'Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, Because the scale is infinite. "Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek. 'Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' I said, 'When I am gone away, 'This is more vile,' he made reply, 'Sick art thou-a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. 'Do men love thee? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground? 'The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 'Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, Hears little of the false or just.' 'Hard task, to pluck resolve,' I cried, 'From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride! 'Nay-rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still I yearn'd for human praise. 'When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash'd and rung. 'I sung the joyful Pæan clear, The brand, the buckler, and the spear 'Waiting to strive a happy strife, To war with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life— 'Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove, And mete the bounds of hate and love 'As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about'To search thro' all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law : 'At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, 'To pass, when Life her light withdraws, Not void of righteous self-applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause— 'In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honour'd, known, And like a warrior overthrown; 'Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears : 'Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke, And all the war is roll'd in smoke.' 'Yea!' said the voice, 'thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. 'If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour? 'Then comes the check, the change, the fall, Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 'Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. 'Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 'That men with knowledge merely play'd, 'Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind. 'For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 'Cry, faint not: either Truth is born 'Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 'Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 'I will go forward, sayest thou, 'If straight thy track, or if oblique, strike, Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; 'And owning but a little more 'Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? There is one remedy for all.' 'O dull, one-sided voice,' said I, 'Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die? 'I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. 'I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 'Who, rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream; 'But heard, by secret transport led, Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head'Which did accomplish their desire, Bore and forbore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 'He heeded not reviling tones, Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with stones : 'But looking upward, full of grace, He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on the face.' The sullen answer slid betwixt : 'Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, The elements were kindlier mix'd.' I said, 'I toil beneath the curse, 'And that, in seeking to undo 'For I go, weak from suffering here : 'Consider well,' the voice replied, 'His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride? 'Will he obey when one commands? Or answer should one press his hands? He answers not, nor understands. 'His palms are folded on his breast: There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest. 'His lips are very mild and meek: Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak. 'His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, Becomes dishonour to her race 'His sons grow up that bear his name, Some grow to honour, some to shame,— But he is chill to praise or blame. 'He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave. 'High up the vapours fold and swim : About him broods the twilight dim: The place he knew forgetteth him.’ 'If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, 'These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 'The sap dries up: the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death? the outward signs? 'I found him when my years were few; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. 'From grave to grave the shadow crept : In her still place the morning wept : Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 'The simple senses crown'd his head : "Omega! thou art Lord," they said, "We find no motion in the dead." 'Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain fact, as taught by these, Not make him sure that he shall cease? 'Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence, By which he doubts against the sense? 'He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 'Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 'That type of Perfect in his mind 'He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro' thick veils to apprehend A labour working to an end. 'The end and the beginning vex His reason: many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 'He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. 'Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn, Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 'Ah! sure within him and without, Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt, 'But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 'The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. As when a billow, blown against, 'Where wert thou when thy father play'd 'A merry boy they call'd him then, 'Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man: 'Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, Whose troubles number with his days: 'A life of nothings, nothing-worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth!' 'These words,' I said, 'are like the rest; No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast: 'But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend— That to begin implies to end; 'Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould? 'I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. 'It may be that no life is found, 'As old mythologies relate, 'As here we find in trances, men 'So might we, if our state were such 'But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 'Some vague emotion of delight 'Or if thro' lower lives I cameTho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame 'I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot? The haunts of memory echo not. 'And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 'Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory: 'For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime? 'Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— 'Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where ; Such as no language may declare.' The still voice laugh'd. 'Not with thy dreams. Thy pain is a reality.' 'I talk,' said he, Suffice it thee 'But thou,' said I, 'hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. 'Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? 'Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death. 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.' I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 'Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' And I arose, and I released Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, One walk'd between his wife and child, And in their double love secure, These three made unity so sweet, I blest them, and they wander'd on: A second voice was at mine ear, 6 As from some blissful neighbourhood, 'I see the end, and know the good.' A little hint to solace woe, Like an Æolian harp that wakes Such seem'd the whisper at my side: 'A hidden hope,' the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in that hour To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, And forth into the fields I went, I wonder'd, while I paced along : And all so variously wrought, And wherefore rather I made choice THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world? In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup— I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest-gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss : |