of the mystical vine Flows ever, even as the same breath of air Lifts every leaflet of a mighty grove. And from our meeting we shall reap a share Of a yet higher good, if we have won Hereby the strengthening of one weak desire, The fanning of one faint spark to a fire, The stirring of one prayer, that we may prove Stedfast and faithful till our work be done, Until the course appointed us be run.

We know not whither our frail barks are borne, To quiet haven, or on stormy shore; Nor need we seek to know it, while above The tempest and the waters’ angriest roar Are heard the voices of Almighty love-- So we shall find none dreary nor forlorn. Whither we go we know not, but we know That if we keep our faces surely set Towàrd new Zion, we shall reach at last, When every danger, every woe is past, The city where the sealèd tribes are met, Whither the nations of the savèd flow, The city with its heav’n-descended halls, The city builded round with diamond walls.

Then how should we feel sorrow or dim fear At any parting now, if there to meet; How should our hearts with sadder pulses beat, When thou art going where kind hearts will greet And welcome thy return, and there as here Thou still wilt find thine own appointed sphere, To fill the measure up of gentle deeds, Even as we have learnèd that in these, That in the holy Christian charities, And the suppliance of the lowliest needs Of the most lowly, our true greatness is.

Therefore we will not seek to win thy stay, Nor ask but this--that thou shouldst bear away Kind memories of us, and only claim What of thyself thou wilt be prompt to give, That in thy heart’s affections he may live, To whom thou bearest that most holy name Of spiritual mother. O beloved friend, It is a cheering thought, if I should be Where I can no more watch for him nor tend His infant years--there where I cannot see What good, what evil wait upon his way, That yet thy love thy counsel and thy cares He will not lack, a child of faithful prayers.

TO ----.

ON THE MORNING OF HER BAPTISM.

This will we name thy better birth-day, child, O born already to a sin-worn world, But now unto a kingdom undefiled, Where over thee love’s banner is unfurled.

Lo! on the morning of this Sabbath day I lay aside the weight of human fears, Which I had for thee, and without dismay Look through the avenue of coming years.

I see thee passing without mortal harm Thro’ ranks of foes against thy safety met; I see thee passing--thy defence and charm, The seal of God upon thy forehead set.

From this time forth thou often shalt hear say Of what immortal City thou wert given The rights and full immunities to-day, And of the hope laid up for thee in heaven.

From this time forward thou shalt not believe That thou art earthly, or that aught of earth, Or aught that hell can threaten, shall receive Power on the children of the second birth.

O risen out of death into the day Of an immortal life, we bid thee hail, And will not kiss the waterdrops away, The dew that rests upon thy forehead pale.

And if the seed of better life lie long, As in a wintry hiddenness and death, Then calling back this day, we will be strong To wait in hope for heaven’s reviving breath;

To water, if there should be such sad need, The undiscernèd germ with sorrowing tears, To wait until from that undying seed Out of the earth a heavenly plant appears;

The growth and produce of a fairer land, And thence transplanted to a barren soil, It needs the tendance of a careful hand, Of love, that is not weary with long toil.

And thou, dear child, whose very helplessness Is as a bond upon us and a claim, Mayest thou have this of us, as we no less Have daily from our Father known the same.

TO A LADY SINGING.

How like a swan, cleaving the azure sky, The voice upsoars of thy triumphant song, That whirled awhile resistlessly along By the great sweep of threatening harmony, Seemed, overmatched, to struggle helplessly With that impetuous music, yet ere long Escaping from the current fierce and strong, Pierces the clear crystàlline vault on high. And I too am upborne with thee together In circles ever narrowing, round and round, Over the clouds and sunshine--who erewhile, Like a blest bird of charmèd summer-weather In the blue shadow of some foamless isle, Was floating on the billows of sweet sound.

THE SAME CONTINUED.

When the mute voice returns from whence it came, The silence of a momentary awe, A brief submission to the eternal law Of beauty doth to every heart proclaim A Spirit has been summoned; yea, the same Whose dwelling is the inmost human heart, Which will not from that home and haunt depart, Which nothing can quite vanquish or make tame. It is the noblest gift beneath the moon, The power, this awful presence to compel Out of the lurking places where it lies Deep-hidden and removed from human eyes: Oh! reverence thou in fear and cherish well This privilege of few, this rarest boon.

THE SAME CONTINUED.

Look! for a season (ah, too brief a space), While yet the spell is strong upon the rout, With something of still fear all move about, As though a breath or motion might displace The Spirit, which had come of heavenly grace Among them, for a moment to redeem Their thoughts and passions from the selfish dream Of earthly life, and its inglorious race. If we might keep this awe upon us still, If we might walk for ever in the power And in the shadow of the mystery, Which has been spread around us at this hour, This might suffice to guard us from much ill, This might go far to keep us pure and free.

THE SAME CONTINUED.

But the spell fails--and of the many here, Who have been won to brief forgetfulness Of all that would degrade them and oppress, Who have been carried out of their dim sphere Of being, to realms brighter and more clear, How few to-morrow will retain a trace, Which the world’s business shall not soon efface, Of this high mood, this time of reverent fear. In these high raptures there is nothing sure, Nothing that we can rest on, to sustain The spirit long, or arm it to endure Against temptation weariness or pain, And if they promise to preserve it pure From earthly taint, the promise is in vain.

