Chapter 9

[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.]

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,-- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth,-- That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death. Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy!-- Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell, To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

JOHN KEATS.

PERISHED.

CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

Wave after wave of greenness rolling down From mountain top to base, a whispering sea Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze Murmurs mysteriously.

And towering up amid the lesser throng, A giant oak, so desolately grand, Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven In agonized demand.

Smitten by lightning from a summer sky, Or bearing in its heart a slow decay, What matter, since inexorable fate Is pitiless to slay.

Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about, Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head, And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,-- "Look on me, I am dead!"

MARY LOUISE RITTER.

BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

"_On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year._" --MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone: The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze,-- A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.

But 'tis not _thus_,--and 'tis not _here_, Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor _now_, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece about us see; The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free.

Awake!--not Greece,--she is awake! Awake my spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth,--why live? The land of honorable death Is here:--up to the field, and give Away thy breath!

Seek out--less often sought than found-- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest!

LORD BYRON.

A DOUBTING HEART.

Where are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. O doubting heart! Far over purple seas They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth? O doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon, for spring is nigh, Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night; What sound can break the silence of despair? O doubting heart! The sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past; And angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

THE VOICELESS.

We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them: Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!

Nay grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

A LAMENT.

O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more,--O nevermore!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more,--O nevermore!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"

Spring it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he's forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey,-- What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly, O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye! Youth may be silly, Wisdom is chilly,-- What can an old man do but die?

Friends they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why; Gold's in his clutches (Buying him crutches!)-- What can an old man do but die?

THOMAS HOOD.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul-- Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, But many a house an' home was open then to me; Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men, And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-- I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage one family will do, But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best; And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good by! Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

WILL CARLETON.

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Oft I marked him sitting there alone. All the landscape, like a page perusing; Poor, unknown, By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding; Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding; There he sat! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care: Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school, Dapper country lads and little maidens; Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"-- Its grave import still my fancy ladens,-- "Here's a fool!" It was summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play, Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, I remember well, too well, that day! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, Would not stay When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, O, to me her name was always Heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.

"I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore, Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted To the core: I have tottered here to look once more.

"All the picture now to me how dear! E'en this old gray rock where I am seated, Is a jewel worth my journey here; Ah that such a scene must be completed With a tear! All the picture now to me how dear!

"Old stone school-house! it is still the same; There's the very step I so oft mounted; There's the window creaking in its frame, And the notches that I cut and counted For the game. Old stone school-house, it is still the same.

"In the cottage yonder I was born; Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn! In the cottage yonder I was born.

"Those two gateway sycamores you see Then were planted just so far asunder That long well-pole from the path to free, And the wagon to pass safely under; Ninety-three! Those two gateway sycamores you see.

"There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb.

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; Traps and trails! There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.

"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, Where the lily of my heart was blowing,-- Mary Jane! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

"There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table; Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing.

"I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for playing That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead! I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled.

"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Tracing silently life's changeful story, So familiar to my dim eye, Points me to seven that are now in glory There on high! Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Guided hither by an angel mother; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod; Sire and sisters, and my little brother, Gone to God! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; Bless the holy lesson!--but, ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise, Those sweet voices silent now forever! Peaceful days! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

"There my Mary blessed me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; Broken band! There my Mary blessed me with her hand.

"I have come to see that grave once more, And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the care! I have come to see that grave once more.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown! By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

RALPH HOYT.

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door; And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he had pressed In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady! she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff; And a crook is in his back, And the melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here, But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches,--and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE LAST LEAF.

YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.

I've overlived aspirings, My fancies I disdain; The fruit of hollow-heartedness, Sufferings alone remain.

'Neath cruel storms of Fate With my crown of bay, A sad and lonely life I lead, Waiting my latest day.

Thus, struck by latter cold While howls the wintry wind, Trembles upon the naked bough The last leaf left behind.

From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN. Translation of JOHN POLLEN.

THE OLD VAGABOND.

Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay; Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. "He's drunk," the passing crowd will say 'T is well, for none will need to grieve. Some turn their scornful heads away, Some fling an alms in hurrying by;-- Haste,--'t is the village holyday! The aged beggar needs no help to die.

Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age I die; for hunger slays not all. I hoped my misery's closing page To fold within some hospital; But crowded thick is each retreat, Such numbers now in misery lie. Alas! my cradle was the street! As he was born the aged wretch must die.

In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er, I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade." "Begone!--our business is not more Than keeps ourselves,--go, beg!" they said. Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread, Of bones your tables gave me store, Your straw has often made my bed;-- In death I lay no curses at your door.

Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;-- No!--better still for alms to pray! At most, I've plucked some apple, left To ripen near the public way, Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid In the king's name, they let me pine; They stole the only wealth I had,-- Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.

What country has the poor to claim? What boots to me your corn and wine, Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, The senate where your speakers shine? Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept, Saw strangers battening on your land, Like any puling fool, I wept! The aged wretch was nourished by their hand.

Mankind! why trod you not the worm, The noxious thing, beneath your heel? Ah! had you taught me to perform Due labor for the common weal! Then, sheltered from the adverse wind, The worm and ant had learned to grow; Ay,--then I might have loved my kind;-- The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!

From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

THE BEGGAR.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road, For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here craving for a morsel of their bread, A pampered menial drove me from the door, To seek a shelter in the humble shed.

O, take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes,--why should we repine? 'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.