Kitabı oku: «Poems», sayfa 7

TO MRS.  DULANEY

 
      What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
      That from this marred earth
      Takes its imperfect birth;
It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught
      From some far higher sphere,
And though an angel now, thou still must bear
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.
 
 
      What was thine errand here?
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,
      With earthly creatures coarse,
      Held not discourse,
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,
      Dwelt in communion dear;
And sure they speak to thee that language now,
Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.
 
 
      What was thine errand here?
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,
      And make infirmity
      A patient victory,
And crown life’s baseness with a glorious wreath,
      That fades not on thy bier,
But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,
In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.
 

IMPROMPTU,
Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg

 
Thou who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, though not as old,
Can’st scarce through life have travelled many a year,
Or lack’st the spirit of a pilgrim here.
Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride;
Love, its warm hearth-stones; Hope, its prospects wide;
Life’s fortress in thee, held these one, and all,
And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.
 

LINES,
Addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the Academy at Lenox, Massachusetts

 
Life is before ye—and while now ye stand
Eager to spring upon the promised land,
Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod
But few light steps, upon a flowery sod;
Round ye are youth’s green bowers, and to your eyes
Th’ horizon’s line joins earth with the bright skies;
Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy,
Friendship unwavering, love without alloy,
Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won,
Like angels, beckon ye to venture on.
And if o’er the bright scene some shadows rise,
Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies;
The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear?
Shall not a brightness gild them when more near?
Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power
Of youth is strong within ye at this hour,
And the great mortal conflict seems to ye
Not so much strife as certain victory—
A glory ending in eternity.
Life is before ye—oh! if ye could look
Into the secrets of that sealëd book,
Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith,
Ye should sink down, and falter, “Give us death!”
Could the dread Sphinx’s lips but once disclose,
And utter but a whisper of the woes
Which must o’ertake ye, in your lifelong doom,
Well might ye cry, “Our cradle be our tomb!”
Could ye foresee your spirit’s broken wings,
Earth’s brightest triumphs what despisëd things,
Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame,
Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame,
Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all,
Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall,
Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light,—
Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye might
Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife,
And die, but in beholding what is life.
 
 
Life is before ye—from the fated road
Ye cannot turn: then take ye up your load.
Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,
Ye must go o’er it, meet ye what ye may.
Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,
Angels, and fellow-spirits, bid ye speed!
What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,
The glory wane,—oh! not of these is made
The awful life that to your trust is given.
Children of God! inheritors of heaven!
Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy,
Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy,
To suffer, which is nobler than to dare;
A sacred burthen is this life ye bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win;
God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way,
Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day!
 

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART

 
I am alone—oh be thou near to me,
Great God! from whom the meanest are not far.
Not in presumption of the daring spirit,
Striving to find the secrets of itself,
Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want
Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee;
If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship,
Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee.
I have no fellow, Father! of my kind;
None that be kindred, none companion to me,
And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood,
Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me,
Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot.
Around me grow the trees, each by the other;
Innumerable leaves, each like the other,
Whisper and breathe, and live and move together.
Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup
Hath sisters, leaning their fair cheeks against it.
The birds fly all above me; not alone,
But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering
A joyous band, weeping in companies
The wide blue fields between the clouds;—the clouds
Troop in society, each on the other
Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light.
The waves, a multitude, together run
To the great breast of the receiving sea:
Nothing but hath its kind, its company,
Oh God! save I alone! then, let me come,
Good Father! to thy feet, when even as now,
Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe,
O’erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father!
When in my heart the stores of its affections,
Piled up unused, locked fast, are like to burst
The fleshly casket, that may not contain them,
Let me come nigh to thee;—accept thou them,
Dear Father!—Fount of Love!  Compassionate God!
When in my spirit burns the fire, the power,
That have made men utter the words of angels,
And none are near to bid me speak and live:
Hearken, oh Father! Maker of my spirit!
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind,
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,
The tears, and weeping, of my weary eyes:
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!
And fit me for such fellowship with thee!
 

ABSENCE

 
What shall I do with all the days and hours
   That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
   Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
 
 
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
   Weary with longing?—shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
   Cheat myself to forget the present day?
 
 
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
   Of casting from me God’s great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory locked within,
   Leave, and forget, life’s purposes sublime?
 
 
Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive
   To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
   Until that blessed time, and thou art here?
 
 
I’ll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold
   Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
   While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
 
 
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
   All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
   Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.
 
 
I will this dreary blank of absence make
   A noble task time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o’ertake
   More good than I have won, since yet I live.
 
 
So may this doomed time build up in me
   A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
   And thy dear thought an influence divine.
 

RETURN

 
When the bright sun back on his yearly road
   Comes towards us, his great glory seems to me,
As from the sky he pours it all abroad,
   A golden herald, my beloved, of thee.
 
 
When from the south the gentle winds do blow,
   Calling the flowers that sleep beneath the earth,
It sounds like sweetest music, that doth go
   Before thy coming, full of love and mirth.
 
 
When one by one the violets appear,
   Opening their purple vests so modestly,
To greet the virgin daughter of the year,
   Each seems a fragrant prophecy of thee.
 
