And give my gains, imperfect as they were, To men. I have not leisure to explain
How since, a strange succession of events Has raised me to the station you behold, Wherein I seem to turn to most account The mere wreck of the past,—perhaps receive Some feeble glimmering token that God views And may approve my penance; therefore here You find me doing most good or least harm: And if folks wonder much and profit little 'Tis not my fault; only, I shall rejoice When my part in the farce is shuffled through, And the curtain falls; I must hold out till then. Fest. Till when, dear Aureole?
Till I'm fairly thrust
Fortune is fickle
And even professors fall: should that arrive,
I see no sin in ceding to my bent.
You little fancy what rude shocks apprise us We sin God's intimations rather fail
In clearness than in energy: 'twere well Did they but indicate the course to take Like that to be forsaken. I would fain Be spared a further sample! Here I stand, And here I stay, be sure, till forced to flit.
Fest. Remain but firm on that head; long ere then
All I expect will come to pass, I trust:
The cloud that wraps you will have disappeared.
Meantime, I see small chance of such event:
They praise you here as one whose lore, divulged Already, eclipses all the past can show,
But whose achievements, marvellous as they be, Are faint anticipations of a glory
About to be revealed. When Basil's crowds Dismiss their teacher, I shall be content
This favour at their hands
I look for earlier than your view of things Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day Remove the full half sheer amazement draws, The novelty, nought else; and next, the tribe Whose innate blockish dulness just perceives That unless miracles (as seem my works) Be wrought in their behalf, their chance is slight To puzzle the devil; next, the numerous set Who bitterly hate established schools, so help The teacher that oppugns them, and o'erthrows, Till having planted his own doctrine, he May reckon on their rancour in his turn; Take, too, the sprinkling of sagacious knaves Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue. But seeks, by flattery and nursing craft,
To force my system to a premature
Short-lived development Why swell the list? Each has his end to serve, and his best way
Of serving it remove all these, remains A scantling-a poor dozen at the best-
That really come to learn for learning's sake;
Worthy to look for sympathy and service, And likely to draw profit from my pains.
Fest. 'Tis no encouraging picture: still these few Redeem their fellows. Once implant the germ, Its growth, if slow, is sure.
I would make some amends: but if I fail,
The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge, That much is in my method and my manner, My uncouth habits, my impatient spirit, Which hinders of reception and result
My doctrine: much to say, small skill to speak! Those old aims suffered not a looking-off, Though for an instant; therefore, only when I thus renounced them and resolved to reap Some present fruit-to teach mankind some truth So dearly purchased-only then I found Such teaching was an art requiring cares And qualities peculiar to itself;
That to possess was one thing-to display, Another. Had renown been in my thoughts, Or popular praise, I had soon discovered it! One grows but little apt to learn these things Fest. If it be so, which nowise I believe, There needs no waiting fuller dispensation To leave a labour to so little use:
Why not throw up the irksome charge at once? Par. A task, a task! . . .
But wherefore hide from you
The whole extent of degradation, once Engaged in the confession? Spite of all My fine talk of obedience, and repugnance, Docility, and what not, 'tis yet to learn If when the old task really is performed,
And my will free once more, to choose a new, I shall do aught but slightly modify
The nature of the hated one I quit.
In plain words, I am spoiled: my life still tends As first it tended. I am broken and trained
my old habits; they are part of me.
I know, and none so well, my darling ends Are proved impossible: no less, no less, Even now what humours me, fond fool, as when Their faint ghosts sit with me, and flatter me, And send me back content to my dull round? How can I change this soul?-this apparatus Constructed solely for their purposes So well adapted to their every want,
To search out and discover, prove and perfect; This intricate machine, whose most minute, Least obvious motions have their charm to me Though to none else—an aptitude I seize, An object I perceive, a use, a meaning, A property, a fitness, I explain,
And I alone :-how can I change my soul?
And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked Under that soul's dominion-used to care
For its bright master's cares, and quite subdue
Its proper cravings-not to ail, nor pine, So the soul prosper-whither drag this poor, Tried, patient body? God! how I essayed, To live like that mad poet, for a while, To catch Aprile's spirit, as I hoped,
And love alone! and how I felt too warped And twisted and deformed! What should I do? Even tho' released from drudgery, but return Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore, To my old life-and die as I begun! I cannot feed on beauty, for the sake Of beauty only; nor can drink in balm From lovely objects for their loveliness; My nature cannot lose her first intent;
I still must hoard, and heap, and class all truths With one ulterior purpose: I must know! Would God translate me to his throne, believe That I should only listen to his words
To further my own aims! For other men, Beauty is prodigally strewn around, And I were happy could I quench as they This mad and thriveless longing, be content With beauty for itself alone: alas!
I have addressed a frock of heavy mail,
Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights; And now the forest-creatures fly from me,
The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more! Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrives
« AnteriorContinuar » |