THE SAME CONTINUED.

Yet proof is here of men’s unquenched desire That the procession of their life might be More equable majestic pure and free; That there are times when all would fain aspire, And gladly use the helps, to lift them higher, Which music, poesy, or Nature brings, And think to mount upon these waxen wings, Not deeming that their strength shall ever tire. But who indeed shall his high flights sustain, Who soar aloft and sink not? He alone Who has laid hold upon that golden chain Of love, fast linked to God’s eternal throne,-- The golden chain from heav’n to earth let down, That we might rise by it, nor fear to sink again.

SONNET.

A counsellor well fitted to advise In daily life and at whose lips no less Men may inquire or nations, when distress Of sudden doubtful danger may arise, Who, though his head be hidden in the skies, Plants his firm foot upon our common earth, Dealing with thoughts which everywhere have birth,-- This is the poet, true of heart and wise: No dweller in a baseless world of dream, Which is not earth nor heav’n: his words have past Into man’s common thought and week-day phrase; This is the poet, and his verse will last. Such was our Shakspeare once, and such doth seem One who redeems our later gloomier days.

SONNET.

Me rather may to tears unbidden move The meanest print that on a cottage wall Some ancient deed heroic doth recal, Or loving act of His, whose life was love, Than that my heart should be too proud to prove Emotions and sweet sympathies, until The magic of some mighty master’s skill Called hues and shapes of wonder from above: Since if we do no idle homage pay To what in art most beautiful is found, We shall have learned to feel in that same hour With man’s most rude and most unskilled essay To win the beauty that is floating round Into abiding forms of grace and power.

SONNET,

CONNECTED WITH THE FOREGOING.

Yes, and not otherwise, if we in deed And with pure hearts are seeking what is fair In Nature, then believe we shall not need Long anxious quests, exploring earth and air Ere we shall find wherewith our hearts to feed: The beauty which is scattered everywhere Will in our souls such deep contentment breed, We shall not pine for aught remote or rare; We shall not ask from some transcendant height To gaze on such rare scenes, as may surpass Earth’s common shows, ere we will own delight: We shall not need in quest of these to roam, While sunshine lies upon our English grass, And dewdrops glitter on green fields at home.

DESPONDENCY[8].

I.

It is a weary hill Of moving sand that still Shifts, struggle as we will, Beneath our tread: Of those who went before, And tracked the desert o’er, The footmarks are no more, But gone and fled.

II.

We stray to either side, We wander far and wide, We fall to sleep and slide Far down again: As thro’ the sand we wade, We do not seek to aid Our fellows, but upbraid Each others’ pain.

III.

I gaze on that bright band Who on the summit stand, To order and command, Like stars on high: Yet with despairing pace My way I could retrace, Or on this desert place Sink down and die.

IV.

As we who toil and weep, And with our weeping steep The path o’er which we creep, They had not striven; They must have taken flight To that serenest height, And won it by the might Of wings from heaven.

V.

Alack! I have no wing, My spirit lacks that spring, And Nature will not bring Her help to me. From her I have no aid, But light-enwoven shade, And stream and star upbraid Our misery.

ODE TO SLEEP.

I.

I cannot veil mine eyelids from the light; I cannot turn away From this insulting and importunate day, That momently grows fiercer and more bright, And wakes the hideous hum of monstrous flies In my vexed ear, and beats On the broad panes, and like a furnace heats The chamber of my rest, and bids me rise.

II.

I cannot follow thy departing track, Nor tell in what far meadows, gentle Sleep, Thou art delaying. I would win thee back, Were mine some drowsy potion, or dull spell, Or charmèd girdle, mighty to compel Thy heavy grace; for I have heard it said, Thou art no flatterer, that dost only keep In kingly haunts, leaving unvisited The poor man’s lowlier shed; And when the day is joyless, and its task Unprofitable, I were fain to ask, Why thou wilt give it such an ample space, Why thou wilt leave us such a weary scope For memory, and for that which men call hope, Nor wind in one embrace Sad eve and night forlorn And undelightful morn.

III.

If with the joyous were thine only home, I would not so far wrong thee, as to ask This boon, or summon thee from happier task. But no,--for then thou wouldst too often roam And find no rest; for me, I cannot tell What tearless lids there are, where thou mightst dwell. I know not any, unenthralled of sorrow, I know not one, to whom this joyous morrow, So full of living motion new and bright, Will be a summons to secure delight. And thus I shall not harm thee, though I claim Awhile thy presence--O mysterious Sleep. Some call thee shadow of a mightier Name, And whisper how that nightly thou dost keep A roll and count for him.-- Then be thou on my spirit like his presence dim.

IV.

Yet if my limbs were heavy with sweet toil, I had not needed to have wooed thy might, But till thy timely flight Had lain securely in thy peaceful coil. Or if my heart were lighter, long ago Had crushed the dewy morn upon the sod, Darkening where I trod, As was my pleasure once, but now it is not so.

V.