And there are times when burning memory flows
In on the mind, that saving it would slay,
As did the lava-floods which choked of yore
The Cyclopean cities—brimming up
Brasslike their mighty moulds. And shall the past
Thus ruinously perfect aye remain;
Or present, past, and coming, all be one,
In natural mystery? Like snow, which lies
Down-wreathed round the lips of some black pit,
Thoughts which obscure the truth accumulate,
And those which solve it in it lose themselves;
And there is no true knowledge till descent,
Nor then till after. What shall make the truth
Visible? Through the smoky glass of sense
The blessed sun would never know himself.
All truth is one. All error is alike.
The shadow of a mountain hath no more
Substance than hath a dead and moss-mailed pine’s;
But only more gigantic impotence.
Hast thou not had thine every quest?
Save one.
I proffer now the power which thou dost long for.
Say but the word, and thou shalt press a throne
But less than mine—the scarcely less than God’s;—
A throne, at which earth’s puny potentates
May sue for slavedoms—and be satisfied.
I have had enough of the infinities:
I am moderate now. I will have the throne of earth.
Thou shalt. Yet, mind!—with that, the world must end.
I can survive.
Nay, die with it must thou.
Why should I die? I am egg-full of life:
And life’s as serious a thing as death.
The world is in its first young quarter yet;
I dare not, cannot credit it shall die.
I will not have it, then.
It matters not;
I know thou wilt never have ease at heart
Until thou hast thy soul’s whole, fall desire;
Whenever that may happen, all is done.
Well, then—be it now! I live but for myself—
The whole world but for me. Friends, loves, and all
I sought, abandon me. It is time to die.
I am yet young; yet have I been deserted,
And wronged, by those whom most I have loved and served.
Sun, moon, and stars! may they all fall on me,
When next I trust another—man or woman.
Earth rivals Hell too often, at the best.
All hearts are stronger for the being hollow.
And that was why mine was no match for theirs.
The pith is out of it now.—Lord of the world!
It will not directly perish?
Not, perhaps.—
Thou wilt have all fame, while thou livest, now.
I care not: fame is folly: for, it is, sure,
Far more to be well known of God than man.
With all my sins I feel that I am God’s.
Farewell, then, for a time!
I am alone.—
Alone? He clings around me like the clouds
Upon a hill. When will the clouds roll off?
When will sun visit me? O! Thou great God!
In whose right hand the elements are atoms—
In whose eye, light and darkness but a wink—
Who, in Thine anger, like a blast of cold,
Dost make the mountains shake like chattering teeth—
Have mercy! Pity me! For it is Thou
Who hast fixed me to this test. Wilt Thou not save?
Forgive me, Father! but I long to die:—
I long to live to Thee, a pure, free mind.
Take again, God! and thou, fair Earth, the form
And spirit which, at first, ye lent me.
Such as they were, I have used them. Let them part.
I weary of this world; and, like the dove,
Urged o’er life’s barren flood, sweep, tired, back
To thee who sent’st me forth. Bear with me, God!
I am not worthy of thy wrath, nor love!—
Oh! that the things which have been were not now
In memory’s resurrection! But the past
Bears in her arms the present and the future;
And what can perish while perdition is?
From the hot, angry, crowding courts of doubt
Within the breast, it is sweet to escape, and soothe
The soul in looking upon natural beauty.
Oh! earth, like man her son, is half divine.
There is not a leaf within this quiet spot,
But which I seem to know; should miss, if gone.
I could run over its features, hour by hour.
The quaintly figured beds—the various flowers—
The mazy paths all cunningly converged—
The black yew hedge, like a beleaguering host,
Round some fair garden province—here and there,
The cloud-like laurel clumps sleep, soft and fast,
Pillowed by their own shadows—and beyond,
The ripe and ruddy fruitage—the sharp firs’
Fringe, like an eyelash, on the faint-blue west—
The white owl, wheeling from the grey old church—
Its age-peeled pinnacles; and tufted top—
The oaks, which spread their broad arms in the blast,
And bid storms come, and welcome; there they stand,
To whom a summer passes like a smile:—
And the proud peacock towers himself there and screams,
Ruffling the imperial purples of his neck.
O’er all, the giant poplars, which maintain
Equality with clouds half way up Heaven;
Which whisper with the winds none else can see,
And how to angels as they wing by them;—
The lonely, bowery, woodland view before—
And, making all more beautiful, thou, sweet moon,
Leading slow pomp, as triumphing o’er Heaven!
High riding in thy loveless, deathless brightness,
And in thy cold, unconquerable beauty,
As though there were nothing worthy in the world
Even to lie below thee, face to God.
And Night, in her own name, and God’s again,
Hath dipped the earth in dew;—and there she lies,
Even like a heart all trembling with delight,
Till passion murder power to speak—so mute.
Young maiden moon! just looming into light—
I would that aspect never might be changed;
Nor that fine form, so spirit-like, be spoiled
With fuller light. Oh! keep that brilliant shape;
Keep the delicious honor of thy youth,
Sweet sister of the sun, more beauteous thou
Than he sublime. Shine on, nor dread decay.
It may take meaner things; but thy bright look,
Smiling away an immortality,
Assures it us—nay, it seems, half, to give.
Earth may decease. God will not part with thee,
Fair ark of light, and every blessedness!
Yes, earth, this earth, may foul the face of life,
Like some swart mole on beauty’s breast—or dead,
Stiff, mangled reptile, some clear well—while thou
Shalt shine, aye brilliant, on creation’s corse,
Like to a diamond on a dead man’s hand;
Whence God shall pluck thee to His breast, or bid
Beam ’mid His lightning locks. What are earth’s joys
To watching thee, tending thy bright flock over
The fields of Heaven? Thy light misleadeth not,
Though eyes which image Heaven oft
