In these bright chambers, level with the air,
See thou to it! But if my spirit fail,
My once proud spirit forsake me at the last,
Hast thou done well by me? So do not thou!
Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed!
Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs,
And say. "I crushed him, lest he should disturb
"My law. Men must not know their strength: behold,
"Weak and alone, how near he raised himself!"
But if delusions trouble me—and Thou,
Not seldom felt with rapture in thy help
Throughout my toil and wanderings, dost intend
To work man's welfare through my weak endeavour—
To crown my mortal forehead with a beam
From thine own blinding crown-to smile, and guide
This puny hand, and let the work so framed
Be styled my work,-hear me ! I covet not
An influx of new power, an angel's soul:
It were no marvel then-but I have reached
Thus far, a man; let me conclude, a man !
Give but one hour of my first energy,
Of that invincible faith-one only hour!
That I may cover with an eagle-glance
The truths I have, and spy some certain way
To mould them, and completing them, possess !
Yet God is good: I started sure of that,
And why dispute it now? I'll not believe
But some undoubted warning long ere this
Had reached me: stars would write his will in heaven,
As once when a labarum was not deemed
Too much for the old founder of these walls.
Then, if my life has not been natural,
It has been monstrous: yet, till late, my course
So ardently engrossed me, that delight,
A pausing and reflecting joy, 'tis plain,
Though such were meant to follow as its fruit,
Could find no place in it. True, I am worn;
But who clothes summer, who is Life itself?
God, that created all things, can renew!
And then, though after-life to please me now
Must have no likeness to the past, what hinders
Reward from springing out of toil, as changed
As bursts the flower from earth, and root, and stalk?
What use were punishment, unless some sin
Be first detected? let me know that first!
(Aprile, from within)
I hear a voice, perchance I heard
Long ago, but all too low,
So that scarce a thought was stirred
If really spoke the voice or no:
I heard it in my youth, when first
The waters of my life outburst:
But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear
The voice, still low, but fatal-clear-
As if all Poets, that God meant
Should save the world, and therefore lent
Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused
To do his work, or lightly used
Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavour,
And mourn, cast off by him forever,—
As if these leaned in airy ring
To call me; this the song they sing.
"Lost, lost! yet come,
With our wan troop make thy home:
Come, come! for we
Will not breathe, so much as breathe
Reproach to thee!
Knowing what thou sink'st beneath :
So we sank in those old years,
We who bid thee, come! thou last
Who, a living man, has life o'erpast,
And all together we, thy peers,
Will pardon ask for thee, the last
Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast
With those who watch, but work no more
Who gaze on life, but live no more:
And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak
God's message which our lips, too weak,
Refused to utter,-shouldst redeem
Our fault: such trust, and all, a dream!
So we chose thee a bright birthplace
Where the richness ran to flowers-
Couldst not sing one song for grace?
Nor make one blossom man's and curs?
Must one more recreant to his race
Die with unexerted powers,
And join us, leaving as he found
The world, he was to loosen, bound?
Anguish ever and forever;
Still beginning, ending never!
Yet, lost and last one, come!
How couldst understand, alas,
What our pale ghosts strove to say,
As their shades did glance and pass
Before thee, night and day?
Thou wert blind, as we were dumb:
Once more, therefore, come, O come!
How shall we better arm the spirit
Who next shall thy post of life inherit-
How guard him from thy ruin?
Tell us of thy sad undoing
Here, where we sit, ever pursuing
Our weary task, ever renewing
Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave
Our powers, and man they could not save!"
A spirit better armed, succeeding me?
Ha, ha! our king that wouldst be, here at last?
Art thou the Poet who shall save the world?
Thy hand to mine. Stay, fix thine eyes on mine.
Thou wouldst be king? Still fix thine eyes on mine
Par. Ha, ha! why crouchest not? Am I not king? So torture is not wholly unavailing!
Have my fierce spasms compelled thee from thy lair? Art thou the Sage I only seemed to be,
Myself of after-time, my very self
With sight a little clearer, strength more firm,
Who robs me of my prize and takes my place
For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect?
I scarcely trusted God with the surmise
That such might come, and thou didst hear the while'
Apr. Thine eyes are lustreless to mine; my hair
Is soft, nay silken soft: to talk with thee
Flushes my cheek, and thou art ashy-pale,
True, thou hast laboured, hast withstood her lips,
The siren's! Yes, 'tis like thou hast attained!
Tell me, dear master, wherefore now thou comest?
I thought thy solemn songs would have their meed
In after-time; that I should hear the earth
Exult in thee, and echo with thy praise,
While I was laid forgotten in my grave.
Par. Not so! I know thee, I am not thy dupe!
Thou art ordained to follow in my track,
Even as thou sayest, succeeding to my place,
Reaping my sowing-as I scorned to reap
The harvest sown by sages passed away.
'Thou art the sober searcher, cautious striver,
As if, except through me, thou had'st searched or striven
Ay, tell the world! Degrade me, after all,
To an aspirant after fame, not truth
To all but envy of thy fate, be sure!
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