 
For with the spring thou shalt return again;
   Therefore the wind, the flower, and clear sunshine,
A double worship from my heart obtain,
   A love and welcome not their own, but thine.
 

LINES,
Written in London

 
Struggle not with thy life!—the heavy doom
   Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave:
Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb
   Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne’er so brave.
 
 
Complain not of thy life!—for what art thou
   More than thy fellows, that thou should’st not weep?
Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow,
   And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.
 
 
Marvel not at thy life!—patience shall see
   The perfect work of wisdom to her given;
Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,
   And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.
 

TO –

 
What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers
   All the sad night, when he is far away?
What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,
   Till back again he leads the smiling day?
 
 
As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,
   And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,
In his great glory he goes through the sky,
   And recks not of the blessing from the sod.
 
 
And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!
   That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?
That thy departing, leaves me desolate,
   That thy returning, brings back life to me?
 
 
I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,
   That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;
I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,
   That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.
 
 
I blame not thee, that I may ne’er impart
   The tempest, and the death, and the despair,
That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart,
   And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.
 
 
Oh! I have found my sin’s sharp scourge in thee,
   For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven;
Therefore, oh, thou beloved! I blame not thee,
   But by my anguish hope to be forgiven.
 

TO –

 
The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,
   The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,
   Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:
How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,
   Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away
   Light, life, and motion, and along its way
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,—
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest
   Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,
   The swollen waters once again gush forth,
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.
 

EPISTLE FROM THE RHINE.
To Y–, with a bowl of Bohemian glass

 
From rocky hills, where climbs the vine;
Where on his waves the wandering Rhine
Sees imaged ruins, towns and towers,
Bare mountain scalps, green forest bowers;
From that broad land of poetry,
Wild legend, noble history,
This token many a day bore I,
To lay it at your feet, dear Y–.
 
 
Little the stupid bowl will tell
Of all that on its way befell,
Since from old Frankfort’s free domain,
Where smiling vineyards skirt the main,
It took its way; what sunsets red
Their splendours o’er the mountains shed,
How the blue Taunus’ distant height
Like hills of fire gave back the light,
And how, on river, rock, and sky,
The sun declined so tenderly,
That o’er the scene white moonlight fell,
Ere we had bid the day farewell.
From Maintz, where many a warrior priest
Was wont of yore to fight and feast,
The broad stream bore us down its tide,
Till where upon its steeper side,
Grim Ehrenfels, with turrets brown,
On Hatto’s wave-worn tower looks down.
Here did we rest,—my dearest Y–,
This bowl could all as well as I,
Describe that scene, when in the deep,
Still, middle night, all wrapped in sleep,
The hamlet lone, the dark blue sky,
The eddying river sweeping by,
Lay ’neath the clear unclouded light
Of the full moon: broad, brimming, bright,
The glorious flood went rolling by
Its world of waves, while silently
The shaggy hills on either side,
Watched like huge giants by the tide.
From where the savage bishop’s tower
Obstructs the flood, a sullen roar
Broke on the stillness of the night,
And the rough waters, yeasty white,
Foamed round that whirlpool dread and deep,
Where still thy voice is heard to weep,
Gisela! maiden most unblest,
Thou Jephtha’s daughter of the West!
Who shall recall the shadowy train
That, in the magic light, my brain
Conjured upon the glassy wave,
From castle, convent, crag and cave?
Down swept the Lord of Allemain,
Broad-browed, deep-chested Charlemagne,
And his fair child, who tottering bore
Her lover o’er the treacherous floor
Of new-fallen snow, that her small feet
Alone might print that tell-tale sheet,
Nor other trace show the stern guard,
The nightly path of Eginhard.
What waving plumes and banners passed,
With trumpet clang and bugle blast,
And on the night-wind faintly borne,
Strains from that mighty hunting-horn,
Which through these woods, in other days,
Startled the echoes of the chase.
On trooped the vision; lord and dame,
On fiery steed and palfrey tame,
Pilgrims, with palms and cockle-shells,
And motley fools, with cap and bells,
Princes and Counties Palatine,
Who ruled and revelled on the Rhine,
Abbot and monk, with many a torch,
Came winding from each convent porch;
And holy maids from Nonnenwerth,
In the pale moonlight all came forth;
Thy love, Roland, among the rest,
Her meek hands folded on her breast,
Her sad eyes turned to heaven, where thou
Once more shalt hear love’s early vow,—
That vow, which led thee home again
From Roncevalles’ bloody plain,—
That vow, that ne’er again was spoken
Till death the nun’s drear oath had broken.
Down from each crumbling castle poured,
Of ruthless robber-knights, the horde,
Sweeping with clang and clamour by,
Like storm-cloud rattling through the sky:
Pageant so glorious ne’er, I ween,
On lonely river bank was seen.
 
 
So passed that night: but with the day
The vision melted all away;
And wrapped in sullen mist and rain,
The river bore us on again,
With heavy hearts and tearful eyes,
That answered well the weeping skies
Of autumn, which now hung o’er all
The scene their leaden, dropping pall,
Beneath whose dark gray veils, once more
We hailed our native Albion’s shore,
Our pilgrimage of pleasure o’er.